Key player, p.11
Key Player, page 11
Jason noticed it too. “Look at that!” he said. “You think my folks put that there?”
He skipped over to touch it as I stared at the words. Young Michael Yao definitely believed a restaurant could be both, but old cranky Mr. Yao now insisted a Chinese restaurant was just a Chinese restaurant. I wondered when he’d changed his opinion.
“Excuse me, may we speak to the owner?” I asked one of the waitresses.
She nodded, but before she could move, a little boy, about four years old, walked out from the kitchen and headed straight for her. I smiled at him and exchanged a look with Lupe. He was just like us but younger. He hugged the waitress’s leg, and I figured he must be her son. I kneeled down and held my hand out for him to high-five.
An older couple walked over. “We’re the owners,” the woman said. “Can I help you?”
Jason immediately stuck out his hand. “Hi, I’m Jason Yao, and these are my friends Mia and Lupe. This used to be my grandparents’ restaurant!”
The elderly couple’s eyes smiled at him as they shook his hand. “Welcome!” the man said. “We’re Mr. and Mrs. Wong. I never met your grandparents, but I met your father.”
“Wow, really??” Jason cried.
The Wongs nodded. “He’s the one who sold us the restaurant, right after your grandparents passed,” said Mrs. Wong. “How’s he doing?”
“Good!” Jason said.
“He still in the restaurant business?”
“Sorta,” Jason said.
Mr. Wong chuckled. “I always knew he had a very lucky face.”
They led us into the kitchen and pointed to a small wooden table in the back, next to the supplies closet. The table had a little stool, and it was covered with pencil markings. “Your father told me this used to be where he did his homework as a kid.”
Jason kneeled down and ran his fingers across the scratched wooden surface.
“Mia! Look at this!” He pointed to the letters M.Y. etched onto the table. I got down too, and a thrill tingled through me as I felt Mr. Yao’s initials. It was so weird—one minute we were reading his letters, and now here we were with him!
“We kept it all these years,” Mrs. Wong said. “It was where our daughter did her homework, and our grandson will too.” They nodded at the little boy toddling into the kitchen.
“Can we stay here for a minute?” Jason asked.
“Sure!” Mr. Wong said. “Stay as long as you want. We’re just preparing some to-go orders.”
The couple left us, and Jason, Lupe, and I sat on the floor. Jason hugged one leg of the table, as though just touching it brought him closer to his dad.
“You think this is where he wrote all those diaries?” I asked, handing Lupe the latest one we’d found.
“He sounds so different,” Lupe said, her eyes scanning the page.
“I wish I could go back in time and be his friend. Maybe then he’d say something nice to me,” Jason said, sticking his head underneath the table. “Hey! There’s a message here.”
Lupe and I both ducked under at the same time, colliding.
“Oww,” I said, rubbing my head. “What’s it say?”
“ ‘Flour sack,’ ” Jason said. He furrowed his eyebrows as we all sat back up. “Flour sack?”
“Maybe he liked messing around with play dough?” I guessed.
We turned to Mr. and Mrs. Wong, busy rolling out noodles by hand in the kitchen. There was a huge sack of flour next to them. “Excuse me, can I see where you keep the rest of your flour?” I asked the Wongs, getting up.
They pointed to an open cabinet.
“Here!” Mrs. Wong said. “This cabinet is deep enough to hold all the flour, and we need lots, don’t we?”
“And I play hide-and-seek in there!” the little boy piped up, crawling inside to demonstrate.
“You wouldn’t believe how many dumplings people order,” Mr. Wong said.
“But you’re not in the yellow pages!” I said.
“It’s all word of mouth!” Mrs. Wong told me. “Years of making the thinnest pier by hand, and the thickest dumpling tang.”
We peered inside the cabinet as Mr. and Mrs. Wong helped us move the flour sacks out. It sure was deep, almost as big as the walk-in closet at the Chapman Street house we were buying. At the thought of the house, my lungs squeezed so tight I could hardly breathe. I wondered if the sellers had reviewed our offer by now. I crossed all my fingers and toes, hoping they’d take it!
As Jason got the sacks out, Lupe and I opened up every one, hoping we’d find a jackpot of old letters, but there was nothing but flour. When we got to the last one, our shoulders sank.
“Nothing in this one either,” Lupe sighed.
Jason crawled out of the cabinet. Seeing the look on his face, I went back to the table and stared underneath it one more time. Next to the words FLOUR SACK, I noticed a small carved rectangle.
“Maybe it’s not the sack!” I cried, rushing back to the cabinet. This time, when I got all the way in the very back, I pushed on the wall. To my surprise, the thin piece of wood fell right onto my lap. It was movable! Carefully, I crawled back out with it. There, taped on the other side, was an envelope.
“I found something!”
The edges of the taped brown manila envelope were tattered and wrinkled. It had obviously been there for decades. Without wasting another minute, Jason poured its contents out. Pages and pages of handwritten notes from Michael Yao spilled onto the table, along with magazine articles and sheet music.
We whooped with excitement.
“This must have been his secret hiding place!” Jason cried.
I took one of the handwritten notes and read it aloud.
Dear diary,
I keep telling Dad to go to the doctor-he fell at the wok yesterday-but as usual, he refuses. Dad has a deep suspicion of doctors in the US. He thinks they’re all out to scam him. They’ll make him do expensive tests and painful procedures even when he’s running okay. And he’ll come out like a lobotomized scarecrow, with his big toe on top of his head.
I tried to tell him that’s not going to happen. But he won’t listen. A few times, I caught him at the stove, wheezing a little. Like he was trying to catch his breath.
But he just drinks his cupful of oolong tea and tells me, “Bei guan wo, zuo ni di shi.” Don’t care about me, do your work.
How do I tell him I do care about him? White people, they’re always saying they love each other. Like every two seconds on TV. “Love you!” “Love you too!”
It’s gotta be massively embarrassing, confessing your love all the time. But sometimes I wish we had a system like that too. Instead, we just shove food at each other. And I don’t know how to get Dad to a doctor, short of telling him there’s a shiitake mushroom sale at the doctor’s office.
Sometimes I wish my parents were like everyone else’s.
Michael Yao
I chuckled at the shiitake mushroom bit. Michael was pretty funny. And I knew exactly how he felt. My parents were the same way. For years, they were scared to go to the doctor. Whenever I got sick, Mom would pull out the big gingery-smelling suitcase under her bed—the one that was filled with Chinese medicine—and brew me some soup that for all I knew was made out of light bulbs.
Another reason I was so deathly afraid of the soccer ball for so long.
“Listen to this one!” Lupe said, and started reading to us.
Dear diary,
Dad finally agreed to go see the doctor.
Mom asked me to make an appointment for him. So I got on the phone. I’m always the one making the call whenever there’s anything official. One time the telephone company overcharged my mom, I had to pretend I was her. Now that my voice is changing, it’s NOT that easy.
Anyway, I sat on hold for forty-five minutes trying to make Dad an appointment. When I got through, they asked me for my name. I told them Dad’s name. I thought it would be quick and simple, but the guy spent five whole minutes making me repeat it. “Bu Fu Yao? You joking, right? Bu Fu?? That’s your name??!”
I wanted to throw the phone across the room. No wonder Dad doesn’t like doctors. I don’t blame him after that. Anyway, the appointment is on Tuesday. I’m gonna go with him, and if they try any of that BU FU WHAT? stuff again, I’m going to give them a boo-hoo they’ll remember.
Michael Yao
“That’s so mean,” Lupe said, shaking her head when she finished reading. “Poor Michael. I have to do that too, get on the phone with the credit card company and the bank, pretending to be my mom.”
“Here’s another one,” Jason said, joining the read-aloud.
Dear diary,
The appointment went well. Doc says the wheezing was from stress. Dad just needs to rest. The doctor was very nice. No one said anything about his name.
When we got back, there were seven tables waiting. Mom was trying her best to keep up with the orders by herself, but the customers kept complaining service was too slow. One guy got so mad, he called Dad a name. A name I am NEVER going to repeat. I have been called this at school a few times before, but it made my blood boil hearing someone call my dad that. I told him to shut up, and we got into a fight. Dad ran out and stopped us. Then he made ME apologize.
Afterward, he said I can’t fight with a customer EVER. Because the customer is always right.
I can’t describe the feeling of being attacked and then told by my own dad that we have to apologize. That we have to live with it. That this is the price of doing business.
I wish I hadn’t taken him to the doctor’s appointment.
Michael Yao
I looked at Jason, my eyes wet. He was hugging the letter to his chest. I just wanted to jump into the paper and tell young Michael, You don’t. You don’t have to live with it!
“Now it makes sense why he’s so angry,” Lupe said. “He had to deal with so much trauma. He didn’t even have parents who …”
Her voice hitched as she looked at Jason.
“You can say it,” Jason muttered. “He didn’t even have parents who supported him.”
Slowly, Jason stuffed the rest of the letters in the envelope and handed them to me. Then he stood up.
“Don’t you want to keep reading?” I asked.
But he just walked out of the kitchen.
I followed him, thanking the Wongs and giving them my card. “By the way, if anyone calls from a hotel for a large order of dumplings, give me a call? We’re trying to find the Chinese women’s soccer team.”
Mr. and Mrs. Wong promised they would.
Out in the parking lot, I found Jason sitting on a rock, waiting for Hank to pick us up. I tried giving him back the envelope, but he shook his head.
“The more I read, the more I think I’m gonna turn out just like him.”
“What?” I said. “That’s ridiculous.”
“His parents didn’t care about how he was feeling. They yelled at him when all he was trying to do was stand up for them!” Jason’s tears fell onto the hot cement at our feet. “Don’t you see how alike we are?”
It pained me so much to see my friend hurting this way. “That’s not going to happen to you,” I insisted.
“Why not?”
Lupe walked over. We looked at each other and then at Jason.
“Because you have us,” I said. “And you have Michael Yao. He’s in there.” I pointed to the letters. “And he’s in your dad too. You gotta believe that. If you don’t give up on him, he’s not going to give up on you.”
Later that day, after we dropped Jason off at home and Lupe was at Math Cup practice in Mom’s room, I sat at the front desk with Michael Yao’s diary entries. There were at least a half dozen more about his dad’s health, as well as a few really funny ones on his many marching band field trips. I couldn’t stop reading.
Dear diary,
Today in band, Mr. B asked me to lead the class. He had a bad sore throat from eating too many hot chili peppers. I knew nothing about conducting. But it was really fun. It was nice being the leader of the band-the big CHEESE, as Mr. B calls it.
I liked how everyone came together as a team. I complimented the brass section, even though I could totally hear Jimmy playing a wrong note. But I figure everyone could use a compliment!
Mr. B said I did a good job. I know I told my parents I only took marching band to get out of PE, but I could see myself leading a band one day, maybe even touring all over the world. I would love to go somewhere-ANYWHERE other than sitting in the kitchen, sweating it out.
Michael Yao
My mind exploded with questions. Mr. Yao wanted to be a band leader?? He took marching band to get out of PE?? I didn’t even know you can do that! And he actually complimented people?!
I hopped off the stool and walked over to the photocopy machine to make a duplicate of that line because it was so mind-blowing.
Dad walked in then and asked, “Did Josie the agent call?”
I shook my head. “Nope.”
He leaned over to read my enlarged copy of Everyone could use a compliment! “Where’s that from?”
“Mr. Yao!”
He jumped. “Our Mr. Yao?”
“He was a completely different guy when he was younger.” I scooted over so Dad could see Mr. Yao’s diary entries for himself. As he read, the phone rang.
I picked it up, hoping it was Mr. and Mrs. Wong calling from the restaurant with a lead for Team China. “Calivista Motel, this is Mia!”
“Hi, Mia. It’s Josie, your realtor. Are your parents there?”
“Yes!” I exclaimed, handing the phone over to Dad.
As he crossed his fingers and squeezed his eyes shut, hoping for good news, I leaped off the stool and raced into the manager’s quarters. I picked up the phone extension just in time to hear Josie say, “Congratulations! You got the house!”
I screamed! Dad screamed!
We thanked Josie profusely, then hung up the phones so we could call Mom in her room. I knew she was still teaching Math Cup, but she’d want to be interrupted for this!
“Mom!!” I screamed into the phone. “We got the house!!!”
Five minutes later, Mom ran over with the entire Math Cup team. As we celebrated the good news, everyone on the team jumped up and down, including Lupe and Allie, their long hair flying.
“Is this really happening?” Mom asked as she jumped. “It’s like a dream come true!”
“An American dream come true!” Dad added. I laughed. I could almost hear the eager barks of Comma, who couldn’t wait to join in the excitement. “We can finally sit around the fireplace after dinner with a cup of chrysanthemum tea!”
“With Comma!” I added.
“And go to Home Depot on the weekends, for ourselves!” Mom giggled. “Buy all those nice fruit bowls and scented candles.”
“And have barbecues and kick a ball around!” Dad said. He held up a finger. “That reminds me!” He disappeared into the manager’s quarters and returned with a box, which he handed me. I peered curiously at it. A housewarming present already? When I opened it, I grinned from ear to ear.
Dad had gotten me very own soccer ball.
“I heard about you and Lupe playing in the lot, and I figured maybe you might like one of your own,” he said.
“Thanks!”
“I know sports haven’t always come easy to you, but I’m so proud of you for trying.”
I gave Dad a big hug and thought about Jason, and how much it meant having a parent who supported you. All those years, when we didn’t have the nicest homes, we always had each other. And that was worth more than gold.
“You want to … kick it around with your old man sometime?” Dad asked. “In our new backyard?”
“I’d love that,” I said, and smiled.
After Josie the agent told us our offer was accepted, we sprang into action. A million things had to be done before we could finally get the house key. A hundred pounds of paper had to be signed. The bank had to send special people to judge the value of the house. Then there were the inspections. In the middle of the chaos, I got another call.
“Mia! This is Mr. and Mrs. Wong over at Lotus Garden! You said to call you when we had an extra-large to-go order for dumplings from a hotel. Well … we have one!”
I gasped, gesturing for Dad to hand me a notebook.
“What’s the name of the hotel?” I asked.
After Mrs. Wong told me the name and I jotted it down, I thanked her. Turning to my dad, I cried, “Drop your escrow papers! I found the Chinese soccer team! They’re at the Ambrose! Let’s go!”
The Ambrose was a small, modern hotel in the heart of Pasadena. Stepping inside, I saw they had a giant ceramic rose encased in glass at the front desk. I wondered if it was a nod to the Rose Bowl. Lupe smiled when she saw it too. I’d asked her and Jason to come along.
“Whoaaa,” Lupe said, walking toward the rose, but I pulled her back.
“Remember what happened the last time we went to another hotel’s front desk?” I led her to the seats by the fireplace instead.
We all sat on a couch, wriggling impatiently. Lupe looked down at the math papers she’d brought along with her, but none of us could concentrate on anything. We were all dying to ask the soccer players our own questions. Jason wanted to know how they got past their parents’ advice and comments. Lupe wanted to know how they got past all the stereotypes of what girls were “supposed to do.”
And I wanted to know if they were proud to be playing in America because it’s America, or proud to be trailblazers because they’re Chinese. I leaned against my soccer ball, which I’d brought along with me. If it were me, I’d definitely feel both. I stared into the fireplace as we waited, mesmerized by the moving embers. What was it about the moving flames that made Dad feel like we’d arrived? Was it the warm glow? Or the crackling sound?
I closed my eyes, imagining a popcorn of dreams was coming true in our new fireplace.
“Whatcha thinking about?” Lupe asked, looking up from her math.
“Our new house.” I turned to Dad and asked, “When are we going to get it? Why do we have to wait?” I could hear Comma’s whimpers in my head. I imagined him curling up by my feet in front of our future fireplace.
