I turn back to my circuit and find that I’m approaching the cross-country table. Fascinating Store Girl—I mean, Jamie Ramirez—was wearing a cross-country T-shirt, wasn’t she? A sport could be a good thing. Clubs typically meet just once a week, like Caleb said, but I feel like I’ll need something to do every day, or I’ll die of boredom.
Sports teams practice every day. Hanh and Reggie are on the badminton team, but I am not going to play badminton. Especially not after they told me that the entire team is Asian. Plus, how silly would I feel whiffing one of those teeny rackets around? But running is something I could do.
I get to the cross-country table just in time to see Jamie take off. Darn. I mean, whatever. It’s just, she looks so interesting. She’s headed toward the Latino Student Union table. Maybe I’ll swing over and say hi on my way to see Elaine and Hanh, just to see if she remembers me from— “Hi, did you want to sign up for cross-country?” It’s an Indian girl with possibly the longest ponytail I’ve ever seen.
“What? Oh. Yes.” The girl’s name is Priti, and she’s the girls’ team captain. Priti and Coach Kieran take my name and email, hand me a couple of forms, and tell me to show up after school outside the gym in running clothes as soon as I can get signatures on the parent permission slip and the physician-release form certifying that I won’t drop dead of a heart attack during practice.
On my way to the Vietnamese Student Association table, I see that Jamie’s still at the Latino Student Union table, in animated conversation with a girl wearing a Niners jersey and lipstick that’s about three shades darker than I would have chosen; the kind of dark red that’s named after a fancy wine, like Pinot Noir. Maybe the lipstick is making her lips look pouty, but she looks like she’s in a very bad mood. I almost change my mind about detouring in their direction.
Almost.
And now here I am, directly in front of Jamie and Pinot Noir, clearing my throat to get their attention, and now they’re looking at me like, “Yeah?” Pinot Noir, in particular, looks annoyed at the interruption. Here goes nothing. Fake it till you make it.
I smile at Jamie. “Hi.”
“Hey.” She looks at me curiously. “You need something?”
“No, I just, um. I just recognized you. From Bed Bath and Beyond. I came in a couple of weeks ago and I was going to get that duvet cover with the blue coral design on it—you said it was your favorite? But my mom ended up making me get something else.”
Her head tilts, her forehead wrinkles. . . . Omigod. She doesn’t remember.
“Sorry,” she says, shaking her head. “We get a ton of customers toward the end of summer. . . .”
“No—no, it’s okay. I uh . . . just thought I’d say hi. You know, just in case.” Oh, God. I feel like such a loser.
Pinot Noir throws her head back and cackles. “Ha! Like she’d remember you. You’re funny.” Then she folds her arms, clearly ready to wrap this up and get back to whatever it was she was all upset about before. “All right. Say hi, Jamie.” Pinot Noir tilts her head at me.
“Hi,” says Jamie. “Nice to meet you—what’s your name?”
“Sana.”
“I’m Jamie.”
Still incredibly awkward, but better. At least she’s smiling at me. But Pinot Noir ruins it. “I’m Christina. Did you want to sign up for LSU?”
“LSU?”
“Uh, Latino Student Union?” she says, pointing to the banner hanging from the table next to us.
“Oh. Uh, no.”
“Okay, then.” She raises her eyebrows at me. “Bye.”
“Bye.”
“Bye,” says Jamie, and she’s still smiling but I can see the pity in her eyes. How could I have been so thick? Pinot—I mean, Christina—is right. I went into that store two weeks ago and I thought Jamie would recognize me? Like I was something special? What was I thinking? Who was I kidding? If I had a wall I’d be banging my head against it right now. Note to self: No more faking it till I make it.
Also: Stay away from Christina. She’s mean.
7
“TADAIMA,” I CALL AS I WALK IN THE DOOR. I kick my shoes off and arrange them neatly in the shoe cabinet in the foyer.
“Okairi,” Mom calls back. I drop my backpack in my room and head to the kitchen for a snack. “How was school?” she asks in Japanese. She’s just prepared some green tea, and she pours me a cup to go with the cookies I’ve pulled out of the cupboard.
“Okay.”
“Do you have homework?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
I shrug. “An hour. It’s only the first day.”
“Did you make any nice friends?”
“A couple of people. They’re Asian, actually.”
“Japanese?” She perks up a little.
“No. Vietnamese and I think maybe Chinese.”
“Hmm,” she says, sipping her tea. “Be careful. Chinese people can be untrustworthy.”
“Mom!”
“It’s true. I know what you think. You always point your finger and say, ‘You’re wrong. That’s a stereotype!’ but you don’t know the world. If enough people act a certain way, others will name what they see. If those people don’t like it, they shouldn’t act the way they do.”
Time to change the subject. “I’m thinking of joining the cross-country team.”
“Crossing country?” she repeats in English.
“Long-distance running.”
She frowns. “You aren’t a fast runner.”
“You don’t have to be. It’s about endurance. You know, slow and steady wins the race. Anyway, I’m faster than you think.” I have no idea if this is true—the fact is, I’m worried that I’m not fast enough, too. But someone has to stand up for me.
“I know how fast you are. I’ve seen you run.”
“Mom. I just want to try. Can’t I just try?” I can feel my neck tightening, hear my voice rising to a petulant whine.
Mom heaves a sigh. “There will be girls who are natural runners on that team, not like you. You’ll have to work harder than everyone else to keep up.”
“I know, Mom. Of course I’ll work hard.”
She sighs again. “Okay, then. Do your best. Work hard.” She holds her hand out, and I put the permission slip and doctor’s form in it. “Maybe it will make your legs more shapely,” she muses.
This is too much. “God,” I snap. “Would it kill you to be a little supportive?”
“I’m just being honest,” she says with a huff. “You and I have the same legs—short and thick-kneed. Not good for running. And I am very supportive—I let you join the team, I encouraged you to work hard, and I said that crossing-country will make your legs look good. What else should I say?”
“How about, ‘You’re going to be great?’ That’s what an American mom would say.”
Mom looks stung. “Too bad for you, then. I am not American. I am Japanese. I don’t know if you’re going to be great—how can I say that? I can want all kinds of things for you, but I only know that you can do your best. I am teaching you to see the world the way it is, not the way you want it to be. That’s my job.”
I’m on my bed reading when Dad gets home at nine o’clock. He’s working later than ever with this start-up. He walks in the door, and from my room I can hear the evening routine, same as always: He says, “Tadaima!”
Mom answers, “Okairi!”