“DO YOU FIND THE THEME for homecoming—how shall I say this?—racist?” Ham slams his notebook shut and falls back on the couch. He flicks a piece of popcorn onto the coffee table, pinches it between his fingers, and tosses it into his mouth.
I side-eye Seung. He’s running his finger over a list of vocabulary words, pausing at each one, and whispering to himself. For the last seven days we’ve been prepping for the SAT. It’s one of my better ideas lately, because (1) we need good scores if the Triangle wants to attend college together, (2) our study sessions keep me occupied after school, so I can (a) procrastinate on the story Mr. George insists I write, and (b) spend time with the guys, with Seung.
Added bonus includes hanging in a heated house five to six nights a week. The schedule is well ironed now because I’ve made it back into the school every night this week to sleep in the theater room covered in velvet curtains. If it weren’t for the occasional knocking of pipes in the night, I’d say I’m living in luxury.
“Racist?” Seung asks, glancing up from the word list.
Ham drops his voice a couple of octaves and says, “‘Whispers of the Orient.’ You’re the one who said, ‘Oriental is for rugs, not people, Ham, you fucking douchebag.’”
Seung Frisbee-throws a couch pillow at Ham’s face. It’s standard SAT-prep. Same bickering, same pillow tosses—different night.
“So, Linden,” Seung says. “Did you get your homecoming dress or tux?”
I rattle off reasons for my lack of formal wear, and that I’m planning to refuse said dress because of my opposition to sexist conformance. Basically, I’m rambling about the right to choose between dresses and pants, when someone knocks on the basement door.
“What?” Seung shouts. Ham and I jump.
Mrs. Rhee peeks around the wall. “Sorry to interrupt, but you’ll be glad I did.”
The smell of fresh baked goods filters through the basement, which knows Mrs. Rhee’s baking all too well. I’m hit by the goodness that is Toll House chocolate-chip cookies. Homemade by the hands of a mother.
Ham hops to his feet and snatches the plate from Seung’s mom. “Mrs. Rhee. If you weren’t a married woman, or if Mr. Rhee couldn’t kick my ass, or if I were of legal age, or if I were into older—”
Seung whacks the back of Ham’s head with another pillow.
Mrs. Rhee glances over at me, ignoring the boys. “Linden? Seung tells me you might not have a dress for homecoming.”
My cheeks turn to fire. I force myself not to look at Seung, but of course I do. He’s licking chocolate off his thumb, avoiding eye contact. “No, ma’am,” I say. “Not yet.”
Mrs. Rhee smiles. “I have one that might fit you. It belongs to Seung’s cousin and is only a year old. She wore it to spring formal, I think.”
“Oh no, Mrs. Rhee. I plan to buy an outfit as soon as I scrape up more cash.”
Mrs. Rhee studies my face. She smiles and the edges of her eyes scrunch together like Seung’s do when he laughs. Her head tilts to one side. “Sure, honey. I understand. Why would you want to wear last year’s fashion?”
She’s wrong. I don’t give two shits about last year’s style. I would wear last decade’s fashion if it weren’t for the fortress I insist on building around me. The wall I would smash apart if it promised me a mother like Mrs. Rhee, a family like Seung’s.
“You could check it out,” Seung says, still sucking chocolate off his thumb. “You might like it. Then you could use your money for something else. Something you need.”
Seung smiles, and there’s that tickle in my stomach I’ve tried to push aside all week. Ever since Seung said he’d rather I be honest than lie. Ever since he asked me to homecoming.
I glance over my shoulder at Mrs. Rhee. She’s collecting our used glasses and soda cans, still wearing her scrubs from the hospital. “Thanks, Mrs. Rhee. I’d love to see the dress. Maybe even try it on.” And the smiles between Mrs. Rhee and Seung are worth caving to my make-believe sexism, at least for one night.
When we finish studying, I’ve already consumed six chocolate chip cookies and pocketed three more for breakfast. Seung suggests we watch The Sopranos, Season One.
“Hell, no,” Ham says. “Seen it four times four.”
“You have better ideas?” Seung asks.
“Something with action. Scarface-ish,” Ham says. “‘Say hello to my little—’”
“No. No.” I wave my arms. “Enough. I don’t want to hear you or your terrible Tony Montana accent.”
Ham winces and shows signs that he’s a wee bit hurt. “Geez, Linden,” he says. “What’s up your ass?”
Between Seung and me, Ham is taking a beating. Lately I find myself wishing Ham weren’t here with us. Wishing Seung and I could study alone.
Ham’s fake accents, bad jokes, and movie requests, stuff that used to be the most adorable things on earth, only annoy me when Seung is near. Ham’s getting the hint, too, because he’s left early the last two nights. Even walked home once, and we all know Ham doesn’t walk when there’s a perfectly operational Volvo in the drive.
“Sorry, Ham.” And I am. Guilt yanks at my heart for my aggravation and annoyance. Ham deserves better from his friend, from me.
“Whatever.” Ham kicks the couch. “I guess I won’t tell you what I’m planning for homecoming, then.”
I force myself to look eager and interested. Seung yawns.
Ham continues. “Aside from the fact that I could quite possibly have a date, I’m planning something big, huge, un-fucking-real.”
“A date?” Seung and I snap in unison.
Ham groans. “Yeah, yeah. I said possibly.”
“Who?” we snap. Seung and I are in literal jinx mode.
“Nope,” Ham says, finger in the air. “Not going to jinx it.”
We groan.
“Didn’t you hear me say I was planning something big?” Ham says. “Linden, you’ll appreciate it. A way to finally get revenge on Toby Patters.”
“Who cares?” Seung says. “Who are you going to ask to homecoming?”
“Ask?” Ham says. “I told you. I don’t ask. They come to me.”
Seung throws a pillow at the ceiling. “You’re full of shit.”
Ham chuckles. “I need to get home.” He snaps his finger twice. “Get your asses off the couch and take me.”
Seung and I spring to our feet, ready to break free of our tricycle’s squeaky third wheel. Ham stuffs handfuls of cookies into his pocket for the mile ride home, and as I slide my notebooks into my bag, a can of Beanie Weenees rolls out, and I quickly kick it back into my backpack and zip.
“You’re not coming back?” Seung asks, eyes wide.
“Oh. No. I mean, I thought you would just drop me at the trailer-park entrance after you drop Ham off.” I glance out the window trying to gauge what time it is. “It’s getting late, isn’t it?”
I refuse to click my phone to check the clock. I don’t want Seung to answer me. I’m tired of being bound by hours, minutes. Tonight I want to tend to wants, not needs.
I lead us up the basement stairs, and Seung leans over my shoulder and whispers, “Maybe we could drive around, or something. Slushies and Triangle Park?” I smell the sugar and chocolate on his breath and shut my eyes as my stomach executes cartwheels.
We drop Ham off in his driveway and he sprints up the stairs to his house, grabs onto a column, and hooks his leg. He spins like a larger-than-life pole dancer. It’s adorable, really, until he shouts, “Shape the fuck up or my friendship’s moving elsewhere!”
Seung chokes out a contagious laugh. “He’s such a jackass.”
“Yeah,” I say. And I do really love that jackass. But point taken. We need to be nicer to Ham.
We drive in silence until we hit the two-lane highway taking us toward town. “Slushies?” Seung asks.
I worry about the lack of money in my pocket and the debt I’m about to incur from the dress. “Just the park,” I say. “Slushies another night.”
The drive to Triangle Park takes longer than it should. No matter how hard I try, my words won’t build coherent sentences or budge beyond my lips. Maybe I’m tired, hungry, preoccupied with the scholarship article and SAT. My future, our future, supposedly hinging on pieces of paper. Maybe I’ve hit the stage when you feel awkward around your best friend because you want him to be more than a best friend.
The car crunches gravel in the parking lot, and with two of the three streetlights burned out, the park looks abandoned. The engine idles and Seung stares at the steering wheel, until he finally says, “Sorry about the dress, Linden.”
“You don’t need to be.”
“My mom.”
“Yeah.” I smile. “Your mom.”
“I mentioned you might need a dress and she jumped at the chance to find you one. I wanted to tell you earlier, but—” Seung rubs the back of his neck. “If you hate it, you don’t have to wear it. We could find a nice pantsuit or tux.”
I laugh. “Thanks. But I’m sure I’ll love the dress.”
“We’re still going to homecoming, together, right?” And the way he enunciates to-geth-er makes my legs prickle.
“One big, happy Ham sandwich,” I say.
I open the car door and climb out. We walk toward the swings. I don’t know what it is about tonight, but everything feels lighter, less cramped. The clouds making room for the stars, the stars performing the streetlights’ job. I hold my feet into the air and let the swing move how it wants, without force.
We swing for five minutes, maybe longer, in silence, before I ruin the moment.
“So who do you think Ham’s taking to homecoming?”
“Himself.”
“Seriously. I think he’s for real.”
“Hope so,” Seung says. “Then maybe he’ll leave us alone for two minutes.”
Seung pumps his legs, inching higher and higher with each swing.
He wants to be alone with me. Here, and on homecoming night.
I want to be with him, too, but without limits and lies. Without worries that I won’t make it back to school in time to sleep inside, without looking over my shoulder every time a can of beans or Baggie of bread spills from my backpack. Seung drags his feet in the dirt to slow his swing. I imagine him jumping off, grabbing me, and lifting me out of the seat. I’m not sure I can wait until homecoming to kiss him. I’m not sure I can wait another minute.
Seung’s swing jerks to the side. “There’s something I need to tell you,” he says.
I swallow hard. Maybe Seung can’t wait another minute, either.
He exhales and I freeze. Should I close my eyes? Wait for the kiss? “My dad wants me to go to college on the other side of the country,” he says.
“Oh.” I sigh, trying to prevent my voice from sounding disappointed. I clear my throat. “Yeah. Ham told me.”
Seung bites his lip. “Linden, I don’t want to go. I want to be with you. I mean, I want us to go to college together.” He digs his heel into the dirt and rocks back and forth.
“So tell your dad.”
Seung scoffs. “I’m not independent like you.”
I laugh. “I wouldn’t exactly say I’m independent.” I depend on more than Seung realizes.
“You rely on yourself,” he says. “I rely on my parents. You’re the lucky one.”
I drag my heel across the dirt and stop swinging. “Me? Lucky?” My words tumble out more harshly than planned.
Seung senses something’s wrong and backtracks. “Not what I meant.”
My cheeks go hot as I stand and grab the chains, twisting Seung’s swing directly in front of me.
“What do you mean, then, exactly?” I ask. “Because the last time I checked, luck is made. Earned. It’s not something you get by wishing on a star or blowing out a candle.”
Seung chews on his lip, all jittery, jumpy, and stressed.
“I’m sorry, Linden.” His voice is soft, practically a whisper. “I mean, you choose what’s best for you. You always do.”
I draw deep breaths and shake my head. I want to tell Seung the truth. That he’s wrong. Every choice I make in my life depends on the one I made before. I want to tell him my choices aren’t always my own, even when they seem to be.
“You have a stepdad who’s practically absent from your life,” he says. “No one forces your decisions or makes sure you’re on the right track. Their track.”
No, Seung. I’m driven by a past I never want visiting my future. A past that made me who I am today, at this moment. A past I fight and claw to prevent from swallowing my future in one big gulp of slush.
Seung’s the lucky one. Two parents who look at each other with love in their eyes. Two parents who can’t keep their hands to themselves when they’re close to each other. Two parents who conceived him in love, not power or control.
Seung squeezes his legs around me and pulls me forward. He reaches for my hand and I reluctantly let him take it.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and his face relaxes except for a residual twitch in his lip. For a second I think he’s going to kiss me, but instead he closes his eyes and sighs. “I really am sorry, Linden. I should have told you a while ago. About my dad, about college. I guess I kind of lied to you. I hope you’re not mad.”
Seung reaches for my other hand, and I realize he never let the first one go. He pulls me toward him and I slip my legs over the swing and sit on his lap. I want to stay like this all night. My legs wrapped around him, holding hands, and staring at each other’s faces without looking away. Seung’s voice is soft, and the way he breathes when he talks is like commas taking their rightful places in the spaces between our words.
But as soon as I start to soften, my hard fortress walls shoot up and surround me with my lies. They buzz inside my head, bounce from ear to ear. I’m the one withholding truth. I’m the one afraid to let my best friend in.
I’m blocked by lies, preventing access. To me.
I slip out of Seung’s arms and slide off the swing, then march toward Gold Nugget without a word. I can’t deal with Seung right now. I want him close, and I know he wants to be there, too. But how close can anyone ever be to me?
When I reach for the door handle to signal it’s time to leave, take me home, the car beep-beeps. “Unlock it!” I yell.
Seung sits on the swing in the same place I left him, mouth open, one hand on the chain, the other in the what-the-hell-Linden position. “Not until you explain what just happened!” he shouts. “Would really love an explanation!”
I fold my arms and lean against the car.
Seung is whistling now, looking at me, then looking away. If only I could do what I want. Jog back over to him, climb on the swing, grab his face, and say I’m sorry, too. Tell him all the things I’ve kept hidden, show him who I really am. All I want is to kiss him and let him kiss me back. Instead, I stand here, pouting, aching inside to let my guard down.
“Please open the door!” I shout.
“Not a chance!” Seung shouts back. “Not until you explain yourself.”
An engine roars on the highway and I whip my head toward the road. Oversized headlights illuminate Gold Nugget. I focus on the gleam and pray the truck will pass, but it corners the entrance and skids in the rocks.
My night careens out of control.
The truck pulls up beside me, and Toby kills the engine. His electric-guitar-infused country-rock whines as I shift to my side and cling to Gold Nugget’s locked door handle. I wiggle and jerk, fighting to break in.
Seung surfaces beneath the spotlight of high beams, and I shoot telepathic messages insisting he open the damn door, but he’s now a statue.
Toby swings the driver’s-side door open and jumps off the running board. A girl yells, “Hey! Isn’t that—” from inside the cab.
He flips around and snaps, “What the hell are you looking at, Trailer Trash Bitch?” My eyes are fixed on the car door, not him. His breath tainted with beer, all sour, overripe.
I wish that my mother had been right when she told me to shut my eyes so no one could see me, because now is a perfect time to be invisible.
I glance at Seung. He’s standing now, staring in my direction, shining bright in the headlights that Toby, I mean Asswipe, forgot to shut off.
“What’s wrong, T.T.B.? Didn’t hear me?”
I take a step, Toby’s chest inches from my face. “I heard you. Just can’t quite put a finger on what I’m looking at.”
Toby scowls and puffs his pecs in my face. He thinks that because he requires more space than the rest of us, he can wreck his way around. He’s a human demolition-derby car, pushing and smashing and crashing his way through a crowd. He hates Ham for no reason, Seung because he’s Seung, and me and Bea because . . . he sees us as weak?
I squint as anger washes over me, and I jab my finger into Toby’s meaty chest. “If I focus my eyes like this, it would appear that I’m staring at an oversized Asswipe.” I tap my finger to the rhythm of my words. “Yeah. Definitely. An. Ass. Wipe.”
Toby narrows his eyes and meets me toe to toe. The truck door swings wide and Bea and Beth spill out, followed by another whiff of barley.
Bea says something about That Asian Guy, and the wrench twists in my gut, walls crumble. Words leap from my tongue before I can cage them.
“Seung,” I snap. “His name is Seung. Not that guy. Not that Asian guy. Just Seung. The hottest fucking guy in school.”
I’m spitting on Toby’s face because he refuses to move from my space. I flip around in haste, and my hip drives deep into the only soft spot on his body. I shudder times a thousand.
“Oh, that’s what you want, Trailer Trash Bitch. That figures. That’s what every girl wants.” Toby raises his chin and laughs at the sky. I cringe.
I don’t see Seung standing next to me or feel his hand on my shoulder. All I see is the blurred image of my fingers lifting in the air, forming a half-cocked fist, and slap-punching Toby’s cheek, jaw, nose, and tobacco-packed lips. “That’s for trying to kill my friend,” I shout. “Nobody tries to kill my friends!”
I whirl and slam into Seung. He mumbles, “For God’s sake, Linden,” and pushes me behind him all protective-like, stepping up for his time at the plate.
“Oh, no,” Toby says. “I’m not fighting you. I want your girlfriend.”
I flip back around. “Oh, yes,” I say. “You’re not fighting him. You’re fighting his girlfriend.”
Seung lifts his fists, ready to defend me and get his ass handed to him, when Bea and Beth circle around, begging Toby not to fight. “He didn’t do anything,” Bea says, tugging on Asswipe’s arm.
“She did.” Toby points at my face.
“That’s right,” I say, my head bobbing as I stomp forward. “I did.”
Seung whips around and shoots me a look that says, Now wouldn’t exactly be the best time to open your mouth.
I glare at Toby, who is now pretzled in Bea’s arms. She rubs his face, causing my stomach to ache, and I swear I see my knuckle-printed iron-on festooning his cheek.
A whine comes from the road, single light shining. I know immediately who it is, and apparently so does Bea. “Shit,” she hisses. “Reed. We need to go.” And the way she insists is so sad and desperate. I want to shout, Bea! Stop! Quit rubbing his face and stand up for yourself.
Seung signals to Gold Nugget with his thumb. “Linden. Please. Get in the car.”
I kick at the ground and shuffle to the other side of the Volvo and climb in. I don’t need Seung rescuing me from Toby. My handprint on his cheek attests to my strength, or maybe my weakness.
“Get your girlfriend out of here!” Toby shouts.
Seung’s face twists. He says, “She’s not really, exactly, totally my girl—” He stops talking when Bea’s smile meets his eyes.
Reed climbs off his bike, looks over at me in the car, and mouths, “Hi.” Then Seung says something to Reed. The two shake hands, bump fists.
Toby moves toward me, still sitting in the car like the distressed damsel I’m not, and points. He holds his finger in the air for an exaggerated length of time and the blood sizzles in my face. I’m breathing through my nostrils, reaching my boiling point. My hand is on the handle, ready to jump, although I’m not exactly sure what I’d do if and when I exit the car, but this anger bubbles in my stomach, ready to burst. Reed reaches for Toby’s arm and Toby pushes his hand away. They exchange words and Toby snarls.
Bea and Beth jump into the cab of the truck and slam the door. I tighten my fingers on the handle in case I need to hop out and save Seung’s life, but Toby turns and walks toward Gold Nugget. He grabs his crotch and says, “Maybe you can enjoy this some other time.”
My heart races. Unable to sit still any longer. Not when Toby propositions me. Not when he assumes every female wants him. Not when he’s hurting Bea. How can I do nothing? So I don’t. I attack.
Not Toby, but the ground. I launch from the car and reach into the dirt. I pick up a pile of earth. Gravel, dirt, dog shit. I don’t care, as long as it’s a handful. I sling it at Toby’s face, right there in front of Seung and Reed. Then I fly back into the car and lock the doors.
Toby slaps both palms against the window, and I push the button twice to make sure the door’s locked. He pounds the glass once with his fist and pierces me with his eyes. I can’t help but notice the handprint outlined in red on his cheek.
The sight of his face makes me laugh, almost hysterically. His eyes squint and he pounds the glass like a monkey beating plexiglass at the zoo. I can’t resist laughing. I mean, I try. I really do. Until Bea climbs out of the truck and stands next to Seung. She reaches for his arm and squeezes and suddenly looks the most relaxed I’ve seen her.
I glare at Toby, then slap the glass and shout, “How does it feel to get hit by a girl?”
Bea whips around and stares. Her relaxed look replaced with fear.
Reed strolls over to my window and shouts, “What did you just say?” His face is like stone, solid and firm.
I shake my head and shrug my shoulders, my palm still spread against the glass. Reed flattens his hand against the window to shadow mine, and I feel the heat. His eyes stare deep, focusing, centering me in his cross hairs. My hand slips and falls onto my lap. Reed grins and begins another Jack Kerouacian rant, “A pain stabbed my heart, as it did every time I saw a girl I loved who was going the opposite direction in this too-big world.”
Toby pounds Gold Nugget’s hood, interrupting Reed, and shouts at Bea. “Get in the truck!” She obeys him. She always fucking does.
Toby climbs into the cab of his truck and points in my direction. I want to say something about eating dirt and dying, but instead I slither my hand toward the door handle and triple-check the lock.
Reed marches to a picnic table and climbs on top. He starts regurgitating The Dharma Bums and Seung stands still, waiting for Toby to put the truck into reverse. Bea stares at Seung through the window while Toby flaps his lips, yapping something at Bea, but she’s not listening. She’s busy looking at Seung and he’s smiling at the truck and kicking at the dirt.
I pound the windshield three times to remind Seung I’m here, waiting, ready to go, and he glares for three-point-forever seconds before stomping toward the car. He jerks the driver’s-side handle and it snaps back. Oops. I hit the button to unlock the door.
Seung climbs into the car without a word. He turns the key and checks his mirrors three times before backing out. I glance at him twice but he doesn’t look back, so I accentuate a sigh. Clearly he’s ignoring me. It takes three head slams against the seat to finally trigger a scoff.
“What? What’d I do?”
Seung shakes his head. I tap my fingers on my knee and try again. “Aren’t you sick of him always pushing you around? Pushing everyone around?”
“I can take care of myself, Linden.”
“He tried to run you over. Kill you. Remember?”
“You threw dirt in his face. What are you, five?”
“I think he beats Bea.”
“So this has nothing to do with me?”
“I’m sending him a message.”
“What message?”
“Don’t mess with my friends.”
“And Bea’s your friend?”
“Yeah . . . no. . . . Well, I was mainly talking about you.”
“You should have walked away, Linden.” He pauses. “But I guess the best way to destroy your enemy is to make them a friend.”
“That’s original,” I say, folding my arms and slamming my back against the seat.
“Not really,” Seung says. “Abe Lincoln said that, or maybe it was Al Pacino in The Godfather.”
I roll my eyes. “So now you’re friends with Toby Patters? Or maybe just Bea. She looked real cozy standing next to you.”
“I don’t need you to fight for me, Linden.”
“And I don’t need you to fight for me.”
Seung punches the brake at the stop sign and I jerk forward. He turns sideways, his face wrapped in concern. “What are you fighting for, Linden?”
If he only knew. Some days I fight for dignity; other times, self-respect. I shrug my shoulders and lean my head against the glass. I’m tired of this fight. Unwanted attention is wearing me down.
Seung stares straight ahead. I swear I see a tear in his eye, but it could be the one I’m looking through. I bat it away before more show up.
The blinker clicks and Seung turns onto his street.
“I can’t come over,” I say. “I’m already late.”
“I’m not taking you home,” he mumbles. “I’m taking me home. Sorry, Linden, but I’ve had enough of you tonight. You’ll survive.”
I fight back the tears. Yeah, Seung, I’ll survive. I always do.
I climb out of the car and march down the road. I shouldn’t expect him to drive me to my fake home entrance, but I do. I shouldn’t expect him to say he’ll see me tomorrow or thank me for looking out for him, but I do. Don’t friends do those things for each other?
My stomp becomes a jog as I try to remember what exactly I am fighting for. My friends. My future. Friends who are my future. Friends who’ve become family.
When I first arrived in this town, I had a clear mission. Do whatever it takes to survive. This meant making friends with people I thought could help me. Of course, they didn’t know they were helping me. It wasn’t like I could shout out my circumstances. Hey, my mother was murdered by a guy who came knocking on our door once a month for money, or sex, or possibly both. A guy I should have protected her from, but I was too busy hiding in the closet with buds in my ears, doing what I was told and pretending to be invisible.
In the distance, headlights bounce off the sidewalk and tree trunks. I turn around and wrap my forearm around my eyes. The gold shimmer refracts off a porch light. I smile on the inside, purse my lips, and march like I’m still pissed off, not done fighting. In other words, like a big damn baby.
Seung pulls up beside me and the window lowers halfway. “I need to ask you one question before I go home,” he says.
I stomp to the tempo of my own stubbornness, occasionally glancing over when Seung calls my name.
“Linden,” Seung says on repeat as the car creeps beside me. “Linden. One question. No. Make that two.”
More stomping. More Linden, please stop.
I finally slap both hands on the window and snap, “What?”
Seung’s face softens. “You referred to yourself as my girlfriend? And I’m the hottest fucking guy in school?”