Running through Sprinklers Read online

  “Well, it’s a good thing they canceled. We got to do the play. It’s tradition.”

  “I guess,” she says. “But I really could have used the money. I want to buy some new clothes.”

  “Yeah,” I say. The crack in my voice startles me as I realize that Nadine thinks new clothes are more important than me. I try to change the subject. “Or you could have bought more perfume.”

  “Perfume? I guess so.”

  I knew it! She did get it for me but is being oddly secretive about it still. Maybe she doesn’t want her parents or Jen to overhear that she spent so much money on me.

  It’s midnight and we make noise with paper trumpets and these winding rattle things. Mrs. Ando gives us sparklers and lights them for us. Nadine, Jen, and I go outside and they look like mini fireworks against the black-and-navy-marbled sky. We all dance around together yelling, “Happy New Year!” up at the sky. This coming new year will be better than the last—I can feel it. It’s only up from here.

  When the sparklers go out, Nadine quickly runs back inside, mumbling that it’s cold, thinking that we are following. But Jen and I stay outside together for a while longer, for some reason, and keep cheering and being loud.

  Suddenly, a big light in the sky circles around and then goes behind the forest, or in it, I’m not sure, and we run inside and slam the door and Jen says, “Sara, I think we just saw a UFO.”

  37

  NEW YEAR’S DAY. Mom dresses me in a hanbok. It’s pink, and a white ribbon ties me up at the chest like I’m a present. James just wears a suit.

  Our whole family drives to Auntie Moon’s house in Burnaby. When we get there, Auntie Moon and Uncle Dong put their arms around us and scoop us in. They leave the front door slightly open. “It’s so the spirits of our ancestors can come in,” Auntie Moon says.

  On a low Korean table: There are pictures of their ancestors in black and white. They are the same ones Auntie Moon puts on display every year and they always freak me out because no one is smiling. It’s like they looked dead already when the photos were taken. It’s so weird.

  Uncle Dong’s mom sits in an armchair. She’s super old and every year I wonder if the next time there will be a picture of her, too, on that table. That sounds so bad, but it’s true. I’m not trying to be mean. People die, and it’s so sad.

  We all sit around the kitchen table and eat some ddukguk, the lucky New Year’s soup with meat, garlic, green onion, and rice cakes cut into little discs. I have mine topped with roasted seaweed and egg. Mom says by eating it we become a year older. I eat three bowls to make sure this happens. And then Uncle Dong says, “It’s time.”

  Uncle Dong and Auntie Moon sit on the couch in the living room. And James and I stand before them. We do a full bow, our bodies folding over toward the floor.

  And then they hand us each a white envelope with money in it. And then we have to listen to their lesson: “Study hard at school and practice piano well.”

  Then James and I stand before Uncle Dong’s mom and bow and listen to another lesson. She speaks in Korean, and Mom translates: “Listen to your parents,” she says. “Especially you, Sara. Listen to your mom.”

  But I swear she didn’t say this, because I understand Korean and my mom seems to forget this fact whenever it’s convenient. She just added that last part. She’s such a scammer.

  Later that night, I’m watching TV alone. I flip through the channels.

  I watch a man in a beige trench coat and a kind of scary voice walking down the street and talking about the biggest unsolved mysteries in America. Ghosts, sea monsters, alien abductions. I wonder if they are going to mention the UFO in Surrey last night. But then I realize this is a rerun.

  Flip.

  Another man talking about the biggest kidnapping cases in America. I wonder if they’ll ever talk about the one that happened here, in Canada. I wonder if they’ll ever find Daniel.

  38

  FIRST DAY BACK at school and I can’t even write the right year on the top of my assignments. This happens at the beginning of every new year, for like a month. It’s kind of annoying and dumb.

  But what’s even more annoying is that I keep calling Nadine and she’s never home. I want to tell her that I might be skipping and I need tips and pointers about everything. I want to know how it all went down for her. Did she have a meeting with the teacher and principal? Every time I call, Mrs. Ando says she’s busy or not home and that she’ll get her to call me back. What the heck.

  One night, I call a couple of times, then Mrs. Ando calls back and asks for my mom. I pass the phone over. I hear Mom say, “Yes, I understand. Thanks, Kelly,” and then she comes to me and says I need to stop calling the Andos so much. That it’s disruptive or something.

  Oh.

  And I wonder . . . did Nadine tell her mom to say that? Is she home and avoiding me? Why doesn’t she want to speak to me? It’s only a phone call; it’s not like I’m going over there and bugging her all night. I just want to see what is up and tell her a few things. Or maybe Mrs. Ando is seriously super annoyed with me? Does she not want me to play with her daughter? Am I that bad? I want to call and find out, and I lift the receiver but put it down again, because that’ll just make things worse.

  Before lunch the next day, an announcement: “Sara Smith, there is a message for you at the office.”

  At first I think that maybe Mom surprised me with a burger and fries as a treat. Yes! Wait, but then my brother would have been called too, because she wouldn’t just get it for me.

  I go down to the office and Ms. Lee is standing there and waving for me to follow her inside. M. Tanguay rushes in.

  “Oh, Monsieur,” I say.

  “Bonjour,” M. Tanguay says.

  “Sara. Thanks for coming. We have some news for you,” Ms. Lee says.

  “Oh . . . you do?” Then I realize that both the vice principal and my teacher have called a meeting with me. This can only mean one thing. It’s actually happening!

  M. Tanguay starts. He’s speaking in English, which is weird, but I guess it’s for Ms. Lee. “You’re doing very well in school, Sara. Nearly straight As. Except math. You have a B–. However, you’ve shown great improvements lately. I think you could get an A if you really wanted to.”

  “Oh, of course I could get an A, no problem.”

  Ms. Lee continues, “Unfortunately, we don’t recommend putting you ahead a year. We don’t think it’s the best choice for you. To skip a grade, you not only have to display certain outstanding academic capabilities, but it requires a certain set of social and emotional capabilities to be in class with people who are older.”

  “You think I’m immature?”

  “No!” M. Tanguay says. “You’re perfect for your age. You’re doing well in grade seven. We just think that putting you a year ahead will not be good for you. Sometimes, it’s better for some people to be at the top of the class.”

  Ms. Lee says, “We know your friend Nadine skipped a grade. I’m sure that’s why you want to skip, but what’s right for her isn’t necessarily right for you. We think you are where you need to be, and it’s a great place to be.”

  “You are a leader in the class,” M. Tanguay says. “Tes camarades de classe ont besoin de toi.”

  Back in class, I pretend like that whole conversation didn’t happen, but M. Tanguay keeps looking at me in a concerned way. I tell him I’m not feeling well and need to go to the nurse’s office. I point to my stomach to hint that it’s pain from my period, even though I don’t have my period yet. This makes him feel awkward, yet compassionate, and he lets me go.

  I lie on the high examination table/bed with the tissue running down the middle. It makes an annoying crinkly sound every time I move so I try to stay as still as possible.

  That’s it, I give up. It’s over. I won’t be going to high school to be with Nadine this year. I’ll just stay here and be alone. I look around the room. The walls are bare and the room smells like cleaner. A single fluorescent lig
ht beam flickers. Suddenly I feel as empty as this room. I don’t feel like crying, which is weird. I just feel nothing. Tired.

  Since there is no nurse here, except for when we get immunizations, the secretary checks in on me. I ask her to call home to get my mom to pick me up because even though I’m stuck here, in elementary school, where the most thrilling thing that can happen to you is finding string cheese in your lunch, I can’t bear to be here right now. I just want to be home with my family.

  39

  U.S., CANADA, U.S., Canada, U.S., Canada. James and I jump back and forth from one country to the other. We always do this when we’re at the border. It can be pretty fun to play with my brother.

  Mom and Dad are in the van, in the lineup that stretches so long and moves so slowly there is almost always enough time to get out and play. We’re in the green park in the middle of all the cars where there is this big white arch that celebrates the point where Canada and the U.S. meet.

  Underneath the arch is where the real border is. I put my left leg in Canada, my right one in the U.S. “Hey, I’m half Canadian, half American,” I say. James copies me. He always does.

  The U.S. customs officer asks: “Citizenship?”

  Dad: “Canadian.”

  “All of you?”

  “Yes.”

  The officer, to Mom: “And you? What are you?”

  “Canadian,” she says.

  “And these are your kids?”

  “Yes,” she says.

  He looks at us for a long time. Finally he says, “Go ahead.”

  We drive ahead.

  “Wow,” Dad says. “Can you believe him?”

  Mom says nothing, pretending like what just happened didn’t happen. But I’m so mad. I mean, really? Who does he think he is? We look just like Mom, especially James. I hate it when people think we are not hers. I hate it when they treat her like this and think we don’t notice because we are kids. I hate people, sometimes.

  Anyway.

  We’re going to Seattle for the night. The border is only a twenty-minute drive from our house, and Seattle’s about a two-hour drive from there depending on traffic. We’re going to visit Samchoon, Mom’s older brother, my uncle. We go to Seattle several times a year to see him.

  “He’s like my father,” Mom says, sitting in the front seat. I-5 stretches ahead of us. “Since my dad died when I was ten, he gave me away at our wedding.”

  Samchoon lives in this small two-bedroom apartment. James and I have to sleep in the living room when we stay, but it has the most beautiful view of the harbor so I don’t mind. Seattle looks quite a lot like Vancouver. Except for the small differences, which I can’t describe, as they are there but so small and I’m still trying to figure them out.

  Dad takes James and me to Pike Place Market. We eat mussels for the first time in a restaurant. Little rubber balls that taste like butter and garlic.

  We watch men in the market shout and yell and Dad says, “Go tell them you want to buy a fish,” and when I do they toss the fish back and forth from one guy to another and a little crowd gathers as they do this until it’s in a little package ready for us to take home.

  As we walk through the market, past all the buckets of flowers, I see a flash of blond and blue ahead of me and I weave through the crowd to see if it’s Daniel until he disappears by blending into the fruit stand and Dad grabs my shoulder and says, “We almost lost you.”

  That night, I finally get my period. It isn’t the biggest deal; I knew it was coming someday soon because I have boobs now. And at school they’ve been making us watch videos on puberty since, like, grade four, so I knew what to expect. Mom gives me one of her maxi pads. Great, now Cookie and I both use them. Anyway, my stomach hurts quite a lot so all I eat is cereal.

  But I wish I could tell Nadine. I know she hasn’t gotten hers . . . unless she has and hasn’t told me. I want to tell her how it felt like I peed a little bit by accident in my underwear because it was wet, but it wasn’t pee, it was my period. And that it was more pink than red. I also want to tell her about the cramps. They really suck.

  Maybe I’ll tell Nadine right when I get back. I will tell Jen, for sure, too. If only to explain the reason behind the frequent trips I’ll almost definitely have to make to the washroom when at school. I’m also going to have to ask her to keep an eye on my butt in case I leak through my clothes. I’m a little bit worried about that.

  We’re all asleep on the way home. Except Dad, who’s driving, thank God. For some reason, I always wake up the exact moment we’re about to enter the cul-de-sac, like my body somehow knows when I’m about to come home.

  I look across the street. I see a blond girl standing at the Andos’ door. A blond girl with natural highlights. The door opens. And she goes inside.

  That’s it, I think. I won’t tell Nadine about my period. Maybe I won’t tell her anything ever again.

  40

  I LOOK IN the cage: Cookie is gone.

  I call the Andos. Both Nadine and Jen come over. I don’t care about what has happened. This is an emergency. It’s life or death. I can’t think straight. I’m full-on panicking.

  We are upstairs in my room, staring at his cage. I need them to tell me where to start looking. Jen crouches down to inspect the cage and points to the wire door.

  “It seems as though Cookie was able to open the door a bit somehow and slip through a teeny-weeny gap,” she says. We look through my room, carefully picking up each piece of clothing on the floor, in case he crawled into a sleeve or a pocket to have a nap.

  “Oh no,” I say.

  “What?” asks Nadine.

  “I just realized . . . he’s not necessarily still upstairs.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Jen: “Yeah, how can a hamster know how to go downstairs?”

  Me: “Because I trained him to.”

  Them, together: “What?”

  “It was last year. Remember when I was really freaked out about house fires?”

  Nadine: “Oh yeah. You made us figure out an escape plan from our bedroom. You got Dad to climb down a pipe.”

  Me: “Yeah, well, so anyway, I trained Cookie how to go downstairs. Just in case. So he could get out safely.”

  Jen: “Oh my God. We are so screwed.”

  Nadine starts to pace around the room and then sits on my bed for a good few minutes. After a while she says, “Where is the hamster food?”

  Me: “In the laundry room.”

  The three of us go downstairs. We stand on the cold floor, not quite sure what to do next. Then I just blurt out, “Cookie, come here!”

  And from behind the dryer, we hear a little noise. Then we see a little nose poke out from behind the dryer. A little nose with some black dust on its tip.

  It’s Cookie, and he comes running straight to me. I scoop him up and give him a hug, a special kind of hug you can only give a cute little hamster. And I’m so completely relieved and happy to have found my best little buddy.

  A few weeks later, Cookie makes the ultimate escape. He dies. At the age of four years, four months, and four days.

  We hold a funeral in our backyard. Under the big cedar tree. All its needles are a deep green though it’s still technically winter. The trees in Canada don’t die.

  Jen is the priest. Everyone has come: Nadine, Megan, and my brother. We make a half circle around the trunk of the tree. We’re all wearing black. And I wear Mom’s black sunglasses.

  Jen has dug a little grave and has nailed two twigs together in a cross and stuck it into the ground. She starts reciting stuff that sounds like it could be from the Bible, but it’s not, she’s just making it up. I’m holding the brown paper bag with Cookie inside. I slip one half of the BFF golden pendant heart that I was going to give Nadine into the bag because it should be with Cookie, he was my true best friend who never betrayed me. Jen takes the paper bag and places it in the little hole. I throw bright yellow dandelions on top.

  Jen puts her arm around me an
d says, “He lived a long life.” And I look from the grave up the tree, along the long trunk, all the way up. And I wonder if there is a kind of God out there and if there is, if he can tell me if my hamster is in heaven or hell, or whether he will be reincarnated as a cat or a dog or a blade of grass.

  “Heaven,” Jen says. “Obviously. Hamsters go straight to heaven.” But I hope he reincarnates into something, like a dog, so I can see him again. I’m not sure anymore about anything, though, and then Jen hugs me. Big and warm. And Nadine just stands there.

  The next day the doorbell rings, and there is an envelope, and in it, a small card with a drawing of a hamster with a halo on it. “I’m sorry about Cookie,” it reads. I think it’s Nadine finally telling me how sorry she is.

  41

  FRIDAY NIGHT phone call to the Andos. I haven’t called in a while so I think it’s okay.

  “Hello?” (It’s Mrs. Ando.)

  “Hi, it’s Sara.” Please don’t be mad. Please don’t be mad, I think.

  “Hi, dear.” Phew.

  “Sorry to bother you, but is Nadine around? I wondered if she wants to sleep over tonight. It’s been a while and I thought it might be fun.”

  “Oh, she didn’t tell you?”

  “No. What?”

  “She’s actually over at her friend Rachel’s house tonight. They are working on a project.”

  “Does Rachel have natural highlights?”

  “Are those natural?”

  I can’t breathe. Then I say, I don’t know why, “Is Jen home?”

  “Oh, sure. Hold on. Jen! Phone!”

  Me: “Hey, it’s me.”

  Jen: “Hey, what’s up?”

  “Not much. Want to sleep over tonight?”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Totally! I’ll come right over.”

  “Perfect.”