The Year of the Dog Page 4

  But the walk to his house was long and dull. By the time I got there, my legs ached as if they had been beaten with bamboo stalks. I always tried to get out of going to his house. “It’s too hot,” I would say, or “It’s raining.” But no matter what I said, Grandma still would make me go practice. Every day she marched me out of the house. Until, finally one day, she grew tired of hearing me complain. “Okay,” she said. “You don’t have to go. But you still have to practice.”

  I was confused. If I didn’t have to go, how would I practice? How could I practice without a piano?

  But Grandma calmly took out a big sheet of paper. She cut it and measured it and colored it in. It was only after she had filled in all the black rectangles that I recognized what she had made. It was a drawing of a piano keyboard.

  Grandma put the paper piano and my music on the table in front of me and said, “Here, you can practice on this.”

  I played my scales, my exercises, and my solo. Every time I touched a paper key, Grandma would sing the note.

  “So, no matter what, I practiced the piano every day. Sometimes I practiced on a real piano; sometimes I practiced on the paper piano. It was a long time before we got a piano of our own, but when we did, I was able to play so well that they invited me to play in the school orchestra. Later, I played a solo at a big concert and when I was done everyone stood up and clapped. Grandma was so happy that she cried,” Mom finished.

  “So if I win the book contest, will you cry?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Mom said. “Very hard.”

  “We’ll all cry,” Dad said. “I’ll buy a box of Kleenex just for the occasion.”

  Chapter 14

  Trying to Discover

  BESIDES THE BOOK PROJECT, THE OTHER EXCITING thing going on at school was the science fair. Since Teddy Jackson wasn’t going to be my boyfriend, Melody and I were partners, just like we planned. I couldn’t wait for the science fair. I thought, maybe, it could help me find myself. If science could answer questions about the weather and nature, it had to be able to help answer what I was going to be when I grew up.

  “Becky and Charlotte are doing a project on constellations,” I said to Melody. “And Teddy and Sophie are making a volcano. What are we going to do?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, “but let’s do something that’ll win the blue ribbon. I’ve never won one before.”

  “Me neither,” I said. “We’d have to be really lucky to win the blue ribbon, though.”

  “But we’re supposed to be lucky this year,” Melody said. “We should be able to get it.”

  Mom overheard us.

  “The science fair isn’t about luck,” she told us. “It’s about science. Discovery through using your senses— sight, smell, sound, touch, and taste.”

  “Taste?” I said. “Let’s do a project about ice cream. I can discover ice cream.”

  “That’s not science,” Melody said, “that’s dessert!”

  Mom tried to help us. “You should do an experiment, something you don’t know the answer to before you begin,” she said.

  “Like what?” I asked. Mom knew about these things because she used to be a plant scientist before she married Dad. A botanist, she said.

  “Well,” Mom said, “a famous scientist once had her plants listen to different kinds of music to see if it would affect their growth. She put a plant in a room and played classical music in the room twenty-four hours a day. In another room, she played rock music.”

  “Did it make a difference?” Melody asked.

  “Yes, it did,” Mom told us. “The plant that listened to classical music grew more than the one that listened to rock music.”

  “That’s funny!” I laughed. “Plants don’t like rock music!”

  “Hmm,” Melody said, “maybe we should do something like that.”

  “I don’t want to have music playing all the time!” I said. “I’ll never get to sleep.”

  “Maybe we can do something else, like using different colored lights or water,” Melody said.

  “I know!” I said. “We can water the plants with different things! We’ll give one orange juice, another soda, and one milk, and see which one they like better.”

  Melody laughed. “Maybe we should feed one ice cream, too!”

  So, that weekend we planted four pea plant seeds. We watered one with orange juice, one with milk, one with ginger ale, and one with plain water. Mom called that one our “control”; we compared the others to it.

  The plants didn’t grow very well. The milk plant had one shriveled stem and smelled funny. The orange juice plant was just a pot of dirt. The water plant was small. In fact, the only plant that looked good was the plant we fed ginger ale. It was strong and green with a vine climbing up the stick.

  “Plants like soda!” Melody announced. “We should tell the world! Everyone should water their plants with soda from now on. People could hose their lawns with ginger ale!”

  Melody and I made big posters for the science fair. We made charts of each plant and wrote a report. The report was four pages long. I drew a leaf border on every page. We were very proud.

  “This is our lucky year,” Melody told me. “We’re definitely going to win the blue ribbon. And after the science fair hears about our project, we’ll be famous! Maybe we’ll be in the newspapers or on TV.”

  I was excited, too. Not only had Melody and I made an important scientific discovery, I might have discovered my talent. I could be a scientist! I could be like Albert Einstein, but I would comb my hair.

  “Do you think the pea from the soda plant will taste like ginger ale?” Melody asked.

  We looked at the plant. It didn’t look like any peas were growing.

  “Maybe it’ll grow a pea pod by the science fair,” I said hopefully.

  Chapter 15

  The Science Fair

  THE SCIENCE FAIR WAS ON SATURDAY. IT DIDN’T seem fair that we had to go to school on a Saturday, but our teachers said it was the only way everyone could see all the projects. I was glad everyone was going to see our project; I couldn’t wait until they heard what we discovered.

  Melody and I taped our posters on the wall. Our largest poster said “Feed Your Plant Soda for Optimal Growth.” I had drawn a picture of a pea plant and a bottle of ginger ale next to it. We hung that one right in the middle. We put our plants on the table with a carton of milk, a bottle of soda, a cup of orange juice, and a watering can. The plants were very small and scrawny—they didn’t look anything like my drawings.

  Becky and Charlotte came over to our table while I was trying to make our plants look better by drawing pictures on the pots. The pictures didn’t help.

  “Those plants don’t look that good,” Charlotte said. “Did you really water one with soda?”

  “Yes!” Melody said. “And we made a scientific discovery! This our lucky year!”

  Becky and Charlotte looked puzzled, so I explained the idea to them.

  “Melody and I were born in the Year of the Tiger,” I told them, “so the Year of the Dog is really lucky for us. We’ll probably win the blue ribbon.”

  “But I’m the same age as you,” Becky said, “so I was born in the Year of the Tiger, too. So, that means I’m just as lucky as you are. Maybe we’ll win the blue ribbon.”

  Melody and I looked at each other. We hadn’t thought of that. How could all of us be lucky when there was only one blue ribbon?

  “We’re luckier because it’s the Chinese Year of the Dog,” Melody said, “and Grace and I are Chinese.”

  I could see Becky didn’t agree, but Ms. Malone (Melody’s teacher) came into the room and told everyone to go stand by their projects.

  “We’re ready to start judging the science fair,” Ms. Malone said. “And this year we are especially lucky! My good friend Mr. McKnealy is going to be our guest judge. He is a scientist. He works at NASA.”

  “Lucky!” Melody nudged me. “See! With him here, we’ll definitely get the blue ribbon.”


  “But he’s from NASA!” I whispered to Melody. “That’s like the space shuttle! He’s probably an astronaut; he won’t know about plants.”

  “Astronauts are scientists,” she whispered back, “and scientists know about science. We’re going to win. I know it!”

  We waited a long time for Mr. McKnealy to come to our project. When he did, he looked surprised.

  “Well, this is an interesting project,” he said, and he picked up our report and started reading it.

  We nudged each other. Here was our good luck!

  “However,” he said to us, “I’m not sure your results substantiate your claim. Were your plants in a controlled environment?”

  I looked at Melody. Her grin had completely disappeared.

  “Our water plant is the control,” I told him, remembering what Mom had called it. I felt very smart.

  “No, I meant did you give each plant the same amount of liquid and did they each get the same sun exposure?” he said.

  “Well, there wasn’t enough room in the window for the water plant so I put that one on the table in the other room,” I said, suddenly not feeling very smart. “It might have gotten less light. And we didn’t measure how much we gave them.”

  “Hmm,” Mr. McKnealy said, frowning, “then I’m afraid your scientific method was seriously flawed.”

  Melody and I looked at each other. We didn’t feel so lucky anymore.

  “To get true results, you should do this project over again with at least ten plants for each liquid, in a controlled environment.” He continued, “And then you should do a chlorophyll test….”

  When he left, Melody and I were very quiet.

  “I don’t think he liked it,” Melody said.

  “He did say it was interesting,” I said.

  “But, I really thought we had discovered something,” Melody said. She sounded glum. “He thought it was a terrible project.”

  “He didn’t say it was terrible,” I said.

  “He said we were seriously flawed!” Melody said. “That’s scientist talk for terrible!”

  We sat down at our table, depressed. The science fair that had been so colorful and thrilling an hour ago was now grey and dull.

  “I didn’t know scientists had to do all of that stuff,” I said. Maybe I didn’t want to be a scientist after all. It looked like I didn’t have any science talent. “Did you know what he was talking about?”

  “No!” Melody said and we both laughed.

  An hour later, Ms. Malone came back into the room. We watched her hand Charlotte and Becky the blue ribbon. Then their pictures were taken for the school newspaper.

  “I guess Charlotte and Becky have more luck than we do after all,” Melody said, “even though they’re not Chinese.”

  “Maybe because Becky has a dog,” I said. “Dogs are probably better friends with other dogs than they are with tigers.”

  “Yeah,” Melody said, “Scruffy probably put in a good word for them.”

  “Or maybe they just had a better project,” I said.

  “Maybe,” Melody said, “but I bet it was Scruffy.”

  Chapter 16

  Dreaming of Dorothy

  WE KNEW THE END OF THE SCHOOL YEAR WAS coming when Ms. Malone announced that there were sign-ups for the school play.

  “This year,” she told our grade, “we are going to put on the musical play The Wizard of Oz. You can choose to be in the orchestra or the choir, or you can try out for one of the parts.”

  The Wizard of Oz! I loved the movie and the book. Right away, I knew I was going to try out for Dorothy. Since it looked like I wasn’t going to be a scientist when I grew up, I wouldn’t mind being a rich movie star. This could be my chance to see if I had talent as an actress.

  Melody and I looked at the sign-up sheet.

  “I’m signing up for the orchestra,” Melody told me.

  “You’re not going to try out for Dorothy?” I said. “I am!”

  “I’m not going to sing in front of all those people,” Melody said, looking at the list. “Besides, everyone wants to be Dorothy.”

  That was true. The list for Dorothy was very long. Almost all the girls in our grade had signed up. I made the list even longer.

  That whole week I practiced being Dorothy. In class, I drew pictures of Dorothy in her checkered dress. At home I drew Dorothy’s ruby shoes while I sang “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” I practiced singing every day—after school, after dinner, in the bathroom, and before bed.

  “Why can’t you sing ‘Somewhere…’ elsewhere?” Lissy groaned. “Anywhere but here!”

  I wasn’t the only one singing, though. On the day of the audition it seemed like every girl was singing. You could hear “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” on the bus, in the girl’s bathroom, and on the playground.

  “I’m going to play on the swings,” Melody said, covering her ears. “I’m sick of that song.”

  I kept singing with the other girls. We all crowded together like a flock of excited crows. Even while we sang, all of us were wondering the same thing. Who would get the part? Who was going to be Dorothy? The thought was thrilling and delicious at the same time.

  “Do you think I could be Dorothy?” I asked Becky.

  Becky looked at me in shock.

  “You can’t be Dorothy,” she said. “Dorothy’s not Chinese.”

  Suddenly, the world went silent. Like a melting icicle, my dream of being Dorothy fell and shattered on the ground. I felt like a dirty puddle after the rain. All the girls continued singing, but I didn’t hear them. Becky was right. Dorothy wasn’t Chinese. I was SO dumb. How could I have even thought about being Dorothy? I’d never get chosen. It was stupid to even try.

  When Ms. Malone called my name at the audition, I shook my head.

  “Are you sure?” she asked.

  I nodded and Ms. Malone called on the next girl.

  The next day, a list was posted with all the parts. I was a munchkin and Emma Richards was Dorothy. Emma had brown hair that curled at the ends and blue eyes. When she wore the blue-checkered dress, she’d look just like Dorothy.

  “How come Chinese people are never important?” I asked Melody.

  “What do you mean?” she said. “We’re important.”

  “No, we’re not,” I said. “You never see a Chinese person in the movies or in a play or in a book. No one Chinese is important.”

  “There are Chinese movie stars,” Melody said, “and the woman that does the news is Chinese.”

  “Not a lot, though,” I said. “And there are none in books. Whenever we do a school play, it’s always from books and none of the characters are Chinese. We did Cinderella, Peter Pan, Alice in Wonderland— nobody in books is Chinese.”

  “There must be,” Melody said. “Just because the school hasn’t done a play about a Chinese person doesn’t mean there aren’t any.”

  “I doubt it,” I said. “I bet there aren’t any.”

  Melody and I went to the library and asked for a Chinese book. We looked at the book The Five Chinese Brothers.

  “See,” Melody said, “Chinese people.”

  “Those aren’t real Chinese people, though,” I said. “Your brother doesn’t have a ponytail.”

  “It’s not supposed to be real,” Melody said. “Who can swallow the ocean like they do in the book?”

  “But I wanted a real Chinese person book,” I complained. “One with people like us—Chinese-Americans.”

  “You’re just being picky,” Melody said. “Go write your own, then.”

  “Okay,” I said, suddenly remembering the book contest. “I will.”

  Chapter 17

  A Real Chinese Person Book

  MAKING A BOOK WAS A LOT HARDER THAN SAYING I would make one. When I told Ms. McCurdy that I wanted to make a book with a Chinese-American person in it she was very excited.

  “That’s a wonderful idea,” she told me. “Why don’t you write about yourself? You’re a Chinese-American, and if
you write your own experiences, your book is sure to be very unique.”

  Ms. McCurdy said over and over again that she wanted us to make books with unique and original ideas. She always tried to make us write stories from our own lives. “Write what you know!” she kept telling us. But most of us didn’t seem to know much because we weren’t doing very original ideas. Charlotte wrote a story that sounded a lot like Cinderella, except instead of two stepsisters there was only one. Becky’s story was a lot like the unicorn movie we watched.

  Melody was doing an original idea, though. Her book was about flowers that talked to each other. She got the idea from our science fair project. She said since she learned plants had tastes like people, she’d write a story about them talking like people, too.

  But even with an original idea, I still didn’t know what to write about. I knew I wanted it to be about a Chinese person and Ms. McCurdy wanted me to write about my life, but I couldn’t think of a part of my life to write about. There was just nothing exciting in my life. Maybe that was why there were no real Chinese people in books; we all had boring lives.

  I watched the rest of the class write their stories. I drew little pictures of dogs reading books. My mind was like an empty paper balloon.

  Ms. McCurdy stopped by my desk. “Writer’s block?” she asked me.

  “What’s writer’s block?” I asked.

  “It’s when a writer can’t think of what to write about, when you can’t think of any words to write,” she told me.

  I nodded my head hard. I definitely was having writer’s block!

  “What’s the cure for it?” I asked.

  “You just have to relax, not try so hard,” Ms. McCurdy said, “and wait.”

  Well, that was disappointing. “Isn’t there something I could do to make it disappear sooner?” I asked her.