Key player E-Book

Kelly Yang

• Herausgeber: Knights Of
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Serie: Front Desk
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Seitenzahl: 319

Beschreibung

Mia Tang is going for the goal in the fourth book in the Waterstones Prize Shortlisted Front Desk Series! The Women's World Cup is coming to California and, with the U.S. playing China in the finals, Mia feels like her two identities are finally coming together. Less exciting is the fact that her P.E. teacher wants Mia to get out and play football too – or she won't earn a spot at journalism camp. But, as always, Mia Tang is ready with a plan... It's not always easy though; as Mia aims for her goals, she'll have to face prejudice, discrimination, and her own fears. But if anyone can find a way to win, it's Mia Tang!

Leseprobe

KEy

Player

Published by Knights Of

Knights Of ltd, Registered Offices: 119 Marylebone Road, London, NW1 5PU

www.knightsof.media

First published in the UK 2022

First published in the US by Scholastic Inc., 2022

001

Written by Kelly Yang

Text and cover copyright © Kelly Yang, 2022

Cover art by © Maike Plenzke, 2022

All rights reserved

The moral right of the author and illustrator has been asserted

Typeset by Marssaié Jordan

Design by Marssaié Jordan

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. If you are reading this, thank you for buying our book.

A CIP catalogue record for this book will be available from the British Library

ISBN: PB: 9781913311346

ISBN: ebook: 9781913311469

ISBN: ibook: 9781913311759

Key Player

KELLY YANG

Also by Kelly Yang

Front Desk

Three Keys (Front Desk #2)

Room To Dream (Front Desk #3)

New From Here (Published by S&S UK)

For older readers:

Parachutes

TO EVERYONE WHO HAS EVERSTRUGGLED IN P.E., LIKE ME

CHAPTER 1

I read in a book once that if you want something bad enough, all you have to do is picture it. Then BOOM, it becomes reality.

I have always been a very good picture-er. After all, I pictured my family and friends buying a motel and running it together. I pictured that business would thrive. Before all that became a reality, when my parents and I first moved from China to California, I pictured that I would master English as a second language.

So it shouldn’t be so hard to picture myself scoring a goal in PE— or at least getting anywhere near the football. Even now that my family has health insurance and I’m not so afraid of getting hurt, I still can’t help avoiding the ball like it’s radioactive.

Maybe it was all those years of sitting on the sidelines, or the fact that my classmates all had twice the sports equipment I had. (Do you know how expensive shin pads are?!) But when Mr. Antwell said, “All right, kids! We’re going to be doing a football unit in honour of the World Cup, which as you know is coming up, and being played right here in LA!” I instinctively looked around for an ice box to bury my head in.

The only cup I was interested in was a cup of jasmine tea, along with some time to write my next piece for the school newspaper.

But instead, on this scorching hot day, Mr. Antwell marched up to me on the field and yelled, “Mia, what are you doing? This is football! You’re walking around the field like it’s a museum!”

“I’m sorry,” I muttered. “I was thinking about a column I’m going to write!”

“Well, think with your feet!” Mr. Antwell cried. “C’mon, picture yourself as Brandi Chastain, dribbling the ball and driving it into the goal!”

I shook my head. How did I tell Mr. Antwell I couldn’t picture myself as Brandi Chastain? First of all, she looked nothing like me! She had wispy hair the colour of glistening sand, while mine was thick and jet-black. Second, even if I did dribble the ball, I’d probably end up kicking it off the metal corner of the goal, have it come flying back at me, and get sent to the emergency room with a concussion. I still remembered the time my mum had to go to the hospital. It was expensive and she had to take days off work. Even with health insurance, none of us could afford time off for a PE head injury.

“I need water,” I told Mr. Antwell.

Bethany Brett, my forever nemesis, rolled her eyes and groaned, “We’ll never win with Mia on our team!”

“It’s not all about winning,” I fired back, huffing and puffing to the side of the field toward our water bottles. My friend Jason glanced over at me and raised a concerned eyebrow, silently asking, You okay? He’d gotten so fast, I could barely see his feet when he ran. PE was much more his thing. I nodded back: I’m fine.

As I sat down to take a long drink, I pictured myself in San Francisco over winter break, at the new journalism camp that the San Francisco Tribune was hosting. It would be so amazing. I’d actually get to write, all day! But the camp was expensive, and I needed a scholarship. And for that I needed straight As. Including in PE.

With a sigh, I put my water down and picked myself back up. As I walked over to join my classmates, all huddled together, kicking their feet, their bold legs darting in and out as they chased after the ball, I marvelled at their bravery. None of them ever seemed to even think about getting hurt. They just played. I wished I could do that. But no matter how good my imagination was, I couldn’t erase all the years of worrying every time the ball came close to me.

I looked at the grass, fighting the urge to plop back down and read instead. It probably didn’t help my speed that I had a book tucked inside my PE shorts.

Mr. Antwell blew sharply on his whistle. “Mia! You done with your water break? Let’s hustle! I want you to play like it’s you at the Rose Bowl in two weeks, in front of millions of fans!”

Yeah, right. Me playing in the Rose Bowl? Selling hot dogs, maybe.

Still, I tried to pick up the pace, for Mr. Antwell’s sake.

“She can’t run—look at her toothpick legs!” Bethany complained. “Hey!” Jason cried out in my defense.

My cheeks grew hot, and I looked down. My legs were skinny, sure, but why’d Bethany have to say toothpick? I kept jogging, and of course, that’s exactly when my copy of the Baby-Sitters Club #2 decided to fall out of my waistband.

Mr. Antwell blew his whistle again, stopping the game. He walked over and stared at my book on the field. All my teammates crowded around. I knew I was DOOMED.

“Mia Tang. You brought a book to football?” Mr. Antwell asked.

Bullets of sweat rolled down my forehead. Journalism camp flashed through my mind. San Francisco! The Golden Gate Bridge! All my hopes and dreams! I glanced in the direction of the locker room, but Lupe was late again. She was usually late coming back from the high school, where she went for maths, and frequently missed PE. Today, I missed her more than ever. Even with Jason here, I felt so alone.

“I . . . uh . . .” I had to say something! “I was using it as a weight! To run faster,” I finally managed. “You know, like in those adverts on TV!”

“Uh-huh.” Bethany rolled her eyes.

I ignored Bethany and looked up at Mr. Antwell. “I swear, I wasn’t gonna read it. I already know what happens in the book!”

That part was true. The Baby-Sitters Club was one of my favourite series. They couldn’t release the books fast enough, and I would reread them over and over again while I waited for a new one to come out.

Bethany crossed her arms. “Aren’t those books about, like, super-annoying girls who kidnap little kids?”

My jaw dropped. “No! It’s about girls who start a babysitting club to make money!”

I knew Bethany was just being mean, as usual—but I couldn’t help it, I felt extremely protective of the characters. Especially Claudia Kishi, who was the only Asian American girl I’d ever seen on the cover of a novel.

Mr. Antwell just shook his head at me with supreme disappointment. As I reached for my book, Mr. Antwell blew his whistle again. “Leave it!” he ordered.

“But it’s a library book!” “I said leave it!”

So I jogged away, staring back longingly at the book on the grass.

At the piece of myself that just didn’t fit, no matter how hard I tried on the field.

...

I couldn’t get my book back until lunch break. At least by then, Lupe had returned from the high school and could walk with me.

“So, I guess I missed something?” she said.

I looked down, kicking the grass with my Payless sneakers. There was a hole the size of a penny in the sole of the right shoe, but we were saving up to buy a house, so I didn’t want to tell my parents.

“Mr. Antwell still screaming at you?” she guessed.

I nodded. “How about you? Those girls treating you any better?”

Lupe’s face fell. I knew this term wasn’t easy for her either. She didn’t have to deal with Mr. Antwell’s wrath most days, but she did have high school girls, who liked to ask Lupe questions about boys that she didn’t understand, then laugh when her face turned red.

I didn’t know how Lupe did it. I could barely handle the brats our own age like Bethany! But Lupe was determined to keep pursuing her maths dreams.

“They’re still the same,” she said. Then her eyes flashed. “But guess what? My teacher recommended me for the Maths Cup!”

I stopped walking and grabbed her arm. This sounded like a cup I could get on board with! I pictured a huge yoghurt parfait with numbers. “YESSSSS!!!” I screamed.

Lupe giggled. “Have you heard of it? It’s this major competition, and everyone on the team is a junior or a senior,” she said, jumping on the grass as we reached the field. “Including Ethan Thompson.”

“Who’s Ethan Thompson?” I asked.

“This guy with dimples who all the other girls like,” Lupe explained.

I smiled. “Do you like him?”

“No. But maybe they’ll finally be nicer to me now that I’m on the same team as him.” Lupe waggled her eyebrows.

I chuckled. Sounded like a plan.

“Just hope I don’t flame out . . .” Lupe said, her face clouding with worry again.

“Are you kidding? You’re going to rock this! When do you guys start?”

“Next week!” Lupe said.

“Who’s the coach?” I asked. “Maybe my mum knows her!”

Now that Mum was teaching full-time at the high school—she had her own classroom and everything!—she went to all the faculty meetings.

“Him. Mr. Jammer. I haven’t met him yet, but I hope he likes me.” “He will,” I assured her. We got to the patch of grass by the goal and looked around. Thankfully, my book was still lying in the same place I’d been forced to leave it. Tenderly, I picked it up and dusted off the grass.

“How mad did Mr. Antwell get at you for this?” Lupe asked. “Mad.” I made a face. “You don’t think he’s gonna give me a bad grade, do you? Because that would jeopardize everything.” “Relax. It was just one class,” Lupe said.

I chewed my cheek. “How long do you think the football unit’s gonna last?”

“At least till the World Cup’s over. Oh, hey, that reminds me! I heard they’re putting World Cup blankets on all the beds of the hotels in Pasadena! You think we should do that?”

“Nah,” I said. “What would we do with them after?”

The last thing I needed was a bunch of blankets reminding me that I was totally uncoordinated, even in my sleep.

Just then, I looked up and saw Mr. Antwell crossing over from the track to talk to us. I quickly put the book behind my back.

“Hey, Mr. Antwell,” we said.

“Mia, can I have a word with you?”

I handed my book to Lupe, then walked over to Mr. Antwell, trying hard not to study the number of frown lines around his mouth when he looked at me.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“Mia, I really need you to take PE seriously,” he said, crossing his arms.

“I do take PE seriously,” I insisted. “I’m just not that good at sports.”

“Because you don’t want to be—”

“No,” I interrupted. “I do. It’s just . . .” My voice trailed off. How could I explain that my arms were as rusty as an old bike chain because for years, my parents told me every day not to get anywhere close to the ball because we didn’t have insurance? I couldn’t. It’d be way too embarrassing.

“I’m a good writer, though ”

“You can’t just be good at one thing, Mia.” Mr. Antwell put on a pair of sunglasses, even though he already had one on top of his head. I didn’t know which one to look at. I felt like they were doubly reminding me of the fact that I was bad at sports.

“Why not?” I furrowed my eyebrows. “Because it’s not healthy!”

I wanted to ask why not? again. But I knew Mr. Antwell was a one why not? perday kind ofguy.

He sighed. “I just want you to know, when you get your report card this week, that I still believe in you.”

My heart started punching my chest. “What grade did you give me?” I asked. “Well, you’ll see,” he said.

“Please? I don’t want to wait.” I shook my head frantically. Report cards weren’t due for three days. Three whole days wondering and panicking! PE might finally send me to the emergency room—not for running, but for stress!

Mr. Antwell shifted his weight from one foot to the other uncomfortably. I could tell he really didn’t want to tell me. But he’d opened Pandora’s box, and there was no putting the GRADE issue back inside.

Gently, he took off his sunglasses again. And as he told me my fate, I felt the field underneath my feet open up and swallow me whole.

CHAPTER 2

I stumbled backward and fell on the dry grass. The sharp, stiff blades poked my palms. Sitting there and staring up at Mr. Antwell’s shadow towering over me against the blinding sun, I saw my dreams dissolve like the clouds.

There goes journalism camp. There goes my dream of going to San Francisco and meeting Amy Tan, the only author I know who looks like me, and spreading my wings as a writer.

“I’m getting a C?” I whispered, pushing the tears back. “C means average. A C is generous.”

Ouch. “Mr. Antwell, you don’t know how much I need this grade,” I begged, scrambling to my feet. “I’ll do extra credit!”

I started running in place, pushing my knees high just like Mr. Antwell always instructed us. I was so desperate, my knees nearly punched me in the face.

“Mia, stop. How about you just get closer to the ball? Maybe even touch it once in a while?” Mr. Antwell asked. “It’s not going to hurt you.”

I dropped my arms—and knees—and sighed.

“I expect a better effort from you next term,” he said sternly, then turned to walk away.

To his back I cried, “But I want to make a better effort now!”

It was too late. Mr. Antwell didn’t turn around, and as the lunch bell rang, I dragged my toothpick legs off the field. Lupe tried to cheer me up with a handful of Jolly Ranchers on the way back to class, but the sadness still pooled in my chest.

I wished my legs worked as well as my fingers. I wished my arms were as strong as my mind.

Most of all, I wished Mr. Antwell saw me for the things I was really good at, and not for the things I couldn’t control.

...

That afternoon behind the front desk at the Calivista Motel, I put my backpack down and glanced at the stack of fan mail waiting for me. Now that I was a regular columnist for a student newspaper in China and a staff writer for the school paper I’d started with my friend Da-Shawn, I received a lot of fan mail. Usually, the sight of letters from my readers made me bounce happily on my stool for hours. Today, I pushed them to the side. Reading them now would just make me sadder about not being able to go to the Tribune camp.

Dad walked in from the manager’s quarters. He added a bunch of keys to the wall, each representing a freshly cleaned room.

“Hey! How was school?” Dad asked, reaching for a reusable shopping bag lying by the desk.

I shrugged.

Excitedly, he pulled a light green rain jacket out of the bag. “You like it? I got it at a yard sale today. Three dollars!” He put it on and grinned. Dad loved bragging about the good deals he got from yard sales.

“You went to a yard sale in the middle of the day?” I asked. “Without me?”

“I was out looking for houses,” he said. Now that Mum had her stable high school job and the motel was doing well, my parents were determined to purchase our first American house. The manager’s quarters that the three of us shared as an apartment was getting cramped.

Mum wanted a kitchen island. She had watched all these American TV shows to improve her English, and in every single one, they had a kitchen island. Mum wanted one not just for cooking, but to sit at while she graded quizzes. And she and Dad both wanted to be able to sleep through the night without having customers come knocking. Even with our sign saying that we were closed after 11:00 p.m., night-owl customers still came by. It got so bad that Mum had to move into one of the guest rooms.

“Did you find anything?” I asked him.

Dad shook his head and sighed. “Nothing with a fireplace.” He was as fixated on getting a fireplace as Mum was on a kitchen island— and as much I was fixated on getting a dog.

Everyone else in my class had a dog. Kristy in the Baby-Sitters Club had a dog. Even my cousin Shen in China now had a dog! I wanted my own, to keep me company when I wrote. But Mum and Dad said I couldn’t have one at the Calivista, in case a customer was allergic.

Dad took off his new green jacket and held it up against me to see if it would fit. I wriggled away.

“What’s the matter? It’s going to be chilly up in San Francisco!” I bit my lip and didn’t say anything.

“It’ll keep you nice and warm when you’re exploring Angel Island,” he continued. “That’s where they kept some of the earliest Chinese immigrants. You should see their messages etched into the wall—”

I wished Dad would stop talking about all the things I was dying to do and now couldn’t. I put my hand over my stomach and quickly excused myself. “Sorry, Dad, I’ll be right back.”

I rushed through the manager’s quarters, squeezing by the boxes of hoisin sauce and dark soy that Jason ordered for the Calivista restaurant, East Meets West, to make his signature dishes.

Then I bumped into Jason himself as I walked out the back door. “Mia! Wanna try our new kimchi cashew rice?” he asked. “Hank and I made it!”

“Maybe later,” I replied, turning away—but not fast enough. “Are you okay?” Jason asked.

“Uh-huh!” I said brightly. I took my hand off my stomach and pretended all was well. I didn’t want to get into my grades with Jason. I just wanted to pretend the C wasn’t happening for a little while longer.

As I kept walking to the staircase, he called out, “Can we talk later?” “About what?” I asked.

“About the restaurant . . . I’ve just been thinking a lot.” I turned and saw Jason bite his lip. “About my future.”

“Sure,” I told him. “Later!”

Finally, I got to the bottom of the back staircase. It was the one place I could let my feelings out, where I could let myself be weak. Everywhere else, I had to be strong.

I had to be strong for Dad, who didn’t think we’d ever have stable jobs, and now we were about to buy our first American house. I had to be strong for Mum, who didn’t think she could become a real teacher or that I could become a real writer. I had to be strong for everyone’s dreams.

But here at the back staircase, I could be weak for me.

As the tears pooled in my eyes, I told myself the same thing I told myself every time I sat here: It’s going to be okay.And:There’s always next year’s camp.

Hank spotted me and walked over from his old room. Over the summer, he’d purchased a nice new condo, right near the lake. It was his pride and joy, and he got to see the Disneyland fireworks every single night from his living room. But he still kept a room at the motel for nights when work at East Meets West ran late.

“Mia?” he asked.

I didn’t bother to wipe my tears away. Hank and I go way back; he’s allowed to see me weak too.

“Hey,” I said.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, taking a seat next to me. He was holding a piece of paper.

I sucked in a breath and started telling him about my grade. The shame choked in my throat.

Hank patted my hand. “I feel like every time we’re sitting on this staircase, it’s because of a grade. And every time, you know what happened?”

“But this time’s different. This time, there’s nothing I can do about it.” I pointed at my legs. “I can’t kick any harder or run any faster, not even if you put one of those heat lamps under my feet!”

Hank laughed. “No one’s getting powered by heat lamps here,” he assured me. “But you can try talking to your teacher. Tell him how much this grade means to you.”

“I already did. No use.”

Hank put a hand to his chin. “Well, maybe it’s time to go over his head,” he suggested.

I looked at him. “You mean go to my counsellor?”

Mr. Ingleton was always eating nuts at assembly—loudly—even though we were a nut-free school. I’d never been to his office for anything.

“It’s worth a shot,” Hank said.

Hank was right. I’m Mia Tang. I may be the slowest person on the football field, but I’m the first person to defend my dreams. And I wasn’t about to give up just like that! I jumped to my feet.

“Great idea!” As I leaned over to give Hank a hug, I glanced down at the piece of paper in Hank’s hand. It was his secret recipe for his signature saltine burgers.

Hank never wrote out his secret recipe. “What’s that for?” I asked.

Hank grinned. “This here is my journalism camp,” he declared. Beaming, he told me that a very fancy restaurant, the Pasadena Grill, had called. They had heard about his burgers and wanted to see if he wanted to partner with them. “Just imagine! They have the scale, the distribution, the money to take my food nationwide—Mia, this is the moment I’ve been dreaming about! It’s time to take the Hank show to prime time!”

I giggled as we both thrust our fists into the sky. “To prime time!!!” we both shouted.

CHAPTER 3

My knees jiggled as I sat across from Mr. Ingleton in his small, windowless guidance counsellor’s office. I’d brought a stack of my columns for him, thinking he might be interested in reading them. On the phone last night, Da-Shawn had said, “Show ’em what you got, Mia!” But when I told Mr. Ingleton why it was so important I pull up my grade in PE, he hardly glanced at my writing, reaching instead for another handful of nuts.

“So let me get this straight,” he said. “You’re here because you got one bad grade in PE?”

“It’s not just a bad grade. It means I can’t go to this journalism camp. All my grades have to be—”

He silenced me with his almond-dusted hand. “I get it. They wanna make sure you’re well-rounded.”

I’d heard that term before, but I never really knew what it meant. I glanced down at my tummy in the chair, rising and falling with nerves. It looked perfectly round to me.

“As in, not just a bookworm,” he clarified.

Hey! I frowned at him, offended. I was proud of my reading. I even had a T-shirt that said Professional Bookworm on it that I got at a yard sale!

“Programs like that want to groom future leaders. And in order to be a leader, you have to be good at everything, not just one little thing.”

“I wouldn’t call writing ‘one little thing,’” I muttered.

He gave me a look, and I fell quiet. I reminded myself of the immense power that counsellors had. They could see everyone’s grades. They could even break the nut rule!

“Look, it’s nice that you like writing,” Mr. Ingleton went on. “But that can’t be all that you’re about. Sports is about character building,” he said. “It’s about teamwork. Every great leader this country’s ever had has been good at sports. That’s what it takes to be all-American.” I furrowed my eyebrows, more confused than ever.

Was he saying I wasn’t American? I reminded him that my parents and I just became citizens. “I even have my new passport—I can bring it to you. Would you like to see it?”

“No thanks. That’s great, but I’m not talking about a piece of paper. I’m talking about the mentality, the tradition. High schools and colleges in America, they’re interested in more than just a homework robot.”

My cheeks burned. “I’m not a homework robot,” I whispered to the floor.

“Sorry, a writing robot. Same thing,” Mr. Ingleton said, reaching for another handful of nuts.

...

That afternoon, I edited student submissions for the school newspaper and tried to toss Mr. Ingleton’s words out of my head. Da-Shawn was out interviewing the school janitors for a story over lunch, so I was in the News Room all by myself.

The News Room used to be our district bus drivers’ lounge, but then they got their own waiting room and facility in the district office. So Da-Shawn and I lobbied hard for the room—much to Bethany and her friends’ annoyance. They’d wanted to convert it into a recording studio. Thankfully, the school agreed with me and Da-Shawn, even putting in a computer and a printer for us to produce the school newspaper.

I added commas and full stops to articles, but stuck in my mind, like the sticky coat of dry roasted peanuts that you can’t get off your hands, were the counsellor’s phrases.

Homework robot. Bookworm.

And the one that stung the most: all-American.

If I wasn’t good at sports, did that mean I wasn’t completely American? Then what did that make me? All-nothing?

Da-Shawn walked in just then and put his camera down on the table.

“You wouldn’t believe what the janitors told me,” he said excitedly. “They’ve had to remove a hundred and fifty wads of gum from under the—” He took a look at me. “What’s wrong?”

I put my editing pen down. “Forget gum wads. You know what we should do a story on? Whether PE should be optional. I mean, why do we have to prove ourselves by running the mile and playing football if that’s not what we’re good at?”

Da-Shawn looked shocked. “PE is, like, my favourite class!”

Da-Shawn was one of those well-rounded people Mr. Ingleton was talking about—an amazing writer and an incredible athlete. He could run the mile in less than seven minutes. And conduct an interview while he sprinted. “Well, it’s not mine,” I muttered.

For me, PE was minutes of standing around, worrying whether anyone would actually pick me for their team, feeling like day-old bread in the bakery.

“But you get to be part of a team!” Da-Shawn protested.

“So? I’m part of a team now,” I said, pointing at him and me. “This here. This is a team.”

Da-Shawn nodded, though I could tell he wasn’t convinced. A news team wasn’t the same as a sports team. There was just some- thing magnetic about sports. Feverish, almost. And it was only going to get worse as the World Cup got closer.

...

Mum was at the kitchen table in the manager’s quarters when I got back to the Calivista.

“How was school?” she asked.

I reached for a bag of prawn chips on the counter. Then put it back and picked up a can of Pringles instead. Would that be more American? I hated that I was even wondering.

“Don’t eat too many of those. I’m making mapo tofu for dinner, your favourite,” Mum said, looking up from her papers.

I smiled. She usually had so many staff meetings after school, Dad and I just ate at the motel restaurant.

“That’s great. How come you’re home so early?”

“I needed a break. The staff meeting was exhausting,” she said, putting her pen down and closing her eyes. I walked over and started to massage her tired, full-time-teacher shoulders.

Slowly, Mum told me about the guy in her faculty meeting who wouldn’t let anyone else talk.

“I didn’t even have a chance to present my new activities,” she said, disappointed. I knew she was extremely proud of the games she’d invented to make maths equations easier to remember for her kids.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“I’m beginning to think it’s not about who works the hardest, but who talks the loudest,” Mum sighed. “And my English . . .” She let her voice trail off.

Apparently I wasn’t the only one confused about the rules for success.

“Your English is fine,” I told her.

Mum reached up a hand and patted mine with it. I could tell she appreciated the words but didn’t entirely believe me.

“Anyway,” she said. “Some mapo tofu will take my mind off things. You want to help me make it?”

I nodded eagerly. As Mum got up to wash the tofu, I ran out back to the restaurant.

“Hey, Jason, you got an apron I can borrow?” I asked. “Sure!” he said.

As he looked around, I asked, “So what did you want to talk to me about?”

“Oh, nothing, it can wait.”

Jason? Wait? Now I was really curious.

He finally found an apron and handed it to me. Then, taking a breath, he said, “It’s just—I’ve been thinking, and, well, I love the Calivista restaurant so much. Especially working with Hank. I’m always telling my dad how much I love working with him. But . . .”

Oh,no. He’s not quitting, is he? My heart jumped to my eyelashes. “But?” I prompted.

“Well, it’s just that I feel like I’ve contributed a lot to it,” he said. “You totally have!” I agreed. People lined up around the block all summer for his food. Even Mr. Yao, Jason’s grumpy dad and our old boss, was impressed. He’s been coming around, watching Jason cook.

“I guess what I’m saying is, you, Hank, Lupe—I mean, you guys all own a piece of the Calivista. I wish I could be part of it too. Officially.”

Wow. I was not expecting that.

“How long have you been thinking about this?” I asked him. “Only every day. For the entire summer.”

“Oh.”

“I just want to be a part of the thing I helped build, you know?”

“Of course,” I started to say. It made total sense. Jason had worked so hard, along with Hank, to put East Meets West on the map. He was directly responsible for the booming business and the thrilled investors. And we had so many investors. What was one more?

“I don’t see why you couldn’t be an investor,” I said. “But where would the money come from?”

I knew Jason made a killing in tips, but the value of the Calivista had gone up so much; to become an investor required serious cash now.

“Don’t worry about it.” Jason waved the question away.

Uhoh. Inarrowed my eyes.

“Okay,” he said finally. “I’d get it from my dad.”

Oh, no. After what we’d been through with Mr. Yao—we’d worked so hard to get out from under his thumb! We couldn’t possibly let him back in! I shook my head.

Jason added quickly, “It doesn’t matter either way—it’s my money!”

“No it’s not; it’s your dad’s!”

“So?”

“So it means he’ll be an investor. That’s not happening.”

I twisted the apron in my hands as I turned to walk back to the manager’s quarters, panicking at the thought of Mr. Yao owning part of the motel again. Jason scurried after me.

“You’re not even going to think about it?”

I turned around. “I have. I thought about it when your dad worked my parents to their bones. And docked their pay whenever something broke. When he refused to let them leave the motel together, not even to go to parent-teacher conferences with me! When he kicked Hank out. You want me to keep going?”

“It would just be his money, not him!” Jason insisted.

“Money talks,” I snapped.

I walked into the manager’s quarters and slammed the door behind me as Jason called out, “That’s exactly what my dad said you’d say! But I told him you were a fair leader, a good leader!”

I leaned against the back of the door, squeezing my eyes shut. I could feel my resistance waning as Mr. Ingleton’s words came back to me yet again—to be successful in America, you had to be a good leader. Was I a bad one for wanting to protect my family?

“Hey, you get the apron?” Mum called from the kitchen.

“Yep,” I said, walking back inside.

“What’s wrong?” Mum asked.

Washing my hands, I told Mum what Jason was asking for.

“Letting Mr. Yao back in … I don’t know” she said, shaking her head and making a long sound through her teeth.

“I know! What about Hank and all the rest of us? Are we supposed to just forget?”

Mum reached for the scallions. I tried to help her cut some, but the kitchen was tiny and we kept bumping into each other.

“Can’t say I blame Jason,” Mum said. “He wants to be part of something.”

“He is part of something.”

“You know what I mean,” Mum said. I bumped into her accidentally again, and some of the newly sliced scallions fell out of her hand. “We really need a bigger kitchen,” she sighed. Across the room, Full House was on TV. Mum stared enviously at their kitchen island.

“Then we can make smoothies together,” I said with a smile. Mum chuckled. “Be like real Americans!”

My smile faded. I wanted a kitchen island as badly as she did. But I thought we already were real Americans. If only the goalposts didn’t keep moving.

CHAPTER 4

Later, I found Hank out by his car, putting his recipes and ingredients together into a briefcase.

“Hey! How’d it go with your counsellor?” he asked me. I made a face.

Hank held open the passenger side door. “Let’s go for a ride.”

I hopped in, and the delicious aroma of Hank’s saltine burgers and tomato fries wafted from the back seat. The fries were something he’d invented that summer as a healthy substitute for french fries. And man, were they good! Hank made them out of green tomatoes dipped in buttermilk and cornmeal, with just a touch of cayenne pepper for an extra kick.

I reached for one and nibbled on it. The light crunch temporarily distracted me from my troubles. But then the juices settled and reality came crawling back.

If Mr. Yao owned the Calivista again, would we still be able to just jump in the car and take off somewhere?

“What’s the matter? Too salty?” Hank asked.

I shook my head. “No, your fries are always perfect.” Hank turned onto the 5 Freeway, and soon we were passing the Disneyland exit. I thought about going there for the first time that summer with Lupe and Jason. It had been the best day of my life. We were the Three Keys! And now one of the keys was sad because he didn’t feel like an equal.

I told Hank everything as he drove.

“Wow.” Hank whistled. “Mr. Yao back in the picture—who would have thunk it?”

“Why can’t Jason just be happy with the way things are?” I asked. “He gets paid and he gets all these tips—”

Hank gave me a look.

“Mia, you and I both know being an employee and being an owner—that ain’t the same thing. The boy wants to feel like he’s working toward something.” Hank pointed to the back seat, at his recipes and sample burgers. “He wants to advance himself, just like me.”

“But this is Mr. Yao we’re talking about!”

I thought about all the times over the summer that Mr. Yao had stopped by, looking for Jason. Each time, I’d bristled like a hedgehog. “It’s a risk, for sure,” Hank agreed. “But you gotta look deep inside and ask yourself, how much of this is your pride holding you back? Sometimes you gotta take a chance if an employee is really worth it. Even if it’s hard. Even if it’s scary.”

“Wow, Hank.”

“What?” He chuckled at the way I was marveling at him.

“I’m just amazed. After how he treated you . . .” During our first year at the Calivista, the way Mr. Yao spoke to my parents and Hank—it made me want to kick a thousand football balls straight at his head.

“Well, I’ve been working with Jason in the kitchen every day,” Hank said. “And I can tell you. He ain’t his dad.” As Hank turned off the freeway, I noticed a giant billboard. It had a life-size poster of football superstar Mia Hamm kicking a black-and- white ball. It read:

TEAM USA vs. TEAM CHINA: FIFA WOMEN’S WORLD CUP—PASADENA ROSE BOWL, OCT 26