Authors: Jenny Han
Mama gives me twenty dollars for school supplies and warns that I’d better bring back the change. I try to battle for twenty-five, but she tells me I’d better hush before she turns that twenty into a ten. I hush up quick. Before she can change her mind, Elaine and I ride our bikes over to the drugstore.
Elaine has her mother’s credit card. Money is a funny thing. I never really think about it until I am standing in a store with a crumpled-up twenty and Elaine has a shiny silver credit card and can spend to the high heavens. Not that she would, and not that her parents would let her, but the point is, she could if she wanted to.
I know exactly what I want to buy: one blue fountain pen, two black pens, five binders (one for every class), two
packs of college-ruled loose leaf paper, one box of watercolor markers, one box of mechanical pencils, and if there’s enough money, one bottle of Wite-Out.
Elaine doesn’t care about school supplies, and she gets restless as I debate the merits of felt tip pens versus roller ball. As soon as we came in, she threw a pack of ballpoint pens and a couple of notebooks into our cart and proceeded to follow me around with a bored look on her face.
“The roller balls are thirty cents more, but they really do write smoother. And the felt tips tend to run out of ink faster. Elaine, are you listening?”
She’s leaning against our cart, and she straightens up. “Huh? Uh, yeah, the felt tip. Get the felt tip.”
I roll my eyes and throw the roller balls into the cart.
As we move through the check-out line, Elaine says, “Hey, what do you think of Hugh Sasser? He’s pretty cute, right?”
“Yeah, he’s pretty cute. Why? You like him?” This is a new development. Elaine has yet to find one boy from Clementon worthy of her affection.
She smiles. “I don’t know. Maybe. Depends.”
We pay for our school supplies, and I have sixty-seven cents in change.
Tying our bags to our bike handles (Elaine has to take
one of mine), we ride slowly down Grove Street. That’s when we see them: boys. Jack and Hugh and Mark horsing around in front of the ticket booth at the Minnie Sax 99-Cent Movie Theater. It’s Clementon’s historic theater, and it only plays old movies.
“Be cool,” Elaine whispers to me. Now the boys have seen us too, and they wave, except for Jack. We take our time riding over.
Mark’s wearing a sky blue polo shirt, and his hair is sweaty. He looks terrific, really terrific. “Hey guys,” he says. He grins at me and kicks my bike, and I kick his shin.
“What are y’all up to?” Hugh asks, but he only looks at Elaine.
“Back-to-school shopping,” she says.
“We’re about to watch a movie,” Hugh says. “Do you guys wanna come with us?”
At this Jack rolls his eyes and mutters under his breath.
Elaine and I look at each other, pretending to think it over. She shrugs, I shrug. “Yeah, sure, why not?” she says at last.
After we pay for our tickets (Elaine spots me the thirty-two cents), the five of us file into the theater. Now, I know that Elaine wants to sit by Hugh, and I of course want to sit by Mark, and neither of us want to sit next to Jack. It’s
like walking a tight rope—we have to fix it so that we walk behind or in front of the boy we want to sit next to. Elaine and I figure all this out in one desperately determined look.
Elaine shouldn’t have worried, because Hugh makes a beeline for her. I don’t have the same kind of luck.
Mark’s toward the back, and I stoop down to tie my shoelace to buy time. But while I’m busy tying, he whizzes right by me. I run to catch up, and say, “Hey, have you gone back-to-school shopping with your mom yet?”
“Nah, she’s just gonna go pick out the stuff I need.” I remember when Mrs. Findley used to take the two of us. We’d sit in the back of the station wagon and compare erasers and pencil cases.
We walk into the theater together, and to my good fortune, I get to sit next to Mark. Elaine is next to Hugh, then Mark, then me, and then Jack, unfortunately. You win some, you lose some.
It’s hard to concentrate on a movie when the boy who possesses your heart is sitting mere inches away. I feel hyperaware of all my senses, like I never really knew my own body until this very moment. I wish he would hold my hand. I wish I could hold his hand. But I’m afraid. I’m afraid he can hear my heart beating extra fast when we
bump elbows, I’m afraid that what I feel for him shows all over my face. I’m afraid of everything.
Sitting there in the dark, I close my eyes. I imagine that we’re on a real date, that it’s just the two of us, that—
Jack pokes me on the shoulder, hard. “Wake up, butthead.”
I slap his hand away and try to pay attention to the movie.
The movie is over too soon. Walking out of the theater, I feel like a real teenage girl who goes to the movies with boys, and I’m scared but I’m excited, too. As Elaine and I are mounting our bikes, Jack says, “Why do you always wear your hair up, Annemarie?” Before I can answer, he yanks the ponytail holder out of my hair and a few strands come out with it.
I yelp, and my bike falls to the ground with a loud clatter. My cheeks are flaming, and I feel like I have a fever. Stomping on his foot, I yell, “You barbarian! You idiot!” He holds the hairband high above my head. Jack Connelly, the only boy in our class who is taller than me.
My hair is swinging around wildly, and I feel like a cat whose tail has been cut off. “Give it back!” I scream. For some reason I feel like I could cry.
Alongside me, Elaine says, “Give it back, Jack. You’re so immature.”
He ignores both of us and throws the hairband to Hugh, who grins and throws it to Mark. Mark hesitates, and I think, please don’t. Not you too. Then he hands me the hairband. Jack groans and says nastily, “Why don’t you give her a kiss good night while you’re at it, Findley.”
Mark flushes and says, “Why don’t you kiss my ass?”
I’m so happy, I feel like my heart will burst right open. Gathering my hair with one hand, I pull it back into a tight ponytail and hop back onto my bike.
Then we go home, us on our bikes and the boys behind us. As we ride, Elaine tells me that my hair looks pretty down, and I should wear it like that more often.
On the last day of summer, the day before school starts, Mark and I ride our bikes until it’s dark. Dusk is settling over Clementon, and we just keep riding. Up Sandy Hill Lane and around the block.
I’m afraid of what happens tomorrow. Will he ring my doorbell at 7:30 and walk with me to the bus stop, the way he always does? Will he still share his tangerine with me at lunch?
“Mark?”
“Yeah?”
“Nothin’.”
The crickets are hoopin’ and hollerin’ for all they’re worth, and fireflies light up the streets like it’s Christmas.
On a night like this it’s hard to believe everything won’t be this way forever—the two of us on our bikes going round and round. On a night like this, you just want to reach out and freeze time and make it stay like this forever.
“It’s past seven. I’d better go in,” Mark says as we ride past Sherilyn’s house.
“Once more around the block?”
“All right.”
We go once more, and then once more after that. The way he’s pedaling so slow, I know he doesn’t want to say good night any more than I do, ’cause for some reason good night feels too much like good-bye. So neither of us say anything. We just wave and pedal off in different directions.
It’s a long time before I fall asleep.
It is the first day of school.
Elaine and I debated on the phone for over two hours last night, going back and forth over what to wear. We recognized the importance of starting our junior high lives on just the right note, with just the right look. Elaine finally settled on a hot pink camisole and her best black miniskirt. I decided to swipe Celia’s cotton halter top and wear my new back-to-school jeans.
My hair is down.
We spent a long time deciding whether or not to wear makeup (lip gloss, yes; eye shadow, no), as we didn’t want to appear too excited about entering the seventh grade. Nothing is worse than looking like you are trying too hard.
I have always wondered why that is. Trying hard is supposed to be a good thing. It’s in my nature to try hard, to strive to be the best. So how do you know when you’ve crossed that invisible line of what is acceptable and what is uncool?
At 7:25 I sit at the kitchen table and wait for the doorbell to ring, and it never does. At 7:33 I walk to the bus stop alone. When I get there, Elaine is standing with Mairi and Hadley, and Sherilyn is hovering nearby. Her mother has done it again—Sherilyn is wearing a beaded halter top with tight black pants, and her hair is crimped. I can tell she’s uncomfortable by the way she keeps pulling the top down so her stomach doesn’t show.
Mark stands with the other boys, away from us. He waves, but he doesn’t come over. I want to yell, hey, thanks for ditching me this morning, but instead I just wave back.
The morning is warm, and thankfully, it isn’t humid. But it’s hot enough to make me wish I’d worn shorts instead of my new jeans. Mairi and Hadley are wearing jean skirts, and now I wish that I had worn a skirt too.
Mairi tells Elaine that she likes her outfit. Hadley is quick to agree. Mairi and Hadley and the other cool girls are faintly in awe of Elaine, her New Yorkness and her Koreaness. Elaine is Korean American, and she is the only
Korean American at our school. It gives her a glamorous sort of mystique that no one born in our town could ever possess. She makes being different cool.
Because they like Elaine, Hadley and Mairi say that my shirt is real cute too. I tell them it’s Celia’s, which impresses them only slightly. Having Celia for an older sister is the only edge I’ve got, and I try to throw it into conversation whenever I can. I’ve been doing this for most of my life, so it’s lost a bit of its punch.
When the bus finally arrives, we head straight for the back, where we usually sit. Elaine and I exchange worried glances when we realize that the eighth graders sit at the back of the bus, and as seventh graders, we clearly have no business being back there. Mairi and Hadley join right in, as if they know they belong, as if their success is assured. And sure enough, they are giggling and tossing their hair for all it’s worth, and the older guys are actually paying them attention.
Elaine and I settle for the middle of the bus instead. Mark sits toward the back with the rest of the cool kids, and the whole ride to school, I keep looking back at him. I watch him laughing and telling jokes. He’s forgotten about me already.
When we get to school, Elaine and I have to part ways.
Her locker is on the east wing of school, and mine’s on the west. Clementon Junior High is humongous compared to the elementary school. Elaine assured me that it was nothing compared to the schools in New York, but by my standards, it’s pretty big. I’ve been here before, of course. Mama and I used to come for Celia’s chorus concerts and her cheerleading competitions. It seemed big then, too.
The halls are jam-packed, and I have to fight my way through the crowds to get to my locker. To my surprise, Jack Connelly, king of the troglodytes, is already leaning against it. He’s just had a haircut, and he’s wearing a white button-down shirt with the sleeves pushed up. I’d bet anything his mother made him wear that shirt. His arms are crossed and he’s scowling, as usual. “Hey,” he grunts.
“What do you want?” I snap. I haven’t forgotten about the ponytail holder incident.
“I’m here to carry your books, Einstein.” Oh, yeah. I’d forgotten all about our bet.
“It’s the first day of school. We don’t have any books,
Einstein
.”
“You’re the one who told me you wanted to study during homeroom.” He smirks. “You’re such a geek. You’re the only person I know who’d wanna study during homeroom.”
Oh, yeah. I did say that. “You’re the one who was gullible
enough to believe me. I bet you don’t even know what gullible means. Dummy.” I shove him to the side, and spin the dial of my combination lock: 12-34-8. I memorized the combination last week. Counterclockwise, clockwise, counterclockwise. And it won’t open. I spin it again, slowly, 12-34-8. The stupid locker won’t open, and Jack’s still standing there smirking. 12-34-8.
He walks away, and calls over his shoulder, “It’s clockwise, counterclockwise, clockwise, Einstein.”
I hate his guts.
Four minutes just isn’t enough time to get from one class to the next. My homeroom is on one side of the school, and my first period math class is on the other. I barely make it on time, but class goes fine. My math teacher’s name is Mr. Kenan, and he’s cool. He’s old—about sixty or so, and he wears his gray hair in a short ponytail. Math is my least favorite subject, but Mr. Kenan’s so laid back and easygoing that I think it could be fun.
I get lost on the way to my next class, English with Ms. Gillybush. I run up and down the hallways in a panic, my book bag banging against my shoulders. A nice eighth grader finally points me in the right direction, and when I run into the classroom huffing and puffing, everyone is
quiet and sitting in their seats. Ms. Gillybush is going over the roll, and she’s already on Zeman, Nestor. Breathing hard, I take a desk near the back and wipe the sweat beads from my nose.
“You must be Annemarie Wilcox.”
“Yes, ma’am. Sorry I was late. I got lost and—”
“Just see that it doesn’t happen again.” She looks at me for so long that I begin to squirm.
“Yes, ma’am.”
I keep my head low for the rest of class.
At lunchtime I scan the cafeteria for Elaine. My heart beats very fast as I walk around with my lunch tray, careful not to make eye contact with anyone. We had it so much easier in elementary school with the assigned seats. This is way too much pressure. I breathe a great big sigh of relief when I see Elaine waving me over. She’s sitting at a table with Mairi and Hadley.
I sit down across from Elaine. “Hey, guys.”
“Hey,” they say, looking bored. How does a person look bored on the first day of school, the first day of junior high? I mean,
already
?