Not Your All-American Girl

by Wendy Wan-Long Shang

  At play practice, Mrs. Tyndall asked us to solicit advertisements for the program as a way to pay for paint and props like Tara’s wooden hoop.

  “Pair up,” she said. “If you get two ads each, we’ll be in business.”

  I looked over at Tara. After our last conversation, it didn’t seem like we would want to be partners. But then Mrs. Tyndall said: “Brenda Sue and Theodore, I have special plans for you.”

  “My mom says she’ll take out an ad. Buchanan for mayor,” said Tara. “Half a page.”

  Cheryl grabbed my hand. “You and me,” she said.

  I already had an idea of where to go: To a Tee.

  And I had another idea, too: WTRY. I still owed Nashville Nick an apology.

  Wai Po was not a fan of students going to strangers to sell advertising.

  “I will be glad when this play is over,” she said. But she let me go.

  We started with WTRY, which wasn’t far from Cheryl’s house. We walked to the end of the street, where the houses stopped and the commercial area started. There was a weedy lot, a Putt-Putt golf course, and a low building with the WTRY letters gleaming on a brick wall. Somehow I had imagined the building would be more glamorous.

  We walked through the field and then walked around the building to the front door. We could hear music playing as we walked in the front doors. There was a place for a receptionist, but it was empty. There was also a big glass window that looked into the DJ booth. Inside there was a tall, slightly overweight black man with a mustache and beard who looked like he was testing one of the dials.

  “Excuse me,” Cheryl said. She waved both her hands to try to attract his attention.

  He came out of the booth.

  “Well,” he said, “the record promotions team gets younger and younger.”

  “We’re not promoting a record,” Cheryl said.

  “We’re promoting a play,” I said. “At Eisenhower Junior High. We’re selling advertising.”

  He stuck out his hand. “Nashville Nick,” he said.

  This was Nick? But it wasn’t even time for his show. In my head, Nash was a white man with a flannel shirt and a cowboy hat. Then I caught myself; it was another supposed-to.

  “I’m Cheryl,” said Cheryl. “This is Lauren.”

  “Good to meet you both.”

  It was the voice I’d listened to so many times; I had just imagined it coming out of somebody else. I thought about pretending I’d never heard of him before. Maybe I could just leave an apology note on the front desk.

  “Nice to meet you, too,” I said.

  Nash tilted his head to one side. “Lauren? Patsy Cline Lauren?”

  I was too surprised to keep pretending. “How did you know?”

  “I never forget a voice,” said Nash. “That’s my job.”

  “I should have called you back,” I said. “After the Patsy thing. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sorry, too,” he said. “I shouldn’t have assumed you knew. Are you okay now?”

  I shrugged and wondered how much he remembered from our conversation. DJs talked to a lot of people. I thought about all the stuff people told Top 40 DJ Casey Kasem for those long-distance dedications. Stuff about mistakes and lost love and not fitting in.

  Nash made a little circling motion, pointing at me. “You weren’t what I was expecting.”

  I wasn’t sure if it was because I wasn’t what he pictured when I said I was Jewish, or because he thought I was older.

  I figured I’d cover all the bases. “I’m twelve,” I said. “And my mom is Chinese.” Maybe the assumption part wasn’t the bad part. It was what you did with it that mattered. I had made assumptions, too. “I thought you were white.”

  “I get that a lot,” said Nash.

  “People always think my parents are married,” said Cheryl.

  He nodded. “So about this play,” he said.

  “It’s a production of Shake It Up,” I said. “It’s a musical. And for just fifteen dollars we’ll put your name in the program.”

  “It doesn’t sound country,” he said. “But that’s quite a bargain. Would you like to sing part of a song on the radio so our listeners will know what it’s like?”

  That sounded like free advertising. And it would make the ensemble look pretty good, maybe better than the stars.

  “How much do you want to hear?” I said.

  “Just a chorus,” he said. “Cowgirl Connie left early today, and I’m trying to fill up her time.”

  Cheryl looked at me. “We could do some lines from ‘Jumping through Hoops,’ ” she said. I nodded.

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll give you the intro. On three.” He held up his fingers. “All right, music fans, this isn’t exactly country, but some members of the Eisenhower Junior High cast of Shake It Up are right here in my studio. Ladies? Will you sing us a little bit of what we can expect from this show?”

  Cheryl and I looked at each other, and I nodded. The verses were short, so we sang two of them together, our voices blending.

  “May eighteenth and nineteenth at Dwight D. Eisenhower,” Cheryl said. “Be there or be square.”

  Nash nodded, and leaned into the microphone. “Coming up next, I’ve got ‘Mountain of Love’ to help get you through the long afternoon.”

  “That’s nice,” I said as the first few notes bounced out of the speaker.

  “That’s Charley Pride,” said Nash. He held up the record album. Charley Pride was black, too. I’d never seen any black country singers before.

  “Do you have any Chinese Jewish country singers?” I asked.

  Nash looked at me. “Well, I’ve got one right here.”

  “No, I mean a real singer.”

  “You’re a real singer,” said Cheryl.

  “I wish,” I said.

  “Wishing on a star won’t make you one,” Nash said. “You know, Patsy Cline got her start when she sang on a local radio station.”

  “I wouldn’t know what to sing,” I said. I wondered if Cowgirl Connie would be mad that I sang during her show.

  “Sing Patsy!” said Cheryl.

  “I can’t sound like Patsy, not the way I want to,” I said.

  “You can sing anything you want,” said Nash. “As long as it’s country.”

  Besides Patsy, I wasn’t sure I knew any country songs well enough to sing on the radio. I didn’t think Nash’s fans would appreciate “She’ll Be Comin’ Round the Mountain.” Other than that, the only thing I could do was the theme songs from The Beverly Hillbillies and The Andy Griffith Show, and the last one didn’t count because it was just whistling. That was something else we weren’t allowed to do during play rehearsal. Whistling backstage was bad luck. But I wasn’t in the theater anymore.

  “What about ‘Country Roads’?” I said. “Wouldn’t a song with the word country count as country music?” We had learned it in music last year.

  Nash shrugged. “John Denver is more folk than country, but I just let you sing a song from a musical, so there you go.”

  “Let me … let me run through it once,” I said.

  “Take all the time you need.”

  I grabbed Cheryl’s arm, and we walked into the bathroom. I looked like a TV ad for Dramamine, the before part, when the person in the ad is green.

  “I’m not sure about this,” I said, splashing cold water on my face.

  “You can’t complain there are no Chinese Jewish country singers if you turn down the chance to be one.”

  “I know,” I said.

  “Put up or shut up,” said Cheryl. She folded her arms.

  “You’re awfully mean for a nice person,” I told her.

  “Thank you. That is one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me.”

  “I just thought getting a chance at being a star would look different,” I said. “With a record or something.”

  “As my mom says, sometimes you’re living the dream and you don’t even know it.” I thought that was a pretty good observation.
I thought about the advice Tara would give me, if she was with me. It felt weird to have such a big excellency without her.

  “Okay,” I said. I took some deep breaths. “I’m not going to throw up. At least during the song.” We went over the song a few times, just to make sure I knew all the words.

  I walked back into the studio while Cheryl went to call her mom. Nash had pulled up another chair next to his, and he gestured for me to sit down. He handed me a pair of headphones and then drew the microphone near me. The song “He Stopped Loving Her Today” was playing.

  I felt dizzy. I felt wonderful.

  Nash let the song finish and then turned to the mic. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re taking a break from our regularly scheduled program to bring you a special treat. As you know, I’m always on the lookout for new artists to share with you, but this one might be the youngest I’ve met.” Nash looked at me and winked. “In the studio with me today is a young lady who I think has a great career ahead of her. Here’s Lonesome Lauren, and she’s going to sing ‘Country Roads.’ ”

  This was it. I couldn’t sing sitting down, so I stood up and leaned down toward the microphone. I closed my eyes and let the opening guitar notes play in my head. Then I joined in, letting my voice sail over the radio.

  “Country Roads” is about going home and the feelings you get when you’re heading there. It says it’s about West Virginia, but my music teacher said John Denver could have meant Virginia, because we have the Blue Ridge Mountains and most of the Shenandoah River, and West Virginia has only a trickle.

  The song itself feels like a ride down a road, smooth and rolling, with a few hills to keep things interesting. The words and melody flow into each other, and by the time you hit the chorus and the note that goes with yesterday, you feel like you’re flying. In my mind, I played a music video with the song, seeing fields and trees on the way home.

  When the song ended, I opened my eyes. Cheryl and Nash were staring at me. Nash turned to the mic. “We’re going to change our call letters to WOW,” he said. “Because all I can say is ‘Wow.’ Good job, Lonesome Lauren.” A light on the board came on. “Oh, we have a caller. Hello, WTRY.”

  “Hi, Nash, it’s Audrey. I’m calling about that young lady you just had on.”

  “Oh, hi, Audrey. Yes, what would you like to say?”

  “Well, if I were John Denver, I’d be absolutely furious about the way Laura sang that song.”

  What? I grabbed my stomach, and Cheryl slid the trash can over to me. I’ll bet you could hear it on the air.

  “Her name is Lauren,” said Nash politely. But he hovered a finger over the button marked MUTE. Audrey kept talking.

  “Well, she made that song sweeter and lovelier than even John Denver did. And I didn’t think anyone could do that.”

  “Agreed,” said Nash.

  “Just tell her next time to sing some real country,” Audrey said.

  CHERYL AND I WALKED OVER TO 7-Eleven to buy snacks to celebrate what Cheryl called my “on-air debut.” We sat on the curb and talked. She told me she only saw her dad once a year because he lived in Alaska. “Most of the time, it’s just me and my mom,” she said.

  I told her about my grandmothers.

  “Want to trade?” said Cheryl, taking a bite of her Ho Ho, which we had dubbed the official snack of the on-air debut, not to be confused with Yoo-hoo, the official drink of the on-air debut. She licked chocolate icing off her finger.

  She was joking, I knew. But I answered honestly. “No,” I said. “But you can join us!”

  I was supposed to go straight home after spending time with Cheryl, but I decided to take a detour. It wasn’t that far out of the way, I reasoned. The path was as familiar as the path to my own home.

  Tara answered the door.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Hey,” she said. “Are you here for the button money? My mom’s been asking.” She turned away from the door and yelled, “Mo-o-om! Lauren’s here for the button money.”

  The thing was, I wasn’t there for the button money. I was there because even though Cheryl and I were becoming really good friends, there was also the Royal We, and the first person I wanted to tell everything to was still Tara.

  Mrs. Buchanan came to the front door. “Well, don’t just stand on the front step like a stranger! Come in, Lauren.”

  “I’m kind of busy,” said Tara. But she pushed open the screen door. We stood in the front hall, looking at each other. Mrs. Buchanan got out her checkbook and wrote me a check. Their house was usually as neat as the furniture showroom at Grand Piano. Tara and I used to go there together to get the free Cokes they offered you if you were looking for a dining room set. But now the Buchanans’ kitchen table was covered with papers and half-filled legal pads. Tara and I watched her mom go upstairs.

  I tried to figure out a way to tell Tara about what had just happened, but that would involve telling her I really did like country music. But Tara spoke first.

  “So I guess you’re famous now,” she said.

  “Me?”

  “Congratulations.” She reached out her hand and shook mine, like we were meeting for the first time.

  “You heard?” I said.

  “I may or may not have gotten a call from the radio station, telling me to turn on my radio.”

  I didn’t know whether to feel proud or embarrassed.

  “So you DO like country music,” she said.

  “Yes,” I said. “Some. What do you think?”

  “When you sing it, it’s great,” she said.

  “Thanks, though I’ve been told that ‘Country Roads’ isn’t really country.”

  It would be so easy to pretend that this was why I came over, I thought. To talk about music. But I was tired of pretending. I wanted things to be real between us, which meant providing honest answers.

  “You know how you asked me if I was mad?” I said. “About Vincent Chin? I was. I’m still mad, kind of. Really.”

  Normally when you tell someone you’re mad at them, the tension immediately goes up. But this time, it was like opening a window, letting out the old air and bringing fresh air. Tara nodded.

  “You hate me for getting the lead,” said Tara. “Right?”

  I paused. “I hate that I never had a shot at it.” I took a deep breath and pushed myself to be honest, more honest. “Also: My middle name isn’t weird.”

  I was worried that Tara would say I was making a big deal out of nothing, but then I realized, it was a big deal. To me.

  “I thought … because you always say …” Tara’s words tumbled over one another, like socks in the dryer. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

  I nodded, feeling uncomfortable and better all at the same time.

  “I could talk to Mrs. Tyndall about doing musicals where you could have a bigger part,” Tara volunteered.

  “There’s only one that would work for her,” I said, thinking of Hector’s suggestion of South Pacific.

  “So let’s do that one!”

  “I want more than one,” I said. “I want to be anything.”

  Tara’s face fell. “Sometimes, I wish we’d never tried out.”

  “I know,” I said.

  “Like Vincent Chin. You never even mentioned him, and now I feel like I’m responsible.”

  “I never said you were responsible.” One of the few Chinese words I knew was for America. Mei guo. Beautiful country. It was hard to hold Vincent and mei guo in my heart at the same time.

  “Vincent Chin was an American,” I said. “So am I. We belong here.”

  “I know that,” said Tara.

  “Other people need to know it, too,” I said. “Like certain people who think a Chinese Jewish American girl in an all-American town is confusing.”

  Tara’s eyes widened slightly. “I changed my mind,” she said. “I’m glad that we tried out. We can fix it.”

  “We haven’t been ‘we’ in a long time.”

  “Well, we’re back,” said Tara.r />
  “The Royal We,” I said.

  Ten days before the play, everyone had costumes except for the ensemble.

  “Ensemble, check your parents’ closets,” advised Mrs. Tyndall. “Maybe they have something that looks like it came from the 1950s.”

  “We should all check our parents’ closets,” said Tara. “Bring in extras if you have them.” The Royal We included the cast.

  “I wonder if I can finish this in time?” Safta had offered the imitation Nudie suit shirt, which she was still working on. Wai Po had decided to make matching pants. “You can wear a different shirt if hers doesn’t work out,” she said.

  “What’s not to work out?” said Safta. “I’m almost done.” She had brought her project and Mini over to settle in for a long afternoon of sewing. “I’ve planned out the rhinestones, and I have just enough left so that …” She looked around her, lifting up pillows. “Hmmmm.”

  “Why are you hmmmm-ing?” asked Wai Po.

  “There were a few rhinestones left, and now I can’t find them,” said Safta. “Did you take them?”

  “Nobody took them,” said Wai Po.

  Safta looked around the room and her eyes settled on Bao Bao.

  “Bao Bao did not eat the rhinestones!” said Wai Po. “That’s not food.”

  “A dog will eat anything,” Safta said.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a glimmer. I turned my head just in time to see Mini stick out her tongue and flick a glittery rhinestone into her mouth.

  According to the vet, Dr. Sachs, Mini would probably be fine. “As long as it’s small and doesn’t block the digestive tract,” she told Safta, “they will pass.” That was a nice way of saying that Mini would poop them out.

  “Your smart cat ate rocks,” Wai Po said, petting Bao Bao.

  In spite of the vet’s assurances, Safta still looked worried when she hung up the phone. Then she started going around the house, closing the toilets.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “I need to make sure Mini poops out all the rhinestones,” Safta said. “Until then, she can’t use the toilet.”

  “You are going to go through Mini’s poop and look for rhinestones?”