by Lisa Yee
Mom storms upstairs. She is still holding the coffeepot.
I remember the first time I tried coffee. It was a few years ago. My dad was eating breakfast and reading the paper, like he always does on Sunday. I was looking at the paper too, only I wasn’t really reading. I was just pretending.
“What’s it like?” I asked.
“What’s what like?”
“The coffee, it smells really good.”
Dad whispered, “Is she around?” I knew he was talking about my mom. I shook my head. “Then come here.”
I moved closer and he handed me his coffee cup. As I brought it to my lips, the smell was so strong I could practically taste the coffee. Cautiously, I took a sip.
Urggggg!!!! It was all I could do to keep from spitting it out. It was like drinking hot gutter water!
My father laughed. “It takes some getting used to.”
“No, no,” I protested. “It’s great. Really, it’s great.” And with my dad, it was. After that, whenever my father took his first sip of coffee in the morning, he’d raise his cup to me and wink.
He hasn’t raised his cup to me in a long time.
Mom comes back in after Dad is gone. “Stanford, have you seen the Wheaties?” she asks, looking in the cupboards. “Yin-Yin, did you finish up the Lucky Charms?”
Yin-Yin just smiles mysteriously.
We usually have at least four kinds of cereal. Today there are none. For breakfast I make a cookie sandwich using Nutter Butters on the outside and an Oreo on the inside. After my fourth one, Mom musses up my hair. “Stanford, no sense in prolonging the inevitable. Off to summer school!”
I hate it when people touch my hair. I head to the bathroom to repair the damage. Sarah left a bunch of hair stuff the last time she was home. I try the mousse, but it’s too pouffy. Mousse may look like whipped cream, but it tastes nothing like it. Don’t be fooled. What’s this gel gunk? It feels creepy/good. After slicking my hair, I practice my “cool dude” smile in the mirror.
“Stanford,” my mother calls out. “What’s taking you so long? You’re going to be late.”
The smile slips off my face.
8:50 A.M.
Uh-oh. What if one of the Roadrunners catches me walking to school with my backpack? Oh man, there’d sure be a lot of explaining to do.
I wish I were invisible right now. Then there would be zero chance of getting caught. I know. I’ll be like James Bond, no one ever catches him. I’ll just pretend I’m a SPY. I will sneak to and from summer school and no one will ever suspect a thing. Call me Stanford Spy. Or Stealth Spy. No, wait, better idea: I will be known as SSSSpy for Super Stealth Stanford Spy.
As I hop from bush to tree and duck for cover behind parked cars, I congratulate myself. I am too clever for words. I am invincible. I am SSSSpy. Hey, I should have my own theme song. I wonder where you get one of those?
SSSSpy sneaks into Mr. Glick’s classroom right before the bell rings and cases the joint. Gotta be careful; there may be enemy spies here. SSSSpy counts fifteen students: six girls and nine boys. Kids from different schools go to Rancho Rosetta for summer school, so SSSSpy has a good chance of maintaining his cover.
Suddenly SSSSpy recognizes one of the boys from his English class last semester. The kid quickly turns away when he sees SSSSpy looking at him. It is clear he does not want his identity revealed either.
SSSSpy surveys the room. A normal person might believe this is a classroom, but SSSSpy can see it for what it really is: a torture chamber. The Teacher Torturer, who goes by the name Mr. Glick, has cleverly disguised his instruments of doom. Instead of stretching racks and machines that poke out your eyeballs, there are desks. If you sit at one of them long enough, you will turn to dust. The bulletin boards are plastered with posters screaming insane things like READING IS FUN and BOOKS CAN TAKE YOU PLACES. SSSSpy quickly decodes the messages. What they really say is: READING ZAPS YOUR MIND and BOOKS WILL BORE YOU.
On the wall above Mr. Glick’s desk is a framed newspaper article featuring Rancho Rosetta’s number-one nerd, Millicent Min. She’s eleven years old but in high school. In the newspaper photo, Millicent’s grinning and shaking Teacher Torturer’s hand as he presents her with a trophy as big as a toilet. She is probably an enemy spy. Or worse. A double agent. No, no, wait … a triple agent!!!
SSSSpy silently slides into a seat in the back, the better to observe the others. He slouches down so he won’t be noticed.
“Good morning, Mr. Wong,” Teacher Torturer booms. Oh man! The enemy has spotted SSSSpy. “Please sit up so I can see you,” orders Teacher Torturer. “And that goes for the rest of you too.”
“Bummer” school has officially begun.
Teacher Torturer stands in front of the room and clears his throat. It sounds like a machine gun firing. The dweebs who are taking the class to get ahead lean forward. SSSSpy and the kids who are taking the class so they won’t fall behind lean back.
Teacher Torturer looks like an army recruiter. His hair is short, but he has a big, thick brown mustache and he wears itty-bitty granny glasses that look like they are going to slide off the tip of his nose.
“My name is Mr. Glick. I will be your English teacher this summer, and we have a lot to cover. You will be required to write three book reports,” he says as he marches up and down the rows of desks. “They will count for one-third of your grade. Your final exam will count for another third, and the rest of your grade will be determined by quizzes, homework …,” he looks straight at me, “and attendance.
“Many of you have had me before,” Teacher Torturer sneers, “so you know how I grade. But for those of you who are new, I look for your insights. I look to see if you understand what you are reading and how you bring your own unique perspective to the books. And I look for …”
As he yammers on, I look for scars on his face. Rumor has it that Mr. Glick killed the cook at Stout’s coffee shop because the man overcooked his hamburger. Digger swears he knows someone who knows someone who was there when it happened. Tico says that it’s bunk and that if it were true, Mr. Glick would be in prison, not teaching English.
I believe it really happened, but that Mr. Glick was too clever to get caught. Just by looking at him you can tell he’s the kind of person who would kill you if he didn’t like you. I guess I ought to start planning my funeral.
JUNE 13, 2:40 P.M.
After summer school and lunch with Yin-Yin, I head over to Stretch’s house. Stretch stopped talking over a year ago when his voice kept cracking. It was funny. He sounded like a frog or a girl and sometimes both. Whenever he tried to say something we’d all just start snickering. One time Gus laughed so hard that milk came out of his nose. He’s been trying to do it again but hasn’t succeeded yet.
Stretch’s real name is Steven. He used to be really short, so we started calling him Stretch because he had to stand on tiptoes to reach things. Before he started growing, he was so little, people always forgot he was around. Now Stretch is the tallest one of us. He’s even taller than Coach Martin. My dad says that one day I will be bigger than he is. Maybe, but I’ll never be smarter than my father. It’s awful being the only stupid person in a family of smart people.
A couple years ago we were all watching Make Me a Millionaire. Dad and Sarah always made it a point to tune in because they got to show off how big their brains are. So the host says, “Soon, we’ll be searching for contestants to compete in a special Make Me a Millionaire Family Week. Maybe it will be your family!”
My sister sat up and exclaimed, “Oh! Should we try out?”
Then Sarah and Dad both turned their heads toward me just as I started eating a strawberry ice-cream cone from the bottom up. Their silence told me all I needed to know.
I got them back, though. A few days later the show was on again. The final question that night was: “The Lakers beat the Knicks with a sixty-foot buzzer-beater in these finals. What was the year and who scored the winning poin
ts?”
“The year was 1970 and the player was Jerry West,” I said without looking up from the dragon I was drawing. When the host repeated my answer, there was silence in the room again, but this time I enjoyed it.
Stretch opens the door. We don’t even say hello, that’s how tight we are. His parents own You-Pak-It-We-Stor-It and are always at work, so Stretch is home alone a lot. Automatically I head to the kitchen to get some food. I am relieved to see there’s nothing on the refrigerator announcing that I’ve flunked English. We grab some Cheese Puffs and I follow Stretch into the living room, where the large-screen TV takes up the entire wall.
I’ve heard Digger tell people that we’re best friends even though sometimes he acts more like my worst enemy. But really, Stretch and I are best friends. Neither one of us has ever said this out loud, but I know we are. We don’t talk. I mean, I talk to Stretch all the time, but he never talks to me. He never talks to anyone anymore. It’s too girly to talk about things like friends anyway.
Stretch turns on the set and we eat Cheese Puffs and watch Sesame Street. Elmo’s acting all weird because he can’t find his hat. I know this is a baby show, but neither of us mentions it. It’s like this unwritten rule that once we leave Stretch’s house Sesame Street never existed.
Usually it’s easy to veg around Stretch. Today I can’t sit still. I look at Stretch laughing at Elmo. He has no clue that he’s sitting next to a liar.
“Hey,” I begin. I have to tell him. Stretch gets really good grades, but he’ll understand. He’s never criticized me and I don’t criticize him, even though we both do incredibly dumb things pretty much all the time.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I sound like Stretch. He’s waiting. “Never mind,” I say. “Elmo’s really funny, isn’t he?”
Stretch nods and we both return to the TV just in time to see Elmo find his hat.
JUNE 14, 8:48 A.M.
SSSSpy sneaks around the garbage truck. He races past the kids on their bikes, dashes through the school door, and slips into the classroom. Another day without getting caught! SSSSpy is amazing.
SSSSpy has started wearing a clever disguise — a green-and-white baseball cap. Everyone knows Stanford Wong is the Lakers’ number-one fan. No one would ever suspect him of wearing Celtics colors.
Once everyone is seated, Teacher Torturer makes an announcement: “Please pass your word-definition homework up to the front. I assume you’ve all done your homework, right? Good. Because that will really help you on the pop quiz you are about to take!”
The class moans. “Also, just to liven things up,” he continues, “I want you to sit in a different seat every day. After you’ve sat in every seat in the room, you can start over. That way I can see some of the students who always try to hide in the back. And the kids who always sit in the front can get another point of view.”
There is much grumbling as we all get up. I move one seat over, but everything still looks the same from here.
JUNE 15, 10:15 A.M.
The time in Teacher Torturer’s class has been one of the most difficult assignments SSSSpy has ever had. Five days a week, three hours a day in that place. Do you know how hard it is to stay awake for three full hours while Teacher Torturer is talking? I’m surprised he doesn’t put himself to sleep. And when he’s not talking, he’s expecting you to read or write.
After class SSSSpy had to dart around to avoid being spotted by any Roadrunners or enemy agents on his way back to home base. He changed his route every day. It was tough, but SSSSpy was up to the challenge. He had to be. If he got caught, he’d be sent to the firing squad.
I’ve just finished three packets of cinnamon Pop-Tarts. I was hoping Dad would eat breakfast with me, but Mom said he was already at the office. I grab my basketball and head toward the door.
“Stanford, what about your homework?”
“Mommmm, it’s Saturday, gimme a break! I slaved all week in Tortur— Mr. Glick’s class.”
“It was a short week,” she points out. “You started summer school on a Wednesday.”
“Whatever.”
Mom relaxes. “Look, Stanford, I know that summer school is the last place in this world you want to be, but if you fall behind now, it will only make it that much harder to catch up later.”
I continue looking at my shoes. I wish they were Alan Scott BK620s.
“Tell you what,” Mom sighs. “You can play basketball today, but tomorrow, all day, you study.”
“Deal!”
I meet up with Stretch and Digger near the park. Joey and some of the other C-Team players are on the court. At my school, most sixth graders start out on the C-Team. The C-Team takes anyone who shows up, no matter what grade you’re in or how bad you are. The B-Team is for really good players in any grade, and the A-Team is only for the best. This past season I made the B-Team and so did the rest of the Roadrunners, although only Digger and I got much court time.
Joey and his friends clear out when they see us coming.
“Thanks, guys.”
“No problem, Stanford!” Joey says. He turns to Digger. “Here’s the two dollars I owe you.”
“Keep it.” Digger waves him away.
“You sure?”
“Yeah, why not?”
“Wow, thanks, Digger. You’re okay!”
As Joey takes off we start practicing crossover dribbles.
“How’s your dad treating you?” Digger asks me. “Bet he’s working you really hard.”
“Yeah,” I tell him. “I have to do so much stuff.”
Digger misses a shot. I rebound and make it.
“Like what?” Tico asks as he and Gus join us.
We all sit on the grass and begin throwing the ball at each other. The goal is to knock someone over. It’s a game the Roadrunners invented, and we think it’s good enough to be in the Olympics. We call it Silent Slam Ball.
“What kind of stuff do you have to do?” Tico persists. “Do you get to work a paper shredder?”
“Well …,” I begin. Thud! The ball hits me in the chest. I slam it hard at Stretch, who doesn’t even flinch. He hurls it at Digger. It would be easier to tell the Roadrunners what my job was if I knew what my dad actually did all day. “I do lots of things,” I try to explain. “It’s really tough work. My father says he’d be lost without me.”
I can remember when I used to go with Dad to his office on the weekends. I’d sit in his big leather chair and twirl around. Once I made a paper-clip chain that was four feet long.
I’m not allowed to visit him at work anymore. Not since the last time, when my father sent me out to get sandwiches. On my way back, I told the man in the elevator that my dad had to work all the time because his new boss was a real pighead. How was I to know he was Dad’s new boss?
Digger aims the ball at Tico, who’s watching a squirrel. I want to warn him, but that’s against the rules.
“I’ll bet you’re a gofer,” Digger says.
“A gopher?”
“No, a go-fer.” Wham! Tico falls over. I shake my head. He should have never looked away. “Like go-fer coffee, go-fer this, go-fer that, go-fer —”
“How’s your job, Gus?” I ask, turning my back to Digger.
Gus hurls the ball at Stretch. “I’ve been working really hard. Mowing lawns is a tough business.”
“He’s making a ton of money,” Tico says. He’s still lying facedown on the ground.
“Millions,” Gus confirms. “C’mon, let’s play!”
We get up. Stretch passes the ball to Tico, who runs downcourt, shoots, and makes it. High fives all around. Tico’s small, but he’s fast. He’s great at stealing the ball, but a lousy shooter. Guess that’s why he’s a point guard and I’m a small forward. Stretch is a center, what else? Digger’s a power forward and Gus is a shooting guard.
“Tico, sit out,” says Digger. “I want in.”
Tico retreats to the sideline so Digger can play.
Gus growls, “How come you always make Tico sit out first?”
Stretch and I glance at each other. Gus has been mad at Digger for more than a year. We were cutting through someone’s yard when Tico spotted a tall hedge with a bowling ball–sized opening in it. Digger dared Gus to put his head in the hole. When Gus did, he got stuck. Then, just as a bunch of high-school girls walked by, Digger pulled Gus’s pants down.
“It’s not like they’ll ever recognize you,” Digger said later.
He had a good point. Still, Gus has yet to forgive him.
“It’s okay,” Tico says. “I’ll play next game.” He’s used to warming the bench.
“You want to sit out instead?” Digger asks Gus.
“Let’s just play to twenty, then Tico can rotate in,” he answers.
The game begins. It gets rough when Gus and Digger fight over the ball. I swoop in and steal it from both of them and make a jump shot.
As Gus cheers and Digger steams, Stretch just looks at me and shrugs. I glance over to Tico. He’s busy scratching the dirt with a stick.
Stretch and Digger are down four points. I make the winning basket and Gus whoops.
“Good game,” I call out.
“I had an off day,” Digger mutters.
“Can I play now?” Tico asks. “My foot fell asleep for so long it’s having dreams.”
Digger throws the ball at him. “It’s all yours,” he huffs. “I got better stuff to do.”
We start a new game, me and Stretch versus Tico and Gus. This time I have fun.
JUNE 18, 2:37 P.M.
“Yin-Yin, I have to go to the office,” Mom is reminding my grandmother for the one hundredth time. “Remember?”
“I’ll go by myself then,” my grandmother announces. “I can take the bus.” Yin-Yin can’t drive anymore because she failed her driving test. She claims they asked her trick questions. She showed me the test and I think she’s right.
Even though I am in the next room, I can hear my mother sigh. “No, no, please don’t take the bus. I’ll drive you.” She comes out of the kitchen and yells, “Stanford!”
I turn up the volume on Top Cop. He’s about to close in on a murderer who’s just stolen a blue 1967 Mustang.