Authors: David Yoon
“Some kind of Gatsby thing?” I scream.
“What?” screams Joy.
“Everybody in the place / clap your hands and see
“what a heart full of joy / make it easy to be
“full of love and the things / that important to me
“feel so good deep inside / perfect time wed-ding,” raps the DJ.
With that, the music lowers to a merciful level to allow the newlyweds to be led by a squirrelly coordinator in a headset from table to table, where they bow and thank the guests. Meanwhile, rivers of stone-faced waitstaff bring out plates of food. Exactly fifteen minutes later, they take the empty plates away.
The newlyweds arrive at our table.
“Heyyyy,” say we Limbos.
“It’s so cute seeing you guys all dressed up,” says Kyung Hee. “Look at my little sis!”
Ella Chang wrinkles her nose—“Yay!”—then goes neutral again.
The groom says a bunch of stuff in Korean.
“Uh, we suck at Korean,” says Andrew.
“I said there’s booze over there and no one’s carding,” says the groom. His jawline could sharpen swords. He points right at me and Joy like a machine inspector and says a bunch more stuff in Korean to Kyung Hee. She says a bunch of Korean stuff back to him, and together they giggle and give us love-eyes. I don’t need to ask what they said.
The newlyweds move on to the next table: another kids’ table, with three boys and two girls sitting in mirror-image arrangement to ours like doppelgangers from an alternate dimension.
The super-Koreans.
They rise from their languor to greet the bride and groom. They bow in this hip, fluid manner that demonstrates how much they really own bowing. They toss perfect bangs and mumble in perfect Korean. And their perfectly disheveled clothes, I realize, are matching white outfits with matching black lapel carnations.
They look so put-together. I could be put-together too if I had
chosen the tribe
, to quote Q. Suddenly I feel a little shabby. Far from put-together. More like left-apart.
“Why are all the super-Koreans in Asian Death White?” I whisper to Joy.
“Maybe they’re a K-pop group,” Joy whispers back.
“Why not.”
White is the color of oblivion in lots of Asia, not black like it is in America. Movies there fade to white. People think all-white cars look badass. I have a vintage Japan-only Asian Death White mini-disc player in my collection, and I think it looks badass.
The newlyweds vanish. The robotic waitstaff bring in another course of food. A timpani drumroll rumbles forth out of nowhere.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, it’s greetings from under the sea,” says the DJ.
Kyung Hee appears in the spotlight in a tight green sequined dress and a wig of bright red hair. The groom looks like a pirate prince. The room applauds. I raise a hand and Joy claps it, like giving me a high five over and over again.
“So it’s
Mermaid Romance
,” I say.
“Why not,” says Joy.
“And give a warm welcome to a very special presentation by friends of the groom,” says the DJ.
The lights cut out. The super-Koreans spring to attention. I notice they’re wearing Asian Death White headset mics—when did they get those?—and one of the girls emotes an impassioned speech in a spotlight while a soulful electric piano plays.
“What’s she saying?” says Joy.
“Something about the sea being really deep—I can’t catch it all,” I say. My Korean is only barely better than hers, which isn’t saying much.
A beat drops—this museum-quality late-nineties hip-hop jam—and the super-Koreans skip in time up to the dance floor, where they begin to perform a goddamn song.
“I was fucking joking when I said K-pop group,” says Joy.
The super-Koreans begin to clap, and now everyone’s clapping with them, and I start to get that classic Limbo feeling that I get whenever I’m surrounded by this much Korean-ness: that I am a failure at being Korean, and not doing so great at being American, so the only thing left to do is run away and hide in my own little private Planet Frank.
The super-Koreans now clap at us:
Come on, clap!
“I did not sign up for this shit,” I say.
“Fuck’s sake,” moans Joy. “For the sake of Saint Fuck.”
“Let’s go,” I say.
We sneak away in the dark and leave the Limbos, who now clap along in a daze, and escape into the dusky air where the only sound is the muffled music coming from behind the windows and the pink noise panorama of the ocean’s surround. The seagulls have gone quiet for the day. The sun hangs low and fat and orange.
We find a spot where no one can see us, lean on the rail, and watch the sunset. I pass Joy an invisible cigarette. She inhales, exhales, and passes it back to me.
“I needed this, I think,” says Joy. “I needed to get out of my own head.”
“Everything okay?”
Joy bumps my shoulder. “I’m chilly.”
“It did get cold, didn’t it,” I say.
“That means give me your jacket, stupid.”
Right, duh. I drape it over her shiny shoulders. It’s a shame to cover up shoulders that shiny. She snuggles in, looks back at me with twin eyes ablaze, and says:
“Thanks, yubs.”
I can only gaze at her. Behind us, the music thuds on. A word pops into my head:
if
if if if if
ifififififififififififififif
, until the word ceases to be a word and becomes a nonsense sound you make while thinking hard.
As in
if there were no Brit
.
What am I saying? There is Brit. We are together. I say it slow:
I. Love. Brit.
But if there were no Brit,
says a voice,
I would probably go after Joy.
It’s true. I would.
This is news to me. I fold it up and put it away.
“So,” says Joy, gearing up to tell me something. “About me and Wu.”
“I thought we weren’t supposed to talk about Wu.”
“We officially broke up.”
Joy tilts her head back to catch tears in her eyes like raindrops. “Here come the tears for real,” she says. But there’s no stopping it. A gray streak leaks from her mascara and extends down her temple.
“Listen. Wu? He’s sweet. He’s kind. But he never made me laugh. Not really. Not in that way where you’re laughing but you have no idea why. Or where you laugh for so long you have to take a break just to rest. You wouldn’t know because you’re so stupid. Who makes me laugh, Frank? Tell me.”
I swallow. My feet are leaving the ground. “You’re gonna say
me
.”
“Of course I’m gonna say
you
.”
I look down and see her feet have left the ground, too.
That’s never happened before.
It’s always been my feet only, and no one else’s.
“Well, I’m gonna say
you
, too,” I say.
“Me too what?”
“You make me laugh,” I say. “No one makes me laugh like you do.”
“I know, Frank, that’s the thing.” Joy thumbs the corners of her eyes dry.
“And you’re crazy,” I say. “It’s crazy how crazy you are.”
“Because you make me crazy.”
“I make you crazy?” I say.
“You make me insane,” cries Joy. Then her voice shrinks. “Do I make you crazy?”
She’s staring at me hard now, and I’m locked into her gaze. There are two tiny sunsets burning in those eyes of hers.
“Do I make you crazy?” she says again.
“Yes,” I say finally. “You do.”
Joy cradles my pinky in her palm. “Oh, Frank. Just listen to me and don’t laugh. I got all dressed up today. I was so nervous. I was scared out of my mind. Because all I could think was, what if I got all dressed up, and what if it was all just for you, and it turned out you didn’t love me back?”
The world zooms away to become a speck. We drift and drift until we find a lime-green nebula full of fragrant breathable
air. The stars here are light as Christmas tree ornaments—the slightest touch and they sway slowly in this new atmosphere.
I try out the words. They are easy to say.
I love you, Joy.
I don’t forget the
I
. I don’t have to practice. I don’t have to anything.
The words are there right on the tip of my tongue. They were always there.
I love you, Joy.
Joy Song, seven letters long.
“Don’t be scared,” I whisper. “Don’t cry.”
I wipe a tear on her face very carefully. I follow the gray streak of mascara and blend it with my thumb. I have to get in close to do this. I’ve never been this close before.
Our kiss stretches the nebula into a thin green laserline that spans whole systems. I hold her tight against me so our bodies almost fuse, crushed so hard that I pause out of worry—she lifts her ovalette face and breathes at me,
I’m fine, Frank, I am more than fine
—before kissing her again. I inhale all the scents of her secret world: the soap of her shower, the vanillin of lotion, the burnt perfume of the hot iron that ran through her hair just before tonight. She tastes like wedding food and lipstick wax and salty tears.
She tastes just like Joy.
We don’t even notice that the wall we are standing behind is not a wall, but two plain blackout doors that have at some point opened to flood the air with pop music. We don’t notice the DJ, who now says, “Ladies and gentlemen, in honor of
Kang-Chang wedding 2019, I am pleased to present sparkle lights!”
We don’t see the table—the Korean meat bingo table—full of gray steel rods and other implements. They ignite and whirl. They’re fireworks, and they’re all going off at the same time in a blinding, buzzing fire hazard of a display.
Only once we are engulfed in gunsmoke do we notice what’s just happened. The whole wedding party can see us in the brilliant shower of magnesium white. They were already clapping. Now they clap even harder. The super-Koreans see us, too. They’re panting from having just finished their routine. They clap in our direction with arms weirdly stretched sideways.
They’ve willed the big moon of the spotlight to shine right on us, and now we stand in its crystalline light.
Monday comes.
Monday comes from the Old English
monandæg
and means
moon day
.
By the end of this moon day, I will have a black eye.
But let’s back up first.
The wedding.
Oh, the wedding.
We danced. We sat at the table and ate. The bride and groom had two more costume changes: traditional Korean formal, then Celebrity Dance-Off.
The Limbos all took turns punching us.
You were faking that you were faking?
said Ella Chang.
You guys are so next-level,
said Andrew Kim.
I guess things change,
said me and Joy.
John Lim had a drink too many, liquid courage gone wrong, and wound up crying with his head in Ella Chang’s lap while she sat erect and stoic and unmoved.
Amore.
Ella heaved John’s head upright and slapped him into composure. They’re doing it right, Ella and John. They’re keeping their thing a secret from the parents, who would only get all up in their business and start planning the next Chang wedding.
We hung out with the super-Koreans. They were really cool and friendly. They’re no different from us Limbos, except that they’re 100 percent fluent in both languages and can electric-slide effortlessly between cultures while being perfectly confident in identifying as Korean first, American second, and are basically better at everything than I could ever be, so fuck them.
Joy and I snuck away a few more times during the night like smokers needing one more hit. Her hands did indeed feel cold against my bare arm, and my bare chest, and around my bare waist. I knew what was happening was wrong. In the great ledger of love, it no doubt counted as cheating.
There was one song during the night, a fist-pumper of a dance track that had me and Joy and everyone hopping up and down right until the words
This could be the night / Wrong feels so right.
Me and Joy landed on our heels and just stared at each other: a quiet island of guilt at the center of a raging ocean.
For the late-night part of the wedding all the Olds got up to sing noraebang for the exhausted audience. Mom-n-Dad crooned out an old duet ballad—something about a baby in a boat and a snowy tree—and just for a second I could see them as a couple and not my parents. During their long final note I worried that Dad’s injured lung would burst from the strain.
But it didn’t. Everyone thundered with applause at his vocal heroism. Dad wasn’t just okay—he sounded great. I clapped hard, too, and Joy kissed my cheek.
I had this weird feeling. Like I was a boy who had everything. Dad was okay. I was in love—unequivocally, uncontrollably in love. Cleaved to Joy for all the world to see. The super-Koreans nodded at us with hipster approval.
But.
As the party began to dissolve, I found my jacket abandoned on a chair and checked my phone. I knew what I would find there.
How’s the party going?
Send pix if you can, dying to see you in action in that suit
Can’t wait to hear all about it tomorrow
I love you, good night zzz
Brit.
Brit alone in her room on a silent Saturday night, checking her fartphone for messages from me. Not bored, for Brit finds the world too fascinating to ever truly get bored. Not upset, for Brit knows how weddings can be.
But she has no idea how this particular wedding was.
The reception party ended. Mom-n-Dad and Joy’s mom-n-dad bowed and bowed in farewell. I gave Joy’s hand one last squeeze, as if to say,
Goodbye, upside-down world. Time to bring it right side up again.
While I drove my tipsy parents home—Mom nodding off, Dad again with his to-go cup from hell—I gritted my teeth and accepted the hard fact that in order to remain a good human being, I would have to tell Brit at school. Monday.
Moon day.
At Calculus, Brit mouths
I love you
over her desk. I don’t have the black eye at this point. I smile a brittle smile, then pretend to get caught up in something Mr. Soft is saying. She doesn’t notice a thing. Neither does Q or any of the other Apeys. I feel like I’ve traded one huge secret for another one the same size, different shape.
Me and Brit—me-n-Brit, Frankenbrit, oh god—split up for classes with a quick hug, and then it’s back to AP Bio, AP English Lit, and CompSci Music. It all goes well. Everything goes well, as usual. Except for this bomb in my heart. I jump when the bell rings. I jump again when my phone buzzes.
Greenhouse,
says Brit.
Now!
And I walk the empty corridor with dread.
Outside, the light is orange and strange and tinged with a sour burning scent. I heard somewhere there’s a wildfire happening close by. I can’t possibly worry about wildfires right now.
When I round the corner, Brit ambushes me.
“Finally,” she says, and kisses me so long and hard I have to brace myself against the side of the greenhouse.
“Did you miss me?” she says.
She feels different. She feels like I’m about to leave her. And I feel different. Like a liar. I’ve been a liar for some time now, and the only way out of this razor-blade briar patch I’ve created is to plow straight through.
“Yeah, so, listen,” I say.
“Tell me all about this crazy Korean wedding,” she says with an eager wiggle.
The green nebula. The kiss. The fireworks. Joy’s cool fingertips.
“The wedding was . . . eventful,” I mumble.
“Did anyone fall down on the dance floor?”
“No.”
“Did anyone make any crazy last-minute speeches?”
“No.”
Brit looks perplexed. “No strange wedding crashers?”
“It was on a boat, so no.”
Brit holds my face as if checking for fever. “Are you okay?”
There’s no fever, because I find I’ve somehow turned to stone.
Just say it, Frank.
“So, listen, Brit,” I say. “I need to tell you something.”
Brit continues to hold me for a moment as her face tightens. A gray flake of ash falls onto her eyelash; she blinks it away. She recoils in confused horror, as if my face has suddenly vanished. Her arms release. She hugs herself amid the gathering ash storm.
She must see something on my face, because all at once she looks ill. “Oh god.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, then cut short. Every word I can think to say sounds terrible.
Brit takes a step back and holds her fists at the ready. She breathes hard. The air sharpens like a blackened edge. Some invisible voice whispers into Brit’s ear, and she looks at me like she has just learned the horrible solution to a long-ignored puzzle.
“It’s Joy, isn’t it,” she says.
Wise, aware Brit, with her beautiful power to see things others can’t—whether she wants to or not. My insides hang unmoored. I had been hoping to ease into this. No idea how, but still. Now there’s no way but straight through. “Brit,” I say. “Listen.”
“We were just at the ice-cream museum,” says Brit, recalling the evidence of past events. “She and Wu were together. We saw them.
We
were together.”
I force myself to talk. “I can’t explain it. I think I’ve liked her for longer than I realize.” I’m not explaining things to her. I’m explaining them to myself.
Brit begins to plead. “But that’s not fair. You love me. You love
me
.”
“I’m so sorry.” I’m about to vomit from nerves right now. I need to find words that make sense to Brit. “I have to be honest about what’s in my heart. For better or worse. I can’t help what’s happening to me. And I’m sorry it has to hurt you.”
Now Brit is tilting her head at me. “Is this because it’s easier to be with someone Korean? Is this why you, why you, why you’re dumping me right now?” Brit’s eyes go full and glossy with tears.
“It is not any Korean thing,” I say. “No.”
“And I got your mom to like me,” she says sadly. “I worked hard for that.”
The sky is getting more and more orange, to the point where it is almost brown. We probably should go inside.
“She didn’t know,” I say, and instantly regret it. It’s a slip. I’m wanting to explain to Brit that none of this is her fault,
that I did in fact like her a lot, that she is an extraordinary person. But my tiny three-word slip threatens to turn into an avalanche.
“Wait—what?” says Brit.
“Nothing,” I say.
Nothing?
Come on, Frank.
“What do you mean, she didn’t know?”
Brit changes. She grows red. She smells different, like someone I don’t know. She’s clenching her fists.
“Frank, what do you mean, she didn’t know?” She raises her voice. “Look at me, look at my eyes, and say it slowly and clearly.”
I can’t look at her. The words just dribble off my lips:
“I pretended to date Joy so I could go out with you in secret.”
Brit barks a horrified laugh. She rips the long skinny flowers from the earth and clutches them.
“You hid me from your parents?” says Brit. “Like something to be ashamed of?”
“Brit, you don’t know what it’s like, being stuck between—”
“You two are like con artists,” says Brit. The tears wash down her cheeks, and she examines me with a hard mixture of disgust and disappointment. Disaggustment. “I have no idea who you are. You two deserve each other.”
She clutches her fist again and rends the poor flowers in two and flings them at my face. She doesn’t punch me. This isn’t where I get my black eye, not yet. She just sprints away and leaves a trail of sobs behind her.
In the distance I can see a jagged red fire line just cresting the hills.
Due to poor air quality, students are advised to go home early and stay indoors,
say the announcement speakers.
The fire is 50 percent contained, and rain is expected tonight. We’ll be sending out an email.
The bell rings, and students disgorge into the hallway. Q finds me.
“Fire day!” he says, and holds up a high five. “
Pax Eterna
at my house, baby!”
I just look at him.
Q lowers his hand. “You okay?”
“No.”
“What happened?”
“I just hurt someone real bad.”
“What? Who?”
“Can I tell you in the car?”
Q checks my arms and head as if looking for damage. “Can you tell me now?”
“Q,” I say. “We live in Southern California. It is our custom to hold all important conversations inside automobiles.”
Q puts an arm around me and we walk slow, slower than we usually walk, like hospital patients doing a turn about the ward. Eventually we reach the school entrance.
From behind a column a tall, muscular prince with the eyes of a hawk sidesteps into our path.
Wu.
“This is for Joy,” says Wu Tang, and punches my head.
That makes no sense,
I want to say, but the crack of the ground on the back of my head stops me. I go down with even timing, like the crisp pop-krak of an electro backbeat. A speck of ash falls into my eye from above. Saying
This is for Joy
might not make sense, but the punch does. The punch makes perfect sense.
I just have to laugh.
“What the fuck,” shouts Q. “Help!”
I turn to see Wu holding Q at bay. “You gotta let me do this, bro,” says Wu, before turning back to me.
“Fuckin’ steal my girl?” says Wu.
“No,” I say, shielding my face. “Yes. I don’t know.”
“Fuckin’ steal my girl?” says Wu.
“She stole me. We stole each other. I’m sorry, okay?”
“What the fuck is going on?” says Q.
“I thought we were buds, Frank Li,” says Wu. “Then Brit comes up to me.”
When I look up, I see that I’m the one who’s hurt Wu, not the other way around.
Shit.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m really, truly sorry. I mean it.”
Wu dismisses some dark thought with a flick of his cowlick hair. He straightens. Then he offers me his hand. He offers it like he’s remembering protocol from some
Rulebook for Gentlemen
:
When a man is down, offer him a hand up.
I take his hand and rise. My eye is already throbbing.
Wu takes a step back and examines me. “You disappoint me so bad, bro.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Nurse’s office is down that way,” says Wu to Q. “Take him there right now, get some ice on it.”
“Uh,” says Q.
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am,” I say.
“Just go,” cries Wu, and turns his back to leave.
Wu walks with his fist cocked and raised, and one by one slams seven locker doors shut on his way out.