by Lisa Yee
I know why he has to get a job. It’s that money thing again. I guess Mom’s tired of being the main contributor to the Min family bottom line. She’s not been herself lately. I saw her watching Terms of Endearment on television last night. The film features a turbulent mother–daughter relationship that is reconciled right before the daughter dies. Mom cried through the whole movie, even the commercials.
At least I am earning some money this summer, torture that it is. This afternoon I called a parent conference with Mrs. Wong. We agreed to meet at Stout’s, the coffee shop famous for its homemade pies.
Mrs. Wong showed up right on time, looking like she had an appointment with the head of a Fortune 500 company, not the eleven-year-old tutor of her son. Then again, Mrs. Wong has impeccable manners and treats me like a grown-up. It is hard to believe this elegant, sophisticated woman is the mother of Noodle Brain.
“Stanford doesn’t tell me anything about how the tutoring is going,” she said, adjusting her necklace. I suspect it’s a real diamond. Maddie says that the Wongs have money. “Millicent, how do you think it’s going?” She leaned in, eager for my assessment.
My mouth was full of french silk pie. As I put down my fork, I pondered how to explain to Mrs. Wong that her son is a foul-smelling ignoramus without hurting her feelings. “He’s impossible, a putrid dimwit, a dunce with the manners of a primate,” I wanted to say. Instead, I remembered my upbringing and that my mother threatened to take away my PBS privileges if I slandered Stanford.
“It’s been hard,” I told Mrs. Wong haltingly. “Stanford barely knows the minimum to get by, like on his quizzes. He just doesn’t seem motivated.”
“That’s not surprising,” she replied. She hadn’t touched her coffee or her jumbleberry pie. “The only thing that seems to motivate Stanford these days is basketball.”
After much discussion, Mrs. Wong and I decided that an extra half hour a day of reading before any basketball might be just the thing Stanford needed to “encourage” his studies.
Mrs. Wong explained that last year Stanford cut English to play basketball, which is why he did not pass. “Of course,” she added, as she paid the check, “I’m sure cutting school is something you would know nothing about.”
“So true,” I responded, laughing along with her. I hoped my pupils weren’t dilating as people’s sometimes do when they are lying.
There was a time when I did have a slight truancy problem, though it’s not as if I were a delinquent or anything. I had adult supervision. It was during the period when Digger was using me for target practice. Rather than subject myself to his lunchtime abuse, I’d sometimes feign illness, especially on days when the cafeteria was serving hard food like crispy chicken nuggets or teriyaki beef bites.
My modus operandi generally went like this:
1. Roll around bed — clutch stomach and moan lightly
2. Take thermometer from Mom
3. Feign dehydration, request water
4. When Mom leaves the room, stick thermometer against the light bulb until it reaches 100.5 degrees (hot enough to stay home, not hot enough for medication or a doctor’s visit)
Then a call would be placed to Maddie, and she’d come over and we’d eat frozen Milky Ways, play two-handed bridge, and go through Mom and Dad’s drawers while they were at work. Sometimes we’d even go to a movie. We both love black-and-white films and marvel over the chiaroscuro lighting of the cinematic classics. Whenever Alfred Hitchcock is playing at the Rialto, we’re there. Whoever’s the first one to spot him in his famous cameos gets to pick an accent the other person is forced to use for the rest of the day.
One day, after Suspicion, we sat in the theater and stared at the empty screen. Finally, Maddie spoke, using a Spanish lilt. “Mee-lee, I know you’re not sick. So why don’t you tell me why you don’t want to go to school?”
“But I am sick.” I tried to look pitiful. Actually, I was feeling ill, having washed down a box of Goobers and a medium-size buttered popcorn with a jumbo Cherry Coke.
Maddie put her hand to my forehead. “Bambino, you’re not sick,” she said. We sat there for a while longer and watched the usher going up and down the rows dragging a trash bag behind him. He wasn’t happy. “Is it the homework? Is it too hard?” she asked.
I started to giggle. “Right. Like multiplying three-digit numbers is soooooo difficult.”
The usher looked at us and shrugged. We were the only ones left in the theater. “If you want to see the movie a second time, you have to pay again,” he said. “Or you could just give me two bucks and I won’t report you.”
Maddie rose stiffly. “We’re on our way out.”
For someone who prides herself on her arrest record, she has a strange code of ethics.
“Is it your teacher?” she asked as we exited the theater. I was momentarily blinded by the sunlight. I opened my eyes and squinted. From where I stood Maddie looked silhouetted, like she had a mystical aura around her. “Hmmm … So, it’s the students then,” the all-knowing Buddha said. “You know, Millicent, they can’t hurt you if you don’t let them. Though it’s hard for you now, facing your tormentors will build your character. If you run from them, they will chase you. If you face them, chances are they will be the ones to back away.”
I didn’t answer, instead pretending to be fascinated with the “Coming Soon” movie poster for The Man Who Knew Too Much. Perhaps it should have read The Maddie Who Knew Too Much, for she was right. If I wanted Digger out of my life, I’d have to stop running away from him and do something about it. That night, I began planning my salt-shaker revenge.
My poetry class is something I will never flee from. Today we studied Matsuo Basho, the famous haiku master. Even with his economy of words, his works are immensely exquisite and insightful. When Professor Skylanski read aloud some of his haiku I found myself so deeply moved I almost forgot to take notes.
For extra credit I composed my own haiku. Professor Skylanski was so taken with it she read it to the class.
Plague upon my life
Oh, stupid, stupid Stanford
Empty-headed boy
I think Emily is starting to suspect that all is not what it seems. She asked me what I do with my mornings when we are not together, so I hurriedly ad-libbed some ambiguous things about summer school and nouns and verbs, and then pretended to be absorbed in untangling the knot in my shoelace.
“What summer school class are you taking?” Emily asked as she waved good-bye to Julie. We had just finished volleyball and didn’t do half bad. Even Coach Gowin said so. “Why are you going to summer school if your dad homeschools you?”
“I’m just taking an English class,” I mumbled. “English isn’t my dad’s best subject.” Which is the truth. He always gets Thomas Wolfe and Tom Wolfe mixed up, even though their writing styles are entirely different.
“You should talk to Alice then,” Emily suggested. “She’s read just about every book ever written. She knows everything. It’s such a pain. Do you know what it’s like living with someone who knows everything?”
I had a pretty good idea.
The strangest phenomenon has occurred. I almost enjoy volleyball. To my amazement, Coach Gowin’s advice actually works. When I run up to the ball instead of away from it, my game improves immensely. And while I haven’t mastered spiking, I’ve discovered that I am not half bad as a setter and that nearly one-third of my serves now make it over the net. Nothing thrilled me more than this afternoon when my teammates shouted, “Great serve!”
Meanwhile, my father and Emily have got some sort of Three Stooges thing going, except it’s only the two of them. Whenever they see each other they start goofing around, making peculiar whippoorwill-type noises and pretending to poke each other in the eyes. Though I fail to find the humor in potential corneal abrasions, they seem to think this is hilarious.
Dad and Emily are also skateboard, Frisbee, and Nerf Ball fanatics. Yesterday my father was trying to teach Emily
an under-the-leg Frisbee catch as I watched from the sidelines. “Come on, Millie,” he called out. “I’ll teach you how to throw a Frisbee.”
I pretended not to hear him. Though I admire the aerodynamics of the Frisbee, which began as an ordinary pie tin, I was not intrigued enough to actually want to fling one in the air.
“Yes, come play with us,” Emily insisted as she caught a high-flying throw.
The two of them looked like they were having so much fun. I didn’t want to interrupt, so instead I feigned interest in the beaded bracelet I was making as a bon voyage present for Maddie.
Whenever Dad and Emily try to include me in their reindeer games, I decline. However, if they beg, it’s possible I might give in just to appease them. But they don’t ask much anymore, so I don’t bring it up. It’s no big deal, really. I just wait in my tree and watch through my binoculars until they are done with their childish hijinks.
Today, while my father was trying to rig a clock to run backward, Emily called with some big secret. She said it was something she couldn’t even begin to discuss over the phone. I wondered if maybe her dad was coming back. She really misses him but is afraid that if she tells her mother, Alice will feel hurt. So instead Emily doesn’t talk to her mom at all.
We met at the food court in the mall. For the longest time Emily just sat there poking at her Cinnabon. It was really starting to bug me because I strongly believe that if one orders dessert, one should eat it. Finally, she dragged her chair right next to mine and whispered, “I started my period.”
I didn’t know what to say. Was I supposed to congratulate her or tell her I was sorry? I don’t suppose there’s a Hallmark card for this sort of thing. I mean, what would it read? “A standing ovation for your first ovulation!”
Looks are deceiving. Emily is twelve, but she looks like she’s fourteen. I am eleven, but I look like I’m nine. Maddie keeps trying to convince me that it’s a blessing to look younger than you really are. “You’ll appreciate it when you’re a woman,” she says. Like that day will ever come.
Emily wears a training bra. What she’s in training for, I hesitate to even think about. I am convinced I will never grow breasts. I am a stick. Even tights are loose on me. Mom says it’s good to be flat, that way you can go running and not have to worry about your breasts bobbing up and down. So now I have to take up running to appreciate my flat-chestedness. Actually, I can’t wait to grow up. Maybe when my body catches up to my intellect, life will be easier.
“It’s all so unreal,” Emily wailed, giving me a poke in the ribs to make sure I was paying attention.
“What did Alice say when you told her?” I asked to be polite. Even though I found the topic a bit unsettling, Emily seemed fascinated by it.
Emily rolled her eyes upward. “She cried,” she said as she picked at the frosting of her Cinnabon. “She actually cried and said, ‘You’re not a baby anymore.’”
I gave this some thought. My mother had said that same thing when I was two and mastered double-digit multiplication.
“Do you feel different?”
Emily wrinkled her nose. “I feel totally different, and the same. Plus I feel like I have a weird stomachache, you know,” she looked around to make sure no one was listening, “down there.”
Oh God. The last thing I’d want is a stomachache down there. I’ve had enough problems with my ulcers. Luckily, they are now under control thanks to the Herbal Lew Lum Luck Stomach, Ulcer, and Gastritis Sedative that Maddie had her friend the herbalist prescribe for me.
Emily looked distracted as she nibbled on her Cinnabon. She kept shifting around in her chair and then whispered, “I’m wearing a maxi pad, but I don’t want to talk about it.” I was glad she didn’t want to pursue the subject any further. It was making me uncomfortable. Then before I could change the subject she blurted out, “Alice says I’m not ready for tampons.”
As Emily waited for a reply, it was my turn to squirm in my chair. What exactly did she expect me to say? “I really don’t know anything about feminine hygiene products,” I confessed. “But maybe you could talk to my mom.”
Emily brightened. “Maybe I will,” she said, taking a big bite of her Cinnabon. “She’s so easy to talk to.”
I tried hard to think of something highly personal to tell Emily, since she was being so candid with me. Nonetheless, I couldn’t think of anything, other than that I was a genius. Yet somehow it didn’t seem like the appropriate thing to say. So finally I came up with, “I thought I had a zit this morning, but my mom says it’s just a bug bite.”
Emily scrutinized my face and confirmed what my mother had said, adding, “If you put some toothpaste on it overnight, it will disappear, unlike the cramps and PMS, which go on forever. That’s why they call it the curse….”
I pretended to be paying attention as Emily droned on and on about her period. However, I was really thinking about what would happen to me if/when I started mine, which, at the rate I am growing, will probably take place in about fifty-three years. Of course my mother would expect me to tell her immediately, and Maddie will somehow know about it even before I do. As for Dad, well, it’s exactly the sort of thing he wouldn’t want to hear about. He is a master at avoiding what my mother refers to as “issues.”
Yesterday Dad came home in a great mood. He’s been invited back for a second interview. “That’s terrific, Jack!” my mom said, giving him a kiss. Yech. I hate it when they do things like that in front of me.
“Good going, Mr. Min!” Emily said with so much enthusiasm you’d have thought he just won the lottery and offered her half.
“Congrats, Dad,” I told him, shaking his hand. “Remember not to take it too seriously. You never know how things will end up, even if you have the best intentions.” I decided to take a break from the Famous Astronauts puzzle Emily and I were working on and give him a pep talk. “You know, Winston Churchill did not become prime minister of England until he was a senior citizen, and Albert Einstein failed his first college entrance exam. So don’t worry if you don’t do well on this next interview, I’ll be proud of you no matter what!”
My father abruptly excused himself and went into his den to tinker with the computer he’s been building. He’s worked on it for months and uses it as an excuse for his endless trips to Radio Shack. Dad knows everyone there and they let him go behind the counter and into the stockroom, even though it’s supposed to be for employees only.
“I think you hurt his feelings.” Emily found part of John Glenn’s chin and attached it to the rest of his face.
“No way,” I told her. “I was trying to cheer him up. He likes it that I can be totally honest with him.”
Emily completed the Sally Ride section. She is better at puzzles than I thought she would be. “Well, still,” Emily said, not sounding totally convinced, “he seems a little worried.”
Was he worried? Now that Emily brought it up, Dad did seem rather distracted when he left the room.
Not to brag, but I can see why Professor Skylanski likes me so much. I am a good student, I do all my homework, I prepare for class, I answer questions, and I ask for extra work. Unlike Stanford, the human driftwood.
So there I was drilling Stanford on plot when who should stroll into the library, but Emily.
“Ohmygosh, Millie, what are you doing here? I just came to get my library card. And …” she stopped herself when she saw Stanford and gasped. “Uh, oh, hello there! I’m Emily, Millie’s best friend, I don’t think we’ve met.”
I glanced at Stanford, who looked as if an army of red ants had just been released into his pants. Before I could say anything, he startled me by leaping up and vigorously shaking Emily’s hand. “Stanford Wong,” he boomed. “I’m just, uh … uh … I’m just helping Millicent here with her studies.”
What?!!!
“Excuse me!” I said as the two of them stood there like idiots grinning at each other. Their eyes remained locked and neither took the cue
when I said repeatedly, “We really should be getting back to the books.”
After a protracted silence in which Stanford and Emily continued to look stupid and remain speechless, he blathered, “Um, Emily, I’m sure Millicent would prefer it if you weren’t here during our tutoring sessions.” He blushed and lowered his voice. “She gets embarrassed.” Emily looked crestfallen. “Of course,” Stanford quickly added, “if Millicent ever figures out the difference between plot and theme, then maybe we could all get together afterward. You know, get a burger or something.”
“Oh! That sounds like a terrific idea. We’d love to go,” Emily said, speaking for the two of us. “We love hamburgers.”
Great. One look at Meathead and my best friend has already transformed me from a vegetarian into a carnivore.
Emily glanced over at me. Sensing my distress, she took me aside. “It’s okay, Millie,” she said, draping her arm over my shoulder and giving me a quick squeeze. “Not everyone can be a genius. I don’t think any less of you because Stanford has to tutor you. It’s that English class you’re taking in summer school, isn’t it?” She took my stunned silence for agreement. “I’m sure it’s a really hard class if your dad can’t help you. But truly, there’s nothing wrong with admitting that you’re not the smartest person on the planet. In fact, I think you’re very brave to ask for help. Now a lot of things make more sense. You know, why you’re so secretive and always trying to use big words.”
I could see Stanford frantically signaling me. He held up the contract I had signed, swearing on my mother’s life that I would not tell anyone that I was tutoring him. “Thanks for understanding,” I muttered to Emily as I made my way back to the table.
There was no point in even attempting to finish the tutoring session. Emily promised to “give us some space.” To her this meant roaming around the library, giving me little waves. Knowing he had an audience, Stanford intoned, “Millicent, you should know this by now. Why is foreshadowing important?” Or, “Millie, Millie, Millie, haven’t I taught you anything?” It was more than I could bear. So when I suggested we cut the session short, both Emily and Stanford immediately agreed it was a great idea.