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
Oh, please.
“That’s it,” Mr. Connelly says, nodding. “It doesn’t feel authentic. I need to feel your words with your every move.”
On or off the stage? I wonder. I pull my cardigan closed and cross my arms, staring down at my cue cards. I speak into the microphone and ask him to give me one more chance—I can do this, I know I can do this! But Mr. Connelly motions for me to get down.
“You’ve had enough tries for one day,” he says.
As my weak legs carry me off the stage, I breathe into my fist, wondering, What did I do wrong?
Later that day, the bus drops me off in front of Sun Grove Mobile Park. I’m holding Zach’s economics book in my arms, which he had accidentally left when we were studying. But really I’m here because I need to talk to him. Ming’s at practice with Mr. Rufus for her solo. And I don’t know how to deal.
The mobile park is a lot bigger than I thought. There are, like, two hundred RVs in the lot. I ask some boys sitting on an old picnic table whether they know where I can find Zach, showing them a pic of him from the school online portal. They point to an RV parked three lanes down, laughing as they ask, “What you want with that fool?”
Zach answers the door in a tank top and shorts. His face sort of panics when he sees me, the way my mom’s does whenever the property tax accessor comes around. His eyes jump from the empty beer bottles outside to the plastic bucket over which he’s drying his swim trunks, and I immediately feel bad for not calling before I came.
“I’m sorry, I came to give you this.” I hand him the textbook.
I hear his mom’s voice from the trailer.
“Zaaaccchharrry,” she slurs.
Zach holds up a finger to me. “Just a minute,” he says.
I hear banging and footsteps inside the small trailer. What’s going on in there?
“Is everything all right?” I ask.
“Fine, fine,” Zach calls out.
The front door swings open. Zach reappears, sweat beads collecting on his face.
“Actually, no,” he says. “It’s my mom. I think she’s really high.”
He goes back inside the trailer, and I follow him. I see his mom, arms and legs spread out on the floor. She’s rail-thin. Her eyes are bloodshot, her skin full of rashes and ghastly white. Next to her is a trash can that she’s been puking into. The stench hits me in the face; I temporarily forget all about Mr. Connelly and rush over to help.
“Can you get her up?” Zach asks. He pours water from the tap into a glass and wets a rag.
I bend down and lift his mother with my arms.
“Whoooo’ss she?” his mother asks.