Wing Jones(80)

Marcus looks at me and smiles. “Yeah, I think I’m OK.”

I smile back at him, really smile, and stand. “I’ll let you guys talk.” As I pass Monica in the doorway, I squeeze her hand.

I close the door behind me as gently as I can and go into the kitchen to help my mom set the table.





CHAPTER 56


It’s hard, having Marcus back home. Harder than I thought it would be. I guess I couldn’t think past him waking up, him coming home; that was the important thing. I thought everything else would just figure itself out.

And having him home is a million million million times better than the alternative. No matter how hard it is, it’s worth it, and I’m so grateful. Grateful in a way that makes my skin tingle and my heart full; I’ve never been so grateful for anything…

I’d be even more grateful if he weren’t so sullen and sorry for himself all the time and if we didn’t have the heavy, heavy cloud of debt hanging over our house, getting bigger and fatter and closer every day. Next month we’ll lose the house, unless I win the Riveo Race. Just because Marcus is home doesn’t mean the bills stop. He’s got physical therapists and he’s got psychiatrists, and he needs that, I know he does, and now that he’s out his lawyer has been coming by, and who knows how much every minute of his time is costing. Marcus doesn’t even want a lawyer, keeps saying that he knows what he did was wrong and he’s guilty and he’ll do whatever the judge says. The lawyer says that Marcus’ll change his tune when he gets to jail and he’ll wish the lawyer had pushed harder for a lighter sentence and Marcus’ll close his eyes and say if he was making wishes what he’d be wishing for is that he never got behind the wheel of his car that night.

We all wish that.

The parents of the woman Marcus killed, Sophie Bell’s mom and dad, they came by too. The mom, she was angry, I could tell, she could barely look at Marcus, and I don’t blame her. I wouldn’t have blamed her if she’d smacked him. And the dad, the dad looked sadder than anyone I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen more than my fair share of sadness. He kept his hand on his wife’s shoulder and spoke in a low voice. He told us that it was important for them to forgive so they could move on. When he said that, his wife’s face got so tight, like a clenched fist. “We forgive you,” she said, her voice creaky and cracked, “but you ruined our lives. Don’t ever forget it.” Then she got out a photo from her handbag, one that had been folded and creased, and handed it to him. “This was our daughter. This is her son. You took away his mother. You took away our daughter.”

Marcus held the photo with trembling hands and stared at it, really stared at it, for a long time. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“We know,” said the father.

After they left Marcus locked himself in his room and cried so loud we could hear him in every corner of the house.

I ran from his tears; I couldn’t stand to hear him. I ran out of the house and down the street and I ran and ran and ran and for the first time in a long time I didn’t check my times. I didn’t care.

But I can’t afford not to care. The race is next week. Riveo somehow managed to get it set up so the race will be in the Olympic stadium. I’ll be running in an Olympic stadium. Just that thought alone should be enough to get me pumped up, but all it does is remind me what a big deal this is, how much is riding on this race.

I’m so close.





CHAPTER 57


LaoLao is swearing up a storm in the kitchen. English swearwords, Mandarin swearwords, I even think I hear a French curse or two.

“LaoLao! What’s wrong?” I’ve just gotten home from practice, one of the last practices before the big race on Saturday, and am dripping with sweat and don’t really want to be in our stifling kitchen, but she seems upset. Really upset. “Where’s Marcus?”

She ignores me and carries on swearing. And chopping.

“I make a mistake! One little mistake. One mistake and Mister Head Chef shout at me. At me! My daughter is his boss and he shouting at me.” She clucks in disgust. “He say I am too slow, that I take too long. I show him. I can cut chicken faster than anyone!”

I smile, but her words sit uncomfortably in my brain. Faster than anyone. It’s all I’ve been able to think about for weeks, and it sounds funny coming out of LaoLao’s mouth.

She’s got a whole chicken on the counter in front of her and she’s hacking at it with a cleaver and rubbery bits of raw chicken are flying everywhere.

“Careful,” I say, because it doesn’t look like she’s paying attention and I know that cleaver is the sharpest knife in the kitchen.

“I work every night! I never take breaks! I make noodles, I make chicken, I make dumplings, I never ask for rest! And then, today, today I forget to put chicken in da pan ji…”

“You forgot to put the chicken in the Big Plate Chicken dish?” Da pan ji, or Big Plate Chicken, is one of my favorite dishes LaoLao makes. A huge bowl of spicy stew with chopped chicken, on the bone, always on the bone, chunks of potatoes, and fresh noodles. I don’t know how she could forget to put in the key ingredient.

The cleaver comes down on the counter with a thwack and I step away to avoid getting splattered with chicken bits.