Chapter 17

chapter 17

The next day,June’s sprawled out on the couch eating Pringles when I get out of class. It’s Halloween, and Halloween at design school is its own exhausting spectacle.

“Hey,” she says, when I hang my coat up. Rory’s well into Yale on Gilmore Girls. No matter the season it always seems like Christmas in Stars Hollow.

“Hey.”

She studies me. “Where were you?”

I stop myself from rolling my eyes.

“Class.”

The kitchen counter’s a mess again even though I wiped everything up this morning. A half-dozen condiments left out. Loose sesame seeds. A Diet Coke that’s been there since yesterday. I open the fridge. A few days ago, I broke down and removed the shelves to air them out in sunlight. The bottoms of the produce drawers looked like the contents of a shark’s stomach during an autopsy. I wouldn’t have been surprised to find an old toilet seat cover in there.

I tip the soda into the sink.

“Don’t clean,” she says. “I’ll call someone to come.”

“It’s okay,” I tell her, noisily crushing the bottle. I can’t believe that this time last year Ivy and I spent hours dressing up as prescription pill bottles with Euphoria makeup. We ate so much candy I googled whether you could give yourself diabetes. Sometimes my memories are so remote they may as well have happened to someone else.

I twist all the lids back onto the various seasonings and return them to their shelves.

The year before that, Megan and Hillary had a party at our house. It was nineties themed. They were actually kind of nice to me that day.

I sponge down June’s counters. I may as well. I looked up this building on StreetEasy and rent is, like, thirty-five hundred for a one-bedroom.

“Seriously,” she says, sitting up. “Don’t clean. It’s fucking annoying.”

I know this mood. June’s bored.

I check the time on the microwave. It’s 4:00 p.m. “Did you go outside today?” I already know she hasn’t. The air in the room is comprised of 100 percent mouth-breath.

She glares at me and bites into the stack of Pringles, which shatter across her sweatshirt. She brushes at them hard even though one of the crumbs is basically half an entire chip.

My sister is so jonesing for a fight.

“What?” she demands hotly. Every single baby hair on her head is sticking up in attack mode.

I can’t keep a straight face. A lactic-acid burn sears in my cheeks from keeping myself from smiling. I shake my head. “Nothing,” I say innocently. My chin wobbles.

I spray down the counters.

“I told you to fucking stop,” she says, doubling down. “So fucking stop.”

I can’t even look at her. She sits up. Covered in chips. Jutting her chin out.

I raise my hands and set down the Formula 409.

June and I have had fistfights and even drawn blood, but this isn’t that.

I’m trying to clear my throat. Reset. But chortles keep audibly escaping my nose. I bite my lips.

“What?” she counters again, but I hear her voice waver.

She gets up and marches toward me.

I back away from her with my blocking hand up. “I’m not fighting you, you psycho.”

At that, she reaches over and smacks my shoulder with her open palm.

I look down at my shoulder, then back at her.

Eyes hardened, hand aloft in a swat, she’s about as menacing as a Labradoodle in a tam-o’-shanter.

“What the fuck was that?”

June continues to glare.

“Look, I’m not hitting a bitch with vagina cancer,” I protest as she smacks me again, harder and harder, this time laughing.

“Uuuuuuuugh, I hate you,” she wails, dragging her ass back to the couch. “I’m so bored.”

“Go walk around the block.”

I slump on the couch next to her, undoing the top button of my pants. I’m just glad to be home.

“Let’s go to your apartment,” she says, kicking me for sport. “See if he’s gone.”

“What?”

She’s animated now, eyes gleaming. “Yeah, let’s see if that fucker’s out.”

“Now?”

“It’s been over a week.”

“Well, I can go check,” I tell her, getting to my feet. I wonder if this is her way of getting rid of me. “You don’t have to come.”

“I need an activity,” she whines. “It’s Halloween.”

She’s such a child. “Yeah, dick, also known as the worst subway night ever.”

“It’s early.”

I groan. “I don’t know, June. What if I need space too?” I echo her earlier sentiments. “What if this is personal and I need to process it?”

She appears to consider this.

“Bring me a glass of water.”

I fill a glass, remembering that I haven’t had water in several days, and take a long thirsty sip before refilling it to hand it to her. I already know she’s going to bitch about that.

“You should’ve served me first and then had your water. You act like I’m not older than you.”

God, she’s petty.

“I’m coming with you,” she says, dragging her hair into a sloppy ponytail. “It’s not the same thing.”

“What if I don’t want you there?”

She shrugs off her pajama top and pulls on a wadded-up hoodie over her T-shirt. “Really?” she demands. “That’s where you want to take it right now? You’ve been here for a week, all up in my shit, and you won’t invite me over? I just want to see. I know there isn’t a medicine cabinet or a drawer in this bitch that you haven’t snooped through, so suck it up. It’s my turn.”

“No!”

“Fuckface,” she says. “Either you invite me to your apartment and introduce me to your asshole boyfriend or… I’ll beat your ass.”

“God,” I rage, putting on my sweatshirt. “Fuck, you’re so inconsiderate. You have zero fucking noonchi.”

“I don’t need fucking noonchi when it comes to you,” she says, shoving her feet into mules. “You’re my family.”

“How is that even a thing?” I put lipstick on in the mirror by the door.

“Matter of fact,” she says gruffly, pulling on her coat. “Not only are you my family, but you’re my younger family. Fuck noonchi, asshole. You don’t count. I’m the heir; you’re the spare. You owe me your whole life. You wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for me.”

I can’t tell if she’s talking about New York or Planet Earth.

We take the F to Brooklyn in silence. June was right. It’s early yet. Other than a small cluster of school kids in desultory costumes, it’s manageable. The one nice thing about Halloween on a Monday is that the hardcore weirdos are partied out from the weekend.

The train rises aboveground at Smith and Ninth, and even though I’m still aggravated, the ride is calming. The atmosphere’s electric, all the surfaces gilded at the edges. I love New York on crisp days like these. It’s magic hour, and I can’t help but feel grateful. I read on a new age blog somewhere, probably while perusing supplements, that there are places on earth that are a vibrational match for you. That certain energy vortexes thrum along yours. I want to say that the fine print claimed it was a thing with Native Americans. Or Australian aboriginals. Hawaiians maybe—something that makes white women hawking powders and elixirs seem like they have any kind of history. But I’m sold on there being a home for your soul. New York feels right to me in moments like these. When I take a second to look out and remember where I am.

“See the Statue of Liberty?” I point her out on the other side of the train. She’s the size of a thumb on the horizon, a pale-green queen, arm raised high out in the water. To me, Lady Liberty’s like the moon, the way she can look bigger even from the same spot.

“Jesus,” says June. Marveling at the skyline. “You live in Butt-Fuck Egypt.” There are six more stops to go.

“It’s chill.”

And cheap.

I check on my rubble piles when we coast by.

“How long does it take you to get to school?”

“Hour.”

“Damn. That’s a hike. Takes me ten minutes to get to work.” She’s sitting in the seats facing me and crosses her legs at the ankles, looking out the window. Then she cranes down and tugs at the edge of her sock. “Look at this shit.” The bright-blue lip of fabric bites into her fleshy ankle. That’s when I notice that her other sock is lighter, with a scalloped white edge. “I’m losing it.” She looks at me stupefied. “I don’t think I’ve ever done this before.”

“You should get all the same socks.” Mine are uniformly black, from Uniqlo. I stick my toes out at her. Shaking my feet so she sees, but when she doesn’t say anything, I look up. That’s when I realize, to my horror, that June is crying. Again. The expression on her face is unchanged, but there are fat droplets coursing down her cheeks and falling onto her hands, which are lying in her lap like upturned bugs.

“June…” They announce our stop. I get up and she follows.

We walk the three blocks to the apartment. I beep the fob on the door, and we march upstairs, her behind me, our footfalls matching.

“Is he gone?” June asks, even before I’ve opened the door. She’s clearing her throat and blotting her eyes. I unlock the door and switch the light on. We remove our shoes.

At first glance I can’t tell. There is, however, an enormous dead cockroach right in the center of the living room.

I rush into the bathroom, bundle up some toilet paper, and throw it out. My face burns. I can’t stand to look at her.

The sunken West Elm love seat off Craigslist is still there. Same with the bookcase and the particle-board café table and chairs that I use when I’m doing homework. The house smells the same. Lightly floral from a candle that sits in the kitchen. Not a hint of ylang-ylang shower cleaner. My bedroom door is ajar, and as I approach it slowly, I feel a crawling dread, as if I’m the final girl in a horror movie. I peek in.

The curtains are drawn. I feel my way in the dark, turning on the bedside lamp on the floor inside the closet since the overhead bulb shorted out ages ago. The bed’s been stripped. He could be out. Just as I say “He’s not home,” I’m shoved from behind onto the mattress.

“BWWWAAAGH!” screams June, standing over me.

I flip around, heart pounding. “You’re such a dick!”

June laughs in my face, pinning me to the bed. “Why are you scared? It’s your house,” she says. Then she looks around the room. I see it through her eyes. This is precisely why I didn’t want her coming. I watch as she registers the mattress that’s flush to the walls. The bubble of condensation trapped under the white paint above the window. I brush the crumbled pieces of ceiling plaster off the bed and grab a fitted sheet from a shelf to put on. The bare mattress suddenly seems obscene. June reaches out to tame the bottom of the elasticated clump of fabric. She has to stand in the hallway to do it.

I eye a yellowing hexagon on the white terry surface of the mattress. I don’t remember the last time I changed the sheets. It looks like the outline of France.

“Is this the mattress I bought?” She pulls the quilted corner away from the wall to hook it into the sheet pocket expertly. “Didn’t I tell you to get a full?”

“I paid you back.” I do the same from atop the bed. “And a full didn’t fit.” I’d love, just once, to live in an apartment where I had my own full bed.

June smooths out the sheet. “Jesus, haven’t you heard of a mattress protector? This is a year old.”

“Two and a half.”

She glares at me. “I just hope these cum stains are yours.”

I drag her onto the stain and when she falls, she laughs so hard it makes me laugh.

“I hate you,” I tell her.

I check the bathroom. And the coat closet and the cabinets. From what I can see, he has every intention of coming back. Most of his stuff is still here. I immediately change my Netflix password and delete his profile. Fuck him.

June’s in my fridge. “Jesus, he doesn’t eat food either?” she says, flinging the door open, causing condiment bottles to clang. She pulls out a crusty jar of honeyed yuzu from the shelf, so I put the kettle on. She holds her palm above the radiator and looks at me with concern. Then she puts her coat back on. It’s cold in here.

“I don’t think he’s gone,” she says.

“I have no idea,” I tell her, noncommittal.

“Mom would shit if she found out you were shacking up with some dude.” She turns on the kitchen faucet and holds her hand under the water. Then she turns the hot water on full blast.

“Jayne,” she says.

I watch her fingers wriggle in the stream.

“You can’t be serious.”

“What?” I glare at her.

“Look around, asshole,” she says. “You can’t live like this! You have black mold on your bedroom walls.” She points accusingly. “It smells like cats have been peeing in here for centuries. Please tell me you withheld rent this month—you don’t have hot water.”

“You can’t tell Mom I’m living with a dude,” I tell her, nudging her out of the way to open the cupboard by her head. I might live in a hovel, but at least I want her to see how normal people store their mugs.

I make our tea.

“Jayne.”

I give her the good mug, offering it to her with the handle facing out, burning the shit out of my fingertips.

She takes her sweet time reaching for it and walks over to the couch. For a split second I see her wrinkle her snobby nose before perching on her seat. I sit down next to her, squishing in.

I want to put my coat back on too, but I don’t want to give her the satisfaction. I lean back and stretch my legs out as if June’s being a priss.

I set my mug on the floor since we don’t have a coffee table but pick it up again. It’s gross down there. There are so many dust bunnies and hair clumps that I’ve never noticed before.

“Why did you move out of your old place?”

“Does Mom still call you every weekend to ask if you went to Mass?” I ask instead of answering.

“Yeah,” says June, irritation flashing across her face. “It wouldn’t kill you to pick up once in a while. It just doubles my load.”

I never thought about that. “Is it true that parents go to hell if their kids don’t go to church? Mom keeps wailing in her voicemails about how she’s going to hell.”

“Just lie. Also”—she chuckles—“why are you asking me if it’s true? Hell’s not a real place.” June takes a swallow of tea, then sticks her tongue out. “Fuck, burnt my tongue.”

She always burns her tongue. Even worse than I do. She also salts her meals before she tastes them.

“Lie?” Honestly, it’s never occurred to me. It also never occurred to me that June wouldn’t believe in hell.

“It’s not lying if it’s to protect her,” June reasons. “She’s happier not knowing. Most people are.”

Just then my phone lights up on the floor in front of us. It’s Mom.

“How the fuck does she do that?” We look at each other and then back at the phone.

She’s worse than Alexa or Siri or Amazon ads. “Fuck,” I breathe. I watch it go to voicemail. “That’s creepy.”

Mom’s like June. She only leaves a voicemail after power-dialing at least six times in a row.

MOMappears on the screen again.

“Does she do this to you?”

“What do you think?”

June’s phone buzzes in her coat. She shows it to me. Mom. Of course. And, of course, June picks up.

“Yoboseyo?” she says into her phone. And then, “I’ll call you right back.”

“What are you doing?” A trill of anxiety shoots through me. “Why’d you pick up?”

June then goes and FaceTimes her.

I fix my hair.

Mom picks up. “Yoboseyo?”

We’re treated to a visual of Mom’s ear. She mutters in Korean about the crappy sound quality.

“Umma,” June calls out, laughing. “You’re supposed to look at us. Look at the screen!”

“Hi,” I pipe up from behind June.

Mom’s scowl turns into a smile. “What are you guys doing together?” she asks in Korean. Her expression shifts again. “Why is it so dark where you are? Turn some lights on. You’ll ruin your eyes. Is everything all right?” It’s astounding how quickly she goes from happy to worried.

“We’re fine,” says June. “We just thought it would be nice for you to see us.”

“Oh, okay.” Mom’s wearing a mint-green golf shirt with what appears to be a fake Ralph Lauren logo. The embroidered polo player’s missing his horse. “Not that I can see you,” she reiterates. “Do you need me to send a lamp?”

We ignore that.

“We’re drinking yujacha,” I tell her, lifting my mug. I always do this. Inform her when I’m doing Korean things as if to ingratiate myself. As if this will make her proud of me.

“Where’d you get it?” she says. “Is it the red label or the green and gold?”

I’m not going back to the fridge to check. “Green?”

“That one’s all sugar. Get the red label next time. Red and yellow, I think.”

“I will.” I will do no such thing.

I haven’t seen my mother’s face in so long. I don’t even recognize the silver wire-framed glasses she’s wearing. A lump forms in my throat. It’s like staring at the sun.

“I’m coming home,” June announces.

“Really? For a business trip?” Mom’s face brightens immediately. “When? Can you stay for a few days? You must be so busy.”

“Yes, for work,” says June. “Dallas for a meeting, but I’ll come down.”

There’s a falling feeling in my stomach. I can’t believe she hasn’t told me about this. I can’t believe how easy all of this is for her.

“How long?”

“A weekend.”

“You’re still coming for the holidays though, yes?”

“For Christmas,” says June. Even with Mom’s birthday at Thanksgiving, we don’t usually celebrate. It’s never felt like a real holiday to us, and Mom hates turkey. “What a tasteless bird to eat,” she says. “And so huge.” She thinks it’s a perfect allegory for American food.

“Send me your flight information,” she demands. “Is Jayne coming?” I duck out of the frame and glare at my sister.

“You’re going to have to ask her.”

I reach over and pinch her thigh.

“Jayne?”

June points the phone right at me and raises her eyebrows, smiling prettily.

“I want to,” I tell her in English. “But I’m busy with school and work.”

“Of course,” she says, face tightening. “You have to focus on what you have to focus on. You poor girls, working like dogs in that gutter-filthy city. I heard the subways are always broken. You couldn’t pay me to go inside a tunnel on the subway. Are you at least taking exercise and eating proper meals at proper times? What’s good grades and money if you don’t have your health? Are you okay for money, Ji-young?”

“I’m fine,” I tell her, sick with guilt.

“So this weekend?” Mom asks my sister.

“Yeah.”

I watch June intently. She’s stopped blinking, which means she’s lying. I’m willing to bet there’s no business trip to Dallas. She’s just going because she wants to. Which she can because she’s so stinking rich.

“Friday to Sunday,” she says. “I miss you guys.”

“Maybe you can bring something back to Jayne, some myulchi or something for soups,” says Mom to June, while looking at me. With her glasses on she appears older.

“Thanks, Umma.”

June has cancer!I want to scream into the phone.

“Maybe I’ll see you before my fiftieth birthday,” she says. Mom knows how to lay it on. She’s not turning fifty for another three years. “Did I ever tell you girls the dream I had before my birthday last year?” Mom’s partial to the notion that she’s more than slightly clairvoyant. “It was beautiful. I was swimming in the most clear, placid water and the temperature was exactly the same as my skin. Like a bath. And in the sky was this white dragon. Coiled across the horizon and then whipping toward me. It had green, green eyes. I was filled with so much joy. You couldn’t ask for a more auspicious dream.”

She says this as if it’s Korean tradition that the mother has an auspicious dream before her own birthday and not the birth of a child.

“Do they have Catholic churches where you two live?” she asks. I have a feeling Mom thinks me and June are neighbors.

“Of course,” says June. “It’s, like, all Irish and Italians.”

“Well, not as good as our church,” says Mom. “It’ll be good to go together, June. You have so much to be thankful for. We all pray for you girls so much.”

When we hang up, I slap June’s arm. “What the hell?”

“What?” June slaps me back.

“Why are you going home all of a sudden? I know you don’t have a business trip.”

“Who the fuck cares?” she says. “I just…” She looks around my house. “I want to go home.”

“Yeah, but you have a home.”

“Look, I don’t know what you’ve got against Texas,” she says. “But I like it at Mom’s. It’s chill.”

It’s funny. Even though our parents are together, it’ll always be Mom’s house.

“I’m tired,” she says, and swallows. “I want to see Mom and Dad before all this shit goes down. I want the feeling of being in San Antonio, where people search for fucks to give about emerging markets, how fat my bonus is going to be, or what my bowl order is at fucking Sweetgreen. I’m wrecked. I just want to eat those little anchovies fried in garlic and that potato thing she makes with a mandoline. I want soup with every meal, and I want my mom to buy me shit at Costco.”

“Our Mom,” I correct her saltily, thinking about her clear soup with the oxtail and the turnip.

“Whatever. I’ve known her longer,” says June, scrolling through her phone for flights.

“I fucking knew you didn’t have a business trip. Liar.”

She shrugs, ignoring me. She’s not even going to Orbitz or anything, but going straight to the commercial airline app like some kind of millionaire.

When she clears her throat repeatedly, basically right in my ear, I want to punch her in the face. If I were June, I’d be so nice to my little sister. June is such a shitty older sister. She’s more of a shitty older sister than she is a good daughter. I know it’s a bonus that she gets to be mean to me and suck up to Mom at the same time.

If Mom’s dead baby were here, she and I would be best friends. We’d never put up with this shit. June would choke with jealousy. My middle sister would be Mom’s favorite because she was sick as an infant and then June would finally know how it felt to be left out.

“Well, what am I supposed to do?” I blurt once June’s entering her credit card security code.

Finally, she puts her phone down and smiles triumphantly. “You know what? I don’t fucking care,” she says. “No offense, but I wouldn’t mind not thinking about you for a few days either.”

“Thanks a lot.” I sniff. “I’m the only one who cooks or cleans. I washed all of your linens, had to practically run that shit twice with extra hot water and rinse. Maybe I’m tired too. I don’t want to think about you, either.”

“Well, then it’s perfect,” she says, putting her phone away. “Quality time apart.”

I can’t believe she’d leave me at a time like this.

“Serves me right for buying you that wine opener.” I also bought her some kitchen towels. They were on sale, but they have really cute taxicabs on them. I know it’s not unreasonable that she’s sick and wants to go home, but I still feel like she’s going home at me.

“You’re the one who doesn’t visit,” she says. “Such a fucking drama queen. New York would still be here when you got back.”

“Well, I can’t afford it,” I tell her. “It’s like four hundred and fifty bucks around the holidays.”

It’s not as if I didn’t look it up last year.

“Oh my God,” says June, sticking her tongue out on “God” and rolling her eyes. “If you want to come, I’ll buy you a ticket—just fucking tell me one way or another.”

“I’ll have to get off work.” Not everyone has a trillion vacation days like my asshole sister.

“So get off work.”

“Fine,” I tell her, looking up flights of my own.

“I’ll buy your ticket. I’ll get it on miles.”

“Fine.”

“Fine what?” she says, knocking my knee with hers.

“Thank you.”

“Thank you what?” she says, really joggling me this time.

“Thank you, Unnie.”

“That’s right, you little dickhead.”

We drink our teas. “I’m pretty sure this is expired.” I peer into my mug. The yuzu’s bloomed at the bottom, but it doesn’t taste like much.

“This shit always tastes kinda expired to me,” says June. She points at the empty bedroom behind her. “So, what now? Are you staying here? It’s so fucking depressing. Like, Christmas-morning-at-a-strip-club depressing. I feel like I’ve only seen places like this in night-vision goggles because the feds in the movie are about to do a raid.”

I look around. I don’t want to. In the last week, I’d forgotten how deeply unhappy I’ve been here. I’d only thought as far as checking if Jeremy had left. I can’t imagine closing my eyes and trying to sleep in this place. “I guess I should,” I tell her. “It’s where I live.”

I didn’t know I’d be leaving June’s for the night when we left. She’ll probably abandon all the wet towels in the washing machine and let them get smelly again. Plus, she’ll Seamless fried chicken instead of heating up the leftover lentils and turkey I made her. And we’re only halfway through the episode of Gilmore Girls where Christopher comes back. For the third time.

June gets up. “Okay.”

I get up too.

“Text me if you need anything,” she says.

“Thanks for the ticket.”

“It’s just miles.”

She holds her mug out. “Should I? Just put it in the sink or…?”

My sister moves toward me just as I step in the same direction.

“Sorry.”

“Let me…” I take the cup from her, relieved to have something to do with my hands. “I’ll see you soon,” I say, suddenly not knowing when I’ll see her. “I guess at the airport.”

“Oh,” she says. “Sure.”

“Okay.” Friday sounds like ages away.

We face each other.

“Actually, you know what?” she says abruptly, rolling her eyes. “You’re such a numbnut. Did you even bring any of your things? Do you have your toothbrush?”

“No.” I shake my head theatrically. “I’m so stupid.”

She kisses her teeth. “You know I haven’t had a single cavity?” My sister smiles big with her lips pulled back, going slightly cross-eyed from the effort.

I nod approvingly. “You’re really lucky,” I offer.

“Look, just come to my house,” she says. “It’s so fucking cold and depressing here. And you have fucking roaches.”

“I had a roach,” I correct her. “One. And it’s dead.”

“Okay, asshole, do you want to stay here or…?”

“No.”

“Besides,” she says, ordering an Uber. “You can’t sleep on someone else’s cum stains. That’s just not right.” I shove her as she laughs.

We take a black car back. With Halloween surge pricing it’s a depraved amount of money and it has heated seats. I settle in, feeling warm inside and out. June leans over the middle seat to show me something on her phone that I barely register. When she gets back on her side, she feels far. On long car rides as kids, she’d twist, practically strangling herself with the seat belt as she hurled her legs over mine to stretch out and sleep. It never seemed particularly comfortable. It was more the principle of it, that she could because she was older.

I bite my lip to stop from smiling. June really is such an asshole.