Key player, p.2
Key Player, page 2
I rushed through the manager’s quarters, squeezing by the boxes of hoisin sauce and dark soy that Jason ordered for the Calivista restaurant, East Meets West, to make his signature dishes.
Then I bumped into Jason himself as I walked out the back door.
“Mia! Wanna try our new kimchi cashew rice?” he asked. “Hank and I made it!”
“Maybe later,” I replied, turning away—but not fast enough.
“Are you okay?” Jason asked.
“Uh-huh!” I said brightly. I took my hand off my stomach and pretended all was well. I didn’t want to get into my grades with Jason. I just wanted to pretend the C wasn’t happening for a little while longer.
As I kept walking to the staircase, he called out, “Can we talk later?”
“About what?” I asked.
“About the restaurant … I’ve just been thinking a lot.” I turned and saw Jason bite his lip. “About my future.”
“Sure,” I told him. “Later!”
Finally, I got to the bottom of the back staircase. It was the one place I could let my feelings out, where I could let myself be weak. Everywhere else, I had to be strong.
I had to be strong for Dad, who didn’t think we’d ever have stable jobs, and now we were about to buy our first American house. I had to be strong for Mom, who didn’t think she could become a real teacher or that I could become a real writer. I had to be strong for everyone’s dreams.
But here at the back staircase, I could be weak for me.
As the tears pooled in my eyes, I told myself the same thing I told myself every time I sat here: It’s going to be okay. And: There’s always next year’s camp.
Hank spotted me and walked over from his old room. Over the summer, he’d purchased a nice new condo, right near the lake. It was his pride and joy, and he got to see the Disneyland fireworks every single night from his living room. But he still kept a room at the motel for nights when work at East Meets West ran late.
“Mia?” he asked.
I didn’t bother to wipe my tears away. Hank and I go way back; he’s allowed to see me weak too.
“Hey,” I said.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, taking a seat next to me. He was holding a piece of paper.
I sucked in a breath and started telling him about my grade. The shame choked in my throat.
Hank patted my hand. “I feel like every time we’re sitting on this staircase, it’s because of a grade. And every time, you know what happened?”
“But this time’s different. This time, there’s nothing I can do about it.” I pointed at my legs. “I can’t kick any harder or run any faster, not even if you put one of those heat lamps under my feet!”
Hank laughed. “No one’s getting powered by heat lamps here,” he assured me. “But you can try talking to your teacher. Tell him how much this grade means to you.”
“I already did. No use.”
Hank put a hand to his chin. “Well, maybe it’s time to go over his head,” he suggested.
I looked at him. “You mean go to my counselor?”
Mr. Ingleton was always eating nuts at assembly—loudly—even though we were a nut-free school. I’d never been to his office for anything.
“It’s worth a shot,” Hank said.
Hank was right. I’m Mia Tang. I may be the slowest person on the soccer field, but I’m the first person to defend my dreams. And I wasn’t about to give up just like that! I jumped to my feet.
“Great idea!” As I leaned over to give Hank a hug, I glanced down at the piece of paper in Hank’s hand. It was his secret recipe for his signature saltine burgers.
Hank never wrote out his secret recipe.
“What’s that for?” I asked.
Hank grinned. “This here is my journalism camp,” he declared. Beaming, he told me that a very fancy restaurant, the Pasadena Grill, had called. They had heard about his burgers and wanted to see if he wanted to partner with them. “Just imagine! They have the scale, the distribution, the money to take my food nationwide—Mia, this is the moment I’ve been dreaming about! It’s time to take the Hank show to prime time!”
I giggled as we both thrust our fists into the sky.
“To prime time!!!” we both shouted.
My knees jiggled as I sat across from Mr. Ingleton in his small, windowless guidance counselor’s office. I’d brought a stack of my columns for him, thinking he might be interested in reading them. On the phone last night, Da-Shawn had said, “Show ’em what you got, Mia!” But when I told Mr. Ingleton why it was so important I pull up my grade in PE, he hardly glanced at my writing, reaching instead for another handful of nuts.
“So let me get this straight,” he said. “You’re here because you got one bad grade in PE?”
“It’s not just a bad grade. It means I can’t go to this journalism camp. All my grades have to be—”
He silenced me with his almond-dusted hand. “I get it. They wanna make sure you’re well-rounded.”
I’d heard that term before, but I never really knew what it meant. I glanced down at my tummy in the chair, rising and falling with nerves. It looked perfectly round to me.
“As in, not just a bookworm,” he clarified.
Hey! I frowned at him, offended. I was proud of my reading. I even had a T-shirt that said Professional Bookworm on it that I got at a yard sale!
“Programs like that want to groom future leaders. And in order to be a leader, you have to be good at everything, not just one little thing.”
“I wouldn’t call writing ‘one little thing,’ ” I muttered.
He gave me a look, and I fell quiet. I reminded myself of the immense power that counselors had. They could see everyone’s grades. They could even break the nut rule!
“Look, it’s nice that you like writing,” Mr. Ingleton went on. “But that can’t be all that you’re about. Sports is about character building,” he said. “It’s about teamwork. Every great leader this country’s ever had has been good at sports. That’s what it takes to be all-American.”
I furrowed my eyebrows, more confused than ever. Was he saying I wasn’t American? I reminded him that my parents and I just became citizens. “I even have my new passport—I can bring it to you. Would you like to see it?”
“No thanks. That’s great, but I’m not talking about a piece of paper. I’m talking about the mentality, the tradition. High schools and colleges in America, they’re interested in more than just a homework robot.”
My cheeks burned. “I’m not a homework robot,” I whispered to the floor.
“Sorry, a writing robot. Same thing,” Mr. Ingleton said, reaching for another handful of nuts.
That afternoon, I edited student submissions for the school newspaper and tried to toss Mr. Ingleton’s words out of my head. Da-Shawn was out interviewing the school janitors for a story over lunch, so I was in the News Room all by myself.
The News Room used to be our district bus drivers’ lounge, but then they got their own waiting room and facility in the district office. So Da-Shawn and I lobbied hard for the room—much to Bethany and her friends’ annoyance. They’d wanted to convert it into a recording studio. Thankfully, the school agreed with me and Da-Shawn, even putting in a computer and a printer for us to produce the school newspaper.
I added commas and periods to articles, but stuck in my mind, like the sticky coat of dry roasted peanuts that you can’t get off your hands, were the counselor’s phrases.
Homework robot.
Bookworm.
And the one that stung the most: all-American.
If I wasn’t good at sports, did that mean I wasn’t completely American? Then what did that make me? All-nothing?
Da-Shawn walked in just then and put his camera down on the table.
“You wouldn’t believe what the janitors told me,” he said excitedly. “They’ve had to remove a hundred and fifty wads of gum from under the—” He took a look at me. “What’s wrong?”
I put my editing pen down. “Forget gum wads. You know what we should do a story on? Whether PE should be optional. I mean, why do we have to prove ourselves by running the mile and playing soccer if that’s not what we’re good at?”
Da-Shawn looked shocked. “PE is, like, my favorite class!”
Da-Shawn was one of those well-rounded people Mr. Ingleton was talking about—an amazing writer and an incredible athlete. He could run the mile in less than seven minutes. And conduct an interview while he sprinted.
“Well, it’s not mine,” I muttered.
For me, PE was minutes of standing around, worrying whether anyone would actually pick me for their team, feeling like day-old bread in the bakery.
“But you get to be part of a team!” Da-Shawn protested.
“So? I’m part of a team now,” I said, pointing at him and me. “This here. This is a team.”
Da-Shawn nodded, though I could tell he wasn’t convinced. A news team wasn’t the same as a sports team. There was just something magnetic about sports. Feverish, almost. And it was only going to get worse as the World Cup got closer.
Mom was at the kitchen table in the manager’s quarters when I got back to the Calivista.
“How was school?” she asked.
I reached for a bag of prawn chips on the counter. Then put it back and picked up a can of Pringles instead. Would that be more American? I hated that I was even wondering.
“Don’t eat too many of those. I’m making mapo tofu for dinner, your favorite,” Mom said, looking up from her papers.
I smiled. She usually had so many staff meetings after school, Dad and I just ate at the motel restaurant.
“That’s great. How come you’re home so early?”
“I needed a break. The staff meeting was exhausting,” she said, putting her pen down and closing her eyes. I walked over and started to massage her tired, full-time-teacher shoulders.
Slowly, Mom told me about the guy in her faculty meeting who wouldn’t let anyone else talk.
“I didn’t even have a chance to present my new activities,” she said, disappointed. I knew she was extremely proud of the games she’d invented to make math equations easier to remember for her kids.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“I’m beginning to think it’s not about who works the hardest, but who talks the loudest,” Mom sighed. “And my English …” She let her voice trail off.
Apparently I wasn’t the only one confused about the rules for success.
“Your English is fine,” I told her.
Mom reached up a hand and patted mine with it. I could tell she appreciated the words but didn’t entirely believe me.
“Anyway,” she said. “Some mapo tofu will take my mind off things. You want to help me make it?”
I nodded eagerly. As Mom got up to wash the tofu, I ran out back to the restaurant.
“Hey, Jason, you got an apron I can borrow?” I asked.
“Sure!” he said.
As he looked around, I asked, “So what did you want to talk to me about?”
“Oh, nothing, it can wait.”
Jason? Wait? Now I was really curious.
He finally found an apron and handed it to me. Then, taking a breath, he said, “It’s just—I’ve been thinking, and, well, I love the Calivista restaurant so much. Especially working with Hank. I’m always telling my dad how much I love working with him. But …”
Oh, no. He’s not quitting, is he? My heart jumped to my eyelashes.
“But?” I prompted.
“Well, it’s just that I feel like I’ve contributed a lot to it,” he said.
“You totally have!” I agreed. People lined up around the block all summer for his food. Even Mr. Yao, Jason’s grumpy dad and our old boss, was impressed. He’s been coming around, watching Jason cook.
“I guess what I’m saying is, you, Hank, Lupe—I mean, you guys all own a piece of the Calivista. I wish I could be part of it too. Officially.”
Wow. I was not expecting that.
“How long have you been thinking about this?” I asked him.
“Only every day. For the entire summer.”
“Oh.”
“I just want to be a part of the thing I helped build, you know?”
“Of course,” I started to say. It made total sense. Jason had worked so hard, along with Hank, to put East Meets West on the map. He was directly responsible for the booming business and the thrilled investors. And we had so many investors. What was one more?
“I don’t see why you couldn’t be an investor,” I said. “But where would the money come from?”
I knew Jason made a killing in tips, but the value of the Calivista had gone up so much; to become an investor required serious cash now.
“Don’t worry about it.” Jason waved the question away.
Uh-oh. I narrowed my eyes.
“Okay,” he said finally. “I’d get it from my dad.”
Oh, no. After what we’d been through with Mr. Yao—we’d worked so hard to get out from under his thumb! We couldn’t possibly let him back in! I shook my head.
Jason added quickly, “It doesn’t matter either way—it’s my money!”
“No it’s not; it’s your dad’s!”
“So?”
“So it means he’ll be an investor. That’s not happening.”
I twisted the apron in my hands as I turned to walk back to the manager’s quarters, panicking at the thought of Mr. Yao owning part of the motel again. Jason scurried after me.
“You’re not even going to think about it?”
I turned around. “I have. I thought about it when your dad worked my parents to their bones. And docked their pay whenever something broke. When he refused to let them leave the motel together, not even to go to parent-teacher conferences with me! When he kicked Hank out. You want me to keep going?”
“It would just be his money, not him!” Jason insisted.
“Money talks,” I snapped.
I walked into the manager’s quarters and slammed the door behind me as Jason called out, “That’s exactly what my dad said you’d say! But I told him you were a fair leader, a good leader!”
I leaned against the back of the door, squeezing my eyes shut. I could feel my resistance waning as Mr. Ingleton’s words came back to me yet again—to be successful in America, you had to be a good leader. Was I a bad one for wanting to protect my family?
“Hey, you get the apron?” Mom called from the kitchen.
“Yep,” I said, walking back inside.
“What’s wrong?” Mom asked.
Washing my hands, I told Mom what Jason was asking for.
“Letting Mr. Yao back in … I don’t know.…” she said, shaking her head and making a long sound through her teeth.
“I know! What about Hank and all the rest of us? Are we supposed to just forget?”
Mom reached for the scallions. I tried to help her cut some, but the kitchen was tiny and we kept bumping into each other.
“Can’t say I blame Jason,” Mom said. “He wants to be part of something.”
“He is part of something.”
“You know what I mean,” Mom said. I bumped into her accidentally again, and some of the newly sliced scallions fell out of her hand. “We really need a bigger kitchen,” she sighed. Across the room, Full House was on TV. Mom stared enviously at their kitchen island.
“Then we can make smoothies together,” I said with a smile.
Mom chuckled. “Be like real Americans!”
My smile faded. I wanted a kitchen island as badly as she did. But I thought we already were real Americans. If only the goalposts didn’t keep moving.
Later, I found Hank out by his car, putting his recipes and ingredients together into a briefcase.
“Hey! How’d it go with your counselor?” he asked me.
I made a face.
Hank held open the passenger side door. “Let’s go for a ride.”
I hopped in, and the delicious aroma of Hank’s saltine burgers and tomato fries wafted from the back seat. The fries were something he’d invented that summer as a healthy substitute for french fries. And man, were they good! Hank made them out of green tomatoes dipped in buttermilk and cornmeal, with just a touch of cayenne pepper for an extra kick.
I reached for one and nibbled on it. The light crunch temporarily distracted me from my troubles. But then the juices settled and reality came crawling back.
If Mr. Yao owned the Calivista again, would we still be able to just jump in the car and take off somewhere?
“What’s the matter? Too salty?” Hank asked.
I shook my head. “No, your fries are always perfect.” Hank turned onto the 5 Freeway, and soon we were passing the Disneyland exit. I thought about going there for the first time that summer with Lupe and Jason. It had been the best day of my life. We were the Three Keys! And now one of the keys was sad because he didn’t feel like an equal.
I told Hank everything as he drove.
“Wow.” Hank whistled. “Mr. Yao back in the picture—who would have thunk it?”
“Why can’t Jason just be happy with the way things are?” I asked. “He gets paid and he gets all these tips—”
Hank gave me a look.
“Mia, you and I both know being an employee and being an owner—that ain’t the same thing. The boy wants to feel like he’s working toward something.” Hank pointed to the back seat, at his recipes and sample burgers. “He wants to advance himself, just like me.”
“But this is Mr. Yao we’re talking about!”
I thought about all the times over the summer that Mr. Yao had stopped by, looking for Jason. Each time, I’d bristled like a hedgehog.
“It’s a risk, for sure,” Hank agreed. “But you gotta look deep inside and ask yourself, how much of this is your pride holding you back? Sometimes you gotta take a chance if an employee is really worth it. Even if it’s hard. Even if it’s scary.”
“Wow, Hank.”
“What?” He chuckled at the way I was marveling at him.
“I’m just amazed. After how he treated you …” During our first year at the Calivista, the way Mr. Yao spoke to my parents and Hank—it made me want to kick a thousand soccer balls straight at his head.
