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
“Do you want to come inside?” I ask him. It feels like we’re on a date. Except it’s four in the afternoon. And I’m hugging my textbooks like a life jacket.
“I gotta go home and help my mom,” he declines. “But how about later this week? Are you free?”
I nod eagerly.
“Great, because I have an econ paper due,” he says.
The anticipation—that he really wants to be with me—and the letdown, only because he needs my help with homework, are both so real.
Be cool, De La Cruz. Be cool. I remind myself I already have a kick-ass coach and a shot at Yale. Any more would be greedy.
“Sounds good,” I say, smiling as I get out of the car.
Inside the house, I find my mom sitting on the couch. She’s home early for a change!
“Look! Claire ordered us some flowers,” she says, pointing to the bouquet of lilies on the coffee table.
I plop down on the couch.
Claire has discovered American online shopping. Every day a new box arrives. So far, she’s ordered pants from Theory, T-shirts, bras, notebooks, makeup. Sometimes, she throws in a little something for my mom, which is nice, but it still doesn’t make it okay for her to flick her contacts on the floor.
“Isn’t that thoughtful of her?” my mom gushes. She leans over and smells the flowers, closing her eyes. “She’s such a good girl, that Claire.”
I roll my eyes. A good girl? Please. I heard her coming home at 3:00 a.m. from a hard night of partying.
“What’s wrong?” my mom asks.
“Nothing,” I say. “It’s just that you’re so into her.” I didn’t want to say it, but it’s true, and it’s a little disturbing.
My mom gets up to make some tea. “She’s our client.”
I snort at the word. Who does Mom think she is, Rosa?
As she puts on the water, my mom takes a breath, collecting her thoughts. “Like it or not, I’m running a business. You’re going to be out of here in a year and a half. And what am I going to do with the extra rooms?”
She could come with me—New Haven’s not yet completely gentrified. I’m sure we can find a cheap two-bedroom apartment somewhere off campus. When I suggest this to my mom, she frowns.
“You don’t know if you’ll get in,” she says. Which stings. A lot. “And I can’t be by your side forever. You have to go out and live your own life, not worry about taking care of me.”
“You take care of Lola and Lolo,” I mutter.