by Yee, Lisa
But wait! Emily Ebers was nice to me, and she’s a girl — a really nice and pretty girl. Maybe there’s hope for me yet.
Mom gets out her golf clubs as I deliver Dad’s dinner. He insists on staying in the projection booth even though he’s spliced together the twenty-minute reels, then stacked them onto two platters to feed into the projector. This way he doesn’t have to change reels in the middle of the film. Technically, once my father’s threaded the projector and the movie is running, he could leave, as long as he’s back before the film ends. But Dad is old school.
I love watching him work. When the big boxes of film arrive, the first thing he does is inspect the reels. Sometimes, I do too. Every now and then he lets me thread the projector. Once the feature film is playing, Dad goes into the theater to check the focus and make sure the sound is okay. Then he heads back into his booth. If people want popcorn or a soda during the movie, they just get it themselves and leave the money in the film canister on the counter. Everything’s a dollar to make it easier on the customers.
Cedra double-parks in front of the Rialto, and Mom and I climb in. “Hi, Patrice. Hey, Marley,” Cedra says. “Want to see my new tattoo?” She holds out her arm. “It’s a hummingbird,” she tells Mom. “It’s about the size of a half-dollar. Nick did it.” Cedra’s boyfriend is a tattoo artist.
“I’m sure it’s lovely,” Mom tells her.
Cedra smiles. “It is,” she says, putting the van into gear and taking off.
She drops us off at the Arroyo Seco Golf Course. “I’ll be back at eight thirty,” Cedra says before peeling out of the parking lot.
I carry Mom’s clubs for her as she gets her tokens for the golf ball machine. I like to listen to the balls drop into the metal bucket. Mom does too. She can tell when there are too many, too few, or just the right amount.
The driving range isn’t very crowded. As always, we go to the second level. It looks over a great green expanse of grass and is lit so brightly that I always squint at first. Mom’s favorite tee is open. She begins to stretch to warm up, then pulls her nine iron out of her bag. I set the bucket of balls behind her to the left. Using a golf club head, Mom finds the plastic tee sticking up from the ragged patch of Astroturf. She places the first ball down, sets her stance, and takes a practice swing. Satisfied, she reconfigures her position and brings the nine iron back over her shoulder.
Whack!
Mom’s ball sails across the driving range. “Well?” she asks.
“Ninety yards,” I tell her.
“What was my trajectory?”
“Low with a slight curve to the left.”
She shakes her head. “I can do better.”
I nod, even though she can’t see me. She can do better.
In the next hour, Mom uses her nine and six irons, working her way to her fairway wood. Dad bought her the clubs for their fifteenth wedding anniversary last year. Mom cried when she got them and hugged him so hard that I thought she was hurting him, but apparently she wasn’t.
“Two hundred yards,” I call out. As she sets up her next ball, I doodle a picture of Emily Ebers in my Captain’s Log. As an afterthought, I add Vulcan ears. She makes an attractive Vulcan.
“Marley, hand me my driver,” Mom says. I fetch it from her bag.
Next to us, a plump, dark-haired woman wearing shorts and an electric green shirt is watching Mom swing. I sit on the bench and drink a Pepsi. Even though I’m not allowed to drink soda at home, Mom lets me have one here. I have a stash of quarters just for the soda machine.
“Your mom’s really good,” the woman says. I nod.
My mother comes over and sits next to me.
“I was just telling your son that you’re really good,” the lady says.
“Why, thank you,” Mom replies as she takes a sip from her water bottle. “I’ve been at this for years.”
“Me too. But I’m still so bad at golf, I may as well be playing blind.”
Mom laughs. “Well, that’s how I play.”
“Excuse me?”
“I am blind,” my mother says.
The woman instantly reddens. “Ohmygosh, I am so sorry!”
A patient smile crosses my mother’s face. I’ve seen it many times before. “Why are you sorry? It’s not your fault.”
“Is it hard to golf?” The lady starts speaking loudly. “Can you actually golf, like on the course?”
“I may be blind, but I’m not uncoordinated,” my mother quips. “And yes, I’m actually part of a foursome and we golf once a week.”
The lady rises and puts out her hand to shake Mom’s, then abruptly pulls it back. “It was an honor to meet you. You are a true inspiration.”
For a moment, I’m glad my mother can’t see, because the look of pity the lady is giving her is outrageous. Lots of people look at Mom like that. Or they just stare. Others run up to her and do things like try to walk her across the street, when truly my mother is probably more capable than 99% of the population.
As the woman scurries away, Mom begins gathering her clubs. “Okay, Marley, are you ready to head home with an inspiration?”
We wait a beat, then both break out laughing.
School’s been dragging on for almost a month and I’ve fallen into my morning routine.
Force myself out of bed.
Eat breakfast.
Walk one block.
Wait for Digger.
Wait for Digger.
Hand Digger his own copy of my history homework.
Wait for Digger to leave.
Head to school.
Digger’s slime. Still, I can’t bring myself to tell anyone about him. My stomach is in a knot every Tuesday and Thursday morning when I hand over the history homework. I always avoid looking directly at Digger. His ice blue eyes could freeze your soul.
I couldn’t sleep all night. Over and over I practiced what I was going to say to Digger, and now that he’s standing in front of me, I wish I were back in bed, under the covers.
“What?” he asks. He’s in his normal bad mood. His hair is going in twelve different directions at once and looks like a forest fire. “Where is it?”
I tighten my grip on my backpack.
“Why?” I ask. “Why should I do your homework? I don’t think I want to do it anymore.”
Digger smiles and shakes his head. “Marley, Marley, Marley,” he says, like he’s talking to a toddler. “This is not about what you want, but about what you will do. And you will do what I say because if you don’t, there will be grave consequences.”
My throat is dry. “Like what?” I squawk.
“You really don’t want to know,” he says.
Digger’s right. I don’t really want to know. He’s capable of anything, like the time in elementary school when he got that really smart girl expelled.
I hand him my homework.
When I get to my locker Max and Ramen are blocking it. “What?” I ask. Neither says anything. “Ramen, I’ve got to get to my stuff. Move,” I order.
Ramen looks at Max. She shrugs. He steps aside. Water is pouring out of my locker like it’s Niagara Falls. Quickly, I try my combination. Shoot! The lock’s been jammed with gum. When I finally get it open, everything inside is wet and ruined. A small plastic tube is stuck in one of the locker vents. Whoever did this must have pumped the water in through that.
“I’ve got a spare notebook if you need one,” Max offers. Good thing I keep my new Captain’s Log on me. When I look up, the Gorn are there, snickering. Before they leave each punches me in the arm.
“Leave him alone!” Max yells, clenching her fists and marching toward them.
Ramen stops her. “Don’t do it,” he warns. He has to grab her arm and hold her back. “It’ll only draw attention to you and then you’ll be next on their list.”
“You don’t know that,” Max says. Her eyes are ablaze.
“Yes I do!” Ramen spits back. “Because I was the one they used to punch before Marley tried to stop them
.”
It’s lunchtime. Max is biting into lox and cream cheese on a bagel. “What are those little green balls?” Ramen is asking. “They look like those pill bugs. Are those pill bugs? Marley ate a worm once.”
“It was an accident,” I explain.
“These are capers,” Max says, then takes another bite. “Hey, Marley, I think you should tell Principal Haycorn about those bullies.”
I shake my head. “I’ve told you, it would just make things worse.”
Ramen nods. “He’s right for once. It’s best for our kind to just grin and bear it. Or in this case, grimace and bear it.”
Max huffs. “Batman would never do that. He’d fight the bad guys.”
“Yeah, well, if I could, I’d transport all the bad guys out of here and into Klingon territory,” I say sarcastically. “Only, guess what, Max? My phaser and transporter are in the shop.”
Ramen snorts. “I’d lend you a lightsaber, but all of mine are recharging.”
We both break out laughing, but Max just scowls. “I don’t like it that they hit you, Marley.”
I sober up. “You think I do? You think it’s fun for me?”
Max chews slowly. “I just think you ought to tell someone. Maybe Mr. Jiang when he gets back,” she says. “Or a teacher. Principal Haycorn. Someone.”
“I’ll think about it,” I tell her, even though I know I won’t. If I did that, the Gorn would track me down, rip me apart, stomp on my guts, and then make my life miserable.
“Hey, you know that Emily girl you’re partners with in Home Sciences?” Ramen asks.
“What about her?” I ask, trying to make my voice sound normal.
Ramen lets out a whistle. He’s really good at making noises. You should hear his imitation of an old-fashioned locomotive gaining speed, then crashing into a mountain.
“Emily has P.E. the same time I do,” Max volunteers. “She’s about as coordinated as I am, which means that neither of us should be looking for careers as athletes.”
“I can’t believe you have her for your partner,” Ramen tells me. “You have all the luck.”
“Gee, thanks,” Max says snidely. She tosses a caper at him.
“Aw, I didn’t mean it like that,” Ramen backtracks. “You’re an okay partner, even if you’re all Batman. I’ll bet Emily is into Star Wars.”
“Right.” Max joins Ramen under the Tragic Tree. “Dream on. I’ll bet that Emily doesn’t even know who Princess Leia is. She probably thinks she’s a Disney princess.”
“I’m sure she knows who Princess Leia is. Everyone does,” Ramen argues.
While Ramen and Max engage in a staredown, I ignore them. They’re ridiculous. Besides, I have something more interesting to think about … Emily Ebers.
In history class Ms. McKenna collects our homework. I always get 100%, but there is little joy in that, knowing that Digger is getting 100% too.
Ms. McKenna is telling the class about a place called Colonial Williamsburg, where people dress up the way they did in the eighteenth century. She’s wearing an old bonnet as she shows us some photos of someone milking a cow. I’d like to visit there someday. I could wear my Benjamin Franklin jacket and glasses.
Suddenly, Ms. McKenna starts doing a rap about Williamsburg. It’s so bad it hurts.
Don’t be a fool,
History can be cool.
Let learning be a tool.
Sha boom, sha boom!
In Williamsburg you can see
A Colonial city
And how it used to be.
Sha boom, sha boom!
After school, I climb the stairs to the apartment and flop on the couch. Mom puts her Italy book on pause so we can talk. “How’s school?” she asks, giving me a hug.
“Fine.”
“Have you made any new friends?”
“Well, I guess so. There’s this new kid, Max, that Ramen and I eat lunch with.”
“What’s he like?” she asks as she straightens the pillows on the couch.
“Max is a girl.”
Instantly, Mom lights up. “A girl? Well, tell me all about this Max!”
“It’s not like that,” I moan. I’m sorry that I even brought it up. “She’s in AV Club and not really like a girl-girl. Max is more like one of the guys.”
“Well, you should invite Max to the theater sometime,” Mom says, adding, “I promise not to embarrass you.”
“Who’s not going to embarrass whom?” Dad asks as he comes into the room. He’s carrying a box of paperwork.
My father has an office downstairs off the concession stand, but he likes to do the accounting in the apartment. It’s interesting to watch him hunched over the kitchen table with a calculator. It’s like there are two different Dads: the movie buff and the businessman. After he counts the money, he slips a thick rubber band around the bills, then puts the bundle into a Ziploc bag and places it in our freezer until he has a chance to go to the bank.
“Marley has a friend who’s a girl,” Mom tells him.
“Marley,” Dad says, hardly hiding his grin, “who’s this girl that has your mother all in a dither?”
I shake my head. “Just a new kid. It’s nothing. Can I go now?”
“Be back in time for dinner,” Mom tells me.
I wander around downtown Rancho Rosetta for a while. I wave to Libby at Stout’s Coffee Shop, and stop in at RadioShack. Mr. Min shows me the new cell phones. They do everything. It would be so cool to have one, and it wouldn’t matter that I don’t have anyone to call — I could just play the games and stuff.
As I head toward the Dinosaur Farm toy store to see if the new juggling balls have come in, I suddenly spy Emily Ebers! She’s feeding coins into a parking meter. Wait. That’s odd. Now she’s putting money into all the meters up and down Mission Street. When she looks in my direction, I take off running and don’t stop until I get to Sweeteria. Mom doesn’t have to know.
As I leave with my ice-cream cone, I spot Stanford with his pals heading toward me. Do basketball players always travel in packs? I turn in the other direction and see the Gorn coming my way. Luckily, they only harass me at school. Still, I duck into a store and crouch down.
“Do you have an appointment?” the lady asks. She’s tall and has short hair that looks metallic, like bronze, and she has the same bemused look that Uhura, the communications officer of the USS Enterprise, often wears. They could be sisters.
I stand up and look around. There’s a sign above the counter that says SALON FERRANTE. “Um, no,” I say as I begin to back out of the place. “I was just —”
She smiles at me. “No problem. Drop by anytime. Ask for Mimi. I specialize in making good-looking guys look even better.”
I try not to blush when she winks at me. When I leave, I notice my hand is all cold and sticky. I’m still holding my ice-cream cone. It’s practically melted. I look for a trash can. Just then, I hear someone say, “There he is, get him!”
There’s no time to look. Instinctively, I start to run. I can hear the Gorn grunting as they chase me. I toss the cone into the street and dodge an old lady who yells, “Young man, you’re a litterbug!” Then she yells at the Gorn, “You big boys — this is a shopping area, not a racetrack!”
I run past Stahl Miller stationery store and City Hall. Mr. Min and I wave to each other as I run past RadioShack. I don’t stop until I’m at the Rialto.
“Whoa, slow down, Marley,” Mom says as I burst into the apartment. “Your timing is impeccable. Dinner’s ready. Here, take this plate up to your father.”
I nod and run the broccoli noodle casserole up to the projection booth. Then I trek down to the basement and slip on my Spock ears to decompress. I’ve decided to call this the Transporter Room, because this is where I need to be when I want to escape.
After P.E. I’m heading to the locker room when I hear Coach Martin say, “Sandelski! Get back here.”
Great. What have I done now? Or what haven’t I done? Wait, I can think of a few things.<
br />
1) I ran with the basketball instead of dribbling.
2) I tried to make a shot, but it got blocked by the shortest kid in the class.
3) I fouled my own teammate.
“Yeah,” I say, giving Coach a preemptive glare.
“I saw you running yesterday,” he says.
“Running?”
“Around town.” Coach Martin’s beloved whistle hangs around his neck. He’s wearing a new Dodgers cap. He must have hundreds of them. “You should go out for track. How long have you been running?”
“I’m not a runner,” I tell him. Though that’s not true. I started running away from the bullies when I was in elementary school. I’m still running from them.
“Well, you should be a runner,” Coach Martin says. “You’re fast, Sandelski. Listen up, okay?”
Why do adults say “listen up”? What exactly is that supposed to mean?
“Sandelski! Are you with me?”
I nod.
“You’re doing pretty poorly in P.E.” I nod again. I know. Everyone knows. “As a matter of fact, you’re barely pulling a C grade. However, we have the Tiggy Tiger Turkey Trot coming up. That’s where the middle school students compete in a 2K.” Why is he telling me this? “You compete and I’ll give you an A for the semester. You don’t even have to win or place. Just compete, okay?”
I shrug.
“Think about it. Will you at least think about it, Sandelski?”
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll think about it.”
I get to the locker room just in time for the Gorn to push me into the shower with my gym clothes on. Even though this is getting old, a few of the boys laugh, but most turn away. They’ve seen it before.
“Hi, Marley!”
Emily Ebers is saying hi to me?
“NuqneH,” I answer. Oh no! I’m speaking Klingon again.
“Excuse me?” Emily says as I take my seat next to her.
“Greetings, earthling!” I shout. Shoot. Why am I shouting?