Key player, p.13
Key Player, page 13
“What if you just look at them a lot?” Lupe asked.
“That counts too, I think. Doesn’t have to be a volcano. Could also be a sunset. Why? You like someone?”
There was a long pause on the other line. It wasn’t Jason, was it?
Finally, Lupe whispered the name, and I smiled.
“But I can’t tell if I like Allie because she’s awesome,” she went on, “or I’m just really excited because she’s awesome.”
“She does sound pretty awesome,” I said. “Have you told her?”
“Oh, no, I could never.”
I almost dropped the phone. “Never?”
“I don’t know. We’re on the same team. It’d be super awkward.”
I nodded. It was so scary to confess my feelings to Da-Shawn last year. But look at us now, still working side by side together, editors and friends. When I reminded Lupe of that, she said it wasn’t the same.
“Why not?”
“Because Da-Shawn’s a boy.”
“So?”
“So it’s different.” Lupe sighed. “If I tell Allie, I’d be telling her two things. One, that I might like girls. And two, that I like her.” She paused, and pushed out the next words with a labored breath. “And what if she has a problem with either one of those things? Then I’m in trouble.”
I could feel how vulnerable and scared my best friend was. I wanted to jump into the phone and give her a hug.
“You know who doesn’t have a problem with either of those things?” I said. “Me.”
“Thanks, Mia.”
I spun so the cord wrapped around me, giving my friend a phone hug. I imagined Lupe doing it on the other side.
“I’m still figuring it out,” she said. “But I really appreciate the words.”
Unfortunately, the mood that greeted me later in PE wasn’t a warm hug, but a “Boo, China!!!” I stared at my classmates, all dressed up in #9 jerseys—Mia Hamm’s number. They glared at me as I walked past. The Los Angeles Post headline flashed in my mind. It probably didn’t help that I was wearing a red shirt.
Bethany Brett, with her hair swinging in a ponytail like Brandi Chastain’s, hissed at me as I walked past, “We’re so gonna whoop your butt next Saturday!”
I wanted to say to her, hey, it’s not me. But I knew it didn’t matter. In her eyes, I was Team China, and Team China was the enemy. Ignoring her, I walked up to Mr. Antwell with my article.
His eyebrows jumped in surprise when he read the title. “You finally tracked them down! I can’t believe it!”
Jason jogged over to join us on the field. As he hustled past the long line of Nike jerseys, the other kids looked at him like he was Team China too. I wanted to hold up my hands—truce, okay?—but I knew in sports there was no truce, only winning and losing.
“This is incredible, Mia!” Mr. Antwell said when he finished reading. “Some great quotes here! Really impressive.”
He handed me back the article, and I asked hopefully, “Does that mean … ?”
“Not only am I changing your grade,” he said, throwing me the ball, “I’m making you goalie today.”
I caught it and yelped, “Me?”
Mr. Antwell was already dividing up the teams. “Bethany, Joanne, Stuart, Roxanne, Chris, Jason, you’re with Mia.”
As usual, Bethany slapped her hand over her face when she heard she was on the same team as me. “Mia can’t be our goalie!” she wailed. “She’ll let every single ball in! She has the hand-eye coordination of a laundry basket!”
“Who are you calling a laundry basket?” I snapped.
“Just look at your arms!” Bethany said. “They look like two bamboo sticks.”
I grabbed the gloves from Mr. Antwell. “Oh, it’s on!” As I put them on and took my position in front of the scary net, I imagined I was Gao Hong at the Rose Bowl. I was in front of tens of thousands of screaming fans.
As I clapped my goalie gloves together, all my fears evaporated.
That day, I played for Lupe, who still felt like she had to hide a piece of herself. I played for my mom, who had to secretly coach her students because the administration said her English wasn’t good enough. I played for me, having to put up with Bethany making fun of my body every day.
Throwing myself onto the grass, I blocked the ball with all my strength. I used my hands, my legs, and when that didn’t do it, I used my head. I didn’t care if I got hurt. I wanted to show everyone what this thin bamboo body could do.
As Mr. Antwell blew his whistle and declared us the winners, I threw my arms up to the sky and sank to the ground.
“You were incredible!” Jason gushed.
“It was like something just took over me!” I looked down at my calves, still shaking under my socks.
“Mia, you should have seen yourself! The way you threw yourself on the grass!” Stuart chimed in.
I grinned and tossed a line in Bethany’s direction because I couldn’t help it. “Must have been my bamboo arms.”
Bethany rolled her eyes and kept walking back to the locker room.
“I’m so proud of you,” Mr. Antwell said, helping me up from the grass and taking the goalie gloves back. “You played with your heart, and you didn’t give in to your fear.” Then he put a folded piece of paper in my hand.
When I opened it, I saw it was a note to Mr. Ingleton, my counselor.
Please change Mia’s PE grade to an A for last term. She has blown me away with her effort. —Mr. Antwell.
I threw my arms around him. “Thank you!!!”
I clutched Mr. Antwell’s note for the rest of the day and finally walked with it into Mr. Ingleton’s office after my last class.
“Wow,” he said. “Must have been some game you played!”
“Actually, I wrote an article,” I informed him. Smiling, I reached for my piece in my backpack as Mr. Ingleton put on his reading glasses. I noticed he had today’s Los Angeles Times on his desk, turned to the Sports section.
“You interviewed the players?” His eyebrows jumped up, impressed. But as he read, they dropped again. “Wait, you’re rooting for Team China?”
I nodded.
He tossed my article onto his desk with a frown. “But you’re an American.”
“So?”
“So, it’s your duty to root for the US team in any sporting event.”
“But the American team, they look nothing like me. And I can relate so much to the Chinese players’ struggle!” I pointed to the first paragraph, where I wrote about how Sun Wen’s early days.
“I don’t give a pencil shaving about their struggle,” Mr. Ingleton snapped. “They’re still the enemy!” He leaned in closer. “Don’t you see what this match represents? It’s about the future! Who gets to dominate on the global scale! It’s about good versus evil!”
His eyes bulged when he said evil, and I got a full blast of his peanut butter breath.
“I know it’s about the future,” I said, stung. “That’s why I’m rooting for them, so that Chinese girls everywhere can feel like they can do anything.”
“Well, they can’t,” he said, jabbing his desk with one finger. “I’m sorry, but they can’t come to our soil and win. Not over our girls. It wouldn’t be right!”
I got up. I’d had enough of this conversation. I shook my head at Mr. Ingleton, disappointed he couldn’t see past “us” and “them,” couldn’t see these players for what they were—players. Individuals. Little girls who had grown up their whole lives being told they can’t. But they kept going, fueled by nothing but the blind faith inside them. They had the same hopes and dreams as Mia Hamm and Brandi Chastain. The difference was if they got theirs, an entire nation of people would wake up tomorrow and dare to dream bigger too.
I reached for my article.
Mr. Ingleton held it back for a second, then handed it over. “Do the right thing and edit that piece.”
“I’m not going to edit it!”
“Then you’re a traitor. You want to root for China? Then go back to China!”
My face turned scorching hot as I turned and practically ran out of his office.
“Mia!” Da-Shawn called out from over by the library. “You have your column for this week?”
My face still burned from Mr. Ingleton’s words. I turned and quickly hustled the other direction, away from the News Room and toward the parking lot. I didn’t want to talk to Da-Shawn. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I just wanted to be alone. But the words followed me.
Was it true? Was I a traitor for liking the Chinese team?
On Meadow Lane, far from my classmates, I let the tears fall. Quietly, I tried the word out on my tongue—traitor. I shuddered. It was so terrifying. It felt like everything I’d ever done in this country could get erased.
I hid the article underneath my jacket as I walked back to the motel. An hour ago, I was so proud of it. Now it felt grosser than the bottoms of Jason’s wet boxes.
If this was the response I got from my own school counselor, what would my classmates say? I couldn’t let them ever know how I felt. Even if it was my proudest achievement as a journalist, I had to hide this article with my life.
Back at the motel, I went straight to find Hank.
He was at his desk in the back of East Meets West, dressed in a suit and gathering up his recipes in a briefcase.
“Hey! How’d it go with Mr. Antwell?” he asked with a big smile.
“I got him to change my grade. But then … my counselor sort of said something.”
Hank searched my face. “What?”
I glanced at some of the customers still eating, not wanting to repeat it. I didn’t want the stench of my new “traitor” status to taint the motel.
“Come with me,” Hank said, locking his briefcase. “I’m meeting my lawyers at the Pasadena Grill. We can talk in the car.”
That explained the suit. “I’ll be right there!” I ran inside the manager’s quarters to put my backpack down.
Mom had left a note for me on the kitchen table.
Mia—There are Girl Scout cookies I bought from one of my students in the cupboard and frozen pizza in the fridge. I’m at the Math Cup with Lupe! Wish us luck!!! Love, Mom
Girl Scout cookies and frozen pizza—it didn’t get more American than that. And yet, that word still sat heavy in my chest.
I helped myself to a bunch of cookies for the road, scribbling a note for Dad that I was with Hank and to keep an eye on the desk.
On my way to the car, I spotted Mr. Yao out by the pool. I ran over, still eager to ask him my question about where he’d gone to college.
Before I could say anything, Mr. Yao barked, “Where’s Jason? I thought he might have come here after school with you.” He was sitting on one of the pool lounge chairs, reading the local Chinese paper. I noticed the headline read, “A Chinese Victory on US Soil? Brace for Riots!”
“I think he went to the library to look up roast duck,” I said, then pointed at the newspaper. “Riots?”
“Not gonna happen. The Americans won’t lose, mark my words.” Mr. Yao folded the paper and stood up. “It would be a major PR disaster—can you imagine?”
“I guess,” I said. I didn’t really want to discuss this with him. But I did want to ask—“Hey, Mr. Yao, where’d you go to college?”
“Why?”
“Just … I want to know.”
He used his newspaper to shield the sun. “I’m not the best person to ask for college advice.”
He turned to leave the pool, but I blocked his path. I wasn’t going to let him off that easy. I might not be the most popular journalist at the moment, but I was still a journalist.
“Please? Can you just tell me the name of the town?”
With a long roll of his eyes, he finally replied, “Boston.”
Boston?! The fact that Mr. Yao actually went there both blew my mind and confused me to bits. If he got the chance to go after his dream, why was he still so miserable? And what was he doing back here?
“So what’d your counselor say?” Hank asked, bringing me back to the car.
With a sigh, I filled him in.
“He said what?”
“And he called me a traitor.”
Hank hit the steering wheel with his palm. “That’s ridiculous! You’re not less American because you’re rooting for another team. By his definition, we’d all be traitors for listening to the Spice Girls!”
I laughed. The guests in the motel were always playing the Spice Girls. I particularly liked the song “Wannabe.” But suddenly I remembered that one lyric—“If you want my future, forget my past.”
If I wanted a future as an American, did I have to forget my Chinese past?
Hank turned to me and added gently, “The whole point of sports is they bring us all together.”
“Lately it feels like it’s tearing us all apart,” I said sadly. I told Hank about some of the recent headlines I’d been reading … and some of what the other kids said on the field.
“I’m sorry. Those kids have no right.”
“I know they’re just words, but they hurt so much.”
“Of course they do,” he said. “It feels like they can diminish you. Deflate you. Take away everything you’ve done, with just a word. But here’s the thing. Joy is a form of resistance. Passion is a form of activism. And you’re out there kicking butt every day, with your writing, your humor.”
I smiled at Hank.
“Plus your kindness,” Hank added, “and now with your soccer ball.”
My mouth opened in surprise.
“Oh, I’ve seen you out there with Lupe. You got some moves!”
I chuckled.
“The point I’m making is, don’t let this ridiculous counselor or anybody take that away from you. You’re a winner, my girl. Not a traitor. And don’t ever forget it.”
I couldn’t help beaming, endorphins swelling in me as Hank turned into the Pasadena Grill and parked.
“Now. Moment of truth.” Hank exhaled, and I handed him his briefcase.
His lawyers were already outside the restaurant, waiting. They had driven all the way from downtown LA in their Mercedes convertibles and BMW 5 Series.
Hank took his time getting out of his small Honda. I knew he had a lot riding on this case, including his condo. But mostly, his honor was on the line. And he had no intention of letting the Pasadena Grill walk away with it without a fight.
“Ready for battle?” he asked.
I nodded, putting my war face on. “Ready!”
The Grill was decorated with gold and silver balloons when we walked in, like they’d just had a massive party. A giant poster of Team USA hung from the ceiling.
The hostess led Hank’s battle team, me included, into a conference room. A few minutes later, Mr. Wamble walked in with his own soldiers. As the people in suits shook hands, Hank and Mr. Wamble took their positions on the opposite sides of the table, staring each other down like two strikers ready to sink the ball into the goal.
“I’m going to make this quick,” Hank started, kicking the first offense. “The recipe you stole is a trade secret.” He opened his briefcase and pulled out all the legal papers that they were planning to file in court.
“If it’s a trade secret, why’d you share with me?” Mr. Wamble asked.
“Because I trusted you! You misled me into thinking there was a chance we could be in business together!”
“There was. But your recipe, I’m sorry, it just didn’t blow my socks off,” Mr. Wamble replied. “Neither did you, quite frankly.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Now Hank was seething mad.
“It takes a certain type of person to make it. And in my experience, they don’t generally take little girls to serious meetings.”
“Hey!” I erupted. “I’m his business partner.”
Hank’s lawyer Jerry waved his hands, trying to get their attention. “Can we please get back to the burger? How do you explain the fact that you released the Crunch Burger just days after Mr. Caleb showed you his recipe?”
“The Crunch Burger,” Mr. Wamble’s lawyer replied, “is nothing like Mr. Caleb’s burger. For starters, it has different ingredients. It uses a rosemary—”
“But the concept of crunch you stole from my recipe,” Hank interrupted. “It’s a complete rip-off and you know it.”
“Gentlemen,” Jerry said. “We came here on the good faith belief that we might be able to come to a resolution. But if you refuse to see how we’ve been wronged here, we’ll see you in court.”
Mr. Wamble’s lawyer laughed. “Good luck with that,” he said. “Even if you could prove our recipe is derivative, which it’s not, you’d have to prove that it’s a trade secret.”
“It is a trade secret!” Hank said again.
“Then how do you explain the fact that a restaurant called Do Fu Nao in Beijing has it?” Mr. Wamble’s lawyer asked.
Hank froze. Do Fu Nao was the restaurant we helped in Beijing. Last Christmas, when we went to China on vacation, Hank started a pop-up burger shop. The shop was a hit, and everyone wanted his saltine burgers. So when we had to come home to Anaheim, Hank left his recipe with the owner to help him with his business. But how did these guys know about that?
Mr. Wamble must’ve known we were wondering because he said, “When you’re as big as we are, you have friends all over the world. A restaurant partner of ours told us all about it.” He shook his head. “Way to protect your trade secret!”
“That was with my permission—” Hank began.
“Well, that was stupid! You let your secret recipe out!”
Hank’s lawyers shriveled to the size of their briefcases. I could tell from the looks on their faces that this was bad. Perhaps even game over bad. As they led us out of the room, Mr. Wamble leaned over and asked Hank, “In China, of all places. Seriously? What were you thinking?”
Hank turned to his lawyers when we got outside. “What’s the next move?”
“There is no next move,” Jerry replied. “You gave out your trade secret in China!”
