Yolk

by Mary H. K. Choi

  “You call your dad frickin’ pops,” I offer, grinning.

  “I call my dad frickin’ pops.”

  “Wait a minute,” I ask him. “Were you allowed to go to sleepovers?”

  “Not you, too,” he says, reeling in mock injury.

  “Well?”

  “Not, like, every weekend, but…”

  Patrick might be salty to have his Asianness tested, but to me he’s a unicorn. “Wow.” I reach over and touch his cheek. “We look the same and yet…” I touch my own cheek with my other hand. “So different.”

  He shrugs me off. “I don’t know what to tell you, fam. I went to sleepovers. Had sleepovers. I had PB&Js in my lunch and brought kimbap and didn’t fucking think nothing of it.”

  Patrick leans over to drink his water, which reminds me to do the same, and then he stacks our bowls.

  I follow him into the kitchen.

  “Oh, wait,” he says, turning to face me. “I know something that’s real Korean. Deeply Korean.”

  “What?”

  “My dad had bypass surgery when I was in college,” he says, running the water for the dishes. “And they didn’t tell me because I had finals.”

  Again my sister flashes into my head.

  “That,” I tell him, nodding, “is deep Korean. And also deeply messed up that you’re so vindicated by his coronary issues.”

  I feel better that Patrick doesn’t have a dishwasher. He’s only out of my league by a factor of thirty-nine, not seventy-three.

  I grab the first bowl from him and dry with the kitchen towel on the oven door. “Did they wait until the holidays to tell you while they were gossiping about someone else’s health?”

  “No,” he says, eyeing me. “They FaceTimed and bought me a plane ticket to see him the day finals wrapped.”

  “Yeah.” I frown a little. “I don’t know. Feels like you might need an asterisk on that achievement. Feels emotionally stable and transparent now.” His parents sound positively Scandinavian.

  “Great,” he says, walking over to the bathroom. “I’m going to spend all night tallying traumas.”

  “Do your worst,” I tell him. Even with his head start, I’m pretty sure I’ve got him beat. Being an Asian woman really is its own thing.

  Patrick returns with a brand-new toothbrush with the name of his dentist printed on the handle. Plus a tiny wheel of floss.

  “Whoa.” I take both from him. “Thank you. I’m beyond grateful to you, for your hospitality, your company, and your sofa.” I lay my palm against the leather and slide onto my side. It feels so good against my cheek.

  He laughs and yawns.

  “No, you get the bed.” He yawns again. “It’s super comfy. You can’t sleep here. My mother would murder me.”

  “How would she know?”

  He scoffs. “She’d know.”

  Guess he really is Korean.

  chapter 24

  I brush my teeth, body listing forward I’m so tired. Patrick’s bedroom is spare with heavy blue curtains blotting out the streetlights and a big, broad bed with enough room on either side to walk completely around it. I struggle to keep my eyes open but when I slip into his striped sheets, burying my face in his cold pillow, smelling dryer sheets and a scent I imagine the back of his neck to carry, I’m haunted by the image of the two, wet-haired girls in the window of the restaurant.

  The picturesque sweetness of a matching set is never experienced by either of the people in it. I’d get so sick of being tethered to June. How we were always displayed as a pair. The way customers would address us as if we were one person. Or even more disembodying, the way they’d talk to us as if we weren’t there. As if we canceled each other out. Sometimes June would pipe up, once snapping at a baby-talking white lady, “Take a picture, it lasts longer,” and laughing straight in her face. I was thrilled. It was exactly what I would have said if I were brave enough.

  June never held her tongue. I seethed. My thoughts festered and it was a tailor-made hell that I couldn’t hide anything from her. I’d sit there at family meal, eyes downcast, cheeks ablaze, next to our parents, the cooks, the busboys, and the dishwashers, pretending I wasn’t there. Pretending I didn’t know them. June would crack on me in front of everyone the way I’d jolt when the door opened, scared that someone from school might see. “You think you’re so cool,” she’d remark, shaking her head, munching on all the broken fortune cookies, piling up the paper ribbons of fate without bothering to read them. “It’s so embarrassing.”

  Her taunts stung, staying with me for days the way Mom’s did, cutting over and over. The funny thing about having an older sibling play babysitter is that you’re only vaguely aware that they’re also a child. I remember once when June had turned eleven. I was still eight and we were in the rare months where she became especially intolerable since she was three years older instead of two. Eleven was properly in the double digits. “I’m basically an adult,” she’d announce. Back then we’d walk home after dinner at the restaurant to put ourselves to bed. The worst, scariest part of the trip was the stretch of road under a patch of the Loop 410 highway, past the middle school and an enormous H-E-B grocery store. That’s where you felt most exposed to the whoosh of cars at your back. I always walked as fast as I could. Taking shallow, vigilant breaths.

  June knew how much I hated that walk. The solemnity with which Mom instructed her to hold my hand. It all went straight to June’s giant melon head. She acted as if I owed her my life. At the critical expanse, she’d purposely slacken her grip on my sweaty palm. “Uh-oh,” she’d say, eyes widening dramatically.

  That night she held out her backpack for me to carry.

  “Take it.”

  I shook my head.

  “I said, ‘Take it.’ ”

  Again, I refused.

  June dropped the bag where we stood and boldly skipped ahead. “I’m telling Mom,” she declared, sprinting into the light of the H-E-B supermarket parking lot.

  I ran after her.

  “Mom’s going to kill you,” she sang, grinning back at me wickedly. I knew it didn’t make sense, but June was wily with words when Mom interrogated us in Korean.

  “You’d better go get it,” she yelled once she crossed the street that led to our house.

  I turned around. Anyone could’ve run away with it if they wanted to.

  Heart jackhammering in my chest, I ran all the way back. I could feel my bookbag banging against me. When I reached the nylon straps of hers, I heaved it up with both arms and hurtled back. My lungs burned and my feet slapped against the hard concrete as I bolted.

  With each footfall June got closer and closer. Bigger and bigger.

  Her head turned as her eyes widened.

  Twin headlights flooded my vision as screams fill my ears. I wondered if I’d feel the pain of my body being crushed by the oncoming car. Whether I’d fly into the sky at a strange angle from the impact. But then my face and neck were hot from the engine. My eyes were shut tight. I heard a loud sustained honk and a slammed door from somewhere above me.

  “What are you doing?” screamed a tall woman with huge hair as she got out of her enormous SUV. She made the sign of the cross. “I could have killed you.” She had moles all over her face, and as she leaned toward me, I could see down her flowered shirt to her cheetah-print bra.

  June ran up and grabbed her bag.

  “You idiot,” she said, pinching my belly and pulling hard. “We’re sorry,” June called out, waving to the lady.

  I was instantly in tears. Bawling and rubbing my side where I’d been pinched. I was shocked by the near miss and outraged that my sister could be angry at me.

  “I can’t believe you didn’t look,” said June, storming off. “You’re such a stupid baby.”

  She left me to cry on the street. I wept and wept, hiccupping and furious. I wept about what kind of sister would be that hateful. I wept as if I were at my own funeral.

  Moments later she returned, tears streaking he
r face, red as a busted tomato. She shouldered her bag and mine. “I’m sorry,” she moaned, hugging me hard. My face was mashed against her bony shoulder as I continued to sob. “Shhhhh,” she said again, stroking my hair so hard it hurt. “I’m sorry.” That made me cry harder. Somehow it was even sadder that I’d made June cry.

  Whenever I think of my sister in that moment, it hurts my heart. How lonely she must have felt marching into the house, breath held, closing the door, leaning up against it, and bursting into tears before coming back for me.

  No matter how much she resented me and however much I disliked her, it was June’s bed I climbed into every night. I was convinced that if I fell asleep before our parents came back they would die. I never had to tell her that. She knew. Back then she knew everything. And as long as I was big spoon, creeping in quietly and wrapping my small body around hers without touching, she’d pretend not to notice. I’d have to be careful to breathe softly because if I breathed out too hard or too much, according to her she’d be poisoned in her sleep from my carbon dioxide. As far as I knew, it was the only thing June was scared of.

  chapter 25

  Patrick’s standing at the window when I get up. It’s pouring outside.

  “Morning,” I croak, opening his bedroom door and yawning, pretending like I’ve been asleep this whole time. Pretending like I didn’t set my alarm for 7:00 a.m. to remove my crusty makeup and reapply it by early windowlight and phone. I even thought about trying to poop without detection while Patrick snored softly, hugging the couch, dead asleep, but I’d rather hold it, poison my microbiome, and die slow.

  He shuffles into the kitchen and returns with a cup of coffee. “Sleep well?”

  I nod, taking the hot drink.

  We stand side by side at the large window. It’s miserable. The kind of umbrella-flipping torrent where everyone’s huddled under awnings, waiting it out.

  In his glasses, hair sticking up in the back, with his coffee mug, grinning down at the sad sacks on the street, he looks totally different from the version of him on social media, even the kid from church. This is nice, I tell myself. Other than Jeremy, I’ve never spent a morning with a guy in this way.

  “What about you?”

  “Great,” he replies, toasting me with his mug.

  I search for any hint of resentment at my staying over.

  “I guess I should be heading out,” I tell him, before he can beat me to the punch.

  He frowns and nods toward the street. “In this? What time do you have to be at class?”

  “Eleven.”

  “Breakfast?” he asks hopefully. It’s just after eight.

  I look to the sky for any indication it’ll let up. It’s a woolen moody mess up there. Patrick smiles. Honestly, I don’t need any further encouragement to ditch.

  “I just have to text someone.”

  Gina Lombardi’s office texts me back that I’m canceling within the twenty-four-hour cancellation period and that it’ll count as a session.

  Whatever. Besides, I’m a little mad at her. Frankly, it’s irresponsible to rile me up with all those questions about June without teaching me how to deal.

  “Where do you want to go?” I ask Patrick. I find myself wondering how this memory will feel in the future. If wherever he picks will become our special place and we’ll return for special anniversaries.

  “Well,” he says. “Scale of one to ten, how gremlin monster are you feeling?”

  “Is ten the gremliniest or…”

  He nods. “Ten is comatose, don’t even shower, and roll over to the diner and eat eggs in our matching sweats.”

  The idea of staying in his sweats is the closest I’ve come to true joy in a minute.

  “That one.”

  I borrow two pairs of socks and a pair of Timbs to add to my tab.

  “Man,” he says, eyeing me. “Fucking adorable.”

  I look down at my feet, cheeks heating, and throw on my coat.

  He wasn’t kidding about how close the diner was. It’s a half block, and we bolt, leapfrogging under awnings and storefronts. When we get there, he holds my hand briefly. His palm is warm where mine is wet, and he leads me into the open door and to the counter. I keep reminding myself that it’s not a date. That you don’t go on morning-after, rainy-day dates with someone you almost barf on. The worst part is, I don’t even care that we’re dressed like dorks; I’m so happy. I feel like half of that couple who dresses in onesies and takes selfies and I like it.

  The short, beefy Latino guy behind the counter turns Patrick’s cup upright on his saucer and pours steaming coffee as soon as we sit down. He looks to me, and when I nod, he wordlessly pours me a cup as well. “I’m here a lot,” explains Patrick, just as the dude asks him if he’s having the usual.

  I’ve always wanted to have a usual.

  “I’m going to need a minute,” he says, picking up his menu. “I could hit you with a total curveball today, Angel.”

  Angel gives an unimpressed shrug and returns the coffeepot.

  “What’s your usual?”

  “Two eggs, over medium, sausage, home fries, rye toast, dry, side of hot sauce. But everything here’s good.”

  I scan the menu. “Have you had the Streamline Special?” It’s described as a mound of cottage cheese with canned tuna and a side of peaches.

  “Yep, and it slaps,” he says. “I don’t know why; it just does. It’s like peanut butter and bacon.”

  I realize that I’m starving. “I’ll have what you’re having.”

  He nods approvingly. “Donut for the table?”

  “Sure.”

  “Power.” He shuts his menu. “I’ll have the usual,” he says to Angel.

  “I’ll have his usual.” I nod to Patrick.

  “And a glazed donut.”

  I’m proud of the order somehow.

  “You think we would have been friends if our parents hung out?” I ask him. “When we were younger?”

  “Totally,” he says, and then cocks his head. “I guess, all four of us would have. You would’ve been obsessed with Kiki, I wouldn’t have gotten off my phone, and June would’ve probably kicked all our asses. We look a little different now, but we’re still basically the same.” He reads something in my face and qualifies. “But I don’t know. You seem the same.”

  I narrow my eyes. He said a similar thing last night. I try to decide if I feel insulted by this.

  “But maybe not as intimidating. Actually, fuck it. I don’t know. You’re still intimidating.”

  I laugh at this. A sharp bark. I glance around, stunned by the assessment. “Me?”

  “Yes, you. You were so intense. Big goth energy. Always reading some humongous book with a level of focus I’d never seen in a kid. You were way too busy to talk to me.”

  “Oh, because you ever tried talking to me.” I remember the books. Mostly horror and romance paperbacks. I also remember Patrick with his comics, his video games, his earring, and once his dyed-purple hair, which had scandalized the church ladies. He also brought a few non-Korean friends to mass who ate the fishy-smelling soups and everything after church. It was fascinating that he’d reveal this part of his life to his friends, who seemed cool judging by their sneakers. Everyone was always talking to Patrick. I wish he’d stuck around to see me a few years later. When I pulled myself together.

  “I tried talking to you,” he says, sipping his coffee.

  “You talked to June, not me.” This I remember too, with a flutter of jealousy. June could talk to anyone.

  “I talked to June because she yelled at me all the time. Acting like we already knew each other from the second we met. She high-key bullied me into lending her all my Civil War comics right as I was starting them. She said I had to make the concession because I was older and that was my duty.”

  I laugh. It sounds exactly like June.

  “But I talked to you,” he says, tapping his chin. “Or at least I tried. It was right around Easter because that mass was fucking
brutal. You were wearing a Forest of Endor Summer Camp sweatshirt.”

  I remember the sweatshirt. It was purple and it was June’s. My heart sinks. “Nope,” I tell him. “Wasn’t me. That was June’s.”

  To be mistaken for June by strangers is one thing, but I’m upset. I feel duped by the premise of this nostalgic conversation. I flip through the plastic specials menu on the counter. “I’ve never seen a single Star Wars movie ever in my life,” I say coldly.

  I’m relieved that this diner serves alcohol. I could order an Irish coffee without it seeming too big a deal. I can feel my face tightening, but Patrick’s oblivious. He nudges my knee with his.

  “That’s exactly what you told me,” he says, barely keeping a straight face. “I swear to God. You said it just like that too. So snotty.” He leans in. “I spoke in Ewokese. I thought it was so cool.” He laughs, searching my face.

  I grin. He’s right. I don’t remember.

  “Wait, what did you say?”

  “No fucking way.”

  “Tell me,” I plead. “I might remember it.”

  He shakes his head. “Nope. You gave me the most withering look and said, ‘Excuse me?’ So, I explained, which won me zero points, and then you said, I have never seen a Star Wars movie ever in my life. End quote.”

  It certainly sounds like me. “God.” I shake my head. “What a dick.”

  “And!” he says, remembering another detail. “June wasn’t even there. She was at some genius NASA thing that weekend. Me and Kiki wouldn’t hear the end of it from Pops. To this day he’s gutted that none of his kids inherited his math brain.”

  That’s when it comes to me. He’s right. June was in Houston. LBJ Space Center. She’d won some big-deal data contest, and she and Dad had gone. I’d thrown a fit because Mom hadn’t washed any of my clothes, so I’d had to wear June’s top. I don’t remember Patrick talking to me, but I do vividly recall how the entry fee and hotel for that event was three hundred bucks. Meanwhile, they’d refused to pay for my gym membership, saying that I could just do jumping jacks in the driveway.