Full Cicada Moon (9 page)

I'm trying hard not to believe

that kids in science class are ignoring me

while I present my project.

I try to ignore—

Ann Marie jiggling her foot

and picking at her cuticles

Bruce yawning

and stretching his mouth as wide as his arms

David getting out of his seat

and opening the window—

just when I ask

if anyone would like to look through the holes

and see the phases of the moon.

“Everyone, pay attention,” Mrs. Stanton says,

then asks, “May I look?”

I'm trying hard to smile

in front of the class

without breaking apart,

and pretend I don't see—

while Mrs. Stanton gazes at the moon,

unaware—

that kids are making squint-eyes at me.

Only ten science projects can go

into the A group.

They will be judged for first, second, and third prizes

in the Science Groove

by college students who are studying the same topics,

and by Mr. Donovan, the school superintendent,

who invented a spray that makes your hair smell clean.

And guess which project

made it into the A group?

Guess!

Someone wasn't ignoring me on Tuesday

when I presented my project.

Thank you, Mrs. Stanton,

for the A group

and the A plus!

I'm not mad at Stacey anymore,

and I hope she isn't mad at me

as I dial her number tonight.

“I'm sorry,” I say, and

right away she says, “I'm sorry, too.

Best friends?”

“Always,” I say, feeling lighter

now that my anger has disappeared.

“Do you want to come over on Saturday

and get ready for the dance together?” she asks.

My heart still has a little bruise

where her mom didn't want me at her house,

so I ask, “Can you come here instead?”

“It's really okay, Mimi,” she says.

“Please?” I ask.

And when she comes back to the phone

and asks, “What time?”

that bruise heals

a little more.

Auntie and I used to watch

Shindig!
and
Hullabaloo

and sometimes Dick Clark

and dance.

She let me wear her white lipstick

and her go-go boots

as we did the Pony.

Tonight is my first real dance.

School calls it Spring Fling,

but everyone else calls it Spring
Thing
.

Stacey came home with me after school.

Mama made tempura—because she knows people like tempura—

and meat loaf, in case Stacey didn't like tempura.

We had rice, and Mama asked if she wanted potatoes.

Stacey smiled and said, “We ate rice in Georgia, too.”

Now we go up to my room. I open the windows

because the warm May air puts me in the mood

for getting ready for my first dance.

Stacey's dress is made of dotted swiss.

It has a white bodice and a violet skirt,

with a thin, white ribbon and a tiny flower at the waist.

She got it at a store called Bonwit Teller in Boston.

Her hair is in big curlers all around her head,

and when she puts mascara on her eyelashes,

her mouth opens, the way mine does when I look at the moon and stars.

Mama made my dress

from the robin's-egg blue silk

that Auntie Sachi sent her for a kimono.

But Mama said she'd rather make a dress

she can see on me

than a kimono

she can see on herself

only in a mirror.

She said, “Besides, finding a
gofukuya
here to make a kimono

is like finding snow in Honolulu.”

“Your mother is so talented,” Stacey says,

running her fingers through a pleat in my dress.

“Does she make all your clothes?”

“Most of them,” I say, feeling guilty

that I wish my dress

had come from Bonwit Teller.

Now Stacey's doing my makeup.

“Not too much,” Mama had told me yesterday.

“You're beautiful enough already.”

My skin is too dark to wear Stacey's liquid foundation,

but she pats blusher on my cheeks,

and smooths Vaseline on my lower lip with her pinkie.

“Go like this,” she says, pressing her lips together.

And when she stands close to me to draw on my eyelids,

her breath smells like toothpaste and tempura shrimp.

“Now your hair. Let's make it loose.”

“No—Mama likes it pulled back tight.”

“She won't mind just for tonight,” Stacey says,

then undoes my braid and combs my hair with her fingers.

She rubs a dab of goop in her hands

and runs them through my hair again, and says,

“Now your curls are making themselves known.”

She clips the sides together at the back of my head.

“What do you think?” she asks

as we stand side by side in the mirror.

I'm afraid to love what I see—

afraid it would be too vain

to think the girl with the blue dress and shiny lips

and hair curling around her shoulders

is pretty, so I say,

“You are so talented.”

We go downstairs

and Papa takes pictures of us,

together and separately.

Mama holds out her wedding pearls

and tells me to turn around.

They are cold on my neck, and I

feel like I've just grown up five years.

“The boys won't have a chance around you girls,” Papa says,

and Stacey and I look at each other and say, “Eww.”

But I know what the boys think of Stacey

and how they're afraid to talk to her

because she's so pretty and has that accent

as fragrant as lilacs.

We put on our shoes at the door,

and Papa presses a dime into my palm.

“Just in case you need to call,” he says.

I don't understand

because he's picking me up after the dance.

When we drive past Mr. Dell's house,

I wish Timothy were here

to see me all dressed up for my first dance.

When we go into the gym,

the band is playing “The Mighty Quinn”

so loud

that we have to shout in each other's ears.

The drums beat from my soles to my chest,

and I'm so excited

or nervous

that giggles go down my throat,

and I feel that something brand new

is going to happen tonight.

There are streamers along the walls, and the lights are dim,

but everything—

earrings, barrettes, and even buttons

on the boys' shirts—glitters.

The air smells like roses and Tabu and Canoe

and Right Guard spray.

Girls with ribbons in their hair

are talking to girls with flower earrings

and boys who scratch their necks.

Somewhere beyond that wall of kids,

people must be dancing.

Stacey starts to move her arms and legs,

and I dance with her.

“Hey, you're good!” she shouts in my ear,

and I smile. It's because of Auntie Sachi

and Dick Clark.

A few seconds later, a tall boy in eighth grade

taps her on the shoulder.

She twists around and he says something in her ear.

She nods. “Be right back,” she says to me,

and they go through the wall of kids.

The band switches to “Love Is All Around,”

so they must be slow dancing.

I turn around, looking at the girls and boys

talking, hoping someone will see me and smile

and wave me in to their group.

But no one does.

At the refreshment table I get a Tab

and back up to the wall near the girls' room,

and smile at people. Some smile back,

but they all have something important to do.

I finish my Tab and turn to put the can in the trash,

when someone bumps me,

knocking me against the table,

and moves on.

The kids behind the refreshment table don't seem to notice

what happened to me,

but they see the tipped-over cans and bottles

and quickly line them up again.

The band is playing “Girl Watcher.” I am not that girl.

I'm like that part of the moon that the crescent curls around—

in shadow,

invisible.

Deep in my pocketbook

I find the dime Papa gave me.

School will be over in two weeks,

but we still have lots to do before then.

Today

we brought our science projects to school

for the Science Groove.

Papa carried my moon box,

and I carried my poster and report

and the flashlight and extra batteries

to the gym,

where many long tables were set up

to hold the displays.

Tonight

the teachers and parents and families

and anyone else

will come to the gym,

look at the projects, and ask questions.

Mrs. Stanton said there isn't much to do in Hillsborough,

so everyone in town comes to the Science Groove.

Tomorrow

the judges will look at the Group A and B projects

and read our reports

and ask us questions.

Papa said my project is in a good spot,

at the end of the table,

where you can see it from the entrance to the gym.

People are coming by

and looking through the holes at the moon

and asking questions, like

“Why did you do this project?” and

“Do you like the moon?” and

“What nationality are you?”

(But mostly they ask about my project.)

The big difference between Group A and Group B

is that Group A wins the awards.

David, who made the water mill in wood shop,

is next to me. He's in Group B

but thinks he should be in A,

and has told me many times tonight

in many different ways—like

“How is a box with holes better than a water mill?”

“Your father made that, right?”

“I'd be in Group A if you didn't move here,” and

“People should stay with their own kind.”

It's funny

how other people get to decide when I'm invisible

but I can't make them disappear.

So I turn around and pretend to straighten my poster,

when someone behind me says,

“Well, well. That's a good-looking box.

Did you make that all by yourself?”

I nod, and turn around

to see Mr. Dell.

My heart thumps at the surprise

of seeing him at school,

until I remember the Science Groove is public.

“Hello,” I say carefully.

“Mm-hmm,” he says with a little nod,

and walks on down the aisle.

WHO

took the moon out of my moon box?

And

WHY

would anyone do that?

I have no words left.

They've drifted away

into the vast, expanding

loneliness

of space.

But I still have lots of tears.

Mr. Donovan and Mrs. Stanton let me stay in the Groove

even though my moon is gone

and I couldn't show the judge

the best part of my project—the moon and its phases.

He could only look through the holes of the moon box

and imagine how my moon would look

with the flashlight shining on it from different angles.

He could not know how beautiful my moon was

and how hard I worked on it.

The worst part about all this—

worse than having my moon stolen—

is that I'm now in Group B,

and I won't win first prize.

And David's water mill

moved into my spot in Group A.

David won't look at me

as we stand beside our projects,

waiting for the results.

You know

those bad dreams

that make you glad

they were only dreams?

I wish

I could wake up

from bad days.

Tuesday after the Science Groove,

Karen and Kim sit at a table in the cafeteria

and hang their pocketbooks on the chairs.

I take my tray over to them, and ask,

“Do you still want to learn Japanese?”

“Yes,” they say, nodding so hard the table teeters.

“Teach us some words.”

“Okay, here's one—
baka
.”

“
Baka
,” they repeat. “What's that mean?”

“Well, it's hard to translate . . . but it's a sign

of respect,” I say,

and hold my hand over my mouth like Mama.

This is fun.

“Like, you say it to teachers?”

“That's right. And your parents.”

“Is that what your mom says to your dad?”

“All the time,” I say,

and pick up my tray to go.

“Sit with us,” they say,

and smile.

That's when I stop laughing

and almost tell them the truth.

That's when I wish I could tell them

how much it hurts and how lonely I feel—

which is why I just taught them a word

my mom would be ashamed to know

that I know.

Next Friday is the last day of school, so

Mr. Pease is holding up a sheet of paper

in homeroom. “Quiet down, students.

Please sign-up for our end-of-the year party.

You can bring any kind of snack,

like brownies or potato chips.”

He gives the paper to Robert

in the first seat in the first row.

When it comes around to me,

I write
Sushi
, even though I haven't asked Mama

if she'll make it.

Then I look at what I've written

and think of the faces

the kids will make when they see the sushi

and the tone of their voices

when they ask, “You eat raw fish?”

even though that sushi would have cooked shrimp

and eggs

and vegetables,

or maybe hot dogs.

So I cross out
Sushi

and write
Chocolate chip cookies
.