Free Whirligig by Paul Fleischman Page B

built the first radio transmitter in Kansas. They named me after him, to inspire me.
    ANNOUNCER : Both wearing the same number, so to speak. Must make you proud.
    Actually, I’d rather be my sister, Kelsey. She’s not named after anybody. She’s adopted too, but from Peru. Talk about no pressure, except maybe to learn to spin llama wool. She’s in the first grade and my parents still haven’t made her pick an instrument yet. They say she’s not mature enough. They also probably won’t bug her about winning her class Scholarship Award the way they have with me.
    I chew on my pencil for a while. Then I write, “I went to science camp and learned a lot.”
    ANNOUNCER : What about on the leisure side, Tony?
    ME : Well, Bob, I went to one Mariners game. One. They lost. And we took a family camping trip for the first time.
    ANNOUNCER : Tell our listeners what it felt like. Were you nervous? Excited?
    ME : Buying all the stuff at REI was fun. And learning how to set up the tent.
    Which I figured might come in handy if I ever wanted to run away from home. We only went a little north of Seattle. It was kind of like a practice trip. We were right on the water. It was great. Then I found two ticks on my throat. Then I couldn’t sleep because my sleeping bag kept sliding off my mattress pad all night. But the worst part was the whirligig. It was a girl playing a harp, like in an orchestra. It was in this tree at our campsite. And since it was breezy weather that weekend, the girl’s arms were almost always turning. So naturally my mother had to say, “Look how she practices all the time, Anthony. A musician has to be dedicated. That’s how she’ll get into Honors Orchestra. And then the Seattle Symphony.” As if she’s a real person. My mother took about twenty pictures of it, some with me underneath. I hated the guts of whoever put it there. When no one was looking I picked up a rock. I’m good at baseball, especially pitching. I threw it at the girl. I hit her. It spun the whole thing around, but it didn’t break. My mother must have heard the sound. She caught me about to throw another rock. I was under arrest. I had to stay in the tent the whole rest of the day. Talk about breaking the pledge.
    ANNOUNCER : For our listeners who may not know, what is this “pledge” you’re speaking of?
    ME : Glad you asked, Bob. Basically, it’s like the Pledge of Allegiance, except that it’s only for people of Asian background. And you don’t say it out loud, but only inside.
    ANNOUNCER : Could you give us a taste of it?
    ME : Sure thing, Bob. “I pledge allegiance to Sarah Chang and all other Asian-Americans that I will be quiet, hardworking, and polite, succeeding in all things through dedication—”
    ANNOUNCER : So you, for instance, unlike the other kids, would never call Miss Rappalini “Miss Ravioli” behind her back.
    ME : Exactly, Bob.
    ANNOUNCER : Then throwing the rock, if I understand you, was breaking every commandment in the pledge.
    ME : You said it, Bob.
    In my journal I write, “We went camping. It was fun.”
    After the trip, we had more and more arguments about practicing. My mother said I should play for longer since school was out and I had more time. Naturally, she had one of the whirligig photos blown up and framed. She took down a poster of Ken Griffey, Jr., with a bat on his shoulder to make room on my wall. Every day she’d say, “Remember the harp player, Anthony—always practicing!” It was almost like I was John Henry, in that song with him racing against a machine.
    ANNOUNCER : There’s a trivia question for our audience. Who won the track-laying race between John Henry and the machine?
    ME : The machine. We sang it last year. John Henry dies.
    ANNOUNCER : You, Tony, were in his spot. Tell us what happened.
    ME : I didn’t die, or I wouldn’t be here, Bob. Instead, I