Home > Three Keys(5)

Three Keys(5)
Author: Kelly Yang

Thanks to Lupe’s Spanish, we were now able to serve not only Chinese immigrants but Latino uncles and aunties too, and their kids. They learned things like how to open a bank account and how to get around on public transportation. My mom taught their children math in another room. It was her favorite night of the week.

Hank was in the front office when we got back. “You won’t believe it! Ever since that TV spot, your dad says we’ve been getting twice the business,” he announced, gesturing for us to come look at the cash register. Lupe and I put our backpacks down and ducked below the front desk divider. Our eyes widened at the heaps of cash.

“That’s the power of advertising!” Hank beamed and hopped off the stool. “You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to go down to the paper during my lunch hour next week to see how much it costs to run a real ad.”

My dad came running in from the kitchen, just behind the front office, looking alarmed. “How much is that going to cost?”

“Relax, buddy.” Hank put a hand on my dad’s shoulder as he grabbed his room key. “Print ads aren’t as expensive as TV ads.”

“But why do we have to do any ads?” Dad asked.

I remembered something else Lupe had told me about America: Sometimes you gotta pay to play. I grinned—we were in the big leagues now. This was us playing. I reached for my dad’s hand and led him outside, pointing up at the AS SEEN ON TV sign. “Have faith, Dad.”

After Hank left, my mom came into the manager’s quarters. She was hunched over with one hand on her back and the other hand on her knee. “I’m so sore from cleaning,” she said, cringing as she sank onto her bed in the living room. I sighed, wishing we had enough money for her to see a chiropractor for her back. Cleaning was starting to take a toll on her.

“Here, Mom,” I said, walking over to her and putting my hand to her shoulder. “Let me massage your muscles.”

My mother lay down on her bed and cooed, “Oh, you sweet thing,” as I massaged her.

“Hold on,” I said. I’d seen this thing on TV where if you massaged someone with coconut oil, it felt good. We didn’t have any coconut oil—that was way too pricey—but we had sesame oil. I got it from the kitchen and slathered it on my mom’s arm.

“That feels sooo good!” Mom said. “My muscles are like rubber bands that have hardened and become sticks!”

“Well, if you’re a stick, I’m a tree trunk,” my dad chuckled, sitting down beside her. He held out his hand. “Put some of that here, will ya?”

I squeezed a few drops of sesame oil on his hand and my dad rubbed his neck with it.

“That smells great,” he said, closing his eyes and inhaling the nutty aroma. “Now all you need is to crack an egg, throw some spring onions on me, and you’ll have yourself a delicious jianbing.” He cackled.

I furrowed my eyebrows. “What’s jianbing?”

“Jianbing? You don’t remember jianbingguozi?” He stopped massaging his neck and looked at me, shocked. “It’s a Chinese breakfast. We used to buy it on the streets in Beijing. How can you not remember?”

I shook my head, trying for the life of me to remember, but I just couldn’t.

My dad sighed. I could tell he was disappointed I had forgotten yet another remnant of the old country. “I hope you’re not becoming a banana,” he joked. A banana was what Chinese people called a kid who has gotten too Americanized—yellow on the outside and white on the inside. If it came from anyone else, I’d be super offended, but I knew my parents were just kidding. Still, it hurt a little, like a tiny mosquito bite.

“Oh, stop, she’s not a banana,” my mom piped up from the bed. “Now put some more of that stuff on me.”

 

As my mom wiped the sesame oil off her sore arms and neck and got ready for her math class, Lupe and I went over to Mrs. T’s room. Today, there were five Latino and three Chinese uncles and aunties there. They beamed and quickly gestured for me to come over and help them write letters to various people and departments—the phone company, the bank, etc. I took a seat at my special desk Mrs. T set up for me, feeling very official.

As Lupe chatted with the Latino uncles and aunties, my mom came over to collect their kids. The boys and girls, ages five, seven, and ten, sniffed the air—my mom smelled of sesame oil and Lysol, which must have been a very peculiar smell to them. To me, it smelled like home.

“C’mon, kids,” she said. As they moved to the room next door I heard her ask, “Who’s ready to learn some math today?”

In our room, Mrs. Q passed out papers and pens. Lupe was talking animatedly with one of the aunties in Spanish.

“They said they’re from Jalisco. They’ve just crossed over,” Lupe translated, then paused. “They tried crossing over from San Diego, but there were too many Border Patrol officers. So they had to go through Arizona.”

My mouth formed an O. Though we’d been talking about it at school and I’d heard about illegal immigration all summer on TV, this was the first time I’d seen it up close. I knew some of my parents’ friends knew Chinese immigrants who had overstayed their visas, but I hadn’t yet met them. The uncles and aunties from Jalisco looked nothing like the grainy figures in the TV ads. One of them took an orange from his pocket and kindly offered it to me and Lupe. His hands were dry and cracked, even drier than my mom’s.

“They want to know if you can write a letter to the Border Patrol. An anonymous letter,” Lupe translated. “Asking them to look for their friend. They walked for days in the scorching Sonoran desert. And it got so hot that unfortunately, their friend …” She stopped translating and wiped a tear from her cheek.

“Their friend what?” I asked, the ink from my pen pooling on my forefinger and thumb.

Lupe put a hand over her mouth and shook her head. Mrs. Q and Mrs. T stepped in. “I’ll write it,” Mrs. T volunteered. With that, she turned to the immigrants and in her gentlest, kindest teacher voice introduced herself. “I’m Mrs. T.…”

“And I’m Mrs. Q,” Mrs. Q chimed in. “And today we’re going to talk about the DMV.”

Later, after class, I found Lupe lingering in the back of my mom’s math class.

“Are you okay?” I asked her.

Lupe nodded. I asked her if she was sad because of what the Mexican auntie and uncle said, and she nodded without looking up. I put a hand on her back. In the pale lamplight, I thought about my own journey to America and how different it was compared to walking across the scorching desert. Still, it was scary and full of uncertainty.

“I’m so sorry about their friend,” I said to Lupe. I’d heard about border-crossing tragedies on the news, but lately I really wondered whether it was worth it, especially considering the way people were treated once they got here. “And those girls in the bathroom …”

“They were pretty bad,” Lupe agreed. Then she rubbed her eyes and turned to me, sitting up as straight as she could. “But people are going to think what they’re going to think. You just have to ignore them and keep doing your thing.”

I nodded. “I will if you will.”

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