by Cara Chow
Ms. Taylor has done so much for me. I shouldn’t disappoint her. “Sorry,” I say, trying to muster more enthusiasm. “I’ll try harder.”
Ms. Taylor’s frown deepens. Then she beckons me over. I drag my feet to a desk next to hers and plop myself down. Ms. Taylor places her hand over mine. Her pale hands are soft and cool.
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
I want to tell her, but how? Where can I start? I sigh and look down. Ms. Taylor startles. I look up to see what’s wrong. Her face registers alarm.
“Frances?” she says. “Am I mistaken or are you wearing Scotch tape on your eyelids?”
Embarrassed, I look down again, but I know that that only makes the tape more obvious. I turn red and hot right up to my ears. Too mortified to speak, I nod.
“I’ve noticed some other Asian girls doing that lately. Why?”
“It’s because … we don’t have folds in our eyelids.”
“What are you talking about?”
“See?” I pull the tape off my right eyelid. The adhesive stings and makes my eyes water. I blink and show her. “See how one eyelid has a crease and the other doesn’t?”
Ms. Taylor looks closely. “Oh. I never noticed that before.”
“Don’t you think the right one looks weird?”
“No. In fact, I think it looks better than the left one, because it looks real.”
“That’s just a nice way of saying that it’s ugly and that it looks even uglier with the tape.”
“Frances! I’ve never heard you talk like this before.”
Uh-oh. Did I overstep my bounds? “Sorry,” I say.
“No, I like it. You’re challenging me,” Ms. Taylor says. “That means I’ve done my job. Let’s examine this further. Go on.”
“I’m five feet four and a hundred twenty-seven pounds, and I have a thirty-inch waist. I have freckles and acne,” I say.
Ms. Taylor rolls her eyes. “First of all, you are not fat,” she says. “Second, who in high school has never had acne? Third, no one can see your freckles unless they’re close up. Besides, what’s wrong with freckles? I have freckles.”
I do a double take of Ms. Taylor’s face. Up close, if I look carefully, I can see a light dust of cinnamon freckles across her cheeks and nose. Why didn’t I notice them before? I’m embarrassed now. I hope I didn’t insult her.
“You can get away with them,” I say. “At least you’re pretty. I’ll never look like those girls in Seventeen or Cosmo or those female anchors on TV.”
“Why do you need to look like those people?” she asks.
I open my mouth to speak, but I cannot supply a good answer. The more I try to explain, the more ridiculous I feel.
Ms. Taylor sighs. “Frances,” she says, “I hate to say it, but in many cases, you’re right. A lot of people do care about superficial things. But you don’t have to buy into that just because they do. Okay?”
I grasp at Ms. Taylor’s words as though clawing through a mist, feeling its cool moisture but unable to grip it with my hand.
Chapter Fifteen
I do not want Mom to weigh me right before my competition. It will only destroy my confidence. At the same time, I do not want to get into a fight with her. Mom’s hysterics were bad enough right before my first competition. I don’t need a repeat performance.
Instead, I neglect to mention that my competition is this Saturday. I wake before Mom does so that I am dressed and ready to go by the time she has pulled out the scale. Then I casually mention that the competition is today. She scowls at me. I make myself look flustered and disorganized, sorry that not only had I forgotten to tell her, I had even forgotten that I had forgotten. After all, what is she going to do about it, stop me from winning another trophy and hinder me from moving one step closer to a TV news anchor position?
“We’ll do it tomorrow,” she finally says.
I eagerly agree and slip out the door.
The December competition is at Washington High School, just a block from home. As I walk there, I give myself a pep talk. Maybe Diana is prettier than I am, but that doesn’t make her a better person. She can’t speak as well as I can. Her grades, though good, aren’t as good as mine. Besides, who needs a boyfriend, anyway? Ms. Taylor is single, and she’s intelligent, beautiful, and happy.
It takes me a while to find the meeting room, which is located in the school library, but once I do, I join Ms. Taylor, Salome, and Diana. Diana scans the room anxiously. Several minutes later, Derek arrives. My heart jumps from my chest to my throat. Diana gazes at Derek. Derek stares at me. I look away. Then Diana squeals, runs towards him, and throws her arms around him, almost knocking him over. They remind me of an octopus smothering a scuba diver. Ms. Taylor looks a bit uncomfortable. Salome rolls her eyes.
I used to see Diana as this poised dancer, a swan gliding across a still lake. Now all I see is a gawking, squawking goose. Feeling embarrassed for them, I look away again, only to see the other person I least want to see today: Sally Meehan, the dreaded red-haired girl.
Fortunately, I am able to pass two rounds without having to face Derek or Sally. After the second round, my stomach is growling. I follow the scent of hot dogs to the cafeteria and get in line to buy, only to realize at the head of the line that I don’t have any money for lunch.
“Two, please,” says someone behind me. It’s Derek. He reaches over me and hands some cash to the girl selling the hot dogs. She gives him two hot dogs and he hands me one.
My pride tells me to reject the hot dog, but hunger takes over. “Thanks,” I say.
Derek looks around the room and motions for me to follow him. We leave the cafeteria, pass a trophy case, and continue out of the building. Derek leads me to a set of bleachers facing a track field, where we sit down. Though it is sunny, the air feels cold. Even my hot dog is turning cold. We eat in silence as we watch sprinters and casual joggers run along the track.
“Can I ask you a question?” Derek says.
“Sure.”
“Why did you give me a fake number?”
It takes a few seconds for his question to sink in. “What are you talking about?”
“When we exchanged numbers, on the last day of Princeton Review, you gave me a fake.”
“No I didn’t.”
“I called you,” Derek says. “The woman who answered said that there was no one there by the name of Frances.”
“Could you have dialed wrong?” I say.
“That’s what I thought at first, so I called again,” Derek says. “The same lady answered the phone again and told me to stop calling.”
I mentally reconstruct this strange scenario. Only one explanation comes to mind.
Mom.
I decide to test my hypothesis. “Did she have a Chinese accent?”
Derek thinks about this. “Yeah, now that you mention it,” he says. “She sounds just like my friend’s mom. Except she wasn’t very friendly. Why do you ask?”
My eyes narrow. “Did she ask what you were calling about?”
“Yeah. I told her …” Derek sighs. “I told her that I wanted to ask you to the fall dance.”
I pause, letting his words sink in slowly. He wanted to go to the dance with me. Me, not Diana.
“I meant to ask you in the car that night, but I ended up tripping over my own tongue,” Derek says. “But wait, how did you know about the accent?”
Telling the truth will probably turn him off. But how else can I answer his question?
“That was my mom,” I say.
“But … why would she say that I had the wrong number?” Derek asks.
“She doesn’t want me dating boys.”
“But if she won’t let you date boys, then why would she let you attend a school dance?”
“Well … she didn’t. I just went because … I thought you’d be there. And you were.”
Derek looks down, ashamed. “I’m sorry,” he says.
“Derek!” cries someone from around the corner.
Derek jogs in the direction of the voice. Instinctively, I run in the opposite direction and hide underneath the bleachers. Diana runs into Derek’s arms and begins sobbing. Derek turns her so that her back is to me.
“What is it? What’s the matter?” he says to her. But Diana just cries inconsolably. He holds her awkwardly as she sobs into his chest. He looks pleadingly at me, as if to say, What’s wrong with her? I shrug apologetically.
Then it occurs to me that I might know why Diana is upset. I rest my chin on my palm and roll my eyes like Sally Meehan. Then I imitate her facial tic. Derek’s face lights up with understanding. He suppresses a laugh, because I’ve copied Sally to a tee. We smile at each other just a little too long. Then Diana tugs on his shirt. He turns his attention back to her, and I walk away.
As I make my way back to the library, I recall that horrible night at the fall dance.
Did any other boys ask you to dance? You know why? Your acne, your weight, and all that makeup on your face, which makes you look cheap.
If I were that ugly, then why would Derek want to ask me to the dance? In retrospect, Mom’s plan was clever. What better way to convince me to give up on Derek than to squash my confidence so I’d never have the nerve to contact him?
What a sucker I was.
Well, not anymore.
Diana almost bows out of the third round, but Ms. Taylor talks her into staying. Though Salome does respectably in the semifinal round, only I make it to finals. Because today’s tournament is in the city, Salome and Diana have the option of taking the bus home after being eliminated. Salome wishes me luck and heads home. Diana decides to stick around.
As I walk to the competition room, someone runs up from behind me and says, “Thanks.” It’s Derek.
“How’s she doing?” I ask.
“Not great. At least she stopped crying.”
As we round the corner, Derek places his hand on my arm. “Look,” he says, “Sally’s probably going to be in this round.” My heart sinks. “I’m tired of watching her do this to people year after year. Let’s put an end to it.”
“But how?” I ask.
“First, we lift up the other speakers. Nod, smile, look attentive. Second, we give Sally a taste of her own medicine.”
“You mean roll our eyes and do facial tics?”
“Not just any facial tic. Her facial tic. Her eye rolling. Remember when you were impersonating her in the hallway? You looked just like her! That gave me an idea. If we both imitate her at the same time, that would really mess her up. You in?”
The thought of transforming her evil eye into a boomerang is tempting.
“But it’s too risky,” I say. “What if we get caught?”
“Not if we sit behind the judge,” Derek says.
“I don’t know. I still think it’s risky.”
“How about this: we’ll check out the judge. If the judge looks sharp, I’ll shake my head and the deal’s off. If the judge looks gullible, I’ll nod and the deal’s on. What do you say?”
I pause and consider his idea. Finally, I nod. Derek sticks out his hand. I shake it.
As we approach our room, Derek opens the door for me. Sure enough, there is Sally, sitting at the back. She looks away, pretending not to see us. A few seats in front of her is the judge, an old man with thin white hair and thick spectacles. He wears a gray cardigan sweater and a bow tie. He smiles a vague, kindly smile. His hand shakes as he holds his pen. He reminds me of a retired professor in an old folks’ home. He lays down his pen and adjusts his hearing aid. Derek and I exchange knowing glances. There are two other competitors: a tall freckled girl with straight, mousy brown hair and a tall lanky black boy with gold-framed glasses.
Derek and I separate. Derek picks a seat a couple of rows to Sally’s right. I pick a seat two rows to her left. To be honest, I’m more nervous about our plan than delivering my speech.
The round begins. Derek speaks first. Though I am not looking at Sally, I’m sure that she is pulling all her tricks out of her bag, but Derek is unfazed by it. Nonetheless, I nod and smile at him to show my support. As he returns to his seat, we exchange quick glances and smile.
Next it’s the mousy-haired girl’s turn. As she speaks, I look more attentive than ever. I smile and nod. I imagine sending pink clouds to her that serve as barriers to Sally’s arrows. The mousy-haired girl does well in spite of Sally’s eye rolling and facial tics. After her is the black boy with the gold-framed glasses. I continue to give nods of encouragement. His delivery is electrifying. He is as articulate and natural as Derek, but he has a different style. Derek’s writing is stronger, but this guy has a more passionate delivery. I can picture him having a future in politics one day. He’ll be tough to beat.
I am next. As I walk to the front of the room, I realize that I don’t know what to expect from Sally. After our last showdown, will she give up sabotaging me, or will she reapply herself with a vengeance? I turn around, take a deep breath, and begin. As I speak, I ignore Sally entirely. Instead, I alternate eye contact with Derek, the judge, and the other contestants. Derek has a look in his eyes similar to the one he had the first day we competed together. It makes my fingers tingle. Towards the end of my speech, the judge’s eyes glisten just a bit. Before I know it, I’m done.
Now it’s Sally’s turn. As she walks to the front of the room, Derek and I exchange glances. Derek raises his eyebrows. Ready? I nod. As Sally begins, the two of us simultaneously slouch, rest our chins on our palms, and sigh with boredom, just softly enough to escape detection by the judge’s hearing aid. Sally hesitates a bit before finishing her first sentence, but she quickly recovers. A few paragraphs into her speech, I begin rolling my eyes. Then I do her facial tic. She continues reciting, but her face registers shock as her eyes oscillate between me and Derek. Her voice becomes less haughty and more tentative.
Suddenly, I flash back to my CAA competition. I am sitting onstage, staring at Stewart Chan’s back as he delivers his speech. Stutter, trip over your lines, I think. Then he falters.
Then I’m back in the present again, staring at Sally, an injured animal that I am kicking. I stop doing my funny faces. My heart is pounding in my throat.
The boy with the glasses turns around slowly. The fluorescent lights dance on his frames, catching my attention. He eyes me, then Derek, then me again. My heart pounds more violently. I am sure that he is outraged, that he’ll report us. Instead, a small smile creeps up on his face. He turns to face Sally again and leans back in his chair, as if enjoying a movie with popcorn.
By the end of Sally’s speech, her voice is flat and barely audible. I look down, unable to watch. After she sits, the judge thanks us, and we all get up to leave—all except for Sally. On the way out, Derek sneaks a glance at Sally. He slips me a furtive thumbs-up, unaware that I deserted him halfway through our mission. But his triumph does not last long. Sally approaches the judge. The judge’s brows arch in surprise. He asks Sally a question. Sally points her chin at Derek and me. The judge follows her gaze. Derek and I look away. A second later, I give in to my urge to look again. The judge is nodding and smiling while patting Sally on the shoulder. Sally becomes agitated. She points at us again, this time more emphatically, which seems to have no effect on the judge. Derek nudges me towards the door.
“That was close,” I say to him as we proceed towards the gymnasium.
“Not really,” Derek says. “These things are virtually impossible to prove. How else do you think she’s gotten away with it all this time?”
During the awards ceremony, Derek wins first and I win second. The boy with the glasses, whose name is Derrell Johnson, wins third. As Derek shakes my hand, he presses something flat and square into my palm. At first, the feeling of the jagged edges startles me, but Derek fixes me with a knowing stare. I close my palm around it as he lets go, and slip it into my pocket. It feels like a folded piece of paper.
As soon as the awards ceremony is over, I ask Ms. Taylor to hold my trophy, and excuse my
self to the bathroom. There I pull out Derek’s note and read it.
Call me when your parents aren’t home, okay?
My heart sings with excitement.
Then I realize that I threw away his number.
I flip the paper over, in case it is written on the back. But the back is blank.
I run out of the bathroom and back to the gymnasium. If I can just get him alone somehow, I can get his number again. As I’m about to enter, my team and Derek’s team are exiting. Derek is walking out with Diana at his side. Diana links her arm with his. I step aside and let them pass. I walk behind Derek and Diana and in front of Ms. Taylor and the rest of Derek’s team. As we exit the building, Derek tries to disentangle himself from Diana.
“Wait,” says Diana. “Ms. Taylor, can’t Derek drive me home?”
“No,” Ms. Taylor replies. “I’m responsible for making sure that you get home, and that’s what I’m going to do.”
As Derek pulls away, Diana blows him a kiss. Derek smiles politely but cringes a little.
“I can walk,” I say. “I’m just a block away.” I look at Derek as I say this. He understands my meaning and perks up. If I walk home, he can intercept me when no one’s looking. Then I can get his number.
“No, Frances,” Ms. Taylor says. “It’s dark out. I can’t take any chances.”
Accepting defeat, Derek says good-bye to everyone and walks to his car. I force myself to follow my team to the van, knowing that as Derek waits for the call that never arrives, he will once again think I’ve rejected him.
The moment I get home, I place my trophy on the shelf next to my other two trophies.
“What did you win?” Mom asks. She’s lying on the couch, reading the Hong Kong magazines I hate so much.
“Second,” I say, my voice nonchalant.
“How come you went down from first to second?” she asks.
She is comparing this win to my CAA win. She doesn’t realize that this is a different kind of competition with a different pool of competitors. This win should be compared to my third-place win in my first competition. My initial urge is to tell this to Mom. Then I recall that she convinced me that I was ugly. Who is she to tell me that my second-place win isn’t good enough?