A Step from Heaven

by An Na

  When Uhmma and Apa’s bedroom door closes, I jump out of bed and run to the kitchen. I open the stuck drawer. It screams skeeee! It is hurt. My heart booms louder than the drums on the radio, but Uhmma and Apa do not open their bedroom door. I carefully pick out the flashlight Uncle Tim gave Apa for our first Mi Gook Christmas and slide in the drawer slow slow so it will not scream.

  I run back to my room. Before I get back into bed, I say a quick prayer like I promised, Thank you, God, for not telling Uhmma about the lie. Then all night, until my eyes do not want to stay open, I study for the Friday spelling test.

  Being Older

  Joon holds the yellow balloon with both hands like it is made of glass. It is his prize for being young.

  Uhmma tells me, You are too old. Besides, why do you need a balloon? You already won an elephant.

  I stare at my fuzzy pink, purple-nosed elephant and give the round body a little squeeze. It feels hard and crunchy as a bag of cereal.

  I try to explain to Uhmma, This elephant is not what I want. I won it by mistake.

  Uhmma stares off into the sparkly lights of the Ferris wheel and does not hear me. She pats the side of her face. I look at the ground, rub a piece of popcorn into the dirt. I want to tell her, I only took the prize because the man gave it to me, but I do not. I know Uhmma is still thinking about how Apa yelled and said there was no money for such foolishness like the fair. But Uhmma took us anyway. Because it was at my school, and everyone in my third-grade class would be there. Everyone except me.

  A mistake. I did not mean to win when I threw the penny into the air. This elephant is worth only a penny. Not a whole fifty cents like Joon’s yellow balloon. Besides, a stupid elephant can only sit and stare. A balloon can fly like birds touching the sky. Someday, I will find a tree that stretches to heaven. And when I climb it, all the fuzzy white lamb clouds will jump into my arms. They will whisper in my ear and tell me where to find Harabugi.

  Uhmma’s hand rests heavy on my head. She strokes my hair and says without looking away from her far-off place, Young Ju, you are the Uhn-nee. Be reasonable.

  Her words make me small. Small in my heart because I do not want to be reasonable. I want Uhmma to buy me a balloon even though we have already spent too much money at a place we should not have been. I want to shout and cry, be the baby, not the Uhn-nee. But instead I nod.

  Let us go, Uhmma says. I turn around one last time to look at all the things we could not do because we had only one line of tickets. Not a whole roll like John Chuchurelli’s father, who sits on the bench in his blue suit, handing out tickets like tissues every time John and his sister run by.

  People on the tilt-a-whirl scream long and loud, but then laugh that they are just playing. A scary voice howls from the house with the crooked door and broken windows. The Ferris wheel chimes happy as an ice cream truck. The smell of pink sweet cloud candy makes my tongue wiggle in my mouth. Someday I will go on all the rides and eat anything I want. Even have lemonade instead of just water from the fountain.

  I get in the front of the car with Uhmma. Joon sits in the back. Joon keeps the balloon on his lap, holding it with both hands. Uhmma drives away from the fair without a prize, only a deep fingerprint between her eyebrows. I want to touch it and see if it will go away, but Uhmma will just tell me to sit still. I turn backward in my seat and lean over to bother Joon.

  Why do you not let the balloon go and hold it by the string? I ask.

  Uhmma told me if I am not careful it will fly away, Joon says.

  It is on a string and we are in the car, dong boy. It is not going far.

  Joon hugs the balloon tighter.

  Here, let me hold the string, I say.

  No, he says, his eyes dark and tight.

  Balloons are supposed to fly. They like to be free, I tell him. What good is a balloon if you never let it go?

  My balloon. Not yours, Uhn-nee, Joon says, trying to wiggle away from my hand.

  Come on. You have to share.

  No.

  I will trade you my elephant, I say, swinging the fat pink, purple-nosed cereal ball by its ear.

  Joon does not look up, just holds the balloon.

  Please, Joon, I say. I will not let it go. Please. I just want to see it fly a little.

  No. It is my balloon. Joon gives me a mean look that turns him into Apa.

  I hope it flies away, I say and lean way over to pinch him on the arm.

  Uhmma! Joon cries.

  Uhmma jumps a little like she is waking up from a dream. Young Ju, what are you doing? Uhmma scolds. Turn around and leave your brother alone.

  Yes, Uhmma, I say and turn back around in my seat. I hold the elephant in my lap, crunch his body. Maybe he will get softer if I play with him. I stare out the window for the rest of the ride and call out the road signs I can read.

  “Next exit!” I yell. “Santa Monica Freeway!”

  When Uhmma turns off the freeway, I see our house that is not really our house. Apa still says that someday we will buy a house of our own. For now we are renting. For now has been a long time.

  As soon as Uhmma stops the car, I grab my elephant and jump out. I run for the house, swinging my elephant around and around my head. Behind me, I hear the car door slam. Just as I reach the front door there is a sound. Pung! Loud as the time Uncle Tim opened up the big bottle and white sea foam came spilling out.

  I turn around.

  Joon lies face down on the driveway. The balloon is gone. Joon pushes himself off the ground. He stands up holding a string with broken egg yolk on the end.

  Balloon! Joon cries.

  Uhmma bends down, rubs his back. She says, Joon Ho, stop crying. I will get you a new balloon another time.

  My balloon, Joon cries. I want my balloon!

  Shhh, Joon Ho. Stop now. Let us go inside. Uhmma grabs his hand and tries to lead him away. Joon puts both his hands on Uhmma’s leg and pushes her back. He opens his mouth even bigger.

  I want my balloon!

  Snot runs down from his nose into his mouth. Uhmma closes her eyes. She closes her eyes and does not open them. One hand reaches up and covers half her face. The other hand knots together. Two knuckles sticking out.

  Thump.

  Balloon! Joon cries louder. Balloon! Balloon!

  Uhmma’s eyes search the sky. She raises her knuckles to thump him again but then changes her mind. She hides behind her hands. Like she can disappear.

  I hear a knocking. I look up. Mr. Owner is staring out the upstairs window, pointing at Joon. Knock. Point, point. I am scared. Why does Uhmma let Joon stand there? What is wrong with her?

  I look at my fat pink, purple-nosed elephant. Even though he is not a balloon, he is the only thing I have from the fair. My prize for being older.

  I walk over to Joon. Use my best English teacher voice. The way Mrs. Russo talks to crybaby kids who fall down on the playground. “Joon, please do not cry. You are a big boy now.”

  Joon stops crying and watches my mouth make the strange words.

  “You will be fine,” I say.

  Joon does not understand my words. His mouth opens up to cry again.

  Here, Joon, I say and quickly put the elephant in his hands. This will not break, I say. See? I poke the elephant in his fat stomach.

  Joon closes his mouth and stares at the elephant.

  See, you can play with him, I say, crunching his body. Come on. Let us go make him a fort.

  My elephant, Joon says. He kisses the purple nose.

  No, Joon. It is still mine. You can play with him.

  Mine, Joon says and starts walking to the front door.

  Uhmma puts down her hands and opens her eyes. She watches me. I keep my eyes on her as I follow Joon back to the house.

  Disappearing Bubbles

  Sometimes Amanda says things I do not understand. Yesterday she told me that she and her parents went apple picking and they had doughnuts and hot cider. “I love cider,” Amanda said. “Don’t you?”

&nb
sp; I nodded and said yes, even though I did not know what cider was. Amanda has been my best friend ever since the time I lied about Joon dying and she gave me a Lifesaver, but that does not mean I tell her everything.

  I lie in bed, stare up at the ceiling, and think about the dictionary definition of cider—juice pressed from apples. How is cider different from apple juice? What is fermenting? I have found that the dictionary doesn’t always explain everything. Like “going.” Ever since the beginning of fourth grade, Amanda and some of the girls in my class talk about going with this boy, Jimmy. “Who do you think he wants to go with?” they ask. I pretend to understand, but in the dictionary it says “go” and “going” mean action, moving, and lots of other things like business transactions. None of it makes any sense to me. Where would Jimmy go with someone?

  There is a quick knock on the door and then Apa pokes in his head. Young Ju, Apa says, time to get out of bed now. We must wash the car.

  Yes, Apa, I answer and slowly get up.

  Outside, on the driveway, Apa has already set out the white bucket and sponges next to the car. The houses around us are all quiet and dark, everyone still sleeping at seven o’clock on a Sunday morning. Joon walks out from the house and comes over to me. After a second of standing quietly, he reaches down and picks up the dishwashing soap. He squeezes it onto his hands.

  “Joon. Stop that,” I say and grab the yellow bottle away from him. “That’s for the car.”

  Young Ju, Apa orders as he drags a green hose from the side of the house, speak Korean.

  I do not understand why I have to speak Korean at home so I will not forget where I come from. Why did we move to America if I am to speak English only at school? But I do not argue with Apa. Instead I tell Joon, Stand here. I move him off to the side and give him a sponge to hold.

  Apa calls out, Young Ju, go turn on the water.

  I run around to the side of the house and turn on the faucet full blast. When I get back to the driveway, Apa is filling up the bucket with water. Joon stands next to him holding the yellow bottle, squeezing too much dishwashing soap into the bucket. Joon looks up as I walk toward them. He sticks out his tongue at me.

  Remember, Apa reminds me as he sprays the station wagon with water, scrub fast so the bubbles will not dry before we rinse.

  Apa says this every time we wash the car. Something about the paint peeling if we do not do it just right. Even though Uncle Tim gave us the station wagon a long time ago and it is so old the fake wood side panels are peeling off, Apa treats it like we bought it yesterday.

  Get ready, he yells over his shoulder.

  Joon, hold this, I order and give him a pink sponge. I show him how to get ready—knees bent, sponge in hand, waiting for Apa’s signal.

  As soon as Apa drops the hose, he yells, Go! I smack the side of the car with my sponge. Soap bubbles run down the peeling panels.

  Apa calls from the other side of the car, Get the tire, Young Ju.

  I kneel down and scrub a hubcap.

  When I finish with it, I stand up to find Joon picking up the bubbles that have floated down the driveway and collected in the gutter. He piles the bubbles together like he is making a sand castle.

  Joon, come back here and help, I call out.

  Joon ignores me and keeps playing with the bubbles.

  I start to walk down the driveway. Joon, I call. Come here. Now!

  Yah, Young Ju, Apa says to me over the roof of the car. Leave him alone. He is doing his own work. Come soap the car before the bubbles dry.

  Playing with bubbles is work? When I was Joon’s age, I had to help Uhmma and Apa as much as I could. I had regular chores like folding laundry and setting the table.

  I walk back to the car and begin to soap the hood. My arms stretch out as far as possible and still they reach only halfway across the hood. Already the bubbles are starting to dry.

  Hurry up, Apa orders. He bulldozes past me and covers the rest of the hood with suds. I sigh and start working on the bumper.

  I hate being the smallest in my class. Being the first person in the front row for pictures. Unless they know me, kids think I’m in the second grade. All of us in my family look like tangerines next to oranges. All of us except Joon. Joon is tall for his age. Uhmma and Apa admire his huge feet and say, You are going to be the tall one in the family. I wish I could be the tall one. Tall as Amanda and not worry about what cider tastes like or what going means.

  I have to pee, Joon shouts from the curb.

  Go inside, Apa tells him without missing a swipe with his soapy sponge.

  I do not want to, Joon calls back. I am peeing right here.

  I look up and see Joon pulling down his shorts. Apa is washing the rear bumper and does not see him.

  Apa. Joon is going to the bathroom outside, I say.

  Apa does not even look up.

  With his shorts bunched at his knees, Joon holds his go-chu with both hands. A tip of his tongue hangs out, covering his bottom lip. He is concentrating.

  A Big Wheel grinds down the street.

  Someone is coming, Joon, I yell, hoping to stop him before it is too late.

  Joon looks up, sticks his tongue out even farther, and shoots a clear line of pee into his pile of bubbles. A boy with peach-fuzz blond hair and denim overalls gets off his Big Wheel to watch. I hurry over to tell Apa about how Joon is embarrassing the family. The whole neighborhood will think we are stranger than we already look. For once, I am glad my school is so far from home. At least no one I know will have seen Joon.

  Apa, I say, Joon cannot go to the bathroom in the middle of the street.

  Apa stops soaping the car and turns around to look at Joon.

  Apa, you have to stop him, I say.

  Young Ju, Apa says, shaking his head. Joon Ho is a boy. It is natural for him to pee outside.

  I don’t understand why Apa thinks boys and girls cannot be treated the same. Why they are so different. There is no dictionary for these kinds of questions.

  Joon, now that he has an audience, starts to do tricks. He waves his go-chu back and forth like a fireman hosing down a burning house. Peach Fuzz just stares.

  Apa starts to laugh. Joon Ho, who do you think you are? A fireman?

  Yes, I am, Joon says. He shakes his go-chu clear of the last drops and pulls up his shorts. Peach Fuzz scratches his head and leans forward to see if the mound of bubbles has disappeared. Joon stands with his hands on his hips like he is challenging the kid to do better.

  Joon orders Peach Fuzz around in Korean. Peach Fuzz nods as though he understands and the two of them build a mound of bubbles. Apa kneels and soaps the last two tires on the station wagon. I stand by the car, the soapy sponge still in my hand, and gaze off at the street, empty and long, stretching far into the distance.

  For one second, the time it takes to blink, I imagine throwing my sponge into the air. Running fast, fast down the street. So fast that I begin to fly. Away. From here. From me.

  But when I open my eyes, I am still standing in my place next to Apa. I turn my head so I do not have to watch him spray down the car and make the bubbles disappear.

  The Blob

  On some weekend mornings, not always, hardly even any, but some, Apa becomes the Blob. He wakes up with broom hair and catches Joon and me watching cartoons. He sneaks up from behind and scoops us up all at once like a fisherman with a net. We scream and laugh, try to break free, but his lock-strong arms keep us in jail.

  Uhmma! we screech. Uhmma, help! We are trapped.

  Uhmma comes out of the kitchen, smiles, but shows us her hands. I cannot help you, she says. I will get caught too.

  Nooo! the Blob yells and catches a wiggling Joon by the ankle just as he is about to escape. He stuffs Joon under his arm as easy as a squirrel hiding an acorn. Joon and I try to join forces, like Spider-Man and Superman, like Wonder Twin Powers Activate! Form of a tickle torture. Get him!

  Oh no, the Blob does not have a ticklish spot, not even under the arms. But
we do. Under our arms. Below our chins. Around our bellies. Help, help! we laugh and gasp.

  You can never get away, the Blob cackles and then farts, not once but three times, loud as a rusty car starting in the morning. Brumm. Brumm. Brumm.

  Ahhh, we scream and try to plug our noses.

  Never, the Blob yells and pins our arms so that we cannot raise our hands to our faces.

  Uhmma! we yell again. Uhmma comes out of the kitchen once more. She sees we are almost out of breath. She cautiously approaches the Blob that stinks of last night’s kimchi stew. She pokes his back with her finger.

  Rooourrr! the Blob growls and reaches out to grab Uhmma’s ankles. She jumps out of the way and runs for the kitchen. Returning with a towel coiled and ready for combat, she swipes the Blob’s butt. He farts again just to make a point.

  We are dying! I moan.

  Hurry, Joon says, his face red and twisted with effort.

  Uhmma grabs the Blob’s shoulders and pulls him back like a weed. Joon and I try to crawl free, but the Blob catches our legs and pulls us back. He snatches the towel from Uhmma and pulls her into his kingdom by the hem of her shirt. There is no chance of escape. Now we are all one big Blob.

  Do you give up? the Blob asks. Do you? Say it.

  Never, we cry.

  Take this, the Blob says and squeezes us tight as saved money.

  Deh suh. We give up, we say.

  Good.

  When it feels like no air can ever pass through our mouths even though they are wide open from laughing, the Blob finally lets us go. His body goes limp and he melts into the carpet. We lift off his heavy limbs, crawl free.

  Ohh, ha, ha, hee. Whee, Apa laughs and gasps at the same time. He gets up slowly. Pats Joon and me on the head. Even pats Uhmma on the shoulder. As he shuffles off to the bathroom, Apa picks up the Korean newspaper from the coffee table and tucks it under his arm.

  Sometimes after Apa leaves we have a carpet burn on our knee. Or a bruise on our arm. But that does not matter. We still wait and wait. Hope and hope. Like watching the sky for snow on Christmas even though the sun shines hot all year round. Because when the Blob comes and wraps us tight in his arms, holds us so close we can hardly breathe, that is when we can finally put our arms around him.