The whole car ride back from San Francisco to Anaheim, I kept looking over at my girlfriend, Mia Tang, waiting for her to say, “Just kidding! I don’t want to be your girlfriend anymore.”

I would understand. After all, she’s Mia Tang. She’s like the Michael Jordan of girlfriends, and I’m … I’m like a snail, somehow catching the ride of my life on her shoe.

HOW did this happen to me?

How did I, Jason Yao, go from being a sad, soggy bagel of a person to dating the coolest, most amazing, sweetest girl on the planet? I’m not a motel front desk manager whiz or a brilliant writer like Mia. I’m not tall; I don’t have strawberry-lemonade breath or a million friends. My eyes don’t twinkle, like the guys’ in my favorite manga books. My biceps don’t look like they each swallowed a burger. And I don’t have abs, plural.

I’m just Jason. I’m an eighth grader who really, really likes food. For the longest time, I thought my deepest, longest relationship would be with nachos. (Hey, before you judge, they were three-cheese queso with homemade pickled red onions and jalapeños! So, pretty incredible nachos.)

But seriously, food was all I had. I liked the way it was always there for me, even when I had to sit on the bench in Little League for hours, shivering. I liked the way it never teased me about the slightly pudgy stomach I used to have, unlike all the boys in my class. Most of all, I liked that it gave me something to talk about with my parents, while every other subject—school, the motel, sports—gave me gas.

All that changed the day Mia Tang walked into my life. The minute I saw her long hair framing her sunny face and sparkling eyes, the soundtrack to my life changed. The first time I watched her chug cream sodas as she rocked those floral pants of hers … my heart swelled.

She was the most beautiful front desk manager I’d ever seen.

And it wasn’t just what she looked like. It was the way she made me feel. Like I could do anything. Even erase the most disturbing and embarrassing memories of my life—like walking into the staff bathroom just to see what it was like in there, only to have my principal throw her purse at me. (Do you know what it’s like to have a million sharp pencils, metal keys, and bobby pins flying at your head?! I nearly got stabbed three different ways!) Or the time I almost killed the cafeteria lady by putting blue food coloring on Mrs. Campbell’s gross macaroni and cheese so our school cafeteria would stop serving that disgusting thing—and she nearly had a heart attack.

The list of memories I would love to wipe out goes on and on.

When Mia came into my life, though, I stopped. Suddenly, I didn’t have to be the guy stuffing my face full of nachos to feel marginally happy. I could be the nachos!

But now … now, ladies and gentlemen, the idea that Mia is not just my best friend but also my girlfriend is so terrifyingly amazing, and amazingly terrifying, I feel like I’m about to combust!

As we pull up to my house, I wrap my arms around Mia. Her silky hair feels like ripples of glistening mango against my cheek. I wish I could eat it. No, don’t do that! Don’t eat her hair!

Instead, I whisper a prayer.

Please, God, let me be the perfect boyfriend to Mia. I know I’ve never been perfect at anything, but please let me be perfect for Mia!

“Bye, Jason,” Mia says as we pull apart. “I’ll see you back at the motel! And at school!”

“And I’ll be counting every second until then! Life without you is like pickle juice!”

Did I just compare my girlfriend to pickle juice? STOP talking. But Mia just laughs in her good-natured, happy-go-lucky way. I climb out of her parents’ car and run toward my house, my fingers pulsating from the touch of her hair, my mind racing as I start planning our perfect first date!

It’s going to be amazing! I’m going to get all dressed up, looking as fine as coconut banana pudding in my new suit! The new Italian one my mom got me, for when she has a party to celebrate her new business. My family used to just own motels, but recently, Mom started fixing up old houses near the Anaheim mall and selling them to immigrant families. “Starter homes,” she calls them. Her company is doing really well so far.

Speaking of, for our perfect first date I’m going to pick Mia up from her new house. She’s going to gasp at how nice I look. Maybe she’ll let me kiss her hand. And if she doesn’t, then I’ll kiss her napkin at dinner. Is that weird? Grabbing her napkin and planting a big one? Okay, yeah, that’s definitely weird.

“Mom, Dad, I’m home!” I yell, walking into the living room with my luggage.

I take off my shoes by the front door. We’re a typical Asian family when it comes to shoes, as in, no outdoor shoes inside the house. My rottweiler, Wealthy, greets me while I change into my slippers.

“Hey, boy, did you miss me?” I ask Wealthy, giving him a treat I’d been saving for him from Chinatown in San Francisco. Wealthy gobbles up the fortune cookie and gives me a sloppy lick on my face. I giggle, playing with his soft furry ears. “You’re not gonna believe it. Mia said YES! I am officially betrothed!”

I got that word from The Lion King. I’m not sure what it means. But it sure sounds good! I start telling Wealthy all my ideas for my exciting first date, but before I can even get to the food, I hear voices in the living room—and not just Mom’s and Dad’s.

“Do we have guests?” I ask Wealthy, confused.

Wealthy turns and bounces toward the living room. I glance at the marble floor in front of our front door—I don’t see any other people’s shoes. I walk cautiously to the living room doorway, and a well-dressed white couple in their fifties looks over at me from the couch.

“Jason!” Mom says, standing up from the other couch, where she was sitting with Dad. “This is Mr. Blair, the director of the country club, and his wife, Mrs. Blair!”

The man in the sport coat and his brunette wife get up and walk over to shake my hand. They give me huge smiles with their blinding white teeth. But it’s not their teeth I’m staring at. It’s their shoes. Tasseled loafers and round-toe chunky heels on our plush white carpet. Why is Mom letting them wear their shoes inside? And even more shocking—Mom’s wearing shoes too! And so is Dad!

Wealthy barks. Even he knows what an Asian household horror this is.

I give Mom a look, like, Are you okay? But she just chuckles nervously, sitting back down and tucking her shoes to the side. She looks pointedly at the chair next to her, so I sit.

“Tell me, Jason, are you a golfer too?” Mr. Blair asks, sitting back down.

“Nope,” I reply.

Dad immediately clears his throat and says, “That’s not true. We play all the time.”

I frown. We play golf ? Where?

But Dad doubles down on his statement. “We were just over at, uh … Sheraton Golf Resort down in Laguna, hitting a triple bogey.”

Now it just sounds like he’s making up a sandwich.

“Love the Sheraton!” Mrs. Blair says brightly. “They have a great brunch there.”

“We love brunch!” Mom chirps.

Okay, can someone please tell me who kidnapped my Chinese parents and turned them into these brunch-eating golfers?

“The course itself, though,” Mr. Blair continues. “It’s a lot smaller than our hundred and ten acres. Pristine conditions, professional golf instruction—really, beyond compare.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Dad says, nodding. “Which is why we’d love to join your country club.” Dad reaches for Mom’s hand and they both smile too widely.

I don’t know what’s more disturbing—the sight of Mom and Dad holding hands, or the fact that they want to join a country club. They can’t be serious. Aren’t country clubs full of snooty old people who zip around on golf carts, hitting balls at squirrels?

“We’re particularly interested in your clubhouse,” Mom says. “It comes with the membership too, right?”

“Of course!” Mrs. Blair smiles. “Our dining room is the best. We have everything! We even have an Asian dinner buffet—bet you’ll love that!”

As Mrs. Blair and Mr. Blair grin and raise their eyebrows up and down at us, like they’re offering us some secret benefit we’ve never had before, I look to Mom. Now would be a great time to mention that we’re fine on Asian food, that I’m an exceptional chef, and that I own my own restaurant. But instead, Mom just says, “Sounds lovely! And in terms of using your clubhouse for special events …?”

“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Blair assures her. “We hold bridal showers, birthday parties, bar mitzvahs, bat mitzvahs, and even weddings, all the time!”

“That’s great! It’ll be so lovely celebrating in your beautiful clubhouse!” Mom smiles at me, and I feel a rush of heat. Is Mom already planning my wedding?

I put my hand up, like whoa, whoa, whoa. Mia and I haven’t even gotten to the napkin-kissing stage yet.

But then Mom says, “I’d love to throw a party for my new business.”

“What about the pool?” I blurt out. “Couldn’t you have your company party at the pool of the Calivista? I can cater it! It’ll be amazing!”

“The Calivista? Is that another golf course?” Mr. Blair asks.

“No, it’s a motel,” I tell him.

“Hotel,” Dad quickly corrects me. “It’s one of several hotels we own.”

I furrow my eyebrows. Since when have they become hotels?

“Well, I’m sure our expansive clubhouse patio, landscaped with roses and magnolia trees, will be better than a hotel pool for your company party,” Mr. Blair says, chuckling.

“Hmmph,” I mumble. Dad gives me some serious side-eye, and I shut up.

“So how can we apply?” Dad asks with a hopeful smile.

“You’ll just need to get five members to write you letters of recommendation,” Mr. Blair says. “They have to be full members—”

“Five?” Dad asks. “But we don’t know anyone who’s a member!”

“Don’t worry, we’ll get you some provisional passes so you can come around and meet people,” Mr. Blair says. “I’m sure you and your family will make friends in no time!”

I start shaking my head. That’s not happening. I am not going anywhere near their artificially green lawn to kiss up to a bunch of snobs.

“Be sure to come on Wednesday night! That’s when our Asian buffet is!” Mrs. Blair says. “I’m sure everyone will be so happy to see a real Asian family there!”

My jaw drops. Okay, these fools have to leave now. I jump up and start walking toward the door. Wealthy immediately follows me. Luckily, the Blairs take the hint. As they get up, they shake my parents’ hands.

“I’ll leave the provisional passes for your family at the club!” Mr. Blair says to Dad. “Come anytime!”

“Looking forward to it!” Dad says as he walks them out. I whisper “Sorry” to all the indoor slippers by the front door as the Blairs stroll merrily outside. “Thanks so much for coming by!”

The second they close their car doors I whirl around to face my parents.

“We’re not joining the country club!”

“I think it could be very good for our family,” Dad says calmly. “We could have a place to go!”

“A place to hold parties!” Mom says.

“We do have a place to go! And to hold parties! The Calivista!” I exclaim. “Where people are actually warm and friendly! And don’t stare at us like we’re pandas at the zoo!”

“They’re not going to stare at us, I promise,” Mom says. “I’m sure everyone there is very nice.”

“Well, I’m not so sure.…” I mumble to the floor.

My parents ignore me and keep talking. I know what they’re thinking. They’re probably thinking I’m scared to try new things. But it’s not that. I just know when something is going to be a HUGE mistake!

But I can’t tell them how I know.

I have an embarrassing secret. One as ugly as my belly button lint.

You ready?

My terrible, embarrassing, unrepeatable, if-I-tell-you-I’m-going-to-have-to-kill-you secret is that I’ve never had a real guy friend.

And the one time I came close to making one, in fourth grade, I did something awful.

Like AWFUL awful.

Before I tell you, let me just say, I don’t know what it is with the rest of the male population, but they really don’t seem to be interested in me at all.

Maybe it’s because I’m not into football. Or baseball. Or basketball. The only balls I like are meatballs. I don’t know why, but every time someone runs up to me when we’re playing sports in PE, I have this overwhelming urge to shriek and flail my arms. And because no one needs to see that, I just don’t play. Group activities in general scare me. I’m more like a carrot cake. Better one-on-one. Put me on a tray with a bunch of other desserts and I just disappear.

Or maybe it’s because I never went through that phase where boys are supposed to hate girls. Even before I met Mia, I always thought girls were cool. I mean, they smell better, they live longer. They burp less. What’s not to like?

I didn’t understand teasing them for the sake of teasing them. (Though I did ultimately break that rule … on Mia, of all people. In my defense, there is none.)

Anyway, whatever the reason, boys did not like me.

Which, when you’re in elementary school, meant no one liked me.

I’d tried to deny this fact for as long as I could, trudging along through second and third grade. But by fourth, even I couldn’t ignore it anymore. I was sick of burying my face in guacamole because I had no one to talk to, or almost murdering the cafeteria lady because I was so bored (but seriously, that mac and cheese was gross). So I set a goal to make a friend by the end of the year by WHATEVER MEANS NECESSARY.

My dad always says, “You gotta spend money to make money.”

So I spent.

I used all the Lunar New Year money my grandparents had given me to buy the best video games on the planet—ones so cool they were bound to get me some attention. And they did! Specifically from Miles and Buzz, twin brothers in fifth grade.

We started sitting together at lunch. At first, it was really awesome. I’d lend them my games, and they’d come back to school all excited and we’d talk about them. It was working—we were friends! Until they started saying they “lost” some of my games at the country club. I thought it was a little suspicious that they lost ALL the best ones. Did this country club have a game-swallowing lawn? But even so, I didn’t complain. I thought it was just the normal price of friendship.

But then things got weird. The greedy twins started demanding I buy more—games I couldn’t afford, even with all my Lunar New Year money saved up over the years. I panicked. I didn’t know what to do. I was scared to tell them no. Scared to give up my seat at their table at lunch. To have to go back to dunking my face in hot sauce to numb the sad, friendless reality of my life.

So I did something BAD.

I need you to understand something.

I never MEANT for anyone to get hurt.

I started swiping cash from one of Dad’s motels. Not the Calivista but the Sleepy Breezy, another motel he owns, over in Buena Park. Just five dollars here and ten dollars there at first. No biggie, I figured. Who’s gonna know?

At the time, the Sleepy Breezy was managed by the Chu family. They were the nicest people on the planet. The kind of people who not only worked their tails off for my dad—who wasn’t always very nice to them—but also still found it in their hearts to make me red bean soup to take home. Red bean soup! Which I slurped guiltily in the car, thinking, God, I need to stop stealing from these people.

But it was so easy. They never supervised me at the front office, and the cash register was always left unlocked. It was just right there!

The Chus had a little boy, Tao, who was six years old at the time and worshipped me. He had a camouflage jacket that he always wore and he followed me everywhere, trying to show me how he folded the bathroom towels into animal shapes. He had a whole herd of them—in the shapes of elephants, turtles, crabs. He was always trying to explain how he did it and I was always trying to get rid of my annoying shadow so I could steal from the cash register in peace.

So I’d send him on ridiculous errands, like, “Little Tao, can you go and collect all the TV remotes, mix them all up, and reprogram them for different rooms?” One time, I told him to put a toilet plunger on top of the lamp and see if the customer noticed. (They did and it wasn’t pretty.)

Meanwhile, I was slowly robbing his family blind. I told myself it wasn’t really robbery, because the money wasn’t theirs. It was all going to my family anyway. I told myself no one would notice. No one would care.

And they might not have, if I’d kept it to fives and tens.

But then Miles and Buzz, they wanted Doom, which you can only play on PC. They didn’t have their own PC. And they wanted me to help them buy them one.

It was completely inappropriate. I should have told them NO. No way! I’m not buying you a whole computer! I should have drawn a line in the sand, hard and clear, and if they didn’t like it, I should have flailed my arms and run.

But I just kept thinking … maybe if I do this one thing, then they’ll stop.

My dad spotted the missing cash right away. He confronted the Chus. When they couldn’t explain why $350 was missing, my dad took $350 from their salary. A week later, they quit.

I cried the whole night.

The next day at school, I told Miles and Buzz if they asked me for money one more time, I’d show them some DOOM. They proceeded to rough me up, calling me a Chinese dough boy. For a year and a half, until they finished elementary school—and thank GOD they went to a different middle school—they came at me. In the back hallway after music class. Behind the boys’ bathroom after school. With every blow, I told myself I deserved it. For not being brave enough to tell my dad the truth. For letting a poor family suffer, all because I was so desperate to make a friend.

I know what I did was wrong. Which is why I can never ever tell anyone about it.

Not my parents.

Not Hank, my chef partner and friend at the restaurant.

And especially not Mia.

Because if she knew how horribly I treated that kind, innocent immigrant family, she’d never even want to be my friend, let alone my girlfriend. I can barely stand being myself when I think about it, which is why I’ve pushed the memory deep, deep down, into the moldy crevices of my Loser Jason Era.

Now, with every mention of the country club, the threat of Loser Jason comes screaming back. Which is why I cannot EVER show my face there and risk bumping into those evil twins again! I was lucky to escape Miles and Buzz once. But I’m sure they’re still members of the club, just waiting to squash me with their big fists—which are probably GINORMOUS by now!

But as I look up, my parents are already making plans to eat there. Tonight!

“We can’t eat there tonight!” I shriek.

“Why not?” Mom asks, kicking off her sandals. “It’ll save me from cooking. I still have to vacuum and fold the laundry.”

“I’ll cook,” I tell her. I watch as Mom puts her sandals back by the door. “And what’s with letting those people wear their shoes in the house?”

“It was just one time,” Mom says, glancing apologetically at the carpet.

“One time? When I was in Little League you used to make me strip down to my underwear in the garage because you didn’t want me tracking dirt into the house!” I remind her. “And one year you made me sit outside on my birthday, struggling with my shoelaces in the El Niño rain! And the time you—”

Mom motions with her hands for me to calm down. “I know! I know. But these people don’t understand all that.”

“They can’t understand please take off your shoes?” I ask.

“It’ll just remind them we’re different. You heard them, we have to get five recommendation letters. Why do you think they put such a strict requirement on getting in?”

“Because they love stamps?” I guess.

“Because they want to maintain a certain high caliber of members!” Mom says.

I almost laugh out loud, thinking of Buzz and Miles. High caliber? YEAH, RIGHT!

Mom puts a hand on my shoulder. “Look, right now, we just need to get in. Then we can do whatever we want.”

I stare back at Mom. I wish she knew that they’d be lucky to have her, with or without her shoes.

“For the record? Even in the rain, I didn’t complain,” I say in a small voice.

“I know, son,” Mom says appreciatively.

Dad walks over and messes up my hair. “Why don’t you come with me? We’ll go for a ride. We don’t have to eat there. But we can get those passes.”

“No thanks! I really need to unpack—”

“Come on, it’ll be quick. You can just stay in the car. You can fill me in on your trip to San Francisco with Mia!”

At the thought of telling my dad the incredibly good news about Mia, I feel myself automatically beaming. I guess I could go on a car ride with him. As long as I don’t have to go into the country club.

In the car, I’m talking a mile a minute. I’m so excited, I’m skipping words. I’m skipping air ! I’m skipping English! I’m not even sure what language I’m speaking, it just feels SO good to tell someone!

“Mia said yes! She’s my girlfriend now! Can you believe it? Me and Mia … together! Tai hao le! We’re like two peas in a pod! We’re like peanut butter and jelly! Oh God, it feels like my heart’s going to EXPLODE. Like I might have popcorn heart, right here in your car!”

“Well, don’t do that! I just got the car detailed … cost me $178,” Dad warns. “But that’s major news! Are you sure you’re ready for a girlfriend, though?”

“Course! I’ve been ready since fifth grade!”

“You may think relationships are easy, son, but they’re not. Trust me, they’re a lot of work,” Dad says, glancing over while we’re stopped at a red light. “Love is like an explosive chili pepper.”

“I love explosive chili peppers!” I cry. “You can add ’em to your frying oil! Throw ’em in a salad. Sprinkle them in a chutney! Make a stew out of ’em!”

As I list the many, many things I can do with explosive chili peppers, Dad chuckles. “Yeah, well, just remember, you can’t always make a stew out of hurt feelings.”

I suddenly tense. “Why do you think my feelings are going to get hurt?”

“Well, no, I didn’t say that,” Dad says. “But relationships are complicated. There will be times when you will feel sad, or Mia will feel sad.”

“Why would I feel sad?”

“Hm, maybe sad is not the right word. You might feel … inadequate. Because you can’t always give her everything she wants.”

I look over at him. Are we still talking about me?

“I’m just saying, it’s all fun and exciting in the beginning. But you have to be mentally prepared for the hard stuff too,” Dad says.

“Like?” I ask.

“Like compromising. Understanding when something might be really important to her, even though it’s not that important to you,” Dad says. “Like this whole country club thing. Do I really need to pay a small fortune just to play golf there? I don’t. But it’s important to your mother, so I’m going to do everything I can to make it happen.”

I nod, appreciating how honest he’s being with me.

“Well, I’d be happy to compromise for Mia. She’s the one person who makes me understand the world … and makes me want to be better.”

“Better than what?” Dad asks.

I look at my lap, my cheeks no longer burning with excitement.

Better than a kid who steals. Who sat idly by, like a mute iguana, when his dad docked $350 from his innocent workers’ pay.

But of course, I can’t say any of that stuff to Dad. So I shrug and say, “Just … someone who had a lot of STUFF, but wasn’t very happy.”

Dad frowns as he turns into the club’s big circular driveway. Palm trees line the road on both sides. Then as he pulls up to the curb, he shoots me a look. Uh-oh. I’ve upset him.

“Stuff,” he says flatly. “You mean the stuff your mother and I busted our humps for so you could have this nice life?”

“And I appreciate it!” I say quickly. “But it’s just—a little privileged!”

“You know, you toss around that word privileged, but I think you don’t understand where it comes from, or how much work it took for us to get here,” Dad says. I can see the palatial white clubhouse looming over us and the car. He points at it, like that’s going to teach me. Which makes me want to laugh, because what’s more privileged than a country club?

“I know how much work it takes,” I say. “I work in the restaurant, remember?”

Dad chuckles. “You’re the star chef that everyone comes in for. Oh, Jason, give me more of your cheeseburger muffins! I’ve been thinking about them all day!”

“What cheeseburger muffins? I don’t serve cheeseburger muffins!” I make a face. What an absurd idea!

“But you could! And people would probably love them. And they might even give you a Michelin star for it.”

My cheeks get even warmer, because Dad knows that my secret dream is to get a Michelin star. It’s the highest honor for a restaurant. Every year, secret judges descend upon restaurants all over the world to rate the quality of the food and service. I haven’t gotten one yet, but it’ll happen.

“Thanks,” I say quietly.

“I know you work hard,” Dad says. “But your mother and I—we were behind the front desk for many years. People came in all day, giving us a hard time.”

“I know, I know, you had to deal with dripping ACs, people wanting pillows,” I say quickly, having heard all of it from Mia before.

Dad stares at me. “You know what? Just for that, you’re coming inside with me.”

“No, Dad, wait, noooooo!” I protest.

But it’s too late. Dad’s already outside, hurrying over to my door and opening it. I look up at the formidable club with dread.

“Mr. Yao! Jason!” Mr. Blair’s voice booms across the marble-floored lobby. “Great to see you again so soon!”

“Just here to get those provisional passes,” Dad says.

Mr. Blair reaches for an envelope and hands it to Dad. “While you’re here, come meet some members!”

He gestures to guide us over to a set of doors leading to what appears to be a large library. Inside, there are tables of people chatting quietly, sipping colorful beverages with little umbrellas in them and peering carefully at their cards.

“You play gin rummy?” Mr. Blair asks, leading us over to a table. As soon as he says that, I close my eyes. We are never getting out of here. My dad LOVES card games.

“Just a little,” Dad says modestly.

I shake my head desperately at Mr. Blair. “He’s going to win every game,” I yelp. “Run while you still have a chance!”

To my surprise, several people look up, clearly intrigued.

“Come! Join us!” a nearby woman calls to Dad.

He slides his butt right down onto one of the chairs and introduces himself to the other players. They all look the same to me—middle-aged white people in tennis and golf clothes. Before I can react to any of it, a waitress appears to take Dad’s drink order.

I start taking a seat too, getting ready for a long afternoon of umbrella smoothies, when Mr. Blair puts his hands on my shoulders.

“As for you, young man,” he says, “let’s see if we can get you to join some of our junior golfers!”

“Oh, no, that’s okay!” I start to say. “I’m quite comfortable drinking my weight in smoothies!”

Dad frowns at me. “No! You should go and meet some young people! Get some sun!”

“Why don’t you go out and get some sun?” I ask sourly.

“Jason,” Dad barks. “Go and make some friends.”

One of the men at Dad’s table turns to me and says, “You don’t want to watch a bunch of boring old people play cards, do you, son?”

“I love boring old people. They’re my favorite!” I assure him.

Everyone chuckles. “Funny kid you got there!” the guy says to Dad as Mr. Blair starts leading me away.

“I really don’t think this is necessary,” I mutter, dragging my feet. “I’m perfectly fine in the dining room. You don’t even have to give me smoothies. I can just chew on ice cubes!”

“Now, Jason, I assure you, you’re going to love golf,” Mr. Blair says, showing me through a side door and down the stairs leading from the porch. There’s a golf cart parked there and he gestures for me to get in. “Nothing like socializing with other young, like-minded members!”

Yeah, that’s the part I’m afraid of. They are not like-minded. They are evil-minded!

He steps hard on the gas, sending us lurching forward and nearly running over a squirrel.

“Can I just socialize here, with the squirrels?” I ask, hanging on to my seat and turning to check—yes, the squirrel escaped with his tail intact.

“No,” Mr. Blair says firmly.

As Mr. Blair drives down the tree-lined fairways of the lush green golf course, my heart pitter-patters in my chest. I picture Buzz and Miles waiting for me, their faces sizzling into devilish smiles.

“Yo yo yo, look who it is! If it isn’t Chinese dough boy!” Buzz would say.

“What’d you bring us?” Miles would ask, making the sign for money with his fingers.

The faster Mr. Blair drives, the harder I sweat. By the time he finally stops near a green where three boys are standing under a tall sycamore tree with golf clubs, I’m fully drenched. I look like I just got out of a pool.

Thankfully, none of the guys are Buzz or Miles. I smile awkwardly at them; they’re dressed in perfectly undrenched polo shirts, shorts, and baseball caps.

“Hey,” I squeak, climbing out of the cart. “I’m Jason.”

“Jason here is a prospective member,” Mr. Blair explains. “I thought you boys could show him how to play golf!”

“Or not,” I say quickly. “I can just sit on the grass and chill.”

“You want to just sit on the grass?” a guy in a yellow shirt says.

“Yeah, sure,” I say. “I could practice mindfulness.”

Stop talking. Just stop talking.

The boys chuckle.

“Don’t worry, we’ll teach him,” Yellow Shirt says to Mr. Blair. “Come on, Jason. Grab a club.”

Mr. Blair hops back on his golf cart, declaring, “Wonderful!” As he zips off, I start walking over to the nearest golf bag. I’m assuming the metal sticks are clubs. There sure are a lot of shapes and sizes. There are tall ones, skinny ones, big ones, shiny ones. Ones that look like they could slice right through pizza. And others that look like they could be great umbrellas for a hamster.

“Um, which one do I choose?” I ask.

“Just choose one,” the boy in the red cap says. “It’s not that hard!”

“Okay.” I grab a random one that looks like a cheese knife. You can never go wrong with a cheese knife.

“Dude,” Yellow Shirt says. “You can’t use a putter.”

“You said choose one,” I say.

“Yeah, but not that one,” he says, smirking at Red Cap.

I feel my face growing hot.

“What’s wrong with this one?” I ask.

“It’s a putter,” he says, like that means anything to me.

“Well, I like it,” I insist. I try to keep my voice as even and calm as I can. Be cool. I don’t have to prove anything to them. I just need to get through a round of golf. How hard can that be?

“Let’s see your swing, then!” they say.

As Yellow Shirt takes a ball out of his pocket and drops it on the ground in front of me, I take a deep breath. I have no idea how to swing a golf club. But as I grip my putter and lift it over my head, I close my eyes and whack as hard as I can. As my cheese knife chops through the air, I feel a rush of pride. I did it! I hit the ball! Boy, did I show those guys! For a split second, I envision my future career as a champion golfer. Going on TV. Signing autographs! Winning medals!

Then I open my eyes.

I stare at the ball sitting exactly where they’d put it, by my feet. Apparently, my cheese knife sliced right through the grass and sent the soil sailing … but not the ball. The boys are laughing so hard, I swear the ground shakes.

“Next time, try opening your eyes,” Yellow Shirt suggests.

“And don’t stand like you got a tire in between your legs!” Red Cap says.

“I don’t have a tire between my legs! This is just how I stand!” I protest. “All day at my restaurant!”

“Restaurant?” They giggle. “Who stands at restaurants?”

“I do! I’m the chef!”

I thought that would impress them, but instead, they just keep right on laughing, like I just confessed to being a penguin.

“What’s so funny?” Now I’m starting to get mad. “I’ll have you know my restaurant’s one of the best in Anaheim! One day, we’re going to get a Michelin star!”

But instead of being impressed, they cackle like I’m in kindergarten.

“A star? A gold star, like a sticker?” Red Cap asks.

“No, it’s not a sticker,” I say, trying to remain calm. “It’s an honor! In a book!”

“You’re going to be cooking a book?” Yellow Shirt laughs.

“No, not cooking a book! I’m going to be cooking cedar plank salmon! And braised chicken legs with grapes and fennel!” I’m suddenly full of ideas for my Michelin-rated menu. “And grilled shrimp with shishito peppers!”

They stop laughing and stare at me.

“Did you just say the S-word?” Yellow Shirt asks. “You cook grilled shrimp with the S-word ?”

“That is nasty, bro!”

“What?! No! It’s a pepper!” I shriek. “Shishito pepper!”

I shouldn’t have said it again, because they all start jumping up and down, like I just confirmed their obscene suggestion. They pretend to hurl, gasping, and ask me how exactly grilled shrimp is cooked with, well, not shishito peppers. The question makes me so angry, I rear back and throw their stupid putter as hard as I can in the air.

Unfortunately, it goes flying all the way into the tall sycamore and catches in the branches. That’s when one of them actually blurts out the S-word.

“Look what you did!” Yellow Shirt says, running over and looking up the tree. He reaches for it, but it’s too high. It’s stuck way up in the branches, at least fifteen feet from the ground.

“Oops!” I cry.

“That was my most expensive club!” he says. “My grandpa got that for me in Orlando! Now it’s ruined!”

“It’s not ruined. It’s just hanging out!” I argue, staring up at the club, dangling from the tree. I try to make a jump for it, but I am way too short.

“How are you gonna get it down?” Red Cap sneers.

I realize they’re all waiting for me to climb the tree. Nuh-uh. I am not scaling a tree. First of all, I am not built like Tarzan. I definitely do not have the hair to pull that off. As their angry eyes burrow deep into me, I glance over at their golf cart. Maybe if I climb on top …?

“Can I drive the cart for a second?” I ask.

The guys look at each other and start shaking their heads. “No way!” “He’s just going to drive off!” As they’re arguing among themselves, I run over, hop in, and drive it right over to the tree. By the time they look up, I’m swinging my legs up onto the top of the cart. Slowly, I stand up. The thin roof of the cart shakes beneath my feet, threatening to buckle.

“Careful, Jason!” Yellow Shirt says.

“Can you reach it?” the third guy asks.

I stand on my tippy-toes. My fingers brush the metal handle of the club. “Almost!” I cry. I start jumping lightly on top of the cart.

“Holy golf balls, Jason! Don’t jump!” Red Cap yells.

“You’re going to fall through the cart!” the third guy says, laughing again.

I look down below. The golf cart roof already has a huge dent on it. But I’m so close. One more jump and that putter’s mine! As I’m jumping, I hear my name being called out over a loudspeaker.

“Prospective member Jason Yao, please get down from the golf cart immediately. I repeat—get down IMMEDIATELY!”

I spin around to see Mr. Blair’s golf cart racing toward us. Dad’s sitting next to him and from the look on his face, he is FURIOUS.

“Jason, the heck do you think you’re doing?!” Dad bellows.

I swallow hard.

“I almost had it,” I say for at least the tenth time. We’re back in the car, heading home, even though Dad’s probably too mad to be a safe driver. He yanked me off the cart and hauled me away, past a team of people who showed up to section off that entire area on the lawn. I couldn’t believe they really had a giant sign that said DO NOT ENTER, GOLF CLUB STUCK IN TREE.

“It was just a putter,” I go on. “If you’d let me handle it, I would have gotten it down!”

“You would have destroyed a golf cart!” Dad yells, his face blazing red.

“No, I wouldn’t have!” I say. I know what Dad’s implying—that I was too heavy for that cart roof—and A) it’s not true and B) it’s mean. “That’s body-shaming, Dad. We talked about this!”

We did talk about it. Back in seventh grade, when I was still chubby and inspired by Mia writing about her life in her beautiful columns for newspapers in China. I finally confronted my dad about his casual fatphobia and the not-okay comments he’d been making for years. I told him it was not cool. He should not make any future remarks about my body because it was giving me a complex. To which he replied, “We’re family !”

But he did cut the number of jokes substantially. Now, though, his eyes flare angrily at me and his old ways threaten to come out again.

“It’s not body-shaming. It’s golf-club shaming!” he insists. “You knew how much I wanted this. You knew how important this was to your mother! And you still made us look like idiots! Now they’re going to think we’re a bunch of uncultured clowns who don’t know how to play golf!”

“No, they’re not!” I say, chewing on my fingers. It’s a habit I’ve had since I was in second grade. Whenever I get nervous, I chomp on my fingers like they’re Cheetos. Mom says it’s a terrible habit, and I really do want to stop, but when things get too stressful, I grab a finger.

“What was your club doing in the tree to begin with?” Dad fumes.

I put my fingers down and confess, “Those boys were making fun of my cooking, Dad.”

“And how did you respond?” he asks. “Did you invite them to the motel and shut them up with your actual food? Or did you help us get into the country club, and then completely revamp their Asian food buffet night?”

I fall quiet. Those do sound like way better options.

“I just did the first thing that came to my mind, I guess,” I mutter.

“That’s your problem.” Dad points to me. “You act first, think later. I’ll tell you something, with an attitude like that, you’re never getting a Michelin star! You can forget about it!”

I pout at Dad. Why’d he have to go after my Michelin star dream? But then he says something even more terrifying.

“Unless you learn to get with the program, and actually STEP UP when people need you, you can forget about dating Mia.”

The air in my lungs goes cold.

“What are you TALKING about?” I yell.

“I’m talking about you! No one will like you!”

Now I feel like scrambling out of Dad’s car and jumping on his roof.

“Why would you say that? It’s not true!” I protest.

“You think any girl’s going to put up with that? The little temper tantrum you threw back there?”

I cross my arms and try not to blow up even more. Because it’s terrifying. Because I do worry about that. Because I know I have an anger problem. It’s something I’ve been struggling with my whole life.

“But I’m different around Mia!” I shout.

Dad shakes his head. “Sooner or later, a cheetah always shows its spots.”

“That’s a leopard!”

“I’m just saying. If you can’t put someone else’s needs before your own, you’ll never be a good boyfriend. Period. Period. Period,” Dad says, slapping the steering wheel with each period.

I hate it when Dad three-words something on me. I turn to face the passenger window, sulking.

What does he know about being a good boyfriend? His idea of a great date is taking my mom mall walking. They literally just walk around a mall in circles—he doesn’t even stop in front of a doughnut shop and try to come up with new funny doughnut flavors together. They just walk around and buy stuff.

Still, the worry dangles in my head, like a putter stuck in a tree: What if he’s right? What if I’m fundamentally unlikable … and it’s only a matter of time before Mia realizes it?

As soon as we get home, I decide to call my new girlfriend.

“Hi, Mia,” I say nervously when she picks up. “Just calling to say hi because I miss you. Not because I’m a clown who is uncultured.”

I slap my forehead. Where did that come from?

Mia laughs. “Hi, Jason,” she says. “I’m so glad you called. I’ve had the most ridiculous day.”

“Me too!” I relax. Something about Mia’s voice, it always makes me relax. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“Should I go first, or you?” Mia asks.

“You first,” I urge. I’m a firm believer in ladies first. It’s how I take orders in the restaurant, it’s how I exit elevators, and it’s how I always respond whenever a teacher asks me whether I know the answer.

“Okay, you know how my dad spent all Christmas break repainting our new house?”

“Yup!” I nod into the phone. Right before the break, Mr. and Mrs. Tang bought their very first American home. They’ve been talking about it for years. Mr. Tang was so excited about the new house that he even stayed behind to paint it while Mia and her mom went to San Francisco, only joining them for the last few days, when the paint job was completed.

And Mia was so excited to get home and finally move into her own bedroom. There’s even a nook, perfect for her to do all her writing!

“Well, we walked into the house today, and we looked up, there were CRACKS all over the ceiling,” Mia says, gasping.

I scratch my head. I don’t know nearly as much about home renovations as my mom, but I’m pretty sure that’s not supposed to happen. “Cracks? What kind of cracks?” I ask.

“These little lines, all over our ceiling, like it’s a giant croissant and all the layers are starting to flake off!”

I smile at the croissant metaphor. Leave it to Mia to find a perfect way to describe it so I immediately understand.

“So what does that mean?” I ask.

“I don’t know!” Mia says. “My mom thinks my dad must have painted it wrong. She and Dad were arguing all afternoon about what kind of paint he used. My mom thinks it happened because my dad got ‘the cheap stuff’ at Home Depot.”

Awww… poor Mr. Tang. My heart goes out to him. I know how hard he worked, trying to make the house perfect for his family.

“So guess what we had to do?” Mia goes on.

I suck in a breath. “Don’t tell me you had to repaint your entire house?”

“Yup!” Mia says.

“You repainted your house after driving all the way back from San Francisco?” I gasp, imagining the Tangs’ collective exhaustion.

“We couldn’t just leave the cracks. There were bits and pieces of ceiling falling off! It would have been snowing roof!” Mia says. I chuckle.

“Why didn’t you call me? I would have come and helped!” I say. I would have much preferred a painting party to throwing golf clubs into trees.

“It’s okay. We managed. So how was your day? What was so ridiculous about it?” she asks.

I suddenly notice that my mouth is dry and empty. The words that were so eager to leave my tongue a minute ago no longer want to make the jump. Maybe Mia doesn’t really need to know about my little temper tantrum at the club. It wasn’t that terrible compared to her actual emergency.

“Oh … I just had a lot to unpack,” I say.

“That’s it?” she asks.

“It was really confusing, not remembering what underwear to put in which drawer.” I chuckle nervously and quickly ask, “So is it all done, painting your ceilings?”

“Well, the bedrooms! Now we can at least sleep! Though I still have a few more articles to finish for The Scoop,” Mia says, yawning.

The Scoop is Mia’s newspaper that she started up in San Francisco with her two journalism camp friends, Amne and Haru. I know she’s psyched to keep working on it from LA.

“I really want to start an advice column for kids our age!” she says. “Wouldn’t that be great? To have a place you can vent and tell all your problems to, and not have to worry about being judged? Just get honest, useful advice?”

“Totally,” I say. That does sound nice. I think about all the problems of mine I could write about … if the column wasn’t read by Mia.

Which brings me to an interesting question. Now that we’re girlfriend and boyfriend, which of my weird, embarrassing problems should I tell Mia?

“Because everyone has problems, right?” she continues.

“Uh-huh!” I answer.

“Just gotta get the paper started,” she says with a sigh. “Then hopefully people will actually write in, asking for advice!”

“They definitely will,” I say.

“Speaking of, I gotta get back to work. Good night, Jason, and I’m really sorry you had a bad day sorting out your … uh … underwear. Just remember, tomorrow’s a new day!”

I smile. She has no idea how much her words mean to me. I tuck them close to my heart as I hang up the phone with my queen. Tomorrow’s a new day, indeed. Tomorrow, I will not jump on any golf carts.

Tomorrow, I will walk into school as the cool and calm boyfriend I know I am.

I wake up the next morning feeling warm and fuzzy. I had the most amazing dream last night. Mia and I were dancing cheek to cheek. Her arms were wrapped around me in a comforting embrace. I leaned into her, our foreheads touching. Lying in my bed, I inhale deeply, taking in the moment, with my eyes firmly closed. Trying to stretch it out, because it feels so great.

Suddenly, I feel a wet, sloppy tongue on my eyelid, and I wake up completely. Wealthy’s legs are wrapped around me in a full-on hug under the covers. His paws are outstretched and his hot breath covers my face as he licks me mercilessly.

“Wealthy!” I exclaim, trying to disentangle myself from him.

He barks, as if saying, What? We were having a moment!

“Geez, give me a little personal space!” I finally wriggle away and he jumps off my bed, as if I hurt his feelings.

“Awww, sorry, boy, I didn’t mean it like that. Here, give me another hug!” I offer, reaching out.

Wealthy immediately jumps back onto the bed, engulfing me in another hug and licking my head.

“Careful with my hair!” I shriek, giggling.

Later, as I’m making my way through the schoolyard and trying not to stare at all the boys who are sitting in pairs, or playing basketball, or telling jokes to each other and cackling, I remind myself I have something even better—a girlfriend!

Speaking of which, I wonder if we’re going to tell everyone? I scan the courtyard for Mia. I see her walking with Lupe, her best friend.

I bounce over to the two of them.

“Good morning, my queen,” I greet Mia, smiling. “And hey, Lupe.”

“ ‘Hey, Lupe’? That’s it?” Lupe pushes out her lower lip. “I don’t get a royal salute?”

I scratch my head, trying to think. “Sorry. How about Duchess Lupe?”

“I’m just teasing you!” she says, giggling. “I’m still just Lupe, gosh!”

I smile, relieved.

Lupe gives Mia a little wave and says, “I’ll see you later, at lunch?”

“See you!” Mia calls back as Lupe hurries across campus.

I’m grateful for the time alone, so I can ask Mia about whether we’re going public with our relationship at school. But before I have a chance to, Mia hands me some pages.

“What’s this?” I ask, peering down at her handwriting.

“My sample advice column for The Scoop!” she says. “I wrote it last night! What do you think?”

I start reading.

Dear The Scoop,

My parents recently bought a home. It’s our first one in this country. My parents didn’t think it could happen, but I encouraged them to dream BIG. When they got scared to take on a loan from the bank, I urged them not to give in to fear. You can’t win if you don’t play, right?

And now we have the house! It’s a beautiful three-bedroom, two-bathroom house with a place for me to write—and a fireplace! I love everything about it. But last night, the paint on the ceiling started peeling off. My mom got so scared that maybe there’s something wrong with the house! It took me hours to calm her down and convince her that it’s just the paint. And I’m sure it is just the paint … but there’s a tiny, wriggly worry inside me … what if it’s not? What if there’s something wrong with the house? Then would it be my fault I encouraged my parents to buy it?

Please write back.

Mia

I finish reading and gaze at my girlfriend. I don’t know why a letter about bad paint would have me nearly bawling, but that is the power of Mia’s writing. It just makes you feel.

“You like it?” she asks nervously.

“I love it. And it’s not your fault at all,” I assure her. “First of all, you made a—”

“Wait, wait!” Mia stops me, putting her hand over my mouth. “Don’t tell me what you’re going to write!”

“Write?” I ask, confused.

Mia looks at me shyly. “Will you please write a response for my letter? That I can publish?”

“Errrr …” I chuckle. “Writing’s not exactly my superpower. Tacos, maybe!”

“But I can’t write to myself! I need to publish this, in the paper, and I need a response,” Mia says, pointing at her advice column. “Please? Just this once! When the newspaper publishes and everyone in school reads it, then I’ll get some real letters from real kids, and I’ll write them responses. For now, will you help me? Please?”

Mia blinks her big hazelnut eyes at me. How can I say no to my queen?

“Course,” I say.

“Oh, thank you! You’re the best boyfriend in the world!” she proclaims loudly, hugging me.

Everyone around us stops in their tracks. All of a sudden, I hear our names getting whispered. “Jason’s dating Mia?” “Oh my God, Mia has a boyfriend!” “Jason and Mia, WHOA!”

I’m all smiles as I hug my girlfriend back. I feel seven feet tall. My skin’s glowing. The air smells like honey lavender ice cream! I’m screaming inside!

Then Mia pulls back and adds one more question.

“Oh, and can you write an advice letter of your own?”

“Me? Write … a letter?” I gulp.

“Could be about anything! Seriously! I just need something to fill the gaping holes in the paper!” she says. “I promise I’ll write back in the next issue!”

As Mia envelops me in another hug and every curious eyeball in the entire school shoots out of its socket, I smile back at them nervously.

What problem of mine can I possibly share that I won’t mind the entire school reading about?

Dear The Scoop,

Have you ever lost control of your temper before? Maybe you’re at a golf club, and one minute, you’re standing awkwardly in front of a trio of polo shirts, and the next minute, you’re disrupting birds’ nests with your giant cheese knife?

I cross out every word and toss the letter away. Yeah, no, I’m not writing about THAT! Not when Mia’s just declared to everyone within earshot that of all the incredible, talented, smart, sporty boys she could have chosen, she picked ME to be her boyfriend.

I’d be the laughingstock of the entire school. And she’d be the girl dating the laughingstock. No way.

Dear The Scoop,

Have you ever had your parents mean well, but sometimes they say things that are just WHOA. Way way way too honest?

Nope. Not writing about that either.

Dear The Scoop,

I have a confession to make. I was literally a friendless hermit crab before I met you.

NO! WHAT? NOOOO!

After about five terrible, completely unpublishable letters, I finally manage to find a tone that isn’t mortifying.

Dear The Scoop,

I have a problem that requires your expert advice. But first, let me tell you about myself. I am Jason Yao, a talented chef, outstanding member of the community, and academically sound thirteen-year-old boy. I’m about 5′6″ and I have a strong, square chin. I have nice white teeth and excellent eyesight. I have been told that I smell good too. Like a waffle bar at a four-star hotel.

Besides my physical attributes, I am also kind, considerate, and very patient. I NEVER fly off the handle. I always respond maturely in all situations, for instance, if people show up at my house and don’t take their shoes off, I don’t hit them over the head with an inside slipper. I let them finish their conversation, then walk them politely to the front door. I am very kind to squirrels. I help old ladies in the grocery store. I never scream, unless a parrot swears at me.

For all these reasons, I am exceptionally well positioned for most situations in life. However, I found myself in a tough pickle recently, which is that I can never decide what kind of Italian soda to drink. There are so many great options, like blue raspberry, passion fruit, lime, white peach, huckleberry, lychee, mango, pomegranate, cherry lime, and at least half a dozen more. The possibilities are endless! And they all sound delicious!

So I write to you to seek your advice-how do I decide? Do I go with the blue raspberry and indulge in the tangy, syrupy goodness, at the risk of my tongue becoming blue? Or do I go for the subtle but aromatic white peach? Or do I take it up a notch and mix huckleberry with pomegranate, and call THAT my drink order? Whatever shall I do?

Please write back and give me your most illuminating advice.

Yours always,

In soda,

Jason

Reading my letter to Wealthy, I rock on the balls of my feet, back and forth. Now that sounds more like the guy Mia belongs with! Who would have a problem with this kid? He sounds bright, confident, and extremely thirsty!

The next day, I give Mia my letter at school.

“Wow, Jason,” Mia says when she finishes reading. “This is really … interesting.”

“Well, it’s true! Every word of it!” I beam proudly.

“No, I’m sure it is,” Mia says. “It’s just … it’s very specific, your problem.”

“Hey, Italian sodas can be stressful! You got colors, you got flavors!”

“No, no, I agree,” Mia says, folding the letter and putting it in her pocket. “Thank you, Jason. I’ll be delighted to publish this.” She smiles. “And did you have a chance to write a response to my letter?”

I look down shyly as I dig my response out of my pocket. This one I’m not nearly as sure about, since I’ve never really given any formal advice to anyone except Wealthy before. But I tried my best to write it from my heart:

Dear Mia,

Thank you for your honest letter. First of all, you absolutely did the right thing by encouraging your parents to buy a house. A house is so much more than a house. It is a place to make memories, celebrate traditions, and bond over delicious food.

But I understand that change can feel scary. I remember when I first started my restaurant, East Meets West, at the Calivista Motel. Whenever the littlest, tiniest thing went wrong, I would worry and freak out. I’d think, “Oh, no! What have I done? Have I bitten off more than I can chew?” It’s like there were two parts of my brain-one half saying, KEEP GOING! YOU CAN DO IT! while the other half shouted, NO! IT’S TOO HARD! STOP NOW!

Ultimately, you just have to learn to ignore the scared voice. I know it’s hard. But you know what? I’m so glad I ignored mine, because look where I am now! I am not afraid to take on new challenges-whether it’s changing up our menu or coming up with ideas to improve the motel. Change is how you grow. So please don’t stop. Your new house is amazing and you guys absolutely deserve it! You’re going to make so many great memories there! I just know it!

Yours always,

Jason

Any and all doubts that I might have overdone it evaporate when Mia looks at me, the biggest smile lighting up her face. My heart turns to putty.

“This is perfect, Jason!” she exclaims, throwing her arms around me in a big hug. “Thank you for your great advice. It was exactly what I needed to hear!”

“Really?” I ask, hugging her back.

Mia steps back and laughs a little. “You’re right! You really do smell like a waffle bar!”

A couple of girls walking by give us a funny look, but I don’t care. I take Mia’s hand and we stroll toward the library. To my surprise, people don’t roll their eyes at me. They’re not staring at me in the what’s-wrong-with-his-face kind of way. They’re looking at me and Mia curiously. I think—they’re admiring us! And why shouldn’t they? We’re the cutest, most amazing couple in the entire school!

In the library, Mia heads over to the computers to type up my letter while I hustle over to the nonfiction shelves. I look under B for boyfriend. Specifically, How to Be a Perfect Boyfriend!

Now that I’ve finally ascended the throne of middle school royalty, I intend on never giving it up!

So, there’s no How to Be a Perfect Boyfriend for Dummies book. But I do find a book called How to Be Romantic. I start reading it. It starts with the obvious—buy some flowers. My dad’s a huge fan of that one. He’s always buying my mom flowers after she’s had a particularly stressful week of showing properties to buyers and negotiating with sellers. That’s on top of cleaning the entire house and arranging all our dentist appointments. The roses my dad brings home for her are beautiful, of course. But I’ve always wondered why he doesn’t just make his own dentist appointments.

I’m thinking about this when I hear voices in the next aisle.

“Did you see Mia Tang with Jason Yao?” a girl asks.

“Yeah! I hear they’re going out!” her friend responds.

I hold my breath and stand very still.

“I wonder what she sees in him.”

My eyes go wide. That’s the very same question I ask myself every morning!

“He must be super cool or something,” the second girl says. “I mean, Mia’s an internationally famous writer!”

“Didn’t she interview the Women’s World Cup players last year?” the first girl asks.

“Yeah!” the friend says. “And she owns her own motel. Jason must be a big deal too if she’s going out with him!”

My heart swells with pride. I guess I am a big deal! I hug the book to my chest and go to check it out. I’m going to be an even bigger deal when I finish this book and soak in all its wisdom.

As I’m walking out of the library, I see Lucas Steelman, the fastest kid in our grade. He’s so fast, he smokes everyone when we run laps in PE. No matter the sport, if you have Lucas on your team, you’re winning. I’ve only been on his team twice in PE in my entire life, and both times, I chugged too much Gatorade and almost peed my pants. And we still won.

I immediately tuck How to Be Romantic into my shorts to hide it. Be cool, I tell myself. Don’t look him directly in the eye. Be deferential, like when Wealthy is at the dog park and sees an alpha German shepherd. As I’m making my way slowly past Lucas, I casually take a whiff.

I know, I know—but I can’t help it! Here’s the thing about Lucas. For some reason, he always smells like delicious food. I don’t know what his mom’s packing him for lunch every day—a hunk of steak? Might explain all his athletic prowess—but whatever it is, it smells heavenly.

So I’m trying not to salivate when I hear a girl call my name.

“Hey, Jason, can I take a picture of you and Lucas for the yearbook?” The girl is holding a camera.

It takes me a second to react. She wants a picture of me? With Lucas Steelman? And she knows my name? Usually in the yearbook, if I make it in at all, I’m identified as “Other Eighth Grader.”

I give Lucas an apologetic look. Of course he’s going to say no. A yearbook picture with me and him would imply that we’re friends. But before I can even mutter sorry, Lucas actually steps closer to me, puts his arm around my shoulder, and smiles for the camera.

As the yearbook reporter snaps the pic, my jaw drops to the ground. I’m pretty sure the picture she took has me looking like I just saw a seal kickboxing—and Lucas grinning like we do this every day.

“Thanks, guys!” the reporter says cheerfully, then bounces on her way.

I think that’s going to be it. But Lucas turns to me and says, “You’re Jason, right?”

I nod. Lucas has said maybe three words to me in all the time we’ve been in middle school together. And all three of them are happening right now.

“Yup, that’s me name,” I say, accidentally saying me, like I’m an Irish sailor.

“I’m Lucas.”

“You smell like you eat well!” I blurt out—and my face instantly turns beet red.

“What?” Lucas asks.

“Nothing. That came out wrong. I just meant you smell like a steak. Do you eat a lot of steaks?” I ask, then quickly add, “Not that I was smelling you. But I smell everything, you know. Except bathrooms.”

“Ohh … kay,” Lucas says.

“Yeah, I just turn off my nose when I walk inside. I can teach you how, if you want!”

“You want to teach me how to not smell a bathroom?”

I nod eagerly. I’m committed now.

“It’s really easy! You just breathe through your mouth, but first you take your tongue and you stick it to the roof of your mouth,” I start to explain, my heart hammering. Could this be it? The start of a brand-new friendship with a guy my age … FINALLY?! One built on mutual interests, like blocking bathroom odors?!

Just as I’m finishing up my lengthy tutorial, my copy of How to Be Romantic falls out of my shorts. It makes a loud THWAP as it lands on the ground. Lucas looks from the book to me, like, Did you just fart a book?

Mortified, I pick it up and run.

With every step, the anger punches inside me. What was I thinking, talking to Lucas? Actually believing he might actually want to be my friend! Haven’t I learned anything? Guys my age don’t like me! I’m unlikable! And now he’s probably going to go around to the whole school, telling everyone how Mia’s dating a romantic book farter!

GREAT. JUST GREAT.

At the restaurant later that day, I tell Hank all about my Lucas book-farting disaster as we set up the tables for dinner. Mia’s new beagle puppy, Comma, darts in between our feet as we work.

“So what’d you do?” Hank asks.

“I just ran!” I say, smoothing out a white tablecloth—then wrestling it away from Comma, who’s trying to pull at one of the corners. I get it safely out of reach, then hunch down to play with him.

“You didn’t explain you just checked out the book because you got a new girlfriend?” Hank asks.

I look up. Oh, yeaaaahhh. I could have said that.

Hmmmm.

“But I was frazzled!” I say to Hank, pulling Comma into a tight hug. “It was the longest conversation I’d had with a guy my own age in three years!”

“Hold up. You mean to tell me you haven’t had a homeboy since—what, fourth grade?” Hank asks.

“Nope—I’ve never had one!” I shake my head. “I think there’s something wrong with me. I get nervous and I just start talking about random things like … bathroom odor!” I bury my face in Comma’s fur. “Lucas probably thinks I’m a janitor.”

Hank chuckles. “Hey, janitors are fine folks, we don’t gotta shade on them,” he reminds me gently. “But I wouldn’t sweat it. Friendships are hard. They take work. Even me and Fred, we gotta work on it sometimes.”

I glance out the window. Fred’s one of the Calivista’s weeklies—the guests who live at the motel and pay by the week. He’s been living here for years, and he’s one of Hank’s closest friends.

“Like, things got a little tricky when he started dating Mrs. T,” Hank goes on, referring to another one of our weeklies. “Which I think is absolutely sweet, by the way. I couldn’t be happier for them. But it has made it harder for us to spend time together. We used to go fishing down at the pier every Sunday. Now it’s once a month, at best.”

“Why don’t you talk to him about it?” I ask Hank.

Hank sets down another pair of forks and knives. “Well, it’s like you say. It’s hard. I get nervous. I don’t want him to think I’m jealous of his relationship, or God forbid, he’ll try to set me up!”

I grin. Hank with a girlfriend? Now there’s a thought!

“Have you ever been set up, Hank?” I ask curiously.

Hank snorts. “Course I have. I’ve been set up and set down and engaged and dumped and everything in between!”

“You’ve been ENGAGED?” I blurt out. This is news to me!

Hank pauses setting tables and pulls out his wallet. Gingerly, he gets out a small photo of himself with his arm around a Black woman I’ve never seen before. She looks like she’s maybe in her forties, with long brown braids, big kind eyes, and a beautiful smile. And she’s got her hand on Hank’s chest.

“That’s Ayana,” he says.

Ayana, I repeat silently.

“I met her when I just moved to LA. She was a travel agent, and I was flying back and forth from LA to Michigan all the time because my mother was ill. One day, after she booked my flight, we got to talking. I told her why I was going to Michigan so much, and she thought it was real sweet and offered to cook me dinner.”

“She was a cook too?” I ask.

“Where do you think I got all my great recipes?” Hank answers with a wink. I smile. He clearly thought the world of her.

“So what happened?” I ask him.

“It’s all about timing, these things.…” Hank trails off, shaking his head and sliding the photo back into his wallet. “We loved each other, but sometimes, love isn’t enough.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, suddenly worried.

Hank doesn’t elaborate. Instead, he points to my How to Be Romantic book and asks, “Have you learned anything useful from that?”

I grin. “I learned that I gotta take Mia somewhere special for our first date!”

Comma yelps as if to agree.

“Where were you thinking you’ll go?” Hank jabs me lightly with his elbow. “You could book one of the nice restaurants in town! I’d forgive you.”

I laugh. Hank and I have this rule—we try not to eat at other establishments around town, especially the restaurants that compete with ours, if we can help it. Anything they can make, we can make better!

“Actually, I was thinking—”

Before I can tell Hank my totally awesome, epically fantastic idea for my date with Mia, she walks in the door.

“There you are!” Mia says to Comma. She bends down, opens her arms, and the beagle runs right to her. “I’ve been looking all over for you!” She smiles up at me. “You too!”

“Hey, I was just telling Hank about the amazing first date I’m planning for us!” I say. “Your heart is going to BURST when you see it! Are you free on Friday?”

“Sure!” Mia says, scooping Comma into her arms and standing up. “But I really don’t need anything fancy.”

“Too late! It’s going to be fancy!”

Mia laughs but frowns a little too. “I just spent so much on new paint for our house,” she says. “Plus I got all the printing costs for The Scoop—”

“Don’t worry! What I’m planning is going to be out of this world—and completely free.”

“Out of this world and completely free,” Mia repeats, giving me a funny look. “Not sure I believe it, but I like it!”

Before she leaves, she gets some papers out of her backpack and hands them to me.

“It’s an advance copy of The Scoop,” she explains, “with your letter!”

My face blooms like an apple Danish as I read my words in print. It’s the most amazing feeling ever!

But not nearly as amazing as it will be to see the surprise on Mia’s face when she walks into the Calivista on Friday night!

What is the most beautiful place I could take Mia, if I could take her anywhere?

That’s the question I ask myself over and over again the next few days. Strangely enough, the answer comes to me on Wednesday afternoon in social studies.

We’re learning about the Bund, the waterfront area by Shanghai’s Huangpu River, which is this beautiful long river in China. Back in the nineteenth and twentieth century, it was known as the “Paris of the East” when trade opened up in China, during a difficult period of fierce British imperialism. But Paris of the East! My restaurant’s name is East Meets West! Do you see the coincidence?!

I immediately get to work figuring out how to transform the motel into the iconic Bund riverfront. That’s when it hits me: the pool!

In order to make our small pool look like the Bund, I need a ton of floating candles and little glass jars to hold them. So after school I walk to Home Depot, where I go all out—I’m talking floating candles, lights for the trees, and flowers. I use almost all of what’s left of my Lunar New Year money. Then I stop by Staples and buy giant pieces of cardboard to paste my hand-drawn pictures of the famous buildings around the Bund.

Okay, maybe not exactly hand-drawn. Maybe I went to the library and just printed them out. But they look amazing!

By Thursday night, I’m admiring my gorgeous Shanghai skyline. The famous Oriental Pearl TV Tower stands handsomely next to the Shanghai World Financial Center by the pool, while the relaxing melody of Chinese bamboo flutes and erhus play from the CD player I brought outside.

The erhu music makes me really emotional. Before I met Mia, I didn’t know much about Chinese history. I was always too scared to ask, worried that the other kids in my class would make fun of me even more—they already wrinkled their noses at the chow mein I brought for lunch. I told myself the history of my people was boring, full of scary-looking dragons and emperors who wore funny-looking hats. Who even cared?

But then I met Mia and saw how much she cared. She never shied away from talking about her culture and heritage. From Mia, I learned that if you put all of China’s railroads together, they could loop around the Earth—twice. And the mortar used to bind the Great Wall of China’s stones is actually made of sticky rice!

Hearing Mia talk about her heritage makes me proud to be Taiwanese. I want to get to know my Asian roots, just like Mia. Dad and I are even talking about taking a trip to Taipei this summer. Maybe we’ll even stop over at the real Bund for a few days.

Which brings me to the main event of my date night plan—the scrumptious Chinese cuisines! I’m going to make a feast: roast duck with cranberry hoisin! Dumplings with crispy skirt! Five-spice prawn noodles! Honey salted chicken with bamboo! Smashed cucumber salad! Wood ear mushroom salad! And for dessert, sweet, sticky pumpkin tang yuan.

On Thursday night I dream of the Bund and the mind-blowing culinary experience we’re about to have. I might have blown through all my Lunar New Year money on the decorations, but it’ll be worth it just to see the look on Mia’s face as she steps into the pool and gets instantly transported.…

Just like she’s transported me.

By the time six o’clock rolls around on Friday night, I’m zipping back and forth from the pool to the kitchen, putting all the finishing touches to my magical evening—making sure the chopsticks don’t fly off my perfectly set table, the candles in the water are floating nicely, and the dumplings are fried golden brown—when Dad walks in.

“Wow! Look at this!” he exclaims, clapping. “This is perfect!”

I smile. “You like it? It’s supposed to be the Bund.”

“I don’t know what Bund you’re talking about, son. But this will do nicely for my new country club friends dining here tonight!”

“What?” I ask, confused. I immediately start shaking my head. “No, you can’t. Not here!”

“Why not? There’s plenty of space!” Dad says, immediately starting to rearrange the area by the pool. He moves one of my cardboard decorations aside and starts dragging over a table. “C’mon, we gotta make a good first impression! Do you have any idea how hard it was for me to get them to come after the stunt you pulled?”

For a minute I feel guilty, but then I think of Mia. “But you don’t understand! I’m supposed to be on a date—with Mia—our first date!”

“Well, I don’t know what to tell you,” Dad says. “They’re coming. And I fully expect you to make sure they’re happy, so they can write us recommendation letters!” Then he starts to drag another table over.

I glance at all my hard work, the million little details I put into making this night special.

“I’m not doing it!” I shout. “I worked really, really hard on this! It’s my first date!”

“Jason.” Dad gives me a look.

“Dad.”

We get into a long, intense staring contest, until my eyes start burning from all the candles and I finally buckle.

“I just wish you’d told me earlier,” I mutter, reluctantly walking over to him to set up the extra tables. “I had everything planned out!”

“Mia’s not even going to notice,” Dad insists. “It’s just three extra tables. You can handle it! I’ve seen you serve five times that number while carrying on a conversation with all your guests!”

“This isn’t a guest … it’s my girlfriend,” I remind him.

But Dad doesn’t hear me. He’s too busy running out the gate to greet the first guests from the country club. I take a deep breath and straighten out my tie. Maybe this won’t be so bad, I tell myself.

Just three other tables. They’re probably slow chewers, anyway.

And then I turn around and see Mia walk in.

Mia strolls into the pool, looking like an angel. She’s wearing a white silk dress with a bright, sequined belt. Her shiny hair is flowing and her eyes twinkle in all the floating lights. I feel my heart melt into sesame soup as I run to her.

“Good evening!” I greet her with a smile. “And welcome to Shanghai!”

“Jason … wow … I can’t believe you did this!” Mia says. “I haven’t been back to Shanghai since I was a kid!”

I chuckle. “Well, you’re back tonight. Let me give you a tour, madam,” I say formally, extending a hand. With my other hand tucked behind my back, I lead Mia on a tour, showing off all the exquisite buildings I printed out and my impressive knowledge of Chinese history. “And over there, you have the Oriental Pearl Radio and TV Tower, where esteemed journalists such as yourself would broadcast news!”

Mia grins at me.

“I love how the giant spheres remind me of a Tang dynasty poem,” I say, trying to sound smarter than I am.

“Tang dynasty poem?” Mia asks.

I clear my throat. “Yeah, you know the one, about the guy and the girl in a motel, who met and became friends, and lived happily ever after,” I say shyly. “You look beautiful, by the way.”

Mia blushes.

“What else did they write about?” she asks, swaying to the music.

“Oh, lots of things! They wrote about how the guy will become a Michelin-starred chef,” I tell her. “They were very clarinet.”

“You mean clairvoyant?” Mia asks.

“Yeah, that too.” My cheeks feel hot. Vocabulary was never my strong suit.

“Did they say anything about a certain student newspaper?” she asks.

“As a matter of fact, they did! They said it’s going to be the most popular newspaper in Anaheim! Because it has the most dedicated editor on both sides of the Pacific!”

Mia laughs. “I’ve been writing all afternoon—I’m starving!”

“Well, sit down,” I say, leading her to a table. “Wait till you see the feast I’ve cooked up for you.”

Mia rubs her hands together. But before she sits down, she says, “I really love those pictures!”

“I … uh … I drew them myself!” I don’t know why I said that. It just slipped out.

“You drew them, really?” she asks, her eyes widening. “Wow! Tang poetry, sketching? I had no idea you had all these hidden talents!”

“Oh, there’s a lot about me you don’t know!” I blurt out.

“Like what?” Mia asks, taking a seat.

I immediately grab a menu and thrust it at her. “Here, see the food I’ve prepared! It’s—”

Before I can finish my sentence, the pool gates open and in walks Dad with three white couples in their fifties. I glance at the women’s bouncy, permed hair. They all look like fancy birds, while the men look like boring pasta in their khaki pants and polo shirts. I sigh.

“Sorry,” I say to Mia. “I just gotta go seat these people.… I’ll be back real quick!”

“Oh!” She glances over at the golfers, confused. “Okay!”

I walk quickly over toward the couples and introduce myself. They tell me they are Mr. and Mrs. Quinn, Mr. and Mrs. Astor, and Mr. and Mrs. Beckett. Dad leans over and whispers, “Make sure they’re happy!” as I grab six menus and start leading them toward the various tables spread out across the pool.

“This is beautiful!” Mrs. Quinn says. “I feel like we’re in Venice!”

“Shanghai,” I correct her. “You’re supposed to feel like you’re in Shanghai!”

“You remember that time we went to Venice with your mother?” Mrs. Quinn asks Mr. Quinn. “And she didn’t like the gelato, so she tried to return it?”

I start having a coughing fit.

“As she should!” Mr. Quinn says, sitting down across from his wife. “We all have standards! Why should she be forced to pay for something she doesn’t enjoy? Wouldn’t you agree, son?” He looks up at me.

I chuckle nervously. “Why don’t I give you guys a few minutes to decide … carefully.”

I hand them the menus and bolt toward the next table as fast as I can.

“It’s all your fault, Norman,” Mrs. Astor is saying to her husband. “If you hadn’t snored like a weasel, I wouldn’t have this splitting headache!”

I glance at Mr. Astor, feeling bad for him.

“All you need is some food, my darling,” he says. “Here, let’s get some appetizers.” He takes the menu from me and starts reading it. “We’ll have this … smashed cucumber salad.”

“I don’t want something smashed !” Mrs. Astor says, holding her head dramatically.

“It’s just cucumbers chopped and mixed with zingy dressing, garlic, and cilantro,” I quickly say. “I assure you, it’s a great dish! Light and refreshing!”

“Well, it sounds utterly violent,” Mrs. Astor says, turning back to her husband. “I thought you said this was an upscale establishment.”

“It is upscale!” I insist. I gesture at all the beautiful candles floating in the pool and the lovely flowers I painstakingly put up everywhere.

“Chopped cucumbers do not sound upscale!” Mrs. Astor frowns. “I could make that at home for free!”

Mr. Astor gives me an apologetic look and mouths, She’s just hangry. He points to the menu and says, “Why don’t we get the dumplings with crispy skirt?”

“Dumplings with what? Are they dancing?” Mrs. Astor laughs.

I turn beet red. “They’re just fried dumplings! I thought it would be fun to describe it like that on the menu for my girlfriend. She’s a writer.” I point to Mia. Mia’s no longer looking at the menu. She has her hands folded over it and is waiting patiently for me.

“Don’t you have any crab cakes or shrimp cocktail?” Mrs. Astor asks. “Something normal?”

I dart my eyes back at her. Whoa, whoa, whoa, did she just say normal? Oh, that is NOT cool.

“Ummm, actually, ma’am, the theme of this dinner that you just walked in on is supposed to be traditional Chinese,” I say. “And all the items on this menu are quite normal—”

“Then why don’t you have crab rangoon? Or sweet and sour chicken?” Mrs. Astor asks, blinking at me in confusion.

I am this close to grabbing a poster, writing PANDA EXPRESS on it, and asking her if that looks like where she’s eating tonight. But then I see Dad, standing right by the pool, peering at me. The last thing I need is for him to see me lose my temper again. I gaze over at my girlfriend, waiting patiently. The fastest way I can get back to her is to just give these people what they want.

“One sweet and sour chicken, coming right up,” I say with a tight smile.

I race over to the final table—where thankfully no one is a hassle—then to the kitchen, where I beg Hank to help me serve so I can eat with Mia.

“Sorry, kid, I wish I could, but look at the main dining room tonight,” Hank says, gesturing to the tables inside. “It’s a full house.”

I hustle back to the pool area and plant my butt down next to Mia, hoping I didn’t miss anything.

“So where were we?” I ask, smiling.

“I was just admiring the menu,” Mia says, pointing at the wood ear mushroom salad. “How’d you know I love wood ear! My grandmother used to make it for me all the time. In Chinese, it’s called mu er—”

“Mu er, I know!” I repeat in Mandarin, thrilled Mia appreciates my traditional Chinese dishes … unlike some people. “It grows on the bark of elder trees!”

“Yeah!” Mia grins.

“And it’s super crunchy too! Not like any other mushroom.”

“I remember the first time we found it in America, at the Asian grocery store. I was so happy, I screamed right there in the aisle, I’VE MISSED YOU, WOOD EAR!”

I laugh. But before I can ask Mia how her grandmother used to make it, Mr. Quinn raises his hand and calls out, “Waiter!”

Maybe I can just ignore him.

“So, tell me more about the foods you used to eat in China,” I say to Mia.

Then I hear a sharp cough from the pool gate. There’s Dad, pointing over at Mr. and Mrs. Quinn’s table. I get up reluctantly.

“You know what? Hold that thought. I’m gonna go and put in your wood ear order right now,” I tell Mia. “Anything else you want?”

“Um, yeah!” She glances at the menu. “It all looks so good! I can’t decide!”

“I’ll just get you one of everything! That way you don’t have to decide!” I say, sprinting over to the Quinns’ table.

“All right, what can I get you two?” I ask.

“First of all,” Mr. Quinn says, “you can bring us some water. In two chilled glasses. We don’t want ice cubes. We just want water in a chilled glass. The glass has to be very cold, like it’s been sitting in the fridge for this whole day. But not like it’s been sitting in there overnight.”

“Oh … kay,” I say. “So just cold water, then?”

“No, not just cold water,” he snaps. “Are you listening?”

“Sorry. Water in a chilled glass, got it.” I glance over to the kitchen. I wish I had three bodies—one to take orders, another to run over and stick his precious glass in the fridge, and a third one so I could ignore all these people and actually go on my date!

“Next we want to start with the sweet, sticky pumpkin tang yuan,” Mr. Quinn goes on.

“That’s a dessert, sir,” I explain.

“Yes, I’m aware. But we want it as an appetizer. And we don’t want it sweet or sticky. We want it light and creamy. Almost like a spread on toast.”

“So you want … pumpkin-flavored butter?” I ask, trying to hide my annoyance. This is now the second time this evening someone’s trying to change my menu. And not for the better!

“More like a dip,” he says.

“Like hummus?” I ask.

“Like a pumpkin maple bacon spread.”

“But maple’s sweet,” I point out. “You said not sweet.”

“Maple actually can be varying degrees of sweet depending on when it’s collected. For instance …” As he launches into a long, boring lecture on the history of maple syrup, I roll my eyes.

“Okay, got it! Maple bacon, but not sweet! What about for your main course?”

“I would like to try the five-spice prawn noodles,” Mr. Quinn says. “And my wife here …”

“I’ll have the duck.”

“Excellent!” I say, spinning around. But before I can get away, Mr. Quinn taps me on my elbow. I cringe, already predicting the question he’s about to ask me.

“What exactly are the five spices?” he asks. “Can you walk me through your thought process with each one? And could there be substitutions?”

I fight the urge to plunge headfirst into the candlelit pool.

Thirty-five minutes later, I’m in the kitchen, trying to simultaneously save Mrs. Astor’s sweet and sour chicken from burning and find the cranberry sauce for Mia’s duck when Dad barks at me to add more nutmeg to Mr. Quinn’s five-spice noodles.

“I already put in nutmeg!” I say in my defense. I can’t think of a more ridiculous spice to add to noodles, but I didn’t have the time or energy to argue with Mr. Quinn.

“Well, it’s not enough!” Dad calls out, stomping back outside. “He wants more! Just give the guy what he wants. Our club membership is riding on it!”

As I dump even more nutmeg onto the noodles, which are already so covered in nutmeg I’m struggling not to sneeze, I see Mia walking into the kitchen.

“Hey, I think I’m going to head out.…” she says.

“What?” I ask, putting the spice jar down. She can’t leave now! We haven’t even had dessert.

The reality that despite my best efforts, my first date is a sinking disaster comes crashing in. “Nooo, please stay. You gotta taste the dessert! I made it especially for you!”

“But you’re clearly busy,” Mia says. “And that’s fine. I totally understand. I’ve got more advice columns to write anyway.”

“No, no, I’m not busy!” I insist, wiping my hands and taking off my apron. I glance at Hank. “Hank, can you help me out here? Just dump all this nutmeg in there and take this out to Mr. Astor!”

Hank glances at his own stack of orders but nods. “Course.”

“Nutmeg? In noodles?” Mia gives me a funny look. “It’s not like you, Jason, to change your dishes just because of what a few customers say.”

I look down. She’s right, of course.

“They’re not regular customers.…” I start.

“Who are they?” Mia asks.

I grab two bowls of the pumpkin tang yuan as we make our way out of the kitchen. Hopefully once Mia tastes this, it’ll be easier to stomach the offensiveness of these golfers crashing our date.

We get back outside. I see Hank coming out and giving Mr. Quinn his nutmeg-gone-wild noodles. Mia and I sit down. I smile as she takes a bite of the tang yuan.

“Oh, wow,” Mia says, closing her eyes. “That is unreal.”

I beam. As I wait for Mia to say more about the sugary, sweet pumpkin-filled glutinous rice balls, which I learned to make while we were in Chinatown, San Francisco, I hear an urgent squeal from the table next to us. I turn around. Mr. Quinn is sticking out his tongue and gasping, like he ate something incredibly hot.

“Water!” he exclaims, his whole face beet red as he points at his mouth and gestures that his glass is empty. “I need water!”

Mrs. Quinn cries out, “How much nutmeg did you put in this thing? It smells like an oatmeal cookie!”

“Well, you wanted it!” I say, immediately grabbing my own water glass and walking over to them. When it’s clear Mr. Quinn is not choking or anything, he’s just extremely over-nutmegged, I hand him my water. “Here, drink this!”

He shakes his head violently, sticking out his tongue.

“No! I need it in a chilled glass!” he insists.

OMG. I roll my eyes. Meanwhile, Mrs. Quinn continues to scold me.

“What were you thinking, putting that much nutmeg in there?” Mrs. Quinn demands. “You know what happens if you overdo it with nutmeg? You could turn orange!”

“You’re thinking carrots,” I correct her. “And he’d have to eat like ten carrots a day for weeks.”

As we’re arguing over carrots and nutmeg and Mr. Quinn is fanning his tongue, Mia walks over. She puts a gentle hand on my shoulder.

“I’m going to go,” she says.

My eyes dart from Mr. Quinn to my girlfriend. “No, please don’t!” Desperately, I turn back to Mr. Quinn, pleading, “Just drink this water, will you?!”

“Not unless it’s CHILLED!” he insists, pressing his lips together.

“You better go,” Mia says. She walks back over to our table and picks up her purse.

“But—”

“We can do our date another time. It’s fine,” Mia says. But even as she insists it’s fine, I take in her sad eyes. The corners of her mouth are tucked downward as she waves at me. This was not how my night on the Bund was supposed to go.

I messed up.

Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t deliver the first date that Mia deserves.

I stomp to the kitchen to get Mr. Quinn his chilled water glass, feeling like a loser of a boyfriend and fighting back the tears in my eyes.

I let Dad have it when we finally get home that night.

“Thanks a lot!” I say as I barge into his study. “You ruined my perfect first date!”

Dad’s on the phone. He gestures for me to quiet down.

“No, no, of course we understand. I know it’s a lot to ask after just one dinner,” Dad says, frowning. “We’ll just have to … keep getting to know each other. No, it’s fine, Jim. I’m glad you had a nice time with your wife.”

“Who’s that? One of the country club people?” I ask, rushing over to scream into the phone. “Hey, pal, you ruined my date!”

Dad hangs up the phone. “Jason! What’s wrong with you?”

“Well, they did!” I say.

“If it makes you happy, they won’t write us a letter, even after all that.”

“Good! I don’t want to be part of their club anyway.” I mimic Mr. Quinn’s voice and say, “Get me more chilled water, Jason! I don’t want ice! I just want everything I touch to be magically cold! Like I’m a frosted polar bear!”

“Hey, don’t get smart!” Dad warns.

“I’m not getting smart. I did exactly what you asked! And my date got totally ruined!”

“And that’s supposed to be my fault?” Dad asks, his voice rising.

“Dad, you sprang those people on me at the last minute! I had this whole night planned for days, every detail! I spent all my savings! It was supposed to be perfect! I had the candles, the lights, the flowers—everything! Until you threw in a bunch of mean country club people and told me to serve them!”

“It would have been fine if you understood how to balance,” Dad insists.

WHAT?! I gawk at Dad. This is evidently my fault now?

“Work and school should always come first, you know that!” he goes on. “The right thing to do would have been to cancel your date—”

“How is that the right thing to do?!”

Mom comes in with Wealthy. They both look alarmed. “What’s all this yelling?” Mom asks.

I tell her how my epic first date turned into a soggy nutmeg mess.

“Oh, sweetie, I’m sure it wasn’t ruined,” Mom offers, patting my back.

“Mia didn’t even eat the whole dessert,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. “Do you know how hard it is to make tang yuan? It takes hours, and the whole time I had to resist gulping it all down! I just wanted to share it with her—tang yuan’s supposed to be shared! That’s why it’s called yuan—I looked it up!”

Mom pulls me in for a hug. I try to wriggle away from her, because it’s weird to still get hugged by your mom when you’re thirteen. But also, I kind of like it. So we end up half hugging, like there’s a giant watermelon between us.

As she tries to comfort me, I hear Dad say, “What’d I tell you? The boy can’t handle having a girlfriend. He’s way too emotional!”

“I am NOT too emotional,” I shout back as the corners of my eyes get stickier and stickier. “I am just the right amount of emotional!”

That night, Mom comes into my room.

Wealthy and I are already in bed. I’m reading manga but really, I’m staring at the phone, hoping Mia calls me. I want to call her, but I’m worried she’s already asleep. And I really don’t know how to explain what happened tonight.

Why’d I serve those people? Why couldn’t I just say no to Dad?

“Hey, buddy,” Mom says, sitting next to me on the bed. “You all right?”

I put the manga down.

“I worked so hard. I got floating candles! I lit every single one of them and didn’t even burn off a finger!” I hold up my hands.

“And I’m sure Mia appreciated all of it,” Mom says, guiding my hands back down and looking into my eyes.

I shake my head. I’m not sure of anything.

“She probably thinks I didn’t care about the date,” I mumble. “That it was just a regular work night for me. But it wasn’t like that!”

Mom gives my hands a squeeze. “Let me tell you something about girls. We notice everything, okay? When you’re trying hard. When you’re not. When you go the extra mile to make us feel special. We always notice.”

I blink hopefully up at her.

“Really?” I ask.

Mom nods. “Oh, yeah. Especially something so big like transforming the Calivista into Shanghai! My God, if someone did that for me? I’m still thinking about the time your father actually planned something for my birthday, instead of just asking me what I wanted.” She chuckles. “And that was just dinner and dancing!”

I stare at Mom, thoroughly unable to speak. Excuse me … Dad dancing? Mom stares at me like, What? “Sorry, I’m still … trying to imagine it,” I tell her.

“It was very memorable,” Mom says.

“Are we talking the tango?” I ask.

“Hip-hop,” Mom answers.

My eyebrows fly straight up.

“My point is, she appreciates the great lengths you went to make everything special for her tonight, I promise.”

“Then why’d she leave?”

“Because she had to work too, right? She had an obligation to her newspaper. Just like you had obligations to those other diners. I agree that your father should have given you more notice, but he’s not wrong that you have to learn how to balance.”

“I do know how to balance,” I insist, even as my stomach groans. Clearly I don’t, or I would’ve made sure I ate tonight too, instead of gulping down a whole tummy full of hot air.

“You’ve got a lot on your plate,” Mom says gently. “School, and the restaurant. All of which you care deeply about. Adding this new relationship with Mia, it’s going to be tricky.” She pats my hand. “But I have confidence you’ll figure it out. Just like you figured out how to turn the pool into a floating metropolis.”

When she wraps her arms around me, I give her a real hug back, not just a watermelon half hug.

And after Mom leaves, I crawl out of bed and walk over to my desk. I get out a pen and a piece of paper. Under the white-gold, dimpled moon, I write a real advice letter to Mia.

Dear Mia,

Do you have this exploding feeling in your chest too?

Like your rib cage might actually combust?

That’s how I felt when I saw you at the pool tonight. The light of the floating candles caught your twinkling eyes, and for a second, I felt like I was in Shanghai with you. And I know if I was actually walking along the Bund, I wouldn’t be staring at the buildings. I’d be looking at you.

I know I should shut up. I know it’s probably way too mushy. And boys aren’t supposed to be mushy. I’m supposed to be cool.

But the truth is, I’m not that cool.

You’re the coolest thing that’s ever happened to me. And the thought that I messed up our first date already … it makes me want to melt. Not in a caramel over popcorn way, but in an ice cream turned into soup way.

Why am I telling you all this? Because my parents say I gotta do a better job at balancing. But I don’t know how. How do you balance when someone is your whole world? When they make the worst part of your day better, and the best part of your day even better? That’s what I need your advice on. Because I can’t find a way. I’ve tried. I want to get there but I don’t know how.

How can I balance when you’re my whole world?

Love,

Jason

I stuff the letter in my backpack and crawl back into bed, dreaming of actually giving it to Mia. If I did … what would she say?

On Monday, I walk up to Mia at school, clutching the straps of my backpack with both hands like it’s a life vest.

“Hey!” Mia says brightly. She gives me a smile that calms the flutters in my chest. “So did that guy ever get his water? Was he okay?”

“Who, Mr. Quinn? Oh, yeah, he drank like a seal!” I say.

Mia chuckles.

“Then he asked for more nutmeg,” I add.

Mia laughs so hard, she snorts, and it makes me feel so great. She’s not mad at me. We’re good! We’re joking around, like normal. It transports me back to the days when I felt I could tell her anything, and I wonder if I should give her my letter.

“Well, it was a good thing I went home, because right after I got there, a piece of our newly painted ceiling fell down! Landed smack on my dad’s nose as he was getting ready for bed!”

“Are you serious?”

She nods, looking really upset. “We’re starting to think maybe it’s not the paint. Maybe it’s the roof! Maybe they sold us a house with a bad roof!”

I feel my inner volcano activating. “If they did, we’re not going to let them get away with it. That’s totally uncool, and I’m pretty sure it’s illegal too. We’ll sue them to high heaven!”

Mia gives me a lopsided, sad smile.

“You know who we should talk to?” I go on. “My mom.”

“Thanks for saying we,” Mia whispers.

My heart flutters in my chest. Ever so quietly, I start unzipping my backpack. Of course we’re a “we,” and I have just the letter to prove it. But before I can give it to her, Mia keeps talking.

“Sorry I just left like that. I wanted to stay, but I just … I had to get all the advice columns done. I hope you weren’t too disappointed.”

My fingers freeze where they are, half inside my backpack.

“No, of course not,” I say.

“That’s what’s so great about you.” Mia smiles. “You get it. You know all the things I have to do, and you’re so supportive and cool about everything.”

I nod vigorously. “Totally,” I say, zipping my bag up tight. Glad I didn’t show her that letter, PHEW. I smile. “But I will be requesting a redo for our first date! And this time I promise, I’m not letting a bunch of old people crash it!”

“Who were they, anyway?” Mia asks.

I open my mouth to say, They’re rich golfers my dad’s trying to impress so we can belong to a super fancy country club, but that just sounds so cringe, considering Mia and her parents are literally worried about the roof over their heads. So instead, I say the first thing I can think of.

“They’re judges,” I blurt out. “For the Michelin star.”

Mia’s eyes go round.

“What?!” Her hands fly to her mouth and she starts jumping up and down, shrieking uncontrollably. “JASON! Why didn’t you tell me!? No wonder you were running around, trying to please them! Oh my God, Jason! This is HUGE!”

I blush, soaking in her pride. It feels terrible, getting all this attention when I haven’t exactly earned it. But it also feels kind of good? Like I don’t want to ever go back now that I’ve seen the look of total gushing pride on her face?

“Guys, you’re not going to believe it!” Mia starts stopping random people in the schoolyard and saying, “My boyfriend, Jason, is a Michelin-starred chef!”

“No, I’m not!” I blurt out to everyone. “Not yet. Almost!”

“My boyfriend, Jason, is an almost-Michelin-starred chef!” Mia proclaims loudly.

Hearing Mia put it like that, I suck in a deep breath. Then she puts both her hands on my shoulders and looks me square in the eye. “I have no doubt. They’d be out of their minds not to give it to you. You are a Michelin-star chef.”

My eyes water at her conviction. I know I should probably open my mouth and correct her, but I just want to feel what it’s like to actually be the guy who’s reflecting back in her eyes … a guy brimming with potential, who’s not insecure at all, who’s a winner … a guy who ACTUALLY deserves Mia.

The feeling is so addictive that I can’t let it go.

Dad picks me up after school, and as soon as I see his khaki pants and avocado-colored polo shirt, I close my eyes with dread.

“We’re just going to stop by the club for a second!” he says. “I’m going to drop off these coupons for the members, and you can get a strawberry limeade, doesn’t that sound good?”

I grab the coupons he printed out and read:

Special offer to Anaheim Country Club members!

Have a relative in town? Come down to the Calivista and we’ll give you 25% off your stay! Enjoy our poolside restaurant, excellent concierge services, and in-room dining!

“Concierge services? In-room dining?” I ask Dad. “We don’t have those!”

“We do now!” Dad turns and pats my shoulder. “I have faith in you.”

“Me?” I throw a hand to my chest. He’s kidding, right? “But I already have the restaurant. Which is packed, if you haven’t noticed! And Mia! And school!”

“It’s only until we get the recommendation letters we need,” Dad says. “You can handle helping with people’s luggage. That’s all it’s going to be! Nothing to it!”

I shake my head, wishing Dad would wake the nutmeg up!

“Uhhh, if they’re people who are related to the people who came by the other day, it’s not nothing. How am I supposed to spend time with Mia when I’m running around serving everyone in the motel and in the restaurant? And doing in-room dining service too, apparently?”

And what am I going to tell Mia? They can’t ALL be judges, can they?

“You’ll be fine!” Dad says with a wave of his hand. Then as he drives, he shares his bright idea for how I can learn balancing all my responsibilities: “I want you to watch the servers in the dining room when we get to the club today. You’re going to study them. See how they work. How they multitask. Most importantly, how they handle stress.”

“It’s three o’clock in the afternoon,” I remind him. “The dining room’s going to be empty.”

“Not true! This is when all the kids come in, right after school, and get a snack,” Dad says, smiling. “Maybe you’ll even see some kids you know!”

As he steps on the gas, I gaze down at my blue cargo shorts and my Ghostbusters shirt. The ghost on the shirt looks disturbingly dough-boy-like. If I’d known we’d be visiting the lair of Miles and Buzz again, I would have picked a different shirt. And possibly some armor!

We arrive at the country club, where, to my surprise, Mom is waiting for us by the entrance. She’s in a snazzy tweed blazer and skirt and smiling at me under her big sun hat.

“They’re having some sort of ice cream social in the main dining room, Jason!” she says. “C’mon, you want to join them?”

I shake my head. “Not particularly.”

“It’s a make-your-own-ice-cream-sundae kind of thing,” she urges. “With hot fudge and maraschino cherries!”

My stomach nods noisily, and I struggle to stand firm.

“Of course he’s joining,” Dad says, walking over. “We’re all joining. We’re not leaving until we find five nice people we can give these coupons to!”

He shows Mom his brand-new coupons. Mom reads the words, still smiling.

“Thanks for making these,” she says, walking up the steps. I follow my parents reluctantly. “Wish they didn’t have such a strict rule. Five recommendation letters. How are we ever going to get there?”

“And only from members!” Dad shakes his head. “If I could get them from anyone, why, I’d have …” He pauses, trying to count on his hand.

I look over, amused. “How many would you have, Dad?”

“Yeah, Michael,” Mom adds. My dad’s reputation for being difficult to work with, back in the day, is a well-known fact. Just a few years ago, it was not uncommon for him to insist that his motel managers stay up late at night to check people in, or clean thirty rooms a day—by themselves.

“I mean, there’s my hairstylist, that’s one,” Dad says, pointing to his bald head. “He hardly has to do anything. Easiest fifty bucks a month he makes!”

Mom laughs. “Okay, but we’re not talking about your vendors. We’re talking about your colleagues, your employees.”

“Well …” Dad pauses, thinking. “The Tangs, for sure. They’d write me a recommendation letter. And Hank, maybe? That’s another.”

“Hank?” I’m about to laugh and remind Dad how horribly he treated Hank when he first got to the motel, when Dad says something that makes my blood run cold.

“And maybe the Chus, from the Sleepy Breezy? Wonder what they’re up to.”

I feel my mouth go dry.

“They were a sweet family,” Mom agrees. “They had that little boy, right? What was his name?”

“It started with a T,” Dad says. “Little Tim?”

“Little Tao,” I blurt out.

“That’s it!” Mom says. “And why did they leave? I can’t remember.”

“There was an issue with the cash register, I think,” Dad says.

I give him a funny look. That’s how he remembers it?

But I am not about to keep poking the memory, so I change the subject. “Uhh, Mom, speaking of the Tangs? You know they just bought that house? They’re having some problems with their roof. You think you can go over there and see it sometime?”

“Problems with their roof already?”

I nod.

Mom makes a regretful noise through her teeth. “That’s not good. Sure, I’ll stop over this week. Let’s hope they got a roof inspection before the sale!”

Mom opens the door to the club’s dining room. The heavenly smell of fudge greets me, and I lick my lips at the sight of the glorious ice cream bar. All those gooey toppings! I look around and exhale in relief when I see the line of people waiting are mostly fifth and sixth graders with their parents.

Maybe this will be okay.

As Mom walks over to talk to a set of parents, I get in line. I mean, what are the chances Miles and Buzz come in?

I’m still thinking that when I’ve gotten myself an ice cream sundae with caramel, peanut M&M’S, crumbled Oreo cookies, and Froot Loops. (Yes, Froot Loops—you’d be surprised what the crunchiness of cereal will do to an ice cream sundae. We’re talking fireworks in the brain!)

I’m in the middle of dreaming up more fire toppings combos when the dining room door opens again and it’s like an actual bomb explodes. A stampede of boys my age walk in, and the thought that Miles and Buzz are somewhere in that pack makes me so dizzy, I instantly bolt out of line.

I run toward a set of steel double doors, to the only place I know they’ll never go. The one place I’ll be safe.

The kitchen.

Squeezing by the army of workers chopping up more toppings, I find a spot to hide out in the back.

I keep quiet as the kitchen staff go in and out of a walk-in freezer, I presume to get more ice cream. Next to it is a large walk-in fridge. And behind that is a washing station. I watch as the assembly line of busboys work. I seriously consider joining them—should I be helpful?—when I suddenly recognize one of the busboys. Is that … Lucas?

Lucas works here?

I shuffle closer to the sink. I’m hovering by the walk-in fridge, hanging on to the handle, when Lucas turns around. I instinctively open the fridge and throw myself inside.

It’s only when the door closes behind me and I spin around, my breath frosting in the air, that I realize … I just locked myself inside a fridge.

“Help!” I cry, trying to get the door to open. Unfortunately, the latch is jammed. It’s also one of those industrial-strength fridges that are completely soundproof. I know because I’ve been eying one just like it for East Meets West.

Well, that was stupid.

Teeth chattering, I rub my arms and walk around to keep warm. “Don’t look at me like that!” I say to the rows of refrigerated salmon staring at me. “I didn’t know it was going to close all the way!”

Shivering, I lean against one of the walls, still talking to the salmon.

“I don’t know why I didn’t run out the back door, okay? I just panicked. You think Lucas Steelman saw me?”

I shake my head, answering my own question.

“Course he didn’t. Boys never see me. Well, great. I’m so good at being invisible, now I’m going to suffocate in three hours. They’re going to find me in here and wonder if I’m part of a dish! It’s going to say DIED TRYING TO BE HERB-CRUSTED SALMON on my tombstone!”

The salmon do not look happy with this description.

“I’m sorry.” My face softens. “I didn’t mean to offend you. There’s nothing wrong with being herb-crusted salmon. It’s absolutely delicious.”

My teeth chatter some more as I run my hands up and down my bare arms so I don’t get frostbite. I can already feel my nose going numb.

“But seriously, I can’t die right now. I just got a girlfriend. My life just got good.”

Gingerly, I pick up one of the plastic-wrapped salmon and hold it up to my face.

“I haven’t even gone on a real first date yet. I haven’t even been kissed,” I wail, blinking rapidly. My lips are almost too frozen to talk anymore.

Suddenly, I think about that chilly winter night, years ago, when I sort of kissed Mia, but it was all wrong, because I didn’t ask for her consent. I just went for it. And she got so mad, she almost never spoke to me again. I felt terrible. I honestly don’t even remember the kiss anymore. As I’m pouring my guts out to the salmon about my kissing woes, all while trying not to stare at his mouth—I SWEAR I am not thinking of kissing a salmon! I AM NOT! I swear!—the fridge door swings open. One look at Lucas’s face, and I immediately drop the fish.

Stumbling out of the freezer, I gasp for air and rub the frost off my eyebrows.

“Jason?” Lucas asks. “What are you doing in the fridge?”

“I was just … looking for the bathroom.”

“In a fridge?”

“I have a … condition,” I say.

He gives me a funny look. “Is that why you were talking to a fish?”

“I was not!” I insist, slowly moving through the kitchen on my numb legs. When I finally reach the back door, I push outside. Ahhhhhh. I sit down on the ground, letting my arms and legs bake in the sunshine.

Lucas follows me out. He takes off his apron slowly and squats next to me.

“So here’s the deal. You can’t tell anyone that I work here,” he says quietly.

I blink up at him, surprised he’s worried what I might say.

“Of course not,” I promise. “I would never!”

“Not even Mia,” he says. I zip my lips, promising I won’t. “I’m not even here that often. It’s just … on Mondays. And Wednesdays. And Fridays. And the weekends.”

“Hey, it’s cool,” I tell him. “You’re looking at someone who has a restaurant too!”

“I don’t have a restaurant,” he corrects me. “I just wash the dishes here.”

Duh. What a privileged thing for me to say.

“And it’s not like I’m going to do it forever,” Lucas continues. “It’s just so my mom doesn’t have to get a second job, so she can study for her dental assistant certificate. As soon as she passes that thing, I’m out of here!”

I’m stunned. This is WAY more than I ever thought Lucas would tell me, and WAY cooler than anything I’ve ever heard about him in school. But I don’t exactly know how to react, so I just say, “Word.”

“What about you? What are you doing here?” he asks.

I try to think of something equally inspiring and noble, but because I’m sick of lying and I almost just kissed a fish, I decide on the truth.

“My parents are trying to be members. I know it’s totally lame.”

“That’s not totally lame.”

“It is. I don’t even feel comfortable standing out there in the dining room, which is why I was in the kitchen.”

“The folks here aren’t all bad, you know,” Lucas says, chuckling. “Just ’cause they’re loaded.”

I glance at him slowly. Is he just saying that for my benefit?

“Some of them are actually quite nice,” he continues. He laughs at my serious, worried face. “I’m telling you!”

“Like who?” I ask.

“Like these kids who play foosball with me in the rec room sometimes. And Mr. Gary, who’s always recommending books to me. And Roxanne.” His eyes get all dreamy when he says her name.

“Who’s Roxanne?” I ask.

Lucas sucks in air, like it’s hard to breathe, and I know just the feeling. Before he can elaborate about her, though, I hear my name.

“Jason?” Mom calls from the steps of the main entrance, just around the corner from the back alley of the kitchen.

I jump up. “I gotta go before my mom sends a search party for me.” I thrust my hand forward; it seems like the thing to do. “Great seeing you, Lucas!”

Lucas gazes at my hand, then shakes it.

“Don’t give up on this place!” Lucas says, waving as I run.

I turn around. “Oh, and do me a favor? Don’t tell Mia about my family trying to be members here?”

“Your secret’s safe with me, bro!”

“Thank you, bro!” I call back. “Nice talking to you, bro!”

As Lucas heads back to the kitchen, I skip back to my parents, on cloud nine. I can’t believe it! I double bro’ed him, and he didn’t even mind!

I get to the bottom of the front steps and thank the heavens for my incredible twist of luck. Thank you, fridge! Thank you, salmon!

Sometimes the best things in life are worth freezing your butt off!

Mom and Dad can’t stop gushing about the country club the whole way home.

“Did you see the glasses they used for the ice cream?” Dad asks me. “And the little gold spoons?”

“And the view!” Mom says. “My goodness! I could get used to that! And one of the moms I talked to, she’s thinking about selling their house!” She beams. “I gave her my number!”

“Good!” Dad says. “Taking advantage of all the new business connections is half the reason we’re joining. The guy I was talking to said that he owned boutique hotels in Palm Springs. What if we expanded to the desert?”

Finally, Mom turns to me. “Jason? What did you think? Where’d you disappear to, anyway?”

“I … er … bumped into a friend.”

I get a secret thrill, saying the words. I still can’t believe Lucas and I talked. And not just, Hey, your face looks like a squashed bug. We actually talked. About real stuff. He told me about his life. DETAILS. He asked me to keep them private. We have a SECRET. We shared secrets! We CONNECTED! I wonder if that means I’ll have a new friend to sit next to at lunch. I love sitting with Mia, but sometimes when she and Lupe start going down a Baby-Sitters Club spiral, I don’t know how to weigh in on Claudia’s outfits.

Dad beams. “A friend! See, what’d I tell ya? This place is fabulous.”

“I hope giving them those steep discounts on rooms will work!” Mom says, crossing her fingers.

“And if it doesn’t, I have a couple of other ideas,” Dad says.

I’m too distracted by the sign for Maple Hills, the small, gated community where Mia’s new house is, to ask Dad about his other ideas. Instead, I point out the window.

“Mom!” I exclaim. “Can we just stop by Mia’s house for a second? So you can see about her roof?”

And so I can ask Mia if she minds if I sit next to Lucas at lunch. Just some of the time. If he’ll let me.

“Are you sure they’re going to be home?” Mom asks, glancing at her watch. “They’re probably back at the motel, working.”

“Oh, yeah,” I say. “But her mom might be home.”

Mia’s mom is a math teacher at the high school. According to Mia, Mrs. Tang goes home after school to get her grading done.

“All right, let’s do it,” Mom says.

Before she reaches the gate, though, I yelp, “Wait! Pull over here!”

I’ve spotted some purple daffodils by the side of the road, so when Mom stops, I hop out to make Mia a bouquet. First romantic suggestion, done! As I climb back inside the car with my flowers, Mom puts a hand on her chest.

“Awwww, that’s so sweet.” She turns to Dad. “I’m loving this thoughtful side of our son, hint hint.”

“You want flowers?” Dad asks. “I’ll get you the biggest bouquet of roses. You want red? Pink?”

“No, I don’t need flowers.” Mom shakes her head. “But it would be nice if you’d pick up Wealthy’s medication at the vet, so I don’t have to do it.”

Dad makes a regretful face. “The vet? But isn’t that all the way in Irvine?”

“Forget it,” Mom says, rolling her eyes. “It’s fine. I’ll get the medicine.” Pointing at Maple Hills, she says, “Let’s hope the Tangs are home.”

Just as I predicted, Mrs. Tang is in her kitchen, grading papers. We wave at her through the window next to their front door.

“What a surprise!” Mrs. Tang says, letting us in. “Were you guys in the neighborhood?”

“Yes, we thought we’d stop by!” Dad says.

“I brought flowers for Mia!” I add, holding my daffodils up.

“Oh, how nice of you. You can put them in her room, it’s just upstairs,” Mrs. Tang says.

We remove our shoes and walk inside. I love the Tangs’ cozy living room, with its huge windows and high walls, taller than the rest of the house. It’s sparsely furnished but every corner is filled with love—the walls are adorned with pictures of the three of them at the motel, framed copies of newspapers with Mia’s stories, and maps of places they’ve been to. A fuzzy blanket is tucked over a basket in the corner for Comma.

“This is a beautiful home,” Mom compliments Mrs. Tang.

“Thank you,” Mrs. Tang says, blushing. “It’s my first house, so I want to make it extra nice.”

She tells Mom how she got most of the items from Ross on sale, to which Mom replies that Ross is terrific and she goes there too! Mrs. Tang stops in front of some towels lying on the living room floor, trying to hide them behind her ankles. She looks embarrassed. “Sorry, we’re just having a bit of a leak.”

I gaze at the soaked towel. We all look up at where the living room wall meets the slanted ceiling. There’s a leak, all right.

“When did it start?” Mom asks, grabbing a chair so she can get up and feel the ceiling. As her fingers poke the cracking paint, a little piece falls off.

“Just last week,” Mrs. Tang says. “We’re still trying to figure out what’s causing it. You think it’s the paint?”

Mom shakes her head. “No, it’s your roof,” she says, getting back down. “Did you guys get the roof inspected before you bought?”

Mrs. Tang shakes her head, her eyes full of regret.

“We wanted to, but my husband thought it was too expensive. Those inspections cost hundreds of dollars,” she says.

“I know,” Mom says. “It’s so hard when you’re buying a new house. Especially when you don’t have someone you really trust guiding you. But hey, the good news is, this is a town house. And you have an HOA, right?”

Mrs. Tang nods. “Yes, HOA! We pay seventy-nine dollars each month!”

She runs over to the kitchen and opens the dishwasher—which I’m surprised to see they’re using as a filing cabinet. We use ours as extra storage for dishes, but the Tangs have papers in there! Mrs. Tang pulls out a folder.

“Great!” Mom says. “I would talk to your HOA and see if they’re in charge of fixing your roof. Chances are, they’ll be able to help!”

Mrs. Tang looks visibly relieved.

“Oh, thank you!” Mrs. Tang throws her arms around my mother. “I’ve been worried sick whether we ruined ourselves with this house. We put every last penny we had into it!” She glances at Dad. “And you know it wasn’t easy for us, making that money.”

“I know.” Dad nods.

“And when it started leaking, I thought to myself … maybe I dreamed too big!”

Mom looks into her eyes and assures her, “You did not dream too big.”

I’m so grateful to Mom for helping the Tangs that as soon as I get home, I walk Wealthy and then organize his whole shelf with all his stuff, so it’s easy for Mom to see when he needs more heartworm medication. I wish I could go get it for him, but as Dad said, the vet is all the way in Irvine and that’s way too far for me to bike.

Still, my efforts are enough for Mom to come into my room that night.

“Thank you for organizing Wealthy’s medications,” she says, sitting on my bed. “That was very, very helpful.”

Wealthy puts his head in my lap and licks my hand, as if to add, Good job, my dude.

“No problem,” I say to Mom. “Thanks for helping Mia’s mom earlier. I think you really made her day!”

“Well, I know how stressful it is, being a first-time homeowner,” Mom says. “It’s why I got into real estate. I wanted to help people, not just with the sale, but after. That’s how you build trust.”

I nod, thinking about the Calivista, and how Mia transformed it by caring about each guest, even the cranky ones who can find something wrong with every pillow.

“Business is a relationship,” Mom goes on. “And you know the number-one secret for a good relationship?”

“Always have a breath mint ready?” I guess.

“No.” Mom chuckles. “Respect.”

I smile. “Like how you treated Mrs. Tang today.”

Mom nods.

“But, Mom, we didn’t always treat our employees that way …” I say in a small voice.

Mom puts her hand over mine. “I know,” she says. “And it’s something I’m trying to fix. I’m not proud of the way we did business in the old days.” She shakes her head. “I’ve been telling your father for years to just leave a little money on the table. Don’t just work everyone to the bone. Have a relationship. Build trust. I mean, just look at the Tangs. Look how well they’ve managed the motel, by trusting and respecting folks!”

“Mom, do you ever feel bad about … some of the other managers?” I ask her, sinking further down in my comforter, turning my face a little because I kind of want to hide.

She lets out a small, “Yes.” We’re both quiet for a moment, and then she adds, “You gotta understand, your father was up against a lot. It’s not easy competing against the big chain motels. Especially as an immigrant, back in those days. I’m not saying he was justified. But I could see why he believed that our slice of the pie was this tiny.” She holds up her fingers, just an inch apart.

“What about you?” I ask.

Mom smiles. “I’d like to believe the pie is this big.” She holds her arms out as wide as they’ll go.

“I like that!”

“That’s why I want to join the country club,” Mom says. “So I can invite all the people we work with, and show all my clients what’s possible. I want them to look out at that gorgeous view from the clubhouse, and know they’re not dreaming too big.”

I nod as Mom pulls the covers tightly over me.

That night, I go to sleep dreaming about pies. Humongous pies. Gooey, yummy chocolate ones with graham cracker crusts! Double cherry pies with lattice tops, dripping with deliciousness. Pies bigger than the Calivista pool! Bigger than sunsets! Even bigger than the past.

I don’t see Mia until just before lunch the next day, when she finds me outside the cafeteria. “Jason!” Mia calls. “I loved your flowers! And thank you so much for coming over with your mom! I’ve already written a letter to our Home Owners’ Association!”

I laugh—I’m not surprised. We’re talking about Mia, the world’s most lightning-fast writer! I follow her into the cafeteria, where she hands out the latest issue of The Scoop to every kid we walk past.

Bethany, the most stuck-up girl in our class and Mia’s nemesis since fifth grade (and whom I once foolishly asked out to a dance. But we’re not going to talk about THAT), takes a copy. “More advice columns? I thought it was called a newspaper, not advice paper.”

Mia’s face turns red. “Actually, we’re sitting on some breaking news.” She glances at me. “We’re just waiting for the confirmation.”

“What confirmation?” I ask Mia.

“Your Michelin star, of course,” Mia says. “You will let The Scoop break that story once it’s for sure, won’t you?”

I take so long to respond that Bethany giggles and adds obnoxiously, “Uh-oh. Is The Scoop getting scooped?”

“No!” I bark at Bethany. I grab Mia’s hand and lead her away. “Uhhh … let’s find a table. Are you hungry? I’m hungry!”

Before we can sit down, though, I hear my name. “Jason, over here!”

I turn around and see Lucas waving me over. Time freezes. It’s really happening. I’d been hoping for this moment, which is why I packed two lunches. One I actually want to eat—Sichuan pork noodles—but is maybe too “out there.” (Miles and Buzz were always making fun of my noodles.) So I also packed a totally uncontroversial, boring other lunch, just to be safe—a plain jelly sandwich.

As I gaze over at Mia, my heart and my stomach are in an intense battle. I desperately want to stay with her and eat my pork noodles. But I also want to continue the conversation with Lucas.

“Go!” Mia smiles. “I’m just going to wolf this down and go to the library to finish my science project.”

“You sure?” I ask her. “I can totally stay and wolf my noodles down with you.”

“No, no.” She chuckles. “You should relax and enjoy your lunch, Mr. Michelin!”

I swallow guiltily as I wave at Mia and walk over to Lucas. He’s sitting with Nick Alvarez and Wes Green. Nick’s a Puerto Rican kid with the coolest baseball cap collection in the whole school, and Wes is a Black boy who once helped Mrs. Schultz move her desk, with all her books on it. Quarterback material when we get to high school, for sure. I walk nervously toward their table, carrying my two lunches.

They’re in the middle of an intense conversation when I sit down.

“Dude, I’m telling you, she was there. At the UPS store,” Lucas is saying. “My mom was mailing a package!”

“You sure it was her?” Nick asks.

“Positive. It was Roxanne, no question! I’ve seen her at the club a million times,” Lucas says. He sneaks a peek at me, clearing his throat. “The country club my family and I belong to as members, that is.”

Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me, I assure him with my eyes.

“Jason’s also a member. We hung out there the other day,” Lucas adds, introducing me.

Nick and Wes give me little what’s up waves.

“Well, did you say anything?” Nick asks, turning back to Lucas.

“No way! I was too scared. You know how it is … talking to girls,” Lucas says. “It’s so weird.”

I glance up at Lucas. Maybe this is my chance. My moment to shine!

Nick nods. “So weird, like talking to your belly button when you’re in the shower,” he says. We all look at him. “Not that I do that.”

“I once said ‘Happy Father’s Day’ to a girl in Target,” Wes confesses, shaking his head.

“I told a girl she smells like toast,” Nick admits.

Lucas smacks his forehead. “We’re so hopeless.”

“I know how to talk to girls,” I offer.

All three of them sit up. “Really?” Nick asks. “Well, spill it, Yao. What’s your secret?”

I think back to how Mia and I first met. It was at my house. Her parents were begging my dad for a job. I believe I was wearing a T-shirt that said I don’t give a over a picture of a rat and a donkey.

“You just have to impress her with your intellect and maturity,” I tell the boys. “That’s what I did, the first time I met Mia.” I try not to think about our actual conversation, which consisted of “yo” and a burp. “We talked about our favorite hobbies and we just hit it off!”

“So you just started talking to her … like normal?” Lucas asks, getting out a pen from his backpack so he can take notes on a napkin.

“Oh, yeah, like totally normal. I recommend practicing with your dog!”

Nick nudges Wes. “Practice with my dog! Yo, that’s actually kind of brilliant!”

I smile.

“Told you guys he was the real deal!” Lucas says. He takes a bite of his pizza and turns to me. “So what’s it like having a girlfriend?”

I inhale deeply, trying to find the way to describe the sheer exhilaration, the heart-pounding terror, and the ringing in my ears, all at the same time. “It’s like … you’re going upside down on a roller coaster and there are no seat belts,” I finally say.

Their jaws drop.

“You have to teach us,” Wes says.

“Don’t worry. Stick with me and you’ll be golden.” I flash a smile at Lucas.

“Hey, Golden,” Nick says, pointing to my lunch bag. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

Oh, yeah. Tense seconds pass, during which everyone stares at my two lunch sacks. As my fingers curl around my jelly sandwich bag, my stomach rumbles with fierce objection. My hand slides over to my noodles bag. Do I dare? Slowly, I pull out the Sichuan pork noodles, peering up at the guys, preparing for my immediate ejection from the table.

But instead of giving me any grief, they just carry on talking about football. I’m so stunned and happy, I almost snort noodles up my nose.

As if the day could get any better, when I walk into the motel that afternoon I find that the ceiling of the restaurant is fluttering with dozens of little origami birds made of shimmering gold paper.

I turn to Mia, who’s already here. “What’s all this?” I ask, smiling.

“You like it?” Mia beams. “I wanted to do something special for you. And before you say it’s not a done deal, just being in the running for a Michelin star? That’s HUGE!”

The entire restaurant, all the staff, and all our diners, including Mrs. T and Fred, who are still finishing up a late lunch, turn and clap for me. I feel completely enraptured and sick at the same time.

“I’m so proud of you!” Mia says, giving me a hug. “I know how hard you’ve worked, and we have to celebrate this milestone!”

Hank walks over, clapping too. “I agree! I just wish you had told me! When’d you find out about this?”

“I, uh … I’ll tell you later.” I chuckle nervously.

Mia reaches for a stack of menus. “I also jazzed up our menu font! Doesn’t this give a more Michelin vibe?”

I glance down at her lovely, beautiful handwriting. It must have taken her hours to rewrite all those menus in elegant cursive. That’s hours she could have been writing columns … or just relaxing. I feel the guilt tighten my chest.

“You shouldn’t have.”

Mia flashes me a smile. “Of course I did!”

As she hands Mrs. T a menu and Fred leans over to admire it, I escape to the kitchen, then out the back door.

I’m sitting on an upside-down bucket in the alley behind the restaurant and throwing pistachio shells on the ground when Hank walks out and finds me.

“There you are!” he says, putting his dish towel over his shoulder. “Been looking all over for you!”

“Hey.”

“Why didn’t you tell me we were up for a Michelin?” he asks, leaning against the wall.

I toss three more pistachio shells and don’t say anything.

Hank grabs another bucket and sits down next to me. “It’s okay. We don’t have to get a Michelin. But you have to talk to me, buddy. We’re partners.”

“I know,” I say, putting my face in my hands. I take a deep breath, then look back up at Hank. “I just blurted it out because I didn’t want Mia to know that my parents are applying to the country club.”

“Because you didn’t want her beating you at golf?” Hank teases.

“Because I didn’t want her to think I’m different. That, you know, I have all this stuff. And my parents never seem really worried about money.”

“Ahhhhh,” Hank says, nodding. He holds out a hand for some pistachios. I give him some. He chews one for a long time. “The thing about love, Jason, is it’s not about being someone else for the person you love. It’s about being yourself.”

I peer over at him, unconvinced.

“For example.” He gets up and gestures for me to get up too. I reluctantly follow him over to the window that looks into the dining room. We peer inside together and Hank points to Fred, who’s reading every item on the menu out loud to Mrs. T.

“Mrs. T isn’t trying to hide the fact that she’s got a cataract in her eye. And Fred isn’t hiding how happy he is, just sitting and reading the menu to her. That’s love. See how they’re leaning on each other? It’s beautiful.”

I watch Mrs. T and Fred. It sure is beautiful. But after a few minutes, I sink back down on my bucket.

“But what if ‘yourself’ … isn’t good enough?” I ask Hank in a small voice.

“Of course it is.” Hank slaps my knee.

I shake my head. He probably still thinks I’m talking about the Michelin star. But I’m talking about me. I’m talking about the worry pounding behind my ribs all the time. The cold, nagging doubt that people don’t really change. That whatever it was that let me steal from the Chus will come creeping back.

Gently, I move my hand to my chest. I think I have a good heart. But some days, I’m just not sure.

We sit quietly, side by side. My fingers fiddle with the pistachios.

“I know it’s scary, showing your true self,” Hank says slowly. “When my mother was sick, I didn’t want to show anyone either. I was depressed and full of grief. I didn’t want anyone to see that. So I sort of pushed Ayana away.”

I look over at him.

“How?” I ask.

“Oh, I’d snap at her. Tell her to leave,” Hank says. “Anything and everything to avoid talking about my feelings.”

I hand a pistachio over to my friend, my heart tugging for him.

“Looking back, I think I should have just shown her my real, raw self,” Hank says, snapping the pistachio open. “Tears and warts and all.”

“But what if I show Mia my warts and all, and she runs away?” I ask, shivering.

“She won’t,” Hank assures me.

“How do you know?” I ask.

“Because I know Mia.” Hank smiles. “She has a heart bigger than the Grand Canyon.”

I gaze up at the sorbet-colored sky, thinking of his words. I want to believe them. But I also know, even as we’re having this great moment where we’re sharing our inner deepest secrets and Hank’s telling me about his most painful chapter, I’m still not sharing my true self.

If Mia’s heart is the Grand Canyon, Hank’s heart is as deep as the ocean.

Even still, I don’t want to risk it.

Instead of tying myself into knots over my Michelin lie to Mia, I throw myself into planning a redo of our first date.

Now that I’m friends with Lucas, I have someone to conspire with! It turns out, he has a lot of time while washing dishes to think up ideas for the perfect first date, if he ever gets up the nerve to ask out his crush, Roxanne.

“You could take Mia go-karting!” he says while we’re walking to class. “That’s what I would do!”

I picture Mia and me in helmets, racing in separate cars, surrounded by a whole bunch of other people in other helmets and cars. That doesn’t sound terribly romantic. That sounds like paid traffic.

“Or you could go ice-skating!” Lucas suggests.

“I’m terrible at ice-skating.”

“That’s the whole point! You wobble along and maybe you fall. She’ll think it’s sweet!”

“You want me to fall? That’s the game plan?”

Lucas laughs. “Yeah! It’s a great plan! You fall. She helps you. Or maybe she falls, and you help her. Either way, there’s hot chocolate afterward!”

I wonder how many times Lucas has played out his ice-skating dream date in his head. I do like the hot chocolate part. But I’m not so psyched to fall on my butt just so I look cute.

“Yeah … I’m thinking maybe there’s a better way to hot chocolate that doesn’t involve me getting a hip replacement,” I say.

Lucas starts laughing hysterically. Nick and Wes walk over.

“What are you guys talking about?”

I tense up, worried Lucas is going to blurt out, “Jason’s getting a hip replacement!” But instead of telling them about my athletic clumsiness, Lucas says, “Jason’s going on a hot date with Mia!”

Nick and Wes nod at me, looking impressed.

“Yeah, it’s going to be pretty epic,” I declare.

“Where you going to take her?” Wes asks.

“I don’t know. Maybe Knott’s Berry Farm? Or stargazing by the Anaheim Lake? I’m also tempted to re-create the Willy Wonka factory.”

“Bro, how do I become you?” Nick asks, dead serious.

I grin so hard my face hurts and I almost walk straight into a trash can.

That afternoon at the motel, Mia hovers by the phone, waiting for the HOA to call her back. And I try to do some secret investigative journalism to find out where Mia really wants to go.

“If you could relive a year in your life, what year would you choose?” I ask.

“Hmmmm …” Mia drums her fingers against her mouth. “That’s a hard one!”

“Would it be fifth grade?” I ask hopefully. That’s the year we met, a year I’d love to go back to—and redo, because I acted like such a buffoon.

Mia shakes her head. “Nope.”

“But if we could go back, we could do it all differently!” I suggest.

“But then other things wouldn’t happen …” Mia says.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Everything that happens leads to the next thing that happens. So if we did it all differently, maybe me and the weeklies wouldn’t buy the motel from your dad,” Mia says. “Or you and I wouldn’t become friends, or you might not be my boyfriend. Lupe might not stay in Anaheim.… Lots of things!”

It all sounds very smart and logical, but I don’t like it at all, because that would mean everything good that happened in my life stemmed from something bad I did.

“Not necessarily,” I say. “Maybe everything would still be the same if we just changed one thing in the past.”

Mia shakes her head. “I wouldn’t want to risk it.”

“I think we would still have all that if I’d been nicer to you,” I mutter quietly.

Mia smiles.

“And I am so happy you think that,” she says. “But for you to realize that now … to get here … I don’t know … I kinda think all that stuff needed to happen.” Mia shrugs. “It’s like a book. You need the bad stuff to happen to make the good stuff feel rewarding in the end!”

I must look pretty sad, because Mia asks, “What’s wrong?”

I shake my head and pinch my lips, but then the words come blurting out anyway. “I don’t want to be a bad plot point in your book.”

“No, no, you’re not. I didn’t mean it like that!” Mia says. “Sorry, I’m just really stressed out. I really want this HOA to call me back.” She glances at the phone nervously.

I hop off the stool next to hers behind the front desk. “Want me to leave so you can focus on the call?”

“No, stay!” Mia says. “I like these questions. They’re a good distraction. Give me some more!”

“All right,” I say, and peek down at a list I prepared during lunch. “If you could write a note to your younger self, what would you say—in three words? And where would you give your younger self this note?”

After several minutes of careful consideration, her eyes light up. “My note would say, ‘You got this.’ And I would give it to me as I’m landing in America, on the airplane.”

As Mia tells me how emotional her first plane ride from China to California was, with her nose pressed up against the window the entire time, wondering if she’d like her new country, and if her new country would like her back, my heart melts. Suddenly, I know exactly where I should take her on our first date!

“A flight simulator?” Dad asks. We’re at the motel the next day, and I’m helping him put new bed comforters in each of the guest rooms. I’m not quite sure why. The old ones are fine. But Dad insists these new ones are “more luxurious.”

I nod eagerly, throwing the duvet over the bed in room 5.

“I’ve already researched it. There’s this place by the convention center, and we can actually experience flying a Boeing jet. Like we can get into a cockpit and everything! It only costs seventy-nine dollars a person!”

“Eighty dollars each?!” Dad balks, looking up from the bedding. “For just a few minutes of pretend flying? You get any food?”

“Of course you don’t get food,” I say. “You’re supposed to be a pilot, flying a plane!”

“What, you don’t think pilots eat?” Dad asks.

I squeeze my eyes shut. I don’t know why we’re getting into this debate about whether or not pilots eat. Who cares? I just want to take my girlfriend on a flight simulator and give her a note that says You got this! I frown at Dad. “What’s eating you?”

To my surprise, he sits down on the new duvet and sighs.

“Sorry, I’m just in a bad mood,” he says. “I drove by one of my old motels, the Rosewood. I wanted to ask the manager if he’d consider writing me a recommendation letter, just in case no one from the country club actually coughs one up for us.”

“And?”

“He reminded me that I never wrote him a letter of recommendation, back when he wanted to apply for another job,” Dad says, shaking his head. “I genuinely don’t remember that. Does that sound like something I would do?”

I give him a look.

“Okay, maybe I was a little tough back then.”

“A little?”

“I’ve heard the words severely demanding,” Dad admits. “But to not give someone a recommendation letter … that just sounds so unreasonable!”

I hold up a finger to start telling him just how unreasonable he was, but when I take in his sad eyes, I stop, remembering what Mia said to me. “Maybe it’s like a book? You just couldn’t see how unreasonable it was when you were in that chapter.”

Dad nods solemnly. “Yeah, maybe …” Then he looks up at me. “You think I was a good boss, though, right? All things considered?”

I jump on the opportunity. “You’d be an even better one if you gave me $158, so I can book this thing for me and Mia!”

But Dad’s no fool. He immediately starts shaking his head.

“No way! You wanna go on a date, you have to earn it!” He stands back up and starts smoothing out the comforter.

As he moves to the next room, I scramble after him.

“Wait, you’re serious? You’re not going to help me pay for it?” I ask as I follow him down the hallway. I temporarily pause my whining because the smiles I get from Fred, Mrs. T, Billy Bob, and Mrs. Q when I hand them comforters are so huge. All the weeklies are overjoyed to get their luxurious new blankets.

“Wow, these are fancy,” Mrs. Q says, smiling as she presses the soft fabric to her face.

“Just a little something to make your stay with us more comfortable,” Dad says.

Billy Bob puts a hand on my back. “Thanks, Jason!”

“It was my dad’s idea!” I report.

Now they look truly speechless. “Gee, that’s a first!”

Dad chuckles awkwardly. “What do you mean, that’s a first? I’m always improving the amenities for my guests. Let’s see, there’s …” He tries to recall but clearly draws a blank. “And there’s …”

“Anyway, I’m going to love snuggling under this while I watch Cheers!” Billy Bob says brightly, disappearing into his room. “Thanks, guys!”

After the weeklies go back to their rooms, I turn to Dad.

“Did I really not do anything to make things nicer for them when I owned this place?” Dad mumbles to himself.

“Nope. But you can improve my stay. Less than two hundred dollars! C’mon, Dad, what do you say?”

“I say that it’s a good thing you have a job, son.” He pats my back. “That’s what they’re for!”

“But that’ll take me weeks to earn. I want to go on my date next weekend!”

“Luckily, you’re also our head of concierge services, remember?” Dad says. “You can help out all the relatives of the country club folks we gave those coupons to. They’ll start checking in and you’ll be collecting tips in no time!”

“WHAT relatives?” I ask, holding up my empty hands.

But as fate would have it, as soon as I say the words, a BMW convertible cruises into our parking lot. We both gawk as a sharply dressed woman in gold pants, a multicolored silk top, and giant sunglasses gets out, followed by a gigantic poodle.

Dad gives her a friendly wave and says to me, “There’s your money right there!”

I drop the box of bedding on the ground and hustle over to Ms. Golden Poodle, plastering a smile on my face as wide as her car—determined to get my coin!

The lady in gold introduces herself as Ms. Holly Ginger. Sure enough, she’s the relative of Frank and Mary Hart, who are members of the country club. The first thing she asks me is if we have any rooms that face west.

“I just love the way my hair looks when the sun hits it from the west,” she says as I help her with her bags. I stare up at her hair, which is so intensely sprayed, it resembles the spun sugar on a crème caramel.

As I struggle with her huge suitcases, each as heavy as a bathtub, she introduces her giant poodle.

“This is Archibald. Isn’t his hair divine?” Her fingers play with the little braids behind each of the dog’s ears.

I’ve never seen a poodle with a hairstyle before. I put Ms. Ginger’s luggage down and reach over to pet Archibald, but he turns his head sharply away from me.

“What are you guys in town for?” I ask, leading them to the front desk to check in.

“Visiting my brother,” she says. “But all he wants to do is sit around and talk about stocks. So I thought I’d get out and get some fresh air. He told me about this place. You do have Evian water here, don’t you?”

I nod eagerly. “Yes, in the vending machine over there.”

“Good,” she says. “I’ll need it for Archibald’s baths.”

I almost choke when I hear that. “Excuse me?”

She stops walking. “He takes all his baths in Evian water. Is that a problem?”

Uhhhh … yeah! I want to say. Evian costs four dollars a bottle. We don’t even use it at the restaurant! My eyes dart over to Mia at the front desk. What do we do? But Mia’s on the phone with someone, deep in conversation.

I spot my dad upstairs, staring at us. I put the luggage down and try to sign to him, THIS BOUGIE POODLE WANTS ALL OUR EVIAN FOR HIS HAIRY BUTT! But I don’t know sign language, and it just looks like me signaling look at my butt. Dad frowns at me in a way that clearly says, That’s inappropriate, Jason!

I turn back to Ms. Ginger, who’s been petting Archibald this whole time, and say, “No problem.” I smile. “I’ll go grab you some. Four bottles enough?”

“You tell me,” she says. “You’re the one drawing the bath.”

I blink rapidly, stopping in my tracks.

Sweat beads roll down my back. Oh, noooo. I glance at Archibald, who has his gigantic butt turned to me, too snobby to even say hi. Absolutely not. I don’t even wash Wealthy at home. Mom always takes him to the groomers. I am NOT washing this woman’s arrogant, stinky dog!

“I’m sorry, ma’am—” I start, but our new guest interrupts.

“My brother said this would be a full-concierge hotel,” she says. “Don’t tell me he was wrong about that!”

I swallow hard, glancing back up at Dad. He’s watching us from the second-floor balcony, his eyes demanding, What’s going on? Whatever it is she’s asking, just say yes! I look over to Mia, at the desk. I think about our amazing first date together, and how all I want to do is slip my note to her with those three little words. It’s just one bath.

“Absolutely, ma’am,” I manage to say. “I’d be happy to bathe your dog in Evian after you check in.”

Okay, don’t panic, I tell myself. All I have to do is dump the Evian into the bathtub and throw in some shampoo.

I’m in Ms. Ginger’s room, sitting on her cold bathroom floor. I put the stopper in the drain and start pouring. As it turns out, four bottles isn’t even enough to fill a quarter of the tub. Definitely not going to cover Archie’s big butt. But I don’t feel like running out and getting some more of the pricey stuff. And it’s not like Archie’s going to know the difference.

So I turn on the faucet and fill the rest of the tub with regular water.

I’m so smart, I tell myself as I wait. This is going to be easy-peasy. Ms. Ginger is going to tip me big-time, for sure. She had one of those heavy American Express credit cards when she checked in—she has real money. I picture crisp bills going into my hand in mere minutes! I’ll be able to go on my big date. I can practically feel the vibrations of the Boeing jet taking off underneath me and Mia!

For now, the bathtub is finally full of water. “All ready!” I announce.

I turn around and before I can move out of the way, Archie comes trotting into the bathroom, running toward me at full speed, leaping over the bathtub edge and cannonballing straight into the water. A tidal wave hits me as I fall onto the floor, soaked head to toe in an instant.

“Aww … isn’t he precious?” Ms. Ginger says, poking her head in. “He just loves his bath time!”

Precious? I frown, grabbing a towel and drying my face and hair. But I don’t say anything. When the bathroom has been cleaned up and Archie’s peacefully relaxing in the tub, I walk outside.

“I drew the bath like you asked!” I say brightly.

She nods, distractedly unpacking all her clothes. She hangs up leather jackets and silk scarves and long dresses and designer blazers. I glance over at her wallet, which sits in her purse a distressingly long way from her hands. I clear my throat.

“Will that be all?” I ask.

“Yeah, that’ll be all,” she says.

I wait for her to walk over to the purse. It’s not that far away. But she just continues unpacking her clothes. Well, this is awkward. Isn’t she going to tip me? Should I stick out my hand?

A tip is optional, I remind myself.

But I just got rained on by a poodle!

As my inner concierge debates what to do, Ms. Ginger looks at me.

“What are you still standing there for?”

“I’m sorry,” I mutter, turning to leave. But as I step out the door, I think of Mia and our date. A date we absolutely deserve to go on. And the only way I can make it happen is to advocate for myself. So I swallow all my pride, turn around, and blurt, “Was there anything unsatisfactory about my service?”

Ms. Ginger cocks her head. “Aside from you filling the tub half with regular water?”

Oh, fudge. How did she know?

“You left the door open,” she answers, reading my mind.

The tips of my ears burn. I try to remain calm. To have empathy. To put myself in her shoes. But I just can’t. “No offense, but Evian water for a dog bath? It’s not like he can tell!”

“You have no idea what Archie can and cannot tell,” Ms. Ginger snaps back. “Rather than judging your guests, why don’t you try serving them?”

With that, she closes the door in my face and I stand there … dripping wet and confused.

I gaze down at my empty hands. All that work … for nothing!

I stomp toward the vending machine, determined to grab all the Evian water and drain it down the toilet, so Ms. Ginger will have nothing to wash Archie with the rest of the nights she’s staying here.

But before I can punch the button, I try to uncurl my fists. To find some way to cool my inner volcano. To get my hot head out of the lava and into the cool sand. I take a deep breath and look around.

That’s when I see through the door of one of our empty rooms—and spot the phone.

As I wait for Lucas to pick up, I think about Mia. Is this what she goes through, day in and day out? And Mr. Tang? And the Chus? The thought makes me sick. I don’t even want to think about what the Chus had to do to earn that $350 that I stole—probably had to wash a parrot in Dr Pepper!

I grip the phone in one hand and drop my head in the other one, feeling unbearably ashamed. Finally, someone picks up at the country club kitchen, and when I ask, the manager puts Lucas on.

“Hello?” he says, sounding surprised.

“Lucas! It’s me, Jason!”

“Jason Yao?”

“Yeah!” I say. “I’m sorry to call you at work, but I really need some advice!”

“Okay, but I have about ten seconds before the dishes start piling up!” he says.

“I need some tips on how to deal with super rich people and their attitude! There’s this lady here? I just had to wash her giant poodle with Evian water! He almost drowned me,” I fume. “And get this? She didn’t give me any tip!”

“Ugh, I’m sorry, man,” Lucas says sincerely. “That happens sometimes. Did you do exactly as she asked?”

I chew my lip. “Not exactly.”

“With this crowd, you gotta do exactly as they say.”

I feel my hot steam cooling inside me. I know Lucas is right.

“I thought she wouldn’t notice …”

“People always notice. And if you want a really big tip, you gotta lay on the compliments!”

“Compliments?” I ask.

“As many as you can think of!” Lucas says.

“Thanks, man, I appreciate it. I’m trying to save up for my first date with Mia!”

“Oh, did you finally decide where you want to go?”

“Yes!” I say. “I’m taking her on a flight simulator!”

“Now that’s cool,” Lucas says. “I gotta go, but I wanna hear more about it at school!”

I smile, hanging up. I don’t know why it means so much to me that Lucas and I talked on the phone for the first time. We’re phone friends now! And it wouldn’t have happened if it weren’t for my embarrassing Archibald bath. I think about what Mia said about how sometimes bad things lead to good things. Maybe there is some truth to it.

Walking outside, I glance over at Ms. Ginger’s room with a renewed determination.

Lucas says she wants compliments?

I’ll give her compliments!

“Hi, Ms. Ginger!”

I’ve put on my biggest smile to present her with a whole case of Evian water I got from the supply closet. “I’m sorry for the way I behaved earlier. I just wanted to give you this.”

Ms. Ginger stands in her doorway and stares at my Evian bottles suspiciously.

“Thank you,” she says after a long pause.

I look over at Archibald, who is out of the tub now and mid-blow-dry. Half his head is poofy like cotton candy. The other half is wet spaghetti. “I’m sorry, Archie. Did you have a good bath?” I take a deep breath. Here goes! “Did anyone ever tell you that you have very kind eyes?”

Ms. Ginger perks up when I say that.

“He does have kind eyes!” she agrees. “I call them soulful. Like you can see right into his soul. Here, try it!”

She gestures, like she’s inviting me to stare right into Archibald’s eyes. I hunch over and press my face directly up to Archibald’s. It’s unnerving staring right at a dog, feeling their hot, panting breath on you. Still, I make myself keep smiling.

“You are more beautiful than an elevator on a hot day,” I tell Archie.

Archie whimpers approvingly.

“He likes you!” Ms. Ginger grins. “Look at that! Will you keep talking to him while I finish his blowout?”

“Absolutely!” I say. She walks over and grabs the hair dryer.

“You have amazing eyebrow muscles,” I say, petting Archie while Ms. Ginger blow-dries.

“Louder! And look into his eyes!” she commands.

“You never bark up the wrong tree!”

Archie gives me a great big toothy grin, as if he understands.

“Your tail is seriously next level. It’s almost like a windshield wiper. And is that your natural breath? Wow. I could smell it all day!”

Archie yawns, blasting me with a mouthful of his steamy, hot breath. I try not to choke.

“You look so fluffy, I wish we could make a sweater with your beautiful fur,” I continue.

“I actually have a sweater like that!” Ms. Ginger shouts over the noise. “Would you like to see it?”

“Ummm …”

Too late. Ms. Ginger’s already turned off the blow dryer so she can go digging through her luggage. She pulls out a tiny sweater woven with … yep, it’s dog fur. It looks about three sizes too small, but she hands it to me.

“Try it on!” she commands.

Reluctantly, I put it on. I try not to scratch even though it’s making me extremely itchy.

“Do you like it?”

“Uh-huh!” I grin.

Archie walks over and presses his poofy hair against my sweater. I guess now that we’re both wearing his fur, he likes me better. Mrs. Ginger and I dry the rest of his hair, poofing out all the strands. When we’re all done, Ms. Ginger beams at me.

“Thank you, Jason,” she says. She walks over and gets her purse. As she pulls out a twenty-dollar bill, my heart pounds. “This is for you. Sorry for chewing your ear off earlier about the Evian. It’s been a hard few weeks for him. His father is gone.”

I gasp. “Archie’s dad died?”

“No! My husband and I got a divorce,” she explains. As soon as she says the words, I feel bad for judging her. I can’t imagine how hard a divorce is. I just started dating, and I’m already a wreck when I have to spend more than a day away from Mia.

“I’m so sorry about you and Archie’s dad,” I offer.

“It’s okay,” she says with a sigh. “It happens. Love is tough! It requires trust, and trust is not easy to come by.”

I nod, feeling guilty. Now I know why she didn’t want to give me a tip earlier. I’d violated her trust.

“I promise that from now on, I’ll always treat Archie like he’s my own dog,” I tell her.

She smiles and opens her arms. We hug for an awkward second, before she pulls away and tells me, “I do like that sweater on you. Will you wear it every time you bathe him and walk him?”

I glance down awkwardly at my fuzzy fur. I really don’t want to, but if it’ll make Ms. Ginger a little less sad about her divorce, I guess I could go poodle when she’s here. I nod, and we say good-bye.

Running out to the front office in my new sweater, I howl, my twenty flapping in the air. My first tip as a concierge!

In PE, Lucas laughs when I tell him all about my new dog sweater.

“You’re really gonna wear it?” he asks, passing the basketball to me. The nice thing about having Lucas as my friend is now I don’t have to worry about who I’m going to partner up with in PE. We dribble the ball back and forth, and by “dribble” I mean I walk around like a pigeon pecking a cracker, and he doesn’t seem to mind.

“Of course I’m going to wear it!” I tell him. “I still need $138 for my date! Plus, she’s actually not that bad …”

Lucas smiles. “See! Told ya! You just had to be a little more patient.”

I nod. A little more patient. Seemed impossible just a few weeks ago, but I feel my patience muscle getting stronger day by day.

“So what about you?” I ask him. “You ever going to talk to Roxanne?”

Lucas stops dribbling for a second. “It’s not that simple,” he says. “She’s way out of my league.”

“Why do you say that?” I ask.

“She’s always out in the dining room with all the other club members. And I’m in the back, at the sink, washing dishes.” Lucas shakes his head. “Not going to work.”

“Hey, you’re talking to someone who lives and breathes ‘way out of my league,’ ” I tell him. “It can work. You just gotta find a common interest. Like me and Mia, and the Calivista. What’s Roxanne into?”

“Reading,” Lucas says. “She always has a book with her.”

I forget all about the basketball and clap my hands. “There you go! Ask her what she’s reading!”

Lucas blushes, shaking his head. “I dunno …”

He tosses me the basketball. I toss it right back to him.

“If I can wear a dog sweater for my girlfriend, you can ask Roxanne what book she’s reading,” I say.

Lucas thinks, spinning the ball on one finger.

“Maybe …”

As he tosses me the ball, I try to spin it on my finger too. It does two circles before it falls off my hand, nearly hitting me in the head.

“Here, it’s like this,” Lucas says, walking over and showing me. “You want to twist it with your hand first. Then you just put your finger underneath. Feel where that spin is? You just wanna point gently, go with the spin.”

Go with the spin, I think.

It takes me a few minutes, but after a couple of tries, I start to get it! I look around for Mia, hoping she’s watching this. When I finally see her, she’s all the way over by the water fountain. But she’s not drinking any water. She’s just leaning against the wall.

I stop spinning the ball and toss it back to Lucas.

“Be back in a sec!” I tell him.

I run over to the water fountain, joining Mia by the wall. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, hey,” Mia says. “Nothing. I was just thinking. We heard back from the HOA.”

“Great! What’d they say?”

“They’re claiming that the roof is not their responsibility,” Mia says, making a face. “That can’t be, right? I mean, it’s a communal roof. We share it with our neighbor next door. How are we supposed to fix half of a roof?”

“Yeah, that doesn’t sound right,” I say.

Mia exhales in relief. “That’s what I told my mom this morning too. I’m sure once I get them on the phone myself, it’ll all get straightened out. It’s just … annoying.”

We start walking back toward the court.

She musters a smile, but I know Mia, and she can’t rest if there’s any unresolved issue hanging in the air, especially if it involves her parents. “Can’t your mom call?” I ask.

“She could … but I’ve sort of been dealing with all my parents’ problems for them. Ever since I was eight years old and we moved to America!” She looks tired but proud too. “I’ve been their accountant, banker, and human resources officer, all wrapped in one!”

I chuckle. “Well, accountant, banker, and human resources officer. Sounds like someone needs a night off!” I bump my shoulder lightly against hers, and she bumps me back.

“Can’t wait. Are we going to the Anaheim Lake? The back of the staircase?” Mia guesses.

I shake my head and point to the sky. “Think bigger!”

Mia gives me a funny look.

I grin back at her and promise, “You’ll see!”

Later that day, I’m walking Archie around the motel, practicing spinning an imaginary basketball with my finger—I can’t believe I can spin a basketball finally!—when Mr. and Mrs. Quinn show up at the motel with his elderly mother.

“We heard you’re doing a discount for relatives of the country club?” Mr. Quinn asks.

“Yes, but we’re charging extra for nutmeg,” I reply half-jokingly as I walk over to them with Archie.

Mr. Quinn chuckles. “Luckily for you, Mother here does not like nutmeg, do you, Mother?”

The elder Mrs. Quinn shakes her head, her big, bouncy white curls swaying above her navy blazer.

“Can’t stand the stuff! One whiff and it makes my nose itch!” Mrs. Quinn says. “I’m so glad I got out of your house!”

“We’ll be sure not to put any of it in your meals,” I promise, leading her toward the front office to check in. I tell her the hours of the restaurant and add that if she has any special requests, I’ll be happy to help her, as the Calivista’s head of concierge services.

“I would like to get some shopping done while I’m in town,” she says. “I don’t suppose you can help me carry my bags at the mall?”

Bag carrying—that sounds like a dream job! And a GREAT way to get more tips!

“I’d be happy to!” I tell her. “Let me just go drop off Archie with his owner!”

I’m at the mall with the elder Mrs. Quinn. She sure meant business when she said “shopping.” We hit Macy’s, Nordstrom, Talbots, J.Jill, Ann Taylor, and JCPenney. By 5:00 p.m., my arms are so sore I can barely keep walking. I’m seriously debating whether to use my neck to hold another shopping bag.

“Does this hat look good on me?” Mrs. Quinn asks, posing in a felt orange cowboy hat with a large green feather sticking out of it. “What do you think?”

“It’s giving …” I try not to blurt out the first thing I think of, which is Oompa Loompa. “Queen in bloom?” I scratch my head. I’ve been really stretching my imagination with this whole compliments thing.

Mrs. Quinn beams.

“All you need are some cowgirl boots!” I add.

“Cowgirl boots!” Her eyes widen and she starts walking over to the shoe aisle. “I’m so happy you came with me. My husband, Roger, always hates going shopping with me back home.”

“Why didn’t he come out with you to LA?” I ask, picking all her shopping bags back up and following her to the shoes.

“Oh, he hates traveling. If he could have it his way, he’d never leave the retirement community we live in. His idea of fashion is cargo shorts and a Hawaiian shirt, year-round. This is going to blow his mind when I get home!”

She picks up a pair of glittery boots. Great, now she’s going to look like an Oompa Loompa at a rock concert.

“What do you think?” she asks, putting them on and doing a little kick.

“Very … iconic,” I tell her.

“Really? Because I have my granddaughter’s dance show tonight. I want to be the most stylish grandmother there! You sure it’s not too much?”

I look down at her two dozen shopping bags and think, Girl, we crossed “too much” a long time ago.

“No, you’ll look great!” I assure her.

“You’re right. It’s LA!” She smiles. “You gotta embrace it!”

Mrs. Quinn is still grinning as she tells the people at the cash register she’s wearing the hat and boots out of the store. We stop by five more stores, picking up a hot-pink leather jacket to go along with her outfit, plus a furry purse to top it off, before finally calling it a day.

In the taxi on the way home, Mrs. Quinn tells me all about her granddaughter’s first recital. I ask her what kind of dance and she says she’s not sure. I tell her she’ll fit right in with her glittery boots.

Before we get out of the car, Mrs. Quinn pulls out a crisp fifty-dollar bill from her wallet.

“This is for you,” she says. “For your help with the bags and your excellent style advice!”

“Thank you, Mrs. Quinn,” I say, stuffing it in my pocket.

“Truly, Jason, you sure know how to make an old gal feel young again!” she says. “Let’s hope my outfit is a hit!”

“Oh, it’s definitely going to steal the show!” I promise.

As she stomps to her room in her silver boots, orange hat, pink jacket, and purple fuzzy purse, looking like a colorful pool float, I feel a tiny smidgen bad for exaggerating how good she looks. But a fifty-dollar tip is a fifty-dollar tip. And now I’m one step closer to my own dazzling show!

I cruise into the motel the next afternoon, a little late. I stopped at the market to get some fresh fish for the restaurant. As I walk up, Mia comes running over to me from the front office. I grin, pulling out the fifty-dollar bill from my pocket to show her what I made yesterday, but the look on her face is not celebratory.

“What did you do to Mrs. Quinn?” she asks.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“My dad said she was hopping mad when she came home last night,” Mia says. “Said something about how we have terrible service!”

“Terrible service?” I ask, tucking the tip back in my pocket.

“You better go talk to her!” Mia urges. “And fix it! The Calivista’s reputation is my baby!”

I drop off the salmon and bolt down the hallway to Mrs. Quinn’s room. With every step, I tell myself Mia probably misunderstood. Mrs. Quinn’s not mad at me. She loves me. Still, the dread that I messed up, that I’m going to have to give my fifty dollars back—and worst of all, that my girlfriend is mad at me!—chokes my throat as I knock on the older woman’s door.

One look at Mrs. Quinn’s red face, and my worst fears are confirmed. She’s mad.

“Thanks a lot, Jason! My outfit didn’t steal the show! It ruined the show! All the other parents and kids kept staring at me, instead of my poor granddaughter up onstage performing!”

My fingers dig into my pocket, curling protectively around her fifty dollars. “Maybe they were looking at someone else,” I try.

“Oh, no, they were looking at me. It was a ballet recital, Jason! I looked like I was dressed for the rodeo!” Mrs. Quinn wails.

“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I mean, I know it was a lot, the glittery boots, the hat, the jacket—”

“Why didn’t you say so?” Mrs. Quinn erupts at me.

“I was just trying to make you happy!”

She shakes her head. “I’m not paying you to make me happy. I’m paying you to be honest with me. Honesty is the foundation of every relationship, Jason.”

I look down. “I’m sorry,” I say again.

She gives me a long, hard look. “Tell me, honestly. Does that hat look good on me?”

“No,” I answer. “It makes you look like an Oompa Loompa.”

“What?”

“An Oompa Loompa is a—”

“I know what an Oompa Loompa is!” she snaps. With one swift move, she grabs the hat and the glittery boots from her room. She hands them to me, along with all her shopping bags.

“What do you want me to do with this?” I ask, chuckling nervously.

“You over-complimented me and you weren’t honest, so I overbought. Now I expect you to return it all!”

I stare at the shopping bags at my feet and start panicking. I’ve gone with my mom to the mall enough times to know how horrendously long return lines are. But I have an even bigger problem than the lines. I hold up the boots she already wore to the dance.

“Please, Mrs. Quinn. I can return everything else, but don’t make me return these boots! They’ve already been worn! Clearly! You walked around in them all night!”

“You created the problem, you now gotta solve it,” she says, shoving her shopping bags out into the hall. “Unless you want a bad review of this place, which I will put up online.”

I shake my head. If Mia reads that, I’m dead. I hug the glittery boots in my arms.

I can still smell her feet in them! How am I possibly going to get Mrs. Quinn’s money back?

I walk around the mall the next day, feeling like one of those car lot balloons. Empty. Without a kidney. Without a liver. Without lungs, because that’s what it feels like to know that Mia’s mad at me. I’m an inflatable tube of a person, flying helplessly in the wind. Crawling in and out of stores, begging people to take back Mrs. Quinn’s stuff. Please … you don’t understand, I need to return this! My girlfriend is never going to look at me the same if you don’t take back these see-through plastic jeans!

With every item, I ask myself why I couldn’t have been honest with Mrs. Quinn. Was it that important for me to go on a date that I had to take advantage of a gullible elderly woman?

The guilt sits inside me, especially when I think of how hard Mia’s worked to make the motel’s reputation pristine. And now it all comes down to a pair of glittery boots.

Timidly, I walk up to the cash register and pull out the receipt.

“Hi, I’m here to return this for Ms. Lillian Quinn,” I say. “She bought this here two days ago. This is her receipt.”

The cashier peers at my shopping bag in my hand. “You have the hat and boots?”

I nod, clutching the bag. I present it with as much confidence as I can muster.

The woman behind the counter takes out the hat and boots. The first thing she does is examine the boot soles. My heart starts hammering.

“Have these been worn?” she asks.

I start shaking my head. But then I stop. Mrs. Quinn’s words rattle around in my brain. “Yes. They’ve been worn, but only for a couple of hours. This woman I’ve been working for wore them to her granddaughter’s dance recital. I convinced her they looked good on her, when actually, she looked like an orange light bulb. But I wasn’t honest, because I wanted her to give me a big tip. It was selfish of me, and I realize that now. So I guess I’m asking you … I’m begging you … can you just let me return them?”

I hold my breath after my speech. I tell myself I will accept whatever verdict she gives me. Even if it’s a no. Even if I have to pay for the shoes myself, which would mean putting my first date off even longer.

The cashier says she needs to talk to the manager, takes the shoes, and disappears behind a door.

I fiddle with the orange hat as I wait, apologizing silently to it. I’m sorry I said that about you. I’m sure you’d make a lovely addition to many wardrobes.

Finally, the staff member comes back.

“Unfortunately …” she starts to say. I squeeze my eyes shut, my heart sinking. “We cannot issue a refund for worn shoes. But, in light of the circumstances …”

My eyes pop open. Oh, please, please, please!

“We are happy to issue store credit. Just this once,” she says.

I’m so happy, I almost put on the glittery boots and start dancing!

“Thank you so much!” I exclaim. “She’ll be thrilled! And so will my girlfriend! I so appreciate it! Keep up the great work you’re doing!”

The staff member smiles, hands me the store credit, and puts the hat and boots away.

As soon as I get back to the motel, I walk to Mrs. Quinn’s room.

“Everything’s back on your credit card,” I say as soon as she opens her door. “Except for the boots and hat. Since those were worn, I couldn’t get you a refund, but I was able to get you a store credit!”

Mrs. Quinn’s face relaxes into a smile. “Thank you.”

“And I’m sorry for not being honest with you,” I apologize again.

“It’s all right. The important thing is you fixed it,” she says. To my surprise, she reaches for her wallet. But this time I shake my head.

“That’s okay,” I say, refusing her tip.

“You sure?” she asks.

I nod. I glance over and see Mia, watching us from the window in the front office. As much as I’d love another tip to get to my date quicker, I also know that I wouldn’t feel right about it. “It was my mistake. I shouldn’t be tipped for fixing it.”

“Well, now, isn’t that an iconic, show-stealing look on you?” she says with a wink. “Good night.”

I laugh softly as she closes her door, then turn to see Mia walking out of the office, carrying her notebook. “How’d it go?” she asks.

“Great! She’s happy now!” I tell her about my marathon of returns at the mall as we walk over to the back staircase and sit down together.

“Fifteen? That’s a lot of stores!” Mia says, impressed.

I nod. “Mia, I’m really sorry I endangered our reputation.”

“It’s okay,” she says with a smile. “Sorry I sort of yelled at you.”

I shake my head. “I know how worried you were. This place is your baby, like you said.”

Mia chuckles. “Yeah, but I should have at least heard you out first.”

“There’s not much to hear. I just really wanted her tip,” I confess. “Boy, did I learn my lesson. At the last store, I was absolutely convinced they were going to throw me out. I mean, the shoes were already worn!”

“So what’d you tell them?” Mia asks.

“The truth.”

Mia smiles. A gust of wind flows between us and she scoots closer to me, hugging my arm. “I like that.”

“And they actually gave me store credit!” I tell her. “Can you believe it?”

Mia grins. “I feel like people in retail are almost always really nice. My mom and I used to go to the mall all the time, just to try on clothes. We’d never buy anything. I’m pretty sure the shop ladies knew what we were up to, but they never said anything.”

I turn to look at her, surprised. “Wait, was that what you guys were doing the time I saw you in Macy’s?”

Mia laughs, trying to hide her face. “Yup!”

“But you had all those shopping bags,” I recall, digging up that memory. Again, it wasn’t one of my finest moments. I think I asked Mia something obnoxious, but I’ll never forget how dazzling she looked in that red dress she was trying on.

“We did.” Mia grins. “But they weren’t real.”

I give her a funny look.

Her fingers play with her reporter’s notebook. Shyly, she goes on, “My mom found some empty store bags in one of the guest rooms here, and she stuffed them with toilet paper so it looked like we were at the mall buying stuff.”

My jaw almost drops straight down into the laundry room.

“You stuffed them with toilet paper?” I ask. “Actual toilet paper?”

Mia nods. “Yup! But it was worth it! For an hour a week, my mom and I got to feel like everyone else. It didn’t matter how many people barked at me, asking for a refund, or how many towels she’d cleaned. We just got to be a regular family hanging out at the mall, you know?”

My eyes are swimming. I think of Mrs. Tang and all the managers we’ve ever had, and all the things, big and small, they did to keep themselves going. Things I was completely blind to, until now.

“Why didn’t you tell me back then?” I ask. “We could have gone to the mall for real!”

“I did go to the mall for real,” Mia says. “Just because I didn’t buy anything doesn’t mean it wasn’t real, Jason.”

I nod. Of course. There I go, misspeaking again.

“I’m proud of that chapter in my life. It was a hard one, sure,” she says. “But it was also exciting! And full of joy and adventure! And it taught me so much.”

I smile. “Like what?”

“Like I can get through anything!” Mia says. Her face falls a little. “Though … sometimes I wish things weren’t still so hard.”

Before she has a chance to elaborate, Hank calls out her name.

Mia gets up and hollers that she’ll be right there.

“Anyway, I’m so glad you returned all that stuff and Mrs. Quinn is happy!” she says, then rushes back to the front office.

It’s only after she leaves that I realize she’s forgotten her notebook. I look down at the piece of unfinished writing she’s been working on. It’s another advice column.

Dear The Scoop,

You’d think that after years and years managing the front desk of a motel, getting called “kid” and “little girl” and “junior” all the time, it would not bug me when the HOA of my parents’ town house refuses to return my calls because I am “just a kid” and they’d rather deal with my parents. But it does hurt.

How do I explain to them that my parents and I are ONE? That I’ve been doing their taxes and dealing with their bank and setting up their utilities and registering our cars for years? That even though I am thirteen, I am not a kid. I’ve been an adult since I was old enough to say “hey” on the phone.

Are there days when I wish I could stop? Sure. Absolutely. I’d love to not be on a first-name basis with insurance agents. But my family’s dream is a WE dream. It’s an all-of-us journey. It’s an all hands on deck, put everything you got into it, fight for your family, and never give up deal. Because that’s what it takes. That’s the only way to survive. And we’ve done that, with grace! With love! With pride! And I’m certainly not going to give up just because of some HOA.

Though I do wish sometimes … that not everything had to be a fight. That people would take us seriously. Treat us with respect. Answer our questions fairly and return our calls on a timely basis. And just let us … enjoy life.

Love,

Mia

My heart turns to silk tofu, reading her letter. As soon as I get home, I sit at my desk and write Mia a letter of my own.

Dear Mia,

You absolutely deserve to be treated with respect. With kindness. With seriousness.

I hope those guys at the HOA straighten out and know who they are dealing with, because you are the most amazing girl in the world. You are not “just a kid” at the front desk, you are the whole heart of the Calivista Motel.

For instance, yesterday, when you showed how much you cared about Mrs. Quinn. You didn’t judge her for looking like a brightly lit pumpkin. You immediately empathized with her. And that made me empathize with her too.

But if I’m being honest with you, a part of me was terrified yesterday. Terrified of not being able to return the glittery boots, of coming back to the motel and disappointing you. I never want to disappoint you. It makes the air in my lungs turn to ice cubes. Because … my dream is a WE dream too.

Thankfully, the store took those glittery boots back and all is forgiven. But I just want you to know, the next time I act like a dope, please be gentle with me. I care about us more than guacamole. Which is a LOT.

Love,

Jason

I don’t give Mia my letter at school on Monday. Some things are best kept private, but it sure felt good writing it.

That afternoon when Mom picks me up, she asks, “You mind if we make a quick stop at my client’s house? She just moved into her new house, but she doesn’t know how to turn off her sprinkler.”

“Sure,” I say. “But we’re going straight to the motel after, right? Dad said we’re getting another country club guest.” I can’t wait. I’m this close. I only need thirty more dollars for my first date, thanks to Archie! (You should feel how soft his hair is! I even started adding cucumber slices to his eyes and giving him facials!) Maybe when we’re soaring high up in the sky, I can tell Mia how much she means to me.

Mom chuckles.

“Your dad and I are both very impressed with how hard you’ve been working to make the country club folks feel at home. I know it hasn’t been easy, adding concierge services to your list of responsibilities!”

“Actually,” I say, “it hasn’t been that bad. At least I don’t have to do anyone’s taxes,” I add, thinking of Mia’s letter.

“What?” Mom asks, furrowing her eyebrows.

“Who does our taxes, anyway?” I ask, suddenly curious.

“We have an accountant now,” she says. “But for years, I did them all by myself.”

“Are they hard?” I ask.

Mom makes a face. “Imagine writing the world’s longest book report. And then having to give the teacher all the food in your fridge.”

I look at Mom in horror. That sounds terrible! And Mia has to do that every year?

“It’d be a lot easier if your dad were better with receipts,” Mom says. “But he refuses to use my system—paying with a different credit card for anything he buys for the motel—so I always have to guess.”

“Why doesn’t he just do his own taxes?” I ask.

Mom laughs. “Your dad? Fill out paperwork voluntarily?”

She lifts a hand from the wheel and counts the countries she and Dad have been to, telling me how for every single one of them, she’s been the one who got their visas and filled out their customs forms when they landed.

“The most memorable was Japan,” she says. “There I was, filling out our paperwork, and an elderly woman sitting next to me leans over and asks if I would help her too. I said okay. Little did I know, she was part of a group tour! Next thing I know, I was stuck filling out forty-seven customs forms!”

“Oh, nooooooo!” I shriek. Poor Mom. I can just see her hunched over at her seat, trying to write as fast as she could for the entire flight.

“They were elderly and I didn’t mind. But it would be nice if your dad organized his receipts.” Mom smiles as we pull up to Mrs. Lu’s house.

It’s a lovely light-blue-and-white house with a grassy lawn. Except there’s so much water gushing out of the sprinklers, the lawn looks more like a lake.

Mrs. Lu runs over to us, holding a baby. “Thank goodness you’re here! It’s been like this since eight this morning!” Mrs. Lu is barefoot, in jeans half-soaked by the sprinklers, and her baby’s crying.

Mom gets out of the car. “Don’t worry!” she says, rolling up her own pants. She tells me to take the baby so she can show Mrs. Lu how the sprinkler system works.

Gingerly, I hold the screaming infant as my mom and Mrs. Lu hop across the lawn to a small box on the corner of the house.

“Don’t worry,” I tell the baby, bouncing her. I try making funny faces to get her to stop crying. After a minute her face finally clears up. Then she cackles and holds out a finger to my nose. She presses it like an elevator button, then cackles some more.

I let her keep pressing until the water turns off.

“That’s it! Just two circles counterclockwise, that’s all it is!” Mom tells Mrs. Lu.

The sprinklers stop immediately. Mrs. Lu lets out an enthusiastic cheer.

“Oh, thank you! My husband and I tried everything. We even joked about putting towels on the lawn,” Mrs. Lu says, walking back to gently take her daughter out of my arms.

Mom laughs. “You can always call me!”

Mrs. Lu smiles. As she’s bouncing her baby, a man in a suit walks over.

“Excuse me!” he greets us. He strolls across the lawn. “I couldn’t help but admire your home. Do you own it?”

Mrs. Lu stands proudly. “Yes, I do. Just moved in.”

“I’m Jim Russell. I work for Evergreen Real Estate. Our company buys homes, if you’re ever looking to sell.” He presents Mrs. Lu with a business card.

Mom glances at it, then says to the man, “If they’re ever looking to sell, I’ll help them find a family to sell to. I’m their realtor.” She pulls out a card of her own and gives it to him.

“I assure you, our company pays top dollar!” Mr. Russell says, ignoring Mom and continuing to talk to Mrs. Lu. “We consistently outbid individual buyers, frequently with all-cash offers!”

Mom crosses her arms. “And what will you do with the homes after you buy them?”

“We rent them out to families,” Jim admits.

Mom shakes her head. “So you’re just buying up America, block after block. And making everybody rent.”

“Renting is the preferred option for many families.”

“Oh, really? You think families prefer giving a third of their income to a big corporation every month, instead of owning and building wealth? If companies like yours buy up all the houses, there will be nothing left for the regular folks to buy!”

As the adults argue over the pros and cons of renting, the Lus’ patio door opens and a little boy walks out. For a second, my heart stops. He looks exactly like Tao Chu, with the same missing-tooth smile and bowl haircut.

“Mama, I’m hungry,” he calls.

“Sorry, Tommy, Mama will just be a minute!” Mrs. Lu turns and says to her son.

Mom turns to me. “Jason, will you go make him something to eat?”

It takes a second for my feet to move. “Who, me?” I ask. Mom nods. “Oh, yeah, sure.”

I head inside. Tommy is super chatty. As I whip him up some eggs, he tells me his dad’s an air conditioner technician, that his favorite cartoon is Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, but he also likes The Simpsons, even though he doesn’t always understand it. And that before this place, his family lived in five other places, including one with a hole in the ceiling. He demonstrates the size of the hole with his little fingers.

I chuckle. “My girlfriend, Mia, might have a hole in her roof too.” I hand him his scrambled eggs.

“That’s not good,” Tommy says. “She better get some blankets. It gonna get cold inside.” He sits at the kitchen island and picks up his spoon. “You want some eggies, Jason gege?” he asks, using the word for “big brother” in Chinese.

I suddenly can’t breathe. The last person who called me gege was … Little Tao. I didn’t realize how much I missed hearing it until just now.

“No,” I reply, my eyes misting.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Sorry, just thinking about a kid I used to know.”

“What happened to him?” he asks.

As Tommy chomps on my eggs, my heart grows full and heavy. I don’t know how to answer his question. Not without grabbing the saucepan and hiding my face, anyway.

I wonder how many times Little Tao has told the story of me to someone. By now, he’s probably a brainy fifth grader. Has he figured out I sent him on all those ridiculous errands just so I could get rid of him?

Gently, Tommy reaches with a spoon and offers me some eggs. The gesture both freaks me out and makes me want to melt with gratitude.

“Jason!” Mom calls. “We gotta go!”

I wave bye to Tommy and walk out to the backyard. By now, the weird suit guy is gone. It’s just Mom, Mrs. Lu, and her baby, standing next to our car.

“Remember,” Mom says to Mrs. Lu. “If those corporate vultures come around again, say you’re not interested. When it comes time to sell, I’ve got you. I’ll get you the highest price and we’ll put a real family in here.”

“Absolutely.” Mrs. Lu nods. “Thanks again for everything!”

“My pleasure. Can’t wait to have you and your husband over at the country club when we finally become members!”

The door opens and Tommy comes running out.

“Jason gege!” Tommy cries. He holds out his little arms to me. “Thanks for coming over and making me eggies! They were yummy!”

I crouch down, holding my own arms out and giving him a hug. “You’re welcome.”

On the way home, as Mom tells me all about her mission to stop corporations from buying up all the homes in Anaheim, I nod and smile. But all I can think about is the hug from Tommy. And how good it felt. And how I hope Little Tao is out there living his best life, with all his soft, kind, animal-shaped towels.

A frazzled-looking red-haired woman carrying a laptop is waiting in the front office when I get back to the motel. Mia squeals when I walk inside, immediately yanking me behind the desk to whisper, “She’s an author!” As she points to the guest registration card, my eyes bulge. Sure enough, under Mrs. Roberts’s occupation it says novelist.

“Do you have anything quiet, in the back?” Mrs. Roberts asks, closing her eyes slightly as she clings to her laptop. “I just need to get some sleep. Then hopefully I can finish this novel.”

“Why, yes! Of course!” Mia says, hopping around to the other side of the front desk. “Let me show you to your room! It’s all the way in the back, the quietest one we’ve got.” I can tell Mia is trying not to stare at Mrs. Roberts’s laptop. “So what are you working on?”

“Oh, another mystery,” Mrs. Roberts says. She glances at her small suitcase, but I walk over and reach for it.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got it!” I say.

“What’s the mystery about?” Mia asks, opening the door for all of us.

“This one’s about a kid who runs away from home,” Mrs. Roberts says, then looks down sheepishly. “Kind of like me, right now. I feel bad, leaving my three kids. But I’ve just got to finish this book.”

She glances over at Mia. “You wouldn’t be able to lock me in my room, would you?”

Mia and I exchange a look. “Unfortunately … pretty sure there’s a fire code against that,” Mia says.

“If you want, I can sit outside your door and guard it?” I volunteer. Then I remember that I have school seven hours a day. “That is, when I’m not at school or cooking.”

Mrs. Roberts chuckles. “Thank you for the generous offer. Hopefully it won’t come to that. A good night’s sleep is probably all I need!”

We reach the room and Mia unlocks the door. Mrs. Roberts walks inside and sets her things down. I put her suitcase on a chair next to the bed.

“Is there anything you need to make your stay more comfortable?” Mia asks.

Mrs. Roberts thinks.

“Can you make it rain?” she asks.

“What?” Mia and I ask.

“I’m kidding. It’s just that I had the most creative spurt when I was in Massachusetts last year on a writer’s retreat. It was pouring, so I couldn’t go out. I just sat in my room and wrote and wrote and wrote. It was the best writing experience I ever had. So I was just hoping … but it’s silly, never mind.”

Mia glances out at the clear sky. Before she can reply, though, my concierge brain kicks into high gear.

“Let me see what I can do!”

At the library the next day, I look up “rain” on the internet. To my delight, I find a bunch of sound recordings of rain! Jackpot! I pick the one that sounds like it’s pouring the hardest, then get out my tape recorder so I can make a track for Mrs. Roberts.

I’m almost done when Mia bounces in and takes the chair next to mine. “Gosh, can you believe we have a REAL novelist in our motel?” she says. She starts searching for Mrs. Roberts on the computer at her seat, then points excitedly to the screen. “Look, she’s written twelve books!”

“And hopefully, with this rain track I’m making her, it’ll soon be thirteen!” I point to my tape recorder.

“Jason! How thoughtful of you!” Mia gushes. “You really are an amazing concierge!” Then she cocks her head to one side. “How come you’ve never made a rain track for me?”

“Errr … uh …” I start preheating like a Thanksgiving oven.

“Just teasing you!” She grins. “I think it’s very, very nice of you. And I’m sure she’ll appreciate it.” Mia’s eyes jump. “You think if I ask her for an interview for The Scoop, she’d do it? After she finishes her novel, of course!”

“I’m sure if you asked her, she would!” I say. Who could refuse Mia?

Mia puts her hands together. “Just imagine the headline! ‘Novelist Finishes Thirteenth Book at the Calivista While Dining at East Meets West, Anaheim’s New Michelin Hopeful’!”

“Easy with the hyperbole now,” I chuckle, hiding my face behind my computer screen.

“Jason Yao.” Mia giggles. “Did you just say hyperbole to me?”

I look over nervously. “Did I use it right?”

“Sorry, chef.” Mia smiles. “But hyperbole is exaggeration, and everything I said was true!”

A saggy smile sits on my face as she returns to her internet search. I want to hurry up with my recording so I can go find Lucas and I don’t have to think about the whole Michelin thing.

It’s not not true, I tell myself. I am a Michelin hopeful. Still, the words DEFINITELY HYPERBOLE blast in my mind.

Mrs. Roberts is overjoyed when I give her the tape, which I bring to her room that afternoon along with a cup of chamomile tea.

“You’ve really gone above and beyond!” she says.

I smile. “Is there anything else you need?” I ask. “How’d you sleep last night?”

“Wonderful,” she says. “It’s amazing what eight solid hours of sleep can do!”

“Does that mean you got a lot of writing done?”

“Some,” she says. “A little in the morning. But then I went to breakfast, and I started chatting with that Hank fellow. And the weeklies! They are such a riot! Especially that guy Billy Bob!” Mrs. Roberts shakes her head, smiling. “You know he used to be part of the pit crew for car races? He told me so much about racing! Kind of made me want to scrap my book and write a book about NASCAR!”

“Wait, you’re scrapping your book?” I ask.

“No.…” Mrs. Roberts says. “Just postponing it. Maybe.”

“What about the boy who ran away?”

She sighs. “It’s just … I have such a difficult scene coming up. That’s probably why I’m thinking of putting it aside. I’ll do anything to avoid tackling this scene.” She holds up a finger. “I was even thinking of starting a small business grooming dogs, staffed entirely by novelists on deadlines! Think that could work?”

“No!” I tell her. “That’s a terrible business idea!”

She gasps, hurt.

Now I feel bad. “What’s so hard about the scene? You want to talk about it?”

She walks over to her laptop, setting down her chamomile tea as she sits. “It’s this heartbreaking moment where the boy realizes he can’t stay in his town anymore. And he has to leave his father—the only person he has in the world—and run away. And it’s just … hard.”

Mrs. Roberts’s eyes move over to her other books, stacked on the table next to her laptop. “I guess I’m just scared. My last two books were a flop. If I mess this up, I’m finished.”

“No, you’re not,” I assure her. “I made a huge mistake a long time ago, and for a while I thought I was finished.” My cheeks roast as I dart my eyes up at her. Even saying just these words is terrifying. But something about Mrs. Roberts actually considering starting a business washing dogs—and I know how difficult that is—makes me take a chance. “All you have to do is keep moving forward. You’re not going to mess up. You got this!”

Mrs. Roberts smiles. “That’s very wise advice, Jason. Keep moving forward. I really appreciate it.” She reaches over and grabs her purse. To my delight, she pulls out a ten and a twenty, and stuffs the bills in my hand. “Thank you for the recording, and for the pep talk.”

Thirty whole dollars! I did it! I fly back to the front office to tell Mia the great news. We’re going on our first date, baby!

On the day of our flight simulator date, I spend an hour in front of the mirror, trying on shirts. I put on Hawaiian shirts and button-downs and waiter shirts and flannels. I really want something that screams PILOT. But I don’t have anything that official-looking.

The closest thing I can find is a T-shirt my dad got me from the Houston airport last year. It says Houston, We Have a Problem! and it has an astronaut on it. And it still fits!

I throw it on and start fixing my hair. As I dump a handful of gel on my head, Wealthy watches, confused.

“It’s called style, Wealthy!” I tell him. “I can’t just roll up to the babes like you do at the dog park with your tail wagging. I don’t got a tail! I need some gel!”

I squeeze two more dollops into my hand, and when my hair starts to feel like spiky grass, I know I’m good.

Finally, it’s time for cologne. I don’t personally have any cologne, but Lucas lent me a little bottle of this stuff called Nautica Voyage that he got from a country club Secret Santa staff party. It smells like a sunburned sailor, but whatever. I don’t know where to put it on, so I just cover my face with it.

When I’m all dressed and groomed, I walk to the living room. Mom looks up from where she and Dad are reading on the couch and lets out a sharp sound.

“Oh my, honey!” she cries, throwing her hands to her mouth.

“Stop, Mom …”

“You look fabulous,” she says, wiping away a tear.

“So what time is this hot date?” Dad asks, glancing at his watch.

“I booked us for the five p.m. simulator,” I say. “That way we have plenty of time to get dinner after!”

Dad starts getting up from the couch. He grabs his keys. “Still think they should have included dinner with the simulation—”

“Dad …” I warn. “We’ve been through this. I made the cash all on my own and this is where I want to take Mia.”

He puts his hands up. “Okay, okay!” he says. He walks over to the bureau. To my surprise, he reaches for his camera. As he points it at me, Mom gets close to him. They both smile as Dad clicks. “Look at our little boy, all grown up!”

“I remember when he was still a peanut, munching on the plastic fruit at my mother’s house,” Mom says, still teary. “And now he’s going on his first date!”

“What plastic fruit?” I ask, slightly disturbed.

Before she can explain, the phone rings. I walk over to the kitchen to answer.

“Jason, you won’t believe it,” Mia says. She sounds distressed.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“The HOA finally called me back and they said they used to cover the roof, but people wanted to keep the HOA fees low, so now we’re on our own for repairs,” she wails. “It’s gonna be like ten thousand dollars!”

I try to wrap my head around this shocking news. Ten thousand, holy moly—that’s like two hundred trips to the mall with Mrs. Quinn! Or five hundred baths for Archie, if he and Ms. Ginger were still here! They checked out a few days ago and their room still smells like Archie’s dog shampoo. I have to admit, I kind of miss the giant furball.

“And if that’s not bad enough, get this! The sellers—they totally knew! One of our neighbors told us they had a roofer come out to inspect and they never told us!”

“Oh my God!” I exclaim.

“We totally got scammed, Jason!” Mia cries. “And this time, I can’t undo it just by writing!”

She sounds like she’s on the verge of tears.

“Sure you can,” I say, trying to calm her down. “Let’s talk about it tonight, over dinner …”

“I can’t go,” she says.

My heartbeat thunders in my ear. I start shaking my head. Noooooo. “But I had this whole date planned.…” I whisper.

“I’m sorry. I’m just really emotional right now. Sorry,” she says again, and then hangs up.

I’m so stunned, I stand there for a full minute clinging to the phone before I realize she’s really gone. I stare down at my stupid T-shirt, regretting my choice. Oh, we have a problem, all right!

Mom and Dad walk over. Mom puts a hand on my back and says gently, “Mia’s not coming?”

I blink rapidly, not knowing what to say.

“These things happen,” Dad says softly. “I told you. Relationships are hard.”

I scratch at my neck. My cologne, which just minutes ago felt cool and romantic, now threatens to suffocate me. How could she just not go? She knew how hard I worked, coming up with the money. I get that she’s upset, but how does this make anything better, to not go? We could have figured it out together! Doesn’t she want me to be there for her? Doesn’t she need me?

Of course Dad’s mind immediately goes to the money. “Did you pay for the whole thing already?” he asks.

I frown. Can he not right now?

“Yes,” I say. “But that doesn’t matter!”

“At least tell me you can get a refund,” Dad continues, ignoring me.

I shake my head. “Nope.”

As Dad throws up his hands and walks around the kitchen, declaring what an injustice this is, I shrink like wilted cabbage. It’s not the money I’m sad about. It’s the fact that now I can’t give Mia the little note I wrote for her. The one that said, “You got this!”

Maybe, just maybe, if she’d gotten that note while flying high up in the air, she wouldn’t feel so bad tonight. Instead, we’re in two separate puddles of vinegar … wondering what to do.

Mia’s absent from school on Monday. Which is just as well, because I still don’t know how to process my frustration. It’s not that I’m mad at her for canceling. Okay, I’m a little mad.

Fine. I’m really mad.

How could she just cancel on me? Doesn’t she know how hard I worked? How I told all my friends? And now I just look like a dateless tumbleweed, rolling around in the dust, not sure what’s happening in his relationship.

At lunch, I avoid Lucas, Nick, and Wes like the plague. I’m sure they’re all thinking I had a great time. I honestly don’t even know what to say when I see Lucas again—he’s definitely going to ask me how the great date went.

Do I tell him the truth? That I was about to leave, with my over-gelled hair and my extremely fragrant face, grinning like an idiot, my parents acting like it was my prom night, taking pictures of me and telling embarrassing childhood stories of fake fruit—when Mia called me and canceled. That, bro, is not a story you tell other bros.

So I hide out in the library with my spicy chorizo patty melt, listening to the sad drip of rain on the computer. I made myself this extra fancy sandwich hoping it would make me feel better. But all I can think about as I stare at the gooey cheese is how I wish I could eat this with Mia. And not with fake rain.

As soon as school ends, I hustle over to the motel, hoping to see Mia. Instead I spot a tall man in a suit, standing outside the empty front office, relentlessly pounding on the buzzer.

“Where have you been?!” he yells at me. “Been trying to get some service here for like ten minutes!”

Geez, all right! “Sorry, sir,” I say, unlocking the front office and letting him in. “Welcome to the Calivista. I’m Jason—”

“I don’t have time to learn your name,” he says. “Collins. Checking in.”

Normally, I would try to find my inner concierge and shove a smile on my face, because I am a professional. But not today. Today, I’m done being a professional. Today, I’m taking his rudeness, making a huge Sloppy Joe out of it, and shoving it in this guy’s face.

I grab the key to room 14. Our worst room. It’s got peeling wallpaper and it’s right above the laundry room. The TV doesn’t work. And until we discovered them last Thanksgiving, it used to be inhabited by a family of cats.

“Here’s your room,” I say, and toss the key at Mr. Collins.

“It better be nice,” he warns. “I was told by some girl yesterday on the phone I’d be getting your nicest room.”

I glare razors at him. Did he just describe Mia as some girl?

“That’s my girlfriend you’re talking—” I start.

But before I can even get the rest of my sentence out, Mr. Collins grabs the key and shoves back through the door.

“Wait!” I call out. “You need to pay!”

I chase after Mr. Collins, determined to get his credit card. The master key jiggles in my hand. Mr. Collins has already disappeared into room 14 by the time I get up there. When I knock on his door, he opens it with such force, I almost fall inside.

“You call this your best room?” he shouts. “It’s a rat’s nest!”

A cat’s nest, maybe. But it’s definitely not a rat’s nest. “What’s wrong with this room?” I ask, frowning.

“I just got here and I already feel itchy all over. There must be fleas!”

“I assure you, there are no fleas,” I tell him. “We had the room fumigated when the family of cats moved out.”

“You had a family of cats living in here?!” he cries. “What kind of dump is this place?”

My hands ball into fists. “What did you say?”

“I said a dump! You exaggerated how nice your motel is—”

At that exact moment, I see Mia running up the stairs, toward us.

“Jason!” she calls out. “What’s wrong?”

I point to Mr. Collins and shout, “This man’s being a snob and calling our motel a dump, that’s what’s wrong!”

“I’m a snob? Just because I don’t want to catch fleas?!” Mr. Collins snorts.

“Not all cats have fleas!” I inform him. “Just because they’re cats doesn’t mean they have fleas! That’s actually cat discrimination!”

“CAT DISCRIMINATION?” He laughs.

“Yes!” I insist, spiraling harder and harder. “It’s cat-ism!”

Mia laughs nervously. She puts one hand on Mr. Collins’s suitcase and reaches for my master key with the other. “How about I just show you to a different room? I’m sure we can find something to your satisfaction! Follow me.”

As the two of them walk away, I feel Mia’s eyes linger on me. I continue fuming, even though I’m disappointed at myself for losing my temper with a customer. I know I’m supposed to be endlessly patient and kind, but I’m just not. I tried. I tried so hard these last few weeks. And she can’t see it!

I’m staring at my sneakers, hunched over my knees on the back staircase later that night. Below me, Mrs. Roberts is having a really interesting conversation with the weeklies about artichokes, but I don’t even feel like walking down and listening.

I’m still so mad at myself for blowing up at that stupid Mr. Collins.

Why’d Mia have to see that? I wish she’d seen me washing Archie patiently, with criminally expensive water, instead. Or helping Mrs. Roberts find faith in her book again. But nope, she had to witness me screaming, “Yeah, that’s CAT DISCRIMINATION! Uh-huh! I call it CAT-ISM!”

UGH. I duck my head even lower, below my knees, wishing the cool cement floor could meet my throbbing forehead, when I hear a throat clearing.

I jerk myself upright. It’s Mia, taking a seat next to me.

“Hey,” she says quietly.

“Mia,” I start. “I … I don’t know what got into me. I’m really sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she says. “It happens all the time. He was mean and disrespectful, and you were protective of the room. I get it. We all lose our cool sometimes.”

“Not you,” I remind her. “You’re patient with every customer.”

“I try to be,” she admits. “But sometimes I try too hard.”

I glance over at her.

“And I’m not always nice to the people closest to me.” She turns to me and gently reaches for my hand. “I’m sorry for missing our date on Friday.”

My eyes flash with surprise.

“I know how much you were looking forward to it. How hard you’ve been working, trying to make good tips from these demanding guests. And I know how badly you wanted to celebrate being a Michelin finalist!”

“Mia, there’s something I have to tell you,” I quickly say. She blinks at me. “I’m not up for a Michelin star. Those weren’t judges that other night. They were golfers.”

“What?” Mia asks, laughing at first. Then she realizes I’m not joking.

“My parents are applying to join the country club, and those were country club members they invited over here, and I had to kiss up to them.”

“Oh.”

Mia’s “oh” is tiny. But to me it feels like a gust of cold air, blasting us in opposite directions.

“I’m sorry,” I go on. “I wanted to tell you. But you were so proud of me, and I … I liked that.”

“I’m always proud of you,” she says softly. “You don’t have to lie to me for that.”

“I know.…” I look down. “Tell me you’re not mad?”

I bite my lips as I wait for her to reply. At first, Mia doesn’t say anything.

“I’m not mad,” she finally answers, tightening her lips into a reassuring smile. Relief gushes over me like a creamy ganache. Then she warns, “Just … don’t lie again.”

“I won’t!”

“I’m serious. Lies aren’t cool. You can tell me, Hey, Mia, my family’s joining the country club. I’m going to be zipping along in my golf cart, faster than a flea-less cat!” She studies my face. “Wait, did you think I’d mind because … because my family’s not as—”

“No!” I interrupt, blushing. “Honestly. No. That’s not what I was thinking.”

I peer earnestly into her eyes, hoping she believes me.

“I love your family,” I tell her. “Which is why I was sad on Friday when you didn’t want to go. I’m upset too, about your roof. I wanted to help you figure out what to do.”

Mia’s face softens. She nods, and adds with a sigh, “I don’t know what we’re going to do.”

“Can’t you call the seller?” I ask.

“We already tried,” Mia says. “Over the weekend. They said we have no evidence that they knew about the leak.” She lets out a deep sigh. “And it’s not like the neighbor remembers which roofer it was, so we can’t ask them either.”

“What about your parents? What do they say?”

“They’re trying to figure out if we can take out another loan from the bank.” Mia shakes her head. “But all those loans … we’ve already taken out a lot.”

I reach over for her hand. “It’s okay. We’ll figure it out together.”

“What if we can’t, though?” Mia asks, her voice shaking. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen her actually scared. She whispers, “I know everyone thinks I have some kind of superpower. But this time … I don’t think I can deliver.”

I reach into my pocket. I’d wanted to give it to her on the flight simulator, but I hand it to Mia now. As she unfolds it, her face softens.

“Jason,” she says.

“I wanted to give you this on our date, at this place that has a flight simulator,” I say sheepishly. “But … I guess this is cool too.”

“I’m going to keep this forever,” she says, holding the note to her chest. “Thank you.”

I can’t help but grin. “Guess we’re sort of midair here too,” I joke, pointing at our position on the staircase. “So that works!”

“It definitely works,” she says, tucking the note in her pocket.

I smile at Mia, bumping my shoulder against hers. “You’re going to figure it out, just like you figured out how to handle that awful Mr. Collins.”

“You don’t even want to know how rude he was when he got to his new room,” she says, then pauses. “You know what, never mind. I don’t want to think about him right now.”

In the quiet of the still night, I marvel at her beauty, her kindness, and her extraordinary customer service skills.

“How do you do it?” I ask her.

“Do what?” Mia asks.

“Find a way to be patient with every customer?”

“Well …” Mia smiles shyly, her eyes twinkling under the stars. “I do have a trick. Want me to tell you?”

I sit up and nod eagerly. “Desperately!”

Under the glow of the crescent moon, I listen with rapt attention as Mia tells me her trick to dealing with difficult, frustrating people.

“For each customer, I make up a little backstory in my mind,” she says.

“A backstory …” I repeat.

Mia nods. “For example, grumpy Mr. Collins? He’s here because he hasn’t spoken with his daughter in twenty-five years, and he’s come to finally visit her. They had a huge falling out after she discovered he’d spent all her college money on celebrity hair.”

I nearly fall off the staircase. “Celebrity hair?” I ask.

She nods. “It started by accident. He was waiting to buy groceries at Albertsons, and realized the guy standing in front of him was a celebrity. You know the tall robber in Home Alone?”

I laugh.

She smiles. “He has a surprising amount of hair! Thick and wiry! And curly!”

“And Mr. Collins just …” I lift up a hand into the air.

Mia demonstrates, snatching a piece of my hair from behind and pretending to snip it off. I giggle. “From then on, it was just secret auctions, online bids, and even digging through trash. He has some of the most famous hair in the world, hidden in his closet. We’re talking presidents, kings and queens, pop stars! Rumor has it, he even has Babe’s hair.”

“Babe the pig? OMG.”

“He knew it was wrong, but he did it anyway. It was a delicious addiction, until it wasn’t. Until he had spent every penny he had. Until every member of his family left him, including the cat.”

I nod. “Now it’s all making sense!”

“Admiral Fluffball walked out on Mr. Collins and got adopted by his neighbor. Every few months, though, he’d come back and sneak inside, to swallow another mouthful of Posh Spice’s hair!”

I laugh even harder.

“Which he’d cough back up and leave in a dazzling furball, just for Mr. Collins,” Mia adds with a grin. “Now can you understand why Mr. Collins is so sour?”

“I can absolutely understand.” I nod at Mia.

“Your turn.” Mia settles in next to me.

I close my eyes, thinking of Ms. Holly Ginger, who left the motel with Archie but who still hasn’t fully left my mind. I don’t know why, but I keep thinking of her and Mr. Ginger, and what might have happened between them.

“Mr. and Ms. Ginger were happily married when Ms. Ginger discovered her husband had no more golf balls and his shoes were always wet,” I start. “That’s when she put two and two together, that he was secretly seeing a professional golf ball diver. She couldn’t stop sobbing for days. She should have known—he was spending so much time by the pond, at that country club! How could every ball he hit go into the water?”

Mia cackles, slapping her knee.

“And it wasn’t real water, by the way, it was this artificial blue water—the same stuff they use in porta potties!” I add. “Which was another reason she personally couldn’t stand golf. She much preferred fly fishing. And the kind she liked wasn’t fishing using flies, it was actually trying to catch flies.”

“Of course.” Mia giggles.

“It gave her tremendous joy, catching all those flies. But she just couldn’t, for the life of her, continue doing it. What was the point, when the love of her life was now with a woman who spends all day submerged in porta potty water?”

Mia snorts. “Awwww.”

“After the divorce, it was Archie who breathed life back into her. Who fetched her favorite snacks, her favorite blanket, and, when she was ready, her fishing rod. It took her some time, but eventually, she was ready to get back in the world … and catch some more flies!”

“I love that,” Mia says, resting her head on my shoulder. She beams up at me. “Now you know my trick! It’s fun, right?”

“Yup!” I nod. It really is fun. Maybe even more fun than going on the flight simulation. “I’ll try to remember it, the next time I get mad,” I tell Mia. Which is still pretty often.

She smiles.

Because I’m curious, I tilt my head and ask, “Is that what you used to do with me too?”

“Maybe,” Mia says, grinning.

“Well, let’s hear it!” I tap my feet.

“Noooooooo.” She shakes her head firmly.

“Oh, c’mon, please?” I wheedle. “I’ll make you a Baked Alaska, topped with ice cream and caramelized meringue!”

Mia shakes her head again, but I can tell she’s thinking about it because her tummy rumbles.

“Okay, but don’t judge,” she says. “It’s a little corny.”

I settle in.

“You dream of fairness,” Mia starts. “A world in which the sons of motel owners and the daughters of motel managers could walk together, as equals.”

I smile, liking the Martin Luther King Jr. vibe of her speech.

“You know how hard it is to work in a motel,” she goes on, “day in and day out, because you see it every time you come over. Which is why it hurts your soul when you hear your dad screaming at the staff. You know you can’t stop him, but you try in your own little way. You leave kind notes in the feedback box, and delicious chocolates in the vending machine.”

I try to hold back my smile as she describes the amazing things I did not do.

“Most importantly, every time you heard your dad talking bad about his motel managers at home, you’d always take our side,” Mia concludes. She peeks at me shyly. “Did I get that right?”

“Uh-huh!” I squeak.

Mia laughs, almost in relief, and my throat feels like sand. As the gentle breeze wafts between us, Mia scoots closer to me, so close I can feel her breathing. Normally, being this close to her would be fire. But tonight, my body feels like cold macaroni salad, the kind that someone made and stuck in the fridge and forgot about. And when they finally eat it, it’s not going to be the way they think it’ll taste.

I move my stir fry glass noodles around in my lunchbox at lunch, half listening to Lucas’s conversation with Nick and Wes. After they bugged me for details, then bugged me some more, I finally told them that my flight simulator date was awesome. It doesn’t feel great to lie to Lucas, but I gotta live up to someone’s best version of me.

I glance at Mia across the cafeteria, sitting with Lupe.

“Hey, aren’t you going to eat that?” Lucas asks, pointing to my noodles.

I glance down. I haven’t had much of an appetite since Mia told me the backstory she made up about me after we met.

“You can have it,” I say, pushing the container over to Lucas.

“Sure?” Lucas asks, already digging in. In between bites, he adds, “So what was it like, the flight simulator? And what’d you guys eat afterward, at Roy’s?”

I flush. “Oh, you know, just, like, stuff.”

“But what kind of stuff? A steak? Pasta primavera? Orange chicken with garlicky beef?” he asks. “Speaking of orange chicken, you going to the Asian buffet at the country club tomorrow night?”

I shake my head. “God, I hope not!”

I let Lucas know that orange chicken is not, in fact, a real Chinese dish. It’s a dish invented in America, a variation of General Tso’s chicken, which is also not a real Chinese dish. In China, the real General Tso is far better known for his battle skills than his chicken.

“If people want real Chinese food, they should come over to the Calivista,” I say, feeling proud for a minute.

“So you’re never coming to a single Asian buffet at the club?” Lucas asks.

“Not if I can help it!” I declare.

Unfortunately, I spoke too soon, because when Dad picks me up after school on Wednesday, the first thing he says is, “I hope you’re hungry! We’re going to the Asian buffet at the country club!”

“What?” I protest. “Noooooo! Why?”

“Because Mr. and Mrs. Quinn invited us! Isn’t that nice? You did such a great job taking care of Mr. Quinn’s mom, he called me up.” Dad beams. “Hopefully, after tonight, they’ll officially write us a recommendation letter!”

I pout in the passenger seat, thinking of all the crab rangoons—or worse, cream cheese wontons—I’m going to have to eat.

“Oh, perk up, it’s not so bad.”

“Eating white people Chinese food?” I ask Dad with a skeptical look.

He shrugs happily. “At least it’s free!”

Just a few hours later, Mom and Dad are piling on enough orange chicken to turn their plates into traffic lights, and I’m stuck sitting between Mr. and Mrs. Quinn, staring at my plate.

“So, Jason, tell me about yourself,” Mr. Quinn says, after he thanks me for taking such good care of his mother. She left this morning for Florida. “What do you want to do with your life? Have you thought about your future? Colleges?”

“I … uh … I want to be a Michelin-starred chef.”

“A Michelin-starred chef!” Mr. Quinn smiles, exchanging a glance with his wife. “The boy has ambition!”

“Then you must go to culinary school!” Mrs. Quinn says. “What’s the best culinary school, darling?”

“Probably Le Cordon Bleu in France,” Mr. Quinn says.

Mrs. Quinn beams at me. “Wouldn’t that be lovely! Your parents can come visit. Don’t you just love France?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t been,” I answer honestly.

“You’ve never been to France?” Mrs. Quinn asks, blinking at me like I said I’ve never seen a toothbrush.

My parents are finally back from the buffet. “What are you guys talking about?” Mom asks, sitting down with her plate.

“Jason here says he’s never been to France.” Mrs. Quinn turns to Mom, searching her face for confirmation of this shocking fact. “That can’t be, can it?”

Mom flinches. “No, of course he has! He just … can’t remember, because he banged his head on a charcuterie board.”

I open my mouth to protest, but Mom shoots me a warning look.

“We love France,” Dad insists. “I am a big fan of the Eiffel Tower!”

“We are too,” Mr. Quinn says, relaxing. “And Chamonix! Do you guys ski?”

Mom and Dad exchange a glance.

“Of course we ski!” they blurt out at the same time.

I have never seen my parents ski a day in their life.

“What level are you?” Mrs. Quinn asks.

“Yeah, Mom, what level?” I ask, amused, as I grab a piece of chicken off her plate.

“All the levels!” Mom replies with a nervous smile.

“It’s just so refreshing,” Dad says. “Going down the hill, the wind in my hair.”

WHAT HAIR, I want to scream.

“Admiring the beautiful mountain,” Mom adds. “Taking in the fresh air!”

“Then we must all go skiing sometime!” Mrs. Quinn lightly but decisively slaps the table. “It’s settled!”

I grin enthusiastically, because I actually can’t wait to see this. My parents screaming down the slopes, their skis on top of their heads and bellies in the snow like two penguins.

“What’d I tell you, Connie? Aren’t they great?” Mr. Quinn chuckles, popping another egg roll in his mouth. Dad pats my shoulder, pleased.

And then Mr. Blair walks over with the chef.

“How is my favorite prospective family doing?” Mr. Blair asks.

“Wonderful!” Dad says, shaking his head.

“I’d like to introduce you to our executive chef, Chef Kenneth Wayen,” he says.

Chef Wayen, a tall, white, skinny man in his thirties wearing a uniform that looks disturbingly clean, waves at everyone.

“So, what did you think? Did Chef knock it out of the park with our Asian buffet or what?”

“It was tremendous!” Dad compliments.

Mom nods. “Delicious!”

As everyone waits for me to weigh in, I glance down at my greasy plate. I remember Mia’s words and make myself give Chef Wayen a backstory. He’s a new chef, just moved here from Moores Mill, Alabama, where he knew zero Chinese people growing up. The move to LA made him so nervous, he almost backed out. But he told himself he could do it, putting all his possessions in his little Honda and stopping at every restaurant that looked interesting on his drive across the country. So his Chinese food is a little overcooked and over soy-sauced … but he’s trying. And now that he’s here, he’s been venturing out to Monterey Park and San Gabriel on the weekends, hoping to pick up some real authentic Chinese cuisine.

“Good flavor,” I offer with a thumbs-up.

Chef Wayen looks visibly relieved. “Thank you. You have no idea how much that means to me. Please, enjoy yourselves.”

As the adults return to their eating and vacation story swapping, I lift my fork and nibble the sesame shrimp. It’s not that bad. So it’s not the best version of what it could be. But it took courage for him to put it out there. And that’s something.

I think about that after dessert, when Mr. and Mrs. Quinn take Mom on a tour of the swimming pool and it’s just me and Dad. A waiter walks by offering fortune cookies on a platter, and Dad reaches for a handful.

“What are you doing?” I ask, peering at the five cookies in his hand.

“Getting some for the weeklies,” Dad says. “I know, I know, fortune cookies aren’t a real amenity. But … I gotta start somewhere.”

I’m floored.

“New duvets and now fortune cookies,” I marvel at him. “I’d say that’s a great start!”

Dad sticks the fortune cookies in his pocket. “Look at this place. Imagine having a Christmas party here for all the guests and staff of the Calivista! What do you think of that?”

I raise an eyebrow. “Depends. Are you going to talk Mia’s ear off about the time we ‘went’ to France?”

Dad lowers his head. “Sorry about that. But you know these people, they’re old money.”

“What’s old money?” I ask.

“Money that’s been in the family for many generations,” he says, breaking off a piece of a fortune cookie. “These old money people, they’re different from us. They ski. They sail. They get together with other old money people in clubhouses and talk about tax reform.”

“And what about us?” I ask.

“We’re new money.”

I chuckle, not understanding. Money’s money. “So? What’s the difference?”

“No difference,” Dad assures me. He puts his cookie down and looks into my eye, making sure I understand. “Son, just because you didn’t grow up skiing doesn’t mean you are worth any less. You spent time doing other things, that’s all, like learning how to run a motel.”

I take a deep breath and ask as casually as I can, “Dad … do you, uh … still keep in touch with any of the old managers?”

He takes a long sip of his tea and shakes his head.

“Not even the Chus?” I whisper.

“The Chus didn’t leave a forwarding address. Don’t think they had another job lined up.”

“So they just left?” I ask. It blows my mind that they had absolutely nowhere to go and they still chose to pack up.

Dad nods. “Quite common, back in those days. Managers would get sick of the job and just quit. I don’t know where they went.”

“Did you ask?”

“We weren’t exactly on staying in touch terms with our managers. Especially the Chus,” Dad says. He gazes into the distance. “I’m trying to think of exactly why they took off. What was it that happened? Something happened.…”

Before I can change the subject, he snaps his fingers and leans forward, his nostrils flaring slightly. “I remember! They stole from us.”

I stare at my hands in my lap. “You mean you think they stole from us.”

“Well, who else could it be?” Dad asks.

I shrug. “I don’t know. Anyone. Someone who was walking by and came into the front office while Little Tao wasn’t looking?” I suggest.

“You have to be buzzed in,” Dad reminds me. “Can’t just stroll in off the street.”

“But if it was someone else—”

“Who?” Dad erupts. My heart thumps in my chest as he studies my eyes. “Who would be so rotten to take $350 from the Chus? Even robbers know not to steal from the poor!”

I can feel the shrimp in my tummy rotting. A waiter walks over and offers us more fortune cookies, but I don’t reach for one. I’ve already received the worst fortune I can imagine.

All I want to do is go home and bury myself under a fort of blankets and not think about what Dad said, but after dinner, he announces we have to make a pit stop at the Calivista. He wants to give the weeklies their fortune cookies.

Mia’s at the desk when we get there. I’m so bathed in shame, I’m tempted to just stay in the car. But she looks really cute in her red headband, so I wave. She hangs up the phone and skips over to me.

“I’m glad you’re here! I think I have a plan!” Mia says enthusiastically.

I get out of the car, shivering slightly in the cold night air. I follow Mia over to the front office, where she’s got the thick Yellow Pages book open on the counter.

“Guess what I’ve been doing? Calling every roofer I can find! I’m going to track down the one who knew about the leak!” Mia says. “Then all I have to do is interview him and get him to write a statement and BOOM—that’s proof!”

I grin, impressed with her thinking. Though it does seem very labor intensive.

“You’re going to call up every roofer in LA?”

“Pretty much!” Mia says.

I glance over at the Yellow Pages. There’s gotta be a bazillion names in the phone directory, not to mention however many aren’t listed!

“I don’t care if it takes me every night and every weekend for the next month straight,” she goes on. “I won’t leave a single stone unturned until I find him!”

As Mia pledges her complete investigative journalist dedication to this project, I try not to look too sad. Every night and every weekend for the whole next month. What about our first date do-over?

“Jason, I have to find this person and fix this for my family,” Mia says, looking into my eyes. Maybe I look sad after all.

But I nod, like the understanding boyfriend I wish I actually was.

“It’s important,” she adds.

“I know,” I say.

Mia smiles and gives me a high five. “So how was the dinner at the country club?” she asks. I blink for a second. How did she know about the dinner? Then I remember that I called Hank from the club and told him I had to take the night off because I was stuck at the Asian buffet. He must have told Mia.

“It was fine,” I start to say, then pause. “Actually, it was a little weird. My parents kept talking about skiing—”

The phone rings. “Sorry,” Mia says. “You don’t mind, do you? This could be a roofer calling me back!” I shake my head as she grabs the phone and chirps, “Good evening, the Calivista Motel, this is Mia! Can I help you?”

As her bright voice fills the front office, I crouch under the divider and let myself out. Standing outside the front office, I gaze at Mia, sitting at the desk, working so hard to help her family. So calm and collected, while I’m completely falling apart.

“Hey!” Lucas says to me at school the next day. “Did you have fun at the buffet?”

“Uh-huh,” I mumble back, hustling to my class. I spent the night sitting by the phone, waiting for Mia to call so I could finish telling her about my parents’ weird ski conversation and maybe, just maybe, feel a little bit better about that rotten evening. But by 11:00, it was clear Mia wasn’t going to call me back that night.

I ended up lying in bed, unloading onto Wealthy, while he responded with impressive eyebrow twitching.

“I saw you with your parents! Was Mia there too?” Lucas asks.

The question makes me want to stick a sesame shrimp in my ear. No, she wasn’t! If I’d known that she was going to be on roof duty for the foreseeable future, I would have invited her. But now it’s too late!

“What’s wrong?” Lucas asks, studying my face. “Did you and her … have a fight?”

“No!” I snap, turning bright red.

“Whoa, man, I was just asking,” he says.

I shake my head, feeling my inner volcano about to erupt. He might be “just asking,” but I can’t “just respond.” Because then I would be admitting I’m not the cool guy with a girlfriend that I’ve let him and Nick and Wes believe. And let’s face it, that’s the only reason they like me! The only reason they let me sit at their table. And I can’t lose that! So instead, I blurt out the worst thing I can possibly say.

“I don’t want to have to keep telling you every detail of our relationship, okay? It’s none of your business!”

Time freezes for a second. Lucas’s eyes get big, like they were stung by a bee. Mine fill with regret and my throat tightens. I’m too proud or too freaked out to say that I’m sorry. So I just stand there. Lucas takes a step back, then another one, then another one. Finally, he turns around and walks away. And I feel like an absolute puffer fish of a friend.

Back at the motel, I furiously whisk up a Baked Alaska for Mia. Literally. I whip the meringue so hard the peaks look like pine cones, but I keep going. The more I think of Lucas’s hurt face, the harder I mix. Why’d I have to say that to him? Why couldn’t I have stuffed a stapler in my mouth, or distracted him by asking him about Roxanne? There were so many better options. Why’d I have to be mean to him?

It’s not his fault that Mia is suddenly too busy to hang out with me. It’s not his fault my dad practically called me evil. None of this is his fault!

I grab the torch and start blasting my fancy dessert.

Normally, this is my favorite part. It’s so satisfying watching the delicate cake turn crispy brown on the outside, knowing the ice cream inside will stay hard and cold. But today, the torching isn’t working. The peaks are not turning brown. UGH! Why is nothing going right today?

I hunch over, squeezing my face closer to the torch, and try again.

Unfortunately, I blast the thing a little too close to my face, and I start smelling the distinct scent of hair burning.

“Do you smell that?” I ask Hank.

Hank turns around from making salad dressing and nearly drops his bowl. “Your eyebrows, Jason!” he exclaims.

I reach up with my fingertips, but I can’t feel anything! I run over to the bathroom and look in the mirror. Half of my left eyebrow has been roasted off by my chef’s blowtorch!

“Nooooo!” I scream.

“Hang on,” Hank shouts, running over with the first aid kit. “It’s going to be okay!”

“It’s not going to be okay! I just singed off my eyebrow!” I burst into tears.

“It’ll grow back!” Hank says, pulling out some antibiotic gel. “Plus you still have the other half. You were lucky you didn’t lose the whole thing! What were you doing getting so close to the torch, anyway?”

As Hank helps me apply the lotion to my eyebrow, I tell him about my ridiculous fight with Lucas.

“I don’t know why I said that,” I moan. “I was just frustrated! Those guys, they all think I’m a relationship expert! But the truth is, Mia and I, we haven’t even gone on a real first date yet. And now she’s going to be busy for the whole next month! And I just …” I gasp for air. It’s hard to breathe as I’m telling this story.

Hank puts a hand on my back. “Relax,” he urges. “First of all, I don’t know where you got the idea that you have to be a relationship expert at your age. No one’s expecting that from you, not even those guys at school.”

“They are! That’s what they’re impressed by!” I say. I’m all patched up now, so I grab a spoon, park myself next to the counter, and dunk the spoon straight into the Baked Alaska. Since it’s probably already melting, we might as well eat it. As the gooey marshmallowy meringue mixes with the rich, creamy chocolate ice cream in my mouth, I feel a little better.

Hank pulls up a chair and grabs a spoon too.

“That’s what you think they’re impressed by,” he says.

“No, it’s true. It’s the only thing!” I insist. “They’re so much better than me in every other way. They’re sporty. They’re funny. They know how to do the spinning thing with the basketball. Why else would they want to be my friend?”

“Uhhh, maybe because they like you?” Hank asks in between bites. “Maybe your friend Lucas actually cares about you because you’re a great guy?”

“I’m a terrible, eyebrow-less dope,” I confess to the ice cream.

“You may be eyebrow-less, but you’re not a dope,” Hank insists. He gestures to the kitchen. “A dope wouldn’t build all this!”

Hmm. True.

“A dope wouldn’t make one of our guests a rain soundtrack,” he says. “Which, by the way, Mrs. Roberts showed to all the weeklies.”

I smile.

I scoop up a huge spoonful of ice cream and mumble, “But I still feel sad that I don’t get to go on my big date.”

Hank chuckles. “Love isn’t about the big dates, my friend.”

I pause my spoon licking and glance up at him.

“It isn’t?”

“No,” Hank says. “It’s about putting in the emotional work, daily.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

Hank takes two more bites, then puts his spoon down.

“Think about it like a cake.” He points to the Baked Alaska. “When people look at a cake, what do they see?”

“The deliciousness?” I ask.

“Yes, but how do we get a cake?” Hank asks. “A cake doesn’t become delicious automatically. Someone has to work on the meringue, the base, each individual layer. They have to put in the time, the love. Mix the ingredients, bake it, wait for it to cool. They have to have patience. Carefully torch it.”

“Hopefully not go bald,” I add with a chuckle.

“Exactly. All that is the emotional work that goes into something you love,” Hank says. “It’s the invisible labor! The things you do every day to support your partner. In every relationship, someone has to do it. In a really good relationship, you both do.”

I think about my own parents. Who puts the emotional work into their relationship? Definitely Mom. I think of all the doctors’ appointments she books, the customs forms she fills out, the tax receipts she organizes, the medication from the vet she picks up. The little things my dad doesn’t even see, but that she does anyway. I bet if my dad did just some of that, she’d probably remember it more than a hot date.

“You know something? You’re right,” I tell Hank with a smile. I hold up a finger. “That’s what I’m going to do for Mia!”

Hank smiles, getting up from his chair and going back to his salad dressing. “Glad to hear it.” He reaches over and messes up my hair.

“Hey! No, not my hair! I’m gonna need it now that I have no eyebrows!” I joke.

Hank laughs. As I clear the Baked Alaska and wash all the mixing bowls, I catch Hank pulling out his wallet. He props his old picture of Ayana up against his counter as he mixes the salad dressing.

It makes my heart go all jelly. I think about how rare and special love is. I hope Hank finds true love again. He really deserves it.

After filling in my missing eyebrow with a Sharpie, I make a list of how I can put in more emotional work with Mia every day.

Emotional Work

- Ask her what she needs

- Walk Comma for her, if she brings her pup to the motel

- Help her pass out the latest issue of The Scoop at school

- Put surprise treats and chocolates in the vending machine or in her locker

- Leave her nice notes in the customer feedback box

I’m excited to try all of these, but first, I have something very important to do.

Lucas picks up on the first ring on Saturday.

“Hey … it’s me, Jason,” I say nervously.

“What’s up?” he asks. His voice is faint. It’s hard to tell if he’s still mad, or if he just swallowed a pickle.

“I just want to apologize for the other day. I shouldn’t have lost it at you like that. I feel really bad.”

There’s a long beat of silence.

“It’s okay,” he finally says. “I shouldn’t have been nosy. It’s your relationship.”

“You weren’t being nosy,” I tell him. I take a deep breath, because the next part’s a lot harder to get out. “I got frustrated because I was embarrassed. I didn’t actually go on the flight simulator thing with Mia. There, I said it. We haven’t gone on a date yet.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, I don’t know why I lied about it,” I say. Then I add, “Actually, I do know … it’s because I thought maybe you wouldn’t think I’m so cool.”

“Jason!” Lucas says. “You think that’s why I think you’re cool? Because you went on a date with your girlfriend?”

“Uh-huh,” I say awkwardly.

“Naw, bro, you’re cool because you were locked in a freezer for ten minutes and you didn’t even freak out! And you bring the best food to school, every single day. It’s delicious! And you’re like a food historian! I’ve never met anyone who knows so much about the history of dishes,” Lucas goes on. “And I’m sure if I saw you in action in a kitchen, you’d be fire!”

I grin.

“Well, that’s easy!” I say. “Come to the motel sometime and I’ll show you!”

“Really?” he asks. “What about tomorrow? I’m not working tomorrow!”

“Great! See you then! We can make all the fire we want … just … don’t make me use a blowtorch.”

“What?”

“Never mind!”

When Lucas sees the Calivista, his jaw drops.

“All this is yours?” he asks me.

“Well, I own it with my girlfriend and a bunch of people, but yeah!” I grin.

I give him a quick tour. I show him the vending machine, my favorite lounge chairs by the pool, and the light switch for the big neon lights. We take turns pushing the cleaning carts up and down the hallways, then rank the customers’ cars from most awesome convertible to most sad and basic.

“This is so much better than just standing by the sink,” Lucas says.

“Wait till you see our kitchen!” I tell him, speed walking over to East Meets West. This is the part I’ve really been looking forward to.

As we walk inside, Hank greets us, tossing us two cookies from the just-baked stash, and Tanya, one of our kitchen staff, hands us Shirley Temples. Not just any kind of Shirley Temples, but freshly made with hand-squeezed pomegranate juice, whipped cream on top, and juicy black cherries to boot! We devour our cookies—the chocolate is still warm and melty—and hold our Shirley Temples delicately as I show Lucas around the kitchen.

“This is where the magic happens!” I tell him, putting on my apron and showing him my cooking station. I give him a spoon to try the pineapple glaze I prepped last night for my honey ham.

“Mmmm,” Lucas says, licking his fingers. “Man, this is nice. I’d love to work for myself! Not have to worry about whether I’m going to get fired if someone complains their dish wasn’t perfectly polished!”

I lead him out the back door. We sit on the upside-down buckets, sipping our sodas.

“It is nice,” I say. “But I still have to worry about stuff.”

“Like what?”

I lick up some whipped cream with my tongue. I point to my Sharpie’d eyebrow. “Accidents, for one.”

Lucas leans in to get a closer look. “Dude, I didn’t even notice!”

I laugh. “And just, like, how to keep everything under control, I guess,” I tell him. “I want to be good at everything—I want to be a perfect boyfriend, an exceptional chef, and a kick-butt concierge, so people will give me lots of tips.” I sneak a peek at him. “And a great friend. Sometimes, though, I feel like I’m a stove with only three burners, but I got like five pots going! You know?”

He nods. “I definitely know. I wonder sometimes how I’m going to keep working at my job when I get to high school and I have a ton of homework. Hopefully by then, my mom will get her dental assistant certificate!”

I smile.

He looks down at his glass for so long that I wonder if there’s a bug in his drink.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Nothing,” he says. “Just thinking of how I’d love to have a Shirley Temple with Roxanne on the terrace of the country club. At exactly 6:03 p.m.”

“Why 6:03 p.m.?” I laugh.

“That’s the time the sky turns the same color as the Shirley Temple,” he tells me. “I’ve been waiting my whole life to hold my glass up with the girl of my dreams and watch the sky melt into my drink.…”

Hearing Lucas describe it like that, I realize I should quit feeling sorry for myself that I haven’t gone on my big date. I’m so lucky. I found my Shirley Temple partner. I can’t hang on so tightly to the pursuit of perfection that I forget to celebrate the getting here. The amazing, beautiful miracle that is us.

“Dude, you should just go up to her and tell her that,” I say.

“No way—”

“Why not?” I ask him. “It’s beautiful!”

“You want me to go up to this gorgeous, enchanting girl and say, Hey, you wanna watch the sky turn into a soda with me?”

“Yes! Exactly!”

Lucas shakes his head so furiously, a bit of his drink spills.

“Why not?” I ask.

“Because it’s not going to work. Let’s say she says yes. And we drink the sodas. Then what? She’s going to want to know why I am always at the country club. My options are to lie”—he frowns—“or admit that I’m a lowly servant.”

“Don’t make fun of lowly servants,” I quickly remind him, pointing a finger at my chest. “How do you think I made all that flight simulator money?”

“But it’s different for you,” Lucas says. “You own the place!”

I fall quiet, because he has a point. But still …

“That doesn’t mean it was easy to get Mia to see me in a new light,” I say. “There was a time when she hated my guts. Thought I was the plague. But I kept trying. I kept putting myself out there. I made her see that I’m more than just my background. You never know unless you try.”

Lucas takes a long sip, then looks at me. “You make a very compelling case,” he says.

As we get up to put our glasses back in the kitchen, I linger for a second, gazing up at the sky. I want so badly for him to experience his orange sky with Roxanne. Walking through the kitchen, I see our novelist guest, Mrs. Roberts, pacing the dining room.

“Anything I can help you with?” I ask her.

She lets out a deep and heavy sigh. She’s wearing her shirt backward and her hair doesn’t look like it’s been combed in days.

“Yes, I’d like a cup of coffee, actually make that three cups of coffee, and an apple pie. And the cure for writer’s block, please.”

“What’s the matter?” I ask, getting her a cup. Lucas grabs a plate and cuts her a piece from the freshly baked pies sitting on our bakery shelf. “You stuck again? Maybe try taking a walk—”

Mrs. Roberts shakes her head firmly. “No, a walk is not going to help. In fact, that’s my problem. Every time I hear a new car come in, I go outside, because I’m so curious. Who’s the new customer? What’s their deal? I wanna go and talk to them. I’m not making any progress!”

Come to think of it, Mrs. Roberts has been doing a lot of chatting with the guests. I think about the time I overheard her debating artichokes with the weeklies. I thought she was just taking a well-deserved break from pounding on her keyboard, but I guess she was procrastinating.

I exchange a glance with Lucas.

“Well, what can we do?” I ask.

“Can we try that method where you sit outside my room and don’t let me come out?” she asks, looking embarrassed but hopeful.

I glance at the clock. It’s almost 4:00 p.m. I’d love to hang out outside Mrs. Roberts’s room, but it’s almost time to start prepping. In about two hours, the dinner crowd will be coming in.

“I can do it for an hour,” I offer. “But then I gotta—”

“An hour’s not going to cut it.”

“I could help!” Lucas offers. “My mom says I don’t have to be home till six!”

“I’m going to need it all night,” Mrs. Roberts insists. “And all day tomorrow. And the next day. Until this thing is done.”

I chew my lips. Mrs. Roberts’s eyes slide toward the window. She waves to Billy Bob, who’s coming out of his room. It hits me that the reason Mrs. Roberts keeps popping out of her own room is because all the guests she talks to are really nice! She needs to meet Mr. Collins.

“I have an idea!” I grab her arm. “Follow me!”

Mr. Collins yanks his door open with a scowl.

“What do you want?” he barks.

“Hi, Mr. Collins, we just wanted to see how you were settling in—” I start to say.

“I was trying to get some work done until I was rudely interrupted.”

“What kind of work do you do?” Lucas asks, sounding genuinely interested. He tries to poke his head into the room, but Mr. Collins steps onto the landing and firmly closes the door behind him.

“I design paper.”

Mrs. Roberts’s eyebrows shoot up. “What kind of paper?” she asks. “I’d love to try some of your paper! Maybe it’ll help me unlock my writer’s block. You see, I keep getting distracted and coming out of my room—”

“Lady, do I look like I care?” Mr. Collins snaps. “And no, it can’t help you with your writer’s block. Because I design toilet paper.”

“Oh!”

We’re all stunned for a second. I’m trying to think of something to say, but I can’t get past the fact that toilet paper has designs. I just thought it was all white. But I guess Mr. Collins is right—if you look real close, it does have very subtle patterns on it. Is that why he’s so cranky? Because no one ever looks hard at his artwork? They just … use it?

“I have a lot of questions about that,” I blurt out.

“So do I,” Mrs. Roberts says eagerly.

“Well, tough luck, I have a deadline to meet,” Mr. Collins says, slipping back inside and closing his door on us, but not before adding, “Lady, if you want to stay in your room so bad, why don’t you shave your head!”

I’m about to apologize to Mrs. Roberts for that uncalled-for statement when she turns to me and Lucas with her eyes as wide as a buffet table. “That’s IT!”

I start laughing. She’s joking, right?

“It’s brilliant!” she insists. “What time is it? It’s probably too late to go to the hairstylist.” She glances at her watch. “But maybe you guys can do it!”

“Are you serious?” I ask, my hands sweating. “You want us to shave your head?”

A determined look settles on Mrs. Roberts’s face as she grabs a fistful of her thick red mane.

“Jason, I’m finishing this book. I don’t care what it takes! Now are you with me, or not with me?”

I nod hesitantly.

“Good. Now go find a razor!”

“Hold still!” I warn Mrs. Roberts as Lucas and I attempt to shave her thick hairline. Thank God for Lucas. I couldn’t do this without him. As soon as we got back to the front desk, he made a list of supplies we needed. I grab the can of shaving cream we borrowed from Hank and dump about a hot dog’s worth onto my hand. I smush it all over Mrs. Roberts’s head, whispering a silent sorry to her long red locks.

Next comes the shaving. “You sure about this?” I ask one last time.

“Positive.”

I glance over at the razor, which we also borrowed from Hank. I’m too scared to use the thing, so Lucas does the honor.

“Easy-peasy,” Lucas says, moving the razor along Mrs. Roberts’s hairline. “I’ve seen my mom do it a million times.”

“You’ve seen your mom shave?” I ask.

“Hey, I’ll have you know lip fuzz is very common!” he says with a laugh.

I put my hand up. No judgment!

Lucas runs the razor twice more. I stare at the long red strands of hair that come out. Hey, it’s actually working! I grab another razor and dump more of the shaving cream on. Pretty soon, Lucas and I get into a rhythm—cream, shave, cream, shave. We make good progress, until we get to the bottom half of Mrs. Roberts’s hair. It’s as thick as a forest.

“Uh-oh,” I say, yanking on my razor. It doesn’t move.

“What do you mean, uh-oh?” Mrs. Roberts asks.

“It’s stuck!” I try moving the razor, but it’s completely tangled in her hair.

“How stuck?” she asks.

“Like in the movie Jumanji, when that superpowerful ivy wraps all around the cop!” It’s my favorite scene from my favorite movie—but it’s a little scary in real life.

“Oh, I love that movie!” Lucas says brightly.

We temporarily forget about Mrs. Roberts’s head and get into a heated debate on whether or not Van Pelt, the hunter, wanted to kill Alan or just make him feel helpless and afraid.

“Hey! I’m helpless and afraid here!” Mrs. Roberts yelps. “I need you guys to focus!”

“Sorry,” I say, and turn back to the task at hand. But two more yanks and the razor’s just as stuck as before. I glance at the clock. It’s almost 5:00 p.m. now. I’ve got to get dinner started. “Gee, Mrs. Roberts, I don’t think there’s much more we can do tonight—”

“You can’t just leave me! I don’t want to be in Jumanji!” she says testily. She gets up and looks in the mirror by the bureau. “How am I supposed to sleep with this razor in my hair? I look like a half-plucked chicken! You have to fix this!”

I grab the scissors and try cutting, but they’re too dull.

“We need something stronger!” Lucas says. “Like a paper shredder!”

“Or a flower pruner!” I suggest.

“I know! How about a pizza slicer?” Lucas throws out.

“Oooh! Good idea!” I’m about to bolt for the kitchen when Mrs. Roberts cries out, “No! Nothing with the word ‘shred’ or ‘slice’ or ‘prune’ in it!”

I frown, crossing my arms. This was her idea. Now she’s chickening out? I point at her laptop. “You want to finish this book or not?”

She looks at her reflection in the mirror, and then over at her laptop. A war plays out in her face.

“Fine,” she says with a sigh. “Get the pizza slicer!”

Twenty minutes later, a shiny, newly bald Mrs. Roberts looks at herself in the mirror. As she lets out a sob, I feel my heart flatten into a tortilla. She hates it! She’s sorry she let us anywhere near her hair. She’s going to go complain to my dad, who’s going to shave my head. Or worse—she’ll tell Mia! Whose lovely face is going to look at me all disappointed again.

But then a smile emerges on Mrs. Roberts’s face, and she reaches for her purse.

As she slips a twenty-dollar bill into each of our hands, I let out a triumphant yelp. I can’t believe it! She’s tipping us!

“Thanks for your help, boys,” she says. “Now get out of here so I can finish this book!”

We run out as fast as we can. “We did it!” I cheer, high-fiving my friend. “Thanks so much for helping me, Lucas! I couldn’t have done it without you!”

“Anytime!” Lucas laughs. “Hey, I gotta go home, but let’s hang again sometime!”

I nod happily. My first-ever hang with a friend at the motel didn’t stink! We shaved a novelist’s head together and he didn’t run out screaming “This place is mayhem! I’m never coming back!” He actually wants to do it again! As Lucas’s mom pulls up and he gets in her car, I look over and see Mia coming out of the front office.

“Mia!” I run over. Breathlessly, I tell her what we just did.

“You’re joking.” She giggles and starts running toward Mrs. Roberts’s room—but I stop her before she knocks.

“No, please, we gotta let her write! She desperately needs to finish her book!” I put a finger to my lips and we slide down to the ground. With our backs to the wall, we sit underneath Mrs. Roberts’s window and listen to her type.

“What a sweet noise she’s making,” I say, closing my eyes and smiling.

“Well, that makes one of us.” Mia looks down, suddenly sad.

“What’s wrong?”

Her shoulders slump as she limply waves the reporter’s notebook she’s holding. “I wish I were writing instead of calling roofers.”

As she describes how much work it is to call up every single roofer and repeat the same address over and over again, it hits me what I can do for Mia—how I can put in the emotional work that Hank was talking about.

“Hey, why don’t I call the roofers for you?” I suggest.

Mia glances over at me, surprised.

“You’d do that?” she asks.

I nod eagerly. “Sure!” I grin. “It’s gotta be easier than shaving heads! Just tell me what to do!”

Mia opens her reporter’s notebook and pulls out a stapled stack of pages—a list of roofers she copied down from the Yellow Pages. “Okay, you just have to call each one and tell them my address. Ask if they’ve been there to inspect before. And if they say they can’t remember, you gotta push them. Make them give you a real answer!”

I nod, studying the list. There are four pages of names. “And this is everyone?”

“Everyone I could find for LA, anyway,” Mia says. “I looked through all the Yellow Pages in the library. Oh, that reminds me, please take detailed notes. Who you talked to, what company. You can’t leave any stone unturned!” She throws her arms around me. “Oh, Jason, you don’t know how much this means!”

I chuckle, feeling pretty grand. “It’s nothing.”

“You’re the best boyfriend ever!”

Then, to my surprise, she leans over and gives me a kiss on the cheek.

All time stops when Mia kisses me. Sure, it’s just a peck on the cheek, the kind my grandmother would give me, but still! STILL! Ladies and gentlemen, I, Jason Yao, have officially been pecked!

I run back to the kitchen with her stack of roofers. I’m ready to roll up my sleeves and start calling, but first, dinner duties. I prep my pineapple-glazed ham and cranberry-orange roast ducklings. Once those are in the oven, I move on to appetizers. Tonight, I’m serving sweet and fiery pepper bruschetta.

When everything’s ready, I ask Hank if I can pop out for a few minutes.

“Sure,” he says. “It’s looking like a slow night tonight, anyway. We can handle it here!”

“Great!” I smile, washing my hands and taking off my apron.

I go to the small office in the back of the kitchen and start dialing.

The first five actually answer the phone. Unfortunately, none of them have heard of Maple Hills in Anaheim. I ask three times, just to be triple sure. On the sixth number, though, I hear a kid’s voice.

“Chu Roofers,” he answers.

I freeze.

“Hello?” the boy asks. I feel my pulse pounding in my ears. He sounds exactly like Little Tao. How is that possible? Are they roofers now?

“Little Tao?” I whisper.

But before the boy can say anything, I hang up the phone.

For the next forty-five minutes, I don’t make a sound. I don’t make a single other call. All I can think about is Little Tao’s voice. And how he sounds exactly the same. I finally found him!

The other urgent siren blasting in my mind is that I cannot, under any circumstances, tell Mia.

“So?” Mia asks the next day. “Were you able to call any roofers last night?”

“Uh-huh!” I say nervously. We’re sitting in the library, and I shift my weight, pretending to be fascinated by a book about cacti.

“Well? What did they say?” Mia asks.

“They’d never been to your house,” I mutter quickly. I feel a little bad lying to Mia, because I didn’t actually ask Little Tao, nor did I go through the rest of the list. I got so freaked out, I had to stop.

“None of them?” Mia asks, seriously bummed.

“I think so,” I say, grabbing the cactus book. I start flipping and spewing cactus facts to distract her. “Did you know cacti can live up to two hundred years?”

“You called all hundred and twenty-eight roofers on the list?”

“Cactus thorns aren’t actually thorns! They’re highly modified leaves!” I continue. “Some are incredibly tall!”

“Jason! Stop talking about cacti! You got through that entire list in one night?” Mia asks.

I start sweating. “Most of it …?”

“What do you mean, most of it?” Mia asks. “You don’t remember?”

I hold the cactus book over my face, trying not to turn into a modified leaf myself. “I don’t know! Everyone sounded the same?”

Mia pulls my book down and stares me in the eye. “You didn’t get their names? You were supposed to take detailed notes! Where’s the list?” She holds out her hand.

Slowly, I unzip my backpack and hand her back her pages. It feels terrible to disappoint Mia like this. She blinks down at her list. It’s exactly as she gave it to me. I didn’t mark anything. I hope she never figures out which one of the numbers is Little Tao’s.

“You didn’t take any notes?” she asks quietly.

I shake my head.

“I thought you actually wanted to help me,” Mia whispers, slowly putting the list into her backpack.

“I did! I do!” I say. Which is the truth.

Mia shakes her head. “This isn’t helping me. If you wanted to help me, you would have done this right. Now I have to call everyone back. That’ll take days, and I won’t have time to work on The Scoop.” I can feel her anxiety skyrocketing and the temperature around us plunges. She gazes at me with heavy eyes, like it hurts to even look at me. “I really needed you, Jason.”

“I’m so sorry, Mia,” I say. I try to reach for her hand, but she jerks it away.

I stare at my hand and hers, so close yet so far away, thinking, Is this it? Is she going to break up with me? I wouldn’t blame her if she did. It was probably bound to happen, anyway. Still, the idea chokes me like a thousand cactus thorns stabbing me in the neck. As the tears well in my eyes, I try to summon the words to explain, but the fear rings even louder than my hurt—don’t. If you tell her the truth, she’ll only be more disappointed.

As she shakes her head and walks away, I make myself as small as possible, hugging my knees with my arms, and wish I could disappear.

What do you do when your girlfriend hates you? You lie in bed holding Wealthy, feeling cold all over, listening to Toni Braxton’s “Un-Break My Heart” until you want to stick your head in a bowl of microwaved chocolate pudding.

Wealthy howls, chomping on peanut butter dog biscuits, as I sing the song at the top of my lungs. The idea that I hurt Mia and there’s not a dang thing I can do about it is so unbearable, it makes me want to eat a dog biscuit too. Tears and snot are falling all over my face.

And then my parents walk in.

“Jason! What the—” Dad bellows, staring at me.

“Don’t you guys knock?” I jump out of bed and pause the music. I put down the comb that I was using as a mic and crawl back under the covers. “I was trying to have a private moment here!”

“We’re sorry,” Mom says. “But are you okay?” She sits down on my bed, but I turn my face away.

“We’ll make this quick,” Dad says. “We need Mia to write a letter of recommendation for us, for the country club.”

That makes me turn back around. Is he out of his mind? Did he actually go skiing and fall on his head? “No! Absolutely not!” I yelp.

“Hear me out,” Dad says, putting his hand up. With a sigh, he explains that despite letting all those members’ relatives stay at the Calivista for a discount, and going out to dinner with the Quinns, he still can’t get anyone to write a letter for us.

“It’s not that they don’t want to,” Dad says. “It’s that they say writing a whole long letter is just too hard, which, I mean, sounds kind of pathetic to me, but it is what it is. However, they did say that if there was a letter already written, they’d sign it.”

“That’s when we thought of Mia!” Mom says cheerfully. “She’s such a terrific letter writer and she knows us better than anyone!”

I shudder, thinking what Mia will write about me after the way I behaved.

“No way! Absolutely not! I can’t ask her that!” I say.

“Why not?” Mom asks.

Wealthy barks, as if even he knows the awkwardness of the ask. Here, will you please write a letter saying how great I am, after I blew off the thing you asked me to do?

“Because it’s not appropriate!” I tell Mom. “You’re just gonna have to not join the country club. Fine by me!”

“Jason!” Dad snaps. “Have some consideration for how much time and effort your mom and I put into this!”

“No, you have some consideration!” I point at my chest. “Do you have any idea what I’m going through?”

Mom’s face suddenly changes. She studies me like I’m five years old again and I might have some horrible fever. “Why? What’s wrong?” I look away, trying not to let anything show. But moms are like X-ray machines at the airport. One glance at the Toni Braxton CD cover on my desk, and she puts two and two together. “Did you and Mia have a fight?”

I grab the top of my hoodie and pull it tight over my face. Please … make them leave.

“Awwww, my poor noodle!” Mom cries, leaning over and smothering my hoodied face with her hands.

“That’s why you’re in here eating dog biscuits?” Dad adds.

“I wasn’t eating dog biscuits!” I hide the rest of Wealthy’s cookie.

“It’s okay,” Mom says, petting me. “I’ve been there. It’s so hard. Remember how hard it was when we were teenagers?” she asks Dad.

He grunts. “I told you he’s not old enough for a relationship.”

Before I know it, the two of them are in a full-blown conversation about me, in front of me, and I can’t breathe in my hoodie cave.

“He’s just not ready.” Mom shakes her head. “He’s way too fragile.”

“Way too fragile,” Dad agrees. “And I’ll tell you, it’s gonna be bad for his grades if he keeps this up.”

“I am not way too fragile!” I scream as the tears threaten to spill over again. Unfortunately, Dad sits down a little too hard on my desk and the Toni Braxton song starts playing. As the melancholy music fills my room, my highly emotional state betrays me. My chin starts quivering. I have about three seconds before I start full-on crying.

“Oh, sweetheart.” Mom hugs me. As I sob into her sweater, she glances at Dad. “He just needs to cry it out!”

“He needs more sleep, is what he needs,” Dad says. “He’s got to stop this boyfriend business and get back to his real life!”

“I absolutely agree,” Mom says.

I push away from Mom and rub my eyes. “What are you guys saying?” I ask.

“We’re saying you can’t keep seeing Mia,” Dad says firmly. “You clearly can’t handle it.”

Even though I’m sitting down, I feel my knees wobble.

“You’re too young! You haven’t got the emotional strength yet for a relationship,” Mom agrees.

“I’m not too young!” I tell my parents. “I have emotional strength!”

But even as I say the words, I feel my chest squeezing. If I was so strong, why didn’t I tell Mia the truth? Why did I hurt her instead?

“It’s okay. You guys can stay friends,” Mom says, squeezing my hand.

Dad reaches over and offers me a pat on the back.

And then they finally leave my room. I slump over on my bed and let the sad love song keep playing.

I stare at the wall, at all the photos of me and Mia at Disneyland, at the opening of East Meets West, the summer BBQs with Hank and the whole Calivista gang.… Some of the most cherished moments of my life. Even more than our relationship, I need our friendship.

Do I break things off with her now, to save our friendship?

Or do I keep going, and risk losing everything?

I don’t sleep a wink that night. I toss and turn in bed, torn between clinging to my relationship with Mia or saving our friendship while I still can. While she still has some respect for me.

But every time I replay Mia’s warm smile as she leaned in to give me a peck on the cheek, I feel my gut drop—I’ll never ever have that moment again. I’ll have to squash my feelings and boil them until I can’t taste them anymore.

At the same time, the thought of me and Mia never being able to roam through the motel again, hanging out as friends, makes me itch with terror. I can’t possibly risk losing her friendship.

In the morning, I’m walking up to Mia at school to tell her what I’ve decided, when Lucas comes running over.

“Hey! I just wanted to tell you! I did it! I talked to Roxanne!” he says, literally bouncing up and down with joy.

“Oh! What’d she say?”

“She said yes to the Shirley Temples!” Lucas beams. “You were right! She doesn’t care that I work in the kitchen! She thought it was cool!”

I can’t help but break into a big, cheesy smile. “That’s awesome,” I say, and I really mean it.

“Thanks for inspiring me to be real with her,” he says. “You were right. All I had to do was try!”

My smile withers a little.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m not sure I’ve been that real,” I mutter, thinking of all the things I’ve been hiding. The confessions hanging out at the base of my throat, like they’re waiting in a lobby.

The bell rings before I can say anything else.

“But you’re trying! And that’s what counts!” Lucas says, waving as he heads to class.

I look down at my shoelaces—Am I, though?

Mrs. Roberts checks out that afternoon. Mia’s in one of the guest rooms, making calls to the roofers. We didn’t get a chance to talk at school, which is just as well, because I still haven’t decided what to do. As Mrs. Roberts hands me her key, I point to the laptop in her arms.

“Done already?” I ask, surprised.

She shakes her head, which is covered in a bright silk scarf. “Not quite, but I got through the hardest scene, thanks to you. And now I can go home, see my kids, and pound out the rest.”

I smile. “Glad I could help,” I say. Then I ask what goes through her mind when she’s writing a hard scene. “How do you decide what to do?”

“I try to really understand the character’s perspective,” she says. “And understand why it’s so difficult for them to make the decision in the first place.”

“Because they want to hang on to what they have!” I blurt out.

Mrs. Roberts shakes her head. “Usually, it’s deeper than that. It has something to do with how they see the world.”

I furrow my eyebrows.

“And I try to dig into that. Are they trying to sort out something from their past, for instance?”

My breath hitches. “What if they don’t want to sort out something from the past?” I whisper. “What if there’s no way they can … without losing everything they have now?”

“But that’s a loss too,” Mrs. Roberts points out. “In my experience, we can’t truly go forward until we untangle where we’ve been.”

As I hand Mrs. Roberts her receipt and she bids me good-bye, I think about her words. I imagine a giant towel knot, the kind Little Tao made his towel animals with. Is that why I feel so stuck? I’m inside a knot that I can’t ever untie? Unless …

Unless what?

How can I burst out of the elephant? I run out to the laundry room to grab a towel, hoping I might find the answer in there. Along the way, I see Mrs. T and Fred walking together, hand in hand. Mrs. T is pointing at a bumper sticker on a guest’s car and Fred is telling her what it says.

That’s when it hits me—what Hank’s been saying. Be yourself. Could that be the answer?

I squeeze my eyes shut and think of Ms. Ginger, Mrs. Quinn, and even that awful Mr. Collins. All the things they said to me: Learn to trust. You gotta be honest. Don’t exaggerate. Everyone has been trying and trying to tell me.

And I was doing that, before Mia and I became boyfriend and girlfriend. It’s how I became a great chef. It’s how I got Mia to be my friend and let me invest in the Calivista. It’s how I turned my whole life around … but I’ve been so laser-focused on being a perfect boyfriend that I just forgot.

I forgot to be a good friend.

And Mia deserves that above all else. She deserves to hear my real backstory. Not just some fictional, feel-good, make-believe one, because it sounds nicer. If I’m really her friend, I have to tell her the truth. And if that means she won’t ever like me again, then that’s fine. She deserves to be with someone who’s honest with her—she said so herself. I know that as her friend. And as her boyfriend, I’d rather get my heart broken than let her heart be deceived for another second.

With all my courage, I grab my keys and run out of the front office.

“There’s something I have to tell you,” I say to Mia. I convinced her to take a break from calling up roofers to sit with me on the back staircase.

Her eyes light up and she smiles at the picnic spread I made for us. On top of a bright blue towel, I put out avocado spring rolls, red velvet cupcakes, chocolate éclairs, and strawberry scones. I figure if I’m going to tell her my worst secret … at least she can chomp on something delicious. I sit down and pour Mia some raspberry tea from the pot.

“Jason, if this is your way of trying to say sorry for not taking detailed notes …” Mia starts to say.

“No. I mean yes. But that’s not what I’m sorry for. I know I can’t picnic my way out of what I did, because it was horrible.” I swallow. “But I want to explain.”

Mia sits down. As she reaches for a spring roll, I start by telling her about the Sleepy Breezy, and how a warm and kind family used to work there, just like her family. The Chus. I tell her they had a little boy who used to make towels into animal shapes.

“His name was Little Tao,” I continue. “And the reason I got all funny the other day is that when I was calling roofers, I thought he answered one of the numbers.”

“That’s great!” Mia smiles. “Why didn’t you just tell me that?”

I shake my head. “Because it’s not so great.” The next part is going to be a lot harder to get out, but I know I have to try. With a shaky voice, I tell her about the cash I swiped from the cash register. How it went straight into my bullies’ pockets. How my dad found out and took $350 from the Chus’ salary, and how I watched as this family who had always been nothing but nice to me packed up their bags and left, without saying a word.

“Why didn’t you just say it was you?” Mia asks softly.

“Because I was scared.” I look into her eyes. “Because I hadn’t walked a mile in their shoes yet. I didn’t know how hard it was to earn every dollar. Because I was different then! I didn’t appreciate all the things his family did to help mine.”

Mia offers me a small smile.

“I just wasn’t that whole of a person yet, you know?” I say. “Not until you walked into my life. And I know I should have told you sooner. I wanted to, believe me. But I was also really scared. Well, I’m done being afraid. This is me. I’m not perfect. I’m still working on myself.”

My voice catches.

“And I understand if you don’t like me anymore,” I force myself to say. “But no matter what happens to us, I want you to know, you’ve inspired me to be a better person. To admit when I’ve messed up. To want to deal with the past. To be less angry at the world. And try to make it a better place, not just for me, but for everyone.”

Mia is completely still and silent as she stares back at me with glassy eyes.

I take a deep breath and add, “And I also understand if you want nothing to do with me ever again after hearing this. But—”

“Oh, Jason,” she cries. “Why would I want nothing to do with you?”

I blink rapidly to hold back my tears of relief.

“I’m proud of you!” she says, throwing her arms around me.

Our hearts beat together as I whisper into her hair, “You are? But I was so awful to that poor family! It wasn’t just the money; all that kid wanted was to play with me. And I was so busy trying to buy friends at school, I couldn’t even see the friend right in front of me. I’m a terrible human being.” Finally, I can’t hold it back anymore. I weep.

Mia pats my back, comforting me. “Well, guess what? The story’s not over yet. You can still rewrite the ending.”

I wipe my eyes as we sit back. I follow Mia’s gaze over to her crinkled pages of roofers, still right next to her in her reporter’s notebook. I realize she’s right. I have Little Tao’s number. How hard would it be to call him?

Hard.

Ridiculously hard.

Baked Alaska with fudgy brownie base and perfectly torched meringue hard.

Washing giant poodles with Evian water and blow-drying their stubborn hair while wearing their too-tight sweater hard.

Returning worn glitter boots at the mall hard.

Shaving a woman’s head with a pizza cutter hard!

Showing my real, true self to my girlfriend hard.

But as I once said to Lucas, I’ll never know unless I try.…

“Hello? Is this Little Tao?” I say into the phone. Mia leans in next to me so she can hear. We’re in the front office, calling Chu Roofers.

“Who?” the voice on the other end asks. That’s weird; he sounds so much older this time.

“Little Tao? I’m looking for Little Tao,” I repeat. “Or maybe he doesn’t go by Little Tao anymore.” A horrifying thought pops up. Maybe some kid made fun of him at school, and said his name was too hard to pronounce or something, and now he goes by something like Danny. I feel a sudden urge to yell into the phone, “Little Tao, your name is fire! Don’t change it!”

“There’s no Little Tao here,” the man replies.

“But I was just speaking to him the other day!” I say. “Is this Chu Roofers?”

“Yes.”

“Did you guys used to manage the Sleepy Breezy Motel?” I blurt out, then squeeze my eyes shut, hoping he answers YES!

“We’ve never heard of any Sleepy Breezy,” he says.

“Oh.”

“You must have the wrong number,” he says simply.

Before he hangs up, Mia interjects, “Wait! Did you guys ever work on a roof at Maple Hills, in Anaheim?”

“No,” he says firmly.

My hopes sink, along with Mia’s, as we hang up the phone. I must look pretty depressed, because she puts a hand on my shoulder and says, “Don’t worry, we’ll find him.”

“How?” I ask. “He could be anywhere. My dad said he has no idea where they were going when they left!”

“The same way we’re going to find our lucky roofer!” Mia says. “One step at a time. Together.”

I give her a warm smile. It means everything to hear Mia say that. Hank’s right. It’s not the big dates that matter, it’s the little moments every day that let you know that someone really cares.

We spend the afternoon roofer calling, but still no luck. I take a break and walk into Dad’s study, where I hand him a duck-shaped towel. Well, more like a croissant-shaped towel, but I tried.

“What’s this?” he asks, looking confused.

“Supposed to be a duck,” I tell him, pointing at the wings.

He turns it this way and that, chuckling. “You know who used to make these?” he asks. “That kid that the Chus had.”

“Yeah, I know. About the Chus … Dad, there’s something I have to tell you. The $350 they took …” I lift my eyes slowly. “I took it.”

“What do you mean, you took it?” Dad asks, sitting up straighter.

As I tell him about Miles and Buzz and how lonely I felt at school, how I thought buying them video games was the only way to make a friend, Dad clutches onto the wings of the duck towel. I wish he’d say something. Throw the duck at me. Anything.

“I’m so sorry, Dad,” I say. “Are you mad?”

“Not mad …” he says, gazing down at the towel. “Disappointed.” I nod, understanding completely. I deserve that. But then he adds, “At myself.”

I look up again, surprised.

“This whole process of going around, asking all these people for a recommendation letter, has been really … humbling,” he says. “It’s made me realize, I should have been a lot nicer to the people who were right here … who showed up for me, day in and day out. People who helped my family, even when I didn’t deserve it.”

I’m spellbound listening to Dad reflect on his own misgivings about the past. I never thought I’d hear these words from him. But thanks to the country club and their horrendous membership process, my father is finally owning up to his behavior.

“I should have been a better boss,” he says, his voice quavering slightly as he comes around his desk and pats my back. “And a better father. I should have been there for you more.”

“You’ve done a lot already, Dad,” I offer. It’s true. My dad has improved in ways I could never imagine, and I’m not just talking in terms of the quality of the bedding around our house.

“I’m a father. There’s always more I could have done.”

I want to hug Dad. Tell him it was not his fault. None of it was his fault. But even more, I want to tell him there’s hope. There’s a way to unknot our past.

“We can still make this right, Dad. All we gotta do is find the Chus again!”

He gets a tissue and blows hard.

“Do you have any idea where they might be?” I ask. “I’ve already tried looking them up in the phone book and online.”

“I’ll ask around,” Dad says. “We’ll find them.”

He holds up the duck towel gently. “We all make mistakes, son. But it takes real guts to admit them, even years later.”

“Guess I do have some emotional strength, huh?” I tease.

Dad laughs.

“I know you don’t think I’m ready,” I say seriously. “But I am learning to handle my emotions more every day. I’m getting better at balancing. I think I can handle a relationship with Mia. I know I can.”

Dad nods. “You’re certainly giving it your all. It’s impressive.”

I smile. “Well, it’s not about the big dates or the big gifts.”

“Oh, yeah?” He smiles. “What is it about, then?”

“It’s about putting in the emotional work! Trying and showing up. Every day. Helping her with her problems and caring, so she doesn’t have to do it all by herself.”

“Listen to your son,” Mom pipes in.

I look over, surprised to see her watching us in the doorway. How long has she been standing there?

As Mom walks over and folds me and Dad in a hug, we turn into a three-layer honey cake. I smile, warm in my parents’ arms. I’m so proud of myself for calmly and patiently telling my parents why I want to date Mia. And for opening up a window to my heart.

Three Weeks Later

“You got this,” Mia says in the car.

We’re parked across the street from the Gold Pacific Inn, a motel in Corona del Mar. It took a lot of digging, but I finally managed to track down the Chus. They’re managing a little motel just south of Anaheim, near the beach. I gaze out at the motel. Even though it’s 78 degrees and bright and sunny out, I’m shivering so bad, Mia has to put her hands over mine to warm them.

“It’s going to be okay,” Mia assures me. I give her a nervous smile. I’m so glad she came with me.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Dad says.

I take a deep breath and open the car door. Here goes.

I get out of the car, hugging my giant basket of baked goods. When I get nervous, I bake. I brought strawberry shortcakes, mooncakes, gingersnaps, blueberry coffee cake, banana bread, pecan tea cookies—you name it, I baked it. I nearly drop the whole basket when I see a kid running through the motel. It’s Little Tao! He’s shot up six inches since I last saw him, but his easy smile is unmistakable. He has the same hop in his step as he skips to the laundry room. My knees go weak.

“Maybe this was a bad idea,” I whisper to Mia, ducking my face behind the basket. I glance back at the car. If I can make a dash for it, there’s a chance he won’t see me.

Mia places a hand on my arm, holding me in place. “I know it’s scary, putting your heart out there,” she says softly. “But you know what’s scarier? Not taking the chance. And wondering every day.”

I look at her and think about how hard we’ve both worked these last few weeks—me calling up every motel, and Mia calling up every roofer we could find in LA. Together. Trying, and trying again.

I tighten my grip around the basket and resolve to walk across the street.

“Little Tao?” I call out timidly as I approach the motel.

He turns. A look of confusion crosses his face as he struggles to place me. But then he sees my dad, and his hands fly up to his mouth as he shouts for his parents.

“Mom! Dad!” he says. “It’s Jason and Mr. Yao!”

I hug my basket like a life jacket.

“Hey, how’ve you been?” I ask him.

He seems much more interested in the baked goods. “Those for me?” he asks, curiously eying the mooncakes.

I laugh and hand him the basket.

“Thanks, Jason gege!”

I look down guiltily. I want to tell him so bad. But I need to apologize to everyone at the same time. We wait for Little Tao’s parents to put their cleaning supplies back on their cleaning cart and walk downstairs. They smile as they shake Dad’s hand. “What a surprise! How’d you find us?” Mr. Chu says.

“It took Jason some digging,” Dad admits. “But we wanted to come personally.”

“I need to say sorry,” I blurt out.

Mr. and Mrs. Chu look at me in surprise. Little Tao stops eating his mooncake.

“I was the one who took the money. The $350,” I confess. “Actually, I took even more than that. But just in smaller bills. I had these bullies at school. But it doesn’t matter why I did it. The point is that I did. And I let you guys take the fall for it. And I … I’m so sorry.”

I sneak a peek at Little Tao. Is the mooncake souring in his stomach? Is he going to dump my whole basket in the trash as soon as we leave? Because I would understand if he did.

“You came all the way over here to tell us that?” Mrs. Chu asks.

I nod. “Yes, Auntie. I’m so sorry.” I squeeze my eyes shut. “I wish I could go back in time and tell my dad then it was me who took the money.” Peeking over at Little Tao, I add, “Most of all, I wish I could go back in time and learn how to make towel animals from you. And be your friend, because you were pretty cool.”

A tiny smile curls on Little Tao’s mouth.

I turn back to his parents and say, “I wanted you to know that I’m working hard making all the money back—”

“Plus interest,” Dad reminds me.

“Plus interest.” I nod.

Mr. and Mrs. Chu look at each other. “Well, thank you,” she says. “That was a hard time in our life. For years we wondered who took that money.”

“We thought maybe we didn’t lock the doors at night tight,” Mr. Chu adds. “We blamed ourselves. Now, finally … even more than the money, having the answer … the closure … really means a lot to us.”

I smile.

Dad clears his throat. “And I want you to know, I apologize too. I’ll be sending you my own check. I’ve been reflecting on my life, and, well … you’re some of the people who got me to where I am today. I’m working on becoming a better boss. And person.”

Mrs. Chu looks like she just swallowed a bagel whole. But she quickly rearranges her surprised expression into a smile and accepts Dad’s apology. As the adults shake hands, Little Tao nudges me with his elbow.

“Is that your girlfriend?” he whispers.

I nod.

“She’s pretty!”

Mia giggles and the two of us share a grin. I turn to Little Tao and whisper back, “Not only is she pretty, she works in a motel too, just like us.”

Little Tao points to me. “YOU work in a motel now too?”

I nod.

“He sure does!” Mia says. “Knows every single room and customer like the back of his hand!”

“Bet you don’t know all the hiding places!” Little Tao says.

I smile at him. “Care to play a little hide-and-seek?”

As Little Tao nods eagerly and I put my hands over my eyes and start counting, Mrs. Chu reminds us to be careful with the stack of tiles lying in the back of the motel.

“We just got our roof fixed,” she explains.

I drop my hands and turn to Mia. I can tell she’s thinking the same thing. “Who was your roofer, just out of curiosity?” I ask.

Mia whips out her reporter’s notebook and unfolds her list.

“Pacific Roofers,” Mrs. Chu says.

Mia and I both study the list, but we can’t find them anywhere on it.

“They’re based in Riverside, but they do a lot of work out here,” Mrs. Chu explains.

I meet Mia’s eyes. Riverside! “We’ve only been looking for LA roofers; we forgot about the surrounding counties!” I blurt out.

“You just saved us!” Mia says, and hugs Mrs. Chu.

As Mia writes Riverside? in her reporter’s notebook, I turn to Little Tao. Giggling, he dashes toward the rooms to hide.

Finally, after so many years, Little Tao and I get the playdate that we never got at the Sleepy Breezy. As he teaches me how to make elephants out of the towels, I’m so happy, I could float. I make a swan and give it to Mia, thanking her for coming with me. And for reminding me I can always do something about my story.

I’m so glad I got a chance to write a new ending.

Four Weeks Later

On the day of the Tangs’ housewarming party, everyone from the Calivista is there. Hank’s in the back, barbecuing. Mr. Tang is pouring everyone boba. Mrs. Tang is snapping pictures and showing off her brand-new tile roof.

“Wow. How much did it cost again?” asks Auntie Ling, one of Mrs. Tang’s friends.

“Ten thousand dollars,” Mrs. Tang replies. “And all paid by the seller, thanks to Mia here!” She beams at Mia, who tells Auntie Ling proudly that she and I finally found the roofer.

“Mateo Gonzalez from Riverside! As soon as I said our address, he knew it! He came right over and wrote a statement!”

As Mia describes the awkward silence when she called up the sellers and told them about Mateo’s statement, and how they wilted faster than artichoke in fried oil, I giggle. I reach for the copy of The Scoop in my pocket and proudly hold up Mia’s breaking news headline: “Immigrant Homeowners Who Got Duped on First House Purchase Find Roofer to Prove Scam!” I have to say, it’s the headline of the century!

“Unbelievable!” Auntie Ling says. “Your daughter really has a superpower!”

“She certainly does!” Mrs. Tang smiles.

Mia turns to her mom. “Actually, you wanna know my real superpower?” Mia shrugs. “It’s just not giving up. That’s it.”

I reach over and give Mia’s hand a squeeze. “Oh, is that all? No biggie,” I tease. “Just never giving up, and inspiring everyone around you to do the same.”

Hank looks over and holds up his glass of boba in a toast. “Hear! Hear!”

I join in, raising my glass to my girlfriend. “To Mia!”

As Mia blushes, I turn to Hank. “Hey, you know … there’s also a directory of travel agents in the library,” I say. “If you ever want to look for Ayana. Just saying.”

Hank’s response is muffled by the loud beeping of a truck. We all look over as it backs up at the end of the driveway.

“We almost forgot!” Dad says. “We got you guys a little housewarming gift! They’re Japanese massage chairs!”

“Two of them,” Mom adds, directing the truck driver as he pulls up to the house.

Mr. and Mrs. Tang look speechless. “That’s way too big a housewarming gift!” Mr. Tang says. “We can’t accept them!”

“Yes, you can,” Dad insists. “And it’s not too big. After everything you guys have done for me and my family, it’s about time. Please, I insist.”

Mrs. Tang turns to Mr. Tang, their eyes having a conversation the rest of us can’t understand. As they’re talking in their secret language, Dad turns to Mr. Tang and adds, “It’s my favorite part of the day, sitting in that thing next to my wife.”

“It’s mine too,” Mom says to Mrs. Tang. “We sit and look over the mail together. And then we divide up who has to reply to what, so it’s not all on me.”

Mrs. Tang claps her hands. “You’ve just sold me!”

“Wonderful!” Dad chuckles. “You’re gonna love it. It’s like having your own private spa in your house! Who even needs to join the country club, anyway?”

As my parents and hers rush over to direct the truck driver where to set up the chairs, Mia turns to me. “Speaking of the club—any news on the membership?”

“We’re still waiting on the fifth letter of recommendation,” I say. “But don’t worry, I might have a little something cooking.”

That night, as Wealthy snuggles up next to a fort of puppy towels, I sit at my desk writing Dad that prewritten letter of recommendation for my family.

Dear Anaheim Country Club Membership Committee,

I am writing to recommend the Yao family to the country club. The Yao family may not ski, or golf, or vacation all over France. But they are a family that’s trying hard.

Trying hard to help others realize the American dream.

Trying hard to right wrongs.

Trying hard to grow, to reflect, to learn, and to be better human beings, every day.

And that takes a lot of courage. Maybe not as much as tumbling down a ski slope, or diving into a pond of porta potty water, but it’s up there. It shows that they’re growing.

As business owners—Mr. Yao with his motels, Mrs. Yao with her real estate business, and Jason Yao with his restaurant—they have contributed substantially to the community. They’ve also touched a lot of lives (admittedly not always in nice ways, but they are working on it).

Whether it’s by expanding their growing list of partners or working with new immigrants to buy homes, bit by bit, the Yaos are shifting the perception of what’s possible for everyone in this town … and at the club. I would personally love to see Jason Yao do a collab with Chef Wayen for Asian buffet night. Or just any night, really. Because they are not just representatives of their culture, which they bring to the table. They are also individuals, special in their own beautiful way.

For all these reasons, I think they would make a great contribution to our country club and I wholeheartedly endorse them.

Sincerely,

________

P.S. Plus, their son, Jason, has intimate knowledge of the inner workings of our walk-in fridge. And it definitely needs a safety latch to open it from the inside. Just saying.

I smile at my letter. It may not be perfectly written or have the finest vocabulary. But it shows the real us. A family that’s not perfect by any stretch of the imagination. But a family that’s trying hard.

And that’s what I think is the secret ingredient to life.

This book would not be possible if it weren’t for YOU, dear reader! Thank you for loving this series from day one; for rooting for Mia and Jason and the whole Calivista crew with all your heart; for telling your friends, your neighbors, your cousins, your students to read these books; for all your notes, bookmarks, doodles, cards, messages, and emails; and for welcoming my words with such open arms and support. I never imagined when I wrote Front Desk that I would one day be writing a sixth book from Jason’s perspective! Thank you for allowing me to continue the story—and what a glorious story it is!

I could not be more proud of this book! As many of you know, Jason’s one of my favorite characters of all time to write! I just love him. I love his humor, his earnestness, his vulnerability! I love how much he’s changed over the series—talk about character development! I even love it when he’s ridiculous sometimes. It was an incredible honor bringing his story onto the page, and I want to thank some wonderful people who helped me make it happen.

First and foremost, my agent, Faye Bender. Thank you for encouraging me with every draft! To my editor, Amanda Maciel—every book we work on is such a joyous collaboration, and this book is one of my FAVORITES. Thank you for helping me bring Jason’s true spirit onto the page! I’m so grateful for my entire team at Scholastic—Ellie Berger, David Levithan, Lerina Velazquez, Elizabeth Whiting, Erin Berger, Rachel Feld, Seale Ballenger, Lizette Serrano, Emily Heddleson, Maeve Norton, Maithili Joshi, Melissa Schirmer, and my supernova cover artist, Maike Plenzke, who makes all my characters shine!

Big thanks to Sylvie Rabineau; Joel McKuin; Paul Sennott; and my team at Curtis Brown, including Enrichetta Frezzato, Melinda Atmane, Roxane Edouard, and Isobel Gahan! Writing can be incredibly lonely, and I’m grateful to my community of author friends: Victoria Piontek, Mae Respicio, Jeff Kinney, Katherine Applegate, Kate DiCamillo, John Schu, Chanel Miller, Gene Yang, Joanna Ho, Ibi Zoboi, Jerry Craft, and Stacy McAnulty. I’m so grateful to Mychal Threets for inspiring me and millions of other people to choose joy, to embrace life, and to go to the library. The library changed my life. I would not be where I am without librarians!

A warm hug to my family: my husband, Stephen, and our kids, Eliot, Tilden, and Nina—thank you, Nina, for reading an early draft, giggling for hours, and refusing to go to bed because you wanted to keep reading. I’m so grateful. (Okay, maybe not the refusing to go to bed part—you should go to bed!) And to my amazing parents—Mom and Dad, I love you!

Finally, I want to give thanks to second chances. I’m a big believer in second chances, which is why I love Jason and this book so much. I’m not someone who gets it right on the first try. It often takes me many drafts before I can “crack” a story. I think in life we don’t talk about that enough. We’re too busy talking about the instant successes, the perfection. Well, life is not about being perfect. It’s about trying and growing. Jason is a great example of that. And this book is a great example too, because I’ll be honest, the first draft was not great. But I gave Jason a second chance, and guess what? He stole my heart! I love that about writing—how sometimes when you take a chance, the result can totally surprise you. I think it applies to life too. So here’s to second chances! I hope you loved this book as much as I loved writing it! xoxo

KELLY YANG is the author of the New York Times bestselling Front Desk series: Front Desk, Three Keys, Room to Dream, Key Player, Top Story, and Chef’s Secret. Front Desk won the 2019 Asian/Pacific American Award for Literature and was chosen as a Best Book of the Year by multiple organizations, including NPR, the Washington Post, and the New York Public Library. Kelly’s family immigrated to the United States from China and she grew up in California, in circumstances very similar to those of Mia Tang. After attending college at the age of thirteen, she graduated from UC Berkeley and Harvard Law School. She is the founder of the Kelly Yang Project, and her writing has been published in the South China Morning Post, the New York Times, the Washington Post, and the Atlantic. To learn more about her and the Front Desk books, visit kellyyang.com.

Copyright © 2025 by Yang Yang

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available

e-ISBN 978-1-5461-3868-6

First edition, June 2025

Jacket art © 2025 by Maike Plenzke

Jacket design by Maeve Norton and Maithili Joshi
Author photo by Jessica Sample

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