She's So Money Read online

  For my family

  content

  cover image

  chapter one

  chapter two

  chapter three

  chapter four

  chapter five

  chapter six

  chapter seven

  chapter eight

  chapter nine

  chapter ten

  chapter eleven

  chapter twelve

  chapter thirteen

  chapter fourteen

  chapter fifteen

  chapter sixteen

  chapter seventeen

  chapter eighteen

  chapter nineteen

  chapter twenty

  acknowledgments

  about the author

  credits page

  copyright

  about the publisher

  chapter one

  “Maya! What are you doing?” my mom yelled in Thai from her usual spot up front by the cash register. “Table Five needs water! Clear Table Eight and ask if they want dessert! Your ponytail is falling out! I need the bill for Table Six!” She paused, then beckoned me over to her as she lowered her voice to a whisper. “Look at Table Fourteen. The man keeps wiping his fingers on his sock.” I glanced toward one of the tables in the back corner, giggled briefly with my mom at the sight of one of our customers picking apart a chicken wing and then reaching for his ankle instead of his napkin, and then steeled myself to ask her if I could leave work at eight. Half of the kids in my Advanced Placement History class were at a study group session that my best friend, Sarah, was having at her house, and, like any self respecting seventeen-year-old waitress whose first priority was school, I was desperate to get there for at least part of it.

  “Mom?” I asked. She looked up from her accounting book, her ballpoint pen hovering as it paused halfway through scrawling a row of numbers. “Do you think it would be okay if—”

  I didn’t get to finish, because the phone rang and she turned to pick it up—“Good evening, Pailin Thai Cuisine”— just as a customer started frantically waving at me from across the room. The guy was sitting in my younger brother’s section, but Nat had either gone to the kitchen or disappeared into thin air, so I went over and looked at the guy’s glass. There were a few dregs of Thai iced coffee still left in it.

  “Can I get a refill?” the guy asked.

  Nope, I thought to myself. The last time my parents caught me giving free refills on specialty drinks, they yelled at me for half an hour about how I might as well give away entrées, silverware, our Pad Thai recipe, and my virginity.

  Of course, I wasn’t going to tell the guy that, so instead I smiled cheerfully and fed him the usual line. “I’m sorry, we don’t do refills on iced coffee, but if you’d like to order another—”

  “Oh, come on,” he interrupted, staring up at me expectantly. “Be a pal.”

  On a day when I was in a good mood, an extremely cute boy might have had a fighting chance. But this guy was old, with a forehead that was more of a fivehead. Maybe even a sixhead, considering his receding hairline. I summoned up a soothing voice and said as nicely as I could, “I’m sorry. But if you want to order another—”

  “Forget it,” he snapped. “Two fifty is overpriced anyway.” He glared at me, then looked back down and dug into his half eaten curried catfish as his wife gave me an embarrassed smile. I smiled back with an expression that I hoped said, “I understand,” and not, “Your husband’s a douche,” then retreated to my own section by the front window. For a moment I stared blankly out through the gauzy white curtains into the darkness, where the late February snow was having trouble deciding whether to melt or refreeze. There were still some long overdue to be taken down Christmas lights hanging on the little sidewalk tree in front of the crafts shop across the street, and I watched as a college professor type walked a small dog past our window, weaving in between some cars before disappearing around the corner. I spent a minute wishing I were outside; the restaurant gets so warm when it’s crowded, and the chilly night air would have felt good on my face . . . until I remembered that I was still at work, and I snapped back to attention. A cute young couple with a baby was just finishing up at Table Two, and the mom was now beckoning me over.

  Oooh, a chance to score a big tip—parents love it when you play with their kids. It wouldn’t technically help my wallet, since everything Nat and I make goes straight into our college funds (also known as the Get as Far Away as Possible from Michigan fund, in my case). But a full tip jar might put my mom in a generous mood.

  “Aren’t you a cutie!” I cooed at the baby, gently tickling her round, pink clad stomach and admiring her wispy blond curls. She laughed delightedly and clapped her hands. Then she vomited on the table.

  You never saw a family leave a restaurant so fast.

  Ten minutes later, the ickier than usual table cleanup finished and my hands stinging from a vigorous wash and rewash, I was just about ready to take another stab at asking my mom if I could leave early—maybe this time her gung ho attitude about me getting good grades would trump her dinner rush business instinct. I ducked my head through the swinging kitchen door to say hi to my dad, who could barely hear me over the sizzling seafood dish that he and our assistant chef, Krai, were making, not to mention that he could barely see me through his glasses, which were steamed up from the stove. Nonetheless, he waved cheerfully from underneath his ragged University of Michigan baseball cap, the wooden spoon in his battle scarred cook’s hand spattering a smidge of grease into the air from the motion.

  Back in the dining room, my mom was on the phone, taking what sounded like a rather lengthy order. No problem. I could wait it out. She hung up the phone. It rang again Argh.

  “Hey,” I said, poking Nat in the back as he returned from making the water rounds to our station behind the bar counter. “Quiz me on my history?” We could see the whole dining room from where we were standing, so as long as we kept an eye out while I was studying, we weren’t technically slacking off.

  “Eh,” he said. His hands were wet from the water pitcher, so he dried them off on a stray napkin, then took off his glasses and lazily polished them on his shirt.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” I handed Nat a stack of index cards I’d stashed in my apron next to the spare chopsticks, and he rolled his eyes and picked up the top one, putting his glasses back on to read it.

  “Okay . . . Name three members of the committee that drafted the original Declaration of Independence.” Nat lowered the card and looked at me disdainfully. “Dude, I thought you took A.P. History, not retard history.”

  “Fewer lame jokes, more helping your sister,” I snapped. “Okay. Thomas Jefferson, obviously. Ben Franklin. John Ad—” The phone rang, and kept ringing; my mom had left her station to seat a party of six who’d just come in. I ran to answer the call and Nat took off as well, probably to scout the kitchen for mistaken, sent back orders he could eat. “Hello, Pailin Thai Cuisine,” I said into the phone.

  “Maya?” said Sarah’s voice. I could hear a bunch of people in the background at her house. “Where are you? We’re like, halfway done already.”

  “Oh my God,” I said, sighing. “Still at work. My mom won’t let me leave.” I fussed with the black cotton string of my apron.

  “Are you gonna make it? I have to kick people out in an hour.” Sarah’s gentle voice sounded apologetic, as if it were her fault that I was stuck at the restaurant.

  “I don’t know. . . . I kinda doubt it at this point. It’s pretty busy tonight. . . .” I looked around, hoping that maybe all of our customers had magically vanished. Nope.

  “Well, you can totally look at my notes tomorrow morning if you have time before—”

  “Great, thank you!” I pract
ically screamed, then continued rapid fire, “I owe you big time, but I have a call waiting. Gotta go!” The phone was beeping at me, and I hit the flash button. “Hello, Pailin Thai Cuisine . . . Sure, we do takeout, what would you like to—uh-huh. With tofu? Uh-huh . . .” I finished taking the order, eyeing my flash cards the whole time, then realized that Mom had seated those six people who’d just arrived in my section. Damn.

  I took their drink orders and picked up my flashcards again, but then the kitchen bell rang twice, signaling that one of my orders was up. By the time I finished carrying out the three bowls of red curry chicken and wondering why all three people at a table would order the same thing, it was time to get orders from the party of six, and by the time I finished that, a guy on the far side of the room was taking his last bite of crispy duck and pushing his plate away. Forget it studying at work was a lost cause. I headed over to clear the table.

  “Save any room for dessert today?” I smiled brilliantly—the way to a twenty five percent tip from a guy eating by himself is a no brainer. He looked up at me.

  “That depends. Are you on the menu?”

  I twirled the end of my long, black, messier than usual ponytail and mentally congratulated myself for deliberately shrinking my official Pailin uniform shirt—a simple dark blue three quarter sleeve tee with our logo on it—in the wash to make it tighter. “Not today,” I said with a smile, and handed him our illustrated dessert card. Now if only I had that much game when I was talking to boys at school. One time I’d tried to trick myself by pretending that I was waitressing, and I’d ended up asking Gavin, the hot foreign exchange student, how spicy he wanted his beef.

  Here at work, though, I was on fire. The guy ordered mango sticky rice and coconut ice cream, and ten minutes later he threw down a twenty on top of paying the bill, plus a business card with his phone number. I look every bit the jailbait I am—being five feet one inch tall never helps—so the thing with the business card was pretty squicky. The guy was somewhat hot, but at least thirty five. On the other hand, twenty bucks is twenty bucks.

  “Maya! Come here!”

  Except, I guess, when your mother’s been watching you earn it.

  I went over to the cash register, where my mom was glowering. “What did you just do?” She tucked her chin-length hair behind her ears, crossed her arms, and stared at me.

  “Uh . . . my job?” I tried to look innocent.

  “Your job is not to flirt for tips!”

  “I wasn’t—”

  “Yes, you were!” she insisted. “Remember what happened to—”

  “Yes, Mom,” I interrupted. “You’ve told me like, a zillion times.”

  “A zillion plus one!” she declared, launching into her favorite story about this family we know in Ohio. “Annie was a very good Thai girl until she started going out with an American boy. And she started to lie to her parents, and then, one day, her parents came home to find her”—she lowered her voice—“with her boyfriend, if you know what I mean.”

  “I know what you—”

  “And so they sent her to live with her aunt in Chiang Mai, where she was free from the corruption of America. She married a nice Thai man and lived a happy, simple life“.

  “Mom, that’s not even true,” I said. “They got divorced and she came back to America and became a travel agent. And you’re worrying for nothing, because between school and work, I have no time to date anyway.”

  “Exactly!” My mom slammed the reservations book shut and banged one of the cash register buttons with a flourish. “School and work, but no boys! You must go to a good college, or else you will also be a travel agent, but in Thailand!”

  I had no particular answer to that slice of insanity. She was kind of right, anyway—if I wanted the merit based scholarship that would enable me to pay for Stanford, assuming I even got in—fingers crossed, fingers crossed, fingers crossed—I had to maintain my ridiculously nerdy G.P.A. That left me with basically no time to socialize, but hopefully it would all be worth it.

  The order bell was ringing at me again, so I headed back toward the kitchen before she could go on any longer about how even talking to members of the opposite sex leads directly to pregnancy, disease, insanity, death, or all of the above. Of course, avoiding her for the rest of the night wasn’t going to work—our restaurant only seats forty two, unless my parents are in a fire code–breaking mood, and we don’t have any booths or screens or anything, so there’s literally nowhere to hide. But as long as I didn’t piss her off any more, there was still a chance I could get to Sarah’s house before her parents booted everyone out.

  By nine o’clock we were down to two tables.

  “Mom?” I chewed nervously on my pinkie nail for a second. Is it okay if Nat takes over for the rest of the night so I can go to Sarah’s study group? There’s almost nobody left here.”

  She sighed, taking off her reading glasses and putting them down on the credit card reader by the cash register. “Why didn’t you study before work?”

  “I did, but it’s a really important test. Please, can I go? I just need to trade notes with some people, and I know if I get just a little extra time I can get an A.”

  Mom looked at me, her expression unreadable. I mentally crossed my fingers.

  “No,” she said.

  “But—” I started.

  “It is not fair to your brother if you leave. Also, it is better for you to study at home with no distractions. At the study group, you just end up chitchatting with your friends.” She put her reading glasses back on and turned to her calculator with finality.

  I gave up. Time to aim lower on the totem pole. “Hey, Nat, can you take care of my section for the rest of the night so I can study?”

  “What, like you’re just gonna sit here?” he asked. His hand was wet from the water pitcher again, and he made a move like he was going to dry it off on my shirt.

  “Yeah, at the bar,” I said, making a face and ducking out of the way.

  “Dunno.” He shrugged, then smirked and wiped his hand on his apron instead. “ What’s in it for me?”

  “The same deal whenever your next English paper due,” I offered.

  “How ’bout you just write it for me?”

  “How ’bout I tell your entire class that when you were five, you wore a girl’s swimsuit because you wanted to be just like your big sister?”

  Nat glared at me and went to check on my section. Finally! I poured myself a Diet Coke and settled onto one of our maroon leather barstools to review the Revolutionary War. I mouthed, “Suck it,” at him when a party of eight walked in at nine twenty five. He smiled politely while flipping me off from behind a menu—there’s nothing worse than a bunch of customers walking through the door when you’re this close to shutting down for the night, especially since my business savvy parents, terrified of alienating anyone who might become a regular, never rush customers out. Luckily tonight, thanks to my dad’s record fast stir-frying, Annoying: Party of Eight exited after only forty three minutes. Phew. I put down my flashcards and started blowing out the little white votive candles on the tables as Nat practically sprinted to the front of the restaurant and flipped the door sign to CLOSED.

  “Hey,” Nat said, noticing that I was helping with cleanup. “Study if you want. We made a deal.”

  “Thanks, but this isn’t me being nice so much as it’s me trying to get us the hell out of here as quickly as possible.” I threw a soapy dish towel at his head and went to the utility closet at the back of the kitchen to get the vacuum cleaner—newly repaired following my recent attempt to suck shrimp tails straight up off the floor so I wouldn’t have to touch them—and started vacuuming the dining room floor. The next thing I knew, Nat was shaking my shoulder.

  “Dude, you okay?”

  I started. “Wha?”

  I looked up and realized that I was standing smack in the middle of the dining room, draped over the vacuum cleaner, half slumped onto the handle.

  “You were
just staring at the wall like a crazy person.”

  Huh? Is it possible to fall asleep with your eyes open?

  “I’m just tired,” I said. He looked at me. “Uh, more than usual,” I added.

  “Maybe you should start doing speed.”

  “I will take that into serious lack of consideration,” I answered, stretching my arms over my head and jumping up and down a few times to wake up. I kicked the vacuum cleaner and it roared to life as I pushed it with one hand and used the other to punch a button on our espresso machine. Nat walked around wiping tables and pushing chairs out of my way whenever I needed to vacuum under them, as my mom lovingly dusted our restaurant’s good luck charms—two Buddha statues and a picture of King Chulalongkorn—just like she did every night. The coffee finished brewing just as we finished cleanup, and I was pouring it into a thermos when my dad emerged from the kitchen, looking weary and grease spattered, like he always does at the end of the night. He raised an eyebrow.

  “We have coffee at home,” he pointed out, rolling down the sleeves of his flannel shirt now that he was done cooking for the night.

  “Eh, this is easier.” I dumped a bunch of sugar into the thermos, followed by some half and half, then put the top on and mixed it around. My dad shook his head disapprovingly. “That much caffeine will stunt your growth.”

  “Dad,” I said patiently, “I’ve been the same height since the seventh grade. I’m pretty sure the family genes stunted my growth a long time ago.”

  “No,” Dad said. “Your brother is six feet tall.” He smiled proudly at Nat, who stood on his tiptoes for a second and grinned back.

  “Well, he stole all the good genes. Plus, I need this coffee for my history test tomorrow. Nat just saw me fall asleep standing up, didn’t you, Nat?”

  “I did,” Nat said. “She looked like a freaking idiot.”

  My dad looked back and forth between the two of us for a moment, trying to figure out if we were messing with him. Then he shrugged, reached into the mini fridge under the bar, and handed me two cans of Mountain Dew. “Okay. Study hard.” He ruffled my hair and gently nudged me toward the front door as he turned off the dining room lights.