by David Yoon
Let’s just be in love, I think, and all I want is for her to say, If you say so, Frank, and bring everything back to the way it was with a single, long kiss. But instead she’s just staring at the waves tumbling and tumbling far below, preparing other words to say.
“You know how your dad had to choose between living shorter but better, and taking the chemo and living longer but worse?” she says.
I swallow to quell a rising lump of tears.
“We’re not taking the chemo,” she says.
I don’t quite get what she’s saying here—is she comparing us to cancer?—but it doesn’t matter because her words gut me anyway.
“But I love you,” I say. “You love me.”
“We’re a happy family,” says Joy, in the saddest singsong ever.
“So let’s just be in love,” I try.
“Frank, I can’t just, we—” says Joy, and covers her mouth because she’s run out of words. Or is she trying to keep them in?
“I love you,” I say. “You love me. It’s as simple as that.”
She buries her face and I hold her with one arm, then two, but she is already feeling strange to me. Some aura is slipping away. Joy is a campfire dying before my very eyes, and I am inept when it comes to campfires.
She peers through barred forearms. “The ocean is glowing—look.”
I glance out. Indeed, the waves are crashing blue.
“It’s peak sparkles right now,” I say.
“I always wondered what causes that,” mumbles Joy to no one.
“Dinoflagellates.”
Joy turns her head to face me through her hair. “How do you know that?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I say, and the last of our embers goes out.
But I don’t want them out. I stomp and stomp on them, because the moron inside me believes that stomping is the best way to stoke a fire back to life.
“You could start going on hikes,” I say, mustering the fakest pep ever. “Then I could meet you down at Crescent Cove—”
“I can’t do this.”
“It’d be perfect because you can’t even see the left edge of the beach from here.”
“What would Hanna think of your plan?”
“This is not like that.”
“Good night, Frank.”
And Joy just gets up and leaves.
I don’t watch her go.
It’s easier to stare at the dinoflagellates glowing blue, their minuscule, pathetic way of raging against the waves that simply refuse to stop bullying them around.
Asshole waves.
Asshole ocean.
If I stare at the ocean, I can pretend Joy is still sitting next to me. But she’s not. There’s barely a mark where she had been sitting, and that mark went cold quick.
I take the teardrop-shaped terrarium and hang it from a branch to swing madly in the wind. Its contents won’t last long.
Eventually I get up and leave the scraggly tent of cypresses. I walk down the hidden path, back onto the Songs’ deck. Joy’s window is closed. The blinds are drawn. I trip the blinding floodlight again and walk right through it.
Asshole light.
I lower myself off the edge of the deck and grasp the bar to dangle for a moment before my hand slips, and I find myself in midair. Well, that’s perfect, I think. I’m falling.
It’s the exact wrong thing to think, of course, because if I’m ever going to learn how to fly, I should focus my mind on something else, something entirely irrelevant, so that I’ll miss the ground and soar upward instead.
chapter 34
if you say so
MESSAGES
JOY SONG
EDIT
CLEAR CONVERSATION
ARE YOU SURE?
ALL MESSAGES DELETED
The doctor finally comes in, swivels a monitor my way, and shows the inside of my ankle.
“Nothing broken,” she says. “Except maybe your pride, ha ha!”
“Pthpthpthh,” I say.
“I’m joking, I’m a dad-joker, so, anyway. It’s an inversion sprain. Not too-too bad.”
“Not broken,” says Mom with relief. She punches my shoulder. “Aigu, stupid.”
“We get a lot of this sort of thing this time of year among a certain youthful demographic,” says the doctor.
“He going graduation party so late,” says Mom. “Not even he drinking!”
“Remember RICE,” says the doctor.
Racist, I want to shout.
“Rest, ice, compression, elevate,” the doctor says.
“So not racist,” I say out loud. Whoops.
“Someone’s feisty,” says the doctor, and looks me up and down. Is this mature female doctor really hitting on me in front of my own mother?
“Thank you, doctor,” says Mom, oblivious. “He getting into Stanford.”
“Ooh, gets real hot up there,” says the doctor.
* * *
• • •
I slip an elastic bag over my foot to shower because I’m too lazy to undo and redo the brace. Then I sleep until two. I could sleep until dinner if I wanted to. I could sleep until September and wake up just in time for convocation.
Because it’s summer.
Summer.
“So much for the summer of love,” I say to my pillow.
I hobble down the steps, Rest with a baggie of Ice on my Compressed ankle sitting Elevated on a cushion next to Dad resting with his legs elevated too, and post a short video to Snapstory in a totally depressing cry for attention.
Within minutes, Q says, I’m coming over.
I also notice Joy’s name among my dozen viewers of the video. I go to her feed and fling it up and down for a bit. And this, I guess, is our future.
Life got complicated, and Joy spooked. She gave up on our love. It makes me realize: love is a belief mutually held. As soon as that belief fades on either end, then poof, the whole thing falls face-flat like a tug-of-war suddenly gone one-sided.
I let my fartphone fall to the floor, then fall asleep again.
Ding-dong. I wake up. Dad’s gone. I’m alone.
“Frankie-ya,” says Mom. “Q here.”
“Don’t get up,” says Q. He drops his big heavy backpack and takes a seat close to my elevated foot. “What the heck did you do? No toes missing?”
“Remember, we were at that crazy warehouse party, and I slipped on that big puddle by the thing?” I say, making my eyes as big as I can.
“Ohhhh ahhhh riiiight,” says Q. “That thing was amazing.”
“I check on Daddy,” says Mom. We wait until she leaves to lower our voices.
“I went to see Joy last night,” I whisper, and let my eyes fall.
“Oh no,” says Q.
I nod.
“But—you—she—” says Q.
“We’re done. Dunzo. Donut disco.”
“Donut disco?”
“I don’t know,” I say.
“I can get you donuts. Whatever you need right now.”
“I want Joy,” I cry, and shade my eyes with a stiff hand.
“Oh man, come here, come here,” says Q. “Let big papa Q hug it out.”
“I don’t want donuts,” I sob. “I don’t want any of this shit. I just want everyone to stay put. I don’t want Joy’s stupid Snapstory. I don’t want you three thousand miles away. I don’t want Dad to—”
“Oh man,” says Q. “Get serious now, really hug it all out.”
When I’m done, Q’s tee shirt is all wet.
“Sorry,” I say.
Q looks at the tearstains with an odd sort of pride. “Don’t be sorry. You’re lucky.”
“Jyeah right, so lucky, look at me.”
“You love hard enough to cry,” says Q. “I admire t
hat.”
I just have to laugh at this, and Q joins in. “You know how weird you sound?” I say.
“You’re the one all diarrhea diapers and donut discos.”
I smile at my friend. My best friend. “You wanna go out somewhere?”
“You’re not going anywhere with that ankle,” says Q, “which you still need to explain. And besides, I have with me our completed, ready-to-play final campaign.”
“You finished it,” I say with awe.
Q waggles his glasses. “Last night.”
From his backpack, Q draws forth his big spiral Dungeons & Dragons campaign notebook. It’s titled The Evasive Cambith of ¡P’Qatlalteiaq: Totec’s Return. It has skulls and pentagrams and everything. I don’t know how he can possibly top the demigods and gem-swapping drama of our last campaign, but now I’m curious.
“Totec the mage gets resurrected?” I say. “Is Paul playing, too?”
Q nods. “He should’ve been here ten minutes ago, in fact. Where is Paul? I brought back Totec for that motherfucker.”
We wait and wait before deciding that, in the interest of the limited time we have remaining together, we should just go ahead and get started. I play both my paladin and Paul’s mage simultaneously, switching bullshit Middle English accents as necessary. On paper we are the biggest losers in Palomino High School history. Two boys launching their summer vacations with a lonely game of Dungeons & Dragons.
But we don’t care. Within minutes we’re laughing, conspiring, cheering, groaning.
Thank you, Q.
“You eating melon,” hollers Mom, scaring the shit out of both of us, and brings in a plate of honeydew wedges.
Thank you, Mom.
We do this for weeks.
I post pictures of our figurines locked in battle. I also post my ankle, which has traded in its brace for a simpler bandage. More melon. Q’s intense dungeon master stare. Dad, finally eating something bigger than a piece of toast. I get my handful of pity likes from my two dozen followers. Whatever. I’m too busy to really care.
One day three curséd valkyries ambush my character while I’m reconnoitering a shattered keep on my own, and my character doesn’t even get the chance to counterattack. I die alone, in this unnamed ruin.
I topple my figurine.
Q rights it again. He scrambles to ad-lib.
“Oh, uh, behold, I am the last surviving spirit protector of this ancient castle,” sings Q. “I am known as—as Barbra the Good and Lawful, and I hereby reward the justness of your soul.”
“What are you doing?” I say.
“I’m bringing you back to life,” says Q.
“Can you do that?”
“The dungeon master can do whatever he wants,” says Q. “And I say you’re back.”
He’s smiling so big at me that I can’t help but smile.
“Barbra?” I say.
Q doubles down. “Barbra the Good and Lawful.”
“If you say so,” I say.
chapter 35
champagne from champagne
Night. I’m in my bed alone, thinking about Paris.
The Songs went on an impromptu two-week vacation to Paris and beyond, because (a) they’re loaded and (b) it gets Joy far, far away from me. Does that sound egotistical? Does that sound crazy?
There are pictures of Joy squinting in the sunlight with her little brother, Ben, before all the usual sights: the Eiffel Tower, the Sacré-Cœur, and so on. Wheels of friggin’ cheese. Friggin’ baguettes in bike baskets.
Joy looks gorgeous, photo filters be damned. And lost. And resigned.
Like, like, like, like, why not. I can pretend they’re kisses she can’t feel.
One night I post a picture of the demented little scroll crazy-man Charles gave me at The Store months and months ago, which I still have. I focus in on the drawing of the nude man and woman and the vaginal ouroboros and all that.
Joy comments with a little blue heart.
I guess that’s gonna have to be enough.
Days later. Q and I have another rip-roaring all-day dungeon-crawling session. Minutes after he packs up and leaves for the evening, the doorbell rings.
Dad shuffles into the room, sleepy and perplexed. “Who is?”
“Maybe Q forget something,” says Mom.
I look around. “Oh crap, his dice.”
I’m talking about Q’s velvet bag of seventy-dollar dice, hand carved from glistering opalite stone. That’s ten dollars per die, nerds. Q loves these stupid dice. I hoist the bag and give it to Mom.
“So heavy,” she says.
When she gets to the door, I hear murmurs in Korean.
Korean?
I see Dad shuffle over. The Korean gets louder, more formal.
So I get up to see what the commotion’s all about. It takes a second—my ankle is still tender—but there they are, all standing around our shoe-cluttered foyer.
The Songs.
“Whoa,” I say at the sight of Joy’s dad. He’s wearing a sweater around his shoulders. He is totally that guy who returns from Europe and is flustered that everything’s just as ding-dang American as he left it.
There’s Joy’s mom and little brother, Ben, pressed together by the astonished bucking infant cowboy figurine.
And there’s Joy. She’s wearing a Cheese Barrel Grille polo shirt. Where the hell did she score such an artifact?
I laugh aloud, then want to cry, because an insufferably maudlin part of me wants to believe she wore the shirt for me to say, I will always love you.
You know what? Fuck it. That is why she wore the shirt. That’s what I’m going to believe right now. Why else would she, of all days, of all places, for me of all people?
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey,” says Joy.
Joy’s dad hooks a finger at her mom, who dutifully presents a large fancy bag.
“We wanted to bring you a few things from our trip,” he says. “Just little things.”
In the bag are three fine silk scarves, a crystal brooch, a jar of Dijon mustard from Dijon, a bottle of Champagne from Champagne.
“We are so sorry we did not come sooner once we heard the news,” says Joy’s mom, speaking slowly and without error. “We want to offer our sincere apologies.”
“It’s okay,” says Dad. He looks almost embarrassed to be seen the way he is right now, in the lounge sweats he’s lived in for weeks, holding a trembling to-go cup close just in case he vomits. “Thanks much.”
“If there’s anything you need,” croons Joy’s dad. “Anything at all.”
I keep my eyes on Joy, who can only glance at me for a half second at a time. She must have told them about Dad’s illness during the trip. Her body language says it all: this whole thing is fucking weird.
“Frank,” says my dad. “You take bag upstairs, put it in Mommy closet.”
I reach for the bag. I look at Joy again. She’s bent back a finger so far it looks like it’s going to snap. She still has love for me—I can see it—but she doesn’t know what to do with it.
Neither do I, but for different reasons.
“Thanks for the goodies,” I call over my shoulder, and climb.
When I get to Mom’s closet, I close myself in and breathe in the dark and stare at the bright line under the door growing dimmer and dimmer.
That night, after everyone’s gone to sleep, I sit out in the backyard alone. I’m in brand-new lounge wear: a Stanford shirt-and-shorts combo, sent in a care package from Hanna. I post a terrible photo of the moon with the caption Good night, backyard summer. I get a few likes, Joy among them.
For an hour I sit there, listening to the traffic on the freeway, wondering how I must look to Mom-n-Dad and Joy’s family now.
Say me and Joy had been born in Korea. We’d be Korean. We’d belong to a
tribe. But that doesn’t necessarily mean we’d belong with each other. Because there are tribes within tribes, all separated by gaps everywhere.
Gaps in time, gaps between generations. Money creates gaps.
City mouse, country mouse.
If there are that many micro-tribes all over the place, what does Korean even mean? What do any of the labels anywhere mean?
My reverie is interrupted by a rustling in the bushes at the far end of the backyard. I jump to my feet and fumble for my phone light—I’ve always wanted to catch a photo of a possum, or a raccoon.
The possum is huge. It has green in its hair.
It’s not a possum.
“What the fuck?” I say.
“You say that a lot when you see me, you know that?” says Joy.
She extricates herself from the bushes with a graceless kick, then smooths her shirt.
“How—?” I say.
“There’s a gap in the wall three houses down and the fence is all bent,” says Joy. “I have like two minutes. My car’s on the shoulder with the hazards on.”
“You’re insane.”
“I just—I leave tomorrow.”
Crap, she’s right. CMU starts earlier than Stanford. She walks toward me as if on cracking ice.
“I just wanted to tell you that I’m sorry,” she says.
She takes another step. I just watch her. She looks so lovely, I want to crush her in my arms and twirl her around, but the fist of my stomach stomps no. So I say nothing.
“I’m just sorry,” she says.
I don’t move. I just stand there with my arms folded.
“I wish I could be more brave,” she says. She takes another step, then takes it back. “I wish I could be as brave as you. I feel so stupid sometimes. I’m eighteen already, I’m a freaking adult already.”
Joy growls at the sky. After a moment, she looks at me again.
“But fuck all that,” she says. “I just want to say I’m sorry. I’m really, pathetically, contemptibly sorry and I want you to forgive me and this sounds like the shittiest thing in the world but you have to know you’re my best friend and I don’t ever want to lose you.”