THE FRONT DESK:CHAPTER ONE

THE FRONT DESK: CHAPTER 1

My parents told me that America would be this amazing placewhere we could live in a house with a dog, do whatever we want,and eat hamburgers till we were red in the face. So far, the only partof that we've achieved is the hamburger part, but I was still holdingout hope. And the hamburgers here are pretty good.

The most incredible burger I've ever had was at the Houstonspace center last summer. We weren't planning on eating there—everybody knows museum food is fifty thousand times more expensive than outside food. But one whiff of the sizzling bacon as wepassed by the café and my knees wobbled. My parents must haveheard the howls of my stomach, because the next thing I knew, mymother was rummaging through her purse for coins.

We only had enough money for one hamburger, so we had toshare. But, man, what a burger. It was a mile high with real baconand mayonnaise and pickles!My mom likes to tease that I devoured the whole thing in onegulp, leaving the two of them only a couple of crumbs. I'd like tothink I gave them more than that.The other thing that was great about that space center was thefree air conditioning. We were living in our car that summer, whichsounds like a lot of fun but actually wasn't, because our car's ACwas busted. So after the burger, my dad parked himself in front of  the vent and stayed there the entire rest of the time. It was like hewas trying to turn his fingers into Popsicles.

My mom and I bounced from exhibit to exhibit instead. I couldbarely keep up with her. She was an engineer back in China, so sheloves math and rockets. She oohed and aahed over this module andthat module. I wished my cousin Shen could have been there. Heloves rockets too.

When we got to the photo booth, my mother's face lit up. Thebooth took a picture of you and made it look like you were a realastronaut in space. I went first. I put my head where the cardboardcutout was and smiled when the guy said, "Cheese." When it wasmy mom's turn to take her photo, I thought it would be funny tojump into her shot. The result was a picture of her in an astronautsuit, hovering over Earth, and me standing right next to her in myflip-flops, doing bunny ears with my fingers.

My mother's face crumpled when she saw her picture. Shepleaded with the guy to let her take another one, but he said, "Nocan do. One picture per person." For a second, I thought she wasgoing to cry.

We still have the picture. Every time I look at it, I wish I could goback in time. If I could do it all over again, I would not photobombmy mom's picture. And I'd give her more of my burger. Not thewhole thing but definitely some more bites.

At the end of that summer, my dad got a job as an assistant fryer ata Chinese restaurant in California. That meant we didn't have tolive in our car anymore and we could move into a small one bedroom apartment. It also meant my dad brought home fried rice . 3 .from work every day. But sometimes, he'd also bring back big ol'blisters all up and down his arm. He said they were just allergies.But I didn't think so. I think he got them from frying food all daylong in the sizzling wok.

My mom got a job in the front of the restaurant as a waitress.Everybody liked her, and she got great tips. She even managed toconvince the boss to let me go with her to the restaurant afterschool, since there was nobody to look after me.

My mother's boss was a wrinkly white-haired Chinese man whoreeked of garlic and didn't believe in wasting anything—not cooking oil, not toilet paper, and certainly not free labor."You think you can handle waitressing, kid?" he asked me."Yes, sir!" I said. Excitement pulsated in my ear. My first job! Iwas determined not to let him down.There was just one problem—I was only nine then and neededtwo hands just to hold one dish steady. The other waitresses managed five plates at a time. Some didn't even need hands—theycould balance a plate on their shoulder.

When the dinner rush came, I too loaded up my carrying tray withfive dishes. Big mistake. As my small back gave in to the mountainousweight, all my dishes came crashing down. Hot soup splashed ontocustomers, and fried prawns went flying across the restaurant.I was fired on the spot and so was my mother. No amount ofbegging or promising to do the dishes for the next gazillion yearswould change the owner's mind. The whole way home, I foughttears in my eyes.I thought of my three cousins back home. None of them had evergotten fired before. Like me, they were only children as well.

In  China, every child is an only child, ever since the governmentdecided all families are allowed only one. Since none of us hadsiblings, we were our siblings. Leaving them was the hardest partabout leaving China.

I didn't want my mom to see me cry in the car, but eventuallythat night, she heard me. She came into my room and sat on mybed. "Hey, it's okay," she said in Chinese, hugging me tight. "It'snot your fault."She wiped a tear from my cheek. Through the thin walls, Icould hear the sounds of husbands and wives bickering and babieswailing from the neighboring apartments, each one as crampedas ours.

"Mom," I asked her, "why did we come here? Why did we cometo America?" I repeated.My mother looked away and didn't say anything for a longtime. A plane flew overhead, and the picture frames on the wallshook.

She looked in my eyes."Because it's freer here," she finally said, which didn't makeany sense. Nothing was free in America. Everything was soexpensive."But, Mom—""One day, you'll understand," she said, kissing the top of myhead. "Now go to sleep."I drifted to sleep, thinking about my cousins and missing themand hoping they were missing me back.

After my mother got fired from the restaurant, she got very seriousabout job hunting. She called it getting back on her horse. It was  1993 and she bought every Chinese newspaper she could find.She pored over the jobs section with a magnifying glass like a scientist. That's when she came across an unusual listing.

A man named Michael Yao had put an ad out in the Chinesenewspaper looking for an experienced motel manager. The ad saidthat he owned a little motel in Anaheim, California, and he waslooking for someone to run the place. The job came with free boarding too! My mother jumped up and grabbed the phone—our rentthen cost almost all my dad's salary. (And who said things in America were free?)

To her surprise, Mr. Yao was equally enthusiastic. He didn'tseem to mind that my parents weren't experienced and really likedthe fact that they were a couple."Two people for the price of one," he joked in his thickTaiwanese-accented Mandarin when we went over to his housethe next day.

My parents smiled nervously while I tried to stay as still as Icould and not screw it up for them, like I'd screwed up my mother'srestaurant job. We were sitting in the living room of Mr. Yao'shouse, or rather, his mansion. I made myself look at the floor andnot stare at the top of Mr. Yao's head, which was all shiny under thelight, like it had been painted in egg white.

The door opened, and a boy about my age walked in. He had ona T-shirt that said I don't give a, and underneath it, a picture of a ratand a donkey. I raised an eyebrow."Jason," Mr. Yao said to the boy. "Say hello.""Hi," Jason muttered.My parents smiled at Jason."What grade are you in?" they asked him in Chinese.

Jason replied in English, "I'm going into fifth grade.""Ah, same as Mia," my mom said. She smiled at Mr. Yao. "Yourson's English is so good." She turned to me. "Hear that, Mia? Noaccent."

My cheeks burned. I felt my tongue in my mouth, like a limplizard."Of course he speaks good English. He was born here," Mr. Yaosaid. "He speaks native English."Native. I mouthed the word. I wondered if I worked really hard,would I also be able to speak native English one day? Or was thatsomething completely off-limits for me? I looked over at my mom,who was shaking her head. Jason disappeared off to his room, andMr. Yao asked my parents if they had any questions.

"Just to make sure, we can live at the motel for free?" my momasked."Yes," Mr. Yao said."And . . . what about . . ." My mom struggled to get the wordsout. She shook her head, embarrassed to say it. "Will we get paid?""Oh, right, payment," Mr. Yao said, like it hadn't dawned onhim at all. "How's five dollars a customer?"I glanced at my mom. I could tell that she was doing math in herhead because she always got this dreamy smile on her face."Thirty rooms at five dollars a room—that's a hundred and fiftydollars a night," my mom said, her eyes widening. She looked at mydad. "That's a lot of money!"It was a humongous amount of money. We could buy hamburgers every day, one for each of us—we wouldn't even need to share!"When can you start?" Mr. Yao asked.

"Tomorrow," my mom and dad blurted out at the exact sametime.Mr. Yao laughed.As my parents got up to shake his hands, Mr. Yao muttered,"I have to warn you. It's not the nicest motel in the world."My parents nodded. I could tell it made no difference to themwhat the motel looked like. It could look like the inside of aGreyhound bus toilet for all we cared; at $150 a day plus free rent,we were in.

AUTHOR : AEEDA ARAFATH

Chapter 2 is coming