Afterparties

by Anthony Veasna So

  The afternoon when practice resumed, Justin bought us bean-and-cheese burritos, and even splurged on a forty-four-ounce mango Slurpee that we all passed around. He didn’t mention Superking Son the entire school day. His attitude struck us as weird, but we would never turn down free food. We hadn’t received a break since Kyle’s half sister’s other half brother was promoted to assistant store manager at the nice Walmart. (Every Cambo in the hood had enjoyed the hookup, with a 10 percent discount and extra food samples, until the dude got himself fired for hooking up with his girlfriend in the bathroom.)

  Stretching and warm-up went as smooth as ever, in the sense that Superking Son was typically late and not present. Justin offered to lead us through some drills. At first, we were hesitant. “It’ll be chill,” he said, too eager in his voice to sell us on the “chill” factor. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

  And, obviously, the worst did happen. Okay, maybe not the worst; regardless, shit went down when Superking Son walked in, looked up from his text messages, and found himself amidst a shuttlecock tornado, before getting whacked in the head, with a racket, by a clueless freshman. “What the fucking shit is going on here?” he yelled, after grabbing the freshman’s racket and throwing it to the ground. In response, Justin began cracking up—either hysterically or fake hysterically. He hunched over, his arms wrapped across his stomach. “You wanna start something, don’t you?” Superking Son said, pointing at Justin. “You’re trying to get me all riled up.”

  “Good job, Einstein, you totally found me!” Everyone turned toward Justin. He was walking through the players, stepping on fallen birdies along the way. “I challenge you to a match,” he now said, stopping in front of our coach.

  Reactions of confusion and doubt ran through the team, while Ken suddenly gasped for air. (Which was probably that smoker’s lung he was developing.)

  “You’re serious?” Superking Son said, imparting to his words as much condescension as possible. Though it hardly mattered, as Justin’s posture was completely upright to emphasize his height.

  “Yeah, and if I win,” Justin said, “you gotta make me rank 1.”

  Superking Son bellowed an unsettling laugh. “What’s gonna happen when you lose?”

  “Then I’ll quit,” Justin said. “As simple as that. You won’t have to deal with me undermining your whole I’m-the-coach-and-I-demand-respect routine.”

  “That’s boring,” Superking Son scoffed.

  “Fine,” Justin said, “if I lose, I’ll serve as designated birdie collector for every practice and meet.” Our own ears perked up at this proposal—cleaning up the mess of white feathering nubs was easily the worst thing about competitive badminton. “And I’ll shut the fuck up and stay at rank 3.”

  Superking Son yanked the racket out of Kyle’s hands. “Deal, you stupid shit.”

  We crowded around the centermost court, the only spot that was well lit by the crappy lights. Superking Son offered Justin the first shot—saying, “Show me what you got,” as he handed over the birdie—and right as Justin served, Superking Son charged to the net. He smashed the birdie so hard it ricocheted off the ground and whacked Ken in the face, imprinting a massive red welt. Damns and Ooooohhhhhs came from the team as Ken yelled, “My face! My fucking face!”

  From the beginning, the two opponents were akin to dance partners. Superking Son lobbed the birdie, but Justin only drove it back, resulting in a grand volleying of net killings, no one scoring for what seemed like forever. Then Justin deployed a series of risky drop shots, with Superking Son, as he trained us to do, always springing forward in a powerful anticipation that Justin, like clockwork, braced himself against using that flawless gripping technique of his. And, of course, it goes without saying, whenever one of them jumped into the air for a smash, the other crouched to the floor and retrieved the thunderous strike, recovering quickly from the bruises piling up on his shins.

  The most beautiful and impressive badminton unfolded before our eyes. Their playing fed off their opponent with the intensity of two Mas trash-talking their grandchildren. Feet glided across the court, bouncing, lunging, leaping. Racket strings trembled. Birdies flew impossibly close to the net. Both were so effortless in their technique, so in tune with their own and each other’s bodies, they appeared otherworldly, steered by a godlike puppeteer. We exclaimed at every point and unthinkable save. We rooted until all the incredible smashes averaged out into the same perfect shot.

  And then our voices crapped out on us. Our tired eyes found their sheer athleticism routine. The second half of the match turned downright boring. Instead of paying attention, some of us opened our textbooks and studied. Ken lay down on the bleachers with an ice pack attached to his swollen cheek. Others busted out a deck of cards and started a round of big two. (If anything, the big two game became more riveting. Kyle squandered his ace of hearts, lost ten bucks, and completely upended his weekend plans—the bet required the loser to drive the winner’s Ma to the temple, the one in the boonies next to the bad Walmart.) Superking Son and Justin were too good. They predicted each other too well. Neither player ever gained more than a two-point lead. There was no drama, no tension or grit, no underdog who could rebound and surprise us. And when Superking Son scored that final winning shot, no one really gave a shit. Even Justin seemed apathetic.

  But Superking Son gave tons of shits. He pranced around his side of the court, ran victory laps, and stomped his feet so hard we’re pretty sure our half-deaf, half-dead, he-should-retire-but-tenure-is-cushy-and-the-pension-sucks-post-housing-crisis teacher of boring British plays and poems (it was no wonder why kids barely make it to community college) heard him from across campus. He yelled “Fuck yes!” over and over, like outplaying and defeating a high schooler was better than all the sex he’d ever had (which was probably true, given his luck with women). He shifted into the Cambo taunt mode of our elders, donning the same antagonism our moms did whenever we tried to buy new shoes not on sale, our dads whenever we prioritized our homework over the family business, our Mas and Gongs whenever they heard our shameful Khmer accents, and our siblings and cousins whenever we dared to complain about the responsibilities they had previously shouldered, about enduring what could never match what had already happened to everyone we know.

  “Who else wants a piece of me?” Superking Son yelled, beating his chest with his racket-free hand. He traversed half the gym to direct his taunts not only at Justin but also at every guy in the room. “None of you have what it takes. None!” He seemed blinded with misguided passion, the bulging veins of his fat neck pumping blood straight to his eyeballs. “Get out of my fucking face!” We felt the spit flying from his slobbering mouth and onto our skin.

  Our memories fade around the time Superking Son was challenging us to matches, even the poor freshmen on the exhibition team, pointing with his racket at kid after kid and repeating, “Come on! Show me what you got!” like a robot stuck in an infinite loop. What we remember was this: the shock of witnessing Superking Son’s inflated ego spurting all over the gym. Our bodies settling into pity. We looked at our beloved coach, an overgrown son prone to anxious, envious tantrums, who was fed up with his place and inheritance, who was perpetually made irritated, disgusted, paranoid, by his own being, and then we looked at each other. Right there in the gym, Superking Son screaming in our faces, we made the collective decision, silently, almost telepathically, that one, Superking Son was an asshole (a tragic one, but still an asshole); two, we had too many assholes in our shitty lives; and three, we didn’t have enough asswipes to deal.

  LOOK, WHAT CAN WE SAY? We were busy. We had our own responsibilities and expectations we were always on the verge of failing. And sure, there were signs. Tons of them, if we’re being honest.

  First, our Mas started complaining about the lack of fresh vegetables and fruit. Green papayas as old as their concentration-camp-surviving eyes were decaying on the shelves of the produce section. Then shadowy Cambos started rolling into the store,
not to shop for rotting papayas, that was for sure. They rushed through the aisles, sometimes with loads of packages, sometimes in the middle of the afternoon, sometimes at closing, never to be seen exiting the premises. After a while, Superking Son banned us from the back storeroom altogether. That giant bulky guy, the ex-army Cambo (the one took Kevin’s sister to prom), guarded the door behind the meat counter. Superking Son hardly ever trekked there himself, not even to play spider solitaire on his ancient HP computer.

  We’d seen it happen to Cambo businesses before. We saw it when Angkor Noodles Lady hired a cook who made soggy-ass noodles. (The old cook pulled a classic drunk dad—he went on a bender for a week. When his wife found him, he was passed out at a roulette table in Reno and had gambled away their daughter’s college fund.) Angkor Noodles Lady borrowed more and more money from the higher-up Cambos. Each month she promised to pay them back the full amount, plus whatever interest that had accrued, once her business picked up. Business never picked up (the kuy teav was that soggy and gross), and the restaurant floated on Cambo community money until Angkor Noodles Lady finally decided to ditch town. Hiding out in Bakersfield, in the guest room of her nephew’s house, she nursed a boxed-wine addiction until she died of liver complications.

  Now, Superking Son isn’t dead, don’t worry. We see him out all the time, usually at the good pho place, usually with Cha Quai Factory Son, who has been ranting about the same bad investment plan for years. (It involves mass-producing in neon party colors those weird suction cups that make Cambo moms look like they’re getting abused to people with white savior complexes.) When the store closed and Superking Son had nothing to offer the higher-up Cambos, not even his back room to use as their headquarters, his own mother saved his skin by selling her house and paying off his debts.

  We don’t know how Superking Son makes a living anymore, but sometimes, if you’re lucky, he’ll appear at an open gym. He’ll play a match or two, give some pointers on form. His lunges and smashes will strike you as impressive for someone his age, someone who probably has knee and wrist pain. Halfway through the session, he’ll leave the player queue and perch on the bleachers. He’ll watch a crew of younger Cambos play the game that, according to him, was the only thing that made him worthwhile as a person. When open gym is over, you’ll drive home, and if you’re taking Pershing Avenue to Manchester Street, you’ll pass what remains of Superking Grocery Store. And even though the building has been empty for years, gathering dust and gang signs like flies to a pile of bloody meat, even though the community has moved on to bigger and better shit, like college degrees and Costco bulk food, you’ll swear, on the graves of all those murdered Cambos, on every cupping bruise your mom self-inflicts to rid her flesh of trauma, we promise you’ll swear that the stench of raw fish, and raw everything else, never got the memo to quit and relax. Seriously, you can trust us.

  Maly, Maly, Maly

  Always they find us inappropriate, but today especially so. Here we are with nowhere to go and nothing to do, sitting in a rusty pickup truck, the one leaking oil, the one with the busted transmission that sounds like the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Here we are with the engine running for the AC, the doors wide open for our bare legs to spill out. Because this, right here, to survive the heat, this is all we have.

  An hour ago we became outcasts. One of us—not me—would not shut the fuck up. And since the grandmas are prepping for the monks and need to focus, we’ve been banished outside to choke on traces of manure blown in from the asparagus farms surrounding us, our hometown, this shitty place of boring dudes always pissing green stink.

  And according to the Mas, everything about us appears at once too masculine and too feminine: our posture—backs arching like the models in the magazines we steal; our clothes—the rips, studs, and jagged edges—none of it makes sense to them. The two of us are wrong in every direction. Though Maly, the girl cousin, strikes them as less wrong than the boy cousin, me.

  “Ma Eng can suck my dick,” Maly says, still not shutting the fuck up, her long hair rippling in the gas-tainted breeze of the vents, her blond-orange highlights dancing, or trying to, anyway. “What is up her ass? Seriously, I should have a say in this party’s fucking agenda. It’s my birthright!”

  “At least Ma Eng gives a fuck about you,” I say, my chin resting on the steering wheel. Under the truck, the cracked concrete of Ma Eng’s driveway seems to be steaming, and I swear the very dust in the air is burning, it’s so hard to breathe. We can’t even listen to the radio, you know? Can’t focus on anything but our own sweaty boredom. I look up at the harsh blue sky, how it crushes the squat duplexes of G Block. I am trying to deprive Maly of my full attention, but her vivid presence, that vortex of cheap highlights, it exhausts my energy. Plus, she’s slapping the side of my head.

  “Ves, Ves, Ves!” Maly says. “Look at me!”

  “Jesus,” I whine, batting her hand away. “I thought you ‘gave zero fucks’ about this party. Why do you care if they’re making amok or not?”

  “It’s what I want to eat, okay, and it’s my dead mom.” She violently throws her head sideways, cracking her neck. “I mean, apparently she’s not dead dead, anymore, but still . . .”

  Unsure of what to say, I clench my teeth into a lopsided smile. I can’t help but admire her looks, as I always do. Almost with pride. Maly’s got it going on, no matter how disheveled. Even today, on this random August Sunday, as we wait to celebrate the rebirth of her dead mother’s spirit in the body of our second cousin’s baby, she looks good. Her left leg’s thrown up onto the dashboard, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she started clipping her toenails. She’s in a pair of jean shorts she stole from our other cousin, who was too chunky for them anyway, and a white T-shirt cut into a tank—also stolen—which she’s stuffed down her panties so you can notice her thin waist. Hard to say if it’s intentional, the way her clothes fit, all these hand-me-downs, which is the effect she uses, I guess, to chew up guys too dumb to realize she will spit them right out.

  Through her cheap sunglasses, I see her bug eyes looking at me and past me at the same time, an expression affirming how I feel sometimes, like she’s my responsibility, like I’m a dead broom reincarnated into a human, my sole purpose to sweep away her messes—whatever Maly happens to shatter next.

  “Stop being dramatic,” I tell her, my hands tapping the steering wheel. “You know it’s all bullshit—the celebration, the monks, our third cousin or whoever the hell she is.” I’m not sure I believe what I’m saying or if I’m just trying to make Maly feel better. “It makes zero sense, right?” I add. “Like, I’m no expert, but why would your mom reappear over a decade later?”

  Maly shrugs her shoulders, indifferent now, too full of herself to entertain my attempts to console her. It reminds me of our sleepovers. Whenever my dad got stupid drunk, my mom would send me to Ma Eng’s. He was never violent in front of me, but who knows what happened between my parents when I was sleeping on Maly’s bedroom floor, especially in those years when my dad was jobless—after his restaurant failed and before he started cooking lunch for a rich-kid school—and when it became obvious I wasn’t, you know, a normal boy, that I was a girly wimp who despised sports and watched weird movies. I was a precocious freak who came out before puberty, and I was clearly doomed. It’s hard enough for people like us, my mom would say. All very cliché, in that gay sob story kind of way, but I can’t explain it any better than that. They are my immigrant parents.

  Anyway, every night of what my mom called “bonding time with grandma,” even though technically Ma Eng’s my great-aunt, Maly would nudge me awake with some fake urgent question, like was she actually pretty, or even that funny? For weeks, she obsessed over our eighth grade English teacher, how he claimed she wasn’t ready for the high school honors track and then refused to write her a letter of recommendation. Why do teachers always hate me? What if that stupid dirtbag is right? Every night I told her, You’re awesome, everyone’s a dick, and so on, only to discover t
hat she’d fallen asleep before I even stopped talking.

  I was always there for Maly, right where she wanted me, on the floor beside her bed, doling out reassurances until she sank into her dreams. Though maybe she’s getting worse these days, needier than usual. Because in less than a week, I’m heading to a four-year university in LA, while Maly’s stranded, stuck with Ma Eng for another two years, at least, as she makes do with community college.

  Maly has closed the passenger door and is now sticking her head out of the window. She leans her right hip against the door, presses her left foot onto the center console, holding herself in place for a moment, grabbing on to the truck’s roof, until she steadies herself into a stillness, like she’s posing for a famous photographer. I watch her, skeptically, as she dares to go handless, crams her fingers into her mouth, and whistles a deafening sound.

  “Get over here, bitch!” she shouts, and my limbs tense up.

  Jogging toward us now is Rithy, his arms bulging around a basketball, baggy gym shorts flopping. He looks like he always does, all brown-kid swagger. He’s the kind of guy who recites 50 Cent lyrics and loves Boyz n the Hood and 8 Mile even though he doesn’t—I suspect—get their political themes. This summer Rithy and Maly started fucking, which makes sense, as both of them have dead moms and shitty dads, but now I have to remind myself that I’ve also known Rithy forever. That he’s not just Maly’s personal plaything. Her boy toy, as she calls him.

  Maly returns to her seat and tilts her sunglasses down while licking her teeth. Rithy’s not even at the truck yet, but there it is: Lolita. Neither of us has read the book, and only I’ve seen the movie, but working at the video store, we both stare at that fading Lolita poster. Usually stoned. Stoned enough we get sucked into those heart-shaped glasses, that chick’s wild, don’t-give-a-fuck look, the crazy bravado of that tagline—HOW DID THEY EVER MAKE A MOVIE OF LOLITA?—as we burn illegal DVDs for our dipshit uncle to rent out.