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 snarl at his arrogance, his self-pity. That’s what really gets me, the self-pity. I can’t believe he thinks he’s the victim. Nice white man creates brown super debater only to have her turn on him and unleash her powers against him. I open my mouth and scream, “SECURITY!”
Two organizers come charging in. They recognize Mr. Connelly and put their hands on his arm. “Sir, we’re going to have to ask you to leave,” they say firmly.
As Mr. Connelly walks out of the room, he turns to me and hurls the words, “You ungrateful bitch.”
My mom’s waiting for me at home when I get back to LA. She’s sipping salabat, which is this Filipino ginger tea she only ever makes if she’s about to have a serious conversation with me. I guess we’re finally having our talk.
“Come,” she says, patting the spot next to her and handing me a mug of salabat. I put my bags down and take a seat. I blow on the tea, closing my eyes, breathing in the warm ginger.
“So you watched the speech?” I ask softly.
She nods. “Yes, I watched it.” She puts her mug down and turns to me. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Her voice cracks on the question. She wipes a tear from her eyes.
“Mom, I’m so sorry,” I say, burying my face in my hands.
“When did it start?” she asks.
I tell her it started when he was coaching me privately and then when we went up to Seattle, that’s when he put his hand on my leg. I tell her I tried to go to Mrs. Mandalay, but she got all mad at me for posting it on xomegan.com, and that’s when she took away my headmistress commendation.
My mom shakes her head. “I don’t care about the headmistress commendation. This whole time . . . you’ve been lying to me?” she asks. She reaches for her mug, doesn’t drink, just holds the cup to steady her trembling hands. She asks me questions. Did he ever send you pictures of himself? Does he have any pictures of you?
As I’m answering the questions, I start tearing up. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m crying,” I say. I try to wipe the tears from my eyes, but my mom reaches and pulls my hand down so I can’t rub.
“It’s okay to let it out,” my mom says. “You don’t always have to be so strong.”
“But I do!” I say. “I need to be strong for the two of us.”
Tears rolls down my mom’s sunken cheek. I grit my teeth. My biggest fear, far greater than losing a competition, is hurting her.