I crossed my arms.
“Well, you kind of did. All last year,” I reminded him. “You and your dad just showed up whenever you wanted.”
“That was different—” Jason started to say. But the rest of his sentence was drowned out by his mother’s voice, calling us from the kitchen.
“Jason! Mia!” Mrs. Yao shouted.
Jason leaped up from his chair. “To be continued,” he announced. “I have to go make dinner.”
I followed Jason into the kitchen, curious about his culinary skills. Were they for real? I couldn’t imagine Jason cooking anything more than a Bored Sandwich: two slices of I’m tired with a thick piece of uninterested in the middle.
But tired he was not. Once in the kitchen, Jason transformed before my very eyes into a whole other person, a culinary wonder! I watched as he bounced from pot to pan, smelling this herb and sprinkling that spice, his hands chopping, stirring, dicing, and peeling on the marble countertop.
“The key is to take the pasta out before it gets too soft and immediately run it under cold water so it stops cooking,” he said, turning on the faucet as he got ready to lift the towering, boiling pot. It was twice the size of his head, yet he seemed determined to move it all by himself.
“Stand back!” he cautioned.
“No, let me!” his mom offered, running over.
By the time she came around the counter, Jason had already masterfully lifted and emptied the pot into the colander in the sink.
While the pasta cooled, he moved on to a thick tomato sauce simmering on the stove. It was made from scratch, except that it wasn’t a traditional spaghetti sauce. Jason had jazzed it up with Asian spices like Sichuan numbing peppers, which he fried in olive oil, filling up the entire house with a wonderful spicy smell, before sprinkling the oil into the sauce. I had to admit, I was impressed. Jason might look like a mad scientist, but it was pretty cool what he was doing!
“How do you come up with these recipes?” I asked.
Jason explained as his mom went to set the table, “I just really like food.” He patted his plump tummy. “I like messing around in the kitchen, experimenting with different ingredients, seeing what works, what doesn’t work.” He pointed to the salt shaker, and I handed it to him. “It’s like you and your writing.”
My face fell a little, thinking about my C. “Yeah, well, lately my writing hasn’t been all that great,” I muttered.
“What are you talking about? It’s amazing!”
“Mrs. Welch isn’t exactly a fan,” I admitted sheepishly.
Jason put the salt shaker down and looked into my eyes. “You can’t do it for other people, you know. You gotta do it for yourself,” he said. I furrowed my eyebrows, not sure what he meant. As if to demonstrate, Jason scooped up a spoonful of his sauce, lifted it to his mouth, and tasted it. “Mmmmmm.”
I giggled. Just then, the front door opened and my least favorite voice in the world came thundering in.
“I’m home!” Mr. Yao announced.
“You won’t believe the day I’ve had. Dinner ready yet?” Mr. Yao called out.
No! He’s not supposed to be here! I looked around for a place to hide as Jason’s dad came into the kitchen. For a second, I thought about throwing the spaghetti over my head and pretending to be a mop. Too late. Mr. Yao took one look at me and narrowed his eyes.
“What’s she doing here?”
Mrs. Yao walked in and put a hand on her husband’s shoulder. “You remember Mia.” She took his briefcase and his jacket from him.
“Do I remember Mia?” Mr. Yao snorted.
“She’s staying for dinner!” Jason told his dad. Mr. Yao’s face hardened like garlic that’s been left out for too long, and I looked down at my feet.
“You know what, I’m not really that hungry.…” I started to say.
“What?” Jason protested, putting down the spatula. “You’re not leaving, are you?”
I felt bad. He’d gone through so much trouble to make all the food.
Mr. Yao reached for another plate. “No, she’s not,” he said, glancing at me. “Come on, let’s eat.”
The Yaos’ dining room, like everything else about their house, was massive and over the top. The mahogany dining table had one of those lazy Susans like at Chinese restaurants, except unlike at Chinese restaurants, the Yaos’ table had a white linen tablecloth and silver cutlery and jade chopsticks shined to perfection.
I looked up at the crystal chandelier hanging just overhead, my mouth opening slightly as I stared at the kaleidoscope of colors. Mr. Yao and Jason took a seat, and Jason’s mom set down the food. I took a bite of Jason’s Asian fusion spaghetti, not quite sure what to expect. The tangy numbing peppers exploded in my mouth. Wow. It was unlike anything I’d ever tasted before. I turned and gave Jason a thumbs-up.
His dad, on the other hand, wolfed down the delicate pasta like it was cereal.
“Isn’t this delicious?” Mrs. Yao said. “Would anyone like seconds?”
It really was spectacular, way better than the free school spaghetti, the only other Italian-style pasta I’d ever had. “You could be a chef!” I said to Jason.
He grinned.
“Don’t get any ideas.” Mr. Yao stabbed at the sautéed vegetables with his fork, then pointed it at Jason. “You’re going to be a lawyer or a doctor when you grow up.”
“Awww… what’s wrong with being a chef?” Jason asked.
“It’s a step down,” Mr. Yao explained as he chewed. “It’s what your grandfather did when he first came to this country. You know how hard it was for him to claw his way out? Now you want to go back in the kitchen?”
I could feel Jason’s confidence shrivel like the spinach on my plate. He stared down at his fork.
Mr. Yao turned to me. “So how’s my motel?”
I cleared my throat, eager for the chance to brag. “My motel is good. We’ve been full a few nights this summer. No vacancy.”
“No vacancy?” Mrs. Yao said, impressed. She poured more red wine into her husband’s glass. “Well, that’s a surprise. We never used to get those, did we?”
Mr. Yao wiped the sauce off his frown with his napkin, then threw it on the table. “That’s because they were too busy plotting against me to do any real work,” he complained, grabbing a piece of bread.
I felt the anger pooling in my chest. No real work? What did he call all those sleepless nights? The million and one pillowcases my parents changed? My throbbing finger that I nearly rubbed raw making new keys?
“Dad!” Jason blurted.
“And let me tell you something,” Mr. Yao continued, ignoring his son. “The circus of people you have owning that place—a bunch of immigrants, half of whom can’t even speak English, random people off the street, the weeklies, and that guy, what’s his name? Hank? It’s never going to work.”
“Hank now works at the motel as the Director of Marketing,” I said matter-of-factly.
“Director of Marketing?” Mr. Yao exclaimed, spitting out his wine. He threw his hands up. “You know what, I can’t listen to this.”