Calling Maggie May

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Wed, Sept 17

Swim meet: First place in the freestyle today! And second in backstroke.

Calculus test: 97%

Tues, Sept 23

Swim meet: First place in backstroke, third place overall.

American History: 80% on quiz

Wed, Oct 1

Chemistry: 92% on test, A on lab report

Math team: Fourth place in meet. (No prizes for fourth place, Mom notes.)

Fri, Oct 3

English: A- on essay

Swim meet: Third place in backstroke, second place in freestyle, didn't place overall.

American History: B on paper

I deserved an A, but Mr. Franklin hates me. Now I'm screwed.

Why do I even bother? I'm only keeping this journal because Mom is making me. Guess she's going for the Tiger Mom of the Year Award. “You're a junior now. You have to keep track of
all your accomplishments so you'll have things to write on your college applications!” Right. Like colleges really want to read this litany of mediocrity. What's the point of noting all my near misses for the admissions committees? “It worked for Mark!” she singsongs in Chinese, smiling encouragingly.

I'm not Mark! Do you hear that, Mom? Mark had straight As all through high school. Mark lettered in three sports. Mark was editor of the newspaper. Mark won every debate, every Science Olympiad, every math team meet, every EVERYTHING. I get it, okay? Everyone gets it. Mark certainly does. . . . I can see the pity for me in his eyes every time he comes home from college. His poor, stupid sister, who can't do anything right.

The only person who doesn't get it is Mom, who still believes I have it in me to be a genius. Who still thinks I can get into Stanford, if only I really apply myself. Mom is living in an FOB fantasy.

Jenny Hsu taught me that the other day: FOB for Fresh off the Boat. Not that my parents are fresh anything. . . . They emigrated from Taiwan more than twenty years ago, before Mark and I were even born. But you'd never know it to talk to them. They still speak Chinese at home, and Mom switches into English only for words or phrases she has learned since coming here. A lot of these have to do with college applications.

Dad isn't as bad. He works as a hospital administrator, so he speaks English all day, but with an accent that makes me cringe. I think I'd actually rather listen to him speak Chinese, even though I understand only, like, 70 percent of what they say. Maybe it's better that way. It's all nagging anyway.

Sometimes I think Dad just wants me to be happy, but Mom would probably spit on that phrase. So American, she would say (in Chinese). Coddling kids, telling them anything they do is fine. How are they going to be happy if they are not successful?

She has a point, I guess. It's a tough world out there, and if you don't stay on top of it, you could be chewed up and spit out.

I know she just wants the best for me. She worries that I am too Americanized because my Chinese is crap (not like Mark's!) and I watch too much TV and my grades aren't perfect. But nothing is ever good enough for her. Well, that's not true. Mark is. But see above: I am not Mark.

She would be so pissed if she knew I was just spewing random crap about my life in my special college-prep journal. But it feels good to get it out. I'll just tear out this page later.

Mon, Oct 6

French: 96% on quiz

Swim meet: First place in backstroke, second place in
freestyle and butterfly, though that was a fluke. Second place overall.

Chemistry: 95% on test

Good day.

Thurs, Oct 9

Debate tournament: Fifth place

Newspaper: Got passed over for events editor even though I've been a reporter for four semesters and Chris has only done it for two. Totally unfair, but he's friends with the editor in chief. Of course.

Math team: Let's not even talk about it

How demoralizing. The thing is, I might do better at all this stuff if I actually cared about any of it. I'm only doing it for college. Well, I'm doing it for Mom, and she's the one who cares about college. Not that I don't care. It just all seems really . . . abstract to me. Does it really matter where I go to college? I'm not so sure it does. It just seems like a lot of money and a lot of debt, and I'm not sure what I'm supposed to get out of it.

But I keep showing up for all these stupid activities because Mom says it's important, and I'm a dutiful daughter. The
only one I really like is swimming. I love swimming, which is probably why I'm better at it than any of the other stuff. Not that I'm that great. . . . I'm not even the best person on my team, let alone in the whole Seattle area. Definitely not good enough to attract serious interest from colleges.

But that's never bothered me.

I don't know, the other kids on my team all try so hard and work so hard. I work, but I don't seem to have that competitive drive. That Mark had. That I'm supposed to have. I don't care about winning or being the best or beating my best times. What I really like about swimming is the water.

That sounds dumb, doesn't it? But everything is better under there. I don't have to deal with other people—how they see me, what they want from me or whatever. When I'm underwater, I'm not a daughter or a student or a competitor. I'm just a body.

And when I lift my head to breathe, I hear the roar of the crowd and the echoing sounds of squealing kids, but it all feels far away, and a second later I'm down in that blue world again where everything is muted and wobbly. And I know it's only temporary, but sometimes it's the blue world that feels real and the dry world with all its noise and air and demands that feels like an uncomfortable dream.

Fri, Oct 10

American History: C+ on paper

Mom is going to kill me. Not even kidding. She'll . . . I don't even know. This is untested water. I've never gotten a C before. And obviously Mark never did. I bet Mom doesn't even know grades go this low.

I can't tell her. I'll just tell her it was an A. No, if I tell her it's an A, she'll be so proud she'll want to see it. God. Okay. I'll tell her it was a B+. She'll be mad, but she won't freak out. I'll just have to make sure I bring my grade up by the end of the semester. If I start getting As from now on, I can bring it up, and she never has to know.

I don't like hiding things, but what choice do I have? I guess I'll tear out this page later too, in case she goes snooping.

I don't know how to keep doing this. I've got so much bottled up inside, and one day it's going to blow up and destroy everything in my path like a tornado. I have to get it out, or I'll go crazy. And I have nowhere else to put my thoughts. Maybe if I had anyone to talk to . . .

I guess there are Jenny and Eiko and John and the others at the geek table, but I can't really talk to them. In the end, they're just like Mom. They might as well be spies for her. All they ever talk about is how they did on this or that test, or how nervous
they are about the stupid Academic Decathlon. And if I told them I just got a C on something, they would judge me so hard. I can just imagine their faces. Jenny would be pitying: “Don't worry. You can totally bring it up if you work hard! Maybe you can ask for an extra-credit assignment!” All while calculating how much closer to valedictorian she is now. Eiko would furrow her brow, look concerned, and be like, “What's gotten into you? You used to be smart.” And John would laugh at me and say I've let myself get distracted . . . and he wouldn't have to say anything more. Everyone at the table would crack up because they would all know what he meant. That I'm boy crazy. Just because Eiko told everyone that I have a crush on Tyler Adams.

I don't have a crush on Tyler Adams. . . .

I do have a small, and slightly unhealthy, obsession with Tyler Adams.

Who could blame me? Tyler's on the swim team, but he's not like me. He's amazing. I mean he actually wins things. That's not why I like him, though.

I know the reasons girls are supposed to like boys. I know that I'm supposed to love him from afar because he is intelligent, or kind, or generous, funny, and ambitious. But the truth is, I don't like him for those things. I don't even know if any of those things are true about him because I barely know him and have never spoken to him. What I do know is that he
is intensely, painfully beautiful. That is something I know very, very well, because it is very difficult not to notice when you see him every day in a teeny-tiny racing suit.

So sue me. Tyler Adams is gorgeous, and there's nothing wrong with me for noticing—
not
that he would ever notice me. I am not gorgeous. I am a nerd. I am a geek. I am not cool or pretty or sexy or popular. I'm wallpaper. I'm worse than wallpaper, because people might notice an interesting wallpaper pattern. I'm beige, industrial-grade, institutional wall paint. The kind you never notice at all, unless it's to remark how totally boring it is.

Tyler would never talk to me. And besides, Mom would freak if she knew I was even looking at a white boy. John is right. I should stay focused on my schoolwork, since that's all I'm good for. Then maybe one day I'll be a huge success with my own biotech company, and then cute boys will date me. Will they? Does that work? Do cute boys want to date girls who can buy and sell them? Maybe not. Maybe I'll just buy and sell the cute boys, then.

Except I'm no good at schoolwork, either. So I really have nothing. Sixteen years old and already useless.

Wow. Colleges are going to be really impressed when I send them this. Better rip out more pages. Not yet, though . . . It makes me feel a little better to read over these rants, so I'll leave them a bit longer.

Mon, Oct 13

Calculus: 90% on test

French: 88% on test

Math team meet: Second place

And in far more interesting news, Tyler Adams almost kind of looked at me today! Wow, I am so pathetic. But it was the greatest thing that has happened to me since . . . since Dad took me and Mark to the amusement park for my fourteenth birthday? God, that was a long time ago. My life is sad.

But back to my miniscule triumph! It was on the bus home from swim practice today. I heard Tyler ask a friend of his when their next English paper was due. His friend had no idea, so Tyler stood up and called out to the whole bus, “Is anyone in my English class?” And, well . . . I am. I doubt he even knows that, since I'm sure he has never noticed me in class. But anyway, no one else said anything for a minute, and I saw my chance. I said, “Um . . . the paper is due next Thursday.”

I was sitting three or four seats away from him, and there were people in between us, so he heard me but I don't think he knew exactly who had spoken. In any case, he sort of looked around in my general direction for a minute and said, “Thanks,” and then went back to talking to his friend.

My brush with fame! Well, not fame but . . . attractive
boyness. Okay, writing that out, it seems so incredibly sad, it makes me ashamed of myself, but it was genuinely exciting at the time. I was proud of myself for having the guts to talk to him . . . even if he couldn't tell it was me.

Tues, Oct 14

I saw Tyler talking to a girl today. I don't even know her name, but I hate her from the very depths of my being.

That's a little crazy, isn't it? I can't explain it, but when I saw them together, all this emotion swelled up inside of me. I've seen Tyler talk to girls before—he talks to and flirts with girls all the time. He's even dated girls on the swim team, but the thought of them doesn't twist my insides the way the girl today did.

Something about the way he looked at her . . . It was different from the way he is with other girls. Somehow I knew right away: That's what I want. I don't care about college or the new debate topics or how I place in next week's swim meet. My only ambition is to be looked at like that.

What is it about this girl? I wish I knew. There's nothing special about her. As far as I could see, she's nothing but a pretty, dumb white girl, interchangeable with all the others at our school. So what was it that made him look at her like that? What does she have that the other girls don't? And how do I get it?