Lupe Wong Won't Dance Page 14

  I open his door. “It’s eleven.” Liquid from a tipped-over water glass and scattered Cheetos melt into his carpet.

  He clamps his pillow over his head. “Okay, Okay.”

  The first few rounds, we have some random bumps and trips, but the next seven are near perfect. By the time we finish, I’m way more polished than I was on Friday.

  Paolo finishes with a brotherly push, launching me onto the couch. “Now don’t bug me unless you come prepared with food offerings,” he says, disappearing back to his room.

  When Coach sees on Monday how good I am now, I will have my A in P.E. Cinching the 4.0 I need to meet Fu Li, since the rest of my classes have been going great. Between throwing a knuckleball and square dancing with the worst possible partner, nothing can defeat me!

  I decide to close the deal and wind down a little by practicing on my own. I type in “Turkey in the Straw song.” Barney the Dinosaur tops the list. Even if he hadn’t been wearing a cowboy hat and boots, I have a strict anti-Barney policy. He’s followed by an NPR report, “The Ice Cream Song—Origins Are Not What You Think!” I really don’t have time to be reading old-people news, but I click on it knowing it’ll at least have the song.

  Instead of the music I’m hoping for, a lady with curly blond hair and thick black glasses speaks with a British accent. “For decades, Americans have celebrated with the tradition of square dancing. The majority of these songs got their beginnings in the South.”

  No mystery. Andy and I saw how lots of the songs were originally sung by enslaved people.

  “But what many of you don’t know, is that most of these songs have altered versions steeped in racism.” She stops and stares at me. Well, not me, but the camera.

  “Columbia Gramophone Records released a version in 1916 that is so disturbing …” Her voice actually trembles a little. “… I will just let the song speak for itself.”

  The familiar ice cream truck song begins. The music is crackly. But just like with the version I’m used to, a man with a Southern accent yells out.

  The N-word rolls off the singer’s tongue like he is used to saying it all the time. He calls out in a mocking voice for “them” to come have ice cream, then sings over and over again that N loves a watermelon. Did kids like me have to dance to these words at some point? This is the heritage they want us to celebrate? My stomach kneads slowly like I ate rotten meat.

  All I can think of is how Andy would feel if she were here. Tears sting my eyes. This isn’t that same thing as throwing my jacket over some pee puddle to protect her.

  Even though she wants nothing to do with me, I can never let her hear that song.

  CHAPTER 20

  The sky is dark and the rain is coming down in sheets. The school corridors are especially dangerous in this kind of weather. Instead of going to the cafeteria for lunch with Niles and Gordon, I walk toward Principal Singh’s office.

  I’ve spent the entire morning in class wondering if I’m doing the right thing. I was so close to my A and meeting Fu Li—who knows what’ll happen now. I huddle into a corner by my locker to think this through. If I just stay right here and never tell anyone, they might never find out. And once I walk through Principal Singh’s doors, I might be making this all worse. I could be drawing attention to that version of the song. Andy might hear the horrible words and it would be because of me.

  But if I do nothing, the song is still out there. And if someone hears it, and thinks that others know about it and didn’t say anything, what will they think?

  I can’t know what it would feel like for Andy to hear that song, but I know what it feels like to hurt. And when you see bad stuff in the world, you have to speak up. Even if Andy’s still mad at me ten years from now for what I said to her, when she hears that song, maybe she’ll at least know I tried to do the right thing.

  Meeting Fu Li will have to take a back seat.

  This is one of those days you don’t go into the salmon run of students unless you’re ready to do battle. I pull my backpack tight and step out from the shadows. I walk straight down the center of the hallway toward Principal Singh’s office.

  Papa’s words about how I didn’t always have to fight against things, unless there’s a good reason? I can’t think of a better one.

  I have nothing prepared. No PowerPoint presentation. No bullet points. Just those awful words echoing in my mind. I don’t know how I’ll ever hear that tune again and be able to think of anything different.

  I knock on her door and wait.

  “Yes?”

  I open the door and stand square in the middle of the doorframe. Principal Singh is sitting crisscross-applesauce on a yoga mat on the floor.

  “Can this wait, Miss Wong?”

  Just like the lady on NPR, I can’t keep my voice from shaking. “It’s pretty serious.”

  She rolls up her yoga mat, mumbling, “Guess it’s a good time. Any other time, I might not be so calm.” She takes a long drink from her water bottle, standing up. “So, what can I help you with?”

  I catch myself picking my nail like Andy. “I saw something in a news report. Something bad. And I’m not sure how to tell you about it.”

  “Well, can you show me what you saw?” she asks, sitting at her desk.

  She looks a little surprised when I walk around the side of her desk and lean over her to type on her keyboard. I type in the same search from the night before. Sure enough, Barney pops up. Right below him is the NPR report.

  “What’s this?” she says.

  I click on the link. The English woman begins speaking about the origins of square dancing.

  Principal Singh suddenly doesn’t sound so calm. “Lupe, if this is about getting the song changed again—”

  “Just listen.” I tap on the keyboard, turning up the volume. Right there in Principal Singh’s office the ice cream truck song starts up.

  The crackled words on the old record get louder. Principal Singh’s eyes skim back and forth as she reads the article along with the report. She’s not smiling.

  After the second verse, she hits mute. “I’ve heard enough.” It’s silent except for the ticking of a small clock on her desk. I think this is one of those times I need to just shut up and wait.

  She looks away, speaking softly. “I did then what I knew how to do. Now that I know better, I do better.”

  I’m not sure if she’s talking to me or to herself. Still, they’re super smart words.

  She finally turns to face me and puts a hand on my shoulder. “I need to think about how exactly I’m going to handle this, but you did the right thing calling this to my attention.”

  “Principal Singh, you do know though that if you change the song again, I may as well transfer to Antarctic Middle School now.”

  “This isn’t about the entire song,” she says.

  Did she not hear those words?

  “Lupe, square dancing isn’t disgusting. The tune isn’t disgusting. The lyrics someone made up are disgusting.”

  “But someone made them that way,” I say.

  “And we don’t have to accept it.”

  I see her point, but something still doesn’t sit right. I just can’t put my finger on it. “Principal Singh. I don’t want you to think I’m complaining about square dancing …”

  Her eyebrows peak so high they nearly hit her hairline.

  “… but I don’t get why we all have to do it,” I say. I think of the lion dance at the Chinese New Year’s parade. The pounding drums vibrating my chest. Feeling like I want to jump and fly over the ground just like the lions. Watching Bela dance the jarabe tapatío, twirling her imaginary skirt. “I mean, I’m American, and I’m not seeing how square dancing relates to me or my background. I’ve never seen anyone in my family or any of my friends square dancing before P.E. Does your family square dance?”

  Principal Singh laughs. “No.”

  “So, why is everyone ignoring that this dance leaves most of us out?”

  Is eliminating it
what I even want anymore? I’ve finally conquered it. I could’ve actually been one of the finalists. This is what it feels like to be torn between finally getting what I want and knowing something doesn’t feel right.

  She smiles. “You’re right, Lupe. But, square dancing isn’t bad; it’s just—” The bell to go to fifth period rings, interrupting her. “I can’t help you unhear those words, so you’ll have to give me a chance to find a way to replace them for you.”

  “How can someone replace something like that?” I ask.

  She taps her finger on her desk. “Look at what Julius Lester and Jerry Pinkney did for books. Little Black Sambo and the Uncle Remus stories were full of racist content. Yet, they took those stories and reinvented them to create something cherished and beautiful for their community, for all of us. We can do the same.”

  “So, we’re still …”

  “Oh, yes,” she says standing. “Since 1938, the Issaquah Middle School Sockeyes—”

  “I know.” I sigh and walk toward the door.

  This means we’re still square dancing, and I still need to be one of the finalists.

  All I can think of is how I’m going to get the blame for whatever new policy Principal Singh comes up with. “Can you not tell anyone who told you?”

  She laughs and follows me to the door. “I think somehow people will know.” She gives me a hug. “But of all your causes, this is one you should be extremely proud of. I’m glad you came to me. And I think I just thought of a way to make Issaquah Salmon Days even better, to start.”

  I have no idea what she could be up to, but with my track record (and even though it was the right thing to do), I’m pretty sure I’ve just pounded the last nail in my social coffin.

  CHAPTER 21

  Gordon and Niles are waiting to go to fifth period by my locker. They are rock-paper-scissoring over something. Each time, they finish with laughter, and I wonder if they’re doing it just for fun. This is not the right time to tell them what just happened with Principal Singh.

  “Come on guys.”

  It’s like someone released fifty roller-derby teams onto a greased track. Gordon, Niles, and I stick close together. Our combined body mass lessens the chance of one of us getting launched off the path and into the mud.

  Coach Solden passes alongside us.

  “Hey Coach,” I say.

  She nods at us and fumbles her keys, looking quickly away.

  Gordon is so close that the unevenness in his voice is even more loud and unsettling. “What do you make of that?” he says, motioning to Coach. Being a finalist is as important to Gordon as it is to me, but for entirely different reasons.

  Unless they have earpieces, Coach couldn’t know about my conversation with Principal Singh yet.

  I pat him on the shoulder. “Maybe she’s in a hurry, or maybe she just doesn’t want to play favorites.” I’m not sure if I’m trying to make Gordon feel better or myself. “Listen, we have one last chance to convince her. Just make sure we’re in the same group so everyone else suffers by comparison.” We stop in between a section of lockers and out of the way of danger.

  “I have to have my game face on today,” Gordon says. “The man is back.” He takes off his backpack and gives it to Niles. He runs his hands back and forth vigorously through his hair, messing up any gel-comb-job. It’s not as frizzy and wonky as it used to be, but it’s a close second. He slips off his new designer Hike-Tech fleece jacket. It gets stuck on his arms so I help pull him out of it. Underneath, on his T-shirt, Yoda leans on a walking stick, eyes narrowed. “There Is No Try …” is written across the top.

  Gordon drifts a bit and just stands there, staring at all the people passing. He’s too far out into the traffic path and gets bumped hard.

  “Careful,” I pull Gordon back closer to the wall. “Are you crazy? Let’s get to P.E. We go on three.” I hold his fleece out for him to take. Niles takes it instead and drapes it over Gordon’s backpack.

  Gordon’s voice is shaky. “There’s something I need to do first.” He reaches up and unclips his prosthetic teeth retainer. Underneath is the gap from Gordon’s missing front tooth, and his chipped other front tooth. It makes me smile. I missed his old teeth. But when I shift my gaze to Gordon’s eyes, something in his stare makes my blood freeze. He’s taking deep breaths and staring down at the teeth his grandma’s boyfriend made him. His face looks paler than a minute ago.

  “What’s wrong, Gordon?” I ask.

  “The old me was better,” he says. “I shouldn’t change just so people will like me.”

  Niles smiles at him. “If you’re the real you, the right people will love you.”

  Is there something I’m missing here?

  Gordon closes his eyes tight and throws his fake teeth into the river of kids. He stares out at them but doesn’t move until they’ve been trampled on. Then, he steps out after them.

  I yell out. “Gordon! Noooooo!”

  Niles locks his elbow through mine before I can plunge in after him.

  “Let him go,” Niles says.

  It’s too late anyway. Gordon is five feet downstream, and with the number of kids between us, it may as well be a mile. Instead of following the code and staying upright so he doesn’t get decapitated, he kneels down for the teeth. His big head is an easy target. His body flails around as he takes a trombone case to the face and a backpack to the gut. By the time he’s still, he’s ten feet away, off the cement path and into the mud. He pushes himself up and stands. Blood is dripping out of his nose. One eye is closed.

  He’s holding the mangled retainer between his fingers up in the air like it’s a prize.

  * * *

  I nearly lose a shoe helping Gordon out of the mud. His nose stops bleeding quickly. Besides a crust of dark red under Gordon’s nose, there’s no evidence of his sabotage of the expensive tooth repair. But his eyelid is definitely swollen shut.

  Niles doesn’t seem to be surprised by any of this. I wonder how much of that the two of them planned out in advance.

  “Did you really have to throw your teeth out there?” I ask. “You couldn’t have just stomped on them in the safety of the classroom?”

  His lisp is back in full force. “Now it won’t be a lie when I tell my grandma I needed to go after my new teeth. It was the right decision. Right?” He makes an exaggerated wink. “Schnelly … Schnelly …” he says, like he’s performing a sound check. He smiles a huge gap-toothed grin. “I feel a lot more like myself now.” He takes a deep breath and marches confidently toward P.E.

  We turn the corner and the gym comes into view. My stomach does a flip. I’m sure Gordon is in prime position to be a finalist, but the next hour is do-or-die time for me. I look at Gordon’s shirt and notice Yoda has a fresh blood drop on the point of his hairy ear. This is one of those times I need to put friends first. And even though my life depends on not being tardy today …

  “Don’t you think we should go to the nurse?” I ask him.

  “No way,” Gordon says. “I’ve been waiting two weeks for this moment.”

  I pull a Kleenex from my backpack and run it under a drinking fountain. “Hold on, Gordon.” I wipe it under his nose, removing any evidence that might get him sent home.

  Gordon and Niles disappear into the boys’ locker room. Niles waves back at me over his head.

  When I walk in the girls’ side, Andy is already at our lockers, facing me.

  She glances down. I follow her eyes to where she’s staring. Mud is all over the tiles in a shoe-print path from where I just walked in. My shoes and socks are like chocolate-dipped marshmallows from helping Gordon out of the mud pit.

  Muddy footprints in Coach’s gym will for sure get me marked down. I take them off and hurry to the sink. I turn the faucet to full blast and scrub them with a paper towel. After a minute they’re no longer brown, but they’re dripping. I turn on the hand dryer, but Coach blows her whistle and I’m out of time. I barely have a second to throw on my gym clothes and make it out
before class starts.

  I run out and stand next to Gordon and Zola so I can be in their group.

  Zola gasps at Gordon. “What happened? Your teeth … your hair …”

  Gordon bites his lip with his snaggletooth. One eye is half-closed.

  Zola is not very concerned about what is obviously going to be one heck of a shiner.

  “I think he looks great,” I say.

  Gordon smiles and his cheeks get blotchy.

  Zola squints and tilts her head a tiny bit like that will somehow transform him back to GQ Gordon with perfect hair and teeth.

  Gordon turns away from her, facing the center of our square. “I appreciate your concern, Zola. I, for one, am quite pleased with my more recent makeover, which I handled myself.”

  Coach blows her whistle. “Listen up. I’m sure you are all on pins and needles to see who’s going to represent your gym class in the Salmon Days assembly. So, without further ado, here are the winners!”

  This can’t be right. She has to see how much better I am! I jump out of our dance circle and raise my hand, waving it around.

  Coach isn’t looking up from her clipboard. “The first couple—” she says.

  “Waaaaaait!” It comes out way louder than I meant it to.

  Everyone turns to look at me. Coach glares up from her paper. She tilts her head. “This better be good.”

  “Aren’t we going to dance first?” I rock back and forth on mushy feet. The sloshing echoes in the gym.

  Coach’s chin drops to her chest and she closes her eyes like she can’t take one more minute of this nonsense.

  I try to put my hands in pockets that aren’t there. “You know … so you can fully assess our progress.”

  “Yeah,” Gordon makes an overexaggerated palm-up appeal in front of him like he’s pleading for his life. “We lost a scheduled day of dancing because of Capture the Flag.”

  Someone coughs out, “Morons.”

  “Marcus, come see me after class,” Coach says without even looking up from her clipboard. She tucks her clipboard under her arm and pinches the bridge of her nose with her fingers. “I’m making my announcement first, then we can dance. You two can stay after school too and dance all you want since you love it so much. I’m happy to provide the music.”