I don’t know what anything is worth anymore, I’m thinking as I pull my books out of my locker. Books, Tomper, letter jackets, parties, friends. Where do I fit into this mess?
7
“Ellen Sung has just set a new record for this class,” Mrs. Klatsen tells us. I feel myself scrunching up in my chair because I’m sure everyone’s looking at me.
“She’s gotten a perfect score on the weekly vocab tests to date—six weeks! The last record was set three years ago at five weeks.”
A polite round of applause rolls through the room. Beth grins at me excitedly.
“Hey, good job.” Mike Anderson leans over to pat my shoulder. “I knew I picked a good vocab partner.”
“Nice going, ’gator.” Tomper catches up to me after class. We are in the middle of the hall, and I feel a small twinge of satisfaction when I see Marsha Randall pass us.
“Is that my new name? Gator?” I ask. Tomper is wearing a gray sweatshirt. No place to carry cigarettes.
“If you like it,” he says. “It sticks. If your middle initial is an E, you can be El E. Gator. Get it?”
“Yeah,” I say, thinking how my middle name is Joyce, the name my mother chose for herself when she came to America. “It isn’t, though.”
“Oh well,” he says, scuffing the toe of his sneaker on the dark stone floor.
Call me, I suggest mentally. Say you’ll call me.
“I’ve got to go to practice,” he says. As he walks away, he turns and grins, cornflake crinkles around his eyes. “And congrats again.”
“Thanks again,” I say. So much for mental telepathy.
“I broke a record in English today,” I tell Mom and Father at dinner. Tonight, Mom and I get fish sticks and Father is having clear mung bean noodles with his favorite five-alarm Korean pickles, the dreaded kimchi.
“What’s that?” asks Mom.
“I got one hundred percent on our weekly vocab tests six weeks in a row—a new class record.”
“Great,” Mom says, and claps her hands.
Father impales a piece of kimchi with his chopsticks.
“That’s very good, Ellen,” he says. “These grades are important because they’ll still be counted in your applications to college.”
He doesn’t smile when he says this. He never smiles. The peppery, vinegary smell of the kimchi stings my nostrils.
“Michelle called today,” Mom announces, dishing another fish stick onto my plate. “She was wondering when you want to arrange your overnight stay and interview at Harvard.”
“I’m supposed to be doing that soon?” I choke on a nonexistent bone.
“Myong-Ok, are you okay?” Mom leans over to look at me.
“Yes,” I sputter. I am remembering how Michelle picked some schools out east that she wanted to see, visited them, applied, and then got into all of them—Harvard, Yale, MIT. It was easy for her.
“What schools are you interested in?” Father asks.
“Oh, I don’t know. Probably Harvard, Yale, Carleton, Brown, Wellesley, Princeton, and Penn,” I say. Over the summer, I had haphazardly sent for material from any school that looked even remotely interesting. Father looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind.
“I guess I need to do a little research,” I say feebly. “But you know, Brown has a seven-year combined undergraduate/graduate med program.”
“We’ll let you see three schools, the way we did with Michelle,” Father says. “But hopefully you’ll get into Harvard.”
“Three schools plus Harvard?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “Harvard is one of them.”
I sigh and mash up my fish sticks with my fork. Sometimes, I feel that Father has less of an idea of what’s really out there in the world than, say, Mike Anderson does. Father seems to be living in a universe made up of only a few neat and orderly images: books, Harvard, good grades, being a doctor or a lawyer. I think of my head and its chaotic crush of ideas, worries, joys, and I wonder how I came to be so different from my father.
8
At gymnastics practice, I watch Marsha as she executes some perfect back somersaults high into the air. She’s been doing gymnastics since she was in kindergarten; I didn’t join until ninth grade, and Mom and Father are still asking me at least once a week if it’s taking too much time from my homework. If Mom had started me in kindergarten, I wonder if I’d be as good as Marsha is now.
Maybe I can learn something new and exciting on the beam. How about a Valdez, that great move Marsha did at the last meet? I can easily do one on the floor mat, so how tough can it be?
I see Barbara standing by the beam, so I approach her. “I’d like to learn a Valdez on the beam,” I say.
“Huh?” she says, looking at me as if I am growing a third eye. I know that Marsha is the only person on the team who does them, but why not me, too?
I repeat myself.
“Can you do one on the floor?”
I walk over to the ratty green floor mat, sit down, flip over, and kick my legs to a handstand.
“Okay,” she says. “Now try it on the line.”
Barbara must be satisfied, because she has me climb on the low beam. “Ready?” she asks.
I have to flip over and grab a piece of the beam that’s behind me. If I miss, I could get my face smashed into the hard wood. Still, I say “Ready” and push off.
“Oof,” says Barbara as my flailing leg kicks her in the chin.
I see the beam coming at my face, but her strong arms support me, and I have enough time to grab the beam.
“That’s pretty good,” she says. “Want to try again?”
“Sure,” I say.
After practice, Beth and I take a few laps around the gym, and we then go to the locker room together.
“Wow,” she says, taking out an economy-sized container of talcum powder. “I can’t believe I saw you trying a Valdez on the beam. It looked really good.” Clouds of scented white dust rise from her like smoke.
“With Barbara holding me up and on the low beam.” I laugh, but my pride is tugging at the roots of my hair. I release my ponytail, and for a quick second, my reflection in the mirror lets me see that with my thick black hair and almond eyes, I could be considered almost pretty.
Marsha Randall and her friend Diane Johnson giggle and shimmy by us. Marsha looks at me. Her green eyes sparkle. “Hey, ching-ching-a-ling,” she says as she passes. “Ah-so.”