Into the Firestorm Read Free Page A

shrugged. “Here, even poor kids tease the Chinese. Last week some boys threw stones at me when I was delivering vegetables.”
    “Are you from China?” Nick was curious. “You, uh, speak good English.”
    “My parents are from China, but I was born here. I am an American. Though people here don’t treat me like one,” the boy said in a voice laced with bitterness.
    The boy fell silent, as though he thought he had revealed too much. Nick bit his lip, unsure what to say. He looked around at the packages and boxes, all with such strange and beautiful symbols on them. Not like the alphabet at all.
    “Can you really understand these squiggly signs?”
    “You ask very strange questions for a white boy,” the boy answered, raising his eyebrows. “How could I do business otherwise?”
    Nick couldn’t imagine being able to read something so different, so extraordinary-looking. He thought again of the crystal-and-silver inkwell on Miss Reedy’s desk, which had come from some distant, far-off world.
Chinatown is like a different world, too,
Nick thought.
A different world inside San Francisco itself.
    The tall boy cleared his throat. He seemed to have come to some sort of decision. “Business is slow. It is time for my noon meal of rice and dried fish. Will you join me?”
    Nick hesitated.
    “No need to pay. I hope you won’t mind sitting back here on the floor,” the boy added. “I only have one stool. That way you won’t be in the way if any customers come in.”
    Or policemen,
thought Nick. For the first time, he looked the boy straight in the eyes and smiled. “Thanks. I’m Nick. Nicholas Dray.”
    “I have a Chinese name, which you could not pronounce or understand,” the boy told him. “But my American name is Tommy. Tommy Liang.”

A B OWL OF R ICE

    Nick tried to use the two sticks Tommy gave him—chopsticks, they were called. But in the end he gave up and ate with his fingers.
    “You’re very hungry.” For the first time, a slight smile crossed Tommy’s face as he watched Nick eat.
    Nick nodded. The rice was fluffy, white, and hot. Tommy served it in a small, shiny black bowl that felt just right in Nick’s hand. “It sure tastes good. You cooked this yourself?”
    “I learned to cook after my mother left.” Tommy paused with his chopsticks in the air. He spoke matter-of-factly. “She took my younger brothers and sisters back to China. She didn’t like America.”
    “So she just left?” Nick pushed the thought of Pa away.
    “It…it was too hard for her. I stayed with my father to help with the store. But then, after he died of pneumonia, my older cousin took over.” Tommy looked down at his rice bowl, his face closed. “He is in charge. He goes out with his friends a lot. I do the cooking and look after the store.”
    Nick wondered if Tommy’s cousin was anything like Mr. Hank. “It’s a nice store. I’d love to have a shop as fine as this.”
    Tommy shrugged. “It was my father’s dream. But working in a grocery store is not what I hope to do.”
    Nick was surprised again. “What
do
you want to do?”
    Tommy hesitated. “I…I love to sing. But becoming a singer is a foolish dream.”
    Nick looked down at his bowl. He couldn’t help thinking of that morning he’d told Gran about
his
dream. They ate in silence until the rice was gone. Tommy filled a small cup with scented, steaming liquid.
    “You ate so much. Are you a runaway?” Tommy asked.
    Nick nodded. “A few weeks ago, I ran away from the orphanage in Texas.”
    “Did you live there long?”
    “Only a few months. My gran died last fall, in October. My pa is still alive somewhere, I guess.” Nick’s teacup had no handles. He picked it up gingerly, with two hands, and sipped at the hot liquid. He hoped he wouldn’t drop it.
    “Up until last summer, Gran, Pa, and I were sharecroppers,” he went on. “We worked another man’s cotton for a share of the crop. Then, last year, around the end of May, Pa