It's Not Like It's a Secret

by Misa Sugiura

  Actually, I can. You’d think that being a member of a racial minority would make her extra sensitive, but Mom has something racist, ignorant, or just plain weird to say about everyone who’s not Japanese: Koreans are melodramatic and smell bad; Jewish people like purple; white Americans are selfish, disrespectful, and love guns. And apparently Mexicans have bad taste.

  “Mom, that’s racist,” I say. “Just because she likes it, doesn’t mean it’s ‘Mexican taste.’ And even if it was, it shouldn’t matter.”

  “I didn’t say it’s bad. I just said I don’t like it. It’s not racism if I don’t like Mexican taste.”

  This is pretty much always how it goes, and at this point I know it’s useless to argue. I resign myself to the Mom-approved duvet cover, and fume while Mom finds the other items we came for. There are two lines at checkout, and—oh! There’s Fascinating Store Girl at the cash register on the left. I steer Mom in her direction. She’s got such a nice smile. She even has pretty ears.

  “Did you find everything you need?” She gives Mom and me a quick customer-service-y smile and starts scanning.

  Beep.

  Notice me. Notice me. Notice me.

  Beep.

  Look up. Look up. Look up.

  Beep.

  Oh well.

  But when she scans the sheets, she looks up and says, “Oh, so you didn’t go with that other set, huh?”

  Mom smiles apologetically. “No, we decided this one.”

  “I really liked the other one,” I say, suddenly desperate to make a connection. “Just . . . you know.” I jerk my head at Mom, who ignores me. Omigod, what. Did I. Just. Do. That wasn’t bonding over similar taste in bed linens. That was acting like a spoiled brat. Smooth, Sana. Nice going.

  “Aah,” says Fascinating Store Girl, and goes back to scanning. But not before she gives me a smile. Wait, what? “That’ll be two hundred sixteen dollars and fifty-seven cents. Cash, credit, or debit?”

  Or did I imagine it? Or maybe she was smiling at Mom and me both, to be polite? No, it was definitely at me. Maybe we did just have a bonding moment. Did we? Aggh, just stop. Mom finishes paying, Fascinating Store Girl says, “Bye, have a nice day,” (Did she smile at me again? I mean, at me specifically? Omigod, stop.) and it’s on to Mitsuwa Marketplace, the Japanese grocery store, for tofu, Japanese eggplant, and soba noodles.

  I follow Mom around Mitsuwa and think about Fascinating Store Girl. How cool would it be if I ran into her somewhere? Like maybe at that Starbucks across the street from Bed Bath & Beyond. Maybe I’d be there after another of our endless errands (I could leave Mom at home. This is my fantasy, after all.), and Fascinating Store Girl would be stopping by after work. Maybe we’d start talking, and I would be witty and funny and say all the right things, and we’d become best friends. And then maybe one evening we’d be splashing around in the pool in her backyard (hey, it’s a fantasy, remember?), and she’d swim over to me and we’d look into each other’s eyes, and . . .

  Maybe it’s better not to go there.

  Mom and I go home to spend another ridiculously beautiful afternoon indoors—Mom fussing over dinner, and me fussing over the details of my fantasy, trying to steer it in a safer direction, trying to think about boys instead. But no matter how handsome the boys are, no matter how ripped their bodies or how green their eyes, those fantasies end up feeling as pale and empty as the California sky.

  5

  TODAY IS THE FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL, AND AFTER a week of careful deliberation, I’ve picked an outfit that will look good without standing out too much: a cute jean miniskirt, a fitted scoop-neck white tee, and gladiator sandals that Mom almost refused to buy. (“Why do you want to look like Roman soldier?”) I twist my hair into a loose bun, with a few strands poking out artfully here and there. Putting it up makes room for a silk cord necklace with multicolored glass beads that look good against my skin. I wish I had cool earrings to go with it, but Mom thinks that pierced ears are for barbarians. But whatever, I’m starting to realize that I’ve spent too much of my time moping and sulking. It’s time for a change. New school, new attitude. Let’s go.

  My new attitude and I walk into the kitchen, where Mom is scrambling eggs.

  “Sana, kaminoké naoshi-nasai.”

  “Mom, there’s nothing wrong with my hair. I did it like this on purpose.”

  “Darashi-nai.” She is always telling me that I’m darashi-nai. It means disrespectfully messy, sloppy, or careless—it’s what she says when my ponytail is loose or my shirt is untucked or my jeans have holes in them.

  “It’s fine, Mom. In fact, I think it looks good.”

  “People don’t want to be your friend if you have the messy hair. Teachers think you are disrespectful student. First impression is important for first day of school.”

  “Mom, I know.” Like I’d really leave the house looking like a mess on my very first day at a new school. I’m about to tell her that she’s supposed to try to make me feel good about myself, not criticize me, when I catch a glimpse of her face. Her forehead is creased with worry. It dawns on me that she might be just as nervous about my first day as I am. That doesn’t exactly inspire confidence, but I guess it’s nice to know she cares. Maybe I should forgive her for complaining about my hair.

  “You look like porky-pine.” Arrggh! Forget it. And of course now I’m worried that she’s right. I go back to my room and yank my hair into a regular, boring old ponytail.

  I walk glumly to school, eyes on the sidewalk. The air is chilly and the sky is gray—sweater weather. But it’s an illusion. The clouds are actually fog that always “burns off” by midmorning, as the weather reporters like to say. The neighborhood is full of pale wooden ranch houses just like ours. Concrete driveways serve as walkways to front doors set atop a gray concrete step or two. Faded green lawns stretch down the block, punctuated by the odd rosebush or line of shrubbery—or even odder, a palm tree and a redwood tree next door to each other. There’s even a yard full of cacti.

  We live three blocks from school, and as I approach the campus, my heart starts tripping over itself. I would be panting if not for the lump in my throat. When kids in movies and TV shows first arrive at a new school, they always look around and take a deep breath before plunging in, but not me. Pausing for even a moment would be like holding up a big sign saying, “Hi, I’m new! Please stare.” Not that there’s an “in” to plunge into, anyway. The school is basically a collection of long, low, rectangular buildings divided into classrooms and separated by strips of grass and concrete, all sprawled haphazardly around a quasi-central quad. I studied the map over the weekend, but there are so many buildings and so many intersections that I’m sure I’ll get turned around at some point.

  Okay, stop. This is ridiculous. New school, new attitude, remember? What was that saying—fake it till you make it? Or how about carpe diem? Or maybe Just Do It?

  So in the spirit of faking it till I make it, seizing the day, and just doing it, in—or actually around the first building—I plunge. Without pausing.

  Miraculously, I find my way to my first-period class (trigonometry, room 27) a few minutes early. I peek inside. The desks are arranged in classic schoolhouse fashion, in six rows of six, with a table and a whiteboard at the front. The teacher—Mr. Green, according to my schedule—is busy with something at the back of the room. A boy wearing a black T-shirt, torn black jeans, and combat boots—looks like the goth uniform is the same nationwide—lounges at a desk in the middle, picking his fingernails; two girls in cheerleader uniforms sit close to the door, giggling over a phone.

  As I falter on the threshold, Mr. Green walks over and greets me. “Hi, there. Who are you?”

  “Sana Kiyohara.”

  “Nice to meet you, Sana,” he says, and points to the whiteboard. “I’m assigning seats, so check the board and find your seat.” Sure enough, there’s my name printed in a box right in the middle of a grid of thirty-five other boxes. “I see you’re right over there, in front of
Caleb,” says Mr. Green. The box below mine is labeled “Caleb Miller.” The goth. Caleb glances up when he hears his name, and I see a nose ring and an eyebrow ring. Expressionless, he goes back to his fingernails.

  New school, new attitude. Fake it till you make it.

  I walk to my desk, sit down, and say, “Hi.”

  His eyes flick up and back down. “Hi.” He continues picking at what I can now see is black nail polish.

  “I’m new.” Facepalm. I quit. Forget faking it—I can’t do this.

  But Caleb looks up with real interest now. He considers me for a couple of seconds, leans forward, and whispers, “Run.” A joke! I smile. “No, seriously,” he says. “Get out while you can. This place is a cesspool.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “Because my mom’ll kick my ass if I ditch the first day of school.” He asks me where I’m from, why I moved, and all I have to do is answer. I relax a little. This is easy. As other kids wander into class, Caleb forgets about asking questions and gives me his opinion of each one, starting with the two cheerleaders: “They actually think people give a fuck about them, for some reason.” A tall Asian boy with gelled hair: “Andy Chin. President of the junior class. He thinks he’s the shit but he’s just another dumbass.” A gaggle of Asian girls: “You’ll probably end up being friends with them. They’re nice, but they’re all the same, and I don’t mean that they look the same—they are the same.” What the . . . ? Did he just say—my shock must show on my face, because Caleb interrupts himself. “No, really. They are.”

  “Why do you think I’m going to be friends with them?”

  He looks at me like I’ve missed something obvious. “You’re Asian. They’re Asian. You do the math.” Sounds like your math is racist, I think, but I say nothing.

  “What? Didn’t the Asian kids all hang out together at your old school?”

  “No.”

  “How many Asian kids were at your school?”

  “Like, three.”

  “And you weren’t friends?”

  “No.”

  He is nonplussed, but steadfast. “Well, wait and see. I’ll bet you anything that’s who you end up with. People think they’re unique, but they’re really stereotypes. It’s just the way they are. They want to be in a group, and they’ll sacrifice their individuality to fit in.” This from a guy who probably dresses just like his friends. But I don’t see the point in arguing with this twenty-first-century Holden Caulfield, and anyway, Mr. Green has started talking.

  Mr. Green has everybody pair up and interview each other: name, how we feel about math, one little-known fact about ourselves. Apparently he’s one of those math teachers who thinks he’s an English teacher. Caleb and I are partners. When it’s our turn, I introduce him and then wait while Caleb intones, “This is Sana, she likes math but doesn’t love it, and she hates broccoli.” As he lowers himself back into his chair, he adds, “Oh—she’s new.”

  He grins at me as he sits down, and I’m so stunned I can’t even react. Anderson High School is huge—2,500 students—so I’d hoped I could sneak by anonymously today, but there’s no chance of that now. I can feel my cheeks burning as everyone perks up a little and kids all over the classroom practically fall out of their desks trying to get a better look at the new girl. I have never felt so conspicuous, so . . . scrutinized, and I begin to understand what writers mean when they say that a character wishes the ground would open up and swallow them whole. Finally I muster up a feeble smile, shrug my shoulders, and wave my hand at shoulder level, the universal sign for, “Hi, I’m really embarrassed.” Andy Chin, class president and alleged dumbass, leans back, flashes a smile, and says with a smarmy wink, “Stick with me, baby. I’ll introduce you to all the right people.” Groans. He holds his arms out wide, in protest. “What? I was being ironic.”

  Behind me, Caleb mutters, “No, he wasn’t.”

  Finally, we start doing math, and I take notes dutifully for the remainder of class. When the bell rings, I surreptitiously check my map for my Spanish classroom as I close my notebook, trying to make it look like I’m going over my notes one last time.

  “Sana?”

  I snap the notebook shut and look up. It’s one of the Asian girls. She’s tiny, with huge eyes and an open smile.

  “Hi. I’m Elaine. And that’s Hanh, and that’s Reggie.” She gestures to two other girls who are waiting at the door. They wave. One of them is tall and thin, with long, straight black hair, wearing coral lip gloss. The other has her hair woven into an elaborate braid, and has a pleasant, round-cheeked face. “We were wondering if you want to have lunch with us after second period. What class do you have next?”

  “Oh. Uh, sure, thanks. Um, I have Spanish. Spanish III with . . . Reyes.”

  “Cool! Same as us! Come on, we can go together!” Elaine’s enormous eyes light up, and she actually claps her hands. I feel like if we were six years old instead of sixteen, she’d offer one of those hands for me to hold, and ask if I wanted to be her best friend.

  I finish packing my backpack, and we start threading our way through the desks toward the door. Elaine is already throwing questions around like confetti: What’s Wisconsin like? Is it cold? Is it full of white people? Where do I live now? What’s my class schedule?

  Caleb, just walking out the door, turns and mouths, “I told you,” and disappears.

  Walking to Spanish is a totally different experience than walking to trig. The fog has burned off, the chill has lifted, and the weather is California-perfect: sunny, warm-but-not-hot, a cloudless and faintly blue sky overhead. I’m feeling a little sheepish because Caleb seems to have been right about the Asian thing, but mostly I’m feeling glad to be part of a group as we stroll to our next class.

  Hanh is the tall, thin one, and Reggie is the one with the round cheeks and fancy braid. As we walk, we listen to Elaine talk about Jimmy Tran, who was assigned to sit next to her in trig and is walking several paces ahead of us. “He has the most beautiful eyes. Don’t you think he has gorgeous eyes?” she asks me.

  “You say that about every guy you ever like,” says Hanh, pulling out a mirror to touch up her lip gloss.

  “I so don’t. You’re such a— Shhh!”

  Jimmy has stopped to talk to someone, and we’re coming right up on him.

  “Hi, Jimmy!” Hanh trills as we walk by. Jimmy nods at us, confused. Elaine stares straight ahead, and once we’ve passed him, she starts sissy-hitting Hanh and hissing, “Omigod, I can’t believe you!” Hanh just flips her hair, bats her eyelashes, and coos, “Oh, Jimmy, you have such gorgeous eyes!” Reggie smothers a laugh and Elaine flits around Hanh like a squirrel, scolding and shushing and smacking her arm. I’m enjoying the show when I happen to look away for a moment, and something way more interesting catches my eye.

  It’s Fascinating Store Girl from Bed Bath & Beyond.

  6

  SHE’S WALKING DOWN THE BREEZEWAY TOWARD us. Her hair is down today. She’s wearing skinny jeans and a navy blue T-shirt that says ANDERSON CROSS-COUNTRY on it in sky blue. A sea-star pendant dangles from a silver chain around her neck. Not that I care what she’s wearing or what she looks like. She spots a couple of guys beyond us and heads over to meet them, so she doesn’t see me. Which is a good thing because I’ve just realized I’m staring at her. Jeez. Stop.

  When I drag my attention back to my new friends, Hanh is still fake-gushing about Jimmy and his eyes and Elaine is still trying to make Hanh shut up. But Reggie looks at me and shakes her head. “These two,” she says, like she’s their babysitter. “Sometimes I just can’t with them.”

  “Yeah . . . Hey, Reggie, see that girl over there, with the cross-country T-shirt? Talking to those two guys?”

  “You mean that Mexican girl?”

  “Uh, I guess. How do you know she’s Mexican?”

  “I dunno. Most of the Latino kids around here are Mexican. I mean, some of them are like, Nicaraguan or whatever, but mostly they’re Mexican—Mexican American,�
�� she corrects herself. “Though, actually, everyone just says Mexican. Kind of like how we say Asian instead of Asian American. Ethnic pride and all that, right?”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Jamie Ramirez. Why?”

  Jamie Ramirez.

  “Hey, Sana, why do you want to know?”

  I pretend not to hear the question, and Reggie doesn’t get a chance to ask a third time because the bell rings and we have to go to class.

  Lunch. There are rows of lunch tables in the “multipurpose room,” but everything else is outside—the hot-lunch line, the snack bar line, the vending machines, and most of the kids, who are eating their lunches on the ground or at cement picnic tables scattered around the quad. All the school clubs and sports teams have set up tables in the quad as well, to recruit new members. We sit behind the Vietnamese Student Association table, but after gobbling down their lunches, Elaine and Hanh have to go and register new members. Reggie stays and finishes eating with me before leaving to hand out flyers and recruit freshmen for the Volunteer Club.

  “Don’t worry,” she says apologetically, “lunch tomorrow’ll be more chill.”

  It’s not so bad being alone with nowhere to sit, though, since half the school seems to be wandering from table to table anyway. I start at the Volunteer Club and make a slow circuit around the quad. Water polo. Dance team. Queer Straight Alliance. Poetry Club. Animé Club. Polynesian Student Union.

  “Hey, Sana.” It’s Caleb the goth. Where the heck did he come from?

  “Oh, hey.”

  “Your friends abandon you already?” he asks, falling in step with me.

  “No, they all had to work tables for their clubs.”

  “Oh, right.” He scans the quad, taking in the tables and the mobs milling around them. “Ugh. This is so pointless.”

  “Huh?”

  “All these clubs do is meet once a week to organize fundraisers. Or they get together and do the same boring hobbies they do at home. They get a faculty advisor and call it a club, and suddenly their hobby becomes important and they can be president of something and put it on their college applications: President of the Animé Club? Riiight. That’s significant.”