“Hmm.” My mother’s picking at her rice, frowning. She’s considering a diet because her best friend, Amber (whose blonde hair now comes from a salon, my mother reports, but whose wardrobe still comes from all the right stores and online sites), recently dropped five pounds by cutting out bread. “Yes, well, Holly’s still dating Kyle, so you can tell Eugene that the next time you see him.”

“Except I’m not,” I say. “Still dating Kyle, I mean.”

My father stops eating. “I’m sorry, Holly. You okay?”

I shrug. “We only went out for like two months, anyway.” And what’s two months in the grand scheme of things? I’ve had scars from falls last longer than that.

My mother’s clear distress makes up for my already being over it, for my father already helping himself to more food because he has nothing else to add. She sets down her chopsticks. “Oh, Holly, what happened? You liked him so much.”

Not as much as you wanted me to, though. Footballer Kyle Bergeron with his corn silk hair, whose white-collar parents could have been cast in any one of her beloved dramas. “Nothing happened. We just broke up.”

“Oh, Holly,” my mother says again, like someone’s died.

I’m working my entire two-week spring break, the 10 a.m. to 3 p.m. shift at the Chinese restaurant in the mall. The Luckiest Wok in the Main Food Court has a menu that offers everything from noodles to stir-fries to spring rolls. It’s okay that I still can’t cook any of it because I only ever work the till.

I’m pretty sure Adam—he’s the manager—hired me to lend some credibility to the place, given that I’m the only Chinese person on staff and everyone else is trained to handle customers at the counter and be able to work the kitchen. Vera—she’s one of the other workers—told me she heard the Brentwood branch up north was in danger of closing before they hired a Chinese guy for the counter. Then all of sudden, The Luckiest Wok was the one restaurant in the area known for serving truly authentic Chinese.

I should probably be insulted, but the work is mindless, Adam’s really good about giving me whatever shifts I want (during the school year it’s Sunday mornings, and Tuesday and Thursday afternoons), and I get hefty discounts for the rest of the mall.

My parents have only ever eaten here once (not while I was working, thank Christ).

Well, this place has nothing on Chinatown, that’s for sure (my dad).

There are worse things in the world than orange beef made with canned Minute Maid frozen concentrate, you know (my mom).