by Harper Kim
I decided at that moment that it was now or never. I took a minute to gather up courage, pretty much gulped it in by the lungful. My body started to tingle and a film of sweat coated the nape of my neck and palms. It’s now. I moved with hesitant steps over to where Brett stood.
Each step quickened my pulse until it was no longer a gentle pitter-patter but a frantic machine gun. Gulping down my panic, I tapped his broad shoulder and stepped back.
Brett turned and cocked an eyebrow. “Ky? What is it?”
“Hi, um, are you busy? I mean of course you are, it’s just…do you have a second?” I chewed on my bottom lip. Suddenly I wasn’t sure of anything and the little confidence I had built up was rapidly draining from my flushed face.
He grinned. “Sure.” Turning to his group of curious friends—a few, I noticed were smirking—he said, “I’ll be back in a sec.”
Locked in my thoughts, I didn’t notice anything except that Brett was actually following me toward the house and that he smelled overpoweringly like the men’s fragrance counter at Macy’s. Passing the kitchen, I breathed a sigh of relief when I noticed Leila and her mom weren’t there. Taking a quick glance out the kitchen window, I saw Leila and her mom outside rearranging the dessert table. Trays of assorted fruit, cookies, and mini cakes glistened in the sun. Good, the coast is clear.
“What is it, Ky?”
I turned nervously back to Brett. His thick brows drew in with a look of concern. His handsome face melted my anxieties and I drew in a breath of reassurance.
“I—I just wanted to give you a graduation present.”
“That’s it? Didn’t you see the table outside? You can just leave it there with the rest of them.”
I shook my head, my confidence again faltering. As he turned toward the door I grabbed his arm. The heat made me blush and I jumped back. “No, I mean yes I saw the table outside with all the gifts on it, it’s just that the gift is a little embarrassing so I was hoping you’d open it in your room.”
He shrugged. “Sure, I guess. Is it already in there?”
I nodded, desperately hoping I wouldn’t faint. I followed him into his room, closing the door behind me.
Posters of various rock bands and football players were taped haphazardly on the white walls—I itched to straighten and re-tape them in an orderly fashion but resisted the urge. The sun was streaming in through the open window and draped across his desk, which was cluttered with stacks of acceptance folders from various colleges, textbooks that would never be re-opened, and an array of pens and pencils that would never again touch paper. His king-sized bed stood, intimidating, in the middle of the room and I stared at it intently. I couldn’t help wondering where his secret box was stashed.
“So, where’s the gift?”
My head snapped up and met his perplexed blue eyes with uncertainty. I had spent all last week rehearsing and playing both parts—what I would say and what he would say—and so far everything was going to plan. Deciding to stick to the script, I pointed to the bed. “Um, sit there.”
Brett was nice enough to play along. Looking back, I could see how obnoxious and dumb I was to ever think a seventeen-year-old boy would go for an eleven-year-old girl, but I was naïve and in love. And he was going away; to me it seemed like forever, and at eleven I thought my life would be over without him. I had to make my move, to show him how I felt.
It’s now or never. It has to be now.
I handed him a shoebox. “Hold onto this and open it when I tell you to, okay?”
Scratching his head and looking amused, he peered up at me. “Why can’t I just open it now?”
“You’ll see. First, close your eyes.”
Nervously I waited until Brett obliged and closed his eyes. Quickly, before I could second guess myself, I unzipped my flower-print dress and removed my cotton training bra and matching polka-dotted underwear. Positioning myself so he’d be eye level with my flat chest, I took a deep breath and anxiously told him to open his eyes.
The next few minutes were a whirlwind of redacted clips, the mortifying kind that never make complete sense afterward but haunt your dreams forever. So far, the script I wrote and rewrote in my head was playing out as planned, but the feelings I thought would transpire and course through me flatlined.
As I watched Brett’s eyes blink open, I panicked and froze. What was I doing? In a state of shock Brett couldn’t speak or move. He sat on the edge of his bed like a statue, mouth agape.
In that split second, uncomfortable by the shocked silence, I made the unconscious decision to continue the practiced script. I flipped open the lid and tossed the contents over my head. My movements were jerky and awkward. Soft petals from seventeen roses fluttered down over my naked body in clumps. One skimmed my left breast and my pink nipple puckered at the sensation.
Looking down, I leaked the words out in a strangled whisper: “I love you, Brett.”
Brett just sat there, stunned and motionless.
Heat flushed my face. Unsure of what to do next, I panicked. Without thinking I jumped on top of him, somehow hoping he’d shield me from my nakedness.
Before he could snap out of his daze and push me off, footsteps and voices approached from the hall.
The door opened.
“Brett? Are you—” In a state of shock, Emma dropped the mixing bowl she was holding. Horrified, she opened her mouth to scream but nothing escaped except a gasp of dry air. Like mother like son. Leila was a few steps behind her humming a song; her sweet babbling baby voice inching near.
I began to shake all over. Hot tears streaked down my face. Nothing was going as planned. Nothing. In that split second everything fell apart. My dreams, my plans, shattered.
Time stopped. All I remembered from that point on was the heavy, foreboding silence. Numbness. Wide eyes. If only eyes could scream. At least I had the common sense to release myself from Brett’s frozen grasp and grab my dress. My fingers weren’t functioning properly. I fumbled for my bra and panties and ran out the door without bothering to zip up the back of my dress. I just had to get out of there as fast as possible. Pushing past a dumbstruck Emma and equally dumbstruck Leila, I stormed out of the room with my head down and the flap of my unzipped dress patting my bare back red.
Running out the back door, I bypassed the party by exiting through the side gate. Without turning back, I ran forward, my vision blurred by hot, stinging tears. I saw a few flashes but I didn’t stop to see where they were coming from. I had to run.
After two blocks of running, I stepped onto the city bus that would take me to Rowland Heights. The bus ride was long and bumpy. I could feel curious eyes probing from all sides. I could hear their accusatory thoughts.
Keeping my head down, I crossed my arms and huddled close to the crack between the tattered burgundy vinyl chair and metal frame, jerking every time someone rustled in the seat behind or beside me. I wanted to disappear, to turn back time, to have never been born. What was the point anymore?
Flushed with embarrassment and angst, I felt my skin boil. My hearing was muffled by the constant ringing and I felt like a cornered zoo animal. I felt exposed, vulnerable, and deeply ashamed. Would it be so bad if the bus crashed or burst into flames? Of course, without any passengers and if only I got hurt and died, no one else. I wouldn’t want to wish death on anyone else. But, would it be so bad, to die?
What was I thinking?
Three bus transfers and an hour and a half later, I ran inside and locked myself in the bathroom before my parents could see me.
What was I going to do? What would my parents say? Whether I willed it or not, I was dead.
Days passed. Waves of tears streamed down my bloated face, staining my pillow and sheets. I avoided my family and stayed cooped up in my room for most of the day, going without meals. I was hurt and embarrassed. There was no way I was going to be able to face anyone, let alone my parents. What would I say?
Apparently, I didn’t have to say anything. The Ficks’ took
care of that for me.
I didn’t even realize Appa was going to meet with Gary until he returned, his face stern and unreadable. His knuckles were scraped and dried blood spotted his striped Lacoste polo shirt. Booze hung on his breath in a hot vapor and his dark eyes were puffed and bloodshot. He came charging into my room and in a low bark he said, “Up,” and jerked the sheets off my lax body.
Startled, I must have shrieked. “Appa?”
“Kitchen. Now.”
Sniffling and with my head down, I sulked behind him to the kitchen. Hell seemed to rise up with each step, hot and stifling and foreboding. It was the first time in days I forgot all about Brett and my embarrassing stunt. All I could think about now was how much trouble I was in and why.
When Appa got into this mood there was always a reason, and there was always a punishment. What would it be this time? The Home Depot paint stick? No, only Umma used the paint stick. Maybe I’d have to kneel on a slab of hard stone with my hands held high above my head. That sounded more realistic. But for how long? An hour? Two? Hands empty or with a bowl of water? My arms and shoulders stiffened in anticipation.
I took a seat at the kitchen table, with legs dangling from the plastic chair, directly across from my dad’s burning glare. For what seemed like an eternity, no one spoke. Umma rose to prepare ginseng tea, probably to distract herself from Appa’s bad temperament and the punishment that would ensue.
My parents didn’t have great communication skills. Appa made a decision and Umma followed. Umma was in charge of the household and the child-rearing, but if I stepped out of line Appa would step in. He didn’t have to confer with Umma first—his house, his rules. Umma was not very twentieth-century-woman-of-the-world. She was probably in the dark as much as I was, maybe more.
I fidgeted in my seat; the silence was killing me. Peering up at his ashen face, the realization that Appa found out sunk in. I cringed at the thought and wondered how much he knew.
Shame welled in his dark eyes and I reddened with the memory of Brett. What did Brett’s father say to Appa? More importantly, what did Brett tell his father?
Without explaining, Appa removed an unmarked envelope from his coat pocket and slid it across the table until it barely touched my drumming fingers. The manila envelope was fat and lumpy.
I was so confused. Appa brought me a gift?
I looked up, perplexed. In Appa’s face was neither emotion nor answer. His face remained unmarked and rigid. His workman’s hands were hidden beneath the table. I gulped, visualizing those hands clenched and knuckles white, maybe even drawing half-moons of blood where the nails dug in, his dry coarse skin splitting open from the strain like a seam ripping from a worn coat, stitch by stitch.
Curiosity overcame me so I unclasped the flimsy metal tabs and opened the flap. Agape, I stared at the stack of crisp hundred dollar bills still hidden in the folds of the yellow-orange paper. The smell was overpowering. I immediately closed the flap without a second glance. At first I was worried that the envelope contained incriminating photos, but it was worse. With shaking fingers I placed the envelope back on the table and slid it forward.
Stumbling over my words, I struggled for answers. “Why…where…what’s all this money for?”
“What?” Umma turned from her aimless kitchen chores—the tea poured and served—and swept the envelope off the table. Choked gasps cluttered her throat as she viewed the contents. Speaking in rapid Korean, she grilled Appa for answers. He dismissed her with the raise of a hand while never taking his eyes off me.
Glaring at my shaking hands he spoke, his voice cold and callous. “You are not my daughter. I see you but you are not my Kylie. Who are you?” His dark eyes washed over me in one final disgusted sweep before he pushed up from the chair. Brushing off Umma’s wild grasps for an explanation, he walked heavy-footed toward his room. Without turning around he paused and said, “The money’s yours. Use it for college or throw it away. Do what you want. You are no longer my daughter.” The door to his bedroom closed. He didn’t even wait for a response.
My heart dropped from my chest. Appa washed his hands of me. He didn’t even ask for my side of the story. He already cast his vote. I was done. Scratched from the family records and left to my own devices. Appa never forgot nor did he forgive easily. If he was ever to forgive me, it would be on his terms, not mine.
Since I didn’t know what Appa was told, I was led to believe it was the worst possible scenario; that his eleven-year-old daughter initiated sex with a seventeen-year-old boy and got paid for it. Even if Appa was told the truth, that I peeled my clothes off for a man who wasn’t my husband, I would have been disowned. I don’t even know why I did it. I didn’t plan on having sex with Brett…oh, that just sounds so disgusting. I just wanted him to notice me. I wanted him to like me.
What I ended up doing was not only shameful but dishonoring to my family’s name. Disgracing my family was the worst sin imaginable and I would have to live with that for the rest of my life, as would my family.
But why did Appa accept money from Gary Ficks? That I couldn’t understand. My family would never make this scandal public. We had too much pride to spread ill-words or embarrassing stories. I could understand that Gary might have thought his son had a hand in the whole thing and didn’t want word to spread, ruining his son’s reputation as well as the Ficks’ name. But Appa could have just convinced him in words that neither I nor anyone in the family would ever say anything about the incident and would rather pretend it never happened. Why didn’t Appa tell Gary that?
A clean slate; that’s all I wanted. I’m sure that’s all anyone wants. So why couldn’t we do that? Pretend it never happened.
I felt defeated. The only reason I could come up with was that Appa believed him.
The next few weeks of summer break were difficult and uncomfortably quiet. I kept to myself, mostly with my head stuck in a book (working through the Nancy Drew series), cleaning my already spotless room, or lying in bed with my eyes wide open. I was no longer summoned to the restaurant for chores. My parents barely said one word or looked my way. It was as if I had died that hot June day and I just hadn’t crossed over yet. Hell didn’t even want me.
The phones remained quiet. Leila never called, nor did any of my other friends, whom I was mainly friends with because of Leila. And the person I most wanted to hear from—Brett—never called. Then, when I assumed my life was already at the bottom of the barrel, everything plummeted from worse to worst.
Or so I thought.
One day before I started seventh grade, Umma rushed into my room and plopped a large suitcase on top of my ruffled bedspread. The suitcase was well worn and scratched along the bottom and sides. Since my family never went on trips, I figured Umma got the suitcase from a garage sale at church. It smelled like tobacco, ginseng, and potpourri.
“Ky,” Umma whispered, “Hurry up and pack your things.”
“What? Umma, why? Where are we going?”
“No question,” she hissed, nervously looking behind her, “just pack your things. I’ll be back later.” Umma left the room as swiftly as she entered, and I was left alone with the smelly suitcase.
That afternoon Appa left the apartment to play Hwatu, a Korean card game, with a bunch of his friends. Thirty minutes after his departure, Umma returned to my room, grabbed ahold of my hand and the stuffed suitcase, and pulled me out the door.
A taxi cab was idling in front of the house. The man in the driver’s seat popped open the trunk and waited for us to enter. Umma plopped the suitcase into the empty trunk and pushed me into the back seat.
The seats smelled stale and musty. The driver had dark skin and hairy arms. There was a tiny photo of a dark woman holding a baby clipped to the faded sun visor, probably his wife and son. Nervous, I fiddled with my skirt as I looked out the window.
We drove for a while. Staring at the passing trees, cars, and houses made me sleepy, so I closed my eyes and rested my head on Umma’s bony shoulder. When
the taxi jerked me awake we were parked in front of the Amtrak train station.
I followed Umma, bleary eyed, through the train terminal. Every now and then, I caught a whiff of the suitcase.
The two-hour train ride was taxing. I spent most of the time dozing off, using Umma’s shoulder as a pillow. I must have dozed off a hundred times without ever finding sleep. When we arrived in San Diego, I followed Umma into another taxi cab. This time, when the taxi pulled into a fairly new mobile home complex, I knew where we were and why we had come.
“Hurry up, Ky.” Umma motioned for me to follow and keep up.
The prefabricated home was one story with white aluminum panels set along a rectangular frame. A row of similar homes lined the driveway and were individualized with colorful awnings, potted plants, and patriotic flags. The home I was staring at was one I’d seen before in photos attached to holiday greeting cards. The place looked exactly as it did in the photos: built-in porch, faded blue awning, and plastic blue shutters. A rusty mailbox, once painted blue, was staked in front of a white picket fence that surrounded a small plot of grass. On the side were faded white curlicue letters that read, Whimplestein. A bed of yellow and orange sunflowers sprouted bountifully by the porch, sparking a bit of warmth to the otherwise cool color scheme. The gate leading to the house was unlocked and cracked ajar, as if the Whimplestein’s were expecting company.
The front door opened and an elderly Korean woman appeared. The grayish, thinning mat of curls covering the woman’s flat head matched the wrinkles and saggy, tanned skin that cinched and hung around her face. Her skin felt doughy when the lady hugged me. She smelled like bark and herbs. Her pudgy fingers squeezed my cheeks with shocking strength. Her tea-stained teeth gleamed and her eyes sparkled from behind folds of skin as she drew me in with a wide smile. When the lady spoke, it was with an accent similar to Umma’s. I understood little of the conversation and peered curiously from the curb.