by Lisa Yee
To really test this, we all went down to Taco Heaven and scarfed down three bean burritos each. Then we went to Stretch’s (this was before the Jell-O fight and the “only two Roadrunners in the house at one time” rule). Tico made a bunch of scrambled eggs with Tabasco sauce and we ate those too. Then we each drank several cans of soda and waited.
It took a while for the farts to start happening, but once they did it sounded like the Fourth of July. Man, the place stunk worse than the boys’ locker room on a rainy day! Digger started gagging so much that he had to leave the room. Gus had the good sense to pour Stretch’s mom’s perfume over the couch cushions we were sitting on. It wasn’t until after Stretch emptied two cans of room freshener that Tico suggested we open the windows. We were all laughing so hard we never did figure out who was right and who was wrong.
“Are you really reading?” Millicent asks.
“Duh, what does it look like I’m doing?” I hold up the book as proof.
“Never mind,” she says, going back to her chart of my progress.
Has Millicent’s hair always looked like that? All straight and black and flat? Has she always had bangs? Emily’s hair is so beautiful she could star in a shampoo commercial. Alan Scott just got a new haircut and it looks awesome, all spiked with blue in it.
Tico has the best hair in our group. Sometimes he spikes his hair with one main spike in the middle and lots of little spikes around it. Digger’s hair is a reddish-orange color that looks fake, but it’s not. It’s always a mess and he looks like he has a squirrel sitting on top of his head. Stretch has a buzz cut that’s so short that from far away he looks bald. Gus’s hair looks exactly like his twin sister’s, all black and curly. He’s been mistaken for a girl from behind. This really ticks him off. Still, he refuses to cut his hair.
“Hey, Millie?” I put Holes down. “Do you think I should cut my hair? You know, maybe get a buzz cut or something?”
Millicent studies my hair. I know she will give me an honest answer. If anything, she’s too honest, which is one of her many major flaws.
“You could use a haircut,” she finally concludes. “Or something. You could definitely use something. Maybe you should try cleaning your glasses.”
Stupid reading glasses. They make me look like a nerd. I clean my glasses on my shirt.
Everyone’s said that they’ve seen an improvement in my studies since I started working with Millie. That I am doing well in English is astonishing to us both. Millicent doesn’t even know I’ve read The Outsiders too. It was hard to finish. Not because I didn’t want to read it, but because I didn’t want it to end. Mr. Glick and I talked a lot about the book, and he gave me extra credit just like he promised.
“Thanks, Stanford,” Millie says now.
“For what?”
“For yesterday. For helping me with my serve.” She looks embarrassed.
“It was nothing.” Am I blushing?
“No, really. You didn’t have to help me.”
“Whatever,” I say. I pull something out of my backpack and hand it to her.
“What’s this?”
“My Number the Stars book report. Could you look at it? It’s due pretty soon.”
I pretend to be absorbed in Holes, but really I’m watching Millie. Her face is blank as she reads. She looks like what a zombie would look like if a zombie looked like Millicent. I worked really hard on that report. I even read the whole book and not just the first and last paragraphs of each chapter.
Finally she looks up. My back stiffens. “You need to proofread it better — there are a lot of spelling mistakes,” Millicent tells me. “Your conclusion is weak, but your work is solid. Overall, nice job, Stanford.”
I relax. “Thanks, Millie.”
AUGUST 7, 1:02 P.M.
I was afraid Yin-Yin might be sad that I’m late. Instead, she’s talking to a stranger. He looks like one of those shifty criminals that Top Cop is searching for, except older.
“Oh! Mr. Thistlewaite, this is my good-looking grandson Stanford, who I’ve been telling you all about,” Yin-Yin brags. Her hair is combed today, and her clothes look normal.
Mr. Thistlewaite struggles to stand up. He is ancient but has a full head of dark brown hair. He smiles widely at me and I can see that several of his teeth are missing.
“The basketball player!” he shouts. “Pleasure to meet you!”
Mr. Thistlewaite edges toward the door. “Mrs. Wong, so wonderful to see you again! I was especially impressed that you climbed the Himalayas! I thought I was the only one at Vacation Village who had done that!” He bows to me. “Stanford, I hope we meet again!”
Yin-Yin and I watch Mr. Thistlewaite totter out the door. My grandmother is beaming.
“Did you really trek across the Himalayas?” I ask. I would have thought that if she had, she’d at least have a photo to show.
“I can envision it like it was yesterday,” my grandmother tells me.
“Okay, Yin-Yin. Whatever you say.”
3:01 P.M.
I’ve memorized Emily’s volleyball schedule, so sometimes I sort of show up and watch her play without her knowing it. It’s not like I’m stalking her or anything, like some of those weirdos on Top Cop. I’m just secretly watching her.
The problem is that she’s always with Millicent and I want to see Emily by herself. Since it’s impossible to get to her alone, sometimes the three of us do stuff together. I’ll hear either Millie or Emily say something like, “Let’s go to the movies this afternoon.” Then I’ll run as fast as I can to the movie theater and hang around the entrance. When they show up, it’s not like I’ve been following them. Instead, they’ve bumped into me.
The game just ended and Emily and Millicent are still in the gym talking. What do they talk about? Do they ever talk about me? They’re walking toward the door. I slip into SSSSpy mode and sneak around the bleachers to try to listen in. Emily and Millie are saying good-bye. I follow them out of the gym. Hey, I don’t believe it! Millicent is walking in one direction, and Emily is walking in another.
I know, I’ll race around the block and then when I run into Emily it’ll look like I was coming from the total opposite direction. Brilliant! Millicent’s not the only genius around here.
I take off like Alan Scott and charge down the street. Running, fast, faster, faster, faster … CRASH! Oops, oh noooo, I’ve knocked Millicent over. I guess I forgot Millie was also going in the opposite direction of Emily.
Do I help her up? She seems upset. Her briefcase stuff is scattered all over the sidewalk, and she looks like she’s in shock. But if I help her, I might miss Emily.
Oh, all right already. My mission comes to a screeching halt as I hand Millie her books, her pens, her notebooks. Her chocolate bars, her pencil sharpener, her calculator. A comic book? She snatches it out of my hand and shoves it into her briefcase.
There! Finally we are done. Before she can say another word, I take off. I have to hurry if I am going to accidentally-on-purpose bump into Emily. I turn the corner. Then I turn another corner. I am too late. I don’t see her anywhere. Stupid Millicent Min.
There’s only one thing to do. Ice cream. That always makes me feel better. I take my time heading to the ice-cream parlor. There’s no reason to rush, since I’ve lost Emily.
As I push the door open, I stop and stare. She is standing in line. And she’s alone! She sees me at the exact same moment I see her.
“Hi, Stanford!” Emily exclaims, doing that sparkly-eyed thing. “Can I buy you an ice-cream cone?”
I try not to faint. It just wouldn’t be cool.
“Uh, sure, an ice-cream cone. Yeah, okay. Why not?”
Oh man, oh man, oh man, Emily must like me. She’s offered to buy me an ice-cream cone. No girl has ever offered to buy me an ice-cream cone, although Millie once said she’d buy me a one-way ticket to the moon. But this with Emily? This is major. This is big-time. It’s practically like we are boyfrien
d/girlfriend.
“What flavor would you like?”
“Uh …” I stare at the flavor board. What if I order a flavor she hates? Will she think I’m weird? “What are you having?” I say, trying to sound casual.
Emily wrinkles her nose as she decides. She looks so beautiful. I just stare at her. How come her skin is so clear? Her hair smells good. It smells like flowers. I want to touch her hair. It looks so soft. Before I can stop myself, I am reaching for her hair … reaching … reaching …
Suddenly Emily faces me. My hand is still reaching out toward her. There’s not enough time to yank it back, so instead, I do the first thing that comes to mind. I whack her on the shoulder.
Emily looks shocked. “Stanford?”
“A bug?” I stammer. “You had a bug on you.”
“Oh! Euwww. Thank you, Stanford. Was it a big one?”
“What?”
“The bug.”
“Oh, the bug. Yeah, it was huge.”
“I’m so glad you got it,” Emily gushes. “I hate bugs.”
The ice-cream lady yawns.
Emily goes on, “I think I’m going to try chocolate peanut butter.”
“That’s exactly what I was going to order,” I tell her.
Emily’s eyes widen. “Really? That is just too incredible. Stanford Wong, it’s like we’re totally in sync.”
I feel my face turning red enough to melt all the ice cream in all the countries in all the world.
As the lady scoops out the ice cream, I watch Emily. Usually I watch the person scooping the ice cream to make sure they don’t skimp on my cone. But I can’t help staring at Emily.
She’s taking out a little wallet from her purse. It has a monkey on it. Should I show her my monkey imitation? The lady hands us the cones, and Emily hands her a credit card. Wow! I’ve never heard of a kid who has her own credit card. She sees me staring. “My dad gave it to me,” Emily says modestly. “He’s so great.”
I doubt my dad will be getting me a credit card any time soon.
I watch as Emily signs her name on the credit-card receipt. She has a nice signature, all loopy. I should practice writing my name so it looks better.
We go outside and sit on a bench. We’re sitting close, but not too close. I wonder what she is thinking. As we eat our cones, there is an awkward silence. I am working up my nerve to give her a present that I have been carrying around forever.
I try to sound casual, hoping my voice doesn’t crack. “Um, Emily, I just read a great book and thought maybe you’d like to have it.”
Emily turns toward me. “Really? Wow! You must read a lot of books, so I am sure it’s a good one.”
“Oh, it is,” I assure her.
“The Outsiders,” she reads.
“It’s the best book I’ve ever read,” I hear myself saying.
She grins. “I’ll be sure to get it back to you after I’m done.”
“No, no, it’s for you to keep. Look, I’ve signed it on the inside.”
It took me two hours to figure out what to write. I didn’t want to be mushy; I wanted to be meaningful. Finally I wrote:
I had considered signing “Love,” but that might be taken the wrong way. “From” seemed too formal. So finally I signed:
As Emily is reading the inscription, I tell her, “Please don’t tell Millie about this. She might feel bad about her poor reading abilities if she finds out I’m giving you books.” Actually, Millicent will get all smug and think that she’s the one who should get the credit for me reading.
Emily looks at me for a moment and I wonder if she can tell I am lying. “Well,” she says thoughtfully. “I certainly don’t want Millie to feel bad. I mean, she tries so hard to use big words and everything. Like she wants me to think she’s really smart. I get the feeling she won’t even talk about summer school because she feels that someone who’s home-schooled shouldn’t have to go.” Emily bites her lip. “Okay, I won’t mention it to her. That’s really thoughtful of you to think about her feelings, Stanford.”
We continue eating our cones in silence, only it doesn’t feel awkward anymore. It feels comfortable, like when I’m with Stretch, only she smells so much better.
“Stanford,” Emily says suddenly. She startles me. I was so busy thinking about Emily that I forgot she was sitting right next to me.
“Yes, Emily?” I like to say her name out loud.
“Thank you for the book.”
I look deep into her eyes. They are sparkling like crazy. “You’re so welcome,” I whisper.
My ice-cream cone is melting all over my hand, but I don’t care. What I do care about is that I am sitting here on this bench with Emily Ebers. Emily Ebers who bought me an ice-cream cone. Emily Ebers who accepted the book I gave to her. Emily Ebers with the sparkling eyes.
The mere thought of being this close to Emily makes me start to sweat and I can’t breathe. My stomach gets funny, like it’s turning itself inside out. My heart pounds so fast I’m afraid it’s going to fall out of my chest. I can’t talk, and I can’t focus. I’m dizzy. Oh man, I have never felt so good in my entire life.
11:37 P.M.
There! I’ve finally finished revising my book report. I reread it and it sounds pretty good to me. I reach across my desk and turn on one of those mushy music stations that always play love songs. Why didn’t I ask Emily for her phone number? Dumb! Next time I see her, I’ll get it. Or maybe I can talk Millicent into giving it to me. In the meantime, at least I can practice.
I pick up the phone and pretend to dial. In my deepest voice I say, “Hello, Emily, Stanford Wong here. What’s happenin’? What’s up? What’s goin’ on?”
That sounds stupid. Let me try again.
In a surprised voice, I say, “Oh, hi, Emily, is that you? I must have accidentally dialed the wrong number, but now that you’re on the phone perhaps we ought to chat a while.”
Nope, too lame. How about, “Emily! I missed Top Cop last night and was wondering if you saw it?”
This casual conversation is going to take a lot of work. I take a break and grab some Oreos. I can put six in my mouth at once. Some guy on the radio is spilling his guts out to a low-talking DJ named Lavender. He wants to dedicate a song to a girl named Susie who dumped him.
“Gee, Elliott,” Lavender tells him, “that’s rough. Two days before your wedding? Well, here’s a song to soothe your broken heart.”
I listen to the words and it’s all about love and how true love always wins. I find myself thinking about Emily, Emily Ebers. Emily’s all I can think about. Everywhere I turn, I see her face. On the television … on my wall … at dinner I swear I could see her face staring out at me and smiling through my meat loaf.
I think of Emily as I watch the black spider spinning a web for herself in the corner of the ceiling. I would do anything for Emily. Anything. I wonder if she feels the same way about me. If she wanted me to, I’d even get her name tattooed on my arm.
Last year, there was an eighth grader who had an incredible tattoo of an eagle on his left bicep. It looked so real everyone wanted to touch it. Then one day his tattoo started peeling off and he dropped from the cool list to the loser pile.
Gus says that he’s getting a tattoo of a tiger cub, our school mascot. Digger wants a skull tattooed on his skull. Tico doesn’t want a tattoo, and neither does Stretch. I’m still thinking about it. My dad would kill me if I got a tattoo. I asked him about it once.
“But your father had a tattoo,” I reminded him.
“Just because he did something stupid doesn’t mean you should too,” Dad snapped back. He doesn’t like to talk about his father.
Even though my dad is totally against it, I still think it would be worth it to get an Emily tattoo. I pick up my pen and slowly write her name on my right arm. I’ve been lifting weights for almost a week now. Well, okay, not real weights, but I have been lifting big bottles of water. I can’t see any results yet, but ac
cording to Digger it takes about two months.
Digger’s got a full set of real weights at his house. He says we can use them anytime. But even though the Ronsters have a swimming pool, a pool table, and even a jukebox, none of the Roadrunners are comfortable at Digger’s. We’re always afraid we’re going to break something. Digger’s house is the kind that my mom says “is more to look at than live in.”
There, I’m done. Emily looks good on my arm. I draw a heart around it and then some arrows. Then I add my name, which takes up a lot of space, especially since I am using my fancy lettering. The word forever has to go down toward my elbow because I can’t reach the back side of my arm.
I put in a bird, and then another one, and then one of Yin-Yin’s birdhouses. My grandmother would like that. Now I add the date that I first saw Emily at the drugstore. I also include the cover of The Outsiders because it is the first gift we have shared, and I put a waffle cone on there too to signify the day I gave her the gift.
I look at the clock. How did it get so late? The sappy music is still on. At least my parents are no longer yelling at each other. A lady wants Lavender to dedicate a song to her first boyfriend, who she hasn’t seen in years.
I admire my arm. My fake tattoo goes all the way down from my bicep to my wrist. I fall asleep dreaming of Emily as the lady on the radio murmurs, “You’re listening to Love Songs with Lavender. This one is for all those first-time lovers out there….”
AUGUST 8, 8:04 A.M.
I wake up and scream. My arm looks hideous, plus I have spelled Emily’s name wrong. Emely? I have to wash off my tattoo before anyone sees it. Dad would kill me. Mom would want to know who Emily is. The Roadrunners would never let me live it down.
Oh man, oh man! The ink won’t come off. I am a dead man. I scrub and scrub and scrub. Never in my life have I used so much soap. Finally some of the letters start to smear, but not all of them. Shoot! My arm is all black and smudgy and it looks like it says, “me tan orever.”