“Hi, I’m Sadie—I’m a reporter forNew Gotham. I was wondering if you’d be willing to share your opinion of the meeting?”
“Oh. You’re thatNew Gothamreporter.”
In Lina’s humble opinion, that article on the mayor’s press conference hadn’t qualified as journalism. Where was the history of the struggle? Where were the hard-hitting questions for the mayor about his timeline, the resources for his plan?
“I’m not talking to the press today.”
“It will only take a second,” the girl pleaded. “I really need the perspective of residents in this piece.”
Lina turned and walked toward the exit of the school. She couldn’t recall how many times she’d agreed to interviews, but she could count on one hand how many times it had helped. If they’d paid Lina every time they misspelled her name or mischaracterized what she’d said, she would probably be a rich lady by now. She’d have built the cultural center on her own dime.
The girl, however, followed Lina right down the steps of the school.
“Off the record?” she begged.
Lina considered it. She didn’t know if she could trust the reporter, but she also didn’t want her just copying and pasting the city’s press release.
“Okay. If we’re off, off, off the record, I’ll tell you this. We prepared a presentation, and they didn’t let us share it. Do they want to hear from residents, or do they just want to make it seem that way?”
The girl nodded and scribbled madly.
“I’ve been saying this for fifty years. Brownsville should be its own nation. Brownsville as a people should run the schools, run the Seventy-Third Precinct, and we should decide what gets built.”
The girl probably knew nothing about the strike of ’68. While Lina was trying to decide if she had the energy to provide context, Tyrell emerged from the school doors. He was, of course, excited that Lina had commented to a reporter—he was always pushing their “media strategy.” He’d even set up a Facebook account for Lina, though she’drefused to be introduced to “Twitter” and “Instagram.” At her age, one was good enough.
“Ms. Lina, you should give her the presentation, get the Livonia cultural center out to the public.”
Lina gave him the side-eye. Tyrell had been pleased to see a nice description of BYTE in thatNew Gothampiece. He turned to the girl.
“I know we met. Your name again?”
“Sadie Chin.”
“Sadie, glad to see you here. As I’m sure Ms. Lina was telling you, we’ve got our own vision for an empty lot in the community. They didn’t let us present it, but you can get it out to the public for us.”
“I absolutely can! And I’m happy to get the mayor’s office on the record about it!”
Tyrell puppy-dog-eyed Lina until she sighed, removed the flash drive from her pocket, and dropped it in Tyrell’s palm. He passed it right to Sadie.
“You have to promise to read every part,” said Lina. “No misquoting.”
The reporter nodded eagerly, then kneeled on the steps of the school, whipped out her shining MacBook, and plugged in the flash drive. Lina shook her head.
“You better be careful with that laptop, mami.”
The child was naïve as hell. Who could say what would come of this collaboration? She and Tyrell would just have to wait and see.
THE WONGS
There was a man in Chinatown with a knack for producing imitation authorization papers and birth certificates.
They had already adapted to a new surname, and now Richard would simply have to adjust to a new birthday. Not a later birthday—there was no way Koon Lai could hold Richard back a year, as the plan depended completely on his son’s cooperation. Rather, Koon Lai had been hearing from his friends at the association that when a navy boy returned home, he preened in his silly white hat and blue bow tie, but when an army boy returned, it was usually as the contents of a flag-draped box.
So, in October 1944, four months before Richard’s actual eighteenth birthday, Koon Lai gave Richard the gift of adulthood, on the condition that he go downtown and sign up for the navy. That way, when Richard actually turned eighteen in the city registry, he’d already be on a ship somewhere—and some other guy would be picked for the army trenches. It was a plan that his son, so desperate to leave, would embrace.
Yet when Richard departed for navy boot camp in Key West, Koon Lai worried incessantly. Maybe he had sent the boy to his drowning death. He missed the sound of Richard’s clompy feet pounding upthe narrow staircase, and even the mosquitoes that swarmed them when Richard opened a window too wide and stuck out his head to holler at friends. Koon Lai was so used to his irritation that he’d forgotten how lonely he’d been before his son’s arrival.
One evening about three weeks after his departure, Richard called the kitchen phone.
