Outrun the Moon(13)

I fill my lungs, then say in a rush, “In return, you will persuade your board to let me attend St. Clare’s at full scholarship until I graduate.” Before the words full scholarship have time to sink in, I add, “I have top grades, a good work ethic, and an agreeable disposition.” I smile broadly so there can be no question. “You won’t regret it.”

He gives me a hard look, then shakes his head. “The parents won’t like it. They’d pull students out.”

“We could appeal to their charitable natures,” I venture. The rich pride themselves on this quality. “The plaque above the front door mentions that education should be ‘a democracy of opportunity.’ Surely allowing one poor girl the opportunity to better her station is distinctly American. How can anyone argue with that?”

He scowls, though it does not have the weight of true displeasure, more inconvenience.

“Oh, they can argue, believe me.”

I put on a pensive appearance, though secretly, I am overjoyed that he did not react to my use of the word we. The more I can get him to think of us as coconspirators, the better my chance of success.

But no sooner do I think this than he begins to shake his head again. “I’m sorry. We are the oldest and most exclusive institution west of the Mississippi. Even if I could get all the parents to agree, asking them to foot a five-hundred-dollar-a-year bill of tuition and board is out of the question. We are not a charity. And if you choose to pursue the matter in court, I wish you the best of luck. Nasty business, court. And often decided by who has the deepest pockets.” His eyes fall to my own shallow ones, as if to underscore his point.

To my dismay, he rises. I stand as well, though it can’t be over yet. As he dusts off his hands, I picture my dreams being swept away. I think about Ma, content to sift through her beans, living in the future instead of the present; Jack, with his hand out for more punishment; and Ba, who walks with a permanent bend to his back.

It’s just too much. I can’t give up now.

“But surely . . .” My mind whirs frantically for a solution. I aimed high, expecting him to haggle, but he won’t even nibble. “Perhaps a concession is possible.” Think, Brain, think.

“Now, if you would be so kind as to pass along the instructions for my wife’s herb. Or not. It makes no difference to me.”

“Perhaps I was hasty in suggesting three years.” I can’t keep the desperation from my voice. This isn’t going right at all. I was too smug, too sure of myself.

He stops.

“A year—” I venture.

“Three months—”

“Three months?”

“During which time you will not only get us a hearing with this Benevolent Association, but also secure the right to sell in the neighborhood of Chinatown. If you do not, your tenure at the school will be terminated.”

“Impossible,” I sputter. “I am not a negotiator.”

“You underestimate yourself.” He crosses his arms, putting his buttons in jeopardy once again. “Come now, decide. I am a busy man. You’d get three months of the finest education San Francisco has to offer, meals prepared by cooks brought from France, even servants to help you with the washing. What more could you want?”

“I-I—” I stammer. “What happens if this venture is a success?”

“We will allow you to stay on until you graduate, not to exceed three years.”

I frown at the logic. Three months was at least a shot. With a little luck, maybe it will lead to three years. Did I really expect that I could waltz in and ask the dragon to share his pile of gold?

I try to visualize myself before the six members of the Benevolent Association, all of them seasoned businessmen. What do I know of negotiations except for what I read in a book?

He lifts his hat from the door hook. The fish is swimming away.

“I’ll do it,” I hear myself say.

The puffs under his eyes flatten when he smiles. “We will pretend you are a wealthy heiress from China, come for a taste of American education. Brush up on your manners, as even the staff will need to be convinced.” He holds out his hand. “Welcome to St. Clare’s.”

I grasp it, catching the gleam in his eye as I do, like a man setting down aces.

I have been outwitted at my own game. I just volunteered to secure him a potential windfall, and for nothing but three lousy months of school under false pretenses. How did I think I could best a business tycoon? He could smell my desperation as strong as that pomelo. I am a mewling idiot.

Well, at least now I am a mewling idiot who attends St. Clare’s.





5



THE LINE OF CUSTOMERS AT BA’S WINDOW stretches into the street. Four o’clock is rush hour at the laundry. My nose twitches. The scent of alum and too-flowery soap coat the air like a thick layer of dust.

Ba ticks off items as Mrs. Fitzcombe passes him her clothes, one at a time. Though Ba’s temperament is usually aloof bordering on crabby, he is always patient with the elderly. With a flick of his wrist, Ba shakes out each piece, wasting no movement.

His eyes flit to mine, then he resumes his work without a word.

The shop is only big enough for two people, and his assistant is already inside. But I can’t just stand around while I wait.

The moment I enter the shop, the humidity sticks my funeral dress to my legs, and my hair begins to clump. The hanging shirts and dresses greet me like a host of disapproving elders, silent and judgmental. Ba’s assistant nods at me from where he’s stirring the boilers, put into a depressive trance by the repetitive motion. We might be in one of the many levels of Chinese hell, the one in which sinners are steamed to death in a toxic cloud of soapy perfume.