by Lisa Yee
It feels like I’ve been punched in the gut.
“Well?” Digger is waiting. “Oh, and as you think it over, just remember that it was me who invited you to be a Roadrunner in the first place. You owe me one.”
“That’s blackmail!” I protest.
“Noooo,” he says slowly. “I like to think of it more like a handicap, like in golf. Tell you what, I’ll give you a couple days to think it over. I’m in no rush.” I just stare at him. I can’t even speak. “You can thank me later.”
Thanks a lot, Digger.
AUGUST 12, 9:13 A.M.
Stupid Digger, stupid Digger, stupid Digger. No! Stop!
Emily, Emily, Emily, Emily Ebers. Emily, Emily, Emily …
“Good job, Mr. Wong.”
Huh? Mr. Glick is holding out my Number the Stars book report. I sit up. B-minus. I got a B-minus! “Thank you,” I say.
“Thank you,” he says back. “I enjoyed reading your paper.”
Right on the front, in red ink, Mr. Glick wrote, “Good job, Stanford. Keep it up!”
I nudge the girl in front of me. “I got a B-minus,” I say, trying to sound modest. She gives me a blank look. I’ll bet she’s jealous.
I can’t wait to show Millicent my grade. My mom will be so happy. My dad will be happy too. What’s not to like about a B-minus?
4:30 P.M.
I’m dreading seeing Digger, but the need to play ball is stronger.
The Roadrunners are on the court. When I walk up, Digger shoves the ball into my chest so hard that I can’t breathe for a moment. He laughs and winks at me. “I’ll guard Stanford. Tico, you’re on my team.”
We start to play. Without thinking, I steal the ball from Digger and make a tough jump shot. As I take a bow and the guys cheer, Digger comes up to me and whispers, “Here’s a little song I learned in school: a, b, c, d, e, F, g …”
Back on the court, Tico steals the ball from Gus and passes to Digger. It would be so easy to block him, but instead, I let him muscle past me and drive to the net. He shoots and misses. I get the ball and do a blind pass to Gus. He gets it and then misses his shot. Digger has the ball. I pretend to trip and he makes an easy basket. Everyone cheers Digger this time.
After the game, the Roadrunners are shouting and jostling and laughing, but it’s too painful to watch. Instead I think about Emily, Emily, Emily Ebers. What would the guys think if they knew about her? I wonder.
“Off day?” Gus startles me.
“Yeah, you weren’t yourself out there,” Tico chimes in. “Digger got lots of points off of you.”
“Hey,” Digger interrupts. “Maybe I’m the one who should have made the A-Team.”
“But you didn’t, did you?” says Gus.
“Like anyone can stop Stanford,” Tico snorts.
Right. Nothing but English. And nobody but Digger.
8 P.M.
It’s past dinnertime and no one is home. I’m standing in Sarah/Yin-Yin’s room. My sister and grandmother left behind enough things to look like they were here but not enough to look like they are coming back. Sarah’s prom dress hangs in the closet next to Yin-Yin’s brown winter coat, and a collection of Winnie-the-Poohs shares shelf space with a dozen ceramic teapots. Finally I hear the garage door open and close.
My mother looks beat as she enters the living room. “I’m not sure if I can keep up with those young MBAs,” she says. “They don’t have a family to take care of.”
I’m not sure how to respond, so I say, “What’s for dinner?”
“Dinner!” Mom exclaims. “I completely forgot about dinner. You must think I am a horrible mother.” She goes to the phone. “How about pizza?” Before I can answer, she’s ordering a Hawaiian Delight pizza with Spam and pineapple, my second-favorite food.
Mom hangs up the phone and flops on the couch, which surprises me — that’s my move. I hand her my book report. She takes it and sits up. “You got a B!” she exclaims, leaving off the “minus” part. “Stanford, this is wonderful.” I try not to grin. “You should be very proud of yourself,” Mom says.
Come to think of it, I am pretty proud of myself.
10:35 P.M.
Dad’s finally home. Mom and I walk into the den together. The man on the news is talking about a war in some country whose name I can’t pronounce. My father likes to watch the news to unwind.
“Stanford did really well on his book report,” Mom informs him. “You should be pleased.”
He takes my paper. I hold my breath. “A B-minus,” he says flatly.
“Mr. Glick says he enjoyed reading my paper,” I tell him. “And he wrote ‘Good job,’ see, right there.” I point to the red ink.
“Well,” Dad replies, putting the book report down. “You are making some improvement. Let’s try for an A next time, okay, Stanford?”
An A? Is he out of his mind?
“Yes, sir,” I answer.
My mother glares at my father. I hope they don’t have another fight over me. “Isn’t there anything else you’d like to say to your son?”
“Oh, right,” Dad says. “Stanford, you could use a haircut.”
AUGUST 13, 3:31 P.M.
I check the clock again. Yep, the unthinkable has happened. Millicent Min is late. I wonder if it will be on the news tonight.
I’m hoping Millie will get here soon. I want to tell her about Digger. She’s about the only person in the universe I can talk to about this. Millicent knows how Digger can be, so she might have some good advice. She’s pretty smart. Plus, I really want to show her my book report.
As I wait, Mrs. Martinez walks by, pushing the book cart with the squeaky wheel. We look at each other and shrug. Millicent has never been late to tutoring before.
After twenty minutes I figure Millie is probably not going to show up. Maybe she’s been hit by a bus. Or maybe she had a nervous breakdown because all her pens ran out of ink at the same time. Or maybe she’s in the hospital because her brain finally exploded. I consider calling her but don’t.
As I leave the library, I squint in the sunlight. It is a beautiful day. The kind of day Emily would love because it is bright and sunny, like her. I dedicate the afternoon to Emily Ebers. Emily, Emily, Emily Ebers. Maybe I’ll call her. No, wait! What if I call her and she wants to meet? How do I look? Do I look okay?
I know! I’ll get my haircut. Then I can make Dad happy and impress Emily at the same time.
Usually I just go to SuperFast Cuts. But today I want to go to someplace different. Someplace really good. Someplace worthy of Emily Ebers.
I stop in front of Salon Ferrante and peer through the window. It’s fancy inside, and empty. A lady with a confusing hairdo sits at the desk leafing through a magazine, licking her finger each time before she turns a page. She looks bored. Suddenly she glances up and waves me in. I hesitate, but she smiles, gets up, and opens the door.
I am inside. The place is small and it looks like a living room with fancy hanging lights and bright red curtains along the back wall. Did I accidentally walk into someone’s house? Am I in that lady’s house? Wait, there are two of those chairs that go up and down, and a big sink. Candles are flickering. It smells like oranges. I hear strange music playing. It sounds like it could use a lot more bass. The lady runs her hands through my hair. I try not to flinch.
“I assume you are here to be styled?” I nod stiffly. At least it really is a haircut place. Still, it’s too weird here. I wish I were at SuperFast Cuts. They have rows of chairs and sinks and someone whose job it is to sweep hair all day. There you know what to expect.
The lady winks at me. “Mimi will be with you momentarily. You’re lucky. We had a cancellation.” I nod again. Maybe if I run now, I won’t have to go through with this. I inch toward the door.
A very tall black woman suddenly appears from behind the red curtains. Her hair is really short and bronze, and her nails are long and painted red. She looks like one of those scary fashion mo
dels from the magazines my sister loves to read.
“Mimi, look what I brought you!” the desk lady exclaims, taking me by the shoulders and marching me over to her.
Mimi scowls as she looks at my hair. Then she purrs, “Let me get my hands on this one!” I wonder if that means she is going to kill me. What would Top Cop do?
Before I can stop her, Mimi reaches for my basketball. I grip it harder. We scuffle until it’s in Mimi’s hands. I try to block her, but she tosses it to the desk lady, who catches it and tucks it under her desk. Then Mimi pushes me into a hairstyling chair and flings a silver cape over me. There is no escaping now.
The desk lady asks, “Can I get you something to drink? Bottled water? A Coke? A glass of wine?” She winks again.
“Coke, please,” I gulp. I wonder if I have to pay for it.
Mimi is twirling my hair. “Shorter?” she asks. I nod. “Any particular style?”
“I want to look good,” I stammer. “I want to look like Alan Scott.”
“Who’s that? What kind of hair does he have?”
“He’s the best basketball player ever,” I explain. I can tell that this is not registering with her, so I add, “He has really short hair. Sort of like a buzz cut, only not like a buzz cut. The front of his hair kind of swoops up a little into like a wave thing. And the back is sort of longer, but it’s short on the sides.”
Mimi smiles for the first time. She is wearing braces. “I love it!” she shrieks, turning to the desk lady. “This boy really has a sense of style. Of adventure.”
I feel myself turning all red again. Maybe she’s not going to kill me after all. I am surprised to hear myself ask, “Uh, Mimi, what about my hair color?”
“Color?” Mimi repeats blankly. “Your hair is a nice color. Black.”
“Yes, but could you, you know, put some purple in it?” I know that girls like purple, so if I have purple in my hair, Emily will just fall all over me.
“Highlights?” she asks.
“Yeah, purple highlights,” I answer. I am feeling braver. I look at a poster of a guy with highlights. He is leaning on a Porsche and there are three girls staring at him.
“A free spirit!” declares Mimi. “I think you just might be a free spirit like me!”
“What’s that?”
“A free spirit is someone who’s a nonconformist.” Mimi twirls my chair round and round. “Someone who goes places no one else dares to go and who can create their own happiness.” Mimi cranks up the music and begins to dance. “Let’s do this!”
I am not allowed to look at myself while Mimi is at work. “I want to unveil my masterpiece all at once,” she explains. “So tell me, a good-looking boy like you must have a girlfriend, right?”
“Well …,” I begin cautiously, but soon I’m telling Mimi everything. I describe Emily’s sparkling eyes, her credit card, her curly-ish blond hair, her volleyball serve, her clear skin, her funny laugh, her fancy sandals, her great personality. I could go on forever.
5:25 P.M.
I have never had a haircut take so long. At SuperFast Cuts, I’m in and out of there in ten minutes. I’ve been here for over an hour and Mimi has put foil all over my head. I try to pick up radio signals. Maybe Lavender’s on right now. I can’t hear her.
Uh-oh, what if there’s a fire and I have to run into the street looking like this?
“Say, Mimi, do you mind blowing out the candles? I’m, um, allergic to wax.”
“Sure, no problem,” Mimi says.
Emily, Emily, Emily —
A buzzer goes off and I jump.
Mimi fusses with my hair for an incredibly long time. The desk lady clasps her hands together and then applauds. Slowly, Mimi turns my chair around to face the mirror.
I stare. Is that me? I mean, it looks like me, but then it doesn’t. My hair’s swoopy where I want it and short on the sides like I asked. And purple, it’s covered with purple streaks!
“Well, Stanford …?” Mimi sounds worried.
I break out grinning. “I like it!” I really do. Mimi fakes a faint as I admire myself in the mirror. My hair is exactly the way I wanted it. Watch out, Alan Scott — you have competition!
I go to the desk lady to pay. “That will be one-twenty,” she says.
Dollars? I gulp. “For what?”
“For a cut and color.”
At SuperFast Cuts it only costs $12. I empty my pockets. In one I have the phone list my mom makes me carry, an Alan Scott basketball card, and a mint. In the other I have lint, some cash, and a rock that I’ve been saving for Yin-Yin because it sort of looks like her.
What I don’t have is $120. All I have is $24.
“What’s going on?” Mimi asks.
The desk lady tilts her head toward me. Am I shrinking?
“Stanford,” Mimi says, “it’s awfully expensive here, isn’t it?” I nod and do not look at her. What if I get sent to jail for not paying? What if my dad has to bail me out? Oh god, now I’m a criminal.
“Tell you what,” Mimi continues. “Pay what you can, and the rest will be a gift from me.” I look up. “I had a cancellation, so if you hadn’t come in I wouldn’t even have had a customer.”
“Are you sure?” I ask. My voice cracks.
Mimi smiles and her braces glisten. “Stanford, if you don’t do what I tell you, I’m going to put glitter in your hair.”
I quickly push the contents of my pockets across the desk. The desk lady picks out the money and puts it in the register. “I’ll keep this,” she says, taking the mint and winking. I shove the rest of the stuff, including the lint, back in my pocket.
Mimi walks me to the door. “Come back in three months and I’ll touch up those highlights for free.”
“Thanks,” I say. She is so nice. “But I’ll come in sooner, and with the money I owe you. Only I may not be able to pay you back all at once.”
“You take your time. And Stanford,” Mimi adds, “I’m sure she will love it.”
“Who will love what?”
“Emily, your girlfriend, is going to love your new hairstyle.”
“Emily’s not my girlfriend,” I say, though I am secretly thrilled to hear the words Emily and girlfriend in the same sentence.
Mimi pushes me out the door. “Well, girlfriend or not, Emily’s sure to be impressed.”
I hope she’s right.
I’ve crossed the street when someone shouts, “Stanford!”
I turn around. Mimi is holding up my basketball. I start to head back to Salon Ferrante, but she signals for me to halt. Then Mimi hurls the ball across four lanes of traffic right into my hands.
AUGUST 14, 1 P.M.
As I near the park, I spy the guys playing Silent Slam Ball. Gus has knocked Digger over, and he’s rolling around on the grass pretending to die. Tico spots me first.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, get a load of Stanford!”
Digger is about to throw the ball at Gus but stops short and jumps up. The others follow and circle around me, checking out my hair. Finally Gus strokes an invisible beard and in a weird accent proclaims, “Vell, es note toe-toe-lee ugg-lay.”
“It looks good,” Tico weighs in.
“It’s okay,” Digger adds.
“But purple?” Gus says, laughing. “That is such a girl color.”
“It’s a color girls like,” I inform him.
The guys are quiet as they absorb this information. Finally Tico nods knowingly. “Smart thinking,” he says. “Purple.”
“Hey, Digger, you should dye your hair,” Gus tells him. “Or maybe you should dye your whole head. Or even better, maybe you should wear a bag over your head.”
“Shut up,” Digger says. He gets ready to hit Gus with the ball but does a fake and throws it at me, hitting me in the head. I pretend to die, and all the guys burst out laughing.
I’ll say one thing about the Roadrunners. We know how to have a good time.
2:22 P.M.
“It’s me, Yin-Yin!” I dodge the knitting needles she’s stabbing in my direction. “It’s me, Stanford Wong, your grandson.”
Yin-Yin puts down her needles. “Ah, it is you. Luckily you said something. I was going to poke your eyes out.”
She squints at me, then puts on her glasses. “You look different.”
“I got my hair cut,” I say proudly.
The door flies open and Mr. Thistlewaite shuffles in, brandishing a half-eaten Three Musketeers bar. “Vamoose, you cad!” He sees me and straightens his bow tie. “Well, hello, young man! Good to see you again!”
“Doesn’t Stanford’s hair look nice?” Yin-Yin asks.
Mr. Thistlewaite takes a big bite out of his candy bar. His hair is tipping to one side. I am starting to suspect it is fake. “Yes,” he says, walking around and looking me over. “It’s got purple stuff in it too.”
“Highlights,” I tell them both.
“Highlights,” Yin-Yin and Mr. Thistlewaite say together approvingly.
“What does your mother think of your highlights?” asks Yin-Yin.
“She said it’s not what she would have done, but it’s my hair and I’m entitled to have my own style.”
“And your father? Does he approve?”
“He didn’t notice.”
“How could he not notice?” Mr. Thistlewaite barks.
“Mr. Thistlewaite?” my grandmother asks sweetly. “Do you think I ought to get highlights?” She poufs her hair up and blinks at him.
“Certainly not, Mrs. Wong,” he bellows. “Why tamper with perfection!”
“But Mr. Thistlewaite, maybe if I dyed my hair I’d look more youthful,” Yin-Yin says.
“Au contraire, Mrs. Wong,” Mr. Thistlewaite tells her. “You radiate youth! Why, just being around you makes me feel ten years younger! And now, my beautiful lady,” Mr. Thistlewaite says, “would you honor me by finishing the story you began yesterday right before Ramon gifted us with his chocolate mousse?”
“Which story would that be?”
“The one about you flying over the mountains,” he reminds her. “You had just taken flight, I believe.”