8

 

There were twelve kids in my Chinese class, and half of them were Chinese-American. I guess their parents wanted them to speak the language of their ancestors. I already spoke the language of my ancestors, at least going back to my great-grandparents. My great-great-grandparents were from Europe somewhere, but according to my dad, Chinese is a more important language to learn than French or German, or even Spanish.

“It’s the future,” my dad said. “Did you know the United States owes more than a trillion dollars to the Chinese? If you know the language, you’ll be able to write your own ticket in this world. Yup, China is where’s it at.”

Yeah, well, China may be where it’s at, but Chinese class was where I was at on a beautiful Saturday afternoon, and I wasn’t too happy about it. Neither was anyone else. Even the Chinese kids.

Oh, and did I mention that Chinese has its own alphabet? As if learning a foreign language isn’t hard enough.

“Okay class, let’s review last week’s lesson,” said our teacher, Ms. Li. She was okay I guess, but very strict. I was obsessed with her glasses. She wore them so close to the tip of her nose that I kept staring at them, waiting for them to fall. But they never did.

I opened up my book and stared down at the page. We were in the middle of a unit about items in the house.

“Lamp,” said Ms. Li.

“Deng,” we all chanted.

“Table.”

“Ji.”

“Brush.”

“Hao.”

“Window.”

“Chuang.”

BUZZZZ!!!

No, buzzzz is not a household item. It’s the sound a phone makes when a text is coming in.

More specifically, it’s the sound MY phone makes when a text is coming in.

BUZZZZ!

I froze, a little shocked that I actually forgot to turn off my phone. If there’s one thing Ms. Li can’t stand, it’s phones going off in the middle of her class.

Everyone turned around to stare at me.

The teacher’s eyes narrowed. “Well, Mr. Strong, are you going to tell us all what’s so important?”

“You mean, you want me to see what it says?”

“Please.”

I fumbled for my phone and opened the text. It was from Leo. I read it quickly, swore a little under my breath, and then put the phone back in my pocket.

“Well?” asked Ms. Li.

I hesitated. This wasn’t really a text I wanted to share with the class.

“Well?” she repeated.

“Um, it said that today is Sundae Saturday down at Super Scooper. Free sundaes from twelve to one.”

Evelyn Chang, who never says a word, actually giggled a little bit.

Ms. Li nodded. “I see. Well, that’s very nice to know—”

BUZZZZ!

Omg. Again?

“I’m so sorry,” I mumbled.

Ms. Li walked over, stood right over me, and stuck out her hand. Her glasses dangled dangerously close to the cliff of her nose. I took the phone out of my pocket and handed it to her. She opened it.

“‘THE WHOLE TOWN IS HERE,’” she read out loud. “‘WHY CAN’T YOU SKIP CHINESE JUST THIS ONCE AND COME DOWN?’”

This time everyone giggled.

Does the word blush come from combining the words blood and rush? Because that’s what happened to my face. I got incredibly red, I think my nose started to run, and little drops of sweat started popping out all over my body.

It wasn’t fun.

Ms. Li handed me back my phone. “You might want to turn that off.”

My mind was a jumble of Chinese lamps and hot-fudge sundaes. First the cello recital fiasco, and now this. Here I was again, stuck someplace I didn’t want to be while everyone else in the world was hanging out and having fun, like normal human beings.

I turned off the phone and put it in my pocket.

Ms. Li smiled.

“By the way, the Chinese word for ice cream sundae is sheng dai.”