Where we have no division.
We watch the same news on the television.
My town’s an All-American town,
We root for our baseball team
And then go out for ice cream.
Tara pantomimed cheering at a baseball game and we followed along, pretending to watch a home run.
My town’s an All-American town,
Where I found inspiration
In a new innovation.
Then the ensemble joined in, with Tara still clearly in the front. The star, the special one, against the backdrop of the rest of us.
What took us so long?
How could we be so wrong?
You can see our hips shakin’,
And there’s just no mistakin’ …
Then Tara got in one more line: THIS IS MY AMERICAN TOWN!!!
Mrs. Tyndall clapped at the end, which she rarely did. “That’s more like it!” she said. Then she added, “Tara, you really set off the ensemble quite well.” For a moment, I was glad I hadn’t been singing. I didn’t want any part of Mrs. Tyndall’s praise.
Tara grabbed my arm as we filed offstage and Hector walked on. “What is going on? Why do you look like that?”
She peered into my face. She had this way of looking at me that made me feel that I couldn’t keep secrets from her. It was the same expression when she got me to confess that I liked Luke Bendach last year.
“Maybe because Mrs. Tyndall acts like the ensemble has no value on its own. It’s all about the leads,” I said, mentally emphasizing the word maybe.
“It’s not like that.”
“Who got a special Hula-Hoop? Who already has a costume? And solos?” I asked. It felt good to take a break from feeling sad, even if it was by feeling mad instead.
Tara shook her head. From her expression, she wasn’t too happy, either.
Cheryl came by. “What’s going on with you two?”
“Nothing,” the not-very-Royal We said at the same time.
Cheryl tugged at my arm. “Come on, Lauren. We’re going to rehearse out in the hall.”
“How did you pull that off?” I asked. “Mrs. Tyndall never allows us that far from her clutches.”
“We begged Mr. Shea,” said Cheryl. Mr. Shea had been stopping by to watch the rehearsals, so it was only a matter of time before Mrs. Tyndall looped him in.
We had the whole hallway to ourselves, so we spread out and worked on matching the singing to the movement. The singing was okay. The hooping was not. Part of the problem was we were all trying to move the Hula-Hoops to the music, but if we couldn’t hoop fast enough, the song, “In the Middle of the Circle,” lagged.
“You’re spinning too fast,” Hallelujah said.
“You’re starting too late,” said Andy.
“You’re singing to the speed of the Hula-Hoop, but it should be the other way around.”
“We’re never going to get our costumes.”
We stopped practicing completely and kept arguing.
Mr. Shea tapped his mop on the floor, and we stopped.
“Mm,” he said.
“You got any ideas?” I asked him.
He shook his head. “Be happy with mediocrity.”
“That’s it!” said David, who had been sent into the hall as our second babysitter.
“Mediocrity?” I said. I did not think that word was in Mrs. Tyndall’s vocabulary.
“Being happy,” he said. “That’s the point of the song, right? That’s the whole point of the Hula-Hoop: It’s for everyone. If you mess it up, it’s still fun. As long as everyone looks like they’re having a good time, the scene will work. The audience will think you’re messing up on purpose.”
“I don’t mess up,” Hallelujah said.
“You don’t have to,” David said. “That’s the point, too. Hula-Hooping is for people of all levels.”
I thought about Mr. Shea’s face when he was showing us how to Hula-Hoop—that expression of delight that made him look like a kid.
The hoop wrangler was right.
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s relax and not worry about being perfect. Mr. Shea, will you count us off?”
Mr. Shea tapped his mop on the floor. And we started. I didn’t sing, but I did everything else. The movements, the expressions. And I watched. We were better in a weird way, but maybe only because we had started looking at the number differently.
C’mon and join us for some Hula-Hoop glee,
Where the hoop spins round and your heart goes whee!
Don’t you wish you could always feel this free?
In the middle of the circle that goes round.
Hallelujah added one of the more difficult moves, where she caught the hoop mid-spin and lifted it over her head while keeping the hoop spinning. Andy actually managed a few spins before the hoop dropped. Duncan and Cheryl were hooping in sync. And everyone was smiling.
Mr. Shea nodded, even though we weren’t up to his speed.
We stopped trying to be exactly like one another while still trying to be together. Ensemble.
That night Wai Po had a big announcement. “I got you a job! Like the T-shirt store, only better,” she said.
It was a gig at her friend’s Chinese restaurant. They wanted me to dress up like an egg roll and sing to attract the lunch crowd.
“But a happy egg roll,” she said, looking at my face. “No one wants a sad egg roll.”
I shook my head. “I don’t think I can.”
Wai Po frowned but didn’t say anything.
The next day after Hebrew school, Safta came over with her own announcement.
“Remember the man from the shoe store? He’s having a sale and he wants you to sing.”
I knew tons of songs about shoes. “These Boots Are Made for Walkin’.” “Blue Suede Shoes.” “Goody Two Shoes.” But instead of feeling like a person singing about their new shoes, I felt like the gum stuck to the sole.
“I can’t,” I told Safta.
“Why not? It’s an opportunity.” Wai Po nodded. For once they were on the same side.
“I have to save my voice for the play,” I lied.
But the truth was, I didn’t have to save my voice for anything at all.
MRS. TYNDALL STOPPED US HALFWAY through “The King Is Coming.” “Girls, why aren’t you singing louder? Someone’s grandmother needs to hear you from the back row.”
The thing was, the girls were singing pretty loudly, even without me. But Tara, Hector, Ricky, and the rest of the main characters were standing around talking. Hector let out one of his weird reverse-snorts. Who could hear over that?
The sets were now coming into place. For this song, the stage was divided up into four scenes, to represent places around the town. There was a toy store, a classroom, the inside of the Goresons’ kitchen, and a post office. The kitchen had been set up to look like they were about to have dinner. Someone had even found a glass bottle of milk, like they had had in the 1950s.
Mrs. Tyndall made us start from the top. Lila had been given the solo Mrs. Tyndall had offered to me, but she had barely started when Mrs. Tyndall stopped the song. “No! No! No! You have to be louder! And on key!”
Lila was not used to getting yelled at by Mrs. Tyndall. From the corner of my eye, I could see her eyes filling with tears, but she was trying not to cry. Maybe if I had taken the solo, Lila wouldn’t be getting screamed at.
Ricky leaned in to whisper something to Tara, and in that moment of silence, Tara burst out laughing.
Maybe I was letting down the ensemble in some ways, but I was still going to defend us. Side dishes stuck together. I raised my hand. “Mrs. Tyndall, part of the problem is that it’s kind of noisy in here.” I looked over at Tara and company to make my point clear.
Duncan chimed in. “Yeah, when they practice, we have to sit and be quiet. It’s not fair that they get to stand around and talk.”
Mrs. Tyndall motioned for the group to sit down, which they did, slowly. “I’m trying to let them build rappo
rt,” she said, as if it was our fault that we were bothered by their talking. “I need that chemistry to come through to the audience. They’re the ones carrying the story.”
Mrs. Tyndall had just finished saying the word story when a long, low whistling sound began. The cap on the milk suddenly flew up, and the bottle began spraying hot, sour milk all over the ensemble.
Mrs. Tyndall began screaming at us to stay calm, but no one stays calm with a face full of sour milk. We ran offstage, gagging.
“Don’t run!” screamed Mrs. Tyndall. “You’ll slip!”
“It’s the ghost!” yelled Duncan. The white droplets of milk stuck to his hair, his skin. The whole ensemble was spattered in white.
“The ghost is mad at Mrs. Tyndall,” I said to Lila as we ran-walked toward the bathroom. “For being unfair to the ensemble.”
Mrs. Tyndall did not get the memo about the ghost being mad at her. Instead, after we had all washed off, she made the ensemble come back and clean off the stage with rags and Lysol.
“It’s not our fault,” said Hallelujah.
“It happened while you were onstage,” snapped Mrs. Tyndall.
“The prop master should have checked the bottle,” said Andy. Apparently sour milk erased Russian accents.
Tina, the prop master, surveyed the damage. “I don’t know where that bottle came from.”
“The theater ghost brought it,” whispered Duncan.
“That was real milk, getting hotter and hotter under the lights,” said Andy.
“Or someone in the ensemble decided to play a little prank,” said Mrs. Tyndall. Which made no sense, because if we were going to spray sour milk on someone, it wouldn’t be ourselves. Of course, Mrs. Tyndall never thought it could have been one of the leads.
I thought Tara might talk the rest of the leads into coming up to help. But instead, she just sat in her seat and watched us work.
“Thanks for all your help,” I said as we walked home.
Tara looked at me, wide-eyed. “Mrs. Tyndall said the ensemble should do it.”
“She didn’t say the leads couldn’t do it,” I said.
We walked a little longer in silence. I shouldn’t be mad, I told myself. Maybe Tara was right. It’s not like she told them to help.
I took the headphones from my Walkman and slipped them over her ears. “Hey. Listen to this song.” I pushed PLAY on “Crazy.” It was getting a little easier to listen to Patsy again. Her voice still calmed me down.
Tara listened. “Is this … country music?” She wrinkled her nose like she could still smell the milk.
I stopped the tape player. “That’s not what I meant to play,” I said. “It must have been something David recorded. Brothers.”
“Weird,” Tara said.
“It’s just different from what we listen to,” I said. I was defending Patsy more than anything. More than myself.
“You should keep an eye on David,” she said.
“Or an ear,” I said.
Tara laughed. Everything was so easy for her. She liked what everybody was supposed to like. She looked like what the lead was supposed to look like. She wore what everyone was supposed to wear. I pulled my shirt down over the Sylvia Soupson label of my jeans.
“You look so bummed out when you’re onstage,” Tara said.
“You would, too, if Mrs. Tyndall yelled at you all the time instead of telling you that you look perfect.” I tried to sound like I was joking by drawing out the word per-fect.
“Are you mad that I got cast as Brenda Sue?” asked Tara.
I thought about her question. Mad didn’t seem like quite the right word. It just seemed like those things my mom and grandmothers always said—you can be anything!—were for people like Tara.
What would a Sweet and Supportive friend say? “No.” What would a Tough but True friend add? “Not exactly?”
Apparently my non-answer was an answer for Tara. “You can’t be mad at me,” said Tara. Her voice was part demanding, part pleading. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I even made you check with Mrs. Tyndall.”
“You’re right,” I said. I swallowed hard. “I’m not mad.” But it was like cleaning up after the bottle of milk—maybe just following the rules wasn’t enough.
Tara looped her arm through mine. “I wouldn’t be able to stand it if you were mad at me.”
Before I could think of what to say next, a car slowed down next to us. It was Dad in the station wagon. He’d just gotten off a shift at the hospital. Tara and I looked at each other and made a silent agreement not to argue in front of him.
“Hi, Mr. Horowitz,” said Tara cheerfully. “Thanks for the surprise ride.” She opened the back door and slid in. I got in the opposite side, behind Dad.
“How was rehears— What’s that smell?!”
“There was an incident with a bottle of milk and a cranky teacher,” I said. “The ensemble had to clean the whole set.”
Tara didn’t say anything.
“Well, roll down the windows. I know what will cheer you up.” Dad slid a cassette into the tape player. It was Goodbye Yellow Brick Road by Elton John. One of my all-time favorite albums to sing along to. The opening piano notes of the title track filled the car. Dad said he knew I could sing the first time he heard me singing along when I was little.
Tara started to sing along, but I leaned over the seat and hit the power button to turn it off.
Dad and Tara looked at me, mouths open.
“I think quiet is nice sometimes, don’t you?” I said. I spent the rest of the car ride home looking out the window.
That night, before dinner, I took a shower and got out one of my photo albums. I had three of them, one from when I was a baby, one from preschool to third grade, and one from fourth grade to now. The third one was almost full.
I looked at my school pictures, the ones from when I was missing a tooth, and the one from when I decided to give myself bangs. There were some of me and Tara, too. Dancing, a blurred three-legged race together from field day last year.
My mom came in and sat next to me. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing.” Wishing it were last year. Wishing things were back to the way they used to be. Wishing I looked like everyone else.
Mom pointed to last year’s class photo. “There you are. I can always spot you right away.”
“Because I’m the only Chinese kid in my class.”
“Because you’re my daughter, and I know you from the way you stand, the way you smile, the way you do everything.” She gave me a squeeze.
It’s because I’m the only one with black hair, I thought. But that gave me an idea. “Can I color my hair?” If I couldn’t support the ensemble with my voice, maybe it would help if I looked more like the other kids.
“Why on earth would you want to do that?”
“For the show,” I said. I tried to say it in a way that kind of sounded like Mrs. Tyndall was asking for it. “It’s so I can blend with the rest of the ensemble.” I heard my voice catch and stopped talking. Why did I always have to look like me?
“What color would you make it?”
“Maybe light brown?”
“I don’t think those chemicals are good for you.”
“Wai Po uses chemicals to perm her hair,” I pointed out.
“That’s different,” said Mom. “You are still young. No one your age colors their hair.” She reached over and touched my hair. “Your hair is beautiful just the way it is,” she said. “Don’t do anything to it.”
I used to love it when Mom played with my hair, but now I pulled away from her. “You have to say that. You’re my mom.”
Wai Po stopped by my room. “Dinner will be ready soon.”
Mom sighed. “Oh good.”
“I made ning meng ji,” said Wai Po. That made me feel a little better. David and I both loved lemon chicken, the way Wai Po made it, not the fried restaurant kind. “No fighting over it. I made a double batch.”
I wasn’t done making my
case, though. “Can I color my hair if I don’t use chemicals?” I asked Mom.
Mom sighed. “I really don’t think it’s possible.”
“But if it is, can I?” I asked
David called for Mom. The phone rang. “Dinner in ten minutes?” asked Wai Po.
“Can I?” I asked.
Mom threw her hands up in the air. “What? Oh my goodness. Yes. Yes!”
Technically I wasn’t sure if Mom was saying yes to Wai Po, David, or me. But it was close enough, wasn’t it?
The next day, on the way home from school, I stopped at Holmes’s and bought a bottle of Sun In. Some of the older girls at my pool sprayed Sun In onto their hair to make blonde highlights, like lemon juice but faster. I wasn’t expecting that, but I figured I would probably get something. Probably like a nice light brown.
Right before bed, I stood in the bathroom and brushed my always-black, always-straight hair.
David stopped by and watched me. “Are you using the bathroom?”
“Does it look like I’m using the bathroom?”
“When I say using the bathroom, I mean the toilet, specifically,” he said.
“I think you can tell I’m not using the toilet.”
“What ARE you doing?”
“I’m trying to figure out what to do with my hair for the show. Make it look different.” I held up the bottle of Sun In.
“Are you sure that’s okay with Mom and Dad?”
“Mom said not to use chemicals,” I said. “This is more natural. It’s basically just lemon juice. And I’m going to braid it so it’s wavy, too.”
“Like when you and Tara played Little House on the Prairie?”
“Yeah, like that.” I was surprised David remembered something like that. Now I had a huge favor to ask. “Will you do the Sun In part? I don’t want to do too much, but I also don’t want to have any blotchy patches in the back or anything.”
“I guess that makes me a … hair wrangler?” said David.
“It makes you a not-terrible brother,” I said.
David sprayed my hair, making sure to go from the top to the bottom.
Not Your All-American Girl Page 10