I nestle into the crook of her arm. As we drive over to the mall, my mom fiddles with her phone. I ask if she’s texting Dad. My dad called to wish me luck this morning, but I was running late and couldn’t talk.

“No, not with your dad.” My mom sighs. The driver glances at us through the rearview mirror. “He’s busy,” she explains, more to him than to me. “It’s not easy being the vice president of a big company. He’s got so many projects going on.”

I wish she’d stop making excuses for him. But maybe it’s a face thing. In China, everything is about saving face. Maybe she’s just saying it to the driver, so he won’t look down on her.

The car pulls into the mall parking lot, and my mom’s face brightens the way it always does whenever she’s within one hundred meters of a credit card machine. She reaches into her tote and pulls out a black pollution mask. As if that’s not enough, she puts a huge Balenciaga visor over it. She steps out of the car looking like a well-heeled Darth Vader.

“Where’s your mask?” my mom asks, pointing at my unprotected face.

Reluctantly, I fish mine out of my school bag. I haven’t worn it all day.

“Mom, it looks silly here,” I protest.

My mom gazes up at the blazing afternoon sun and barks from underneath the mask, “What’s silly is you coming back to China looking like a pretzel. Now put it on!”

Teddy adjusts his laptop and stares into the screen as we Skype each other for the first time. The lighting is poor, and he moves the camera too close to his face, making his nose look like a garlic bulb.

“So tell me about the other Chinese kids,” he says, yawning. It’s midnight his time, 9:00 a.m. my time on Saturday.

“You’re tired. . . . Let’s do this another time,” I say.

“No, no, no! I really want to know!” he insists. He opens his eyes wide and rubs his face to try to wake up.

I start telling him about Jess and Florence when I hear Dani open her bedroom door. I get up and go out into the hallway. I have a question for her.

“Hey, what English class are you taking?” I ask her.

“AP English Literature,” she says. “Why?”

I tell her I’m thinking of switching out of my class. I ask her who are the good English teachers.

She thinks for a second. “Mr. Connelly. He’s my debate coach, but he also teaches English Two and English Three honors. But I think you might have to—”

“Test into them, I know,” I say. I repeat the name a few times in my head Connelly, so I remember. “Are there any teachers I should avoid?” I ask.