Lupe Wong Won't Dance Read online

  Samantha is sneering at Blake, who’s accidentally snagged her hair between his fingers.

  When we turn, I have a view of Coach Solden. As always, she’s doing every dance move along with us by herself.

  Always someone left to dance alone.

  No more. Before the caller can yell out for us to twirl our partners again, I run over to Coach along the side of the stage. She motions for me to go back. Instead, I bow and hold out my hand. She won’t take my hand. Is she hearing monkey noises somewhere deep down inside? The first rule she taught us is we have to accept the invitation. She’s not accepting.

  She must be in shock. I reach out, take her good hand from her side, and pull her out on stage with me before she can argue. I hear some claps from the audience.

  She joins the group with Gordon, Zola, Niles, Andy, Samantha, Blake, and me.

  Carl beatboxes, then sings out again. “Scoop it up, preserve it, shake it like salt …”

  Coach smiles nervously as I twirl her.

  “Switch up, cowpokes,” Carl says.

  We switch partners and now Coach is with Niles.

  Gordon twirls Andy and clotheslines her neck with his wing. But they shake it off and continue. He dips her and she flings out an arm and leg in true flourish form.

  Carl yells out. “Back with your partners.”

  We switch back and Andy picks up counting right along with Niles.

  I ticktock my head like Coach, and we do-si-do around each other, kicking our feet out. She’s bobbing her head in sync with mine.

  “Little bit o’wart heal, little bit o’ toe, promenade and don’t be slow,” Carl says.

  We go into group-circle promenade like it’s habit. It’s too loud to hear, but some of us are laughing. Niles and Andy are still counting, “Wa’, cha’, wej …”

  “Lady goes right, gent goes left. Right around, so breezy. Make the arch and make it high and pop them through so easy.”

  Niles and Andy go through the arch, but Andy’s skirt gets stuck. Gordon and Zola are so focused they don’t realize Andy’s wedged tight between them. Coach and I break our arch and shove Andy from behind, Niles pulls her from the front, and her skirt breaks through.

  Now the audience is laughing over all the music and dance stomping. But we are all laughing too, including Coach.

  “All in to the center and back.”

  Coach and I meet at the middle of our circle with the rest of our group, and she clearly snorts.

  “Allemande left.”

  We each turn to the person next to us and hold out our left arms, spin, and then go back to our original spots.

  “Aces high, Deuces low. Promenade and away you all … go … home.…”

  Carl purses his lips together for freestyle beatbox. The last banjo rings out. He waves one arm in the air with the finale. “Dong, dee, dee, donk, donk.”

  “Yee-haw!” Gordon yells, and chucks his goggles into the air.

  We face the applauding audience. Out of the entire audience, Grandma Wong stands first. She clasps her hands above her head in a cheering motion. Paolo slumps further in his seat. Mom, Bela, and Papa Wong stand too, joining Grandma, and they clap loudly with the rest of the crowd.

  I see Papa Wong has a bag of sunflower seeds jutting out of his pocket. We won’t need those today.

  Gordon bows to Zola, and I almost forget to thank my partner.

  I take Coach’s hand and bow to her.

  She curtsies back. When she stands upright, there are tears in her eyes.

  I might like square dancing.

  CHAPTER 26

  Seven hours later, I blend in like a potato in a bowl of fruit, wearing my cutoffs and T-shirt in a crowd of amazing outfits.

  Principal Singh’s purple sari with gold embroidery wraps around a bright orange undershirt. Her voice squeaks out nervously over the loud speaker. “Family and friends. We’ve had a much larger turnout than anticipated for our first annual Family Celebration of Cultures Night. So, we will need to move from the cafeteria to the field for cultural performances.”

  People scurry out the door toward the track like excited ants. I wish I were heading home to pitch into my net so I can get my #1 position back next year. But even though I’d rather be practicing knuckleballs, it feels sorta good to see everyone so happy.

  Gordon stuffs his fourth lumpia from the Filipino platter into his mouth, and he’s already eaten six of Grandma Wong’s ha gao.

  Andy and I exchange nervous glances.

  “Hey Gordon,” Andy says. “You planning on dancing some more tonight?” Andy must be having the same flashback.

  “You bet!” he says.

  I can’t help the involuntary peek down at my shoes. A fleck of yellow breakfast sludge is still embedded in one of my shoelaces.

  Zola hands us each an Irish shortbread cookie, and we all walk outside toward the field. Niles and his parents are sitting on a bench off to the side, where it’s a little quieter, away from the crowd. His dad is reading a book with a cover so creepy it can only be that King guy.

  There’s no sign of any of my baseball team. No surprise, since it’s no longer Field Day. And thankfully, Jordyn and most of the soccer girls aren’t here either.

  Samantha Pinkerton has cordoned off an area with soccer cones and is already on the field twirling and spinning in her stiff, sparkly tutu like this event was made for her.

  Coach Solden holds a megaphone up to her mouth. “Thank you all for coming. Since we’re on a streak, we’re going to continue the night with, what else … more dancing.”

  Principal Singh snickers, and I’m pretty sure they’re the only ones who find each other funny.

  Coach continues, “So, we’ll start things off with a lively dance originating in the Czech Republic.” She nods to Gordon.

  Gordon wipes his mouth and hands me the dirty napkin. “That’s my cue.” He approaches the lady I recognized as his grandma and takes off his hoodie. He tosses it aside in what I now think is going to be his signature pre-performance move. Underneath he’s wearing a velvet vest with embroidered poppies that matches his grandma’s skirt and vest. Curly ribbons trail down her grey ponytail.

  Gordon walks to the center of the field holding her hand. A man with a super perfect smile, carrying an accordion, gazes adoringly at Gordon’s grandma. The man (must be the boyfriend) spreads his arms back and forth, moving air through the accordion.

  People gather around in a wide circle. Anyone who might have been mildly interested is no longer paying attention to Samantha Pinkerton. She stomps off the field past Andy, Zola, and me in a flowery breeze, her bun unraveling along the way.

  A humming twang echoes over the field as the boyfriend flicks his fingers across little piano-looking keys. The crowd claps their hands as Gordon and his grandma spin and kick in perfect rhythm. Their arms fling out in a synchronized windmill flourish to the accordion. I imagine the grease and shrimp concoction centrifuging around in Gordon’s guts. But his color still looks good.

  Gordon twirls his grandma around in a final frenzy until the song ends. They bow.

  Whoops and hollers ricochet over the field, only dying down when Coach Solden’s megaphone screeches. Half the people grab their ears.

  “Pardon me.” Coach clears her throat like that will make the megaphone operate properly. “Next, Andalusia Washington and her family will perform a dance from Guinea where Andalusia’s grandfather was born.”

  What? I realize I’ve lost track of Andy. I scan the field and see Andy and her brother already moving toward the center of the field. They’re carrying drums. Andy sits on a stool, a drum almost as big as her placed directly in front. Her little brother plops down next to her with a smaller drum.

  A woman steps out, and after a second, I realize it’s Andy’s mom. But it can’t be her. She’s not wearing a suit, high heels, or Spanx leggings. A long brightly colored dress wraps around her waist. Andy starts to beat on the drum and her brother joins in.

  “We wil
l be performing a West African harvest dance called kassa,” Mrs. Washington announces, and begins swaying her hips.

  I cringe and look at Andy. Funny thing, she doesn’t look embarrassed at all.

  Andy’s mom closes her eyes and moves her head to the drumbeat. She steps from side to side, her feet moving faster and faster. The drumbeat keeps up with her feet. She dips down moving her arms in sweeping motions from side to side. Between the vibration of Andy’s drumming in my chest, and Mrs. Washington moving so freely, I have goose bumps. It’s sort of … beautiful.

  How come Andy never told me she played the drum? Have I not shared something about myself with Andy? She’s met most of my relatives, but I realize there are things about both sides of my family I’ve thought she wouldn’t understand. Like, I’ve never taken Andy to dim sum, because I thought she’d be weirded out by stuff I’m used to, like the chicken feet or tripe. I’ve avoided taking her to Bela’s because I knew we’d get stuck watching telenovelas for hours. Or how I steered her away from the ofrenda for Dad on Diá de los Muertos because I was afraid she wouldn’t understand and think it was morbid.

  I just didn’t give her the chance.

  Andy’s family finishes, and Mom and I wait until the cheering stops.

  I hug Andy, then stand in front of her mom. “That was really amazing, Mrs. Washington.”

  Mrs. Washington’s eyes look a little teary. “Thank you, Guadalupe.” She wipes her brow and gives a relaxed smile. “Would you like to come dance with us sometime at the house?”

  “I … I …” I’m not even sure how to backtrack out of this one.

  “Then it’s decided. We’d love to have you over next week to dance with us.”

  I look to Andy for help and she just laughs. I have a hard enough time ditching my mom and her dancing. Now I have to ditch Andy’s mom too?

  Coach announces, “Now, our own Principal Singh and her son, Rajesh, will be performing a hip-hop Indian dance.”

  Principal Singh steps out with a boy in a matching outfit. He’s a mini version of her, mimicking her exact moves just like the Bollywood dancers I’ve seen on TV.

  An eighth grader and his little sister stomp and spin the jarabe tapatío after them. It’s a dance I sort of know how to do, but there’s no way in heck I’m participating.

  “Oh, look. The Mexican hat dance,” someone’s dad calls out incorrectly. I think this night has already made a ton of progress, so I decide not to tell him. This time.

  A van with Chinese Senior Center on its side panel pulls up next to the field a little later, and my grandpa gets out of the passenger seat. He waves to me across the field.

  I whistle to Coach getting her attention. “They’re here,” I mouth.

  Coach nods and lifts up the megaphone. “Ahem. Three … two …”

  The students are already quiet by “two.” The grown-ups follow suit and stop what they’re doing, even though their grades aren’t at risk.

  “I’d like to thank Guadalupe Wong’s grandfather for arranging a special treat,” Coach says.

  The sliding door to the van opens. Four men, two with drums, two with cymbals, emerge. The men move toward the field pounding on the drumheads bare-handed. The men with cymbals follow, clanking them together every so often, then picking up the speed.

  The crowd stares with wide eyes at the four men. I grin, knowing the people are all looking in the wrong direction.

  A large feathery head of what looks like a friendly red dragon emerges from the sliding door of the van. A few people notice and gasp. Next to the red head, a second yellow head pops out. They jump out of the van, their hind ends still inside. With large blinking eyes, the heads start bobbing back and forth to the beat of the drums and cymbals. The back sections of the bodies emerge from the van in a slithery ripple. Even though the heads look like dragons, they’re actually lions. The red and yellow heads jump around the field to the drumbeat of the lion dance, flapping their eyes and mouths at people who scream and laugh at the same time.

  The dance is magical, and colorful and mysterious. I smile, thinking those are some of the things I’m made of.

  The cymbals are earsplitting and the thud of the drums thumps in my chest. I turn toward Niles and his parents back on the bench, but he’s still got his earplugs in and grins back at me.

  I turn again to see the dragons zigzag their way around the crowd, then back to the van. I run after them and hug Papa. “Thank you,” I say into his chest.

  He sits back in the van, motioning toward the field. “This is what happens when you overcome instead of fighting.”

  As I watch Papa drive away, Principal Singh stands next to me and nudges me with her elbow. “So, what do you think, Lupe?”

  I know this was her resolution to make dancing more inclusive. Still, I stare out at the crowd and wish every school activity could include everyone. “It’s a good start.”

  “Start?” she asks.

  “Tonight has me thinking about the father-daughter winter dance?”

  She scans the crowd. She must see what I do—lots of families with single moms and single dads, two families with two moms, three with two dads.

  “Point taken. I guess we have more work to do.” She sighs and pats me on the back. “Raj! No!” She blurts out. She disappears in a colorful blur chasing after her son, who’s just picked a half-eaten gyoza off the turf and stuffed it into his mouth.

  I hear a familiar sound, and sure enough, it’s salsa music blaring. Mom’s superpower is out in full force. She’s got poor Mr. Lundgren by the waist. He’s wearing an “All the Good Science Puns Argon” shirt. He’s sweating just like in lab, but it’s a cool night. Mom’s trying to help him shift his hips smoothly, but they rock stiffly back and forth.

  It’s getting dark, but no one is leaving. The field is packed with all different types of dancing that mesh together perfectly. All a little different. Some of us aren’t even from here. And some of us were right here before this country existed. But none of us are any better than the other.

  Niles’s dad sets his book down and waves as I approach. His mom smiles. Niles’s earplugs are still in, so I hold my hand out offering him a dance.

  Instead of accepting the offer, Niles points toward the people on the field.

  I turn to see what he sees. Crowds of people eating and dancing and having fun. I think of how stubborn I was, and how I never would have appreciated this all a month ago. But now …

  When I turn back around, Niles stands and plants a Little Dragons Post-it note on my forehead. I laugh and peel it off. I hold it in my hand. Black block letters on bright pink stare back at me. “You are brave.” Something catches in my throat. I look up at him, and Niles is standing and offering his hand to me. I smile and accept without even thinking about it. Being asked by a boy isn’t so bad.

  We find Mom and Mr. Lundgren and dance next to them.

  CHAPTER 27

  Even though it wasn’t meant to be a fundraiser, my Change.org effort raised almost $12,000 in donations. Mostly because people thought it was “cute.” Square dancing still exists. I’m actually happy I didn’t succeed in ending it. But I’m even gladder Principal Singh helped figure out a way to learn from it and make changes for our school.

  Plus, now, we can dance with whoever we want. It didn’t feel right to keep the money, so I gave it to Fu Li’s foundation, which sounded pretty cool.

  What does all that mean? Turns out I never even had to make the straight As deal with Uncle Hector. Fu Li says my kind of innovation deserves more of a reward. Not only did he want to meet me, but he arranged for me to throw out the first pitch at a home game.

  The day of, we wait inside the door leading to the dugout. Fu Li’s not as tall as my dad. I lean toward him and try to sniff without being too obvious. Not rain and coffee. Fu Li smells like baseball: bleached uniform and glove oil. Nothing will ever be exactly like Dad, but Fu Li smells okay too.

  I wonder if he gets frustrated with not having a bubble fo
r being Mexinese, but he looks pretty well adjusted for a grown-up. We walk into the dugout, and the people around the surrounding railing above us cheer.

  “Ready?” Fu Li pulls out a packet of dehydrated ginger. It’s the same kind Grandma buys from the Asian grocery store. Maybe his grandma makes him chew it when his belly is upset too. He offers me a piece, and I take it.

  “Thanks.” I shove it into my inner cheek.

  “So, I heard about how you raised the money,” he says. “Not a square dancing fan?”

  I shrug. “I guess it isn’t as bad as I thought in the beginning.”

  “Yeah, everyone has to square dance at some point.” His eye twitches and I wonder who he had to dance with. “Anyway, thanks to you, eighty kids who couldn’t afford to play ball are going to be starting Little League next season.”

  I never thought about it that way and realize how lucky I am. I just hope one of those kids loves baseball as much as I do.

  Fu Li tips his cap. “You know, it was never about the grades, Lupe.”

  I think of the note he gave Uncle Hector to give to me. Anyone can pitch a good inning, pitching an entire good game takes character.

  “It was about making the effort to do something you were always capable of,” he says. “What you did instead showed more character than getting grades.”

  I shuffle my cleat on the ground. I might be as red as the dirt.

  I stare out at the mound that’s fourteen feet further than I’m used to. “What if I don’t make it to the plate?”

  “You will. You’re a kid who makes things happen.” He puts his hand on my shoulder. “Besides, you’ve been working toward this for a long time.”

  We stand at the edge of the dugout. A deep voice like the guys on the radio station fills the air. “Tonight, throwing out the first pitch, is Guadalupe Wong of Issaquaaaaaah!”

  I chew harder on the ginger and pick at the ties on my mitt.

  Fu Li leads me up the stairs to the top of the dugout, and we wait. The crowd sees us and starts chanting, “Fu Li! Fu Li! Fu Li!” If I squint my ears, I can almost hear, “Lupe! Lupe! …”