Parachutes

by Kelly Yang

  “You know what I mean . . .”

  “So, what, you just want to go back to normal? And I’m supposed to forget all the things we did and said to each other online?”

  I look down at my keyboard. I mean, he doesn’t have to forget, I just don’t want to continue. At least not right now.

  Teddy shakes his head at me. “You know, if you had told me you were going to be breaking up with me, I wouldn’t have wasted so much time with you. I could have been studying for gaokao!”

  And there it is again. I reach to lower the volume of my laptop. “I’m not breaking up with you,” I tell him.

  “How’s this different?” he challenges me.

  Wow. And to think I actually thought he might enjoy slowing down and asking me about my day instead of just wanting me to take off my clothes.

  I glare into the camera. “You’re right, it’s so over. I should have broken up with you the first time so you can study for your precious gaokao.” I reach to click End Call, adding as I log off, “Which I hope you bomb!”

  Twenty-Six

  Dani

  Maybe I’m making a bigger deal of the Mr. Connelly thing. Maybe he was just grilling me on my boyfriend in the fatherly kind of way. Aren’t dads always being weird when it comes to whom their daughters date? Not that I would know. I text Ming when I get home.

  Maybe it’s like me with Underwear Kevin, Ming texts back. You just need to find a soft way of pushing back with Mr. Connelly.

  I shake my head at the text. No, it’s not like you with Underwear Kevin! I can’t believe we’re even talking about Mr. Connelly, my amazing, inspiring coach, in the same breath as him. I put away my phone as Claire walks into my room and announces she got into English III.

  “That’s great!” I offer. I’m happy for her, even though I’m still salty over her posts on WeChat. At least she hasn’t posted more. I’ve been checking every night.

  “Too bad I didn’t get Mr. Connelly like you recommended,” she says.

  I purse my lips but don’t say anything.

  “Anyway, thanks again,” she says. She reaches to give me a hug.

  “No problem,” I say, awkwardly hugging her back. I fight the urge to add, It’s the least I can do for you slumming it here with us.

  I tell Ming about it the next day as we’re cleaning houses.

  “She might have been just saying that though,” Ming says, fluffing a pillow. “Haven’t you ever done that? Say one thing to a group of people and a different thing to another?”

  “No. I’m a debater. I have principles,” I insist. Of course, even as I say this, I know it’s not entirely true. I would never tell Heather and my other debate teammates that I clean houses after school.

  “Well, I have,” Ming says. She picks up another pillow. “All my friends in China think I’m dating a guy here. I even made up a fake WeChat account for him.”

  My eyebrows shoot up. “And what about your parents?” I ask. “You’re just never going to tell them?”

  “Nope,” Ming says.

  “And what if you meet the love of your life?”

  Ming shrugs. “Florence hasn’t told her parents either.”

  I turn off the vacuum.

  “Whoa, did you just call Florence the love of your life?” I ask. I know they’ve been spending a lot of time together, but I didn’t know it was serious.

  “No, I don’t know,” Ming says, shaking her head. “You know what I mean.”

  I ask her how things are going between them.

  “Great.” Ming beams, tugging at the sheets. “Last night, I went over and we kissed for the first time.”

  I smile. “How was it?” I ask her.

  “Incredible,” Ming answers. She fluffs the pillow and hugs it to her chest, closing her eyes at the memory.

  The look on her face makes me wonder when Zach and I will get there too. I can’t wait.

  Ming places the pillow back down on the bed. “Anyway, all I’m saying is maybe the posts you read, that’s just China Claire . . .”

  “Maybe . . . ,” I say.

  “Have you thought more about what you’re going to do with Mr. Connelly?” Ming asks.

  I shake my head. “Just gotta try to maneuver it, I guess. Not let him get any wrong ideas. . . .”

  “That’s the way to go,” Ming says. Her eyes widen. “Speaking of awkward situations, you won’t believe what I found out when I went to drop off my rent yesterday at the host agency. They’re placing teenage Chinese girls in the homes of single men.”

  “What? I thought in order to be a host family, you had to be an actual family.” I walk the vacuum across the room. I start tidying up the desk.

  Ming shakes her head. “I overheard the sales team talking, and apparently, there are so many Chinese kids who need rooms, they’re now just taking anyone,” she says. “All you have to have is a spare bedroom. And go through a background check. That’s it.”

  I shake my head as I straighten the desk, peeking at the papers lying on top. We’re in the bedroom of Tiffany Davis, from geography class. And she’s labeled all her Middle Eastern countries wrong.

  “Can you imagine the stuff that goes on?” Ming asks, squirting the room with Febreze. “I’m thinking of working there on the weekends.”

  “At the host agency?” I ask.

  She nods. “Who knows, maybe I can help them screen potential hosts,” she says. “Make sure we don’t get more Underwear Kevins in the system.”

  “Good for you,” I say. I smile as we finish up the rest of the room, proud of her for using her experience to try to help other kids. “So when am I going to meet this Florence?”

  “I’ll introduce you when we’re in school!”

  Twenty-Seven

  Claire

  There are fifteen emails in my in-box from Teddy. They all say more or less the same thing.

  Can we talk? I’m so sorry I overreacted. But the thought of never seeing your beautiful body again blah blah blah.

  I delete all of them and set up a spam filter in my email for the jerk. I grab my swimsuit and head to the school pool. It’s a Saturday, and as I punch in the code, I see I’m the only one there. I dive into the water, searching for solace. The warm water greets me. With each stroke, I try to put Teddy behind me.

  As I’m swimming, someone else comes in and jumps in the water. The guy in the blue swim cap from the other day splashes toward me.

  “Hi!” he says.

  I really wanted to be alone today, but Blue Cap doesn’t take the hint. He swims alongside me, yelling out unsolicited swimming advice.

  “Harder with your left arm!”

  “Hold your breath here! Don’t inhale!”

  “Now fill your lungs! Good!”

  It’s annoying, and I finally turn to him, breathless. “Will you stop?” I shout.

  He holds his hands up. “Sorry. I . . . I was just trying to help,” he mumbles.

  He looks hurt.

  “I’m sorry, I just broke up with my boyfriend,” I grumble.

  “Shit, I’m sorry . . . ,” Blue Cap says.

  His face brightens, and he adds, in that sorry, not sorry alpha way that guys do, “Clearly it’s his loss.”

  I look away. Too soon. Quietly, I swim to the edge of the pool and get out.

  As I’m sitting in the locker room drying my hair, I get a group text from Florence.

  HOUSE PARTY TONIGHT!!! MY PLACE!!!

  I smile. She’s forwarded it to all the parachutes. After what happened with Teddy, I could use a little distraction. Maybe Jay will be there.

  I text Florence back, OK but no pics on Insta.

  Jess quickly texts back, Girl chill. I swear on my Olaplex washed, Evian rinsed hair.

  I order an Uber. Blue Cap’s waiting for me when I get out of the locker room.

  “Hey,” he says. “I’m sorry I offended you.”

  He mumbles his name, but I don’t catch it. And I don’t want to ask him to repeat it either, because I don�
��t want him to think I’m one of those Asians who are really bad with American names. Instead, I point to his bag, which reads, American Prep Swim Team on it.

  “Do you know how I can try out for the team?” I ask.

  “Oh, you should totally try out next year!” he says. “You’d be great!”

  I feel a pang of disappointment. “Next year?” I ask.

  He nods reluctantly. “Yeah, sadly all the spots are filled for this year,” he says. “But come August . . .” He smiles and finger-guns me with both hands. “We’d love to have you.”

  I stare at him, wanting to believe him. But the cynical part of me thinks all men are scum, and he’s probably saying that because he has “yellow fever” or some other despicable epidemic. My phone dings with my awaiting Uber.

  “I gotta go,” I tell him.

  He walks out with me and waves at me as I run toward my Uber. When I get inside, I look back at him and a smile escapes. He’s still waving.

  Later that night, Nancy and Jess come over. We’re getting ready for Florence’s party together. As we’re putting on our makeup, Florence FaceTimes us.

  “Florence!” Jess shrieks into the phone. “Did you get enough alcohol? I’m gonna get so lit!”

  Dani walks by my room.

  “Oh, hey, I’m gonna be home late tonight,” I call out to Dani. “My friend Florence is having a party.”

  “Did you say Florence?” Dani asks.

  I nod, looking over at Jess. Does Dani . . . know Florence? Jess shakes her head at me. Hell no, we’re not inviting her.

  Dani walks back into her room as my phone dings. It’s my dad texting me.

  Hi, sunflower, heard your good news about your English class. Can’t wait to celebrate with you in person next week. I have a business meeting in LA.

  I look up from the text and announce to Nancy and Jess, “My dad’s coming next week!”

  Nancy squeals while Jess continues touching up her makeup. I can’t tell if she’s jealous or she gives zero shits about dads.

  “C’mon, let’s go,” Jess says. “Florence is waiting for us.”

  “Is your boyfriend coming?” I ask her.

  “We broke up,” she says.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” I say.

  “Don’t be. I found out that the fucker was still charging my parents for personal training sessions. Can you believe that?” She throws her head back and laughs. “Have to hand it to him, pretty slick. He got like five thousand dollars for screwing me.”

  Nancy’s jaw drops. “He should give it back!”

  “Not worth it.” Jess shakes her head. “I’m over it.”

  As Jess orders an Uber for us and starts heading out, I look down at my phone, fighting the urge to reread my dad’s text. Is he really coming next week? The thought is both thrilling and stressful—I so desperately want him to show up, to celebrate my English test with me. I want him to see my new life here and be proud of me—I’m doing it, on my own, just like he wanted! But what if he cancels at the last minute? Nine out of ten times that’s exactly what he does.

  In the car, I look over at Jess, swaying to the music. She looks amazing, rocking her Helmut Lang open-back mini, her eyelids sparkling in the powdery light. She does not look like she just got out of a relationship. I wish I could be like her, like I don’t have time to be sad.

  “I just broke up with my boyfriend too,” I tell her.

  Jess gazes at me. “What happened?” she asks.

  I shrug. “I wanted to slow down . . .”

  “And he didn’t want to?” Jess asks. The driver glances in the rearview mirror at us as he turns onto Florence’s street. “Fuck him!”

  “Fuck him,” Nancy seconds.

  “FUCK BOYS!” The three of us scream as the car pulls into Florence’s driveway. Florence runs out to greet us. She giggles when she hears us saying we’re done with boys.

  “Agreed! From now on, I’m going full-on les,” Florence jokes.

  Jess hugs Florence and replies, “Um, no, that’s not the answer.”

  Florence leads us into her house. Her house is three times bigger than Dani’s, and there’s tequila, vodka, rum, wine, and champagne set up. A few parachutes have already arrived and are standing around the spacious living room.

  “How’d you get all that?” I ask Florence.

  “Online,” she says. “My mom left me her ID and when they come and deliver, I just tell them I’m her.”

  “They can never tell Asians apart,” Jess chimes in, making herself a martini.

  As she’s sipping her drink, she looks up and sees a familiar face. “Look, it’s Jay!” she exclaims. Jess waves to Jay, who is there with a bunch of his friends.

  Jay smiles and walks over. “It’s you again,” he says to me. “From English class.”

  “Not anymore,” Jess informs him. “Bae so smart, she just tested out!”

  “Is that right?” Jay asks, his eyes twinkling. “Then we should celebrate!”

  Twenty-Eight

  Dani

  Mr. Connelly looks up from his desk when I push the door open to his classroom.

  “Oh, good, you’re here,” he says. “I was beginning to worry you wouldn’t show.”

  I slide my backpack off my shoulder and take a seat in the front row. Of course I’d show. This is for Yale, for my future. I take out my cue cards and ask if we can get started, and Mr. Connelly, for the most part, keeps it professional. He listens attentively to my speech, giving me feedback and suggestions. There are no weird comments about “Junior” or digs at my focus level—thank goodness.

  When we’re done, I sit down and unscrew my water bottle, thirsty from speaking nonstop for forty-five minutes.

  Mr. Connelly walks over from his desk and slides into the seat next to mine. “Hey, I’m sorry again for what I said the other day,” he says. “I guess I can get a little overprotective.”

  I muster a smile and say it’s okay.

  His face brightens, and he claps his hands. “Let me make it up to you. There’s an Italian restaurant—”

  “No,” I say. I think about Ming and what she said about establishing boundaries. She’s right. I have to do it, even if it’s with the guy I most admire.

  Mr. Connelly looks down, hurt, and I vacuum in his disappointment.

  “Hey, but maybe we can all have lunch as a team, before the tournament on Saturday,” I offer. I can’t believe I’m suggesting dining with Heather as an alternative.

  Mr. Connelly nods as I reach for my backpack and get up out of the seat.

  “I’ll see you at training later,” I say to him as I leave.

  At lunch, Ming is talking excitedly about her new part-time gig at the host agency. They’re paying her $11 an hour, and while she doesn’t get to screen potential host families, she does get to call up parachutes and remind them to pay their rent, since she speaks Mandarin.

  “Most of them are okay with their host families,” Ming says. “But I talked to two girls yesterday who wanted to switch.”

  “Really? How come?”

  “They wouldn’t say,” she says. “But they’re coming in to talk to me this weekend. I hope it’s nothing like what I have with Underwear Kevin.” Ming sighs. “If only I had my own place like Florence . . .”

  At the mention of Florence’s place, I chew my lip. Ming still doesn’t know about Florence’s house party this weekend.

  “You should see it, her house is incredible,” Ming continues. “She even said the other day if things ever got really bad with Kevin, maybe I could move into her place. . . .”

  I don’t know about that. She can’t even invite Ming to her party.

  “What is it?” Ming asks.

  I look up at Ming. I so don’t want to tell her, don’t want to hurt her, but I also hate seeing my best friend get played. Florence never walks with her to class. Never sits next to her at lunch. Never so much as waves to her!

  Gently I tell Ming about the party.

  Ming doesn’t
say anything for a long time. She reaches up and touches her necklace with her fingers. She has a gold necklace with a small violin on it that her mom gave her before she left. Whenever she’s nervous, she touches it. As she strokes the tiny violin, I look down. I should have just kept my big mouth shut.

  “Whatever,” Ming says. “I wouldn’t have gone anyway. I had to practice for my solo for the spring concert.”

  “Totally,” I say.

  As Ming takes her tray and stands up, I peer at her face. She’s looking over at Florence, sitting with Claire and laughing. For a second Ming looks like she’s going to march over there, but then she puts her head down and walks over to empty her tray instead.

  Later that afternoon in debate training, I shift my weight, leaning against the podium, as I squint into the light. Mr. Connelly has just cut me off and told me to start over for the third time. I don’t get it. He was fine with my speech in our private session. It’s the same speech. Word for word.

  “I don’t know, it’s just not doing it for me,” he says, shaking his head. He turns to my teammates and asks them, “Is it working for you guys?”

  “No!” Heather hollers, sitting up, her forehead glistening like a sugar-sprinkled ensaymada.

  “It doesn’t feel authentic!” another one of my teammates, Gloria, calls out.

  Oh, please.

  “That’s it,” Mr. Connelly says, nodding. “It doesn’t feel authentic. I need to feel your words with your every move.”

  On or off the stage? I wonder. I pull my cardigan closed and cross my arms, staring down at my cue cards. I speak into the microphone and ask him to give me one more chance—I can do this, I know I can do this! But Mr. Connelly motions for me to get down.

  “You’ve had enough tries for one day,” he says.

  As my weak legs carry me off the stage, I breathe into my fist, wondering, What did I do wrong?

  Later that day, the bus drops me off in front of Sun Grove Mobile Park. I’m holding Zach’s economics book in my arms, which he had accidentally left when we were studying. But really I’m here because I need to talk to him. Ming’s at practice with Mr. Rufus for her solo. And I don’t know how to deal.