by Andrea Cheng
Table of Contents
Title Page
Table of Contents
Photo
Copyright
Dedication
Pronunciation Guide
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Chapter Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Text copyright © 2012 by Andrea Cheng
Illustrations copyright © 2012 by Abigail Halpin
All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.
Houghton Mifflin is an imprint of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company.
www.hmhbooks.com
The text of this book is set in Berkeley Oldstyle.
The illustrations are drawn with pen and ink and digitally colored.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Cheng, Andrea. The year of the book / written by Andrea Cheng ; illustrated by Abigail Halpin. p. cm. Summary: Follows a young Chinese American girl, as she navigates relationships with family, friends, and her fourth-grade classroom, and finds a true best friend. ISBN 978-0-547-68463-5 1. Chinese Americans—Juvenile fiction. [1. Chinese Americans—Fiction. 2. Best friends—Fiction. 3. Friendship—Fiction. 4. Schools—Fiction.] I. Halpin, Abigail, ill. II. Title. PZ7.C41943Ye 2012
[E]—dc23 2011036331
Manufactured in the United States
DOC 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
4500354117
To Katie and Emily.
—A.C.
To my grandparents.
—A.H.
Pronunciation Guide
Grandma - Nai Nai (ni ni)
Hello/How are you? - Ni hao (nee how)
Thank you - Xie xie (shieh sheih)
Sky - Tian (tien)
One - Yi (ee)
Two - Er (are)
Three - San
Four - Si (seh)
China - Zhong guo (jung gwo)
Give it to me - Gei wo (gay wo)
Friend - Peng you (pung you)
Stuffed bun - Bao zi (bao dze)
I'm sorry - Dui bu qi (doay boo chee)
Happiness - Xing fu (shing foo)
One
School
Ray, the crossing guard, is waiting at the curb in his orange vest that catches the sunrise.
“How’s my girl?” he asks.
I show him the lunch bag that I sewed yesterday.
“Well if that’s not the prettiest lunch bag I’ve ever seen.” He tests the drawstrings.
“It’s fabric left over from my bedspread,” I tell him.
“So your lunch matches your bed.” Ray admires my handiwork.
Laura and Allison join us at the curb. “How many more minutes until the bell, Ray?” Allison asks.
Ray glances at his wristwatch. “You got about three minutes today, girls.” Then he walks into the intersection and holds out his arms so we can cross.
I’d rather stay with Ray than go onto the fourth grade playground where Laura and Allison stand so close that there’s no space left for me.
“Hey, what’s that?” Laura asks, noticing my bag.
“A lunch bag,” I say.
“Homemade?” Allison asks.
I nod.
She looks at Laura. Their eyes meet.
We start out with the word of the week. Ms. Simmons writes it on the board. Perseverance. Laura’s hand shoots up before Ms. Simmons has even finished the last letter. She knows more words than the rest of us.
“It’s when you don’t give up,” she says.
Ms. Simmons nods. “Can someone give us an example of perseverance?”
Lucy raises her hand. “Like when I learned to play basketball,” she says.
Ms. Simmons tells us to write a paragraph about a time that we were perseverant. Laura starts right away. I don’t know how she thinks of ideas so fast. I stare at the blank paper. Then I see my lunch bag that’s on top of my books and that gives me an idea. On the top of my paper I write my name, Anna Wang, and the title, Making a Lunch Bag. I skip a line and then write:
Making a lunch bag is not as easy as it looks. First I cut the rectangles too small because I forgot about the seam. Then I cut them again and made them bigger but I sewed the casing backwards.
Allison glances at my paper. She leans over and says, “Perseverance has to be something that takes a really long time.” She shows me her title: Learning to Ride a Two-Wheeler.
The blood rushes to my cheeks. Writing about making a lunch bag is stupid but it’s too late to start over. I don’t think Ms. Simmons will understand what
I’m talking about, especially if she doesn’t know how to sew. I glance at the clock. Time is going by and I have only written a few sentences. I pick up my pen and write,
When I finally thought that my lunch bag was done, I couldn't figure out how to get the drawstring threw the casing.
When I reread my sentence, I notice that I wrote “threw” wrong because it should be “through,” but when I erase it, my paper is a mess.
Ms. Simmons asks if anyone wants to read their paragraph out loud. Allison raises her hand. “When I was in first grade, I got a two-wheeler for my birthday, but I couldn’t ride it. Then my dad put on the training wheels and I could sort of ride but not very well.” She reads in a monotone and I stop listening. I’m thinking about how I had to take all the casing stitches out of my bag and sew it down the other way. The second time, I made it too narrow for the drawstring. When Allison is done, four other people say they wrote about learning to ride a bike. I bet nobody wrote about sewing a lunch bag.
The whole time that Allison is reading, Laura is still working on her paragraph. She has covered the page and now she’s writing on the back. She must have been very perseverant about something to write so much.
Ms. Simmons collects our papers, and then it’s time for reading.
We can read whatever books we want. Laura and Allison take two different Princess Diary books off the shelf but I brought my own library book called My Side of the Mountain. Soon I am with Sam, hollowing out a stump to make my own little house. Sam likes to be by himself in the forest. He has a pet falcon named Frightful for company and to help him hunt for food.
When the bell rings, I’m startled because Sam is in the middle of catching a deer. He’s going to cure the meat so he’ll have food in winter and he’ll use the fur for clothing. I feel sorry for the animal, but atleast he’s not wasting any part of it. I want to keep on reading but I have to close my book because Ms. Simmons says reading and walking at once will get you into trouble. She knows because she did it and ended up with a big knot on her forehead. We head outside for recess before lunch.
I stand by the fence. Laura and Allison and Lucy come my way. “My mom can type so fast you can’t even see her fingers,” Laura says. She moves her fingers like she’s at a keyboard.
“Is she a secretary?” Allison asks.
Laura shakes her head, making her blond hair fly all over. “Executive assistant.”
“My mom’s a high school principal,” Lucy says. “You should see the kids when my mom walks by.” She nods down at us like she is the principal and we are the students. “It’s all about respect.”
I hunch my shoulders.
“Have you ever heard of Hammond High?” Lucy asks. “That’s her school.”
“Hey, Anna, what ab
out your mom?” Allison asks.
I can’t just say that my mom vacuums and mops every Saturday or that she learned English almost perfectly because she is very perseverant and now she is going to college so someday she can be a nurse. “She works in one of those high-rises,” I say. “With a view of the river.”
“In an office?” Lucy asks.
“Sort of.”
Allison looks over my head at Lucy. Then she and Lucy and Laura link arms and walk toward the tetherball.
My brother, Ken, and the other third-graders are in the grassy area, chasing each other up and down the hill. Last year Laura and I were there too, and when we got sweaty, we sat in the shade of the school building and played a Chinese game with little rocks that Mom taught me, kind of like jacks without the ball. But this year Laura found Allison and Lucy. I found Ray but he goes home while we’re at school.
The boys are kicking a soccer ball across the field. Tai is in front, moving the ball like lightning with his feet. I like Tai and I’m a fast runner, but I don’t like playing soccer because I get mixed up about which side is my goal. Once I scored a point for the wrong team and everyone yelled at me.
I sit down on the blacktop and open my book. Sam skins the deer and hangs the hide so it can dry. Later he plans to sew himself deerskin pants and a shirt. I wonder if he’ll remember that seams take up a lot of room. When I made my rectangles too small, I cut new ones out of more leftover material, but Sam doesn’t have extra deerskin. Maybe he should try a pattern out of paper first the way Mom does when she sews But he probably doesn’t have paper to spare.
“Anna.” Ms. Simmons is calling. “Hurry. It’s time for lunch.”
There is nobody out on the playground cept me. I go to the back of the l behind the boys who are alwa messing around.
***
On the way home from school, Ray has five acorns for me. I put them in my empty lunch bag. “That bag comes in handy,” he says. “I wish I had one.”
“They’re not hard to make.”
“I’m not so sure about that.” He shakes his head. “Now you have a nice afternoon, hear?”
Laura and Allison are way ahead of me. Ken is talking and laughing with his friends. I take out my book and read-walk all the way home.
Two
Cleaning Day
When I wake up Saturday morning, the house feels quiet. Dad is a manager at Quik Stop so he has to work lots of shifts, even on weekends. Ken spent the night at his friend Alan’s house. Mom fills her bucket with cleaning supplies while I eat my cereal.
“Hurry, Anna,” she says. “The bus won’t wait for us, you know.”
“I don’t feel like going today,” I say, chewing slower than usual.
Mom puts her lips together.
“Laura and Allison stay by themselves all the time,” I say. “I mean, we’re already in the fourth grade.”
“Anna, go and get dressed.”
“I’m not finished eating.”
“You can have something else to eat at Mr. Shepherd’s.”
I take one more spoonful, push back my bowl, and amble into my room. I wish I had clothes like Allison’s—sweater sets with two layers that match, and bras instead of undershirts. Yesterday in the school bathroom she showed Laura the silky straps with tiny adjustable buckles.
I pull on my jeans and the sweater Grandma Nai Nai knitted for me and sent from China. Mom is standing by the door, holding my jacket as if I am a first grader who has trouble getting her arms into the sleeves.
“I still don’t feel like going,” I say, taking the jacket and putting it on myself.
“Did you ever think about how Mr. Shepherd feels?” she asks. “Especially now that Mrs. Shepherd is gone?” Mom’s voice is getting louder. “It’s time you must think about other people.” Then under her breath she says something in Chinese that I think means “selfish girl,” or something like that.
I grab my book and we head out the door of our apartment.
It’s only the beginning of October but already the weather is cold and rainy. I hold my book under my jacket as we walk to the bus stop. The whole world can see that Mom is carrying a bucket full of cleaning supplies. What if we run into Laura or Allison?
On the bus I sit by Mrs. Lukens and Mom sits right behind us. Mrs. Lukens works in the apartment building next to Mr. Shepherd’s so we often run into her either on the way there or on the way home. “Something the matter today, Anna?” she asks.
I shake my head.
Mrs. Lukens smiles. “Here, take a piece of candy. And one for your brother, too.”
“Thank you,” I mumble, opening my book.
“It’s a stage,” she says, looking back at Mom.
“A stage?” Mom doesn’t understand. There are some things she still doesn’t understand in English.
“That means it will end soon.”
“Good,” Mom says, looking at me.
The window of the bus is dirty. People are hurrying on the sidewalk, bundled against the wind.
I read without stopping until we get off the bus.
Mr. Johnson, the apartment manager, steps out from behind the counter as soon as he sees us. “You grow about an inch a week, Anna,” he says, patting my head.
“She is a weed,” Mom says.
I look down. Mom should say She grows like a weed, not She is a weed. That’s the kind of stuff she never seems to remember, no matter how many times I tell her.
“What’s the matter?” he asks.
“Growing up pains,” Mom answers.
Mr. Johnson nods. “I know about those. Only I call them growing old pains.” He touches my chin. “Have a nice day.”
I step into the elevator and open my book. Mrs. Watson gets in on the third floor. “Oh, Mary,” she says to Mom. “I just can’t thank you enough for putting away all my summer clothes the other day.” She winces for a minute as she straightens out her back. “Since the surgery, I just haven’t been the same.”
“Nothing to thank,” Mom says.
We get off on the fourteenth floor and ring Mr. Shepherd’s doorbell. It usually takes him a while to get to the door in his wheelchair, but after a minute, he’s still not there. Mom opens the door with her key. “That’s strange,” she says. “He usually tells me if he’s not going to be here.”
We hear Mr. Shepherd’s muffled voice from the back door. “Mary, is that you?”
He is on the floor of the closet with his legs all folded funny.
Mom runs over to him. “Why didn’t you call Mr. Johnson? He gave you the beeper, remember?”
Mr. Shepherd’s face is covered with beads of sweat. His voice is thin. “I knew you and Anna would be here any minute.” He stops to catch his breath. “And I don’t really like to be seen sprawled on the floor like this.” I know what he means. Like I don’t like to be seen on the bus with Mom and her bucket.
Mom holds Mr. Shepherd under one arm and I hold under the other. When he counts to three, we pull up. Mr. Shepherd is a tall man, and for a minute I wonder if we can get him high enough, but he knows how to help. He reaches for the arms of his wheelchair, and finally he’s back in the seat. I pick up his legs and put them on the footrests.
Mom gets a washcloth for Mr. Shepherd’s forehead. “What were you looking for in the closet?” she asks, frowning.
“Thought I’d get some of Elsa’s things in order,” he says. He reaches for a dress hanging right in front. “Like this one right here, do you think it might fit you?”
“Maybe you should wait for your niece to come, help you sort everything,” Mom says. “Did you say she is coming next week?”
Mr. Shepherd shakes his head. “You know there’s nobody in the world Elsa would rather have wearing her favorite dress than you.”
Mom blushes. “Thank you, Mr. Shepherd.”
We get a few boxes from the storage area and start cleaning out the closet. Mr. Shepherd wants to give the books to Mr. Johnson since he likes mysteries. The shoes are for Mrs. Wats
on. The old letters fit neatly into a shoe box.
All that sorting tires Mr. Shepherd out. While he dozes in his chair, I sit on the floor and open my book. But for some reason, I don’t feel like reading. I look out the big window in the dining room. The rain has finally let up and the sun is trying to shine. Far away you can see the bend in the Ohio River.
On the table is a pad of paper and I know Mr. Shepherd keeps colored pencils in a coffee can on his desk. I bring them to the window and sit down on the floor. I start with the hills in front, and then add the big buildings of the city in the middle. To Mr. Shepherd, I write on the bottom.
Mr. Shepherd opens his eyes. “You’re quite the artist,” he says, wheeling himself closer to me. “You know, Anna, Mrs. Shepherd just loved this view. That’s the reason we took this apartment, because of this window and this view. She never got tired of painting it.”
“I didn’t know she was an artist,” I say.
Mr. Shepherd shakes his head. “Was she ever. Landscapes. That’s what she liked. Rivers, mountains, ocean beaches. Next week when you come, I’ll show you some of her paintings.”
Mom puts the broom back in the closet and sets the mop out on the balcony to dry. Just before we leave, Mr. Shepherd tapes my picture to the front door. “Thanks. Thanks for everything,” he says, waving from his wheelchair.
When we get onto the elevator, he is still watching us. He waves once more before the doors shut. Mom presses button number three. She looks at me as the elevator goes down. “You know, Anna, what I think? I think you are not so young anymore. If you want to stay home by yourself next time, that is fine.”