Key player, p.17
Key Player, page 17
Mr. Yao threw the towel down. “No.” He exhaled deeply.
He shook his head and started walking toward the pool door, but I followed him again. “Please,” I said. “Just tell us.”
Hanging on to the iron gate with both hands, he took another deep breath. “I came back because my parents died. It was the least I could do. This place wore them down. I tried to tell them not to buy it, but they wouldn’t listen.”
I put a hand over my heart.
Mr. Yao let go of the fence and buried his face in his hands, crying. “They had asked me to come back, but I was stubborn. I had worked my entire life to get away. I thought if I came back, I’d be chained to this place forever.” His voice trembled. “And then my father had a heart attack.”
I gasped. “Oh, no!”
Hank led Mr. Yao over to the deck chairs, sitting down next to him and patting his back while he wailed.
“He died in the operating room.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said.
“My mom passed away two days later. Died of a broken heart. She couldn’t stand being by herself.” Mr. Yao looked up at us. “None of this would have happened if I had just listened to my parents and not gone to Europe. I killed them.”
Hank and I both erupted, “You didn’t kill your parents!”
But as we tried to console him, I could see the guilt pooling. The pain must have been so unbearable all these years. No wonder he was so mad—he wasn’t mad at us; he was mad at himself.
“If I’d just given up my silly dreams, they’d still be here,” Mr. Yao said, reaching for his shirtsleeve and blowing his nose hard. I imagined him blowing his trumpet with the same force.
“Listen to me. They weren’t silly dreams. They were your passion,” Hank said. “Pursuing our passion is what life’s all about.”
Mr. Yao gazed down at his reflection in the pool. “Passion doesn’t pay the bills. That’s what my dad always said.” He sighed. “That’s why I always tried so hard, after they passed, to make every dollar. Can’t go back in time and fix what happened … but maybe … if I can just make an extra dollar …”
Hank and I glanced at each other.
“No amount of money is going to bring your parents back,” I said gently.
My former boss rocked his body, absorbing this bitter truth.
“But you know what can?” Hank said. “The love and support you give Jason. That’s how you can honor their memory.”
Mr. Yao rubbed his nose and muttered, “Not much there to honor. My dad fought me every step of the way.”
“So,” I suggested, “be the dad your father wasn’t.”
Mr. Yao looked up at me with glassy eyes. And I felt the thickest of walls come down, just a little.
Mr. Yao left that day without talking to Jason. He said he had to go pick up something at Home Depot before it closed, and he took off. I hoped that when he got home, they’d talk.
As I passed by the front desk, I gazed at all the keys. Imagine hanging on to all that pain and guilt for so many years. No wonder it shriveled Mr. Yao’s heart up like a prune.
Lupe was in my bedroom when I got back to the manager’s quarters, pulling her things out of her backpack for our sleepover. I could smell the delicious aroma of Jason’s practice duck wafting from the kitchen. It made my tummy rumble.
“Did your mom like Allie?” I asked her.
Lupe nodded. “I think so.”
“Does she know?” I asked.
“Who—Allie?”
“No, your mom.” I smiled, taking my Polaroid out from my backpack.
Lupe shook her head. “I’m not sure what to tell her. That I’m confused? I mean, there’s no news. Allie’s still just my friend.”
“That’s okay. I don’t think we have to have everything all figured out before we talk to our moms.” I thought about all the conversations my parents and I had had about their jobs, trying to buy a house, the motel. Grown-ups didn’t always have everything figured out either, and that was okay too.
Lupe peered at me and smiled. “Yeah, you know what, you’re right. Maybe I’ll talk to her tomorrow. And ask her if, besides the volcano feeling and the sunset stare, there are any other signs you like someone.”
I grinned at Lupe. “I’m sure she’ll know.”
We plopped down on my bed and started going over all the photos I’d taken at the Math Cup.
“Mia! Look at this!” she exclaimed. She held up a picture of Team Sentilla working at their table. I leaned in closer. That’s when I saw it: a calculator. Not just any calculator—the latest, most state-of-the-art graphing calculator. They were hiding it underneath the table.
No wonder they solved all the problem sets so quickly!
“They cheated!” Lupe announced.
I jumped off the bed. “You realize what this means? We have to demand a rematch!”
“A rematch?” Lupe asked.
Mom walked in, and I dashed over to show her the Polaroid. “Look, Mom!” I pointed to the calculator. “Don’t you think they have to give us a rematch?”
“A hundred percent!” she cried.
Lupe shook her head. “Mr. Jammer’s never going to agree to that. He’ll just tell us to let it go.”
Mom’s face hardened with resolve as she took the photo and put it in her purse. “Then he shouldn’t be the coach. First thing tomorrow, we’ll go to the administration. I’m not going to stop until we get what we deserve—a fair competition!”
I grinned. “Whatever happened to not wanting to cause any trouble?”
“After what happened to Lupe at the Cup, I decided there are some things more important than job security. Like being there for my students when they need me.”
Lupe threw her arms around my mom.
“Hear, hear,” Jason said, walking into the manager’s quarters. We turned around to see him holding a platter with his gorgeous entree, roasted to perfection. “Anyone interested in a practice duck?”
“Wow,” I gushed. “If that’s the practice duck, I can’t imagine how good the real one’s going to be tomorrow!”
Mom and I set the kitchen table while Lupe called up Billy Bob, Fred, and the other weeklies.
That night, we feasted on tender roasted duck, a warm beet salad that Hank whipped up, and mashed potatoes with caramelized onions. The meat from the duck slid right off the bone.
“This is the best Peking duck I’ve had outside Beijing,” Mom told Jason.
He grinned. “I’m calling it Anaheim duck.”
Hank laughed at the reference to our local hockey team. He pointed to Jason with a bone. “We should send some to them!”
“To the Anaheim Ducks?” Jason asked.
My eyes widened. “You just gave me a really great idea!” I told Hank.
Hank chuckled.
“You think the Chinese players are going to like this tomorrow?” Jason asked nervously as he reached for a duck leg himself.
“They’re going to love it,” Hank assured him. “We’ll set up a nice long table for them out by the pool!”
“Should we run out and get flowers like last time?” Dad asked.
“Nah. The food will speak for itself. And we’re going to eat it family style,” Jason said with a grin.
At the word family, I looked around the table. They were all my favorite people, the heart and soul and spirit of the Calivista. I never thought I’d say this, but I wished Mr. Yao were there too, feeling the love in the room. And I wished Jason’s grandparents could join us. Despite everything Mr. Yao wrote in his letters, I think they would have been very, very proud of their motel. And especially of their grandson.
At school the next day, I kicked the ball powerfully toward the goal, fueled by the fact that that night I was having dinner with the goalie of the Chinese soccer team! Bethany Brett was the other team’s goalie this time, and she tried to psych me out by running super aggressively toward me. But I ignored her, took aim, and—
“SCORE!” Mr. Antwell screamed, clapping his hands.
Pure joy coursed through my body as I ran around the field high-fiving my teammates. The wind billowed in my shirt. I wondered if this was how Gao Hong and Sun Wen would feel on Saturday if they won. When they won. I’d faxed my interview to my editor in Beijing and tucked a copy in Da-Shawn’s locker this morning.
Usually, after I turned in a draft, I had a million nervous ants marching around in my tummy. But today, I was at peace. I had written how I felt. I was proud of those women, and nobody could shame me into feeling otherwise.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Lupe running over. She was late again, but this time it was because she was meeting with the high school administrators about the Math Cup.
“How’d it go?” I asked her as Mr. Antwell blew on his whistle for us to start another game.
“We’re getting a rematch!” she said.
“Really??” I squealed.
“The school called the organizers. At first they said it was impossible. They just wanted to bump up the second- and third-place winners, but your mom—you should have seen her! She advocated so hard for us!”
The ball rolled our way, and we both rushed toward it. I wasn’t scared of it anymore. I kicked it hard, and it went flying over to the other side of the field.
“Good one!” Lupe exclaimed. As we sprinted to the end of the field, she continued. “Your mom said the last Cup didn’t count and we want a rematch! She was so fired up! And it worked!”
“That’s great!” I pumped my arms in the air. We reached the other side of the field, and I got ready to take my position as striker.
“Oh, and we also told the administration we want Mrs. Tang as our coach, not Mr. Jammer,” Lupe hollered. “They said okay!”
I stopped running and jumped up and down. “YESSSSSSS!!!”
Lupe giggled as she passed me the ball. I didn’t even hesitate. I kicked it hard, and though I didn’t score another goal, the sound of my teammates cheering my name made my chest swell.
“Go, Mia!” they cried. I felt a rush like no other, and I ran up and kicked again. It didn’t matter if we won or not; the joy of trying pounded in my heart. I can do this!
Look, I’m doing this!
I rode the high of my goal on the whole walk home with Jason. We chatted happily until the Calivista came into view and Jason stopped.
Mr. Yao was waiting in the parking lot. Jason had told me his dad hadn’t gotten home until late the night before, so they still hadn’t talked.
“Hey, Dad.”
“I came by to give you this,” Mr. Yao said. He held up a wooden bamboo box.
Cautiously, Jason opened it. Inside was an old wooden knife.
“It’s your grandfather’s special carving knife,” Mr. Yao said.
Jason reached to touch the beautiful wooden handle. “You kept it?”
Mr. Yao nodded. “It’s yours now. And …” He took his time to collect his words. “I’m sorry for the way I acted these last few weeks.”
I could see that the apology surprised Jason more than the knife. He closed the box and hugged it hard.
“I just wanted everything to go right for you,” his dad went on. “It wasn’t so easy for my parents, running a restaurant, and I watched them struggle. But as someone recently reminded me, it’s your life. You have to do it your way.”
I beamed at Mr. Yao, so proud of him for finally finding the words. Finally finding the courage. Finally finding the heart.
Handing me the bamboo box, Jason ran up and hugged his dad. I wiped a tear from my cheek.
As they clung to each other, Jason looked up and asked, “You want to stay for dinner?”
Mr. Yao hesitated. “I don’t know. I don’t want to mess things up for you. Me and my big mouth.” He glanced at me, and I resisted the urge to comment.
“I’d like it if you stayed,” Jason said, smiling. “Big mouth and all. Okay, maybe not so big tonight.”
Mr. Yao laughed. “It’s a deal.”
That night, we set up two long tables end to end out by the pool. Lupe and I made a green table runner from one of Mrs. T’s scarves to make it look like a soccer field.
At half past five, two Ford Explorers pulled up. As Gao Hong, Sun Wen, and the other players stepped out, I hurried to greet them. I couldn’t believe they were at the Calivista—like actually here! I had to restrain myself from screaming and running over to the desk to call my cousin. Shen was going to lose his mind when he found out who’d come for dinner!
Instead, I stood tall in my black leggings and crisp white waitress shirt. Tonight, I was Jason’s maître d’.
“Welcome to the Calivista,” I said in my most sophisticated maître d’ voice, in Chinese. “Ladies, may I take you to your table? Our chef Jason Yao has prepared an exquisite meal for you tonight.”
Gao Hong and Sun Wen grinned while Lupe ran inside the kitchen to tell Jason they’d arrived.
“You certainly may!” they said.
I led them toward the pool, stopping to introduce them to my parents, José, and the weeklies. Billy Bob held out his soccer ball and asked if they’d autograph it.
“Of course!” Gao Hong said in English, pulling out a Sharpie from her pocket. I was happy to see she’d picked up some English in her short time here. “You play?”
Billy Bob nodded. “The other weeklies and I like to kick a ball around sometimes. Just casual.”
“I like casual!” Gao Hong flashed him a smile. “After dinner, we play you.”
I looked over in surprise. Was she serious?
Gao passed the ball to Sun Wen, who started doing a forward roll in the parking lot. Billy Bob hooted with excitement.
“Game on!” he exclaimed.
Sun Wen scribbled her own autograph on the ball and passed it to the next teammate as we walked and Lupe joined us. When we got to the pool, I noticed Mr. Yao trying to slip quietly past, but I stopped him.
“Oh, and I’d like to introduce you to Mr. Yao,” I said to the players. “He and his family were the original owners of the Calivista.”
“Now I’m just a small-time investor,” Mr. Yao said in Mandarin.
“As well as a very talented musician,” I added.
“Really?” Sun Wen said. “When I’m not playing, I love to sing!”
Mr. Yao looked surprised. He followed her over to the table, where crispy mushroom spring rolls were waiting for us in the setting sun. Everyone took a seat.
“What kind of music do you like to sing?” Mr. Yao asked as he reached for a spring roll.
“All kinds. My favorite is ‘You Gotta Be’ by Des’ree.”
“I like that one too!” I said, beaming at Lupe. “I especially like the part, ‘You gotta be tough, you gotta be stronger!’ ”
Sun Wen burst into song, holding her chopstick up as a mic. “ ‘Listen as your day unfolds. Challenge what the future holds …’ ”
I bumped my shoulder with Lupe’s, and we joined in. Soon everyone, even Mr. Yao, was singing along. My parents clapped wildly for us when we finished.
“That was wonderful,” Mom gushed. “Sun Wen, I had no idea you had such a beautiful voice!”
The famous striker blushed.
“She’s also a great writer!” Gao Hong chimed in.
Sun Wen started to shake her head. “No, no, no I’m not.…”
“Tell them!” Gao Hong insisted. “She writes poetry when she’s not playing soccer. And one of her poems even got published.”
My head jolted up. “Can I read it?”
Sun Wen chuckled. “It’s nothing amazing, but … I do have to say, I am proud of the last line.”
Lupe tucked her hands under her chin, leaning in. “How does it go?”
“It goes, ‘Come on, girls, do not wait to follow your dreams!’ ”
I gazed around the table, at all the women pursuing their dreams. Living that line of poetry. It made my heart glow with pride.
“You know what I think? I think you could have been a very good writer,” Mr. Yao told Sun Wen.
“I am a very good many things,” she said with a smile.
I clapped. Great reply!
Jason walked in as we were talking, holding up a platter of the most beautiful roast duck I’d ever seen. We all cheered loudly, and Mom held up the Polaroid.
“Presenting … Anaheim duck!” Jason grinned.
“That looks so good!” Gao Hong said, rubbing her stomach.
We all leaned in to smell the succulent, delicious aroma. Jason carved the meat with his grandfather’s special knife, then served the first slice to Gao Hong, along with some steamed pancakes and sliced scallions.
She took a bite. “This gives Peking duck a run for its money!” she declared.
Mr. Yao laughed.
“It’s my grandfather’s recipe,” Jason told her proudly. He looked over at his dad, a little sad. “He can’t be here … but I think he’d be proud to know you’re eating his duck tonight.”
Mr. Yao reached out a hand to Jason. “I know he would. And I’m proud of you too, son.”
Jason’s plate shook with emotion as Mr. Yao stood up and gave a toast.
“To family,” he said, holding up a cup of cream soda to the players. “Thank you for coming to our humble motel and being a part of ours tonight.”
Jason beamed, his moist eyes reflecting the pink sky.
“To family!” we all echoed.
True to Gao Hong’s words, after dinner, we played a friendly match right in the parking lot. It was the weeklies and guests against the soccer players, and boy, were we on fire!
As Billy Bob and Fred played defense against Sun Wen, Hank and I tried to dribble the ball toward Gao Hong. The guests screamed at the top of their lungs as they ran, bursting into hysterical laughter every time Hank tried to distract the players to get past them. Hank had some … er … unconventional tactics, like pointing to the laundry room, making owl noises, and walking like a crab.
I giggled as he moved. But nothing could break the razor focus of Gao Hong, not even the arrival of paparazzi! One of the guests must have tipped off the Anaheim Times, because about halfway through our game, photographers swarmed the Calivista parking lot. But Gao Hong remained as cool as a cucumber, dead set on not letting a single ball get through her.
