Authors: David Yoon
Dad’s at The Store. I call him with the news.
“You doing good,” says Dad.
You doing good
means
Mom and I are so, so proud of you
and all of your hard work and diligence. Don’t sweat all that Harvard stuff. We love you.
“Thanks, Dad,” I say.
I go upstairs.
I flop onto my bed. I never hit it, though, because I’m as light as a toy balloon. I just kind of float an inch above the comforter. I’m an astronaut, and this is my first exciting night aboard the International Space Station, where of course they have normal beds that look just like mine.
School is done. Admissions are done. I did great. So did everyone else: the Limbos, the Apeys.
We all
doing good
.
I see the rolling meadow full of people and picnics and kids, and hey: Joy’s there too. All that’s left to do is be with her as long as I can until the sun sets and the streetlights come on.
—It’s Frankie!
—Dude!
—Du-u-u-de.
—Does your portable texting device not work in Boston?
—Shut up.
—I figured if I placed a telephone call, you would pick up because you’re old.
—Isn’t hearing my voice nicer than texting?
—So how’s Boston?
—This way we get to actually be present with each other, unlike these two Bradys here not even fucking watching where they’re going? Heads up, bros, there’s a whole world around you?
—Your voice sounds different. Are you getting sick?
—Are you Frank or Mom right now?
—How’s Miles?
—He’s the best, he says hey, and oh shit, he wants to meet
up in SF when you go to
Stanford
, what what, congrats, homie!
—Hey! That was my big news.
—Mom emailed me already.
—That makes like two whole times this year.
—It’s like I’m her daughter or something, right?
—Jeez.
—Sorry.
—So, uh, did you and Mom, you know, get to talking about stuff or anything?
—Oh, Frankenstein, can we just celebrate you right now? You’re a total rock star.
—Thanks.
—Rock star. You.
—Thankyouthankyouthankyou.
—So, uh, Mom emailed me about the other stuff. With Dad.
—I was gonna tell you.
—
—Hello? You there?
—Dad’s really sick, huh.
—I mean it’s, basically, um . . .
—I know.
—It’s so fucked up.
—My doctor friend’s been helping me look up a bunch of shit about small-cell and she thinks the prognosis is right.
—It’s so fucked up.
—I just don’t know what to think.
—I know. I don’t know. I wanna say I wish you were back home in Cali.
—I wanna say that too.
—Your room’s the same.
—
—Hello?
—Change of subject. How’s Q? He got in too, right?
—Dude. Stanford rejected him.
—No! Is he okay?
—He got into MIT.
—Pthpthphtpt, whatever then. Tell him to come hang out with me and Miles when he gets here. What about Joy?
—CMU.
—So, summer of love and then that’s it, huh.
—Change of subject.
—Joy’s dad didn’t pull any shit with you, did he?
—No.
—It wouldn’t surprise me.
—It wouldn’t?
—He’s been driving Dad crazy for years.
—Huh?
—The guy’s a rich prick!
—You knew about that this whole time?
—Kyung Hee told me forever ago! It’s a bunch of city mouse, country mouse bullshit!
—Why didn’t you tell me?
—Oh, you know what else that peg-legged pirate whore said?
—Hanna!
—Kyung Hee’s all,
You’ve chosen a difficult path to love outside your race
and
You need to be prepared to deal with
how that affects all parties around you
and
Don’t just think about yourself
and blablabla! She’s such a fucking super-Korean!
—Hanna!
—What?
—We need to talk more!
—I know, I know, I know.
—I like talking with you.
—I like talking with you too.
—
And
you’re my sister. You know how rare that combo is?
—Oh, Frank.
—Because with Dad and all . . .
—Stop.
—I just think about when we’re older and stuff.
—Don’t make me cry.
—Okayokay. Wanna hear a joke?
—You’re my favorite person in this whole shitty world, and I love you.
—
—Frank?
—I mean, I love you too. You know?
—
—Hey, are you crying?
—No.
—What did one nut say to the other nut it was chasing?
—I’m pregnant.
—That makes no sense.
—I said I’m pregnant.
—Wait.
—
—Are you serious?
—It’s only a month in, so you’re not really supposed to tell anyone because anything can happen and you never know, but I really needed to tell someone, and besides, anything
has already been
happening for a super-long time now and it’s been nothing but
you never know
forever. So I’m telling you.
—Oh my god, Hanna!
—We find out the sex around month three. I really want a girl.
—What the fuck, congrats!
—You’re gonna be an uncle, Frank Sinatra.
—Do Mom-n-Dad know?
—Hell no.
—Want me to say something?
—Hell no.
—But don’t you . . . ?
—I’ll handle it. Just gotta work up to it.
—You are?
—Wull, I have to, don’t I? It’s six to twelve, right?
—Fuck.
—I know.
—Your room’s the same.
—You already said that.
—Maybe you could come home with Miles and like stay in a hotel or something, I don’t know.
—Maybe. I want to. Miles says I should.
—You could meet Mom-n-Dad at The Store or like someplace neutral.
—You know what I hate, Frankerchief?
—What.
—I hate that I miss home. And Mom-n-Dad too. I fucking hate that I feel that.
—So just come the fuck home, then.
—It’s way more simplicated than that.
—I miss you. Does that help unsimplicate things?
—But you don’t know. You’re still in the high school bubble. Out here, love strikes whenever it wants.
—Love chooses you.
—What?
—Hanna, just come home, say your piece, and let Mom-n-Dad deal with it, the sooner the better so they have more time to get over their brainlock before—you know—before—
—I’m just saying it’s extremely, extremely simplicated is all.
—Tell me about it. Me and Joy have to lie low.
—How come?
—There’s enough tension between the parents already.
—Right, right.
—Kinda sucks the fun out of things.
—I wish this whole shitty world were different.
—This sounds weird, but sometimes I feel like I’m cheating on Mom-n-Dad by sneaking around with Joy. Does that make sense?
—Unfortunately, yes.
—You gonna make it home before I head up to college?
—I’ll try. I don’t know. Just gotta work up to it.
—Okay.
—Okay.
—Do you guys have any baby names picked out?
—Shit, my T’s here. Probably gonna lose you.
—What’s a T?
—My train. I love you, Frankie.
—Hello?
—
—Hanna?
—
—
When we were little, we used to make oobleck.
You know oobleck: one part water, two parts cornstarch, green coloring for flair. This mixture creates a substance known as a non-Newtonian fluid. It’s named after a substance in a children’s book by Dr. Seuss. The Oobleck is a big ball of ruinous, sticky goo that arrives and almost destroys everything after a king, bored with his too-perfect realm, fervently wishes for something—anything—new.
It’s a careful-what-you-wish-for story.
It’s also an appreciate-what-you-have-before-it-turns-into-what-you-had story.
Isaac Newton was a groundbreaking scientist from the seventeenth century. But he was also super into the occult, and wrote a lot about creationism and how there must be some way to turn lead into gold.
Dr. Seuss was a groundbreaking children’s book author beloved for his antifascist humanism. But in his early career,
he drew a lot of racist cartoons depicting black people as savages and mocking Japanese-American internment victims. He was full of remorse for this earlier version of himself for his entire life.
Nothing is just any one single thing. In fact, what starts out as one thing can turn out to be something completely different.
If you press hard on oobleck, it feels like a solid. Same if you strike it. You can even run across a big trough of oobleck, if for some reason you (a) have a big trough lying around and (b) enough oobleck to fill it.
But here’s the weird thing about oobleck: if you gently pass your fingertips through, it yields just like liquid.
SO . . .
If walls of oobleck block your way,
don’t punch and slap and kick all day.
Just hold your breath and close your eyes
and simply ease yourself inside.
Walk slowly through the dark, don’t fear
For someday you’ll be far from here.
Dad’s getting worse.
I always wondered what his last day at The Store would be like, but that day just came and went before I even really noticed. One minute he was sitting on his still-new stool at the cash register, and the next minute he got the spins so bad he had to lie down right on the floor.
At the emergency room it was determined that his white blood cell count was dangerously low from the chemo. This
means his immune system is extremely weak. This means he can no longer work or be among people.
This is the trade-off. Chemo means Dad will live longer. But it also means he lives worse.
I guess it’s good that Palomino High School has been brought to a standstill because of widespread inflammation of the senior, because it frees me up to do things like help Mom shuttle Dad back and forth from the hospital, help train Luis (the ex-con once jailed for a carjacking gone wrong) as a store assistant, and just sit with Dad at home, to build whatever jeong we can while we still can.
I sneak a selfie with Dad while he’s asleep—he’s asleep a lot—and send it to Hanna. Hanna starts to respond but never does.
I spend a lot of time at The Store with Luis while Mom mans the register. I like Luis. We put on our hoodies and move shit around in the walk-in cooler. He’s openly remorseful about his mistake, and loathes himself for carjacking someone just to get approval from his gang friends. Like most human beings he was desperate for validation. Now he gets daily validation by the armload from his wife and baby. He prays before every meal, at the end of every day, and every time he gets behind the wheel of his car to go home, for forgiveness.
Being busy and in constant motion means my fartphone goes unanswered for longer stretches of time. Joy buzzes and buzzes, wondering if I’m okay. If Dad’s okay.
“Your phone’s blowing up, holmes,” says Luis. “You got a girl or something?”
I like Luis. But it wouldn’t be very cool to just openly
blablabla about Joy right in front of Mom, so I tell him no, there’s no girl, it’s just friends calling about graduation parties.
For four weeks I barely go to school, because I work basically nonstop at The Store. It’s the opposite of senioritis. I don’t see Joy. I live with a weight belt strapped around my waist. Q drives all the way to visit one time, and makes a comedic attempt to help mop the floor. Out of mercy Mom sends him out to get tacos instead.
Within those four weeks Luis has mastered The Store, and has even brought in his shy, ever-smiling teenaged cousin to lend a hand. And finally, one time as I’m closing up, I notice that me and Mom have barely lifted a finger all day.
Hey yubs,
says Joy.
How’s The Store? Wannaseeya wannaseeya.
I want to see Joy too. I need to get this summer of love going, stat.
“I have an idea,” I tell Mom. “I’ll be right back.”
“Luis doing everything so good,” says Mom. “Don’t tell Daddy.”
“That’s why I have my idea,” I say.
I take Mom’s bank card, drive out to Tweeters & More, and buy a dozen drop cameras. When I get back to The Store, I explain the situation to Luis before installing them.
“Listen, I trust you and your cousin completely,” I say. “This is not about you. This is Dad management.”
Luis clocks each of the cameras with a wary eye but readily understands why they’re a good idea. Still, he tweaks the angles when I’m finished.
“I need some kind of dead zone for breaks,” he says.
“You got it, Luis,” I say.
We craft a nice dead zone by the paper products.
“Just remember to call and ask how to do things now and then,” I say.
“Uh, okay,” says Luis.
“Even though you already know how to do everything, just call.”
Luis stretches his eyebrows. “Ah, I get it.”
My idea is perfect because I know Dad would never let someone work at The Store without him present. He’s too paranoid, too proud of what he’s built. But without him there’s only Mom, and no way am I going to let Mom work all day by herself.
So when me and Mom approach his bedside to break the news that Luis and his cousin will be operating The Store full-time, I make sure I have a brand-new tablet all set up and ready for him.
“No,” says Dad. “I never allowing full-time employee without I’m being there.”
That’s when I shove the screen in his face. “This lets you switch cameras. Here’s a tile view of all twelve. Full-color HD, Dad.”
“Frankie, no,” says Dad. “Luis stacking wrong way this one. He—”
On screen, the much younger, much stronger Luis reorders and stacks three hundred cans of beer in under a minute.
“Oh, he doing good,” says Dad, mesmerized.
“I told you,” says Mom. “That’s Luis.”
“Gimme one ice water,” says Dad, his eyes fixed to the screen.
“You got it, Dad,” I say.
Ring-ring. It’s Luis, calling Dad’s phone.
“You doing good job,” says Dad.
“Thanks, boss,” says Luis. “So quick question, boss: when does the ice delivery come in again?”
“Thursday ten a.m.,” says Dad. “You write down, remembering.”
“Will do,” says Luis. “Thanks, boss.”
I bring Dad his ice water, and he barely notices me. I squeeze Mom’s shoulder. She nods at me:
go.
So I go to the bathroom, lock the door, and turn on the shower. As it warms up, I finally indulge myself in a little fartphone time.
New exhibit at the Henry Gallery,
says Joy.
You free?
I smile.
I’m free,
I say.
Really?
says Joy.
Yes.
Heart smileys fill my screen.
The shower’s hot now, but before I get in, I send a quick message to Q. It’s been a while since I set up a fake date. It’s high time for some Joy in my life.
My dear old bean,
I say.
Your assistance is crucially needed tonight for an impromptu rendezvous.
Confound it,
says Q.
For I am encircled by familial interlopers visiting with the irritating pretense of endless pre-graduation formalities.
Huh?
Got a bunch of relatives in town from DC using me and Evon’s graduation as an excuse for a California vacation with free lodging.
Crap,
I say.
So you’re busy?
I’m never too busy for you, mate. Give me a sec.
By the time I’m out of the shower, Q has responded.
Full steam ahead, my boy. The three of us are “watching”
Dwarven Wars: Song of Torment.
I pump a fist. I have my in-car alibi for when I pull up to Joy’s house and the watchful eyes of her dad waiting there. Thank you, Q.
I get dressed, leap down the stairs, and lean from a doorjamb to inform Mom-n-Dad, who are still huddled over the drop cam tablet.
“I’m going out to see a movie with Q,” I say. I of course don’t mention Joy, for the same reason I of course don’t smack away ice cream from a child.
“Oh, Luis cousin doing so good job mopping,” murmurs Dad to the screen.
“We should be hiring sooner,” says Mom.
“We making less money,” says Dad.
“But more time we having, figure it out!”
“You right,” says Dad. “More time we having.”
“Guys,” I say.
Mom looks up. She looks like the girl in her yearbook. “Have a fun,” she sings.
Then she snuggles closer to Dad and returns to the tablet.
I’m so proud of myself I could puke rainbows.
“Ninety percent of Mexicans, they stealing,” says Dad to the screen, quoting his own fake statistics. “But Luis not stealing nothing.”
“Not ninety percent,” says Mom, armed with fake statistics of her own. “Something like seventy-five percent.”
“Luis cousin no steal nothing too,” says Dad, impressed.
I roll my eyes so high it hurts, and leave.
It feels good to be back to what I hope will become an old routine:
Pick up Q
Go to Joy’s, have Q ring the doorbell
Get in the Consta, floor it
Go over the plot synopsis of
Dwarven Wars
just in case
Park, then give Q a big group hug to let him know how much we love him for this
Grow uncomfortable with guilt as Q shrugs and says,
What are single friends for?
Part ways for three to four hours
“What are you gonna do with yourself?” I say.
“Plan out our next big Dungeons & Dragons campaign at a cafe, maybe,” says Q, shifting his heavy backpack. “Paul wants to play one more before summer ends.”
“Nerds,” says Joy.
We look at her like
So?
Everything is full tonight in the warehouse district: the food trucks, the shitty Burger Mac, that brand-new Sixth Taste, everything. A woman and her daughter are grilling bacon-wrapped hot dogs illegally on a converted shopping cart—delicious, illegal hot dogs—and even
she’s
got at least a forty-minute line of customers.
It’s pre-graduation madness. Has to be. There’s only one restaurant that’s remotely feasible.
Cheese Barrel Grille.
“Shoot me in the head and stuff it with socks,” says Joy.
“That’s super disgusting,” I say.
“Let’s just go,” says Joy.
They give us an LED buzzer coaster, which Joy hisses at. We head outside and down the street to see if we can get tickets to the Henry Gallery, but there’s a surging line there, too.
“Maybe it’ll be shorter by the time we’re finished with dinner,” I say.
“Grr,” says Joy. “I’m getting hangry, so call me on my bullshit if I bullshit.”
“Easy, wild beastie,” I say. “They said half an hour.”
The only thing to do is get a couple of sodas and stand around a cocktail table shaped like a barrel with a cheese logo stamped onto its side. Joy sips fiercely. I wrap an arm around her, put my straw in her drink, pretend we’re an old-tyme couple in an old-tyme soda parlor, and she softens a little bit. We even kiss a little, until we discover a family of four staring at us and stop.
“Ng, party of four?” says the thin, European-American hostess with flat eyes.
The dad from Ng Party of Four triumphantly offers the hostess his pulsating coaster, and they vanish into Cheese Barrel Grille’s neon-lit interior.
“We were here before them,” says Joy.
“Were we?” I say.
Joy stabs her ice cubes with a straw. “Definitely.”
“I don’t know,” I say.
Joy practically scowls at me. “Yeah, but I know. We were.”
I rub her back. “Hey, look, we have only like ten minutes to go. You want another soda?”
Joy cocks her hip and eyes the hostess podium. “I’m gonna say something.”
“Joy, come on.”
“Not gonna sit here and just take this kind of shit.”
The hostess comes bustling back, and suddenly Joy’s there to intercept her.
“Hey, we were here before the Ngs, miss—Becky?”
“Joy, hey,” I hiss, and slit my throat with my thumb.
Joy ignores me. “Why did they get to go first?”
The hostess gives Joy a blank look. “We seat our guests based on table availability. They’re four, you’re two.”
“So can’t you just split the table?”
“We’re unfortunately unable to saw our four-tops in half,” says the hostess, and begins dabbing at her podium screen.
“Are we next?” says Joy.
“I have you ready in about ten minutes,” says the hostess. “Would you like another soda?”
“I don’t want another soda, Becky,” says Joy.
Becky freezes in midtap and just stares at Joy. Is she considering kicking us out? Because that would make this already great night even better.
I lunge forward to grab Joy. “Ten minutes is great,” I say.
Back at our barrel, Joy stews. “Way to be on my side, Frank.”
“You said to call your bullshit, so I’m calling your bullshit,” I say. “Look at these guys over here. They’re waiting like big kids. You can wait like a big kid, too.”
I nod at two toddlers jammed in a stroller with a fartphone, and I can see Joy realize how petty she’s being. She offers me a simpering look.
“You’re just hangry, okay?” I say.
“Li, party of two?” says Becky.
“Thanks, Becky,” I say.
“We had a cancellation,” says Becky, and gives Joy an eyebrow.