Room to Dream, page 16
As Dad reached across the table to hold Mom’s hand, I looked at her face. Maybe she was waiting for the right moment to tell him what was really going on, like I had been waiting to tell Lupe about my columns. I hoped she didn’t wait too long, because sometimes things got harder to tell the longer you waited.
When I walked into English class on Monday, Da-Shawn was talking to Ms. Swann about the possibility of starting a student newspaper.
“I’ll speak to the other faculty members and see if we can start something up,” Ms. Swann said.
“Good for you!!!” I said when we sat down together.
Da-Shawn grinned. “I just thought, if Mia can put herself out there in front of everyone in China, I can at least try with my new school. Thanks for giving me the courage.”
I crossed my fingers and my toes, hoping Ms. Swann would make it happen. “Can I write for it too?”
“Of course! Actually, I was thinking I could run a profile of our school’s most successful columnist in the first issue!”
It took me a second to realize he was talking about me. “I don’t know about that,” I quickly said. I didn’t want people knowing about my columns, especially the ones I wrote about Lupe and Jason.
Da-Shawn patted my hand and told me he’d only write it if I was comfortable. I looked down, once again feeling the tingling of electricity.
That night, I pulled out a fresh page of fax paper.
How do you know when you like a boy? It’s really easy to tell when you don’t like them. You have no problem burping in front of them. Or telling them their hair looks like a billy goat’s. Or rolling out of bed in your pajamas and going to school. That’s what I used to do with Jason (and I kind of miss telling him everything).
But when you like a boy, does that change how you’re supposed to act? I recently discovered that I may have a tiny, eensy-weensy crush on Da-Shawn Wallace, my classmate in English. You may recall that Da-Shawn is the new boy whom I once wished hand arthritis upon.
Well, I no longer wish him hand arthritis, in part thanks to a group project we’ve been working on, which has been going really great, by the way. We’re writing a collection of stories on what it feels like to move schools. Every time I’m around him, the time goes by so fast. We both love writing, and we can just talk on and on and on about stories. And sometimes, when our fingers touch, I get this tingly feeling. Like a jolt of electricity. And I’m NOT talking about the kind you get when you touch the doorknob of room 5. I’m talking about the good kind.
It used to be that when I wrote a story, the first person I wanted to show it to was my editor or Ms. Swann, in the hopes that I’d get my name on the Most board. Now when I write a story, the first person I want to show it to is Da-Shawn. I haven’t even thought about the Most board in like a month. That’s how I know I like Da-Shawn.
The question is, what to do about it. Obviously, I’m not going to make the mistake Jason made and kiss him. Should I say something? But what if he doesn’t like me back? I don’t want to lose what we have—I need all the friends I have at school right now. On the other hand, if I never tell him, then he’ll never know. And what if … what if he feels the same about me?
When I was done writing, I held the column to my chest. This was my most personal one yet. Did I really want to share my secret crush with four hundred thousand strangers? But then I looked at the reminders on my desk—More drama! Always be honest!—and thought about my editor’s eager face and, if I was being honest, about my own need to feel like a successful columnist.
I walked over to the fax machine.
That weekend, Hank and I made a bunch more flyers to hand out at the bowling alley. He’d taken Lupe, Jason, and me to Lucky Lanes once over the summer, and even though it wasn’t exactly Disneyland, we’d had a total blast.
Now I wondered if we were ever going to go to Disneyland together. We’d planned on going when I got back from China, but so much had happened since then.
“Why the long face?” Hank asked.
I shook my head.
“Is it Jason?” Hank asked. “He still bothering you at school?”
I took my time thinking about how to describe it. “Things are just weird.”
I wished we could go back to that day at Jade Zen and undo the kiss. Was there a time-machine ride at Disneyland?
“Have you tried talking to him?” Hank asked, turning onto the street of the bowling alley.
I nodded.
“And?” Hank asked.
“And he just stormed off,” I said. Turning to Hank, I added, “But I did make a new friend at school! His name is Da-Shawn!”
“That’s great!” Hank smiled. “What’s he like?”
“He’s sweet and funny and he loves to write, just like me!” I said.
I could hardly contain the excitement on my face, and Hank gave me a knowing smile. “I see what’s happening,” he teased.
“What?” I tried to make my face stop blushing.
“Mia has her first crush!”
“I do not!” I lied, turning bright red now.
But I didn’t have a chance to convince him, because when Hank pulled up in front of the bowling alley, the low building with its warm neon sign was gone—and a luxury apartment complex stood there instead.
“Oh my God, Lucky Lanes is gone!” I cried.
“When did this happen??” Hank asked as we got out of the car. “That’s such a shame. I’d been hoping to take you again, once business got better!”
I stared up at the building, flanked by palm trees too perfect-looking to be real.
“Look at these trees. They must have taken them from somewhere else and plopped them in here,” Hank said, reading my thoughts.
All this change suddenly reminded me of China and I sat down on the curb, wondering how the dofunao owner and the steelworkers were doing.
“Hey, Hank, do you ever miss your pop-up restaurant?” I asked him, blocking the sun with one hand.
“Course I do.”
He sat down on the curb next to me, and a cool spring breeze blew between us.
“Sometimes I wonder if I’d stayed and opened a proper restaurant, could the business have taken off?” Hank added.
“You could still go back …” I said, joking. But the look on Hank’s face told me he’d considered it too. I shivered.
“Nah,” he said quickly. “I have a responsibility to the motel. And to you guys. This is my home.” He stood and pulled me up, looking at the high-rise apartments one last time. “But sometimes I do wonder.…”
“I’m glad you’re here with us instead of taking China by storm with your burgers,” I said, bumping my shoulder into his arm.
“Me too,” Hank smiled.
Luckily the local ice rink was still there, so we managed to hang some flyers that afternoon. Later, at home, I sat at the front desk writing.
All around me, my city is changing. The taqueria down the street where I used to eat chimichangas after school with my friend Lupe is now a Jack in the Box. The local bowling alley where Jason got his first strike got turned into an upscale apartment building. And the thrift store where my mom used to go to buy all my clothes is now a Pottery Barn.
I used to hate the thrift store. Hated wearing flower pants that looked so different from everyone else’s blue jeans. Back then, I would have done anything to fit in. To be seen but not stared at. Like the taupe walls of the Pottery Barn that look exactly the same no matter which city you go to.
But now, as I stroll through my city, I want to shout at the overpriced throw blankets and the soggy tacos: Where’d my city go? I miss Mr. Abayan’s convenience store, which carried not only Cheetos and Doritos but snacks from the Philippines too. I miss Mr. Bhagawati’s old dry cleaner shop, where you didn’t even need a ticket because he knew everyone by name.
I even miss the Topaz and the Lagoon, our former competitors. Sure, they’d annoy us from time to time, but there was enough business for all of us. Our new neighbor, the Magna, doesn’t believe in “enough.” Mega Magna Hotels believes in total annihilation and won’t rest until it takes every last customer and towel.
As a small business owner, I refuse to give up or to be intimidated. I think the only way to compete with big business is with big heart. And so I will carry on, doing the same thing I’ve been doing since the first day I arrived at the Calivista Motel: treating each customer like they’re family.
As I was finishing up my column, I heard the voice of a commercial from the TV in the living room.
“Ever find a bug in your bed? Clogged toilets? Don’t risk a good night’s sleep on a small, unknown place. Come to the Magna, a member of Mega Magna Hotels! Our rooms are held to national standards of cleanliness!”
Those rotten melons! Dad and Hank raced in from the back. They’d both seen the commercial in one of the guest rooms.
“National standards of cleanliness!” Hank said. “They don’t even vacuum their rooms!”
“What are we going to do?” Dad asked. “This is all over the TV!”
Hank fumed as he paced the living room.
“I say we hit ’em back with our own ads,” Hank said. “How much does it cost to run a thirty-second spot? We can get a loan from the bank.”
Dad shook his head. “You said it yourself—when they go low, we can’t go lower.”
“What about putting out more flyers?” I suggested.
Hank shook his head. “A piece of paper can’t compete with TV.”
“Well, we’ve got to do something!” I wailed. “We can’t let them attack us like that! We’ll lose all the customers we worked so hard to get!”
As Dad and Hank debated what to do, I headed over to the desk to call Lupe. Her homework would have to wait—this was an emergency!
“What are we going to do?” I asked Lupe on the phone.
“Okay, don’t panic. Did they specifically say the Calivista?” Lupe asked. I heard her turn on her TV and surf through the channels, looking for the commercial.
“No. But we’re the only other motel on the block! It’s clearly directed at us!”
Suddenly, Lupe turned the volume on her TV way up. I listened to the commercial again through the phone.
“Those plague sores!” Lupe shouted.
I let out a surprised laugh. “Those whats?”
“Sorry, I learned that in English class. Shakespeare.”
“Oh.” I tried to hide the envy in my voice. My class was still on Where the Red Fern Grows.
“Anyway,” Lupe went on, “I know it’s bad, but I agree with your dad. I think we should sit tight.”
“What about our customers? We’re finally starting to get people coming in again.…”
“It’ll blow over,” Lupe said. “They’re not going to be able to run the ad all the time—it’ll be way too expensive.”
I didn’t know about that. I got the feeling that when it came to trying to put us out of business, no expense was too big for the Magna.
No sooner had I hung up the phone with Lupe than Mr. Cooper called.
“It’s not too late to accept the Vacation Resorts offer!” he said.
“We’re not going to throw in the towel because of one commercial, Mr. Cooper.”
“It’s not just one ad, Mia,” he argued. “Who knows what they’re going to do next? We have to face facts … they’re a behemoth with way deeper pockets than us! We’re an ant just waiting to be squished!”
I frowned into the phone.
“Arrange a call with the investors, and we’ll put it to a vote,” Mr. Cooper demanded, then hung up on me.
The next day I was so distracted, Da-Shawn had to ask twice whether I had reviewed our project that weekend.
“Yeah, sorry,” I said, taking my edits out of my backpack and handing them to him.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
I debated whether to tell him about the Magna. I hadn’t exactly told him I lived in a motel, though it was possible he’d heard about it from someone who went to elementary school with me. Then again, Da-Shawn usually kept to himself at break and lunch, preferring the company of a good book.
Before I could say anything, though, he went on. “You know, I was thinking. You should try to get your columns published here too, not just in China. It could run in the Anaheim Times!”
“I don’t think they want it,” I said, shaking my head.
“Why do you say that?” Da-Shawn asked.
I had about seventy-nine reasons why.
“It can’t hurt to send it,” Da-Shawn said. “And even if they turn you down, so what? You’re already a published columnist!”
I peeked at him, a chuckle escaping. Every time Da-Shawn used that word, columnist, my face lit up even brighter than the Magna’s pool light. I glanced over at the poster of the Spring Dance and gathered my courage.
“Hey, Da-Shawn, do you want to go to the dance together?”
I held my breath and told myself it was cool if he said no. That would be just fine. Then at least I’d know the answer to my question and we could carry on being good friends.
But he smiled and said, “Sure.”
“Really?” I asked, fireworks exploding inside me.
“Yup! It’ll be fun!”
Walking out of class, I hugged my notebook tight in my arms, temporarily forgetting all about my Magna woes. I was going to my very first school dance with my very first crush!!!
That night, all the investors gathered at the Calivista for an emergency meeting. Most of them had seen the Magna commercial and agreed with Mr. Cooper.
“We should take the offer from Vacation Resorts,” he said at the beginning of the meeting. “We can’t compete with a massive television campaign!”
“But,” I quickly pointed out, “if we sell, we’ll be losing a lot more than the motel! What about our How to Succeed in America classes for the immigrants? What about all the things the Calivista represents besides a place to stay?”
“People need those classes,” Mrs. T agreed. “We’ve been running them for two years!” Mrs. Q nodded. “We’ve bonded with people!”
“This is a motel,” Mr. Cooper snapped. “It’s a business. You’re not supposed to bond. That’s what you all haven’t gotten since day one. None of this is personal!”
“Maybe not to you,” Mrs. T said. “But we live here.”
The weeklies, my parents, and I all suddenly fell quiet. If we sold—where exactly were we going to live?
“Maybe we don’t need to make our decision tonight,” Dad said.
“Fine. But if we don’t make the call soon, it’s going to be too late,” Mr. Cooper warned.
After everyone left, Lupe stayed behind, following me out to the pool. I sat near the shallow end, unable to do anything but stare at the lapping blue water. Lupe took off her shoes and dangled her feet over the edge.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
I nodded.
“Don’t let that notable coward get to you,” she said.
I looked up at her and smiled. “That another Shakespearean insult?”
“Yeah.”
I sighed. “I wish we never sold all those shares to Mr. Cooper,” I said.
Lupe bumped her feet with mine lightly, trying to make me feel better. “But … I don’t know, do you think he has a point?”
Not her too.
“I’m just thinking out loud,” Lupe said, noticing the look on my face. “If we sold, we could all make some money and—”
“And what? Where would the weeklies and my parents live? What would they do?”
Lupe looked down at the water, quiet.
“You’re right,” Lupe said. “I’m sorry, I was just thinking about college and all the expenses coming up. But you’re right. We shouldn’t just give up.”
I gave her a small smile.
“But what are we going to do about the ads?” Lupe asked.
In the crystal-blue water, I tapped her big toe with mine.
“We’ll figure it out,” I promised. I didn’t know what exactly, but I knew we had to—soon. Or Mr. Cooper would win.
The two of us sat shoulder to shoulder, smiling into our reflections in the water, the tall palm tree swaying above us. For a second it felt just like old times.
The next week, I sat in the lobby of the office of the Anaheim Times newspaper. I’d taken a bus after school. A wild idea had come to me in the middle of the night before. It was a long shot. But fueled by the serious shareholder meeting—and Da-Shawn’s suggestion—I thought I’d give it a try.
“And who did you say you are again … ?” the receptionist asked.
“Mia Tang, columnist,” I told her, with as much confidence as I could muster. “I have some urgent information about the motels in Anaheim that I need to speak to the editor about.”
The secretary raised a curious eyebrow as she dialed the phone. A few minutes later, she nodded to me. “The news editor will be out in a sec.”
I wiped my sweaty palms on my jeans. Three minutes later, a man came out and introduced himself as Robert Hadden, news editor. “Why don’t you come on back?” he said.
So I followed him into the newsroom, which was a mass of reporters sitting at cubicles and desks, writing and talking on the phone and drinking coffee.
This is where all the magic happens!
I looked around for the reporter Annie, who had written a feature on the Calivista last year. I asked Mr. Hadden about her.
“Oh, Annie moved to the Bay Area earlier this year, to chase a big story.”
Chase a big story, I repeated in my head. That just sounded like the coolest thing ever.
When we finally got to Mr. Hadden’s office, I took a seat across from his messy desk. It was a smaller office than Mr. Wang’s and filled with twice as many newspapers. Some were framed and hanging up on the wall. Others were scattered on the floor.
“So, what is this regarding?” Mr. Hadden asked.
Quickly, I explained to him what was going on with the Magna. Mr. Hadden listened intently, scribbling notes in his reporter’s notebook.
