Danny Chung Sums It Up, page 1
PUBLISHER’s NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for and may be obtained from the Library of Congress.
ISBN 978-1-4197-4821-9
eISBN 9781647000349
Text copyright © 2021 Maisie Chan
Illustrations copyright © 2021 Natelle Quek
Book design by Marcie J. Lawrence
Originally published in the United Kingdom in 2021 by Piccadilly Press, under the title Danny Chung Does Not Do Maths. Published in the United States in 2021 by Amulet Books, an imprint of ABRAMS. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher.
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This book is dedicated to the memory of Jean and Ron—my mum and dad. And to the Chan, Kwan, and Mui families who I grew up with and who inspired this book.
CHAPTER 1
HALF DUCK, HALF DRAGON
Drawing makes me feel good.
I draw literally everywhere: in bed with a flashlight, and even on the toilet (well, you can be sitting there for quite a while, and yes, I always wash my hands afterward). Sometimes I sketch in the park on weekends with Ravi, my best friend. My favorite part is coming up with new characters: ones that are half one thing and half another—the best of both worlds, like whole wheat bread and white bread put together.
I was really pleased with my newest creation, which I called a DRUCKON. It was a mutant duck with a dragon’s head. It’s very Chinese, if you ask me. Dragons are the most beloved and lucky creatures in Chinese mythology, and ducks are yummy and succulent. The tricky part was the head. Chinese dragons don’t look like other dragons and they have no wings. Ravi is basically an expert on knights and all things medieval. He says that Chinese dragons are “anomalies,” which is a nice way of saying they are weird. And they don’t go around trying to eat princesses or battle knights. I think that’s nice. A druckon is a Chinese win-win.
Under my duvet, I heard the door to my room squeak open.
“Danny? Where are you?” It was Ba. I could tell from the sesame-oil smell.
Not now, I prayed. I wasn’t done drawing. I had nearly finished the camel-like head of the dragon. The duck’s body would, of course, be in scale with the head. You wouldn’t want a tiny duck’s body and a massive dragon’s head. That thing would bobble around and flop over. I slid my duvet up over my head some more, hoping Ba wouldn’t see me. Saturdays were usually very busy. My parents wanted me to help out by folding menus or piling soda cans on the shelf behind the counter of our takeout restaurant downstairs. But I’d rather just draw in my pajamas instead.
“We can see you, Danny Chung,” Ma’s voice said. “Come on, you need to leave your bedroom now. Ba and I have to clean under your bed—it’s like a garbage can under there. There has to be more space in here.”
What? I peeked out from under the duvet. Ma was wearing her red apron, which she wore when she worked at the counter each evening, and bright yellow rubber gloves. Under her armpit was the handle of the feather duster. She was scanning my bedroom like she was on a mission. Ba knelt down with a pearly green dustpan and brush; he threw some black bags onto the carpet. Something wasn’t right. His head was sweaty and he was all huffy. They never came in here to clean my room.
“Yes, we don’t have much time,” Ba said. “We’ve been so busy and now we only have a few hours left.” He started frantically dragging out random things that I had shoved under my bed frame. What was going on? A few hours left until what? Ba flung an old teddy bear out from under my bed—it only had one eye. Next, he stretched and pulled out a stack of old sketchbooks that were filled to the brim with my creations.
“Clean? But it’s Saturday. Can’t I just relax like the kids at school? On the weekends they play computer games and go for ice cream. Saturdays are for doing … I dunno … nothing.” Uh-oh. I regretted it as soon as I had uttered the word “nothing.” I was going to get my dad’s Chinese Way lecture.
“Doing … nothing? Nothing?” Ba got up from his knees and wiped the dust bunnies and hair from his pant legs. “It is not the Chinese Way to do nothing, Danny.” Ma raised her eyebrows at me. She knew what was coming. She started humming a little out-of-tune ditty while her feather duster skimmed the top of my wardrobe.
“The Chinese Way is hard work. It is about listening to and respecting our elders. It is about family and helping each other gain success. We have to work doubly hard in this country. Six days a week. No one gives us anything for free. We don’t do … nothing,” Ba blustered.
“I didn’t mean it that way. I meant …” What did I mean? “I just like drawing, that’s all. It’s not really doing nothing. Look, I’m making something.” I turned my sketchbook around so he could see what I was working on. Ma peeked over Ba’s shoulder to get a glimpse and squinted, her head tilted. She was obviously confused. They swapped places. Ba sighed, then got back down on the floor, and Ma moved in closer to see my picture.
“It’s a dragon-and-duck hybrid,” I told her. I hoped she would see how great and Chinese it was. I turned the book back toward me. They didn’t get it.
“Oh okay … oh look, it’s Blue Bear!” she said, bending down. She picked up the dirty old bear. It was more gray than blue now. “I haven’t seen him for years. He just needs a good wash,” Ma said, brushing off the cobwebs.
“It’s kinda disgusting, Ma, and I’m eleven, not two,” I said, wondering why she’d want to keep that ugly thing. “You can throw it away.”
“How can you say that? Nai Nai sent it for you all the way from China,” said Ma.
“She won’t even know it’s gone,” I replied. If there was one thing I didn’t mind being thrown in the trash, it was that bear. My Chinese grandmother, whom I’d never even seen, wouldn’t know it had been chucked in the trash can, so why did I need to keep it?
“She will know, Danny … I mean … she will know that you didn’t appreciate her gift,” she said quickly.
Ba shook a black bag open, then grabbed a pile of my old sketchbooks.
“Ba, wait! Don’t throw those away.” My heart beat faster in my chest. I couldn’t remember what was in those books, but I knew they deserved a better fate than the recycling bin.
He shook the dust off the top of one, then flicked through it, tutting. That wasn’t a good sign. He stopped at one page entitled DANNY CHUNG DOES NOT DO MATH.
“ ‘Danny Chung does not do math’? What does that mean? We all do math—everybody does math.” I’d forgotten I had started that particular comic strip. I’d been bored in class while Mr. Heathfield was talking about long division, and I’d begun drawing all the things I could be doing instead of math. That had included balancing a beach ball while playing a trumpet, blowing paper darts through a straw, and flying a giant kite in the shape of a stingray that had turbo jets.
“Oh, that was just for fun. A joke to make Ravi laugh.” This was not the time to bring up how I had a hate-hate relationship with math. Often I would try to get Ravi to help me, or I would just give an excuse to Mr. Heathfield if I couldn’t do something. He thought I had a dog who ate a lot of my homework.
“If you tell yourself you cannot do something, then you will not succeed at it. You need the right mindset. This … drawing stuff. It has no purpose.” He put all of my old sketchbooks into the black bag. I felt like my hard work had been truly trashed.
“But I like it,” I mumbled, hugging the book I was now working in.
Ba obviously hadn’t heard about famous painters like van Gogh. (All right, he was poor during his lifetime and had a terrible incident with his ear, but now his paintings were worth millions.) I tried to think of a less tragic artist who was famous. I slid my drawings under my pillow.
“But why, Ba? Why can’t I be like Picasso?”
“Why do you want to be like Pika … what’s it … the yellow squeaky mouse thing from TV?” He shook his head, squinting with confusion. “That’s not a career, Danny.” I wondered if he was imagining, as I was, a grown-up me dressed in a Pikachu onesie holding a briefcase and going to an office. I stifled a laugh.
“No, Ba. Picasso was a Spanish painter. He said, ‘Every child is an artist’—he was very famous. He’s not a Pokémon.”
Ba sat down on the side of the bed, sliding next to me. Then he put his arm around me and gave me a squeeze.
“Son, it’s for your own good that you do more constructive things with your spare time. You can draw in art class at school, but after you come home, you need to focus on getting good grades. We don’t want you to be serving take-out like us when you grow up. Math, science, English—these are the subjects you have to work on.”
“Your ba is right,” Ma said, pulling bits of fluff from the bea
He looked me straight in the eye. “I love you, Danny, but no more drawing, okay?”
Ba rose and glanced around the room; his brow furrowed, causing slight wrinkles in his usually smooth forehead. “Anyway, we want to make room for a new bunk bed. It’s arriving in half an hour. Then I need to go and get my—” Ba was about to say something, but Ma swatted him on the arm.
She interrupted. “We need to get a move on … Get dressed now,” she said, still clutching the blue-gray bear. “The Yees will be here any moment with the bunk bed.” She glanced at Ba. It was a look that I couldn’t understand.
“Give me some privacy and I’ll get dressed, okay? I guess that’s something to look forward to.” I got out of bed. A new bunk bed was gonna be great because my mattress was sagging in the middle.
Ba half smiled and patted my shoulder; he looked tired. Ma led Ba out of the room with a hand on his waist. He dragged the black bag behind him like a bad Santa. Bye, drawings! I’ll miss you! I wanted to shout. I was determined to never be in that position again. From now on I would have to do stealth drawings.
They were whispering about something while going down the stairs. I could hear Ma telling Ba off. “Not yet …” were the only words I could make out.
Not yet? What was not yet?
CHAPTER 2
CYBORG DEVILS OF THE HOUSE OF YEE
“We come bearing gifts! Where is Danny?” Auntie Yee boomed.
Auntie Yee’s voice was so loud, I could hear it upstairs as I pulled my sweatshirt over my head and zipped up my jeans. It was like she needed everyone along the main street to hear what she was saying. I flicked through my sketchbook to the comic I had done last week after Auntie Yee’s visit.
I’d drawn Amelia with spiky devil horns, her mother as a robotic despot who owned a mansion full of lethal lipsticks. One turn of the lid and KABOOM! You were toast. I hadn’t added any words, but I would let Ravi fill in those parts when I met him at the park later. He was my comic wingman—he did the speech bubbles to my drawings. I shoved my sketchbook into my gray backpack and hopped downstairs in my slippers.
Like always, Auntie Yee looked like she had stepped out of a hair salon and a nail salon and a ladies’ fashion boutique. And behind her was Auntie Yee’s “mini me”—Amelia Yee. They were always in color-coordinated outfits, like weird twins. Amelia’s braces glinted at me as she forced a half-smile. Being required to hang out with Amelia Yee was basically torture. She didn’t want to be here—I didn’t want her to be here either. But it was the Chinese Way to act respectful, and so we pretended we got along.
Auntie Yee placed a round tin on the table and opened it, revealing yet another steamed cake (if you could call it a cake), which we usually had to force down with buckets of jasmine tea.
“Hi, Auntie Yee,” I said, waving. Just for the record, she wasn’t my real aunt; I had to call her “auntie” because that was also the Chinese Way.
“Thank you so much for bringing the beds!” Ma said, beaming at Amelia. “You’re such a kind girl.”
“You know, anything to help,” Amelia said, and then whispered to me under her breath so only I could hear it: “Those less fortunate.” She turned to face Ma and added, “I’ve got a new double bed with a TV that pops up at the end. A girl at school had one and Mommy said I could have one if I passed my piano exam. I got an A-plus.”
“She’s excelling. Those extra lessons we bought are really doing the trick. Three times a week she has a tutor. We’re so busy taking Amelia to all of her extracurricular activities. You know how it is, Su Lin!”
“Oh yes, of course … impressive, Amelia,” Ma said. “Danny, tell Amelia about what you have been doing or your … things.”
“My things?” I asked. I had no clue what she was talking about.
“Danny, how is school going?” Auntie Yee said. It was the question she always asked when she came. It is also the least interesting question a child could answer.
“Danny is doing well at school too,” Ma interjected. “He’s always working so hard. His head is always in a book.” Ma patted my back and ruffled my hair. Amelia glanced at me and then smirked.
Auntie Yee was always telling my parents I should do this and that. Luckily, we just didn’t have the money for fancy lessons; my parents were trying to save up to buy a new house.
“Danny, your mother told me you stopped the violin lessons. I suggest you take up the piano instead. The secret is constant practice.” Auntie Yee turned to Ma. “Invest in your child and your child will invest in you when you are old, as well you know.” Auntie Yee sat down.
My two months of torture last year—also known as violin lessons—were a waste of money and time. Ba was the one who begged my mom to stop paying for them. “The boy isn’t talented at all—he sounds like a strangled cat,” I heard him say. Ba was right; it was not my thing. In fact, I played badly on purpose! It was the one time I was glad to be awful at something.
Ba wedged open the front door of the takeaway open. I could see Uncle Yee taking long planks of white wood out of his truck and passing them to Ba to stack outside the window. Ba was looking concerned—there were a lot of parts. Uncle Yee slapped him on the back and pointed to a headboard, then carried in a whole mattress all by himself. Ba lifted up the headboard and brought it in. He was already a little breathless. Uncle Yee winked at me as he approached, the mattress in his big arms.
“Hey, little man, how are you doing?” he boomed, his bald head shining under the light. He was the only Yee I could stand.
“I’m fine, thanks,” I replied.
“We’ll get this beast set up in no time at all. Ready for when your— Owww.” Ba accidentally nudged Uncle Yee with the headboard.
“Sorry, sorry. Couldn’t see you there.” Ba gave Ma an impatient look, as if to say, Stop their chitchat.
“Thanks so much, Adrian,” Ma said. “We left you the chocolates that you like—Ferrero Rocher—on the living room coffee table; help yourself when you are up there.”
“Oh, my favorite!” said Uncle Yee. He turned and bounded up the stairs with the mattress like it was made of marshmallows. Ba struggled behind with the headboard. I could hear him ricocheting off the walls as he went up.
“Come, let us sit and have some snacks,” Ma said, inviting Auntie Yee and Amelia to sit at our dining table. It was behind the takeaway counter and had been laid out with jasmine tea and a tin of egg rolls; a small fruit bowl sat in the middle. Auntie Yee indicated to Amelia to sit down next to her. Amelia took her furry rainbow backpack off and plonked it on the table. Everyone was trying to avoid the jaundiced sponge cake.
“Bag off the table, Amelia. We’re not ruffians,” said Auntie Yee. She’d been talking all “posh” since being booted out of the Women’s Society, which, according to Ba, was some kind of women’s club in the nearby county where they bake a lot of cakes. Her steamed Chinese sponges were not a resounding success, so she liked to bring them here. Ma sometimes told me to take them to the park to share with Ravi. We often played Frisbee with them and then scooped the pieces up and plopped them in the garbage can, as we didn’t want to poison the wildlife.
Amelia grabbed her bag and shoved it to the floor near her feet. Then she got out her tablet and started to swipe left and right.
“So you are looking forward to having bunk beds, then, Danny?” asked Auntie Yee.
“Yes, I can’t wait. I’m going to invite my best friend, Ravi, over for sleepovers; I’m seeing him later at the park.” Ma shifted in her seat. She liked Ravi—I didn’t think she would disapprove of him staying over—and in any case, she and Ba worked nearly every night, so I was alone upstairs. Ravi could keep me company and hang out. It would be great to have someone to talk to in the evenings.
“Amelia never used the top bunk—it was pointless having it to be honest. Adrian thought it would be good for sleepovers, but Amelia is too busy for those kinds of things—even weekends are full.” Amelia suddenly looked strange for an instant, then took a deep breath in. I thought she was really popular at that fancy girls’ school her parents paid for, but maybe she wasn’t.
“I’m happy it’s gone. Sleepovers are immature,” Amelia chimed in. She looked up at us all for a moment, then went back to looking at her screen. Ma poured the tea.
