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I mean, yes, I’ve looked up tickets to Korea, but I haven’t bought any. I might have applied for a passport, but that hasn’t arrived in the mail. I haven’t done anything concrete. It’s all dreams and imaginings. I fold the paper up into a tiny square and tuck it back into my pocket.
“Do not reply without talking to me first,” Boyoung urges. “Promise?”
Our pizza arrives to save me from lying to my friend.
CHAPTER FOUR
“And after seeing Karen at the wake, we thought it would be good to get together again. Apparently, Pat’s coworkers aren’t fond of that woman either. Everyone thinks your dad was a fool to remarry and have a kid at his age. Karen kept asking what was Pat thinking, but that’s the problem. He wasn’t. At least not with his big head.” Mom presses the plastic wrap into the top of the honey lemon curd cake she’s making.
I wince at the vague reference to my dead father’s penis and decide it’s not a good segue to the confession I have to make. It’s not the trip that will freak Mom out, but the reason. I did contemplate lying like a coward and saying I’m going on a vacation out east, but that would require keeping up an elaborate story, which I’d mess up within the first twenty-four hours. Besides, can you ever lie to your mom? They have some inborn sixth sense about their kids. I’ve never been able to get away with a thing, and if Mom wasn’t preoccupied with Dad’s death and the other Mrs. Wilson, she’d catch on to the fact that I’m jumpy as a piece of corn in a hot skillet.
I bend my head over the wax paper in front of me and pipe out the squat bodies for the chocolate ganache bees with which Mom plans to decorate the cake.
“Karen was shocked that our names weren’t listed first in the obituary. It should’ve been me and then you and then her and that child. How many people did I say were coming?” Mom’s sudden change of topic doesn’t confuse me. I’m used to it. I acquired my nervousness from her—not biologically but through the process of living with her for eighteen years. You take on the traits of those people you’re around. I’m firmly in the nuture-over-nature camp.
“Thirteen, and his name is Ryder.”
“Oh my Lord. Don’t even get me started on that name. Who names their child that?” She taps my wrist. “Make the ganache bees fat. Everyone likes a good amount of chocolate with their lemon.”
It’s better than Hara, I think as I pipe extra-large bees onto the wax paper and then stick the slivered almond wings onto the bodies. The start of every school year was always a joy, as I had to listen to each new teacher massacre my name. It’s ha-rah, not hair-a. I should’ve made a sign and pasted it onto my chest. Unfortunately, that minor trial didn’t prepare me for the embarrassment I’d experience in college when I learned from one of the Asian exchange students that my name was the same as some famous Korean porn actress’s. Each time I passed one of the few Asian students, I swear I’d always hear a slight twittering of laughter, so I never hung out with them—not that I was asked. International students are a tight bunch. They all spoke at least two languages, if not more, and when they said something to me in Korean, my only response was a dumb, blank stare.
I didn’t belong with the Asian international student clique, and it wasn’t simply that I lacked the ability to communicate with them. I didn’t understand the language puns they made. I didn’t know the foods they referenced or the cultural landmarks. Lotte Tower? Myeongdong? Gwanghwamun Square? Every cultural reference escaped me. I was other with them as well. The single commonality we had was that our features were similar.
Boyoung is the first Asian friend I’ve ever had.
“He’ll be spelling that name for every teacher from preschool through graduate school—not that she’ll be able to pay for that even with that measly insurance policy. It’s a good thing you have a job; otherwise, that would be one more area where he let you down.”
I keep my mouth shut. Mom doesn’t want my input.
As expected, she barrels on. “I’m making three different kinds of sandwiches, but I’m not sure how many to make. Perhaps two per person? So that would be . . . How many people did I say were coming?” She abandons the cakes and rushes to the refrigerator, pulling out cucumbers and cream cheese and salmon spread.
“Thirteen.” I grab the bag of white chocolate and lay down the stripes on the backs of the bees.
“Thirteen. Right. That’s not a good number. I should’ve invited one more person. Although do I even have enough chairs for thirteen? Maybe that’s too many. What about something to drink? I’ve tea, of course, but should we have a dessert wine? Do they serve dessert wines with high tea?” She leaves the vegetables and spreads on the counter to grab her phone.
