Blackbird Fly Read Free Page B

ugliest girls. They call it the Dog Log. The names on the list are half mystery and half public. Heleena Moffett and Martha Leibovitz were on it every year. At the beginning of school last year, Alyssa and I had talked about the Dog Log and what we would do if we were ever on it.
    â€œI would transfer schools,” Alyssa had said. She was on the swing of her front porch with one leg dangling down. We were both eating bologna sandwiches—no mustard, lots of mayo, with the crusts taken off the bread. “I would never show my face at school again.”
    â€œYou don’t have to worry,” I’d told her. “You would never wind up on it anyway. You’re too pretty.”
    â€œI wouldn’t end up on it because no one even knows who I am,” she’d said.
    I told her she was lucky. She was new, which meant she could be anyone she wanted. She could reinvent herself completely. After that she was quiet for a while. I waited for her to tell me that I was too pretty for the Dog Log too, but she didn’t.
    I turned on the Beatles’ White Album , collapsed on my bed with my backpack still on my shoulders, stared at the ceiling, and listened to “Blackbird.” I closed my eyes and imagined I was flying away, just like thebird in the song. I imagined it was a thousand years in the future and the Dog Log didn’t matter. But then I opened my eyes and it did matter. My cheeks were wet, and my eyes burned. I slipped off my backpack and went to my mirror to see what a girl who is considered one of the ugliest girls in school looks like.
    My head was round and red when I was born. That’s why I’m called Apple. My real name is Analyn Pearl Yengko, but in the Philippines no one calls you by your real name. Filipinos are known for giving funny nicknames, some of which don’t make any sense. My mother’s name is Amihan, but everyone calls her Glo.
    My eyes: slanted and dark. Not American.
    My hair: black, straight, and thick, but not silky.
    My body: palito . Too skinny, with no curves anywhere.
    Everything about me was Filipino. Everything about me said DOG-EATER and DOG LOG. Even my house. My mother was in the kitchen again,heating up leftover pancit for dinner. I could smell it.
    I went down the hall with my eyes still burning. My mother was pulling the bowl of noodles out of the microwave. I opened the refrigerator to get a soda—the generic brand of Coke that just said Cola on the side.
    â€œCan’t we ever eat something normal?” I asked.
    â€œWhat you mean?”
    â€œCan’t we just order a pizza? Why do we always have to eat stuff like this?” I shut the fridge and motioned to the pancit .
    My mother raised her eyebrows and looked down at the noodles. “You always eat pancit .” She put the bowl on the counter and pulled plates out of the cabinet. “Pizza is too expensive and isn’t good for you. That’s why American children are so fat—they’re always eating pizza. If I spent all my money on pizza like Americans do, I’d have none left to send back home.”
    She was always sending money back home. That’swhy she bought the cheapest brand of everything. That’s why I never got name-brand jeans like Alyssa did or designer backpacks like Gretchen had.
    â€œIf you care about back home so much, why did we come here?” I mumbled.
    But my mother didn’t hear me.
    And even though the pancit smelled just like it always did, and I wanted to eat a bowlful, I said, “I don’t want any of that stuff. It stinks, and it’s gross.”
    She sighed and turned around to face me. “ Ay, sus. What’s wrong with you today, Apple?”
    â€œI don’t want to be called Apple anymore.” The can of cola felt like a cold, heavy brick. I didn’t even really want to drink it. I don’t even know why I’d come into the kitchen. “I want to go by my real name.”
    A bunch