by Kelly Yang
Walking out of English class, I take the stairs to psychology. As I’m about to walk into the stairway, I see two girls holding each other in the stairway. It’s Florence and that girl Ming, the one Dani’s always hanging out with. And they’re making out.
I turn and back out of the stairway.
Oh my God, is Florence gay?
In the Uber on my way to Emma’s house, I replay all the conversations I’ve ever had with Florence. How could I have not known? I’m tempted to text Jess—does she know? Then decide, no, if Florence wants to keep this a secret from us, I have to respect that, as much it hurts that she’s kept such a fundamental part of her from us, her girls.
I gaze out the window as the driver turns on the windy roads. Emma refused to meet me anywhere else but her house, saying she didn’t trust me not to plant rice or some other stupid prank. The Uber driver asks me where I’m from.
“Shanghai,” I tell him.
“Shanghai, isn’t that where Jackie Chan’s from?” the guy asks, looking at me in the rearview mirror.
“I’m pretty sure he’s from Hong Kong,” I reply.
The driver shrugs. “Shanghai, Hong Kong, it’s all the same.”
I shake my head. Actually, it’s not.
“Tell me, why y’all like coming to America?”
I don’t answer him. I look out the window, hoping he’ll stop talking to me.
“You guys come here, buy up our houses . . . go to our schools,” he continues. He pauses for a second. “Don’t they have schools in China?”
I open my mouth, then close it. I put on my headphones instead.
“Pardon me,” he says, holding up a hand. “Didn’t mean to offend you.” He looks in the mirror at me. He puts his hands together and does a little bow. “Konichiwa! We appreciate the business.”
“That’s Japanese—” I start to say. Forget it! I think about what Jay said. How no matter how much money we have, we still get treated like second-class citizens here.
We pull up to Emma’s house, and I get out. She lives in a Spanish-style house with a little bonsai garden up front. Nowhere near as big as Jay’s but bigger than Dani’s and cute. Very zen, which unfortunately she is not.
She comes outside with her arms crossed, proclaiming I’m twelve minutes late. “I have piano after this, then bio, and then SAT prep,” she says. “Hurry up.”
I follow her inside. We sit down in the dining room. As I get out my laptop, Emma’s mom, Mrs. Lau, a stout and chatty woman, comes over to say hello. She offers us plates of fruit with little toothpicks stuck in them, like Tressy used to prepare. Emma obviously hasn’t told her mom about the rice, thank God.
“Thank you, auntie,” I say to her, popping a strawberry in my mouth.
“My pleasure, it’s so great to see you girls study hard together,” she says in English, smiling at me. I think back to Emma scolding her mom in the school parking lot about speaking Chinese in public. “You know Harvard only take eight percent Asian American this year?”
She shakes her head at this tragic news.
“Which is why you need to get perfect SAT,” she says to her daughter. “ACT too, just to double-prove you good.”
Emma groans. “Mom, will you leave us alone?” she asks.
“Some Asian I know, they even change their last name from Yang to Young,” she continues, showing no indications of leaving. She stares her daughter in the eye. “We Lau, we can’t do that. We clearly Chinese. That why we can’t make any mistakes!”
Wow, Asian moms are the same everywhere.
“Thanks, auntie,” I say, smiling. “These strawberries are really good!” I know the quickest way to get rid of a Chinese mom is to compliment her on her food and ask her for more.
“They were on sale at Whole Foods!” She beams at Emma and adds, “I borrowed Auntie Ling’s Prime membership.”
Emma shakes her head, clearly embarrassed. Mrs. Lau looks at me.
“I’ll pack some up for you to take home!”
Emma exhales after her mom disappears into the kitchen, sliding down in her chair. “Oh, thank God. She drives me up the wall . . .”
I nod knowingly at her. “I have one too.”
Emma glances at me but doesn’t say anything.
As we work, Mrs. Lau vacuums and does the housework. She does the dining room first, then the living room, and the stairs, plugging and unplugging the vacuum as she goes. I’m impressed. I’ve never seen my mom vacuum, though she always claims she’s a good housekeeper because she hired a good housekeeper. I can’t believe my mom’s going to be here next week and she’s going to meet Jay. Emma asks me a question about theme. As we’re flipping through the text together, we hear a scream from upstairs.
Mrs. Lau comes charging down the stairs with a shoebox.
“What’s this?” she asks Emma, shoving a shoebox in her face. Mrs. Lau starts pulling out packets of condoms from the box.
Emma’s face immediately goes red. She looks like she’s going to pass out.
“Are you having sex?” her mom demands.
I look to Emma, then jump up and say, “No, I am.”
Mrs. Lau stares at me, her hands crushing the condom packets in her fists.
“Yeah, I just had a few extra, so I gave them to Emma. You know, just in case she ever wanted to”—Emma shakes her head alarmingly at me—“sell them.”
Mrs. Lau sits down. She puts a hand to her chest out of relief for her daughter and deep concern for me and my deeply troubled soul. “You, Claire, you need to stop,” she says to me. “Sex is like drug. Once you have it, you can’t stop. It’s just sex sex sex sex sex sex sex SEX SEX SEX!”
Her eyes bulge bigger and bigger with each “sex.” I turn to Emma, who’s got her hand over her mouth. We’re both trying so hard not to crack up.
“Seriously, Claire, you need to respect you self, respect you body!” Mrs. Lau says.
“I do,” I say, pointing to the shoebox full of condoms. “Hence the condoms.”
Mrs. Lau shakes her head at me and lets out a profound sigh. “This makes me so sad,” she finally says. She takes the shoebox and hands it to me. To her daughter, she adds, “I don’t want you studying with her anymore. You will xue huai.”
My forehead puckers at the Chinese phrase for “learn bad.” Later, when we’re standing outside her house, Emma thanks me.
“That was . . .” She covers her embarrassed face with her hands. “OMG, I don’t even have the words.”
We both burst out laughing as I hug the box of condoms. “I’m keeping these,” I say.
Emma chuckles. “Oh, please, they’re yours! I seriously thought my mom was going to kill me,” she says, shrinking at the thought. “Thanks again.” She lingers. “And I’m sorry about what I said in class.”
“Me too. About the rice,” I say.
My Uber ride pulls up.
“I’ll see you at school?” she asks.
I wave as I throw my backpack in the car along with my box of condoms. “See ya,” I say, getting in. I roll the window down and flash one of the condoms at her. “I’ll be the one getting it on in the bathroom.”
Emma laughs as my ride drives away.
Fifty
Dani
Mrs. Mandalay walks up onto the stage of the auditorium, flashing a smile. It’s our annual headmistress commendation awards ceremony. I look over at Ming, wiping her palms on her jeans, her leg bouncing in the auditorium seat. I smile, we’re both expected to get headmistress commendation again this year, the only silver lining in this semester of hurricanes.
I look around and roll my eyes at Zach, who’s five rows behind me, making googly eyes at Claire. He should know she has a boyfriend. And judging by how often she’s over at Jay’s house—she usually texts me when she’s spending the night—I’d say things are going well with them. As Mrs. Mandalay welcomes us to the assembly, I scan the auditorium for Mr. Connelly. I still can’t believe he changed the time and day of practice without telling me. Has
he always been this cruel?
Mrs. Mandalay clears her voice. “As you know, every year the faculty picks ten students from each year group to award the prestigious headmistress commendation to,” she begins. “Among the qualities we’re looking for are dedication to academic excellence, drive, perseverance, exceptional talent . . .”
Ming looks over at me, and I smile reassuringly at her. She’s going to get it again. If the school’s flying her parents out for the spring concert, that’s a sign of how much they value her. As for me, though I’m probably not high on Mrs. Mandalay’s fave list this year, the headmistress commendation has more to do with GPA. And I’m holding steady at 3.9 unweighted.
“Here to announce this year’s headmistress commendations is Mayor Stein,” Mrs. Mandalay says. The doors in the back open and Mayor Stein, our newly elected mayor, walks in. The crowd erupts in applause as the mayor takes the podium.
“It’s an honor to be here today,” he says. “American Prep isn’t just a school. It’s a local treasure, one that’s lifted this entire town to what it is today—a diverse, business-friendly community that warmly welcomes immigrants!”
There’s a round of applause from the parachutes.
As Mayor Stein gushes about American Prep’s many contributions to East Covina, I turn to Ming and whisper, “Why’s the mayor here for this?”
“Maybe he’s the xomegan.com mole!” Ming jokes.
Our classmates sitting next to us give us odd looks. As Mayor Stein calls out all the seniors who have earned headmistress commendation this year, my eyes glide across the room to my debate teammates, tensing in their seats in eager anticipation of their names being called next.
“Moving on to the juniors,” Mayor Stein says. “For the juniors this year we have . . . Ming Liu.”
Ming stands as Mr. Rufus claps for her from the front. I smile and squeeze her hand as she walks by and goes up to the stage to collect her award.
Mayor Stein reads out three more names: Emma Lau, Sophie Zhao, Tiffany Davis from geography, whose room I cleaned with Ming not that long ago. I didn’t expect her to get it, and, judging from the look on her face, neither did she. Mayor Stein names five boys from our year group before pausing to take a drink from his water bottle.
I feel a squeeze in my chest as I wait for the last name to be called out.
“And last but not least, Heather McLean.”
Nervously, I walk up to Mrs. Mandalay afterward and tap on her shoulder. I wasn’t going to talk to her about it but I worry if I don’t, I’ll always wonder. She’s chatting with Mayor Stein, telling him about her latest fund-raising efforts.
“Mrs. Mandalay, may I speak to you for a sec?” I ask.
Mayor Stein busies himself with his phone while Mrs. Mandalay turns to me. “What is it, Dani?” she asks.
“I just . . . I’d like to know why . . .” I’m so embarrassed, I don’t even know how to ask.
“Why you didn’t make headmistress commendation this year?” she finishes for me. “Well, it’s like Mayor Stein said. We’re looking for students who embody the values of the school.”
“I—”
“Who love and honor our school,” she continues, cutting me off. “And are real ambassadors for the school.”
I swallow. I take it that writing online about your teacher hitting on you doesn’t count as ambassadorship. Mrs. Mandalay turns back to Mayor Stein.
Zach walks over to me and puts a hand on my shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “But, hey, if it makes you feel better, I never get headmistress commendation!”
No, that does not make me feel better. I pull away from him and walk out of the auditorium. I’m so upset afterward that I skip debate training, even though I know they’re having it today in the auditorium.
Instead, I head to work, taking out my frustrations with Lysol. It’s a little after six when I’m done cleaning. Famished, I stop by Dave’s Food Hall, the local grocery store, to pick up a salad.
I grab a container and start piling on avocado, pistachios, and croutons, hoping the extra toppings will fill the hole of my not making headmistress commendation this year. I don’t know how that’s going to look on my college apps. Mr. Matthews is always talking about upward trajectory. Lately, it’s been one never-ending, downward nightmare. I pick at the pistachios with my fingers, trying to eat a little off, as they charge by the pound.
As I’m eating, Mr. Connelly and his wife walk in. I fight the urge to go up to him and ask, Was this you? Did you ask Mrs. Mandalay to take away my headmistress commendation as retribution? Instead, I duck behind the pet food aisle as they walk by, too angry to stay, too mortified to leave. Sandwiched between the dry dog food, I sit as close to the shelf listening to the two of them talk.
“How many bottles do you think we need?” Mr. Connelly’s wife asks him as they stroll by the alcohol section.
I hear the clanging of bottles being picked up. “Depends on if your mom’s coming,” he says.
“You’re one to talk,” his wife snaps. “I see you at night, pouring yourself a gin and tonic, pretending it’s a club soda.”
“Give me a break, will you? I got me-too’ed,” Mr. Connelly says.
I can’t believe he’s using it as a verb, like he’s the victim. I crouch into a ball and push myself deeper into the shelf, as they roll their cart past my aisle. When they walk by, I poke my head out. I glance at the automatic double doors. Now’s my chance to make a break for it. I can’t wait in line to buy my salad; there’s no time. They might see me. I stuff three more bites in my mouth, put my salad container down next to the pet food, and make a run for it.
“Hold up.” The store security guard comes up to me as I’m walking out.
“Me?” I ask.
“Yeah, you,” another security guard walks over and says. He wiggles a finger. “Follow us.”
I follow the two security guards into a back office, glancing over at Mr. Connelly and his wife, who, luckily, are on the other side of the store and don’t see me. They lead me into a small room in the back of the store, behind the milk and yogurt fridge. As I sit down on the metal chair, the security guards turn to me.
“We saw what you did,” one of the guards says.
“What?” I ask.
“Don’t play dumb with us. You ate the salad back there without paying for it. We have it all on camera,” the guy on the left with the red hair says, pointing to the CCTV cameras. He rewinds one of them and presses Play. There I am on the grainy screen, shoveling salad into my mouth in the pet food aisle like a starving weirdo. My ears turn red.
The redheaded security guard crosses his arms. “You think you can come in here and just consume our product without paying?” he asks, leaning into me. He’s a big guy. Sweat trickles down my back.
“Answer me!” he screams into my face, and all of a sudden, being seen by Mr. Connelly is no longer my greatest problem.
My eyes jolt from the screen to the guards. “I’m really sorry. I just took a few bites. I was going to pay for it—”
Red snorts at his colleague, a mop-haired guy with a mustache.
“That’s what they all say,” he says, pointing to the wall next to him. There, on the wall, was a four-by-five grid of faces. Mug shots. Embarrassed-looking people, holding signs that read, “I stole from this store.”
“We have another one up at the front of the store,” Mop Head informs me proudly. “That’s where your face is going to go unless you pay up.”
Hands shaking, I get my wallet. I pull $10 out and give it to them. That should cover the salad.
The security guards shake their heads. “Oh no,” they say.
A smile sneaks out the corner of Red’s mouth; clearly he’s enjoying this. “The penalty for theft is ten times the price.”
Ten times? The pistachios inside me turn into stones.
Red turns to his colleague, who fishes out my salad from a plastic bag sitting on his desk. I clench my teeth as I wait for him
to weigh it. It comes out to one and a half pounds, which puts it well over $13. Goddamn it. I knew I shouldn’t have added the avocados!
“That’ll be thirteen forty-eight times ten.” Red punches it into his calculator. I didn’t need a calculator. My mind was already in full-on alarm mode. “That’s $134.80.”
“What?” I exclaim. “I don’t have that kind of money!”
Red shakes his head at me and looks down at my bronze arms. “You guys always do this. You come over the border from Mexico—”
“I’m Filipino, not Mexican,” I correct.
Red rolls his eyes. “Same thing,” he says. Mop Head grunts in agreement. My skin boils.
“What’s it going to be? Pay up or the wall?” he asks.
My eyes slide over to the wall. I think about my debate teammates and my teachers, Mr. Connelly, Mrs. Mandalay, walking into the store, looking at the sign, and cringe.
“I’ll pay,” I say. I peel my wallet open once again. I only have $20. Unlike Claire, I don’t have an Amex or any other credit cards. I take my phone out of my bag. First I call Ming, but she doesn’t pick up. She’s probably still at violin practice with Mr. Rufus. I try Zach next.
The phone rings and rings.
Pick up, pick up.
Zach doesn’t pick up either. I try my mom, regretting the words I’m going to have to say. So, Mom . . . I’m at the store. I need you to bail me out for shoplifting a salad.
When she doesn’t pick up either, I really start panicking. The last thing I need right now is a shoplifting record. How’s that going to look on my college apps? I try the house, but no one’s home.
“Her battery probably died,” I explain to the security guards. They yawn. Red reaches over on the desk for his camera, getting ready to take my pic, while Mop Head grabs the sign.
“Wait, wait, wait!” I beg. Frantically, I tap on my phone. “Let me try one more person.”
Claire answers on the third ring.
“Wei?” she asks in Chinese.
“Um, Claire? It’s me Dani,” I say. “I need your help. I’m in some trouble and I . . .”
I feel my throat closing in. I don’t know how to get the words out.