by Yee, Lisa
“If I do it, can I get Doritos?”
“Only if you share,” he quips. Mom doesn’t approve of junk food. She’s got a thing about eating healthy.
“It’s a deal,” I tell my father. He doesn’t like to go out if he can help it. Usually my mother does the grocery shopping, but she’s at her yoga lesson at the YMCA. Mom also takes spinning classes there. That’s where people pedal bikes to nowhere.
I call Dial-a-Ride and wait outside for the van. Technically, it’s for senior citizens and people who are handicapped. But Cedra, the driver, doesn’t get a lot of calls, so usually she’s happy to drive my father and me around too. In exchange, Dad lets her into the Rialto for free, and gives her unlimited popcorn. Cedra’s really nice, even if she does look scary. She has a blue Mohawk and her entire left arm is covered with tattoos. Her nose and lip are pierced. Plus, she drives superfast, like warp-speed fast.
I glance at my mom’s grocery list. It’s typed as always. You should see how fast she types. I’m surprised the keyboard doesn’t catch on fire. I installed a TWP for her — a talking word processor. Mr. Jiang helped me pick it out. It can read aloud each letter or word as she types. But Mom hardly ever uses it. “Why should I?” she says. “I already know what I wrote.”
I remember when I was learning to type, I’d get so frustrated. “Put your fingers on the keyboard,” my mother instructed. “Now, Marley, can you see the letter F and the letter J? Rest your index fingers on both those keys.” I did what she told me. “What do you feel?”
“There are little bumps on them,” I said, surprised.
“That’s so you can always be sure your fingers are in the right position, even if you’re not looking — or happen to be blind!”
Mom’s been blind as long as I can remember. She wasn’t always, though. When she was a girl, she could see, and then she got retinitis pigmentosa, an eye disease, and slowly she started losing her sight. My mother makes me go to the eye doctor once a year, just to make sure it won’t happen to me.
Cedra pulls up and puts out her cigarette when I jump in. “Bridge Market,” I tell her. They let us buy groceries on credit there.
I get everything on the list, plus Doritos. It looks like Mom’s going to make her famous white bean and chicken chili. While I wait for Cedra to come back, I sit on a bench and stuff my face with the chips. They turn my fingers orange, but I don’t care. It’s worth it. As I’m crunching, I spy Max across the street, looking in the window of Van Straaten’s Sports Closet. There are a bunch of girls near her, but you can tell she’s not with them. Julie is pointing at Max. Then all the other girls laugh. As Max walks away with her shoulders hunched, I want to go over to her so she won’t be by herself. I know how it feels to be made fun of. But I’ve got all these grocery bags, and Cedra’s coming soon, and maybe Max won’t want to talk to me, and …
A horn honks. Cedra’s here. I guess I shouldn’t keep her waiting.
I put the groceries on the kitchen counter. Mom comes in and stops cold. “I’m disappointed,” she says. “Doritos.”
Never underestimate my mother’s sense of smell.
“Sorry,” I say. “It’s just that they were calling my name. Marleeeey, Marleeeeey …”
Mom laughs. “Okay, Marleeeeey, in exchange for your junk food folly, you will accompany me to the driving range tonight. After your homework, of course.”
“Yes, Mother,” I say, pretending to moan. We both know that I’d go with her to the driving range — Doritos or no Doritos.
I head to my room and take my Sulu action figure out of my pocket. It looks like his hand is about to fall off. I should be more careful. Without hands, Sulu wouldn’t be able to steer the Enterprise.
I open my backpack. Why are the teachers piling so much homework on us? They’re trying to kill us, aren’t they? My desk is really small and my model of the Enterprise takes up most of it. I’m almost done with it. From my window I catch sight of a group of boys heading down the street. They take up the entire sidewalk, like they own it. It’s Stanford and his friends. To make sure they don’t see me, I grab my homework, slip on my Spock ears, and sit on the floor to finish it. The math’s easy and I whip through it. In English we have to write an essay about our family. The assignment isn’t due for a while, so there’s no point in doing it now, since I could get killed by an asteroid, or Digger, tomorrow.
It’s been a while since Stanford walked by. All I have left for homework is history. I stand and stretch, then head to the basement. “Dinner in one hour,” Mom calls out.
I yank on the storage room light and slip on the Benjamin Franklin jacket. It feels right to be wearing this, like I’ve used the Star Trek transporter to journey to another place and time. In TOS, “The City on the Edge of Forever,” the Star Trek crew was able to observe parts of the American Revolution through a time portal. I would give anything to be in another place and time.
I pop out the lenses of the Ben Franklin glasses and put them on too. As I read my history book aloud, I lower my voice and stride across the room and wave my hand in the air to punctuate the important parts. I read ahead even though Ms. McKenna hasn’t assigned it yet. History is so fascinating — the battles, the intrigue, the double crosses. Now that I think about it, it’s sort of like Star Trek.
When I’m done, I forage through the old offices that line one hallway. There are little rooms and alcoves everywhere. It takes a long time, but I push a huge, old metal desk down the hall and into the storage room. Even though it’s rusted, some of the drawers still open. In the corner of an abandoned dressing room I find a red velvet throne. That’ll make a fine captain’s chair. I spend the rest of the afternoon setting up my space. There’s a fancy lamp — it’s broken, but I rewire it, and the wooden coat tree is perfect for hanging my Ben Franklin jacket. “A place for everything, and everything in its place,” Benjamin Franklin once said.
Finally, I go upstairs and bring down most of my Star Trek action figures. I line them up in order of their first appearance on the TV series and movies. Then I stand back and survey what I have created. I smile. I am no longer in the basement of the Rialto.
There was a Star Trek marathon on television over the weekend, so you know where I was. Now it’s Monday morning. Dad’s sleeping in. The Rialto is dark on Mondays and it’s his only day off. Mom’s doing yoga as she listens to one of her audiobooks. This one’s about the green rolling hills of Tuscany. Her dream is to visit Italy and ride a gondola with Dad. But I doubt that’s ever going to happen. She can barely get my father out of the Rialto for a walk in the park.
“Have a great day, Marley,” Mom calls out. She looks like a pretzel. “Wait, aren’t you forgetting something?”
I turn around and give her a hug. Hugs are her thing.
As I wait on the corner for the light to change color, someone sneaks up from behind and hisses in my ear, “Hello, Victor.”
My heart drops into my stomach. Digger is standing next to me. He’s wearing a sinister smile. The light turns green, but I can’t move. “Aren’t you going to say hello to me, Victor?” Digger asks politely.
It takes me a moment to realize he’s talking to me. I shut my eyes, hoping to be beamed up and out of here. When I open them, Digger is staring at me.
“Victor, didn’t you hear me? I asked if you did your history homework.”
I nod. Why is Digger trying to make small talk with me?
“Let me see it,” he orders.
“Excuse me?”
His blue eyes flash. “You seem to be having trouble hearing. I said, let me see it.”
We’re in public, in broad daylight. So why am I so nervous? I’m taller than him, but Digger is solid and he’s just plain scary. He’s scarier than the Salt Vampire from TOS, “The Man Trap,” or even Gul Dukat in Star Trek: Deep Space Nine. Rumor has it that Digger once got a teacher fired. Even the most evil Star Trek villains didn’t have the power to do that.
I rummage through my backpack and hand over my
homework.
“Who’s ‘Marley Sandski’?” Digger asks as he looks at it. His Roadrunners jacket has DIGGER RONSTER embroidered on it in fancy lettering.
“San-del-ski. That’s my name,” I croak. The light’s turned green twice since we’ve been standing here, not that I’m counting.
“I guess it doesn’t matter whose it is,” Digger tells me as he shoves my homework into his backpack. “It’s mine now anyway. Thanks, Victor Lazlo, or Marley San-del-ski, or whoever you are.”
The light turns green again. He strolls across the street and leaves me standing on the corner.
“… and so,” Ms. McKenna tells us, “the revolution was revolutionary!” She takes a tissue from the box on her desk and wipes a tear off her cheek. “Don’t all of you just love, love, love history?” When no one answers, she clears her throat and says. “Well, then. Homework, please.”
At the end of class, Ms. McKenna comes up to me as I am getting ready to leave. “Marley,” she says. She’s wearing her red Converse again. “I don’t have your homework. Where is it?”
“I don’t know,” I mumble.
“Did you do it?”
“Yes.”
“Then please hand it in,” she says.
“I can’t.”
“I see.” Her eyes darken. The room is empty now. Ms. McKenna asks, “Do you want to tell me where your homework is?”
“Not really,” I say. I’m looking at the floor. I wear Converse too. Black high-tops. Well, not really Converse, but a knockoff of them. The real ones cost too —
“Mr. Sandelski?”
“Huh?” I think it sounds so stupid when teachers call us Mr. and Ms. Whatever. Like they’re trying to make whatever they have to say sound more important than it really is.
“You can hand it in tomorrow, Mr. Sandelski,” she says. “But don’t do this again.”
“Yes, ma’am. May I be excused? I don’t want to be late to Technical Sciences.”
Ms. McKenna lets out a tired sigh. “Go on, then. Don’t be late.”
As I leave the room, I almost crash into Stanford Wong and two of his basketball buddies. They are commanding the center of the hallway. Everyone steps aside as they come through. “Hi, Stanford!” echoes down the corridor.
Stanford’s friend Stretch doesn’t say hello to anyone. Unlike Stanford, who looks like he’s lapping up all the attention, Stretch appears to be in pain every time someone says something to him. Then there’s Tico. He’s one of the rare popular kids who’s nice to everyone, even nobodies. One time, when Ramen was at the library, someone tied his shoelaces together. When he stood up and tried to walk, he fell. Everyone laughed, except for Tico, who helped him up.
I spot Max. Along with everyone else, she’s staring at Stretch. Max hasn’t spoken to me all week.
I slip into Mr. Jiang’s class just as the bell rings. Patrick is testing the projector. Troy is picking a lock with a paper clip. Picking locks is much easier than you’d imagine. Sometimes Troy gives us lessons.
“Are you going to use your skills for good or evil?” Ramen asks.
Troy looks insulted. “For good,” he says. “I’m going to be an Interpol spy.”
Ramen leaves to deliver a television to Mr. Glick’s English class. Max is trying to get the LED message board out of the box. I go over to help her. Without saying a word we manage to unwrap it. She’s wearing a Batman/Dark Knight shirt with Christian Bale on it. It looks new.
Mr. Jiang bounds over. “Let’s hope this one works better than the last one they sent!”
Max is already plugging it in. “It only uses fifteen watts of power,” she says. “Plus, it’s got a three-color LED. The wide-viewing angle will make it easy to read from across the cafeteria.”
“Does it have antiglare?” I ask.
“Well, duh, yes,” she says dismissively. “It’s state of the art … or did you not notice that?”
Max is already programming the board via a remote keyboard. From what I can see, there’s a single Ethernet connection.
“Marley, hit the light switch,” she orders. I do as I am told. “Three, two, one —” Max presses a button and the board lights up. On the screen is a scroll that reads MARLEY SANDELSKI IS A LOSER … LOSER … LOSER …
I take one look at my name in bright red lights and my throat tightens. It’s one thing to hear it, but another to see it like it’s official.
I need some fresh air.
As I am pacing in the hallway, I hear Principal Haycorn call out, “Young man, where is your hall pass?”
Great. I’m in real trouble now.
My parents are whispering about money again. Or rather, they are whispering about our lack of it. When I get older, I’m going to be rich and give them bags of money so they don’t have to worry anymore.
“I made some scrambled eggs with cheese and scallions, the way you like it,” my mother says as I set the table for breakfast.
It’s a good thing my mother loves to cook. Dad says he’d rather eat her food than at a restaurant any day. Every now and then Mom and I treat ourselves to Stout’s Coffee Shop. Libby, the waitress with the poufy hair, is always really nice to both of us. Even though we don’t go there very often, she remembers that I like extra whipped cream on my hot chocolate, and that my mother likes her coffee with cream and two sugars, and that we both love the homemade French silk pie with those curls of chocolate on the top. We always bring a slice home for Dad.
“Where were you yesterday? I didn’t see you in AV Club when I got back.”
Ramen is hovering as I try to clean my locker before first period. Someone wrote GEEK on it again. I keep a rag and a bottle of Windex in my locker for situations like this. “Principal’s office,” I say as I scrub.
“No way!” Ramen looks impressed. “What for? Did you steal something? Did you get in a fight? Oh my God, you killed someone, didn’t you? Who was it? Was it Dean Hoddin? It was Coach Martin, wasn’t it? You can tell me, I can keep a secret —”
“I didn’t have a hall pass.”
I’ve only managed to get part of the word off my locker, so now it reads EEK.
“Is that all?” Ramen looks deflated. He picks at a hole in his Star Wars shirt, making it worse. “So what did Haycorn do to you?”
“I had to sit in the office until school got out, but that was less then ten minutes. Then he pointed his fat finger at me and said, ‘I never forget a face. I’m going to keep an eye on you!’”
“Well, wandering the halls without a pass was very Han Solo,” Ramen notes. He’s always bragging about the rebel things he’s going to do, yet he always uses the crosswalks and turns his library books in two days early. He was a safety monitor in elementary school.
We head to homeroom. I’ve redone my history assignment, so I set it on Ms. McKenna’s desk next to her pencil holder shaped like a cowboy boot. Ramen follows me to my seat. “You missed seeing what Max can do with the LED message board.”
“Oh, I’ve seen what she can do, all right.”
“Yeah!” Ramen says, his voice rising. “She’s figured out graphics and animated scrolls and everything!”
“Did you read what it said?” I ask, wondering if the whole AV Club saw the immortal words, “Marley Sandelski is a loser.”
“Max programmed it to say ‘Go Tiggy’ and then there was this really cool animated tiger jumping all around.”
“Was there anything else?”
“Naw, but that was really impressive. She’s not so bad for a girl. I even told her so.”
“What did she say?”
“She said I was a sexist ignoramus who needed a brain transplant. Max is kinda sensitive, don’t you think?”
“She’s a girl,” I remind him.
Other than being thrown in the gym shower with all my clothes on, and trying to avoid eye contact with Digger in Ms. McKenna’s class, it’s a regular day. Ramen eats his noodles. I get punched by the Gorn.
Thank God for sixth period.
Whenever one of us walks into AV Club, the other members shout hello or yell out some insult, but not the mean kind like the kids in the hallway. Out of a school of 600 students, I can count on three of them acknowledging me. It used to be four until Max got all mad.
It’s not that I want to be popular, like Stanford Wong–popular, it’s just that I don’t want to be unpopular. Sure, popular kids eat at the best tables in the cafeteria, and win all the sports awards, and as a rule look better than the general population. But I’d settle for never getting beat up by the Gorn, or no longer being spit on, or having my locker graffiti-free for just one month. Heck, I’d take one week. And if just a few kids could be nice to me, then maybe school would be less like a battlefield.
Mr. Jiang is sitting at his desk with his feet up. He’s wearing mismatched socks again. His head is tilted back as he pours the remains from the bottom of a bag of BBQ chips into his mouth. Some crumbs lodge in his beard. The guys are arguing over which one of us would make the best superhero.
“Me, of course,” Troy announces. He’s wearing a really cool Star Trek shirt with Chris Pine as young Kirk on it. “You have to be smart to be a superhero,” Troy is saying, “and that’s me.”
“Right. You smart? You’re as smart as snot,” Patrick scoffs. On his shirt, under a picture of Darth Vader, are the words WHO’S YOUR DADDY? “Hey, what did Kirk leave in the toilet?” Troy and I shake our heads. We’ve heard this joke a million times. “His Captain’s log!” Patrick shouts and then high-fives Ramen. “Anyway, I’d be the best superhero since I’m both smart and good-looking!”
“Sorry, guys, it’s me,” I tell them. “Smart, good-looking, and brave!”
As everyone cracks up, I steal a sideways glance at Max. She’s in the back working on the projector. Either she can’t hear us, or she’s really good at faking it.
“You’re all wrong,” Ramen tells us. “I am the one and only true superhero of Rancho Rosetta Middle School and to prove it —”