It’s Boba Time for Pearl Li!

“Now that we’re seventh graders, what should we do in our first few hours of summer vacation?” I led my two best friends down the building steps and toward the bike racks in front of the school.
Incoming text from Mom.
Uh-oh. I had a feeling I knew what the message was going to
I swiped at it anyway.
Congrats on finishing sixth grade! So sorry, but Dad and I have to work late today. Rain check on dinner at A&J’s? I put $20 in your account. Treat yourself to delivery tonight.
My heart sank. They had to work late again? My parents had promised that they’d take me to my favorite restaurant tonight to celebrate the end of the school year. The beef noodle soup at A&J’s was amazing. It had exactly the right amount of spice, with the most tender beef chunks and chewy, thick noodles. Yum.
It’d also be the first time this week I’d get to sit down and have a nice, relaxing dinner with my very busy family. Or so I had hoped.
Forget it. Like they care I’m an official seventh grader now.
I closed my eyes and pictured the sad feeling sliding off my body and out through my arms, like I’d learned from the meditation app our teachers made us download for Life Skills class.
My phone buzzed again: $20 has been deposited to your account.
Ugh. Who wants to eat cold, sad delivery food by themselves in an empty house on the first day of summer vacation? Even if my older sister, Jade, happened to be home, she’d be holed up in her room tip-tapping away at her computer and ignoring me anyway.
No, thank you. I knew what I wanted to do with this consolation prize of a family dinner.
“How about a drink at Boba Time? My treat! You can get as many toppings as you want-even double scoops of pudding.” I jabbed at Cindy playfully with my elbow and waggled my eyebrows at Priya.
“You know I can’t say no to that!” Cindy shouted, her earrings swinging up and down. “Zou ba!” Cindy always slipped into Mandarin Chinese when she got excited, and I loved hearing it. It was like sharing a secret that only the two of us knew.
Cindy was right: Let’s go!
It was time to kick off the summer. And the best way to do that was a visit to my favorite place in town-Boba Time.
We biked to Eastridge Village and locked up by the racks in front of the barbershop with the neon “Open” sign that always buzzed and flickered when you walked by. It was kind of a sad shop, actually. The red-white-and-blue pole was broken and no longer spinning in the cheerful way it had been when I first started coming to Boba Time.
In fact, there was nothing interesting about Eastridge Village. It was like all the other egg-colored, brown-roofed strip malls that linked together in a never-ending chain along Sunnydale’s main road.
But tucked away in the corner, with its pale blue awning and shiny metal round table out front, was Boba Time. It was the best boba shop in town, hands down.
The bells hanging on the front door jangled as Priya swung it open. The smell of tea and herbs and honey immediately floated over us.
“Hello?” I called out. The shop was empty, like it was a lot these days. But cheerful Chinese pop music filled the air, and the shelves were stocked full with shiny golden jars and colorful boxes like Lego bricks, all filled with loose-leaf teas and Chinese herbs. A red Crock-Pot with tea eggs inside bubbled on the counter.
“Auntie Cha?” I called out again.
A tangled mop of jet-black hair peppered with a few gray strands and piled high in a loose bun rose from behind the counter. Auntie Cha’s eyes crinkled when she recognized me, a big smile breaking across her face. She blew away escaped strands of hair and wiped her hands on the black apron tied around her waist, then came around to our side of the counter. She swept me up in a big whirlwind of a hug, her long skirt swirling around our feet.
“Pearl! Welcome!” she exclaimed in Taiwanese. “Congratulations on finishing sixth grade!”
“Xièxie, Chá ayí,” I replied in Mandarin, returning her hug with a big one of my own. Auntie Cha, the owner of Boba Time, always made me laugh. The energy she gave off made the air buzz with positive vibes. Even her body flowed with soothing movement, her arms fluttering like a butterfly from the silk blouses she wore as she bustled around the shop making tea for customers.
Most Taiwanese and Chinese aunties in Sunnydale were so serious and proper and only ever wanted to talk about my grades and what my older sister, Jade, was up to. But Auntie Cha was different. She didn’t care what anyone else thought and just did her thing, which was run her tea shop.. “Ni hǎo, Chá ayí,” Cindy chimed in, also greeting her in
Mandarin. The first time we brought Cindy to Boba Time, Priya told me she was surprised to hear Cindy call Auntie Cha “ayi,” or “auntie,” in Chinese, too.
“I always thought Auntie Cha was your real aunt! You two seem so close,” she protested when I broke into giggles.
“No, no, I call her that to be polite. It’s a way for Chinese kids to show respect to adults.” I laughed. “Her last name isn’t Chá, either. It’s Yáng. ‘Chá’ means ‘tea’ in Mandarin, and everyone calls her that.”
“Ooh,” Priya had replied, nodding her head. “My parents make me call their Indian friends ‘Auntie’ and ‘Uncle,’ too.” Like me, Priya was born here in the States, although both her parents were from Mumbai.
Then she chewed nervously on her lower lip. “So, should I call her Auntie Cha, too? Or Mrs. Cha?”
I shrugged back. “Whatever you want. It doesn’t matter so much for you because you’re not Chinese.”
Since then, I don’t think I’d ever heard Priya call Auntie Cha
anything in particular. Which was a little weird, if you asked me. As Cindy and I greeted Auntie Cha, Priya hung back, shuffling her feet awkwardly. Then she turned around and wandered off to the other side of the store.
“You are all seventh graders now! How does it feel?” Auntie Cha continued in Mandarin. She took her place behind the counter.
I beamed. “It feels great! Now I have all summer to keep working on my amigurumi.”