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
She pushes her sunglasses up firmly, like a shield.
“No, of course not. He’s just working,” she says. I don’t know who she’s lying to—me or herself.
She reaches out a hand. “Hey, let’s go out for dinner tonight!” she says, her face brightening.
I hesitate—I have so much homework—but her eyes say, I need this.
“Sure, Mom.”
It takes me six hours to slog through the homework my teachers assigned me. I’m in eleventh grade at a local school in Shanghai, which means every day I’m a slave to my taskmaster. First math, then science, then English, and then Chinese, my weakest subject, despite the latest fancy tutor my mom got me. Her name is Ms. Chen, but I call her Sticky Fingers for the way she licks her fingers after polishing off the plate of fruit that Tressy brings us when I’m being tutored. When she’s not busy eating fruit, she’s barking at me what to write for my essay so I’ll get a high mark, literally word for word, as though I’m not capable of producing my own thoughts. I always throw away the paper after she leaves.
My friends and I sometimes watch American movies about teenagers hatching plots and going to crazy places, and we’re like, when do they have time to do this? In China, every second of my day is usually decided by someone else.
When the last of my assignments is finally done, I walk upstairs to my mom’s room. I can hear Snowy’s bell, our poodle. If Snowy’s still in there, it means my mom’s probably forgotten about dinner. She never lets Snowy in her room when she’s getting dressed, for fear of Snowy chewing up her Louboutins. I’m about to turn when the door swings open. My mom’s in her satin robe, her hair’s up in a towel, and she’s holding a glass of chilled rosé. Adele plays in the background.
“Go put on something nice,” she tells me. “We’re going to M.”
M on the Bund is one of my mother’s favorite restaurants, right on the water, a tourist attraction but in a good way. My mom used to take me there when I was little, usually after I’d just won a swim meet. Now she takes me only when she’s all out of girlfriends. She usually goes out with Auntie Maggie and Auntie Pearl, women who share her love of complaining and laser skin treatments.
We sit at the corner table, overlooking the balcony. My mom’s in a Costume National wool gray dress, chic but not loud, thank God, unlike some of her other clothes. I’m in black pants and a white shirt. Unlike my mom, who likes her clothes colorful and tight, I opt for understated and functional.