Key player, p.16
Key Player, page 16
I grinned. “As a matter of fact, I do!”
I could hardly contain my excitement as I flew into the kitchen to tell Jason.
“Are you serious? They want Peking duck?” He ran around grabbing bottles of dark soy and chopping scallions. “I’ll give them Peking duck! I’ve been playing with the recipe, adding more light soy! And five-spice powder! We don’t have enough five-spice powder!”
I giggled. “Don’t worry. We’ll go out and get more!”
“Get some more hoisin sauce too, while you’re at it!” he hollered as I skipped out of the restaurant. “Oh, and, Mia, are you sure they’re coming? It’s not gonna be like last time?”
I knew how Jason had gotten his hopes dashed before. And how embarrassing that was for him in front of his dad. But this time was different.
“Trust me, they’re coming!”
Lupe hung out with Hank while my parents and I headed to the Chinese grocery store to pick up everything Jason needed. My parents were thrilled to hear about my translation opportunity, but Mom sat in the back, a little quiet. She was still processing what had happened at the end of the Math Cup competition.
“I can’t believe he said that to her. If I were there, I would have really let the other coach have it. I don’t care if my English not so good.”
“Mom, your English is fine.”
Mom shook her head. She still didn’t believe me, no matter how many times I told her.
Dad suddenly slowed down, and Mom and I peered out the window. There was a For Sale sign next to the Maple Hills gated community sign. There must be a house for sale inside! But instead of getting excited, Mom slumped her shoulders.
“Not again,” she groaned.
We were all a little house-shopping weary at this point, but Dad pointed to the sign. It read New Town House! Open House Today!
“Wouldn’t have asbestos if it’s new,” he said.
I glanced over at Mom. “Should we go look?”
“If it’s really new, I doubt it’s in our price range,” Mom pointed out.
But Dad was an optimist. I tried to steady my beating heart as he turned in to the gate. As he rolled his window down, which took a minute because it always stuck, the man at the gate asked, “Can I help you?”
“We’re here to look at the town house.”
“Oh, you’d have to make an appointment, I’m afraid.”
Dad pointed at the sign. “But it says there’s an open house today.”
“Is there?” The guard glanced over at the sign, then finally pushed the buzzer and let us in.
Dad turned to me and Mom. “Here we go!”
We thanked the guard and Dad stepped on the gas as the gate opened wide. Inside, it was like a whole other planet.
“Whoa!” My hands flew to my cheeks.
Maple Hills looked like a totally different world compared to the rest of Anaheim. The grass was perfectly cut. The homes were brand-new. There were bikes on the lawns. The bikes weren’t even locked; they were just lying there—perfectly safe and sound.
“I could get used to this!” Dad laughed.
So could I. I could see myself walking Comma here.
We drove by a sparkling neighborhood pool, and Dad’s face tensed. He started calculating out loud how many hours it would take to clean a pool of that size. Then he remembered we wouldn’t have to clean it—it was a neighborhood pool. We could just swim. What a thought that was. He relaxed.
His eyes turned into beach balls when we got to 4888 Maple Hills, the town house that was for sale. It was a gorgeous cream-colored Mediterranean-style home, with big, bright windows and a grassy lawn—perfect for playing soccer with Comma!
Mom jumped out of the car, and I could tell she was excited too. We walked over to get one of the flyers in the box attached to the front tree. She looked at the price.
“This is actually in our price range!” she shrieked.
Dad clapped his hands. “We could plant a plum tree right here,” he said, pointing to a corner of the front yard.
“And I could grade tests right there!” Mom said, pointing to the patch of shade under a leafy tree.
The front door was open, and I ran toward it. “C’mon, let’s go check it out!”
As my parents and I entered the bright, open living room, we looked up and saw a bookshelf. It spanned the entire wall of the room. It was like this house knew me.
While Mom and Dad went to check out the gorgeous fireplace, I ran upstairs. This house didn’t have a loft or a built-in desk, but the bedrooms had a beautiful view of rolling green hills. Imagine the writing I’d do with a view like that!
“Mom, this is it!” I shouted, running down the stairs. I put my hand over my heart. It was just like Hank said. My heart, which had been forever pitter-pattering, had finally found the calm I had been searching for.
Mom and Dad were already two steps ahead.
“How do we put in an offer?” Dad asked.
The realtor, a white man in his forties who looked like he spent a lot of money on toothpaste and had a name tag that said Dave, put his hands up. “Whoa there, hold your horses,” he said, chuckling. “We’ve only just listed it. We have to let everyone else take a look too.”
“Yes,” Mom said. “But we’re just saying we really love it! We’ve been looking and looking. And this is in our price range. What can we do to make this house ours, Dave?”
“Sorry, absolutely no offers accepted until after next weekend,” the realtor said. “Do you folks have an agent?”
Mom and Dad looked at each other. “No … well, we did.”
“And what happened?”
Mom looked down, slightly embarrassed. “It’s a long story.”
“Could you be our agent?” I jumped in and asked.
Dave wriggled uncomfortably. “That would be sort of a conflict of interest. But I’m sure you’ll find someone willing to take you on. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get ready for some other families.” He gave my parents a polite smile. “But feel free to stay and get a feel for the neighborhood.”
We sat on the lawn, watching as family after family came and saw our home. Families dressed to the nines. Platinum rings flashing. My mom didn’t have a platinum ring. Instead, she had wrinkles from washing towels and ink stains from handwriting math worksheets for her students.
“What are we going to do?” Mom asked.
“Wait, I guess,” Dad replied.
A neighbor taking out his trash waved at us. “Um, you can’t sit there,” he said.
We scrambled up. “Sorry, we were just looking at the house,” Dad explained.
“I know, but you can’t sit on it until you own it.”
Mom blushed.
“Well, we’ll own it soon,” I told him boldly.
“You’re buying this place?” the neighbor asked. He looked shocked.
I nodded confidently. I knew we hadn’t started the paperwork yet, but in my mind, it was as good as done. I’d already written five books in the bedroom with the view and run around the marble kitchen island about eighty-five times.
“I’m Mia,” I said, shaking my new neighbor’s hand. “And these are my parents.”
Mom and Dad smiled and shook hands with him.
“Derek Hall,” the man introduced himself. He pointed at the house across from us. “We live right there.”
“Nice to meet you,” Mom and Dad said.
“Where you guys from?” he asked.
“Right here in Anaheim!” I said.
“But where are you really from?” Derek asked.
I hated getting the where are you really from? question. I used to get it a lot when we first moved from China. But it had been years now, and I was starting to wonder if I was ever going to just be from Anaheim.
“We’re Chinese,” Mom replied.
“Chinese American,” I corrected.
“Really? We don’t have a lot of Chinese living in Maple Hills,” Derek said. “You guys would be the first ones.”
“Well, we’re looking forward to it.” Mom smiled and pointed. “I can’t wait to entertain our friends in that lovely backyard.”
“Oh, there’s a no-house-party rule in Maple Hills,” Derek said. “Sorry. Housing association regulations, you know.”
Mom’s face fell. “What about tutoring students?” she asked. “I’m a math teacher over at the high school.”
“Can’t do business here,” Derek said, sounding offended. “That’s definitely against the rules.”
“We’re not doing business,” Mom quickly said. “Sometimes I like to give my students some extra help.”
But Derek just shook his head and started listing off some other rules. There were a lot! And then—
“Oh, and one final thing: no pets.”
“WHAT?!” I blurted. He had to be kidding—pets were the whole point of getting a house! “I can’t get a dog? But what about Comma?”
“I’m afraid not,” he said. “If you get a dog, he could run outside and cause problems. He might jump on people and bite kids. I’m sorry. Those are the HOA rules.”
Dad crumpled up the house flyer in his hand and tried to pull me back toward the car, but my feet weren’t ready to leave the lush grass.
I fought the tears in my eyes. It was so unfair. The house was perfect. Mom could finally have her kitchen island, and Dad could have his fireplace. And we wouldn’t get cancer from the house!
I wondered if the perfect house was worth giving up the perfect puppy for—and hated that I had to choose.
“C’mon, Mia, let’s go home,” Dad urged. “It’s not what we’re looking for.”
“Maybe I can write the housing association a letter!” I said, my mind spinning. “Ask them to change some of the rules …”
“We can’t make an offer on the hope that after we get in we can change things,” Dad said, tugging on my hand. “It’s too risky.”
I knew Dad was right. Still, I gazed longingly at the lawn, feeling the pull of my dog and the house. And feeling sad that maybe both would have to stay imaginary for a little while longer.
“Why the long face?” Lupe asked when we got back with the soy sauce and spices. Allie had already gone home and Mrs. Garcia had to go to a babysitting job, so Lupe was sleeping over with me at the motel.
I told her about the Maple Hills town house.
“Oh, that place is nice,” she said, flopping down on my bed.
“Yeah, but they don’t allow dogs,” I said.
“Really?” She twisted her face.
“That’s what the neighbor told us. Hey, has your dad ever been in there to fix someone’s cable?” I asked.
Lupe shook her head.
“Maybe I could hide Comma! There must be someone in there with a dog.”
“I don’t know,” Lupe said. “It’d have to be a really small dog.”
I frowned. My heart was already set on getting a beagle. They looked so cute with their floppy ears. But they also loved to howl. There was no way I could hide Comma.
I joined Lupe on the bed. “Found anything?” I asked her, picking up the last of the Michael Yao papers.
“Just this,” Lupe said, handing me a recipe.
Across the top in faded handwriting, it said, Roast Duck—Yao Family Secret Recipe. I jumped up. “Be right back!” I cried, and took off for East Meets West.
Jason was going to lose his mind!
Jason’s eyes jumped when he saw the recipe.
“Ginger, honey, paprika!” he said, licking his mouth. “I can taste it already!”
“I knew you’d like it! Lupe found it in the stash of papers from your grandparents’ restaurant.”
“My agong had skills!” He took the paper from me. “Can’t wait to make this!”
I left Jason to his cooking. Lupe was still in my room, only now she was holding another piece of paper.
“I found this taped onto the back of one of the music sheets,” she said.
Another diary entry! I sat down so we could read it together.
Dear diary,
Mom dropped the news on me on Sunday that she and Dad BOUGHT a motel. It’s a little place called the Calivista, over in Anaheim. I was in the middle of practicing for my audition at the London Philharmonic Orchestra. Can you believe they have a scholarship program for underrepresented musicians? (Take that, Jimmy Vanderbean! They WANT Chinese trumpet players!)
Anyway, when Mom told me about the motel, I was surprised. Both her and Dad have enough spinal issues just from working at the restaurant. I asked them how they planned to run a motel too.
That’s when they told me they bought the Calivista for ME. So I could have a backup plan, “in case the music thing doesn’t work out.” Can you believe that? They asked me again to come back and transfer to UCLA. I said no way! “And by the way, things here are going GREAT, in case you’re wondering,” I said to Mom.
And then I hung up. I sat there in shock, hugging my trumpet, as the London taxis beeped beneath my flat.
They bought a motel. My parents, who refused to spend fifty cents on a box of tissues, just spent $100,000 betting my music career would fail.
One thing’s for sure. I am never going to that motel. I’m going to make it here, or die trying!
Michael Yao
Lupe and I looked at each other, stunned.
“He’s obviously back here,” she said. “Maybe he didn’t get the scholarship?”
“With that kind of drive?” I shook my head. I knew from experience, drive like that is impossible to smother. You can try to hide it, but sooner or later, it’ll poke its eager head back out.
“Then why … ?”
Outside, I heard the loud booming voice of the real Mr. Yao. He was screaming about something again. It was hard to believe that the same harsh voice was the voice of the tender, sensitive musician in the letters.
I picked up all the diary entries that were on the floor and got up. Enough reading and guessing.
It was time for answers.
“What are you doing putting the paprika in first? You should roast the duck first!” Mr. Yao was screaming at Jason when Lupe and I walked into the kitchen. “You’re doing it all wrong!”
“The recipe doesn’t say—” Jason stumbled, dropping the paprika all over the floor.
“Why are you making duck, anyway? It’s way too pricey!” Mr. Yao complained.
Jason picked up the paprika. Wiping his hands, he took a deep breath. “Dad, it’s for the Chinese women’s soccer team. They’re coming to the restaurant tomorrow night, and I’m making them their favorite—roast duck,” he said proudly.
“You invited them here?”
I’d expected Mr. Yao to sound happier about it. He was so overjoyed when we told him Team USA was coming.
“Yeah!” Jason said. “Why? What’s wrong?”
Mr. Yao started pacing the kitchen, grabbing at his head. “You know the headlines. You’ve heard the people talking. They’re all cheering for Team USA! If we serve Team China, what are they going to think of us?”
“Uhhh … that we’re a restaurant?” Jason replied.
Mr. Yao stopped pacing. “I think you should call it off.”
“What?” I exclaimed. “NO!”
Jason was so seething mad, he dropped the paprika jar again. The seasoning spilled all over, even onto some of the cupcakes Carmela and Tanya, our dessert chefs, had just baked.
He pointed at the door and shouted, “I’ve had it with you! This is my restaurant, and I’ll invite who I want to invite. Now get out of my kitchen!”
“Son, listen to me. I’m just trying to protect—”
“OUT!”
Lupe stayed to talk to Jason, but I quietly followed Mr. Yao out. He headed for the pool, where Hank was setting up for an evening cookout.
“Stop barbecuing! Will you go in there and talk some sense into Jason?” Mr. Yao yelled at Hank. “He wants to invite Team China over here! Turn this place into Paprika Loser-ville!”
Hank put his tongs down. “First of all, you don’t know they’re going to lose. And second of all, even if they do lose, who cares? You don’t get to tell Jason not to serve them. It’s his restaurant!”
Mr. Yao shook his head, taking his shoes off and stepping onto the pool steps.
“Why’d you invest in this place anyway, man?” Hank asked. “Is it so you can control him?”
My eyes widened. I got up closer and crouched behind a deck chair, listening.
“I was hoping he’d spend some more time with me,” Mr. Yao said. “Appreciate what I have to teach him about running a small business!”
Hank snapped his tongs in the air. “Well, criticizing him constantly ain’t gonna make him want to spend more time with you.”
“I can’t just stand by and watch him make mistakes!” Mr. Yao hollered.
I shot up from behind the chair. “You mean like your dad couldn’t stand you making mistakes?”
Mr. Yao nearly fell into the pool.
“We found your diary entries,” I confessed. “From when you were a kid. I know all about your music.”
Mr. Yao hid his face in his hands.
Hank walked over. “You didn’t know they were reading them?” he asked, surprised. “Well, I did. And you know what? I was happy for you, man. I was like, Right on, when Mia told me. But now it’s Jason’s turn. It’s his dream. And you have to step aside and support him!”
“I’m his father. I can’t just step aside while you two run off to wherever!”
“We’re not running off.” Hank rolled his eyes.
“I see how cozy the two of you are! You’re trying to replace me!”
“I’m not trying to replace you!” Hank barked. “He’s my colleague. My partner! And I love hanging out with him. But nothing’s ever going to take your place in his heart.”
Mr. Yao swallowed hard. I handed him a towel.
“But you have to cherish that position, my friend. Every day. With your actions,” Hank added softly.
“My dad never did that,” he grumbled, drying his feet.
I furrowed my eyebrows. “Then why’d you come back?” I lowered my voice too. “Did your music career not work out?”
