Just Be Cool, Jenna Sakai Read online

  I sighed, not knowing what to say.

  Ms. Fontes gave me an encouraging smile. “You are an excellent writer. You can do this, Jenna. I want a complete rewrite. I’ll email you some examples that I think might help.”

  “Thanks.” I tried to sound grateful. I forced a smile and kept it on my face as I returned to my seat.

  “How’d you do?” Isabella asked. Before I could answer, she showed me her paper. “I only have to make a few tweaks. Ms. Fontes said I wrote a compelling piece!”

  This time my smile was real. “I’m glad.”

  I opened my notebook and doodled, pretending to write. All I could think was that I had failed. I have never failed at anything in school. In fact, the lowest grade I ever received was a B-plus on a math test I’d taken when I had been coming down with the flu. I hated to perpetuate the stereotype of studious Asians, but I was proud of my good grades. And I needed the good grades to get college scholarships. Winning this journalism scholarship was really important. It would help me, and it would help Mom be less stressed.

  I didn’t need to look at Elliot’s paper to know how he had done. He was crowing to Ben and Carlos and waving it around.

  At least I wasn’t getting a grade for this. Newspaper was just a club. It was supposed to be fun. Only I wasn’t having fun.

  Isabella nudged me. “I’m going to be so glad when this revision is over. I heard about this cool coffee shop that has a youth open mic night once a month. I totally want to write about it.”

  “You’re not going to work on the cafeteria donation article anymore?”

  She shook her head. “No, why?”

  My heart sped up, and I felt a tickle of anticipation run up my spine. “Can I have it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Can I write a follow-up?”

  Isabella smiled. “Go for it!”

  This was it! I was going to find out who that donor was, why they wanted to be anonymous, and why they didn’t use the money to do something more important than make the cafeteria pretty.

  I was going to write the best article ever and be PV Middle’s entry for the Orange County Junior Journalism Scholarship!

  On Saturday, I went to my first Carter family game night in ages. Keiko hadn’t been kidding. Mrs. Carter took Scrabble very seriously. The best part was how cowed Doug and Teddy were by her. Keiko and I giggled through most of the game. I teamed up with her and Teddy, and Doug teamed up with Mr. Carter and Keiko’s little sister, Macy.

  Mrs. Carter and Conner soundly trounced the rest of us, but Keiko’s dad made up for it with banana key lime pie. When we were all stuffed and Scrabbled out, I got a ride home with Doug’s mom and the guys.

  “Tell Keiko to suggest a different game next Saturday,” Doug said to me from the front seat.

  “Yeah, any other game!” Teddy said.

  Conner laughed.

  “You don’t get to laugh,” Teddy said to Conner, punching him in the shoulder. “And next time we play Scrabble you can’t team up with Mrs. Carter!”

  Doug turned to me. “Conner always calls her first.”

  “Hey!” he said, grinning. “You just wish you could be as quick as me!”

  “What other games do they have?” I asked. “Oh, maybe Yahtzee!”

  “Yeah! That’s the one with dice, right?” Doug asked. “Let’s play that one next week!”

  “You’ll make it happen?” Teddy asked me.

  “I’ll do my best.”

  When I walked in the front door, I found Mom sitting in the living room reading a book. “How was game night?” she asked as I took off my shoes and placed them on the shoe rack by the door.

  “Good,” I said.

  Mom smiled. “And the Carters?”

  “Fine.” Mr. Carter and my dad used to work at the same company, so our families used to hang out together a lot. That’s how Keiko and I became friends even before I moved into her school district in the third grade. But when Dad and Mom started to have problems, they stopped seeing all their friends, at least together. My dad had stayed friends with Keiko’s dad even though they didn’t work together anymore. I think maybe Mom thought Keiko’s parents took sides, and everything got awkward. I was glad that had never happened between me and Keiko.

  “Too tired for a movie?” Mom asked.

  “Never!” Mom rarely stayed up late. This was a bonus. “Popcorn?”

  “Sounds good.”

  I followed Mom into the kitchen. “I can make it, you know. I am perfectly capable of using a microwave. In fact, since I’m turning thirteen next month, maybe I can even use the stove when you’re not home?”

  Mom grabbed a bag of microwave popcorn from the pantry. “We’ll talk about it when the time comes.”

  Which probably meant no. “I’m not going to burn the house down, Mom.”

  “I’m less worried about the house and more concerned about your safety.” Mom popped the bag into the microwave and pushed the popcorn button. I didn’t tell her that Keiko and I were allowed to use the oven at her house.

  The microwave hummed while I pulled out the popcorn bowl from the cabinet. The new one. Because Mom had tossed out the old one we used to use with Dad.

  “Speaking of your upcoming birthday,” Mom said as the popcorn started popping. “What do you want to do?”

  Another thing that had gone out the window was our tradition of going out to the movies as a family on my birthday and then to my favorite sushi restaurant. Last year, Mom sent me to the theater with Keiko and Audrey. It had been fun, but it wasn’t the same.

  “Sushi?” I asked hopefully.

  The microwave beeped, and Mom opened the door to grab the hot bag before I could.

  “Maybe,” she said, dumping the popcorn into the bowl.

  I filled two glasses with water and led the way back to the living room. Mom sat down and set the popcorn bowl between us. She started the next movie on our queue. It was a mystery. Mom loved those.

  Mom and Dad used to argue jokingly over the movies we watched. Dad liked comedies; Mom liked mysteries and thrillers. Before I was old enough to stay up with them, I used to overhear them bartering. Dad would offer to wash her car for a movie or Mom would offer to mow the lawn. At first they’d been teasing each other, but by the time I was ten, it had gotten much more heated. By then, though, they fought about everything. Movie choices, chores, money, and even stupid things like who left the lights on.

  Halfway through the movie, the main characters—a married couple who was trying to solve a murder—started to argue about their finances. I think it was to make us realize that the murder happened because of money, but it made me want to run and hide in my room. It felt way too familiar.

  Mom paused the movie. “Bathroom break,” she said.

  While she went down the hall, I refilled our water glasses. I wished I could fast-forward through this scene.

  Mom sat back down and picked up the remote. “You know, the wife should totally get a job. That way she wouldn’t be reliant on her husband.”

  “Hmm,” I said. Mom rarely talked about things, so I was careful not to say or do anything to stop her.

  “It’s important for you to get a good job, Jenna. That’s why I want you to go to a good college. If you have a great career and make your own money, you won’t ever have to rely on a partner. Remember, money is power, and power is independence.”

  “Did Dad not share the money he made?” I asked.

  She glanced at me, embarrassed for being so transparent. She shook her head. “That’s not the point. The point is your dad made a lot more money. And he never let me forget that.”

  “Like how?”

  “We’d better get back to the movie. It’s getting late.” Mom hit the remote and the movie started back up, but I couldn’t focus on it anymore.

  I remembered hearing Mom tell Mrs. Carter that she’d grown up with parents who were very traditional. Grandma had been a stay-at-home mom while Grandpa had worked. Mom had mad
e a comment about how sad a life Grandma had had, but anytime we visited my grandparents, they seemed happy and loving. Maybe it had been different while Mom was growing up. I wished Mom would tell me stuff.

  “That was exciting,” Mom said.

  The movie was over. I had no clue who the murderer was. I rubbed my eyes.

  “Go to bed,” Mom said gently. “Do you want to drive up to LA tomorrow? We can go to Little Tokyo, hit the Japanese American National Museum, and then go shopping.”

  “That would be fun,” I said.

  I got ready for bed, but I couldn’t fall asleep. I missed Dad. Why did Mom have to be so obsessed with money? I remembered one particularly loud fight about the stove. It had broken, and Mom had blamed Dad because he had picked it out. She insisted on buying the next one with her money. Dad had said all their money was her money. In the end, though, he’d chosen the stove. Again.

  But maybe Mom was right. If I could earn enough scholarship money and somehow pay for college on my own, I wouldn’t have to rely on either of my parents. Then she could stop being mad at Dad, and Dad could stop throwing money and gifts at me. He probably only did that to make Mom angrier. This Orange County Junior Journalism Scholarship could be the start of my financial independence. I liked how adult that sounded.

  That meant I had to write a good personal essay and get it out of the way so I could focus on the scholarship entry. Then I could figure out who that ridiculously rich donor was and why they’d earmarked the money for the cafeteria. And why remain anonymous? That seemed suspicious to me for sure. I shifted in bed restlessly, my curiosity refusing to be quieted. And then I realized something. I didn’t have to wait. I could work on both stories at the same time.

  I closed my eyes to try to get some sleep, but when I did, all I saw was Elliot’s smug face when he’d gotten his assignment back from Ms. Fontes.

  He thought he’d win the scholarship. He didn’t think that I was good enough.

  I couldn’t believe I’d ever liked him.

  I loved Mondays. It was a fresh start to the school week. I always had all my homework completed and was prepared for any tests. Today I was in an especially good mood. Saturday with Mom had been awesome. And Dad had sent me an email with a link to an article about Japanese American journalists. I was inspired!

  I was also distracted, so I forgot about my plan to get to newspaper club late and instead walked into the room early to find only Elliot there. I ignored him and went straight to my new table. Elliot followed me.

  “What are you doing?” I said, sitting down hard in my chair.

  He raised his hands. “Hey, you don’t have to be so—”

  I cut him off. “Do not even say angry.”

  Elliot looked sad. “Jenna, I don’t want to be like this.”

  “Well, maybe you should have thought about that before you got all superior and arrogant.”

  “That’s not what happened, and you know it.”

  I shook my head. “That is what happened, but you choose to pretend it away.”

  “See? That’s what I was talking about. You’re not objective.”

  “I’m not talking to you about this anymore.” I turned my back on him and dug through my messenger bag for my notebook and pen case.

  “I only came over here to see how you’re doing on the scholarship application.”

  “Why? So you can steal my idea?”

  “Oh my God, Jenna!”

  I unzipped my case and started pulling out my pens. “Just leave me alone.”

  Elliot turned to leave but first said, “Fair warning. I have a great lead on an article. I’m going to be picked for PV Middle’s entry.”

  I gripped one of the pens so hard, it dug into my palm sharply. When I looked down, I realized it was the pen I’d kept from Elliot. I slammed it back into my bag and grabbed my own blue pen.

  “You okay?” Isabella sat down next to me.

  “Yep.”

  She peered at my face. “You don’t look okay.”

  Why were people so obsessed with talking about things that didn’t matter? “I’m fine.”

  “Mmm-hmm. Right.”

  I was relieved when Ms. Fontes strolled into the room with the rest of the club members.

  Today she had us practice writing headlines. We’d done this in the fall, but it had been challenging for most of us. Ms. Fontes handed out short articles, and we had to write headlines for each. It took half an hour, and then she let us work on final revisions. Well, everyone else worked on final revisions. I was supposed to be rewriting my personal essay.

  I watched Elliot walk over to his usual computer. He sat in the chair and, as always, scooted it forward a bit, then back, and then forward. I used to tease him about that. Carlos sat at my computer. Well, it wasn’t mine, but it was the one I used whenever Elliot and I had worked side by side. I shook my head, like a dog shaking off muddy water, and approached Ms. Fontes, who was grading papers at her desk.

  She looked up. “How’s the essay coming along, Jenna?”

  “About that,” I said. “I was thinking I could get started on my article for the scholarship application.”

  Ms. Fontes smiled. “I think that’s admirable. But what about the essay?”

  I held in a groan. “It’s not like we have to do the assignment, right? I mean, this is a club, not a class.”

  Ms. Fontes put her pen down. “Jenna, while it’s true that we are a club and we aren’t putting out an actual paper, every member is still expected to pull their own weight.”

  PV Middle didn’t have an official journalism class or a school paper. Something about lack of funds. Which reminded me of the one million dollars that went to renovating a cafeteria that had been perfectly functional. Yeah, the food was much better now and the cafeteria itself was gorgeous, but who really cared? That money, or part of it, could have funded a school paper and gotten us new computers.

  “I know,” I said, “but it makes no sense for me to write this essay.”

  I think I surprised us both with my statement. Ms. Fontes blinked at me like I was a stranger. I kind of felt like one. When had I ever refused to do an assignment?

  “Jenna, part of working on a newspaper is being a team player. Sometimes an editor might assign you something that isn’t exciting or fun for you, but if you want to work your way up the ranks, you’re going to have to put in your time. I think this personal essay is a good challenge for you. I look forward to seeing what you write.”

  Ms. Fontes picked up her pen and went back to grading papers. I returned to my seat, opened my notebook, and doodled, stewing.

  “Those are pretty good,” Caitlin said, peering over my shoulder at my notebook.

  “These? They’re just doodles. Scribbles.”

  Caitlin pointed. “That’s a bowl of ramen. A burrito. And mochi. I love mochi!”

  “Yeah. I do, too.” I studied my drawings. Each food item was like a cartoon character with big anime eyes and mouths. Like I said, silly doodles.

  “You want to draw a comic strip with me?” Caitlin asked.

  “What? No!”

  Caitlin looked offended.

  “You’re a real artist. I just doodle. You’re seriously talented.”

  Her face relaxed. “Okay, well, if you change your mind, let me know.” She wandered back to her table.

  I doodled other foods for the next twenty minutes. I drew a chocolate bar, a sushi roll, a pizza slice, and a bubble tea character.

  “What are you working on?” Isabella returned from using a computer and sat next to me. “Oh, those are cute.”

  I sighed. What a waste of time! I should have been working on my article.

  “Okay, spill it, Jenna,” Isabella said. “You seem upset. And don’t tell me you’re fine when it’s obvious you’re not.”

  I huffed out a breath. “It’s just that Ms. Fontes insists I write this personal essay. I want to focus on the article I’m writing for the scholarship.”

  “Do bot
h!”

  “I could, but the more I think about it, the more I don’t want to bother with the essay.” I glanced over at Ms. Fontes, making sure she couldn’t hear me. She was talking to Ben. I leaned closer to Isabella. “Ms. Fontes may be a great language arts teacher, and she’s super chill for sponsoring this club, but she’s wrong to make us work on things that have nothing to do with real journalism. Plus, I really need this scholarship.”

  Isabella nodded. “I get it. So, write the article. It’s not like she can kick you out of the club for not working on the essay.”

  Isabella had a point. I gathered my things. I was not looking forward to the next club meeting. The shine of newspaper club was wearing off.

  Dad always said Sakais weren’t quitters. In third grade, that had kept me working on my multiplication tables when I got frustrated. In fourth grade, it had kept me on the soccer team. I was good, but I didn’t love it. And now I supposed it should make me want to stick it out with my essay.

  I mean, it was a good motto. The reason journalists like Christiane Amanpour, Lisa Ling, and Gwen Ifill were successful was at least partly because they never gave up. But Dad hadn’t followed the family motto when it counted. When his marriage was in trouble, he quit.

  So I didn’t feel that bad when I skipped newspaper club on Wednesday. Besides, I wasn’t really quitting. I was just taking a break. Like Isabella said, Ms. Fontes couldn’t kick me out of a club, at least not while I maintained the required GPA. I could use the time to work on my scholarship application entry.

  I headed straight to the diner. The thought of getting there before Rin and reclaiming my booth made me speed-walk with anticipation. I was slightly out of breath when I pushed the door open triumphantly.

  That feeling lasted all of two seconds. Rin was already in the booth. How had he gotten here so quickly?