by Jessica Kim
“How’s it going?” Mom asks, edging around the mound of miscellany. This is the first time she’s set foot in my room since I got in trouble, which is part of the reason why it’s in its current state.
“Pretty well.”
“Yumi, you have so much junks in here.” She riffles through my things carefully, like she’s afraid she’s going to catch the bubonic plague.
I inch to block her from where my notebook is hiding. “Sorry.” One glance at it, and I’ll be back to eating cereal for another week.
She reaches past me and picks up a sparkly rainbow sequin hair bow from the floor. She tries to keep a straight face. “Remember this?”
If only I could forget. Unfortunately, it’s seared into my memory for life as one of my top embarrassing moments, and that’s saying a lot. I wore that rainbow sequin bow and matching dress for my fifth-grade piano recital. Well, that is, before I got so nervous I barfed all over the stage. Good times.
She comes over to me and smooths my locks with her hands, sweeping them to the side before she fastens the bow to the top of my head. It’s a silly, babyish bow, and I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing it outside, but I let her put it on because I kind of miss her doing my hair like she used to.
“You look so cute.” She turns me to face the mirror. “Like when you were little.”
“Mom, I look like a Christmas present.” I laugh.
She combs her fingers through my limp strands, but then her face pinches. “Your hair is already losing the curl. Did you use the product I gave you?”
Her hair comment hits the wrong chord, and suddenly I’m all riled up.
“No.”
“You should use it. Will make perm last longer.”
I flinch. What’s with her obsession with my appearance?
“I will call salon. Make appointment for you to get touch-up before school starts. I have to get my hair done, too. So busy with the restaurant, not enough time to take care of myself.”
I swear, some things will never change. My parents won’t let me make my own choices, not even choices about my own hair.
“You okay, Yumi?” Mom spies the candy wrappers on my bed. “You should not eat this candy. Give you stomachache.” She palms my forehead to take my temperature.
Suddenly, I’m like a kettle bubbling over with so many unsaid things.
“Mom, I don’t want my hair permed anymore,” I blurt out.
“What? Why? You need the volume.” She cups the bottom of my hair and scrunches it up.
I sniff, tucking my legs under me.
“No, I’m tired of the kids at Winston calling me Top Ramen,” I tell her with a catch in my voice.
I pick at the carpet, trying to keep my tears from falling.
Mom sits next to me and tucks my hair behind my ear. “That’s a compliment. Means they think you are on top.” She lifts her pointer finger. “The best! Number one!”
I roll my eyes. “No, Mom. That’s not what they mean.”
At Winston, I’m the opposite of number one. If anything, I’m a negative one. With an absolute value of zero to the infinity power.
“They’re making fun of me.” Like when they imitate me when I get called on or when they take bets on how many words I’ll say on a given day. “They also call me Yu-meat,” I add, wiping the sides of my eyes.
“What is that? Why do they call you that?”
“Yu-MEAT. Because my clothes smell like barbecue. From the restaurant.”
She narrows her eyes. “Next time, you can tell them that Chung’s is best barbecue restaurant in Koreatown. Even have the karaoke. Bring your friends.”
“This is not a joke.”
“Focus on your studies. Don’t pay attention to foolish kids.” She rubs my back in circles with one hand like she used to when I got sick.
“Easy for you to say. You don’t have to sit next to annoying Tommy Molina in homeroom.”
“He has no manners, and his hair is too long,” she huffs, balling the candy wrappers and tossing them into the trash bag. “Why you never told me the kids are mean to you at school?”
“I don’t know. There’s a lot of things I don’t tell you.”
Sadness wells in her eyes. “Yumi, it’s not good to keep all the thoughts inside. You have to speak if you want people to hear you.”
There’s a weird awkward silence.
“I do speak up . . . in my comedy.”
Mom’s face hardens. “We already talked about that.”
Well, technically we haven’t. They never actually asked me why I did what I did. My parents still have no idea what comedy means to me. They just shut me down and doled out my punishment for disobeying them.
Mom gets up and dusts off her pants. “I have to go help your dad. I want this room clean when I get home.”
“Sure.”
And she wonders why I never open up to her.
CHAPTER 25
At long last, the big day my family has been waiting for is finally here: the restaurant’s Grand Reopening.
The moment I step inside, the place is alive with activity. All the employees are scurrying around, pushing in chairs and wiping down tables.
“Is this really our restaurant?” Yuri whispers.
How did it transform so much in the week that I’ve been away?
The décor has been updated, from the wall color, to the layout of the tables, to the rice paper screen panels from the garage tastefully repurposed as wall hangings.
“What’s wrong? Don’t you like it?” my sister asks.
“I do, it’s just . . . so different,” I reply, noticing the luminous paper lanterns that now hang over the dining area. It looks way better, but part of me is sad that all the stuff I grew up with is now suddenly gone. But I remind myself that it’s for the future. It’s for the best. We’ll make new memories here.
Mom comes in from down the hall wearing her gorgeous plum-and-emerald satin hanbok.
“Wow, Mom, you’re stunning!” Yuri squeals.
Mom pats her updo with one hand to show off her jade ring, clearly enjoying all the fuss.
“How about restaurant?” she says with a twinkle in her eye. “What do you think?”
“Mom, it honestly could have come out of a catalog,” my sister exclaims. “Did you decorate this by yourself?”
Mom smiles. “Why are you surprised? You know I have excellent taste.”
She does. I’ll give her that.
“Very impressive.” I give her a side hug. While things between us have been rocky, on a day like today I’m willing to put all that stuff to the side so I can focus on what matters most: saving our restaurant.
“Hey, if it isn’t the Chung sisters! Haven’t seen you girls in a minute.” Manuel enters the dining room. “My brother got it looking pretty classy in here, right?”
“Oscar hooked it up!” I high-five him.
“Cabal!” Manuel says.
“He did good job.” Mom gestures to the floor. “Look at this! So clean and shiny now.”
He grins. “Which reminds me, I got a good one for you.”
“What?” I ask.
“Why is buffing the floors better than vacuuming?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“Because vacuums just suck.”
Manuel is still laughing at his own joke when Dad comes rushing in from the kitchen dressed in a three-piece suit with his hair gelled to the side.
“Check out this guy! Is that you, Bong? Or is it James Bong?” Manuel says.
“I like that. James Bong. Very funny!” Dad holds his gun-fingers 007 style and laughs. He turns to Manuel. “You think it’s better button or no button?”
Manuel dusts the tops of Dad’s shoulders with both hands. “It’s sharp unbuttoned. You look good. Don’t be nervous. It’l
l be fine.”
“I hope so.” Dad exhales deeply and then checks the clock. “It’s almost time.”
He calls us and all the employees to gather around him for a meeting. “In just few minutes, we will open and have a new beginning at Chung’s Barbecue. Thank you for all your hard work to prepare for today. Let’s give best service to our guests,” he says with the gusto of a game show host.
He urges us to put our hands together into a pile like we’re on a Little League team and yells, “Fighting!”—the Korean version of “Let’s do this!”
The pep rally breaks up, and Mom approaches us with a shopping bag in hand.
“Hurry. Go change into this.”
I take a peek. “Seriously, Mom?”
One look at her face, and it’s clear. Yes, she is very serious.
Reluctantly, we change into the matching pink-and-yellow silk hanboks we usually wear only for New Year’s celebrations and family portraits.
“It’s so itchy and stiff, even with my shorts and T-shirt underneath.” I fuss with the empire waistline.
“You look like a Korean princess. Here, let me help you with that.” Yuri straightens my sloppy sash, then pulls my stray hairs back into my low-slung bun.
“Do you really think this is going to work? Can we really earn back all that money we owe Mr. Montgomery in just one night?” I ask, smoothing out my skirt.
“I hope so. We have no choice, right?” She pins my gold name badge to my top.
When it’s five o’clock, we take our station at the hostess stand, and Dad flips the sign to OPEN.
“Here goes nothing,” Yuri whispers to no one in particular.
My heart pounds, and I cross my fingers for good luck.
It must have worked, because just a little bit later, the air is smoky with the tantalizing smell of grilled meat, and we’re busy serving the tables and tables of guests. I can’t remember the last time our place was this crowded. It’s been months, maybe years!
Yuri and I struggle to keep pace getting people in and out the door. We set tables, bring menus, and seat guests at warp speed. Mom runs around taking orders and ringing up tickets. It’s ridiculously chaotic, but I don’t care; as long as we’re on our way to paying Mr. Montgomery back and keeping our restaurant, I’m all about it.
Dad zooms by, smiling from ear to ear.
“See, you girls need to trust your daddy. I told you this is going to be a big success.”
He floats around greeting the guests with that extra level of service. He’s so into it, Mom has to scold him for giving out too many orders of her famous mandu dumplings on the house.
Relief washes over me. “I have to hand it to Dad. At this rate, we are going to end up with a surplus.”
“I’m not sure about that, but it’s certainly going better than I expected,” Yuri says.
I poke her in the arm. “But have you noticed that not one person has used the karaoke machine? We spent so much money building that stage . . .”
She shushes me. “Don’t jinx it with negativity. Anyway, food and drink sales generate revenue, not karaoke.”
“True.”
We should be glad people are here at all. Singing or not.
As the night wears on, however, the energy slows, and by seven, the steady stream of customers comes to an abrupt stop, like someone shut off the faucet.
“What happened?” I ask Yuri, poking my head outside.
No one is there.
“It’s supposed to be prime time for dinner rush.”
Mom paces nervously before coming over to our station.
“Any new guests?”
We shake our heads.
She punches in numbers on the cash register keyboard with this look on her face like she’s given in and can’t wait any longer.
“Why are you checking that now, Mom?” I ask. Usually she goes over the stats on the day’s inventory after closing.
“Ka man isseo,” she shushes, scrolling through the spreadsheets.
I hate it when she disregards me.
“Wait. That can’t be.” Yuri hovers over her shoulder, calculating the numbers in her head. “The dining room has been full for two solid hours. How is that all the money we’ve made?”
My mom turns the key and opens the register tray. She hands us the giant stack of coupons. It reads 50% OFF YOUR DINNER FROM 5:00 PM TO 7:00 PM FOR OUR GRAND REOPENING.
“Are you telling me that’s why everyone was here earlier? Because of these coupons?” I ask, handing them back to her.
“Yes, it’s great bargain for them,” Mom explains in a lowered voice. “Not for us.”
“So even though we fed all those people, we only made half the money?” I scratch my head, still trying to figure out the math. “Isn’t that . . . bad?”
Yuri crosses her arms. “If you factor in the cost of the food and the staff wages, we’re losing money with this promotion.”
“This your father’s great idea.” Mom glances toward Dad, who is on the stage adjusting the sound on the karaoke equipment no one has bothered to use. It’s then I notice the dark circles under his eyes and the worry on his face.
“The only way we can hit our target profit is if each table tips twenty percent, orders drinks and appetizers, and we keep our restaurant at full capacity for the rest of the night,” Yuri says solemnly.
Nerves set in as we look around the nearly empty restaurant.
We don’t say anything more because there’s nothing we can do but hope and wait.
So we wait, and it’s painfully slow. Like watching soybean paste ferment.
Dad comes by again.
“Don’t worry.” He laughs, putting on a brave face. “They will come. It’s weekend. People like to eat late these days.”
I want to believe him. I really want to believe him, but everything around me tells me he’s dead wrong about this.
Over the next hour, only two families come in.
I check and recheck the register, telling myself there’s still time. Maybe if a few waves of big groups eat here one after another and they tip generously, we might still be able to make it. But as minutes tick into hours and nothing happens, our hope starts to shrivel up.
Dad stops dropping by to give us pep talks.
By eight o’clock, panic sets in and even Dad cannot mask his distress. With only one last hour remaining, we need a Disney-sized miracle.
In an act of sheer desperation, Dad goes outside and invites the people passing by to come in.
“Grand Reopening. Come eat Korean barbecue and sing the karaoke!”
Unsurprisingly, no one takes him up on it. Dad, with disheveled hair and fraught bloodshot eyes, isn’t exactly the picture of welcoming hospitality he was earlier.
A full half hour before the official closing time, Dad comes to grips with reality and calls the employees together for a meeting in the back room.
“Thank you for working so hard today. Business is slow. You can go home early. We will take care of the cleanup tonight.”
It’s awkward, but I think it’s clear what’s going on. We didn’t get enough people in the door, and he’s cutting his losses with their hourly wages.
Nervous glances are exchanged as the servers get their things to go.
Dad glances at Manuel. “Mrs. Chung can handle cooking for the rest of night. You can go, too.”
“You got it.” On his way out, Manuel whispers to my dad, “It’s not over until it’s over, Bong.”
By nine o’clock, nothing’s happened and it’s over for real.
Dad flips the sign to CLOSED, shuts off the audio equipment onstage, and heads to the kitchen by himself.
We clean with silent tears in our eyes.
CHAPTER 26
“Check the balance,” Mom instructs Yuri.
M
y sister clicks through the multiple screens on the office computer. “Well, including the money Uncle from San Jose sent plus the money we made tonight, we are still short about six thousand dollars.”
“Aigoo. Six thousand dollars . . .” Mom repeats, not even trying to hide the hopelessness in her voice.
“Now what? What are we going to do?” I ask frantically.
A disconcerting unease comes over me seeing the adults who are supposed to be in charge look as confused as me.
“Maybe it’s time we stop doing the restaurant,” Mom finally answers.
It’s like a slap in the face.
“What do you mean, stop doing the restaurant?” I ask. “Are you suggesting that we give up?”
Mom sits on the chair. “San Jose Uncle wants to buy another dry-cleaning business. A few months ago, he asked Daddy to move to San Jose to help him. Be manager. He says it’s easier than restaurant business.”
“Mom, no. We can’t move to San Jose!”
“Calm down, Yooms,” Yuri says. “We have to go over all our options and evaluate what’s best for our family right now.”
Am I the only one who cares about saving our restaurant? Hello, I took my first steps clutching onto the chairs right here in this very dining room. We celebrated every birthday with dduk made in this kitchen. I did my homework in that booth. Helped pack takeout orders and refill soy sauce bottles before I could read. Most of my bits and jokes were written on the office couch. All here. And let’s not get started on our staff. I have known Manuel and his family my whole life. They’re the ones who introduced me to DJ Keoki and sweet quesadillas! What about them? And Mom is talking about throwing in the towel? Now?
“How can you say that? It’s not over yet. Los Angeles is our home. Chung’s Barbecue is our home. We need to figure out a way to stay. We still have two days to make that money back!”
Again no one responds to me. Can they even hear me?
“Yumi, can you take out trash to dumpster?” Mom finally says.
It’s clear from her tone that she’s exhausted and wants me out of the room so she can talk to Yuri about “grown-up” things without having to deal with my childish hysteria.