"Make friends with my daughter, and I'll pay you a thousand dollars."
Tara's junior year of high school is turned upside down after she collides into the life of Aurora Rosenberg, the autistic teenage heiress to Rosenberg Technologies. Mr. Rosenberg...
Out of all the things he could say to me, he decided to offer me a thousand dollars. I can only stare. This guy is serious. He actually wants to buy a friend for his daughter.
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[Illustration of Tara and Mr. Rosenberg in his house. He smiles while she stares at him in disbelief.]
I realize I've been quiet for more than a few seconds, so I manage to speak.
"This feels kind of wrong," I say.
"There's nothing wrong about it!" Aurora's dad insists. "You're helping a girl in need, and getting paid for your good deed."
"Still, this feels off. I don't think she'd see it as a good deed." I shake my head. "I don't want to do this."
His mouth smiles, but the rest of him doesn't. "You don't need to decide right away. I'm sure you'll do the right thing for a lonely girl."
Um, who said his opinion was the right thing?
"You know where we live," he continues. "Drop by anytime. Here, and take this $20."
Really? REALLY? What is this guy, a walking vending machine that gives money instead of taking it?
He notices my expression. "You did rescue my daughter from that car, after all," he says. "Treat yourself to ice cream or something. And if future ice cream happens to involve my daughter, I'll be happy to fund that too."
He's hoping I'll drag her around like a charity case. For all I know, Aurora is lactose intolerant, or doesn't like ice cream.
(Disliking ice cream? Is that even a thing?)
"Treat yourself," he says. "Consider it a token of my gratitude."
I do like ice cream, but... I'm not so sure I want this guy's money.
"I pulled her out of the way because it was the right thing to do," I say, "not because I expected a reward. Thank you, but no thank you."
"Well, whatever you say. I look forward to seeing you later."
I walk up to my little house, take out the key from my backpack, and let myself in.
This is the house I grew up in. With Mom gone, and my dad never in the picture, my aunts stepped up to take care of me. They moved from their apartment to my house, just for me. I feel closer to Mom this way. (And they say they really like having a backyard.)
The wallpaper's a little peeled, the floor a bit scuffed, the furniture rather old, but not old enough to be antique. Just old. But it's the only home I've ever known.
I kick off my shoes, drop my backpack, step into the living room, and collapse face-first into the couch.
Aunt Yumi walks over. She's a tall middle-aged Korean American woman with olive skin, long black hair braided and wrapped around her head like a crown, and warm dark eyes. "Long first day?" she asks.
