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The girls’ conversation swings to where they plan to go over the next school break. Jules suggests Hong Kong because there’s a near-empty flight scheduled and she’ll smuggle them aboard dressed as staff.
After the fourth piece of wrapped meat and more booze refills than I can count, my vision starts to blur. I would like to go up to my bedroom and pass out, but I don’t want to be targeted as a bad roommate before the first night is out. “Are there dishes to wash? I could do those now?”
“You look like you’re ready to fall asleep. Go to bed. We’ll take care of things tonight.” Anna makes shooing motions with her hands.
The other girls nod in agreement. I’m too tired to argue. I bid everyone good night, pick up my plate, and disappear inside. I have enough energy to wash my dishes and set them on the drying rack next to the sink. The trek up the two flights of stairs seems endless, and by the time I reach the top, my eyes are half-closed. My phone pings to let me know I have a message, but I can’t bring myself to answer it. Tomorrow will be soon enough.
I’m asleep before my body hits the mattress.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I wake up to a pounding in my temples. I don’t remember drinking that much soju last night, but from the way a drumline has taken up residence in my head, I must be suffering a massive hangover.
I close my eyes tight and will myself back to sleep. Sleep cures everything. I hold myself still, inhale through my nose, count backward, but all I hear is the incessant thumping. Food, then. Hangovers can be cured by food. I toss my pillow on the ground and sit up.
“Hara? Hara? Her name’s Hara, right? Or Haru?”
“It’s Hara,” I mumble, finally realizing that the knocking is Jules’s fist on my door and not from inside my head.
“Just a minute,” I yell. I jump out of bed and promptly fall on my face. “Crap,” I say into the floorboards. I’d forgotten I moved my suitcase from the end of the bed to the side.
“Hara?”
“Give me a minute.” I climb to my feet and hop to the door, rubbing my bruised toes along the back of my calf.
When I swing the door open, I find a sober Boyoung standing on the other side along with Jules.
“Ah, finally. Someone here to see you,” Jules states the obvious.
I’m not prepared for a visitor. My bones ache as if someone ran over me with a truck. My eyes itch, there’s a gross film coating my teeth, and my tongue feels swollen.
“Hey, Boyoung,” I say from behind my hand. I know my breath must reek.
My friend gives a worried look and then, with uncharacteristic rudeness, pushes past Jules into my small room. Boyoung sets a shopping bag on the floor that I hadn’t even noticed the girl was carrying.
“I tried to text you last night and this morning.” Her tone is slightly chastising.
I release an apologetic sigh. “I passed out before I could answer.”
I hobble over to my purse and pull out my phone. It’s dead. I forgot to plug it in last night. “Ugh. Sorry. It needs to be charged.” I grab a charge cord and look for an outlet.
Boyoung comes over and shoves a battery pack into my hands. “Here. Use this. You should text your mom and then . . .”
The odd tone in Boyoung’s voice draws my attention. I stop hunting for an outlet. “What is it?”
She holds out the bag. “I need to take you somewhere and I brought you this because I didn’t know if you had packed something like it.”
I set aside the phone and peek inside the shopping bag. There’s a dress—a black one. I don’t want to jump to conclusions, but the last time I wore a black dress . . . I leave the thought unfinished as the soft, silky fabric snakes through my fingers. Boyoung says nothing either and so I have to ask, even though I don’t want to.
“This dress is”—the words come out raspy and harsh—“this dress looks like it’s for a funeral.” I raise my eyes to see the denial, but when Boyoung still can’t meet my gaze, that’s when I know. I’ve lost two dads.
I stumble, the backs of my knees hitting the bed. The black dress spills out of the bag and spreads across the floor like a dark stain between Boyoung and me.
“I’m sorry, Hara. I’m so sorry,” Boyoung says, as if this is somehow her fault.
My first instinct is to say that it’s no big deal or that it’s okay, but I don’t feel okay. My chest feels heavy, as if there’s a thousand-pound weight pressing down on a very fragile organ. I swallow once and try to speak, but no sound comes out.
