It's Not Like It's a Secret

by Misa Sugiura

  I look at Hanh’s cute little camisole. “How come you get to wear that, then?”

  “She doesn’t know I’m wearing it. I give my friend Janet money, and she buys my ‘inappropriate’ clothes online and brings them to school for me. Then I put a jacket on over stuff like this before I leave my room.”

  “What about laundry?”

  “Hanh just gives me all the clothes that she’s not allowed to wear, and I take them home and do them with my laundry,” says Elaine. “My mom makes me do my own laundry, so I’m the only other one who knows. Except Reggie and you.”

  “Genius,” I say, impressed.

  “You do what you have to,” says Hanh, looking down modestly.

  Reggie grins. “It’s in our sneaky Asian blood.”

  “Hell, yeah.” Hanh and Reggie high-five.

  I could get used to being a member of this club.

  Anderson High School is on a block schedule, which means that from Monday through Thursday, we have four classes a day for eighty minutes each, and on Fridays we have eight classes for forty minutes each. Mondays and Wednesdays are my big days, with trig, Spanish, Honors American Lit, and psychology. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I have physics, P.E., a blessed eighty-minute free period—which almost makes up for the exercise in torture that is block-schedule periods of trig—and Honors American History.

  Ms. Owen, who I have for Honors American Lit, is my favorite teacher so far. She’s probably Mom’s age, but much cooler, with a swingy bob haircut, lots of black clothes, and a laid-back attitude. And it doesn’t hurt that she’s a big Emily Dickinson fan.

  “Dickinson might be my favorite—my favorite—writer to teach,” Ms. Owen says as she goes over the curriculum for the year on the second day of class. (The first day was spent entirely on touchy-feely get-to-know-you activities.) Then she’s off on a tangent about poetry in general. “Poetry demands exploration. It demands excavation. But we just don’t have enough time this year to give it the attention it deserves. So I want you to take some initiative to discover what excites you.”

  She hands out a bunch of blank notebooks—poetry journals, she calls them—which we’re supposed to write in throughout the year. All we have to do is look for cool poems (“Poems that speak to you,” Ms. Owen says. “Poems that resonate.”), copy them down, and write about them. We can do literary analysis, write our personal reactions, write about the poet, whatever. Just explore and excavate. Talk about easy points. And I know just what to start with.

  POETRY JOURNAL, HONORS AMERICAN LITERATURE

  THURSDAY, AUGUST 20

  “I’m Nobody! Who are you?”

  by Emily Dickinson

  This is the poem that inspired me to get my own book of Emily Dickinson poems. Dickinson is cool (and sometimes frustrating) because her poems seem really short and simple, but they’re not.

  I sometimes used to feel like I was nobody. Like no one cared about me. In this poem, Dickinson makes being nobody into something cool: “I’m Nobody!” When you capitalize a word, it becomes more important, like a name or a title. Or maybe it’s like Truth-with-a-capital-T, like it’s the universal concept of Nobody-ness. The exclamation mark makes being Nobody kind of exciting and fun. And she says that she and the reader get to be Nobodies together without telling anyone, like a secret club.

  In the next stanza she talks about how “dreary” it would be to be Somebody, like a frog announcing your name all day long to “an admiring Bog!” It reminds me of popular people who think their group is the center of the universe. Except that being a frog announcing your name over and over in a bog seems lonely, too. So I don’t know for sure about that one.

  If you’re Nobody together with someone, doesn’t that make you Somebody? At least to each other? That can’t be bad, right?

  This is what I mean by Emily Dickinson being more complicated than she seems at first.

  9

  THE PHYSICIAN’S RELEASE FORM FINALLY arrived yesterday afternoon. I’m wearing a University of Wisconsin Bucky the Badger tank top that Trish’s mom gave me as a going-away present, and I’m headed out of the locker room to practice, forms in hand and heart in mouth.

  There are only four people stretching when I arrive at the fence between the parking lot and the track, and Jamie is one of them. She’s wearing a sleek black tank top over a running bra and she looks great—I’m sorry, but anyone would think so—and I begin to regret wearing my derpy Bucky the Badger tank.

  Look at her! At the others! Long, lean, muscular legs. Runner’s legs. Not like my short, thick Hobbit legs. Mom was right. Cross-country was a mistake.

  It’s not too late to change my mind. I make a slow, casual arc so it’s not too obvious that I’m chickening out and running away—ho-hum, just out for a little stroll after school with medical and parent permission forms in my hand—and I’ve almost made it all the way around when someone says, “Hey! Bed Bath and Beyond, right?”

  Jamie. She’s making fun of me. Keep walking. Pretend you didn’t hear.

  “Hey, wait up!” I hear footsteps, and then there’s a hand on my shoulder. “Sana! Aren’t you Sana?”

  She remembers my name.

  “Oh! Hi, sorry. Um, Jamie, right?”

  “Mm-hm. You coming out for cross-country?”

  “Oh. Uh . . .” No means I leave now and avoid risking further humiliation. Yes means possibly, possibly . . .

  “You should.”

  “Yes! Yes, I am.” Further humiliation and possibly, possibly it is.

  “That’s Coach Kieran. Come with me and you can give him your forms.” Jamie walks me over to Coach Kieran, who’s pacing the sidewalk and muttering over a clipboard.

  “Hey, Coach. This is Sana . . . what’s your last name?”

  “Kiyohara.”

  “Oh, right,” he says, taking my paperwork. “You signed up last week. You’re a junior, right? No running experience? Okay. You can start with the JV team, then—none of them are here yet. Have you met the captains?” He calls the other kids over: Priti and two Indian boys. “You’ve met Priti already,” says Coach, nodding at her. “This is Jagwinder, the boys’ captain—we call him Jag—and this is Arjun.” And with that, he returns his focus to his clipboard and wanders off.

  Jag and Arjun are tall, lanky, and handsome. Jag leans over and shakes my hand, and asks, “Have you run cross-country before?” I shake my head. “You’re gonna love it,” he says. “Best sport ever.”

  Jag looks to Arjun, who says, “Speak for yourself, bruh—I only do it so I can stay in good enough shape to run away from all the ladies when they get to be too much. They just can’t get enough of all this”—he gestures to himself—“spicy Indian hotness. It’s exhausting, know what I mean? They’re relentless.” He nods and waggles his eyebrows at Priti, Jamie, and me. “Amiright, ladies?”

  Jamie rolls her eyes and shows Arjun her palm. Priti starts coughing, “Loser! Loser!” Then she adds, turning to me but really talking to the guys, “They’re delusional. Especially Arjun. Don’t listen to anything he says. Everyone knows he’s a virgin.”

  “Bruhhhh!” Jag cackles, while Jamie and Priti high-five each other. Arjun just shrugs good-naturedly and assures us that he is a skilled but very discreet lover.

  Other kids start showing up, and soon there are about forty of us milling around. There’s Jimmy, that guy that Elaine has a crush on. There’s Janet Lee, from my physics class, the one who buys clothes for Hanh. She’s a short, sturdy-looking girl with decidedly Asian features, except for the hazel eyes and light brown hair.

  Eventually, Coach Kieran calls for our attention. “Okay, three-mile loop, everyone. Varsity, do an extra half mile out and back. Janet, you stick with Sana today and help with the route, okay? Make sure she doesn’t get lost.” Three miles? But that’s so . . . far. A knot of anxiety starts to form in my stomach.

  The JV girls immediately start whining, except for Janet, who does a mini-victory dance.

  “No fair!”

&
nbsp; “Why just Janet?”

  “Why can’t we all stick with Sana?”

  “C’mon, Coach, we’re tired. Pleeeeease?”

  Great. They all think I’m slow. The knot in my stomach tightens and my cheeks start to burn as I stare at my feet.

  “Aw, shut up, JV. You’re such babies. Sana’ll probably kick your ass. Right, Sana?” It’s Jamie, and she’s smiling at me. Right at me. I don’t want to disappoint her, but I know in my bones that I’ll be lucky to get out of this alive, so I sort of half shrug, half shake my head no. Jamie folds her arms. “Don’t say no. You haven’t even tried yet.” Oh, God. And now she thinks I’m a wimp.

  Coach breaks in and says, “Okay, runners, enough chitchat. Go. See you back here in thirty minutes.”

  With that, the guys take off, a jumbled pack of skinny arms and legs that stretches out as they make their way through the parking lot and down the street. The varsity girls are close behind, ponytails bouncing and swinging, and then it’s our turn to head out.

  My stomach still hurts and my heart is pounding as if I’ve already run a thousand miles, but now I have no choice. We’re on the move. I fall in at the back of the pack with Janet at my side. “Start off slower than you think you need to,” she advises me as we turn onto the sidewalk. “Save a little for the second half.” I nod—no need to remind me.

  We run through the neighborhood to West San Carlos Avenue, the main commercial street, then past a Korean grocery store before looping back through another neighborhood. We’re past halfway, and I’m feeling pretty good about myself because we’ve left a few of the JV runners behind us.

  But I also feel like my lungs are going to burst. Why am I doing this, again? Oh, right. I’m chasing the slim, slim chance that Jamie might notice me. That is, if my legs don’t collapse beneath me first. Maybe there’s another, less painful way to get to know her.

  Janet asks me, “Are you okay? Do you want to walk for a bit?” I don’t even have enough oxygen to answer. I just nod my head gratefully and start walking.

  “Hey!” We look up, and it’s Jamie, running toward us on her extra half mile out and back, presumably. Only we’re still a mile away from school, instead of half a mile, which means she’s run extra, extra far to reach us. And she still looks great. “I’ll take over,” she says to Janet when she reaches us. “You can run back.”

  “Gee, thanks, Jamie, you’re a pal,” says Janet, but she smiles and doesn’t hesitate. “Great job, Sana! See you back at school!” She waves and takes off so fast that I feel guilty for having held her back with me.

  Then Jamie turns to me and says, “Why are you walking? You can run.”

  “I don’t think I can.”

  “C’mon, don’t wuss out on me. You can do it,” she insists. “Just go slow. We’ll walk ten more steps, and then we’ll run all the way back to school. I’ll help you through it.” I’m not so sure anyone can help me, but I’m sure as heck not going to wuss out in front of Jamie.

  “Okay.”

  We pick up the pace, and in a quarter mile, I feel like I’m going to fall apart. Literally. My arms will drop off first, then my legs, then as my body hits the ground, my head will snap off and roll away. Jamie, who is loping easily alongside me, says, “Keep going. We’ll take it down a notch, but keep going.” I’m panting. I’m so desperate for rest, I think I might cry. I glance at her. Please, let me stop. “You can do it,” she insists. “Control your breathing.” I try. “You look like you’re about to cry. Relax your face.” Well, I am about to cry. But I fix my face, and oddly, I feel a teeny, tiny bit better. “Come on, you can do it.”

  And finally, I do. I drag myself into the parking lot thinking, I never want to do that again. But Jamie pats me on the back and says, “Way to tough it out, Sana. I’m impressed.” I’m bent over double, hands on my knees, gasping, but I feel a tiny fizz of energy inside because Jamie is impressed. And frankly, so am I.

  I raise my head to look at her. “I thought I was going to have a heart attack.”

  “Yeah, I kinda did, too.” She grins at me. “But you’re tough. You’ll get used to it.”

  “‘You’ll get used to it?’ Not, ‘It gets easier’?”

  “No, it does get easier. But it also gets harder—you know, like school. The better you get, the harder you have to work. Coach always says you gotta have something special to run cross-country.”

  “A death wish?”

  Jamie laughs and gives me a push. Yes. She thinks I’m funny.

  “I like you,” she says. “C’mon, let’s get a drink.” She leads me to the water station, and we’re smiling at each other as we walk. “So what classes are you in?”

  “Uh . . . trig, Spanish Three, Honors American Lit, Honors American History, physics, psychology.” The same list sounded normal when I told Reggie, Elaine, and Hanh, but now it suddenly sounds like I’m showing off about how smart I am, and I wish I hadn’t rattled it off so quickly.

  But Jamie says, “Yeah, me too! How come we’re not in anything together? Who do you have for trig?”

  “Green.” And now I’m embarrassed that I assumed she wasn’t in any classes with me. Should I say something?

  But Jamie just keeps going. “Lucky. I have The Bird. She’s like, epically bad. And she’s a bitch.” Ohhkay, that seems a little harsh. I’m probably a prude, but it just seems wrong to use swear words about teachers. Though I’ve actually already heard of Mrs. Byrd, and she does seem to be a bit of a legend in the—in that category. Jamie launches into a long list of The Bird’s many and varied punishments for crimes real and imagined—mostly tardies, talking, and late homework. “Everyone’s terrified of her,” says Jamie. It’s hard for me to imagine Jamie being terrified of anyone.

  Coach calls everyone back, and I don’t get another chance to talk to Jamie for the rest of practice. Oh well. Hopefully I’ll get a chance tomorrow.

  On the way home, I indulge in a little fantasy about being best friends with Jamie. We’re in all the same classes, basically, so she could come over after school and we could do our homework together. And then I’d say, “Wanna stay over?” and she’d say, “Sure,” and we’d curl up under a blanket together and share a pint of Ben & Jerry’s, and eat popcorn and watch movies together, and she could sleep in my bed, and we’d stay up all night talking. It wouldn’t be like with Trish. Jamie’s much nicer, I can tell. So if I ever felt like, say . . . oh, I don’t know . . . kissing her, let’s say, I’d feel totally comfortable telling her. And I bet she’d probably be open to it. Just for fun. Okay, maybe that’s going a little too far.

  Still. Cross-country was definitely the right decision.

  10

  CALEB, THE GOTH FROM TRIG, CALLED IT THAT first day. I’ve become one of the Asian girls. It wasn’t like I had much of a choice—they kind of snapped me right up—but it’s fine. So we’re all Asian. Who cares?

  I’ve noticed that a lot of kids at school tend to hang out with kids with the same ethnic background: the Filipino kids all seem to know each other, groups of turbaned Sikh boys hang out in pods, and the Samoan kids have a couple of lunch tables all to themselves.

  I see Jamie during lunch every day, but she’s all the way across the quad. I wish I could walk up and say hi to her, but her friends make me nervous. For one thing, they don’t seem very welcoming. Christina is . . . mean. JJ, one of the guys, is in psychology with me, and he just sits there all through class with his arms folded and his legs stretched out in front of him, and he never knows any answers. I bet they’d think I’m a sheltered little Asian nerd. Technically they’re not wrong, but I’m not eager to go over and test that theory.

  Next week is a special week where the whole school will be participating in some kind of anti-drug campaign. Greg Nakamura, the student body president, got on the P.A. during first period and read a short anti-drug blurb and a long list of all the Special Activities meant to remind us that it’s fun not to do drugs.

  In addition to the activities, we’r
e supposed to come dressed according to a different theme each day: Mexican on Macarena Monday (Dance Away Drugs!), boots on Tuesday (Give Drugs the Boot!), etc. Student government representatives will go around during first period and count the number of people in each classroom who are dressed for the theme. The classroom with the most thematically dressed people in one week wins a pizza party. Groans from everyone, everywhere.

  Well, almost everyone. The cheerleaders, Stacy and Rochelle, are pleading, “Come on, you guys! It’ll be fun!” Andy Chin, in his role as junior class president, is going, “Show some spirit! Help fight drugs! Come on, we could win a pizza party!”

  Caleb says, loudly enough for Andy to hear, “Don’t do drugs. Because pizza.”

  Andy just grins and shrugs.

  Caleb leans over and whispers, “He’s such a hypocrite. He gets high every weekend.”

  I’ve heard that Andy is kind of a party animal, but really? I have a hard time believing it after all the confirmation I’ve had about other Asian parents being as strict as—or stricter than—mine.

  “How do you know?”

  “We have the same . . . source. If you know what I mean.”

  My mouth drops open. Nice. Way to reveal what a nerd I am.

  “What? It’s not a big deal.”

  “I know it’s not a big deal,” I say defensively.

  Caleb mimics me in a prim falsetto, “I know it’s not a big deal.”

  Mr. Green is at the front of the room saying, “Time to talk about cosines,” which gives me a good excuse to turn around and ignore Caleb.

  When class ends, Caleb continues our conversation. “C’mon, don’t get all shocked on me,” he says. And then, jerking his chin at Andy, “All the cool kids do it.”

  “Well, how does he?”

  “I heard his parents are like, these high-powered people who travel all the time. He gets the house to himself a couple weekends a month, apparently.”