Three Keys: Chapters 1–14

Ever since we took over the motel, he’d been working almost exclusively at the Calivista, which meant I’d gotten to hang out with Lupe all summer long.

My mom rushed out from the manager’s quarters with a large cooler full of ice, with my dad trailing after her.

“They’re scapegoating the immigrants for California’s problems.”

“What-goating?” I asked. I pictured a billy goat in the middle of the pool, bleating and splashing toward us.

But it was 102 degrees outside, and I could feel the car’s air conditioning beckoning me from the sidewalk.

I had been practicing what to say when I saw him again, a casual but impressive story complete with sales figures: We managed to double our occupancy rates, the number of repeat customers went up by 50 percent, and we helped twenty-five immigrants, providing them free rooms and meals to help them get on their feet.

I waited for the itinerary of no fewer than three continents, but Jason shook his head and said, “Nah.”

The walls of Dale Elementary School were adorned with hand-drawn blue-and-gold WELCOME BACK posters.

Mrs. Welch wrote GUBERNATORIAL on the board, but still we couldn’t pronounce it. She finally had to ditch it and go with the word governor instead.

Sure, Jason was a world-class buffoon last year, but you can’t hold something against someone forever, can you?

I could tell he was disappointed I had forgotten yet another remnant of the old country.

When I looked up, the adults were back with their third plates and talking about Proposition 187, the law that Governor Wilson wanted to pass. That’s what all the ads were for. If it passed, Prop 187 would kick undocumented children out of California schools, making it illegal for them to get an education or use public services like hospitals.

“Can you see me frolicking around the Bahamas?”

She had a small Wilson for Governor button on the lapel of her blazer, and she was petting it fondly, like it was a furry cat.

Hank had a forlorn look on his face. “Yeah, but they didn’t want to sell it to me. They said it wasn’t just about the initial payment. It’s about my ability to pay long term.”

Softly, my dad told me about a guy he’d met the other day who worked as a window washer and nearly died when their scaffolding collapsed.

I figured shaved ice was another Chinese concoction, one I’d hopefully remember when I tasted it.

“This shirt has a lipstick stain on it.”
“Pity, because it’s so nice,” her friend lamented.

The three Chinese ladies turned to my mom and gawked.

My head bounced from tai tai to tai tai, not sure which of their statements I should refute first.

Hank was waiting for us at the store entrance when we walked out, wearing a brand-new outfit: a crisp white button-down shirt, fitted tan blazer, and smart gray slacks.

We all watched as my dad touched the satin, his coarse hands moving like needles against the soft fabric.

My dad looked taken aback. “Why not?” he asked.

Once in the kitchen, Jason transformed before my very eyes into a whole other person, a culinary wonder! I watched as he bounced from pot to pan, smelling this herb and sprinkling that spice, his hands chopping, stirring, dicing, and peeling on the marble countertop.

By the time she came around the counter, Jason had already masterfully lifted and emptied the pot into the colander in the sink.

“Mrs. Welch isn’t exactly a fan,” I admitted sheepishly.

Mr. Yao stabbed at the sauteed vegetables with his fork, then pointed it at Jason.

I glared at Mr. Yao, feeling my composure unknot.

“You’re a mere servant masquerading as a boss!”

I smiled, thinking that sounded like a marvelous job, kneading the dough, throwing it in the air.

“Wait till you see it! They have everything in Monterey Park,” Dad gushed as he drove, practically giddy.

They were semisweet chocolate chips for baking—and not the generic kind, the Hershey’s ones!

“Race might be a social construct, but racism’s as real as the clouds,” he said, pointing at the sky. “You can see it, and you can feel it when it pours.”

We were talking about stylized art.

“Are you guys worried about Prop 187?” I asked them gingerly.