All of the other girls began stripping down. We’d never had to change for gym at my old school. We’d only had to switch to sneakers if we weren’t wearing them already. I clutched my new clothes as I saw everyone else was wearing store-bought panties. Some even had on cotton bras or sleeveless camisoles. All of their underwear was colorful and expensive.
Some of the girls were completely flat-chested and I envied them. I had begun to develop small breasts that summer and I did everything I could to hide them. It was inevitable that a solution would have to be found for them, and I would have to be the one to find it. Everything under my clothes had been made by Ma and thus was badly sewn: a pair of thick cotton shorts unevenly trimmed in red for good luck, a stained and pilling long-sleeved undershirt. All the girls were checking one another out from under lowered eyelids. Then I spotted the toilet stalls against the wall. I silently thanked the gods and ducked into one to change.
This first gym class was to be our individual evaluation. We were timed in our running, measured in our jumping, counted for our push-ups, and then the gym teacher put a racket in our hands, fired balls at us and counted the number we hit. Working in the factory had made me strong. I was far from the best but I was also not the worst. It was such a relief that I stopped feeling guilty for acting unladylike.
I was beginning to see the importance Americans put on a kind of general athleticism, which was new to me. Back home, a student was praised if she did well in her classes at school, but for these kids, good grades were not enough. They were also expected to play sports and an instrument, and have straight teeth as well. I too would be expected to become attractive and well-rounded.
By the end of the day, I’d learned some of the kids’ names: Greg was the mean one, Curt the one with hair like a lion’s, Sheryl was the girl in the leg warmers (I’d heard the term when another girl admired them) and Tammy was the brown-haired girl on my bus.
After gym, school was over for the other kids but I was scheduled to work in the library three days a week and to get special tutoring in English on the fourth-though I had yet to figure out how I was going to fit all of this in with helping Ma at the factory too. The library work was a requirement of the scholarship I’d been given.
I knew that the library I would be working in, the one in Milton Hall, wasn’t the main research library but rather a minor one mainly used for studying. I expected a modern sterile space, similar to the public library in Brooklyn. I opened the door to the library and caught my breath. It was small, intimate and lovely. Long streams of sunlight drifted through the high stained-glass windows. A few students were curled up in large leather armchairs, reading.
A man in a striped maroon silk tunic was watering a gardenia on one of the tables. Aside from the gym teacher, he was the only man I’d seen the whole day who wasn’t wearing a suit and tie. He looked up and saw me, then approached. I saw his tunic had an embroidered stand-up collar and he was wearing white cotton trousers.
His hair would have been as dark as mine, only his was shot through with silver. “Are you the new scholarship student? I’m Mr. Jamali.” He spoke English with a slight lilt.
We shook hands and then I couldn’t help asking, “Where are you from?”
“Pakistan,” he said. He saw me looking at the intricate thread work on his tunic.
“Ah. You noticed. The headmaster has tried to get me in a suit for many years but I have resisted. I am also the theater director and that justifies a bit of flair, don’t you think?”
Mr. Jamali showed me the mechanics of my work, which were very simple. He told me that since this library had a limited selection of books, most students came just to read or study. I understood this meant I would have some free time when working there, maybe even enough to do my own homework. There was even a typewriter in the back office I was allowed to use. I wanted to clap my hands for joy.
“Mr. Jamali, can I change the hours I have? I like to be here more early in the day.”
“Why?”
“Because…” My voice trailed off. “My mother work and I must help her after school.”
“I see.” He looked at me with his intelligent eyes. “Well, in that case, we shall see what we can do.”
At the factory, Matt noticed my new clothes right away. “Well, if it isn’t the landlady’s daughter,” he said.
I must have looked hurt, because he immediately added, “I didn’t mean it like that. I meant, you look pretty.”
I knew he was only being kind, and also that I’d never forget it: the time Matt said I was pretty.
But it made me realize that coming to the factory in my school clothes could cause trouble for me with the other factory kids or even with Aunt Paula, who clearly didn’t need to be reminded of my new private school. From now on, I would make sure I changed into my work clothes as soon as I arrived and never mention my new school.
“How did it go today?” Ma asked. Seeing her warm, familiar brown eyes, I relaxed for the first time in hours, and I realized how much stress I’d been under the whole day, how foreign the entire world of Harrison was.
I stood close to Ma and, without answering, leaned my forehead against her shoulder. I wanted so much to be her little girl again. Her shirt was made of polyester and was damp with sweat.
“You crazy girl,” she said affectionately. She ruffled my hair.
I lifted my head. “Ma, I think I need some new underwear.”
“Why? What’s wrong with what you have?”
“We all change together for gym and the other girls will be able to see it. They’re going to laugh at me.”
“No decent girl would look at someone else’s underwear. Did they make fun of you today?” In Ma’s world, underwear was something that was invisible. With money so scarce, she believed it should be spent on things people could see, like my uniform.
“No, but-”
Her tone was indulgent. “Ah-Kim, you should not be so sensitive. I’m sure all of the nice girls are changing where they cannot be seen. The whole world is not looking at you.” She gave me a quick squeeze and turned back to her work.
I stared at Ma’s back, the bony ridges of her spine visible through her thin shirt, and I was suddenly so angry that I wanted to push her into the pile of dresses stacked in front of her on the counter. But then, as I breathed in the factory air, perpetually damp and metallic from the steamers, I felt guilt slice into my anger. Ma hadn’t bought a single thing for herself in the whole time we’d been in America, not even a new coat, which she desperately needed.
As soon as I had a break, I tried to remove the rhinestones from the skirt, but it was impossible. The colored plastic had been glued to the waistband, and taking it off would mean leaving unsightly stains on the cloth. I searched through the cart filled with rejected fabric remnants and found a strip of dark cloth that could double as a sash. It wasn’t exactly elegant but the stones were at least covered. There were also several skirts that hadn’t passed Aunt Paula’s examination and I wished I were big enough to wear adult sizes.
As usual, Ma and I ate the rice she’d brought from home. For Chinese people, rice is the actual food and everything else-meat, vegetables-is just an accessory to it. We had so little money during these days, though, that Ma put hardly any meat in with the rice anymore.
When we got home, at around nine-thirty that evening, I was finally done with my day. It was the first chance I had to think about everything that had happened. I had spent the entire school day as the only Chinese in a crowd of white people. The ginger-haired boy, Greg, both fascinated and frightened me. It wasn’t only that he’d made fun of me. He looked so alien, with his incredible hair, pale green eyes and veins under his skin. And the girls in my class, with their blue eyelids and sunken eyes, their thick upswept lashes. I stared in the paint-flecked bathroom mirror at my face. I didn’t look anything at all like those girls. If they were pretty, then what was I?
The next day, I went to meet my English tutor, Kerry, in an empty classroom. When I stepped inside the room, she got up and shook my hand. She was quite short and I could see the gap in between her two front teeth when she smiled. She told me she was a senior.
I sat down and waited for her to tell me what to do, expecting her to pull out a grammar book. She waited as well.
Then she said, “What should we do, Kimberly?”
I stared at her. She was the tutor. In Hong Kong, I’d never heard of any teacher or mentor allowing the students to influence the material.
She leaned back. “What would help you the most?”
I needed help in everything. I thought for a moment. “To speak.”
“Good. How about if we talk and I’ll correct everything you say that’s wrong?”
“Yes! Thank you!” I was so glad to have someone actually help me to improve my English. I wanted to hug her.
In our ensuing conversation, I found out that she was a scholarship student too.
Reacting to my surprise, she said, “Not all the scholarship students are minorities, you know. This place is really expensive.”
“How you like Harrison?”
“How DO you like Harrison,” she said, correcting me. “It takes some getting used to, especially at first, but it helps a lot if you get involved in some activities. You know, like tennis or lacrosse. Or the school newspaper.”
“Yes, that good idea,” I said, but I knew I wouldn’t do anything extra after school. Ma couldn’t get the shipments out on time without my help.
Greg and his friends were feared. He had his targets, and his taunts were cruel and calculated: Elizabeth, so shy she rarely spoke, the whiteness of her skin punctured by freckles (“Miss Chicken Pox”); Ginny with her faint mustache (“Forgot our razor today?”); Duncan and his deep nasal breathing (“Duncan Vader”). He’d also smelled the mothballs in my clothing, which Ma and I used to keep the roaches away. All Greg had to do was pinch his nose when I walked by and a wake of laughter from his friends would follow me down the hall.
My classes were much harder than those at my elementary school. Despite the relief of not having Mr. Bogart as a teacher anymore, I struggled to keep up. One of the biggest hurdles was the daily current-events quiz in Social Studies, which I failed time and time again. Mr. Scoggins did not understand why we couldn’t simply watch the six-o’clock news each evening, or take a peek at our parents’ New York Times.
“If you don’t understand something, ask your parents about it,” he said. “Discussing the news is one of the most important things we can do with each other.”
I imagined Ma and me having long discussions over a polished dining room table like the one at Annette’s house, Ma explaining the intricacies of Watergate. I did try to ask Ma about wildlife conservation when we had to read an article on it for class.
“Why would anyone want to save animals like tigers?” she’d asked, baffled. She looked sad. “A baby in our old village in China was taken by one.”
I saw her looking through my books sometimes, attempting to sound out a word here or there, but she kept trying to read from right to left. She had a thin book she’d bought in Chinatown to learn English and I tried to teach her on Sundays, but Ma had always been bad at languages. And the two languages were so different, it was as if I were asking her to change her eye color.
At the factory, I kept the radio on while we were working, and tried to grasp the main events, but the boiler was right next to our workstation and made a regular hissing sound, drowning out many of the words. There was so much vocabulary I didn’t know. Even when I could understand the sentences, I usually didn’t have enough background to understand most of the stories.
I managed in Life Science and Math because those subjects came naturally to me, but in my other classes it took me three times longer to read the textbooks in English than if they’d been in Chinese. I couldn’t skim at all. If my concentration sagged for even a moment, the sentence became incomprehensible and I had to reread the whole thing. Every few words, I had to look one up in the dictionary. Often, I could barely understand the questions, let alone the answers I was supposed to be finding.
Trace the theme of violence in the story from inception to its inevitable climax; how is violence unleashed in each of the main characters?
I looked up to see Ma getting ready for bed. Her fragile frame was weighed down by layers of clothing, bound together by a furry vest made out of the stuffed animal fabric we had found. She had pulled on her gloves but she still rubbed her hands together to warm them. That past summer, I had read a passage in a children’s book in which the father sat down with his daughter to teach her how to write a check. I thought about that scene often.
“Can I do anything to help you?” Ma asked.
“No, Ma.”
She sighed. “You have to work so hard. Don’t stay up too late, little one.”
I wanted to go to bed. I felt the back of my neck growing heavier, weighing down my head, my eyes. The apartment was dark and empty. A few mice scurried in the kitchen.
I rubbed my temples and studied the question again.
A few weeks later, I had just finished dressing in the toilet stall when I heard a noise from above. There was a large skylight in the ceiling and I saw shadows moving in it.
One of the girls shrieked, “Boys!”
There was the sound of laughter and footsteps above our heads, and then the shadows disappeared.
Instead of being upset, many of the girls seemed pleased by this event and there was a great deal of whispering. The next day, Greg yelled down the hall as I passed by, “Are those boxing shorts comfortable?”
The boys and girls around him exploded with laughter. I kept on walking as I burned with embarrassment. Something had to be done.
“The other kids have started teasing me about my underwear,” I said to Ma at the factory.
She flinched and I was glad, glad to punish her by having been right. This was Ma’s fault.
“How did they see you?” she asked, not meeting my stare.
My pain from all the teasing cracked open like a rice pot from the heat. “I told you, everyone changes together and everyone looks at each other! This isn’t China, Ma!”
She was silent. Then she said, “We can go shopping on Sunday.”
I had to endure the rest of the week before our shopping trip. When we had gym, Sheryl started peeking into the stall where I dressed. I heard her and the other girls giggling outside, and their laughter had become more merciless, as if the fact that I was still wearing the underwear was my silent consent to their teasing.
On Friday of that week, in desperation, I wore my one swimsuit instead of my homemade underwear under my clothes. A neighbor back home had given it to me as a going-away present. It had become too small and the straps cut into my shoulders. The bright yellow material was faintly visible through the white of my shirt but its tightness was reassuring to me. At least this was new, store-bought; at least this was taut and trim like the others’ underwear.
In gym class, Greg made a point of saying to everyone, “Hmm, are we going swimming today?”
I realized I had only made things worse.
We bought a package of panties for me at Woolworth’s, but the store didn’t have any bras that were small enough, so we had to go to the Macy’s across the street. Aunt Paula talked about shopping there and we knew we couldn’t really afford it, but there was nowhere else we knew to go.
Under the sparkling lights, saleswomen sprayed passersby with perfume but ignored Ma and me. We were too poorly dressed, too Chinese. The counters were crammed with things we didn’t dare look at: leather handbags, fake diamonds, lipsticks. Girls were perched on stools having their makeup done by women in lab coats. The entire store smelled ripe and exotic.
In the lingerie department, multicolored nightgowns, corsets, slips, bras were displayed like candy. Ma picked up a price tag, looked at it and shook her head.
It was clear I could never fit into any of those huge bras on display. They were for women with real breasts, not the little bumps I was growing.
“Ask someone for help,” Ma said.
I wanted desperately for her to be able to ask someone for me, to take charge as I was sure Annette’s mother would have. But I picked up a bra, hanging voluptuous and full even though no one was wearing it, and brought it to one of the salesladies. Ma stayed behind me.
My entire body felt flushed even before I spoke. “Do you have this? For me?”
To my horror, the black lady burst out laughing. When she saw my face, she tried to stifle her giggles. “I’m sorry, honey, it’s just that you so little and this so big.” Her voice boomed.
“Come on,” she said. “What you need is a training bra. What size are you?”
“I don’t know. Seventy?” I made a wild guess based upon Ma’s bras, which had come from Hong Kong and were based on the European sizing system.
The woman started laughing again. “You just too much. Someday, I promise, you will grow up to be a real woman. No need to rush things, baby. Now, let me measure you.”
I pulled up my sweater as she took out a tape measure. I was embarrassed by my homemade undershirt, but at least this one didn’t have any holes in it. If the woman noticed, she didn’t say anything. I stared at the ground as she wrapped the tape measure around my chest.
“Thirty triple A,” she announced. The whole store could have heard her. She took a cardboard box out of a display and gave it to me. “You wanna try it on?”
“No, thank you.”
I grabbed the box, Ma and I paid fast, and we left.
When I tried the bra on at home, I saw it was only a piece of flat cotton, but when I put it on, it looked like what some of the other girls had been wearing.
But the new underwear came too late. The teasing had already begun and borne by its own momentum like a speeding train, it continued.
The complexities of these kids were beyond me, and I thought about telling Annette. She and I talked every day on the bus and at lunch, but she babbled about her classes and the kids who shared them with her, telling me often that none of them were as nice or smart as I was. Most of our talks consisted of my reassuring her that one boy or another didn’t hate her. She didn’t notice that I rarely said anything about myself, but I didn’t blame her for this. The truth was, I enjoyed not talking about myself. It was such a relief to be in her world and, by my silence, pretend I shared it. I didn’t want her to know what a hard time I was having.
I brought it up at my tutoring session with Kerry and she’d looked thoughtful.
“That is really not okay,” she said. “You should tell the teachers.”
I worried that if I complained, the school would see me as a problem and regret letting me come. And in Hong Kong at least, the teachers would ask the parents of the kids involved to talk to each other, and how could Ma possibly stand up against Greg’s parents?
I finally decided to ask Matt at the factory.
“I need your help,” I said.
“You know I’m the boss,” Matt said.
“There are kids at school who pick on me.” I was ashamed to have to admit this. “I want them to stop.”
His golden eyes were kind. “That’s not right. Some idiots tried that on me and Park too.” Now, his grin faded.
“What did you do?”
“I fought the leader. But that’s not a good solution for a girl.”
“I was in a fight once, with the biggest boy in my class.”
“You? Miss Skinny Arms?”
“Okay, it wasn’t much of a fight. It turned out he actually liked me.”
“Maybe that’s what’s happening now.”
“Oh no. Absolutely not.” Then I smiled. I was sure Greg did not have a crush on me, but Matt had still given me an idea.
And so I waited until the next gym class. Up to the last moment, I wasn’t sure if I would be brave enough to see my plan through. My heart was pounding so hard I could barely breathe. I paused in the doorway of the huge indoor hall, then walked up to where he was standing in the midst of all his friends. “Greg.”
Hardly any of these kids had ever heard me speak at all, and certainly not directly to them. Everyone quieted down.
Greg looked at me.
Despite my trembling legs, I smiled as kindly as I could. “I’m very sorry.”
He looked confused and also the tiniest bit ashamed. He probably knew he should have been the one apologizing. “For what?”
“You keep try to get my attention but I just not like you in that way.” Then I reached up to give him what I hoped would look like a patronizing kiss on the cheek. I missed in my nervousness, though, and kissed him on the corner of his mouth instead, which must have made my performance more convincing to all of the spectators. Despite his bravado, Greg was also only twelve years old at the time, and he was so shocked by my kiss that he started to sputter violently, as if he’d been stung by a hive of bees, and all of the skin that was visible in between his freckles flushed a dark red.
I was still unaccustomed to the vivid colors that white people could turn and he scared me so much that I sprang backward, but by this time the entire hall had exploded in laughter.
“Greg’s got a crush on Kimberly, Greg’s got a crush on Kimberly,” the boys chanted.
“Oh, come on,” he finally got out, but he was touching his lower lip with his finger-I think out of surprise-and it only made the teasing worse.
“Still feeling the kiss?” Curt asked with a wicked smile.
I don’t know how many of the kids actually believed me and how many simply took the opportunity to get back at Greg, who’d been hurtful to almost everyone at one point or another, but this turned the tide. He started avoiding me, and the teasing stopped soon after that.
As much as I tried to avoid her, I crossed paths with Aunt Paula one day as I entered the factory. I was still in my Harrison clothes and she looked me over with speculation. I greeted her, then hurried into the bathroom to change.
Later, she came over to our workstation.
“Big sister,” Ma said, worried. It wasn’t time for the usual quality inspection yet. “Is there something wrong?”
“Of course not,” Aunt Paula said. “I was just thinking that it has been so long since you’ve eaten rice at our house.” Rice meant dinner. “Why don’t I have Uncle Bob pick you up on Sunday?”
Ma tried to hide her surprise at this generosity. Since we moved into our own place more than a year before, Aunt Paula had invited us to her house only once. “You give us so much face.”
“No, no. And let Kimberly wear something nice, maybe her school outfit.”
Now I was surprised as well. After Aunt Paula left, I turned to Ma. “I thought she was so angry that I was going to Harrison Prep.”
Ma thought for a moment. “Aunt Paula isn’t one to fight against things she cannot change. She’s too practical for that.”
“So she isn’t upset anymore?”
“I didn’t say that. You must be very small-hearted when we are at their house.” Ma was telling me I should be careful. “You must be humble.”
“If Aunt Paula is still calculating-self, why did she invite us over?” Calculating-self means jealous.
Ma sighed. “Ah-Kim, you are not supposed to ask such direct questions. That does not befit a well-behaved Chinese girl.”
“I just want to understand so I know how to act there.”
Ma hesitated, then decided to answer. “If Aunt Paula cannot alter something, then she will see how it can best benefit her and her family.”
I finally had it. “Nelson. She wants me to set a good example for him.”
Ma nodded. “Be nice to him.”
Aunt Paula’s house was deliciously warm. I found myself lingering by the radiator in the living room.
Nelson noticed me there and sauntered over. He was wearing his school uniform too, a dark green blazer and tan pants-and then I knew. We were both in our school clothes because Aunt Paula wanted to show off the fact that Nelson was in private school too. She’d made me wear my outfit so that he could wear his.
Nelson spoke softly so the adults wouldn’t hear. “When you see our home, your eyes glow red, don’t they?”
Nelson could never out-insult me, and certainly not in Chinese. I patted his arm. “What a pity your mind is like a cowhide lantern. No matter how often you try to light it, it will never be bright.”
Aunt Paula’s voice from the kitchen interrupted us. “Time to eat rice!”
We were all crowded around their table: Uncle Bob, Godfrey, Nelson, Aunt Paula, Ma and me. The table was loaded with delicacies like stir-fried shrimp with lichee nuts, steamed peppers stuffed with meat, and a whole sea bass poached with ginger and scallions.
“You’re serving us a golden dragon on a platter,” Ma said. My aunt had gone to elaborate lengths.
She had never made such an effort for us before, and I could see that our status in her mind had been raised. It wasn’t just that she was impressed by my achievements, though. I understood her well enough to know it couldn’t be that simple. Perhaps she realized I could become more of a threat to her now, and that she ought to treat Ma and me a bit better, just in case.
Over dinner, Aunt Paula wanted to know all of my standardized test scores and how exactly I had managed to get into Harrison Prep. I gave her a general impression of what had happened, leaving out most of the details.
“And what are your grades like, now that you’re at such an exclusive school?” she asked.
I stared at my bowl of rice. “The classes aren’t so easy.”
“Really? For such a smart girl?”
“I got a hundred on my last English test,” Nelson interjected. “What did you get?”
I had just put a lichee nut in my mouth, and I bit down so hard on my chopsticks I could feel my teeth imprint on the wood. “Nelson, we don’t even go to the same school.”
“I know. So what did you get?” he said.
I was ashamed but I had to be honest. “A sixty-seven.”
Nelson beamed. Uncle Bob paused in the middle of feeding Godfrey a spoonful of rice.
“Aaah.” Aunt Paula breathed out. There was relief and satisfaction in her sigh. Obviously, her wish for me to be unsuccessful was greater than her desire to use me to inspire Nelson.
Ma’s forehead was furrowed. She had never heard of me receiving such a score before. “You didn’t tell me that, ah-Kim.”
“It’s all right, Ma,” I said. “I’m working as hard as I can.”
“You must be careful with your scholarship, Kimberly,” Aunt Paula said, though I knew she would be glad if I actually lost the money. “You wouldn’t want to be disqualified.”
“I know,” I said. This was a secret worry of mine and I hadn’t wanted to share it with Ma. Of course Nelson and Aunt Paula had exposed me. I looked Aunt Paula in the eye. “I’m at the factory until so late, I don’t have much time to study.”
Ma interrupted us. “You can release your heart, older sister.” This meant that Aunt Paula didn’t need to worry. “Ah-Kim always tries her best in everything. Do take another piece of stuffed pepper.” She speared a piece with her chopsticks and put it in Aunt Paula’s bowl, while staring at me to be quiet.
I obeyed and Ma changed the subject.
Annette was having a hard time fitting in at Harrison too, although not in the same way I was. She came from an affluent family like most of the other kids, but she was too funny-looking and outspoken to fit in easily. Every morning on the bus I saved the seat next to me, and as soon as she boarded, we would spend the rest of the ride talking about our classes and the boys Annette thought were cute. I didn’t care for any boys. I was too busy struggling to keep up in my classes, and the boys in my class only seemed to be interested in playing around and teasing the girls.
The brown-haired girl, Tammy, glanced over at us sometimes on the bus, and in class she sat next to me once in a while.
“I tried to call you for the homework yesterday,” she whispered to me once in Math. “But I couldn’t find your number in the school directory.”
“Our phone number changed,” I said. These were the same lies that I had used with Annette until she stopped asking.
“What’s your new number? I’ll write it down.”
“Now we have a problem with the line. They are working on the road outside.”
“Oh.” Tammy looked at me strangely. After that, she sat more often with Sheryl, Greg and their group of friends.
I paid attention to everything my English tutor Kerry taught me, and she told me that she’d never seen anyone improve so fast. I knew there was still a long way for me to go, though, and I studied English in all of my spare time.
By the second semester of seventh grade, I had more trouble understanding my fellow students than I did my teachers. The combination of the kids’ use of slang and my lack of cultural context made their discussions bewildering. One day, I thought I’d found an opportunity to learn something about religion when I heard Curt, sitting at the end of the cafeteria table, talking about the afterlife.
I wasn’t really listening at the beginning because Annette had been chattering to me but I caught a few of Curt’s words like, “… Pearly Gates… nun meets Saint Peter… he says… Sister, life you led… go back to earth.”
I paid more attention then because I was interested in their faith. I hadn’t expected Curt to be so thoughtful.
Curt continued speaking. “‘I’d like to be Sara Pipeline in another life,’ the nun said. She pulled out a newspaper article and gave it to Saint Peter.
“He read it, then said, ‘No, dear, it was the Sahara Pipeline that got laid by fourteen hundred men in six months.’ ”
From the way the other boys laughed especially loudly, as if showing off their comprehension, I saw that what I’d thought was a spiritual discussion had actually been a dirty joke. I had no idea what in the world the Sahara Pipeline had to do with a nun, or how a pipeline could be dirty in a sexual sense. Annette had kept on talking the entire time so I couldn’t ask her about it without exposing the fact that I’d been distracted away from her.
Despite all of this, however, I was thrilled to go to Harrison Prep every day. When I left our graffiti-covered area in Brooklyn and arrived at school, with its green lawns and birds circling overhead, I felt like I had gone to paradise.
It was also a relief not to have “fun” assignments like dioramas and posters anymore. Instead, my assignments were tests and papers, which were easier and didn’t require any extra materials. I sometimes still missed the teachers’ sentences in class, but it mattered less because much schoolwork was based on reading I’d done at home, so I already had some background knowledge. When I made mistakes in my writing, the teachers were kind.
My teachers graded my English skills only by my improvement and not by how I compared with my classmates, who were all native speakers. Some teachers actually corrected the mistakes in my writing, which helped me enormously.
Mr. Jamali was rarely in the library itself when I was working, although I always knew I could find him in his office upstairs or at the theater if I needed him. Sometimes, though, he would suddenly appear behind my shoulder. When he found me studying books like How to Improve Your Vocabulary in 90 Days, Mr. Jamali started giving me old books and magazines the library threw away. They were a random assortment: Philosophy Through the Ages, Moll Flanders, The Wonders of Your Own Window Garden. I read them all and kept them in a pile by our nonworking radiator in the apartment.
By the end of the year, I had managed to do decently in most of my classes except for Social Studies, and Mr. Scoggins allowed me to write an extra paper to make up for the current events quizzes I’d failed. I hadn’t lost my scholarship and slowly, my talent for school was beginning to reassert itself. However, Ma and I were careful not to tell Aunt Paula.
When eighth grade began, the school told me I didn’t need an English tutor anymore. I would miss having someone like Kerry to advise me, but I took it for what it was: a compliment. My English had improved. In other ways, though, I still lived in a different world. Most of the kids in my homeroom were the same as from the previous year, but I didn’t really know them. As they participated in whole new activities and developed social lives after school, I could only observe. They were in plays, did lacrosse, basketball, tennis; there were football games and a whole group solely devoted to cheering. I overheard them enough to know that they also started going out places in groups at night. But what struck me most was how relaxed and happy the other kids all seemed together. I often saw Tammy laughing along with her friends, although she continued to be nice to me as well. Curt and Sheryl, the two coolest kids in the grade, flirted with each other like crazy, for the rest of us to see.
The other girls (with the exception of Annette, who thought Sheryl was shallow) regarded Sheryl with admiration and envy. When she pushed the limits of the dress code and came in with her skirt rolled up to mid-thigh, many of the other girls did the same within a week, flashing their pale legs. And as for Curt, he just seemed to glow with promise. It wasn’t that he was so handsome, but the way he wore the knowledge that he was someone special.
In a way, I gave myself the excuse of not even trying to get close to the others because I knew I couldn’t be a part of their lives. I still had my responsibilities at the factory, but even without that, Ma wouldn’t have allowed me to go out anyway. That wasn’t what nice Chinese girls from her background did.
At the beginning of one lunch period, I happened to be walking down the hallway a bit behind Greg and a group of his friends, including Tammy.
“You going to Rocky Horror tonight?” Greg asked Tammy.
“Sure,” she said. “You guys could meet at my place beforehand, if you want.” To my surprise, she turned and smiled at me over her shoulder. “Do you want to come too, Kimberly?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said, stalling for time. I knew I couldn’t go, but I wanted to pretend it was a possibility. “What time you are meeting?”
She glanced at Greg, who looked as shocked by her inclusion of me as I felt. “Around eleven, I guess?”
I blinked. Didn’t we have school at eleven o’clock in the morning? Luckily, I didn’t say anything to reveal my ignorance, because then Tammy continued, “It’ll take us less than half an hour to get to the city, so we’ll have plenty of time to make it to the Village by midnight.”
“No, let’s meet earlier. I can get some bears,” Greg said.
While they discussed the logistics of their evening, my mind whirled. A show that started at midnight. And some bears? Then I realized he had to mean the alcoholic drink, beer.
When I finally looked up, Tammy was saying something to me again. “So, can you make it?”
“It is not a problem for your parents?” I blurted out the question in my thoughts. “Beer?”
She shrugged, looking a bit sheepish. “My parents are divorced. I live with my dad. He’s out a lot, and almost anything goes, anyway.”
“Oh.” I hesitated. “I am busy. Maybe another time, okay?”
She gave me her warm smile. “Next time, then.”
I knew there would be no next time, but felt pleased by her invitation. It allowed me to imagine that I could have been one of the other kids, for a moment.
We had a big Physical Science test in two weeks, covering topics like mass, force and acceleration, and everyone else seemed scared. I was actually relieved to have a subject that involved so much math, but I saw some of the other kids huddled around the lockers after school one day, trying to do their homework and complaining that they didn’t understand a thing.
“I flunked the last test,” I heard Sheryl saying to her friends. “I’m going to get grounded if it happens again.”
“This one’s going to be even harder,” Curt said. “Everyone will fail and then they’ll have to throw away the results.”
At that moment, Sheryl caught sight of me. Her tone was dry. “Not everyone.”
I ducked my head and kept on walking, but I could feel them watching me.
On the day of the test, our desks were arranged in rows. This time, I was sitting behind Tammy, and Curt was in the next row, directly across from me. Our teacher, Mrs. Reynolds, was walking around the room, passing out the tests.
Tammy turned around and spoke to me. “Do you have an extra pencil? My point just broke.”
I nodded and gestured at the one I’d placed on my desk.
As she reached out to take it, a small piece of folded yellow paper fluttered from her sleeve to the floor. I automatically bent down and picked it up, but by the time I straightened up, Tammy had already turned back around in her seat. Could this be a note for me? I didn’t pass notes in class but I’d seen others do it with friends, shaking with suppressed laughter. Feeling flattered and curious, I was beginning to open the note when Mrs. Reynolds came up from behind and took it from my hand.
She finished unfolding it and I watched with horror, sure it said something private. Mrs. Reynolds studied it through her round brown glasses. “I hadn’t expected this of you, Kimberly.”
Tammy was staring straight ahead, as if she hadn’t done anything at all. Mrs. Reynolds’s lips were compressed in a thin line of disapproval and she held the note up for me to read. I could barely make it out but realized it was filled with what looked like scribbled definitions for Newton’s Laws, plus formulas for things like velocity and speed.
I figured out what had happened. My face flamed. I would never cheat, even in subjects where I had trouble. That wasn’t the way Ma had brought me up. How little everyone here knew me, to even think I could do such a thing. Tammy turned her head now, behind Mrs. Reynolds’s back, pleading with her eyes for me not to tell on her.
“That is not mine,” I said.
“Please come with me.” Mrs. Reynolds gestured for the assistant teacher to take over the class. She left the room and I followed her, feeling the eyes of the entire class upon me. I felt nauseated as we went down the hallway to the office of the director of the science and math department, Dr. Copeland.
Dr. Copeland looked up as Mrs. Reynolds knocked on her open door. The director was so thin as to be gaunt, with old scars etched into both sides of her face, as if she’d once been in an accident of some kind. Mrs. Reynolds shut the door behind us, then explained what had happened. She handed over the incriminating piece of paper. I clasped my shaking hands together.
“We take cheating very seriously here,” Dr. Copeland said in a deceptively mild voice, but her eyes blazed into mine. “Students have been expelled for it.”
“I wasn’t,” I said, my fear making my voice tremble.
“Mrs. Reynolds found this in your hand.”
“I just pick it up.”
Her face was white with tension. “I’d like to believe you, Kimberly, especially since you’re such a good student, but if it’s not yours, then why would you do that? It’s hard to argue with the fact that you had a cheat sheet for the test in your possession.”
I thought about the desperate look in Tammy’s eyes and couldn’t say anything. My face and neck were flushed with embarrassment and anger, mostly at myself. I couldn’t believe I had gotten myself into so much trouble. What was going to happen to me?
At my silence, Dr. Copeland continued. “Whether you created the note or someone else did that for you is not the point.”
My panic was so great by now I could only take shallow breaths. I knew I could be expelled when I was completely innocent. Why couldn’t I open my mouth to tell them the truth? My emotions were all jumbled up inside and I felt paralyzed. I was still in a state of shock at the cheating accusation itself. And in part, I was so stunned Tammy would cheat that I couldn’t bring myself to accuse her. How could I have thought that it had been a personal note for me? I burned with shame at wanting so much to be liked, to belong to a circle of friends, that I had picked up something during a test. What would Ma say if I not only got kicked out, but for cheating!
Both women were staring at me, waiting for my answer.
There was a knock on the door. Mrs. Reynolds cracked it open. “Yes?”
To my surprise, I heard Curt’s voice. “The assistant teacher gave me permission to come here. I have something to say.”
After he entered the office, Curt spoke in a clear voice. “I saw Kimberly pick up that piece of paper.”
Dr. Copeland tapped her cheek with one finger. “And it was just lying there?”
Curt swallowed. He didn’t know what I’d already told them. “I didn’t see anything else. Only her picking it up.”
“So, Kimberly, either you were very foolish or you were picking up something you had dropped yourself. Or your friend is covering up for you.”
My eyes shot to Curt’s. “He is not my friend,” I said, before I could censor myself.
Curt had a wry smile on his face. “She’s right. We’ve hardly ever spoken to each other before.”
I saw Dr. Copeland glance at Mrs. Reynolds, who gave a slight nod. Mrs. Reynolds was agreeing that Curt and I weren’t friends.
“So the question is, were you picking up something dropped by someone else or by yourself?” Dr. Copeland said.
“It is not my penmanship,” I said.
“The writing is so small, it’s hard to tell.”
The time had come for honesty. “I am too smart to cheat,” I said, feeling my face grow warm at my own arrogance. No good Chinese girl would say such a thing about herself. “It is under me.”
Dr. Copeland pulled one corner of her mouth back in a half-smile. “You mean it’s beneath you. All right, the two of you may return to the class and take the test. Mrs. Reynolds and I are going to discuss this further.”