by Kelly Yang
I grin at him, kicking my feet under the bench as I wait for the bus.
Seventeen
Claire
Friday night, I’m Skyping with my mom. It’s her Saturday morning. I’ve been in California a week. I miss the comforts of home, not having to make my own bed, not having to Uber everywhere. I miss Tressy. On the other hand, life by myself and not by committee is incredibly freeing. I can finally do whatever I want, and eat, say, drink whatever I want. There’s no one here to stop me.
My mom’s sipping tea and nibbling at a pineapple bun. She seems distracted when I tell her about my week. Judging by the silence in the house and the single plate setting, I’m guessing my dad did not come home again last night.
“You okay, Mom?” I ask. I think of what Jess said about the mistress-dispelling agencies. “You know . . . there are these places, these agencies we can go to.”
I tell her about Jess’s dad, thinking it might help, but it pisses her off. “You talk to your friends about this?” she asks.
Her anger catches me off guard. I feel the strings of guilt, curling around my neck, even as I remind myself I’ve done nothing wrong. I’m allowed to have friends. And I’m allowed to talk to my friends about things!
“We do not air our dirty laundry in public!” my mom commands. “You understand? And I’m certainly not going to go to some agency.”
“Mom. It’s more common than you think. Half the country—”
“I don’t care about half the country. I care about this family. This is our own internal affair,” she emphasizes, staring into the camera. Her voice is so loud on Skype, I have to lower the volume.
“I just . . .” I swallow. “I want you to know all the options.”
My mom takes a long, sullen breath. Clearly, this conversation is not going the way either of us pictured.
I think about telling her about my English placement exam but decide against it. It’s not a sure thing that I’ll pass. Just like it’s not a sure thing that that tycoon kid Jay paying for my waters meant anything.
“How’s Nai Nai?” I ask instead.
My mom slumps back in her chair. “Good,” she says. “She wants to know if you can buy her fish-oil capsules and mail them to her.”
I’m confused. “Can’t she buy them in China?” I ask. I’m pretty sure my grandmother’s been eating fish-oil capsules every morning for years.
My mom rolls her eyes. “Of course she can. But she wants them from America.”
“Why?” I ask.
My mom looks at me like, Duh. “Because everything’s better from America!”
The girls come by later on Saturday night. Jess, Florence, and Nancy push open the door to my room. I look up from my SAT Verbal study guide. I don’t know what to study for my English placement exam, so I’ve just been studying that. The girls are all dressed up. Jess crawls onto my bed, grabs the SAT book, and tosses it aside.
“Hey!” I protest. “I was studying that for my English placement exam!”
She ignores me and says, “We’re going out.” She says that a bouncer she knows texted her and he’s gonna get us into a club. Florence and Nancy are already rummaging through my closet. Nancy holds up a silver-sequined plunge-neck Rachel Zoe dress from my closet.
“That’s hot.” Jess nods approvingly.
I shake my head. “It’s not even mine,” I tell her. It’s one of my mom’s dresses—Tressy must have gotten it mixed up when she was packing. “It’s way too sexy!”
Jess whips out her phone. “Girl, you got a hundred and eighty followers,” she says, swiping to my Instagram account.
“So?” I ask.
“So my dog has more followers than you,” Jess says. She hands me the sequined dress and orders me to change. “C’mon. You gotta show a little honey if you wanna attract the bees.”
I take the dress, wondering what kind of bees we are attracting here. Still, I climb out of my bed. I’ve been studying all weekend and could use a break. I bump into Dani on my way to the bathroom. She looks down at my dress, raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything. Her eyes glance over to my room, landing on my mountain of dirty laundry. She points to it. “When are you planning on doing that?” she asks.
I shrug. “Tomorrow?”
“You need to separate it into small batches or you’ll break our machine,” she says.
I roll my eyes and look over at my friends. See what I mean? This is literally all she ever says to me.
Jess crosses her arms at Dani and says, “If she breaks it, I’m sure you’ll make her pay for it, like you did the mattress.”
Dani’s eyes widen in shock. She turns and stomps back to her room.
“Bitch,” Jess says under her breath. I stand in the hallway, torn between calling after Dani and yelling at Jess. Why’d she have to say that?
Dani slams her door.
We snap selfies in the back of Jess’s Porsche while she drives, the music blasting, the wind in our hair. Jess drives like a crazy person, swerving all over the place. It’s terrifying—I have no idea where she got her license—and if I weren’t so worried about my boobs falling out of my dress, I’d be clinging with both hands to my seat. I’m so Ubering back.
Guys honk at us, begging us to slow, asking us where we’re going. The girls drink the attention up while I sit with one hand over my eyes, the other arm over my breasts.
We arrive in one piece, thank God, forty-five minutes later. Club Landmark in downtown Los Angeles is packed with people. There’s a line to get in, which Jess skips. The bouncer, Steve, lets us in, doesn’t ask for ID. Jess whispers in my ear as we walk inside, “He’s cool. I’ve been here a thousand times.” As we settle into a VIP booth in the back, Jess orders three bottles of Grey Goose.
Nancy and Florence snap pictures, flooding their social media with posts I hope our parents will never see. Thank God Insta’s blocked in China. The music is so loud, I can feel my whole chest vibrating. The pic that Nancy and Florence just posted has Nancy sticking her butt way out and Florence looking like she’s grinding into it. The caption reads, #girlsnightout.
“Claire! Come on, get into this pic!” they shout. I shake my head shyly, but Nancy and Florence pull on my arm and start snapping shots. They post and tag and heart and caption to the delight of their five thousand followers.
When I sit back down, three white guys walk over to our table.
“You girls look hot tonight,” one of the guys says. “Where are you from?”
I open my mouth to say China, but Jess beats me to it.
“OC,” she says.
The blond guy, who looks like a surfer dude, announces he’s from the OC too. His friend laughs, unsatisfied with our answer, and asks again, “No, but where you really from?”
Jess looks confused. “My mother’s uterus?” she tells them.
The guys say, “All right, all right,” and chuckle. They ask if they can join us. Jess and Nancy quickly nod, eager to add some fresh arm candy to their Instas. Florence looks uneasy but scoots anyway to make room. I move down too, hands carefully holding my dress in place as I move. I regret not having gotten some double-sided tape. Jess pours me a vodka tonic while the blond surfer dude extends a hand.
“I’m Eric,” he yells over the music.
“Claire,” I say.
He compliments me on my dress, eyes lingering at my plunging neckline as he whispers, “You’re just my type, Claire.”
“What type is that?”
“Asian.”
“That’s not a type,” I inform him.
“Sure it is,” he says, smiling. He points to the dance floor. “You wanna dance?”
I shake my head. “No, I’m good.”
The dance floor is so packed with sweaty bodies, it looks like the Shanghai subway during rush hour.
“C’mon, it’ll be fun. You look like you could loosen up,” he says, reaching for my hand and trying to pull me up.
What’s that supposed to mean? “No,” I tell hi
m, looking over at the girls. Nancy is busy flirting with his friends, Florence has her eyes glued to her phone, and Jess is busy pouring drinks.
“It’ll be fun,” he insists, pulling on my arm.
“What’s up?” Jess says, looking up at me from the drinks.
“I don’t want to dance with this idiot,” I say to her in Mandarin.
Eric releases my arm and whips out his phone. To my horror, he starts recording an Insta story. “Watch me persuade this Asian chick to dance,” he says into the camera. Jess grabs the phone from him and deletes the story.
“She said she doesn’t want to dance with you,” she says. “Now fuck off.”
Eric’s eyes narrow in the blinking lights. He stands there a few seconds. Finally, he turns to his friends and says, “Let’s go. These hoes ain’t worth it.”
Nancy and Florence flip them off and yell, “Keep walking!” as they slink away.
We get plastered, drinking vodka tonics while dancing. When it comes time to settle the bill, the four of us can barely stand. The manager, an older Chinese businesswoman in a blazer, comes over to our table. “How old are you girls?” she asks as she slides the bill across the table. “Your mama know you here?”
Jess laughs in her face. “My mama put me here,” she says, slamming down her American Express card.
It’s late when I get home. I stumble drunkenly into the house after my Uber drops me off. Once inside my room, I kick off my heels and take out my contacts. One of the heels accidentally lands against the wall and makes a bang! sound.
“SHUT UP!” I hear Dani shout.
“Sorry!” I apologize.
I undress in the moonlight of my room, my silver dress halfway down my naked body when I hear Skype on my computer ring. It’s Teddy. I walk over, biting my lip as I smile and tap my finger lightly on the touchpad.
“Hey, I just wanted to say hi before I—” Teddy stops talking when he sees my half-naked body on the screen. The tiny silver sequins of my dress shine and blink. “Whoa.”
Quickly he closes the door to his room.
“Heyyyy, sexy,” I slur my words.
Eighteen
Dani
Mr. Connelly insists on taking me to lunch off campus on Monday to cheer me up from my loss at the tournament in Orange. I tell him I have band at 2:00 p.m., but he says he’ll write me a pass.
“It’ll be fun!” Mr. Connelly says as he grabs his keys.
I follow him as we walk down the hall, feeling a bit nervous but mostly special. Isn’t this what college kids do all the time? Go out to lunch with their professors? We pass Heather on the way out. She side-eyes me, shaking her head.
“Hey, Heather!” Mr. Connelly greets her. For a second, I’m petrified he’s going to invite her to come along, but instead, he says, “Killer job this weekend. Keep it up!”
We get into Mr. Connelly’s Volvo SUV, which I note has a car seat in the back. He never talks much about his personal life. I know he has two boys because sometimes they call him when we’re training and I can overhear their voices, but he’s not one of those teachers who constantly whips out their phones to show you their kids.
We drive over to Denny’s. Mr. Connelly orders the all-day breakfast while I order a pastrami sandwich.
“Thanks for having lunch with me,” he says, beaming. “I don’t always get the company of such a beautiful, talented young woman.”
I know he’s just saying that to be nice, but I’m flattered. I smile.
“You still cleaning houses after school?” he asks.
I nod, looking down at the table. I reach for a sugar packet and fiddle with it. He’s the only one at school who knows about my job, aside from Ming.
“I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” Mr. Connelly says. Gently, he reaches across the table and stills my sugar-packet-fiddling hands. He looks into my eyes. “You should be proud of what you do.”
The waitress comes over with our food.
“I used to paint houses in college. Nothing wrong with that,” he says, taking the pepper and putting it on his eggs and hash browns. “Be proud of where you come from, is all I’m saying.” He chews his food, adding with a wink, “Especially when you’re at Yale.”
“I have to get in first.”
“You will,” he says. “I have confidence in you.”
I smile and vault the words.
“I know the last few tournaments have been tough, and maybe it’s my fault,” he says. “Maybe I’ve been putting too much pressure on you.”
I put down my sandwich. That’s not it.
“It’s just that I know you’re capable,” he says, loosening his pale blue tie. He waves his fork in the air as he ruminates. “You remind me of myself. I wasn’t always the smartest student, or the fastest.”
“Or the richest—” I add under my breath.
Mr. Connelly stops.
“I’m sorry,” I quickly apologize. “I didn’t mean—”
He holds up his hands, like, No biggie. “You’re right. I wasn’t the richest.” He looks at me and ventures a guess. “Been comparing yourself to some of your teammates, I take it?” When I don’t answer, he dabs his mouth with his napkin and nods.
He takes a long sip of his coffee. “So they’re rich,” he says. “Their parents drive around in fancy cars and have big houses, so what? Doesn’t make them a better debater.”
That’s the thing! I lean across the table and tell him some of the other kids have private debate coaches. I don’t say who, and I don’t say what these coaches are doing for them. Still, it’s enough to make his nostrils flare.
Mr. Connelly taps the rim of his coffee mug, absorbing the news.
“Well, you know, if you want, I could coach you,” he says, looking up at me.
“You already coach me.”
“No, I mean privately. For free of course,” he offers.
My pupils flash with surprise.
“I’m serious,” he says. “Dani, I believe in you. I’d be honored to.”
I am speechless. And I am never without speech.
“Besides, the school needs you. They need you to win trophies so they can get the next group of full-paying kids in and get their parents to write big fat donations checks. That’s how it works.”
I laugh. “You make it sound like a scam,” I say, munching on a fry.
“It is a scam!” he insists, grinning. His face grows more serious as he breaks off a piece of toast. “But Mrs. Mandalay, I have to hand it to her. Four years ago, the school was a dust bowl. It was smart, recruiting Chinese kids.” He points at me with the toast. “So for purely selfish reasons I’d do it.” He beams.
I smile at him.
On the drive back to school, I close my eyes and imagine, is this what having a father is like? If my dad hadn’t left, are these the kind of soul-affirming conversations we’d have? I look over at Mr. Connelly, happily tapping on his steering wheel to the music. If I could choose, I’d want a dad just like him. It makes me want to write speeches all day long, just to try to live up to the version of me in his head.
Nineteen
Claire
It feels so weird waking up, knowing what Teddy and I did last night. Was it the alcohol or all the nights of explicit sex talk on Skype culminating in us taking the next step? I always thought my first time undressing for a boy would be somewhere intimate, somewhere special, not sitting in a stranger’s house, breasts illuminated by the neon green camera light of my MacBook Pro.
But he was so into it. Like so into it. He kept saying, “God, you’re beautiful,” his eyes like saucers, as he studied every freckle, shadow, and curve of my body, as if so he could re-create my breasts at any moment in his mind.
It’s fascinating, to know that I have that kind of effect on a boy. My phone dings. It’s a message from Teddy.
Are you ok? Last night was so special.
Aw. He’s sweet.
Yes, I write back. Are you ok?
Never been better , he repli
es.
I laugh.
I swipe over to Insta, where my eyes boggle at the number of followers I have. It says I now have 520 followers, thanks to last night and the tagged posts from Jess and the girls. I click on some of my new followers.
The profiles of strung-out-looking men and creepy randos stare back at me. A few of them slide into my DMs, and hesitantly, I tap to read their messages to me.
I want my yellow fever cured now, writes Bob, 38, a carpenter from North Carolina.
Me love you long time! writes Derek.
I can do things to your sexy Asian body that you didn’t even know are possible , writes another.
On and on they go, gross messages that make me want to wash my eyes out and never turn my phone back on. I immediately close Insta—I am tempted to delete it altogether—and call Jess.
“Wei?” she answers, sounding like she’s half-asleep.
“Jess! I’m getting these sick disgusting DMs from rando creeps on my Insta!” I tell her.
Jess yawns. “Calm down,” she says. “Show me the messages.”
I tap back into Insta, screenshot the DMs, and send them to her. As I wait for her reply, I see that in the short span on our phone call, she’s already posted three pics of her lying in bed, talking to me on the phone, in her silk slip, dreamily looking into the cam, hashtag #aboutlastnight.
“This isn’t so bad. You should see the ones I get,” she says.
“How do I get them to unfollow me?” I ask.
“You don’t!” she snaps. “Look it’s not who follows you. All people care about is the number!”
For some reason, when Jess says this, it makes me think of my mom, and I miss her. But even my mom would draw the line at using slutty pics to attract followers. I scroll down on the tagged pics of me from last night and my toes curl with regret.
“Jess, I need you to delete the pics of me right now,” I say.
“No!” she exclaims. “I’m not doing that!”
My lungs fill with panic. “What do you mean you’re not doing that?” I ask. “I look like a cheap whore!” What if my parents see this? What if colleges?