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
Early the next morning, Claire’s mom’s driver takes us to school. Heads turn as Claire gets out of the car. She’s in white frayed jeans and a blue silk tank top. Wisps of long jet-black hair fly in the wind as she throws her leather backpack over her shoulder. The boys stare at her—all legs and boobs and silky skin. Standing next to her, I feel myself disappearing into the background, like a pygmy seahorse.
Claire seems oblivious to all the eyeballs on her, or maybe she’s just used to it. She moves her aviator glasses up to the top of her head as she follows her mom to the main office.
“I gotta go to class,” I tell them. “Good luck today.”
“Thanks. I’ll see you later!” Claire says.
I open my mouth to say, “Maybe at lunch,” then close it. I’m certain by lunchtime, she’ll have firmly established herself at the top of the crazy-rich-Asian pecking order and she won’t want to hang out with me and Ming.
Zach’s at the library waiting for me after school when I arrive.
“You’re here!” Zach says when I walk in. He looks and sounds so surprised.
“Of course I’m here,” I say. I take a seat next to him.
“I was worried you weren’t going to come,” he says.
A few kids walk by. Zach opens his laptop and pulls up his English paper. Zach’s not in the same English class as me. I take a look at what he’s written, our fingers brushing as I pull the computer toward me. It’s a narrative nonfiction piece about his mom. Zach wrote about the time his mom came home and she was really sick and he had to take care of her all by himself. As my eyes move across the page, I’m surprised by how honest it is. Yes, there are some grammatical mistakes. But there’s also truth and pain to it.
“It’s awful, right?” he asks. “Should I start over? Let’s just start over.”
I shake my head. “No, no,” I tell him. “It’s good. You just need to expand on it.”
He looks relieved. I ask him questions to help him flesh out the details. How old was he when this happened? Seven. How’d he take care of her? He cleaned her up, put her to bed, and made her get up to drink water every couple of hours.
“What did she have, the flu?” I ask out of curiosity.
He looks down and shakes his head.
“No,” he says quietly. “She was just drunk.”