Full Cicada Moon (3 page)

Papa doesn't want me to take the school bus,

so he's driving me on his way to the college.

When the wind blows the snow, it makes a rainbow.

Rainbows mean hope. I hope for a good day,

good teachers, a good friend.

Deep in my pocket, I touch the round of
omochi

and a square of corn bread

that Mama wrapped in wax paper

so I can remember our small, late
osh
o
gatsu
.

I wish we didn't have to live out in the sticks,

but Mama wants to raise turkeys and grow vegetables,

so even in spring, Papa will take me and bring me home.

Maybe there's another reason we live two miles from town

and Papa drives me to school.

Even if we lived in town,

in the kind of house other professors live in—

like that white-shingled Victorian with the black shutters—

would Papa escort me every morning

and stand guard after the last bell?

I thought that Papa was going to drop me off

in front of my new junior high.

Instead, he turns into the drive and parks in front

of the
PRINCIPAL
sign.

Our car is a green Malibu, which Papa drove

all the way from Berkeley to Hillsborough.

One day he'll tell us about that trip

all at once.

Or, maybe he has been telling it all along,

the way snowpack grows:

a million tiny flakes

drifting

one by one,

but I haven't been listening.

“Everything cool?” he asks.

I look out the windshield at the white clapboard building,

the wide steps up to the front doors,

the tall windows framed in green sashes.

“It's cool,” I say, because it's what he wants to hear,

and because so far there's nothing to worry about.

But in my stomach

little ice wings are fluttering.

Then he asks, “Do you want me to go in with you?”

I shrug, which today means yes,

and he knows that. “Just remember,” he says,

“be kind, be respectful, and persist.”

“Like raindrops on granite,” I say,

because we know that's how I persist—

drip, drip, drip

until the granite cracks.

The office smells like warm wood and paper

and sweet mimeograph,

and when the secretary, Miss Holder, gets up from her desk

and comes to the counter where Papa and I are standing,

I smell Ambush by Dana perfume.

She has to look up at my tall, dark, handsome dad.

“May I help you?” she asks,

glancing at me, then back to Papa.

“Mimi is starting school today,” he says

kindly, and hands her my packet of forms.

That's when she smiles, finally,

and says, “Oh, yes. We've been expecting you.”

Maybe she was expecting a new girl from California

but not expecting
me
.

Miss Holder takes a folder from the gray file cabinet,

and taps her pencil as she reads. Then she says

my homeroom teacher will be Mr. Pease and

I'll need to take a test for math.

“Mimi is doing algebra at home,” Papa states respectfully.

“Be that as it may,” she says, “the test is required.”

“And did she bring a skirt? Girls must wear skirts,” she says,

as if I'm not standing right here.

“But it's freezing outside,” I say.

“It's the dress code. Those are the rules.”

Papa gives me a quick hug. “I'll bring you one.”

Then I remember he's going to school today, too,

and whisper, “Drip, drip, drip.”

Miss Holder hands me my schedule.

“You travel with the same students to all your classes

except homeroom.

And home ec, of course,

when the boys go to shop class.”

“When do the girls go to shop class?” I ask.

Miss Holder frowns,

like my question makes no sense.

Then she says, “They don't.

Girls learn how to cook and sew

so they can be good homemakers.

Why would you want to make a bookcase

when you can make a cake?”

But I want to ask her why wouldn't I.

In homeroom, I look for someone

like Marciela, Yu-Lin, Poornima, even creepy Eiji

or the boy from next door.

I don't want to stick out,

don't want to be different

or scared.

Mr. Pease shows me an empty seat in the first row.

My name is written on the chalkboard

and underlined. Mr. Pease smiles, and I like him.

“Stand up, Mimi,” he says.

“Do you have a real name?”

“Mimi is my real name.”

Then he tells the class they can me ask three questions.

Michael, with blond hair and braces, goes first.

“Where did you come from?” he asks.

“Berkeley, California.” Michael looks puzzled.

“It's near San Francisco,” I say, but

he still looks confused.

I look at Mr. Pease,

who nods to a girl with glasses and a brunette flip. “Vicky.”

“What do you want to be when you grow—”

“An astronaut,” I answer quickly. I don't have to think about that.

I look around, expecting nods or smiles,

but everyone laughs. Even Mr. Pease.

“Maybe you should be a comedienne,” he says,

and right away I don't like him as much.

“Last question—Carl,” he says to a boy reaching his hand so high

he could pull the tiles out of the ceiling.

“What nationality are you?”

“I'm . . . American.”

“I mean . . . what are you?”

And then I understand what Michael had really been asking.

If everyone was laughing before, they're all quiet now,

as if they all had the same question and made Carl ask it.

But how do I answer that?

I look at Mr. Pease for help, but his eyes tell me

he has the same question.

It's up to me to solve the puzzle

of how to answer the question

What am I?—

when I know the real question

begins with Who.

My mouth waters whenever I think of my lunch

sitting in my new locker

(number 348, combination 36-11-17 . . . or 15?):

hinomaru
—one pickled plum on pearl rice—

and grilled salmon,

carrot slices shaped like flowers,

black-eyed peas and collard greens,

and the corn bread.

Mama packed this
obento
for me, even though

Papa told her a tuna sandwich and a thermos of soup

would be better at this school.

But after what happened in homeroom this morning,

I leave my
obento
in my locker

and eat the turkey tetrazzini and canned peaches

in the cafeteria

like everyone else.

Turkey tetrazzini tastes like a ball of paste,

and these canned peaches

are not like the ones Mama preserved in California.

Whenever she'd open a new jar

in the cold, rainy winter,

it became summer again in my bowl.

Everyone else is talking to everyone else

but not to me. So I eat this food

because I'm starving

and there isn't anything else to do

in this cafeteria

that smells like American cheese and Comet.

Nothing to do but look at my tray and eat

by myself.

Why is that boy over there—

the one in a fifth chair at a table of four—

staring at me?

Mama told me not to be pushy

but wait to be invited.

I smile at the boy. He smiles back

but doesn't invite me to a sixth chair.

Mr. Pease is also my English teacher.

I'm so glad he doesn't tell me to stand up in this class

and answer three questions.

“Welcome back from vacation,” he says.

His bow tie is crooked, like a propeller ready to spin,

and I imagine him soaring above our heads.

“Did I say something funny, Mimi?” he asks,

and in my mind Mr. Pease drop-lands on his
desk.

I shake my head.

“Stand up, please,” he says. “We have fun in my class,

but we work hard

and we don't tolerate clowns.”

“Yes, sir,” I say, and sit down again.

Feet shuffle on the floor,

and voices around me murmur, “Wooo.”

“From now until the end of the year, you'll be keeping a journal,”

he says, handing out spiral notebooks from a stack on his desk.

“You'll write, draw, collage, or whatever you want.

But you'll do it at least three times a week.”

“Do we have to show them to you?” asks a girl beside me.

“Do I see a hand, Barbara?” he asks.

Vermont teachers are stricter than teachers in Berkeley.

Barbara raises her hand. “Do we have to show them to you?”

“You'll turn them in before the end of the year.”

I raise my hand, and Mr. Pease nods.

“What do we write about?”

“Whatever you want.”

I raise my hand again, and he says, smiling, “You still have the floor.”

“What kind of writing can we do?”

He leans forward. “Whatever you want, as long as I can read it.

Experiment, try something new.”

“Like poetry?” someone asks.

“As long as I can read it.”

I know

exactly what I will write in my journal for Mr. Pease,

and by June, he'll understand better

who
I am.

“This spring, you're going to make aprons,”

says Mrs. Olson in home ec.

“And next fall, you'll wear them when you cook.”

“Why don't we just
buy
an apron?” someone asks.

I had the same question,

because Mama has plenty of aprons that I can wear

and I'd rather make a skirt.

“Because you're learning how to sew,” Mrs. Olson says,

passing out a paper with
Notions
printed at the top

and a picture of the apron—

a rectangle with a pocket and a long strip for the tie.

It looks simple and plain.

If Mama designed this apron, it would be a lot fancier.

“What are notions?” someone asks.

“They're your thread and your needles and pins.

You can get everything in town.”

I have a notion that Mama and I

will go downtown this Saturday.

I have a notion that she'll buy one fabric

with flowers for the bottom part

and another fabric with stripes

for the tie and pocket.

Then she will buy extra fabric for a ruffle

and rickrack for a trim.

And I have notion

that if I sew this apron very fast,

I'll have time to make a skirt.

The last class of my first day

is science.

My teacher, Mrs. Stanton, has curly hair

like mine, but hers is light-brown-turning-silver.

She wears a forest green skirt that flares,

a beige turtleneck,

and a cardigan buttoned at the top like a cape.

Her glasses are on a chain.

“It will be May before we know it,”

she says, leaning against her desk,

“and time for the Science Groove.”

She waits—for the kids to say something

or clap, but all they do is lean on their arms

or doodle, or yawn and stick out their legs.

They all know what she's talking about. But I don't.

I want to ask what the Groove part is all about.

My arm aches to rise. But,

since I already feel like Mama's
maneki-neko
,

I wait

for someone else to ask.

“I'll help you choose a project,” Mrs. Stanton says.

“You'll write a report and do a presentation for ten minutes.

And
, it must be entirely your own work.

No one can do it for you.”

N
ow
my hand springs up.

Mrs. Stanton nods. “Wait till I finish,

then you might not have a question anymore.

Everyone will set up their projects in the gym

and the projects will be judged.

The best projects will win awards.

Did that answer your question, Miss Oliver?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Here they call it a Groove. In Berkeley

we called it a Fair. I won third prize at the Fair.

At the Groove, I will win first.

After school

Papa is waiting near the buses.

He stands like a giant sequoia,

wearing his tweed coat that Mama made

and his mustache and those glasses—

all he needs is a pipe.

He nods hello

to the kids

who crane their necks to stare

as they pass.

Some ask “Who's that?” and

some glance at me,

guessing the connection.

“How was your first day?” Papa asks,

adjusting my scarf.

I know he wants me to like Hillsborough,

so I shrug and say, “Good.”

There was some good, like the Science Groove

and writing in a journal.

“Are we going home now?

Where's the car?”

“I left it at the college,” he says. “We'll walk there

so you can see the downtown.

Do you have everything—books

for homework, your lunch box?”

“Yes,” I say quickly,

telling the truth about the first part.

I have my books. But my
obento

is still in my locker.