It's Girls Like You, Mickey

by Patti Kim

  Lord knows I don’t want this night to end, but it’s getting late and Charlie’s tongue’s hanging out like he’s dying of thirst and he’s sitting down every chance he gets and we got ourselves enough candy to last us the entire year even with us sneaking bites between houses, so I tell Benny this here’s our last knock.

  “Nooooooo,” he whines through lips red from a Blow Pop. He stomps. Smears of chocolate on his cheeks look like war paint. He yawns, sticking out his tongue, which looks bruised, all purplish brown, from eating all the colors brought to you by Skittles.

  “Are you telling me we need to go home right here, right now?”

  “No,” he says, pulls out a Twizzler from his bag, sticks it into his mouth, wrapper and all, and chews.

  We walk past a witch on a broomstick, hanging from a tree branch. Her face glows green. An orange and black wreath made of feathers hangs on the front door. In the middle of the hole shines the golden head of a lion. The feathers look like his mane. I lift the ring held between his teeth and drop it against the door. Knock-knock.

  The door opens. A man wearing a Redskins football helmet and jersey looks down at us, holding a bowl of candy.

  “Trick or treat,” I say.

  I elbow Benny.

  “You said not to talk with my mouth full,” he says, spraying bits of Twizzler and plastic.

  “Hello. Hello. Hello-ween,” the man sings out like a game-show host, dropping full size Kit Kats into our bags.

  “Thank you,” I say, and am about to turn around and head back home and get Benny cleaned up and get Charlie watered and sort all this good candy, first by type, then by taste, and fall asleep to the smell of chocolate, when a flash of rainbows catches my eye. The recognition is so powerful that I push the front door wide open, stick my head inside, and blurt out, “Sun Joo? Is that you in there? Hey, Sunny!”

  As the head turns, it’s Sydney’s face I see. She glances at me as I peer through her front door like some drooling stalker. She returns her gaze to a mountain of candy surrounded by a circle of girls. She saw me all right, but she acts like she didn’t.

  “Me Key?”

  I hear Sunny’s voice. Then I see a small hand waving from the circle. It’s Sunny, all right, in Sydney’s waitress costume. I don’t know why I feel so shocked ’cause I knew they’d be trick-or-treating together. I knew they swapped at school. Sitting next to her are Tammy and Nawsia, sucking on lollipops, whispering into Sunny’s ears and giggling. I don’t know what they’re giggling about, but it makes me mad, makes me want to barge and charge, stomp on their mountain of candy, take my friend away from their hot-as-hell breath contaminating her brain, and cry out, “What kind of stupid name is Nawsia?”

  Sydney sees Sunny seeing me, and something triggers. Sydney rushes to the front door. The hanbok billows out like a flower blooming in sunshine. It’s stunning, as lovely as can be, the kind of pretty that gives you hope, and I think maybe, just maybe, Sydney’s coming to the front door to invite me in. But what do I do with Benny and Charlie? I’ll have them wait under the flying green-faced witch in the front yard while I catch up with my school friends. It’ll only take a minute. As I make plans, tidy my hair, lean into the house, and shift my weight to ready myself for a step inside, Sydney grabs the door and shuts it. Slam.

  My sticky hope is so stubborn that I think maybe, just maybe, she slipped and ran into the door by accident, and on the count of three, the knob’s going to turn and her face is going to show through the crack and she’s going to say, “Sorry. Come on in. I didn’t mean to do that.” One Mississippi. The feathers of the Halloween wreath shiver. Two Mississippi. The ring in the lion’s mouth clinkety-clanks. Three Mississippi. His golden eyes blankly stare through me like I’m nothing.

  “Who’s that?” Benny asks.

  “Nobody,” I say, taking his hand. The sugar and grime make our palms stick together. We walk down the porch steps.

  “She’s pretty,” he says.

  “Shut up,” I say, and squeeze his hand hard.

  “Owww. I’m telling Ma on you.”

  “Be my guest, you little snitch. While you’re at it, tell her I am sick and tired of doing her job minding you. I ain’t your mother. And you’re nothing but a thorn in my side, the cross I bear day in and day out. Look at you, Benny. Who do you think you are, all dressed up like a pageant queen? What kind of ridiculous nonsense are you? No wonder Ma don’t want to look after you and Daddy don’t want to come back,” I say, words spilling off my tongue willy-nilly. I press my lips to shut myself up ’cause I’m feeling the rise of my mountain of regrets.

  “You’re doing ugly,” he says.

  “You are ugly,” I say.

  “You,” he says.

  “Your mama,” I say.

  “Your papa,” he says.

  “Your sister,” I say.

  “Your brother,” he says.

  “Watch it. No one talks about my brother like that,” I say.

  “You do,” he says.

  “I know, Benny, and I’m sorry. I feel lousy as a louse.”

  “You going to beg your pardon?”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “Okay, but just this once. You hear? Three strikes and you’re out.”

  “I hear.”

  “She ain’t that pretty. She ain’t as pretty as you.”

  “Sounds like you had way too much candy, with all your sweet-talking. Anyway, being pretty ain’t all that.”

  “Yeah. It ain’t all that.”

  “What d’you know about being pretty?”

  “A heap more than you,” he says, letting go of my hand. He straightens the tiara and shakes his hips, swishing the frills on my pageant dress. He struts a few steps ahead of me, swinging his sack of candy. He throws it over his shoulder, carrying it like Santa.

  Charlie and I catch up to him. We get to the intersection and wait for the cars to zoom by before crossing Route 12. A dump truck clunks past us, and I know Daddy don’t drive a dump truck, but I can’t help but wonder if that might be him coming home to tell us another ghost story. Hope is stickier than a chewed-up Now and Later.

  Coast is clear. We run across the street.

  When we get to our side of Route 12 safe and sound, Benny says, “I’m tired.”

  I give him a piggyback ride. The tiara keeps slipping off, so he puts it on my head. Benny breathes on my neck. I’m working up a sweat. Our bags of candy sing, plastic wrappers crinkling against one another. Charlie’s collar jingles, and his nails scrape against the concrete. I can tell Benny’s starting to fall asleep ’cause he’s feeling heavier with every step I take. We’re almost home. Looks like some folks forgot to draw their blinds, and I spy a TV playing a commercial for Bagel Bites, making me hungry, making me think of all the daddies of the world winding down from a long, long day. A train whistle blows from the other side of town. I hear the distant chug-chug along the tracks. If you wish hard enough, it kind of sounds like applause, wild, wild applause.

  twenty-three

  Why you don’t come inside for the trick-or-treat? Sydney say you don’t want to see me,” Sunny says to me during lunch. We sit at our usual table.

  “What are you talking about? That is not true, Sunny. That’s a lie. I wanted to come in, but she shut the door in my face, honest to angels,” I say.

  “Oh? But Sydney say you are mad at me. Are you mad?” Sun Joo opens her lunch box. It’s packed with rice and cut-up coins of hot dog.

  “No,” I say, shaking my head.

  “But Sydney say you mad at me because I go to the trick-or-treat with her.”

  “But Sydney say. But Sydney say. But Sydney say,” I mock, bobbing my head.

  Sunny scrunches her brows, looks down at my puddle of applesauce, and quietly says, “She say you mad because I not go with you.”

  “Maybe I was a little upset, but I wouldn’t call it mad. I guess I was kind of disappointed you weren’t trick-or-treating with me, but Sydney asked you first. I tried to a
sk you, but she beat me to it, so I guess that’s my bad. First come, first serve, right? Fair is fair. No big deal. I don’t really give a flying fart,” I say, smothering a soggy fry with ketchup.

  “Mickey, I go with you to the trick-or-treat, but you say go with Sydney like that, so I go with Sydney, but I have more fun with you, but you pushing me to go over there because Sydney is like queen and so popular and you want to be popular,” she says.

  “Excuse you, but I did no such thing. I did not push you to do nothing you didn’t already want to do. Maybe you need to grow a spine.”

  “Grow spine? What you talking?”

  “Get a backbone. Don’t be such a pushover. Don’t be a puppet. Don’t say yes, yes, yes to everything,” I say, feeling myself inflate all high and mighty.

  “I not do that.”

  “You cling, too. You follow me around like some stray,” I say, and for, like, a split second, the taste of saying those words is so sweet, the kind of sweet that blows your brains up, but then in a flash, it all turns sour.

  “Sydney say that you using me.”

  “Using you? Like how? Ain’t that a joke.”

  “You using me to get her.”

  “Excuse you, honey, but I got no use for you.”

  Sunny closes her lunch box, packs up her stuff, and says, “Okay. I go.”

  “Bye,” I say, wishing I’d just shut my trap.

  I bite into my cheeseburger and watch Sunny walk toward the exit sign. I choke up. I wish I could rewind. I want to follow her, chase her down and say, “I’m an idiot. I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. This ain’t me. Can we be friends again?”

  Go. Go. Go. I stand up and start walking, when the Sydney sandwich swoops in and follows Sunny out of the cafeteria.

  twenty-four

  I got mail. It’s not a postcard. It’s an honest-to-goodness envelope with something in it. Took Ok long enough to write back. I rip it open. Inside is some kind of church program, I’m guessing, but I can’t tell for sure ’cause it’s all in Korean except for the small print on the bottom that says “First Korean Full Gospel Church of Greater Washington.” That’s a mouthful. Ok doodled and scribbled all over it. “Guess where I am?” he wrote. There’s a drawing of the preacher at the podium holding up a cross, and the bubble blowing out of his mouth is full of “blah, blah, blah, blah.” Under the preacher is a self-doodle of Ok’s profile with eyes shut, head hanging low, porcupine hair, and drips of drool turning into a swarm of ZZZZZZZZs. Ok finished the letter with: “PS Wear whatever you want. Like you always do. BU.”

  BU? Oh, I get it. BU as in “be you.” That’s so corny I like it.

  I flip through junk mail, find a Valpak envelope, and tear it open. I pick the coupon for 10 percent off at Shine Car Wash and start writing on its backside:

  Hi!

  Today turned decent ’cause I got mail from you. Finally. It cheered me up, and Ma left us a Crock-Pot of beans and rice in bbq sauce. Nothing uplifts the soul like the smell of bbq sauce. Ma’s out looking for a job. Remind me never ever to mention getting on welfare to her ever again. She nearly smacked me. “That’s not us,” she said.

  Hey, Ok, I said some not-so-nice things to my new friend, and I think we’re like broken up. I don’t know what to do. I can’t keep my mouth shut. I keep saying the worst things. I stink. I stink worse than cat pee mixed up with throw up.

  Speaking of which, do you think you can stay awake long enough in church to pray for Sabrina? I think she’s got a case of the cat blues. She’s hardly eating anything. Anyway, sorry my letter is so depressing. Here’s some good news. I got a birthday around the corner. Hint. Hint. Turning into a teen on 11/20. Mark your calendar. Send something special. I know it’s bad manners and all to toot my own birthday, but how you supposed to know if I don’t tell you? That’s just me being me.

  twenty-five

  Ms. T’s about to start class. Bell rings. Sunny’s not here. She never misses class, so I don’t know what’s up. I saw her in the hall this morning, following Sydney around like life’s a game of Simon Says except it’s Sydney Says. I wonder if Sunny is skipping. She got herself tangled up with the wrong crowd, and I have to admit that it’s kind of my fault. I never should’ve told her to wear that hanbok for Halloween. I never should’ve pushed her to be friends with Sydney. I made me a monster, didn’t I?

  Right when Ms. T starts writing on the board, we hear shuffling, giggling, then a loud cackle at the door. In slides Sunny, pushed by Sydney, Tammy, and Nawsia. Sunny belts out a nervous cackle through lips so glossy frosty orange I can’t help but think of marmalade sprinkled with mold. All their lips are the same glossy frosty orange. I’ll bet they were in the bathroom trying on lipstick.

  The others scurry off to their classes, leaving Sunny to quiet down her nervous cackle and take her walk of shame to come sit next to me. But it’s not the walk of I’m-so-shy-don’t-look-at-me like she did on the first day of school. It’s more like the walk of I-now-got-me-some-popular-friends-look-at-me. She’s got on a red and black pleated plaid miniskirt with knee-high socks and a red beret on her head. That’s bold. Schoolgirl chic.

  “I’d like to see you after class, Sun Joo,” Ms. T says.

  “Ooooooh,” the class responds.

  “As I was saying, metamorphosis is the biological process…”

  Sunny sits down, her face looking like she don’t give a cat’s whisker. Her cheeks don’t even flush pink from being embarrassed. It’s like she’s wearing a mask. She smells different too. It’s perfume. As a peace offering, I tear a corner off my paper, write “Love’s Baby Soft?” fold the note, and pass it to her.

  She reads it, scrunching her brows and squinting her eyes like someone’s shining a flashlight into her face. She shrugs.

  “Your perfume,” I whisper. She tilts her head. “Are you wearing Love’s Baby Soft?” What started as a whisper turns into my regular inside voice by the time “Love’s Baby Soft” comes out of my mouth. My regular inside voice is kind of loud.

  Kids laugh. Ms. T stops talking, clears her throat, and eyes me.

  “Sorry,” I say.

  As Ms. T continues talking about a dragonfly going from a nymph to an adult, Sunny slips her hand into the pocket of her skirt, pulls out a mirror, holds it under our table at just the right angle so she can check her face—more like her mask.

  Like some demon’s taking over my eyeballs, they rock and roll in their sockets. I don’t know why it bugs me so much to see Sunny checking herself out in a mirror. I do it all the time. But that’s who I am, and this sure ain’t who she is. It’s like I’m witnessing this shy, innocent, humble, sweet little caterpillar metamorph into a tangled-up messy cocoon, then metamorph into a cocky butterfly so full of herself that she flutters and flies too close to the birds, thinking she’s a bird herself, only to get eaten up by them.

  I pass her a note: “How come ur late?”

  She reads it and shakes her head.

  I pass her a second note: “R U OK?”

  She reads it and frowns.

  I pass her a third note: “This ain’t U.”

  She reads it, writes on it, and sends it back to me. She crossed out the “ain’t” and changed it to “isn’t.”

  I pass her a fourth note: “Ain’t. Ain’t. Ain’t.”

  She reads it and shakes her head.

  I pass her a fifth note: “U changed.”

  She turns her nose up, stares at Ms. T, and writes back. It says, “We suppose to change.”

  I add a “d” to “suppose” and send it back.

  She crushes the note.

  I pass her a sixth note: “Be you.”

  She writes back, “I am.”

  I write, “NO. YOU. AIN’T.”

  She writes, “How you know?”

  I write, “ ’Cause I know.”

  She writes, “You don’t know.”

  I write, “YOU got no clue.”

  Sunny takes gum out of her mouth, sticks it i
n my note, folds it, and slides it to me. The nerve of this girl. Pressing her frosty glossy orange lips together, she stares straight ahead. I slide her nasty gum right back at her. She slides it back, twirling her pen like a baton over her fingers. I used to think that trick was so neat, but now I want her finger to slice off, boomerang across the room, and poke her eye out. I’m about to slide her nasty gum back at her, but she raises her hand. Is she snitching on me? Ms. T calls on her.

  Sunny says, “It is the hormone. The hormone make everything to change.”

  “Exactly. Very good,” Ms. T says.

  Dead silence. Not one mean word. Not one chuckle from the class. Everyone’s in shock. If she was the old Sun Joo, I’d have been so proud of my sweet little friend, but since she’s the new and improved Sunny, I want to wipe that smug off her face. Who does she think she is?

  Ms. T goes on and on about hormones, but I can’t even think straight ’cause I feel lousy as a louse. From the corner of my eye, I watch Sunny taking notes, nodding, raising her hand, asking questions, answering questions, and I’m feeling the way I felt when one sunny summer day, Daddy and Ma and Benny all decided to have an afternoon at the pool without me. I feel left behind. I feel left out.

  The bell rings. While packing up, I say, “Listen, Sunny, I’m happy for you. I’m all about live and let live. But I feel the need to tell you that…”

  She walks away. I am in midsentence, and she walks away. I’m about to go all Ma on her and yell, “Don’t you walk away from me, young lady…,” but she goes over to the board and talks to Ms. T. I throw my stuff into my backpack and huff-and-puff my way out of class. I was going to humble myself and apologize, but I don’t know no more. We are done. We are so done. It’s my turn to walk away from this, but then I stop right outside the door, trying to eavesdrop.