Chapters (93)
- Cover
- Dedication
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Fifty-Two
- Fifty-Three
- Fifty-Four
- Fifty-Five
- Fifty-Six
- Fifty-Seven
- Fifty-Eight
- Fifty-Nine
- Sixty
- Sixty-One
- Sixty-Two
- Sixty-Three
- Sixty-Four
- Sixty-Five
- Sixty-Six
- Sixty-Seven
- Sixty-Eight
- Sixty-Nine
- Seventy
- Seventy-One
- Seventy-Two
- Seventy-Three
- Seventy-Four
- Seventy-Five
- Seventy-Six
- Seventy-Seven
- Seventy-Eight
- Seventy-Nine
- Eighty
- Eighty-One
- Eighty-Two
- Eighty-Three
- Eighty-Four
- Eighty-Five
- Author’s Note
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
- Books by Kelly Yang
- Back Ad
- About the Publisher
“And the private schools, well the private schools wanted to hire people who looked . . . more like them,” she says.
My eyes are transfixed, riveted by her story. I can’t remember the last time an adult was so real with me, not my old teachers in China and certainly not my parents. She talks about institutional racism and how it’s affected her life, to the point where she almost didn’t believe Mrs. Mandalay when she asked her if she wanted to teach here as an adjunct teacher.
She asks us if we’ve ever felt like that, like no matter what we did, it would never happen for us. People won’t think we’re good enough.
One by one, hands go up. A couple of kids say they feel like that with their sports coaches sometimes. When it’s my turn, I say my parents.
Ms. Jones nods, like she’s been there.
“Your assignment this week is to forget about this person,” she says, “and focus on you. I want you to write a short story in which Gatsby doesn’t care about Daisy.”
I think about this as I walk out of class. I squeeze by Emma, who, incidentally, also said her parents.
As I open my locker, a small box falls out. When I open it, I find a pair of earrings.
My breath hitches in my throat.
It’s the drop-diamond earrings I tried on at the store for Jay.
I open up the note.
Thought these looked good on you.
—Jay
Thirty-Eight
Dani
It eats at me the way Zach said no when Claire asked if he was my boyfriend. The face he made, like it was preposterous, something that could only be possible in the land of make-believe. This, juxtaposed with the way his eyes lit up when Claire walked into the room, practically purring, “It’s you!”
What does it mean that she and Zach know each other? I tell myself to forget it. Who cares? I used to pride myself on not giving a shit what guys think, not wanting to be just another pretty face.
And yet, when Claire walked through that door in her skintight jeans and crop top, silky black hair flowing down her back, and Zach’s eyes turned into walnuts, I would have killed to be her.
I look at Claire the next day in the cafeteria while Ming talks about her new host family.
“They’re so much nicer than Underwear Kevin,” she says, pouring a packet of sesame oil on her noodles. “I’m thinking of making an app that allows parachutes to rate their hosts. Wouldn’t that be cool? Florence says she might be able to help, she’s good at coding.”
Mr. Connelly walks into the cafeteria. He still hasn’t replied to my email. In debate training, he avoids eye contact when I’m speaking. Occasionally, he offers a comment but never anything substantive. Not like before.