Parachutes

  Dedication

  To those who did not believe me,

  you broke me with your decision.

  And to those who stepped forward

  and spoke your truth, despite the odds,

  you put me back together again.

  Content warning: this book contains scenes

  depicting sexual harassment and rape.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  One: Claire

  Two: Dani

  Three: Claire

  Four: Dani

  Five: Claire

  Six: Dani

  Seven: Claire

  Eight: Dani

  Nine: Claire

  Ten: Dani

  Eleven: Claire

  Twelve: Dani

  Thirteen: Claire

  Fourteen: Dani

  Fifteen: Claire

  Sixteen: Dani

  Seventeen: Claire

  Eighteen: Dani

  Nineteen: Claire

  Twenty: Dani

  Twenty-One: Claire

  Twenty-Two: Dani

  Twenty-Three: Claire

  Twenty-Four: Dani

  Twenty-Five: Claire

  Twenty-Six: Dani

  Twenty-Seven: Claire

  Twenty-Eight: Dani

  Twenty-Nine: Claire

  Thirty: Dani

  Thirty-One: Claire

  Thirty-Two: Dani

  Thirty-Three: Claire

  Thirty-Four: Dani

  Thirty-Five: Claire

  Thirty-Six: Dani

  Thirty-Seven: Claire

  Thirty-Eight: Dani

  Thirty-Nine: Claire

  Forty: Dani

  Forty-One: Claire

  Forty-Two: Dani

  Forty-Three: Claire

  Forty-Four: Dani

  Forty-Five: Claire

  Forty-Six: Dani

  Forty-Seven: Claire

  Forty-Eight: Dani

  Forty-Nine: Claire

  Fifty: Dani

  Fifty-One: Claire

  Fifty-Two: Dani

  Fifty-Three: Claire

  Fifty-Four: Dani

  Fifty-Five: Claire

  Fifty-Six: Dani

  Fifty-Seven: Claire

  Fifty-Eight: Dani

  Fifty-Nine: Claire

  Sixty: Dani

  Sixty-One: Claire

  Sixty-Two: Dani

  Sixty-Three: Claire

  Sixty-Four: Dani

  Sixty-Five: Claire

  Sixty-Six: Dani

  Sixty-Seven: Claire

  Sixty-Eight: Dani

  Sixty-Nine: Claire

  Seventy: Dani

  Seventy-One: Claire

  Seventy-Two: Dani

  Seventy-Three: Claire

  Seventy-Four: Dani

  Seventy-Five: Claire

  Seventy-Six: Dani

  Seventy-Seven: Claire

  Seventy-Eight: Dani

  Seventy-Nine: Claire

  Eighty: Dani

  Eighty-One: Claire

  Eighty-Two: Dani

  Eighty-Three: Claire

  Eighty-Four: Dani

  Eighty-Five: Claire

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by Kelly Yang

  Back Ad

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  One

  Claire

  Shanghai, China

  I lie in bed listening for the shuffle of my father’s slippers. It’s 7:30 a.m. My father, if he were home, would be in the kitchen, sitting down to his breakfast: three egg whites, scrambled, with oatmeal—doctor’s orders—which he would remark to Tressy, our maid, were either overcooked or undercooked, just so he could get up and go rummaging around the kitchen for one of the taro buns he’s not supposed to eat but that my mother secretly buys for him anyway. She buys them for him because she hopes the sweet gooey taro will somehow lure him away from his mistress, providing the kind of warmth and stickiness that will make him want to come home.

  Except that his mistress also knows to buy him taro buns.

  I’ve never met her, but the other week, she tried to add me on WeChat. I stared at her picture for almost an hour, trying to decide if she was prettier than my mom. She looked about twenty-five—half my father’s age—with long flowing hair, styled curly and tinted red at the tips. Her hand was running casually through her hair, pulling her shirt up just enough to reveal her milky-white skin. The whole thing looked so effortless and staged at the same time, the kind of shot I try and try to take but can never get right.

  I deleted the friend request and didn’t tell my mom about it, though maybe I should have. It was bold of her to reach out to me. There have been others, I’m sure. But none of them dared make contact.

  I close my eyes, sinking back into my bed, trying not to think about what this means. Or where my dad is, for that matter.

  The softness of my mother’s hand on my cheek wakes me hours later. My mom’s sitting on the bed, staring at me. Like a creep.

  “Mom, ew, what are you doing?” I squirm away from the light pouring in from the window, burying my face in the sheets.

  “It’s nearly noon,” she says in Mandarin. She’s wearing big Chanel sunglasses.

  “You okay?” I ask her, peering at her sunglasses.

  She nods. “Oh, yeah, just allergies. Probably from the pollution,” she lies.

  I glance out the window. The Shanghai sky, normally gross and gray, looks peacefully white today, like those might actually be clouds we’re seeing.

  Her shades slide down an inch, and when I turn to look at her, I catch a glimpse of her red, swollen eyes underneath.

  “Is it Dad?” I ask gently.

  She pushes her sunglasses up firmly, like a shield.

  “No, of course not. He’s just working,” she says. I don’t know who she’s lying to—me or herself.

  She reaches out a hand. “Hey, let’s go out for dinner tonight!” she says, her face brightening.

  I hesitate—I have so much homework—but her eyes say, I need this.

  “Sure, Mom.”

  It takes me six hours to slog through the homework my teachers assigned me. I’m in eleventh grade at a local school in Shanghai, which means every day I’m a slave to my taskmaster. First math, then science, then English, and then Chinese, my weakest subject, despite the latest fancy tutor my mom got me. Her name is Ms. Chen, but I call her Sticky Fingers for the way she licks her fingers after polishing off the plate of fruit that Tressy brings us when I’m being tutored. When she’s not busy eating fruit, she’s barking at me what to write for my essay so I’ll get a high mark, literally word for word, as though I’m not capable of producing my own thoughts. I always throw away the paper after she leaves.

  My friends and I sometimes watch American movies about teenagers hatching plots and going to crazy places, and we’re like, when do they have time to do this? In China, every second of my day is usually decided by someone else.

  When the last of my assignments is finally done, I walk upstairs to my mom’s room. I can hear Snowy’s bell, our poodle. If Snowy’s still in there, it means my mom’s probably forgotten about dinner. She never lets Snowy in her room when she’s getting dressed, for fear of Snowy chewing up her Louboutins. I’m about to turn when the door swings open. My mom’s in her satin robe, her hair’s up in a towel, and she’s holding a glass of chilled rosé. Adele plays in the background.

  “Go put on something nice,” she tells me. “We’re going to M.”

  M on the Bund is one of my mother’s favorite restaurants, right on the water, a tourist attraction but in a good way. My mom used to take me there when I was little, usually
after I’d just won a swim meet. Now she takes me only when she’s all out of girlfriends. She usually goes out with Auntie Maggie and Auntie Pearl, women who share her love of complaining and laser skin treatments.

  We sit at the corner table, overlooking the balcony. My mom’s in a Costume National wool gray dress, chic but not loud, thank God, unlike some of her other clothes. I’m in black pants and a white shirt. Unlike my mom, who likes her clothes colorful and tight, I opt for understated and functional.

  Mom sips champagne while making small talk with the waiter. She’s a regular, and he kisses up to her so shamelessly I have to look away. She orders for us while I gaze out the window at the boats going up and down the Bund, tourists taking pictures, the Oriental Pearl Tower. There’s a roller coaster inside. When I was little, I used to go on it with my dad. I smile at the memory.

  The waiter finally leaves us alone.

  “Did you know your father and I met here?” she asks. She points to the foyer, where the hostess, in pencil-thin stilettos, balances delicately behind the white marble table. “Right over there.”

  She’s told me the story a thousand times. She was a college student at Fudan, working as a hostess that summer. He was an executive with a considerable expense account. It was love at first sight. And a trip to Cartier shortly after.

  “I was just nineteen!” my mom reminds me. “Not much older than you. So young.”

  Her cheeks flush with nostalgia, and I settle in for a trip down memory lane. I try to take a sip of her champagne, but she moves the flute out of reach.

  I protest, “Aw, c’mon.”

  “I was so beautiful then,” she continues, ignoring me.

  “You’re still beautiful,” I remind her. I can’t tell you how many classmates—the guys especially—have commented on my mom’s appearance.

  “Your mom’s gorgeous,” they’d say, usually followed by “You sure she’s your mom?” Har har har.

  It used to bother me that she looked so much younger than all the other moms. I guess that’s what happens when you get started at twenty. She used to joke that we were both still kids. She’d ask me, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” and I’d ask her back, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” And she’d laugh and laugh.

  I don’t know when she stopped laughing. She shakes her head at the champagne, pursing her lips.

  “I’m getting old,” she sighs. She grows quiet, eyes welling up. I hope that’s not what she’s blaming Dad’s infidelity on.

  My phone dings. It’s a WeChat voice message from my boyfriend, Teddy. He’s a year older and studying hard for his gaokao. The Chinese college entrance exams are so intense that girls take birth control pills to avoid getting their period during that week and construction work is halted, traffic diverted near the examination halls so as to not disturb the students. So far, though, he still has time to mess around. I try to tap out of the app, but my finger accidentally presses Play.

  “Hey, babe, just thinking about the other day, in the back of the library. It was so—”

  I shut off the message and, for the next two minutes, sit there with my face melting off my skull. My mom is silent. She knows about me and Teddy, but she still thinks of high school dating as a “I’ll walk you to class, you walk me to class” type of thing.

  “Have you and Teddy . . .” She fumbles to get the words out.

  “No!” I exclaim. “Of course not.”

  My mom’s eyes scan me like a human lie detector. I remind myself I have nothing to hide. We haven’t done anything more than make out. Though lately, he’s been asking me for pics. He swears he won’t show them to anyone else. I haven’t indulged him, but I haven’t flat out said no either.

  “Promise me you’ll save yourself for someone special,” my mom says. “A Fortune 500 CEO perhaps. Or second-generation scion. Someone better.”

  Better than me or better than Teddy?

  “Teddy’s a nice guy,” I say.

  “A nice guy?” She laughs, waving her champagne flute in the air. “You think that’s what’s going to pay for all this? A nice guy?”

  “No, I’m going to pay for all this,” I snap. “I have a brain, remember.”

  She considers her words carefully. “So use it to get into a good school. Trust me, it’ll be a lot harder to meet a good husband once you’re out of school. I was lucky to have met your father when I did.”

  I raise my eyebrow at her.

  “I’m just trying to watch out for you,” she says, her voice softening. She reaches out a hand, and my anger thaws.

  I look over at my mom, sitting there, so lonely, sneaking glances at her phone, pretending to be smoothing out her napkin when we both know she’s checking to see if he’s called. He hasn’t.

  Gently, my mother lifts her champagne flute and sets it down in front of me, a peace offering. I take a sip.

  The next day, my mother drags me to lunch at my nai nai’s house. Nai Nai is my grandmother on my dad’s side, a fierce widow with a head of white curls and a mouth that makes my mom want to crawl into a Qing vase before Nai Nai even opens it. I kiss Nai Nai on both cheeks as she sits at her throne in the dining room. She’s holding court—my aunts, uncles, and cousins all gathered around her. They make no attempt to scoot over when my mom walks into the dining room, so she’s forced to take the last remaining seat, at the end of the table. My father, if he were here, would sit at the head of the table and my mother next to him. But per usual, he’s not here.

  “Nai Nai,” I greet her.

  My grandmother’s face blooms. “Claire.” She smiles. However she feels about my mom, she dotes on me because I’m her eldest grandchild. Nai Nai waves to her maids to set a place for me next to her, and I look to my aunts and uncles, who reluctantly instruct my little cousins to scoot down.

  “How are your studies, Claire?” my grandmother asks.

  “Her studies are good,” my mom answers for me from the other end. I can tell she takes the question as more a probe into her tiger-momming skills. “I’ve got her the best tutors in Shanghai!” my mother says.

  But Nai Nai barely looks at her, keeping her eyes steady on me. My aunts and uncles jump in with various tutor recommendations.

  “Did you hear about the white guy who’s tutoring Chinese?” Aunt Linda asks.

  Uncle Lu puts down his jade chopsticks. “Why is everyone in this country so obsessed with lao wai? Not everything done by a white person is better!”

  “I hear he’s pretty good, actually,” one of my other aunts responds. She snatches up the last two remaining tiger prawns and puts them on the plate in front of her son, Jeremy. Jeremy keeps his eyes glued to his iPad, while one of my grandmother’s maids feeds him.

  My mom sighs loudly and tells my aunts and uncles my new Chinese tutor, the one who makes me copy down her words, costs two thousand renminbi an hour. The brag, masked as a complaint, shuts up my aunts momentarily.

  “Anyone can just pay some money. That doesn’t mean a thing,” my grandmother remarks.

  My mom’s cheeks color. I’d almost feel sorry for her if I didn’t dislike my Chinese tutor so much.

  “Actually, the tutor is very important,” my mom says. “Claire’s teacher at school even said. You don’t know the local schools in Shanghai these days; you really need to get the right tutor or you don’t stand a chance.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I say. Contrary to what my mother thinks, I like Chinese writing. I don’t need to memorize someone else’s words and cough them up on my exam. I can write my own, thank you.

  My mom sighs. “You see what I have to deal with?” She looks to me and motions at me with her chopsticks. “You’re doing what the tutor says. You’re writing what she tells you to write on the exam!”

  “Yes, Claire,” my aunt Linda remarks. “Don’t be stupid!”

  “Can I have her number?” Aunt June asks, pulling out her phone.

  “No! I’m not doing it,” I say. I’m not copying. I don’t care if
it gets me a hundred, it’s not my hundred. My mom shoots me a stern look. All my aunts and uncles jump in, yapping about my future, my grades, the gaokao.

  Here we go again, life by committee. I roll my eyes. No wonder my dad never comes to these things. My grandmother puts up a hand to silence the chatter. She takes my hand in hers and peers into my eyes. I’m hopeful she’ll take my side, but instead she says, “Your mother’s right; you can’t hit a stone with an egg.”

  I yank my hand away, flushing.

  “She won’t. James and I will make sure of it,” my mom assures Nai Nai.

  My grandmother turns to my mom. “And how is that husband of yours?”

  I glance over at her. Mom’s smile has vanished, and she’s folding the napkin in her hands, trying to buy some time as she works out the best response.

  Life by committee’s a bitch.

  Two

  Dani

  East Covina, California

  Do you ever get the feeling like everyone’s looking at you but no one actually sees you? I mean, they see you—they see you standing on the stage, receiving your headmistress commendation; your frizzy hair; your ratty shoes; your mom in the back squirreling away stale cookies—that they see, but they don’t see you.

  “Dammit, Dani, how many times do I have to tell you?” my band teacher, Mr. Rufus, yells, “It’s an F sharp, not an F! And please clean out your flute. That sound you’re making—that noise—that’s the sound of spit!”

  My face turns red as I reach for my wipe. The entire band sits back and lets out an exaggerated sigh as they wait for me to finish.

  “Ever heard of lessons?” Connor, who sits next to me, mutters under his breath.

  Connor O’Brien. I remind myself he wears tighty-whities stained yellow and keeps his mom’s Crisco cooking oil under his bed to use as lube. I know because I clean his room every Tuesday after school when he’s at lacrosse practice. I’ve probably cleaned the houses of about half the people in band, not that they would know. Everyone always books their maid for when they’re out.

  Yes, I’ve heard of lessons, I want to hiss back. You ever heard of pre-foreclosure? Splitting a $3.99 cheeseburger from Burger King for dinner while your mom fills up on free soda refills?

  I glance over at Zach, my other neighbor. Zach’s the captain of the American Prep swim team. He also happens to be last-chair clarinet and because I’m last-chair flute, we sit right next to each other. I’ll admit that’s one of the only reasons I like band. Unfortunately, we’ve never talked. And I’ve never cleaned his room. I’m not even sure where he lives. I think he might be a scholarship student too, like me and Ming.