Flying the Dragon (6 page)

“Thank you, Teacher,” he said. The English words felt strange on his tongue.

Mrs. Garcia smiled but shook her head. She patted her chest with her hand. “MI-sses Gar-SEE-uh.” Hiroshi nodded. He already knew her name; what was she doing?

Another student raised his hand. “Mrs. Garcia?”

“Yes?” She smiled and headed over to the boy’s desk. She didn’t seem to mind being called by her name. Hiroshi couldn’t imagine calling her Mrs. Garcia; it was disrespectful—too familiar. Besides, how was he supposed to pronounce a name with an American
r
in it?

He started to write his name in
kanji
characters on the worksheet, then erased it and wrote it in English. He had almost worked his way to the bottom of the page when another teacher entered the room. Mrs. Garcia waved the teacher over to her desk, where they spoke in low voices.

“Skye? Hiroshi?” Mrs. Garcia beckoned.

Hiroshi glanced at Sor—Skye. She stood and motioned for him to follow. When they reached the front of the room, Mrs. Garcia said something to Skye, who then whispered to Hiroshi in Japanese: “This is your ESL teacher—English as a second language. His name’s Mr. Jacobs.”

Skye folded her arms and took a step back. The class had fallen silent. Mr. Jacobs spoke to Skye, then she translated in a voice even softer than before. “You have ESL class every morning from nine to ten thirty. Then you come back here for the rest of the day.” She looked from Mrs. Garcia back to Mr. Jacobs, as if to ask if that would be all.

“Thank you,” Mrs. Garcia said. Skye hurried back to her seat, leaving Hiroshi standing there.

Hiroshi knew she was embarrassed. Was it her mistakes in Japanese? He didn’t care about that. He knew he was about to make even more mistakes in English.

“Hello, Hiroshi.” Mr. Jacobs grinned and offered Hiroshi his hand. He decided Mr. Jacobs looked too young to be a teacher.

“Hello, Teacher.” Hiroshi bowed, then remembered to shake Mr. Jacobs’s hand.

“Come with me.” Mr. Jacobs grinned and headed for the door.

Hiroshi hoped the other ESL students wouldn’t be too far ahead of him in English. What if he couldn’t keep up? Outside the classroom five other students waited in the hallway. As they followed Mr. Jacobs down the hall, some whispered to each other in English, and others in a language that sounded like Spanish. Were they whispering about him?

Mr. Jacobs strode into the ESL room. “Let’s take our seats, everyone.”

Hiroshi noticed the artwork right away—drawings, paintings, collages. They filled one wall from ceiling to floor. Hiroshi smiled. Another wall had a chalkboard surrounded by groups of index cards with English words and pictures.

The students sat at a U-shaped table, and Hiroshi took the last empty place at the end. Mr. Jacobs gave him a notebook and a marker, then pointed to a blank box on the cover.

“Name.” He smiled. “Your name goes here.” As soon as Hiroshi printed his name on the front, Mr. Jacobs introduced him to the group. The other students took turns saying their strange names—not one was Japanese. He’d never remember them all.

Mr. Jacobs gave every student five cards, each with a picture. Hiroshi looked at his cards: a shirt, a jacket, a pair of shoes, a hat, and a scarf.
Is this some kind of joke? This is baby work.
But Mr. Jacobs wasn’t laughing. He began writing a list of clothing items on the board—all words Hiroshi recognized from Miss Dillon’s English classes way back in first grade.

Hiroshi watched as the boy next to him wrote his name: Ravi. The boy copied down the English words. Hiroshi sighed and picked up his pencil. At least his classmates in Japan couldn’t see him now.

Mr. Jacobs clapped once and said something to the girl sitting closest to the board. The girl nodded and smiled, then held up a card with a picture of a pair of blue trousers. She said, “I am wearing blue pants.”

Hiroshi’s eyes widened. How embarrassing for the girl; she had just told the teacher she was wearing underwear. What would Mr. Jacobs say?

“Good, Maria.” Mr. Jacobs nodded.

What?
Hiroshi stifled a giggle. Miss Dillon had taught them that
pants
meant underwear. But Miss Dillon was English, not American, and she had said Americans sometimes have different ways of saying things. Hiroshi looked at his cards again. At least he didn’t have a picture of trousers.

When Maria finished with her cards, Mr. Jacobs went on to the next student. A wave of panic rolled through Hiroshi. Four more students, and then it would be his turn. Hiroshi knew the words to say, but what if his pronunciation was off? The other students’

English sounded perfect. He studied his cards again. His hands began to tremble, so he spread his cards on the table and stuck his hands under his legs. He recited his lines over and over in his head until Mr. Jacobs said, “Hiroshi, what are you wearing?”

Hiroshi swallowed. He pointed to the card with the picture of a shirt and said, “I wear a shirt.”

“Excellent, Hiroshi. What color is your shirt?”

Hiroshi relaxed his shoulders. The teacher was pleased with his answer! “Red. My shirt is red.”

Mr. Jacobs nodded. “What else are you wearing?”

Hiroshi went through the other cards until he got to the last one. He pointed to the card with shoes. “I am wearing shoe.”

Mr. Jacobs peeked under the table. “And what color are your shoes, Hiroshi?”

Shoes. He should have said
shoes,
not
shoe.
How could he have been so stupid? He stared at the card. “My shoes are brown.” He made sure to say
shoes
a bit louder than the other words, hoping Mr. Jacobs would hear that he had corrected himself.

Mr. Jacobs held out his hand in front of Hiroshi, palm up. Keeping his chin down, Hiroshi raised his eyes and saw Mr. Jacobs’ wide smile. Hiroshi lifted his head. He didn’t know what to do. Was he supposed to give the teacher something?

“Give me five, Hiroshi. Nice job with
shoes!
” Hiroshi knew what this meant from watching American movies. But giving five to a
teacher?
He snuck a glance at the other students, who were all grinning. Hiroshi raised his hand, then hesitated.

“Go on,” said Mr. Jacobs. “Don’t leave me hanging!” He chuckled. Hiroshi slapped his hand down on Mr. Jacob’s palm. He tried to imagine what his fifth-grade teacher from last year would say—serious Motomashi Sensei with a face like a raisin. He bit the inside of his cheek to cut off the laughter that threatened to escape; he didn’t want Mr. Jacobs to think he was laughing at him.

But a moment later Hiroshi’s urge to laugh fizzled when Mr. Jacobs handed out books. He said something to the class, and Hiroshi recognized the word “homework.” He stared at the cover—a picture of a boy pulling on his socks under the title
Tim Gets Dressed.
There couldn’t be more than ten pages in the whole story. Hiroshi opened the cover and scanned the first page: “Tim puts on a shirt.” Now the second page: “Tim puts on his socks.” It wasn’t even a real story; it was a book for first graders, not fifth graders. He slid it into his notebook. Speaking English was difficult, but reading in English was easy. When he could speak more English, he would ask Mr. Jacobs for a harder book. One with chapters and no pictures.

Next Mr. Jacobs handed out blank sheets of paper and colored pencils. He explained something to the group, but Hiroshi didn’t understand. The other students began sketching. Hiroshi snuck a sideways glance at Ravi, who was bent over his paper drawing two careful circles. When Ravi lifted his head, Hiroshi’s eyes darted back to his own paper; he didn’t want Ravi to think he was trying to copy him.

But Ravi leaned over. “I draw a car,” he whispered. Ravi moved his pencil across the paper, and the outline of a race car appeared. Was the assignment to a draw a car? Which kind of car? Any car?

Hiroshi was about to sneak a look at another student’s paper when Mr. Jacobs pulled up a chair and sat across from him with a sheet of paper. Mr. Jacobs drew a basketball and hoop, then held up the paper. “I like basketball.” Then he tapped Hiroshi’s blank paper. “What do you like, Hiroshi?”

Hiroshi nodded; he knew exactly what he would draw. He picked up three pencils—different shades of green—and began with the grassy hill. Then he sketched himself, Grandfather, and finally the dragon kite.

“This is you.” Mr. Jacobs tapped the figure of Hiroshi in the picture. He slid his finger over to Grandfather. “Who is this?”

Hiroshi nodded. “My grandfather.”

Mr. Jacobs pointed to the grassy hill. “Where is this place?”

Hiroshi’s throat tightened. “My village. In Japan.”

“You like kites?”

Hiroshi looked at the drawing. “Yes.” He nodded. He thought of the exact words he wanted to say, so he wouldn’t make a mistake: “I like kites.”

But he wanted to say so much more. He wanted to tell Mr. Jacobs about the kite battle he had to miss because he’d moved to America. He wanted to explain that the dragon kite was the first one he had made himself. Well, mostly himself—Grandfather had helped a little. He wanted to say that Grandfather was a
rokkaku
champion and Hiroshi’s best friend. And that he hoped Grandfather would get better soon so they could keep flying kites together.

“Yes,” Hiroshi repeated. “I like kites.”

What a jerk.
Kevin Donovan had never been Skye’s favorite person, but she’d always felt kind of sorry for him. He didn’t really have any friends, and now Skye could see why. Ever since she had translated something for Hiroshi that morning, Kevin wouldn’t leave her alone. “Ching chang wong wang!” He snickered, obviously pleased with himself.

“That doesn’t even mean anything.” Skye rolled her eyes, hoping no one else had heard him. As luck would have it, she had to peer around his big head to copy the reading homework from the board. But whenever she tried to look, he blocked her way.

Skye sighed. “Cut it out. I can’t see the board.”

“Why don’t you ask your Chinese boyfriend what it says when he gets back from ESL class?”

“He’s not my boyfriend; he’s my cousin. And he’s not Chinese, duh. He’s Japanese.”

“Whatever.”

Ignore him. Ignore him. Ignore him.

Mrs. Garcia clapped once. “Class, clear your desks for the science quiz.” Skye moaned along with the others. But at least Kevin wouldn’t be allowed to speak during the quiz—that was a bonus.

Kevin turned around again. “So are you Japanese, or what?”

Honestly. Doesn’t he ever take a bullying break?

“Why don’t you just leave her alone, Kevin?” Amber sat two seats in front of Kevin. If she’d heard the whole conversation, Skye wondered who else had been listening. Skye shot her a grateful smile, and Amber grinned back. “If you must know, Skye is Japanese. She was probably speaking Japanese to the new kid.” Amber turned back around.

Skye probably should have been grateful that Amber had defended her. But she’d called Skye “Japanese.” Okay, so Skye’s dad was Japanese, and she spoke the language—kind of. But that didn’t make
her
Japanese. She’d never even been to Japan.

Mrs. Garcia walked down the rows, handing out science quizzes. Diagrams of plant and animal cells—gross. They all looked like Kevin Donovan’s head.

Five minutes into the quiz, Hiroshi and the other ESL kids came back into the room.

“Skye?” Mrs. Garcia called. She waved Skye to the front of the room. Skye sighed. She’d have to translate. Again. She turned her quiz over and stood up. The ESL kids headed straight to the computers, except for Hiroshi, who looked lost.

As Skye approached Kevin’s desk, he had his chin in his hand, like he was concentrating on his quiz. But when she walked by, he sneered at her.

Ignore him.

When Skye and Hiroshi met at the teacher’s desk, Mrs. Garcia smiled. “Skye, I am so glad that you can translate for Hiroshi throughout the day. I’m sure he’s relieved to have help from his own cousin.”

Not again.
Skye concentrated on Mrs. Garcia’s shoes—red and shiny with a short heel. She tried to imagine Kevin wearing them, instead. She almost grinned.

“Would you please tell Hiroshi he’ll be going to the computer station right after ESL each day? I’d like you to help him navigate his way around the Kid Science site. Go ahead and show him the interactive cell page we did last week.”

Skye leaned in closer to Hiroshi, wishing Kevin wasn’t witnessing this whole exchange, yet knowing he was. She translated the best she could, then risked a glance over her shoulder. Sure enough, half the class was staring, including Kevin. And even Amber.

Come on, people! The show’s over. Back to cell parts!
But vacuoles and cell membranes apparently weren’t as much fun as gawking at the new kid or listening to Skye stumble her way through another language.

“It should only take a few minutes to show him how to log on, and then you’ll have plenty of time to finish your quiz,” Mrs. Garcia said. Skye nodded, feeling the flush of red to the roots of her hair. “Oh, and would you please tell Hiroshi that if he has any questions at any time, he should feel free to ask you?” Skye didn’t have to glance over her shoulder this time to know the whole class was staring at her back. No pencil scratching. No eraser rubbing. Silence.