Parachutes Read online

  The next morning, it’s a Sunday and Claire sleeps in. Ming calls me at the crack of dawn to tell me it worked—Mr. Rufus scared the crap out of her host dad, and this morning he returned her violin to her.

  “I’m glad he put the fear of God in him!” I giggle.

  Ming laughs.

  “Have you decided to call that girl Florence?” I ask.

  “Not yet,” Ming says. “But I added her on WhatsApp.”

  My mom calls my name, and I hang up with Ming to go help her make breakfast. She’s making tocilog, a Filipino breakfast with fried egg and rice, and my stomach rumbles in hunger.

  My mom works so hard during the week, cleaning an endless succession of houses and offices, that I hardly ever get to see her. But on Sunday mornings, we always make breakfast together.

  “How are you doing in your classes?” she asks as she fries the eggs. “Your teachers happy with you? Remember, you need those recommendation letters.”

  I smile. My mom, though she’s never gone to college, has been reading up on the admission process online at night. I hear her watching YouTube videos in her room.

  “Don’t worry, Mom,” I assure her, setting the table. “I’ve got this.”

  We sit down to eat, and as usual, my mom takes one bite of her fried egg and insists she had a huge dinner. She sets the rest of her egg on my plate. She’s always giving me her egg, ever since I can remember. And I’m always giving it right back to her, saying I had a big lunch at school. As I set the fried egg back on her plate, I ask her about the houses she’s cleaned this week.

  Rosa has her working the VIPs, houses up in the North Hills that are willing to pay extra for discretion and a maid willing to clean up the drugs and booze after a wild party. My mom shakes her head, telling me about her client who was passed out on the floor, just seventeen years old. I think about the couple having sex that I walked in on the other day. I’m tempted to tell her about it, but it’ll only worry her. And she might make me stop cleaning, which will make it even harder for me to go to Snider.

  Instead, I start doing the dishes. My mom kills herself cleaning everyone else’s house, on her day off, she shouldn’t have to clean.

  At half past eleven, when my mom gets home from church, Claire saunters into the living room in her silk robe, yawning. She plops down on the couch and watches me as I cut up a lemon and run it down the garbage disposal in our sink.

  “What are you doing that for?” she asks.

  “To deodorize the garbage disposal,” I mutter. Duh.

  When I start the vacuum, Claire frowns. She covers her ears with her hands.

  “Do you have to do that right now?” she says. “I just woke up.”

  Yes, I do. I have a tournament later. And what’s with the attitude? You’d think she’d be more apologetic after chucking my dad’s mattress. My mom walks over and switches off the vacuum.

  “It’s okay, honey,” she tells me. “I’ll finish the cleaning later.”

  No, it’s not okay. It’s her one day off. She should put up her feet! But my mom nods, urging me to let it go. I throw the cord in my hand down dramatically, glaring at Claire as I walk back to my room to get ready.

  The tournament, in nearby Orange, is comprised of more beginner debaters from the local high schools. Still, Mr. Connelly reminds us to take it seriously, as it’s all good practice for Snider. Just like at Snider, he’ll be splitting us into groups of two today.

  “Heather, looks like you’re going to be paired up with . . . Dani!” he announces.

  I groan under my breath. Great.

  “Remember, just because you’re on teams, I’m still going to be looking at your performance individually. So try to rake in best-speaker points!” He looks at me. “You hear me, Thunder Girl?”

  Heather rolls her eyes as I nod. We scribble down our assigned motion—“This house would legalize prostitution”—and the organizer leads us to our assigned prep room. We have fifteen minutes to prepare.

  “I’ll be first speaker. What are our three points?” Heather says as soon as we walk into the room. I look at her puzzled—Wait, you can’t just call it.

  “We should flip a coin to see who gets to be first,” I suggest.

  Heather points to her Apple iWatch with her finger. “Hello! We only have fifteen minutes! You really want to fight about this for ten minutes? When we could be prepping? Ticktock!”

  I hate that she’s using our limited time against me. But she does have a point. I slide into a chair. “Fine,” I say.

  We prep for the fifteen minutes. When the time’s up, we have all three points mapped out. As first speaker, Heather is supposed to say the first two points, and I’m supposed the say the last point, which happens to be a highly sophisticated argument. I even came up with a model that proves why legalizing prostitution would have negative ramifications on society.

  I walk back into the tournament room, pumped for my speech, when Heather walks up onstage, opens her mouth . . . and steals my point.

  Fifteen

  Claire

  My leg taps outside Mrs. Mandalay’s office as I wait to talk to her about testing out of Mr. Harvey’s class. Yesterday, we didn’t do anything but play two truths and a lie in class, which was actually hilarious because that cute guy Jay said some really shocking things. His two truths and a lie were:

  I once crashed a sports car that wasn’t mine.

  I can fly a helicopter.

  I’ve never been naked in -10 degrees Celsius.

  Guess which one his lie was. It doesn’t involve transportation.

  As soon as he said the word “naked,” all the girls in the room blushed. Jess fanned herself, turning to me and mouthing, “I’m dead.”

  I giggled. I still can’t believe she’s messing around with her personal trainer.

  She told me they started a little over a month ago. It’s purely physical. She would never “date” a white guy—her parents would kill her. And she swears it’s going to end soon, he’s going to UCSD in the fall.

  “So he’s older?” I asked her. “Are you being safe?”

  “Of course I’m being safe!” she insisted. “I put, like, five condoms on him!”

  I shake my head. That crazy girl.

  I’d be okay with staying in the class with Jess if we had someone else as our teacher. Ms. Jones for instance, our substitute, is amazing. She’s a warm and funny African American teacher with long braids, and she actually made us read. Unfortunately, she only taught us for one class. Mr. Harvey came back the next day, and it was back to playing categories.

  Mrs. Mandalay’s assistant nods at me and tells me to go in. I walk inside Mrs. Mandalay’s office and take a seat.

  “Claire, how are you adjusting?” Mrs. Mandalay asks, looking up from her laptop.

  “Good,” I say. “I was hoping to talk to you about my English class.”

  She puts down her black-rimmed reading glasses. “What about it?” she asks.

  “I just . . . I’ve always enjoyed English, and I’d love to have a chance to take a class with”—I look down at my phone at the name of the teacher Dani had recommended—“Mr. Connelly.”

  Mrs. Mandalay shakes her head, lips puckering.

  “That’s not an option, I’m afraid. His classes are all full, and he only teaches honors,” she replies quickly.

  I wonder, How does she know I won’t qualify for honors?

  “Well, is there someone else who’s teaching English Three?” I ask. “How about Ms. Jones?”

  “Ms. Jones is just a substitute,” she says. “And I have to warn you. English Three is tough. They’re reading F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby.”

  “I love The Great Gatsby!” I tell her.

  “The book? Not the movie with Leonardo DiCaprio,” she clarifies. The condescension in her voice makes me look down.

  She taps a few keys on her computer. “The only teacher who has a spot available in her English Three class is Mrs. Wallace,” she tells me. “T
hat is assuming you pass the test.”

  I walk out of Mrs. Mandalay’s office with a date to take the English placement exam next Thursday at 9:00 a.m. As I head back to the cafeteria to tell Jess and the others, I pass by the auditorium and hear Dani’s voice inside. I stop and peer through the door, listening to her for a few minutes.

  Damn, she’s good. I’ve heard her practicing in her room for the tournament this weekend. I was in awe. There are so many questions I want to ask her, like how did she learn to debate like that? How does she come up with such powerful lines, about individualism and diversity and justice? Does she really believe them?

  I wish I had a chance to ask, but at dinner, Dani sits there and reads—reads—while I try to make conversation with her mom. I know she’s still mad over the bed. Had I known it was going to cause this much of a problem, I would have never let my mom buy the stupid mattress.

  Jess says Americans are like pendulums. You never know which way they’ll swing. Dani’s mom, though, is consistently nice. She’s always complimenting me on my clothes and shoes. She’s noticed that I don’t really like to eat Filipino food, so she’s been making more Chinese food. I feel fortunate, especially compared to Florence, who orders all her food from Uber Eats, and Jess, who says her host family just puts out bread and cheap bologna slices and tells her to make a sandwich.

  I walk to the cafeteria and make my way to our table. Florence, Jess, and Nancy are picking at their lunches—the American cafeteria food is so calorie-rich compared to back home. I tell them about testing out of English, but they’re too preoccupied staring at Jay, two tables down.

  “I heard his family has a private plane,” Nancy says.

  No way. “If his family has a private plane, why would he come here?” I ask. Flashy clothes are one thing, but private planes are a whole other level of wealth, one that usually comes with bodyguards and a lot of supervision.

  “Some of my dad’s clients have private planes.” Florence shrugs. “They’re not that uncommon.”

  “Maybe his family doesn’t like the prep schools,” Nancy says. “All those rules . . .” She shudders. “Plus, it’s so damn cold all the time in New England.”

  The girls sigh at Jay. “It should be illegal to be that rich and that hot.”

  “I bet he has a million girlfriends,” Nancy says.

  “I would love to be another one of them,” Jess volunteers.

  Florence rolls her eyes. “You guys, stop,” she says. “He’s just a guy.” Before she could finish the rest of her sentence, there’s an announcement on the school intercom.

  “Attention, please. Will the student driving the gold Bentley please move your car out of the faculty parking space?” the loud voice boomed.

  As we all look around the cafeteria, there’s a wave of snickers from the Asian American table across from ours. “Move your car!” one of them, a girl, yells from the table. Florence whispers the name of the girl—Emma Lau—whose locker is next to Florence’s.

  Jess gets up, on behalf of the parachutes, and starts getting into it with Emma. “How do you know it’s ours?” she asks.

  “Uhhh . . . gold Bentley?” Emma responds. “Our parents would never buy us something so tacky.”

  Jess’s face reddens even though it’s not her car. “No, they’re too busy clipping coupons for Walmart!” she yells.

  The whole cafeteria erupts “OH!” as Nancy and I yank Jess down by her shirt and plead with her to let it go.

  “It’s not worth it,” we urge in Mandarin.

  “I need some water,” Jess says, fuming.

  I get Jess some water as Nancy and Florence try to calm her down. As I’m grabbing a couple of Smartwaters, I notice Jay standing in line. Casually, I get in line behind him and wait as he pays for his Coca-Cola, trying not to stare—he’s even hotter up close.

  My phone dings. It’s a text from Teddy.

  Hey babe. I had another dream about you and this time we were—

  I click my phone shut before I can read the rest and stand there, face flushing. Lately, our Skype sessions have been getting a little . . . intense. It started accidentally, when Teddy sleepily described what he wanted to do to me if we were right next to each other. I think he was actually half asleep when he said it, but it was kind of hot. We’ve been Skyping ever since, sharing our fantasies. I tell myself it’s not real. It’s just on Skype. It’s not like we’re taking our clothes off or actually going to do any of the things we say we are when I get back to Shanghai. Still, my overactive imagination heats my skin.

  When I look up, Jay’s gone. I hand the cashier my waters and ten dollars. The cashier shakes her head at me.

  “You’re all good,” she says.

  “What do you mean?” I ask, confused.

  She points her finger toward Jay. “He already paid for you.”

  Sixteen

  Dani

  I can’t believe Heather took my point in a public tournament. That’s debate equivalent to sitting on my head and taking a shit. She grinned so hard when they announced she got thirty-seven more speaker points than me. In shock, I couldn’t come up with a new point on the spot, and the judges marked me down big-time.

  Afterward, Mr. Connelly pulls me aside. It takes every ounce of effort not to cry when he comforts me, “Hey, it’s okay, we all have an off day sometimes.”

  I want to say to him, No, I’m not having an off day! I’m having an on day, but she just took all my ons!

  “Get some rest,” he says. “Let’s talk tomorrow.”

  I nod, biting the inside of my cheek. I won’t give Heather the satisfaction of seeing me cry.

  “We’ll go out for lunch,” he says. He points a finger at me. “I meant what I said to you when I first started training you. There’s a champion in there, I know it.”

  I mope around the house the rest of Sunday. My mom’s out getting groceries, so it’s just me and Claire. Honestly, I wish she weren’t there, and I know it’s not her fault, but every time I look at her, she just reminds me of Heather. All that privilege, wealth, and entitlement, the fact that she can order anything—a car, a home, a mom.

  I used to think debate was a way out from all that, but now I’m not so sure.

  My Messenger dings.

  Hey, you busy?

  It’s Zach.

  No. Where are you? I text back.

  I’m at the library.

  I look around my room and grab my keys.

  Be right there.

  I grab a granola bar from my desk and head out. I stop for a second in front of Claire’s room, debating whether to tell her I’m leaving. She’s studying. I will say, that girl studies a lot. I head out without disturbing her.

  Zach’s sitting on the curb by the entrance of the library when I get there. His notes and papers from class are sprawled before him.

  “I forgot the library closes early on Sundays,” he says, frowning at his notes. “I’m in deep shit in bio, and we have a test.”

  I sit down next to him.

  “What are you guys doing in bio?” I ask. I’m in AP, and he’s in regular.

  He tells me they’re on cell cycles. Bio’s probably my least favorite subject, but on a day like this, I welcome any and all distractions. I grab his notes and flip through them. He’s gotten some of the terms mixed up, and I pull out a blank piece of paper from his notebook to draw out the difference between the interphase and the mitotic phase so he’ll remember.

  “And this”—I point to the line in the middle of an animal cell—“is how they split.”

  “And what’s that line called?” Zach asks.

  I tell him it’s called the cleavage furrow. His left eyebrow tilts slightly as he looks at me.

  “The what furrow?” he asks.

  “The cleavage furrow,” I say, blushing.

  As I say this, his eyes wander down my neck. I tell myself it’s nothing, just a biological reflex; boys are biologically incapable of talking about breasts or cleavage without check
ing it out. And, really, there’s not that much to check out.

  “Cleavage furrow, got it. Won’t forget that,” he says, blushing.

  “Or Golgi vesicles,” I add.

  He smiles. He turns his head to one side. The rays of the sun hit his blond hair. “You’re, like, the smartest girl I know,” he says.

  The comment comes out of nowhere and temporarily lifts me. Then the pride mixes with my disappointment of having just bombed at the tournament.

  “What’s wrong?” Zach asks.

  I shake my head, not really wanting to say.

  “What, you can tell me,” he urges.

  There’s a gush of wind and some of his papers drift on the sidewalk, but Zach makes no attempt to get them.

  I sigh and tell him what Heather pulled at the tournament. I don’t know what it is with him, he has an uncanny ability to get things out of me. I’d like to blame it on his blue eyes, but I’m not even staring at them now. I’m looking down at my hands as they fiddle with the hole in my thrift-store cardigan.

  “That’s bullshit,” Zach says. “I can’t believe she did that.”

  It feels good to let it out, though my fists still tighten every time I think about Heather.

  “Hey, next time you know what you do?” he asks, putting a casual hand on my arm. I glance down. It looks good there. “You feed her bad arguments.”

  I shake my head, reaching to help him gather up his loose papers off the ground. That’s the thing. Heather was perfectly willing to let us lose as a team today, so long as she scored her individual speaker points, but I’m not. That’s a line I’m not comfortable crossing.

  Zach takes the loose papers and puts them in his backpack. We both get up. I smooth out my skirt as we head over to the bus station. He apologizes for not being able to give me a ride home, as his mom was using his car.

  “No problem,” I say.

  I feel better. Zach thanks me for my help and hugs me goodbye before crossing the street to wait for his bus.

  “Hey!” he calls out from the bus bench across the street. “You’ll beat that speech-stealing, coach-bribing fraud! I know you will! She ain’t got nothing on you!”