When the phone rang, I was squatting in the cafeteria kitchen, watching the chef julienne potatoes. “Principal Zhou, we have a parent complaint.” The voice of old Mark, our Dean of Students, came through the receiver. He sounded cautious. “What’s the complaint?” “They’re saying the cafeteria lunches are too expensive.” My chopsticks paused in mid-air. “How much per meal?” “Five dollars.” “One meat, two vegetable sides, five dollars… and that’s expensive?” Mark didn’t say anything. I hung up the phone and stood up. My knees popped loudly. The cafeteria was renovated just last summer. I had to make three trips to the district school board and write four separate proposals just to get the $120,000 renovation grant approved. It wasn’t enough. I paid $23,000 out of my own pocket to cover the rest. The stoves were brand new, the ventilation system was new. I found a used commercial refrigerator, but it kept things perfectly cold. Our chef, Lou, used to be the head cook at a popular diner in town. His cooking was phenomenal. I poached him for $3,500 a month. The school budget couldn’t cover a salary that high, so I squeezed the rest out of the administrative fund. Every meal included one main meat dish, two vegetable sides, and unlimited rice. Five dollars. I had done the math. Pork averaged $15 a pound, chicken $12, and fresh vegetables were between $3 and $5 a pound. With 120 students, the food cost alone was over $400 per meal. Add in Lou’s salary, water, gas, and electricity, and the cafeteria was operating at a guaranteed loss of $800 to $1,000 a month. I covered part of the deficit using miscellaneous school funds. Whatever I couldn’t cover, I paid for myself. At five dollars a meal, my conscience was completely clear. The parent who complained was named Quinn. Her son, Toby, was in the fourth grade. He sat in the third row. Mark brought me the official complaint log. Quinn’s exact words were: “Five dollars a meal means $100 a month, and $500 a semester. Our family is struggling financially. Can you make it cheaper?” I didn’t say anything. I just put the log down. The next day at noon, I took a walk through the cafeteria. Toby was carrying a tray piled high with braised pork belly, a piece of fried chicken, a side of stir-fried cabbage, and a mountain of rice. His mouth was greasy with food. I stood on the sidelines and watched for a while, but didn’t interrupt him. When I got back to my office, I called Mark. “No need to reply to that complaint. Keep operations running as normal.” “But what about the parent…” “For a five-dollar meal, I cannot make it any cheaper. If I make it any cheaper, the cafeteria closes.” Mark gave a brief acknowledgment and hung up. I thought the issue was over. Three days later, the district school board called. “Principal Zhou, a parent raised concerns about your school’s cafeteria pricing. The board would like to look into the situation.” I was stunned for two seconds. “What situation?” “The parent claims five dollars a meal is too expensive and is requesting that the school either lower the price or provide free lunches.” “One meat, two vegetable sides. Five dollars,” I repeated. “I understand, but a parent filed a formal complaint, so we have to follow protocol. Principal Zhou, please come down to our office and bring the cafeteria’s financial ledgers.” I dug out the grocery receipts, utility bills, and Lou’s pay stubs, shoving them all into a manila envelope. I rode my electric scooter down to the district office. The person assigned to my case was a young guy named Sun from the Nutrition Department. I placed the envelope on his desk and pulled the papers out one by one. “Here are the pork receipts from last month. We bought 40 pounds, $600.” “Here’s the chicken. 25 pounds, $300.” “Vegetables, tofu, eggs—that adds up to $420.” “The chef’s salary is $3,500. Utilities are $600 a month.” “120 students, one lunch a day, 22 school days a month. Income: $13,200. Expenses: over $14,000.” I pointed to the final number at the bottom of the page. “We lose $800 to $1,000 every single month. I pay for it out of my own pocket.” Sun stared at the papers for a long time, then looked up. “Principal Zhou, the finances are sound. I will report this to the director.” “Alright.” I rode my scooter back to school. The wind was fierce, stinging my eyes. Mark was waiting for me at the school gate. “How did it go?” “It’s fine. Just going through the motions.” Mark nodded, looking like he wanted to say something else. “What else is there?” “Quinn called again.” “What did she say?” “She said her son doesn’t like stir-fried cabbage. She wants to know if we can swap it for steamed egg custard.” I stood at the school gate, the cold wind blowing down my neck. I didn’t say a word. 02 I thought seriously about the egg custard request. It wasn’t impossible to make. With Lou’s skills, making steamed egg custard was easy. The problem was the quantity. We had 120 students, and not everyone wanted egg custard. If we made a special portion just for Toby, what happens when the other kids see it and want some too? If we made it for everyone, the cost of eggs would double. The five-dollar price tag wouldn’t cover it. I went to discuss it with Lou. Lou was squatting by the back door of the kitchen, smoking a cigarette. When I finished explaining, he crushed his cigarette out beneath his shoe. “Principal, it’s not that I don’t want to make it. 120 portions of steamed egg custard require 15 pounds of eggs. That’s an extra $70 a day in costs, which means $1,500 a month.” “I know.” “You still want me to make it?” “Yes. Twice a week. Tuesdays and Thursdays.” Lou gave me a look, didn’t say anything, and tied his apron back on. The second week, a new line appeared on the cafeteria menu: Steamed Egg Custard served on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I thought Quinn would finally be satisfied. On Wednesday, Mark came to see me again. “Quinn says the egg custard is too watery. She says it’s not like the kind she makes at home.” I took a deep breath. “Tell her to come down to the cafeteria and see for herself. I can’t steam 120 portions in massive industrial steamers and expect it to have the exact same consistency as a single bowl steamed in a home kitchen.” “I told her that. She said she doesn’t have the time.” I didn’t respond. Another week passed, and the phone rang again. It wasn’t Mark. It was the district school board. “Principal Zhou, we’ve received another parent complaint.” “Regarding what?” “The parent claims the cafeteria’s egg custard did not meet health standards, and it gave their child diarrhea.” My brain buzzed violently. “Who filed the complaint?” “It was submitted anonymously. But please investigate the situation described.” I hung up the phone and marched straight to the kitchen to find Lou. “Last week, did any students report getting diarrhea from the egg custard?” Lou was furious. He slammed a pot lid down on the stove. “Principal, I’ve been a chef for twenty years! Those eggs were delivered fresh that morning from Chen’s poultry farm. I still have the delivery manifests and the health inspection certificates! Which kid got sick?! Bring him here, I want to talk to him face-to-face!” I patted Lou on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’ll look into it.” I had the homeroom teachers ask every single student from 4th to 6th grade. Not a single child reported having diarrhea. Not one. I compiled the investigation results and rode my scooter back to the district office. After reviewing the documents, Sun looked a bit embarrassed. “Principal Zhou, we apologize. We should have investigated the claims more thoroughly on our end.” “It’s fine, I’m just following protocol. But I have to ask… who exactly filed this complaint?” Sun flipped through his records. “It was an anonymous complaint, but the phone number left on file was…” He read off a string of numbers. I pulled out my phone and opened my contacts. Quinn. The numbers were an exact match. I flashed my phone screen at Sun. I didn’t say a word. Sun didn’t say anything either. I rode my scooter back to school. Passing by the farmer’s market, I stopped and bought two pounds of eggs. Back at the cafeteria, I placed the eggs in front of Lou. “Keep making the egg custard. Twice a week, same standard as before.” “But what about the complaint…” “I’ll handle it.” Lou looked at me. His lips parted, but he only said one word. “Alright.” That month, the district board called me in two more times. Once because a parent claimed “the cafeteria rice is too hard.” And another time because a parent claimed “the cafeteria serves lunch too early; the kids eat at 11:30 AM, and by 3:00 PM, they’re starving.” Both were anonymous complaints. Both times, I didn’t bother cross-referencing the phone numbers. I didn’t need to. I prepared all the necessary paperwork, cooperated with the investigations, signed the forms, and came back. Every time Mark saw me returning from the district office, his expression was exactly the same. A mix of sympathy and sheer helplessness. Sitting in my office, I crunched some numbers. Since the start of the semester, three months had passed. I had been called in for questioning four times. Each trip took forty minutes round-trip, plus the waiting, the reporting, and the paperwork. Each incident ate up at least half my day. Four half-days. I could have used that time to observe classes, revise lesson plans, or monitor academic progress. Instead, I spent it entirely on fielding absurd complaints. I opened my desk drawer and pulled out a notebook. The first page was a detailed ledger of the cafeteria’s income and expenses. The second page was the rotating menu plan. The third page was blank. I wrote a single sentence on the third page: “Should the cafeteria stay open?” After writing it, I scribbled it out. I closed the notebook and shoved it back into the drawer. 03 The fifth district summons was about soup. A parent complained that the cafeteria’s seaweed and egg drop soup didn’t contain dried shrimp. When the district called, I was standing on the field watching the students do their morning exercises. My phone vibrated. I glanced at the caller ID, and my chest immediately felt tight. “Principal Zhou, we have another situation.” “Go ahead.” “A parent claims the cafeteria soup lacks nutritional value and suggests adding dried shrimp and goji berries.” I stood on the edge of the field, watching over a hundred kids jumping around in the sun. “Five dollars a meal. One meat, two vegetable sides, plus soup. And now they want dried shrimp and goji berries.” The line went silent for a moment. “Principal Zhou, I understand how difficult this is, but we cannot ignore formal complaints.” “I know. When do you need me?” “Tomorrow morning, if possible.” “Fine.” The next day, I went to the district office. I brought the cafeteria menus, cost breakdowns, and vendor certifications. I had already printed five copies of these documents. I brought one every time I was called in. I practically had them memorized. Sun wasn’t the one handling my case this time. It was a director named Mr. Landis. Director Landis was in his early forties and wore glasses. He flipped through the paperwork and looked up at me. “Principal Zhou, it’s clear that your cafeteria is operating at a loss.” “Correct.” “However, we cannot completely ignore the parents’ demands. Is there any way you can find a compromise or make some adjustments?” “What kind of adjustments?” “For example, offering a richer variety of dishes, giving the students a few more options.” “Director Landis, I have one chef, 120 students, and a budget of five dollars a meal. I can’t perform miracles.” Director Landis pushed his glasses up his nose and didn’t respond. I sat in that hard plastic chair, my back pressed against the cold backrest. “I’ll try to figure something out.” I went back to school and called Lou into my office. “Lou, starting next week, I want you to add an extra dish every Friday. Sweet and sour spare ribs or cola-braised chicken wings, alternating each week.” Lou’s eyes widened. “Principal, ribs are $25 a pound, and chicken wings are $13 or $14. Where is this money coming from?” “I’ll figure it out.” “How much of your own money have you already sunk into this?” “Don’t worry about that.” Lou stared at me for a long time before turning to leave. He stopped at the door and looked back. “Principal… why do you even bother?” I didn’t answer. That Friday, the cafeteria served sweet and sour spare ribs. The kids’ eyes lit up as they held their trays. A second-grade boy ran up to me, looking up with a bright smile: “Principal, the ribs are so good!” I patted his head. “If they’re good, eat as much as you want.” I didn’t eat in the cafeteria that afternoon. I went back to my office and made a cup of instant ramen. Mark pushed the door open, saw the ramen cup on my desk, and his face dropped. “Why are you eating that?” “Food was a little tight in the cafeteria today. I wanted to make sure the kids ate first.” Mark opened his mouth, then closed it. After about ten seconds of silence, he spoke. “Quinn posted a message in the parent group chat.” “What did she say?” “She said the cafeteria didn’t give out enough ribs on Friday. She said her son only got two small pieces.” I put down my fork. The steam from the ramen fogged up my glasses. I took them off, wiped them clean, and put them back on. “What else did she say?” “She said that for a five-dollar meal, getting only two pieces of ribs means the school must be skimming money off the top to make a profit.” The office was dead silent. The sounds of children laughing and playing drifted in through the window. I pushed the ramen cup aside, opened my drawer, and pulled out the notebook. I flipped to the third page. The scribbled-out sentence was still there, the ink still visible. “Should the cafeteria stay open?” I stared at that sentence for a very long time. The sixth summons came the following week. The complaint alleged: “The cafeteria ribs appear to be expired, and the meat texture is dry and stringy.” I didn’t wait for the district to call. I went there voluntarily. I laid out the grocery receipts for the ribs, the vendor’s business license, and the health and safety inspection certificates on the desk. Director Landis looked them over and sighed. “Principal Zhou, I know this isn’t easy for you.” “Director Landis, I just want to ask one question. Have you ever actually investigated any of these complaints to see if they’re true?” Director Landis didn’t answer. I stood up. “You can keep the documents. I’m going back to my school.” Walking out of the district building, the sunlight was blinding. I stood on the steps and pulled out my phone. I scrolled through my contacts until I found Quinn’s name. My thumb hovered over it for three seconds. I put my phone away and rode back to school. That night, I sat in my office and recalculated every single expense the cafeteria had incurred since the day it opened. Groceries, utilities, labor, equipment maintenance, and the money I paid out of pocket. Total deficit: $27,400. On the third page of my notebook, I rewrote the sentence I had crossed out. This time, I didn’t cross it out.
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