Full Cicada Moon Read online

  “Do you girls need help?” asks the salesgirl,

  who appeared out of nowhere.

  “We’re just looking at all the pretty things

  in your store,” Stacey says, putting on her charm.

  She keeps smiling, but the girl

  doesn’t go away. She’s looking at my pocketbook.

  “Did you just take something?” she asks. “Did you

  put something in there?”

  “No,” I say, “just a record.”

  “Let me see that,” she says, tugging my strap.

  “She said she put a record in there,” Stacey says.

  “We don’t sell records here,” says the girl.

  “We know,” I say, finding my voice,

  and it’s not respectful.

  “You girls need to leave—now,” she says,

  and points to the door.

  She follows us out,

  and I say, “We’ll just buy that scarf somewhere else,”

  and Stacey adds, “And Mrs. Cottle will hear about this.”

  Outside, Stacey says, “She can’t talk to you like that.”

  “Never mind. I’ll get Mama some cold cream.”

  “Who gets cold cream for Christmas?”

  I head toward the drugstore,

  but the feeling that I want to bury myself in a deep, dark hole

  for the rest of my life follows me. I can’t get away from it,

  no matter how fast I walk.

  “She didn’t know who she was talking to, Mimi,” Stacey says,

  catching up to me. “Mimi Oliver,

  future astronaut. You should have shown her that letter.”

  “Can we please forget it?” I say,

  though I know I can’t. “Let’s go to the drugstore

  like we planned.”

  “Okay,” she says, “but promise you won’t buy cold cream.”

  In the Mirror

  Stacey and I sit at the counter

  and order sundaes, even though

  it’s freezing outside

  and I’m not in any mood to celebrate

  anything.

  Whenever I think about what happened,

  my neck prickles. And even though

  I can tell Stacey anything, I don’t want her

  to see how horrible I feel right now.

  It’s hard to smile when you’re trying not to cry.

  “Didn’t you want to piggyback that girl?”

  she asks. “I did.”

  “For me?” I ask,

  and she says, “I sure did,”

  and spins on the stool.

  “Hey, Mimi,” she says.

  I look up, and she’s staring at me in the mirror

  cross-eyed,

  and then it’s easy to smile.

  By the time our sundaes come, I don’t feel so bad.

  “You girls done with school now?” asks the nice soda jerk.

  We spoon our sundaes and nod.

  “Well, happy holidays,” he says. “Those are on the house.”

  After he walks away I say, “He balanced out the day,”

  my sadness starting to melt.

  Stacey licks the back of her spoon. “I’ve decided . . .

  there are jerks and nice people everywhere.

  And you just have to hope you meet fewer jerks.”

  Then I say, “And try not to be one.”

  Just then, Victor walks in.

  When he sees us, he sits at the other end of the counter.

  “Did you know he was coming here?” I ask.

  “No, and I can’t talk to him

  after what happened. I’m so embarrassed.”

  “He probably is, too. Those boys were jerks,

  but Victor wasn’t.”

  Stacey looks down. “You’re right,” she says quietly,

  and glances at him.

  Victor looks everywhere

  but at her.

  Then I say, “Hey, Victor, look in the mirror,”

  and nudge Stacey.

  At first he only glances up,

  but when she crosses her eyes at him,

  he smiles,

  and crosses his at her.

  I whisper to Stacey,

  “That’s the first step.”

  Then in the mirror, I see David.

  He has been on suspension since the dance

  ten days ago.

  “Don’t look, but look,” I tell Stacey,

  and point at the mirror.

  Victor sees him, too, and sips his Coke

  coolly, but his foot is jiggling.

  David walks over to the counter

  and sits two stools away from Stacey.

  She eats a spoonful of ice cream.

  “Hey, Stacey,” David says

  softly. She takes another bite.

  “I’m sorry,” he says.

  “About what?” she asks.

  “You know—the dance.”

  “I’m not the one to apologize to,” she says,

  her eyes darting to Victor.

  Then she puts her spoon down and turns her stool to him.

  “I’m waiting.”

  David sighs and walks over to Victor,

  who stands up.

  Then David says something to Victor,

  very low, and Victor nods

  solemnly. It doesn’t look like forgiveness

  but it might be a step.

  I’ve never had proof about my science project,

  but I’ve had suspicions,

  and when David comes back to Stacey,

  I ask, “Where did you put my moon last spring?”

  David frowns

  and walks out of the drugstore.

  Then Victor slides his Coke down the counter

  and sits near us. “That was good,” he says to me.

  “But you just let him get away with it,” Stacey says.

  “No, I didn’t—he knows I know. And that’s enough,” I say,

  and finish my sundae.

  Excuses

  At Stacey’s house, I have to relive the scarf thing all over again

  when Stacey tells her mom.

  “I don’t think that girl meant anything by it,”

  Mrs. LaVoie says. “I think you read

  too much into it.”

  “Mother, you should have heard her,

  and she practically grabbed Mimi’s pocketbook.”

  “But who would ever think Mimi,

  of all people,

  would shoplift?”

  Maybe Stacey’s mother can’t imagine

  anyone thinking that way about her,

  or she doesn’t want to think anyone she knows

  would shoplift.

  Or she feels bad about how she acted

  before she met Mama.

  All at once, I understand

  why Stacey keeps telling the story,

  why she can’t let it go,

  and why her mother is making excuses for that salesgirl:

  They’re embarrassed.

  They’ve never had anyone like me or my family so close.

  And this is a whole new world for them,

  with all new rules.

  All at once, I’m not mad or sad

  or embarrassed anymore.

  Instead, I hug Stacey and then her mom

  and pardon them

  for their confusion

  about everything, because,

  just like me, they are learning

  how to take

  one small step.

  The Exchange

  Stacey’s mom is driving me home. />
  We pass Cottle’s,

  which is still open.

  I want that scarf for Mama,

  and this will be my last chance before Christmas.

  I have to try again.

  “Please stop, Mrs. LaVoie,” I say.

  She slams on the brakes. “Goodness, Mimi—what’s wrong?”

  “I want to go back to Cottle’s.”

  “Whatever for, dear?” she asks.

  “My mom would really love that scarf.”

  “Well, if you’re sure . . . ,” Mrs. LaVoie says.

  “I’m sure,” I say,

  and she parks in front of the store. They open their doors,

  too, but I say, “I want to go in alone.”

  Stacey says, “I want to tell that girl where to go,”

  and her mom says, “Don’t talk like that.”

  That salesgirl is still here.

  She rushes up to me. “I thought I told you to leave.”

  “I want to buy that scarf with flowers on it.”

  “So, you didn’t find it somewhere else,” she says

  with her hands on her hips. “We’re about to close up,

  so are you going to buy it or not?”

  “I am, but . . .”

  She whips the pretty scarf off the mannequin

  and follows me to the register.

  “Don’t worry,” I say. “I won’t steal anything on the way.”

  “Gift wrap?” she asks at the counter,

  snipping off the price tag with a pair of scissors.

  “Does that cost extra?” I ask.

  “A dollar.”

  “No, thanks.”

  She presses the keys on the cash register

  and says, “Fifteen fifty.”

  This is the problem,

  but I’m prepared. “I only have thirteen dollars.”

  Her mouth stays open for a year,

  then she says, “What are you trying to pull?”

  “Nothing,” I say. “I don’t have enough money . . .

  but I have this,” and take the Apollo coin

  that Timothy gave me out of my pocket.

  “Can I pay the rest with this?”

  I’m scared she’s going to throw me out again,

  but she takes the coin and holds it near the lamp,

  turns it to see both sides. “This is a real collector’s item,”

  she says, looking at me through her hair.

  “Okay, it’s a deal.”

  I try to smile.

  She sets the coin on the cash register,

  places tissue paper in a Cottle’s box,

  and lays Mama’s scarf inside.

  “I can’t pay for the box,” I say,

  and she says, “It’s free.”

  I’m glad she’s not a chatty salesgirl,

  because my throat aches

  whenever I think that coin won’t be in my pocket anymore.

  The front door opens.

  She calls out, “We’re closing,”

  and a man says, “I need something for my niece.”

  She ties a bow on the box, and I turn around to leave—

  and there’s Mr. Dell, taking up the whole aisle

  and looking at me.

  He pulls off his red-checkered hat

  and holds it with both hands.

  My heart is pounding out of my chest

  and I have jitter legs really bad.

  I have to get out of here,

  but the only way is past Mr. Dell.

  I take a step toward him,

  and he does something surprising:

  he moves aside

  and says, “Pardon me.”

  In the car, Stacey turns around and asks, “You okay?”

  I shrug. Mama will get a beautiful scarf for Christmas.

  But I just gave away something

  much more precious than two dollars and fifty cents.

  Expressions

  Papa went to a conference in Boston three days ago

  and is supposed to come back today, Christmas Eve.

  But he called us at two thirty

  to say he’s still four hours away

  because the traffic is crawling

  after the snowstorm.

  “Okay,” Mama says,

  but I know she wants him home now,

  just like I do.

  I hear Papa say, “I love you,”

  and she answers, “Drive carefully,” which means

  “I love you, too.”

  While we wait, Mama and I write nengajo,

  our New Year cards, which we’ll mail after Christmas.

  Then she makes a pumpkin pie

  and I go upstairs to wrap presents—

  Papa’s record, Stacey’s record,

  which I put in a shoebox,

  and Timothy’s Cheez-Its,

  his favorite.

  Then I refold Mama’s scarf in the Cottle’s box

  and wrap the box in Christmas paper

  and a gold bow.

  And so that she never has to guess, I write on the tag:

  Merry Christmas, Mama.

  I love you.

  Visitors

  A car comes up the driveway

  and a door slams shut.

  Papa is home!

  Then another door shuts

  and another and another.

  Then the front door bursts open

  and in tumbles Papa—

  and Auntie and Uncle and Shelley and Sharon!

  “Surprise!” they all shout.

  “Merry Christmas!”

  Mama covers her mouth with her apron

  and sinks to the stairs.

  “Bikkurishita!” she says. “So surprised!”

  Her eyes glisten as she looks at her family.

  “Emiko, dear,” Auntie says

  and sits next to Mama,

  who’s shaking.

  “Aren’t you happy to see us?”

  Mama nods hard, and says,

  “I thought you were ghosts.”

  Auntie holds out her arm. “Feel—

  I’m real.” Then,

  “Mimi, bring your mom a glass of water.”

  After Mama recovers,

  they tell the story—

  Uncle Kiyoshi sold the house we had lived in

  and their apartment building

  because he had too much to manage

  and wants to travel before he dies.

  Papa knew about their trip here for weeks

  and kept it a secret

  for Christmas.

  “How long will you stay?” Mama asks.

  “Until the girls have to go back to school

  on January fifth.”

  “Then you’ll have to leave on New Year, right?”

  “No, Auntie,” Sharon says. “We flew here.”

  Nobody’s saying

  (but we’re all thinking)

  that now our relatives are rich.

  Gifts of the Magi

  Last Christmas, we were in Berkeley

  without Papa.

  This year, we’re all in Vermont

  together.

  “This is for Mama,” Papa says,

  waving the box with a gold bow.

  I give it to her, with a

  “Merry Christmas!”

  “Thank you, Mimi-chan,” she says,

  sliding her fingernails under the seam

  to save the paper.

  I hold my breath while she lifts the lid

  and takes out the scarf. It floats around her throat.

  “So beautiful,” she says.
/>
  Her smile makes up for my empty pocket.

  “You must have saved up all your money

  for this scarf.”

  “And here’s one for you, Meems,” Papa says,

  handing me a small Cottle’s box.

  “Is it from you?” I ask Papa. He shakes his head,

  and Mama says, “A delivery man brought it yesterday.”

  The tag says:

  To Mimi

  From Santa

  in small printed letters.

  Inside,

  tissue paper . . .

  more tissue paper . . .

  then . . .

  the Apollo coin.

  My coin! But from who?

  “This is so weird . . .”

  I start to tell everyone about the scarf—

  but stop

  because Mama would return it if she knew.

  I want to know who gave me back my coin,

  but I also want to still believe in Santa.

  Oshogatsu—January 1, 1970

  “We’re going to have a real oshogatsu,” Mama said,

  thanks to Papa and our cousins,

  who brought the special food from California.

  After Christmas

  we cleaned the house like tornadoes,

  sweeping and scrubbing and dusting

  and moving

  and throwing out,

  so that everything would be shiny and new,

  like 1970.

  The nengajo—New Year cards—had come all week.

  Mama told me to put them in the kitchen drawer

  and not read them

  until New Year’s Day,

  or we’d have bad luck.

  Yesterday—the last day of 1969—

  Sharon and Shelley and I helped Mama and Auntie Sachi

  make black beans, sweet omelets, red-and-white fish cakes, and vegetables

  for oshogatsu.

  We chopped and stirred and boiled and stewed,

  then put our New Year food in red-and-gold trays.

  This morning, I wake up

  next to Shelley, who’s next to Sharon.

  My bed is cramped,

  but we wanted to make up for a year apart.

  The sun is rising through the clouds.

  I tiptoe downstairs.

  Mama is already awake.

  She gives me an envelope, and says, “Akemashite omedeto gozaimasu!