Free Whirligig by Paul Fleischman Page A

Washington

    It’s the first day of fifth grade. Everyone wants to impress Miss Rappalini. Except me. I’m not really listening to her. Man, does that feel good.
    She says something about starting our journals. I’m drawing the Seattle Mariners’ logo on my desk. They’re playing a game against the Yankees today. The pregame show starts in fifteen minutes. My radio is in my T-shirt pocket, hidden by my long-sleeve shirt. In thirteen minutes I’ll begin working the earplug cord down my sleeve. When it comes out at the cuff, I’ll tape it to my palm. Then I’ll prop my elbow on my desk, lean my head against my hand, and stick the earplug in my ear. Paradise!
    Suddenly, everyone’s opening up journals. We’re supposed to write about our summers. Great. My summer was like being sick to your stomach. First, you feel worse and worse. Then you think you might have to throw up. Then you know you have to. Then you do.
    I write, “I had a wonderful summer.” There’s no way I’m going to tell her the truth. I try to think what else to say. I touch the radio in my pocket. I imagine that I’m the guest on Bob Baker’s Mariners’ pregame show.
    ANNOUNCER : Anthony, great to have you with us.
    ME : Thanks, Bob. But call me Tony. My mother’s the only one in the universe who calls me Anthony.
    ANNOUNCER : Well, let’s just hope she’s not listening.
    ME : Don’t worry. She thinks sports fans are lunkheads and time-wasters. And she’s specifically told me that your voice makes her fillings ache.
    ANNOUNCER : Thanks for sharing that with us, Tony. Now then, tell us about your summer.
    ME : Well, Bob, I had my birthday in June.
    Which is actually a lie. Nobody knows my real birthday. I was left at an orphanage in Korea. They must have just picked out a day. Not that I remember even being there. My parents adopted me when I was a baby. This birthday, I asked for a new baseball mitt, a remote-control car, a Nintendo, and a gift certificate to Sam’s Sports Cards. I received two shirts, a microscope, a new music stand, and a Sarah Chang CD.
    ANNOUNCER : Sarah Chang, the young violin virtuoso, of Korean descent, like yourself?
    ME : That’s right, Bob.
    ANNOUNCER : Rookie of the Year in ninety-two. An All Star every year since. Holder of single-season records in harmonics, triple stops, and left-hand pizzicato. The kind of kid who always goes out and gives a hundred and ten percent.
    ME : That’s her.
    ANNOUNCER : And tell our listeners at home—do you play violin too?
    Do I ever. Suzuki lessons starting when I was four. Listening to the tapes day and night. A big party to celebrate when I finished Book One. Then came the violin camps in the summer, group recitals, more and more pieces to review, crossing the bridge to Seattle twice a week for lessons. And now Youth Orchestra’s starting up again. It’s not that I’m so good. I’m not. Some other kids my age who take lessons from my teacher are way ahead of me. But to my mother I’m not average. I’m Korean. I can do anything, if I apply myself. She can barely whistle, but who cares. She’s pure American, from Kansas. Nobody expects her to know the Paganini Caprices. But me, I get up in the dark for my forty-five-minute practice before school, with my door open so she can hear. Then I do another forty-five minutes after school, while my friends are playing baseball in the street. I’d quit in a second, but she won’t let me.
    *   *   *
    I write, “I played my violin a lot.”
    ANNOUNCER : That’s one tough training schedule.
    ME : That’s not all, Bob. My parents signed me up for science camp all July. Nine to three. It was practically as bad as school.
    ANNOUNCER : And your father, isn’t he a scientist?
    ME : Right, Bob. An electrical engineer. And then there’s my mother’s grandfather, also named Anthony. He