Free Fresh Off the Boat by Melissa de La Cruz

my parents asked about school, I told them about my teachers. The sad thing about my life was that I’ve realized the only reason school is in any way tolerable is because of myteachers. Unlike my classmates, who avoid me—except for Isobel, who isn’t too popular herself—all the teachers like me. But then, what’s not to like? I’m practically the cliché of the perfect student—quiet, diligent, respectful. They all marvel over my “beautiful” handwriting. In Manila, each convent school teaches its students a signature style of calligraphy. “This is a work of art,” Mrs. Malloney, our art history teacher said, when I first handed in a written test. I was proud of it until I saw Whitney’s blotted notebook. Everything was written in scrawled chicken-scratch-like block letters, like a five-year-old’s.
    “Another A? That’s great. Congratulations!” Mom said, beaming at me.
    “Um, Mom? Do you think I could get that new jacket we saw at the mall the other day?” I asked, pleading silently with my eyes, even though I knew the answer already. But the weather was starting to get really cold, and I was desperate to lose the 49ers jacket.
    “What jacket?” Dad asked.
    “It’s nothing.” I shrugged. “Just a black jacket.” A plain black wool jacket that would render me invisible, that is, one that would make me look like everyone else at school, at least on the outside. I was so tired of wearing the puffy football jacket inside out.
    “What’s wrong with that violet trench coat we had made?” Mom asked. “You never wear it anymore.”
    “How much is this new coat?” Dad said.
    I hated this part. “Not too bad. Not more than a hundred dollars. It’s, like, seventy-five.”
    Dad looked down at his plate. Mom said nothing.
    “Please? Please?”
    “ Iha , you know we would love to be able to say yes, but there’s just no money for things like that anymore.” Mom sighed.
    “Maybe next year?” Dad asked, smiling hopefully.
    “Okay,” I mumbled. I shouldn’t even have tried. “I never get anything anymore,” I muttered to myself.
    Brittany shot me a sympathetic look from across the table. She was only five years old, but she already knew the deal.
    After the air cleared a little from the heaviness of my disappointment, Mom and Dad talked about how the cafeteria was doing. Mom told us about how the old biddies in Housewares had begun to order the more expensive daily specials instead of their usual tuna salad half sandwiches, and Dad regaled us with funny stories about the Indian guys next door to his office who owned a limousine business and chauffeured visiting celebrities around town, like the Rock, Carmen Electra, and Carrot Top.
    Mom and Dad both worried about our other relatives who were also immigrating. One of my uncles, a cardiologist in Manila, was planning to scheme for an American green card by posing as a migrant farmworker, since a recent U.S. governmentact had granted field-workers full asylum. Another cousin had a Canadian resident visa but lived and worked illegally in Detroit as a mechanic since his job wasn’t part of NAFTA.
    Hearing them talk like this, it always seemed to me that everyone in Manila was desperate to leave. Some of our relatives were even moving to Australia, since it had an easier immigration process than the States. Canada was also a popular destination because once you were approved, you were eligible for citizenship in three short years. But my parents were optimists, dreamers, idealists. They wanted the big one—the jackpot: America. They didn’t want to settle for anything less. My cousins in Toronto swore up and down that their adopted land was tops. “We have digital cable, Starbucks, and the original Club Monaco. Michael J. Fox, Peter Jennings, and Mike Myers are all Canadian. Canada—it’s just as good !” But we didn’t believe them.
    At the end of the meal, while Mom served fried bananas with sugar and poured coffee, Dad opened up