Lupe Wong Won't Dance Read online

  “Of course not,” Niles says.

  We’re interrupted by Gordon lifting up his T-shirt and pulling it over his head. Darth Vader’s face covers his own. I’m debating how I should react when he starts singing a muffled, “Dun, dun, dun. Dun de dun, dun de dun.” He pulls the shirt back down.

  Niles raises his eyebrows at Gordon and pushes the pin on his chest. It makes a little chirping noise.

  Gordon laughs. “Touché, Crewman Niles.”

  The familiar ping in my stomach has returned. I tap Niles’s arm. “Niles, do you think—”

  But now, Niles is distracted. Gordon is brandishing something wrapped in foil in front of him. He holds it in front of his body making a thv-thv-thv noise. No one else could make that perfect whirring sound like Gordon with his missing front teeth. He unwraps the foil from what I now realize was an imaginary lightsaber and takes a bite just as Andy returns.

  “What are you eating?” Niles asks Gordon.

  “Just a little snack. Breakfast burrito,” he says, taking a bite.

  I decide not to mention that we literally just ate lunch. A piece of egg plops onto the ground.

  “Gordon. It’s 1:15,” I say. “How long has that been in your backpack?”

  “It’s okay. Gram says I have an iron stomach.” He pats his belly and then wipes a strand of cheese off his chin.

  “Are old eggs and cheese a good idea right before P.E.?” Andy points out, nodding to the mangled glob in Gordon’s hand.

  “It’s only a problem if I jump around. Besides, I know exactly which lucky lady I’m going to ask. We will be smoooooth on the floor.” He circles his non-burrito arm in front of him and ends his move with a finger pointed right at me. A piece of egg fills in the gap of his missing front tooth.

  Andy snickers and turns away.

  Gordon’s about to ruin everything. If he asks me first, I’ll have to say yes.

  “Listen Gordon, no offense …” I start.

  Mom says when someone says “no offense,” there’s a pretty good chance they’re about to offend you.

  “… but I’d rather you didn’t ask me.”

  “But, but … you said you wanted an A. Gram and I have been practicing. I thought you and I’d make a good team.” Gordon’s hands are palms-up in front of him pleading with me.

  I glance at Niles, but he clears his throat and turns away. And Andy is purposely avoiding eye contact with us too.

  The warning bell rings and I have no more time to sort this out. I stop and block Niles and Andy’s view. “Gordon. Do. Not. Ask. Me.” I lean in and look him directly in the eye. “Got it?”

  He closes his burrito wrapper and sets it in his backpack, looking down to avoid my eyes. His cheeks are suddenly splotchy. “Sure, Lupe. Sorry if I bothered you.” He walks quickly away into the boys’ locker room, his shoulders hunched forward.

  * * *

  Just like Gordon did, Samantha pulls the bottom of her gym shirt up as we get ready, but instead of pulling it over her head, she tucks it through the neck hole like a makeshift bikini. With most of Sammy Sockeye’s body inside her shirt, all that’s left is our mascot’s smiling head and cartoony thumbs-up over her right boob. Claire and another one of Samantha’s followers scramble to tuck their shirts through their neck holes too.

  “Hey Guadaloopy. Anda-loser,” Samantha says.

  Andy tries to stand in between me and Samantha. “Don’t,” she pleads with me, but it’s too late. My crappy comeback chip is already activated, and I’m on my tiptoes looking over Andy’s shoulder.

  “Hey yourself, Sam-o-nella.” My attempt to emphasize the word just comes out more like a bad stutter-pun.

  Samantha and her minions laugh. “Oh, good one.”

  Andy and I retreat in defeat to the gym. “Why do you do that?” Andy is half-laughing. “Seriously? Samonella?”

  Coach blows her whistle three short times. Kids pile out of the locker room into the gym. Thirty seconds later she blows it two short times. It’s like the middle-school version of a time-out countdown, but if she gets to one whistle and you’re not out, you can get marked down. Samantha and the other bunheads saunter out.

  Jordyn and a few club soccer girls come out together and walk by us.

  “Hey Andy,” Jordyn says, completely ignoring me.

  “Hey Jordyn,” Andy says back, waving awkwardly to them. I know she went to her first practice, but this is happening too quickly. My stomach swirls.

  Coach sounds the final whistle and everyone’s out … except Gordon. He finally skulks through the doors like a constipated camel.

  “Hustle, Schnelly!” Coach yells.

  He shuffles his feet a little, but he’s not moving any faster. I hope what I said isn’t getting to him.

  “Samantha, Claire, Megan! Fix your shirts. We aren’t going to a spring-break beach party.”

  I’ve never seen three people roll their eyes at exactly the same time. They pull their shirts down over their stomachs.

  “Gentlemen. Over here.” Coach points to the free-throw line.

  “Ladies.” She points to the out-of-bounds line. “Everyone, space yourselves out evenly facing someone on the other side.” She claps her hands together over and over like a ticking clock. I stand between Zola Fimple and Andy.

  If we were finalists in a beauty pageant, we might hold hands in solidarity. But the last thing I’d want to do is hold hands with Zola. Zola, a.k.a. the Green Goblin, is a serial nose-picker. Well, at least she was in the second grade, and old habits die hard. Even worse, she eventually found out I was the one who started the Green Goblin nickname and hasn’t spoken a word to me since.

  When everyone is in place, Coach rubs her hands together like she’s hatched a plot to get every kid in America to love sit-ups and burpees. “So. The moment we’ve all been waiting for. Today we pair off with our dance partners.”

  Someone makes a gagging noise and the kinds of words you hear on the bus echo through the gym.

  “That’s enough.” She faces the free-throw line. “Some of you might have heard the good news. The four best teams from each P.E. section get a coveted spot on the school stage during Issaquah Salmon Days and an automatic A in the class.”

  Maybe five people mumble excitedly, but most of us are staring at the opposite side of the room, more concerned that we’re about to hold hands with someone of the opposite sex who is not our brother or sister.

  “So, men. I suggest you ask someone you think you can partner well with.”

  The boys are glancing down the row like they’re inspecting eggs in a carton. Some of the boys lock eyes on someone immediately. Gordon’s scanning back and forth; his snarled half tooth is biting over his lower lip. I try to make eye contact with Niles, but he and Carl Trondson are distracted and pointing at a volleyball lodged impossibly into a light fixture near the ceiling.

  “As we’ve learned in class, gents will extend your hand and make a small bow.” Coach puts her right foot and hand out. She dips her head.

  A wave of groans bellows from the boys’ side.

  “Settle down.” She blows her whistle and it gets quiet again. “Ladies. It takes a lot of guts to ask someone to dance. After the invitation, you will take your partner’s hand and move to the center of the gym until everyone has a partner.”

  Carl breaks ranks and limp-runs toward Coach. He almost trips in his rush. He hands Coach a note.

  Her brow is furrowed as she attaches the note onto her clipboard. “Fine, Trondson. You sit this one out.” Coach stares at her notes and shakes her head.

  Carl takes a seat on the lowest bleacher. He makes a fist pump toward the boys while Coach is focused on writing something down.

  Niles and I got this. Even on the days I have baseball practice after school, I’ll have an hour before dinner to go to Niles’s house to practice. We can at least make the top twenty percent and guarantee my A.

  Coach blows her whistle again. This time it’s louder and longer. She does her signature sh
irt tuck, and hikes up her shorts. “Let’s get this started,” she screams out like the pro wrestling announcer on TV.

  At least two boys wipe their hands off on their shorts. To make the entire thing more humiliating, Coach hits play on her stereo. The instrumental version of “Turkey in the Straw” with fiddles and banjos strums out. This entire thing feels very wrong. I can’t be the only one who has ever felt this way.

  Blake struts forward first. He’s got on his swagger like when he’s coming up to bat. He walks immediately toward Samantha. No surprise she’s going to be the first one asked. Her arms are folded and she flutters her eyes pretending to be annoyed, but she’s bouncing up and down on her toes. He bows and holds out one hand.

  Samantha takes Blake’s hand. The side of her mouth makes a little upturn.

  Blake makes an exaggerated wink back at the boys.

  Samantha crosses one foot over the other like she’s waltzing onto the dance floor at a recital instead of the center of the gym. She narrows her eyes right at me as she saunters by. She thinks she’s won. But I know something she doesn’t. No one is making me say yes. I’m choosing to say yes to Niles, on my own terms.

  Blake has broken the seal, so now other boys walk forward to ask the girls. Some of the kids bow and accept before they’re even within ten feet of each other. It’s obvious a lot of kids have the same pre-arranged agreement Niles and I have.

  There are enough gaps in the line now that Zola, Andy, and me are completely off on our own.

  Over at the boys’ end, Gordon stares at the ground and walks toward me, his chipped tooth shining under the gym lights. I thought I was clear. I can’t believe he’s doing this.

  When Gordon’s within a few feet, he holds his hand out to Zola. I loosen my clenched fist. Zola bows back and her braid almost touches the ground. She takes his hand.

  Carl yells out from the sideline. “Hey look! It’s Gordon-Zola! Get it? Like the cheese!”

  The entire gym erupts in laughter. Even Coach smiles before she blows her whistle.

  Gordon laughs too. Then, his face goes completely blank. He turns two shades paler than usual. His lips are purple and sweat beads up on his upper lip.

  “What’s wrong, Gordon?” Zola drops his hand.

  Gordon clasps both hands over his mouth. His cheeks puff out like a chipmunk’s. The entire class recoils in epic horror as a yellow sludge of emulsified egg and sausage spews through his fingers and onto the floor. Andy, Zola, and I all jump back but it’s not fast enough to avoid some spray hitting our shoes. Sympathy gags spread around to other students. Even Andy is closing her eyes and taking deep breaths to avoid losing her own lunch, which is surprising for someone who specializes in owl puke.

  Coach runs over and ushers Gordon away. She grabs the phone off the wall. “Wet mess in the gym! Code V!” Less than thirty seconds later, the janitor, Mr. Helms, runs in with a canister and starts dusting the yellow sludge with mystery powder.

  “I’ll be right back,” Coach says. “You all stay put,” she calls, leading Gordon out of the gym. It’s silent for a few seconds while we all just stand around digesting what just happened.

  “Krakatau!” Carl yells out and pretends to make a volcanic eruption explode from his mouth.

  Nearly everyone laughs and starts chatting. Zola is staring down at a sausage chunk lodged in her shoe, muttering to herself, “Why is it always me?” Mr. Helms keeps sprinkling the granules but takes a second to point to his eyes then back at us in warning. Within a minute, he’s sweeping up Gordon’s breakfast.

  Coach eventually comes back, wringing her hands together, and everyone quiets down. I catch a whiff of hand sanitizer as she passes me. She directs us to the opposite basketball key as Mr. Helms wheels in a metal bucket sloshing with pine-scented water.

  Four of the five boys left use the chaos to walk over and ask their partners without an audience. Those couples jog quickly onto center court with everyone else.

  Now that most of the class has been paired up, only a few of us are left. The earlier look on Coach’s face now makes sense. Even before we’re lined up, it’s obvious we’re one boy short.

  Andy and I are the only girls left still walking toward the out-of-bounds line.

  Standing on the free-throw line, alone, is Niles.

  “Oh no,” I whisper, but I know Andy hears me.

  She hasn’t been asked by association. Being my best friend has cost her again. Her chin is trembling, just like when she wet her pants.

  “Andy …” I nudge her hand.

  “It’s okay. I don’t care,” she lies. Her head drops to her chest.

  Niles is already walking toward me. This is my fault. Now there’s no one to ask Andy to dance.

  Niles marches forward. He stops right in front of us, and looks between our heads at the green foam wall-mats. Then, he’s suddenly staring at Andy. I glance over too. Before she turns away, I catch a glimpse of a look on her face I’ve never seen before. As her chin trembles, she makes a hard wince like she’s going to shut out the flood of embarrassment that’s about to hit her.

  This is awful, and I want it all to be over now. But Niles still isn’t bowing.

  Why’s he hesitating? I reach out my hand, just a bit, to help move things along. When my hand is almost touching his, he notices, and looks at me. Then he takes a small step to the side and puts his arm out.

  He bows … to Andy.

  Andy and I turn our heads at the same time and stare at each other. I awkwardly tuck my hand behind my back. Samantha laughs so loudly everyone can hear her over the music.

  Coach blows her whistle and quickly looks down at her clipboard. “Andy, you know the drill.”

  Andy glances at Coach … then me … then Niles. She bows back and takes his hand. Andy and Niles walk to the center of the gym with the rest of the class. My face gets hot.

  As Coach changes the music, everyone is staring at me like I’m a blob-fish. Samantha cups her hand to the side of her mouth and says something. Her bunhead groupies and even Blake giggle. The singing version of “Turkey in the Straw” blares out in the background. The caller yells out, “Grab your partners!”

  Well, I got what I wanted from the start. I’m not dancing. I try to breathe and it feels like my rosin bag is lodged in my throat. Isn’t this what I was looking for? I tuck my hands in my pockets and step backward. I wish I could dissolve into the wall. Instead, I stand by myself against the green padding. I hope everyone is far enough away they can’t see. A tear sneaks over my lower lid and down my cheek.

  CHAPTER 9

  Zola returns from the locker room smelling like hand sanitizer.

  “Without Gordon, looks like the two of you get to dance together today,” Coach says.

  I open my mouth. Why now? Why couldn’t Andy and I just dance together in the first place? Instinctively, I stare down at Zola’s hands.

  Zola must have seen my not-so-stealth inspection, because she glares at me and grunts like she’s got a fur ball. I know it’s a little hypocritical after I just rubbed the snot running down my nose. And how much damage could she have done between the Purell dispenser and here? The caller yells out for a promenade, and when Zola snatches my hand like an annoyed mother does with her toddler at a store, I trail along.

  A few days ago, all I wanted was for square dancing to go away. Now, I’d give anything to have Gordon Schnelly as my partner. He won’t even be in science so I can apologize for how I spoke to him. Right about now he’s probably in the nurse’s office getting too-tight loaner sweats, waiting for his parents to pick him up.

  Why the heck did Niles stray from our plan?

  Zola squeezes my hand like I’m responsible for this whole square dancing fiasco. I spend the next twenty-five minutes on a sensory overload of hand cramps, body-odor winds, a kaleidoscope of twirling green-and-blue gym shirts, and some old guy screaming out instructions in a farm-ish accent.

  * * *

  Andy, Niles, and I walk in silence to our ne
xt class.

  We come to our usual Andy drop-off spot. She stands in her doorway. “Sorry, Lupe.”

  I glance at Niles, but I don’t think he heard.

  Andy boops my nose and walks into social studies.

  Niles and I lock elbows and we walk toward science class.

  Mr. Lundgren has on a bright orange T-shirt with a smiling glass beaker. A dialogue bubble is coming from the beaker’s mouth: “If you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the precipitate.”

  Niles sets down his backpack and retrieves our lab materials before the bell has even rung. I sit with my elbows on the table, hands over my eyes.

  The clinking of glass on glass mixes with students’ voices. Niles mumbles, “Baking soda, calcium chloride, H2O, graduated cylinder …”

  I peek out my fingers. Vials of solution are now lined up in a holder at our station, and Niles also arranged a pen and tape and a lab book in front of us.

  Carl walks in and a few people clap. He sits at the station across from us.

  I poke my head through the hole separating our stations. “How’d you get out of it? What did your note say?”

  “Warts,” he says, with a sneer on his face.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Plantar warts,” he says. “I had two taken out of my heel.”

  I smack my forehead. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “It’s not like I planned it,” Carl’s voice squeals. “It hurt.”

  “I call bull,” I say.

  He reaches in his backpack and pulls out a tiny sealed jar. Two grainy pebbles float around inside like decomposing cauliflower chunks.

  “The doctor let me keep them.”

  Mr. Lundgren is peeking over Carl’s shoulder. “Mmmmh. Formaldehyde.” He says it like the jar is filled with a yummy treat.

  “This is the worst day ever.” I put my hands on my face trying to block out the world.

  Niles sits down next to me. “Lupe, you’re not upset I asked Andy to dance instead, are you?” he asks.

  I peek between my fingers. Niles is swaying. Still, I can’t answer or my voice might crack.