Chapter 18: Five Hundred Dollars

In the past, Li Ping'an was always there to accompany him, but today Sumu set out alone, a black backpack slung over his shoulders, worn with age. At that moment, a Ferrari roared past him, its fiery-red silhouette impossible to ignore, the thunder of its engine announcing its presence to all.

He turned his head to gaze at the car—it was a Ferrari 512 BBi, just released last year. His family could never afford such a fine automobile, but Sumu loved learning about them. He had even fantasized that one day, after becoming a lawyer, he would buy such a flashy sports car with his own hard-earned money—a car that would turn every head.

It wasn’t that he was particularly interested in the law; rather, the profession promised wealth and social status. Though it was often criticized for being all about money, there was no doubt that lawyers belonged to the high-income class.

At the wheel sat a fashionable woman in her thirties or forties, her appearance calculated to attract attention. The convertible top was down—a rare sight for a luxury sports car in Chinatown. Then Sumu saw Kate in the passenger seat.

She was even more beautiful than usual today. In Sumu’s eyes, the only reason Kate might be involved with such a wealthy woman was the recent rumor about her going to Hollywood to act in movies. After shooting an ice cream commercial last month, a talent scout had visited her home. It was said that the famous Jennifer Connelly was signed to that very agency—a rather prestigious connection.

As mentioned before, Chinatown was not large; news traveled quickly. Few had ever left its bounds to become famous, and those who acted in films were usually cast as villains. Kate was indeed of mixed heritage, but the neighbors still took pride in her.

Sumu did not linger as he watched the Ferrari vanish into the distance. He understood more clearly than ever that they belonged to different worlds. Yet he was about to leave Castellar himself. Even if he failed to secure a scholarship, he could still pay his way into a private school and leave. So, the significance of his secret affection had faded; time would slowly erase any trace of it. In his heart, he wished her well—may she become a true star.

For this rare trip by taxi, his driver was a taciturn Mexican man, who drove at a safe, steady pace and delivered Sumu to St. Helen’s School, over ten kilometers from Chinatown. The school was small, with only about 500 students enrolled. It served as the SSAT testing site for East Los Angeles, trusted by the organization for its teachers’ integrity as proctors. Public schools, on the other hand, were not trusted—cheating scandals had occurred before—so excellent private schools typically held an additional entrance exam before admitting students.

After asking a security guard, Sumu found his exam room and sat down. It was the last room and not full, with only a dozen or so test-takers; most desks had no admission stickers.

He had brought only a pen, intending to do his rough work on the test paper, or request scratch paper from the teacher if needed. In the event of any dispute, those rough notes would decide whether an accusation of cheating was valid. He was a little nervous, forcing himself to regard the exam as a routine pop quiz.

A white student sitting in front of him turned around, looked Sumu over, and whispered, “You must get great grades, right? I know you Chinese guys are all good at this. Can you give me your answers in the math section?”

As Sumu stared in surprise, the student continued, “Relax, I’ll make it worth your while—how about five hundred dollars? As long as I get a good score, the money’s yours.”

The teacher walked into the classroom just then. Sumu whispered back, “Anything you say before I get the money is just hot air. Afterwards, you have every reason not to pay me.

So save your tricks for someone else—I won’t help you. If you try turning around or bothering me again, I’ll report your little proposal to the gentleman in the hallway outside, and a record of cheating will follow you for life.”

“Take it easy, man, I mean it—I’ll pay you,” the white student insisted. But seeing the half-smile on Sumu's face, as though his intentions were transparent, and noticing Sumu glance at the monitor outside the room, he quickly turned back around and left Sumu alone.

Five hundred dollars was a large sum. Sumu had heard stories like this before: some fellow students had supplied answers but never got paid, with no way to argue the matter for fear of implicating themselves. Sometimes, things ended worse—some lost their right to take the exam, even expelled from their old schools for “poor conduct.”

The white student ahead of him did not try to bother Sumu again. The teacher gave a brief outline of the rules and exam discipline. Then, another teacher began distributing test papers: twenty-five minutes for the essay, thirty for math, thirty for reading, thirty for vocabulary, thirty-five for more math. The total duration was four hours. Except for the essay, all sections were multiple choice. There was a ten-minute break between reading and vocabulary, and a five-minute break between the essay and math—so after finishing in the morning, they could go home in the afternoon.

Sumu had never practiced writing essays but he had read many books. The prompt was “All that glitters is not gold”—not a challenge for him. As long as he wrote something, he’d get a score, though not necessarily a high one.

He spent two minutes organizing his thoughts and refining them, then began to write. Without a good idea, it was hard to impress the school or the graders, to make them sit up and take notice.

As the saying goes, what you think about during the day you dream about at night. When he saw the essay topic, Sumu thought of the internet industry. He wrote about that—an alluring but risky field, full of specialized terms that demonstrated his knowledge. Only after finishing did he worry that the teacher might not understand it.

He took just ten minutes, checked for spelling and grammar mistakes, then closed his eyes to rest. As the proctor passed by, he was surprised by Sumu’s speed. He didn’t look at the content, but the handwriting was neat and pleasing, so he smiled and continued checking on the others.

He could not continue until the next section began. After five minutes of rest, it was time for math—Sumu’s strongest subject. He didn’t need to jot down calculations; every step was clear in his mind. He finished the answer sheet with ease, then waited again for the next section.

Not only were the standard questions simple, even those designed to trip up the students posed no trouble for Sumu. Then came reading comprehension, which proved even less of a challenge.