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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

I pop a piece of chicken in my mouth. “You preparing me for American food?” I ask. Tressy’s been my nanny and our housekeeper since I was five. She’s from the Philippines and is the only reason I speak good English.

The deliciousness of the chicken wing—golden, fried to perfection—catches me off guard. Another reason I can’t go—Tressy’s too good a cook.

“You can’t tell my mom I ate this,” I say to her. “Tell her I’m so upset I haven’t eaten a thing.”

Tressy promises she won’t. She’s good like that, always has been. Excitedly, she points to the box. “Are you going to open it?”

I wipe my fingers on a napkin and open the box. It’s a baby-pink Prada bag inside. Calfskin leather. I stroke the soft pillowy leather, mind going to what outfits would go best with it, and close my eyes as I pick up the card. Please let it be from Teddy.

Dear Claire,

Hope you like the bag. You can wear it in America!

Love,

Daddy

I toss the card and the bag back in the box.

Tressy looks confused. “What’s wrong?”

My mother walks in through the door as we’re talking. “Oh, Claire, good, you’re home. I just had lunch with your nai nai. She thinks you going to America is wonderful!” My mom points to the box. “Is that—?” she asks excitedly.

“I’m not keeping it,” I say.

“What do you mean you’re not keeping it?” She frowns. “Do you not like it?” She inspects the bag. “It is rather pink. You can always return it and get something else.”

My mom is the queen of returning gifts and pocketing the money. This, in fact, is how she first started dating my dad. He’d buy her stuff, which she’d accept so she could return it and send the money back to her mother. Even now, she jokes about the hypothetical scenario in which if my dad ever leaves her, she’d sell all her Birkin bags, which can fetch anywhere from HKD$80,000 to $800,000 in Hong Kong, and invest the money in a nice apartment.

She walks over to me and puts her hands on my shoulders. “This is a good opportunity,” she says. “Do you know, when I was your age, I would’ve died for the chance to go to America. . . .”

She glances out the window at the artificial lake in front of our house, and I catch her reflection in the window.

“Why didn’t you?” I ask. Sure, returning gifts is a nice cushy gig, but why didn’t she go for her own dreams?

“It would have been different if I had been a boy. . . .” She sighs. “Or if I had had one.” She adds the last part so quietly that I almost don’t hear it. But then I do, and it grinds into me.