“It’s your word,” I murmur, giving him a nudge.
“Uh, sentimental. ‘They took a sentimental journey to the center of the earth.’”
A pause. Then the class hoots with laughter. Even Mrs. Klatsen chuckles. Mike looks around and grins as if he planned to be funny.
That’s what being popular is like—everyone thinks you’re great no matter what you do.
“That’s not quite it, Mike,” she says. “Beth, you try.”
“We became very sentimental when we heard our class song,” she dutifully replies.
“Perfect,” says Mrs. K.
I can’t help wondering if Jessie’s day is going any better. This is supposed to be our best year ever, she told me over the summer. A best year for best friends.
2
It is dinnertime at the Sung household, and although she’s absent, the presence of my sister still dominates.
“She was very disciplined,” Father says as he begins slurping his Korean soup. “Even when she was getting all As she still studied hard because she knew that being at the top of her class in a public school like Arkin wouldn’t guarantee her getting into Harvard.”
I tense my back against my chair. What good will it do for everyone to keep parading all of Michelle’s accomplishments in front of me? Today in calculus class, Mr. Carlson, the teacher, delightedly shambled over when he saw me. “How’s Michelle doing?” was the first thing that popped out of his mouth. “Boy, she was a whiz at math,” was the second. I sat there wondering if he knew what my name was.
I look down at my lasagna. Its tomatoey, garlicky smell mingles with the smell of seaweed from Father’s soup. Since Mom has always cooked something Korean for Father and something “American” for her, Michelle, and me, the smells are always clashing, usually ending up in weird, cloying odors.
“How was school today?” Mom asks.
“Okay. Not much new,” I say, although there’s so much I want to say, that I wish I could say, that I can’t. I mentally close my eyes and envision a different conversation.
“A boy called me a ‘chink’ on the bus today,” I would say. Mom’s mouth would open. Father’s chopsticks would drop, sinking unnoticed into the murky depths of his soup.
“You poor thing,” Mom would say. “What did you do?”
“I totally ignored him,” I would answer confidently.
“How terrible to have to go through that,” Father would say, and he’d take off his thick spectacles so that for once I could see the tenderness in his eyes.
“With all this stress I think Ellen should worry less about grades and more about having a fun senior year and making friends,” Mom would add.
“I agree,” Father would say, and he’d resume slurping his soup. Slurp, slurp.
“Ellen, why are you staring at your food?” I look at Mom. Father is slurping away, his head close to the bowl, the chopsticks poling all sorts of seaweed and bits of fish into his mouth.
“Just spacing out, Mom,” I say.
“Did you find out about the language department?” Father asks between slurps.
“Yes.” I know I’ve told him this before. “The school has canceled classes starting this year because they can’t get enough kids in it.”
“Remember to make it clear on your school applications that you only had three years of French because of a fault of the school’s, not your own,” he says.
“Yes, Father.” I stare at the curly lasagna noodles again. College applications have been slowly advancing, like a storm gathering speed. What’s going to happen to me? Michelle was a genius, a high school hermit who studied her brains out. I don’t even know if I want to go halfway across the country for college.
After dinner, I troop up to my room to study. I know most kids have to help with the dishes, and I do feel a little guilty leaving Mom with the crusty lasagna pan and the big pot of stuff that looks as though it’s been scooped up from a pond—but Mom and Father insist that my studies come first.
As I spread out my books, I leave my Holstein clock prominently in view, so I’ll know to call Jessie at 8:00, as I usually do.
3
“There’s going to be a keg party out at the Sand Pits on Friday night,” Jessie says to me one day after school. We’re Scotch-taping snippets of perfume ads clipped from Seventeen to the inside of our locker door: “Embracing makes things happen!” “Give the night to Tabu.” “There’s nothing between you and me except Sweet Honesty.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, nervously anticipating trying to wrangle Mom and Father’s permission to stay out late. Obviously, I won’t tell them I’m going to a keg party, but even getting permission to go to a movie can be a hassle.
“You know, we barely went out last year,” Jessie says. “This is our year to have fun.” She has been to a couple of the parties at the Sand Pits, which is an abandoned mine pit where the popular kids go practically every weekend in the fall.
“You’re right, Jess, let’s do it.” I grab my calc and chemistry books from the top shelf and put them in my knapsack. I’ll leave the books lying conspicuously open someplace where Mom and Father are sure to see them.
“Hey, Ellen,” Tomper says to me in chemistry on Friday, “are you going to be at the Pits tonight?” His strong forearms rest on our counter.
“Of course,” I say, as if I do it all the time.
“It’s going to be a good party—we’re getting six kegs.” His eyes look turquoise next to the black counter. A pack of Marlboros peeks, like an imp, from his shirt pocket.
Kegs. Beer. An illegal party. Mom and Father would kill me if I got caught. Not to mention that I’d get kicked off the gymnastics team.
Tomper sees me staring at his cigarettes. He looks down, then shoves the red-and-white pack all the way into his pocket, until the only evidence of it is the lump it makes.
“Thanks, Ellen,” he says, grinning sheepishly. “I could really get into trouble with the football coach for these.” I squirm inside. I wish I didn’t know he smoked.
“You know,” I say tentatively, “it’d improve your running and endurance a lot if you didn’t smoke.”
Tomper looks at me, then fiddles with a beaker that I’ve just washed. “I’m trying to quit,” he says, holding the beaker up to the light as if checking for spots. “At my house, cigarettes’re treated like candy—and hell, things there are so crazy that you need to smoke two or three just to calm down. My brothers and me are always puffing away.”