Lupe Wong Won't Dance Read online

  “So how are we getting rid of square dancing?” I ask.

  “Is this because of your grades thing?” Andy asks.

  I shrug. Never mind that I still have As in math, language arts, and social studies. But a little mind-wandering in the past year led to a B or two. Now every aunt, uncle, and second cousin who expects you to be the first doctor in the family knows about it, and “knows you’ll do better next year, Lupe!”

  “I still don’t get why your Uncle Hector won’t just take you to meet Fu Li. He knows how important it is to you.”

  “It makes sense,” Niles answers. “He knows exactly how to make Lupe work harder.”

  Andy nearly trips on a rogue water bottle but keeps walking. “Well, I don’t think square dancing will be that bad. I bet your uncle will buckle anyway.”

  Andy has no idea what she’s talking about. She’s never met my Uncle Hector either. His motto is, “We’re Mexi-cans, not Mexi-can’ts.” And as cheesy and stupid as it sounds, he’s not joking. Plus, Uncle Hector apparently told Fu Li about my grades slipping. Fu Li even gave Uncle Hector a handwritten note to give to me: Anyone can pitch a good inning, pitching an entire good game takes character. Work hard so I can meet you!

  I’m not even sure what his note means, but Fu Li must have a Mexican uncle too.

  “No, I think he’ll hold me to it,” I say. “I have to talk to Coach Solden after school. I only have one hour to figure out how I’m going to convince her to eliminate square dancing forever.”

  “Like I said, she has a new cause.” Andy makes a hand puppet. “Square dancing leads to foot fungus and toe jam,” she mimics my voice again. “It must be abolished before the entire seventh grade class is footless.” She winks at me and takes a sharp left into her social studies class.

  Even though the halls are thinning out, it’s still about as loud as it was on the field when Fu Li threw a no-hitter two seasons ago. Niles motions toward our science class and we both hustle to get out of the chaotic hallway. Burnt chemical smell greets us as we walk in.

  Niles and I barely make it into our seats before the bell rings. Somehow we got teamed with Gordon Schnelly Spring quarter in our lab group. Gordon insists on wearing his protective goggles even though we haven’t started any experiments yet. He spouted off something about remnant toxic fumes and his corneas on the first day.

  Gordon speaks with the lisp he’s had since that fateful day with the scoliosis brace. “Howth it going guyth?” Sometimes he’s difficult to understand, but luckily Niles speaks Gordonese, and I’m learning. We’ve never really spent much time with Gordon before, but if he’s going to be our lab partner for the rest of the year, we need to figure each other out.

  “Lupe hates square dancing,” Niles says.

  “I, for one, am looking forward to it.” Gordon sits up taller.

  Now I know who clapped back in P.E. during the announcement. How can someone actually like square dancing?

  “My grandma says we make perfect dance partners, both being single and all,” Gordon continues, making a little dance move. “She also says I have natural rhythm.” He looks more like a seal swallowing a fish, but I don’t say anything.

  Niles nods approvingly. “Music and rhythm are well docu—” Niles’s eyes suddenly go wide. He points to an emblem in the center of Gordon’s shirt that looks sort of like arched wings with a Christmas tree star in the center. “Jedi?”

  Gordon claps his hands together like he just got the top gift on his birthday list. “Star Wars fan?”

  “Trekkie,” Niles counters. He makes a gesture that looks like some of his fingers are stuck together in a hand cramp.

  “Interstellar game on, Niles.” Gordon narrows his eyes in challenge, for what I’m pretty sure is some sort of galactic turf war. But they both look pretty happy.

  Mr. Lundgren, our science teacher, starts speaking and the mumbling around the classroom stops. His voice never shifts out of the low tractor gear of monotone. “Today class, we will be studying the miracle of the Krebs cycle.”

  I pull out a piece of paper. Instead of writing Krebs Cycle like everyone else, I write Square Dancing, then draw a circle around the word and a diagonal line marking over the word. I put my head on the desk. Years of chemicals are probably seeping into my brain. I don’t care. It seems hopeless. I peek at Gordon who’s already drawing arrows coming into and off a circle on his paper. Letters and gibberish go into the circle and more gibberish comes off.

  Niles pats my arm. “Want me to take our notes today instead?”

  I look up to see him grinning. Growing up four houses down from mine, Niles and I have always teamed up, from selling lemonade to buy me a new glove, to painting address numbers on curbs so we could pay for his latest graphic novel.

  But today was my turn to take notes.

  “Would you?” I ask.

  Niles answers by taking out his notebook and hurrying to catch up with the rest of the class.

  Mr. Lundgren starts drawing the same picture on the whiteboard that Gordon has already finished. While Niles takes our real notes, I pretend.

  -Square dancing is not a sport. (Use Olympics as example if necessary.)

  -Handholding is unhygienic.

  -Look for stats on deaths during square dancing.

  -Square dancing is

  The lights in the room are on a motion detector, and turn off every so often during the lecture, interrupting my thoughts. Mr. Lundgren waves an arm at sloth speed to make them go back on. But after forty-five minutes, I’ve only come up with a few bullet points.

  Still, I grip the paper tight in my hands so I don’t lose it in the after-school scuffle. After the final bell rings, I wait in the doorway for Niles to finish talking to Gordon about something.

  As we walk toward the bus, I review my talking points in quiet murmurs. Should I present my list to Coach Solden now, or go home and create a PowerPoint for emphasis?

  But if she’s making us dance tomorrow …

  When we’re almost to the bus, my hands suddenly break out in a sweat again. “Niles, I gotta go talk to Coach now. Will you wait for me?”

  Niles shrugs. “Sure. I’ll let my mom know we’re walking home.” He’s already pulling out his phone. “I might pop into LRC and ask Mr. Lambert what he thinks of the square dancing thing. If I’ll need anything if I decide to do it. Come find me in the library when you’re done.”

  I pick up my pace. The outside door to her office has a “Coach S” plaque under a little window near the top.

  I put my ear to the door. Coach is singing along to “Dancing Queen” by ABBA. I knock and wait.

  “Come in,” she says.

  I open the door and poke my head in. The aroma from years of coffee and musty P.E. gear fills the room. “Hey Coach.”

  She turns the volume down on the music. “Lupe.” She motions for me to sit.

  Painted on the wall behind her are the sit-up, pull-up, and standing long jump records for our school. University of Washington purple-and-gold pennants plaster over any empty space like wallpaper, and a stuffed Huskies mascot stares back at me from the front of her desk.

  I sit across from her and try to act casual.

  “Can I help you with something?” she asks.

  I hold my chin and stare out her window toward the cafeteria like I’ve seen professors and philosophers do in movies.

  “Spit it out,” she says.

  I drop my hand to my lap and face her. “Why didn’t you mention at the beginning of the year that we’d have to dance in P.E.?”

  “You do know it’s standard curriculum, right?” she says.

  I lift my hands, palms up. “No.”

  “Yes. Since 1938, the Sockeye Salmon of Issaquah Middle School have enjoyed a lively square dance.” Teeth bucked out, Coach rocks her arms in front of her like a square-dancing squirrel. “Official state dance of twenty-four states in our union.”

  The pit in my stomach grows to the size of that squirrel’s entire winte
r nut supply. How can I fight something nearly half the country has been brainwashed into?

  “But … this is physical education,” I say.

  She folds her hands in front of her like she’s in a business meeting. “It is. And, I think if you do a little research, you’ll find that square dancing is a standard part of P.E. curriculum across our great nation.”

  This is going in the wrong direction. I need to strike. “Didn’t you take some sort of P.E. teacher oath to test our actual athletic ability?”

  Coach’s cheeks turn a little red. I hope it’s just from a busy day of jiggling around. “Physical education is just as much about coordination and willingness to learn something new as it is about sports. And trust me, it’s a workout.” She still has beads of sweat on her brow and I realize she must’ve had another class right before this.

  I glance down at my list. “Is square dancing even a sport? I mean, it’s not in the Olympics, is it?”

  “Some might argue ping-pong and sailing shouldn’t be Olympic sports, but they are.” She leans in. “By the way, baseball is currently off the list in the Olympics.”

  Heat runs up the back of my neck. I need to sidestep that revelation completely. I clear my throat. “Have you considered the hygiene aspect—”

  Her laugh startles me. “This coming from the girl who holds the snot-rocket distance record,” she says.

  I wring my hands together, paper clenched between my fists. The words stats on deaths are crinkled. My list is toast.

  Not only are my arguments completely shut down, Coach isn’t taking me seriously at all.

  I stare behind her at the school records. You can still see where they painted over Becky Solden under Pull-ups, and where Guadalupe Wong replaces it.

  “But you have to know this is wrong, Coach. Jocks like us—”

  “That’s enough, Lupe.” Her lips tighten together like a bear trap. She straightens up in her seat. “Sometimes we have to do things that are uncomfortable. Besides, it will build your character.” She lowers her voice to almost a whisper. “I’ll even let you in on a little secret. Spring quarter is special.” Her voice is gaining strength. “The best dancers not only earn As, but a select few perform in front of the school for the Issaquah Salmon Days assembly.” She claps her hands together. “Isn’t that grand!”

  I go to swallow and there’s no spit. I can’t think of anything much worse than dancing in front of the school.

  “Work hard and you could be one of the eight students from your section to get this honor,” she says.

  “Honor?” I cough out.

  She stands and opens the door.

  “But Coach. What if—”

  “Don’t worry, Lupe,” she calls back. “I’m sure you have what it takes to make a marvelous do-si-do-er.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Niles pulls the striped rock we found the first week of second grade out of his backpack. Speaking of his backpack, it looks about twenty pounds heavier after his stop in the school library. Just like all other days we walk home, he drops the rock in front of me and I get the first kick. I kick it back to his side. “Would you rather have spider babies inside your nostrils or square dance?” I ask.

  Niles shudders. “I’ll take square dancing.”

  “Really?”

  “Before spider babies? Yeah.” Niles doesn’t miss a beat, kicking it back to my side about five feet ahead of me. “Dog-poop-stuffed Oreo or square dance?”

  That one makes me crack a grin. “You could even double stuff it.”

  I stop at my driveway.

  We could go on for hours.

  “Thanks for walking with me today.”

  “No problem.” He picks up the rock and puts it in his front zipper pocket for next time.

  “Doctor Who after dinner?” We have a regular Monday night meeting. It may or may not involve us sneaking some of his dad’s Chunky Monkey ice cream then a post-game wrap-up of the episode.

  “Uhhh, can’t tonight,” he says.

  “Little Dragons?” I ask. Niles has a job instructing the three-to-five-year-olds martial arts class at his dojo. He normally teaches on Saturdays, but maybe they have belt testing tonight or something.

  “No. I sort of made other plans today, but I promise to watch it before bed so we can talk about it tomorrow.”

  This is unusual, but I guess a recap is better than nothing. “Okay.”

  He waves over his head. As he walks away, I’m left wondering what in the universe can be more important than a Doctor Who Monday.

  Our next-door neighbor, Delia, is sitting on the ground pruning her catnip when I walk by. She uses it to attract the cat she “adopted” (even though Fletcher technically belongs to the Nuñez family down the street). “Well hello, Lupe,” she calls out to me. A smudge of mud streaks across her forehead, and reading glasses on the top of her head hold back hair wilder than her rosemary bush. “How are your studies going?”

  I stop and smile. Why hadn’t I thought of it? Not only is Delia a good listener when I need to vent, she’s one of the best supporters I’ve had for my campaigns, and she’s a child psychologist. She’s a triple threat.

  “Delia, don’t you believe if teachers mislead students regarding curriculum, it could lead to trust issues in their adult life?” I ask.

  Delia stops to ponder, holding a garden hose in one hand and “her cat” in the other. “Mmmh.” I calculated once that our thirty-seconds-a-day exchanges, which started in kindergarten, will amount to almost $3,000 in free advice by the time I leave for college. “I suppose so. I guess it would depend on—”

  “Thanks, Delia!” I walk quickly toward my house before she changes her mind. I glance back and she winks and gives me a thumbs up before turning back to her plants.

  When I unlock the front door, I’m immediately fume-blasted with what can only be another Crock-Pot concoction. By the odor, Mom made some sort of beef and cumin. Hopefully, albondigas soup.

  I go to the kitchen and lift up the glass lid. Not albondigas. I’m pretty sure the green sludge inside has some sort of squash that isn’t meant to be slow-cooked for seven hours.

  Since no one is home, I stop in the hallway at the picture of my dad, the one with him holding up a Dungeness crab on the fishing boat where he worked. It’s one of those things I only do when I’m alone. My dad died a few years ago, and it’s been long enough where I think I’m not supposed to miss him so much. But I can’t help myself when no one is around.

  I stare at his smile. The tiny lines at the corners of his eyes are one of the things I see in the picture but don’t remember in real life. I rest my cheek on his face. The glass is cold. I know it’s a little creepy because he died the very next day on that same boat. But still.

  I’d give anything for one of our “signature secret handshakes,” where he’d pretend he was going to high-five me, but would miss and pull me into a bear hug.

  The glass against my cheek isn’t warm like his chest.

  And the picture doesn’t smell like coffee and rain.

  Dad’s smile is even bigger in the picture above the crab photo. It’s one of him playing baseball. He was good enough to make it to the minors, and though he had to stop when he and Mom had me and Paolo, he still played for the Everett AquaSox when he wasn’t working on a ship. I wonder if a small part of him ever hoped he’d return to it for real.

  I can’t get my cheek high enough to reach that photo, though, even on tiptoe. It’s been almost two years and I’m starting to forget things about Dad. But I do remember what he said when I was the first girl to make the Issaquah Select Little League team. “If there’s something you’re passionate about, don’t ever settle for less.”

  Maybe my causes aren’t exactly what he meant. But I’ll never settle for something less than what I want.

  Along with the pictures of my dad, our hallways are lined with calaveras art and little Chinese village paintings. Grandma Wong gives my mom the Chinese ones, even though none of us know what
the brushstroke words mean. Mom’s not going to let Grandma Wong outdo her culture in her own home, though—she has a framed Mayan calendar, and when the world didn’t end like the calendar said it would, she moved it to the bathroom that already looks like it’s right out of an Azteca restaurant.

  I make a pit stop and hang my backpack in my room. Fu Li’s rookie card is framed next to the hook. Dad’s skin was darker, but they even sort of look alike. I close my eyes and imagine for a second throwing with Fu Li, and him giving me a high five.

  I have to get rid of the stupid dance and get my A in P.E. so I can make this happen.

  I put on my M’s hat and grab my glove. My pitching net has a cutout strike zone with a mesh pocket behind it. The pocket fits around thirty baseballs, so three times in a row I fill the pocket with twenty-seven balls. Once I hit the zone eighty-one times (or if Mom gets home and yells for me to come in), I quit. I know it’s not the real thing, but if I do it three times a week, I can pitch over a thousand perfect games by the time I’m in the majors. That’s almost a hundred thousand strikes.

  Sweat is dripping down my neck by the time I’m on seventy-six and Paolo walks out. He sits on the back porch, his jeans hiked halfway up his shins. He got his growth spurt this summer so he started his freshman year in high-waters. “Thirteen! Forty-two! Twenty-three!”

  I ignore him. “Seventy-seven.” I wipe my forehead and knock out the remaining four strikes.

  The rattle of Mom’s loose muffler echoes from the front of the house.

  I sprint toward the house and Paolo’s arm flies out like a broomstick. I hurdle over his arm and laugh. “Ha!” Looking back, I trip over the threshold of the door and almost can’t recover.

  I’m throwing cold water over my face in the kitchen sink by the time Mom walks in, and drops her purse on the counter. A crusty purple spot, suspiciously the exact hue of the homemade playdough she was making the night before, dots her shirt, and the hook of one of her earrings dangles dangerously close to falling out of her earlobe.