My mother and father emigrated from Taiwan shortly before I was born and mismanaged one business after another, becoming increasingly indebted. But every time I tried to dye my hair to become the kind of blonde on the white girls I envied, it turned orange. Over and over, my parents would tell us, “Fit in with the white kids.” They were afraid we wouldn’t make it in this new world. I envied the Prada bags and Gucci purses on the shoulders of Persian girls who happily climbed into Range Rovers when the school day was over while I stood at the corner, waiting for the bus. I sat alone in front of my new locker, watching streams of teens smiling through the hallways of Beverly with its oil rig on its property. “Who you do you think you are?!” they demanded. They would not stop trying to get me to navigate their assimilation into America, or angrily resented me for doing so. I wanted to do anything that would save me from the depression I was falling into, because my parents would not stop arguing with each other and then taking it out on me. high school in our neighborhood where shooting scares were reported in the local news every few months. I wanted to be with the friends I had made since elementary school. “Beverly Hills High wants to increase their minority quota and would love to have more Chinese American students as part of their student body,” he continued, “even though you all don’t live in the district.” I looked down at the official high school application in my hand, then to my friends Terence, Victor, and Helene standing beside me. Greene said with a broad smile on his pale round and pinkish face. “I’m excited to tell you that you can go to Beverly Hills High School!” Mr.
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