Red Face
That day when we come home from school, the house is empty. I am used to Obaachan at the door, the elaborate snack she will have laid out on the table, our games and talk. “Obaachan’s gone!” I tell Sally.
“Maybe she went to the doctor.”
“That’s right. She did.”
“God, I was so embarrassed when she overreacted this morning.”
“That wasn’t very polite.”
“Get a life.”
“Do you think she’ll be all right?”
“Sure. It’s just a cough.” Sally turns on the TV with the sound down, puts her Walkman on, and sits at the computer. “Oh my God!” she says loudly, “I’ve got thirty e-mails.”
I sit on the couch a few minutes and stare at the TV, a music video with Madonna. Then I go to the kitchen and try to meditate, but thoughts keep racing through my mind. I think about Obaachan. Since she came, it feels like a missing puzzle piece being added to our lives, completing the picture. I think about the pink invitations passed through my classroom. When Sandy Howell gave me one, I thought it was for me. “Pass it back, before Mrs. Holmes catches us,” she whispered. I passed it to Irma. By the end of class, it seemed like every girl had a pink envelope except me. Then I think about another note, one that has been sent home that says I should skip third grade.
Maybe it is because I miss Obaachan that I do it. I tiptoe down the hall to my old room and quietly open the door.
The shades are down. The room is dark. I turn on the light, and close the door behind me.
My room is unrecognizable. In the corner where my toy box used to be, there’s a low wooden shelf with three statues on it: a man with a fat belly, a tiger, and a face that is half woman-half sun. Surrounding it are candles, incense, and a small bowl of tangerines.
The closet doors are covered with posters of mountains and waterfalls. On the high shelf are teapots, two identical wooden boxes, a vase, a stone that looks like white marble, and figures made of folded paper: a crane, a tall building, an elephant, a lady, a man and child holding hands. Covering the wall near the bed is a red silk hanging with a painted black circle. Something about that circle keeps me looking for a long time. It’s imperfect, the lines don’t quite connect, but it seems truer than the usual circle.
I open the closet. A kimono hangs there, one I haven’t seen: blue, with silver lines shooting across it like falling stars. On the closet shelf are wooden shoes.
I am in Japan.
I am about to close the closet door when I see a bigger box, too high for me to reach. A word is printed on it, in black letters: HIROSHIMA.
My face gets very red when I’m embarrassed, which happens often. I am embarrassed when someone speaks to me and I can’t get my voice to answer. I am embarrassed when Mrs. Holmes calls on everyone but me. I am embarrassed when I see the words I LOVE WALKER BRIGGS, on a bathroom door and recognize Sally’s handwriting.
But nothing matches the embarrassment I feel when I hear the footsteps on the stairs and Obaachan’s cough. My face feels like flames are flashing inside my skin.
I rush into the kitchen, pour a bowl of cereal, and pretend to eat.
“Come into the kitchen and sit down, Mom. I’ll make you some tea.” Mom comes in and puts the kettle on. She pulls out a bottle from a white bag. “You’re supposed to take this with food. I’ll make an omelet.”
“Just a little miso broth, Mayumi chan.” Obaachan enters and sits across from me.
I push the cereal box in front of me and read the list of ingredients and added vitamins.
Obaachan’s gaze is like an X-ray through the box. Sweat forms on my forehead, as if my hair is crying.
“Lin,” Mom says. “I didn’t know you were even here. You’re quiet as a mouse. Did you say hello to your grandma?”
“Hello,” I whisper.
“How did you pass your afternoon?” Obaachan says.
“I didn’t finish my homework.” I peer up. Her eyes hold mine for a second, then I pull away. “I’d better go do it.”
All week, I avoid Obaachan. Instead of sitting with her and talking, I pretend I have a project or a report, that my teacher has become very vigorous with her assignments.
At dinner, I keep my eyes focused on my plate, the food that I push around to make Mom think I am eating.
“Sally, I thought you might want to take that cheerleading class,” Mom says. “It’s at the country club, but you don’t have to be a member. I could drop you on the way to my chocolate-making class and pick you up on my way back. You’d have to wait fifteen minutes.”
“Cheerleading is lame,” Sally says. “Everything that used to be cool is lame. Why don’t we ever eat out? I want a Big Mac in the worst possible way.”
“The word lame is lame,” Dad points out.
“Yoko’s daughter is having a baby,” Obaachan announces.
“Kana?” Mom says. “How nice. She must be at least thirty-five.”
“Twins.”
“Twins!” Dad says. “What a handful.”
“Well, you always said Kana knew how to do things right. Didn’t you, Mom?” Mom’s foot taps under the table.
“I don’t remember saying such a thing.”
“Kana could do no wrong.”
“Lin, eat your peas,” Dad says.
“She doesn’t eat anything,” Sally says. “She’s a stick.”
“Eat,” Mom says.
I lift the fork to my mouth.
“Dad, did you hear that the school wants Lin to skip third grade?” Sally asks.
“She is a very smart girl,” Obaachan says.
My face burns.
“Yeah, Miss Perfect Girl Genius. Well, you’re not gonna let that happen, are you? ’Cause it would be really bad for her. She’s already the smallest one in her class. I mean, there are social considerations that are more important than schoolwork.”
“Social considerations,” Dad repeats. “Well put.”
“She might be made fun of. Now she’s just ignored.”
“Sally!” Mom scolds.
“Lin’s just studious. Right, kiddo?” Dad pats my head.
All eyes are on me. They expect an answer. I count the peas left on my plate. There are eighteen.
“Do you want to skip a grade?” Mom asks. “The work would be more interesting for you.”
I would love to get through school more quickly, but like Sally says, at least I’m not made fun of. My classmates are familiar to me, even if I’m invisible to them. “No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Decided,” Dad says. “We don’t really want you to grow up faster, to be out of the house a year earlier, anyway.”
“Oh,” Mom groans. “Time flies. I can’t stand it.”
“Remember when Lin thought that time was a fly,” Sally says. Everyone laughs. Except Obaachan. Her eyes just stay on me, like two empty cups, waiting to be filled with green tea.