Tomato Changed My Life

Doing things-without being planned was never my strength.

As a 14-year-old, I would refuse to go for walks around the block with my friends if I was the least bit behind in my schoolwork.

Unlike most teenagers, I lived not in my room, but in an unused kitchen upstairs where I spread my books and papers on a large round table. I spent considerable time there, working continuously for hours, and my mother worried. She would try to lure (引诱) me away. “Come and watch the parade!” she would call from downstairs. “All neighbors are out there!” She thought of all kinds of tricks-the swimming pool, ice cream, stray cats and turtles-to remove me from my -studies, but nothing ever worked.

Later, in college, the pattern continued. The library and my college dorm replaced the unused kitchen at home. When spring came along friends would stop by my dorm or peer into my library room to persuade me to play Frisbee on the lawn. “No, I would almost always say.” I have too much to do.

My college study days were gone, but not my need and love for schedules. My friends and sisters tried to keep me away from my plans, but they were hardly ever successful.

This summer, though, while house sitting for my parents, I was persuaded to change my plans in the most unexpected way. The sight of tomatoes growing in my mother’s garden lured me out of my tightly scheduled world. They drew me with the power of a lover’s gaze. Hundreds of them were turning ripe and red by the minute, decorating the garden like decorations on a Christmas tree.

“If I have time, I’ll make tomato sauce (番茄酱).” I told myself. But my long week in the house by myself was already filled with things to do: writing, and finishing a project that I brought home from the office.

Then, watching the fascinating tomatoes continuously falling to the ground in ever-greater numbers, again I mentally argued about all the things I had planned and needed to do.

For as long as I can remember. I have spent every Sunday afternoon until I was a teen, around the table at Grandma’s house. As soon as Grandma and I would return from Sunday Morning Mass at St Joseph’s Parish. Grandma got started on the meatball.

Ever since I was just two years old, Grandma would always allow me, her only granddaughter at the time, to sneak a meatball before dinner was served. There was something about that snuck meatball. For some reason, it tasted so much better than the one she placed beside my macaroni, once we all sat down. My Italian Gamma had a way of keeping an eye on all of her meatballs, to make sure no one snuck a meatball but me, who she gave that special VIP sneak. How did she do it? Well, she would make my “before dinner meatball” slightly bigger than the rest.

The meatball stealing games was all fun until Jeanine came along. Allow me to introduce you to my sister Jeanine, my Gramma’s second granddaughter born five years after me, just three years after I fell in love with Gramma’s yummy meatballs.

My younger sister Jeanine was quite the fussy eater. She did not care that her gramma made the world’s best meatballs, or that our mama made almost as yummy meatballs as her mother did. All Jeanine cared about was being done with dinner as fast as possible so she can go back to playing, and so she can get her evening snack, cocoa and popcorn. Jeanine knew the rules. She knew no snack unless you finish your dinner at least 90 percent. Jeanine was not giving up her favourite snack. She knew she had to develop a plan! She did indeed!

So, one day when she was given a meatball on her plate, she stole that meatball.

One day my mother noticed that something smelt funny in our closet.

In our weekly staff meeting, our editor Ashley was not pleased with the quality of our reporting. “Our readership is way down. We need better stories for this Thursday’s school newspaper. Does anybody have any ideas?” she said.

I handed her my article about our basketball team beating Deerfield High School the previous night by one point. “Sports stories are fun,” she said, “but not good enough for the front page. We need something to really get people ‘s attention.”

After our meeting, we left the newsroom together and heard someone screaming, “Perry is missing!” Perry was a big red parrot and had been our school mascot (吉祥物) for ten years. He played an important role in students’ lives, both in and out of class. He had also been a constant presence at school events, inspiring a sense of unity among students.

Everyone gathered around Perry’s empty cage, heartbroken. Suddenly, a student from the crowd came over and showed me a photo. “You’re a reporter for the school paper, right? I happened to take this yesterday,” he said. In the photo was a Deerfield High School basketball player with something large hidden under his shirt around the size of a parrot.

“He must have stolen Perry to get back at us for winning the game!” Ashley cried. We hurried back to the newsroom, agreeing to run the photo on the front page with the headline “Deerfeld Stole Perry.” “This is just the story we need. Everyone will read it,” Ashley said confidently.

After she left, I took a closer look at the photo. The clock in the background read 4:15 pm, but our game against Deerfield hadn’t started until 4:30 pm. Why would the boy have taken Perry before we even played? An uneasy feeling came over me that we might have falsely accused someone.

I went to Perry’s usual caretaker to ask if he knew Perry was missing. ”He’s not missing. He’s retired. He’s ready for some quieter days,“ he said. Learning the truth, I immediately told Ashley and suggested writing a story to say goodbye to Perry.

To my surprise, Ashley insisted on reporting the “Deerfield Stole Perry” story.

On Thursday, the paper came out with the headline “Bye-Bye, Perry” on the front page.

“Where is it? We’re going to be late!” Janice searched the house crazily for her wallet. “Josh! Did you hide my wallet? We have to be at Grandpa’s for his birthday party!” Josh, Janice’s four-year-old younger brother, smiled innocently at her, but his cunning (狡黠的) eyes gave himself away. She tried her best not to shout. Grinning (咧嘴笑) like a cat, Josh reached under the sofa, pulled out her wallet and held it over his head. Janice grabbed it.

Ten minutes later, they hurried to the train station. Red-faced and sweating, Janice let go of Josh’s wrist and removed the sweat from her forehead. The train arrived. Her smile froze when she realized that the train was packed with passengers. Grabbing Josh’s hand, Janice boarded the train. She commanded, “The train’s really crowded, Josh. Behave yourself, stick close to me, and no monkey business!” Josh nodded, holding tightly to a rail. Janice smiled.

When it was time to get off the train, Janice quickly pushed her way through the crowd to get onto the platform. “We made it!” Janice said, turning around. Josh was nowhere to be seen. The crowd was flooding out, but Josh was not among them. “The train doors are closing,” then came the electronic voice. Soon, the crowd on the platform died down. The last thing Janice saw was Josh’s little anxious face at the train window: Just as Janice was about to call out Josh’s name, the train disappeared from view. “Josh!” Janice screamed.

Janice’s mind was transported back to when she was lost at the zoo. She could still vividly remember the towering figures surrounding her and none of them were’ familiar. “I don’t want Josh to go through that same bitter experience,” Janice let out a sigh.

Janice took out her mobile phone, ready to call her mother. However, midway, she decided against it. Her mother, who was far away in France on business, could do nothing but get restless. Janice paced up and down the platform anxiously.

Just then, Janice received a call from an unknown number.

Having waved goodbye to the lady, they headed for their destination.

I blame it all on my dad’s good intentions. You see, my writing career started when I was in elementary school, where there were various writing contests throughout the years. I’m assuming it was in the hopes of trying to get our young, little minds excited about the possibilities that writing could offer us in our lives. Then I’d come home, show my parents and my dad would say, “You did such a great job, honey! Wow, you must be a great writer!” I was probably a better writer in 5th grade than my average students at the time. I even went to the special advanced classes for the “gifted” kids for a few years.

And as I grew older, I remembered those experiences and what my dad was always telling me, and it just sort of stuck with me, and became part of my subconscious (潜意识) —that I was a great writer. I always did well in all my classes because I had this confidence. I didn’t like all subjects particularly, but I got good grades. I was pretty self-assured in my abilities as a student. Then, fast forward to my freshman year of high school. By this time, I had started to even out (相等) with the rest of my peers, in terms of intellect. And then, it happened, the day that I was shattered.

It was all because of my English teacher Ms. Moon. The year started out like any other. Jexpected to do well; I worked hard and knew that my dedication would pay off, like it always had in the past. But something started happening. I started getting Cs on my papers! I don’t think I’d ever even seen that letter, except in the spelling of my first name. And, not only was I not getting good grades in her class, but her comments were off the charts shocking. My papers were full of red marks, and I was being asked to re-do many assignments to even get a passing grade.

One day, Ms. Moon handed my paper to me and whispered, “It’s still not good enough.”

Very soon it was time for my final exam result.

We moved here a few days ago, and I don’t know anyone, not one person, at the new place. Dad says things will get better. He says I’ll take to city living just like I took to climbing trees and playing ball. I look out the window of our new apartment.

“This was a good move for us, Sonny,” Dad says, “You’ll see.”

“I miss the guys,” I say. “I miss Michigan. I miss” — I gaze up and down the street — “trees.”

“Los Angeles isn’t a bad place,” he says. Then he tells me about a park he saw down the street. “It has a couple of basketball courts. Get out there and sweat today. You’ve kept yourself inside too long.” I nod.

That afternoon, I grab my basketball and head down the street to find the courts. Dad was right about being kept inside too long. It’s about time to shake the cobwebs(蜘蛛网)off my basketball legs, see if I can still dribble(运球)with both hands, and remain a good shooter. I walk past all the shops with bars on their windows. This is home?

When I get to the courts, I see three guys shooting around. They’re playing some kind of one-on-one, taking turns with the third guy in. Two of them are taller than me, but one is about my size. I can tell that the short kid knows how to play by the way he handles the ball, dribbling well with either hand. But the other guys are too tall for him. One-on-one isn’t his game. He needs someone to pass to.

I go down to the other basket to shoot around. I’m pretty cold at first. But after I warm up, the old feelings come back — the proper knee bend, the feel of releasing the ball just right.

“Hi, there.”