Lupe Wong Won't Dance Read online

  CHAPTER 18

  At baseball practice all through the next week, the pocket radar clocks me at sixty-five miles an hour, so suddenly Blake is running to the mound every so often like he is the one responsible for my new record speed.

  By the end of practice Thursday, Marcus is the only one ignoring me because his mom decided every Sunday was going to be cornbread-casserole-and-square-dancing night at their house.

  By Friday, spandex secure under my gym shorts, I don’t bump into a single person during P.E. I nail every spin and do-si-do and do-pas-so without even a passing foot stomp. Exactly like Papa Wong said, overcoming worked better than fighting.

  I arrive home from school to an empty house. It wasn’t such a bad day, but I have no baseball practice, no homework … and no Andy.

  But, I still have Niles. I realize it’s technically the weekend, so after dinner I decide to check in on his Doctor Who weekend-marathon idea. I hop on my bike and I’m at his front door in less than a minute.

  His mom answers the door. “Hi, Lupe. How are things going?”

  I catch a strange whiff of vanilla and what I think is rosemary. “Oh, great!” I say, inching away so she can’t pull me into her laboratory and douse me with Confidence or Success.

  “They’re in Niles’s room,” she says, like I should know who she’s talking about.

  They?

  She motions with her eyes down the hall.

  The ping in my stomach is back full force, and now it’s a resounding gong. Whatever or whoever they are, I’m probably about to find out why Niles has been bailing on our Monday night Doctor Who dates. I debate asking Mrs. Foster if she has an oil called Don’t Panic.

  I walk down the hallway and hear voices.

  I hesitate at his door.

  I make my signature knock, tap, tap, knock.

  “Come in, Lupe.”

  I open the door, and Gordon and Niles are sitting on flat, square pillows. Soft music eerily similar to Grandma Wong’s Chinese opera music plays in the background. Niles is seated cross-legged. He’s spinning his Post-it note pen in one hand without even looking. Gordon is sitting across from him. Part of Niles’s Doctor Who nebula poster is now covered by a Star Trek poster with three very serious faces emerging from a rainbow.

  I glance around. Bruce Lee is still on the wall and Niles’s martial arts stuff is on the chair as always.

  His red graphic novel skyscraper is two stories higher than the last time I was here.

  Gordon’s still wearing his fancy new clothes. His hair has just as much product in it, but he’s wearing earmuffs that are brown cinnamon-bun spirals like General Organa had when she was young and wore dresses. He has a pink “Superstar!” Post-it on his forehead. They have models of spaceships arranged between them in orderly rows. This visit might not have been the best idea.

  I keep my distance at the door, afraid I might be sucked into this new vortex, but also wondering what’s going on with Niles. “Gordon. Hi. I didn’t expect to find you here. What are you up to?”

  I guess I should be happy we are all becoming friends. It’s not like they’re excluding me right now. So why am I jealous?

  “Just men talking shop,” Gordon answers.

  “Spaceships?” I ask.

  I can’t help but notice, once again, that Niles has traded in his Doctor Who PJs for some covered with the words “Live Long and Prosper” and “Where No Man Has Gone Before.” My stomach suddenly feels like I never ate dinner at all.

  Niles waves his hand without the spinning pen for me to come in. “Actually, we’d taken a break to discuss baseball.”

  This was a good idea. I close the door and plop down between them. “Can you believe the Mariners traded—”

  Gordon laughs and nudges Niles. “We were talking about pitching, Lupe.”

  “Oh. Well. If that’s the case, I’m happy to answer any questions,” I say.

  Gordon sighs. “Physics. We were talking about the physics of a knuckleball.”

  I glance at Niles. “Huh?”

  Niles faces me, setting his pen down. “Actually, Gordon was talking physics. The goal of a knuckleball is to give the ball as little rotational spin as possible, right?”

  I nod.

  “You know,” Gordon says. “The pitch’s path shifts from the difference in the smooth surfaces of the ball in contrast to its rougher seams.”

  I actually don’t know. I shrug my shoulders. “Okay?” This is where most people would leave me behind. But not Niles. True to form …

  “People argue about why it flutters around,” Niles adds. “I say not everything’s meant to be measured. It’s probably a combination of things, and it probably depends on the form of the pitcher.”

  Gordon leans in toward Niles. “You can’t ignore air flow or the theory that seams are what create the zigzag pattern and lift.”

  Although I’ve never been able to throw one, and it’s like my holy grail, I don’t think I’ll ever understand how the knuckleball actually works. I look back and forth between them. I have nothing to add.

  “Niles insists that I’m applying too much science, and that sometimes a pitcher just has the ‘feel’ of something.” He rolls his eyes, making air quotes. Gordon puts his hand on Niles’s shoulder. “I believe we are at an impasse, my friend.”

  I realize the two of them might have things in common that I can’t be part of. I should be happy about this.

  Niles glances at me, and I can’t help the frown and shoulder slump. He turns to Gordon. “Wanna discuss the knuckleball another time?”

  “Sure,” Gordon says. “How about we chat about how the Millennium Falcon would kick the Enterprise’s butt in an intergalactic skirmish?”

  The corner of Niles’s mouth turns up ever so slightly. “It’d never happen,” he says. “Your ship sacrifices control for hyperdrive propulsion.”

  Gordon’s eyebrow arches. “You’ve just made my point, comrade. The Falcon can evade attacks using its speed.”

  “But the Enterprise can maneuver at high warp. The Millennium Falcon is fast but ineffective in close combat.” Niles picks his pen back up and within a second it’s a whirring blur again. “So you’d run from galactic conflict versus facing battle?”

  “How about the TARDIS?” I say, trying to chime in.

  They both shift their gaze to me simultaneously. I think I might be out of my league on this one.

  “I mean, she has a soul,” I continue, “and she can just dematerialize in one spot then rematerialize—”

  Gordon snorts. “Not really in the same galaxy, Lupe. No offense.”

  I sigh and fold my hands in my lap.

  They continue, talking about ships that warp and shoot and go to battle, nothing like the Doctor’s.

  Enough is enough. Seeing how much fun they’re having together, and how out-of-place I’m feeling, just makes me miss Andy even more. I can’t take another day without her.

  “Hey. I think I’m going to take off, guys.”

  They’re so into it, they barely notice as I scoot out the door. I glance back and smile, knowing this is a good thing. I need to accept Niles making new friends and find a way to patch things up with Andy.

  I get on my bike and speed toward Andy’s house. I’ll have her back as my best friend and be home before my mom gets off work, so I can ask if Andy can sleep over.

  I round the corner to her house so fast, my tires almost skid out from under me. Andy’s home comes into view. A group of kids are running behind bushes and cars avoiding water balloons. Andy ducks behind a trash can, barely dodging a bright red balloon … but that can’t be her. Even though I love them, Andy hates water balloon fights.

  I recognize the other girls running around screaming and laughing as the soccer kids.

  I leave my bike across the street and walk over to her. “Hey, Andy.”

  She turns around. Her mouth drops open. “What are you doing here?”

  I smile, but not the creepy smile I made in P.E. “
Can I talk to you?”

  She looks over her shoulder back at the girls who’ve all stopped hurling balloons and are staring at us. “I’m sorta busy,” she says, holding out a green water-filled balloon.

  Jordyn walks over and stands next to her like they’re some sort of team now. Neither of them is smiling back. My stomach sinks, wondering if Andy might’ve already shared New Yack with Jordyn.

  “I just wanted to see if we could talk,” I say.

  Jordyn tugs at Andy’s arm. “We don’t need any more players. Do we, Andy?”

  Andy takes a few steps backward. “You should go.”

  I can’t believe this is happening. No matter what, I could always count on Andy. “But you hate water balloons.”

  “No, I don’t. My new friends don’t yell ‘butt-burner’ and aim for my—” Andy stops and closes her eyes. “Just leave, Lupe.”

  We were nine! You’re supposed to—Why didn’t she tell me she hated balloon butt-burners?

  “Andy, I … I’m … sorry. About everything.” I have to make this better, but she’s not letting me. My chin is starting to tremble. “Can I come over later and talk to you alone?”

  “I have plans,” Andy says.

  “Wow, someone can’t take a hint.” Jordyn turns and walks back toward the other girls.

  Andy lets out an annoyed breath and puts one hand on her hip. “Besides, like you said, I’m a joiner. Right?” Andy lets the balloon slip out of her fingers like it’s some sort of symbolic mic drop, and it explodes on the ground. She follows Jordyn without giving me the chance to say anything else.

  For a second, I just stand there. How can you be best friends with someone for six years and they replace you with more popular kids in less than a week? Mom has always said I only needed one good friend to survive …

  It’s my fault she’s walking away. Figuring out how much I’ve messed up might’ve come too late.

  The thought of middle school without Andy is terrifying.

  I have no one.

  I cross the street and pick up my bike, snickers following me. I put on my helmet and pedal home as fast as I can. My legs are shaking. The bike wobbles beneath me, but I keep pedaling. Tears roll down my cheeks and into my chinstrap.

  * * *

  I really do think it helped when Papa Wong did his fêng shui thing to my room, but right now it isn’t working. I’ve been lying on my bed for twenty minutes and I still have never felt so horrible. I can’t very well put my cheek on Dad’s picture in the hallway with everyone home. So I do the next best thing. I pull Fu Li’s rookie card off the wall and put it against my cheek. Just for a second, I pretend it’s Dad. I even think I smell coffee.

  Someone knocks on my door and I cram the card inside my pillowcase. I pretend to be asleep but right when they open the door, I do that uncontrollable breathing thing that sounds like I’m stuttering my breath in.

  Mom is already rushing to my side. “Oh no. What happened?”

  Now I’m really blubbering. Everyone hates me comes out as “E … ev … y.… hay … me.”

  My mom interprets ugly-cry language really well. “No they don’t.” She wipes my tears with the sleeve of her sweater. “What happened?”

  “An … di … ha new frei.”

  “Well, I bet you can be friends with them too. Let’s invite them all over.”

  It’s been too long since my mom was in middle school. I’m pretty sure they didn’t have cliques back when she was my age.

  It’s a fine line. I can’t tell my mom Andy won’t even talk to me. She might do that protective-mom thing and stay mad at her, or worse … call Andy’s mom. So instead, I give her a look like she’s lost her mind with her suggestion.

  “Not … how … works … ma …”

  She tucks a loose hair behind my ear. “Do you want to tell me what happened? Surely Andy didn’t just abandon you.”

  My fight with Andy echoes in my mind. Your mom can pull strings. Then. Peed your pants. Then. Jockstrap. Then. You can’t even stand up to your mom.

  I really can’t tell my mom.

  Worry lines crease her forehead. I need to pull it together.

  I force a smile and take a minute to get my breathing back to normal. In that moment I come to a decision. Even if Andy never talks to me again, I have to try to listen to people more instead of worrying about myself and my own goals.

  Mom rubs my hair plastered with tears and snot off my face. “I logged on to the school portal while you were gone. You are having a good quarter aren’t you? As in almost everything? That’s good news, right?” She leans in and kisses my cheek. “A little more work and you’ll have your straight As to meet Fu Li.”

  Another downside to a parent who’s also a teacher, besides having your teachers as built-in baby monitors: teacher-parents actually check on your grades. Sniff. “Sure … I guess P.E. is the only class still up in the air.”

  My mom walks toward the hall but winks to me as she leaves. “Well, I think I’ve got something to cheer you up. Coach Solden’s going to reveal the top square dancers for the Salmon Days assembly next week!”

  CHAPTER 19

  I haven’t had enough time! It’s been barely two weeks to convince Coach I’m good enough. And I only had one good dancing day. Now I only have one more chance. I know there were at least four teams about the same or better than me in class. If I can be in perfect form Monday during P.E., I might just make the cut by the time she announces the winners at the end of class.

  I jump out of bed and pull Fu Li’s card out of the pillowcase and hang it back on the wall. “You want straight As. You got it!”

  I run to Paolo’s room and pound on his door.

  “What!”

  His door flies open and this time he’s wearing a yellow-and-orange luchador mask and holding Legos in the shape of Smurfette.

  “What is …” I point my finger at his covered face, then Smurfette, then decide not to even ask.

  “What do you want, cretin?” he says.

  “Can you dance with me for a little bit?”

  He goes to slam his door and I lean against it. “We had a deal.” I push harder, but my feet are slipping backward as the door shuts.

  He grunts. “I’m not your servant boy, Lupe.”

  “Only for a little bit!” I push harder. “I’ll clean your room.” I can’t believe I just said that to someone who thinks clean underwear means you hang dirty ones on your doorknob to air out overnight. I’ll have to touch boogers and God knows what else. And I don’t have a hazmat suit.

  The door swings open and I fly inside and onto a pile of disgust. I gag and cough, then jump up from the mound of clothes that smell like a wet dog stuffed in the back of a closet for a year. “What the—” I say.

  He pulls off the mask and tosses it in the pile. “Aaaaand … you just agreed to clean that up. You’ve got thirty minutes of my time tomorrow. But only after I finish my important project.” He sets the Lego Smurfette gently on his desk.

  He pushes me out the door. I fight back one last time, shoving against it just to be difficult. “Fine.” I let go and the door slams. I hope the thump I hear is Paolo’s head.

  I grab my Doctor Who TARDIS robe off the hook on my door and wrap it around me. I wish it was a real time-and-space machine and I could be the Doctor’s companion. I could fly off to Gallifrey and make this all go away.

  When I curl up next to Mom on the couch, she pulls me under her arm. “Feeling better, little one?”

  “I guess,” I say.

  “Give me a minute.” She stands and goes to the kitchen, and I hear a pot clank. A few minutes later, the smell of popcorn fills the house.

  She walks back in with a huge plastic bowl. “I’ve got just the thing.” She grabs the remote and pulls up season four. But instead, all I can think of is how I saw these episodes first with Niles.

  Mom rubs the hair out of my face. “I love you to the Moon of Poosh and back, mija.”

  Rose has always been the b
est match for the Doctor to me. They feel like home, so with Mom rubbing my head, and Doctor Who playing, I’m asleep before they step out of the TARDIS.

  When I wake up, I’m on the couch with sun in my eyes, a blanket tucked around me, and popcorn in my hair.

  Paolo’s still asleep, so I practice dancing by myself for a while.

  An hour later, Paolo’s still not up, so I go outside to pitch my eighty-one in the zone. I warm up with ten straight fast pitches, then a few changeups. I throw a curveball and hit the edge of the pocket, barely making it in.

  I need to focus. If I can nail these tougher pitches, I can nail the dancing thing.

  My dad’s voice comes in like a calming breeze. Listen, Cute Toot.

  Guilty, but not exactly what a great pitcher wants as a nickname. Now pitching, Cute Toot—Luuuuupe Woooooong! To prove my maturity, I pitch a few circle changes and four seamers—all in the zone. I feel like I can conquer almost anything.

  By the time you’re in high school, if you work hard enough, you’ll throw a knuckleball, Dad says. You keep at it and you’ve got a chance to make it to the show.

  I’ve tried a thousand times before. If only I could throw a real one …

  My hands are still too small to get my knuckles on the seam. I think about what Niles said. Maybe it’s not all science. Maybe each pitcher just has to find their own “feel” for it. I grip my fingernails along the seam and slip my thumb to the underside.

  Remember, if it’s more than one rotation, it doesn’t count, Dad says.

  I dig in with my toe to steady myself.

  I imagine my dad demonstrating for me, thrusting one arm out. You gotta throw and push.

  I step forward just like him and push. The ball dances a little back and forth, then hits directly in the center of the pitching square with a deep thunk.

  It’s only one, but I did it! My glove falls from my hand.

  If I can perfect the knuckleball, I can for sure make it in the majors. And if I can pitch a knuckler, I can square dance.

  I run to Paolo’s room and pound on his door. “Paolo! Get. Up.”

  Crashing echoes from inside his room. “I said sometime tomorrow. Not the butt crack of dawn,” he yells.