“What if we didn’t send so much money back to the Philippines to Lola and Lolo . . . ,” I suggest. Every month, my mom sends $500 back to my grandparents in the Philippines. That check’s the first one in the mail before any of the other bills get paid.
“You know I have to send money home!” my mom protests. “We’re Filipino; that’s what we do—we take care of each other!”
So take care of us, I want to say.
“Let’s not fight. It’s going to be okay. We’ll take her in, and we’ll make her feel at home,” my mom says. “I’ll cook her Chinese food. Pick her up from school . . .”
Funny how my mom will remember to pick up this girl, a girl she’s never met, but she doesn’t remember to pick me up, her own daughter, from the agency. I cross my arms. “So you’re basically just going to be her mom. You’re renting yourself out.”
I can hear Mr. Connelly’s voice in my head shouting, “Whoa! Tone it down!”
My mom sticks her hands into her pockets. “What will you have me do?” she asks. “Beg Rosa for more money?”
I can hear Rosa’s shrill laugh in my head, Poverty’s the result of laziness. A smart person grabs opportunity by the throat. That’s what she did when she stole my mom’s idea. The two of them used to work for an old lady, cleaning her house together. One day, my mom got the idea that they go off on their own and start a house-cleaning business. There were more and more wealthy Chinese families moving in, buying up houses, and they needed people to help keep them clean. But before Mom could do it, Rosa went out and bought a van with her husband’s money. Now there are ten vans and twenty-five of us cleaning for Rosa. Ideas are cheap, vans are expensive, according to Rosa.
My mom looks down at the mattress, her face tired.
“My coach is probably going to pick me for Snider,” I tell her, hoping my good news will cheer her up. Ever since I can remember, I’ve been using my good news to try to fill the void my dad left.
Her face blooms. “That’s great!” she gushes, pulling me into her arms.
I smile and breathe in her pride as she holds me. “But I need quiet, Mom,” I tell her. “I can’t have someone else living here, distracting me while I’m trying to train.”
My mom swats at my concern. “She won’t distract you. And besides, a little distraction could be good for you in case . . .”
I pull away. I know what’s at the end of that sentence, and she’s wrong. My mom thinks my debating is like a hot night in Vegas. Everything good comes to a disappointing end. But it won’t. I’ll show her. And when I win, our lives are going to change. I’m going to get into Yale, and we won’t have to ever worry about not making another mortgage payment again.
I get to band early the next day to take my loaned flute out before anyone sees. Zach is also there. As I’m cleaning my flute, Zach blows too hard on his clarinet and makes an eek sound. He turns red and apologizes to me. And I think maybe today’s the day when we’ll finally talk, like in one of those romantic comedies where the dorky girl somehow ends up with the hot guy and it turns out she’s not really so dorky, it was just the glasses.
But no. We don’t talk. He just goes back to playing his sheet music, and I sit there, wishing I was his sheet music.
Ming walks over. “You ready for the fund-raiser tonight?”
Mrs. Mandalay requires us full-scholarship students to attend the American Prep cocktail fund-raisers she’s always putting on to solicit donations for the school’s already inflated endowment. It’s an opportunity for new parents to ingratiate themselves with her, usually in the form of a five-figure or six-figure check. But at least there’s good food. I usually have to make a speech, and Ming does a solo performance. All the new parents ooh and aah and it feels a bit like we’re on display at a zoo. I remind myself it’s a small price to pay. My old public school had more security checks than an airport.
“You guys going to that thing too?” Zach asks.
My head snaps. Did he just speak?
“Yeah, are you?” Ming asks. She smiles at me, raising her eyebrows suggestively. She knows all about my crush on Zach.
Zach nods and goes back to fiddling with his reed.
I can hardly sit still the rest of the day, thinking about the fact that Zach’s going to be at the fund-raiser tonight. The sports-scholarship students don’t usually have to come to these things. If he’s going, he’ll hear my speech. I walk through the halls, reciting it in my head. It’s the same one I made the other day, about tracking in schools. And it has to be perfect. I’m so immersed in my speech that when Mr. Connelly calls my name in the hallway, it takes me a second to respond.
“Dani!” Mr. Connelly calls. I turn around. Jokingly, Mr. Connelly waves his hand up and down in front of my eyes. “Earth to Dani! What’s up? You thinking about your boyfriend?” he teases.
I blush. “I don’t have a boyfriend,” I tell him.
“Really?” he asks. “Hey, I’m glad I bumped into you. I’m thinking about making you team captain for the next tournament. You think you can handle that?”
My eyes widen. That would be amazing. I’ve never been team captain before. It’s usually Heather or Audrey. I nod enthusiastically.
“Good!” Mr. Connelly grins. “I’ll see you at practice on Wednesday, Thunder Girl!”
I’m still smiling later that day when I walk into the annual-fund cocktail fund-raiser. I’m in my formal debate attire—black dress and pumps, the same ones I wear for debate. And just in case I get close to Zach, a spritz of the sample Lancôme perfume one of my mom’s clients threw away and she fished out of the trash. The auditorium is lit up and packed with parents, mostly from China. Ming is in the corner tuning her violin. As the caterer offers me a glass of water, Mrs. Mandalay waves at me. Her wild red hair bounces above her shoulders as she strolls over to me in her power suit, looking every bit like the tough-as-nails headmistress who single-handedly quadrupled our school enrollment.
“There you are, Dani!” she says. “Are you ready?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say. I hold up my note cards. I look around for Zach but don’t see him. Mr. Connelly is in the corner, talking to a parent. He waves, and when the parent turns around to get another glass of wine, pretends to shoot himself in the head.
I stifle a laugh.
Mrs. Mandalay walks up onto the stage and calls everyone’s attention.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Mrs. Mandalay says, stepping up to the podium. “Welcome to the annual-fund cocktail fund-raiser. We thank you for spending the evening with us, and by spend I mean spend.”
There’s a wave of laughs. Mrs. Mandalay is the Olympic champion of fund-raising. She can squeeze a quarter out of a squirrel. She once got $200 out of my mom, a check that thankfully bounced the next day. Ever since then, I’ve told my mom to stay clear of these events.
I’m up first. Mrs. Mandalay introduces me to the podium.
As I take the stage, I look out at the room full of people. Eager prospective parents mixed with bored alumni roped in to attend through guilt. I smile at all of them. To me it’s all the same. I welcome the chance to fire up any crowd.