by Kelly Yang
“NO!!” I shouted to the radio.
“Let’s hear from the listeners,” the first guy suggested. Their telephone rang with a call.
“Hi. This is Tim Webster calling from Northridge. I don’t care that she’s a straight-A student, she’s still an illegal, and I say, get rid of ’em. Illegal immigrants mooch off the US government. They come here, have babies, steal jobs—”
I reached over and turned off the radio. Everything was quiet for a long minute. I looked down at the stack of envelopes in my lap. Jason touched my arm.
“Hey, don’t be sad. I used to think that too,” he reminded me. “And now I don’t.”
I thought back to our first conversation about Prop 187 in Jason’s room, when he threw the paper airplane at me. It was hard to believe that was just a few months ago.
“Too bad you can’t vote,” I said.
“I can when I’m eighteen,” Jason declared proudly.
I envied his certainty. Even though we had green cards, my parents and I weren’t citizens yet. Was I going to be able to vote when I turned eighteen? I hoped so.
The phone at the front desk rang, and when I picked it up, Mrs. Q shouted, “Turn to Channel 2!”
I pointed to the TV, and Jason went over and turned it on. Channel 2 was showing live footage from right outside San Diego County Jail. A dozen people were chanting, “Free José Garcia! Free José Garcia!” Men and women and kids of all different colors and ethnicities were holding large signs for Lupe’s dad!
Jason put his head up close to the screen and pointed to the small figure to the right.
“Look! There’s Lupe!” he cried. I ran over and knelt beside him in front of the screen. He was right—I recognized Lupe’s long wavy hair and her clothes! We waved to her, even though she couldn’t see us.
As the sun gleamed above the barbed wire fence, Lupe smiled at the people who had turned out for her dad.
I wished she could see the look on her face. She’d want to draw it over and over and over again.
The night traffic had receded to a dull murmur by the time Lupe and Hank came home. But before I could tell Lupe about them being on TV, the shrill ring of the telephone disrupted me. I picked it up.
“I saw the latest numbers,” Mr. Cooper said instead of hello. “The occupancy rates are up, which is good.”
“Yup! Thanks to all the immigrants, we’ve had a lot more people checking in,” I told him. I bit my tongue from adding, Told ya the sign was good!
“But the total profits are still low.”
“True,” I admitted. “That’s because we gave some people a discount. If only we had more rooms to put people.…” I reached out and ran my fingers over the keys hanging under the front desk.
“Well,” Mr. Cooper said. “I called because I’m going to hold on to my shares. For now. But I want to see these profits back up soon.”
He didn’t say when or what he was going to do if that didn’t happen. Still, we all slept soundly that night for the first time in weeks.
The next morning, I woke up to urgent banging on the front office window. Mrs. T was carrying a copy of the Los Angeles Times.
“Mia! Wake up! You’re in the paper!”
Mrs. T set a copy of the newspaper on my bed and turned to the inside of the front section. There, published in the Letters to the Editor section, was my letter!
I couldn’t believe my eyes! I took the paper from Mrs. T and ran through the manager’s quarters screaming, “I’m an author!!! I’m an author!!!”
Lupe leaped out of her rollaway bed, and my parents came over to see what all the commotion was about. When they saw my name in the paper, my dad took me in his arms and spun me around.
“My lucky penny!” He kissed my hair. “You did it!”
“This is so amazing!” Lupe said. Her eyes danced across the page as she read my words. They printed my letter word for word, and even added a little cartoon of an immigrant kid watching the Prop 187 ads on TV.
“Oh, Mia, I’m so proud of you!” my mom said.
I grinned from ear to ear as I soaked up their words. My parents called to Hank, and when he saw my letter, he lifted me off my feet.
“Hot diggity dog! Our Mia’s a real writer now!” He beamed. “I knew you could do it!”
It was the most amazing feeling in the world, seeing my words in print. As I walked to school that morning carrying the newspaper in my hand, I felt the entire world open up, my lungs filling with possibility!
At school, the classroom was buzzing with chatter. The election was next week, and everyone was guessing who would win. I waited until my classmates settled down and we all got back in our seats before raising my hand.
“Yes, Mia?” Mrs. Welch called with a nod. “Do you have something to share with the class?”
Gently, I unfolded the newspaper on my desk. The other kids peered curiously at it, as though maybe there was a pet iguana hidden inside. But there was something even better.
“I …” I looked down at the paper, the words too magical to say.
“Mia was published in today’s newspaper,” Lupe announced.
“Really??” Mrs. Welch’s eyes sparkled. She gestured for the paper and put on her reading glasses. “Let’s see it!”
As she read my letter out loud, I sat at my desk nervously, wondering what the other kids were going to say and what errors Mrs. Welch was going to find. A misplaced comma or word that ought to be capitalized? There had to be something.
But all I got when she finished reading was the smile of a proud teacher. “Marvelous,” she said. “Just marvelous.”
For the rest of the day, I felt as light as air. At lunch, the kids in our club read my letter out loud. They were SO proud of me. I bounced on the balls of my feet as we celebrated our win—and that’s exactly what it felt like. Like we were published. We were heard.
Before the end of the school day, Mrs. Welch asked if she could borrow the newspaper to make a copy to hang on the school wall. As I handed her the newspaper, I thought, wow, if I can get someone like Mrs. Welch to change her mind with my words, then maybe, just maybe, Californians will do the right thing.
My dad came to pick me up after school. He was taking me out to our favorite spot by the lake to celebrate.
“I’m so proud of you,” he said as we sat down on our favorite patch of grass, underneath the big cypress tree.
“For getting published in the newspaper?” I asked. I smiled, thinking back to last year when he gave me the sparkly green pencil, which I still had, and encouraged me to write everything down.
“Not just that. For helping your friend Lupe and not giving in to Mr. Cooper about the sign. It shows you have yi qi.”
The crimson autumn leaves swayed gently above us.
“What’s yi qi?” I asked.
“Yi qi means loyalty,” he said. “It means sticking up for your friends. It’s one of the most important Chinese values.”
“You have it too,” I pointed out, thinking about how he always went to bat for his immigrant friends. If I had a few drops of yi qi, my dad had an ocean of it.
My dad chuckled. “That’s right, I do.” He reached over and patted my head. “You may be becoming more American. But you’re still very Chinese inside.”
I leaned my head against my father’s arm and snuggled up to him under the warm sun. I hadn’t realized I’d been waiting to hear those words until right then.
“Thanks, Dad.” I smiled.
Maybe being Chinese wasn’t about liking red bean shaved ice or having serious chopsticks skills, I thought as I looked out onto the peaceful lake. Maybe it had to do with yi qi and all sorts of other Chinese values living inside me, just waiting to be discovered.
My mother was waiting at the front desk when we got home. She was taking me and Lupe shopping to celebrate my being published in the newspaper and Lupe being on TV. This time my dad didn’t stop her.
Excitedly, Lupe and I got into the car. I thought we were just go
ing to head over to the thrift store, but my mom said she was taking us to the mall.
“The trial’s coming up soon, and you girls will need something nice to wear,” she said. She took her credit card out from her wallet and flashed it with a grin. “We’re going to JCPenney!”
“Woo-hoo!” Lupe and I shouted. It was about time I graduated from thrift store clothes!
Of course, we headed straight for the clearance racks. As we were searching, my mom’s old friends walked over.
“Long time no see!” my mom greeted them in Mandarin. “Where have you guys been?”
“Oh, we tried to call you,” Mrs. Zhao said, and the other wives nodded.
I knew this was a lie—I personally manned the phones, and even if she had tried to call while I was at school, our new phone system would have recorded it.
Still, my mom played along.
“I’ve been busy too,” she said. “You know how it is.”
The ladies pointed to Lupe.
“Who’s she?” they asked. Lupe looked bashfully at them, poking me to translate.
“She’s a friend of my daughter’s,” my mom replied. “A good family friend.”
Mrs. Zhou raised a sharp eyebrow. “You have a lot of these kind of friends, don’t you?” She frowned at Lupe.
“What do you mean?” my mom asked.
“I only let my daughter hang out with other Chinese kids,” Mrs. Li told her.
“Me too,” Mrs. Fang agreed. “It’s better that way. This isn’t the United Nations.” She gave a little laugh.
I had heard more than enough. I tugged on my mom’s hand, eager to leave. Forget JCPenney; I’d rather stick to my thrift shop.
Mrs. Zhou sighed at my mother. “I know you’re fresh off the boat, so let me give you some advice,” she said. “If you let your daughter hang out with Mexicans and Blacks, she’ll xue huai.”
Xue huai means “learn bad” in Chinese. As soon as Mrs. Zhou said that, Mom burst out laughing. Then she looked straight at the three ladies and said, “The only danger my daughter has of xue huai is if she hangs out with you three bigots.” She grabbed my hand and Lupe’s. “C’mon, girls. Let’s shop somewhere else.”
We were just a few steps away, though, when my mom suddenly remembered. “Oh, and that man you saw me with? His name is Hank. He’s one of the finest people I know. Any of us would be lucky to be married to him.”
Mrs. Li made a disgusted face. “Clearly you’ve been hanging out on the wrong side of the tracks, my friend.”
My mom laughed again and said loudly in English, “You’re not my friend! You’re filled with toilet paper, just like the fake shopping bags I used to carry!”
Lupe and I giggled. I couldn’t believe my mom was saying all these things! Go, Mom!
Just as we were about to walk out, I looked back at Mrs. Zhou’s, Mrs. Li’s, and Mrs. Fang’s appalled faces—and stuck my tongue out at them.
My mom might have bright red lips and a new credit card, but deep down inside she was still the same person. I smiled. Clearly Dad and I weren’t the only ones with yi qi!
The sky on Election Day was stained with smoky gray clouds. After school, Lupe and I sat glued to the television. By the early evening, I could feel my eyeballs starting to melt. Lupe’s mom called to tell Lupe that no matter what happened, it was going to be okay. To have faith. But by the time the moon rose high above the big Calivista sign, all the television reporters were saying Wilson was going to win.
I shook my head. “That can’t be right,” I said.
“What if it is?” Lupe asked, walking over and staring at the numbers up close before finally switching off the TV.
I’d been telling myself there was no way that Prop 187 was going to pass and looking for little signs to support this belief. And there were lots of little signs, like my letter being published in the newspaper, Ms. Patel agreeing to help Lupe’s dad for free, the protestors outside the county jail, all the people at the march, and Mrs. Welch turning into a surprisingly good teacher.
But there were also lots and lots of signs that it would pass, like the poster at the pool, the flyers under the doors, the graffiti on the wall of the grocery store, the scribbles on the wall outside the bathroom at school, and the list of hate crimes as tall as our Calivista sign.
We’d heard on the news that if Prop 187 passed, there was going to be a lawsuit. I reminded Lupe of the powerful word appeal and what had happened with my mom’s credit card rejection. But she shook her head.
“This is different,” she said. “If it passes, Pete Wilson’s not going to let the voters down.”
The phone rang. Tomorrow was moving day for Jason’s family, and he called to ask if I could come over and help him pack. I knew I should stay with Lupe through election night. But I also knew how stressful moving was, having done it a million times myself.
“Hey, Lupe, do you mind if I go over and help Jason move?” I asked.
She shrugged. “Sure,” she said. “I can hang out with Hank. We won’t know the results until tomorrow anyway.”
When I got to Jason’s house, Mrs. Yao was in the living room, instructing a team of packers how to carefully wrap up their expensive art. There were boxes everywhere.
“Oh, hi, Mia,” she said, putting the jade vase she was carrying down and looking slightly embarrassed.
“Hi, Mrs. Yao.” I stood there awkwardly. “Do you need any help?”
One of the movers came in and announced, “Ma’am, you’re not going to be able to fit all this in your new house.”
“Why not?” she asked, shaking her head curtly.
“Because it’s half the size of this one.”
Mrs. Yao’s face turned steaming red, like it did the day at the motel when she yelled at Jason for picking up feathers. “It’s none of your concern how to make it fit,” she said, jabbing a box with her manicured finger. “You’ll do as I say and pack it all up!”
I went to go find Jason. He was in his room, buried in a fort of Nerf guns, LEGOs, video game consoles, books, and clothes. His head poked out when I knocked.
“My mom says I can only take three boxes,” he muttered. Then curled his body into a ball again and shrank down into the fort.
I looked over at the three empty boxes sitting in the corner, then at the mountain of stuff.
“I don’t know how to decide,” Jason admitted from his hiding place. “I want to take it all.…”
I recognized the fear in his voice, the worry that if he didn’t take every single thing, a part of him would be lost forever. I walked over and squeezed in next to him. “You know,” I said gently, “when I first moved to America, all I could bring was a tiny carry-on suitcase. I had to fit all my belongings into it.”
Jason looked up, chewing his lip. “Really?”
I nodded.
“How’d you do it?” he asked.
I put a finger to my chin, recalling. “I played a little game called, If you were stuck on an island and you could only bring one thing, what would it be?”
“Definitely the Joy of Cooking,” Jason decided. “I gotta have my recipes.”
I smiled and spotted the big cookbook in the pile. I picked it up, walked over, and put it inside one of the empty boxes. Then I asked Jason to pick one more item. He chose his chef’s card from the cooking class. Then his video game console. Then he picked up a gold watch his dad had given him.
“This was my grandfather’s,” he said, handing it to me. “It’s really special because he bought it with the money he made from running a Chinese restaurant. My dad called it sweat money.”
I looked down at my own T-shirt and shorts, wondering if they were bought with sweat money too. I almost wanted to smell them. And did that make them less cool or more? More, I decided, because it meant we took extra care of them.
Carefully, I wrapped up the watch in tissue paper and put it into the box.
“What else?” I asked Jason.
We kept playing the Stuck on an Isla
nd game until all three moving boxes were packed. When the last one was sealed, we looked at all the toys and books and junk that hadn’t made it. There was still a sizable toy pile in the middle of the room, enough to entertain a small village of kids.
“What do I do with the rest of it?” he asked.
“Why don’t you bring it to the motel?” I suggested. “I bet some of the immigrants’ kids who come on Wednesdays would love this!”
“Great idea!” Jason grinned. “Let’s get some more boxes from the moving guys so we can pack them up!”
I beamed. As we walked out of his room to get the boxes, I spotted Mr. Yao in the living room. He was sitting on the cold, bare marble floor, the couch having already been wrapped and moved. In his lap was a thick stack of bills, and his fingers were punching numbers into a calculator. He looked so … small. It was a sharp difference from the first time I saw him in this very room, sitting atop his throne, oozing opulence and power. As I watched him, I started thinking about the two roller coasters again. I’d been so fixated on going from the poor one to the rich roller coaster, I never once thought about what it’d be like to go the other way around.
Mr. Yao caught me staring at him and snapped, “What are you looking at?”
“I—uh—I was just wondering, did you vote today?”
“Sure, I voted,” he said. With a smug face, he announced, “I voted for Wilson and Prop 187.”
Of course he did. Even when he was down, he somehow managed to kick someone else.
“How are you guys doing at the motel?” he asked.
“Good,” I told him.
“Well, I wish I could say the same for me.”
As he turned back to his bills, Mr. Yao let out one of those exasperated sighs my dad usually reserved for unflushed toilets in the guest rooms. It was almost enough to make me feel sorry for him.
It was late when I got back. Lupe was already asleep. My mom said Lupe didn’t want to stay up to watch any more election coverage. I didn’t blame her. She’d just talked to her mom on the phone and gone to sleep.