Fresh Off the Boat
Melissa De La Cruz
This book is dedicated to the amazing DLCs. My parents, Bert and Ching de la Cruz, the funniest and bravest people I know, who inspire me every day; and my siblings and best friends, Christina Green and Francis de la Cruz. With love from the “weird” sister.
And to my wonderful husband, Michael Johnston, without whose love and support this book would not exist.
Table of Contents
Dedication
Epigraph
1 The Ultimate Loser Move in the Known Universe
2 Fortunately for Some Girls, Some Cute Boys Can’t Drive
3 Even in English Class, Everything is in French
4 Saturdays at America’s Favorite Store
5 Retail Therapy Salvation
6 Mathematical Miracles
7 The Reality of Another Weekend at Home
8 Clown-skull Book Covers Rule
9 The Last American Virgin?
10 Catwalking Down the Aisle
11 But Is It a Date-Date?
12 Cinderella Problems
13 Hiding in the Bathroom Isn’t the Answer Either
14 “Party” is Not a Verb
15 Diane Sawyer Is Always Right
16 Joining the Joy-Luck Club
17 The Wrong Kind of Popularity Contest
18 Double-Diamond Deals on the Washers
19 One Woman’s Trash Is Another’s Treasure
20 Elle’s All That
Acknowledgments
Other Books by Melissa de la Cruz
Copyright
About the Publisher
“America. Land of the free. Home of the Whopper.”
—Balki Bartokomous, Perfect Strangers
1
The Ultimate Loser Move in the Known Universe
THERE HAS GOT to be some way I can just stay in my room until I’m eighteen and have to leave for college. Maybe I can convince my parents to homeschool me so I’ll get into Harvard and get written up in People magazine. Right. Not going to happen.
Life was fine (okay—not fine, but at least not terrible) until last Friday night when I got this brilliant idea to convince my parents to take us to the movies. Movies are a big deal with me, especially since we never go anymore. Mom says we don’t have the money and who would pay ten dollars to see a film when we already get three hundred channels on cable? But I begged and begged and begged because I really wanted to see the latest chunky-girl-empowering Drew Barrymore movie.
Somehow, it totally slipped my mind that it was Friday night. This is relatively easy to explain because Friday night is no different from every other night at my house. So it wasn’t until we got to the theater that I realized I’d made a huge mistake. The line to get tickets snaked down the hill, and everyone there was my age, hanging out in big groups of friends or on dates, playing with their Game Boys, taking each other’s picture with their camera-cell phone, running around or sticking their tongues down the backs of their boyfriends’ throats.
While I, on the other hand, was committing the ultimate loser move in the known universe.
I’m fourteen years old and I was at the movies on a Friday night with my parents!
Kill me now.
My only hope was that I wouldn’t run into anybody I knew, so I tried to make myself as inconspicuous as possible and prayed no one would notice me or see me or even just look my way. I’m easy enough to miss—I’m on the short side with dark hair that’s somewhere between wavy and straight but is more unruly than anything else. My eyes and hair are dark brown, and I have skin the color of coconut cream. My nose is by far my best feature, small and flat.
Unfortunately, even if there’s nothing remarkable about me, it was still kind of hard to hide since I was wearing the same extremely loud red-and-gold, puffy San Francisco 49ers football jacket as the three other people in my family.
We all owned the same jacket because last month when we went on a family outing to Fisherman’s Wharf we were freezing even though it was 70 degrees out. There was a sidewalk sale of these discounted 49ers jackets and we all got one. Mine says STEVE YOUNG on the back.
I heard one girl snicker. “What are they, like, superfans or something?” It’s so ironic since we don’t even watch football.
I took off my jacket and stuffed it under my arm. Pretty useless move, since Mom and Dad and my five-year-old sister, Brittany, still had theirs on, and as much as I wanted to distance myself from the family group per se, it’s not like I could pretend I was there with anyone else. I didn’t really fit in with the goths behind us or the hoochies in the miniskirts and platform heels in front of us, either.
Please God, I thought, just don’t let me see anyone I know. Please don’t let anyone from Grosvernor be here tonight. Please please please. Please don’t let anyone I know find out I have nothing better to do on a Friday night than see a movie with my parents.
There is no God. The minute they finally let us inside, I practically tripped in front of none other than Whitney Bertoccini, Trish Santa Anna, and Georgia Wilson, the three most popular girls in my class. They were all wearing the same black wool coats, V-necked cashmere sweaters, hip-slung jeans, and clogs, with pastel Nokias surgically attached to their ears. Ugh.
They took seats in front of these really cute guys and started being really loud to get their attention. The guys then threw popcorn at them and Whitney turned around to yell at them to stop, but you could tell she really liked it.
I think Whitney might have seen me when she turned, but just in time I quickly ducked behind the gargantuan Coke cup that my dad bought. Dad always buys one of the largest size drinks because he and Mom bring plastic cups so we can all share the giant one instead of buying two medium ones and using four straws like everyone else in the world. The cups are too small to fit in the gigantic cup holders so we have to put them on our laps and be careful not to spill them, which inevitably happens anyway.
But that’s not even the worst part. Mom never lets us buy popcorn at the movies. Ever. She microwaves a bag at home, then puts it in small plastic bags that she hands out when we get to the theater. The popcorn is all cold and there’s no butter or salt on it. Mom has to be really loud about it, too—her voice is kind of high and excitable and she gets all “Vicenza, do you have your popcorn? Do you want another bag, iha? There’s lots more!” At least she didn’t offer any to our neighbors. The last time she did that, I pretended I didn’t know who the crazy lady was.
When I grow up and have lots of money the first thing I’m going to do is go to the movies and buy the biggest tub of popcorn, put tons of butter and salt on it, and eat it all by myself.
Sitting there waiting for the movie to begin, I felt as if everyone was staring at us like we were freaks, with our plastic minicups of Coke and Ziploc bags of stale homemade popcorn.
I was glad Whitney and all those guys were too busy pelting each other with jujubes to even notice me. Whitney and her friends were really boisterous. But when the movie started no one told them to shut up because basically everyone in the theater was doing the same thing—yelling at the screen and blowing straw wrappers at each other. Except for my family. We were all sitting quietly in the back. Then Mom started making these hrrumppphing and tsk-tsk sounds every time someone in the theater laughed really loudly, which Whitney and her friends did a lot, even when there was nothing funny going on.
And Dad, who can never follow the plots of movies (he had to see Pearl Harbor five times until he understood what was happening—and his grandfather was in the war, hello), kept asking “What did he say?” and “Why is she pretending not to know him?” and “Who made the bet again?” in a really loud whisper. Mom tried shushing him, but I always feel b
ad and so I explained as much as I could. “He said he wants to know if they can still be friends. Because she’s in disguise, Dad. There’s no bet, Dad, he’s just confused.”
Finally Mom got really annoyed at the “rowdy” teenagers in front. To my complete and utter horror, she actually left her seat and complained to the manager about them. An usher came with a flashlight and told them to shut up. I just sank down lower in my seat. I hope they never find out it was my parents who got them shushed.
Not so bad, right? Nothing too awful happened, right? WRONG. I haven’t gotten to the stomach-churning, awful, truly horrifying part yet. JUST WAIT.
As we were leaving, I noticed that Whitney, Georgia, and Trish were by the entrance, and they were still hanging out with the jujube-throwing guys. Which struck me as odd since Whitney supposedly has a major boyfriend who goes to Stevenson down in Carmel, but whatever. What do I know about the lifestyle of a popular girl?
Dad went to get the van, and Mom and Brittany and I had to wait in front of the theater for him. I was, like, praying that Whitney and all them would leave before my dad drove up in our van.
It wouldn’t be that bad if Dad drove an SUV or a BMW like everyone else’s dad at school, but Dad drives this van. It’s not a Jeep or a truck (which might get us some cool points). No. It’s a van. An old, rusted Dodge Ram with a gigantic dent in the middle. It’s the ugliest van in the world. It’s tan. With brown trim. It’s a tan van. And there’s no missing it because it’s an elephant. It seats, like, fifteen people. Dad’s even thinking of running an airport shuttle business with it.
The kicker is that the previous owner put a sticker in the back window that says VANS A-ROCKIN’ DON’T COME A-KNOCKIN’. Mom and Dad are so square they don’t even know what it means. Anyway, Whitney and her friends were all talking about some party they were headed to, and I just kind of slunk back next to the door, hoping they wouldn’t see me.
Mom was, like, “Good movie, huh?”
And I was all, yeah, whatever. I just wanted the evening to end. Not even the happiest Hollywood ending could cheer me up by then.
Then the strangest thing happened. I looked up and accidentally caught Whitney’s eye and she totally smiled at me. At me! I got this funny feeling that she actually liked me instead of thinking I’m some sort of weirdo. Whitney and I have English together and once she read over my shoulder when she forgot her copy of Macbeth. Maybe she thinks I’m nice. Maybe she even thinks my 49ers puffy jacket is cute, because she wears this ratty white goose-down one to school with all these ski-lift tags hanging from the sleeve that everyone thinks is so cool.
And then she waved at me. With both hands! All I could think was This is it! She’s going to invite me to the party! And we’re all going to start hanging out and going to the mall and maybe even sitting together at lunch! And I was, like, pinching myself. She was WAVING and SMILING and SAYING HI. So I waved and smiled and said hi back.
Then she kind of motioned for me to go over to where she was.
I felt as if I was dreaming. I couldn’t believe it. Whitney Bertoccini had decided I was cool enough to hang with her because—let’s face it—being at the movies on a Friday night is a good indication of a late curfew. Maybe she thought my parents were my friends. My mom looks really young—people always ask if she’s my sister or something. Usually I really hate that because how weird, but Friday night I thought, yeah, they think I’m just hanging out with a couple of college kids, totally. Why not?
So I stuck my hands in my puffy 49ers jacket and I walked really casually toward the group. I smiled at the three girls (I was too nervous to even look at the boys, although I noticed one of them is really cute and looks kind of like Tobey Maguire), but they all just looked at me vacantly.
I didn’t know what to do, so I just blurted, “Uh, hi, guys.”
The blank looks continued. This went on for what seemed like ages. We were just staring at each other. I began to worry.
Then Georgia said, “Oh, there she is!”
So I turned around to look where she was pointing.
It turned out they were all waving and smiling and cooing over my little sister, BRITTANY.
Brit walked over, and Whitney asked her, “You’re in kindergarten with my sister Pemberton, right? You’re so cute! What are you doing out on Friday night? Do you have a date?”
Brittany laughed and said no, and they all petted her. Whitney gave her the last of her jujubes, and with a smile Brit scampered back to Mom’s side.
I was still standing in front of them. I didn’t know what to do. It was like I was completely invisible. Maybe I don’t really exist. Maybe I’m just a figment of my own imagination. My legs were rooted to the spot. I was absolutely frozen. I wished I could just disappear.
Finally, after the longest, awkwardest pause of my awkward life, they noticed me.
“Hey,” Whitney said. She handed me her empty, crumpled popcorn bag. “Could you throw this away?”
“Oh. Sure,” I responded. And I took her garbage and walked back to where Mom and Brittany were standing next to the trash can, but I couldn’t even throw it away because I was in TOTAL SHOCK.
“Do you know those girls?” Mom asked.
I shook my head. “Nope.” I was utterly hopeless. I knew I’d NEVER be able to face them on Monday.
“I do,” Brittany chirped, her face full of Whitney’s jujubes. “They’re really nice.”
Even my five-year-old sister is more popular than I am.
FROM:
[email protected] TO:
[email protected] SENT: Sunday, October 4, 8:30 AM
SUBJECT: awesome wkend!
Peaches!
How are you, bruha? You probably think I’m a witch, too, for only writing now! I’m so sorry. I’ve been super busy…went to the movies on Friday with my best friend, Whitney, and a bunch of peeps and I met this total hottie who was totally checking me out! He looks exactly like Tobey Maguire—I know I say that about every guy I crush on, but this time it’s true, I swear!
Anyway, gotta run. We’re late for church and Dad’s having an aneurysm.
xxooo,
V
PS—My mom says hi to your mom and wants to know if she can send her that special nipper that they get from Chinatown. Mom can’t find the same one here as in Manila and says her cuticles are atrosh!
2
Fortunately for Some Girls, Some Cute Boys Can’t Drive
THERE ARE ONLY a few ways to meet boys at an all-girls school like Grosvernor: you are so incredibly popular that boys from other schools immediately flock to you, you’re so incredibly talented that you are chosen to play Claire Danes in the interschool production of Baz Luhrmann’s Romeo and Juliet, you are incredibly lucky and have a cool older brother with cute friends, or last, and certainly the very least, you can join the Spirit Club.
Since everything else was completely out of the question, on Monday, after the final bell rang, I patiently stood in line to board a yellow school bus, clutching a bedraggled, homemade, Crayola-and-Magic-Marker banner that shrieked GO WILDCATS!!!! with a crudely drawn lion on it (since I had no idea what a wildcat actually looks like). I could have spent my time cropping pictures on an iMac and writing five-hundred-word features on Teachers of the Week for the Daily Grosvernorian, writing speeches about the new world order for Model United Nations, or even painting background scenery for the Drama Club. But instead I opted for a ride on the Spirit bus, which transported its members to the marina downtown for the alleged purpose of cheering on the Gros Grasshoppers as they lost yet another game of field hockey to the St. Rose Salamanders.
But let’s get real. The Montclair Academy Wildcats—from the all-boys school down the hill and the three-time conference champ of the N.P.P.S.L.L. (The North Pacific Private School Lacrosse League, otherwise known as Nipple)—and their weekly lacrosse game were the real attraction. Several freshmen and sophomores as well as a good number of upperclassmen were already lined up in fr
ont, wearing Montclair Academy T-shirts and waving orange-and-blue banners similar to mine. A truly fine show of school spirit all around—just not for our school.
While waiting for the bus, I noticed Whitney, Georgia, and Trish sitting on the front steps, fiddling with their hair and cosmetic cases. I couldn’t help but overhear what they were saying.
“Do you think he’ll show?” Trish asked.
“Well, he called last night and said he would,” Whitney said. “If he bails, we can always hit Stonestown.” Trish and Georgia suppressed anxious sighs.
I wondered whom they were talking about. If a boy ever called me—which probably would never happen in my lifetime—I would probably get so flustered I would end up hanging up on him immediately. Not that one would ever call, of course. I’m convinced I’ll never have a boyfriend. It’s so unfair. Even Peaches, my best friend from Manila, has one, and she’s not allowed to date until college.
“But we go to the mall all the time,” Trish complained.
“So?” Whitney asked in a slightly annoyed tone that made Trish immediately back off. Trish is a new addition to Whitney’s inner circle and assumes a perpetual expression of amazement at being promoted into the In group. This much I learned from the “lifers”—girls who had been at Grosvernor since kindergarten and who had been obsessing over Whitney for decades, marking how she wore her cranberry blazer, how high she rolled up her uniform skirt, and how slouchy she pushed down her socks.
Recently, Whitney had begun wearing black tights instead of socks, plain white T-shirts instead of regulation oxford button-downs, and a hooded cranberry sweatshirt instead of a proper sweater. The administration was not pleased, since it meant half the freshman population was in detention every day for being out of uniform. I had yet to see Whitney detained for longer than five minutes, however, since she charmed her way out of every situation with a toss of her blond ponytail.