Where I Live

by Brenda Rufener

  I wait in the hallway while Ham slips into his tux. He emerges from the bathroom with his chest puffed. He smiles and says, “This night belongs to us, Linden.”

  Arm in arm Ham and I step inside the dining room and the crowd erupts. Parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, Seung, and Jarrell. Cheers. Accolades. Affection. Seung waves at me with a what-the-eff face and I flash a perplexed yet bring-down-the-house grin. I mean, Seung oozes sexiness, and thanks to Ham I’m actually picturing Seung naked, at the table, in the middle of a Royse family gathering.

  Ham’s dad stands and taps his champagne glass with a tiny fork. Hurrahs hush as Mr. Royse thanks everyone for coming. Ham interrupts, saying, “Move over, asswipes,” to his male cousins, and squeezes into a chair beside Jarrell. It’s the first time I’ve seen Jarrell in anything but a well-worded tee or football jersey.

  “This is for you,” Seung says, all hot potato with the flower box. He chucks the boutonniere across the table to Ham.

  I glance around the room at the familiar faces. Grandparents smile. Cousins giggle. Aunts and uncles pat each other’s backs. Ham’s parents beam with affection for their son, their family, and the love that’s filling up the room.

  I pick up a toasting flute and tip it at my lips, then realize I sipped champagne, not cider. I smile at Ham and his big, amazing family. He sits like a stone while Jarrell pins the flower onto his lapel.

  Then I remember Ham’s date. That he actually has one. I jab Seung with a tiny spoon and he raises his eyebrow. Enough with the sexiness, Seung.

  “To my son,” Mr. Royse continues his speech.

  More relatives cheer and Ham yells, “Hear! Hear!” to himself.

  “Shall we eat?” someone says, and Ham reaches for the mashed potatoes. He’s the first to dip the spoon, but not the first to take a bite. He plops a pile of spuds onto Jarrell’s bare plate.

  I sit up straight. Squirm in my chair. Glance at Seung, who’s busy scraping the bacon off his green beans. Ham said he was nervous. The first time in his life. Am I imagining things? Drama Jarrell? But Ham hates football.

  “Thanks for the spread, Mom,” Ham says with his mouth full.

  No. Not Ham. He would have told me. In the bathroom. But his mom interrupted.

  “Yeah. Thank you, Mrs. Royse,” Seung says, and I piggyback the gratitude. Seung knuckle punches me under the table. I swear his fingers linger on my thigh. My stomach goes weak, and electric pulses shoot up my leg. I playfully jab at him with my fork, then let my finger graze his knee.

  We scarf dinner like it’s our last meal, and it could quite possibly be mine until tomorrow evening, unless I count the pack of fruit snacks I found as breakfast. I grab a second roll from a platter passing by and tuck it into my napkin.

  “Do you think you’ll win tonight, Franklin?” Mr. Royse asks.

  Ham’s mouth is crammed with pineapple-glazed ham, but it doesn’t stop him from saying, “Win? As in football? Sorry, Jarrell, but who the hell cares? You know I hate football, Dad.”

  Ham’s hardly acting nervous now. Is he trying to impress Jarrell?

  Ham’s dad nods. “No. You’ve never been much into sports.” He turns toward Seung. “How about you, Seung? You a football buff?”

  Seung wipes his lips with his cloth napkin. “No, sir. I’m not really into sports I can’t play online. Sorry, Jarrell.”

  Jarrell laughs and picks a crumb from Ham’s cheek. Am I the only one watching a budding romance unfold? I glance at Seung again, but he’s back to babying his green beans.

  “When Franklin was little, he and Seung used to pretend they were brothers. Told everyone they were family.” Ham’s ears perk at his mom’s nostalgic biography. “They’ve always had so much in common, those two boys.”

  “Still do,” I say, and Mrs. Royse sits up and begs for more tales about her son. “Ham, I mean Franklin, and Seung, are really into mob movies,” I say. “You know, the Mafia? They spend hours critiquing mob movies together. Are you into mob movies, Jarrell?”

  Jarrell gulps his milk and says, “Nope. Too much violence.”

  Ham looks like someone slapped his face. I hold my breath for Jarrell. Nobody insults Ham’s mob movies, even if unintentionally.

  Ham dabs at the corners of his mouth before unleashing on Jarrell. “Excuse me. You play football. Could there be any more violence?”

  Jarrell smiles and says, “And you don’t play.” He drops his chin and I swear he’s giving Ham puppy-dog eyes. I squint. Are those puppy eyes?

  Ham scoffs and says flatly, “We should go.”

  “Yes. Go.” Seung scoots his chair back. “Wouldn’t want to miss a minute of that real-life game.”

  The sarcasm in Seung’s voice is obvious, but I don’t have time to joke back. Instead, I decide to turn on my journalism skills and confirm what I think I already know.

  “I hear there’s a possibility of two homecoming kings this year.” I wait for Ham’s ears to perk like his corgis’, but he’s busy putting Jarrell in a headlock.

  Mr. Royse pops his head over my shoulder. “That’s wonderful, Linden. Especially for a town trapped in a time warp.”

  I nod and Mrs. Royse interrupts. “Let’s snap photos by the fireplace before the kids leave.”

  Seung wedges between Ham and Jarrell like a third wheel, straightening Ham’s floral bow tie. Jarrell picks lint from Ham’s tuxedoed chest, and Seung sweeps Ham’s shoulders with his hand. They’re a pack of grooming birds.

  We file into the living room, white from mantel to carpet. I plop into a silvery velvet chair and absorb the only color in the room. All eyes are on the boys, including mine.

  “Linden, get in there!” Mr. Royse shouts.

  I spring to my feet and link arms with the boys. We smile big for the five million cameras.

  Ham steers Jarrell toward the chair I was sitting in, pushing at his chest until he falls onto the seat. “Take one of the Triangle, Mom. Sorry, Jarrell.”

  We link arms. Me in the middle. My eyes sting for a moment, all this family and friendship. It’s hard to breathe when you’re smothered by love. I squeeze my arms, drawing Ham and Seung closer to my sides. I want to hold them tight, never let them go. Neither knows it, perhaps never will, but they’ve supported me like a buttress, held me up when I neared collapse. Seung’s more than a crush and Ham’s more than a best friend. They’ve given me hope in spite of the darkness. They’re my brightest stars, shining even when the lights go out.

  “Now a couple pictures of Jarrell and me,” Ham says, shoving me out of the way. I mean, he pushes me so hard, I practically stumble. I shake my head, settling my sentimental thoughts, and shoot a look at Seung that says, Ham and Jarrell? He blows me a kiss. Ohmygod, pay attention, Seung. But please, blow me another kiss. First.

  “Done,” Mr. Royse says, waving his hand. “Now go. Have fun. Stay out all night.” He pats Jarrell’s back as he walks us to the door. “And good luck to you, son. Hope you and the team kick ass tonight.”

  Jarrell smiles. “Thank you again for dinner.”

  Ham waves his arms. “Yes. Good luck with the violence.”

  Jarrell ruffles Ham’s hair and Ham stiffens like a soldier.

  We exchange good-byes and fall back against the door when it shuts behind us.

  Jarrell leans against the wrought iron railing and says, “Man, your parents—”

  “Are fucking weird!” Ham blurts.

  “Love you,” I say. “Consider yourself lucky.” And even though I believe luck is made, perhaps there’s an exception to my rule. When you’re born into a loving family, shouldn’t there be a slight advantage?

  “If I don’t leave now, Coach won’t let me play,” Jarrell says.

  In unison, Ham and I snap, “Fuck Coach Jenkins.” We burst out laughing.

  Jarrell jogs toward his car and shouts, “I’ll see you at the dance.” He’s pointing at Ham while patting his chest . . . or heart? We all wave and trot off toward Gold Nugget.

  Ham c
alls shotgun and mocks my feeble attempt at pulling the ladies-first card. “When you find a lady,” he says, and winks, “let us know.”

  Seung’s mouth twitches, but words are nonexistent.

  “I’m in a freaking dress,” I say, waving my arms in protest.

  Ham shakes his head. “No go.”

  A horn beeps and Kristen rolls alongside the curb in her mom’s minivan.

  “Oh, no!” Ham shouts. “What is that lady doing here?”

  I sigh. “Remember when you made me promise I’d find your one true love?”

  Ham winces and scrunches his face. “Not who I had in mind.”

  “Well, I wasn’t sure you really had a date.”

  “She’s not my date,” Ham insists. “Not tonight. Not ever.”

  I pat Ham’s back. “I’m sorry. Truly I am.”

  Kristen rolls her window down and shouts, “I’ll follow you there!”

  I shoot a thumbs-up. It’s not like Kristen knew she was Ham’s date for the dance. I just didn’t want Ham to be alone. And I’m still not one hundred percent sure he’s with Jarrell tonight.

  I flop into the backseat of Seung’s car like a mermaid and wiggle my shoes until the borrowed heels hit the floorboard. I rummage through my backpack for sneakers and slide my feet into them like a runner at home plate, flipping my body on the side and using the hump in the backseat to dig my heels deep. I wiggle the cramp free from my toes. Ah, home.

  “Any chance you can drive slightly above the speed limit and lose Kristen?” Ham snaps.

  Seung shakes his head. “No chance.”

  Ham sighs. “Well, I’m going to need a slushie before the game.”

  Seung makes a sharp left in the direction of the convenience store. I glance in the rear window to make sure Kristen’s still behind us.

  “I am not, I repeat not, slurping a slushie in this dress.”

  Ham flips around in his seat. “I meant to tell you, Linden. You clean up well.” He punches Seung’s arm. “Doesn’t she, Seung?”

  Seung’s eyes flicker in the rearview mirror each time he steals a glance. I’ve counted eight so far.

  I fondle Seung’s grandmother’s necklace. My fingers dance along the stone petals. Everyone’s been so good to me. Mrs. Rhee, the Royses, the ladies at the nursing home. And what do I do for them? Keep secrets and steal food. I’m even lying to my friends, lying to their parents. The only real thing is my love for them all.

  I straighten the dress wrapped tight around my thighs. I shouldn’t be thinking about my past now. But that image of my mom and Mrs. Rhee sticks. Tonight I plan to live in the moment, forget my worries and uncertainties or how my future will unfold. I don’t want to think about anything but the here, the now. It’s the moments I’ve truly lived that I’ll remember. Tonight isn’t about homecoming or this beautiful damn dress. Tonight is symbolic. Just like Mrs. Rhee said. If I live in this moment, it could chisel and carve out my future. Maybe, just maybe, when the sun rises, I’ll rise, too. Out of the muck, unaffected by my past. The only way to survive the unknown, the tomorrows that haven’t arrived, is to appreciate where I am today, experience the moment, and live within it.

  Seung parks in front of the convenience store, and Ham rattles off his order like we’re at a drive-up window. Large suicide slush, three packs of M&M’s, and mints.

  “Get ’em yourself,” Seung says, climbing out of the car.

  Ham lifts a paper bag to his lap and says, “But I’m getting the elixir ready.”

  I lean over the seat and witness an oversized glass bottle emerging from Ham’s bag. “What’s that?” I ask, knowing full well what that is.

  “Why, that,” Ham says, “is Mr. Royse’s premium bottle of scotch.”

  Seung falls onto the seat with his hands. “There is no way in hell you’re drinking tonight, Ham. You know my rule.”

  “Ham is not allowed to drink in the presence of Seung Rhee,” I say on behalf of Seung, and on behalf of Seung’s Rule.

  “Ham is not allowed to drink in the presence of me,” Seung repeats, tapping his chest.

  “It’s been a year, guys,” Ham says. “A lot happens in a year. A man grows up. A man matures. A man grows hair on his chest, his balls. A boy becomes a man. Besides, that episode you’re thinking of didn’t even involve alcohol.”

  I fake gag as Kristen walks over to the car and says, “Hey, everyone.”

  Ham tucks the bottle back into the bag and kicks it under the seat. “Revenge plot, Linden, remember? No need to worry your pretty faces.” He bumps into Kristen as he climbs out of the car, leaving the door open. “I guess you’re my date, huh?” Ham winks and marches into the store.

  Kristen ignores Ham and asks if she should meet us at the dance.

  “Yeah,” I say, glancing into the store window as Ham zigzags between candy baskets. “He could be a while.”

  “I’m sure I’m needed for setup,” Kristen says, “but text me when you get there.”

  She heads toward her van, and I shout, “Why don’t you come to the game with us?”

  She stops, pivots on her heel, and marches back to the car.

  “Are you inviting me to hang out?”

  “Um. Yeah,” I say. “I think I already did.”

  Kristen grins. “I want to. I do. But I’m always needed inside for last-minute preparations.”

  “Give yourself a rest, Kristen,” Seung says, tapping his phone screen and checking the time. “Haven’t you delegated enough?”

  I smile at Kristen. “He’s right. Have fun! You deserve it, especially tonight.”

  Kristen shifts her hips once, twice. “You’re right.” She snaps her fingers.

  “Time to enjoy your hard work.” I smile and glance over at Ham, who is now juggling mints.

  Kristen skips toward the van, shouting, “I’ll find you at the game! I promise!”

  When she drives off, Seung says, “You and Kristen are becoming close?”

  “Yeah. Might be nice to have another girl around.”

  We watch Ham through the glass as he meanders up and down the four store aisles. He lingers at the slushie machine, working his cup like a potter at the wheel, oscillating back and forth, crafting the perfect swirl. Once he’s added every available flavor, he smiles at his cup and scoops some slush from the spoon-straw. He pours the icy mess into his mouth and flashes us a grin. We wave.

  “Did you notice Ham and Jarrell?” I ask.

  “He did say he was making new friends.”

  Headlights beam from behind the car as I’m about to scold Seung for his inability to detect details. The blinding glare and sound of a revving engine sink my stomach. I lean forward, over the seat, but I can’t reach Ham’s door quick enough to shut it. The truck bumper hits the door and bends it backward until the hinges creak.

  “What the hell?” Seung shouts.

  Toby climbs out of his truck like a monkey, first hopping onto the step and swinging off the mirror. He’s parked so close, he has to circle around the back of his truck to get to the store.

  “Watch where you fucking park!” T.P. shouts at Seung, although he’s looking at me. Hey, Asswipe. I’m not the one behind the wheel.

  I slink lower in my seat when I hear the soprano giggles of Bea and Beth. They scurry toward the door, Beth’s hand against Bea’s back. They pause in front of Gold Nugget and Bea whispers something to Beth. They both wave, at Seung, not me. Seung nods and my stomach sinks a second time.

  Toby whips around, probably making sure his concubines are in tow. He points two fingers in our direction until he reaches the store doors.

  “He wants us to know he’s watching,” I say. “He’s sending a message.”

  “Yeah,” Seung says. “And the message reads, ‘I’m Toby Patters. Town’s colossal asswipe.’”

  Ham walks to the counter, taking his own sweet time. His head bobs when he moves, while he looks for Bea. His obsession since ninth grade. Her hair. Her clothes. Her flawless skin. But I wonder if it’s
Toby he’s really searching for.

  Ham backs away from the counter when Bea flounces from the aisle. Ham says something, Bea says something back. Beth joins the duo, then Toby walks up and they form a square. Ham jabs T.P.’s chest and I hold my breath. Then he patty-cakes Toby’s triceps and laughs. There’s a whole lot of patting and laughing and turning and jabbing.

  “Shouldn’t Toby be at the game?” I ask.

  “Suspended for fighting,” Seung says.

  “So he has nothing to lose tonight,” I mumble, biting my lip, wishing I had more details surrounding Ham’s revenge plot.

  We stare at the window. It’s impossible not to be bothered by Toby’s towering trunk shading Ham’s stumpy one.

  On cue, Ham shoots his thumb toward the car, and my nerves settle.

  “What could they possibly be talking about?” Seung asks.

  “This is the closest Ham’s been to Toby in years,” I say.

  Ham steps to the counter with his slushie, candy, and five packs of mints. He holds up a finger to the cashier and jogs to the back of the store, returning with several rolls of duct tape.

  “I’m extremely concerned about Ham’s revenge plot. You?”

  Seung scrunches his nose and hugs the steering wheel for a closer look.

  Bea dumps her gum and soda on the counter and Toby pushes a dozen meat sticks at the cashier. Ham pays for everything and they walk out of the store together, looking chummier than they should. Ham shouts something to Toby and jogs over to the car. He reaches beneath the seat and grabs his duffel bag and his dad’s scotch.

  “Ham, explain yourself,” I say.

  He digs into the duffel and I spy a roll of twine and what appears to be hair dye—orange.

  “All part of the plan, Linden.” Ham stuffs the booze into the duffel bag.

  “Not good,” I say. “Not a good idea for Ham.” I whack Seung’s chest. “Tell him this isn’t a good idea.”

  Toby revs his engine and shouts, “You got the booze, or what?”

  Ham hikes his bag over his shoulder and says, “I’ll be drinking with my new friend tonight.” He winks and races for the truck, which suddenly looks like the most monstrous of monster trucks I’ve ever seen.