The Sun Is Also a Star

by Nicola Yoon

  “Could I give my card to someone who really needed it?” she asks. I know she’s thinking about her dad.

  I kiss her hair. “What about you? Would you stay in your family?” she asks me.

  “Could I use it to boot Charlie out instead?”

  She laughs. “Maybe these cards aren’t such a great idea. Can you imagine if everyone had the power to mess with everyone else’s lives? Chaos.”

  But of course, this is the problem. We already have that power over each other.

  IT’S STRANGE BEING IN MY neighborhood with Daniel. I’m trying to see it through his eyes. After the relative wealth of Midtown Manhattan, my section of Brooklyn feels even poorer. Many of the same kinds of stores line the six-block drag that I use to walk home. There are Jamaican jerk restaurants, bulletproofed Chinese restaurants, bulletproofed liquor stores, discount clothing stores, and beauty salons. Every block has at least one combination deli/grocery store, windows almost entirely covered in beer and cigarette posters. Every block has at least one check-cashing shop. The stores are all crammed together, fighting for the same piece of real estate.

  I’m grateful for the dark so Daniel can’t see how run-down everything is. I’m immediately ashamed of myself for having the thought.

  He takes my hand, and we walk along in silence for a few minutes. I can feel curious eyes on us. It occurs to me that this would’ve become normal for us.

  “People are staring at us,” I say.

  “It’s because you’re so beautiful,” he says back, without missing a beat.

  “So you noticed?” I press.

  “Of course I noticed.”

  I stop us in the lighted doorway of a Laundromat. The smell of detergent surrounds us. “You know why they’re staring, right?”

  “It’s either because I’m not black or because you’re not Korean.” His face is shadowed, but I can hear the smile in his voice.

  “I’m serious,” I say, frustrated. “Doesn’t it bother you?” I’m not sure why I’m pursuing this. Maybe I want proof that if we had the chance to continue, we would survive the weight of the stares.

  He takes both my hands, so now we’re standing face to face.

  “Maybe it does bother me,” he says, “but only peripherally. It’s like a buzzing fly, you know? Annoying, but not actually life-threatening.”

  “But why do you think they’re doing it?” I want an answer.

  He pulls me in for a hug. “I can see that this is important to you, and I really want to give you a good reason. But the truth is, I don’t care why. Maybe I’m naïve, but I do not give a single shit about anyone’s opinion of us. I do not care if we’re a novelty to them. I do not care about the politics of it. I don’t care if your parents approve, and I really, truly don’t care if mine do. What I care about is you, and I’m sure that love is enough to overcome all the bullshit. And it is bullshit. All the hand-wringing. All the talk about cultures clashing or preserving cultures and what will happen to the kids. All of it is one hundred percent pure, unadulterated bullshit, and I just refuse to care.”

  I smile into his chest. My ponytail poet boy. I never before thought that not caring could be a revolutionary act.

  We turn off the main drag onto a more residential street. I’m still trying to see the neighborhood as Daniel does. We pass by rows of adjoined clapboard houses. They’re small and aging but colorful and well-loved. The porches seem more overpopulated with knickknacks and hanging plants than I remember.

  There was a time when my mom desperately wanted one of these houses. Earlier this year, before this mess began, she even took Peter and me to an open house. It had three bedrooms and a spacious kitchen. It had a basement she thought she could sublet for extra income. Because he adores our mother and knew we could never afford it, Peter pretended not to like it. He nitpicked.

  “The backyard is too small and all the plants are dead,” he’d said. He stayed close to her side, and when we left she was not any sadder than when we went in.

  We walk by another block of similar houses before the neighborhood changes again and we’re surrounded by mostly brick apartment buildings. These are not condos but rentals.

  I issue a warning to Daniel. “It’s a mess from all the packing.”

  “Okay,” he says, nodding.

  “And it’s small.” I don’t mention that there’s only one bedroom. He’ll see soon enough. Besides, it’s only my home for a few hours more.

  The little girls from apartment 2C are sitting on the front steps when we arrive. Daniel’s presence makes them shy. They duck their heads and don’t chatter at me like they normally do. I stop by the row of metal mailboxes that hang on the wall. We have no mail, just a Chinese take-out menu wedged into the door. It’s from my dad’s favorite place, the same one he ordered from when he gave us the tickets for his play.

  Someone’s always cooking something, and the lobby smells delicious: butter and onion and curry and other spices. My apartment’s on the third floor, so I take us to the stairs. As usual, the light for the first- and second-floor stairwell is broken. We end up walking silently in the dark until we get to the third floor.

  “This is it,” I say, when we’re finally standing in front of 3A. In some ways it’s much too early to introduce Daniel to my house and family. If we had more time, then he’d already know all my little anecdotes. He’d know about the curtain in the living room that separates Peter’s “room” from mine. He’d know that my star map is my most prized possession. He’d know that if my mom offers him something to eat, he should just take it and eat the whole thing no matter how full he is.

  I don’t know how to relay all that history. Instead, I tell him again: “It’s messy in there.”

  It’s a weird kind of dissonance, seeing him stand here in front of my door. He fits and doesn’t fit at the same time. I’ve always known him, and we’ve only just met.

  Our history is too compressed. We’re trying to fit a lifetime into a day.

  “Should I take my jacket off?” he asks. “I feel like an idiot in this suit.”

  “You don’t have to be nervous,” I say.

  “I’m going to meet your parents. Now’s as good a time to be nervous as any.” He unbuttons the jacket but doesn’t take it off.

  I touch the bruise on his lip. “The good thing is, you can screw up all you want. You’ll probably never see them again.”

  He gives a small, sad smile. I’m just trying to make the best of our situation, and he knows it.

  I take the key from my backpack and open the door.

  All the lights are on and Peter’s playing dance hall reggae much too loud. I can feel the beat in my chest. Three packed suitcases lie just inside the door. Another two lie open off to the side.

  I spot my mom right away. “Turn that music off,” she says to Peter when she sees me. He does, and the sudden silence is acute.

  She turns to me. “Lawd, Tasha. I been calling and calling you for—”

  It takes her a second to notice Daniel. When she does, she stops talking and looks back and forth between us for a long time.

  “Who this?” she asks.

  NATASHA INTRODUCES me to her mom.

  “He’s a friend of mine,” she says. I’m fairly certain I heard a hesitation before friend. Her mom heard it too, and now she’s studying me like I’m an alien bug.

  “Sorry to meet you under these circumstances, Mrs. Kingsley.” I hold out my hand for a shake.

  She gives Natasha a look (the how could you do this to me? variety), but then wipes her palm down the side of her dress and gives me a brief shake and a briefer smile.

  Natasha moves us from the little hallway where we’re clustered into the living room. At least, I think it’s a living room. A bright blue cloth is crumpled on the floor, and a length of string bisects the room. Then I notice there’s two of everything—sofa bed, chest of drawers, desk. This is their bedroom. She shares it with Peter. When Natasha said their apartment was small, I didn’t re
alize she meant they were poor.

  There’s still so much I don’t know about her.

  Her brother walks over to me, hand outstretched and smiling. He has dreadlocks and one of the friendliest faces I’ve ever seen.

  “Tasha’s never brought a guy here before,” he says. His infectious smile gets even bigger.

  I grin back at him and shake his hand. Both Natasha and her mom watch us openly.

  “Tasha, I need to talk to you,” her mom says.

  Natasha doesn’t take her eyes off Peter and me. I wonder if she’s imagining a future where we become friends. I know I am.

  She turns to face her mom. “Is it about Daniel?” she asks.

  Her mom’s now-pursed lips could not get any pursier (yes, pursier).

  “Tasha—” Even I can hear the Mom is about to get pissed off warning in her tone, but Natasha just ignores it.

  “Because if it is about Daniel, we can just do it right here. He’s my boyfriend.” She sneaks a quick questioning glance at me, and I nod.

  Her dad walks through the doorway across from us at just that second.

  Due to Anomaly in the Space-Time Continuum, Area Dads Have Perfect Timing All Day

  “Boyfriend?” he says. “Since when you have boyfriend?”

  I turn and study him. Now I’ve got the answer to my question of who Natasha looks like. She’s basically her dad, except in beautiful girl form.

  And without the scowl. I’ve never seen a deeper scowl than the scowl that exists on his face right now.

  His Jamaican accent is thick, and I process the words a little after he says them. “That what you been doing all day instead of helping you family pack up?” he demands, moving farther into the room.

  Aside from the little Natasha has told me, I don’t really know the history of their relationship, but I can see it on her face now. Anger is there, and hurt, and disbelief. Still, the peacekeeper in me doesn’t want to see them fight. I touch my hand to the small of her back.

  “I’m okay,” she says to me quietly. I can tell she’s steeling herself for something.

  She squares herself to him. “No. What I was doing all day was trying to fix your mistakes. I was trying to prevent our family from being kicked out of the country.”

  “It don’t look nothing like that to me,” he retorts. He turns to me, scowl deepening. “You know the situation?”

  I’m too surprised that he’s talking to me to answer, so I just nod.

  “Then you know that now not no time for strangers to be here,” he says.

  Natasha’s spine stiffens under my hand. “He’s not a stranger,” she says. “He’s my guest.”

  “And this is my house.” He straightens himself as he says it.

  “Your house?” Her voice is loud and incredulous now. Whatever restraint she had before is slipping away quickly. She walks to the center of the living room, holds her arms open wide and turns a circle.

  “This apartment that we’ve lived in for nine years, because you think your ship is going to come sailing in any day now, is your house?”

  “Baby. Not no point in rehashing all this now,” her mom says from her place in the doorway.

  Natasha opens her mouth to say something but closes it again. I can see her deflate. “Okay, Mom,” she says, letting go of whatever she was going to say. I wonder how many times she’s done that for her mother.

  I think that’s going to be the end of it, but I’m wrong.

  “No, man,” her dad says. “No, man. Me want hear what she have to say to me.” He widens his stance and folds his arms across his chest.

  Natasha does the same thing and they square off, mirror images of each other.

  I WOULD’VE LET IT GO for my mom. I always do. Just last night she said that the four of us had to be a united front.

  “It going be hard at first,” she’d said. We are going to have to live with her mother until we have enough money to rent our own place. “I never think me life would come to this,” she said before she went to bed.

  I would’ve let it go if I hadn’t met Daniel. If he hadn’t increased by a very significant one the number of things I’d be losing today. I would’ve let it go if my father weren’t using his thick and forced Jamaican accent again. It’s just another act. To hear him you would think he’d never left Jamaica, that the past nine years never happened. He really does think our lives are make-believe. I’m sick of him pretending.

  “I heard what you said to Mom after the play. You said we were your greatest regret.”

  He sags and the scowl leaves his face. I can’t name the emotion that replaces it, but it seems genuine. Finally. Something real from him.

  He starts to say something but I have more to say. “I’m sorry that life didn’t give you all the things you wanted.” As I’m saying it, I realize that I do mean it. I know what disappointment is now. I can understand how it could last a lifetime.

  “Me didn’t mean it, Tasha. It was just talk. All of it was just—”

  I hold my hand up to stop his apology. That’s not what I want from him. “I want you to know that you were really amazing in the play. Just incredible. Transcendent.”

  He has tears in his eyes now. I’m not sure if it’s because I complimented him or if it’s regret or something else.

  “Maybe you were right,” I continue. “You weren’t meant to have us. Maybe you really were cheated.”

  He’s shaking his head, denying my words. “Was just talk, Tasha, man. Me really didn’t mean nothing by it.”

  But of course he did. He meant it and he didn’t. Both. At the same time.

  “It doesn’t matter if you meant it or not. This is the life you’re living. It’s not temporary and it’s not pretend and there’s no do-over.” I sound like Daniel.

  The worst part of overhearing that conversation between him and my mom was that it spoiled all the good memories I had of him. Did he regret my existence when we were watching cricket matches together? What about when he was holding me tight at the airport when we were all finally reunited? What about the day I was born?

  Tears are streaming down his face now. Watching him cry hurts more than I ever thought it could. Still, there’s one more thing I have to say.

  “You don’t get to regret us.”

  He makes a sound, and now I know what a lifetime of pain sounds like.

  People make mistakes all the time. Small ones, like you get in the wrong checkout line. The one with the lady with a hundred coupons and a checkbook.

  Sometimes you make medium-sized ones. You go to medical school instead of pursuing your passion.

  Sometimes you make big ones.

  You give up.

  I sit down on my sofa bed. I’m more tired than I realize, and not as angry as I thought. “When we get to Jamaica, you have to at least try. Go on auditions. And be better to Mom. She’s done everything, and she’s tired, and you owe it to us. You don’t get to live in your head anymore.”

  My mom’s crying now. Peter walks into her arms for a hug. My father goes to them both, and my mom accepts him. As one, they turn to look at me and gesture for me to join them. I turn to Daniel first. He hugs me so tightly, it’s like we’re saying goodbye already.

  THE DRIVER LOADS NATASHA’S SUITCASE into the trunk. Peter and her parents have already gone ahead to the airport via a separate cab.

  Inside, Natasha lays her head on Daniel’s shoulder. Her hair tickles his nose. It’s a feeling he wishes he’d have more time to get used to.

  “Do you think we would’ve worked out in the end?” she asks him.

  “Yes.” He says it without hesitation. “Do you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You finally came around.” A smile is in his voice.

  “How hard would it have been for your parents?” she asks.

  “It would take them a long time. Longer for my dad. I don’t think they’d have come to our wedding.” A picture of that future day floats up in Natasha’s mind. She sees an ocean. Daniel
handsome in his tuxedo. Her hand on his face wiping away the sadness at his parents’ absence. The joy on his face when she finally says I do.

  “How many kids do you want?” she asks, after the pain of that vision recedes.

  “Two. What about you?”

  She lifts her head from his shoulder, hesitant, but then confesses: “I’m not sure if I want any at all. Would you’ve been okay with that?”

  He didn’t expect that answer, and it takes him a moment to accept it. “I think so. I don’t know. Maybe you’d change your mind. Maybe I would.”

  “I have something to tell you,” she says, laying her head back down.

  “What?”

  “You shouldn’t be a doctor.”

  He turns his head, smiles into her hair. “What about doing the practical thing?”

  “Practicality is overrated,” she says.

  “Are you still going to be a data scientist?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe not. It’d be nice to be passionate about something.”

  “What a difference a day makes,” he says.

  Neither of them speaks, because what is there to say? It’s been a long day.

  Natasha breaks their glum silence. “So, how many more questions do we have left?”

  He takes out his phone. “Two more from section three. And we still have to stare into each other’s eyes for four minutes.”

  “We could do that or make out right here.”

  From the front seat their driver, Miguel, interrupts. “You guys know I can hear you, right?” He looks at them in the rearview mirror. “I can see you too.” Then he laughs a big meaty laugh. “Some people get in the cab and like to pretend I’m deaf and blind, but I ain’t. Just so you know.”

  He laughs his meaty laugh again, and Natasha and Daniel can’t help but join him.

  But their joined laughter fades as the reality of the moment reasserts itself. Daniel takes Natasha’s face in his hands and they kiss soft kisses. The chemistry is still there. They’re both too warm, both unsure what to do with hands that seem meant only for touching each other.