He draws a zigzag line down his chest. I put my finger over the familiar zigzag. I wish I could take a big old glue stick and patch his heart back up. Instead, I tell him a line my grandma used to say to me all the time.

  “You not separated. You be double loved.”

  Finn gives me a smile. The bell rings. I try to return New Kid to Finn, but he says, “You wanna borrow it? Meet back here tomorrow at lunch and we can talk about it?”

  I nod. I hold up a finger. “I have book for you, too!”

  I run over to my backpack by Mrs. Hollins’s desk and get out my copy of Flea Shop. Mrs. Hollins is in the middle of unpacking books from a new box of orders. I kneel down and help her pick up all the packing peanuts on the floor.

  “Thanks!” Mrs. Hollins says. “You can just toss those in the trash.”

  I gather them all up, squeezing the little white foam pieces in my hand. As I throw them all in the trash and help Mrs. Hollins put the boxes into the recycling bin, she beams at me.

  “Thanks, Lina, for all your help,” she says. She points at the corner of the poster. “I left the last spot for my new student librarian to recommend her favorite book.”

  It takes me a minute to realize she’s talking about me. I walk over to the computer to print out a small cover of Flea Shop. Proudly, I take the glue stick and paste it to the poster. Then with Mrs. Hollins’s special glittery pen, I write my very first English words for all to see.

  Great book—Lina Gao.

  Chapter 39

  Millie’s bouncing her knee in the air in a knee-jump dance when we walk over to Pete’s later. “When do you have library day?” I ask her, eager for my sister to see my poster.

  “Not until next Monday,” she says.

  “Let me know if you see anything special! On the wall!” I tell her. Millie replies with a dance move. “That a new TikTok dance?” I ask her.

  “No, it’s Hazel’s. She’s doing it for the school talent show,” Millie says. “I bet they’re going to practice it all night at the sleepover.”

  “Forget her dance. Make up your own!” I suggest.

  “But Hazel takes private dance lessons. She has a choreographer! I don’t even know how to spell the word choreographer.”

  “So?” I ask. “You don’t need a choreographer.”

  “You don’t know about America. A private choreographer is next-level.”

  Ouch.

  “I don’t know much about America, you’re right. But I know you don’t need next-level at seven.”

  “Yeah I do!”

  “No you don’t.” I shake my head. “You just need talent. Like this.”

  To prove my point, I start rocking my body and shaking my arms. My sister giggles.

  “Stop! What are you doing?” she cries.

  The more she freaks out, the more I wave and twirl and bounce and scoop. I look like one of those flimsy balloons behind the Winfield car dealerships Mom drives by to get us to school, but I don’t care.

  I dance because I want to show my sister this is why we dance—to have fun, not for views. To celebrate. Like me saying my first sentence to Finn—in English! And writing on Mrs. Hollins’s poster! And now it’s hanging up high in the library! I dance for kicking Jessica out of my head! And for finally making a friend!

  Okay, so he’s a boy. But he loves to read!

  I can feel Finn’s copy of New Kid bouncing around in my backpack. I can’t wait to sit under the shade of Carla’s tiny home and spend the afternoon reading. And I really can’t wait to hear what Finn says about Flea Shop!

  But when we get to Pete’s, he has other plans for me and Millie.

  * * *

  “I want all these dishes washed and dried before your mother gets back,” he says. “And when you’re done with that, the floor needs to be swept and the porch needs a good hosing down.”

  Millie and I exchange a glance.

  “But we have homework!” Millie says.

  I nod eagerly.

  “Well, this ain’t a library. This is a farm. Everyone works.” With that, he tosses me and Millie cleaning rags.

  For the next hour and a half, Millie and I bust suds, clean floors, and hose down the porch for Pete, while he yells commands at Mrs. Muñoz and Dad out in the field.

  “No, don’t plant that there!” Pete says. “Is that plastic I see in the compost? Get that out of there!”

  Carla rushes over to help her mom pick through the compost.

  Pete mutters under his breath to me and Millie, “Can you believe it? Our Earth is in crisis mode—in 2020 alone, sixteen freshwater fish species went extinct—and people still can’t separate their trash.”

  Pete sure is a walking encyclopedia of science knowledge.

  “People. We overfish, overexploit. Do before we think. Use too much of everything—cups, straws, plastic forks—wasting the Earth away!”

  He turns to me. “Which is why we need more microregenerative farms, like this one, near urban centers. As the world gets hotter and we have more extreme weather, there will be less water. And food will become a serious problem. Now if we’re smart, and we farm smart—I’m talking cover cropping, mulching, composting, and taking care of the soil—we can actually store carbon in the soil, reversing the effects of climate change.”

  My eyebrows shoot up. Even though I didn’t understand most of that, I caught the “food will become a serious problem” part.

  I think back to Bei Gao Li Village, wondering what all the kids there will do once food becomes even more expensive. A few families have tried farming again, like little Tao’s family. But the land has become so barren, it’s hard to grow anything except chives.

  But maybe they’re not using the right methods.

  “More! More!” Pete calls to Mrs. Muñoz.

  Mrs. Muñoz spreads the compost. “I think that’s enough,” she says.

  “Not if you want that cauliflower to grow strong!” he says. “Pack it in and the worms will do the job. We gotta feed Mother Earth!”

  I put my hose down for a second and walk back inside to get my backpack, so I can take notes. Maybe if I mail all of this to little Tao, his family can start growing lush carrots too!

  The hallway to the front door is still wet from our mopping, so I cross behind the dining room. As I’m walking down a narrow, dark hallway, past the bathroom, I glance at the pictures hanging up on the wall. I spot a picture of a beautiful woman with long brown braided hair and bright rosy cheeks, sitting on Pete’s rocking chair on the patio. Pete stands next to her, in his farmer hat.

  Is that a smile on his face?

  I look closely and see the two wedding rings on their hands.

  Pete’s married??

  Chapter 40

  I run out to tell my sister this exciting news. But before I can, Pete gives me an earful about leaving the water hose on.

  “You know how much water you’re wasting?” he asks. “How many plants, trees, organisms die every minute of the day because they don’t have enough water? We’re in a drought! Get it through your head!”

  He comes stomping over to me. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to stand as still as I can. All the while, I’m wondering, Who on earth would want to marry “him”?

  “I better not catch you wasting water again,” he hisses. “Now go, scat. And stay off my soil! Your foot is the equivalent of an earthquake!”

  Millie and I race down the steps, toward Carla and the tiny home.

  “His mouth is the equivalent of an earthquake!” I say to Millie. “We cleaned his whole house and he didn’t even say thank you! What a squash-head!”

  Then I remember why I ran outside in the first place.

  “Did you know he’s married?” I ask Millie.

  “Really?” Millie asks.

  We tell Carla this information. She’s sitting in a beach chair in the shade, next to her tiny home, doing a complicated math calculation on a clipboard. She takes a break from her math lesson and sips her fresh homemade lemonade.

  “He used to be married,” Carla corrects us.

  “Did something happen to his wife?” I ask, gazing back at Pete. That would explain why he’s so angry.

  Carla shakes her head. “Nothing like that. He once told my mom his ex-wife lives on the East Coast. Virginia Burton. She writes books about farming.” She holds up a finger. “I think I have one of her books!”

  Millie and I wait as Carla scrambles into the tiny home and comes out with a big book called The Basics of Farming.

  Carla hands it to me. I open it up and read the dedication.

  To my husband, the maverick, the dreamer, the nurturer… whose green thumb makes everything he touches grow.

  Huh. There’s no mention of squash-head on the list.

  I put the book down and open my backpack, suddenly remembering.

  “I have book for you, too,” I tell Carla, handing her Pie in the Sky. “It about a boy who moves to Australia and wants to make pie.”

  “I love pie!” Carla beams at the book. “My dad used to make the best croissants. And he’d fill them with all sorts of different sauces and jams… my favorite was raspberry-chocolate. It was tangy and sweet—the raspberry made my tongue tickle while the chocolate hugged it.”

  At the description of raspberry-chocolate croissants, all our tummies rumble.

  “I wish we had a real kitchen,” Carla sighs. “Then I could make it—I still have the recipe and we got lots of raspberries!”

  “Can you use Pete kitchen?” I ask. But I know, even before finishing the sentence, that there’s no way.

  Just for the fun of it, though, I check into the Imagination Hotel and pretend to be Pete stress-eating all of Carla’s croissants in the middle of the night. Nom. Nom. Nom. Carla starts laughing her head off.

  “Stop! You’re gonna make me spill my lemonade, and then I’ll have to take another cold shower!” Carla cackles.

  I gaze over at the outdoor shower. “How does this thing work?” I ask.

  “Easy!” Millie says, running over to show me. She’s lived here before, so I guess she knows the tricks. “It’s called a gravity shower!”

  Carla points to the giant bucket on the top of what looks like a bamboo port-a-potty. “You put water in there—well, actually it’s supposed to collect rainwater, but we’re in a drought—and you take a shower with the water from the bucket.”

  “Cold?” I ask.

  “Very cold,” Carla says. “Especially at night.”

  I shiver. It reminds me of the time Homer and Bart Simpson went camping and lost their clothes after falling into a frigid, raging river.

  Millie opens the bamboo door and starts pretending to be washing herself. That’s when an idea pops into my mind.

  I turn and tell Carla my idea, and she giggles and nods enthusiastically—she’s in.

  “What are you guys talking about?” Millie asks.

  “Nothing!” I reply to Millie. “Hey, let’s keep practice your dance!”

  “Dance?” Carla asks, her feet gliding on the dusty ground. “I want to dance!”

  Carla and I start throwing our arms in the air, twisting our bodies and snapping our fingers to an imaginary beat.

  “You guys aren’t even doing it right!” Millie hollers, running over. “It’s like this! Watch closely—it’s called the crisscross!” She crisscrosses over with her feet, making tiny tornadoes in the dust as she dances. Then she flings her body forward dramatically. “I call this the dolphin!”

  “Dolphin! Got it!” I shout.

  We follow her example, throwing our bodies forward, like a pod of dolphins jumping in the ocean. Not even Pete’s hollering for us to “knock it off” can stop the three of us crisscrossing, dolphining, and giggling up and down the field.

  “Now, I add clock-pow!” Millie instructs. She interlocks her arms so they look like two clock hands and bangs one hand against the other. “Pow!”

  Pete starts stomping down the porch steps toward us.

  We race across the field, clock-powing through the strawberries as he chases us. By the time my mom finally arrives, we have the entire routine down by heart. And Pete looks about ready to chuck us out like weeds.

  Thankfully, Mom comes with good news.

  Chapter 41

  Great news! After hours on phone, the general manager of 99 Ranch say he’ll take some strawberry and broccoli. And if you have any dill, he take that, too—his Chinese customers love making dill dumplings,” Mom says to Pete breathlessly.

  “How much he paying?” Pete asks.

  Dad walks out to the porch with a calculator and a big notebook.

  “Five dollars a basket for strawberry. Fifty cents a head for broccoli. Ten cents a bunch for dill,” Mom says, reading from her notebook.

  “Five dollars a basket? That’s less than the farmers’ market!” Pete frowns, shaking his head. “You explain to him that these are organic? No pesticides, no nothing?”

  “Yeah, I did. Maybe if we start off at five dollars and he like them, he can go up in price. Besides, you say they not going to last until the next farmers’ market!”

  Dad punches in the numbers. “We’d still be making a profit,” he tells Pete.

  Pete sighs heavily under his farmer’s hat, weighing his options.

  “Tell him we’ll start at five dollars,” Pete says. “But if he sells all fifty baskets of strawberries, he’s going to have to cough up an extra dollar per basket.”

  Mom does a little squeal. “I’ll let him know!” she says. Her eyes dance animatedly, meeting Dad’s. “So now that that’s settled, can we get that advance on my husband’s salary, so I can get back to my business?”

  “Nothing’s settled,” Pete reminds her. “You just did the first step. I don’t see any cash.”

  “But—”

  “I’m not giving you a penny’s advance till you finish the job! That’s the deal!” Pete says. He gestures to Dad. “Now help me box up all these strawberries!”

  * * *

  That night, while Mom tries to firm up the order with the 99 Ranch manager, Millie and I get back to all our bath bomb customers. We tell them to wait a little longer—there are some issues with getting supplies.

  “How do you spell supplies?” I ask Millie.

  “S-u-p-l-y-s,” Millie answers.

  I type that into the computer. Now that I’ve written my first English words on a poster in the library, I’m feeling more confident helping my sister respond to customers. A red squiggly line appears.

  “Are you sure?” I ask Millie.

  She glances at it. “Oh yeah, maybe it should be two p’s,” she says. “And change the y to an i-e. There’s this rule, I think!”

  I try that. It works!

  “What are the other spelling rules?” I ask, curious.

  Millie shrugs. “There’s a lot. I don’t really remember,” she says. “And some of the rules are confusing—like i-e but not after c. But then the word chief is i-e after c.”

  “So what do you do?”

  “You just try stuff!” Millie says, practicing her clock-pow again. I smile. “It’s okay to get words wrong—I get ’em wrong all the time!”

  “But I thought you got a medal in spelling!” I blurt out.

  “Doesn’t mean I don’t make mistakes!” Millie says.

  I gaze at my sister, grateful and surprised. I crawl into bed, reaching for my copy of New Kid and thinking of her words. She didn’t have to say that, but I’m glad she did. It makes me feel a lot better to know that I’m not the only one making mistakes. Even Millie, with her bazillion awards, makes mistakes in English too.

  Maybe learning English is like a TikTok dance. I just gotta try, and not worry so much!

  I imagine myself bursting into my classroom tomorrow, talking effortlessly like I did today with Finn! But then I picture my classmates’ laughing faces, pointing at me and mocking my bizarro grammar, and it’s so hard to evict my own fear, no matter how much back rent it owes.

  Chapter 42

  New Kid is too good! I run into the library before class the next morning, looking for Finn. I can’t wait till lunch.

  “Lina!” a voice shouts.

  I spin around and Finn is holding Flea Shop with his fingers tucked in the pages.

  “Oh my God, the part when the customer walks in, scratching everywhere, and asks if they sell flea repellant—I was dying!” Finn says.

  I grin.

  “Oh, what about when her mom find out she draw on money?” I ask, running over and flipping to the page when Cat gets so bored in the store, she draws mustaches and baseball caps on all the presidents on the bills in their cash register.

  Finn pulls out a dollar bill and reveals his own highly doodled George Washington.

  I laugh so hard, my belly hurts.

  “What about you? How did you like New Kid?” he asks.

  “I love!” I tell him. I stayed up all night finishing the book. I flip to show him the scenes of Jordan feeling like he’s in between two worlds.

  Finn nods knowingly.

  But my favorite scene of all is Jordan Banks having dinner with his grandfather.

  “They eating Chinese food!” I tell Finn.

  Finn grins and rattles off all the dishes Jordan orders in Chinese—pepper steak, General Tso’s chicken, and shrimp lo mein.

  His pronunciation of these dishes is perfect. But that’s not why I love the scene so much. I love it because like Lao Lao, Jordan’s grandpa also just moved to a senior center. And like me, Jordan says that makes him sad.

  I stared so long at that panel.

  “My grandma also in yang lao yuan. I miss her,” I confess to Finn.

  “Can you go visit her?” Finn asks. “Or go out for dim sum with her? I know a great place—!”

  I shake my head. Sadly, my grandma is a lot farther away than Jordan Banks’s grandpa.

  “She on other side of world,” I whisper.

  He looks down at his copy of Flea Shop.

  “Just like Cat’s grandma…,” he says.

 

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