Where I Live

by Brenda Rufener

  I push the doors and breathe in fresh mountain air, side-scoop my hair, and wait for Seung to park his car beneath the awning. He’s driving extra slow due to weather conditions. A slight breeze, light drizzle. That’s Seung. King of Safety.

  The delay gives me thirty seconds to catch my breath. I shut my eyes right there in the doorway. All this waiting, listening, hiding. In such a short time, it’s become a part of me, who I am.

  Linden. Stay in the closet. Nobody hurts you when they don’t know you exist.

  Yes, Mama.

  I snap open my eyes. The drop-drop-splat of rain taps the tin roof. I squeeze my eyes shut again and force a fresh image, with less hurt, more victory. I muster up a picture of Seung pulling up in a decade-old limo, picking me up for a dance. He reaches for the door, but I bump him out of the way and open it myself. He tells me I look beautiful, and of course, I agree. My hair’s blown out and my lips are lined in pink. My body’s wrapped in a snug-fit dress and I’m moving, comfortably, like water, not struggling to breathe.

  These thoughts nourish me, push me forward on shitty days. Hope stops my arms from tossing in the towel and giving up. Hope keeps the smile on my face even after a cold night’s sleep. Hope refuses to let me surrender.

  “Hey, asshole. What’d you forget?” Ham’s affectionate greeting jolts me back where I belong. Right here, in reality.

  Chapter Four

  “I AM LOVING THIS MEAT, Mrs. Rhee,” Ham says at dinner. “Will you pass me the potatoes?”

  Seung slides a bowl of mashed potatoes to Ham and waves away the plate of roast his mother pushes at him. “I’m vegetarian, Mom. Remember?”

  Seung’s mom smiles and says, “Please. Please. Eat all you want, kids.”

  Mrs. Rhee is as warm as melted butter and not in a margarine sort of way. Her kindness is genuine. Nothing fake. Not even her blond hair or sunshine-kissed skin. She looks like I imagine a southern belle should look, minus the accent and the fact that she’s from somewhere deep in the south of California. Huntington Beach, I think.

  Mr. Rhee stands and excuses himself to the kitchen. On his way he says, “More tea, hon?” Mrs. Rhee smiles and nods and holds her cup in the air. When she twists around in her chair, her hair falls in her face and Mr. Rhee sweeps it back over her shoulder. He grabs the cup from her hand and mouths a kiss. Mr. Rhee has mad doting skills. I soak up so much when I observe their relationship. It’s the kind I want in my own life.

  Whenever I talk to Seung about his parents, he groans or rolls his eyes. “Why do you care how my mom and dad met?” he asks. He’s told me a half dozen times and I never tire hearing their story. High school sweethearts who loved at first sight. Is that even possible? But they seem to really know each other, without gaps and holes in history. They have a past that links back to when they were kids. They know each other without doubts.

  Mr. Rhee returns from the kitchen and puts the teacup back on the table. He leans in and kisses his wife’s cheek, which almost makes me blush.

  “Get a room, you two.” Ham giggles. Nobody else laughs.

  Instead, Seung aims a balled-up napkin at Ham’s head. It lands in a puddle of gravy on his plate. Ham flicks the paper from his potatoes and dives in for a scoop.

  I’m the only one watching Seung’s parents. The only one who sees Mr. Rhee wink at Mrs. Rhee, then motion with his head toward the kitchen. Now I’m sure I blush.

  “Want to watch Donnie Brasco?” Seung says. I fork two bites of potatoes before I realize he’s talking to me.

  “Oh, uh, what time is it?”

  “I don’t know. You have somewhere else to be?”

  “Home by ten if possible. Ten thirty and I risk being beaten.” Again, the partial-truth insert. Seung is thinking beaten by a stick; I am thinking beaten by the clock.

  Seung bites his lip and points his fork at my face. “Are you serious, Linden?” His forehead wrinkles with worry.

  “As heart disease,” I say, forcing a chuckle. Sometimes I’m all margarine, and I hate the taste.

  Seung sets his silverware on the table. “I’ll drop you off at nine fifty-five. You won’t be late. I promise.”

  The first half of the summer Seung didn’t drive, but now he drives everywhere. Pre-license and carless, our trio walked all over this four-mile-wide town. One of the reasons I chose to stay here was because of the small size. Ham’s house sits at one end of town, Seung’s at the other. Our high school is planted in the middle, which makes our dwellings equidistant and my map optimally designed. But now that Seung insists on driving those four miles, I have to be quick on my feet.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “I love walking at night.” I am on a roll tonight with my half truths. “If I leave at nine thirty, I’ll be home in plenty of time. And after your mom’s meat and potatoes, I could really use the exercise.”

  Ham erupts with laughter. “Please, Linden. You’re as thin as paper. If you turn sideways . . .”

  I snatch my plate and start for the kitchen. Seung yells, “No!” and I turn around.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “Do not go in there,” Ham says, pointing at the kitchen door. “When a late-eighties indie band’s a-playin’, Seung’s parents’ hips start swayin’, and when the hips begin to rock, Mr. Rhee whips out his—”

  “Now’s a good time to shut the hell up,” Seung says, cutting off Ham in midrap. Seung’s cheeks are red, but I can’t tell if the annoyance is directed at his parents or Ham’s feeble attempt at spitting rhyme. I push my plate on the table and decide to find out what’s bothering Seung.

  “You okay?” I ask, turning toward him. “Is something or someone bugging you?”

  Seung pushes his back into the chair, bending his arms behind his head and rolling his eyes.

  “That,” I say, air jabbing my finger at Seung. “Right there. The eye roll. You’re doing it more than usual.”

  Seung purses his lips together and stuffs his hands into his armpits. Clearly he’s not talking. But Ham will. He always does.

  “Nothing’s wrong with me,” Ham says. “But everything’s wrong with Seung. The whole world is crashing upon his shoulders. Boo-hoo. Life’s so unfair.”

  “Shut up!” Seung snaps.

  “Careful,” Ham whispers. “Your stress is oozing all over me.”

  Seung stands and points at Ham. “I am not stressed.”

  Ham stands and points back at Seung. “Buddy, I’m afraid you are. For those reasons you told me.”

  Seung scoffs and snatches his plate. He hits the kitchen door so hard, it swings back and bangs against the wall. Mr. Rhee stumbles on his words, “Oh, hey, kid, uh, we can clean that up,” and Seung shouts, “Get a freaking room!”

  I turn to Ham, now back at his plate about to tackle Mount Mashed Potatoes. “Stressed, huh?”

  Ham reaches for another dinner roll, and I’m reminded to sneak two into my pocket before I leave. I hate stealing food from friends, but I also hate when my stomach growls attract attention. I figure if I ask Seung, or his parents, for two dinner rolls, fresh carrots, or extra cookies for the road, they will say yes. They always do. So I don’t ask, but I don’t steal, either. I borrow from friends and always pay back my debt. I keep track of what I take in a notebook stashed inside my backpack. Tonight I will log two dinner rolls and tomorrow I will help Seung with two trigonometry questions, or maybe yell at Toby twice. Once for pushing Seung in the hall, once for calling him a racial slur. Maybe I’ll yell once at Toby and help Seung with one math problem. Either way, debt paid. I believe in owing no one anything. It’s one of the reasons I live on my own. I owe the state zilch, and as a result, they have no control over where I live. It’s all about freedom. And what my mother wanted for me.

  “Seung’s wigged out over the SAT,” Ham says. “Too much pressure on getting into his dad’s alma mater.”

  “Duke?” I drop into the chair and rub my forehead with my knuckle. My head shakes madly, “No. No way. Seung’s going to Willamette with
me. With us.”

  “Linden, you’re high,” Ham says. “You might be going to Willamette, but I’ll be shit-kicking it with cowboys at some state school. Duke’s Mr. Rhee’s alma mater, so it’s technically Seung’s destiny.”

  I grab handfuls of my hair and tug. “This is the first time I’m hearing about Duke. Why am I hearing this now? Why didn’t someone mention this last month, last year?” I hit my hand on the table and the dishes clank. “What will become of our triangle, Ham? We stay together or the Triangle—me, you, Seung—falls apart.”

  Ham stares; his brow lifts.

  I continue to rant. “So I’ll help you study, Ham. You will get into Willamette. I will talk to Seung or Mr. Rhee or the goddamn president if I have to. We stay together. You don’t just eliminate one side from our triangle because a parent says you’re going to college a million miles away. You don’t do that, Ham. You don’t take away sides. Our triangle stays intact. There are no two-sided shapes!”

  Ham tilts his head, eyes wide and mouth gaping, but only to breathe. He finally shakes off my words and says, “How am I going to get into Willamette without smart-kid classes, Linden? I’m not like you or Seung or Kristen or Jarrell.”

  “No. You’re better!” I shout. “You’re Ham, dammit. You do things. Tons of things. We just need to get creative and fluff up your application, like I’m doing with mine. Besides, your parents are rich. That’s got to account for something.”

  “Mob-movie buffs and overstuffed C students don’t exactly hook colleges, Linden. Your expectations are out of whack.”

  “What about the school newspaper? Who got you and Seung jobs at the paper? Thank you very much.” I curtsy and push a smile.

  “It’s the school blog, Linden. And job is a bit of a stretch. It’s not a job unless you’re paid.”

  I pat Ham’s back. “When I’m through with your college application, Ham, you will look like the lead photographer for the the Times of London. Seriously, the school blog is our ticket to a better life. It’s the fast train to success. And it’s all I fucking have.”

  Ham rubs his eye with his knuckle and half smiles. I can tell he’s trying, hard, to believe me. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and teeters in his chair. “Well, I was thinking of joining drama.”

  I snap my fingers. “Now you’re thinking. It’s all about extracurriculars.”

  Ham drops his head to the side and moans. “There’s just so much more to Ham than we can put on paper. So much about Ham nobody knows.”

  “The royal we, Ham. Really?”

  Ham winks and reaches for my hand. “While you’re working all kinds of magic, Linden, how about finding me my one true love?”

  My eyes widen and Ham grins, all teeth.

  “You’re my best friend, Linden,” he says. “Well, one of. But Seung’s stressed, and stress turns him into an asshole.”

  On cue Seung swings the kitchen door open and announces that we will reconvene in the underbuilding. He means basement. Ham declared we rename the basement like we did Seung’s car, but his muse failed to create anything beyond man cave. I, of course, vetoed Ham’s suggestion. I am not a man, and as far as chest hair goes, neither are Seung and Ham.

  Seung stomps toward the stairs, and Ham and I follow like the obedient children we are on occasion.

  “Donnie Brasco?” Ham asks, and hits the button on the television. No sense in arguing we watch something else. All films must pass a three-theme litmus test before they’re shown on the screen in Seung’s underbuilding: friendship, devotion, and heavy-cream tomato sauces. The television remote has been missing for weeks, so we take turns getting up and manually operating the channels and volume.

  I nod, Seung grunts. “I have a hard time watching Johnny Depp in any role now that he’s been openly accused of hitting a girl.”

  “Agreed,” I say. “He repulses me.”

  Ham opens the movie cupboard and runs his fingers up and down the shelves, humming an unrecognizable tune. “Got it,” he says and slides another mob movie into the archaic DVD player.

  I kick my shoes off and nestle into my usual corner of the sectional couch. We have reserved seating and never cross each other’s boundaries. I snuggle in one corner while Seung sprawls across the center section. Once in a while our heads meet on the same pillow, but tonight is different. Nobody’s talking. College and SAT pressures must be tormenting Seung, because two cushions divide us.

  Ham relaxes in his usual manner. On his back, legs draped up and over the couch. Most nights he watches the entire movie upside down with his hair stick straight and his shirt riding up his chest. “Perspective” is what Ham says his movie-watching position offers.

  Normally Seung sets his phone alarm. And normally Seung remembers without my asking. But tonight I’m distracted by the thought of leaving this town without my friends-slash-family. Seung, going off to college across country. Ham, not sticking to our plan. I’m also preoccupied by Seung’s breathing. Within thirty minutes he’s asleep and I watch more of Seung than the movie.

  The last thing I remember is Bugsy saying, “You thought you could steal from me?” Then I’m asleep, too. So asleep that I don’t hear Ham stomp upstairs when the movie ends or realize Seung’s head has joined mine on the pillow. What wakes me is his hand on my forearm and fingertips grazing my side.

  I jump to my feet, rubbing one eye into focus. I know it’s late because the basement assumes a familiar gray hue from the streetlight. It’s the lighting that tells me, Linden, you are so screwed.

  Here’s me, losing my shit. Quite literally.

  I pat the floor for my jacket. If I don’t get back to school by the ten-thirty security check, I am cold Linden, aching Linden, royally fucked Linden.

  Seung rolls over and sighs. His partially open lips puff when he exhales and make me stop and stare for two seconds longer than I should. Every moment counts. In a perfect world, I wouldn’t have to react and rush and run. I could give in to wants once in a while, rather than needs. Maybe even respond to Seung and his arm grazing.

  I find my jacket behind the couch, sling it over my shoulder, slip into my shoes, and run upstairs. I think about the rolls I planned to not-steal when I pass the dining room, but I can’t risk waking Mr. and Mrs. Rhee. I’ll have to risk the stomach growls during class. I tiptoe to the front door, twist the lock to make sure it’s secure, and squeeze it shut without a sound. Of course I remember my phone as soon as the screen closes, which means I have no idea what time it actually is. All I know for sure is it’s late and I better move ass, quick.

  I sprint down Seung’s street, looking for time cues. If Mr. O’Leary’s car is parked in his driveway, I will know it’s after 11:30. Mr. O’Leary closes the drugstore he manages at 11:15, drives straight home, flips the TV on, and kicks back in a cat-hair-covered recliner with a can of beer and a bag of pork rinds promptly at 11:35. He never misses The Tonight Show. He never skips his beer. And I never overlook the details behind that large open window.

  When I near the third block north of Seung’s house, I notice that Mr. O’Leary’s Buick isn’t there. Victory Number One.

  I keep running, ignoring the side ache pinching my ribs. A car slows at the stop sign, so I dodge into a clump of tumbleweeds piled against a retaining wall—and immediately regret my decision. Thorns poke my pants, but I force myself to freeze. The car creeps slower than it should, and I hope to the gods my jacket blends in with the cinder blocks. If I’m caught after curfew, I will be forced to call my parents . . . which is fine if you have parents.

  After my third city-curfew infraction, the deputy grew wise to my lame excuses. The first time, I told the police my stepdad was at a casino one state over. The second time, I informed them he was passed out drunk and wouldn’t answer the phone. The third time, I insisted he was away on a long-haul truck drive, somewhere in remote Nevada where cell phone service was nonexistent. A fourth time will push the limit. Deputy Boggs is really not as gullible as he looks.

  Th
e car passes by, turns, and drives out of sight. I draw a deep breath and dig my foot into the dirt for takeoff. It hits something hard, sharp. A broken railroad tie. Perfect for wedging into doorways, stronger than wood. I slip it into my pocket and sprint across the street. Another mile and a half and I’m home. I turn the corner at the last intersection and face the highway. Only eight hundred feet of pavement and heavy traffic (three to four cars) and then I’m on back roads. It sounds safe, the whole three to four cars, but if one is a patrol car, which is usually the case, I’m screwed.

  I look across the street and my stomach drops. The Dairy Queen is dark. It closes at 10:00 and the assistant manager turns the lights off by 10:25. So much for Victory Number Two.

  But I have to take a chance. As Ham always says, with reference to his mob movie obsession, Joseph Pistone (a.k.a. Donnie Brasco) lived to take chances. I can’t run a five-minute mile, but if I sprint the highway at full speed, I’ll at least avoid police attention. On the positive side, it’s not Saturday night. That’s when high school seniors cruise the main drag in search of directions to keg parties bunkered in the hills. I breathe through my nose and wait for the start-pistol to fire in my head.

  And I’m off.

  My rhythm is fast. My stride loosens with each step. It’s amazing how adrenaline transforms you into a bona fide runner. But within fifty feet of my finish line, a loud horn wails, and I hear, “Hey, Linden! Linden!” Shit. It’s Seung and Ham and failed Victory Number Three.

  Seung’s hand-me-down, decade-old gold Volvo, which goes by the name of Gold Nugget, inches beside me. Ham rolls the window down and says, “What the hell, Linden? A little early for school.”

  I stare at the track, then the baseball field. I’ll be sleeping in the dugout tonight.

  What do I say? Why am I at the back of the school at this hour of night? My friends think I live on the other side of the building, over a mile away.

  “I can’t find my phone,” I snap, ready to insert the partial truth. “Thought I left it in the newsroom. Hoping security hasn’t locked the doors yet.”