by Nicola Yoon
“Stop doing that,” she says.
“What?”
“Staring at me.”
“Okay,” I say. I unearth my egg and see that it’s cooked perfectly to a soft boil. “Let’s eat them together,” I tell her. “It’s the best part.”
She scoops hers out, and now we’re both sitting there egg in spoon, spoon in hand.
“On three. One. Two. Three.”
We pop the eggs into our mouths. I watch as her eyes widen. I know the moment the yolk bursts in her mouth. She closes her eyes like this is the most delicious thing she’s ever tasted. She said not to stare but I’m staring. I love the way she seems to feel things with her entire body. I wonder why a girl who is so obviously passionate is so adamantly against passion.
LEARN HOW TO USE CHOPSTICKS.
Teach girlfriend how to use chopsticks.
My son, he did the same thing. He date white girl. My husband? He don’t accept it. At first, I agree with him. We don’t speak to our son for a year after he told us. I thought: We don’t talk to him. Make him see reason, come to senses.
We don’t talk and I miss him. I miss my little boy and his American jokes and the way he pinch my cheeks and tell me I’m the prettiest of all the ommas. My son, who was never embarrassed of me when all the other boys get too American.
We don’t talk to him for over a year. Finally when he call I think this is it. He finally understand. White girl will never understand us, never be Korean. But only call to say he’s getting married. He wants us to come to wedding. I hear in his voice how much he loves her. I hear how he loves her more than me. I hear that if I don’t go to his wedding, I will lose my only son. My only son, who loves me.
But Daddy say no. My son begged us to come and I say no until he stop begging.
He got married. I saw pictures on the Facebook.
They have first son. I saw pictures on the Facebook.
They have another child. A girl this time.
My sohn-jah, and I only know them from computer.
Now when these boys come in here with these girls who don’t look like their ommas, I get angry. This country try to take everything from you. Your language, your food, your children.
Learn how to use chopsticks.
This country can’t have everything.
JUST UNDER TWO HOURS to go before my appointment, and Daniel really wants to go to norebang, which is the Korean word for karaoke. Karaoke is itself the Japanese word for embarrassing oneself by singing in front of a room filled with strangers who are only there to laugh at you.
“It’s not like the American version,” he insists when I balk. “This is much more civilized.”
By civilized, he means that you embarrass yourself in a small, private room in front of only your friends instead. His favorite norebang place is coincidentally right next door to where we’ve just had lunch. It’s owned and operated by the same people, so we don’t even have to go outside because there’s an entrance inside the restaurant.
Daniel chooses one of the smallest rooms, but it’s still big. They’re clearly meant to accommodate parties of six or eight instead of just two. The room is dimly lit, and plush red leather couches line most of the perimeter. A large square coffee table sits just in front of the couches. On it there’s a microphone, a complicated-looking remote, and a thick book that has Song Menu written on the cover in three languages. Next to the door there’s a large TV where the lyrics will appear. A disco ball hangs from the ceiling.
Bev would love this place. First, she has kind of an obsession with disco balls. She has four hanging from the ceiling of her room and a disco ball lamp/clock contraption. Second, she’s got a great voice and will take any excuse to use it in front of groups of people. I check my phone for more texts from her, but there’s nothing. She’s just busy, I tell myself. She hasn’t forgotten about me already. I’m still here.
Daniel closes the door. “I can’t believe you’ve never been to norebang,” he says.
“Shocking, I know,” I say back.
With the door closed, the room feels small and intimate.
He gives me a look like he’s thinking the same thing.
“Let’s get some dessert,” he says, and presses a button on the wall for service. The same waitress from the restaurant appears to take our order. She doesn’t bother to look at me. Daniel orders us patbingsoo, which turns out to be shaved ice with fruit, small, soft rice cakes, and sweet red beans.
“Like it?” he asks. It’s important to him that I do.
I finish it in six spoonfuls. What’s not to like? It’s sweet and cold and delicious.
He beams at me and I beam back.
Observable Fact: I like making him happy.
Observable Fact: I don’t know when that happened.
He grabs the song menu from the table and flips to the English section. While he agonizes over song choice, I watch the K-pop videos playing on the television. They’re candy-colored and infectious.
“Just choose a song,” I tell him when the third video starts.
“This is norebang,” he says. “You don’t just choose a song. A song chooses you.”
“Tell me you’re kidding,” I say.
He winks at me and begins loosening his tie. “Yes, I’m kidding, but pipe down. I’m trying to find something to properly impress you with my vocal stylings.”
He unbuttons the top button of his shirt. I watch his hands as he pulls the tie off over his head. It’s not like he’s taking his clothes off. It’s not like he’s getting undressed right here in front of me. But it feels like he is. I can’t see anything scandalous, just a quick glimpse of the skin at his throat. He pulls the rubber band from his hair and tosses it to the table. His hair is just long enough to fall into his face, and he brushes it behind his ears absentmindedly. I can’t help staring. It feels like I’ve been waiting for him to do this all day.
Observable fact: He is pretty hot with his hair down.
Observable fact: He’s pretty hot with his hair up too.
I pull my eyes away and stare at the air conditioner on the wall instead. I’m considering adjusting the temperature down.
He rolls up his sleeves, which makes me laugh. He’s acting like we’re about to engage in serious physical labor. I’m trying not to notice the long, smooth lines of his forearms, but my eyes keep traveling over them.
“Are you a good singer?” I ask.
He looks at me with mock solemnity, but his dancing eyes give him away.
“Not gonna lie,” he says. “I am good. Italian-opera-singer good.” He grabs the remote to key in his song choice. “Are you?” he asks.
I don’t answer. He’ll find out soon enough. In fact, my singing will definitely cure him of the crush he has on me.
Observable Fact: I am the worst singer on earth.
He stands up and walks to the open area in front of the television. Apparently, he’s going to need space to maneuver. He adjusts his stance until his feet are planted wide, bows his head so that his hair obscures his face, and holds the microphone up in the air in one hand—classic rock star pose. It’s “Take a Chance on Me” by ABBA. He puts a hand over his heart and croons the first verse. À la the song title, it’s all about taking chances, specifically me taking a chance on him.
By the second verse, he’s warmed up and throwing me cheesy pop star looks with eyebrow raises, penetrating stares, and pouty lips. According to the lyrics, we can do so many fun things as long as we’re together. The fun things include dancing, walking, talking, and listening to music. Strangely, there’s no mention of kissing. He pantomimes each activity like some sort of deranged mime, and I can’t stop laughing.
Verse three has him down on his knees in front of me. There’s something in the lyrics about feeling all alone when pretty birds have flown that I don’t quite understand. Am I the bird? Is he? Why are there birds?
For the rest of the song he’s back up on his feet, gripping the microphone with both hands and si
nging with abandon. My hysterical laughter doesn’t faze him. Also, he wasn’t kidding about being a good singer. He’s excellent. He even does his own backing vocals, which consists of him singing “take a chance” over and over again.
And it’s not like he’s trying to be sexy. It’s just funny. So funny that it becomes sexy. I didn’t know funny could do that. I notice the way his dress shirt stretches across his chest as he does his disco moves. I notice how long his fingers are when he runs his hands through his hair dramatically. I notice how nice and firm his butt looks in his suit pants.
Observable Fact: I have a thing for butts.
Given my crappy day, none of this should be working on me. But it definitely is. It’s his complete lack of self-consciousness. He doesn’t care if he’s making a fool of himself. His only goal is to make me laugh.
It’s a long song, and he’s hot and sweaty by the end of it. After he’s done, he watches the monitor until a candy-pink cartoon microphone dances across the screen and holds up a sign: 99%. The screen fills with confetti.
I groan. “You didn’t say there would be grades.”
He throws me a triumphant grin and collapses on the seat right next to me. Our forearms brush and separate and brush again. I feel ridiculous for noticing it, but I do notice it.
He moves away to retrieve the microphone and hand it to me.
“Bring it,” he says.
I WISH I’D THOUGHT ABOUT doing norebang earlier. Being alone with her in a dimly lit room is a little bit of heaven (disco heaven). She’s flipping through the song book and making noises about being a terrible singer. I’m staring at her, getting my fix in, because she’s too distracted to tell me to quit doing it.
I can’t decide what part of her face is my favorite. Right now it might be her lips. She’s holding the bottom one in her teeth in what I think is her the-agony-of-too-many-choices face.
Finally she chooses. Instead of picking up the remote, she bends over the table to reach it and enter the code. Her dress pulls up a little and I can see the back of her thighs. They have little crease marks from the couch. I want to wrap my hand around them and smooth the marks with my thumb.
She turns to look at me and I can’t even pretend I wasn’t staring. I don’t want to. I want her and I want her to know that I want her. She doesn’t look away from me. Her lips part (they really are the nicest lips in the known universe) and she touches her tongue to her bottom one.
I’m going to get up and I’m going to kiss her. No force on earth can stop me, except that her song starts and crushes the moment with melancholy.
I recognize the opening chords. It’s “Fell on Black Days” by Soundgarden. The song starts with the band’s lead singer, Chris Cornell, telling us that everything he’s feared has come to life. It goes all the way downhill from there until we get to the chorus, where we learn one billion times (give or take) that he’s fallen on black days. It is (objectively speaking) one of the most depressing songs ever written.
Nevertheless, Natasha loves it. She strangles the mike with both hands and squeezes her eyes shut. Her singing is earnest and heartfelt and completely awful.
It’s not good.
At all.
I’m pretty sure she’s tone-deaf. Any note she does hit is purely coincidental. She sways awkwardly from side to side with her eyes closed. She doesn’t need to read the lyrics because she knows this song by heart.
By the time she gets to the final chorus, she’s forgotten about me totally. Her awkwardness melts away. The singing is still not good, but she’s got one hand over her heart and she’s belting a lyric about not knowing her fate with real emotion in her voice.
Mercifully, it ends. It’s a cure for happiness, that song. She peeks at me. I’ve never seen her look shy. She bites her bottom lip again and scrunches up her face. She’s adorable.
“I love that song,” she says.
“It’s a little morose, isn’t it?” I tease.
“A little angst never hurt anyone.”
“You’re the least angst-ridden person I’ve ever met.”
“Not true,” she says. “I’m just good at pretending.”
I don’t think she meant to admit that to me. I don’t think she likes to show her soft spots. She turns away and puts the mike down on the table.
But I’m not letting her get away from this moment. I grab her hand and pull her toward me. She doesn’t resist, and I don’t stop pulling until the full lengths of our bodies are touching. I don’t stop pulling until she’s in my breathing space.
“That was the worst singing ever,” I say.
Her eyes are shining. “I told you I was bad,” she says.
“You didn’t.”
“In my head I did.”
“Am I in your head?” I ask her.
She’s so close that I can feel the slight heat from her blush.
I put my hand on her waist and bury my fingers in her hair. Anything can happen in the breath of space between us. I wait for her, for her eyes to say yes, and then I kiss her. Her lips are like soft pillows and I sink into them. We start out chaste, just lips touching, tasting, but soon we can’t get enough. She parts her lips and our tongues tangle and retreat and tangle again. I’m hard everywhere but it feels too good, too right to be embarrassed about. She’s making little moaning sounds that make me want to kiss her even more.
I don’t care what she says about love and chemicals. This will not fade away. This is more than chemistry. She pulls away, and her eyes are shimmering black stars looking into mine.
“Come back,” I say, and kiss her like there’s no tomorrow.
I CAN’T STOP. I DON’T want to stop. My body absolutely does not care what my brain thinks. I feel his kiss everywhere. The tips of my hair. The center of my belly. The backs of my knees. I want to pull him into me, and I want to melt into him.
We move backward and the back of my legs bump into the couch. He guides me down until he’s half on top of me but with one leg still on the ground.
I need to keep kissing. My body is hectic. I can’t get enough. I can’t get close enough. Something chaotic and insistent builds inside me. I’m arching off the couch to get closer to him than I already am. His hand squeezes my waist and travels up to my chest. He brushes lightly over my breast. I wrap my arms around his neck and then thread my fingers into his hair. Finally. I’ve wanted to do that all day.
Observable Fact: I don’t believe in magic.
Observable Fact: We are magic.
HOLY…
…SHIT.
WE CANNOT HAVE SEX in the norebang.
We.
Can.
Not.
But I’m going to go ahead and admit that I want to. If I don’t stop kissing her I’m going to ask her to, and I don’t want her to think I’m the kind of guy who would ask a girl he’s just met to have sex in the norebang after their first (quasi) date, even though I’m totally that kind of guy because Jesus Christ, I really do want to have sex with her right now right here in the norebang.
MY HANDS CANNOT STOP touching him. They slide themselves out of his hair and down to the hard, shifting muscles of his back. Of their own volition they slide over his butt.
As I suspected, it is spectacular. Firm and round and perfectly proportioned. It’s the kind of butt that requires holding. He should never wear pants.
I palm and squeeze it and it feels even better than I’d expected.
He pushes himself up, arms on either side of my head, and smiles at me. “It’s not a melon, you know.”
“I like it,” I say, and squeeze again.
“It’s yours,” he tells me.
“Have you ever considered wearing chaps?” I ask.
“Absolutely not,” he says, laughing and blushing.
I really like making him blush.
He lowers himself and kisses me again. It feels like there’s no part of me that’s not being kissed right now. I drag my hands away from his butt and up to his shoulders to slow
us down. If I kiss him anymore, it’s just going to make it harder on me later.
So.
No more kissing.
I FEEL THE HESITATION in her lips, and to be honest, I’m a little freaked out by how intense this is too. I push myself up and pull her up to seated. I palm the back of her neck and rest my forehead against hers. We’re both breathing too fast, too ragged. I knew we had chemistry, but I didn’t expect this.
We’re kindling amid lightning strikes. A lit match and dry wood. Fire Danger signs and a forest waiting to be burned.
Of all the ways today could’ve gone, I couldn’t have predicted this. But now I’m sure that everything that’s happened today has been leading me to her and us to this moment and this moment to the rest of our lives.
Even Charlie’s academic probation from Harvard feels like it’s part of the plan to get us to this point. If not for Charlie and his fuck-up, my mom wouldn’t have said what she did this morning.
If she hadn’t, I wouldn’t have left so early for the haircut that I have not gotten yet.
I wouldn’t have gotten on the 7 train with the theological conductor looking for God.
If not for him, I wouldn’t have left the subway to walk, and I wouldn’t have seen Natasha having her religious musical experience. If not for the conductor’s talk of God, I wouldn’t have noticed her DEUS EX MACHINA jacket.
If not for that jacket, I wouldn’t have followed her into the record store.
If not for her thieving ex-boyfriend, I wouldn’t have spoken to her.
Even the jerk in the BMW deserves some credit. If he hadn’t run that red, I wouldn’t have gotten a second chance with her.
All of it, everything, was leading us back here.
When we’re both breathing normally again, I kiss the tip of her nose.
“Told you,” I say, and kiss it again.