The way to bea, p.1
The Way to Bea, page 1
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Text copyright © 2017 by Kat Yeh
Illustrations copyright © 2017 by Aimee Sicuro
Cover art copyright © 2017 by Aimee Sicuro. Cover design by Marcie Lawrence. Cover copyright © 2017 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact permissions@hbgusa.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Yeh, Kat, author.
Title: The way to Bea / by Kat Yeh.
Description: First edition. | New York : Little, Brown and Company, 2017. |
Summary: Recently estranged from her best friend and weeks away from shifting from only child to big sister, seventh grader Beatrix Lee consoles herself by writing haiku in invisible ink and hiding the poems, but one day she finds a reply—is it the librarian with all the answers, the editor of the school paper who admits to admiring her poetry, an old friend feeling remorse, or the boy obsessed with visiting the local labyrinth?
Identifiers: LCCN 2016051845 | ISBN 9780316236676 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780316236652 (ebook) | ISBN 9780316236720 (library edition ebook)
Subjects: | CYAC: Poetry—Fiction. | Authorship—Fiction. | Newspapers—Fiction. | Labyrinths—Fiction. | Best friends—Fiction. | Friendship—Fiction. | Family life—Fiction. | Middle schools—Fiction. | Schools—Fiction. | Taiwanese Americans—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.Y3658 Way 2017 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016051845
ISBNs: 978-0-316-23667-6 (hardcover), 978-0-316-23665-2 (ebook)
E3-20170817-JV-PC
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Songs
Acknowledgments
For my mom…
When I’m figuring out a haiku, I place my right hand on my chest like we do at school for the Pledge of Allegiance. The first line of a haiku is always five syllables, and I like to count out each beat, starting with my pinky finger and working my way across.
one, two, three, four, five
I know it’s exactly right when my thumb gives that final thump (five) over my heart.
There are only three lines in a haiku.
The first has five beats
the second has seven beats
and the last has five.
(Five, seven, five)
Haiku are nothing like the poems I used to write. Those were free verse, which is exactly what it sounds like. Poems that are loose and flowy and free. The kind you sing or shout or paint all over your bedroom walls. With free verse, you can pretty much do whatever you want.
A haiku is different. One wrong choice and you have to go back and start again.
But it doesn’t even matter how different they are, because all poems begin the same way: from something you feel inside. Like being mesmerized by the sound of certain words. Or feeling sad that you’re alone at the turn of a path.
Or being afraid.
A poem could begin one night when you’re so lost and afraid that the last thing you’re even thinking about is writing one. But the words will come anyway, whether you want them to or not, and you will find yourself with your hand on your chest, just like the Pledge of Allegiance, counting out the beats.
I do not know the way
Until that extra thump (six) on your heart tells you that you’ve made the wrong choice. Only this time, it’s not just a haiku—it’s real life. And there’s no starting over.
Chapter 1
There are things that are okay to say out loud and things that should definitely just stay in your head. Everyone knows that.
Except maybe Mr. Clarke.
The official name of his class is Social Studies: Ancient Civilizations, but he always likes to say the colon along with the rest of it.
As in, “Good morning and welcome to Social Studies Colon Ancient Civilizations!”
He says it every day like it’s the funniest thing ever. Like he doesn’t know how weird this is. Mr. Clarke doesn’t know a lot of things. I mean, he knows social studies, but he doesn’t know that it’s too much to come back from summer with a full beard that he’s slowly trimming away and changing each week. We’ve been in school for a month now, and so far, he’s had a caveman, a Viking braid, a waxed beard with a pointy tip, and now, muttonchops.
Today, I’m late as usual. I try to open the door as quietly as possible so I can just slip in, but the second my head appears, Mr. Clarke calls out, “Welcome, welcome, Miss Beatrix Harper? Lee!”
Mr. Clarke’s been trying to guess my middle name since the beginning of the year. I know he just wants to be funny, but does he always have to make such a scene? This is my only class with S, and all I want is to get through it with as little attention as possible. I don’t want to talk, I don’t want to be called on, and I definitely don’t want to be part of any scenes.
But so far, every day in this class feels like that game—the one where everyone takes turns pulling the blocks out of a tower, then when it topples over, they all yell Jenga! No matter how hard you try, the tower always falls.
“Hurry, hurry, now, Beatrix!”
I put my head down and quickly make my way in, pulling my headphones onto my neck. I reach for my phone to check my splitter. I got it this summer in Taiwan. Most splitters are just boring, but this one is shaped like a smiley bunny face that clicks into the headphone jack. You can connect two sets of headphones into the two bunny ears whenever you want to listen to the same song with someone else. I just haven’t had a chance to use it yet.
The whole class is standing around a large table up front. I find a spot across from where S is huddled with L and L and A.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a swish of pale hair and think maybe S is looking at me, but when I turn to check, I hear “Ow!” and realize I’ve clonked the boy next to me, because I still have my backpack on. What’s his name? Justin something? I turn the other way to try and slip it off, but then—“Hey!”—I whack into Kirsten Henry on the other side. She shoots me an annoyed look. I don’t even really know Kirsten. She’s from one of the two other elementary schools that come together in our middle school.
People start craning their necks to see what’s going on. I grip the straps of my backpack tightly and stare straight ahead. I just won’t move again for the next hour. If Kirsten and Justin want an apology, they’ll be waiting a long time. I haven’t said a single word in this class yet, and I’m not going to start now. I try to focus on whatever it is on the table in front of us.
It’s a big wooden maze.
Mr. Clarke is standing behind it with Dan Ross.
He clears his throat. “For his presentation today, Dan has chosen the topic ‘Politics in Ancient Greece.’ I will thank you in advance for being courteous and giving h
Dan smirks. “Long ago in ancient Greece, King Minos, son of the almighty Zeus, commanded that a labyrinth be built to house his man-eating beast, the Minotaur.”
Mr. Clarke drums his fingers on his chin in the space between his muttonchops. “Fascinating start, Dan. Are you sure this isn’t a report on Greek mythology?”
“Nah,” says Dan. “It’s ancient Greek politics. It’s political because there’s a king.”
“Fair enough.” Mr. Clarke nods. “And while we’re at it, class, how about an Extra Credit Curveball! Draw a map of Zeus’s family tree. Hint: you’ll need big paper and a strong stomach. Please continue, Dan. I can’t wait to see where this goes.”
“The labyrinth of King Minos was an impossible maze where he’d throw all his prisoners. I got this one from my cousin. My mom gave it to him for his birthday, but he didn’t like it.” Dan shrugs. “He’s kinda weird. Anyway, today my weird cousin’s maze will demonstrate what happens to those who wander in the Labyrinth of Minos!”
I feel sorry for this cousin who has to go through life being related to Dan Ross. Dan has been a sworn enemy since his birthday party in kindergarten, when he told me his dog was one of the Killer Hounds of Leland Estate that got kicked out for being too ferocious. I cried and cried because I’ve always been afraid of big dogs, but S held him around the neck, petting him. She said as long as I acted like I wasn’t afraid, he wouldn’t hurt me. But how does someone do that? Act like something they’re not? We swore never to speak to Dan again.
S’s voice rings clearly across the room. “Whooo-hoo! Dan the Man!”
Then A chimes in, “Yeah, Dan!”
Mr. Clarke rises up on his tiptoes and carefully studies the maze from above. “Unnecessary comment about your cousin aside, I will say that this is a very impressive maze, and it looks like… yes, it is. It’s a perfect maze.”
“Thank you! Thank you!” Dan bows and waves. “No applause, just throw money.”
Mr. Clarke pats him on the back. “Perfect refers to the specific type of maze you have here. A perfect maze is actually one of the only mazes that can be solved quite easily. Which I believe merits another Extra Credit Curveball if anyone can tell me how.”
I stand on my tiptoes and look down at the maze the way Mr. Clarke did. I like how all the walls are connected together. Connected and holding each other up. With no lonely wall left stranded by itself.
A perfect maze.
It sounds like something that should be in a poem.
When I close my eyes, I can see things more clearly. I can imagine how I would write and draw a poem about a perfect maze. The words could wind around the page, maybe filled with curling vines that climb along a turning path, up and around and…
“Why, yes, Beatrix!”
With a start, I open my eyes to giggling in the room. My hand is raised, my finger tracing words in the air. I feel my cheeks go hot and shake my head no as I shove my hands deep into my pockets, where I plan to keep them for the rest of the year.
Dan Ross snorts. “It doesn’t matter how easy it is to solve, Mr. Clarke,” he says. “Hammy’ll never make it.” That’s when I see he’s holding a little ball of fur. “She’s too scared. Watch—boo!” She squirms in his grip and he laughs. “Wait’ll you see what happens when she gets stuck in a dead end.”
“First of all, Dan, the proper term for a dead end in a maze is a blind alley. And I say give little Hammy here a chance. She’s got it in her, maybe she just doesn’t know it yet.” Mr. Clarke reaches over and scratches Hammy on the head.
“You’re just saying that because you haven’t met the Minotaur yet!” Dan pulls out an action figure with rows of teeth and a long, whippy tail. “The Ridley Scott Alien, circa 1979.” He turns to Mr. Clarke. “My dad keeps it up on a shelf in the original sealed box.”
Mr. Clarke frowns. “Uh, perhaps that had better go back in the box.”
Dan shrugs. “Can’t have a maze without a monster in the middle.”
And he drops Hammy in, headfirst.
I push forward as Hammy tumbles down in an awkward somersault and scrambles to her feet, her teeny little hamster sides panting. I can almost hear her heart pitter-pattering away. She doesn’t even move at first. She doesn’t know which way to go. It’s not fair.
Hammy looks left to the path that leads to the exit and then right to the path that leads to the blind alley. Left… right… left…
Right!
She makes a bobbling run straight into the dead end.
Hammy hits the wall and turns in a circle. Stops and then turns again. She pants for a second and then starts clawing at the dead end, trying to get through.
Dan snickers. “Now watch what happens.…” And he starts to sneak the alien right behind her.
“Dan…” Mr. Clarke warns.
I look at Mr. Clarke. Then at Hammy in the maze. I can’t even imagine how scared she is, trapped and trying to get out—and that Dan Ross! He’s still the same. Scaring people—and hamsters!—just because he can. Why won’t someone stop him? Why won’t anyone stand up to his stupid, smirking—
Dan laughs as he raises the alien up—
And someone screams out, “NO!”
Wait.
Who was—
I clap a hand over my mouth.
My eyes dart over to where A and L and L are cracking up. And S is just staring at the floor. Worried someone will remember that up till a month ago, we were best friends.
Jenga.
I turn and run out.
Chapter 2
I rush down the hall and push through the exit, running across the soccer field, into the woods, and onto the path that leads home. I don’t stop until I get to the clearing by the Wall.
It’s like stepping into a safe zone. I let myself collapse onto the ground and try to catch my breath.
No one knows who made the paths that wind through the little woods and feed into all the streets in our neighborhood. They’ve just always been there. Maybe since the very first houses here on Long Island were built. They connect our street to S and L and L’s streets and then to the main path, where you can take a left to the elementary school, a right to the middle school, or an even farther right to, well, to pretty much anywhere. Over the years, we’ve searched every inch of every path, and ours is the only one with a stone wall.
We were little the first time we came upon our crumbling Wall, and it looked like a stone creature to us, hunched over like a baby elephant in the clearing. We ran back to my parents’ studio, yelling, “Why is there a wall in the woods? What is it? Where did it come from?”
Without looking up, Dad yelled, “Portal to the land of the goblin king!” and kept on drawing his comics.
And from her side of the studio, Mom called out, “Portal to the underworld!” and threw more black paint on her canvas.
Just as quickly as we’d come in, we ran back out to check the Wall for clues.
It might have been left over from an old mansion. Or a prison gate. Or a secret tower. But it didn’t matter; it was ours. And the best part was that it had this… opening. Nothing special to look at. Just the kind of small dark hole you’d expect to find filled with crawling beetles and maybe moss. But it was more than that. Because when we pressed our eyes to it, we could see that it reached farther and deeper than any ordinary crawling-beetle-and-maybe-moss-filled hole should. As if the inside were bigger than the outside.
We named it the Portal.
We whispered our deepest secrets into it. We asked it our scariest questions. We could tell it anything. Inside the Portal was the safest place we knew.
A twig snaps.
I force myself not to look up. Because when you’re waiting for someone on a path, every twig will snap and every bush will rustle, but no one will ever be there. No one ever is. Not in the mornings when I wait here until I’m late for school every day and not now.
And there’s no way S would run after me after the scene I made.
Barging in late and crashing into everyone with my backpack.
Doing my weird skywriting in front of the whole class.
Ugh. And then screaming NO! like I was at a horror movie and not just watching a class presentation.
Why?
Why, why, WHY do I always have to be so…
