Pie in the Sky Read online

  The golden retrievers didn’t even know the lamb wasn’t a lamb. Maybe they knew—no one will ever know for sure—but they treated the lamb like it was one of them. Not an outsider. Not an alien. That’s what I have to do to not be an alien among the humans. I have to speak the same as them.

  4

  I hurry across the school courtyard, Yanghao close behind me. “I want my birthday cake!” he yells, nearly giving me a heart attack. He’s been parroting the Martian phrases he’s managed to catch from TV, mostly from SpongeBob.

  Yanghao laughs so much he can’t walk properly and is zigzagging down the hallway like he’s dizzy. Other students dodge and sidestep and roll their eyes at him.

  I leave the nincompoop and climb up the stairs. My classroom is on the fourth floor, while the nincompoop’s is on the first.

  On our first day at Northbridge Primary School, Yanghao skipped excitedly away from me toward his class. But an hour later, he was right outside my class, crying so hard he couldn’t breathe. He wailed that he didn’t understand anything anyone said, and nobody understood him, and he didn’t even know how to tell his teacher he wanted to pee. His teacher escorted him to my class and talked to me.

  Yanghao and I simply followed the teacher to the nurse’s office. We were left sitting on a bed that looked like a hospital bed until Yanghao calmed down. The same thing happened for the next four days. I missed most of my classes. Not that it mattered, since I didn’t understand anything. Every night for that whole week, Yanghao cried to Mama about not understanding English. She always promised the same thing.

  On the sixth day, when Yanghao wasn’t delivered to my classroom, I figured he’d realized crying wasn’t going to change anything. We’re stuck among all this English. Or maybe, just maybe, he believes Mama is right. Everything will be all right.

  I peer down the stairwell and watch Yanghao make his way to his class. His shoulders are still shaking with laughter. I guess everything has gotten more all right for him.

  For me, everything is still far from all right.

  On my first day, my classmates spoke with me. Or spoke at me.

  They must have thought I was one quarter snobbish and three quarters weirdo. No one has really spoken with or at me since, but most of them are nice enough to nod or smile when they run into me. I only ever dare reply with awkward smiles that must make them think I’ve just come from the dentist and can’t feel half of my face.

  I have to make an extra effort to talk to my classmates. Actually talk. In English. Instead of nodding or shaking my head.

  Learning English could be fun. It can be a game, kind of like the one Yanghao and I used to play, where we took turns throwing a die. Whoever had the bigger number got to imagine one awesome transformation onto himself, like a set of Wolverine’s metal claws, or the Powerpuff Girls’ flight. At the end we’d have a duel with our imaginary powers, and then Yanghao would lose and cry and tattle, and Mama would scold me for making my little brother cry. Maybe learning English can be like that game, except the transformation is in reverse—my alien form will morph into human form as my English improves. My antennae will shrink first, then the webs between my fingers, and slowly, I’ll be less of an alien to everyone else.

  And in this game, I get all the turns and nobody cries.

  When I get to class, if a classmate smiles or nods at me, I won’t even try to say wassup. Because I don’t know what it means, even though everyone says it. There’s no such word in the dictionary. Maybe I’m spelling it wrong. Anyway, most of the time when a student says wassup, the reply is quite long. If someone gives a many-words reply to my wassup, I’m doomed.

  I’ll just say hi. That’s the easiest word.

  Miss Scrappell is already in the classroom even though the bell hasn’t rung. Her name is pronounced like “apple”—as in a is for apple—but I think she’s more like a u is for umbrella. Every time she turns back and forth between the blackboard and the students, her long skirt flares out, like an umbrella twirling and twirling. She teaches English and math. Back in my old school I had only one teacher who taught all the subjects, but here in Northbridge Primary, I have separate teachers for science, social studies, physical education, arts and crafts, and music. I sit in the same classroom all day while the teachers take turns dropping by for half to one and a half hours. I don’t know which I prefer, one teacher who knows everything about me, all the bad grades and talking in class, though I don’t have to worry about that now, or several teachers who don’t know everything about me but who might be gossiping about me in the staff room.

  I’m supposed to start sixth grade in Australia since I graduated fifth grade last year, but the principal of Northbridge Primary School reckons my English is poor, so it’s easier for me if I repeat fifth grade. I asked Mama why Yanghao didn’t have to repeat a grade. She said fourth-grade English was simple enough that he could catch up. I huffed—okay, threw a little tantrum—at having to sit through math and science lessons I already knew, but now I’m grateful for the principal’s wisdom. If fifth-grade English was a language of Mars, sixth-grade English wouldn’t even be from Venus. It’d be from Pluto, which was once a planet in our solar system but was later kicked out. Which is information I already learned in my old school but will probably have to relearn here.

  Miss Scrappell writes something on the board.

  I jot down “adverb” in my notebook. When I get home, I’ll look it up. But for this whole class I’ll be totally confused, then I’ll be bored. I thought my old school was boring, but turns out, not understanding anything makes school 400 percent more sleep-inducing.

  Luckily my desk is by the window. In the courtyard, there are three giant trees and fifteen tiny shrubs. A ratio of one to five. It’s comforting to know I still know math. The school’s maroon gates are a fence of spears that trap me within its grounds. Beyond them is a row of shops.

  The leftmost is Birds of a Feather Café. At first, I was confused.

  Why would birds drink coffee? Or was it a place where people brought their pet birds and the people would drink coffee while their birds chirped? But I read farther down below the definition of “birds” in my dictionary and found the idiom birds of a feather, which refers to people who are alike. Disappointingly, it isn’t a special bird café. Just a regular café with a special name.

  Happy Tails Vet is right next door. As soon as I knew what a tail was, I could guess what “vet” meant. Plus, people with dogs on leashes and cats in crates walk in and out of there. Some of the dogs have those big lampshade things on their heads. My cat, Mango, who’s being taken care of by Ah-po and Ah-gong now that I’m here, doesn’t like vets. He’ll turn from the laziest cat in the world who only ever moves upon hearing the clinking of his dinner bowl into a murderous moggy with only one mission: destroy the world.

  Jim’s Laundry. I guess that potbellied guy who closes the shop at noon for an hour every day is Jim. He always has his lunch at Birds of a Feather Café.

  Northbridge Pharmacy. The first word is made up of two words but doesn’t actually have a meaning. It’s a name—the same one used for my school. The dictionary told me the meaning of “pharmacy,” but I’m not sure I got its pronunciation right. According to the dictionary, it’s fahr-muh-see. Why, then, is it spelled with a “ph” instead of an “f”? Martian makes no sense.

  Northbridge News Agency. This one is a no-brainer because of the newspapers on display outside.

  Cherry on Top. It’s a splendid name for a cake shop. But my favorite is still Pie in the Sky, the name Papa planned to give his cake shop in Australia. Papa’s English was only slightly less terrible than mine, but he knew a pie is not a cake. It’s just that he had a friend who spoke fluent English who told him the meaning of the idiom pie in the sky—an impossible dream.

  Papa wasn’t worried about English at all. What was supposed to happen in our first plan to move to Australia was that he’d make cakes at Pie in the Sky while I’d attend my new Australian school
and learn English. Every day after school, I’d teach him all that I’d learned and help out in the shop.

  My nose burns. Thinking about Papa a second too long always does that. The first year he was gone, my nose was permanently red like I was a clown, so I tried really hard not to let him pop into my head. I got so good at it that in the past year, I haven’t even had to try. He appears in my thoughts so rarely that when he does, all I want is for him to stay. Until my nose acts up.

  I rub my silly, silly nose and open my dictionary to look up “adverb.” I need to work harder at English. I don’t want to be an alien among humans.

  adverb: a word or phrase that modifies the meaning of a verb

  phrase: a small group of words

  modify: change

  change: make or become different

  different: 1. not the same 2. separate

  I pause the flipping of the dictionary to silently curse Mama. Wait, I take that back. If you curse your parent, silently or not, when you die and get reborn, it’ll be as this:

  I don’t know yet if I believe in reincarnation, but until I decide either way, it’s better to be safe. So I’m displeased with Mama. She got Yanghao and me an English–English dictionary each. Supposedly the best way to learn a language is to use it a lot. If having to look up a million English words to learn the meaning of one is not using English a lot, please just let King Kong trample all over us now.

  separate: existing or happening independently or in a different physical place

  I don’t know what “existing,” “independently,” “different,” or “physical” means. I’m just going to assume and hope that “different” in this case means “not the same.”

  verb: a word or phrase that describes an action

  describe: give a detailed account of in words

  detailed: having many details

  detail: a fact

  fact: a thing that is known to be true

  account: description

  description: see describe

  Ah … An adverb is a word that says something about an action … I think?

  I look up. Miss Scrappell has written:

  The little turtle crawls slowly.

  Adverb? Little or slowly?

  I know what “little” means because Mama introduced Yanghao to our neighbor as my little brother. I know “turtle” because Yanghao watches Ninja Turtles. I have no idea where I learned the word “crawl.” I think “slow” is the opposite of “fast,” but I check the dictionary to be sure.

  slow: 1. not fast 2. not exciting (I know this means boring) 3. taking a long time to understand things 4. of a clock or watch, showing a time earlier than the correct time

  For meaning number four, I don’t know what “earlier” and “correct” mean, but a turtle isn’t a clock or a watch. So the answer to Miss Scrappell’s question is slowly.

  Miss Scrappell says something, and several hands shoot up. She looks around and catches my eye. She smiles at me. I look away even though I’m pretty sure I have the right answer.

  She says, “Ben.”

  The boy next to me clears his throat. He’s the quiet type, like me, and is rarely called upon by teachers and never volunteers answers either. I know his name only because I heard other classmates call out to him.

  Miss Scrappell replies, “Good.”

  I shout, YES! Except it was only inside my head. Just to find out the meaning of a single English word, my brain worked like I was inventing the computer, but I got Miss Scrappell’s question right. The webs between my alien fingers are disappearing.

  5

  I must be at least one fiftieth human now. If I keep working hard at mastering English, and study it for ten hours a day, I’ll achieve total and complete transformation after forty-eight to seventy-two days. I know those numbers because I once Googled how long it takes to learn a new language. That was after the first time I was told we’d be moving to Australia, a year before the second time. The first time, it was Papa who told me.

  That was why I couldn’t have the new computer I asked for. So, on our prehistoric computer, I Googled. This research took a long time since the old machine was so slow, and that blue spinning wheel on the screen is really there to hypnotize you into forgetting you’re waiting, and then you turn into a fossil.

  Miss Scrappell’s English class runs for one and a half hours, five times a week. That’s seven and a half hours a week learning English, not the ten hours a day Google recommends, so it will take me longer: sixty-four weeks to ninety-six weeks, or one year and three months to one year and eleven months.

  It will be one year and eleven months before I look at least passable as a human. I pick the longer studying time for myself because I’m a realist.

  Being an optimist and a realist at the same time is very hard. But today’s triumphs with the hi and the slow make me 70 percent optimist and only 30 percent realist, so I’m going to keep trying.

  * * *

  During lunch, I usually stay in the classroom while all my classmates gallop to the cafeteria or the courtyard for noisy activities. I’ll eat the food Mama packs for me—today’s is fried rice with fried prawns—while gazing out the window at the other kids in the courtyard below. I play a game of fishing. The fish I try to catch are words the other kids yell.

  Catching those words between peals of ha-ha-ha is a feat. Then I guess the spelling and check my dictionary for the meanings. Another thing I’ve learned besides all those words is that during recess, kids swear a lot.

  I’m still too much of an alien to eat lunch in the cafeteria, so I’ll wait until I’ve leveled up in English. And honestly, my brain’s already fried from doing all that English work, and it’s only half past eleven. For recess today, I’ll just try to catch more words.

  * * *

  By ten to twelve, ten minutes before recess ends, I’ve caught these words:

  Booger! (It’s funny that “booger” is an insult here on Mars, just like it is back home.)

  Darn!

  Heck!

  I also caught another word, which sounded like a swear word, but I don’t understand how it could be one.

  If only I’d caught more, but I hope my catch has helped me lose another alien feature. Maybe it’s my fourth eye, but I can’t tell. All my eyes are on the same face and can’t see one another. I head to the bathroom for a mirror.

  I’m also in the bathroom because no matter how I look outside, inside, I still have the bladder of a human. Before anything else, I check the toilet bowl for snakes, just like my friend Xirong back at my old school told me to. He once saw a story on the news about a man in Australia who sat down without looking and paid a painful price. Now that we’re here, whenever I go to the bathroom, I always think of my friend.

  As I’m about to step out of the stall, I hear two boys come into the bathroom.

  That, I caught. All the words.

  6

  “Joe, shut up,” the one who said booger hissed.

  Joe, the boy I said hi to. I should have recognized his voice immediately. It’s loud and clear and unmistakable like a crow’s caw. Joe often makes my classmates and even teachers laugh. Now he’s using me in one of his jokes. And he’s using my hi against me.

  But what Joe said was kind of true. If he hadn’t said those words s l o w l y, they would’ve been gobbledygook to me.

  There’s a flurry of whispers. They must have figured out someone’s in the stall. More whispers, followed by rubber soles frantically squeaking against tiles. Then, the creak of the bathroom door. The thunk of the door. Silence.

  When I finally step out of the stall, I move like a robot—turning on the tap, holding my hands under the water, pumping the soap dispenser, rinsing off the soap.

  Once I get out of the bathroom, I’ll head straight for my desk. I’ll work on the problems in my math textbook. I know numbers. They’re the same in all languages.

  Everything will be all right.

  I’ll keep busy.

 
; That way, I won’t think about what I just heard.

  Or worse, feel it.

  I don’t want to play this game anymore.

  7

  When I step out of the bathroom, Joe and Max are at the water fountain nearby. They pretend not to see me. From the corner of my eye, I see them punch each other’s arms. I hurry into the classroom and plop myself down at my desk. Too-happy ha-ha-has are still roaring from the courtyard below.

  Once, I gulped down Papa’s whole cup of coffee and spent the day in a fuzzy buzz. Now it feels like that. I’m not thinking about what Joe said but thinking about it at the same time.

  In that whirl, I catch a glimpse of the cake shop Cherry on Top out the window. I imagine a cake. On a cake stand. What kind of cake? A cake with Nutella cream frosting. The cake on the cake stand is on a table. I’m there, too, looking proudly at the cake. Someone else is next to me. Papa. He’s looking proudly at me. This is real. Not an imagination. A memory. We did make that cake together. It was practice. For Pie in the Sky.

  My family’s cake shop doesn’t sell fancy cakes that have multiple layers or cream fillings and frosting, only simple cakes made mostly from flour and beans. But Papa said Pie in the Sky would be different. It was usually on Sunday afternoons when the shop was closed that he could squeeze out some free time, and we would practice.

  And blueberry cheesecake.

  Triple cookie cake.

  Almond chiffon cake with caramel sauce.

  Apple mille-feuille.

  Neapolitan mousse cake.

  White chocolate Swiss roll.