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Back Parachutes Save as PDF
Chapters (93)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. One
  4. Two
  5. Three
  6. Four
  7. Five
  8. Six
  9. Seven
  10. Eight
  11. Nine
  12. Ten
  13. Eleven
  14. Twelve
  15. Thirteen
  16. Fourteen
  17. Fifteen
  18. Sixteen
  19. Seventeen
  20. Eighteen
  21. Nineteen
  22. Twenty
  23. Twenty-One
  24. Twenty-Two
  25. Twenty-Three
  26. Twenty-Four
  27. Twenty-Five
  28. Twenty-Six
  29. Twenty-Seven
  30. Twenty-Eight
  31. Twenty-Nine
  32. Thirty
  33. Thirty-One
  34. Thirty-Two
  35. Thirty-Three
  36. Thirty-Four
  37. Thirty-Five
  38. Thirty-Six
  39. Thirty-Seven
  40. Thirty-Eight
  41. Thirty-Nine
  42. Forty
  43. Forty-One
  44. Forty-Two
  45. Forty-Three
  46. Forty-Four
  47. Forty-Five
  48. Forty-Six
  49. Forty-Seven
  50. Forty-Eight
  51. Forty-Nine
  52. Fifty
  53. Fifty-One
  54. Fifty-Two
  55. Fifty-Three
  56. Fifty-Four
  57. Fifty-Five
  58. Fifty-Six
  59. Fifty-Seven
  60. Fifty-Eight
  61. Fifty-Nine
  62. Sixty
  63. Sixty-One
  64. Sixty-Two
  65. Sixty-Three
  66. Sixty-Four
  67. Sixty-Five
  68. Sixty-Six
  69. Sixty-Seven
  70. Sixty-Eight
  71. Sixty-Nine
  72. Seventy
  73. Seventy-One
  74. Seventy-Two
  75. Seventy-Three
  76. Seventy-Four
  77. Seventy-Five
  78. Seventy-Six
  79. Seventy-Seven
  80. Seventy-Eight
  81. Seventy-Nine
  82. Eighty
  83. Eighty-One
  84. Eighty-Two
  85. Eighty-Three
  86. Eighty-Four
  87. Eighty-Five
  88. Author’s Note
  89. Acknowledgments
  90. About the Author
  91. Books by Kelly Yang
  92. Back Ad
  93. About the Publisher

“What boyfriend?” my dad asks. He turns to my mom. “You didn’t tell me she had a boyfriend.”

“He’s not a boyfriend,” my mom quickly denies, trying to calm him down. Her eyes urge me to go along. She always does this, whenever my dad gets mad at me, and I used to love that about her, but lately, it’s made me wonder. Why do we always have to massage the truth for him?

“Yes, he is,” I say. “Which you would know if you actually lived here.”

“Claire!” my mom shouts.

My dad jumps up from the couch, his face red. But I don’t let him off the hook.

“Where have you been?” I ask, following him to the kitchen.

“I’ve . . . I’ve been traveling,” he mutters.

Ah yes, “traveling.” The word my dad uses to avoid any and all responsibility. Why didn’t you come to my swim meet? I would ask. Oh, was that today? Sorry, I’ve been traveling so much, I can’t remember, he would say.

I cross my arms. My dad reaches into his pocket for his second favorite get-out-of-jail card—his phone.

“I have a deal blowing up,” he says, fingers tapping his phone. “I have to go back to the office.”

I look to my mom for help. Is he just going to walk away from this? Finally, we’re talking about it, having the conversation we should have had many years ago, and he’s just going to walk away? My mom’s frown carries the same heavy weight of disappointment, but she says nothing.

“Did you know Mom cries herself to sleep at night?” I blurt out. I don’t know what else to say to get his attention.

My mom jumps from the couch and walks over to us. “Stop it,” she orders. She starts apologizing to my dad, saying I’m not myself, I’m too stressed out, too upset over my grade. Why does she always do this? Why is she so afraid of him?

A second passes. Then another. My dad takes his hand and slips it into my mom’s, accepting her apology, and the two of them stand side by side in the kind of nauseating solidarity that makes me sad for womankind.

My dad looks to me and says, “It’s true I’ve been working a lot of late nights at the office,” by way of explanation.

“Yeah, right,” I mutter.

My mom shoots me a look. Watch it.

“But I’m going to be home more often from now on,” he promises. My mom looks like she doesn’t know if she believes it, but she’ll take it. “I’m going to be more involved, starting with your education. First thing next week, I’m going to take you to the agent who’s going to help get you into the American high school.”