excerpts

from Overdue Apologies
 
Morning

Every morning in the house on Jones Road we execute a carefully choreographed dance. Dad starts a fire in the woodstove, and Mom turns on the heater to take the chill off the rooms upstairs. Dad showers and leaves for work before the rest of us race through the shower. Mom makes breakfast and packs lunches. We scarf down pancakes, waffles, or cold cereal. Chet and Laura eat first, and then Mitch and me. We move near one another, through the kitchen, and around the breakfast table. It's a silent dance except for Morning Edition coming through the radio. We brush teeth, and then Chet and Laura rush out to the old Datsun 210 and drive to Mountain View. Mitch and I walk up to Pilot Butte, but we never walk together. 

Mornings in Bend are always cold. Even when the sky is clear, the sun's rays can't penetrate the cold of the high desert. In fall, yellow, brown, and red leaves litter the ground and the first snow paints the Cascades a gleaming white. Soon ice will form a slick crust along the roads. Every morning, I leave the quiet chaos of home and wait along the side of Jones Road to walk to school with Robin Crank. 

Robin lives across the street with her new-age-mom, step-dad, and two sisters. Her mom buys organic chips and natural sodas. A couple summers ago Robin and I played makeovers with her Fresh 'N Fancy makeup kit, and when I came home wearing pink blush and blue eye shadow Laura said I looked like a clown. Robin has a tetherball pole in her backyard and an indoor pool where we play Marco Polo and Sharks and Minnows. Robin's older sister, Heather, is nothing like Laura. Heather wears thick black eyeliner and lipstick. She's into music and film. Laura never wears make-up, and she's into sports. Robin and I have way more in common than our older sisters do, but since we went to different schools we've never become close.

Once I start Pilot Butte though, I see a completely different side of Robin. At school she is popular. She's tall and has an asymmetrical haircut streaked from the summer sun. She has braces and so many cool clothes that she can go three or four weeks without repeating an outfit. Her best friend is Bianca Weston. Bianca and Robin went to Juniper Elementary together. Bianca is skinny with straight light brown hair. She lives in a huge house on Revere. Bianca has great clothes too, and she doesn't repeat outfits forever. Kim Mitchell is their other friend. She went to Buckingham, and she's tiny (even shorter than me). She has shoulder length, wavy blonde hair, and she's a spaz.

I don't know how everyone knows in the first week of school, but already Robin, Bianca, and Kim are popular. Maybe it's the clothes and jewelry that only kids with money can afford, or where their dads work, or the size of their houses. I don't know exactly what it is, but the differences between the popular girls and the rest of us are clear. 

Popular girls have Polo shirts, Guess jeans, Swatch watches, Trapper Keepers, rubber jelly bracelets, and Lip Smackers. Popular girls have a different attitude. They smile and laugh as they walk through the sixth grade hall. At lunch, they sit with the cool boys and ignore the rest of us. They are in the best class with teachers who are young and cool too.

Not-so-popular girls have Levis, hand-me down t-shirts, bare arms, plain blue three ring binders, and chapped lips. We walk nervously through the halls to our lockers. We grab brown bag lunches and sit with girls from lame teachers' classes. 

Still, Robin waits for me every morning for the walk to school. Even though my family isn't rich, even though I don't wear exactly the right things or carry the right supplies, I think maybe, just maybe, I could be popular too.

from Through Eyes Like Mine

NAME

In the dark of early morning, frost turns the juniper trees silver in the moonlight. Dad drives down Franklin Avenue toward Hospital Hill. Spring awaits but the ground is still frozen. In the lingering winter cold Mom complains her bare feet are freezing inside her slippers. Bend's small town streets are dark and deserted so Mom asks Dad to run the light at Highway 97. He refuses. This is not their first baby. Dad knows there's no rush.

I resist entering the world, force Mom into back labor and at dawn my head pushes through. Too much pressure on my wide shoulders snaps my baby-soft collarbone like an old carrot.

The next day my parents carry me home to a house on Shepard Road. The front door swings open to brown shag carpet and lime- green and orange wallpaper. They place me in the warm, sticky hands of my five-year-old brother and four-year-old sister sitting side-by-side on the couch. My parents take pictures as Chet and Laura look down at me. My siblings decide I'm the most beautiful baby in the world.

They name me Noriko Lisa Nakada. Mariko was their first choice but a cousin got to it first. My brother is named Chet Henry. He doesn’t need a Japanese name. He’s a boy and will keep Nakada when he marries. People will always know he's Japanese even though we're only half. My sister, Laura Yukiko, is named after the Japanese word for snow. Noriko is the name of a Japanese princess and Lisa is the name my sister picks. We both have a Japanese name for Dad and a regular name for Mom.

I am Noriko only to Dad. Mom calls me Riko for a while and then Nori. For some reason Chet calls me Rodriguez or Rod. Nori is the name that sticks. Nori, pronounced like Lori but with an N. Nori means seaweed, not princess. 

 

ON YOUR OWN

It's 3:00. Mom and I wait for Chet, Laura and Mitch to get out of school. In the rush of kids sprinting toward cars, I try to spot the dark heads of my siblings.

"It's been a year," Mom says out of the blue and I look at her face in the rear view mirror. "We picked up Mitch a year ago today."

I remember that day, how Mitch cried and I didn't want him to come home with us. I remember his red sweat suit and a strange smell but I can barely remember our family before Mitch came.

Mrs. Yaegar, the first grade teacher, walks toward our car and taps the window. I wonder if Mitch is in trouble. Maybe he did something in class and the teacher said, "I'll have to talk with your mother about this!" like Miss Christie sometimes says to Matt Rose. As I keep an eye out for Chet and Laura, I eavesdrop on Mom and Mitch's teacher. I hear nothing but good news.

"He's adjusting so well, such a nice boy, getting along just fine."

Miss Christie never comes out to tell Mom how well I'm doing.

"Hi, Nori." Mrs. Yaegar waves at me in the back seat. I wave back and try to smile.

Mitch climbs into the car and I slide all the way to the end of the seat. I pretend that if he touches me he might burn my skin. He's all smiles and holds papers with big red smiley faces on top. He hands them to Mom.

"Good job, Mitch!"

He says thanks and part of me misses the Mitch who didn't talk. Mitch smiles as he shows me his papers but I don't smile back.

Mitch doesn't need my help anymore. He doesn't need me to show him how to do anything or explain the rules or teach him how everything works because he's adjusting so well and getting along just fine.

Mitch, I decide, is on his own.