by Kelly Yang
Jess pretends to swoon onto the hood of her Porsche. “He is so hot,” she squeals.
“Can’t believe he’s getting his mom such expensive earrings,” I say. The diamonds he chose were close to $20,000.
“Mama’s boy,” Jess says.
“Total mama’s boy,” I agree. Although, that’s not necessarily a bad thing. I think about my dad and how he almost never goes and visits my grandmother.
“You want him, don’t you.” Jess grins. “Admit it.”
I blush.
She giggles as she gets into the car. “Girl, if you want him, you’re going to have to let him touch a lot more than your ears!”
Thirty-Four
Dani
The next day, at school, Mrs. Mandalay walks up to me in her power suit and pumps. I look up from my phone. Mr. Connelly still hasn’t replied to the email I sent.
“Oh, hey, Dani, I heard all about Seattle,” Mrs. Mandalay says.
I wait for a hopeful second that Mr. Connelly might have said something to her.
“You guys beat Marlborough! Well done!”
Guess not.
“I have to say, things are looking good for you for Snider!” She marvels at me. “Wouldn’t that be amazing to have on your college app?”
I linger. If there’s ever a time to say anything to her, now’s the time. Mrs. Mandalay’s phone rings, and she lifts up her index finger. “Sorry, I have to take this.” She clicks on her phone, the vein on her forehead popping as she answers, “This is Joanna Mandalay. Yes, we’re very excited to have your child join us in May! We’ve talked to the agent, and everything’s ready for her, including her host family.” She turns and click-clacks her pumps back to her office.
Ming runs over to me from the bathroom after Mrs. Mandalay leaves. “Oh, Dani, you won’t believe what happened,” she says. Her face is wet, like she’d just washed it. Still her eyes are swollen.
“Is it your violin?” I ask her.
She shakes her head. She tells me she finally confronted Florence about not inviting her to her party, and Florence came over to her place and apologized. She was really sorry and asked how she could make it up to Ming. The two of them started fooling around, that’s when Underwear Kevin walked in on them.
“He got so mad, he kicked Florence out and told me I could have no more visitors,” she says. “And this morning he removed all the locks on the doors.”
“What?”
Ming nods, running her hands up and down along the goose bumps on her arms. “He says we’re going to have an open-door policy from now on.”
“Fuck that,” I tell her. I take her hand and lead her down the hallway to Mrs. Mandalay’s office. “We’re going to get you out of there right now.”
Thirty-Five
Claire
To: The American Prep Student Body (undisclosed emails)
From: Mrs. Candice Wallace (English Department)
Subject: INTERNATIONAL STUDENTS—PLEASE READ
Dear international students,
PLEASE be more considerate of others when choosing which language to speak at school. I know it must be challenging for you to speak English, as it is not your mother tongue, but you attend an American school now, and it is rude for you to use a language others cannot understand. Also, it is best for your future if you speak English 100 percent of the time you are at school. Isn’t that the whole point of attending an American school? In the interests of your educational and future professional goals, please try to use English.
Regards,
Mrs. Wallace
OMG. This is about me. Mrs. Wallace sent it because she heard me and Jess talking outside her class in Chinese. My phone rings. It’s Jess.
“Are you looking at this trash email?” Jess exclaims. “Is this because of us? She’s out of her mind! Claire, you seriously need to move back to our class—”
“I’m not moving back!” I say.
“Well, you can’t just stay in the bitch’s class!”
I look over toward Dani’s room and tell Jess I’ll call her back. Quietly, I walk over with my laptop and knock on her door.
Dani opens her door.
“Have you seen this?” I ask.
She reads the email from my laptop, then walks over to her own laptop, horrified, and reads it again.
“I think it’s about me. What do you think I should do?” I ask her.
“You have to fight this. This is discrimination!”
“Fight this how?” I ask.
Dani tells me I need to go to the administration. She says she just went with her friend Ming, who’s a parachute too and was having problems with her host family. Mrs. Mandalay was sympathetic.
I shake my head. “I don’t know.” A few weeks ago, I thought nudging was rude. And now to go and complain about a teacher?
“Trust me,” she says. “It’ll be okay.”
When I hesitate to respond, Dani asks, “Want me to go with you?”
We wait outside Mrs. Mandalay’s office, me tapping the floor with my white Alexa Chung patent leather pumps, and Dani studying the quotes painted on the wall outside the office, hands interlaced on her lap.
When the door opens, Dani is the first to stand. She waits for me to collect myself, then we walk inside together, my hand clutching a printout of Mrs. Wallace’s email. I can’t believe I’m doing this.
Gently, I slide the email across Mrs. Mandalay’s desk. I glance over at Dani, who nods encouragingly.
“Mrs. Mandalay, I think this email is really . . .” I pause. Dani had suggested a bunch of adjectives at home—“offensive,” “discriminatory,” “hostile”—but in the moment, they all feel too harsh. “Not nice.”
Dani leans forward and points to the line in the email that reads, “It is best for your future if you speak English 100 percent of the time you are at school. Isn’t that the whole point of attending an American school?”
“This implies that English is the best language for our future,” Dani says. “That is unsubstantiated and one can even argue that it is a form of cultural imperialism.”
I stare at Dani. Whoa!
Mrs. Mandalay puts up her hand. “Thank you, Dani.” She looks quizzically at her. “And why are you here again?”
“For moral support,” she says.
“Again?” Mrs. Mandalay asks.
“Again.”
I take a deep breath and look to Mrs. Mandalay. “This email has caused me and the entire Chinese student community a lot of distress. We feel publicly humiliated by it—”
Before I can finish, Mrs. Mandalay says, “You’re absolutely right. I was appalled myself when I received this email.” Mrs. Mandalay pulls out a copy of the student manual and turns to page 73. “American Prep has a zero tolerance policy for harassment and discrimination. We want every single student in our school to feel like they’re being culturally respected. Mrs. Wallace will be suspended at once.”
I look to Dani in surprise. Did she just say suspended? Dani gets up from her seat to shake Mrs. Mandalay’s hand.
“Thank you so much,” I say to Mrs. Mandalay, shaking her hand too.
Mrs. Mandalay beams at us and opens the door to her office.
“My pleasure. It’s my job,” she says.
Walking out of Mrs. Mandalay’s office, a smile sweeps across my face as I pull Dani in for a hug. I thought it was going to be like in China, where you walk in with a thorn up your ass and you walk out with a brick.
“Thanks so much,” I tell her. “I couldn’t have done it without you. That line about cultural imperialism—that was so great.”
She laughs.
Jess, Nancy, and Florence come running down the hall. Dani’s friend Ming walks over too, and Florence shyly introduces Ming to us—apparently, they know each other. Excitedly, I tell everyone the good news. The girls flip out. Jess starts jumping up and down and pulling me toward the cafeteria.
“This is huge! We have to tell the rest of the parachutes!” she says.
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As the girls head toward the cafeteria, I turn to Dani and thank her again. “If there’s anything you’re ever going through that I can help you with . . .” My voice lingers.
Dani falls quiet for a minute, then shakes her head.
“I’m good,” she says.
Thirty-Six
Dani
Florence and I help Ming move out that weekend. I’m so happy Mrs. Mandalay agreed to up Ming’s housing stipend so she can switch host families. And I’m thrilled she did the right thing and suspended Mrs. Wallace for that ridiculous email. It’s funny, everyone’s always saying Mrs. Mandalay is such a hard-ass. But she can be surprisingly swift and decisive in difficult situations. Maybe I should tell her about Mr. Connelly—he still hasn’t replied.
“Careful with that picture frame,” Ming says. I look down at the small silver frame in my hands. It’s a picture of Ming as a little kid and a tall man. They’re both playing the violin.
“Is this your dad?” I ask Ming.
“Oh, let me see!” Florence says, walking over. Florence puts a finger over young Ming in the picture and coos. I smile. I’m glad those two made up. It’s clear how much Florence likes her. I hope she’ll invite Ming to her house parties from now on.
“That’s my uncle,” Ming tells us, taking the picture and wrapping it carefully in Bubble Wrap. “He’s the one who taught me how to play the violin.”
“Is he coming to the spring concert?” I ask.
Ming’s face falls. “No.”
“How about your parents?” I ask. There must be a way to fly them out from China—it’s Ming’s big solo! Again Ming shakes her head.
With a sigh, Ming puts the rest of her stuff in a box and carries it out to the living room, leaving me and Florence alone. Florence turns to me.
“Hey, so . . . don’t tell Claire about me and Ming. They don’t know that I’m um . . .” Florence blushes.
“Of course not.”
“Not that I think they’ll have a problem with it,” she clarifies. “I’m not sure.”
“I don’t think they will,” I say. I can’t speak to that girl Jess, but I do live with Claire, and she’s pretty vocal at dinner about diversity and acceptance, especially after that horrible email Mrs. Wallace sent. “And if they do, you’ll know they’re not your real friends.”
“Yeah . . . ,” Florence says, looking away.
Ming comes in to get the last box in the room.
“You guys ready?” she asks.
“Ready.” Florence smiles.
Later that weekend, Zach does his physics homework at my house while I research case studies for Snider. Mr. Connelly hasn’t said a word about Snider still, even though the deadline is looming.
I go to the fridge. My mom’s out late cleaning again. She left us with some food to heat up. It’s just going to be me. Claire’s probably going out with her friends to celebrate. I look over at Zach. I think about telling him about Mr. Connelly, but I don’t want to be reminded of it. I don’t want to utter the words, as if by uttering them out loud I make what happened in Seattle more real. For the same reason I haven’t told my mom either. I just want to be able to pretend it didn’t happen.
Instead, I bring over the leftover palitaw my mom made to the living room. Zach looks at the sesame-and-coconut-covered sponges and pops one in his mouth. He closes his eyes as he chews. The afternoon light shines on his nose, revealing a faint dusting of freckles. I can’t believe he’s sitting in our living room.
He puts his physics textbook down and points to our TV. “You guys have Netflix?” he asks.
I nod. One of our few luxuries.
Zach reaches for the remote. “Mind if I watch?” he asks, turning the TV on. “I just need a break.” Titanic is playing. Zach points to Jack and Rose on the screen and grins. “I love this movie.”
“What? Really?” I ask, amused. I glance over at Jack and Rose shivering in the water. There’s only one door, and only one of them can survive.
I put down the plate of palitaw on the coffee table. “And of course it’s gotta be Rose who survives. God forbid we let the smart, scrappy, poor guy live and kill off the rich, beautiful idiot.”
I think of Heather as I’m saying this, but Zach turns to me, all offended. “Rose is not an idiot,” he balks.
I chuckle. Didn’t figure him to be such a diehard fan. “She is,” I insist.
“How so?” he asks. He stops watching and turns his attention to me.
I point to the door in the movie. “First of all, she could have totally scooted over,” I say. “Look at that door! You can easily fit two people on that door!”
Zach glances at the door and considers this.
“Second of all, she tries to kill herself by trying to jump off a ship. Why? Because she’s tired of fancy cocktail parties?” I ask. Please, it’s not like she’s a full-scholarship student at American Prep.
“Whoa!” Zach says, throwing his hands up.
I giggle. I like riling him up, it’s fun. I move closer toward him.
“Let’s consider what would happen if they actually did both make it off the ship together, shall we?” I gaze over at Zach as I talk. It almost feels like we’re a real couple. Like we’re dating. And we’re having one of those couple’s debates that is going to become like our song.
“And Jack would probably have had to go off and fight in World War I. Maybe Rose would hook up with Cal again—”
“But she didn’t hook up with him,” Zach points out. “We know because Old Rose is in the movie.”
Dang it. I forgot about Old Rose.
“Well whatever. We don’t know what Old Rose did or did not do. She looks like she’s had a bunch of boyfriends.”
Zach bursts out laughing. “What?”
“Seriously, she’s got that look.” Now I’m just spewing nonsense. Zach is on the floor, laughing his ass off. And I’m starting to laugh too.
It feels good to laugh, to forget about Mr. Connelly and what he did and what’s going to happen to Snider. Zach puts a hand over his stomach, and pleads, “Stop, stop . . . you’re too much!” But I don’t stop. Instead, I move onto the floor with him. Our arms brush lightly against each other.
“And what’s with her throwing diamonds in the ocean?” I continue. I smile at Zach, rolling around on the carpet, shrieking with laughter. “Seriously, she could have donated that diamond to some free-women-from-boring-cocktail-parties charity.”
“You are a piece of work, Dani, you know that?” he asks.
Our eyes meet, and I lean in toward him to kiss him. Zach makes a sharp move to reach for the remote, accidentally knocking into my head. “Ow!” All of a sudden, the door swings open and in walks Claire.
She looks at Zach, confused for a second.
“It’s you!” Zach says, jumping to his feet. “What are you doing here?”
Thirty-Seven
Claire
I stare at Blue Cap, standing in the middle of our living room. For a second, I think I’ve entered the wrong house.
“I’m Zach, remember?” the boy says. “We met at the pool.”
“You know Claire?” Dani asks, surprised.
I’m confused. “Is he your boyfriend?” I ask Dani.
“What? No!” Zach denies quickly. Too quickly. Dani retreats behind one of the couch cushions.
I leave the two of them and go to my room. I open my laptop, poring through the emails and messages from parachutes, saying how much it meant to them that I stood up to Mrs. Wallace. When I hear Zach leave, I call out to Dani.
“Dani, come look at this,” I say, lying in bed, pointing to my computer. There’s an email from a parachute saying her science teacher has been making fun of her accent for six months.
But Dani doesn’t come in. Instead, she walks right by my room.
“I’ve got an assignment due,” she says as she closes her door.
I sit on my bed wondering what I’ve said.
In English class the next day
, we get none other than Ms. Jones! I almost whoop out loud when I see her. Ms. Jones is in a blazer and wearing hoop earrings, her braided hair tied in a bun on top of her head. She smiles as she tells us she’ll be teaching us while Mrs. Wallace takes a leave of absence.
“Now I know you guys have been reading and talking a lot about The Great Gatsby, but Gatsby’s old! I want to hear about you. When’s the last time you felt like you wanted the respect of a group of people whom you just could never get to take you seriously? I’ll tell you, for me it was five p.m. on Friday, when they called me and asked me if I wanted to take over for Mrs. Wallace.”
We all sit up.
“I’d been substituting here for a while. Some of you guys might have had me,” she says, winking at me. “But I never thought they’d give me a more permanent position.”
Ms. Jones opens up to us about herself. She tells us that she used to be a public school teacher, until she had her kids. Then she took some time off to be with them, and when she wanted to go back, it was hard to find a job. The public schools weren’t hiring due to budget cuts.
“And the private schools, well the private schools wanted to hire people who looked . . . more like them,” she says.
My eyes are transfixed, riveted by her story. I can’t remember the last time an adult was so real with me, not my old teachers in China and certainly not my parents. She talks about institutional racism and how it’s affected her life, to the point where she almost didn’t believe Mrs. Mandalay when she asked her if she wanted to teach here as an adjunct teacher.
She asks us if we’ve ever felt like that, like no matter what we did, it would never happen for us. People won’t think we’re good enough.
One by one, hands go up. A couple of kids say they feel like that with their sports coaches sometimes. When it’s my turn, I say my parents.
Ms. Jones nods, like she’s been there.
“Your assignment this week is to forget about this person,” she says, “and focus on you. I want you to write a short story in which Gatsby doesn’t care about Daisy.”
I think about this as I walk out of class. I squeeze by Emma, who, incidentally, also said her parents.