Project Mulberry Page 5

  My mom nodded, still not looking at me. "Okay," she said. "You know that black people in this country have had a tough time."

  "Yeah, okay."

  "And lots of them haven't had the same opportunities as white people."

  "Right."

  "So I'm just making sure that your teacher has had enough opportunities and experience to be a good teacher for you."

  She made it sound very reasonable, but it still didn't make sense. I shook my head. "I keep telling you she's the best teacher I've ever had. You've seen my tests, I'm doing fine—she's teaching me everything I'm supposed to know. Why won't you believe me?"

  My mom didn't say anything for a minute. Then she smiled a little. "Okay. I believe you."

  But she still didn't look at me.

  So I sort of figured it out: My mom thought Mrs. Roberts might not be a good teacher, because she was black. That made things hard in a different way. Most of the time, my mom was a very nice person. I hated thinking of her as someone who might be prejudiced against black people.

  I finally told Patrick about it. He didn't say anything for a minute, but I could tell he was thinking.

  "Soldiers," he said at last.

  "Huh?"

  "The Korean War. That was when the army got integrated for the first time, and black and white soldiers fought together. I read about it."

  His military-history phase, last summer. He had read a ton of books. Sometimes he read aloud to me. I was glad when he moved on to reading about crows.

  "The only black people in Korea back then were American soldiers," he went on. "Maybe your mom is sort of scared of black people because they make her think of war and battles and stuff."

  That seemed like a good guess. After dinner that night, I talked to my dad.

  "Dad, are there black people in Korea?"

  My dad looked surprised at the question. "Yes, of course there are. But not very many—almost everyone in Korea is Korean." He smiled and went on, "It was very interesting for me when I first came to the States—I never knew people came in so many different colors!"

  He said it like it was a wonderful thing.

  "Did you know any black people when you were little?" I asked.

  "I didn't really know any, no," he said. "But I did meet a few. I remember the first one I ever met—a soldier. He gave me some gum." He smiled again.

  So Patrick was right about the soldiers. And my dad didn't seem to care what color people were, as long as they were nice. But my mom ... Well, maybe she'd been unlucky and had never met a nice soldier.

  In a way, it didn't matter.

  As we stood there on Mr. Dixon's front stoop, I wasn't thinking, Why doesn't my mom like black people?

  I was thinking, Uh-oh. What's going to happen now?

  Me: Whew. You're throwing a lot of stuff at me.

  Ms. Park: Sorry. I didn't mean to. In fact, when I started writing that chapter I thought Mr. Dixon was white. I didn't realize he was black until I heard him talking on the phone. I know you couldn't tell then, but somehow he let me know that he was black. Believe me, I was as surprised as you were.

  Me: How come begets to tell you what to write and I don't? Is it because he's a grownup?

  Ms. Park: Of course not. You're not being fair—I did let you tell me what to do before. With Kenny. Have you forgotten already?

  Me: That was only a little thing. When are you going to let me decide something big?

  Ms. Park: Be careful what you wish for.

  Me: What's that supposed to mean?

  Ms. Park: You'll find out.

  Me: I hate it when grownups say that.

  7

  Mom had her perfect face on.

  That's what I call it. Perfect—as in no expression. Perfectly smooth. Perfectly bland. My dad also has a perfect face. My parents wear their perfect faces when they don't want people to know what they're thinking.

  "Mr. Dixon." My mom's voice was perfect, too.

  "Yes?" Mr. Dixon looked a little puzzled. He had short gray hair and was about the same height as my dad, sort of average height for a man.

  Nobody said anything for a second. It felt like a year to me.

  "I'm Julia," I burst out. "You called me yesterday. Miss Mona at the gas station—"

  "Oh! Of course, of course. Excuse me. Excuse my manners—I was just—I wasn't expecting—"

  Finally, a crack in my mother's perfect face: Her eyebrows went up a little. "I'm sorry, you weren't expecting us? I thought Julia said today—"

  "No, no, that's not what I meant." He smiled and shook his head. "I beg your pardon. It's just that when I talked to this young lady on the phone"—he nodded at me—"I was expecting white people."

  My mouth fell open. I wanted to laugh, even though there was nothing really funny about what he'd said. Here I'd been thinking he was a white guy, and I hadn't said anything one way or the other to my mom, but I was sure she assumed he was white, too, and then he turned out to be black, and there he was thinking we would be white, but we were Asian, except for Patrick—

  It was funny, wasn't it?

  "Pardon me," Mr. Dixon said again, and held the door open. "Please come in. You're here about my mulberry tree, aren't you?"

  We stood in Mr. Dixon's backyard. There was only one tree in it, at the side near the fence. Not quite as tall as his two-story house, the tree had rough gray bark and little green leaves that were just beginning to uncurl.

  In other words, it looked like any old tree.

  I was a tiny bit disappointed. And then I felt stupid for feeling disappointed—for pete's sake, what had I expected, gold leaves and silver bark and rubies for berries?

  "It was here when I moved in fifteen years ago," Mr. Dixon said. "But nobody had taken care of it, so it was pretty scrawny. Looked more like a bush than a tree—they get that way if you don't prune them."

  Aha! That explained the song!

  "I trimmed it up a bit, and it's been doing just fine. Gives me a good crop every year." He looked at me and Patrick. "Either of you ever tasted mulberry ice cream?"

  "No, sir," I said, and Patrick shook his head.

  Mr. Dixon smiled. "Best ice cream in the world. But what was it—you want the leaves, not the berries?"

  "Yes, sir," I said. "We're doing a silkworm project, and we need the leaves for food—"

  "Silkworm food," Patrick broke in. "It's the only thing they eat. And mulberry trees are kind of rare around here. So far, yours is the only one we've heard of."

  Mr. Dixon nodded, then looked thoughtful. "Silkworms, hmm. Sounds interesting, very interesting." He pronounced all the syllables in "interesting" but sort of skipped the first t, so it sounded like "inner-resting."

  "I'd like to help you out," he said. "I'm just wondering—are you going to need a lot of leaves? See, if you're going to be stripping the branches bare, it might not be good for the tree."

  Agent Song on the alert! "We wouldn't want to hurt your tree," I said. I looked at Patrick. "I bet they eat a lot, those worms."

  Patrick shook his head and shrugged at the same time. "I haven't done enough research yet to know," he said, looking embarrassed.

  My mom cleared her throat. "They won't be needing that many, Mr. Dixon," she said. Still her perfect voice. "I helped raise silkworms when I was a girl. I used to pick the leaves from the lower branches, without bothering the rest of the tree."

  Dang it—why'd she have to say that?

  Mr. Dixon nodded again. "Sounds like it wouldn't do any harm," he said.

  "The only thing is..." My mom paused and pressed her lips together for a second before she went on. "The worms will need very fresh leaves, and they'll need them twice a day. Which means the children would have to come over here quite often. For around three weeks or so. That might be an inconvenience for you."

  "We wouldn't want to inconvenience you," I said. Very polite of me.

  Patrick looked at me like I was nuts.

  "Well, to be honest, ma'am, that's part
of the reason I wanted to meet Julia and her friend," Mr. Dixon said. "Kids these days, you can't be too careful."

  Now it was my mom's turn to nod. "I can understand that," she said.

  "But I don't see any problem here," Mr. Dixon said. "They look like good kids to me. They can just come right through the back gate and get their leaves—shouldn't be any bother."

  "Thanks, Mr. Dixon!" Patrick almost shouted.

  "Yes, thank you, sir," I said. What else could I say?

  For now I just had to go along with things. Withdraw and regroup, Agent Song. Come up with another plan later....

  Mr. Dixon walked over to the tree and examined the leaves on one of the branches. "They're mighty small right now," he said.

  "Oh, we don't need any today, sir," Patrick said. "We have to order the eggs first. It'll be a while before we're ready for any leaves."

  "Why don't I take your number, Mr. Dixon," my mom said, getting a pen out of her purse. "Julia can call you before she and Patrick come over for the first time."

  That reminded me of something.

  "Mr. Dixon?" I said.

  "Yes, Miss Julia?"

  I felt my face get a little hot, but there was something I really did want to know. "Miss Mona said—she told us you didn't write down my number. At the gas station. How come you called — I mean, how'd you get the number?"

  Mr. Dixon chuckled. "Oh, that. Just a little game I play. I saw your sign, and I memorized the number instead of writing it down. I use little tricks. Like with yours, the last four numbers are 2139. Two plus one equals three, and three times three is nine—that's how I remembered it."

  "Cool!" Patrick said.

  Mr. Dixon tipped his head toward Patrick. "Sometimes I make a picture in my head—whatever the numbers make me think of. Helps keep my mind sharp, young man. At my age I need all the help I can get with that."

  We left a few minutes later, Mr. Dixon's phone number safe in my pocket. In the car, Patrick asked to see it. He looked at the paper for a few seconds, handed it back to me, and then stared out the window.

  I knew what he was doing. He was trying to memorize it.

  ***

  As soon as we got back to my house, Patrick went straight to the computer and started typing out a letter.

  "What are you doing?" I asked.

  "Ordering the silkworm eggs," he answered. "Now that we've found the leaves, we can get started."

  Patrick used my address on the letter and had us both sign it. "Okay," he said, "all we need now is the money." Suddenly, he was very busy folding the letter so he didn't have to look at me.

  Patrick hardly ever had any money. His parents didn't give their kids any allowance until high school. He earned a little by mowing lawns (summer), raking leaves (fall), and shoveling snow (winter), and sometimes he got money for his birthday (July) and Christmas. But he was always brokest in the spring.

  My family wasn't rich or anything—not like Emily's family, who lived in a big house with an in-ground pool and went on a fancy vacation every school break. But I did get an allowance, ten dollars a month, and I also babysat for two families on our street. I almost always had more money than Patrick did.

  He got embarrassed about it sometimes. Like if we wanted to see a movie and he didn't have any money, I'd offer to buy his ticket, and he'd only agree to go if we called it a loan. He always paid me back. Sometimes it took him a while—last year we went to a movie in March and he couldn't pay me back until lawn-mowing season—but he never forgot.

  "How much do we need?" I asked.

  "The eggs are only ten bucks," he said, "but the shipping is expensive—they mail them express. Altogether we have to send in twenty-two dollars."

  Wow. That was a lot.

  I had twelve dollars in my money box. I was pretty sure my mom would lend me ten bucks—I had two babysitting jobs coming up in the next few weeks plus my April allowance, and I'd be able to pay her back. And I knew Patrick would give me his half of the money when he could.

  But to use up all I had ... and go into debt ... for a project I didn't even want to do?

  No way, I said to myself.

  And then it hit me.

  If we couldn't buy the eggs, that would be the end of things.

  No eggs, no silkworm project.

  It wasn't like with the mulberry tree, where there had always been another thing for me to worry about—Mr. Maxwell might know someone with a tree, Patrick might find the green car.... This was the perfect solution—absolute and final.

  Agent Song going in for the kill.

  I cleared my throat. "I only have twelve dollars," I said.

  Patrick's face went red.

  Talk about an awkward silence.

  There was no way he could come up with his share on short notice. He hardly ever asked his parents for money; with all those kids, they were always hard up. And if I didn't offer to borrow the rest from my mom, he'd never ask me to do it.

  "Urn, I guess we have to put off sending this for a while," Patrick mumbled. "I'll just—I'll hang on to it for now." He took the letter and went upstairs, probably to put it in his backpack. Then he came down again.

  "I'd better go," he said, still not looking at me. "I should help Gram with the kids." He left.

  Second day in a row without his bite of kimchee.

  At dinner, Kenny buried a piece of kimchee in my rice when I got up to refill my water glass. I found it right away, but I didn't say anything. I just took it out of the rice and put it off to the side of my plate.

  Kenny looked surprised that I didn't make a fuss. He started to chant, "Julia doesn't like kimchee, Julia doesn't like kimchee." He took a big piece of kimchee, tilted his head back, dangled it over his open mouth, and dropped it in. "Mmm," he said. "It's so good." He chewed noisily with his mouth open. Disgusting. Honestly, he really did have snot for brains.

  But I didn't pay any attention to him. All I could think about was what had happened with Patrick that afternoon. I finished eating and helped my dad clean up, then went to my room and sat on my bed thinking.

  The more I thought, the madder I got.

  I hadn't lied to Patrick. I hadn't! I really did have only twelve dollars. And that was more than half of what we needed, and the other half was his responsibility, and it wasn't my fault he didn't have the money!

  It didn't matter that I was secretly against the project. It was like when you got a dumb present from someone. You didn't say, "What a dumb present." You said something like, "Cool! Thanks!"—so the other person wouldn't feel bad.

  It was the same kind of thing: me acting like I wanted to do the silkworm project when really I didn't.

  Wasn't it?

  Me: What are you doing to me? That was the worst chapter yet!

  Ms. Park: Calm down, would you? We can't have a good conversation with you carrying on like that.

  Me: You have to rewrite that last chapter. I hate it, I hate it!

  Ms. Park: Hold on there. You want to get out of doing the silkworm project, don't you? This is the perfect solution—no eggs, no project. I would think you'd be pleased.

  Me: I do want to get out of the project] But there's gotta be another way!

  Ms. Park: If you think of anything, just let me know.

  Me: That's great, just great. You get to do the easy parts and leave the hard stuff to me.

  Ms. Park: Don't say I didn't warn you. You wanted to decide something big. Now here's your chance.

  Me: I didn't mean something like this!

  Ms. Park: Picky, picky picky.

  Me: You—you—just wait. I'll get you for this—

  8

  Patrick picked me up for school as usual the next morning. But things were still weird between us, and we hardly said anything the whole way there. We were having a science test that day, and he didn't even suggest that we quiz each other on the Animal Kingdom as we walked.

  Patrick and I were on parallel tracks at school, which meant we had the same teachers and books
and homework and everything. But we had only one class together—tech class, last period.

  Science was first period. I took the test and was relieved that I knew most of the answers. I'd been worried about it, because I hadn't studied with Patrick the night before.

  It was lucky for me that I got the test over with right away, because after that things started to go crazy. No, that wasn't right—everything was normal. I was the one that was going crazy.

  Second period, social studies. The currencies of South America. Lots of pesos—Argentina, Chile, Uruguay. Reals in Brazil. Bolivianos in Bolivia.

  Third period, math. Story problems. Sam makes three dollars an hour and works ten hours a week. Joe makes five dollars an hour but works only three hours a week. If Sam makes three hundred dollars, how many weeks does Joe have to work to make the same amount?

  Fourth period, lunch. Three quarters for change. No Connecticut, of course.

  I was starting to feel really paranoid.

  Everything was about money.

  Every period had something in it that reminded me of what I'd done to Patrick. I felt more and more guilty as the day went on. I had to keep telling myself that I was only being fair to expect him to pay for half, that I hadn't lied to him.

  Thank goodness for English class. We were reading and discussing a book about a girl named Karana, who gets stuck by herself on this island where she has to make everything she needs to survive—her own little house, her own fishing stuff, her own clothes out of skins and feathers...

  ...which meant she didn't need any money.

  Gak! Even the classes that didn't have anything to do with money were making me think of money!

  By the time tech class came around, I felt almost panicky. I'd have to use money to pay for stuff for the rest of my life. Every time I thought of money I'd be reminded of what had happened.