I shake my head, wishing I had taken one.
“What does he look like?” CaZZ asks.
“You’re going to think I’m crazy, but he kind of reminded me of Dorian Gray. Not just his looks, but his mannerisms, the way he talked,” I say, remembering how Ran had this intense look on his face when he was talking or listening to me, like every word I said mattered.
“Are you serious?” CaZZ asks.
“Ken Z wouldn’t lie about something like that,” Estelle says.
I begin describing him to them. “He had blond hair, but I think it was dyed.”
“Dyed?” CaZZ asks.
“The roots were showing; it was more like brown.”
CaZZ and Estelle exchange more hmmm glances.
“What about his eyes?”
“Gray,” I reply, “like your brothers’.”
“So he’s mixed,” Estelle remarks.
“Like practically everyone on this island,” CaZZ says. “Mixed. And messed up.”
“Our Ken Z fell in love with a guy who could pass for Dorian Gray,” Estelle says.
“A mongrel version of Dorian Gray,” CaZZ corrects her.
“Dorian Gray and Ken Z, the Dork,” I say.
“Dude, you’re cute with a capital Q,” Estelle says.
“If only he believed it,” CaZZ tells Estelle.
I refuse the compliment.
CaZZ throws it back to me. “Ken Z, he wouldn’t have approached you if you weren’t attractive.”
“Yeah, Ken Z,” Estelle says.
“He walked up to me because he saw me reading Oscar Wilde, and he was reading one of his books too.”
“What?” CaZZ exclaims.
Estelle can’t believe her ears either. “He was reading Wilde?”
“This spring break affair is getting more and more interesting,” CaZZ says.
“And I love it,” Estelle says.
“What book?” CaZZ asks.
I tell them it was De Profundis. Their eyes widen with wonder.
“Tell us more,” Estelle begs.
I tell them Ran was a huge fan of Oscar Wilde, knew a lot about his life. “He knew the name Oscar went by when he went to live in exile in Paris.”
“Sebastian Melmoth,” CaZZ says.
“Yes.”
“It’s fate, Ken Z,” Estelle says. “You and he were destined to meet.”
I shrug.
“So romantic,” Estelle adds.
“So why is he so into Oscar Wilde?” CaZZ asks.
“Is he part of an Oscar Wilde book club?” Estelle asks.
“No,” I reply.
“Too bad he doesn’t go to our school,” Estelle says. “He could be in our book club.”
“Where does he live?” CaZZ asks.
I pause, then let out the news. “North Kristol.”
I watch CaZZ’s facial expression go from anticipation to disdain. I imagine it’s the same reaction as mine when I first found out.
“So what was he doing in Mirage? Shopping?” CaZZ asks, a tinge of sarcasm in her voice.
“Killing time,” I reply.
“Sure he was,” CaZZ says.
“He was waiting for his mother, who works on the base.”
CaZZ nods, like people do when their suspicions are confirmed.
“Did you ever meet his mother?”
“No.”
“Has he met yours?”
Again, no.
“And then what happened?” CaZZ asks.
Except for the parts I am not yet ready to share, I tell them the rest of the story, how he and I hung out every day of the break. How we saw each other a few more times after that, and then, before I knew it, he was gone.
“What do you mean ‘he was gone’?”
“He disappeared,” I reply.
“Disappeared?” CaZZ asks. “Or he stopped calling you?”
“He never called,” I say, “only Zapped.”
“When was his last Zap?”
“Couple weeks ago.”
“But you continued to Zap him?”
“Countless times,” I reply, editing the part about phoning Ran and getting that weird voice mail with the angry-sounding woman.
“Ken Z?”
“What?”
“What’s Ran’s last name?”
I shrug.
Silence.
Then I spell out what they’re thinking. “I know.” Pause. “He bunburyed me.”
“It doesn’t matter now, Ken Z,” Estelle says, trying to comfort me.
“Maybe he did, Ken Z,” CaZZ says. “But then again, maybe not. He’s from the north, right? He probably can’t do that over there. That’s why he came here.”
“To play with people’s feelings,” I say.
“Maybe,” CaZZ says. “Or he came here to be himself.”
“CaZZ is right, Ken Z,” Estelle says.
“You ever go back to the mall?” CaZZ asks.
“Just once,” I say. “Then I gave up.”
Estelle gets a playful glint in her eye. “Got tired of waiting for the number eight?”
“Actually—yes,” I say.
“If there’s one thing to thank the bus from hell for, it’s that it kills obsession fast,” CaZZ says.
Suddenly, I feel something inside me rupturing.
Estelle notices it too. “Dude.”
“Don’t,” I say, wincing. Too late. The moment her fingers graze my skin, something in me bursts. As if a blister that’s been swelling up inside me these past weeks has finally been punctured, and all it took was the touch of a consoling friend. The next thing I know, I am sobbing with my head down, my whole body shaking, my chest heaving, my nose running.
Estelle throws her arms around me.
“Oh, sweetie,” CaZZ says, rubbing my back.
“I…just want…him…you know…to come back…say bye.” I try to push the words out between the heaving.
“I know, sweetie,” CaZZ says. “I know.” She reaches for her bag and passes me a tissue.
“As long as you were honest about your feelings, Ken Z, that’s all that matters.”
“I was,” I say.
“We know,” Estelle says.
Then, finally, it subsides. The sobbing, the shaking, the forcing of words. And what remain are silence and pure exhaustion. I feel like I just drained a sea of feelings from my body and all that’s left for me to do is sleep.
“Sweetie, you okay?” CaZZ asks.
I nod.
“Dang, Ken Z, you look hot when you’re breaking down,” Estelle says. “You should fall in love more often.”
“Whatever, Estelle,” CaZZ says, rolling her eyes.
“Never again,” I say.
“Never say never,” CaZZ warns.
“But you’ve got to admit, Ken Z, it was incredible, right?” Estelle says.
“You mean Ran?” I ask. “Or the hurting?”
“I mean the four-letter word, dodo.”
“Who made you the guru of love?” CaZZ asks.
“I fell too,” Estelle says. “Twice.”
“What?” CaZZ exclaims. “How come we don’t know about them?”
“More details to come shortly,” Estelle says, winking at me. “But it really is a four-letter word.”
“Like pain,” I say. “And funk.”
“And lies and mess,” CaZZ says.
“True,” Estelle says.
“Ken Z?” CaZZ asks.
“That’s not a four-letter word,” I say, breaking the rhythm of our list.
“K-E-N-Z!” Estelle spells it out.
“H-U-R-T,” I say.
“S-T-O-P,” CaZZ says.
“
H-E-A-L,” Estelle says.
“W-H-E-N?” CaZZ asks.
“S-O-O-N,” I say hesitantly.
“Soon?” CaZZ asks.
“Soon!” I say. This time, with an exclamation punch.
Lingering
Our last memory. Sunday night. We were in my room, standing face to face. He squinted; I squinted. I smiled; he smiled. We stood there, playing a game of mirrors. Until, gradually, silence reigned once more. He leaned his face close to mine. I could feel his warm breath flowing into my mouth, his lips almost touching mine. Then I withdrew. Because he withdrew. It wasn’t a kiss he wanted after all, but to rest his head against my shoulder. I stood there, my arms folded around him, my hands in a tight clasp. I swayed. Because he swayed. Our bodies dancing to our own song. Then I stopped. Because he stopped. The two of us holding on to each other, lingering like a fading reverie. I could’ve stood there for another thousand and one minutes, savoring what would be our final embrace. Then he pulled away. He got very quiet. The expression on his face turned somber. I thought he was going to cry or say the inevitable. He did neither. He just stood there, looking at me, giving me the smile of history before surrendering his lips to mine.
FOR ESTELLE
In this world, no one
But you makes words so much fun
So gibbericious.
Splat
Sunday, 14 April. 2:47 a.m.
Can’t sleep. My body is ready to splat but my mind is wide-awake. An hour ago, my mother came home from work. I was in bed, sitting up with my back to the wall, writing in my notebook. I didn’t bother to shut the door or turn the light off. I didn’t want her to think that I was asleep. No. Not tonight. I wanted her to peek in, say something, anything. She must’ve read the signs—bedroom light on, door wide open—because on her way to her room, she stopped in front of my door and knocked. “Ken Z…” She paused. I looked up and, for a moment, I wished I hadn’t. She had this look on her face that didn’t need me to explain why I was still up or why I was ditching school, neglecting my chores, keeping these nightly vigils.
She entered the room. “Here,” she said, handing me more letters and packets from colleges and universities wanting to take part in shaping my future. I took the letters and placed them on the pile. She was about to leave when, suddenly, she turned around and stopped. She was about to say something but instead just shook her head as if whatever she wanted to say didn’t matter enough. But it would have.
Tonight, my frustration with silence from long ago returned to haunt me. I looked up at her. Mom, please, say something, say anything to end these broken hours. I need your words tonight, Mom. No room for silence. Not with everything falling apart.
“I am so lucky,” she finally uttered. “So many worlds want you. They’re all waiting for you, Ken Z. You and all your brightness. Just imagine the stories waiting to fill up your notebooks.”
I smiled.
Because she smiled.
“Let this beginning be just that—one of the many stories.”
Then, as quietly as she had entered my room, she walked away and left me with those good-night words that I will turn to during difficult nights like this.
Ken Z Uchida
Fifth Grade
Miss Amanda Buenaventura
Writing Assignment #5
Our Favorite Pastime
My mother loves to read. She reads all the time. She reads during the day and she reads late at night. She reads when she comes home from work even if she’s tired. Sometimes she reads with the music on. Sometimes I hear her humming. Sometimes while she’s reading she’ll stop and look out, at nothing in particular, as if the book is taking her far, far away, like she’s dreaming in another world. Someplace quiet and marvelous like Antarctica. I love to read too, especially in my room. With books I try on different worlds. I meet people who live inside stories. Stories I never want to end. That’s when I know that I really like a book. I like endings the least. They make me sad, even when they end happily ever after. My mother is okay with endings, though. When she’s done reading a book she returns it right away to the library, or donates it if it’s hers. Then she goes and borrows or buys another book. I don’t know how she does it, how she goes from one book to the next just like that. I don’t know how anyone can do that. It’s so easy for her. Not me. I have a hard time, especially if I love the characters and the story and the place too much. I reread the book. My mother said I have to learn to start practicing goodbyes to books or I won’t have room for new stories. She’s right. Still, it’s hard even if all I’m doing is practicing goodbyes.
LIGHT
Live each word as if
The world depended on it—
Stay and read to me.
THE SILENCE LIST
There’s the silence that drops from nowhere
And the silence that stabs like a shiny switchblade.
There’s the silence that comes right at takeoff
And the kind that echoes long after a crash landing.
There’s the silence that craves for attention
And the kind that aches to be left alone.
Silence like the red velvet curtain of an old theater
Full of history: thick and musty.
Silence confident as a period, breathless as a comma,
Endless as ellipses…
There’s a silence lovers leave behind,
Like a suitcase on a platform after the last train.
There’s a silence lovers arrive with,
Like a body crammed in a busload of strangers.
There’s a silence waiting to breathe
And a silence crying to be broken.
There’s a silence rare and breathtaking
As the time I caught her in her room,
Dancing with no music to guide her
Just a song playing loudly in her head
Leading her to another place,
Another her.
Away from here and away from her:
The woman with a thousand and one silences,
Who left behind a life in another country
So she did not have to answer to any man
Or walk five steps ahead of him
Or sleep with dreams bolted down.
This woman who made me see silence in words
And taught me how to shatter it
Whenever something was worth hearing.
My list of silence…my endless list: my mother.
The Memory of Paper
Monday, 15 April. 8:30 p.m.
Woke up this evening from a nap and found a brown packet right outside my door. Inside were seven bright-orange notebooks. Pocket-sized. Perfect for my lists, haikus, thought bubbles. I’ve always wanted to own one, but they’re so pricey even my wish list can’t afford them.
* * *
• • •
On the cover is DURABLE NOTEs superimposed on a map of Antarctica. A slip of onionskin-thin paper is inserted between the pages; on it is a little story about the notebook. These notebooks, it says, are very popular among adventurers. In the past centuries, explorers used the same type of paper to record latitudes and longitudes. Geologists logged in seismic activities of volcanoes. Mountaineers sketched their hiking routes. Anthropologists and sociologists filled the pages with field notes. And writers and artists carry them around to store their dreams, memories, and ideas.
* * *
• • •
The paper is tear-resistant and is supposed to withstand the harshest weather conditions. In the last war, soldiers kept journals to describe the horrors of war and loneliness: what it was like to live with the memory of bombing villages, killing strangers, innocent women, and armed children. Many used them to write letters to their lov
ed ones, or document their last will and testament. When the bodies of soldiers were returned to their families, these notebooks were found in the pockets of their jackets and pants.
* * *
• • •
Weatherproof. Futura typeface. And ellipses instead of ruled lines—those series of dots that mean infinity, that look like constellations connecting one small thought or feeling or dream to another and then another ad infinitum. As I am attempting this very moment.
The Visitation
MONDAY, 15 APRIL. EVENING. MY BEDROOM.
OSCAR: Get up, Ken Z!
ME: Oscar!
OSCAR: Enough of this darkness, Ken Z.
ME: No!
WITH ONE SWIFT MOTION, OSCAR DRAWS OPEN THE CURTAINS. SUNLIGHT BARGES INTO THE ROOM LIKE AN INTRUDER.
OSCAR: No, Ken Z. Enough of this sadness. Wake up! Rise from this recumbent posture.
ME: You’re back!
OSCAR: I never left. Not completely.
ME: But I thought…You mean you’re not mad?
OSCAR: Last I checked, dear boy, I wasn’t the one firing the shots.
ME: Oh, Oscar, I’m so—
OSCAR: Never mind. It’s a new day. Time to make a list.
ME: But all those hurtful words I hurled at you.
OSCAR: My dear child, your world was breaking. You had every right to rage.
ME: I’m so sorry.
OSCAR: Hush; I gave you bad counsel; I apologize.
ME: No, no, no.
OSCAR: I only wanted you to experience what I thought would expand your universe.
ME: And it did, Oscar, it did. I swear. If only you can find it in your heart to forgive me, because I don’t know if I can.
OSCAR: Don’t be so unkind to yourself, Ken Z. You were merely loving. No one asks for his heart to be bruised. No one asks Love to take a detour, and as you well know, detours are also part of the adventure. There really is no way of telling Love’s destination, Ken Z. It is that teacher that, like all brilliant teachers, always makes room for mistakes and memories, for growth and learning.
The Importance of Being Wilde at Heart Page 16