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
My mom calls my name, and I hang up with Ming to go help her make breakfast. She’s making tocilog, a Filipino breakfast with fried egg and rice, and my stomach rumbles in hunger.
My mom works so hard during the week, cleaning an endless succession of houses and offices, that I hardly ever get to see her. But on Sunday mornings, we always make breakfast together.
“How are you doing in your classes?” she asks as she fries the eggs. “Your teachers happy with you? Remember, you need those recommendation letters.”
I smile. My mom, though she’s never gone to college, has been reading up on the admission process online at night. I hear her watching YouTube videos in her room.
“Don’t worry, Mom,” I assure her, setting the table. “I’ve got this.”
We sit down to eat, and as usual, my mom takes one bite of her fried egg and insists she had a huge dinner. She sets the rest of her egg on my plate. She’s always giving me her egg, ever since I can remember. And I’m always giving it right back to her, saying I had a big lunch at school. As I set the fried egg back on her plate, I ask her about the houses she’s cleaned this week.
Rosa has her working the VIPs, houses up in the North Hills that are willing to pay extra for discretion and a maid willing to clean up the drugs and booze after a wild party. My mom shakes her head, telling me about her client who was passed out on the floor, just seventeen years old. I think about the couple having sex that I walked in on the other day. I’m tempted to tell her about it, but it’ll only worry her. And she might make me stop cleaning, which will make it even harder for me to go to Snider.
Instead, I start doing the dishes. My mom kills herself cleaning everyone else’s house, on her day off, she shouldn’t have to clean.
At half past eleven, when my mom gets home from church, Claire saunters into the living room in her silk robe, yawning. She plops down on the couch and watches me as I cut up a lemon and run it down the garbage disposal in our sink.
“What are you doing that for?” she asks.
“To deodorize the garbage disposal,” I mutter. Duh.
When I start the vacuum, Claire frowns. She covers her ears with her hands.
“Do you have to do that right now?” she says. “I just woke up.”
Yes, I do. I have a tournament later. And what’s with the attitude? You’d think she’d be more apologetic after chucking my dad’s mattress. My mom walks over and switches off the vacuum.
“It’s okay, honey,” she tells me. “I’ll finish the cleaning later.”