Lupe Wong Won't Dance Page 8

  “I know we had a deal, and I know you need the A, but when I looked at Andy …”

  I don’t answer. I saw the same look on her face. I turn away just like she did so he can’t see my eyes. He did the right thing, even if it kinda sucks for me now.

  I guess the day could be worse—if I held it against Niles for just being a good person.

  “Yeah, you did the right thing.”

  CHAPTER 10

  At least baseball practice starts tomorrow, so I have something good to take my mind off what a disaster my life has become. After school, I’m in my backyard and have one bucket of balls left, which should be plenty to get to my eighty-one.

  “Sixty-seven … Sixty-eight …”

  I’m almost done. This is the point where my dad would’ve encouraged me through to the end. And these are the times I miss him most and imagine he’s with me.

  The pocket is blurry through my tears.

  Focus. It’s just you and me. Dad hits the center of his mitt with his other hand. You got this, Lupe.

  I want him to really be here so I can run into his arms and tell him how bad my day was.

  I hear someone walking down the alley. I hurry and blink away my tears.

  Paolo walks up in his soccer uniform. For a second I wonder if he knows I’m upset.

  “Sixty-nine,” I say, keeping a straight face.

  Paolo looks like he’s going to pass by and leave me unscathed. Instead, he jukes and takes me out at the knees. The wind is knocked out of me a little. He hoists me back up by the waist of my jeans, giving me a wedgie. He strolls into the house like he didn’t just lay me flat, and possibly hinder my ability to ever have children.

  I shake my fist at him. “Someday, when you’re old and in a wheelchair, I’m gonna push you down a hill, Paolo!”

  “Good one!” he yells back. I’ve officially hit my second crappy comeback in a day.

  I get set back up and readjust my jeans, throw the next pitch, and completely miss the strike zone. I throw my glove down and sit on the porch. This is happening because I’m letting square dancing beat me.

  My dad stands. You gonna let that one pitch defeat you, Lupe? Wongs don’t give up that easy.

  How pathetic is it that I’m letting some old-fashioned dance mess with my game? I can’t give up.

  What did Delia say? Change.org seemed a bit extreme before, but desperate times …

  I hear Paolo turn on the shower, meaning I have two or three minutes before he comes back out (smelling no better than when he went in, I might add). So I have to get to the computer in the family room and type fast.

  Attention, anyone with any humanity! The suffragette movement has come to Issaquah Middle School! Please help stop the barbaric practice of required square dancing in which girls have to say yes to male suitors! This is an antiquated custom and needs to end immediately. Like tomorrow before school starts! Please write in to Principal Singh (email copied below) to let her know how you feel.

  Signed,

  Anonymous Concerned Citizen

  “Can’t make it any worse,” I mutter. I hit enter.

  I spend the rest of the evening hiding in my room. I even do the “pretend to clean my room” trick. My mom won’t want to thwart a miracle, so that will keep her from asking too many questions.

  Finally, I crawl into bed, but my mind won’t settle. I keep thinking of the Change.org campaign. I doubt myself and whether or not it was a good idea. I stare at the ceiling. Then I stare at my Fu Li card. That makes it worse. I imagine baby hedgehogs getting baths. Nothing helps. I take three deep breaths like Papa Wong tells me to do when I’m stressed. It sort of works. I close my eyes and feel myself drifting. It will be fine.

  No one will even read it.

  * * *

  The next morning, I scarf down a stale concha and sit at the computer before school. I hit the envelope button for my email. Something’s wrong. It normally loads in a few seconds and pops up showing a few overnight junk emails. This time it’s at four hundred and twenty-three and not stopping. I think I’ve gone viral.

  The subject line on the first email reads, “How cute! Go get ’em! You have my support!”

  The second says, “Outrageous! Should we bring back petticoats and chastity belts?”

  I’m not even sure what those things are.

  Mom rounds the corner.

  “Nothing!” I yell out and hit exit before she even asks what I’m doing.

  “Okaaaay …” she says, shifting her eyes around in confusion. “You need to go. You’re going to miss the bus.”

  My stomach swirls concha and milk, but not because I might miss the bus. I grab my backpack and run out, hoping my mom doesn’t decide today’s the day to start monitoring my email.

  * * *

  Principal Singh’s voice crackles over the loud speaker during first period. “Ahem … I … uh … have received no fewer than two thousand emails regarding a certain school matter overnight.”

  I squint and cover my eyes. This is worse than I thought.

  “It seems there is great concern over equal opportunity issues regarding square dancing,” she says. “I agree. We need to change this.”

  I can’t help the surprised little gulping noise I make, and the grin spreading over my face. I fold my hands in front of me on top of my desk. Mumbles go around the class. Two kids turn in their seats to look right at me, amazed looks on their faces. This is it! I’m about to become infamous.

  “Therefore,” she continues, “in addition to our already-established boy-ask-girl P.E. section, we will also have an entirely separate gender-neutral square dancing event.”

  My smile flattens. I tuck my hands under my legs. The astonished looks on the kids’ faces shift to something more like a combination of a tetanus shot and hammer to the kneecap.

  “This presents some scheduling issues. So this year, instead of the end-of-quarter Field Day, seventh graders will have a Sadie Hawkins, gender-neutral dancing day in the gym,” she says excitedly. “Students will be able to ask whomever they choose!”

  Someone pounds on a desk behind me. “Are you kidding me? Field Day is the funnest day of the year.”

  A pencil flies down the aisle and lands next to me.

  “Now thanks to someone, we can’t even have Field Day,” Claire’s voice chimes out. “I wonder who that could be?” I’m pretty sure the pencil flew out of her bun. I’m not even sure why Claire cares. Field Day is for sports. It’s not like she can pirouette in between soccer and football players.

  Principal Singh continues, “From this year onward too, square dancing in P.E. will be gender-neutral. There will be no more discussion on this matter.” The intercom squeals then goes silent.

  I’m staring straight ahead at the white board, but I can feel eyes all over me.

  They all assume it was me. I mean, it was, but …

  Ms. Craig pulls out her copy of The Hunger Games. “Turn in your books to page …”

  I sit in class, pinpricks running over my face, waiting for the bell. I don’t look up from my book and mostly forget to turn the page when Ms. Craig moves on. As Ms. Craig reads the book, there are gasps, oh-my-Gods, and cringes. But I can’t even focus on any of what she’s reading. The bell finally rings and I am up and out of my chair before everyone else.

  I speed walk out, but Marcus runs out of the math class next door and blocks me in. “Nice work, Lupe.”

  I sort of expect this from Marcus. He’s had it in for me since I beat him out for #1 in the rotation when we were nine. He wouldn’t act like this in front of Blake or any of the others, though.

  Now, the rest of my class is pouring out. And no one from the team is there to have my back.

  “Thanks for ruining our lives!” Timmy Krueger bumps in to me.

  His twin, Jimmy, stomps toward me and puts his face two inches from my cheek. “I heard she mixed Pop Rocks with Coke, so she has brain damage.” His spit sprays into my ear.

  “That’s what ha
ppens when you go mixing things up,” Timmy says.

  I don’t move, sort of hoping my instinct to play dead will make me less visible. My innards boil when I hear this kind of stuff, but my parents taught me to never react. I know better than to pick a fight with this kind of stupid.

  “No, she’s just naturally an idiot,” Claire says, and they all laugh.

  Niles exits LRC from across the hall. For just a moment I know they can’t hurt me now. I loosen my grip on my backpack straps. I give Niles my most frantic “Help me” look and flick open my imaginary Sonic Screwdriver. He hurries over and takes my elbow, pulling me behind him. One leg forward, he bends his knees and projects his other hand pointed outward like a blade. He eases me away, like he’s removing a carcass from a pack of stalking wolves.

  Jimmy steps forward and tries to pull Niles away by his shoulder. Niles spins out of his grip and puts his fists up in a defensive position so fast everyone around us takes a step back. Jimmy’s eyes go wide, almost like a cartoon character. He puts his hands up like he’s warding off a werewolf. His voice cracks, “You better back off.”

  Niles steps back in front of me and reaches back, grasping my elbow again without taking his eyes off of them. Without a word, he leads me away.

  Once we’re a safe distance off, Niles lets go.

  “Is it cool?” I ask, using our code phrase.

  He nods. I put my arm around his shoulder and squeeze, then quickly let go before anyone sees.

  Niles sighs. “Would you rather square dance with those people or eat ten banana slugs a day for the rest of your life?”

  “Slugs,” I say quietly.

  CHAPTER 11

  The twinges in my stomach must be like the itchy nose thing. Someone, somewhere, must be talking about me. But these pings are starting to feel like a bristle brush slamming against my insides. So everyone must be talking about me everywhere.

  I haven’t touched my sandwich once at lunch, and Niles is almost done organizing the raisins he’s picked out of his ants-on-a-log by size. He licks the peanut butter off the largest raisin and pops it into his mouth.

  I scan the cafeteria for Andy but can’t find her.

  Gordon sits next to us and opens his lunch bag. He dumps out all the contents and I can’t help but notice there’s an ice pack mixed in, to keep his food bacteria-free. He takes a swallow of an orange electrolyte drink, and his face twists up like someone’s biting his big toe.

  “Hey Gordon. How are you feeling?” I ask.

  “Better, thanks.” He puts an entire saltine cracker in his mouth. He chews for a solid thirty seconds, then dislodges a stuck cracker between his teeth.

  “I’m sorry about how I acted yesterday,” I blurt out. “I shouldn’t have told you not to ask me.” I glance at Niles pushing on a chip, flattening it. “It’s just—I already had this plan …”

  Gordon takes another drink of the orange stuff. He squints and shudders like it’s vinegar. “It’s okay, Lupe. You’re good at stuff. I wanted a chance to prove to everyone I can be good at something too.”

  I push my chocolate milk toward him and take his electrolyte drink as a peace offering. “Well, you and Zola will have your chance today.”

  He looks up, his half tooth coated with orange cracker, and toasts me with the chocolate milk. “Thanks. I sure hope so.”

  * * *

  Without a partner, I’ve prepared myself to clean bleachers with Carl or organize the ball closet in P.E., but Coach isn’t there. Instead, an old man strolls out blowing a whistle, in a faded yellow tracksuit that looks like it hasn’t seen the light of day in twenty years. A smile explodes across his face. His teeth are way too big to be his own.

  “Attention, hooligans! Miss Solden isn’t here today.” His emphasis on Miss doesn’t get by me. He lowers his voice … barely. “I’m sure for some female reason.” He clears his throat, and it sounds like he’s gurgling mayo. “So, I’m your emergency sub today. I’m Coach Armstrong, and I ran the athletic program at North Seattle Middle School for forty years before I retired …” He chuckles a deep laugh. “… just a few days back.” No one laughs with him.

  All things considered, I’m pretty sure this guy hasn’t seen an actual gym or student in fifty years.

  “Today we’ll be hanging up our hoop skirts and playing a man’s game.” He points to the whiteboard with “Capture the Flag” written on it. “Today, we go to war!”

  There are whoops and fist pumps, but Gordon’s entire body slumps into a C shape, like his spinal cord has turned to rubber. Even if I just caught a major break, I can’t help but feel for him a little.

  I try to make eye contact with Niles, but he’s paying attention to the sub. He had to know about this change in our lesson plan. This isn’t something Mr. Lambert wouldn’t have cleared with him beforehand.

  “To the team who wins, I’ll make sure you get extra-credit points,” Coach Armstrong says.

  I’m not even sure if he’s supposed to do that. But now, I’m going to need any extra points I can get. It might even push me into getting an A without needing to be a square dancing finalist. Fu Li, here I come! Even if this sub is a nimrod, Coach Solden won’t go back on what he promised us. I have to win this game.

  If I can get Blake and Niles on my team, it’s a lock. I jump up to see over the crowd of kids to find Blake. I catch him glancing at me and he ducks down hiding. Marcus must have gotten to him. Even when we were little and it was our first year playing, Blake never shunned me. My dad said there was an unspoken rule on how a catcher always had their pitcher’s back.

  I yell-whisper with the stealth of a rhinoceros around the crowd, “Hey Blake!” I know he hears me, but he turns the other way. If Blake is ignoring me, the rest of the team is too. I’m on my own.

  Coach Armstrong marches ahead and pumps an arm over his head. He shouts, “Hut, hut, hut …” Which I’m pretty sure is his confused version of a football call and marching orders.

  I catch up to Niles. “Did you know about this?” I ask.

  “Mr. Lambert asked me this morning if I was okay with Capture the Flag.”

  I make an annoyed grunt. “Could you warn me next time?”

  “I thought you’d be happy,” he says.

  He’s right. I’ve never asked Niles to tell me when he gets advance notice of a unit from Mr. Lambert. “I guess I should be happy. We just need to win.”

  We hike behind the track and up the trail to what used to be an archery field before someone accidentally shot an endangered prairie chicken. Now, the area is used for Scout campouts and Capture the Flag. It has a smaller, open central clearing but is surrounded by boulders and evergreens, making it the perfect battlefield.

  Coach Armstrong counts us off by saying, “Hut, hike, hut, hike, hut, hike.”

  Not only is my plan to be on Blake’s team ruined, but now I can’t control who’s on my team at all. I’m a hut. Andy’s a hike, with Blake, Samantha, and Jordyn. But at least I have Niles.

  “I’ve mixed things up a bit.” Coach Armstrong holds up one red flag and one blue flag. Each has a round lump on the end. “I’ve wrapped a tennis ball in each of these. This, youngsters, will be a passing game.” He mimics a long pass. “New rule! If you capture your opponent’s flag, you can pass to a teammate. This will be a test of teamwork. If you get tagged, you’re out. First person back to their own territory with the opponent’s flag wins. Three minutes to hide your flag, starting … now!” He blows his whistle and tosses the flags, one to each side.

  Andy waves back to me as she runs off with Jordyn. Niles, Gordon, and I run for our area and start searching for a good hiding spot. Zola insists it should be placed in a crevice making it more difficult to dig out. One kid uses up twenty precious seconds with a plan to keep it down his gym shorts and then toss it out when no one is watching. Niles raises his hand.

  “Niles,” I say, pointing to him.

  Everyone leans in.

  “They are going to come in there,” he point
s to the center. “There,” to another opening. “Or there.” He points to a narrow passage I didn’t even notice. “So we can’t hide it anywhere along those lines.”

  It goes very quiet for a moment.

  “So we should hide the flag where it’s out of their line of sight on all three entryways,” he adds. There are comprehending “aaahs” and “ooohs” from a few of us.

  “And where would that be?” Zola juts her bony hip out so fast it looks dislocated.

  Niles points to an outcropping of small rocks behind us. The one-minute warning whistle sounds.

  I grab our blue flag and run it to Niles’s spot. About half the kids don’t even care about the game and run into the forest behind us. The only consolation is I know the same desertion is happening behind enemy lines on the other side of the field.

  If we’re going to win, I need a strategy. Send the fastest kids in. Keep the slowest on our front line to defend our area. Use the rest as decoys scattered in our territory.

  Niles is faster than me, but in a game like this where people will be running and yelling, it might be stressful for him to run into the thick of it all. I run over to where he’s standing, away from the others.

  “What are you thinking, go after the flag or hang back here?”

  He nods. “I was thinking backfield. It’ll be quieter.”

  “You okay with tagging people? No worries if not.”

  “Better than being tagged,” he smiles. “Let’s do it.”

  “Awesome, we could use your speed!” No one is going to get past him with his jets.

  We huddle up with the rest. “Zola, Niles. You two guard the outer fortress. Gordon, you stay on our side to guard our flag.”

  Gordon puts his palms up in front of him. “I can do this, Lupe. Just give me a chance.”

  I feel for him, and I just got done apologizing for being rude to him … but this isn’t the time for Gordon to prove himself by being on offense. I need these extra points, and I’m not sure if I can trust him to run across into enemy territory.