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
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.