Stanford Wong Flunks Big-Time

by Lisa Yee

  My mom turns off the TV. “I have to take Yin-Yin to Maddie’s. I’m going to drop her off, and then pick her up later. I want you to stay with her so she doesn’t wander off again.” I open my mouth to protest, but Mom is too quick. “There will be no discussion about this. You stay with Yin-Yin, no ifs, ands, or buts.” Whatever that’s supposed to mean.

  So much for basketball this afternoon. I was really looking forward to it because Digger just got a pair of Alan Scott BK620s. Gus is going to have him play with a BK620 on his left foot and his old shoe on his right and see if he can tell the difference.

  “Why don’t you take your homework with you?” Mom suggests as she picks up a sock off the floor. “You can do it at Maddie’s. Maybe Millicent will be there and she can help you.”

  Maddie is Millicent Min’s grandmother. You’d never know they are related. Maddie is fun and Millicent is a freaky geek-a-zoid genius, totally useless, like a basketball without air.

  “I’ve already done all my homework,” I lie.

  Mom smiles. “Well then, what are we waiting for?”

  3:20 P.M.

  Before I know what’s happening, Maddie gives me a big hug. Normally I am against hugs, but I don’t protest. Maddie’s soft and squishy and smells like gingerbread. She reminds me of Christmas.

  I start to sit down, then ask, “Millicent isn’t here, is she?”

  Maddie and Yin-Yin glance at each other and smile. “No, but I can ask Millie to come over,” Maddie says, walking toward the phone.

  “Noooooooo!” I shout, flying across the room and grabbing the phone from her hands. “I mean, no thank you. That’s okay. Never mind. No need to do that.”

  Yin-Yin and Maddie laugh and head to the kitchen. They have known each other since they were girls. That means that they’ve known each other for a million years. When they get together, they don’t sound like grandmas, they sound like normal people. They’re always trying to outdo each other with outrageous tales. Maddie usually wins, though lately Yin-Yin’s stories have been getting more and more amazing.

  My grandmother used to be really active. She took salsa dancing lessons, and in art class she once won a ribbon for a painting of an airplane. Recently Maddie’s been trying to get her to try yoga. But ever since Yin-Yin moved in with us, she mostly sits around and watches TV. Maddie used to compare Yin-Yin to a hummingbird. She’s hardly humming anymore.

  I put the phone down. After thumbing through Maddie’s stack of travel magazines, I examine her collection of snow globes. One starts leaking when I shake it too hard, so I dry it on my shirt and put it back where I found it.

  I head toward the kitchen, then stop when I hear Yin-Yin say, “They still want to send me to that retirement home.”

  “Did you tell them you don’t want to go?” asks Maddie.

  “Noooo … not really. Just thinking about it makes my head spin. It’s like I don’t know anything anymore. Sometimes when I wake up I forget where I am. Other days all I can do is sit in my room and stare at Sarah’s Lava Lamp. The only thing I know for sure is that Kristen’s a terrible cook. You should see what she makes. Maddie, I’m right there and she still insists on cooking for the family. We’d be better off with no food in the house!”

  “Well, cooking aside, what does your heart tell you to do?”

  “I’m not sure.” Yin-Yin sighs. “Rick insists that I can’t live on my own. So I’m a little forgetful, so what? But I know I can’t stay with the kids forever. I feel so useless, like I’m always getting in the way….”

  When I was little I’d sneak under the table as Yin-Yin and Maddie drank tea and ate sweets. It felt safe there. Every so often a cookie, carefully wrapped in a napkin, would fall to the ground and I’d reach out and snap it up. Now I’m too big to fit under the table, so I flatten my back against the wall and listen to them from the next room. I think they suspect I’m there, though, because every so often a cookie, carefully wrapped in a napkin, gets thrown my way.

  JUNE 21, 11:58 A.M.

  SSSSpy is doodling skulls in his notebook. They all have thick mustaches and granny glasses. Teacher Torturer sneaks up from behind him and hands him yesterday’s pop quiz. “Well, you’re consistent,” he says.

  SSSSpy sees the D on the page and quickly crams the paper into his backpack.

  The bell rings. As everyone gets ready to leave, Teacher Torturer tells the class, “Just a reminder: Most of you have turned in your list of the three books you will be reading and writing reports on this summer.” He looks directly at SSSSpy. “But for those of you who haven’t turned in your list yet, you’d better do so soon, or you will be in grave danger of not passing this class.”

  Slowly SSSSpy rips the page of skulls out of his notebook. He crumples it up and then throws it past Teacher Torturer’s nose and into the trash can.

  JUNE 23, 7:42 A.M.

  “Stanford, you’re in big trouble!!!”

  I get yelled at so much these days you’d think I’d be used to it. But this time I’m getting blamed for something that’s not my fault. My father just found a carton of mint chocolate chip ice cream in his sock drawer, and it was all melted. (The ice cream, not the socks.) I stand still and don’t say anything because it is too totally weird: When I was putting on my shoes this morning, I found potato chips in them.

  Dad’s still shouting, but right when I am about to defend myself, my mom barges in and says, “Stanford! Is this your idea of a joke? Fish sticks in my purse? I’ll never get the stink out!”

  “I swear I didn’t do it!”

  By the look on my parents’ faces I can tell they don’t believe me.

  “Look,” I say, taking a piece of bologna out of my pants pocket. “I didn’t put this here.”

  “Give me that!” Dad grabs the bologna and waves it accusingly at me. “You are in big trouble, mister.”

  “You’ve gone too far this time,” Mom adds.

  The only time they are in agreement is when they think I’ve done something wrong.

  “I didn’t do it!” I pull a piece of bologna from another pocket and then a slice of bread. I could make a sandwich, but this probably isn’t a good time for a snack.

  “If you didn’t do it, then who did?” Dad demands.

  I have no answer for him. Okay, so maybe I’ve done dumb stunts like gluing his briefcase shut. Or, when Sarah was living at home, sneaking onto the computer and inserting the words butt cheese throughout her term paper. But I don’t do stuff like that anymore, not since my father made me sit out two basketball games last season because instead of doing the dishes, I threw them away.

  Dad is still staring at me, waiting for an answer. Mom is still holding up her purse. It is like they are frozen. Suddenly there’s a small noise in the hallway. We all look up in time to see Yin-Yin trying to sneak away.

  2:15 P.M.

  Digger and I arrive at the court from opposite ends of the park just as Joey is leaving.

  “Hi, guys!” Joey says. He’s always in a good mood.

  We both nod and start practicing free throws. Digger’s awfully quiet.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” he answers, looking away. He makes a couple of baskets, then says, “Hey, Stanford, when your dad gets mad at you —”

  Just then we hear a big commotion. “Put me down! Put me down!”

  Stretch and Gus arrive carrying Tico. “Put me down!” Tico cries.

  “Well, if that’s what you want …,” Gus says. They dump him beneath the basket.

  “Ouch!” Tico yells as Gus and Stretch start laughing. “You guys are total dipsticks.” He starts chasing them as they run circles around us.

  I turn to Digger. “What was it you wanted to ask?”

  “It’s nothing,” he says. “Forget it.”

  JUNE 24, 8:53 P.M.

  Mom and Dad are having another huge fight. It’s what they do. Yin-Yin and I are sitting on the couch in the family room. One of
her game shows is on, but the volume is way down low. We’re both listening for how many times our names come up. Tonight Yin-Yin’s winning. I am knitting furiously and my whatever-it-is looks like a mess. It’s all lumpy and full of big holes, like a rat was chewing on it.

  “… she went for a walk and then forgot where she lives again,” my mother shouts.

  “It happens,” my father shouts back. “It’s no big deal. Remember when Stanford did that?”

  “He was seven then. Your mother is in her seventies.” After a long pause, my mother adds more softly, “Rick, I love her too. But you’re not the one home with her all day. Her behavior is getting more and more erratic. Besides, I told them at work I was only going part-time for three months. It’s almost been a year. Yin-Yin was supposed to go to Vacation Village a long time ago, you know that.”

  “The doctor said it’s just mild senility,” my father counters. “Besides, Vacation Village is all booked up.”

  “Rick,” my mother says gently, “they called today. There’s an opening.”

  Silence. The only noise is the frantic clicking of my knitting needles and the murmur from the TV. Yin-Yin stares blankly at the screen. Someone is spinning a wheel that’s as big as a house. Everyone holds their breath as the wheel slows.

  Suddenly Yin-Yin points the remote control at the television and presses the volume button so that it is blasting. The wheel stops. A lady sobs and shouts, “I have always wanted a convertible!”

  I have to get out of here. I stash my knitting under the couch and head out. Yin-Yin does not even notice I am missing. I look back through the window. Mom and Dad sit on either side of my grandmother. Dad takes the remote control from her and turns the TV off. Mom puts her arm around Yin-Yin. Like a little kid getting in trouble, my grandmother bows her head and stares at her hands folded together on her lap.

  I start to run. I run so fast that everything is a blur. I run so fast that I’m practically flying.

  Honk, honk, honnnnnk!!! SCREECH …

  I look up. I am standing in the middle of the street. There is a car right in front of me. The driver sticks his head out the window and yells. I yell back at him, even though I know it was my fault. I almost got smushed, smashed, flattened, killed.

  I take off running again. I’m not sure where I am going, but I can’t wait to get there.

  JUNE 25, 8:19 P.M.

  Teacher Torturer made SSSSpy stay after class again. He told SSSSpy, “You’re not off to a very good start this summer. You’d better get serious soon, ‘or else.’” Mr. Glick and my father must use the same dictionary.

  After dinner, Mom and Dad called me into the living room. They both had silly grins on their faces, so for a moment I thought that maybe they had changed their minds about making Yin-Yin leave. But noooooooo. Instead, total humiliation. Get this: Millicent Min, brainiac, nerd, and poster girl for Chinese geekdom, is going to tutor me in English. Maybe I should just slit my wrists now and get it over with.

  Thanks to Yin-Yin and Maddie, Millicent and I have been forced together since we were little. Only she’s never really been a little kid. Millicent’s more like the dorkiest, most obnoxious grown-up you can imagine, only shorter.

  For example, there’s the time our families were at a picnic. Millicent kept hogging my dad, talking to him about global warming. I kept trying to get into the conversation by saying things like, “If the Earth is too hot, maybe they should make a giant air conditioner.”

  “Stanford, please!” Dad said, waving me away. He turned to Millicent and smiled. “How often is it that I get to hear a certified genius’s take on the environment?”

  I left them alone and went to shoot hoops. Of course, later I got blamed when Millicent discovered her briefcase was full of chopped onions and relish.

  Millicent Min is always ratting on me. If she ever made a CD, her greatest hits would include “Stanford Sprinkled Sand in My Sandwich,” “Stanford Squashed a Bug in My Book,” and the ever-popular “Stanford Sneezed All Over My Homework.”

  Nobody likes a tattletale, which is probably why no one likes Millicent Min. She thinks that just because she’s this genius person, everyone knows who she is. When really, no one cares about Millicent, except for teachers, parents, and fellow brains like my sister.

  Now this. I am to be tutored by my mortal enemy. Our mothers agreed that starting next week I would be forced to spend three days a week, an hour at a time, with Miss Know-It-All. And get this: Millicent’s getting paid. Money, moola, cashola. No one’s paying me to have to be in the same room as her.

  When Millicent called to confirm the bad news I could tell she was pretty bummed too. She said, “Listen, Stan-turd, this is not my idea of an ideal summer. In fact, it is worse than getting gout, failing the GRE, and being passed over for graduate school during a meteor shower without a telescope.”

  I wasn’t sure what she was blabbering about (no one’s ever sure what she’s saying), but I did manage to tell her, “This sucks.”

  My whole reputation’s at stake here. What if the guys or any of the kids from school found out I’m being tutored by Millicent Min, girl geek? Just being seen with a kid who carries a briefcase is enough to catapult me right back into the nobody category.

  After I get off the phone with Millicent, I head for the living room. Yin-Yin is watching one of her game shows. She’s exhausted from making enough dim sum to feed a whole basketball league. Every day during the school year Yin-Yin would make dim sum for my lunch. Every day I’d throw it away. It’s not that I don’t like Yin-Yin’s dim sum — I love it. But it would be suicide to be seen at school with weird-looking food.

  I flop down on the couch next to my grandmother with a plate piled high with cha siu bao and ha gow. She reaches for one of the fluffy white pork buns without even taking her eyes off the television. I pick up a ha gow and bite into a shrimp. Someone on television is about to win a “fabulous prize!” Too bad it’s not me.

  JUNE 27, 3:21 P.M.

  Millicent called, this time to figure out where to meet for tutoring. She didn’t laugh when I suggested the moon. We finally agreed on the library. It is the one place I know the Roadrunners would never go. Roadrunners aren’t famous for their brains. Tico gets decent grades and Stretch always makes Honors, but they don’t want anyone to know that.

  I’ll bet Millicent thinks I’m some sort of freak because I’m not nearly as smart as her. It’s bad enough that teachers expect more of Chinese kids. But to have someone like Millicent living in the same town, and to have Sarah as a sister, makes my life impossible.

  “Stanford Wong? Are you Sarah Wong’s little brother?” my teachers always ask. Eventually, when they find out that I am nothing like my sister, I can sense their disappointment. Sarah skipped a grade. So it only seems right that I flunk a grade to balance things out. Hey, maybe I’ll be in Ripley’s Believe It or Not! The headline will read: STANFORD WONG, THE ONLY STUPID CHINESE KID IN AMERICA!

  Maybe if I could run Millicent and all the other “high achievers” out of town there wouldn’t be so much pressure on me. What a total dweeb she is. I wonder, if Digger didn’t ask me to join the Roadrunners way back then, if I didn’t have basketball, would I have ended up like Millicent Min, only without good grades? Would I have been like Marley, who has not only embraced his inner geekiness but flaunts it?

  I’m late getting to the library. Still, I can’t bring myself to go inside, so instead I practice spinning the basketball on my finger. Finally I realize that if I don’t go in, Millicent will probably come looking for me, or worse, someone might see me.

  The library lady peers over the top of her glasses and smiles. I try to smile back, and then look for Millicent. She said to meet in the periods section. I wander around until I spot her. Why didn’t she just say, “Meet by the magazines”? She is beyond weird.

  Millicent’s sitting with her back straight and her hands folded, staring at a clock on the table. Pens, a notebook op
en to a blank page, and some other papers are all neatly lined up in front of her. Her briefcase is on the floor, and her T-shirt reads SO MANY BOOKS, SO LITTLE TIME. How can my dad be impressed with someone like Millicent Min?

  I walk toward her and she grabs a book and covers her face. I wish she’d keep it covered.

  “Nerd,” she says.

  “Geek,” I reply.

  “Imbecile.”

  “Freak.”

  After about five minutes, the name-calling stops and Millicent begins to lecture me. Who does she think she is, Mr. Glick? I stop her midsentence. “You have to promise me you won’t tell anyone about this.”

  “About this what?”

  Isn’t it obvious? “This tutoring business.”

  “Yeah, okay. Now tell me, what is it about reading that you find so difficult?”

  “No!” I shout. The library lady almost drops a big pile of books. “No,” I say more softly. “You have to swear you won’t tell.”

  “All right, I won’t tell.”

  I don’t believe her. “Cross your heart and hope to die, stick a needle in your eye!”

  “This is ridiculous,” Millicent says, turning up her nose. “Why don’t we just spit into our palms and rub them together?”

  Finally she’s said something that makes sense. I spit into my hands and hold them out to her. She acts horrified and shouts, “I’d rather eat worms!”

  Worms! That reminds me. “I’ve eaten a worm before. I ate it on a dare and it didn’t taste half-bad. It wasn’t as chewy as I thought it would be….” Before I can even get to the part about how I had to drain two cans of Coke to wash down the wormy taste, Millicent bolts from the table. What is her problem?

  Unfortunately, after a couple minutes she returns. By then I have a plan. I know she’ll go for it because Millicent’s all into rules and regulations like my dad.

  “A contract?” she says.

  “A contract,” I confirm. Maybe we can even keep it in a safe and seal it with wax. Or blood!

  At first Millicent refuses. Then I tell her that if she doesn’t agree, I’ll plug my ears and hum whenever she talks. To prove this, I plug my ears and hum.