“WHAT IF I TOLD YOU my parents think I’m gay?” Ham’s announcement in the food line at Cheese Country is anything but subtle. In fact, when I look around the restaurant, all eyes stick to Ham. He’s alive and loud and oozing everything I love about him. My big, juicy Ham. “Are you listening to me, Linden? Gay.”
“I’d say you have perceptive parents?” Ham notices my uptalk, and his eyes widen.
I step to the counter. “I’m buying. What do you want?” I wave two ten-dollar bills, found outside Mr. Dique’s door.
Ham waves. “I have a fifty burning a hole in my pocket. Besides, I need change for the soda machine.” He shoves in front of me and orders two chili dogs, two baskets of cheesy fries, and two sides of ranch dressing. “What do you want, Linden?”
“No thanks. I’ll get my own.” I’ll also figure out another way to pay back the debt I owe. What price do you pay for leaving your best friend naked, alone, and presumably dead?
When we find a table that isn’t covered in crumbs, Ham revs up again.
“Want to know what I told my parents?”
I do, but I can’t stop thinking about the secret I’m keeping from Ham, from Seung, from those who matter most.
“They think Seung and I, you know, we’re together.” Ham chomps a fry with force.
I smile. “But Seung’s not your type.”
Ham slaps the table. “Exactly!” He launches a fry at my chest and grins, all teeth, until I pick the fry from my sweatshirt, dip it into the communal ranch, and shove it into my mouth.
“They’re clueless, though. I mean, they think they have me all figured out. But I’m multifaceted, Linden. I’ve many secrets they’d love to know.”
“So I’ve heard.” I smile and my eyes start to sting. “God, Ham. I thought I lost you homecoming night.”
Ham groans and holds a palm to my face. “Not again, Linden. Go back to smiling. Your tears are beginning to make me self-conscious.”
I chuckle. Ham, self-conscious?
He smiles, reading my mind. “I know. Foreign concept. But stop. Now.”
I dunk another fry in dressing. “So I finally saw Toby, in the light of day, looking like an oversized Cheeto. Tell me, how did you tape Toby to the toilet?”
“Scotch,” Ham says. “And a lot of it.”
“And the plan backfired when he sobered up?”
Ham shakes his head. “It was a backfiring that almost killed Ham.” He pops another fry into his mouth. “Actually, it was when I returned to the scene of the crime, after I saw you. Remorse overtook me. I should have known not to go back, Linden. Those movies we watch misled Ham.”
I roll my eyes but could not care less if Ham refers to himself in first, second, or third person. I’m in love with every layer.
“I thought duct tape held the universe together,” he says. “It’s used in practically all Mafia movies. But it couldn’t hold a drunk Toby Patters to a toilet, now, could it? He nearly made me a pancake when he escaped and tried to pin me to the building with his truck. Thankfully I’m quick. I was able to dart, fast. He only clipped my side, but the impact slammed me into the wall, knocked me out. Can you imagine if he’d actually hit me head-on, Linden? The irony. Ham, a pancake.”
I smile. “I’m just glad you’re alive.”
“Had Toby not risen from his drunken slumber, he’d be bald instead of blotchy.”
“He sure is orange,” I say.
“Hair dye works wonders. So does bronzer.”
I smile and repeat, “So happy you’re alive.”
Ham nods. “Lived to tell the tale. Didn’t even need to execute the entire plan, thanks to my near death.”
“Don’t tell me there was more.”
“Photos taken but not needed. Going to keep them safe, though, just in case. But the accident seems to have made Toby remorseful. I don’t think he’ll be bothering any of us anymore.”
The bells on the door jingle.
“Buddy!” Ham yells. “We were just talking about you. How you’re so not my type.”
Seung glances in our direction, but he’s staring at Ham, avoiding me. Bea and Beth file behind him. Jarrell follows, but he’s not with Bea. I wonder if Seung is.
“Scoot over. Make room,” Ham says.
“You scoot over.” My words hiss.
Ham stuffs a scoop of chili minus the dog into his mouth and frowns.
Seung slides into the booth next to me and bumps my leg with his. I plaster myself against the wall. Seung hasn’t said more than three words to me since he declared he was the one who mattered most . . . or that I was the one who mattered most. All I know now is that he matters more than I’m willing to accept, and I’m not sure how to handle my next move.
Jarrell walks by and knocks on our table. Ham jumps up and follows Jarrell to a booth in the back of the restaurant, leaving me alone with Seung and piles of food.
Bea and Beth walk over.
Bea smiles at Seung, waiting for him to look up and invite her to sit down, but he’s busy swirling ketchup and mayo, watching the drips and drops hit his plate. Seung’s channeling Jackson Pollock, refusing to look up.
Bea taps her foot, clears her throat, and smiles larger than should be physically possible. Seung stares at his plate, mixing media, perfecting his condiment masterpiece.
“Hi, Bea,” I say to snuff the awkwardness out of the atmosphere. “Had a chance to talk to Mr. George yet?”
She shakes her head.
“Talk to him about what?” Beth asks.
“I’ll take care of the misunderstanding,” Bea says.
“What misunderstanding?” Beth asks.
I nod, wanting to believe Bea. I mean, I know what it’s like to wear a mask, hide in plain sight, but who am I to ask her to clean up a mess she never made in the first place? People assume I’m the girl, Anonymous, because of a single comment. Is it Bea’s job to come clean, for me?
“You know,” I say, “forget about it.”
“Forget about what?” Beth asks.
Bea’s eyes lock on Seung, and pity punches my gut. Bea’s never made things easy for me. A part of me hated her for treating me the way she did, but then that other part—the part that found her in the bathroom dabbing at broken skin, the part that found her in the bedroom huddled against the wall—experiences the same pains and hurts she does. I was there, huddled against the wall, while my mother died. My pain may not be external, but it’s real.
Bea ogles Seung, willing him to rescue her. I drop my head, sad that Bea doesn’t know she already initiated the rescue mission herself when she published that anonymous article. She doesn’t need someone else to do the job.
Seung stares at his plate, stiff armed and not at all ready for his knight-in-shining-armor role.
The scene is agonizing to watch. Bea staring at Seung. Seung staring at his plate. Bea sighing. Seung tightening. Finally I toss a half-eaten fry onto the table and say, “For shit’s sake, sit. Seung, scoot your ass.”
I yank Seung’s pants, pulling his leg toward mine. He plants his feet and grips the table, unwilling to budge. Beth drops onto the edge of the booth opposite us, while Bea stands by Seung, waiting for him to move. I admire her persistence but wish her affection were directed at someone else, someone other than Seung.
“Seung,” I whisper and tug at his pants. “Scoot over.” As much as I’d prefer Bea buzzing at a different table, the disappointment in her eyes makes me pull harder on Seung’s pants. “Move. Seung. Now.”
He tilts his chin toward me, still staring at his plate. That’s when I see the tear. Right there, balancing on his cheek.
Whatthehelliswrongwiththisboy?
Here’s me, saving the one who matters most from his most embarrassing moment. Consider it debt recovery.
I slide my hand toward his and he locks his finger around mine. Under normal circumstances, my body would heat, ignite, combust. Frankly, I’m surprised by the finger hold. It’s nice, but Seung’s terrible with timing.
I climb onto my knees on the bench and shout, “Hey, Ham!” and motion toward Bea and Beth. Ham mumbles and I point, signaling him to move ass, now. He does, after a thirty-second hug with Jarrell.
“Your food’s getting cold,” I say as Ham slides into the booth.
“Not hungry,” Ham says, and if Seung’s finger wasn’t hooked around mine, I’d beckon the marching band to play in Ham’s honor, because Ham is never not hungry.
I shove Seung to the edge of the seat and slide out of the booth. He becomes an uncaged animal. First pausing, unsure what to do, then sprinting to the door looking like a completely cute dork. I jog backward, yelling to Ham, “Meet us at Seung’s later! SAT prep, or something.”
“I think I’m getting kicked out of school. Remember?” Ham shouts back. “Screw the SAT!”
I ignore Ham’s remark because I’m trying to reschedule his upcoming three-day suspension for after the SAT, and his parents are already on top of purchasing pricey reclaimed wood and floor-to-ceiling windows to rebuild the wall, bigger and better and more Ham-like. “Meet us anyway!” I shout, and head out the door.
When we reach Gold Nugget, I ask Seung if we’re skipping class, and he answers by opening the car door and revving the engine. We drive beside Cheese Country’s glass windows and I crane my neck at Ham having lunch with Bea and Beth. Jarrell sits in the booth. Beside Ham.
We drive for five minutes before I decide it’s safe to speak. “Were you crying back there?” The words belly flop from my lips. Seung can’t deny it, but I’m fairly certain he will.
“First Ham. Then Bea. Then you. Then me.”
I ignore Seung’s Dr. Seuss-ish sentiment. “Maybe go easy on Bea.”
“Linden, she follows me everywhere I go. And I know I should like it because the rules of being a guy say I should, right? She’s beautiful and vulnerable and seems like she’s into me. But it’s too much. I already have pressure figuring out you and me, and the SAT.”
“You and me?” I tuck my hair behind my ear and wait for Seung to answer. He leaves me hanging.
We stop for slushies and I suggest we pick one up for Ham, but Seung suggests Triangle Park because Ham has two more classes—those we’re skipping—and a meeting with the principal to negotiate his suspension.
We drive to the park, and as expected, no one is there because they’re where they should be. School. We teeter and totter and try to balance our drinks while bouncing up and down. I ask Seung if he’s really going to go away to college.
“Not if I bomb the SAT,” he says.
I laugh, but he’s wearing his serious face.
“They say it could impact your future.”
Seung chuckles. “No one cares about your SAT score, Linden.”
“College admission boards do.”
I dig my heels into the dirt and try to balance our weight on the teeter-totter.
I inch higher into the air. “Seung Rhee, your score matters more than you know.”
When I reach the top, Seung jumps off his seat and balances it in his hand so I don’t crash to the ground. He pushes the totter until it teeters parallel. “You matter more than a score. And for that reason alone, I’ll study.”
I suddenly feel like ripping off my coat. I mean, it’s forty degrees Fahrenheit and hot as hell.
Seung lowers the teeter-totter to the ground and I bounce gently on the dirt.
“Let’s go to my house before Ham shows up on the step.”
He snatches my hand and we jog toward the car.
Seung’s house is silent. Mr. and Mrs. Rhee aren’t home from work. No warm welcomes or hello-how-was-your-day? Just two truant teens exhausted and hungry and in need of head space.
“Food. That’s what I need,” Seung says.
He opens the refrigerator and unloads a tray of enchiladas, premade and wrapped in foil. He rips off the tin foil and replaces it with plastic wrap.
“It’s Thursday,” I say. “Shouldn’t you be eating American food?”
“Enchiladas aren’t American?”
“They’re Mexican.”
“Everyone in the world eats enchiladas,” he says. “It’s like saying pizza is Italian, fries are French.”
The argument fizzles and I focus on the smell of cumin and cilantro piping from the microwave. The enchiladas would be better in the oven, crispy with burned cheese, but when it comes to Mrs. Rhee’s cooking, I’m the least picky. Her food is five-star, no matter how it’s heated.
We scoot into the dining room, where we wolf tortillas and scoops of cheese, chatting little between bites. The sauce is white and green and tastes like a garden of chives. I’d love to talk spices and how Mrs. Rhee should ghostwrite recipes for celebrity chefs, but Seung is deep in thought, and I’m sure the last thing he wants to discuss is his mother’s cooking.
Seung tears off a chunk of tortilla and dunks it in sauce. He catches me staring. “What?”
I tap my mouth. “Right there. Cheese. Dangling from your lips.”
I slide out of my chair and walk into the kitchen, shoveling four more bites of enchilada sauce into my mouth on the way. Seung follows me into the kitchen, and I wipe my mouth with my sleeve. He passes by me, then turns and grabs the plate from my hands. He rinses it off and loads it into the dishwasher, then reaches for a rag and runs it underwater. When he turns around, I snatch the dishcloth from his hands and walk to the table to wipe up our mess.
“You don’t have to do that,” he says.
“I know. I want to.” And then I catch him watching me, and I feel like I should move a certain way, wiggle my hips or something. I mean it’s obvious he’s staring at my ass and I’m not sure how to enjoy it. My thoughts smack me in the face, and I launch the rag at Seung. He catches it, tosses it into the sink, grabs my hand, and says, “C’mon.”
We end up in the basement, crammed together on one section of the sectional couch. Our usual L shape changes to a hyphen. Head to head. My stomach feels fuller than it has in weeks, almost to the point of discomfort, which is something new. My heart? Yeah. It’s jam-packed, too.
“Want to study for the SAT?” Of course, I don’t mean what I’m asking.
“No.”
“Neither do I.”
“Want to watch TV?” Seung asks.
“No.”
“Neither do I.”
Seung rolls over and slides up the couch to a seated position. I stretch and stare at the ceiling.
“Thanks for rescuing me,” he says.
“Thanks for believing me,” I say. “Besides, I was just saving you from an embarrassing moment.”
Seung pauses, then says, “Linden? You ever feel like you’re suffocating?”
All the time. “Sometimes.”
“This year was supposed to be different,” he says. “I wanted to be different. To do things I’d never done.”
“Which are?”
“Take no shit. Be me. And yet, I don’t even know who I am.”
“You’re Seung Rhee. Homecoming king. I’d say you’re off to a great start being different.”
“Homecoming king was hardly my goal. I want to do what Seung Rhee wants to do. Not what everyone expects me to do, or what my parents think I should do.”
I clamp my mouth shut, while Seung calculates who he is, who he wants to be, and I’m the last person qualified to chime in with advice. I won’t even share who I really am. There’s another long pause. I clear my throat. It’s time to be honest, truthful, and show Seung he matters most.
“Don’t you want to know about all that stuff in my bag?” I ask, and hold my breath.
Seung inches toward me. “Nope. Not now.”
“But don’t you want to talk?”
Seung reaches for my face, and his fingertips fall against my cheek.
“Not really.”
“But don’t you want to—”
“I’d rather do this.”
Seung’s head missiles at mine. His chin where his eyes go, his face upside down. When I stare at him all I see are nose and lips and the reverse face that forms when someone is topsy-turvy. He puckers, leans in for a kiss, and I start to laugh.
“What?” Seung freezes, his lips a millimeter from mine.
“Nothing.”
“Are you laughing?”
“No.”
“You are.”
“I’m not. I promise.”
“You’re laughing at me?”
“No. No. Not you. Not even.”
“You are.”
“I’m not,” I say. “It’s just that you’re upside down and I’m fixating on your nose, your mouth, and it looks like a tiny Seung face without eyes. You know when you look at someone upside down and their lips move but . . .”
Seung moves that missing millimeter.
His hands press against my cheeks.
“I’d like to kiss you now,” he whispers. “Would that be okay?”
And here’s me finally shutting the hell up because I’m kissing my best friend, and feeling it in every single cell of my body.