Chapter

19

THE REST OF THE WEEK is pretty event-free. We meet for our second ESL Homework Club session on Thursday, and Vivian asks about how and when to use subjective tense. Yoona, Marcos, and I do our best to explain it to everyone, but I can tell from their confused looks that we’re not doing a great job.

Meanwhile, I keep practicing chords on my DIY guitar while Vivian taps out rhythms with her chopsticks-turned-drumsticks when she’s not working on her essay. I add Smashing Pumpkins and Pandora’s Box to my mix of grunge bands on repeat, and they go well with Pearl Jam’s brooding intensity. Smashing Pumpkins is dreamy and wistful, but also hard sounding and raw like the other grunge bands. Meanwhile, every time I listen to Pandora’s Box, it fires me up with its punkish energy and powerful lyrics.

On Friday, our women’s suffrage group presentation goes well, even though Logan stumbles through his section and I have to rescue him by presenting the parts he missed. Ms. King gives me extra credit for saving the project, which is nice.

Over the weekend, Vivian’s still head-down working on her English lit essay and can’t hang out at all. After I finish my assignments, I burn through a bunch of TV show episodes that I’d taped over the last few weeks, watching one after the other without stopping. On Sunday afternoon, I call Vivian to check in on her.

“Want me to take a look at your essay, biǎo mèi?” I ask after Uncle hands Vivian the phone.

“No,” Vivian replies. “I should do it myself. Other kids don’t have someone check their work before turning it in, do they?”

“I don’t think so, but you’re special.” Plus, the stakes are high.

“Bié dān xīn, I got it, biǎo jiě,” she reassures me.

On Monday, Vivian turns in her essay. When Principal Klein does her weekly broadcast over the intercom system, she reminds us that progress grades will be sent home this week. Then, during morning recess, I’m taking a sip at the drinking fountain when two kids come up to me.

“Um, you’re Lily Xiao, right?” the girl with silky, straight black hair and a purple backpack asks me hesitantly. I notice that she says her Rs in an unfamiliar way, like she’s rolling them around on her tongue.

“Yeah, that’s me,” I say, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

“I’m Sofia, and this is Juan.” She points to the boy next to her. He’s got a super short crewcut and keeps shuffling his sneakered feet back and forth. “We heard from Carlos that you are helping some kids with English after school.”

Wow, word travels fast around here.

“Yeah, I’m trying, at least,” I reply. “We meet on Tuesdays and Thursdays at Power Records.”

“Can we join? We are both from El Salvador and some assignments are hard for us.”

“Of course!” I nod. “The more the merrier.” And our little ESL Homework Club grows by two more people on Tuesday.

At lunch on Thursday, when Vivian and I open Ah-ma’s biàn dangs, we discover two heaping portions of má yóu jī with rice. Every bite of her warm, savory wine-stewed chicken with sesame oil makes waiting for our progress grades a little less painful.

When I get home later that day, Ah-ma calls out to me from the living room, where she’s shelling a pile of peas while watching Sān duǒ huā.

“Some mail came for you today,” she says, pointing toward the kitchen with a pod in her hand.

My heart leaps, and I drop my backpack to the ground with a thud. “Where is it?!”

“On the counter,” she calls out. “There is an envelope with your name on it. But I can’t read the rest.”

I dash into the kitchen, and “FOR THE PARENTS OF LILY XIAO” is printed in big block letters on a big yellow envelope. The return address is listed as “Pacific Park School District.”

Technically, the grades are addressed to my parents, but it’s got my name on it, so it’s probably okay for me to open. Hands trembling, I grab the letter opener from the kitchen drawer and slide it down the edge of the envelope. Then I pull out the papers inside.

The first thing I see is some letter to the parents from Principal Klein, thanking them for entrusting Pacific Park Middle with the future of their children . . . blah blah blah.

I find the real stuff. The chart that outlines my progress for the term is printed in purple block letters on a thin white piece of paper. My classes are listed in the first column, and the grades for this quarter are in the second . . .

And it’s all As.

“Woo-hoo!!” I scream.

Lily Xiao delivers again.

But this time, I didn’t just make my parents happy. I also managed to get something I want—registration for Camp Rock Out!

Ah-ma rushes into the kitchen like a flying rooster, her eyes frantic. “What’s going on, Lily?” Pea pods drop from her hands to the floor as she reaches for the letter. “What is this about?”

“Ah-ma, it’s my progress grades! I did great, which means I get to go to Camp Rock Out this summer!”

“Oh, my goodness, I thought something bad had happened.” Ah-ma puts her hand over her heart, like she’s trying to slow it down.

“Sorry to scare you, Ah-ma!” I pat her arm reassuringly. “But this is so, so, so awesome.” I give Ah-ma a big hug. “I’m going to learn guitar like Ah-gong! I have to go call Vivian. We’re going to be in a band together!”

I dash down the hallway, grab the phone, and pull it into my room. I flop down on my beanbag chair and dial my future drummer’s number.

The phone rings a few times before Auntie’s voice crackles into the receiver. “Wéi?”

“Nǐ hǎo, Auntie,” I greet my aunt, my breath quick with excitement. “Can I talk to Vivian? I’ve got some news to share with her!”

There’s a long pause on the phone, which is kind of weird. Auntie is usually super quick to hand the phone over.

“Hello?” I say again.

Auntie finally speaks. “I’m sorry, Lily, but Vivian can’t come to the phone right now. Can she call you back later?”

“Um, sure,” I fumble in response. “Is everything okay?”

“We’re sorting some things out. She’ll call you later.”

Click. Auntie hangs up without saying goodbye.

Uh-oh. Something’s not right.

There’s no way Vivian didn’t do well enough on her progress grades, though. With all her studying, plus my help and the ESL Homework Club—her grades must have improved this semester.

I’m sure it’s nothing.

After I go back to the kitchen and help Ah-ma pick the peas up off the floor, I settle onto the couch. I’m two songs into a repeat showing of Pearl Jam’s Unplugged performance on MTV when the phone rings.

“Hey, biǎo jiě. Sorry it took so long for me to call you back.” Vivian’s voice is unusually quiet, even a bit gravelly.

“It’s okay,” I reply, relieved to finally have my drummer on the phone. “My progress grades came in today!”

There’s a beat of silence. “How did you do?”

“Woo-hoo!” I hoot. “Straight As across the board for me. And you know what that means . . .” I pause for dramatic effect. “I can go to Camp Rock Out!” I seriously think my heart is about to burst. Both me and Vivian, up onstage, rocking our hearts out to music like Pearl Jam or Pandora’s Box? “Oh my gosh, we’re going to have the best time, biǎo mèi!”

It’s a dream come true.

“But wait, Lily . . . there’s a problem,” Vivian says quietly.

A problem?

Vivian continues. “My grades came in today, too.”

Then it dawns on me. “Wait . . . and how are they?”

“Lily, I got a very bad mark in English literature.”

“What?!”

“Mr. Silvers said he had a hard time following my midterm paper. He called my parents this afternoon and said that he had to give me a C- on my progress report. Which means . . .”

My heart pounds in my ears.

“. . . you can’t go to Camp Rock Out.” I finish Vivian’s sentence.

No Vivian means no camp for me, either. We spend every summer together, no matter what. And there’s no way I’m getting up on that stage by myself.

A lump the size of a bah-oân rises in my throat and I try to breathe through my nose.

Vivian bursts into sobs. “Oh, biǎo jiě, I’m so sorry. I thought that if I worked hard enough and did enough of those worksheets, I’d be able to catch up. But I couldn’t.”

“What about the ESL Homework Club? Didn’t that help?”

“I guess it wasn’t enough,” she sniffs.

My heart breaks, and guilt starts to flood in. I’ve failed in my duty to watch out for my biǎo mèi.

I’m still confused about how this could have happened, though. Maybe Mr. Silvers was too harsh for some reason. If he was, maybe I can go back and argue for a grade change. “Can you read me the first paragraph of your essay, Vivian?”

“Lily, it’s too late. The grade is in. What’s the point?” Frustration spills from her voice.

“I know, biǎo mèi,” I say softly. “But maybe I can talk to Mr. Silvers again. He knows how hard this is for you. I can fix this. I know I can.”

“Fine. Hold on.” Shuffling noises come through from Vivian’s side of the phone. “Here’s how it starts . . .” Vivian reads the first paragraph of her paper out loud in her slow English.

As I listen, my heart sinks. It is hard to follow what Vivian’s trying to say. She’s flipped the order of the subject and verb in a lot of sentences, and she uses the singular instead of the plural with a bunch of nouns. Her pronouns are also mixed up.

Vivian finishes. “Well?”

I bite my lower lip, thinking. “Can you read it one more time? Slower?”

As she reads, I try to translate what she’s saying in English into Chinese. When I do that, what she’s saying makes a lot more sense.

In fact, it’s insightful. She understands the complicated story and has picked up on the themes of capitalism and prejudice and solidarity. This can only mean one thing.

“Vivian, this isn’t your fault. It’s about writing in English, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Vivian practically whispers.

I knew it. It’s about her thoughts getting lost in translation, not about how well she understood the book.

Which meant she knew this might happen.

Vivian’s been saying for weeks now that following the complicated plot of The Westing Game has been super hard for her. That’s why we’ve been working on learning vocab and doing worksheets focused on reading comprehension. But she hadn’t said a word about also needing help with grammar rules or writing practice.

Why didn’t Vivian work on those things, too?

On top of that, my own biǎo mèi didn’t trust me enough to tell me the truth about how she was really doing, even after all I’d done for her.

Like ask a teacher for a favor.

Like try to confront a principal.

Like start an ESL Homework Club with a bunch of kids I barely knew.

I even offered to proofread her essay, and she said no.

And now I can’t go to Camp Rock Out.

My guilt turns into the beginnings of anger and frustration. “Vivian. Why didn’t you let me proofread your essay? I would have caught these errors,” I accuse her.

“I thought I could do it on my own. And letting you see my essay would have been cheating,” Vivian replies slowly.

“I didn’t want you to cheat. I wanted to help. You knew what was on the line here! You knew how important it was to get this right!”

“Hey, you were the one who promised our parents that we’d get good grades before checking in with me first,” Vivian snaps back. “You were the one who made our grades a condition for going to Camp Rock Out.”

My stomach churns in that weird way it did when I made that deal a few weeks ago. I can’t deny that my decision did create more pressure for Vivian. I probably should have discussed the idea with her.

Still, she hasn’t been honest with me. And that hurts, too.

I take a deep breath and try to shift the focus of this conversation back onto her. “I made the deal because I didn’t know how badly you were doing. You always did fine back in Taiwan. Plus, I thought it was only the reading that was hard for you. At least that’s what you told me.”

“I thought I could do the rest.” Vivian’s voice turns from defensive to desperate. “And you’re right. Back in Taipei, I’d always been able to figure out this kind of stuff. I was sure I could do it this time, too.”

“Well, obviously you couldn’t, and now there’s no Camp Rock Out. I’m stuck being the way I am—perfectly boring.”

Vivian takes in a short breath from the other side of the phone . . .

And attacks back. “You think school is so easy for everyone else because it’s easy for you?” Vivian yells. “Well, it’s not! And I know the truth, Lily.”

I stare at the receiver with big, surprised eyes. Vivian’s never ever yelled at me like this before.

Then again, I’ve never yelled at my biǎo mèi, either. But I’ve also never wanted something so badly.

“What truth?” I growl back. “You mean the truth that you hid from me?”

“No. The truth that you’re only helping me because Ah-ma asked you to. You were doing it to make her happy. Not because you care about me. You’re being selfish and only helping me to get what you want.”

My mouth drops open.

She’s not done, though. “And what you want is Camp Rock Out. It’s been your idea all along. But have you ever stopped to think about what I want? Or more importantly, what I need?”

By now, my stomach isn’t just churning anymore. It’s in full spin-cycle mode, like my insides are laundry being tossed around the belly of a washing machine.

I’m about to be sick.

I don’t get it. What is Vivian talking about? Doesn’t she want Camp Rock Out, too?

Like a flood breaking open a dam, Vivian’s frustration keeps spilling out, overwhelming me and my confused brain. “Besides, what’s this about you being stuck the way you are? What’s wrong with who you are? Why do you care so much about what other people think? The more you care, the more scared you become. Maybe you are a chicken.”

Then Vivian hangs up with a clank.

Now that’s one way to end a rock song: with a loud, passionate bang from the percussionist.

I stare at the phone in my hand, the sharp, insistent dial tone piercing the air around me. My mind whirls with the harsh words Vivian and I just flung at each other, like barbed arrows hitting tender, weak targets in the flurry of battle.

What on earth just happened? How did this afternoon go from me finally getting to go to Camp Rock Out to an all-out phone fight with my biǎo mèi? How did it go from the promise of a shiny new me to the accusation that I’m a selfish, awful, cowardly chicken? And from the one person who’s supposed to know me the best?

Robot: abort. Abort. Abort transformation mode.