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“Bradley, I’m ready. I want to do it.” I look in the mirror and try again. “I want to have, uh, to have se—”

“SHAR, YOU WANT JUICE?” Mama’s voice, loud enough to be heard all the way in the next city, is like an electric jolt straight to my already-shot nerves.

“No, Mama,” I call back down. I give myself a little shake. “Bradley, it’s time.” Okay, that sounds way too ominous. “Bradley, I—”

“OKAY, I MAKE YOU JUICE.”

For crying out loud. “I said I don’t want any!” But she can’t hear me over the sound of the blender. Argh. Another deep inhale. Okay. “Bradley—”

“COME DRINK YOUR JUICE.”

I slam my fists on the dresser and stomp down the stairs. “I told you I didn’t want any,” I snap.

Mama frowns as she pushes the glass of bright-orange carrot juice toward me. “But I already make. Don’t waste food. There are children all over the world who are starving.”

“Why did you even ask me if you weren’t going to listen anyway?” I should know better than to get angry, but seriously. She’s always doing this, and I am not in the mood for juice.

“Shi Jun, you are being so ungrateful right now.”

It’s the Chinese name that sets me off. You might think naming me something that looks like a cross between “shallot” and “harlot” is the worst thing that a mother could possibly do. But nope. There’s worse. Much worse.

Don’t get me wrong, naming your only child Sharlot is pretty unforgivable in my book. But whenever I bring it up, Ma justtuts and says, “Mama tuh was wanting ‘Charlotte.’ Who knows why all these English names are not spelled the way they sound? Not like Indonesian names. Indonesian names sound exactly like they are spelled. Kartika. Hartati. All of them spell exactly like how they sound. Not spelled Car-tee-car. Kar-ti-ka! Easy, not like crazy English names.”

“Why give me an English name if you can’t even spell English words?” I’d yell (by the time we reach the part of the conversation where I weaponize my name, we’re usually yelling).

“Because I want what is best for my daughter!” she’d yell. “Everything I do is to give you a better life.”

And now here she is, using my Chinese name, even though she knows I hate it. And for good reason too, not because I’m ashamed of my heritage or anything. “Don’t use my Chinese name,” I snap snappishly.

“It’s good name,” she shoots back. “ ‘Scholar Army’! Good, strong name. All other girls name stupid names like BeautifulFlower or Beautiful Sky. I want my daughter to have the best name.”

“You used the wrong Chinese characters and ended up naming me Correct Bacteria.” See what I mean about the name Sharlot not being the worst thing she’s done? “How are you this bad at languages?” To be fair to Ma, Mandarin is hellishly difficult, with multiple different characters pronounced the same way. There are a lot of different characters that are pronounced “jun,” for example. Army, for one. Monarch, for another. It could also mean smart. But of all the possibilities, Ma had mistakenly picked the character that means bacteria. What are the chances?

“Chinese is a very hard language. You think I so spoiled like you, have private Mandarin teacher? No! I have to learn alone. I do everything myself—”

“Put yourself through school,” I mutter as she says, “Put myself through school.” I know the rest of this speech by heart, so I tune her out as she babbles on and on about how she raised me all by herself—no help from anyone!—and did I know how hard that was?REALLY HARD, SHARLOT. Really, really hard. So hard I almost die, you see my wrinkles?—I’m not even forty yet—Asians are not supposed to have wrinkles until they are sixty! You see? YOU SEE?

Usually I let her carry on for a while, get it out of her system. But not today. I just can’t deal with this today, so I fling the only weapon I know will work at her. “I have to go—gonna study before classes start.”

It works. Mama’s lips immediately clap shut and she rushesaround the kitchen, finishing up the lunch that she always insists on making me.

The familiar feeling of guilt twinges in my chest as I watch Mama close the Tupperware container. Lately, she and I have been having more and more of these fights. They’re triggered by all sorts of things—me spending too much time playing computer games, me taking art electives instead of AP classes, me coming home late, and of course, the fact that I told her that when I apply to colleges in the fall, I’m choosing to major in art instead of something Asian-parent-approved like pre-law, pre-med, or business.

Which is why I’m so grateful for Bradley. Sweet, clueless Bradley Morgan, who’s so hot he takes my breath away every time I see him.

My phone beeps.

[Bradster 7:15AM]:Here!

I grab my schoolbag and mumble, “Michie is here.”

Mama slides the Tupperware container toward me, and I’m about to run for the door when the guilt becomes too much. Gritting my teeth, I grab the glass of juice and force it all down.

Mama smiles. “Good girl.”

“Don’t make me any more juice EVER.” I don’t know why I bother; I know she won’t listen. I pull on my shoes and run out the door. It’s a typical day in Southern California—blue skies, scorching heat, total bikini weather even though it’s technically not yet summer. Bradley is parked around the corner so that Ma,peering out the window, won’t see me climbing into his convertible instead of Michie’s sturdy Volvo. Every morning, my heart rate rises as I round the corner and see his silver car. And when he pops his face out the window and gives me that cheeky, boyish grin, my entire body relaxes.

“Hey, babe,” he says. “You look beautiful.”