It's Not Like It's a Secret

by Misa Sugiura

  “Yikes.” Happy to do anything that takes Reggie’s sharp eye off me, I add, “She’s a mess.”

  “Right? Holy whiplash, Batman,” agrees Reggie.

  But just before we head off to try to mitigate the disaster that is Elaine, Reggie points her finger at me and says, “I’m not done with you. We. Are talking. Later.”

  “Pshhh. Whatever.” Not if I can help it.

  We snag Hanh on the way to Elaine’s one-person carnival, and the three of us successfully extract her from the Dancing Hole of Doom she’s digging for herself by telling her that we want some girl time. Jimmy wanders away and sits down with the guys, but there’s no stopping Elaine, who is pretty much the living embodiment of “dance like no one’s watching,” so Hanh, Reggie, and I form a human shield and let her go for it. I actually envy her, in a way. I wish I could throw myself into the moment like she does. Though maybe with a little more grace.

  Over the next hour, I find myself glancing over at Jamie constantly, and I know she’s watching me, too, because I catch her at it five times (yes, I’m counting). Each time our eyes meet, I’m filled with that same shimmering energy that I felt when we were next to each other, and even though I still have to be sneaky about looking at her, it’s kind of exhilarating to know it’s our secret now, not just mine. At nine thirty, we leave the dance and head to PopStar. I’ve never been out to karaoke, and with the exception of the Glen Lake Country Club disaster, never out with friends this late. And definitely never after having just made out with the most beautiful, amazing, perfect girl at school. I tune in and out of the conversation in the van, and I close my eyes and smile to think that just a while ago I was stretched out on this very seat with Jamie. The memory gives me goose bumps. This is the best night ever.

  20

  JANET, JIMMY, AND A FEW OTHERS MEET US in the parking lot in front of PopStar, which is located in a random Korean strip mall in Santa Clara. Janet’s sister Debbie is there with three of her SCU friends and a backpack full of vodka. After a quick round of introductions, we head in, with Hanh keeping a firm hand on Elaine’s arm so she won’t rush over and start hanging on Jimmy.

  The host, a bored-looking older lady, confirms Debbie’s reservation and leads the way through a warren of narrow fluorescent-lit hallways to our room. The room itself is about the size of my bedroom—which is to say you could squeeze a full-size bed, a dresser, and a desk into it with a little room left in the middle to walk around. In the corner across from the door, there’s a raised platform with a mic stand and a teleprompter-looking thing. On the wall behind the stage is a large plasma screen, and a tiny disco ball hangs from the ceiling. The other walls are lined with benches. A remote control for the karaoke machine sits on top of a stack of binders full of song titles in five different languages: Mandarin, Korean, Japanese, Vietnamese, and English.

  We file in, and Elaine rushes for the binders, picks one, and starts flipping through it. She’s got a great voice, so I’m sure she wants to get herself in the queue early and show off a little for Jimmy. “Hey, lemme see,” says Jimmy, and he beckons Elaine over to sit beside him. In a flash, she’s practically in his lap as they pore over the selections together. Reggie shrugs at me.

  “Who knew that throwing yourself at someone could work?” she mutters. “It’s so unfair.”

  “What’s unfair? It’s not like you ever do anything to let guys know you’re interested,” says Hanh. “Though actually, it is unfair. It’s not supposed to work that way.”

  “It’s because she’s a tiny, adorable little kitten.” Reggie looks down at herself and shakes her head.

  “Shut up,” I say. “Give me a break. You’re just fine.”

  “My mom says I look like a water buffalo,” says Reggie.

  “Fuck your mom,” says Hanh. “My mom says I’m fat. Well, my grandmother does. Asian moms live to say shit like that. It’s what they do. You should know better than to listen. And you should also know better than to think you have to be skinny to be pretty. Anyone who cares what size you are is an asshole. Come on, let’s go get some snacks.”

  Hanh collects cash from everyone, and in a couple of minutes, Hanh, Reggie, and I are standing at the vending machine in the lobby, evaluating the selection. If you had by some miracle missed the K-Pop posters on the wall and the little ceramic cat waving good-bye on the front desk, you’d know who this place catered to by looking at the vending machine. Rice crackers. Shrimp chips. Squid jerky. Pocky. Pretz. All Asian brands except for a row of Pringles and kettle chips at the bottom.

  We decide on ten boxes of Pocky, one of my favorite snacks and the least disgusting of our options, though I do love shrimp chips. Pocky are cracker sticks—actual thin little sticks of cracker—dipped in chocolate. They’re delicious, and they have a ton of different flavors: regular chocolate, milk chocolate dipped in almonds, white chocolate, dark chocolate, maple, cheesecake, strawberry, green tea. Nom.

  Hanh and I are feeding dollar bills into the machine when I hear the door open behind us and a group of customers walks in, jabbering in Japanese. Suddenly, my ears prick up. I could swear I hear Dad’s voice in the mix. But that’s impossible. He’s not due back in town for four more days.

  “Hello, I hab resa-bation fo Kiyohara. Pahty obe six.” I freeze. Now there’s no mistaking it. It’s his voice, loud and clear and drunk—his accent gets extra heavy when he’s been drinking. Reggie looks at me warily.

  “My dad!” I mouth at her. I don’t know which is worse: feeling humiliated that he sounds like such a loser, or feeling terrified that he’ll see me.

  Reggie enters the numbers for the Pocky and raises her eyebrows. “Are you sure?”

  I nod.

  “Fuck,” whispers Hanh.

  Ka-thunk. Ka-thunk. Ka-thunk. Three boxes of Pocky fall out of their cubbyhole. Someone in the group behind us says something that’s funny, apparently, because they all laugh, my dad loudest of all. I crouch down, pull my hair to the side to hide my face, and reach in to grab the Pocky boxes, and Hanh chooses this moment to pull out her phone and take a selfie. I can feel her doing her fashion model pose.

  Omigod-omigod-omigod, she’s going to get me killed. I stay in my crouch and try to scoot behind Reggie’s legs. Please don’t let him look over here and see me.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Reggie hisses at me.

  “Reg, take one with me!” says Hahn.

  “What—no!” protests Reggie. “Hanh, stop it!” But Hanh gives Reggie’s arm a yank, and Reggie gives in, to prevent her from drawing any more attention our way. “Oh, okay, fine.”

  I smash myself right up against the machine and stick my hand in the opening at the bottom, scrabbling around at nothing, hoping it looks like I’m just trying to reach that one last box and praying Dad doesn’t decide to come over to buy some Pocky, himself.

  But no one comes over. They follow the receptionist down the hallway to their party room, and I stand up and start breathing again. “So he said your last name, but was that really your dad?” Hanh asks, her voice low.

  “I don’t know. I was afraid to look. It sure sounded like him.”

  Reggie appears from around the corner and waves frantically. “They’ve gone in. Quick, hurry before they send someone out for snacks!”

  I start to run, but Hanh grabs my arm. “Walk! Running draws attention! Here, pretend you’re looking at this. Then no one can see your face.” She shoves her phone in my hands and the three of us speed-walk back to our room, me with my head bent over Hanh’s phone, just in case. Once in the room, Hanh and Reggie shove Elaine and Jimmy off the bench next to the door, and I sink onto it, shaking.

  “What?” demands Elaine. “You just took our spot!”

  “Sana thinks her dad’s out there,” explains Reggie. “She needs to sit where no one can see her through the door.”

  The whole room erupts.

  “Oh, shit!”

  “You’re in troubllllle!”

  “Move farther into th
e corner!”

  Hanh sits down next to me and takes back her phone. “Here.” She opens up her photo gallery. “Wanna see the photo I just took?”

  “Ugh, you and your stupid selfies! No, I don’t want to see it. I already know what you look like.”

  “No, you idiot. God! Look.”

  Sighing, I look. “Oh.” It’s not a selfie. Clever Hanh just took a picture of the group in the lobby over her shoulder. With my dad, red-faced and bleary-eyed, right in the middle. Which is awful. But it’s not the worst part.

  “Is he in there?” I nod. “Jeezus, what a close call! We’re so lucky he didn’t see you. Which one is he?” Numbly, I point. “That guy? Huh. But who’s—” Hanh stops abruptly. She clears her throat. “Who’s that?” She points.

  I shake my head. It’s not just that I don’t know the answer. It’s that I don’t know anything—what to feel, what to think, what to say. Because Hanh is pointing to a beautiful Japanese woman hanging all over Dad’s shoulder.

  21

  IT’S NOT EVEN LIKE THE WOMAN IS DOING an Elaine-the-Leech move and he’s just patiently waiting until she detaches herself. Or like they’re good friends just chilling. Dad’s old-school, countryside Japanese. He doesn’t touch people if he can help it. The most PDA I’ve seen between him and Mom is probably a pat on the back. But now he’s got his arm snaked around this strange woman, and their laughing faces are inches apart. I can’t ignore it, can’t make up excuses, like I did with the texts. There are witnesses. Photographic evidence.

  I stare at the picture on Hanh’s phone and shake my head, as if this will make the image disappear. For the second time tonight, my heart is racing, my mouth has dried up, and I can’t breathe. For a fleeting moment I wonder why my body can’t tell the difference between being about to kiss Jamie, and finding out for sure that Dad is cheating on Mom. I feel a hand on my arm. From somewhere far away, I hear Reggie’s voice asking, “Sana, are you okay?”

  I manage a nod, but to my horror, the picture clouds up and a tear splashes onto the phone. Frantically, I wipe my eyes and then the phone, hoping no one saw what just happened. I can’t cry in front of all these people—they’ll want to know what’s wrong, and then what will I say? I look up to see Reggie and Hanh gazing anxiously at me. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” I choke, and wave them off. They look unconvinced.

  “Wanna talk about it?”

  No. I shrug and wipe away another stupid tear. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

  “Sana, come on. You’re not fine.”

  Hanh’s right, of course. I’m so not fine. But I’m in no shape to talk about it. I’m having a hard enough time just existing, just being in the world with the fact of my father and that woman together. And anyway, I’m not going to chat about my family’s awful secrets like I’m on some dumb reality TV show. Why can’t they just leave me alone? “I said I’m fine, okay?” I snap. “Just—just let it go. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  The next couple of hours go by in an excruciating slow-motion blur. At first, Reggie and Hanh keep looking at me when they think I’m not looking, and then looking at each other. But I refuse to look at them, and eventually they give up and move on. It turns out that Reggie has an amazing voice, too, and she and Elaine sing hit after pop hit to wild applause. At some point, Jimmy’s arm finds its way around Elaine’s shoulders.

  I try to look like I care about what’s going on. But it’s difficult, because the sentence “Dad is cheating” keeps repeating itself in my head like some kind of horrible mantra: Dad is cheating. Dad is cheating. Dad is cheating. Each time the truth declares itself, it feels heavier, and I have to concentrate hard to keep a smile on my face, to look like I’m floating effortlessly along with everyone in the giddiness of the karaoke room.

  Finally, finally, it’s time to leave. Jimmy has apparently asked Elaine to go to the movies with him next weekend and she’s whipped herself into a whirlwind of thoughts and feelings, which she unleashes in the van on the way to Sharon’s apartment: “Omigod, he’s so cute! And so sweet! Do you think he really likes me? Do you think I should go? What should I wear? What if my parents find out?” I let Reggie and Hanh handle Elaine and thank God for Jimmy for providing a distraction. Hopefully this will keep everyone occupied for the rest of the night, and they’ll leave me alone about Dad. I close my eyes and let the girl talk wash over me, and try try try to push away the stomach-churning image of Dad and That Woman.

  And then, thank God again, I get a text from Jamie.

  Hey, you

  Hey

  I miss u! ;-)

  :-) I miss u too

  I’m at a party but it’s hella boring. U?

  Karaoke . . . My dad showed up w his gf

  WTF! Holy shit! Did he see u?

  No

  Wanna talk?

  Nah. Maybe tomorrow

  U sure?

  Ya

  I’m so sorry about your dad

  But I’m so happy about us.

  Can’t stop thinking about u.

  . . .

  ttyl . . .

  I close my eyes, and it’s hard work but I hold the text in my mind, and slowly I start to re-feel Jamie’s lips on mine, remember how her body felt, how her hair smelled. I remember her eyes, how I felt like I could see into her soul, and the tenderness I saw there. By the time we arrive at the apartment, I’m almost smiling. When Hanh shakes me gently and says, “Wake up, Sana, we’re here,” I play along, figuring it will give me a good excuse to burrow right under the covers once we’re inside, and escape any inconvenient turns in conversation.

  “So, Sana, we have to talk about last night.”

  Damn. Shoulda known. “What?”

  Reggie and I are at the Starbucks around the corner from Sharon’s apartment, picking up coffee and pastries to take back for everyone. Sharon, being on a ridiculous diet to get even super-skinnier for her wedding, has nothing but kale and lemons in her fridge, and nasty protein bars in her cupboards.

  “Well, let’s just start with the dance,” she says. I head for the door, but Reggie plants herself at a table and stares at me until I go back and sit down next to her.

  “Okay, what?”

  “So . . .” Reggie stirs her pumpkin-spice latte and regards it with intense interest, like maybe she thinks she sees the face of Elvis in the foam.

  “What?”

  Reggie snaps the top back on, takes a fortifying sip, and says, “So did you know that there’ve been rumors going around about Jamie? That she’s a lesbian?”

  “Oh. Um, no, I hadn’t heard.” I start examining my own latte for Elvis’s face.

  “Yeah. Janet says that she heard from her cousin in Palo Alto (What’s with people and their freaking cousins all over the place?) that Jamie hooked up with some girl at this Stanford track-and-field camp she went to last summer. Like, Janet’s cousin was at the camp, too, and she says that Jamie had a roommate and they like, ended up being more than roommates. If you know what I mean.”

  Oh. Yes, I suppose I do.

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  Reggie looks away, then directly at me. She sort of gathers herself and says, “So Janet says that you and Jamie are all, like, buddy-buddy all the time. Like you sit together on the bus, and she hangs out at your house after practice. Which is like, you know, totally whatever, right? Except then you like, kept staring at Jamie last night, you know?” I work on balancing the tiny bags of scones and muffins on top of Elaine’s and Hanh’s drinks so I don’t have to look at Reggie. “And then you went MIA for like, half an hour and you came back with Jamie all giggly and stuff, and, well . . .” She shrugs helplessly. “It just . . . it just seems like you might be, you know . . .”

  “I might be what?” Which is a stupid thing to say, but some part of me is still desperately clinging to the hope that maybe she’ll say something I can truthfully deny, like, “. . . an alien.”

  “ . . . a lesbian,” Reggie says. “You know, like, with Jamie.”

/>   Ka-pow.

  “What—no! I—I mean, it’s not like—aaack!” My coffee-scone-muffin tower topples, and as I grab for the pastries, I knock over my own drink and the table is flooded by a grande-size deluge of nonfat vanilla latte. As I scramble for napkins, I’m grateful that the next couple of minutes will be devoted to cleaning up my mess and not discussing my love life. Or Dad’s, for that matter.

  “It’s totally cool if you are, you know.”

  Man, this girl does not give up. I don’t know what to do. Admit the truth? Flat-out lie? Something in between?

  The best I can come up with is, “If I said I wasn’t, would you believe me?” Ugh.

  Reggie smiles. “Probably not.”

  We toss the soggy napkins in the trash, apologize repeatedly to the poor guy who’s left mopping the rest up, and make our way out of Starbucks and back around the corner to the apartment complex in silence.

  We turn left down the walkway to the building and Reggie reaches into her bag for the keys, then stops dead and demands, “So? Are you and Jamie a thing?” I think about kissing Jamie last night, how magical it felt, and how I can’t wait to see her again. I can’t help it. I smile. “I knew it!” cries Reggie triumphantly. I mean, she’s practically bursting with triumph. It’s coming out her ears. How long has she suspected? “Sana, this is epic! I’m so happy for you!” And she throws her arms around me, almost spilling the rest of the coffee in the process.

  Wow. “Epic” was not the reaction I was expecting. I could cry with relief—in fact, I have to struggle not to. Reggie releases me and unlocks the door, and on our way up the stairs to the apartment, she says, “We have to tell Elaine and Hanh.” I don’t want to, but she is firm. “No point putting it off,” she says. “It’s best to be honest, especially about love—you have to have someone to talk to about it, right? Anyway, you’re one of us now. No secrets.”

  Elaine and Hanh are slightly less prepared for the news than Reggie. Both of their mouths actually fall open and they sit there gaping like two beanbag-toss targets for a few seconds that feel like an eternity. Elaine is the first to speak.