shakes her head. âCome back tomorrow.â
âI didnât check my email,â I say. âCanât I have a few more minutes? Not all the computers are being used.â
âSorry, rules are rules.â
A young Asian woman standing next to me gives me a sideways look and moves away to make it clear that sheâs not with me. I curse her silently. I donât want to be connected to her, either. That jacket of hers is the ugliest shade of orange ever invented.
On the lower level of the library, I scan the Beijing newspapers. Not only are they several days late, but the large sheets are hard to turn.
More bad news. Residents fail to stop another hutong from being bulldozed for skyscrapers. Two tax collectors are sent to prison for ten years. The police carry out an undercover raid at the train station and fine 120 unlicensed taxi drivers.
China is a tough place. Young people spend their first eighteen years doing nothing but studying for college entrance exams. The pressure is so great that some failed students kill themselves each year. Worse, itâs not enough to work hard and get good marks. You need connections to get ahead, to get your foot in the door of the right place.
We all know below-average students will get into good schools with family help. Thatâs why Niang wanted to immigrate. She wanted to give Jian and me a better chance at success. But itâs not easy to walk away from the world that youâve known all your life and forget all your friends.
While leaving the library, I pass a fire alarm. Nobody is nearby so I give it a quick yank. Bells start pounding right away, and a big voice tells everyone to take the stairs and go outside.
I laugh to myself. I feel like I did a back flip from the rings and landed perfectly with both feet together!
Late in the afternoon, I stand in a bus shelter and watch a crowd of people across the street. Theyâre waiting for the doors to open at the church shelter where I stayed two nights ago.
I donât want anyone to see me. I donât want anyone to think that Chinese immigrants are failures. But if I stand out here too long, the kitchen might run out of food.
When the line shuffles forward, I run over. I pull the hood of my jacket over my head and turn away from the road. Believe it or not, by the door stands a grizzled old man rattling a few coins in a tin can and asking for spare change. To my surprise, people dig into their pockets and give him money!
Inside, the kitchen is serving pizza, which makes the hall smell like our school cafeteria. The cooks are bustling around, dressed in white like real chefs. Maybe they are real chefs. Maybe someone is shooting a reality TV show here. High-school kids are back again, aprons over their jeans and T-shirts. Theyâre beaming and smiling, glad to be helpful, glad to be on the other side of the counter.
My mouth is watering. Just as I get close to the food, I see familiar faces.
Jian and Carla. I turn and rush out.
Then I stop. Maybe this is a chance for me to go home. Iâll let Jian drag me back and shout, âLook who I found on the street, begging for food!â
Iâm broke. Iâm hungry. Without that social insurance card I canât get a job. I need my cell and laptop.
I stare back at the door. But I donât move. If I go home now, Ba will have won.
Later that night, I find myself back on Boy Street. I hope the rain has stopped for good. Even at our restaurant, wet days drag down the business.
The money boys are ready to go. Mr. All Muscles never stands still. His legs bounce up and down as if heâs running on the spot. His cycling pants and bike jersey stretch around every curve in his body. Baby-face wears a number 28 hockey jersey and sits atop a newspaper box, tapping at the metal edge between his legs like itâs a drum. His head jerks back and forth even though heâs not wearing earphones. Maybe he is. The tall skinny fellow with a
âI didnât check my email,â I say. âCanât I have a few more minutes? Not all the computers are being used.â
âSorry, rules are rules.â
A young Asian woman standing next to me gives me a sideways look and moves away to make it clear that sheâs not with me. I curse her silently. I donât want to be connected to her, either. That jacket of hers is the ugliest shade of orange ever invented.
On the lower level of the library, I scan the Beijing newspapers. Not only are they several days late, but the large sheets are hard to turn.
More bad news. Residents fail to stop another hutong from being bulldozed for skyscrapers. Two tax collectors are sent to prison for ten years. The police carry out an undercover raid at the train station and fine 120 unlicensed taxi drivers.
China is a tough place. Young people spend their first eighteen years doing nothing but studying for college entrance exams. The pressure is so great that some failed students kill themselves each year. Worse, itâs not enough to work hard and get good marks. You need connections to get ahead, to get your foot in the door of the right place.
We all know below-average students will get into good schools with family help. Thatâs why Niang wanted to immigrate. She wanted to give Jian and me a better chance at success. But itâs not easy to walk away from the world that youâve known all your life and forget all your friends.
While leaving the library, I pass a fire alarm. Nobody is nearby so I give it a quick yank. Bells start pounding right away, and a big voice tells everyone to take the stairs and go outside.
I laugh to myself. I feel like I did a back flip from the rings and landed perfectly with both feet together!
Late in the afternoon, I stand in a bus shelter and watch a crowd of people across the street. Theyâre waiting for the doors to open at the church shelter where I stayed two nights ago.
I donât want anyone to see me. I donât want anyone to think that Chinese immigrants are failures. But if I stand out here too long, the kitchen might run out of food.
When the line shuffles forward, I run over. I pull the hood of my jacket over my head and turn away from the road. Believe it or not, by the door stands a grizzled old man rattling a few coins in a tin can and asking for spare change. To my surprise, people dig into their pockets and give him money!
Inside, the kitchen is serving pizza, which makes the hall smell like our school cafeteria. The cooks are bustling around, dressed in white like real chefs. Maybe they are real chefs. Maybe someone is shooting a reality TV show here. High-school kids are back again, aprons over their jeans and T-shirts. Theyâre beaming and smiling, glad to be helpful, glad to be on the other side of the counter.
My mouth is watering. Just as I get close to the food, I see familiar faces.
Jian and Carla. I turn and rush out.
Then I stop. Maybe this is a chance for me to go home. Iâll let Jian drag me back and shout, âLook who I found on the street, begging for food!â
Iâm broke. Iâm hungry. Without that social insurance card I canât get a job. I need my cell and laptop.
I stare back at the door. But I donât move. If I go home now, Ba will have won.
Later that night, I find myself back on Boy Street. I hope the rain has stopped for good. Even at our restaurant, wet days drag down the business.
The money boys are ready to go. Mr. All Muscles never stands still. His legs bounce up and down as if heâs running on the spot. His cycling pants and bike jersey stretch around every curve in his body. Baby-face wears a number 28 hockey jersey and sits atop a newspaper box, tapping at the metal edge between his legs like itâs a drum. His head jerks back and forth even though heâs not wearing earphones. Maybe he is. The tall skinny fellow with a
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