clacking silverware, pots and pans jingling deep within the cabinets, glasses and bowls clattering delicately, and the jarring blare of dozens of car alarms outside. My own sharp breathing was loudest of all. The floor’s vibration traveled through my knees and hummed in my belly. Shredded carrots and a wonton wrapper tumbled from the counter and landed next to me.
M yelled, “Stay down, Nicki!”
I heard Nicki say something but the fruit bowl clattered to the ground just then and I couldn’t make out her words, only the fear. An apple rolled to a stop against my leg and, insanely, I wondered if the fall had bruised it.
Then, just as suddenly, it stopped. I stood up cautiously and peeked out the window. A hose reel had tumbled onto my mother’s border of violets, smashing their delicate purple heads into the dirt. Our neighbor’s wind chime had fallen and shattered.
Nicki’s voice startled me out of my trance. “Are you both okay?”
I looked over at M, who was picking up paper napkins that had dropped to the floor with the first jolt. She nodded. No one said anything else. It was one of those weird frozen-in-time moments, like we were just hovering in space. I realized it was the absolute motionlessness of the earth that created this sensation.
There is no more complete feeling of stillness than right after an earthquake. You can’t imagine how stable ground feels like such a gift. You want to trust it, but you can’t. There are always aftershocks, little jolts and pulses beneath your feet reminding you that nothing is ever completely reliable. Not even the ground under your feet.
In my mind I always see that day, the day of the quake, as the point when things began to shift between me and M and Nicki. I began to see everything that happened as either before the quake or after the quake. It marked the start of the hardest year of my life. Well, my life so far.
It’s funny that the quake became such a turning point for me because it was only a medium strength earthquake. No one in Alameda or anywhere else was killed. The broken stuff got swept up and thrown away, the cabinets got straightened, and everyone’s stories of where they were and what they were doing when it hit were told and then forgotten. But I still think of the quake as something that started a chain reaction somehow. Like the universe was trying to tell me something about the next few months.
I know none of this makes sense now. Maybe it will later on.
Shaky Ground Stuffed Wontons with Peanut Sauce
1 package small, square wonton wrappers (in the produce
section usually, refrigerated)
½ C. peanut oil
1 small bag shredded carrots
2 boneless, skinless chicken breasts, cooked and chopped
(pre-cooked or even deli chicken works if you’re in a
hurry)
¼ C. honey-roasted peanuts, chopped
½ C. bottled peanut sauce (in the Asian food section)
Toss carrots, chicken, peanuts and ¼ C. peanut sauce in a bowl. Stuff the wontons by putting a heaping tablespoon of filling in the middle of each square, then folding it over so the ends come together to form a triangle. Use wet fingers (have a bowl with water near to dip your fingers in) to seal the edges together. You can also use a fork to make little crimps around the edges, which looks pretty but is more time-consuming. Heat oil in a skillet until very hot (flick a drop of water in it, and if it immediately sizzles, it’s hot enough). Cook wontons about a minute on each side, until golden brown. Drain on paper towels. Can serve hot or at room temperature. Arrange on a tray with a little bowl of remaining peanut sauce for dipping.
First Day of School
My obnoxiously loud alarm works its way into my brain. It takes me a minute to wake up enough to realize it isn’t part of my dream. I hit the snooze button to buy eight more precious minutes before I have to force myself out of bed.
I stayed up way too late last night. Every article of clothing I own is either on my floor (rejected) or draped over my desk chair (possibly to be worn for the first day of eighth grade). The goal is to look great while also looking like I didn’t try hard to look great. My outfit can’t come across as too . . . effortful. It might be impossible.
And I have the whole chest issue to deal with. M and Nicki say I’m lucky, but they have no idea how hard it is to be this “developed.” Anything low-cut or slightly tight makes me look like I am trying to show off, which I am not. I hate the stares actually. Anything baggy makes me look shapeless and fat, which I am not either. Sigh.
Having red hair on top of the aforementioned “blessing” makes it just plain hard to blend in. And I am only five feet tall, which is a whole other area of difficulty. Despite my many issues, I want my first-day outfit to give me a chance to make a new impression. I know most of the kids already, but every first day feels like a new start. Hopeful. I was thinking about this last night as I tried on and discarded T-shirts, sundresses, capris, and jeans. Nothing seemed right. What I really needed was a box of hair color, a new minimizer bra, and a sudden growth spurt.
Last night I’d called M, hoping we could whine together about having nothing to wear, but she already had her outfit ready to go: low-rise camo pants from Old Navy, narrow black belt with small silver studs, and a black, long-sleeved T-shirt under her white, short-sleeved T-shirt from Banana Republic. Her aunt had given her a shark’s tooth necklace from Hawaii, threaded on a rough-cut leather string, and it will perfectly complete her outfit. She’ll look cool and causal and a tiny bit edgy, but not like she tried hard. She had nailed it and I was jealous.
Lucky M, she sounded happy to go back to school. I wondered briefly if this was the same best friend who just last year kept a “Days to Parole” flip calendar counting down the days of school left.
I called Nicki next, thinking (okay, hoping) she might be having the same struggles on this first-day eve. Nicki has that kind of lithe, proportioned body that looks good in everything, plus an exotic, pretty face. She’s part American Indian. We have been teased at school for being “princesses.” It is undeniable that Nicki really does look like the Disney Pocahontas.
But me . . . I got named for the ridiculously perky mermaid Ariel because I was born with red hair. Cute, right? Not so much. They might as well have tattooed Disney’s logo on my forehead. At least Pocahontas is a real historical figure who was brave and smart. Ariel is a ditsy cartoon mermaid who wears a shell bra and combs her hair with a fork. M, the lucky girl, doesn’t have a princess label.
Honestly, Nicki is gorgeous and elegant enough to be a real princess. I would probably hate her except that she is totally clueless about how pretty she is. And Nicki is just, well, nice. Oh, and for the record, I think I am a nice person too, and I am nowhere near as airheaded as that Ariel. Anyway, I am getting off the subject. Bringing up the princess thing is bound to set me off on one of my “issues.”
Back to last night. Nicki was also trying on clothes when I called after dinner, but had narrowed down her choices. She is modest, so her choices—long, grannystyle gauzy dress she got at the flea market, or her GLO jeans with an empire-waisted loose tunic—were typical. She’ll look great in either. Plus, Nicki is the yearbook girl at school, and she’ll be so focused on getting her pictures that she won’t even worry about how she looks. The girl lives and breathes yearbook. It is
