by Lisa Yee
I wanted to ask her why she felt she had to go to England. Was she searching for her happiness there? Wasn’t there anything I could do to make her happy and want to stay here with me? As I opened my mouth to speak, Mom ran up to us. Even if we hurried, there was barely enough time to whisk Maddie to the airport.
Maddie rested her hand on the pendant holding Grandpa’s ashes during the entire ride. On her wrist was the beaded bracelet I had made for her. Mom kept looking out the window, and I feared she was going to get sick again. Dad was oblivious to this and wouldn’t stop making jokes about driving on the wrong side of the road. Emily was the only one who laughed.
At the airport I hugged Maddie tight and refused to let her go. Emily stood off to the side and for some reason started crying and would not stop, so my mom hugged her while my father looked perplexed.
“Don’t fret too much, Millie,” Maddie said, taking both my hands in hers.
“Why are you in such a hurry to leave?” I asked.
Maddie gave me another hug. “Millie, the sooner I leave, the sooner I will be back. I’ll be home before you know it. I’m just going to Europe, not to Mars.” Dad started to make a joke, but Mom shushed him.
Maddie made me promise not to be sad, which is a cruel thing to make a person promise to do, especially when it is nearly impossible. Then she whispered, “I have one more little present for you. I told your mom to give it to you after the plane takes off. Open it when you are alone.”
We all waved good-bye as Maddie boarded the plane and then waited until the plane flew away, which was a long time due to the runway being backed up. My mom knew I was depressed, so she said to me, “If we give Maddie a good enough reason, I guarantee you she’ll be back.”
I started to ask her what she meant, but she got dizzy and had to lie down.
This afternoon Emily and I went shopping, only she didn’t buy anything since she is now poor. We had a little ceremony when she cut up her dad’s credit card. She had wanted to burn it, but I cautioned her that it might release harmful toxins in the air.
Emily seemed down after she gathered up the pieces of her Visa card and dumped them in the trash. To cheer her up I told her some jokes and actually got her to laugh.
I offered to buy Emily something at the mall since I had my Stanford tutoring cash, plus an extra fifty dollars since he passed his English class with a B-minus. Stanford was quite impressed with himself. If truth be told, he did pull through at the end and do a halfway decent job on his book reports. He had come far, considering where he started at the beginning of summer.
Stanford even gave me a copy of one of his book reports. He was so proud of it.
HOLES, a Book Report by Stanford Wong
Holes is a book written by an author named Louis Sachar. The protagonist is named Stanley and he gets in big trouble for steeling shoes and gets sent to a crummy camp called Camp GreenLake where there is no water. Ha-ha, no water, get it? This is called irony.
Stanley has to dig holes over and over again and he does not like this except he loses weight and that’s good because he weighed too much before. He changes in other ways, too, and so do some of the kids around him. Stanley meets a kid named Zero (more irony) and they run away….
It took everything in my power not to laugh as I read it. “Good work,” I told him when I was through.
“See, I’m not a complete idiot,” Stanford said.
I smiled at him. “No, no, you’re pretty bright,” I agreed, adding, “for a boy.”
As expected, I got an A in my college poetry class. Professor Skylanski says she’ll get me a special dispensation so I can take her graduate class when I am a college freshman. That is, if I go to Rogers College. I’m thinking Ivy League, but Mom says that I still have another year and that “a lot can happen in a year.” I think she is trying to prepare me for the inevitable.
At the mall Emily and I stopped for an ice cream, my treat. I was feeling melancholy and she sensed it immediately. Friends are like that. You don’t even have to talk, they just know how you are feeling.
“What?” she asked.
“I’m really going to miss you,” I told her.
“Why, where are you going?” She had gotten a double scoop of strawberry and it was dripping.
“I’m not going anywhere, it’s you who’s going away.”
“I’m not going anywhere either.”
“You’re starting school tomorrow and you have your whole life in front of you.” My double Dutch chocolate ice cream tasted bland.
“Gawd, Millicent, you’re so dramatic,” Emily said, laughing.
“Well, it’s true,” I said, trying not to sound hurt.
“Silly Millie, we’ll always be best friends.”
“I hope so.”
With Emily, everything is so simple. But I know better. She’s practically going steady with Stanford. And when school begins, it is certain that she will make new friends. Then where will I be? A high school senior with only my Math Bowl National Championship and valedictorian speech to look forward to.
I feel so lonely.
I couldn’t sleep last night. So I slipped out of the house and up into my tree. The air was dry and a warm wind stirred up the leaves. Dogs were barking in the distance and I saw Max running down the street wearing a Superman cape. His parents ran behind him as if in slow motion, their bathrobes flapping as they shouted out his name.
From my vantage point I could see the constellations. I trained my grandfather’s telescope toward the stars as they winked at me reassuringly. The night was beautiful.
“What do you see up there?”
“Grandpa?” I asked.
It was my father, standing at the base of the tree in his pajamas and slippers. He shined a flashlight in my face. I shielded my eyes. “Come on up, Dad,” I said.
“Really?” he asked. “You mean that?” He put down the flashlight. The only other time he had been in my tree was when we first built the shelves several years ago. After that, it went unspoken that it was my private place.
Awkwardly, my father climbed the tree and took my hand as I tried to steady him. There was little room for both of us, but neither of us minded. We watched as Max’s parents carried him kicking and yelling back into their house.
“I’ll bet you’ve seen a lot of interesting things from up here,” Dad said, staring off into the sky. We were both silent for a while. Then he asked, “Do you miss Maddie?”
“Yes,” I answered, wondering how he knew. I missed her so much and she had only been gone a couple days.
“Me too,” he said, sounding surprised. “But she’ll be back and in our hair again before we know it.”
The door creaked open slowly and Mom came out. Dad and I held our breath so she would not hear us. She lifted her arms up like a ballerina. Then she twirled around, threw some leaves into the air, and retreated back into the house. We both resumed breathing.
“What was that all about?” I asked.
“I don’t really understand most of what your mother does,” my father mused. “I just know that she loves us, and that’s enough for me. Come on, let’s go back inside before she notices we’re missing and starts to worry. You need to try to get some sleep. You start your senior year of high school tomorrow.”
“Wait.” I tugged on his pajama top. I was quiet for a moment, then said, “Everybody’s leaving me, Dad.”
“I won’t ever leave you, Millicent.”
“And I won’t leave you either,” I promised.
“That’s a nice thought. But someday you will, when you grow up. That’s what kids are supposed to do. Just don’t be in such a hurry, okay?”
“Dad,” I asked as we walked toward the house. “Next weekend, would you teach me how to throw a Frisbee?”
He stopped and turned toward me. “Are you just asking to make me feel better?”
“No, I really want to.” The funny thing was, I really did.
>
“Well, in that case, I really want to, too,” he said. Even though it was dark, I could see that he was smiling. He gave me a big bear hug. After a few minutes I worried I might suffocate.
“You can let go now,” I gasped.
“What if I’m not ready to let go?”
“Time for bed, Dad,” I said, catching my breath. I hesitated and then whispered, “Mom’s really sick, isn’t she?”
“Is that what you think?” He sounded surprised.
“I know it.”
His face grew pensive and he opened his mouth as if to say something, but stopped himself. “Go on into your room. I’ll get Mom, she has something to tell you. We were going to wait. The doctor said it would be best not to tell anyone for another two weeks, just in case … But under the circumstances … well, I’ll get your mother.”
While I waited, I moved Julius around my room, hoping to find a suitable place for him. Finally I put him next to the window. The moon cast his shadow against the wall. As I sat on my bed and hugged my knees, I could hear my parents murmuring in the hallway. It was comforting and disconcerting at the same time. When my mom finally came in I threw my arms around her and choked back tears. “I knew it, I knew it,” I sobbed. “I was right, wasn’t I?”
“Millie,” she said softly, gently. “Calm down.”
“Are you going to die? Just tell me. I have to know.”
She looked at me and shook her head. Then she began to cry too, and for the first time I got really, really scared. She took my hands in hers. “Sweetheart,” she said, not bothering to dry her tears, “I’m not going to die, I’m going to have a baby.”
I was stunned. I felt like all the air had been sucked out of me, but in a good way. “A baby?” I said, startled. “How can that be?”
“Well, Millicent,” my mother began as she plucked a leaf from her hair. “When a man and a woman …”
“I know that,” I said. “I just mean … I mean, you’re going to live?”
Mom laughed. I love to hear her laugh, she has a great infectious laugh. “It is certainly my plan to live a good long life with my husband and two children and numerous grandchildren.”
I was giddy. “Does that mean I’m going to be a big sister?”
My mother smiled widely. “Yes, that’s usually how it works.”
It was too much to comprehend. First, my mother wasn’t going to die, and second, I was going to be a sister. Me, a big sister.
“Does Dad know about this?” I asked.
Mom burst out laughing. “I’m fairly certain he does.”
I knew I sounded like a blubbering idiot, but I couldn’t help it, I was so happy. I couldn’t wait to tell Emily.
*
When I was finally alone, I reached under my pillow and pulled out Chow Lee Low. Maddie had left me a little red cable knit sweater and a note that read:
When I took Chow Lee Low from Maddie’s Chinese chest, I never meant to keep him. I was planning to give him back, but just never got around to it. I would never even consider sleeping with a stuffed animal. Still, there is something remotely comforting about having Chow Lee Low by my side.
Maybe when my sister/brother is born, I will give Chow Lee Low to the baby. Or maybe back to Mom, or to Maddie. Or maybe I’ll just keep him after all. I don’t know. Given the day’s events, and the whole summer for that matter, I am too happy and sad and tired to even think.
Want to hear Stanford’s side of the story? Read on for the beginning of Stanford Wong Flunks Big-Time!
JUNE 7, 1:40 P.M.
Today’s the last day of school, the only school day that I look forward to. I grab my basketball and head to Mr. Glick’s class. Once I make it through that I’m free for the entire summer. Good-bye, school — hello, camp!!!
It takes a while to make it down the hallway.
“Stanford, way to go!”
“Congratulations, Stanford!”
“Have a great summer, Stanford!”
“Stanford, send me a postcard!”
I’m grinning and waving and crash!
“You okay?” I ask. Star Trek action figures lay scattered on the ground.
“I’m fine,” the boy sputters.
We face each other. It’s Marley. We both redden. I step on Captain Jean-Luc Picard as I back away. Marley raises his hand to me and parts his middle and ring fingers in the Vulcan salute. Gotta get out of here. I take off running.
I spot Stretch heading toward me and slow down. He doesn’t say anything, but from the way he’s drumming every locker I can tell he’s happy school will be over soon. We take our seats in the back of the room and I brace myself for my final boring day of sixth-grade English.
As Mr. Glick blabbers on, my eyelids get heavy. Soon I’m seeing myself, Stanford Andrew Wong, as a starter on the Rancho Rosetta Middle School Basketball A-Team. I flash forward two weeks when I’ll be on center court at Alan Scott’s Basketball Camp in the San Gabriel Mountains, “Where basketball is not just a game, it’s a way of life.” I get chills every time I read the brochure.
During the last three days of camp, Alan Scott himself comes in to coach. He’s this season’s top NBA scorer. Everything about him is cool, from his spiked hair right down to his Alan Scott BK620 basketball shoes. At the end of camp he presents each basketball player with his own personally autographed pair of BK620s. I can’t wait to get mine. I close my eyes and imagine me and the man shooting hoops. I can hear Alan Scott now: “Hey, Stanford, great layup!” Or, “Stanford, a one-handed reverse triple-loop crosscourt slam dunk? You’re amazing!” Or, “Stanford Wong, snap out of it!!!”
Huh? What’s that? Why is Mr. Glick glaring at me?
“Stanford Wong, snap out of it!” he booms. Does he have to be so loud? “Put the basketball down. I’d like you to stay after class. There’s something important we need to discuss.”
Uh-oh. He’s holding my final book report and he doesn’t look happy.
The bell rings. Mr. Glick makes his way toward me as kids stream in the opposite direction, pushing toward the door. Toward summer. Toward freedom.
Why am I still here?
The room clears out fast. My desk feels like an anchor wrapped around me. I am sinking. Mr. Glick slides the report toward me, facedown. I lift up the corner, then slowly turn it over. All I see is red, like the paper is bleeding.
“An F,” Mr. Glick says. “Not a C, not a D — you got an F. Stanford, I expect you to show this to your parents. They need to sign it and get it back to me within three days.”
I try to leave, but Mr. Glick is not finished with me yet. “Young man, wait one minute. This is not something you can shrug off. This is serious business. If you don’t do something about your grade this summer, you won’t make it to the seventh grade. Do you understand?”
Mr. Glick is staring at me. We are standing face-to-face. He’s not that much taller than I am. I’ll bet I could take him down.
“Stanford,” Mr. Glick says, unblinking. “Do you understand?”
“An F.” My voice is flat. “I get it.”
I grab my book report and tear out of the room. I’m supposed to meet the Roadrunners at Burger Barn, but I run in the opposite direction. I run past the park and through the empty lot. I run over the bridge and toward the train tracks. I run as far away from school as I can and only stop when my lungs are about to explode. Panting, I drop to my knees and uncrumple my report. The paper looks blurry, yet one thing is clear — the big fat F scrawled on the page.
JUNE 9, 7:16 P.M.
These past couple of days I’ve been at the top of my game. All the Roadrunners say so. I hope they remember that when I’m dead, because in about two minutes my father’s going to kill me. I can already see my tombstone:
STANFORD A. WONG
Loving Son
Great Basketball Player
Rotten Student
My parents are in the kitchen. Mom’s rearrangi
ng the utensils as Dad talks about work. Here goes nothing. I rush in, hand my father my book report, and pivot around to make a fast exit.
“Stanford, come back here this instant!” Dad is gripping my paper. “An F? Stanford, you got an F? This is not acceptable!” I am frozen and on fire at the same time. “What’s the matter with you? Do you want to explain to me why you got an F?”
I don’t want to explain anything. I want out of here.
“I’ve put up with a lot from you, Stanford, but an F crosses the line.”
I glance at my mom. She looks as upset as I am. I stare at the floor as my dad goes on and on and, “… now that you won’t be going to basketball camp, you’ll have the whole summer to raise your grade.”
What???!!! I jerk my head up. “No fair! Coach had to pull strings to get me a spot. Only the top players go to Alan Scott’s Basketball Camp.”
“Flunking this class means you could flunk sixth grade.”
“If I go to camp I’ll be the best player Rancho Rosetta’s ever seen.”
“You need to study more.”
“Basketball camp is the only thing I’ve ever wanted.”
“If you had studied, this wouldn’t have happened.”
“I have to go to camp!” I insist.
“Stanford, listen to me: You are not going to basketball camp and that’s final!”
“Mommm!” My mother knows how much this camp means to me. She’s been to my games. She’s heard the cheers. Mom just shakes her head.
As my dad continues to shout, my grandmother, Yin-Yin, peeks in from behind the door and then disappears. I look at Mom as she turns away from Dad. My mother hates it when my father yells. I’ve heard him tell her, “Raising my voice is the only way I can get that boy to pay attention to me.”
He’s wrong about that.
“I have to go to camp,” I plead. “I’m on the A-Team. Everyone’s counting on me!”
“Well, they can stop counting,” Dad says. “I’m going to call your English teacher and get to the bottom of this.”
My father leaves the room. My mother puts dinner in front of me. Fried chicken, my third-favorite food. I can’t eat, so instead I try to listen to my dad yelling at Mr. Glick. All I hear is a lot of nothing. Maybe Dad’s using his low voice on him. His low voice is even scarier than his yelling.