Flying the Dragon (7 page)

She leaned in closer to Hiroshi, then remembered Kevin’s idiotic comment about Hiroshi being her boyfriend. Taking a tiny step back, she translated Mrs. Garcia’s words, keeping her voice as quiet as she could. She knew she was making mistakes, but she just wanted to get this over with.

Hiroshi nodded.

“Thank you, Skye,” Mrs. Garcia said, finally ending the translation torture.

Skye led Hiroshi to the computer station, which was, thankfully, about as far away from Kevin as possible. She showed Hiroshi how to get to the Kid Science site, then walked back to her desk, eyes down.

She knew it had to be hard for Hiroshi—being the new kid and not speaking English.
But it’s no picnic for me, either.

Hiroshi smelled the cafeteria before he saw it. Walking in line with his class, he caught the odor of some kind of meat mingled with lemony-scented floor cleaner. Voices bounced from one wall to the other, up to the high ceiling, and back down again.

This was nothing like lunchtime in his classroom last year.

As his class filed by the tables, Hiroshi didn’t see any place mats—the other kids just set their trays right on the tables. The line snaked into the kitchen area, where several kinds of food sat behind a Plexiglas barrier. Ladies in uniforms did the serving—not classmates in white aprons, masks, and hats.

As he waited in line, Hiroshi dug his hand into his pocket and came up with his lunch money. He stared at the American coins and tried to remember how much each was worth. The only numerals on them were years. That was no help. He knew the quarter was worth the most because it was the biggest. The second biggest had to be worth ten cents. The next smallest must be five cents, and then there was the one-cent penny.

“Hello? You’re next.”

Hiroshi felt a poke in his back. He turned and saw a red-haired boy standing there.

“Take one. You’re up.”

Hiroshi looked past the boy to where Skye stood. She nodded toward the trays, then went back to talking to the girl next to her.

When Hiroshi didn’t move, the boy rolled his eyes. He picked up a pink Styrofoam tray and handed it to Hiroshi. “Here—you need these, too.” He put a napkin and a plastic fork and spoon on Hiroshi’s tray.

Hiroshi nodded. “Thank you.” He listened as the boy spoke to the cafeteria lady and pointed to the spaghetti. She wiped her brow with the back of her hand, then dug a huge spoon that looked like an ice cream scoop into the mass of wet noodles. She dumped the spaghetti into a Styrofoam bowl.

“Sauce?” The lady sounded bored.

The boy shrugged. “Yeah.” She plunged a ladle into a pot splattered with red sauce, poured some onto the mound of noodles with a practiced turn of her wrist, and plopped the bowl onto the counter. The boy set the bowl on his tray, then slid it farther down the line.

“Next?” The lady tucked a stray tuft of fuzzy gray hair into her hairnet.

Hiroshi looked from the pan of spaghetti to another that held some kind of meat. At least he thought it might be meat—it was hard to tell with all that lumpy brown sauce. He pointed. “Please spaghetti.” The lady repeated her ritual, and Hiroshi moved down the line.

“Bread?” Another lady offered a roll with a pair of tongs.

Hiroshi’s stomach rumbled. “Thank you.” Next he chose a small plastic bowl with bits of pineapple and cherries floating in clear syrup. He added a carton of milk and a straw to his tray, then handed his money to the cashier. The woman took his money, studied it in her open palm, then said something Hiroshi didn’t understand.

He nodded; he wanted to understand.

She repeated her words, louder this time. Hiroshi wanted to melt into the floor.
What was she trying to say?
Father had checked with the school secretary, who told him that lunch costs two dollars and forty cents. Had Father gotten it wrong? The lady pointed to a machine on the counter that looked like a large calculator and said something else. Then she shook her head and clicked her tongue.

Hiroshi heard Skye’s voice next to him. She translated the lunch lady’s words, but Hiroshi could barely hear her above the talking and clanging of pots and pans. “She says you didn’t give her enough money. It’s two forty—you gave her two twenty.”

Hiroshi frowned and looked again at the money in her hand. He’d given her two one-dollar bills—that had to be right. Then he’d given her four of those other coins—the second biggest. That was forty cents.

The red-haired boy behind him sighed. Hiroshi felt the heat reach the tops of his ears.

Skye plucked two smaller coins out of Hiroshi’s open palm. “Here’s twenty more cents.” She handed it to the lady, who said something to Skye.

“She says you can pay a month at a time if you want. Then you just enter your student number here.” Skye pointed to the machine.

What was his student number? He must have it written down somewhere. “Oh—” Hiroshi began.

But Skye was already heading back to her place in line. He turned so he wouldn’t have to see the exasperation on the other kids’ faces. He hated feeling stupid.

Gripping his tray, Hiroshi stepped into the eating area. Where was he supposed to sit? He spotted Ravi at one table, but Ravi wasn’t in his regular fifth grade class—only ESL. There were two other tables with signs in the center that read 5
^th
Grade. But which one was his class? Aside from Skye, he didn’t recognize anyone. After ESL class he had spent the rest of the morning trying to be invisible and hadn’t paid attention to his classmates’ faces. Besides, they all looked the same.

Then he heard Skye’s voice coming from behind, chatting with another girl. She stopped beside him, glanced at the girl, then leaned toward Hiroshi and spoke in Japanese.

“Over there.” Skye nodded in the direction of their table. But when they got there, Skye and her friend set their trays down in the middle of a bunch of girls, who had taken over the center area. There was an empty seat next to Skye.

Hiroshi glanced over at the boys on either side of the table, but no one seemed to notice he was there. Then that spiky-haired boy passed by. He said something to Skye, and she turned dragon red. The boy sneered at Hiroshi and took a seat at one end of the table. That made Hiroshi’s seating choice an easy one: he would sit as far from that boy as possible.

Hiroshi spoke to Skye, but not loud enough so others could hear him. “I’ll just sit down there.” He could tell something was bothering her, and he was pretty sure it had to do with him. It was obvious that she didn’t want other people to hear her speaking Japanese. Hiroshi headed for the other end of the table, opposite the spiky-haired boy, and sat by himself. He couldn’t speak enough English, so there was no use sitting next to anyone.

The others had already started eating, without even putting their palms together and wishing everyone a good meal. That was okay—it meant he wouldn’t have to wait for the last student to be served when all he really wanted to do was dig in.

Hiroshi picked up his fork. He looked from the spaghetti to his fork and back to the spaghetti again.
How am I supposed to eat this?
He studied the other kids out of the corner of his eye. Some twirled their spaghetti around their forks; others just scooped it up and shoveled it into their mouths. Instead of picking up their bowls and holding them close to their chins, they leaned over their trays to eat.

Hiroshi poked the pile of noodles. It jiggled for a few seconds and then was still. He twirled the spaghetti around like he’d seen the others do, then lifted the fork to his mouth. The spaghetti slipped and spilled down the front of his shirt. Wearing a red shirt had been a lucky choice, after all.

Wiping his shirt with a napkin, he glanced sideways to see if anyone had noticed. No one was paying any attention to him. He couldn’t decide which was worse—embarrassing himself or not being noticed at all. He tried the fork again, but only managed to get a few noodles into his mouth and sauce on his cheek. He gave up and ate the fruit and bread, but he was still hungry. He picked up his spoon—maybe that would be easier.

It wasn’t.

Then he had an idea. He turned his fork and spoon upside-down and held them between his fingers like chopsticks. He lifted the bowl and held it just below his chin. He didn’t care if anyone saw him eat this way; he was hungry.

Mrs. Garcia came into the cafeteria and approached the table. She looked at Hiroshi and frowned. Had he done something wrong? She paused next to Skye and said something. Skye stared at her tray and nodded. Mrs. Garcia clapped her hands, then said something to the class. Chair legs scraped against the floor, and the kids sprang to their feet. They pushed in their chairs, gathered their trays, and headed for the trash cans. Hiroshi started to follow.

“Hiroshi?” Mrs. Garcia smiled at him.

“Yes, Teacher?”

“Tomorrow Skye will sit with you.”

Hiroshi wanted to say that it wasn’t necessary. But how? He didn’t have the words to explain that he couldn’t exactly hang out with a group of girls. But he didn’t want to disagree with the teacher, so he just nodded and joined the others in line.

Mrs. Garcia opened a door, and the other kids rushed out onto the playground. Some ran to grab the swings; others stood in small groups, laughing and talking together. Hiroshi hung back, not sure what to do. If he were at his school in Japan, he’d be one of those running, laughing, savoring his freedom. He’d organize a game of basketball, boys against girls. But not here, not today.

Today he stood alone.

“You can sit with us at lunch tomorrow.” Hiroshi turned to find Skye standing next to him, fists on her hips. “I’m sorry about that guy, Hiroshi. I should just ignore him. And so should you. His name is Kevin. And he’s a—” Skye looked like she was searching for the right word.

“
Ijimekko?
“

Skye smiled. “In English we say
jerk.
“

“Jerk?”

Skye nodded, but by the look on her face, Hiroshi knew he hadn’t said it right. “We’ll work on that one later,” she said.

“Skye!” One of a group of girls was waving in their direction. Skye looked from the group back to Hiroshi. She seemed like she was about to say something, then closed her mouth.

Hiroshi dragged the toe of his sneaker through the dusty gravel. “Your friends are calling you.”

Skye turned to the girls then back to Hiroshi. “Okay, then. I’ll see you later?”

He nodded. What could he do? Hiroshi shoved his hands in his pockets and walked to a small hill next to the playground. If he closed his eyes, he could pretend he was back at school in Japan. With friends. With chopsticks. And without English.

“Wait!” Skye waved her arms as her feet pounded down the sidewalk, her backpack thumping against her back. The school-bus driver must have seen her, because the stop sign swung out from the side of the bus, the red lights flashed, and the doors opened. “Thanks,” she said as she bounded up the steps.

The driver did not look happy. “Be on time tomorrow, Skye. Next time I won’t wait.”

Skye nodded and paused for a moment to catch her breath before heading down the aisle. She’d lost a good ten minutes this morning looking for her homework folder, and she still needed to finish her math. There weren’t many empty seats left, but Amber was waving to her from the middle of the bus. Skye scanned the heads to see if Hiroshi had made the bus. There he was—two rows in front of Amber.

He’d made the bus, all right.

Hiroshi was wearing some kind of mask over his mouth and nose, like doctors sometimes did on TV. White elastic looped around his ears, holding the mask in place.

Is this a joke?

“Find a seat, Skye.” The bus driver gave her the evil eye in the rearview mirror. “We’re running late.”

As Skye walked toward Hiroshi’s row, she heard the snickers of the kids who had turned to look at him. “What’s he got under there?” one boy asked another kid across the aisle.

“Bad breath,” answered the second kid, and they cracked up.

Skye ignored them. Hiroshi nodded at her, like wearing a mask was the most normal thing in the world.