There was another phrase we’d heard a lot this summer: due to budget cuts. There was a collective groan in the classroom, which Mrs. Welch cut short with a clap of her hands. “Right, then. We’re not going to dwell on that. Get out your pencils. We’re going to start the school year off by writing a little reflection.”
I sat up very straight. YES! I was dying to get back to writing. The reports for the paper investors were fun, but I longed for the freedom and challenge of fiction.
“I’m sure you’ve all heard about the gubernatorial race,” she said.
“Gubana-what?” Stuart, in the back, asked.
A few kids laughed.
“Gubernatorial!” Mrs. Welch repeated.
We all just giggled harder. Except Lupe—her head was down, and she was drawing in her sketch pad.
Mrs. Welch wrote GUBERNATORIAL on the board, but still we couldn’t pronounce it. She finally had to ditch it and go with the word governor instead.
“Governor Wilson is running for reelection,” she said. “One of the things he’s running on is immigration. Do you guys know what immigration means?”
I raised my hand. “It’s when someone comes to this country from another country.”
Mrs. Welch frowned. “Yes, but please wait until you are called on before speaking next time,” she scolded me. “This is the sixth grade. You need to follow the rules.”
I felt my cheeks turn hot.
Bethany Brett raised her hand and blurted out, “I heard it cost the state of California 1.5 billion dollars just to take care of immigrants.”
“That’s right,” Mrs. Welch said. She nodded at Bethany, pleased. “Someone’s been paying attention to the news.”
I couldn’t believe it. Mrs. Welch had just snapped at me for not waiting to be called on before speaking, but when Bethany did it, she was all jazz hands and dancing fingers. I shook my head and stared at the glued-on “wooden” walls of our trailer classroom. Sixth grade was off to some start.
At recess, Jason walked up to me and Lupe. We were talking about Mrs. Welch.
“Can you believe that woman?” I asked Lupe. “She yelled at me in the first five minutes of class!”
“And she made us write about immigration,” Lupe added. She mimicked Mrs. Welch’s voice. “ ‘Write your true feelings. There are no right or wrong answers.’ YEAH RIGHT.”
“Writing already? On the first day?” Jason shuddered. “We just sat around and introduced ourselves.”
“For the entire morning?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah. You’d be amazed how long you can stretch that out for.” Jason grinned. “At least a morning, sometimes even an entire day!”
I chuckled. It sounded like he was feeling better about his class.
Then he turned to me and asked, “Hey, so you want to come over to my house after school next Friday and hang out?”
I glanced over at Lupe, who was jiggling her head from side to side like a Chinese rattle drum. But I remembered the disappointment on Jason’s face that morning, when he found out we weren’t in the same class. “Sure …” I said slowly. “We’re free next Friday, right, Lupe?”
She shot me a look. “I think I have to help my dad out with something,” she muttered.
“How about you, Mia?” Jason asked, eagerly.
“I, uh …”
“Oh, c’mon, it’s going to be so awesome. Wait till you see my house.”
“I’ve been to your house,” I reminded him. Last year, when we first met his dad. And his dad tricked us into working at the motel for practically free.
“Yeah, but not as … you know …” His voice trailed off.
I shook my head. “As what?”
Jason blushed.
“As a friend.”
Awwww.I looked over at Lupe, who had Excuse me while I go throw up written on her face. But was it really so bad to be friends with him? Sure, Jason was a world-class buffoon last year, but you can’t hold something against someone forever, can you?
“Okay,” I said.
“How was school?” my parents asked when I walked into the motel that afternoon. My mom set down a plate of tomato and egg, my favorite, while my dad scooped a generous helping of rice for me. I smiled. Now that my parents could take breaks whenever they wanted, they could sit down with me while I had my snack. Which was more like a meal. Though I got free lunch at school, it usually wasn’t enough, and my belly was rumbling by the time I got home.
“Good,” I said, picking up my chopsticks. The chopsticks kept falling apart in my hands, so I ditched them for a fork. As I ate, I told my parents about my new teacher and how we’d gotten off to a rocky start—but that it would be okay, since I was going to win her over with my writing.
“That’s the spirit,” my mom said. She looked over to my dad, but he was too busy staring at my hand.
“You’re eating rice with a fork?” he asked.
I blushed and quickly switched to a spoon. Was that a better utensil? Dad smiled a little. I ate the rest of my food quietly. As I cleared the plates and tossed my unused chopsticks in the sink, I wondered why it mattered so much to Dad what I used to eat with, so long as I got the food in my mouth?
The next day at recess, Lupe brought up going over to Jason’s house.
“Are you sure it’s a good idea?” she asked, pushing open the door to the bathroom.
I followed her inside and went into one of the stalls. “I mean, I’m not, like, looking forward to it, but I’m not dreading it either,” I answered truthfully. I was a tiny bit worried about bumping into Mr. Yao. But he’d probably be at work.
“So why are you going?” Lupe asked from the stall next to me. She skipped a beat and then asked, “Do you like Jason?”
Before I had a chance to reply—No way! I don’t like him—a group of girls came into the bathroom talking loudly.
“My mom says she’s pretty sure there are illegals in our class,” said one of the girls. I peeked through the crack in the stall. It was Gloria, a girl who thankfully was not in our class.
Over in her stall, Lupe was as quiet as a church mouse.
“How can you tell them apart?” asked Gloria’s friend.
“That’s easy. If they speak English with an accent.”
The two girls giggled.
Very quietly, I lifted my feet so that the girls couldn’t see them if they looked under the stall. I shrank so small, I nearly fell into the toilet.
Despite my best efforts, I still spoke English with a slight accent.
Lupe and I waited until the girls left before reemerging from our stalls. When we came out, Lupe turned to me, obviously as shaken by what she heard as I was.
“Just ignore them,” she said.
I kept my head down as I washed my hands. Easy for her to say. She had no accent at all.
After school on Wednesday, we hurried along Meadow Lane, eager to get back to the motel and help set up for the How to Navigate America class that Mrs. T and Mrs. Q taught every week in Mrs. T’s room. Lupe and I helped translate, and sometimes I would write letters for any immigrants who needed help with various situations.