Maybe he just likes you, p.7
Maybe He Just Likes You, page 7
I walked down the hall, listening to teachers in all the different rooms.
“Take a deep cleansing breath… and another. And now… downward-facing dog into eagle pose…”
“And toe! And toe! And step, two, three!”
“Work those back muscles, people! I want to see perfect, upright posture!”
“Kiai!”
The last voice was high and sharp. It didn’t sound like a teacher’s.
I peeked inside room 5. About twenty kids of different sizes and ages, girls and boys, were standing with their backs to me, facing a young woman with very short, reddish-purplish hair. All the students wore white uniforms, but they had different-colored belts—mostly white or yellow, but a few of them were orange or green. The young woman, who was clearly the teacher, had a black belt.
“Let’s hear that again, Ms. Carter,” she was telling one student. “ ‘Kiai’ is Japanese for ‘spirit yell,’ so don’t hold back. Yell out as you exhale.”
“But I’m supposed to be falling,” the girl said. She had a white belt, and seemed younger than me, so it was weird to hear her called Ms. Anything. “And I thought the kiai was what you say when you’re attacking.”
“Yes, but the yell is also meant to draw attention,” the teacher said. “You want people to look, especially if you’re vulnerable. Plus it unnerves the attacker. You don’t have to say ‘kiai’—some people say ‘ha,’ or ‘hey,’ or a different word. The important thing is to let your spirit yell out. And not from high up in the throat but from deep, from the stomach. Try again, Ms. Carter.”
The girl threw herself on the shiny blue mat, yelling “kiai” so loudly this time that I flinched.
“Nice job!” The teacher high-fived the girl, who beamed.
It was so dramatic that at first I didn’t register someone calling my name. And then I realized that a girl with an orange belt had gotten off the mat and was coming toward me. Her long braids were coiled in a bun, and she wasn’t wearing blue glasses—so it took me a second to recognize Samira.
“Hey, Mila, you’re doing this class?” she was asking. She seemed surprised, with maybe a dash of happy.
“Me? No,” I said, blushing. “My mom is here, and my little sister…” I waved my arm in the direction of the hip-hop class.
Now the teacher was walking over. “Welcome,” she said. “My name is Ms. Platt. I’m the head teacher here. And you’re…?”
“Oh, no. I was just watching.”
“Even so, I take it you have a name?” Ms. Platt smiled.
“Mila.”
“Mila, you need to bow,” Samira said.
Bow? Was she serious?
I lowered my head and bent over like I had a stomach cramp.
Ms. Platt smiled and bowed back. Not the sort of bow musicians did: this one was heels together, arms at the side, eyes straight ahead, bending at the waist.
“Mila what?” she asked when she finished bowing.
“Brennan.”
“Well, you’re welcome to join us, Ms. Brennan, or even just to keep observing. But in this dojo we do ask that you remove your shoes.”
My shoes? She meant my sneakers, which I’d been wearing this entire crazy day—to school, on the long walk home, then to the dog run. Suddenly I couldn’t think of anything I’d rather do than take off my filthy, stinky sneakers. And hanging out in this class would kill some time while I waited for Mom and Hadley.
I crouched to unknot my frayed, triple-knotted laces. What about socks? I peeked: all the other kids had bare feet, so I took off my socks and stuck them inside my sneakers.
And now you can’t escape, my brain scolded me. Not too sure this is your best idea, Mila.
“Aswatte,” Ms. Platt told the class. She looked at me. “Ms. Brennan, I just asked the students to sit. Have you studied karate or other martial arts before?”
I shook my head.
“Please say, ‘No, sensei,’ ” Ms. Platt said. “It means ‘teacher’ in Japanese.”
Why did she care what I called her? I wasn’t even supposed to be here.
My cheeks were burning. But I said it.
Ms. Platt bowed her head. “This is not a pure karate class, Ms. Brennan—we incorporate several martial arts. But we do use a little Japanese, so if you don’t understand something, always feel free to ask.”
“Thanks.” Okay, leave! Now! You don’t have to stay here out of politeness or embarrassment. Just pick up your sneakers and RUN.
I crossed the floor to the edge of the blue mat where kids were sitting with crossed legs, watching silently as Samira and two girls in yellow belts did a bunch of movements. Ms. Platt was standing beside them, doing the same movements and sort of narrating: “Okay, begin with the heiko-dachi stance, step back with the right foot, catch to the back leg, overhead block with the left hand, straightforward punch with the right hand, pull the block in. Kiai. Heiko-dachi. Again, please.”
Then Ms. Platt asked them to “demonstrate Basic Seven,” and the whole class followed along while counting out loud in Japanese.
I couldn’t take my eyes off Samira and the other girls—they seemed so sure of themselves, and focused. Like Samira when she played clarinet, and Callum when he played trumpet. And even like Zara sometimes, when she was singing.
But also, this was different, because of the way they were using their bodies. The sharp, clean movements with no hesitation. Not just punching, but also blocking. And then that wild spirit yell at the end.
Which possibly was their sort of blue sky.
And I thought:
How do you get like that?
Knowing what to do, in what order.
Not thinking. Or not-thinking.
Not ignoring. And not running away.
Could I ever do any of that?
Could one of those girls ever be me?
As hard as I tried, it was impossible to imagine.
MAYBE
The whole drive over to Junior Jay’s, and then the whole meal, Hadley wouldn’t stop talking about the hip-hop class, how much fun it was, how she really, really, really wanted to go again, and could she please get purple leggings like the dance teacher had, pleeease?
Mom just let her talk, because she knew that once Hadley got started, there was no point interrupting. Finally she said, “Well, baby, you can go for the next two weeks, but after the introductory offer, E Motions isn’t free. And I wish I was sure we could afford their classes, but I don’t know yet. Maybe.”
Hadley slurped her milkshake. “Maybe means maybe yes, right?”
“Had, it also means maybe no,” I said.
“But just as much yes! Maybe yes or no, but it could be yes, right, Mommy?”
Mom made a shhh finger at Hadley. “Restaurant voices, please. Maybe means… well, let’s not count any chickens, girls, but it’s possible I might be getting a raise. I’m not sure about it, but I have a meeting scheduled to discuss it, and I’m hoping. And if I do get it, we’ll have a little breathing room in our budget.”
“That’s great, Mom,” I said.
Although the truth was, I was shocked. After the way Mom had been crying when Hadley and I got home from the dog run—which she’d blamed on “stuff at work”—I didn’t understand how she could be getting a raise. Was work going okay, or wasn’t it? If it was, why had she been so upset?
It sort of felt like yesterday, when I came home from school and studied myself in the mirror, wondering what the boys saw when they looked at me.
Sometimes you could look at something right up close and still not know what you were seeing.
COVERAGE
When my alarm rang on Friday morning, the first thing I noticed was that on the end of my bed was a neat stack of clothes. Mom clothes, which she must have picked for me. Not worky outfits, but the things she wore on weekends—a loose white sweater with tiny pills, a tee that said UNIVERSITY OF LIFE, another big flannel shirt I’d never seen before, in a pale blue plaid, with a metal button at the collar that didn’t match the others. Could I seriously wear any of this grown-up stuff to school?
I picked up the white sweater with the tiny pills. It smelled like laundry detergent and mom perfume. Okay, maybe not.
And that tee—omigod, no way. Only Zara did the funny-tee thing, and all of hers were bad translations from the internet. This was mom humor, and just not funny.
Although the plaid shirt wasn’t awful. But plaid two days in a row? That might seem strange, like suddenly I’d morphed into this Plaid-Wearing Person.
On the other hand, I told myself, so what? The shirt was worn-looking, with a mismatched button, but it wouldn’t cling, or give out too much information. It would be long enough to cover my butt, and there was plenty of room across the chest. So in those two ways, it would be perfect, really.
And then I had this thought: Does Mom know this about me? That I need coverage?
I wondered how she knew this, if she actually did.
TURQUOISE
I have this memory:
I am almost seven years old, in second grade. All my friends and I are obsessed with these animated tigers called Ti-grrlz, which are suddenly everywhere: on TV, clothes, backpacks, stickers. There’s even a Ti-grrlz series of chapter books, and I’ve read every one at least three times.
There are six different Ti-grrlz, named for the color of their stripes: Pink, Purple, Blue, Green, Yellow, and Turquoise. My favorite is Turquoise. I draw her all over my spelling notebook and get in trouble with my teacher.
February 19 is my birthday, more than a year since I last saw Dad, and this time he doesn’t even send a present. Mom knows I’m feeling sad about that, and she also knows I want Ti-grrlz stuff. She buys me a backpack, some books, and a top—all with the Blue Ti-grrlz character.
I’m crushed. How come Mom didn’t get me Turquoise? I talk about Turquoise all the time! I know she heard me, but maybe she wasn’t really listening. Or maybe the Blue one looked to her like Turquoise.
But I don’t tell her I’m disappointed. I know Mom spent a lot of money on these gifts—money she’s been nervous about ever since Dad left. Anyhow, I have a brilliant idea: I’ll just color the Ti-grrlz stripes with magic marker. Change the blue top to turquoise.
So I do. Except it turns out I’m not as careful at coloring as I thought. Also, the turquoise marker is dry because I use it so much—so the ink runs out halfway through coloring the stripes. And of course now my top looks worse than before.
I decide I can’t tell Mom I’ve ruined her birthday present. I roll up the top into a ball and bury it at the bottom of the laundry hamper.
A few days later Mom does a wash—and when she sees how the marker bled all over the whole load, she’s very upset. “What happened to all my work clothes? Mila, do you know why everything’s turned blue?”
“I think it’s actually turquoise,” I say helpfully. “Maybe Hadley threw a crayon in the washing machine.”
Hadley is a year and a half old, so we both know that’s unlikely.
Mom looks at me and sighs. She’s waiting for a better explanation.
I stay quiet. I feel awful about ruining everything—her clothes and mine, especially the Ti-grrlz birthday top. But if I tell her why it happened, I’ll have to tell her she got me the wrong present.
She doesn’t say a word as she throws everything back in the washing machine. But I’m pretty sure she’s figured it out anyway.
LUCKY
Zara was waiting for me outside my homeroom. The first thing I noticed was her tee, which said AFTER A CLAM COMES A STORM. The second thing was that her face didn’t have the usual Morning Zara look. She seemed unfoggy, awake.
“Can we talk?” she asked.
I shrugged. “Sure.”
“About what happened at lunch yesterday,” she said, the words running together. “I wanted to apologize. I should have stuck up for you to the boys—”
“Yeah,” I said. “You should have.”
“But I was just nervous about the chorus tryout, so I wasn’t thinking straight, you know? I just really, really needed to play basketball. And afterward, when I got home, I felt terrible—I couldn’t even sleep last night! Can you please forgive me, Mila?”
So here was Zara again: mean, then sorry. Also completely missing the point about the basketball boys.
But how could I not forgive her? Her big dark eyes were wide and begging. She wasn’t just saying this stuff—it seemed like she meant it.
“Of course I can,” I said.
She threw her arms around me, and we hugged.
Then she pulled away, eying my blue plaid shirt. “Cute top, Mila. I’ve never seen you wearing it before. Looks comfy.”
“Oh, it is.”
“Maybe better with leggings, though. Or not. Anyway.”
She turned to head for her homeroom, and I thought of something. “Hey, so how did chorus tryouts go yesterday?”
“Crushed it,” she called over her shoulder.
* * *
The morning zoomed by. Just knowing that things were normal with Zara again made my spine relax a little. Because Zara wasn’t First Chair in the Friend Section—but I had to admit she was pretty much the leader.
Also, the basketball boys didn’t bother me, not once all morning. Even though in ELA, for our personal memoir project, Mr. Finkelman assigned Dante as my critique partner, which meant he had to read my first two paragraphs.
“Pretty good,” he said when he handed me my paper.
And in Spanish we were supposed to have conversations about the airport, using the future tense. Señora Sanchez told me to partner with Leo.
I panicked. And I think he saw the look on my face.
“Nah, it’s okay, Mila,” he muttered.
Then the two of us did the whole conversation just fine. Yes, my plane will arrive at two thirty. No, it will not land in Madrid. I will visit Toledo; then I will watch a bullfight.
Maybe it’s over now, I thought.
Maybe today I’m wearing the true lucky shirt.
And then it was lunchtime.
LOCKERS
Just before going to the cafeteria, I went to put away my notebooks. It was another beautiful day, and I wanted to go outside without lugging anything extra.
My locker was in the corner of the first-floor hallway, next to the art studio. Usually the art teacher, Mr. Buono, played music during lunch—classical, mostly, but today was something punk-sounding, probably from when he was a teenager. The song was really loud, and as I was stuffing books into my messy locker, I was trying to make out the words. It sounded like the singer kept asking, “Did you stand by me?”
That was when I felt it.
Someone’s hand grabbing my butt.
I spun around.
Tobias.
“Hey, what was that?” I said, barely breathing.
“Nothing.” Tobias’s eyes were huge. His face and his neck were bright red.
“Don’t say nothing! I felt your hand just now, Tobias!”
“No, you didn’t, Mila. It’s probably your imagination.”
A sweaty chill came over me. The two of us were alone in the hallway. No one to witness what had happened. And with that music playing so loud, Mr. Buono wouldn’t even hear this conversation.
But you don’t understand my point of view.
I suppose there’s nothing I can do—
Maybe there was a karate move for a situation like this, but I had no idea what it would be.
Just get out of here, I ordered myself. Now!
I slammed my locker door and flew down the hall, outdoors to the blacktop.
BABY
The basketball boys were already under the hoop, bouncing the ball to each other. Probably waiting for Tobias.
I raced past them with my head down, past Ms. Wardak, not even caring that I hadn’t gone to the lunchroom first, the way we were supposed to. My stomach was in knots; no way could I possibly eat anything.
Where are my friends? How come no one is ever around when I need them?
For the next few minutes (two? three? twenty?) I paced back and forth on the pebble area, hugging myself to try to stop shaking.
Then I saw Tobias slowly coming out to the blacktop. As soon as he joined Leo, Callum, and Dante, I could hear them make whooping noises as they smacked him on the back. While he just stood there, letting himself get smacked.
Are they congratulating him? Like he scored a basket at the buzzer?
So they all know what he just did?
At last Zara, Omi, and Max joined me by the pebbles, laughing about some stupid joke they’d heard in the lunchroom.
Although right away Omi could tell something was up. “Mila, are you okay?”
“Not really,” I said. It came out in a gush: what had happened at the lockers with Tobias.
“See?” Zara said. “I told you he liked you, Mila.”
“No, no!” I shouted desperately. “You’re not getting it, Zara—he doesn’t! And it’s not just him! All his stupid friends—Dante, Callum, and Leo—they have this thing going on. It’s like a joke to them, or something, where they make these comments about my body. And try to touch me when no one’s watching.”
“Oh,” Zara said. She seemed stunned. “Leo also?”
I nodded. “Remember when I asked you if it was his birthday? It was because he tricked me into hugging him.”
“But Mila, why would he do that?”
“I don’t know! I don’t know!”
Omi put her arm around me. I waited for Zara to say something, but she’d gone quiet.
Then Max took a few steps away, his eyes on the untag game. Watching Jared, maybe.
I pulled away from Omi. “Zara? Did you hear what I just—”
“You know, Mila,” she cut in sharply, “I really don’t get why you think all those boys are so obsessed with you. It’s a little weird, to be honest. Because you’re not the only girl in our grade with boobs.”
