Fresh Off the Boat (2 page)

I didn’t know what to do, so I just blurted, “Uh, hi, guys.”

The blank looks continued. This went on for what seemed like ages. We were just staring at each other. I began to worry.

Then Georgia said, “Oh, there she is!”

So I turned around to look where she was pointing.

It turned out they were all waving and smiling and cooing over my little sister, BRITTANY.

Brit walked over, and Whitney asked her, “You’re in kindergarten with my sister Pemberton, right? You’re so cute! What are you doing out on Friday night? Do you have a date?”

Brittany laughed and said no, and they all petted her. Whitney gave her the last of her jujubes, and with a smile Brit scampered back to Mom’s side.

I was still standing in front of them. I didn’t know what to do. It was like I was completely invisible. Maybe I don’t really exist. Maybe I’m just a figment of my own imagination. My legs were rooted to the spot. I was absolutely frozen. I wished I could just disappear.

Finally, after the longest, awkwardest pause of my awkward life, they noticed me.

“Hey,” Whitney said. She handed me her empty, crumpled popcorn bag. “Could you throw this away?”

“Oh. Sure,” I responded. And I took her garbage and walked back to where Mom and Brittany were standing next to the trash can, but I couldn’t even throw it away because I was in TOTAL SHOCK.

“Do you know those girls?” Mom asked.

I shook my head. “Nope.” I was utterly hopeless. I knew I’d NEVER be able to face them on Monday.

“I do,” Brittany chirped, her face full of Whitney’s jujubes. “They’re really nice.”

Even my five-year-old sister is more popular than I am.

FROM: [email protected]

TO: [email protected]

SENT: Sunday, October 4, 8:30 AM

SUBJECT: awesome wkend!

Peaches!

How are you,
bruha
? You probably think I’m a witch, too, for only writing now! I’m so sorry. I’ve been super busy…went to the movies on Friday with my best friend, Whitney, and a bunch of peeps and I met this total hottie who was totally checking me out! He looks exactly like Tobey Maguire—I know I say that about every guy I crush on, but this time it’s true, I swear!

Anyway, gotta run. We’re late for church and Dad’s having an aneurysm.

xxooo,
V

PS—My mom says hi to your mom and wants to know if she can send her that special nipper that they get from Chinatown. Mom can’t find the same one here as in Manila and says her cuticles are atrosh!

2
Fortunately for Some Girls, Some Cute Boys Can’t Drive

T
HERE ARE ONLY
a few ways to meet boys at an all-girls school like Grosvernor: you are so incredibly popular that boys from other schools immediately flock to you, you’re so incredibly talented that you are chosen to play Claire Danes in the interschool production of Baz Luhrmann’s
Romeo and Juliet
, you are incredibly lucky and have a cool older brother with cute friends, or last, and certainly the very least, you can join the Spirit Club.

Since everything else was completely out of the question, on Monday, after the final bell rang, I patiently stood in line to board a yellow school bus, clutching a bedraggled, homemade, Crayola-and-Magic-Marker banner that shrieked
GO WILDCATS
!!!! with a crudely drawn lion on it (since I had no idea what a wildcat actually looks like). I could have spent my time cropping pictures on an iMac and writing five-hundred-word
features on Teachers of the Week for the
Daily Grosvernorian
, writing speeches about the new world order for Model United Nations, or even painting background scenery for the Drama Club. But instead I opted for a ride on the Spirit bus, which transported its members to the marina downtown for the alleged purpose of cheering on the Gros Grasshoppers as they lost yet another game of field hockey to the St. Rose Salamanders.

But let’s get real. The Montclair Academy Wildcats—from the all-boys school down the hill and the three-time conference champ of the N.P.P.S.L.L. (The North Pacific Private School Lacrosse League, otherwise known as Nipple)—and their weekly lacrosse game were the
real
attraction. Several freshmen and sophomores as well as a good number of upperclassmen were already lined up in front, wearing Montclair Academy T-shirts and waving orange-and-blue banners similar to mine. A truly fine show of school spirit all around—just not for our school.

While waiting for the bus, I noticed Whitney, Georgia, and Trish sitting on the front steps, fiddling with their hair and cosmetic cases. I couldn’t help but overhear what they were saying.

“Do you think he’ll show?” Trish asked.

“Well, he called last night and said he would,” Whitney said. “If he bails, we can always hit Stonestown.” Trish and Georgia suppressed anxious sighs.

I wondered whom they were talking about. If a boy ever called
me—which probably would never happen in my lifetime—I would probably get so flustered I would end up hanging up on him immediately. Not that one would ever call, of course. I’m convinced I’ll never have a boyfriend. It’s so unfair. Even Peaches, my best friend from Manila, has one, and she’s not allowed to date until
college
.

“But we go to the mall all the time,” Trish complained.

“So?” Whitney asked in a slightly annoyed tone that made Trish immediately back off. Trish is a new addition to Whitney’s inner circle and assumes a perpetual expression of amazement at being promoted into the In group. This much I learned from the “lifers”—girls who had been at Grosvernor since kindergarten and who had been obsessing over Whitney for decades, marking how she wore her cranberry blazer, how high she rolled up her uniform skirt, and how slouchy she pushed down her socks.

Recently, Whitney had begun wearing black tights instead of socks, plain white T-shirts instead of regulation oxford button-downs, and a hooded cranberry sweatshirt instead of a proper sweater. The administration was not pleased, since it meant half the freshman population was in detention every day for being out of uniform. I had yet to see Whitney detained for longer than five minutes, however, since she charmed her way out of every situation with a toss of her blond ponytail.

“Omigod! It’s like three twenty! Where is he? We’re going to
be late!” Whitney said, holding up her arm and frowning at her Cartier tank watch that glinted in the sun. I nervously twiddled with the frayed strap of the Fossil watch my mom had bought me in Hong Kong for my thirteenth birthday.

“We could always take the Spirit bus!” Georgia shrieked.

“You
cannot
be serious!” Whitney said, crinkling her nose. The three of them dissolved into another round of giggles.

It was so easy for them—they were the type of girls who probably received a dozen valentines on February fourteenth ever since the third grade. Not to be petty, but they weren’t even that pretty. Oh, I guess Whitney is—she has the kind of hair and skin that glows and the kind of figure (long, slender limbs, small waist) that every girl envies. But Georgia is slightly cross-eyed, and Trish’s ears stick out. I’d noticed Trish looked Asian but had a Spanish last name. “Are you Filipino?” I’d inquired on the first day of school. “Yes” she’d said and turned away. Apart from the two Chinese girls who spent every second together in the computer lab, Trish was the only other Asian girl in my class. But so much for that.

I had one foot on the step of the bus when a silver BMW convertible powered up the hill and pulled up in front of the school behind the bus. The car was filled with the same boys from the movie theater. Several lacrosse sticks were piled vertically on the backseat.

“They’re heeere!” Trish squealed. “Omigod! Do I have lipstick on my teeth?”

Georgia demanded, “Hand me my hairbrush!”

“Quick! I need to blot with a tissue!” The two of them disappeared in a cloud of hair spray and a frenzy of makeup application. Only Whitney was nonchalant, picking at her cuticles as if she didn’t have a care in the world.

They each straightened up as the car parallel parked in front of them. “Hey, guys,” the girls cooed.

Whitney stood up and walked toward the car, slinging her Kate Spade messenger bag over one shoulder. “Cute car,” she said.

The driver, a cutie who looked vaguely familiar, winked at her. “Nice T-shirts,” he said. One of the boys climbed out and opened the door to let the girls inside.

“Shotgun!” Whitney called, before sliding in the front seat. Georgia and Trish squeezed into the back with what looked like the rest of the lacrosse team. They pulled out just as a red motor scooter shot out of a hidden driveway.

The BMW swerved to the side to miss the scooter. “Watch out!” someone yelled, as the driver slammed on the brakes and the car skidded for a few feet, clipping the scooter and plowing through the crowd in front of the bus. Girls screamed as backpacks and banners and pom-poms flew everywhere. I was pushed backward, and fell on top of the girl who’d been driving
the scooter. We were the only ones hit. She lay sprawled next to me, her legs still wrapped around the bike. I was dazed and disoriented but miraculously unhurt, save my bloody palms and knees, which had scraped the sidewalk.

“Jesus! Are you guys okay?”

I blinked and almost fainted again when I saw the concerned face of Tobey Maguire looking down at me. Oh. My. God. Was I dreaming?

“Yeah, I think so,” I said, not knowing if it was true but feeling the need to reassure him nonetheless.

The girl and I disentangled ourselves from each other. I was still shaking, but it wasn’t from the accident. I realized it wasn’t Tobey himself but the guy I’d seen at the movie theater Friday night. AND HE WAS GORGEOUS!!! He kneeled down next to us and helped my fellow victim to her feet.

“MERDE!”
she said, taking off her helmet and shaking her hair, which was cut short in a pixie. She wore cat’s-eye glasses that gave her a cosmopolitan air. I recognized her as the French girl who’d just started at Gros. Whitney and her friends had immediately dubbed her Eurotrash because she wore a purple leather jacket with “Cavalli” scripted on the back instead of Patagonia fleece hoodies like everyone else.

“Sorry about that,” he told her.

“Next time, please observe where you are going!” she scolded,
assessing the damage to her vehicle and dusting gravel off her jacket. She propped up the scooter and inspected it carefully. A torrent of foreign words exploded from her lips when she noticed the mirror was cracked.

“Oh, man, that sucks,” he said, peering at it. “Listen, tell me your name and your phone number and I’ll pay for it. My insurance will cover it.”

She looked up at him skeptically and shrugged. “Oh well, it’s not a bother. It is also my fault. I should have been more the vigilance.”

“No, seriously, I insist. I feel terrible,” he said.

I was still on the sidewalk, and slowly picked myself up, marveling at the torn jeans she wore under her uniform. They looked just like the ones Hilarie was wearing on
TRL
the other day.

“Listen, let me give you my number. Call and tell me how much I owe you, okay?” he said, looking around for a piece of paper or a pen.

He spotted me still holding my GO WILDCATS!!!! banner. “Can I tear a piece off?”

“Um, sure,” I said, as he tore off a small wedge.

I handed him a pen from my backpack, which had miraculously survived the collision intact.

“Thanks.” He nodded, scribbling his name. I peered over his shoulder. Claude Caligari! (How cute a name is that?) And his
phone number (quickly committed to memory). He handed her the paper and she folded and stuffed it into her jacket pocket.

“DUDE! WE’VE GOTS TO GO! GAME TIME!” A loud voice yelled. The posse in the convertible started honking the horn, and I could see Whitney looking pissed as she peered through the windshield.

“All right, already! You guys are okay, right?” he asked again. “Seriously, I feel terrible,” he said, patting my shoulder.

I nodded. “I’m fine, really.” A popular boy touched me! I’m never going to wash this blazer ever again!

“See you guys at the game?”

“Sure.” I smiled. The French girl climbed back on her scooter and didn’t seem to notice him.

He hurried back to the car, taking long, loping strides. I watched as he fired up the engine and drove off slowly, waving to us as he turned the corner. Only then did I realize the Spirit bus had also left. “Oh no!” I said, as the yellow school bus lumbered down the hill. I started to run after it, but my knees were shaky, and my palms were starting to hurt. I didn’t notice until then that little bits of gravel were embedded in my skin.

“You’re not going anywhere. Vi-chen-za, right?” the French girl asked.

“Uh-huh,” I said, amazed that she pronounced my name correctly. My parents named me after the city in the Veneto in
Italy, where they honeymooned, and I had yet to meet anyone who said it correctly. I’d learned to answer to “Vi-jen-za,” “Visen-za,” or “Vi-ken-za.” In Manila, they had skipped the issue completely by calling me “V.”

“I’m Isobel Saint-Pierre,” she said, smiling. “I think maybe we should both go to the clinic.”

We hobbled back together to the large white Georgian-style mansion that housed the upper form, her scooter rolling silently between us.

“Cool Vespa,” I said, patting the seat.

“Thanks.” Isobel smiled.

“But don’t you have to be sixteen to drive one?”

“Yes, but I have diplomatic immunity,” she said airily.

“Really?”

“Well, I think so. I’m a French citizen. Anyway, I’m fourteen-and-a-half. That should count, shouldn’t it?”

I didn’t think it did, but I didn’t want to tell her that.

“You’re from France?”

“Paris. But Papa moves a lot for work. He is a university professor. We were in New York last year. They wouldn’t let me have a scooter there, since they were too frightened the traffic would kill me. But they said I could have one in San Francisco, even if it’s a little crazy getting up and down the hills.”