Stanford Wong Flunks Big-Time

by Lisa Yee

  Mom returns with a screwdriver. “No one can fix the TV, so I’m going to do it myself,” she says as she fiddles with the back of it.

  I try not to laugh. Mom fixing a TV, that’s pretty funny.

  “A brand-new washer and dryer!!!!” a voice on the television shouts. The audience goes nuts.

  “There,” my mother says, looking proud of herself. “The television’s fixed.” The three of us settle down on Yin-Yin’s bed and watch the game show.

  “Where’s Rick?” Yin-Yin asks. I look at my mom. She’s acting like she didn’t hear Yin-Yin. “Where’s Rick?” Yin-Yin asks again, this time louder.

  “He had to work,” Mom says without expression. “You know how much he works.”

  Yin-Yin and I both nod. We know how much he works.

  JULY 21, 9:49 P.M.

  Mom and Dad are arguing about my grades again. You’d think they would get tired of it. I know I am.

  “He’s showing lots of improvement.”

  “He failed a class. Sarah never failed anything in her entire life.”

  “We’re not talking about Sarah; we’re talking about Stanford.”

  “What is it with that boy? Is he just lazy? I swear he’s just doing this to upset me. You’d think that with someone like Millicent Min tutoring him, he’d do better.”

  “Stanford’s not trying to upset you. If anything, he wants to impress you.”

  “Well, he sure has a funny way of showing it. When Sarah was his age she skipped a grade.”

  “You’re expecting too much from him.”

  “I’m expecting him to try. If we have low expectations of Stanford, then he’ll never amount to anything.”

  So far I’ve done a lot of knitting. My whatever-I-am-making is about six inches wide and eight feet long. It looks like an ogre’s scarf or a blanket for a snake. I’ve chosen some really nice yarn colors — red and yellow. I also found this one yarn that’s lots of colors mixed together. How’d they figure out how to do that? Maybe I’ll be in charge of yarn colors when I grow up. Do you have to go to college to do that?

  Dad says, “If you don’t get good grades, you’ll never get into a good college.” Okay, so, and then what? My life will be ruined? He’s never come right out and said that, but I know that’s what he means. He really wants me to go to Stanford University, where he went. He had it all figured out, even before I was born. That’s why he gave me this dumb name.

  “It could be worse,” Mom used to joke. You could have been called Dartmouth or Hofstra.”

  She doesn’t joke about college anymore. “There’s more to life than school,” I’ve heard her tell my father. “He’s still a kid; there’s plenty of time to stress over colleges later.”

  There are tons of things I can do besides go to college. Gus thinks that I have it in me to play pro ball. Yesterday Stretch and I slaughtered Digger and Tico. Yin-Yin says that I can do anything I want to do. Maybe I don’t want to go to college. Maybe I want to sail around the world, like Sarah. Only I’d skip the study part.

  When I handed in my book report on Mrs. Franks and Beans, Mr. Glick actually smiled at me. He says I am improving, “thanks to Millicent Min.” She’s getting the credit for my improvement. I’ll bet he believes I am so stupid that I can’t do anything on my own.

  I know that’s what my dad thinks. He’s always saying, “That boy’s like a loose cannon.” I was pleased until Millicent explained, “A loose cannon rolls around the ship in an unpredictable manner and never hits its mark.”

  “Rick,” I hear my mother say now, “if you’re so concerned about his grades, maybe you could go over some of his homework with him sometime.”

  “The boy doesn’t need me to go over his homework. What he needs is discipline. He needs good study habits and someone to make sure he does what he is supposed to.”

  “Oh, and I suppose I’m the one who’s supposed to carry out your orders?” Mom’s voice sounds icy.

  “Well, I can’t do everything around here. You know how swamped I am at the office.”

  “Excuse me.” My mother takes aim. “I guess my job’s not important. We can’t forget that the law firm of Calvin Benjamin Jacobs would fold if Rick Wong took even two minutes off to be with his son.”

  “I am up for a promotion,” my father shoots back. “Do you know how many people would kill to get this job?”

  “I know one person,” my mother says.

  I shut my door and push a chair up against it, then duck for cover under my blanket. Still, it feels like every shot they take at each other passes through me first.

  JULY 22, 10:26 A.M.

  Strange, but English is not as totally awful as it was when it first started. Maybe Teacher Torturer is getting better at his job. Today Mr. Glick brought in a friend who used to be in the CIA. Now he writes spy novels. I’ve never met an author before. The guy looks so normal, boring even. The least he could do is wear a hat or carry a cane.

  “Is everything you write true?” asks one of the kids.

  “No, but many parts are,” A. C. Griffiths tells us. He scans the room. “The boy with the basketball.”

  “Have you ever killed anyone?” I ask.

  “If I told you, I’d have to kill you,” Mr. Griffiths says with a wink. Everyone laughs.

  A. C. Griffiths talks to us about writing a book and how hard it is. “The words don’t just magically appear on the page,” he explains. “Someone has to put them there. It might take me years to write something that someone can read in hours. But that’s my reward, that someone is actually enjoying my work.”

  He begins telling us what he’s writing next, “a spy novel set in outer space in the not-too-distant future.” How cool is that? Suddenly the bell rings and class is over. Mr. Glick thanks Mr. Griffiths and says, “Sorry, but that’s it for today.”

  I wish class had lasted longer.

  I take my time stuffing everything in my backpack. I want to tell Mr. Griffiths that sometimes I pretend I’m a spy, only he might laugh at me. So instead I slip into SSSSpy mode and listen to him and Mr. Glick. They discuss Mr. Griffiths’s bad back and the quality of Mr. Glick’s front lawn. I’ll bet they are talking in code.

  Finally they shake hands and promise to meet for dinner. After Mr. Griffiths leaves, Mr. Glick notices me standing in the back of the room.

  “Need any help?” he asks.

  “Uh, no, I got it,” I tell him.

  He glances at my Number the Stars book. “Excellent reading choice. Have you started it yet?”

  “I’m going to start it tonight.” I’m not lying either. I really am, right after Top Cop. “How do you know A. C. Griffiths?”

  “A. C. and I go a long way back. We met while waiting in front of the principal’s office. He was such a cutup.” A slow grin crosses Mr. Glick’s face. “Who knew he could write? And as for me, I got in so much trouble all the time, who knew I’d end up a teacher?”

  Mr. Glick used to get in a lot of trouble? Before I can say anything, he tells me, “Now, Stanford, it wouldn’t do my reputation any good if the other kids found out about my shady past. Let’s keep this between you and me, okay?”

  I zip up my backpack and fling it over my shoulder. I still can’t believe that Mr. Glick was sent to the principal’s office.

  “Okay,” I assure him. “It’ll be our secret.”

  4:49 P.M.

  I’m at the park. It’s two-on-two, Tico’s ref-ing, and Digger and I are ahead. Stretch passes the ball to Gus. I intercept and swerve around. I’m clear to shoot when suddenly— oh no, no, no, this can’t be happening! It’s Millicent Min and she’s waving to me.

  I miss the shot. Air ball. Everyone laughs, even the girls who are pretending not to watch us play.

  Millicent comes closer. Why?

  “Stanford,” Millicent calls out. Her voice sounds funny. “I need to see you for a minute.”

  What a total dork she is with her briefcase.
Everyone is staring at her. No one, and I mean no one, ever interrupts when the Roadrunners are playing. Millicent looks like she doesn’t even notice she’s stopped the game. She’s one of those people who are so into themselves they don’t care what other people think.

  “Can’t it wait?” I ask, lowering my voice.

  “No,” she insists, lowering her voice.

  Everyone is still staring. “Gotta go. See you guys later,” I mumble.

  Digger’s face turns as red as his hair. “Hey, Stanford, come back, we’re not finished yet.”

  “No, I gotta go,” I call back to the guys.

  “Forget her; let’s play,” Digger shouts. He’s staring at Millicent. I have to do something before he figures out who she is. “Stanford, come back. We need you!”

  “Don’t talk to me,” I hiss as Millicent tries to catch up to me. “I don’t want to be seen with you. What are you doing here?”

  She looks hurt. “Your books,” Millicent says, handing them to me. “You left them at the library. You’ve got a quiz tomorrow.”

  I stop and face her. “Oh. Yeah, well …,” I say, taking my books. “Thanks. Um, I’d better get back to the game.”

  Millicent is staring off somewhere like she’s on another planet. I’ve noticed that she zones out a lot.

  “Are you okay?”

  She comes to and looks surprised to see me. “Yes, yes, I’m fine,” she assures me. “Hey, good luck on your quiz.”

  “Right,” I reply. Is she making a joke? “Like I’m really going to pass.”

  “You might.” She sounds like she means it. “You’re not as stupid as I first thought you were.”

  “Gee, thanks, Mill, and you’re not as big a blockhead as I thought you were.”

  We both almost grin but catch ourselves just in time. I wait for her to leave, and when she finally does I stash my books in the bushes.

  “It’s about time,” Digger says when I step back onto the court. “Who was that? She looks familiar. Does she go to our school?”

  “Yeah, who was that?” Gus chimes in. “Your babysitter? Your parole officer? Your girlfriend?”

  “Who, her?” I scoff. “Naw, I’d never go out with her! She’s just some weirdo my parents say I have to be nice to.”

  Digger passes me the ball and I run down the court toward Tico. After I make the basket I look around in time to see Millicent marching past with her nose stuck up in the air.

  JULY 23, 12:30 P.M.

  “Yin-Yin! Yin-Yin, wake up!”

  I shake my grandmother and her eyes fly open. She blinks wildly. “Where am I?” she asks. “Have I died?” I take her glasses from her hand and put them on her face. “Oh.” She sounds disappointed. “Still here, am I?”

  I wave my English quiz in front of her. “Yin-Yin, look! I got a C-plus.”

  Yin-Yin sits up and examines my quiz. Mr. Glick has written “Good effort” across the top.

  “Stanford, that’s terrific. Can I keep this?”

  “Not yet,” I tell her. “I want to show Dad first.”

  8:05 P.M.

  I am flying high. I made most of my shots at basketball, and then I won at H-O-R-S-E and everyone had to cough up a dollar. Stretch didn’t have the money, so Digger tossed in two dollars to cover him. It is a great day.

  Dad’s home on time tonight. He’s sitting in his den working. His den is off-limits, but this is important. I knock on the door and he waves me in. I try not to grin. I want my grade to be a surprise.

  “Here,” I say, handing Dad my quiz.

  He looks up from his stack of paperwork and takes the paper from me. He stares at it for a long time. Then Dad scowls and my heart stops beating.

  “A C-plus?” my father says. “Stanford, next time try to do better, will you?”

  JULY 25, 3:30 P.M.

  At least Mom was pleased with my C-plus. It is so far up from my F, she thinks anything is progress. My mother’s going to meet with Millicent today. I’m not sure what they are going to talk about, but you can bet it’s not basketball.

  I wait for Millicent outside the library and hand her my quiz.

  “C-plus,” she reads. I grin and nod. “Okay, that’s a good start.”

  We go inside. I hold up my quiz so Mrs. Martinez can see my grade. She smiles. I’m feeling pretty good.

  “Let’s get right to work,” Millicent says as she unpacks her briefcase. “You passed your quiz; that’s a positive sign. I think we’re at a turning point in your studies and I predict that it is an affirmative one. It’s a pity that you have to be nice to that weirdo who’s tutoring you, though.”

  “What?”

  “Yes, Stanford, that’s right. When you opened your mouth at the park, I could hear what you were saying. Imagine that! Silly me,” Millicent says, slamming her dictionary on the table. “I was beginning to think you were human, or should I say ‘humane’? Oh well, there’s no need for you and me to dwell on this.” She delivers a wicked smile and adds, “When I meet with your mother this afternoon I’ll be sure to tell her what a delight you are to work with.”

  7:17 P.M.

  Great. The big brainstorm that came out of my mother and Millicent’s meeting was that I have to read at least half an hour before I play basketball. This does not include my regular homework assignments. If this is a plot to make me miserable, it’s working.

  “That Millicent Min sure is a nice girl.” Mom passes me a plate of lasagna. It’s my father’s favorite. I make sure not to eat too much, so there will be plenty left for Dad. Besides, I’m not very hungry. Right before dinner, Stretch and I had a Doritos-eating contest. He won, but only because he smashed his up so he could get more in his mouth at once. I’m going to try his strategy next time.

  “I think she really likes you. It was her suggestion for you to read more. She is so concerned with you passing your class. Stanford, did you hear me?”

  “Whatever.”

  “She’s kind of cute too, don’t you think?”

  What is this? Is she trying to ruin my appetite for life? Millicent cute? Next Mom will say, “Don’t you think greasy grimy gopher guts are cute?”

  “Sure, Millicent’s cute,” I tell Mom as I take a big bite. Mom makes the best lasagna, even if it comes frozen in a box. “She’s sooooo cute.”

  My sarcasm goes right over my mother’s head. She perks up and says, “I agree! I’m so glad you and Millicent Min are good friends.”

  Who said anything about us being good friends? Wait. If Mom thinks that, Millicent must not have told her I told the guys she was a weirdo. How come she didn’t fink on me?

  “I know summer school is hard for you, sweetheart. Just try to hang in there.” Mom looks at the clock. Dad used to call when he was going to be late. “Millicent says that you are showing some improvement, but she fears you have some anger issues.”

  “I don’t know what she’s talking about,” I grunt.

  “Millicent also said she thinks you could be trying harder.”

  I glance at my F paper on the refrigerator. How can I explain that some sort of supersonic magnetic force prevents me from getting anywhere near my English books? Mom has no clue how hard it is for me to study.

  She is waiting for a reply.

  “I am trying, honest,” I say. “But what’s the point when I know I’m going to fail?”

  My mother puts down her fork. “If you were on the basketball court and a bunch of guys blocked you, would you give up?”

  I laugh. “Of course not.” She knows so little about basketball. “I’d fake them out or go around them. Or I’d just pass the ball to a teammate and then get it back and make a basket.”

  “Hmmm,” she says, thinking. “Do you need to practice for a basketball game, or do the players just step on the court and start playing?”

  “Of course you need to practice.” Why is she suddenly interested in my sport? “You need to warm up before every game too. Coach says
you’d be nuts not to.”

  “Well then,” Mom says, picking her fork up. “Maybe it’s time for you to read some, study some, warm up before the tests, and give English your best try.”

  She winks at me and takes a bite of lasagna.

  I hate it when parents use logic. It’s totally unfair.

  JULY 26, 1:57 P.M.

  I was going to get one of those spy books A. C. Griffiths writes. Mr. Glick says that if we bring in the book, he’ll get his friend to autograph it. I thought I’d give it to my dad to cheer him up since he’s in a permanent bad mood. Then I remembered that Mom got Dad a book for his birthday, but he never read it.

  “Who has time to read?” he said.

  My thoughts exactly!

  Before I visit Yin-Yin I have to go to the grocery store. Yin-Yin gave me a list of things to buy for the Vacation Village cook for his birthday. His name is Ramon, and Yin-Yin really likes him. “Don’t tell your parents about the presents for Ramon,” she told me over the phone. “They won’t approve.”

  “What’s a scallion?” I ask the store lady.

  “Does oyster sauce come from an oyster?”

  “Is a wonton skin something that would be on a shelf or in the freezer, and do they have to actually skin a wonton?”

  “Would cornstarch be in the ironing aisle?”

  The store lady snatches my list, grabs a basket, and gets everything I need. That was nice of her.

  My grandmother is waiting for me in the Vacation Village lobby. The bulletin board has changed. There are really old-looking photos of babies on one side and some really new-looking photos of prehistoric people on the other side. The sign says: THEN AND NOW. OH BABY, GUESS WHO’S WHO! Who would have thought these Vacation Villagers were ever babies?

  Yin-Yin grabs my hand. “We don’t have much time,” she whispers.

  I try to ask her what’s going on, but she keeps shushing me. She’s starting to remind me of Millicent Min. As we rush down the hallway, Yin-Yin suddenly shoves me through a side door. My grandmother is stronger than she looks.

  I glance around. We are in the kitchen. “Ramon’s running errands,” Yin-Yin tells me. “I figure we have about an hour and a half to get everything done and get out of here.”