“Depends how hard her trafficker is working her. Some of these girls are on the street as early as 10 a.m. with barely a few hours sleep. But since Josie’s fifteen and works a high visibility track, she usually doesn’t show until after 1:30.”
“That sounds rather specific.”
“Truancy laws. LAPD has the right to pick up any unattended minor between the hours of 8:30 a.m. and 1:30 p.m. They don’t, usually, but Josie’s trafficker doesn’t like to take the chance. She’s obviously young and easy to recognize: tinier than you, jet black hair, always wears a beret with lipstick to match. She’s a tough cookie, but if you buy her a meal, she might talk. At the very least, you can ask. That’s all any of us can do, right? Ask and wait. And hold a safe place until the kids are ready for help.”
I nodded, thinking of Aleisha and Stan and all the women and children who had sought refuge in their home and gone on to live happier lives—not all of them, but enough. Timing. Doubt. Fear. There were so many reasons for a woman—or a girl—to change her mind. So many excuses to stay with the devil she knew or double down on the hope that she could stop the violence and regain the love she once had.
Forced change didn’t stick. A person needed to walk through the door with a hopeful and willing heart.
Chapter Fifteen
It was 10:15 by the time I had crept down the 405 and wrestled through the LAX loop. I parked Baba’s sedan as close to the Bradley International Terminal as I could get, which meant not close at all, and ran. If Gung-Gung and Po-Po had arrived on time and U.S. Customs didn’t slow their progress to a screeching halt, they’d be marching out of the arrival tunnel at any moment.
I darted in front of shuttle buses converging into traffic and squeezed between the cars. No one honked. Nobody slowed. In the chaotic exchange of influx and exodus, my fleeting passage mattered not at all.
“Sorry. Excuse me,” I said, as I dodged anxious travelers and towering luggage carts. Many of those leaving baggage claim were Chinese. Had they arrived on the same flight as Gung-Gung and Po-Po?
The greeters in front of the arrival tunnel had thinned: just a couple hired drivers with signs and an expectant couple in their sixties, probably waiting for a son or daughter. I looked toward the baggage claim area. Would I find them there or here?
“Lily!”
My grandmother waved a free hand as she hustled out of the tunnel. Her other hand clutched a tote bag stuffed with duty free purchases. Her lips pressed into a grin that squished her oval face into cheery lumps of happiness.
“Hi, Po-Po.”
I hurried forward to take the bag and hiked the nylon strap onto my shoulder. The thing weighed a ton. Her sturdy frame straightened from relief. I wrapped my arms around her and kissed the spot between her cheek and her mouth, where age had made the flesh as soft as a baby’s. Her salt and pepper hair had turned silver since I saw her last, and she wore it short and swept off her face.
“You look so beautiful. I love the hair.”
She pushed me away, but her cheeks blushed with delight. “Wah! Gong ne d.” The literal translation meant “How odd you mention this.” The cultural translation was closer to “Don’t fuss about me.” Either way, my grandmother was decidedly pleased.
Po-Po didn’t speak English as fluently as Gung-Gung, so conversations with her required both cultural and literal translations, which was challenging since the primary language of Hong Kong was Cantonese. I spoke a bit—having studied it in Saturday class and practiced with Ma and other Hong Kong immigrants in our community—but I was rusty and often mixed it with the Mandarin I had studied in high school and college. The resulting hodgepodge made Ma cringe and her friends twitter with amused superiority.
“This bag is too heavy for you,” I admonished in Cantonese. “You should have let your husband carry it.” I delivered the last in Mandarin with scolding grin toward Gung-Gung.
She chuckled and patted my hand.
I glanced at Gung-Gung to see how he’d taken my playful chiding.
His brow raised in classic Wong fashion as if to say, Oh, I heard you, clever one, and you aren’t as amusing as you think.
I burst out laughing and hurried to give him a hug.
“How’s my Lei Lei?” he asked in English, using a childish endearment and patting me on the back as if I needed to burp. When I didn’t, he pushed me away for a better look.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Can’t I look at my only grandchild?”
He examined me from several angles and nodded. “You’ve gotten prettier.”
Was I ugly before? “Um, thanks.” I took his carryon and led the way to baggage claim. “Have you eaten?”
“Yes, yes, already. And you?”
“I have. But I could eat again.”
He smiled, no doubt relieved by the familiar exchange. Hongkongers inquired about food the way Americans inquired about feelings. How are you? Fine. And you? Great. Although Americans seldom expected a sincere answer, Hongkongers were always prepared to feed or eat if a guest so required. After one glance at Gung-Gung’s sunken frame, I had asked out of hope.
Age had sagged my grandfather’s features and shifted what little fat he had into less flattering locations: under the eyes and around the jowls. Even the lobes of his ears seemed more pronounced. He wore a tan collared shirt and a navy cotton blazer that hung from narrow shoulders and hid narrower hips. I had felt his bones during our hug, but his hair was just as black, and his droopy eyes just as familiar.
“How was your trip?” I asked in English.
He shrugged. “Nothing broke.”
I laughed. “Well, that’s good. Let’s see if your luggage fared as well.”
As we headed for baggage claim, I realized how much I had missed them. Gung-Gung might be rough around the edges, but I couldn’t allow my childish perception of Rose’s Hong Kong birthday to sour all of my memories. My grandfather loved me and demonstrated that love in his own way. As for Po-Po—anyone that adorable could be forgiven just about anything.
She hugged my arm and bumped the tote of duty free I was carrying into the side of my knee. I curved my spine into an awkward posture so I could walk.
“I’ve missed you, Po-Po.”
“Huh?”
“Ngo ho gua ju nei ah,” I repeated in Cantonese.
They wouldn’t be around forever. Busy or not, I intended to spend quality time with my grandparents.
Once I’d managed to unload their luggage from the carrousel—without knocking over Po-Po who was still clinging to my arm—I led them to Baba’s Audi and began the arduous trip out of LAX.
“Aiya,” Gung-Gung said. “The traffic is terrible here. And it’s so noisy. Our car is much quieter than this one. You should come live with us in Hong Kong. Mr. Tan would drive you anywhere you need to go.”
Po-Po squealed from the back seat as I crossed three lanes and braked for the looping onramp. “Sorry, Po-Po. Bào qiàn. I mean, ng ho yee see,” I corrected, switching from Mandarin to Cantonese and neither of them sounding very good.
Ma should have hired a limo. Or, better yet, I should have asked Kansas to drive so I could visit with Gung-Gung and Po-Po during the long ride to Arcadia. But that was before I had known I wanted quality time. Now, my brain scrambled with out-of-practice translations, maniacal freeway drivers, and worrisome thoughts about Emma Hughes and other sex-trafficked girls I didn’t even know.
Sensei’s voice cut through the clutter: “Quiet, Lily. Your mind is too loud to think.”
I inhaled deeply and sighed.
Po-Po patted my shoulder from the backseat. “Ngo zhong mei sei,” she said, assuring me she was okay—or in a literal sense, that she hadn’t died.
I responded in mishmash Chinese, using whatever word I could remember. Six years living in Culver City, away from the Hongkonger community in Arcadia, had left me few opportunities to practice. Even Baba’s kitchen staff, who worked diligently
to prepare his authentic Hong Kong recipes, didn’t speak Cantonese—not even Uncle.
Po-Po shook her head in confusion and switched to English. “Are you dating someone special, Lily? A good Hong Kong boy?”
“Yes. Please tell us,” Gung-Gung agreed.
“Um…maybe? I’m not sure.”
Gung-Gung huffed. “How can you not be sure? You’re either dating, or you’re not.”
Did one night of dinner and dance count as dating? I didn’t think so; but they might, especially if they knew how Ma had set us up under the pretense of a family dinner. If I counted that unpleasant ambush, Daniel and I had gone on two dates.
“Maybe,” I said. “It’s too early to know for sure.”
Gung-Gung huffed again. “Twenty-six years old is not too early.”
“I’m only twenty-five.”
“Your birthday is in three months.”
“You remembered?”
“Of course. Dates are important. Especially when they mark the years of an unmarried woman’s life.”
I laughed it off. “Things are different here, Gung-Gung.”
“Ha! You think time runs slower in the West? It doesn’t. Your country is just too young and foolish to know. You rush, rush, rush for things that don’t matter and trudge through mud for things that do. Nothing is more important than family.” He reached behind him and squeezed Po-Po’s hand. “Years pass quickly. Don’t spend them alone.”
I shut my mouth and focused on the traffic. Gung-Gung’s words had pierced an unhealed wound in my heart. Did I deserve to fall in love? And if so, was I willing to devote the necessary time to make it work?
Gung-Gung leaned closer and peered at my hands on the steering wheel. “Where’s your bracelet, Lei Lei? I don’t see it on your wrist.”
“It’s too fancy to wear in the day. I left it at home where it will be safe.”
Daniel Kwok had delivered Gung-Gung’s gift personally a month ago when Ma had surprisingly invited him to our family dinner. The Sì Xiàng barrel bracelet was similar to Ma’s own treasured gift and raised uncomfortable questions about Gung-Gung’s intentions.
“Leave our granddaughter alone, Shaozu,” Po-Po said in Cantonese. “Precious jewelry is for special occasions. I’m sure she’ll wear it to Violet’s party. As for boys…she’s probably embarrassed to tell us how many she’s dating, pretty girl like her. No doubt, they wait in the street just for a smile.”
I laughed. Tried to speak. Then laughed some more.
“Did I say something funny?” She asked in English then switched back to Cantonese. “Shaozu, what’s wrong with her? Are those tears running down her face?”
I tried to explain, but a fit of giggles stole my voice. Men lining the streets? Pretty girl? My smile? I wasn’t sure which was more ludicrous.
“How should I know what’s wrong with her?” Gung-Gung answered in Cantonese, throwing up his hands in exasperation. “Aiya. Our granddaughter is a confused worm.”
I spurt out another laugh at the silly Chinese proverb, causing Po-Po to huff with disapproval.
“Wu to chung,” she repeated, then added in English, “I agree. A very confused worm.”
Chapter Sixteen
After depositing by baffled grandparents with my anxious mother, I drove to Hollywood to hunt for the runaway teen Ms. Ruiz had mentioned. Although I had vowed to make the most of my time with Gung-Gung and Po-Po, a missing girl was in danger. I couldn’t stop hunting for her just because my grandparents were in town. Besides, Ma needed her own quality time with them, whether she wanted it or not.
I found Josie exactly as Ms. Ruiz had described, hanging in front of a souvenir shop on the corner of Hollywood and Cherokee. She wore a jaunty red beret, an “I Heart Hollywood” muscle tee, black shorts, and red and black Keds. It was 1:45, and for all anyone knew, she was handing out flyers for her dad’s shop after a short day at Hollywood High. Except she had no flyers.
And the only people she spoke to were men.
“Hey, guapos, want to party with me? It’d be fun. I promise. You’ll like it, for sure. Where you going? Why you look at stars on the ground when you got a star right in front of your eyes.” She planted her hands on her narrow hips and struck a movie star pose, eyes closed, face to the sun. When she opened them, the gray-haired man had moved on. “Your loss, anciano.”
She pivoted on her heels, and pointed her Keds back toward the west. “How about you guys? Want me to give you a tour?”
The out-of-town jocks chuckled and punched each other’s shoulders as they passed.
“You think I’m funny? Keep walking, you stupid hicks.”
I approached slowly, pausing to check the menu in the next door cafe. I caught her eye. “Is the food good here?”
Josie shrugged. “It’s okay. If you’re hungry enough.”
“Always.”
She snorted a laugh.
“Wanna join me?”
Surprise crossed her face then settled into a mischievous grin. “So, that’s how it is?” She leaned forward and parted her full red lips. “What you want, amiga?”
“Food. I’ll buy you a sandwich. No strings attached.”
Her dark eyes narrowed with suspicion. “That’s usually my line.” She checked the street, presumably for unattached men, and shrugged. “I guess I could eat.”
The stench of grease nearly sent me back to the street. But having lured Josie away from her corner, I didn’t want to take the chance that she’d find a more compelling lunch companion.
I nodded up at the menu sign. “What do you want?”
“Gyro, fries, and a coke—grande.” She spoke the last word in challenge in case I insisted on a small size drink.
“No problem.” I ordered a deli chicken wrap—basic assembly, no cooking required. How bad could it be? “My name’s Lily, by the way.”
“Oh yeah?”
“What’s your name?”
“Híjole! Are all you Asians so nosy?”
“Don’t you know any?”
“Oh sure. All my best friends are Korean or whatever.” She gestured around her at the predominantly white clientele. “Can’t you tell?”
The food arrived and I let her gobble the gyro, undisturbed, while I picked at my chicken wrap. All things considered, it wasn’t half bad. When she moved onto her fries, I started up again. “Ms. Ruiz says hi.”
Josie smirked. “So, that’s why you’re here. Tell her I’m fine. I don’t need her help.”
“Actually, I’m looking for a missing friend. She thought you might be willing to help me.”
Josie sucked down a third of her coke and shrugged. “Don’t see how.”
“She works for a guy named Manolo. Have you heard of him?”
Josie forced a laugh. “I know lots of Manolos. Which one you want? Drunk Manolo? Mean Manolo? Rich Manolo? Fat Manolo? They’re all assholes.”
“This one works out of Compton, Long Beach Boulevard.”
“Oh, that Manolo!” She stuffed her mouth with fries. “Don’t know him.”
She chewed with great deliberation, puckering and stretching her bright red lips. They were fuller than mine, which was saying a lot since the gene pool blender had given me uncomfortably exaggerated features. My wide mouth, huge eyes, arched brows, and rounded nose made for an inconveniently memorable face. I avoided makeup to lessen the distinction. Josie did the opposite. She lined her eyes like Elvira and painted her lips and stubby nails a bright cherry red. Everything about her screamed, “Look at me!” So I did. And what I saw was a tough-talking, secretly-hurting teenager.
“Is Manolo your trafficker?”
“Hey. Nobody traffics me. Comprende? Nobody.”
“Sorry, I just… You know him, though. Don’t you?”
Josie stuffed her mouth with more fries and sucked down the rest of her coke. “Thanks for the food.” She stood and swiped her lips with a fresh coat of lipstick. “I gotta go.” She pa
used at the door. “Mira. Has it occurred to you that this chica of yours might not want to be found.”
“But what if she does? I can’t just throw her away.”
“Why not? People do it all the time.”
Chapter Seventeen
Josie’s words rumbled in my ears as I started up Baba’s car. If Emma didn’t want to be found, I was wasting my time. I couldn’t force her to accept help, and yet, I couldn’t bring myself to throw her away. A little piece of me died every time I quit on someone, as if, once again, I was quitting on Rose. When my bright life had descended into darkness, I pushed everyone away. I had changed into someone my friends and family wouldn’t understand. I had done things they would not condone.
Had Emma felt the same?
Is that why she left with Manolo? Not because he threatened her with a gun but because she couldn’t bear her parent’s overwhelming relief? If she loved them at all, she had to have seen the pain she had caused, her failed life reflected in their eyes. Maybe she didn’t want to infect them with her darkness.
I pulled away from the curb, but instead of turning southwest toward Baba’s restaurant, to return his car, I turned southeast toward Thomas Jefferson High School to check on a hunch. If I wanted answers, I needed to find Emma. And to find Emma, I needed a better understanding of how high school girls were lured into the life. I’d bet my next paycheck that that’s what I had witnessed at Paco’s Tacos.
I found the campus secured by a tall fence and locked gates on three sides. Since I couldn’t cover them all, I focused on the front where Hooper and Compton Avenues converged. Bricked paths led to formal entrances at both of these corners with a shady lawn in between for students to hang out while waiting for Metro buses or rides.
The bell rang, and students flooded out of the school. Some went onto the lawn, but most scattered across the streets and around the corners. I swept my gaze to catch them all before they disappeared, but it was an impossible task. The school was huge. The odds of me spotting Dolla or Ana Lucía were slim.
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