I Wanna Speak Up… Maybe
Short Story
Age Group: Middle Grade
Genre: Contemporary/Drama
Summary: Kazu Yamamura has no friends at school, but he has one focused enemy. When Deena tries to pin an accident on him, Kazu realizes handling his problems the right way is hard but worth it.
I Wanna Speak Up… Maybe was entered in round one of NYC Midnight’s Short Story Contest, 2021. It placed 4th in its group.
Frannie Davis Elementary
Orlando, FL
Friday, April 5th, 2019, 2:30 PM
Deena’s still watching me. Even in Art class, she won’t leave me alone. We’re supposed to be making sculptures, but all she’s doing is flattening clay and drawing on it.
My spaceship is so much better. It’s just like the one from my favorite show, Stars and Planets. The cockpit is almost… There. Finished!
The lighting in here is great—sun coming in from a line of big windows on both sides of the room—and ceiling lights. I can see everything.
Deena bumps into my table. Hard. “Whoopsie! Sorry, Kazoo-zoo,” she says as my masterpiece flops into a glop of gray mud, and she snaps a picture. The perfect wings are twisted and broken. Even the body looks like a truck smashed it.
I want to yell at her for destroying my ship and calling me “Kazoo-zoo” again, but last time I did that, Mrs. Putnam made me apologize. Instead, I whisper, “It’s Kazu,” emphasizing the first syllable.
I can almost hear the notifications clogging my phone, even though it’s on silent in my back pocket—like it’s supposed to be. Deena’s probably already posted her picture of this most recent piece of destruction. I hate WhatUp. Not even sure why I joined in the first place. All everyone does is make fun of me.
Deena’s friends, the fifth graders, are probably howling right now. Just because they’re ten and we’re nine, they think they can do whatever they want, and Deena thinks being friends with older kids makes her better than everybody else.
Class is almost over, and Mrs. Putnam is checking everyone’s work.
“Oh… too bad, Kazu. This looks like it could have been really good.” She rounds my table and heads for Deena. “Very original.” She studies Deena’s piece. “I love the flowers and sparkles.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Putnam.” Deena smiles until the teacher moves on, then she shoots me the smuggest look ever before setting her sculpture on a wide counter with everyone else’s to let it harden and grabbing her signature yellow backpack.
I’ll have to restart my spaceship Monday while everyone else is painting their pieces.
A Taste of Nippon Catering
Friday, April 5th, 2019, 3:10 PM
I sit behind Dad’s desk in the little office beside the prep room. He keeps this space for paperwork and other boring adult stuff.
My phone blinks at me. Another WhatUp notification. I’ve been getting them nonstop.
It’s another comment on Deena’s picture of me beside my ruined spaceship. My stomach wants to sit in my shoes.
“Great catch,” says one fifth grader.
“Hilarious!” says another.
The list of comments runs down the screen, and even after five seconds of scrolling, I can’t find the bottom.
“How was school?” Dad walks in.
I put my phone away. “Fine.”
“How did your spaceship turn out? You’ve been talking about making it since last week.”
“Okay.”
“I’d love to see it when it’s done.”
“Yeah. Sure.” I open my English essay and pretend to reread what I already have. “Gotta finish this pretty soon. It’s due Monday.”
Mr. Klein knocks on the open door, notices me, and motions Dad out, but I can still see them through the big window that separates the two rooms, and their voices leak through the half-closed door.
“Another cancelation,” Mr. Klein says and hangs his head. “They said they needed twenty people to cover the event. When I told them we only had fifteen, they canceled the contract. I should have said we could get the extra five.”
“But that would have been a lie, Klein-san. Better to lose honorably than to win with an untruth,” Dad says.
No matter what, Dad always knows the right thing to say to calm down Mr. Klein.
Mr. Klein nods and returns to a prep station to finish an order.
Newstown Community Center
Saturday, April 6th, 2019, 12:04 PM
Dad has to work all day today, so the neighbor girl brought me here so she could spend time with her friends while she watches me.
Saturdays are huge catering days—birthday parties, business meetings, weddings—Dad’s even done a bar mitzvah.
Lots of kids from school live close to me, and some of them come here on weekends too.
The community center is nice—plenty to do. They’ve got a basketball court, foosball, air hockey, even a pool. But the pool’s closed until they finish remodeling it.
Maybe they’re done. The sign’s missing, and the door’s ajar.
I step into the pool room.
Nobody’s around, but there’s a stack of construction tools and spare tiles littering the ground nearby.
Footsteps skitter up behind me, but before I can turn around, someone shoves me into the tools and laughs so loud the echo rings in my ears for half a minute, but through the noise I hear the fatal sound—the click-click of a camera app.
I groan as I get up, rubbing sore elbows and knees. A yellow backpack disappears through the pool room door.
Another highlight for Deena’s WhatUp collection…
At least I know she’s here so I can avoid her.
Rory McDaniels Memorial Library
Sunday, April 7th, 2019, 1:05 PM
The library is the best place to finish homework. Dad always brings me here when I need quiet. The catering office is okay, but listening to blenders, choppers, and everybody talking doesn’t let me concentrate on details very well.
I just uploaded my English essay.
Dad’s in the periodical section reading stuff about other local catering companies. Who knew there were so many magazines and newspaper articles about food?
As I put my iPad in my bag, Deena and her ten-year-old friends walk by laughing and talking. She glances my way but acts like she doesn’t see me—for once.
A librarian gives them a stern look, and they quiet down, but then all five girls plop their bags in a pile beside a table.
Deena giggles and hurries to the bathroom with her friends. Her yellow bag lays on top of the pile. Its zipper is half-open, and the lip of her iPad is sticking out.
Does Deena have the WhatUp app on her school tablet? If she does, she’s probably still logged in. I could delete some of those pictures of me while she’s gone.
I pull out her iPad. It’s missing its case, and there’s a scuff on the back. Fingerprints cover the screen. She should really take better care of her stuff.
Like all school-issued student iPads, it doesn’t have a passcode.
The WhatUp app is on the main screen. She didn’t even hide it.
My finger hovers over the icon. I want to get rid of those pictures. She shouldn’t have posted them. But I shouldn’t mess with somebody else’s stuff… Dad would be upset if he found out I did this.
A text from Dad interrupts me. “Need more time?”
Deena and her friends are coming back, so I shove the tablet back into her bag, zip it all the way up and get back to my table.
I text Dad. “Ready to go.”
It takes a few minutes for Dad to check out at the circulation desk, but then we leave.
Outside, a warm spring breeze is rustling the big palm trees that frame the entryway, and two big pillars hold up an awning so people can get dropped off without getting wet when it rains—which happens a lot.
Deena and her friends are already outside—probably waiting on rides. They push each other and video themselves tripping into the palm trees’ rock-filled planters.
One girl shoves Deena, but instead of toppling into the planter, she hits a pillar. Her backpack cushions her, so it’s not hard enough to hurt.
Just as Dad and I get into our white Civic, Deena’s ride gets here—a rickety Dodge Caravan.
“Deena, get in the van. Your sister’s dance lesson is in twenty minutes,” her mom calls from the driver’s seat as she referees four other kids and a teenager crammed in the van.
Through the peeling tint on the van’s windows, I see Deena squeeze into the back seat beside a crying kindergartener. She keeps her bag in her lap and swats the little kid’s hand away when she tries to touch it.
The van’s fan belt squeals as it leaves.
Still parked, Dad answers his phone, “I’ll be back soon. The Harrington-Paz wedding isn’t until seven. You’ve got plenty of time.”
I pretend not to listen as I blast zombies on my phone.
Frannie Davis Elementary
Monday, April 8th, 2019, 8:30 AM
I step into the principal’s office. Miss Shaniqua, the school counselor, is there too. And so is Deena.
“Mr. Yamamura, have a seat, please.” Principal Diego motions to a chair across the desk from him.
Deena is standing, hands on hips, eyes narrowed… at me. “He broke my iPad.”
Oh no, did I break it when I put it back in her bag at the library? No. I’m sure it was fine. “I didn’t break anything of hers.”
“Yeah, you did.” Deena is getting more upset, and she scoops her iPad off the principal’s desk and holds it up.
A huge crack spiderwebs the tablet face.
Deena turns it on, and colors flash and streak over the screen. It’s unusable.
“Miss Williams,” says Principal Diego, “did you see Mr. Yamamura break your tablet?”
Deena looks away and mutters, “No.”
“Then what makes you think he did it?”
“The last time I used it was at the library, yesterday. He was at the next table over from me and my friends. We left our stuff for a second, and when I got home later, my iPad was junked. He did it. He messed with my stuff while I wasn’t looking!”
The pillar. She must have smashed her tablet when she hit it.
The principal turns his attention to me. “Did you touch Miss Williams’ personal belongings?”
“I…” If I tell the truth, I could get in big trouble. Deena will have one more thing to make fun of me for. But… what did Dad say to Mr. Klein a couple days ago? Better to lose honorably than to win with an untruth. “I took the iPad out of her bag.” My hand itches to blast some zombies—to get away from Principal Diego’s stare. I clasp my hands instead. “But I didn’t break it. I promise. I just wanted to—”
“Cheat off my essay?” Deena snaps. “That’s it. You copied my stuff and broke my tablet to cover it up. Check his essay, Principal Diego. I bet it’s just like the one I was going to turn in.”
Miss Shaniqua steps in. “It’s okay, Deena. Let’s let Kazu finish what he was saying.”
Deena crosses her arms and glares at me but doesn’t say anything else.
“I wanted to… get rid of Deena’s WhatUp posts.”
Panic flickers across Deena’s face, but she’s quick to hide it. “My stuff is my stuff. Just because I’ve got more friends online than you doesn’t mean you can mess with me!”
“Why would you do that, Kazu?” says Miss Shaniqua, but she isn’t being mean, just concerned.
I don’t want to cry, but angry tears push into my eyes. I hold them back. “Deena makes fun of me on there all the time. Everybody thinks I’m stupid and clumsy.”
“May I see?” Miss Shaniqua holds out an open hand.
I open the app and hand her my phone.
Miss Shaniqua scrolls through posts for a couple minutes then returns my phone. “There are pictures and videos all the way back to the beginning of the school year. Why didn’t you say something sooner, Kazu?”
I can’t meet her eyes.
“Those posts about Kazu aren’t very kind, Deena. How would you feel if someone did that to you?”
“It’s just some pictures,” Deena mumbles.
“Kazu, you’re sure you didn’t break Deena’s tablet?” says Miss Shaniqua. “Because I would understand if you were really upset and broke it.”
“I didn’t do it.”
“All right,” says Principal Diego. “Miss Williams, we have some things to discuss. Mr. Yamamura, get to class. I’ll be in contact with your father about the consequences of you touching another student’s property without permission. And, in the future, if something’s wrong, come to me, Miss Shaniqua, or a teacher right away.”
“Okay.” I turn to go but stop. “Hey, Deena?”
“What?”
“I’m… sorry.”
She doesn’t look at me. “Whatever.”
As I leave the office, Principal Diego says to Deena, “I’m going to talk with your mother.”
“Foster-mom,” Deena snaps. “Go ahead. She’s got so many other kids to pay attention to, she won’t care.”
My stomach turns.
It’s hard enough with Dad working so often. I’d feel awful if he never paid attention to me…
Cypress St. and Newstown Rd. Stoplight
Monday, April 8th, 2019, 2:45 PM
I shift in the backseat, so the A/C blasts my face.
“I agree with your principal. You shouldn’t have touched something that wasn’t yours, and we’ll discuss that later, but why didn’t you tell me someone was making fun of you?” says Dad as he turns onto another street.
Bashing some zombies sounds really good right now. I pull out my phone.
“Can you leave it off for a minute?” Dad says.
I let the phone plop into my lap but keep my eyes on the line of shops we’re passing. “I didn’t want to bother you. You’ve always got work stuff, and—”
“Kazu-kun.” Dad only calls me that when he wants me to know he really means what he’s about to say. “You are more important than any client or job. I’m proud of you for telling the truth today, but promise me you won’t keep things like this from me again. If something’s wrong, I want to help.”
“Okay…”
“I’m taking next weekend off. Wanna hang with your old man?”
I cringe at the ancient slang. “But what about work? Don’t you have a couple parties to cater?”
“Klein-san can handle two days without me.”
“Okay, but I get to pick anything we watch.”
“What’s wrong with the shows I like?”
“Really, Dad? Have you paid attention to the stuff they wear on those old game shows? And I can’t understand half of what they say. What’s a cassette tape? Or a landline?”
“None of that matters. What is important is the excitement of the moment—waiting to see if they’ll win the game.”
“Okay. Maybe we can watch a few episodes. Then it’s nonstop Stars and Planets.”
“That’s my Kazu-kun.” He reaches back and claps my knee.
I put my phone in my pocket, and we talk the rest of the way home.