Bitter Melon by Cara Chow Read Free Book Online Page B

“dance” in the middle of his vocabulary list? I cross it out several more times, until it is nothing more than an opaque black rectangle on the page. Instead of obliterating my mistake, however, scratching it out seems to highlight it more, like giant arrows screaming
Mistake, mistake! Stupid!
I toss the whole page and start over.
    I can see Mom’s point about not going out with boys. They are distracting. I can see how they could threaten one’s chances of acing courses and getting into a top college.

    I return to Princeton Review the following afternoon with a typed, mistake-free copy of my notes in my hand. I scan the room for Collins and find him sitting in the same spot. The moment he sees me, his face lights up with a warm smile. On cue, my heart starts hammering. I walk towards him, my fingers trembling as they clutch the paper. Quietly, I lay the notes on his desk and assume my seat. He peruses them and smiles again.
    The three troublemakers walk into the classroom. Great. I look at Collins. He cringes. But this time, Mr. Engelman clears his throat, gives the boys an authoritative look, and points tothe side of the room opposite Collins and me. We exchange looks of relief.
    During class, we keep our eyes on the board while my thoughts focus on his presence. I fight to divert my attention back to the teacher. I panic about my lack of self-control. My mother has paid hundreds of dollars for this class and I am throwing it away by not paying attention. As I think this, I wonder if this is how he feels too.
    After class, I eagerly await his first move. Will he talk to me? Will he escort me to the bus stop?
    Instead, he gathers his things and quickly exits the room, leaving me alone in the dust.
    Did I just imagine the friendship between us? Did I make a fool of myself?
    I suppress the pain in my chest. I tell myself that this is a lesson about losing control of my emotions. It’s better to be hurt now than later, when it’s too late. I vow to myself that this will be the last time I think of him. In fact, next time, I won’t even sit near him. I’ll pick a seat as far away from him as possible.

    In speech class, we move on to thematic interpretation, and original prose and poetry. We listen to famous speeches, like Martin Luther King’s “I have a dream” speech, analyzing why they are effective.
    The bell rings in Ms. Taylor’s class. As we gather our things, Ms. Taylor calls my name. Startled, Theresa and I turn around. Ms. Taylor is motioning for me to approach her. Theresa and I look at each other as if to say,
Why?
    “I’ll wait for you outside,” Theresa says.
    I nod and slowly approach Ms. Taylor’s desk. My armpits and hands are clammy. Have I done something wrong? I review the last couple of weeks and can’t remember having caused any problems.
    For almost a minute, Ms. Taylor is reading. I sneak a peek and realize that she is reading my original oratory speech.
    My speech must be horrible. She must be calling me up to tell me that I got a D, or that I should do it over, or worse yet, that I am flunking out of the class. I thought I was doing well, but maybe I was wrong. I brace myself for the humiliation.
    Finally, she looks up at me. Her face glows brightly, her eyes glistening with tears. “This is one of the most beautiful speeches I’ve ever read,” she says.
    Her words have penetrated my ears, but not the rest of me. I replay them in my mind, to make sure that I heard them correctly.
    “The sign-up sheet for speech team has been up for almost a month. Why haven’t you signed up?” she asks.
    Usually, questions asked by adults are accusations disguised as questions, such as “Why are you so lazy and forgetful?” or “Do you realize how much trouble you are?” Or the adult already knows the answer to the question and is drilling me forthe right response. In contrast, Ms. Taylor is posing a question because she doesn’t know the answer and wants to find out.
    “I don’t