Room to dream E-Book

Kelly Yang

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

Seitenzahl: 358

Beschreibung

Mia Tang is going for her dreams: 1. She's finally going on holiday to see her family - in China! 2. She's taking on the big motel next door. 3. She is sure that her plans to be a big write are about to reach the next level. But, things around Mia are changing; in the town and even in her friendships... Can she and her motel survive? The third book in the bestselling FRONT DESK series by award-winning author Kelly Yang.

Leseprobe

ROOM TO

DREAM

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., 2021

002

Written by Kelly Yang

Text and cover copyright © Kelly Yang, 2021

Cover art by © Maike Plenzke, 2021

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: 9781913311261

ISBN: ebook: 9781913311575

ISBN: ibook: 9781913311865

Room to Dream

KELLY YANG

Also by Kelly Yang

Front Desk

Three Keys (Front Desk #2)

For older readers:

Parachutes

KNIGHTS OF is a multi award-winning inclusive publisher focused on bringing underrepresented voices to the forefront of commercial children’s publishing. With a team led by women of colour, and an unwavering focus on their intended readership for each book, Knights Of works to engage with gatekeepers across the industry, including booksellers, teachers and librarians, and supports non-traditional community spaces with events, outreach, marketing and partnerships.

To my lao ye, who taught me to dream big. I miss you every day.

Chapter 1

Silver strands of tinsel hung from our classroom Christmas tree, swaying slightly ­under the ceiling fan. Even though it was nearly December, it was still fairly warm in Anaheim — ­not enough for air conditioning but enough to keep the fan on. As our seventh-­grade Maths teacher, Mrs. Beadle, handed out prob­lem sets for us to do, I sat at my desk staring at the shimmery strands, wondering if I should get some for our ­little tree at the front desk of the Calivista Motel.

“Hey, Lupe, do you think we should get some tinsel —” I turned to my right and asked, then remembered. Lupe ­wasn’t in Maths with me this year. I kept forgetting. Thanks to all the studying she did with my mum over the summer, Lupe was now in Algebra 1, while Jason and I ­were in regular seventh-­grade Maths. In fact, Lupe ­wasn’t in any of my classes at Anaheim Ju­nior High this year.

I sighed, and Jason lifted his head. “You want some tinsel?” he asked. Before I could answer, he jumped out of his seat and lunged for the Christmas tree, nearly falling on top of it. All the kids shrieked and laughed.

“Take your seat!” Mrs. Beadle ordered him.

Jason muttered, “Sorry,” and went back to his desk, but not before making off with a fistful of tinsel. When Mrs. Beadle’s back was turned, he passed it to me. I giggled.

At least I had Jason in my classes this year.

Jason squished his legs ­under his desk. He had shot up like a bean sprout over the summer and now towered over me. His smile dis­appeared when he looked down at the prob­lem sets Mrs. Beadle placed in front of him. “Not a quiz again,” he moaned.

“Jason, ­you’re in ­middle school now,” Mrs. Beadle said. “And ­you’ve known about this quiz all week.”

“But I’ve been busy cooking!” Jason replied.

Twice a week ­after school, Jason went to a cooking academy in nearby Orange. Sometimes ­after class, he came by the motel and let us taste his creations — ­Hawaiian peach mousse, tomato ricotta with sesame, barbecued butternut squash and choy sum. ­Every dish he made was delicious. His cooking teacher said he was one of the most talented ju­nior chefs ­she’d ever taught. At the rate he was ­going, he’d be promoted to the elite cooking acad­emy any day now!

But Mrs. Beadle shook her head. “Your extracurricular activities are just that. Extracurricular. ­They’re not supposed to get in the way of your real subjects.”

“Yeah, Jason,” Bethany Brett chimed in. She was sitting in the row in front of us, wearing five necklaces and twirling them with her fin­gers. “Cooking’s not a real subject. It’s for old ladies.”

Jason’s face turned beet red as the class started snickering. Most of our classmates came from other elementary schools; they ­hadn’t been to last year’s cookout at Dale Elementary, where Jason’s chef skills had impressed every­one. Bethany had been ­there, though.

“That’s funny,” I said to her. “I distinctly remember you gobbling up Jason’s delicious braised pork belly and asking for seconds....”

“Let’s get back to Maths,” Mrs. Beadle urged.

I put a hand on Jason’s arm, and we shared a look. Then, as Mrs. Beadle went back to her desk and started the timer on her clock, I got to work. Maybe if I did well on ­these quizzes, I’d get promoted to Algebra 1 too.

After class, Jason and I put our books back in our lockers and raced over to the eighth-­grade side of school, where Lupe’s Maths class was. We found a spot over by the trees. I looked up at the tree roof. It made me miss the Kids for Kids club we had in elementary school.

Unfortunately, most of ­those kids had gone to dif­fer­ent ­middle schools. Some had moved away. The ones who stayed suddenly had other interests, like computer club and hanging out by the bleachers with the cool girls.

Lupe and I tried hanging out with the cool girls too. But they had taken one look at us and scooted over to the other side of the bleachers. Lupe ­wasn’t so both­ered. But I wondered: What made them popu­lar and not us?

“So how’s algebra?” I asked Lupe.

Lupe reached into her bag of chicharrones.

“Good,” she said, munching on a crisp. She handed some to me. Chicharrones ­were ­these spicy crisps from Tijuana that melted and exploded in your mouth at the same time. Now that Lupe’s dad had received his papers from the immigration judge and Proposition 187 was overturned, Lupe’s ­family got to go back and forth freely from the US and Mexico — ­and bring all sorts of delicious snacks with them!

“Some of the stuff is pretty hard,” she added.

“You know if it gets too hard, you can always move back down with us!” I suggested eagerly.

Jason nodded. “And we have tinsel.”

Lupe chuckled. “It’s not too hard,” she insisted. “But I do miss you guys.”

I smiled at my best friend and reached for another chicharron. I gazed at it. It used to be that you could get chicharrones at Mr. Abayan’s con­ve­nience store. He always stocked his shelves with all kinds of snacks from Mexico and the Philippines. But his store got replaced by a 7-­Eleven, and now you had to go all the way to Mexico to find chicharrones.

Lupe reached for her textbooks. “I’m ­going to the library to get started on my homework.”

“I’ll come with you!” I offered, getting up.

“No, it’s okay,” Lupe quickly said, backing away and hugging her books tightly. “I’ll catch up with you at the front desk!”

I watched as Lupe skipped over to the library, wondering why she ­didn’t want me to come along. Was she afraid I would distract her? I totally ­wouldn’t.

“So did you ask all the teachers for permission yet?” Jason asked, handing me one of his green-­tea Pocky sticks.

“Just need En­glish!” I told him as I bit into the Pocky. In a ­little over a week, my parents and I ­were fi­nally ­going on our first Christmas holiday ever... to China! I was so ­eager to see all my cousins and aunts and ­uncles again, I could hardly sit still at the front desk. ­Every day I put a big X on the calendar, counting down. The excitement — ­and nerves — ­jingled inside me. Would my cousin Shen still recognize me when I stepped off the plane? Would I recognize him?

“I ­can’t believe the teachers are letting you take a ­whole extra month off school,” Jason said.

Because the plane tickets ­were so expensive, and it’d been forever since we took a holiday, my parents wanted to go for a full six weeks. So far, all my teachers had said that was okay. “As long as I do my homework, ­they’re cool with it!”

“And the motel?”

“Lupe’s parents are covering for us.”

Jason’s eyes dropped to his Pocky. “Well, I’m ­going to miss you.”

I smiled. I knew Jason liked sitting next to me, especially in Maths, where he ­didn’t always get what the teacher was talking about. “I’ll be back soon, and I’ll bring you lots of numbing peppers and special spices!”

His face brightened. “And ­we’re still on for the movies next Saturday, before you go?”

“Of course!” As a Christmas treat, Jason, Lupe, and I ­were ­going to a movie and then dinner. Now that the economy was ­doing better, Jason’s dad’s businesses ­were flourishing, and Jason got his allowance back. And Lupe and I had our front desk money. Jason had the restaurant all picked out — ­a new place called Jade Zen. It was right next to the congee place my parents and I liked to go to on Sundays. And we ­were ­going to go see Toy Story!

I was so excited, I nearly blurted out that it’d be my first time watching a movie in an American cinema. But I ­stopped myself just in time. ­There ­were some ­things I still ­didn’t want to tell Jason, even if I ­would’ve told Lupe in a heartbeat.

“It’s ­going to be amazing!” Jason beamed.

The bell rang for our third class, and we got up. As we brushed the grass off our trousers, Jason leaned over and awkwardly hugged me.

“Oh!” I said, surprised.

“Sorry,” he said, blushing. “I just... I ­can’t wait for Saturday!”

...

­Later in En­glish class, Bethany Brett sat next to me, loudly chewing on her gum while Ms. Swann, our teacher, handed back our essays. I looked over at Jason, who was similarly annoyed by our own Miss Violet Beauregarde.

“Da-­Shawn, this is so good,” Ms. Swann gushed. Da-­Shawn Wallace had moved to Anaheim from Connecticut a ­couple weeks before. An African American boy with braces and a Batman pencil case, he was the only person I knew who read more than me and Lupe. He even read sometimes ­under his desk when Ms. Swann ­wasn’t looking.

“The way you describe being lost at sea, I can feel ­every wave crashing, ­every drop of rain!”

“Psst,” Jason whispered. “I bet yours is better!”

I gazed over at Da-­Shawn’s paper, curious to see what an A+ paper looked like, but he quickly put it away.

Ms. Swann had given me two As so far this year. She had a bulletin board up by the front of the classroom where each month she recognized the Most Creative Writer, Most Funny Writer, and Most Moving Writer. I ­hadn’t made the Most list yet, but I was hopeful that I was close. As she handed back my essay, I saw another A.

“All right, class, please put your stories away. It’s time for our whole-­grade photo. Every­one head to the gym,” Ms. Swann said.

I looked at Jason. That’s ­today? I’d completely forgotten. I put my papers in my backpack and got in the single-­file line to go to the gym. Jason took out a comb from his back pocket to straighten his hair.

“How do I look?” he asked.

“­Great,” I said, studying him. He’d missed a spot, and I reached up and patted a stray hair with my hand. For some reason, that made Jason blush.

As we walked inside the gym, I looked around for Lupe. We had to stand together. I found her in the front row.

“Hey!” I said, getting in the front row next to her.

“Did you know this was ­today?” Lupe asked.

“No, I forgot,” I said. I looked down at my jeans and T-­shirt of a pickle that said I’m Kind of a Big Dill. Had I known our group picture was ­today, I would have picked another shirt. I gazed over at Bethany Brett, rearranging her five necklaces in front of her sweater. So that’s why she was wearing them.

Jason squeezed in the front row next to us. “Well, you totally look awesome,” he assured me.

“Thanks.” I smiled. “We look awesome.”

The photographer, a white guy named Kyle who had a big button on his shirt that said Smile with Teeth, walked over to us.

“You guys need to move to the back row,” he told me, Jason, and Lupe.

We looked at him, confused. The ­people in the back row ­were a full head taller than us. Maybe Jason would fit in, but Lupe and I would be completely hidden.

“Can we just stay ­here?” I asked. “Please?”

I ­really wanted my parents to buy the picture this year. ­Every year, when we got the flyer to buy school photos, my mum always said they ­were too expensive. ­She’d cut out the small ­free sample pic and stick that on the refrigerator instead. Maybe if they saw me in the front row this year, they’d actually buy it!

“I’m afraid not,” Kyle the photographer said.

I looked around at all the other kids in the front row. The other kids ­were mostly white. Some ­were even taller than me and Lupe. But he ­wasn’t telling them to move.

“I’m trying to achieve a certain look ­here,” Kyle explained in frustration.

I furrowed my eyebrows. What was that supposed to mean?

Lupe tugged on my arm and said quietly, “It’s fine.”

Reluctantly, I followed her and Jason to the back row, frowning as Dillon Fischer blocked my ­whole face with his big neck. It just felt so unfair. ­After all the stuff we’d achieved — ­Lupe was practically taking high school Maths and I was a straight-­A student — ­I felt like we’d earned the right to be front and center. But the photographer was still trying to hide us.

As Kyle the photographer told us to smile, I muttered to Lupe, “This stinks.”

“I know,” she said.

“Nah, it’s okay,” Jason said. “I ­don’t want to be front and center anyway.”

“But that’s not the point.” I turned to him. “­We’re not allowed to be. ­There’s a difference.”

And why? Just ­because we ­weren’t blonde and blue-­eyed and ­didn’t wear a million necklaces like Bethany?

...

After En­glish class was over, I went up to Ms. Swann.

“How was the class picture?” she asked.

Not ­great.

“I ­didn’t get to stand where I wanted...” I muttered.

Ms. Swann looked at me sympathetically. “That happens sometimes,” she said. “I remember when I was a kid I was always the shortest one. But ­don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll have a growth spurt soon!”

Yeah. I somehow doubted that would change ­things.

“So what did you want to talk to me about?”

I started telling her about our Christmas trip to China.

“China!” Ms. Swann cried. “That’s amazing! I’ve always wanted to go to China. Oh, I’m so jealous ­you’re ­going!”

I smiled — it was nice to know that not every­one in my school wanted me to hide my culture. Slowly, I explained how the tickets ­weren’t cheap and my parents rarely got a holiday, so I needed to take an additional four weeks off school.

Ms. Swann put a fin­ger to her chin. “As long as you keep up with your En­glish homework, that’s okay with me.” She glanced around her desk ­until her eyes landed on a blank notebook, which she handed me. “Fill this up with stories. I want you to write a journal entry on your experience, twice a week. Take me to China and ­really blow me away — ­will you do that?”

I promised her I would as I took the notebook. I ­couldn’t wait to show her around my hometown and make her see, taste, and feel every­thing. By the time I got back, I’d definitely earn my position on her Most board.

...

“Mum! Dad! I got permission from all my teachers!”

I burst into the front office ­after school, but my parents ­weren’t ­there — ­only Hank heard me shouting.

“These travel agents, they sure are snooty,” he said, sighing as he hung up the phone. “They keep saying we ­don’t have enough of a brand, so they ­won’t partner with us.”

Hank had been trying to get travel agents to work with the Calivista, as part of his plan to take the motel to new heights.

“Why do we need a travel agency again?” Lupe asked, plopping down on one of the stools and putting her Maths homework on the front desk.

“Because they bring in lots of customers!” Hank said. “Let’s say you’re sitting at your house in Texas and you want to go to Disneyland. You call up your travel agent and they help you book your flight and your hotel. That could be us. We could be the ­hotel!”

I sighed, gazing over at the Disneyland poster on the wall, which was peeling at the edges now. Even though we ­were just five miles away, Lupe, Jason, and I still ­hadn’t been. We’d made a pact to go for sure this year. Maybe when I got back from China. I smiled at the thought. I ­couldn’t wait.

Gently, I took the tinsel Jason gave me out of my backpack and sprinkled it over our cute ­little Christmas tree.

“Hey, that looks good,” Lupe said.

“Thanks!” I smiled.

“We should get some ornaments too. Maybe a Mickey Mouse one... I’ll try to find one at the dollar store!” Lupe said.

“That’ll be ­great! But ­we’ll get an official one — ­when we go to Disneyland.”

“For sure!”

A loud BANG interrupted us. It was coming from the construction work next door. Both the Topaz and the Lagoon ­were ­under renovation, curiously at the same time, making us the only motel on the block.

“What are they ­doing over ­there?” I asked, watching the tinsel shake on our ­little tree.

“What­ever it is, I hope they never finish,” Hank said. His eyes twinkled as he walked over and opened up the cash register. It was full of cash!

“Holy moly!” Lupe said.

“I know. ­Isn’t it ­great?” Hank beamed. “It’s been a full ­house since the Topaz and Lagoon closed.”

I grinned as I thumbed through the thick stack of registration forms.

Lupe gazed out the win­dow at the Lagoon’s green mesh netting concealing their renovation, as Mrs. Davis walked into the front office.

“Well, I’m all done for the day! Just came in to grab my purse,” she said. Hank got it from ­under the front desk, thanking Mrs. Davis for her help. Mrs. Davis was the cleaning professional from the local cleaning agency, Happy Clean. Now that my mum was studying full-­time for her Maths teaching licensing exam, my dad needed help cleaning thirty rooms a day. Mrs. Davis was especially good at changing sheets, having worked in a nursing home before.

My dad walked in right ­behind her.

“­You’re a lifesaver,” he said to Mrs. Davis. “I ­don’t know how I’d get all ­these rooms clean by myself.”

“Well, luckily you ­don’t have to,” Mrs. Davis said with a warm smile. “I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow.”

­After Mrs. Davis left, I turned to my dad.

“Guess what? My teachers said I could go to China for the full six weeks!”

“That’s fantastic!” Dad said, patting the sweat off his hairline with a rag from his pocket.

Just then, my mum came walking out of the man­ager’s quarters to the front desk, holding a white envelope. Her hands ­were shaking.

“What is it?” Dad asked.

She peered up at us with big, watery eyes. “I did it! I passed my substitute teaching exam!”

Lupe and I jumped up and down, shrieking, “Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!” Dad took Mum into his arms and hugged her as Hank grabbed the phone to call the other weeklies. My mum had been studying so hard. And now her dream of being a teacher in America was fi­nally coming true!

Chapter 2

That night, we all gathered in the kitchen of the manager’s quarters for a celebratory dinner. As my mum prepared kung pao chicken and spring rolls, Hank stood over the stove grilling up his signature saltine bur­gers. I turned to my dad.

“Was ­there any mail for me?” I asked.

“As a ­matter of fact, ­there was,” he said. “I put it in your room.”

Just then, Lupe’s mum and dad arrived with a pot full of tamales. Lupe stayed in the kitchen to help her dad, but I escaped to my room and quietly closed the door ­behind me. My heart thumped as I walked up to the envelope sitting on top of my dresser. Carefully, I tore it open. ­Here goes.

Dear Mia,

Thank you for submitting your work to the opinion section of the Los Angeles Gazette. The editors regret to say it does not suit the needs of our newspaper at this time, and we are unable to publish it. We wish you well, and we thank you for thinking of our newspaper.

Kind regards,

The Editors

Los Angeles Gazette

I blinked my eyes hard before a tear could escape. Stop it, I told myself. Getting a rejection is normal, part of being a professional writer.

Except it ­wasn’t my first. It was my seventy-­ninth.

Ever since the piece I wrote on Proposition 187 was in the Los Angeles Times, I’d been trying to get published again. At the library, I looked up the addresses of newspapers all over the country so I could mail them my opinion pieces. And all year, the editors from ­those papers mailed my letters right back. The rejections all said the same ­thing: My writing “­didn’t suit their needs at this time,” they ­weren’t interested in the daily goings-on at the motel, and my stories ­weren’t serious enough.

I sat down on my chair with a heavy sigh, letting the Gazette letter fall from my hand to the floor.

The worst ­thing was, not a single person knew. Not Hank, not Lupe, not Jason. I ­hadn’t told them ­because I kept waiting and waiting for my luck to turn around. Now I was starting to think maybe I was just a one-hit won­der.

“Hey, Mia?” Lupe knocked on my door. “It’s time to eat!”

“Be right ­there!” I called.

I took the letter and stuffed it deep in my closet, with all my other hidden rejections.

Walking back into the kitchen, I watched my mum’s face melt as she bit into Hank’s burger. “This is the best burger I’ve ever had!” Mum proclaimed.

Hank chuckled. “Well, you deserve it! Congratulations!”

Mum pointed to the dark circles ­under her eyes. “I look like a panda, I’ve been studying so hard! I was so worried I ­wouldn’t pass.”

“I ­wasn’t worried for a second!” my dad said, holding a can of cream soda up for a toast. “To my brilliant wife, who as of ­today is officially on the main road!” He leaned over and kissed my mum on the cheek. “I’m so proud of you.”

“Hear, hear!” we all said, and clinked fizzy drink cans.

Lupe reached for a spring roll as I helped myself to a tamale.

“What ­were you ­doing in your room for so long?” Lupe asked.

“Just homework,” I lied. Turning to my mum, I said brightly, “So, do you know where ­you’re ­going to be teaching?”

“The letter ­doesn’t say exactly, but it’ll be in the Anaheim Unified School District.” Her eyes flashed. “­Wouldn’t it be amazing if I was your Maths teacher, Mia?”

I coughed, glancing over at Lupe. Bethany Brett would love to see that.

“Or mine,” Lupe said quickly. “I think you should be mine!”

My dad chuckled. “­You’ve already got kids fighting to be in your class!”

“When do you start?” asked Mrs. Q, one of the weeklies.

“Right ­after we get back!” Mum grinned at me and Dad. “I ­can’t wait to see the look on my ­sisters’ ­faces when I tell them!”

Ever since my mum’s ­sisters turned her down for money when we ­were trying to buy the motel two years ago, ­things had been a ­little tense. I was glad Mum had something ­great to tell them.

If only I had the same.

“Just think, maybe one of ­these days, ­we’ll fi­nally be able to buy one of the ­houses with a white picket fence ­we’ve been looking at!” Mum said.

I nodded eagerly. ­After our weekly Sunday breakfast at the congee shop, my parents and I drove to open ­houses. We ­didn’t have enough money to buy a ­house yet, but my mum said it was impor­tant to visualize what we wanted to achieve. Maybe one day soon, we ­wouldn’t just visualize — ­we’d actually achieve!

The front office doorbell rang. Dad got up to go deal with the customer while Hank updated every­one on the travel agency proj­ect.

“­We’ll find something,” José encouraged him. “And even if we ­don’t partner with a travel agency, ­we’re ­doing fine. We’ve been killing it!”

“­Because the Topaz and the Lagoon are both closed. But when they reopen...” Hank shook his head.

Billy Bob swatted the concern away. “When they reopen, you’ll still have to drive by us to get to them. Remember, in real estate, it’s location, location, location!”

“Yup!” I seconded. I’d heard that expression from several real estate agents at open ­houses.

Mum craned her neck, looking ­toward the front office. “What’s taking him so long? The food’s getting cold.”

“I’ll go get him!” Hank said.

Billy Bob clicked on the tele­vi­sion to check the latest scores from the Dodgers game.

“What’d I miss?” my dad asked, sitting back down at the kitchen ­table. He looked around for the sweet chili dipping sauce to dip the spring rolls in.

“Oh, sorry, I ­didn’t have time to go to 99 Ranch to buy the chili sauce this week,” Mum said.

“­Don’t worry about it. I can run over to the Asian Mart ­after dinner and get some,” Dad said, referring to a tiny store by the library that sold Asian spices and sauces. Jason also liked ­going ­there.

“I tried ­going ­there, but it was closed,” Mum said.

My dad raised his eyebrows. “Closed, ­really?” he asked. He put his chopsticks down. “I hope they ­didn’t move.”

Mrs. T leaned in. “Have you noticed all the shops changing in our neighbourhood?”

Mrs. Q nodded, and I realized I’d noticed too. ­There was Mr. Abayan’s con­ve­nience store, which was now a 7-­Eleven; the hair salon with the ­giant scissors in the win­dow by the high school, which was now a Supercuts; and my favourite stationery store, where I got my sparkly green pencil. It closed ­because it ­couldn’t compete with the Office Depot.

Hank walked back in.

“All good?” Dad asked. “What room did you give her?”

Hank shook his head. “It was so weird. Once I took over, she changed her mind. ­Didn’t want to stay anymore.”

“­Didn’t want to stay?” Dad asked.

In the background, the eve­ning news took over from the baseball game.

“Despite efforts to improve racial tensions,” the anchorman was saying, “polls show that since the OJ Simpson verdict, race relations have worsened across the country. Many Americans feel that OJ Simpson, a Black man, should have gone to jail for the alleged murder of two white ­people.”

Fred got up and turned off the TV, while Hank sank in his chair.

“Every time something like that happens,” he said, pointing at the TV, “it’s like a presumption of guilt that extends to all us Black folks.” Hank rubbed his weary eyes. “I’m just so tired of it.”

“Me too,” I said. ­Gently, I told every­one what happened with the photographer at school.

“That’s horrible!” Mrs. Q said.

“I’m ­going to call up the school tomorrow and make them retake the picture!” Mrs. Garcia said, fuming.

“No, please ­don’t, Mum,” Lupe pleaded. “Some of the other kids already think it’s weird that I’m in algebra.”

“Why’s that weird?” Mrs. Garcia asked.

Hank shook his head. “Man, the systemic racism in this country...”

Billy Bob put a hand on Hank’s shoulder.

“Maybe I need a holiday,” Hank murmured.

Just then, a wild idea came into my head.

“Hey, why ­don’t you come with us to China?” I asked. I looked over at Mum and Dad, who nodded eagerly.

“That’s a wonderful idea!” Dad said.

“No, no, I was just kidding. I’ll be fine,” Hank insisted.

“But why not?” I asked him. “You ­haven’t had a holiday in years. And you’ll love it ­there! You can meet my ­family!”

“Think of all the ­great food you’ll eat!” my dad added.

“And the sights you’ll see!” Mrs. T hollered. “The Great Wall of China!”

“The Forbidden City!” Mrs. Q added.

“But what about the motel?” Hank asked.

José smiled. “­We’ll take good care of it. ­Don’t you worry, amigo.”

“That’s right!” Mrs. Garcia said. “You ­don’t have to worry about a ­thing!”

Hank looked at me and my parents. “Tickets must cost a fortune,” he said. “And I ­don’t have a visa.”

“You can get a visa next week at the Chinese consulate!” Dad said. “I’ll take you!”

“And I’ll bet you can get some cheap last-­minute fares too, if you go to the right travel agent,” Mum said.

“­Don’t get me started on travel agents!” Hank replied, and we all laughed. Turning to José, Hank asked, “Are you sure you guys are ­going to be okay without me?”

“­We’ll be fine!”

Then Hank turned to Lupe. “­Don’t forget to hang the special stockings on each guest room’s door at Christmas. With a ­little choco­late and card inside?”

Lupe crossed her arms. “Hey, I work ­here too, remember?” she asked. “I got this!”

Hank laughed as Dad slapped his hand on the ­table.

“That ­settles it!” he announced.

I grabbed Hank’s hand. “Hank!!! ­You’re ­going to China!!!” I shrieked.

Chapter 3

Over the next week, my parents helped Hank get his visa and a discounted last-­minute plane ticket, and Hank went around town picking up essentials for his big trip to China.

On Friday, I came into his room to find an avalanche of stuff on his bed. “What’s all this?” I asked.

He smiled as he held up each item. “Dictionary!” he announced. “Travel insurance, maps, RMB!” RMB was short for renminbi, the Chinese currency, and Hank had gotten lots and lots of it. “Polaroid!” He took the camera, held it up to me, and clicked for real this time. I giggled. “Band-Aids! Batteries! Bottled water!”

“Wait a minute, you’re bringing bottled water to China?”

“I read they ­don’t have all the stuff we do. I just want to be prepared!”

In addition to ­water, he also had toothpaste, soap, shampoo, trash bags, and even toilet paper.

I grabbed a roll. “We have toilet paper!” I informed Hank. I ­didn’t know why it both­ered me that Hank thought we ­didn’t have toilet paper in China, but it did. It ­wasn’t like we ­were ­going to the Stone Age!

“I’m sorry, the guidebook said —”

“Well, the guidebook’s wrong!” I said. I suddenly felt overwhelmed with emotion that that’s what ­people thought of my old country. I covered my eyes and ran back to the man­ag­er’s quarters.

“Mia, wait!” Hank called ­after me, but I kept ­running.

...

Later that night, I was looking at my rejection letters when I heard a knock.

“May I come in?” Hank asked.

I quickly stuffed the letters back in the closet. When they ­were hidden again, I let Hank inside and he sat down next to me on my bed.

“I’m sorry. ­You’re right. It was silly of me to just go by the guidebook. I should have talked to you first.” Hank looked into my eyes. “­Will you forgive me?”

I nodded. “It’s okay. I ­don’t know why I got so upset. I’m just...” I closed my eyes, the emotions brimming ­under my lids. “I’m ­going through a lot.”

“What’s wrong?” Hank asked.

I shook my head, not ­really wanting to get into it.

“Is it about the class photo?”

Yeah, that hurt. Kyle the photographer was just another reminder that if I wanted to be in the front row in this country, I’d have to work ten times harder and be more accomplished than Bethany Brett. But how was I supposed to ever get ­there if I kept getting rejected?

When I ­didn’t say anything, Hank patted my hand. “A brilliant writer once said, ‘No ­matter how bad something is, it’s a lot worse if you have nobody to tell it to.’ ”

That was a line I’d written. I looked into Hank’s eyes, then slowly, I got up and opened my closet. The pile of letters fell out onto the floor.

“What’s all this?” Hank asked. He knelt down, picked one up, and started reading. “Oh. How long have you been getting ­these?”

I swallowed hard. “Just... about a year.”

“A YEAR?! Why ­didn’t you tell me?” Hank put the letter down. “Does Lupe know?”

I shook my head. “I kept hoping I’d get good news. Then I’d tell you guys.”

“Mia, you ­can’t just ­bottle up the bad stuff and only tell ­people the good,” Hank said, looking into my eyes.

I nodded, biting my lip. Then I fell into Hank’s open arms.

“I wanted to tell Lupe, but then she got into algebra at school. And I just...” I sniffled. “I wanted to do something amazing too.”

Hank stroked my hair. “Listen, you are ­doing something amazing. Just by keeping at it, continuing to send your work out ­there. That’s incredible, you know that? Most kids your age would have quit by the third letter, but you — ­you persevered.”

I smiled a ­little, grateful for his words. But I ­couldn’t tell him my biggest worry: What if I only had one amazing work in me, and I’d spent it already?

“My advice to you is forget about ­these letters,” he went on. “Part of being a ­great writer is not just sitting in a room and writing. It’s also about getting out ­there and living! ­We’re about to go on a ­great trip together — me, you, and your parents!”

Hank was right. We ­were fi­nally ­going on holiday. I’d waited years for this moment. And we ­were ­going to China, where every­one looked like me. No one would ever try to hide me in the back row ­because I ­didn’t have the right hair colour. I ­couldn’t wait to show Hank around my hometown. We might not have every­thing — ­okay, maybe I would bring a ­bottle or two of my favourite Pantene Pro V shampoo — ­but what we lacked in brand-­name toiletries, we made up for in warm hospitality. Hank would see! And who knew, maybe it would be just the ­thing to replenish my creative well!

Chapter 4

On the night of our big movie and Christmas dinner with Jason, Lupe called and said she was sick.

“I think I’ve got a cold,” she said, sniffling.

“Oh, no! Should we postpone?” I asked.

“No, no, you leave in two days!” she said. “I’ll just take it easy at home. I want to be well rested for when we take over the motel! You guys go ahead without me!”

“Okay,” I sighed. “I hope you feel better soon.”

When my dad dropped me off at the cinema, Jason was already ­there, waving at me from the ticket ­counter. I waved back, clutching his Christmas pre­sent in my hand. I’d gotten him a collection of gourmet sea salts and a chef’s apron with the words Jason Yao — ­World’s Greatest Chef ironed on.

“Pick you up at eight at Jade Zen,” Dad said, pointing to the restaurant, which was right across from the cinema. “­Don’t forget to get me a to-go bowl from the congee shop!”

I nodded. “You got it!”

As Dad drove away, Jason ran over, holding up two tickets.

“You ­didn’t have to buy mine,” I told him. I dug out the twenty-­dollar bill my dad had given me. “I’ve got my money right ­here.”

“No way,” Jason said. “To­night’s my treat. Where’s Lupe?”

“She’s sick,” I said, and felt my face fall a ­little. I was bummed I was seeing my first movie in an American cinema without her. We ­were supposed to do it together!

“­Don’t worry,” Jason said. “As soon as she’s better, Lupe and I can go again! Maybe over the break!”

“But you’ll have seen the movie already.”

“So? I’ve eaten dan dan noodles a million times too. Do you see me getting sick of that?”

I laughed. Jason did love his dan dan noodles. He brought them from home for lunch and mixed them with hoisin sauce and chili oil.

Jason pointed at the package in my hand, which was all wrapped up in glossy red wrapping paper from the dollar store. The paper was so nice that my mum said if Jason opened up his pre­sent at the restaurant, I should take it back so we could reuse it.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“This is for you,” I said, handing it to him. “Merry Christmas.”

Jason’s eyes lit up. “You got me a pre­sent?”

I nodded. “Of course.”

“I love it!” he declared, hugging the package tight.

“You ­haven’t even opened it,” I said, laughing.

“It ­doesn’t ­matter. Even if ­there’s nothing inside, I’ll still love the box.”

I giggled as we walked inside. Jason opened his pre­sent as the previews played. He loved the apron so much he put it on right ­there in the cinema!

The movie was incredible. The ­whole time as we ­were watching, Jason kept looking over at me. I was sure he was thinking the same ­thing — ­Toy Story was a feat of imagination and animation. I’d never seen anything like it, and watching it on the big screen made it even more out of this world. When the movie got to the part where Woody was worried about Buzz Lightyear replacing him as Andy’s favourite toy, I accidentally squeezed Jason’s arm, thinking it was the arm rest between me and him.

“Sorry!”

“It’s okay!” Jason said. I hoped he ­didn’t think I was trying to hold his arm in the dark.

Afterward, Jason and I headed across the street to Jade Zen, gushing over how good the movie was.

“I bust a gut when Woody was all, ‘YOU. ARE. A. TOY!’ ” I said.

“And when Rex was all, ‘What if Andy gets another dinosaur? A mean one? I just ­don’t think I can take that kind of rejection!’ ” Jason shrieked.

If Jason only knew how much I could relate to that.

“Oh, and when Woody said, ‘The word I’m searching for I ­can’t say ­because ­there’s preschool toys pre­sent!’ ” Jason cried, laughing so hard, he almost fell off the curb.

At the door to the restaurant, I ­stopped, confused.

“What happened to the congee shop?” I asked Jason. It used to be right next to Jade Zen, but now the sign was gone.

Jason shrugged and pushed open the door. “Forget the congee shop. ­You’re ­going to love the food ­here. It’s amazing.”

As I walked inside the lavishly decorated gold-­and-­jade restaurant, I looked up at the ­giant murals and mirrors on the walls. Jade Zen certainly looked fancier than the congee place. Still, I’d promised my dad I’d bring him home a bowl of congee. Then I noticed a newly added wing of the restaurant and realized what had happened.

“Oh my God, Jade Zen ate the congee shop!” I pointed at the wall that used to separate the two establishments — it was gone. Now Jade Zen customers sat eating pricey lettuce wraps on toothpicks where my parents and I used to slurp our congee.

“Please, right this way,” the hostess said, leading us to our table.

“I’m not eating ­here. We have to leave,” I told Jason, this time tugging on his arm for real.

“No way,” he whispered back, following the hostess. “This place is so much better!”

I let go of Jason’s arm. The congee shop was au­then­tic. The owner was from Guangzhou, and every morning, he made sixteen different types of congee, including shredded ginger chicken congee, my mum’s favourite.

“The congee shop was a random mum-­and-­pop restaurant. Jade Zen is a chain,” Jason said, sitting at the ­table we’d been led to.

“So?” I asked.

“So that means they’re more successful.”

I sat down across from him. “So the Calivista is not successful?” We were a “mum-­and-­pop” place. Literally: There’s my mum and there’s my pop.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said.

A waitress came by with menus, but Jason barely looked at his.

“We’ll have the oven-baked turnip cake with Parma ham, dumplings with porcini mushrooms, and stir-fried pea sprouts with saffron,” he told her. “That okay with you, Mia?”

He hadn’t given me a chance to even look at the menu, but I nodded. It all sounded delicious. Besides, I wanted to get back to what we were talking about.

“So what do you mean?” I asked as the waitress walked away.

“Just that chains are bigger. They’ve proven themselves.” Jason shrugged.

“We’ve proven ourselves,” I argued. ­Hadn’t we quadrupled occupancy in the last year?

“You know what, forget it,” Jason said. He looked around. “Isn’t this place great?” He pointed at the stainless-­steel chairs with soft leather backs. “Have you ever seen a Chinese restaurant like this?”

I had to admit, I ­hadn’t. Most Chinese restaurants my parents and I went to had plastic wraps on the ­tables so they ­were easier to clean, and a menu wall with pictures so it was easier for white ­people to order.

“When I grow up, I want to start a chain just like this. But even nicer, with white table­cloths and waiters in suits that stand real straight.” Jason held up his hand as straight as a ruler.

I had to laugh at him.

Jason’s lips stretched into a dreamy smile. “And I’m ­going to serve au­then­tic, gourmet Asian fusion... not the kind of rich French food we have to make at cooking school, like potatoes dauphinoise.” Jason made a face. “Ugh. It’s way too creamy.”

As he was talking, the waiter brought out our dumplings with porcini mushrooms. I took one and smiled as the mushroom melted against the paper-­thin wrapping in my mouth.

“What’d I tell you? This place is better than the congee place, right?” Jason said.

I thought as I chewed. “Not better,” I de­cided. “Just dif­fer­ent.”

“Well, I like it better,” he said.

I reached for another dumpling. “So why do you have to make rich French food?” I asked.