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Authors: Linda Himelblau
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can't even do it.” Next to me Anthony is staring at the floor. I look back at his mom. This is interesting. My mom is awake, looking surprised.
“I'll be happy to talk to you privately,” answers Mrs. Dorfman, who is finally not smiling. “The rest of you might like to go to the cafeteria for refreshments and to hear a welcome from our principal.” Chairs scrape. Kids jump up except Anthony. Everyone talks at once. Anthony's mom stalks to the front of the room.
“Time to go home,” I say to my mom. She doesn't know about the cafeteria or doesn't care. We go out through the playground gate.
“Your teacher is very nice,” she says.
“She's boring,” I answer. “You went to sleep.”
“You be nice, Du,” my mom says in her strict voice. I hear under her strict voice that she is trying not to laugh.
“Is it nice to go to sleep when the teacher's talking?” I laugh. She can't help it. She laughs too.
“So much English at once sounds to me like beautiful music,” she murmurs. “I woke up when that mother yelled. For a moment I thought I was back in Vietnam and the teacher would hit my fingers with a ruler.”
“What?” I laugh. “She wouldn't do that!” My mom was dreaming the teacher would hit her. This is so funny.
“In Vietnam when I was little this is what happened when I fell asleep in school,” she answers.
“You fell asleep in your school in Vietnam?” I almost don't believe her. Vietnam is so far and strange that I can't even imagine real things happened there. “And the teacher hit you with a ruler?”
“Yes,” she laughs. “And another time when I brought a little frog to school.”
“You took a frog to school?” This is great. I want to know. We stop for a red light. Her face looks distant now, not laughing.
“That was a long time ago,” she says. “We're here now.” I'm disappointed because I know she won't say anything else. When she remembers something fun or happy in Vietnam, I think it must always lead to something sad; then she won't talk anymore. I would like to know but I don't want to make her sadder by asking.
“We had a wonderful Open House,” announces Mrs. Dorfman the next day. “Now it's time to get back to work.” Anthony sits angry at his desk, daring anyone to say anything. I wonder what happened with his mom and Mrs. Dorfman after we left. Tiffany brushes her little brother's cracker crumbs off her desk. No one says anything abouthow my mom went to sleep. I don't think they even know. I saw my mom sitting at the dining room table in the middle of the night when I got up to get a drink. She was looking at the Buddha and the pictures. I know she was thinking about Vietnam.
In the Shed
I hope that old man doesn't come home while I'm in here. It's his shed, even though the side with the little window is right on the edge of our yard. What if he caught me stuck there in the little window like I was when I climbed in? He'd have to be in our yard to see my legs kicking around high up in the air trying to get me through. If he unlocked the shed door he'd see my head and arms waving around stuffed in that window like a ghost up in the air. Maybe he'd be scared. If I saw him like that I'd think it was funny but I don't think he knows how to laugh. But he only comes in here for hislawn mower and that's only on Tuesday. He won't see the window because he can only see that from our yard. That's why he boarded it up, I bet. He didn't want us looking in at his stuff. There's nothing here that anybody would want anyway. There's his lawn mower right by the door. It's as old as he is. He's always fixing his yard, making it look better than everybody else's. He doesn't do any work except mow that lawn. My dad's got more important stuff to do. He has to work to make money. My mom too. Then maybe we'll hire that old man to mow our lawn. I'll sit on the steps and drink a soda and point to the spots he misses.
Here are his tools. My dad says Americans all have tools
“I'll be happy to talk to you privately,” answers Mrs. Dorfman, who is finally not smiling. “The rest of you might like to go to the cafeteria for refreshments and to hear a welcome from our principal.” Chairs scrape. Kids jump up except Anthony. Everyone talks at once. Anthony's mom stalks to the front of the room.
“Time to go home,” I say to my mom. She doesn't know about the cafeteria or doesn't care. We go out through the playground gate.
“Your teacher is very nice,” she says.
“She's boring,” I answer. “You went to sleep.”
“You be nice, Du,” my mom says in her strict voice. I hear under her strict voice that she is trying not to laugh.
“Is it nice to go to sleep when the teacher's talking?” I laugh. She can't help it. She laughs too.
“So much English at once sounds to me like beautiful music,” she murmurs. “I woke up when that mother yelled. For a moment I thought I was back in Vietnam and the teacher would hit my fingers with a ruler.”
“What?” I laugh. “She wouldn't do that!” My mom was dreaming the teacher would hit her. This is so funny.
“In Vietnam when I was little this is what happened when I fell asleep in school,” she answers.
“You fell asleep in your school in Vietnam?” I almost don't believe her. Vietnam is so far and strange that I can't even imagine real things happened there. “And the teacher hit you with a ruler?”
“Yes,” she laughs. “And another time when I brought a little frog to school.”
“You took a frog to school?” This is great. I want to know. We stop for a red light. Her face looks distant now, not laughing.
“That was a long time ago,” she says. “We're here now.” I'm disappointed because I know she won't say anything else. When she remembers something fun or happy in Vietnam, I think it must always lead to something sad; then she won't talk anymore. I would like to know but I don't want to make her sadder by asking.
“We had a wonderful Open House,” announces Mrs. Dorfman the next day. “Now it's time to get back to work.” Anthony sits angry at his desk, daring anyone to say anything. I wonder what happened with his mom and Mrs. Dorfman after we left. Tiffany brushes her little brother's cracker crumbs off her desk. No one says anything abouthow my mom went to sleep. I don't think they even know. I saw my mom sitting at the dining room table in the middle of the night when I got up to get a drink. She was looking at the Buddha and the pictures. I know she was thinking about Vietnam.
In the Shed
I hope that old man doesn't come home while I'm in here. It's his shed, even though the side with the little window is right on the edge of our yard. What if he caught me stuck there in the little window like I was when I climbed in? He'd have to be in our yard to see my legs kicking around high up in the air trying to get me through. If he unlocked the shed door he'd see my head and arms waving around stuffed in that window like a ghost up in the air. Maybe he'd be scared. If I saw him like that I'd think it was funny but I don't think he knows how to laugh. But he only comes in here for hislawn mower and that's only on Tuesday. He won't see the window because he can only see that from our yard. That's why he boarded it up, I bet. He didn't want us looking in at his stuff. There's nothing here that anybody would want anyway. There's his lawn mower right by the door. It's as old as he is. He's always fixing his yard, making it look better than everybody else's. He doesn't do any work except mow that lawn. My dad's got more important stuff to do. He has to work to make money. My mom too. Then maybe we'll hire that old man to mow our lawn. I'll sit on the steps and drink a soda and point to the spots he misses.
Here are his tools. My dad says Americans all have tools
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