Nothing But the Truth (25 page)

Even though he looks wary, Stu nods. I can feel Auntie Lu and Uncle Vic watching me as I brush through the
noren
with Stu close behind.

The lights in the parking lot flicker on like stage lights. Stu shifts his weight from one foot to another, ner vously anticipating the curtains rising up on the second installment of The Patty Ho Lecture Series. He doesn’t have to worry.

“So…,” he says.

“So,” I repeat and look him directly in the eyes, “you hurt me. A lot.”

“I know, and I’m really sorry. God, if I could take back that night…” His voice drops off and he bows his head. It’s a
small gesture, but one that wrings my heart out. I’ve been exactly where he is, standing in front of Mama so ashamed of myself that I can’t look her in the eyes.

“So, I got kicked out of camp,” he says, softly.

“You did?”

“For drinking. I’m going home tomorrow.”

This wasn’t what I wanted to happen to Stu. What I do know is that while Mama is wrong about so many things (like writing off Uncle Vic because he’s black), she is right about this: I don’t know Stu well enough to give him unconditional love. I can’t even give him the benefit of the doubt when there’s no doubt about what happened with Katie. But what I can give him is forgiveness.

“I’m really sorry,” I tell him. And I mean it.

The last binds around my heart slip off, and I fly back into the restaurant, where I know Auntie Lu and Uncle Vic are waiting for me. Though they’re holding hands at the table, their eyes are glued on the cloth that conceals me.

When I break through the fabric, their love for me is written in a universal language that anyone could understand.

31
Wordstruck

O
nce I start writing
my Truth Statement, I can’t stop the words from rushing out. Every day, right after math camp, I come straight back to Auntie Lu’s office to write. Funny how I thought I knew exactly how I felt. And I thought I knew why things happened. And then I write. And as every thought and idea and question drains from my brain to my hand, I realize I knew nothing at all. There are entire worlds within myself to understand and explore.

“You’re smiling,” says Auntie Lu, finding me in her office just as I set down my pen and flex my fingers. Eagerly, like it’s her own Truth Statement that’s coming together, she asks, “Well?”

“So far, it’s mostly the truth.”

I can tell she’s dying to read it, but unlike Mama, she doesn’t rip it out of my hands without my permission. Before SUMaC, I hoarded my words, doling out only enough to maintain a façade of a happy, clever Patty Ho. The one who’s always smiling. The one who is a constant people pleaser. This is my first
raw and honest, take-me-or-leave-me coming-out party on paper.

I ask shyly, “Would you read it?”

Auntie Lu grins like I’ve asked her to go with me to accept a Nobel Prize for literature or something. I hand her the first page. Trust Auntie Lu, she reads it carefully, laughing in all the right places, repeating some of the choicer phrases out loud and even frowning at bits.

“In art, there’s a term, terrible beauty. This is it,” says Auntie Lu. I brighten because it’s exactly the effect I was hoping for. “You have such a way with words.” She looks at me thoughtfully before calling, “Hey, Vic!”

“Yup, down here!”

We both look out the window that I climbed through a few nights before, and down to the patio. Auntie Lu is a black-haired Rapunzel with eyes only for Uncle Vic, who is stoking a five-alarm fire for “barbecuing.” Since his return, we’ve had barbecued squab, salmon and baby octopi. (“Men and fire have a primitive connection,” Auntie Lu explained to me yesterday.) Not that I’m complaining. Even burnt-to-a-crisp octopi legs are tastier—although somewhat chewier—than most of Auntie Lu’s kitchen misadventures.

“Oh, this looks dangerous,” Uncle Vic teases, hiding behind his huge oven mitt.

Auntie Lu smiles indulgently at him. “Two beautiful women. Of course, we’re dangerous.” She blows him a kiss. I would have died of embarrassment just a week ago, but I’m immune to their public displays of affection now. “Who’s that friend of yours? The guy who owns a naming company. What’s it called?”

“Wordstruck, Jon Sarabhai.” Uncle Vic opens the lid to the gas grill and disappears behind the smoke. The only evidence that he’s still alive is his holler, “Dinner’s done!” I’ll say it’s done. Crisped chicken assaults my nose. Uncle Vic waves the smoke out of his face. “Now, what are you plotting?”

“Oh, I think Jon just might have the privilege of meeting his future competition,” she says, nudging me.

And that’s how come
on Friday, right after my small group met to discuss the last details of our research project, Uncle Vic drives me to Wordstruck. San Francisco’s warehouse district is filled with blocky buildings that were once storage for corporations. More recently, those warehouses headquartered now-defunct Internet companies. Only the factories, auto repair shops and artists’ studios remain. We park in front of a flat-topped, squat brick building that looks like it has seen better days. Immediately, I wonder if I’m wasting my time and Uncle Vic’s with this informational interview since this company is so obviously struggling.

At least it’s got good energy, I think to myself as we approach the bright orange door.

But then we step inside and my misgivings vanish. The lobby walls are mossy green, and opposite the stainless steel reception desk are wild purple armchairs and matching ottomans. A hodgepodge of products are glued right onto a wall: compu ter games, soft drink bottles, shampoo containers, running shoes, a surfboard, golf clubs, shopping bags, medicine vials. Painted in matte gold over the product mural is the company name: “WORDSTRUCK.” I’m so awestruck, I have no words.

A young woman with aggressively short, yellow hair—not blond, but number two pencil yellow—and a nose ring nods at us from the reception desk and pages Jon.

Two seconds later, a human greyhound, all energy and no fat, springs into the lobby. The only thick features on his entire wiry body are his bushy eyebrows.

“Jon!” says Uncle Vic, practically suffocating his friend in a bear hug. I, for one, can testify that these hugs are proof that you can, in fact, be loved to death.

“So you’re back in town,” Jon gasps once he’s released.

“This is my niece, Patty Ho.” Vic beams proudly at me. “She’s quite the wordie.”

“Good, there’s not enough of us. Not that I’m complaining.” He extends his bony hand out to me, “Jon Sarabhai,” and waves to the wall of products. “And all
my
nieces and nephews.”

“You named all of these?”

“With my team,” Jon says modestly. “So you want to learn about naming products?”

“I didn’t know that people actually have jobs to name things.”

“Companies, products, features.” Jon tells us about some of the more infamous and expensive name flops. Like how Reebok launched a new sneaker called Incubus, which is actually the name of a demon who raped women at night. And how Ford tried to introduce its Pinto car in Brazil, only to discover that Pinto was Brazilian slang for “tiny male genitals.” Jon says, “So, the name is every thing.”

If the name is every thing, then that doesn’t bode well for me. Until I met Jasmine, I always muttered my name,
hoping no one would hear it clearly enough to start with the name-calling.

Uncle Vic says good-bye and tells me he’ll pick me up in a couple of hours. Then Jon guides me through a door marked “The Name Game.”

“We neologists create words, and it all starts and ends here in The Lab.” Jon steers me down a tangerine hall that opens to a large space, divided into a couple of cubicles. Hundreds of Happy Meal toys dangle from the ceiling. All along the length of one wall are orange, green and purple climbing holds, like an explosion of multicolored acne.

Jon leans against the wall, one hand resting on a climbing hold. “Creating words is half science, half art. You never know what will spark an idea.”

To prove his point, Jon sprints over to a cubicle where a young man is playing the air drums to a tune we can’t hear. Jon says to me, “I don’t want to interrupt his work.”

I’m thinking to myself: this is working? But apparently the guy who’s cute in an angsty brainy sort of way with thin, wire glasses and longish brown hair is working hard, banging on imaginary drums. Jon pulls a red, squishy ball from a tall, clear jar filled with other brightly colored balls.

“Squeeze,” says Jon, handing the ball to me. “Tell me your first thought.”

I squeeze, and sure enough, a spark of an idea pops into my head. And it looks like the young man in the cubicle has taken off his earphones to watch us. Jon looks at me expectantly. So I say, “Ummm… Boys ‘R’ Us?”

Ding, ding. Jon bops up and down with excitement. “Right, right, right.”

“Nice,” says Brainy Boy.

I grin at him, and can hardly believe his double take. It’s not a who’s-that-weirdo-and-why-is-she-smiling-at-me kind of eye-widening, jaw-dropping look. It’s an omigod-she’s-smiling-at-ME kind of look. Who knew that moving less than a thousand miles would clear up my ugly duckling syndrome? I’m still no swan, and never will be. I am something different. A firebird, I decide. Judging from Brainy Boy’s warm look, he thinks I’m a fiery hot chicky babe, too.

If a name is every thing, then I better just say mine. So I extend my hand and get ready for this neologist to have a heyday with my name. “Patty Ho.”

Brainy Boy reaches for my hand and stammers, “Tr-Trevor Michaels.”

Now, discomfiting a cute guy, that’s a Patty Ho first. Oh, and that spark of an idea that Jon mentioned earlier? It’s scorching me all the way down to my toes when Trevor grins at me.

Hosanna,
I think and smile right into his green eyes.

If I had known
that clearing out all of Auntie Lu’s crap in her office (located in the relationship part of her house, just like my bedroom at home!) would introduce me to a hunkalicious, older guy, I would have finished the job in a single night. Guess who my wordly wise tour guide is? Trevor, the poet. Trevor, the summer intern. Trevor, the soon-to-be-Stanford freshman.

Top Ten Things to Do When I Return to House Ho

1. Space-clear my bedroom.
   
2. Space-clear my bedroom.
   
3. Space-clear my bedroom.
   
4. Space-clear my bedroom.
   
5. Space-clear my bedroom.
   
6. Space-clear my bedroom.
   
7. Space-clear my bedroom.
   
8. Space-clear my bedroom.
   
9. Space-clear my bedroom.
   
10. Space-clear my secret stash of makeup. Maybe it’ll clear up my pimples for good!
    

For the next half-hour, Trevor shows me the rest of the company headquarters and introduces me to some of the employees: a linguist with springy black hair, a lawyer with a pierced nose and a computer guru who looks young enough to be one of the SUMaCers. Trevor and the techie genius, Samantha, talk about the computer program Wordstruck uses to create new words. They sound as excited as Abe gets when he buys a new computer game.

“See, it spits out, like, four hundred word combinations,” says the guru, tapping a couple of keys, and the computer starts buzzing away. “See, it identifies morphemes. You know, the smallest units in words that mean something. And the program combines them.”

“And then we go through and cross out the ones that won’t work as a name, are too hard to pronounce or already exist.” Trevor grins proudly like he’s the one who’s given birth to this program.

Meanwhile, I’ve coined a new term of my own, no fancy computer necessary. Take the word “babe-u-lous” as in “Isn’t that poet absolutely babeulous in his glasses?” Morphemes: babe, you, us. Need I explain further?

I’m smiling to myself, thinking,
Yeah, I could do this for a living
when Trevor stops talking and looks sheepish. “Am I boring you?”

“Oh, no.” You keep talking, Brainy Boy. Note to self: tell Jasmine that there’s a corollary to her smart girls are sexy theorem. There’s nothing sexier than a boy who’s not afraid to flex his big brains.

Back at Trevor’s cube, he grabs a couple of beanbags and starts juggling them. Suddenly, I’m seeing new meanings for the expression, “Go for the jugular.” When he tosses a couple over to me, I give silent thanks to Abe for perpetually throwing things at me: balls, keys, chopsticks… even insults.

“Nice reflexes,” says Trevor.

I throw the beanbags back at him. “I know.”

Too soon, Jon comes
over to break the news that “Bring Your Hapa to Work Day” is over, and that Uncle Vic is on his way. But first, he leads me to the Brainstorming Chamber, a small room with floor-to-ceiling white boards on two walls. Jon flings himself into one of the chairs and props his feet on the table.

“So,” he says, jiggling a foot, “what do you think of this naming gig?”

“I had no idea that this,” I gesture to take in Trevor and the whole Brainstorming Chamber, the cubicles, the entire building, “even existed. Or could be so much fun.”

“We’re the corporate unconscious and subconscious. No one knows we’re here, but no one can forget us once we’ve done our job. Which is about creating an entirely new lexicon,” says Jon, swinging his feet onto the floor and now running his fingers along the edge of the table like he’s playing scales on a piano. “Meaning, a new vocabulary, our own dictionary for businesses.”