Room to Dream, page 17
“How do you know all this?” he asked.
“I manage the front desk of the Calivista, right next door,” I explained.
Mr. Hadden’s eyes did a double take. He held up a finger, just a minute. I waited as he punched a few numbers on his phone, then stepped out to talk to one of his colleagues. I figured it was about some urgent news, but when he returned, he said, “Follow me.”
“Where are we going?”
“I’d like you to speak to our editor in chief about this,” he said. “Unfortunately, I can’t authorize a story based on what you’re telling me. It’s not that I don’t believe you. But we have these journalistic guidelines—” He reached for a pamphlet from the document tray in the hallway and handed one to me. It said Anaheim Times Journalistic Integrity—Source Credibility and Guidelines on Objectivity. “But maybe you can convince our editor in chief.”
Nervously clutching the pamphlet, I followed Mr. Hadden to the other side of the newsroom. He pushed open the door to the editor in chief’s office, and I was happily surprised to find a woman sitting at the desk inside. She had short gray hair and wore reading glasses on a chain, just like Mrs. T.
“I’m Katherine Addison, editor in chief,” she said, getting up and shaking my hand.
I smiled. “I’m Mia Tang. Thanks so much for making the time to see me.”
“No problem,” she said, nodding at Mr. Hadden.
“I’ll leave you to it, boss,” he said, shutting the door behind him.
Ms. Addison turned back to me. “Rob said that you and your family manage a motel over on Coast?” she asked. “And you’re worried about the health and safety of our motels?”
“Yes,” I said. I dug in my bag and got out my copy of Annie’s article. “You guys ran a feature story on us last year.”
“Oh, yes, I remember this piece,” she said, smiling. “And how’s the Calivista doing?”
I shook my head and started telling her about the Magna and their TV commercials. Katherine peered into my eyes, studying me as I talked.
“And the ads are lying—they say the Magna is a lot cleaner than our local motels. But I’ve met people who’ve worked at the Magna next door to our motel, and they say they have to skip cleaning things in order to save time and money.”
“That’s very interesting,” she said. “But we can’t just write that. We have to prove it. How do you propose we go about proving such a claim?”
I took a deep breath. “Well, I was thinking the health department could check. To see which motel was actually cleaner.”
I knew it sounded crazy, but I’d stayed up all night thinking about this. We needed to accept their cleanliness challenge and prove who was actually cleaner. And if the media happened to be there when the inspection was happening … well, then that would be even better than advertising.
Katherine Addison took off her glasses, shocked. “You want us to call the health department on your motel?” she asked.
“I’ll call the health department. You guys just need to be there.”
“I have to hand it to you—that’s bold,” she said. She scribbled a few notes down onto her pad of paper and pointed her glasses at me. “Has Rob given you our guide to journalistic integrity and objectivity? You’d have to promise not to do anything different with your motel for the inspection. You can’t secretly dust everything to perfection.”
I held up the pamphlet and promised to study it. “You have my word, as a columnist. We won’t do anything differently.”
“How old are you again?”
“Twelve,” I said, then quickly added, “But I’ve been writing a long time.”
“Which newspaper do you write for?” she asked.
“China Kids Gazette.” I took some of my columns out of my backpack.
She sat back and put on her reading glasses. The whole time she read my articles, my heart pitter-pattered in my chest. It got so quiet that I could hear the ceiling fan spin.
“I really like this one,” Ms. Addison said at last, pointing to my latest column on Anaheim changing, which I hadn’t even faxed to my editor yet.
I looked up, surprised.
She read aloud, “ ‘I used to hate the thrift store. Hated wearing flower pants that looked so different from everyone else’s blue jeans,’ ” and smiled. “I know exactly what you mean. My mom used to make me wear these long colorful skirts when all I wanted were jeans.”
“Me too!” I said.
“So when is this being published in the Gazette?”
“I haven’t sent it to them yet,” I said.
“Well, I’d love the chance to consider it, when it’s ready,” she said, handing it back to me.
Was she offering … to publish it?
“Of course! And I can totally make it more dramatic,” I told her.
Ms. Addison smiled. “No, no, that’s not what I meant. In fact, if you read our pamphlet, you’ll see we’re strongly committed to reporting just the news. Not embellishing the news.”
Oh.
“We don’t need more drama. We need more analysis. More research. Our opinion pieces tend to be around seven hundred to eight hundred words. Yours is only three hundred.”
I stared at her, wondering how she knew that without counting. It must be a trade thing, like how my dad always knew exactly how many towels were in a pile just by looking at the stack.
“I can make it longer!” I offered. “I could go to the library and research other businesses in Anaheim, and talk to the people who used to work there.”
“Great!” she said. “If you can flesh it out, send it to me. And let us know when you call the health department.”
She reached over and gave me her card.
“So you’ll do it? You’ll cover the story?” I asked.
“That’s up to the reporter. But I’m happy to send someone over,” she said.
YESSSSSS!!!
As she walked me to the door, I looked down and noticed she was wearing a bright yellow skirt. It had little blue pencils on it and it ran all the way down to the floor. Ms. Addison followed my eyes and chuckled. “Like my skirt?”
I nodded. I did a lot. But what about all the stuff she said about her mom?
“I guess I eventually stopped caring what everybody else thought,” she said, reading my mind.
I grinned all the way home, armed with the knowledge and excitement that now two editors in chief were interested in my work! And I had a solid plan for getting back at the Magna! I couldn’t wait to tell Da-Shawn. Yet again, Lupe was right—you can’t win if you don’t play!
I called the health department as soon as I got back to the front desk.
“Hi … Yes … I’d like to report a health issue at the Magna and the Calivista Motels …” I said, nervous but excited too. “Magna. C-A-L-I-V-I-S-T-A.”
Afterward, I sat on my stool, hands trembling. I couldn’t believe I’d just reported my own motel. My dad would murder me if he knew! His face turned green whenever we even talked about the health department. But it had to be done and I was confident that we’d win the inspection war.
As soon as the health department came, I’d call the newspaper. The guy said he couldn’t tell me exactly when they’d come—it’d be a surprise. I flipped through the pamphlet on journalistic ethics as I waited.
When I got to the section on fairness, I swallowed hard. It said:
In the interest of presenting truthful, fair information to our readers, the journalist must approach stories with an open, skeptical mind; must try to examine contrary information and viewpoints; and must keep their personal biases and opinions from influencing their story.
I stared at the last line—must keep their personal biases from influencing their story. Uh-oh. Had I been breaking this rule in my columns? I definitely did not keep my personal biases from influencing my stories about Lupe, nor did I get her side of those stories. Worse, I didn’t even change her name. If Lupe happened to get on a plane right now and go to Beijing, every middle schooler she met would know exactly who she was and what she did to me.
Stop … stop, I told myself. She wasn’t going to China.
Still, the knowledge that I’d broken an important journalistic rule nagged at me. I should just come clean and tell her. I knew if the roles were reversed, I’d want her to tell me. But what if she never forgave me? This could push us further into an ebb, right when we’re just starting to flow again.…
Slowly, I reached for another piece of paper. Instead of writing a column, I started working on a letter.
Dear Lupe,
Thanks for coming over the other day. It was great to see you and hang out for a bit by the pool. It felt like old times again.
There’s been so much that I’ve been meaning to tell you, starting with: I’m proud of you. I should have said that a long time ago. The words have been sitting in my mouth since the other day when we were at Buffet Paradise. I was scared to say them then because I was worried you might study even harder and I wouldn’t get to see you. Looking back, I realize that was pretty selfish of me. I’m sorry.
The truth is, I miss you. There have been so many things that have happened, some good, some bad, that I don’t even know where to begin. Do you ever feel like you’ve kept something inside for so long that now it’s kinda stuck?
That’s how I feel. But I want to unstick them. I hope you want to unstick them too. If so, please come by the motel sometime and we’ll get unstuck together!
Miss you,
Mia
When I was done, I sealed the letter into an envelope and added stickers to the front. Then I grabbed another piece of paper.
Dear Jason,
I don’t know what’s going on with us. But I want you to know that I’m sorry for not coming to your cooking competition. I wanted to, but I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea about us, or for things to get more weird. You’re my friend and always will be. But it’s been really hard for me to get over what happened. You have to understand that. I’m hopeful that with time we can go back to the way things were.
Mia
The next day, I took both letters and stuck them in Lupe’s and Jason’s lockers. I was still at Jason’s when he spotted me from down the hall.
“Hey!” he called.
“Hey,” I said back.
He pointed to a poster of the Spring Dance across from us. “You going with anyone?”
I bit my lip, wondering whether I should tell him.
“No way! Who?!” Jason asked when he saw my face.
“Da-Shawn,” I admitted.
“He asked you?”
“Actually, I asked him.”
Jason’s jaw dropped. “I can’t believe it,” he muttered.
“Why?”
Jason grabbed his hair with both hands. “He doesn’t even have a real name! His first name is literally Da!”
I stared at him. It was so upsetting he was making fun of Da-Shawn’s name, and it almost made me want to yank my nice letter out of his locker.
“Well, I like it,” I finally said.
Jason turned, and in one furious grasp, he reached up, pulled the dance poster off the wall, and stormed away.
Anger welled inside me as I kneeled down to pick up the torn poster. I got that he was disappointed, but why did he always have to get so angry? Couldn’t he listen to me for once?
I sulked all the way back to the motel that afternoon. The health department wasn’t there, but there was a stack of letters waiting for me.
I sat down and opened them.
Dear Mia,
I can’t believe you like this boy Da-Shawn Wallace. You barely even know him! You’ve already gotten kissed by one boy. Don’t you think that’s quite enough?
A girl should know that her heart is precious. She shouldn’t give it away to every boy she sees, like it’s candy. When you first wrote about getting kissed by Jason, I was on your side. But now I’m afraid you’re becoming too qing fu.
My mom worries that if I read more columns by you, I’ll become qing fu too. But I like reading your columns. My English has improved a lot since I started reading them. I just wish you’d be more proper in the way you behave and think about the consequences of your actions.
Your disappointed fan,
Meixin Fung
My cheeks burned. There were ten more letters, all accusing me of being too qing fu. I didn’t know what it meant. Finally, I took my mail and went out back to the laundry room.
“Mia, what’s wrong?” Dad asked, looking up from the towels he was washing by hand.
Hot tears sprang to my eyes. I didn’t know why, but I felt really embarrassed. I handed my dad the letters.
As he read the first one, his face tightened.
“How could they accuse my daughter of being qing fu?” he asked, flinging the wet towels down in anger. Soap splattered everywhere. Quietly, I asked him what it meant. He refused to say at first, but I pressed him.
“It means ‘boy crazy,’ ” he finally told me.
“Boy crazy?” I asked, confused.
Dad nodded. “A girl who only thinks about boys.”
“That’s absurd!” I erupted. “I don’t only think about boys! I think about my writing, about the motel—”
“Of course you do, sweetheart,” Dad said.
“I don’t understand,” I said, looking down at the wet towels. “I wrote one thing—one thing!—about maybe liking Da-Shawn. And they’re labeling me qing fu? What about Jason? Nobody called him girl crazy even though he kissed me!”
“That’s because people think boys can behave a certain way that girls can’t,” Dad said. Then he kneeled down and looked into my eyes. “They’re wrong.”
I nodded, but I was still fuming. Walking back to the front desk, I tried to put it all out of my mind. But I was so humiliated. And mad at myself for being so humiliated. Why did I care so much what complete strangers thought of me? And yet … it nibbled and nibbled at me.
That night, I couldn’t sleep a wink. All I could think about was qing fu qing fu qing fu. Even burying the letters deep in my closet didn’t work. It was like swallowing a bug, one that wriggled inside me.
At school the next day, I could barely look at Da-Shawn, worried about acting qing fu. To be safe, I kept it strictly professional, keeping my eyes glued to my paper and only uttering short replies.
“What’s the matter?” Da-Shawn finally asked.
“Nothing.”
“You’re acting kind of strange.”
“No, I’m not.”
After a long pause, he guessed, “Is it the dance? Do you not want to go?”
“No! I still want to go!” I blurted, looking up at him.
Da-Shawn’s face relaxed. “Good,” he said. “I do too. As a reporter for our newly formed school newspaper, I feel it is my duty to attend.”
I looked from Da-Shawn to Ms. Swann, who stood up from her desk with a big smile.
“Listen up, guys!” she said. “I have some great news! The faculty officially approved Da-Shawn’s idea for a student newspaper. The first issue is coming out after the Spring Dance—you’re all going to be able to contribute!”
I hugged Da-Shawn, temporarily forgetting about the qing fu label. Da-Shawn laughed as he hugged me back.
“I’m so proud of you!” I said.
“Of us,” he corrected me. “You’re going to write for the paper too!”
“You bet I will!” In fact, I had an idea for my first article. I would love to interview girls in my school who’d turned down a boy and been labeled “mean” or liked a boy and been labeled “boy crazy.” Maybe I could interview them at the dance! I couldn’t be the only girl dealing with this. But this time, I’d put my personal biases aside.
As the bell rang, Jason walked over and tossed a letter on my desk.
Cautiously, I opened it.
Mia-
Hey, I got your letter. Thanks for writing me the note and for putting the poster back up. (I’ll admit I have “impulse control issues,” as my culinary teacher says, which I know I have to work on if I want to be a good chef-but it’s hard.) Tell me what I have to do:
Don’t talk to you until you get over it.
Like someone else.
Wait fifty years until someone invents a time machine, then go back in time, and undo what happened.*
*Please don’t make me wait fifty years. We’ll both be old and leathery by then.
The leathery part made me laugh. I looked over at Jason and gave him a slight smile. I was glad he took the time to write me and acknowledged he’d been wrong.
But I didn’t know why he didn’t include Say sorry to you as an option.
Later that day, I was walking through the motel parking lot when I heard someone call “Mia!” Hank was leaning over the upstairs balcony.
Before he could say anything more, I knew—just from the panic of his voice—the health department was here!
Hank pointed down the row of rooms, and I saw the inspectors making the rounds with my parents.
“Just a minute!” I called back. “I’ll be right there! I just need to make a very important call!”
Racing into the front office, I threw my backpack down. Hands shaking, I dug out the card for the editor in chief and dialed her direct number.
“Katherine? I mean, Ms. Addison,” I asked. “It’s Mia Tang here. Remember the inspection I was telling about? It’s happening. Right now.”
“I’ll send someone over,” she said.
Forty-five minutes later, an Anaheim Times reporter showed up.
Rachel Allen took careful notes as the health department official, Mr. Moretti, gave us his glowing report.
“Excellent job,” Mr. Moretti complimented my dad and Mrs. Davis. “I give you guys an A-plus for guest room cleanliness.”
Dad and Mrs. Davis high-fived each other.
“Thank you so much,” Dad said to the inspector. “It feels so good to hear you say that.”
“Here at the Calivista, we take room cleaning very seriously,” Hank assured him. “In fact, I can’t imagine who complained about us.”
I coughed. That would be me.
