Being an Ant

There is a word used about me, whispered like a secret. It is said by my mom at cooking exhibitions when I hide behind the food table, by my sister to her friends, by my teacher to my dad when he drops me off at school. The word reminds me of the empty bird’s nest in our oak tree, or the cactus on the windowsill in our kitchen, hidden among the ladles and pot holders.

SHY

I am most shy at school, where the squirming bodies of the other kids make me feel like an ant in a room of giants.

In the morning we have free play, which is not too bad. I do puzzles, read books, and watch the giants. Cora Wilson has big eyes and long blond hair. She reminds me of one of the ladies at the Miss America pageant. She could have a crown put on her head and walk down the long ramp, and it would never fall off.

Sam Kline and Charlie Mills pretend to play with LEGOs, but when the teacher isn’t looking, they fight. Ahab, Walter, and Irma, who looks and acts like a boy, pretend to be Pokémon trainers. Irma seems to have fun, but I get a funny feeling when I look at her, like something is wrong. Once, her dad came to pick her up early. He was smoking a cigarette. When the teacher told him to put it out, he dropped it right on the floor and smashed it with his foot.

Matt Perino sits on the rug with a book, looking at the pictures, like my dad studying a map when we’re lost and he doesn’t want to ask for directions. Matt is sometimes alone, sometimes with others. He does what he wants.

Something about Matt makes me feel different, like we’re friends even though we don’t play together. Maybe he’s special because his dad is a policeman. On some days, he’s dropped off at school in a black-and-white police car. When he hops out of that car, it’s like he’s some king. Everyone watches.

Circle time is the worst. We sit on the alphabet carpet and answer questions from the teacher, like: “What do you imagine when you look at the sky?” Or, “If you were a hat, what kind would you be?”

Each child is supposed to take a turn. I always have many ideas and answers: if I were a hat, I’d be a feather hat, or a snake coiled round, or maybe the hat from Go Dog Go, dripping with dog bones, confetti, and party favors, the one the boy dog finally likes. But when it’s my turn, and all eyes are on me, my voice is an elevator stuck between floors. If I am lucky, I might be able to whisper. Usually, though, I am as silent as Obaachan’s room.

The day after she came, I waited for her to come out, and to tell me why I was “the one.” But the door never opened. Mom told me to be patient and to let Grandma rest. That was a week ago.

“We’ll come back to you later, Lin.” The teacher smiles. I study the letters on the carpet, each square fitting together like a puzzle. And she never comes back to me later. I have a feeling she was once like me and understands.

Nap time is the one time of the day I love. We lie out on towels like sunbathers on the beach. The child who is stillest wins a lollipop. I win it many times, until Cora complains: “But Teacher, she’s like that even when she’s not on the towel.”

Irma says, “Lin is a statue.”

After that, I win less often, even though I am still. If I am already a statue, I guess it is less of an accomplishment.

After nap time, there’s show-and-tell. Walter always brings in a sports thing, like a signed baseball, or a card he’s gotten out of gum. Cora brings black patent leather shoes with bows that snap on, and a talking doll. Matt brings in his dad’s police badge. I want to bring in Obaachan, to tug her out of her room, and let her speak for me. She could wear the kimono she arrived in and tell a magic koan to the class, like she did in the car. “Don’t be ridiculous, Lin,” Mom says when I ask her. “She won’t leave her room, let alone the house. She is so shy of this country.”

“Were you shy, when you first got here?”

Mom doesn’t answer. “You can bring your Wet Cathy doll for show-and-tell.” Mom has given me a doll that goes pee. The doll has blond curly hair, and big blue eyes that close when you lay her down. That doll gives me nightmares. I dream she comes to life and chases me. I dream she pees so much she makes a flood that rises as high as the ceiling.

After Mom kisses me good night and leaves the room, I hide the doll. Wet Cathy is one of those things that Mom expects of me. I should have fun at kindergarten and make friends. I should be more like Sally. I should love the doll. But she looks nothing like me.

Even so, if she were a talking doll, with a string that pulled words from her mouth, like the one Cora has, then maybe . . . maybe I would bring her.