Lupe Wong Won't Dance Page 11

  The day’s been pretty bad, so I hesitate before asking Niles, too afraid of the answer. “Doctor Who tonight?” I finally squeak out.

  “So, I’ve been meaning to ask you, how about a marathon instead this weekend?” he replies. “We’ll have a few episodes to catch up on.” He hesitates for a moment. “And … I sort of made other plans again for tonight.”

  I know he has other friends at his dojo. But they don’t live near us, and he’s never let them come between us before. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep my chin steady. I know it’s going to be sore, and it had just finished healing from when I bit it during my run-in with Andy.

  “I’ll even try to sneak us extra ice cream,” he says.

  I shrug. “Sure,” I say, and walk up my driveway.

  At the top of my drive, I watch him until I know he’s almost to his house. Just before he reaches his door, he turns back and waves, and I wonder if we’ll ever have our Monday nights back.

  * * *

  “How long will Grandma and Papa Wong be here?” Paolo asks. “I have this thing …”

  Mom switches the music from Missy Elliot to classical as she rushes around the kitchen getting ready for our monthly dinner visit from my grandparents. “You don’t see them as often as you should. Seeing you two makes them happy.”

  “Grandma’s just going to yell at us for using too much soy sauce. ‘Tchhhh,’ ” I say, mimicking her. “ ‘Too much soy sauce!’ ”

  Paolo laughs.

  “Be respectful.” My mom’s voice cracks. “You can’t know how long you’ll have someone.” She makes the sign of the cross and sniffs.

  Paolo and I finish setting the table without being asked, and no one brings up the soy sauce again.

  Grandma and Papa Wong don’t really cry or talk about Dad much, unlike Mom, but I know it’s just how they are, and that doesn’t make them any less sad.

  “By the way,” Mom says. “You might want to put on your Thanksgiving pants. Bela’s coming to dinner tonight too.

  Paolo makes a fist pump and goes to the cabinet for another plate. This means competition between both Grandma Wong and Abuela Salgado, and we are about to have the best dinner ever.

  Mom grabs an onion out of the fridge to dice. All my grandparents at once means plain steamed rice in the rice cooker for Grandma and Papa Wong, and another pot on the stove with onions, garlic, tomato, and chicken bouillon for Paolo and Bela. I’ll take a scoop of each to keep things even.

  A few minutes later a car pulls into the driveway; then the front door squeaks open. I peek my head around the doorjamb. Sure enough, Grandma Wong’s brought enough food to ensure her win against Bela.

  Grandma sets down the bags and hugs me, then Paolo. We each get a cheek pinch, which hurts a little, but I know is as important as the hug. Then she promptly begins arranging all our shoes in neat rows in the entryway.

  Papa’s holding a platter of Chinese pastries called don tat. They’re on Grandma’s blue-and-white patterned tray, covered by Saran Wrap. Grandma Wong will never admit it, but we all know she bought them from the Chinese bakery.

  I take the platter from Papa and he wraps his arms around me. He has sunflower seeds in his pocket. It’s our “spit seeds after dinner and talk” thing. The first time he brought them was after Dad died. Back then, he only brought them when things weren’t going well for me. But he brings them more now that I’m in middle school.

  Grandma pulls me away from Papa and gives me another hug. “You look like a boy. How is piano?” she asks.

  “I stopped piano two years ago, Grandma. Remember? To focus on baseball.”

  She waves her hand like she can somehow make baseball disappear. “You should play piano …” Her facial expression brightens. “… or the zither,” she says excitedly.

  Mom is literally biting her lips together to keep from laughing. “Hi, Cora. Great to see you.” Mom helps my grandma with the bags. “You didn’t have to bring so much.”

  I’d normally stick up for my mom, but she was frantically tossing chicken, frozen peas, and some sort of yellow paste in the Crock-Pot before school. Whatever my grandmas bring will be one hundred times better.

  Grandma Wong sniffs the air. “Save whatever you cooked for you and the kids.”

  “Yes,” Paolo hisses.

  My mom glares at him.

  Paolo clears his throat. “I meant, I was really looking forward to yellow chicken soup tomorrow night.”

  Grandma Wong places her dishes strategically in front of where Paolo and I sit, like we’ll be the grandma food-off judges. Papa is showing Paolo a trick to make a coin transport through his hand.

  Grandma Wong sits in the chair next to mine; that way she can put the food she brought on my plate.

  “Lupe, can you run out to the garage and grab a few chairs?” Mom asks, pulling a bowl out of the cupboard.

  “Why can’t Paolo—”

  “Getting a life lesson here.” Paolo puts his elbow on the table and rests his chin in his hand, way more interested than he’s ever been in one of Papa’s tricks. “Fascinating!”

  As I pass Paolo on the way out, I mumble, “He’s hiding the coin under his thumb.”

  I turn on the light and go to the opposite side of the garage. The folding chairs are next to Dad’s fishing and camping gear. It’s also all right next to his baseball bag. His glove sits like a monument right on top of his other belongings.

  It’s not an ofrenda like Día de los Muertos, but the pile of fishing and baseball gear feels more like Dad than some old picture, some candles, and orange flowers.

  And it’s more him than the Chinese version of Día de los Muertos, Qingming, where Grandma Wong takes us to the cemetery to burn paper things that represent what she thinks Dad needs in the afterlife. This year she burned a paper house and fake money. I snuck in a paper baseball and bat. When Grandma wasn’t watching, I burned them along with a Mariners schedule.

  I pick up Dad’s glove and oilcloth and sit cross-legged on the garage floor. There’s barely any oil left on the scrap of cloth, but I rub the dirt off the leather and polish it using little round circles. When it looks like Dad could pick it up any second to offer a game of catch, I stop. I start to slip my hand in but hesitate. Putting on someone else’s glove is pretty personal. You know you’re invading their space, because no matter what, it never fits right. Even my own glove needs time and heat and sweat to fit my own hand. Still, I slip it on and close my eyes. I pretend I’m holding his hand.

  Then, with it still on my hand, I lay on it like a pillow.

  “Lupe,” a soft voice calls.

  I sit up quickly and set it back in its spot. Grandma Wong walks slowly toward me. “What are you doing?”

  How long was she watching? I shrug. “I sort of lost track of time.”

  For just a second she glances toward the glove. Grandma nods and picks up two folding chairs and hands one to me. We walk inside and she arranges the chairs at the table. I’m grateful she doesn’t ask again about how she found me.

  Even though Mom told Bela to be there by 6:00 because the plan is to eat at 6:15, it’s 6:27 and there’s still no sign of her. My mouth waters as I stare at Grandma Wong’s steamed eggs.

  Grandma Wong nestles in close and rubs her hand over my head while we wait.

  Five minutes later, two horn beeps tell us Abuela Salgado is outside. Paolo and I hop up to help her. By the time we approach the front door, Bela tumbles through like a hurricane. She wipes sweat off her brow, and has cornstarch on her cheek. Paolo takes the insulated bag from her hand. She squeezes me even tighter than Papa.

  “Párate derecha, Lupe,” she says, pushing her finger into my back so my chest goes out. “Deberías estar orgullosa de las chichis. It shows others you are confident.” She hands me the flan and grabs my face, kissing me smack on the lips.

  Paolo snickers. “She doesn’t have those, Bela.”

  Just what every twelve-year-old wants, her grandma and brother discussing her ches
t.

  Bela narrows her eyes at Paolo and pinches his cheek hard. “What are you talking about? You won’t even be able to give me great-grandchildren if you can’t keep your room clean.”

  Paolo tilts his head in confusion.

  I cinch my mouth together to keep from laughing, but I’m pretty sure I know where my crappy comeback gene comes from.

  “Bela, that doesn’t make sense,” Paolo says.

  “Exactly,” she says. “Go clean your room.” She kisses him, too, as he tries to wriggle away.

  She cups my chin in her hand. “Be proud of what you have, mija.”

  I look down at my chest. Paolo won that round.

  I set the flan down on the counter next to Grandma Wong’s impostor don tat, and Bela says hello to everyone and apologizes, complaining about her neighbor’s blocking her parking space, then the rain, then traffic, and a pothole.

  Bela hurries to wash her hands and sits at the table, while we put her pozole and tamales out. Bela sits on my right side, turning me into a grandma sandwich. Mom reaches out to each side, and we follow her lead all holding hands. Even I see what a diverse mixture of people we are, but sitting together linked like a chain, I feel like nothing can hurt us in our family circle.

  “Grace, Paolo,” Mom says.

  “God, thank you for our grandparents who can cook. No offense,” he whispers to Mom.

  There’s a small knock, followed by, “Ow. And thank you for giving Mr. Montgomery pinkeye so my algebra test is postponed. And help Lupe through puberty and bless this food.”

  “Paolo,” Mom admonishes.

  “Oh, sorry,” he says, and bows his head again. “Amen.”

  Mom and Bela sigh simultaneously and cross themselves. Papa and Grandma Wong aren’t so religious, but they nod respectfully.

  Paolo must be hungry, because he doesn’t waste any time spooning pozole into his bowl.

  Bela smiles and pats his head. “Pozole is magic. It will cure any illness or trouble you have.”

  “How much do you weigh now?” Grandma Wong asks Paolo. “Too skinny.”

  “Yes, too skinny,” Bela says in agreement.

  Mom sets her chopsticks down. “He’s perfect. He just had his physical.”

  “Mmmmh.” Grandma Wong pops a shrimp into her mouth and stares out the window.

  Bela ignores Mom’s comment and spoons more pozole into Paolo’s bowl.

  I put a heaping spoon of steamed eggs on top of my white rice and spoon pozole over a scoop of Mexican rice.

  I grab the soy sauce, and drizzle barely four drops on top of the eggs.

  “Too much soy sauce. Tchhhh,” Grandma Wong says.

  Paolo narrows his eyes at me just like Grandma, and we erupt in laughter.

  “Aiya,” Grandma says, shocked at our outburst.

  I finish scarfing it all down and stand up with my plate.

  “Already done?” Grandma Wong reaches up and pinches my cheek again. “I guess you don’t need any more. I can see you’ve been eating a lot.”

  Mom drops the shrimp she’s holding.

  Bela takes my plate from my hand and sets it back down. She takes a tamal from her own plate and sets it on mine. She pulls me back down and I take a bite before she can shovel it into my mouth herself.

  I quickly make a muscle with my arm at Grandma Wong. “Gotta keep my strength up, Grandma. Baseball season started.”

  Bela smiles and pats my knee under the table.

  Grandma Wong barely lowers her voice. “No money in baseball. Waste of time.”

  I slam down my chopsticks. It’s one thing for her to always call me fat (just a Chinese grandma thing), but it’s another to criticize the greatest game in history!

  Bela sits up tall and “orugullosas” her “chichis” to show she is confident. “Baseball started in Mexico. It’s in her blood,” she says.

  Paolo snorts into his pozole. Bela’s eyes are huge, and her mouth is tight. I sort of appreciate the help. She’s dead wrong about its origin of course, but I’m not going to correct her.

  Grandma Wong makes a low, “Tchhhh.”

  There’s an eyebrow raising standoff between my grandmas.

  Papa is wisely pretending to examine the wood paneling.

  I think the only thing my grandmas have in common is forcing Paolo and me to put Vicks VapoRub on our feet and chests if we even hint that we might not feel well.

  It gets very quiet.

  Bela points to me, and Grandma Wong to Paolo. “Eat more,” they say in unison.

  I glance at Papa and try to smile, shrugging my shoulders.

  Papa Wong folds his napkin, setting it next to his plate, and stands. “Come outside with me, Guadalupe,” he says. “There’s something I want to show you.”

  I’ve never been so grateful for Papa. When we get outside he sits on the back step and pats the ground next to him. I plop down and put my hands on my cheeks. Papa pulls the sunflower seeds out of his pocket and opens the packet.

  Something about him opening the seed packet unleashes everything that happened that week. My body slumps even more and I lean into him. Papa puts his arm around my shoulders. “She doesn’t always have the best way of saying it, but Grandma wants what she thinks is best for you,” he says. “It’s just her way.”

  “You mean it’s the Chinese way,” I say. “She doesn’t see who I am at all. Neither of them do. They want me to be all of what they are.”

  “Sometimes people want us to be something we are not, instead of seeing who we really are.” His words make me think of square dancing. He cups my hand in his, setting a small pile of seeds in my palm. “You’re many things. You are Chinese.” He puts a seed in between his lips and shoots a decent six-footer. “You are Latina.”

  I don’t even know if Papa ever heard about how the school expected me to “choose one,” and my campaign in the sixth grade to get bubbles like Mexinese or Chinacan added.

  “I’m tired of everyone thinking they know what I am … or what I should like … or what I should do …” I toss the seeds into my mouth.

  “School not going well?” he asks.

  Seeds spray from my mouth like an aerosol can.

  “Mmmmhhh. I see.”

  I wipe slobber from my mouth. “I still don’t even know what happened. I just didn’t want to dance in P.E. But now, everyone hates me, I still have to square dance, and I don’t even have a partner. I hate square dancing.” I can’t really go into the details with Papa about why I want to meet Fu Li so bad. I’d never want him to think I was replacing Dad.

  “You know, the energy you put out into the universe is exactly what you get back.” Papa makes a slow sweeping motion with his arm in front of him.

  I think that might mean he wants me to go with him to tai chi class at the Chinese Senior Center.

  “Trying to eliminate an obstacle out of hatred and trying to overcome it after acceptance are two different things. Overcome it instead, Guadalupe.”

  “But Dad said I should fight for what I want.”

  “That’s true,” Papa says.

  “I think if Dad had fought harder to keep playing ball, he would’ve never had to get that last job fishing in Alaska.” I’m glad I don’t have the sunflower seeds in my mouth. I suddenly have a lump in my throat. “He never would have been on that boat when it went down.”

  Papa’s voice is even softer. “Being a grown-up is complicated. Your father stopped playing baseball for good reasons.”

  I can’t talk. There’s no reason good enough. We are way worse off now than if he’d made a lot less money and still been with us.

  Papa puts a few more seeds in my hand. “But remember, not all things have to be a fight. Only if there is a good reason,” he says. “Accepting something you cannot change and mastering it is not a failure of your principles. It is the opposite of failure.”

  I’m pretty sure there’s no way to make what Papa says and my plan work together. Can I not fight against square dancing but overcome it at
the same time?

  I blow a seed, and it gets a good two feet on his last spit.

  “You’re also a strong ball player and powerful girl.” He spits another seed a few inches past mine. “You are intelligent …” He grabs my chin and looks me in the eye. “But mostly, you are what you believe you are.” He sighs and lowers his eyes. “Things I should have told your father when he was your age.”

  “I’m a good pitcher, Papa.”

  “I know.” He rests his soft brown hand on my cheek. “You will pitch in the majors.”

  I can tell he believes it, and the knot in my throat unravels. None of that helps with my dilemma at school. But knowing I have Papa on my side makes me feel that no matter what happens, I’ll be okay.

  He stands up and dusts off his pants.

  I still have no idea what “accepting something you dislike and mastering it” means exactly. But it sounds like he wants me to accept square dancing and go to the square dancing national finals or start a square dance flash mob.

  When we walk back in, Grandma Wong is putting on her opera music, winking at me. “You’re going to love this.”

  I look at Papa, and he covers his smile with his hand and looks away. We sit back down at the table with Mom, Paolo, and Bela.

  The plucking of a zither fills the kitchen, and Grandma Wong closes her eyes. She tilts her head back like she’s breathing in fresh air. A woman “sings,” and her voice is worse than Elmo imitating a whale. That is what she thinks is in my blood?

  “Isn’t it beautiful?” She moves her fingers in front of her like ocean waves.

  “Mmmmh,” Mom says, not really forming a word.

  “She is no Vicente Fernández,” Bela says loudly. I cringe, hoping Bela hasn’t brought her ranchera music.

  The opera singer makes a noise so shrill I bet half the dogs in the neighborhood heard it.

  “After this, we can watch the DVD of the Beijing opera I brought,” Grandma says. “It’s a play called The Woman Prisoner Su San.”

  Bela bends down to reach into her purse, muttering disapproval, and I guarantee Vicente Fernández is tucked somewhere in that big bag.

  “Can’t!” I blurt out too loudly. I can just imagine the wailing this woman inmate and the old guy in a sombrero can do together.