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
I nod, trying to figure out how to tell him. I don’t want him to get too angry. On the other hand, he did come all this way to see me, and this was something that was bothering me. And better he hears it from me than Mrs. Mandalay. I open my mouth, and as I’m about to tell him what happened with Emma, he launches right back to describing his business meeting again.
“Anyway, so there I was, and you should have seen these kids, how eager they were to show off their Chinese, and it was one mouthful of bad Chinese after another, I mean truly pitiful.”
I stab my filet mignon with my knife.
“At least they got to talk to you,” I say bitterly.
He swirls the wine with his hand. “What are you talking about? We’re talking right now.”
“No, you’re talking,” I say. It’s been like this for as long as I can remember. It’s always about him. I shake my head. I can’t believe I thought this time would be different, that tonight he might actually want to know how my life is. “You haven’t asked me one thing about my life or my school.”
“I asked when we first sat down!” he protests.
“That was a statement—‘I heard you’re settling in nice here.’”
“To which you replied yes. So I moved on!”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “You always move on.”
My dad glares at me. “Watch it,” he warns. Neither of us say anything for a minute. I stare into the wineglass, drawing strength from the potent red, feeling ever so emboldened and scared at the same time. I’ve never talked to my dad like this before. Is it the wine? Is it America? Whatever it is, my dad does not like it. He takes his napkin and throws it down on top of his plate. “You know what, I don’t have to take this, not from a seventeen-year-old who I pay to school, feed, and clothe.” He points at me. “I’m busting my ass to send you to this American private school—”
“Which I never asked you to send me to,” I retort.
He gets up from the table—OMG, is he just going to leave me here?—and takes out his wallet. He takes two one-hundred-dollar bills, tosses them on the table, and puts his wallet away. Then remembers he needs to give me spending cash. He takes his wallet back out and counts $2,000, and I’m sitting there mortified—the whole restaurant’s looking at us. As my dad stuffs the $2,000 into my pink Prada bag, I feel like a whore.
“I’ll tell your mother you said hello,” he said.