by Kelly Yang
“We weren’t born here,” my mom said. “They could throw us out anytime they want.” She walked over and guarded me with both hands, as if some invisible force was threatening to take me from her. It made me think of what Jason once said—Maybe you and Lupe are in the same boat, but not me.
“It’s okay,” Hank said. “Mia doesn’t have to go. We’ll be fine. I’ll say Lupe’s my daughter.” He turned to Lupe. “You’ll be safe with me.”
“I’m ready.” Lupe nodded to Hank.
I hung on to my best friend’s hand for just a second longer, before letting go.
My heart was all pins and needles that night as I waited for Lupe and Hank to come home. To pass the time, I read the newspaper. In the Food section, I found an article about a chef named Philip Chiang who opened a famous Chinese restaurant in Beverly Hills where all the movie stars went to eat. I’d just reached for the scissors to cut the article out for Jason when a couple with a toddler walked into the front office.
“We saw the sign,” the man said, smiling at me. They told me they were originally from India and they drove down from Oakland to take their little one to Disneyland.
I waved at their young son, envious he got to go to Disneyland. My eyes suddenly watered at the thought that maybe now Lupe and I wouldn’t be able to go. Biting my lip, I told myself stop it, and handed the couple their registration forms and the key.
“Thank you for putting the sign up,” the woman said. “It’s good to know we’re welcome.”
I smiled at them, still feeling the lump in my throat. After they left, I dropped my head on my arms on the front desk, gazing out the window at the passing traffic. Where were Hank and Lupe at this exact moment? Were they at the San Diego County Jail yet?
It was ten o’clock by the time Hank and Lupe got back. I was already asleep, but I woke up when I heard Hank’s car and ran outside. The weeklies came out of their rooms too, and Mrs. Q scooped Lupe into her arms.
“Thank God you’re all right,” Mrs. Q said, kissing the top of Lupe’s head.
Billy Bob turned to Hank. “So what happened? Is José okay?”
Hank sighed. His eyes were sad and heavy. “He’s been better,” he finally said. “They’re trying to get him to waive his right to a hearing. Sign a voluntary departure form.”
“You told him not to, right?” Fred asked.
Hank nodded. “I told him not to sign anything, to sit tight and not lose hope. We’re going to get him out. First thing tomorrow, we’re going to start calling immigration lawyers.”
“I’ve got my big immigration book from the library!” I told everyone.
“And first thing tomorrow, I’m going to start calling up lawyers from the Yellow Pages!” Lupe added.
Hank reached with his hand and patted Lupe on the back. “I’m so impressed with you, you know that?” he said. Then he turned to the rest of us. “You guys should have seen her. She was so strong.”
My parents, still in their pajamas, put their arms around Lupe. “Brave girl,” my mom said. “You’re staying here with us tonight.”
“We can move an extra bed into my room!” I suggested.
Lupe locked arms with me.
As my dad went to get the rollaway bed, my mom knelt down on the ground in front of Lupe so she could look into her eyes. “I promise,” Mom said, “we will do everything we can to get your parents back.”
Lupe and I lay awake that night, staring at my ceiling. Neither of us could sleep a wink.
“Oh, Mia, the jail was horrible,” Lupe said in the dark. She turned and told me how there was barbed wire everywhere, windowless cells, and tiny visiting rooms where people scratched words onto the walls.
“What kind of words?” I asked.
“Free Jenny. Don’t be sad. I love you, Dad,” she told me, her voice rising and falling.
I wiped my eyes on my pillowcase.
“And you know the worst part?” she asked. “I couldn’t even hug him. All I wanted was to give him a hug, but there was a big glass wall between us and I could only talk to him over the phone.”
“We’re going to get him out,” I whispered, turning my wet pillow around.
She didn’t say anything for a long time.
“Mia? I’m scared.”
I looked over in the darkness. Slowly, I crawled out of my bed and went over to Lupe. The rollaway bed rattled as I hugged my best friend.
“It’s okay,” I said, snuggling her.
“I’m trying to be brave, but I’m scared.”
A tear fell down Lupe’s face and landed on my hand. I thought about all the times last year when she was so brave, explaining to me how things worked in America, encouraging me to hang on tight and not lose hope. Now it was my turn.
“It’s okay to be scared,” I said. “It doesn’t mean you’re not brave. Even the bravest people are scared sometimes.” I wiped my eyes. “But you know what? We’re going to get through this. Together.”
“Thanks, Mia,” Lupe answered, and gave my hand a tiny squeeze.
I woke up the next morning to the sound of the fax machine beeping and phones ringing. Lupe’s bed was empty. I jumped up and ran outside, where I found my best friend leading Hank, Billy Bob, and Mrs. Q in an immigration lawyer–finding mission at the front desk.
“Welcome to Operation Save José,” Hank greeted me with a smile. “Would you like some breakfast?”
He pointed to the box of freshly baked croissants he’d picked up from the store. My mom came in and set down a fresh pot of tea next to them.
“No, thanks,” I said, taking a seat next to Lupe and getting to work. I picked up an extra copy of the Yellow Pages and flipped to the L section for lawyer.
“We’ve been leaving messages for lawyers all over town,” Lupe told me. She glanced at the clock. It was only 7:00. “Hopefully, when they open, they’ll call us right back.”
I got to work dialing and leaving messages. At a quarter to eight, Hank pointed to the clock and said to me and Lupe, “You guys better get to school!”
“Do we have to go?” I asked.
“Yes,” Mrs. Q said. “But don’t worry, girls. We’ll carry on calling.”
“C’mon, Mia,” Lupe said, pulling me down from my stool. “We’d better go, while we still can.”
I knew she meant it as a joke, but my heart lurched. In less than a month, the people of California were going to vote. I hoped they didn’t vote to take away Lupe’s education!
When we got to school, I handed Jason the article I had cut out about the chef.
“Thanks, but I’m not sure I want to go to cooking school anymore,” he muttered, sticking the article in his pocket.
This was news. “Why not?”
Jason turned and gazed toward his classroom. “It’s too expensive. My dad’s businesses aren’t doing well, I told you.”
“C’mon, Jason, I’m sure there’s a way—maybe they have a payment plan or something—”
Jason gritted his teeth and blurted out, “If you must know, my dad said cooking classes are for girls.”
“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard!” I sucked in a sharp breath, ready to tell him the million and one reasons why what his dad said was completely off base.
But before I could, Jason shrugged and said, “I don’t know, maybe he’s right.” Then he turned and walked away.
I shook my head at his back. There’s a Chinese phrase about “playing the piano to a cow.” That’s how I felt at that moment—like, what was the point? Jason was never going to change. It was as useful to try to persuade him as it was to play the piano to a cow. Maybe Lupe was right, I thought as I walked back. Maybe I’d just been wasting my time.
I tried not to think about Jason and his dad’s ridiculous words for the rest of the day, which was hard because in class, the other kids were once again talking about Kathleen Brown.
“Did you guys see what she said on TV yesterday?” Stuart asked. “That she’s going to be tough on crime?”
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Oliver grunted. “Oh, please, she’s not going to be tougher on crime than a man!” Then he pretended he had a big machine gun in his hands and started blasting us all, making firing noises with his mouth. I scooted away in my chair, feeling a little ill, while my classmates shrieked with delight.
“That’s enough, Oliver!” Mrs. Welch scolded him.
Bethany Brett raised her hand. “My mom said Kathleen Brown looks way too tough,” she said. “Like one of those ladies at the hardware store.” She made a face.
I didn’t understand how someone could look both too tough and not tough enough at the same time, but several of the boys nodded in agreement with Bethany, like it was the truest thing they’d ever heard.
When the recess bell rang, I sprang up from my seat, but Mrs. Welch called my name.
“Mia, can you stay behind for a minute?” she asked.
I looked longingly at Lupe as she went out the door and headed to the tree. When everyone had gone, Mrs. Welch walked over to me.
“I was reading your latest essay, Mia,” she said, placing it upside down on my desk. I stared at my paper, trying to make out the grade on the other side and will it into being an A. “I think it needs A LOT of work, but there’s promise in some parts.”
I glanced up. Did she say promise? Mrs. Welch smiled. It was weird to see a smile on her face, like a scrunchie on a flamingo. Something that’s not supposed to be there.
Cautiously, I lifted the paper.
Another C.
I frowned and flipped it back over, anger mounting in my chest. It was a trick. She’d gotten my hopes up just to dash them, with more force this time.
“Why’d you give me a C if you thought it was good?” I asked.
“I didn’t say it was good. I said it had potential to be good,” Mrs. Welch clarified.
Was she messing with me?
“I’m sorry I’m not one of those teachers who give out As like candy,” she said. “If everyone got an A, it wouldn’t mean anything.”
No, it would mean a lot. And what’s wrong with candy?
“But if you’re willing to put in the work, it might be possible for you,” she went on. Then she took a deep, pensive breath, like she was probably going to regret this next part, but said it anyway. “I’d be willing to work with you one-on-one. During recess.”
I looked up at her, not sure what to think.
“Are you interested?” Mrs. Welch asked.
I didn’t answer right away. On the one hand, I did want to get better at writing. On the other hand, I loved my recesses with the Kids for Kids club. I wasn’t sure I was ready to give that up.
Mrs. Welch must have taken my hesitation to mean a no, because she turned away and said, “That’s too bad.”
She walked back to her desk with a look of sadness—not a whopping amount, but enough to make me think maybe this wasn’t a joke. Maybe she really wanted to help me to become a better writer.
The question was … did I want it from her?
“Hi, I’m calling in regard to José Garcia. My name is Andrew Delaney. I’m an attorney with the law offices of Taylor and Associates,” said the voice on the answering machine when Lupe and I got back to the motel from school. “We received your voice message, and we’d be pleased to schedule a meeting to see how we can help. Please give me a call back.”
Lupe and I leaped into the air. A real lawyer called us back! I scrambled out of the front office shouting, “Hank! Great news!”
We all piled into the car—me, Hank, Lupe, and Billy Bob—and headed over to the law firm in downtown Los Angeles to meet Mr. Delaney. Lupe sat in the back seat next to me, chewing on her fingers. By the time we arrived, she had practically eaten an entire nail.
“Garcia family?” the smiling blond receptionist greeted us when we got up to the seventeenth floor. She was holding a clipboard and her hair was thick and shiny, like Jason’s pasta right after he drained it from the boiling pot. The thought of Jason’s pasta made me frown, though, and I pushed him out of my head.
“That’s us,” Hank told the receptionist.
I reached for Lupe’s hand, and together we followed the receptionist to a solid oak door that opened up into a big conference room.
After the receptionist left to get Mr. Delaney, Hank and I looked out the window at the incredible view. It was a clear autumn day, and I could see the snowcapped peaks of Mount San Antonio in the distance. Hank and Billy Bob took a seat in the soft leather executive chairs. There was a plateful of chocolate chip cookies in the middle of the table. I thought back fondly to the ones Hank and I made, but I was too nervous to eat. Billy Bob reached for a couple.
The door opened again, and we turned around to see a short, older white man in an expensive-looking suit. He stuck out his hand and introduced himself as Mr. Delaney, then took a seat. He turned to Billy Bob and asked, “So in your message, you said that José Garcia was taken by the police a couple of days ago.”
“Yes, my father, José Garcia,” Lupe said, sitting on the edge of her chair.
Mr. Delaney looked at Lupe.
“She an illegal?” Mr. Delaney asked Hank.
Lupe flushed.
“Lupe and her parents do not currently have papers,” Hank explained. “Her father’s down at the San Diego County Jail right now. They asked him if he wanted to sign a voluntary departure form, which I told him not to sign.” He looked to Mr. Delaney. “He shouldn’t sign that, right?”
Mr. Delaney put up a hand. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, now. Before we discuss any further, I need you to sign a retainer.”
“What’s a retainer?” Lupe asked. She looked to Hank.
Mr. Delaney took a piece of paper out from his folder and slid it across the table. “A legal contract that allows me to represent you. Before I can give you any legal advice, you’ll need to pay for my services. You’ll see I charge by the hour and my fees are listed on the page.”
We crowded around Lupe’s chair to take a look at the paper.
I gasped. “Three hundred dollars an hour?”
“Plus incidentals,” Mr. Delaney said.
Hank narrowed his eyes. “What incidentals?”
“Photocopying, phone calls, delivery fees, parking if I need to go to the jail or courthouse,” Mr. Delaney said.
Hank gawked at the lawyer. “You want to charge us for parking? On top of three hundred dollars an hour?”
Mr. Delaney ran a hand through his thick, white hair. “It’s gonna be the same at any law firm you go to,” he said flatly.
But Hank was having none of it. “What else are you gonna charge us for? The paper clips? How about when you have to go to the bathroom? You gonna charge us for the toilet paper too?”
Mr. Delaney crossed his arms and side-eyed Hank. “We’re not the Red Cross. We don’t work for free.”
“But you haven’t even heard the facts of the case!” I protested.
Lupe started talking fast. “My dad’s been here for eight years. He’s never gotten into any trouble with the police, not even a parking ticket—”
Mr. Delaney cut her off with a wave of his hand. “You’ll need to sign this agreement first.”
Hank stood up from his chair. “You know, I thought you immigration lawyers actually wanted to help people. But you’re all about money like everyone else. Worse, you prey on the weak.” Hank turned to Billy Bob, Lupe, and me. “C’mon, let’s get out of here.”
On our way out, Billy Bob turned to Mr. Delaney and added, “And by the way, your cookies are stale.”
As we waited for the elevator, I said to Lupe, “We’ll find another lawyer.”
Hank and Billy Bob nodded. “Absolutely,” Hank said.
Lupe nodded silently, staring at the black marble floor. I looked down at our reflection as a tear escaped her eye and landed between us.
Mr. Cooper called again that Saturday, asking how business was and whether he could sell back his shares. I felt like barking at him, “We have bigger pro
blems to worry about right now than your shares!”
Then Lupe wondered out loud, “Maybe I should sell our shares in the Calivista … to pay for the lawyer.”
“NO,” I told her emphatically. “Your family worked way too hard for that investment money. No way am I going to let it go to greedy Mr. Delaney and his stale cookies. We’ll figure out something else.”
“Play the lotto?” Lupe suggested, looking over at Hank.
Hank cleared his throat. “There is the line of credit from the bank.…”
But Lupe shook her head. “That’s for the motel. For all of us.”
“You’re a part of ‘all of us,’ ” I said. A lump grew in my throat. “You and your mom and dad.”
At the mention of her mom, Lupe looked out the window. We still didn’t know where Mrs. Garcia was, and with every passing day, the worry hung lower and heavier on all of us, like a soaking wet towel.
“I should go home in case she calls,” Lupe said softly.
My mom walked over with a cup of cocoa. “I can’t send you home alone. Stay here, with us.”
“But what if she tries—” Lupe started.
“She’ll know to try you here,” my mom promised.
Lupe blinked back tears. “What if—what if something happened to her? The coyote won’t know the motel’s number.”
Suddenly, I found it hard to breathe. I tried to shake the thought. “Nothing’s happened to your mom. She’s just taking a little longer to get back,” I said to Lupe.
My dad drove Lupe home to get more of her clothes, and I sat at the desk, brainstorming ways we could track her mom down. Calling the police was out of the question because of her mom’s status. But—maybe we could make a flyer for her? Maybe if we passed it out to some of the immigrants who came by, they might know someone who’d seen her or could get in touch with her coyote. It was worth a try.
The midday sun was streaming through the windows when Lupe got back. She liked the flyer idea and handed me a picture of her mom from her wallet, which we enlarged using the fax machine. First thing tomorrow, we would start handing out flyers to anyone and everyone who came through the motel!
