Front Desk (Front Desk #1) (Scholastic Gold)

by Kelly Yang

“Everything that happens in this motel is your responsibility, you understand?” he asked. “Something breaks, you have to pay for it.” My parents nodded.

Uh oh. This doesn't seem likely to work out well.

Plus, I liked English. I liked how you could say “a train of thought” or “a blanket of snow,” which you couldn’t in Chinese.

The next time a customer came in and asked to see the manager, I pointed to the sign. And I stared really hard at him. In science class at my last school, I learned that if you want a mammal to do something, you should stare at it. That’s because mammals are social creatures and we’re really into hierarchy.

As I walked, I gave the butterflies in my stomach their usual pep talk—It’s going to be okay. I’ll make friends, and if I don’t, I’ll borrow books from the library.

Yay libraries!

“How much do you owe them?” “Five thousand dollars,” Uncle Ming said. His voice cracked as he said the number. My dad said a swear word in Chinese. “What do I do, buddy? They’re going to kill me if I don’t pay up …” Uncle Ming cried.

Okay, this isn't a kid's book.

“Why can’t we just tell him he has to get us some cameras? Or else?” I asked my parents. “Because he knows there’s no ‘or else,’ ” my dad said softly.

Someone needs to tell them about contract law, and employee protection.

“Being rich doesn’t mean you’re generous. I’ve gone with my dad to some of the nicest homes in LA. You should see some of these rich people! They have so much money, but they’re so mean to us—” “Just because we’re poorer than them,” I finished the sentence. Lupe looked at the floor. “And because we’re brown,” she said quietly.

I flipped on the TV. A rerun of The Simpsons was playing. I stared at Marge Simpson, with her big hair and easygoing smile. Marge, to me, was like the perfect American mom.

Lol. The Simpsons are indeed the epitome of one interpretation of 'Murica.

“I like trees,” she said, shading in the bark.

By the time we went back and started calculating 2/24 × $30, Jason’s group already blurted out the correct answer—$2.50. We had lost the math challenge.

The math teacher who wrote that question should be fired. Well, at least re-eduacted.

“There’s only one thing to do,” Mrs. Douglas said. “Break the pencil in half.” I gasped. How could she suggest such a thing? But before I could say anything, Jason shouted, “No! Don’t break the pencil in half! Let her have it.” Mrs. Douglas smiled. “Now we know who the true owner of the pencil is,” she said. I held out a trembling hand. “Jason,” she decided.

Ha! Solomon's wisdom, subverted!