Lupe Wong Won't Dance Page 6

  This talk was good even though it didn’t go exactly how I expected. I’m glad I can talk to Mom about Fu Li. But why is it so hard to find a single adult who understands how damaging square dancing is, and who’d be on my side?

  Then it hits me. Delia. How could I have not put it together? With her clout as a child psychologist, she single-handedly got the school start time changed from 7:25 to 8:10. For that alone, she’s one of my favorite grown-ups anyway.

  There’s got to be some study out there about boys asking girls to dance, and the damage it causes to the girl having to say yes. And I’m sure it’s detrimental in some way to the boy too, but that’s not my problem right now. All I need is Delia on my side.

  I take my mom’s hand from my head and squeeze it. “Mom, do we have enough food for a guest tonight?”

  * * *

  Mom spoons tonight’s reddish-brown goop out of the Crock-Pot into our bowls.

  “So, I was thinking,” I say.

  Mom and Delia exchange a quick glance.

  Paolo is busy separating what looks like shriveled ketchup-coated peas off to one side in his bowl.

  “Yeeeeessss?” Delia leans in like she’s about to analyze something important. She pulls her reading glasses from the top of her head onto her nose and her hair fans out to double its size. Her eyes magnify to double their size too.

  “There’s this whole square dancing thing going on at school right now,” I say. I turn a little in my seat and face Delia, pretending not to see the look Mom gives me.

  “I loved square dancing.” Delia claps her hands together.

  Not what I was hoping for.

  This might not go as easily as I thought. I clear my throat. “I’m not saying some people don’t like it and all, but don’t you think it might be harmful?” I ask.

  My mom sighs deeply, but Delia puts her elbow right on top of her silverware. “Harmful, Lupe? In what way?”

  And … I’m in! “What if it damages our brains …”

  My mom snorts. But when I look back at Delia, she’s furrowing her brow. I’ve got her mulling it over. I’ve got to strike now while she’s in doctor-duty mode.

  “… and … and self-esteem by dancing with a partner against our will?” I continue. “We could be permanently scarred.”

  Delia’s forehead smoothes out again. “You’ll be fine.” She picks up her spoon and stirs her sludge.

  Well, that took even less than our normal thirty seconds.

  I prop one elbow onto the table and rest my chin in my hand. I shovel in a bite of tomato-pasta goop. I shouldn’t have put Andy’s toothpaste zit-remedy inside my nose before dinner. Now it tastes like there’s mint mixed with tomato sauce in my mouth.

  Mom wipes red stuff from the side of her lip. “Lupe. I still don’t understand why you’re making such a big deal of this. If anything, I’ve taught you to take the bull by the horns. Just ask a boy you don’t mind dancing with so much.”

  My voice squeaks. “Girls can’t ask boys.”

  Delia’s head wrinkle is back. “What? Well, that’s a bit archaic.”

  Mom sets her fork down. “You didn’t tell me that part. I thought you just didn’t want to dance with a boy.”

  Anddddd … I’m back in! “I don’t. But I definitely shouldn’t have to dance with some random boy who asks me.”

  “Are the boys really that bad?” Delia says, tilting her head. “Or are you using that as an excuse?”

  I flick my wrist like I’ve seen adults do when they don’t want to dwell on something. “Not the point. If a system is flawed, they should scrap it.”

  “I don’t see them eliminating square dancing all together. It’s been around for too long. But if you feel this strongly that it needs modification, you could always start a petition on Change.org.”

  Delia tends to take things to the extreme. I’m pretty sure Change.org is for stuff like protecting people from rogue governments, or saving lives.

  Mom turns to Paolo. “You never told me you asked a girl.” She reaches over and pinches his cheek. “How Rico Suave of you! Who was it?”

  Paolo looks like he got caught on the toilet with half a sheet left. His head drops forward and he stares down, suddenly very focused on his plate.

  “Yeah, Paolo.” I think of the dishes I have to do after dinner because of our deal. “Who waaaaaas it?”

  Mom ruffles his hair. “You have to tell us all the details.”

  Delia taps her fork on her bowl, like it’s a pen on paper. “Yes. I’m curious how the experience made you feel, Paolo.”

  Paolo swallows and coughs. He makes way too big of a deal waving us off like he’s got a noodle lodged in his esophagus. He jumps up from the table and runs to the bathroom.

  I can tell a stall when I see one. His was good, though, and I know he’s not coming back to the inquisitors.

  “Guadalupe.” Delia holds a finger in the air.

  This is it! What I’ve been hoping for. Delia’s come up with something I can use.

  “Why not ask a boy in private? A friend,” she says. “Make an arrangement with him so he knows when he asks, that you’ll say yes? That way you are both comfortable with the situation.”

  The excitement I felt a second ago vanishes. Delia doesn’t exactly know my current reputation. On top of that, it’s too late. Tomorrow is the day. Plus, the only boy at school who even talks to me—

  Mom and Delia stare at me as I scarf my goop. I point outside. “Mmmm-mmmm-mmmm exchuzzzed sssss Niles?” I ask with a full mouth.

  Mom shakes her head in mom-disappointment. “Fine. Be back in an hour.” She shoos me out, probably grateful she and Delia can watch Game of Thrones or The Bachelor or some other violent nudity show without having to pause it when I walk into the room.

  I grab the latest Amulet graphic novel off our entry table—Pablo asked me to give it to Niles—and stuff it in my hoodie pocket. I’m halfway to his house before I finish chewing. Anyone who sees me sprinting to his house will probably think it’s from the torrential downpour, instead of the life-or-death matter it is.

  I’m soaked and hunched over from a side-ache when Niles’s mom answers the door.

  “Lupe. Get in here before you catch a cold.” Mrs. Foster grabs me and pulls me inside.

  I decide not to tell her there are no viruses in rain. The air inside the house is stuffy and smells like a campfire from a smoldering log in the fireplace. “Would you like to have a seat?” She motions to an antique couch with lions carved into the feet. Mr. Foster is slouched in his recliner next to the couch reading his Dark Tower series. He’s still wearing his gi, which means he and Niles have been to their martial arts class at the dojo. Mr. Foster’s been taking Niles since Niles was a Little Dragon himself.

  I’d give anything to have what Niles has, a dad who makes sure he has the help and tools he says he didn’t have as a kid.

  Mr. Foster lifts his hand in a small wave to me. “Yeah, Lupe. Have a seat.” He holds up his book. “Any interest in hearing how the human race screws things up for us this time?”

  “No thanks, I watch the news. Just here to see Niles,” I answer.

  Mrs. Foster’s forehead crinkles. “Is something wrong?”

  “Not really. We just have a challenging assignment in one of our classes.”

  She quickly ushers me into the dining room that used to have all her scrapbooking supplies, but now holds an arsenal of essential oils in glass vials in a china cabinet. There are clinks as she reaches up to grab a tiny glass medicine dropper. The two rows of vials on either side tumble down, dropping like dominoes.

  “Ah, here!” she says, squinting at the bottle in her hand. “Hawaiian sandalwood, peppermint, patchouli, and vanilla. My own blend, which I call …” She speaks in almost a whisper. “… Encouragement.”

  Before I can object, she’s placing a drop on each of my wrists. “This will help.” Then she drops a glop right on top of my head. “Now you’re a walking diffuser.”

  �
��Great.” I catch a whiff of myself. “Thanks. Sort of like if a holiday cookie were made of firewood.”

  She squints one eye. “Let me just get Niles for you. Niles!” she calls out again.

  I’ve never asked a boy for something like this. Niles is different, though. He’s like my brother. Still, my hands are sweating.

  Niles’s head pokes out like a tortoise from his bedroom door. “Hi Lupe,” his head says after a few seconds, his body still hidden behind his door.

  He steps out into the hallway. He’s wearing new mustard-yellow-and-black footie PJs that bag around his ankles.

  “Hey Niles,” I say.

  He smiles and walks into the dining room with us. He leans forward and sniffs. “Oh no, Encouragement,” he whispers. “What’s wrong?”

  Mrs. Foster hasn’t left yet. She’s really nice but definitely one of those parents who’s not afraid of listening in. “Can I get you two a snack?”

  Mom’s mystery pea goop is now roiling in my stomach, making awkward gurgles. “No thanks.” Mrs. Foster glances toward a different shelf and I wonder if she has an oil called Digestion.

  Thankfully, Niles chimes in too. “We’re good, Mom.”

  “Well, then. I guess I’ll let you two visit,” she finally says and retreats into the kitchen.

  Niles and I walk down the hallway to his room.

  Niles points to the pocket of my hoodie. “What’s that?” he asks, smiling.

  I roll my eyes. “You know exactly what it is.” I take the graphic novel out and hand it to him.

  “Yes!” His eyes light up as he stares at the cover. “I’ve been waiting forever. Will you tell Paolo thanks for me?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” I glance over at Niles’s graphic novels. He has them stacked by binding color so the towers of blue, red, yellow, and green look like mini skyscrapers. Boys like Paolo and Niles probably see those graphic novel piles as millions of worlds they can escape into. I sigh, staring at the brightly colored book buildings. “They don’t even look like real books.”

  He gives me the faintest hint of a stink-eye. “Oh, these are real books, Lupe.” He holds the book like a holy relic and sets it on his nightstand.

  His martial arts supplies are in their usual spot on a chair on one side of his bed, his new brown belt and foam nunchakus draped over his white gi. Niles might seem pretty zen most of the time, but I’ve been to a few of his belt tests, and let’s just say I’m glad he’s on my side.

  Just to the left of his Bruce Lee Enter the Dragon poster is a framed copy of Niles’s dojo’s “Home Rules.” Listed are rules like: “Always be truthful.” “I will always be kind to all living things.” “I will always finish what I’ve started.” “I will always respect my parents, teachers, and elders.” Niles likes these rules, and I get it. He actually goes out and lives them too.

  But unlike Niles, I find some of the rules questionable. Like: “I will always tell my family good morning and good night.” “I will always keep my room clean.” “I will always help with household chores.” “I will keep my hair, teeth, and body clean.”

  My mom asked Niles’s mom for a copy of the rules for my room. I might’ve “lost” them.

  A picture of Niles with the three-to-five-year-old Little Dragons also sits on his nightstand. Next to it, I see a neon-pink pad of Post-it notes that read “Great Work!”, “Superstar!”, and “Way To Go!”, which Niles makes to put on the kids’ foreheads after class. He sort of invented the notes, and apparently it stuck. Literally. Now the other instructors put the encouraging notes on kids’ hands and foreheads too.

  “Can I write one?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Sure.”

  I take the pen and write “There’s no whining in karate!” on a Post-it.

  Niles grimaces and pulls my attempt off the pad. He gently places it in the trash. “Maybe leave the inspirational notes to me.”

  I point to the Star Trek logo on his new pajamas. I wouldn’t have noticed except that for the past six months, Niles has rotated between the Doctor Who Dalek and Hubble telescope jammies I gave him for his last two birthdays. “What’s up with the new PJs?” I ask.

  Niles glances toward his drawer. “Just something new.”

  I can’t put my finger on why, but I feel a ping of nervousness. I hope this new interest is just temporary.

  “I wanted to ask you something.” I take a deep breath.

  “What’s up?”

  “It’s about the boy-ask-girl thing in P.E.” Now on top of my palms sweating, my feet are getting hot. “I think I know of a way we can still help each other.”

  Mrs. Foster walks by the door and her footsteps stop. I know she’s listening around the corner.

  “Most of us don’t really want to dance. So, if the boys have to ask the girls, wouldn’t we all rather dance with a frieeeend?” I motion to myself.

  “Does she smell?” he asks.

  I lean toward my armpit and sniff. “Not important. Listen, I’ve thought about this.” I lean in. “I mean me. You should just ask me.”

  He’s closing one eye and his lips are pursed together. I haven’t seen this expression before, so I’m not sure if it means he’s got to go to the bathroom, or he’s in deep thought.

  I pat his shoulder like I’ve done for years. “Number one—if we have to dance, we should dance with someone we don’t mind dancing with.”

  Niles rubs his chin. “That makes sense,” he says.

  I let out a deep breath, smiling. “Yes. And number two—you are the most agile person on two legs that I know.”

  He finally smiles back. “Okay then,” he says. “I wasn’t sure who I was gonna ask, but I guess it’d be fun to dance with you.”

  “So, it’s a deal?”

  He holds out his hand and we shake on it. “Deal.”

  “Is it cool?” I ask, which is our signal to see if I can give him a hug. He’s explained that hugging feels different for him than something like a pat, or a high five, even if it’s from a friend. It can be overwhelming, so he likes to be asked first.

  He nods, and we give each other a quick hug.

  I guess I never really thought about Niles asking another girl. There’s definitely no other boy I’d want to dance with. But we’ll be good together and (I tell myself) it will help both of us. I can meet Fu Li after all. Win, win.

  I stand to leave and Niles walks into his bathroom. Within a few seconds I hear him brushing his teeth. He pokes his head out. “Night, Lupe,” he mumbles with a mouthful of toothpaste. He closes the door again.

  I grin as I pass his “Home Rules” chart: “I will always tell my family good morning and good night.”

  I walk out and nearly run into Mrs. Foster, who’s pretending like she was strolling down the hall and hadn’t been standing there for minutes. She smiles and gives me a squeeze before telling me to say hello to my mom.

  I pass Niles’s dad on the way out. Mr. Foster sighs and closes his book. “Clever man, King,” he says, raising the book up to show me the cover.

  I raise my eyebrows at the illustration of a dark figure with glowing eyes. “Not sure I could sleep after reading that,” I say.

  He smiles. “Same. I’ll need to reset my mind a little. That’s what this is for.” He reaches down and pulls a different book from the side of his recliner. Its cover has setting suns behind a city twice the size of downtown L.A. “It’s only a little less horrifying.”

  I laugh.

  He smiles back. “Niles and I will read a bit from this before bed. Would you like to hang out and read with us?”

  I want to answer yes but I’m already pushing my luck with Mom. “Wish I could, Mr. Foster. Mom said I have to get right back home.”

  “Well it’s a standing invitation, Lupe. You’re welcome to our family book club any time.”

  I feel a tightening in my chest. I mean, I wish I had my own dad back, but I’d take a dad like Niles’s too.

  He sets his book down and looks up. “Well then, night Lupe,�
�� he says, sounding so much like Niles.

  I hope Niles is just like his dad when he grows up, so I have someone interesting to hang out with when we’re super old like Mr. Foster and my mom.

  I wave and shuffle out the door.

  The rain has stopped. I take a deep breath. Success. My mission to find a dance partner is complete. I run the whole way back, leaving a trail of vanilla-campfire-cookie scent in my wake and with a grin on my face.

  It’s not the perfect solution. We still have to dance, but Niles and I are doing it on our own terms.

  CHAPTER 8

  Must be a full moon or something. The halls are exceptionally dangerous for a Thursday. And on top of the paths being wet from a thunderstorm, someone has launched a beach ball. Now everyone is paying more attention to hitting the ball around than to where they’re walking. Andy, Niles, and I walk out of the cafeteria. Andy stops to sort her trash into the recycling and compost bins, and Niles snags my arm before a kid barreling down the hallway launches me from the cement path into the surrounding mud.

  Niles quickly lets go to adjust something on his endangered-Tenino-pocket-gopher T-shirt. Just above the buck-toothed rodent sits a pin in the shape of a slanted, filled-in gold letter A. I’m pretty sure it’s another Star Trek thing.

  Andy’s sorting routine will take her just long enough for me to double confirm we’re on the same page.

  “Niles, just making sure, are we a go?” We have less than two minutes before we need to be in the locker room. After that, it will be radio silence until the boys have to ask the girls. That, and Andy’s almost done sorting.

  “Hey guys.” Gordon is walking toward us and waving his hand like he’s fanning a fire.

  Perfect. Now I have to worry about square dancing enthusiast Gordon finding out about our pre-arranged partnership and telling Coach Solden. I continue, “You haven’t forgotten—”