by An Na
Gina went to the side of the store where they sold snacks, and Joyce pushed her way past the bodies to the back register and stood in line. All along the walls there were framed pictures of past student government officers. Joyce tried not to glance up at the picture of Helen, the first and only Asian American female president of Orangedale. Even though Helen had graduated over a year ago, Joyce was reminded of Helen’s legacy at every display case that housed medals and plaques.
Joyce turned her back on the picture of Helen as she waited for her turn in line and scanned the heads, looking for anyone dark haired. Anyone tall and dark haired with reportedly beautiful brown-green eyes.
“Hey, move up, it’s your turn,” a heavily muscled guy in a white T-shirt said.
Joyce turned back in line and stepped forward.
“I need a yearbook,” she said.
The student behind the counter turned around and reached into a full box and pulled out a silver and blue yearbook.
“Fifty,” he said drumming his fingers on the counter.
Joyce reached into her pocket and pulled out a ten. She looked over her shoulder for Gina, who was still standing in front of the snack display.
“Gina,” Joyce called, “I need the money.”
The muscle guy started to complain loudly. “Jesus Christ, would you get moving?”
Joyce started feeling anxious and yelled louder. “GINA!”
Gina waved her finger for one more second.
“Jesus, you Oriental bitches move as slow as you drive,” muscle guy muttered.
Joyce pretended not to hear and fidgeted with her hair, tucking it back behind her ears.
Gina finally tapped her shoulder and handed her one five and two twenty-dollar bills and a granola bar packet.
“Took you long enough,” muscle guy said.
Gina shot him an annoyed look.
Joyce quickly threw down the money and grabbed the yearbook. As the student behind the counter started to hand Joyce the change, she caught him staring at the side of her head. Joyce could feel the egg pulsing with attention. She quickly grabbed the change and ran out of the bookstore.
“Joyce, wait up,” Gina called.
Joyce cleared the crowd and finally stopped in the hallway. Gina caught up to her.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“I hate this place,” Joyce said, staring down the empty hall, clutching the yearbook to her chest.
Gina pulled the edge of the yearbook down and grabbed the granola bar and her change from Joyce.
“What’s new?” Gina said, peeling open the wrapper of her granola bar. They started walking down the hall. “Come on. It’s the last day of school. You’re supposed to be happy.”
Joyce laughed bitterly. “Yeah, right. I just paid fifty dollars for a second yearbook and got called an Oriental bitch by that meathead in the bookstore. And then the guy behind the counter was staring at my zit. Did you see him?”
Gina stopped. “What did that jerk call you?”
“Us. He called us Oriental bitches who move as slow as we drive.”
Gina closed her eyes and bit down on her lower lip. Then she opened her eyes and let loose. “That jock-grabbing, ass-scratching, meatheaded LOSER!” Gina turned around to go back to the store.
Joyce reached out and grabbed the back of Gina’s shirt. “Come on, Gina. What are you going to do? Beat him up?”
“No,” she said. “But I can call him some choice names and educate him. It’s ‘Asian bitch,’ dumb ass.”
“Yeah, and then what?”
“And then he’ll be enlightened and I’ll feel better.”
Joyce shook her head. “Forget it. You can’t educate a Neanderthal. And it’s the last day of school, remember?”
“I hate this school,” Gina said.
Joyce snorted and smiled. Gina smiled back.
“Come on, you slow-ass Asian bitch. I’ll walk you to your locker,” Gina said.
“Thanks, bitch,” Joyce said, and they began their slow-motion walk to their lockers.
Joyce stared at herself in the mirror hanging inside her locker. She kept brushing forward more hair to make sure the egg was covered. She didn’t want a repeat performance from it. Joyce turned to Gina.
“Do I look okay?”
Gina sat on the cement floor signing Joyce’s yearbook. “You look great,” she said without looking up.
Joyce checked herself one last time. This was it. Fifth period. Her last chance to really see the color of John Ford Kang’s eyes.
“Wish me luck,” Joyce said, taking a breath.
“Luck,” Gina said, still not looking up from the book.
Joyce scowled. “What are you doing? Stop writing in that. You better not be saying anything incriminating.”
Gina finished with a flourish of her signature. “Come on. You can’t give the guy an empty yearbook. He’ll think you saved the entire thing for him.”
Joyce felt anxiety creeping up on her again. “Oh, no, he’s going to think I don’t have any friends.” She grabbed the yearbook and opened it up to blank page after blank page. “Where did you sign?” Joyce asked in a panic.
Gina stood up laughing. “Joyce, it’s okay. Look, here’s my entry. And I made it really big.” Gina flipped to the back and showed her the page with the photograph of the orange tree that symbolized the school. “Just have him sign on that page.”
Joyce scanned the entry that started with the block letters HEY, ASIAN BITCH. Joyce looked up. “Gina!”
Gina was already down the hall, waving. The bell for fifth period sounded through the open-air hallways. Gina cupped her hands near her mouth and yelled, “You can do it!”
Joyce shut the yearbook. This was it.
THREE
they had chemistry together. For this one whole school year, Joyce had been able to study John Ford Kang like the true specimen that he was. She knew every muscle twitch, every cadence of his laugh, every shirt that he owned. The only thing she hadn’t been able to do was muster up the nerve to stare him in the eyes. Just the idea of it made her want to bolt from the room screaming. Joyce could hardly focus on the instructions that Mr. Blevins was giving them about how to properly store the beakers and pipettes. Luckily, Lynn, her lab partner, was good about stuff like that. She glanced at Lynn, who was squinting in concentration.
There were a few dozen Asian students at the school, a half dozen in her year, and she had shared a class with almost all of them, but she had never been partnered with one of them before. Lynn Song was the embodiment of the stereotypical Asian student. She wore thick glasses that made her already slim eyes look even narrower. Her stringy straight hair was cut into a harsh line straight across her back and hung in her face most of the time. Her radar for fashion was completely turned off, not to mention that she sported old-fashioned metal braces instead of the clear ceramic ones that weren’t nearly as offensive. Lynn was nice, but even Joyce found herself trying not to laugh sometimes when Lynn was being especially earnest about a question.
Lynn and Joyce cleaned up their set of beakers, working like the good team that they were. Joyce dried while Lynn scrubbed.
“Do you have any plans for summer?” Joyce asked Lynn, trying to keep her mind off her bigger task. Joyce had planned to ask John to sign her yearbook at the end of class.
“I’m taking this accelerated summer science program at Cal Tech,” Lynn said, pushing her glasses up and focusing on the beaker in her hands. Lynn’s hair kept falling into her face, making her look slightly deranged. Joyce wanted to hand her a rubber band to tie back the mess.
“That sounds fun,” Joyce said, watching John cross the room to his desk.
“Are you crazy?” Lynn glanced up from her task. “I think it’s going to be hell, but my guidance counselor thought it would make my apps for college stronger.”
Joyce dropped the paper towel to conceal her embarrassment and bent down to retrieve it.
“I just mean it’ll be fun to meet o
ther people who aren’t from this school,” Joyce said, standing up.
“Yeah, that’s for sure,” Lynn said, her eyes following two guys throwing paper balls at each other. “Hopefully there won’t be as many losers.”
Joyce smiled. She had to give it to Lynn. No matter how bad she might look, Lynn honestly didn’t care what other people thought. She was bent on a specific Ivy League school, and everything she did was to achieve her goal. Her quiet confidence made Joyce wish she could ask for Lynn’s secret formula.
They finished up silently and placed the clean beakers back into the cabinet. Joyce turned around and surveyed the room for John. He was sitting on top of his desk talking to one of his friends. He always had someone who wanted to talk to him. Even though he was Asian, he looked and acted like everyone else. Like someone who belonged in this school, in this neighborhood, with all these students. Not an immigrant that moved into the area or faked an address to attend one of the best schools in Orangedale. Maybe it was because he was only half Asian and looked like some movie star. Or maybe it was because he knew he had an exotic model mother who probably didn’t cook kimchee ji-geh at home, stinking up the entire house. Joyce wandered back to her desk to retrieve her yearbook. And if John’s mom didn’t cook Korean food, then John’s dad had to get his Korean food fix somehow because Koreans can’t live without their food. The addictive combination of garlic, chili and salt must be imprinted on Koreans from birth. Maybe John’s father came to their restaurant to get his Korean food fix. Would Joyce be able to spot John Ford Kang’s father if she saw him?
Joyce glanced up at the clock. It was time. She pulled more of her hair forward over the zit and took a deep breath. As she walked to his desk, she held the yearbook in front of her like a shield.
She didn’t want to interrupt, so she waited for him to notice. For his friend to stop explaining how to get to this amazing surfing spot down the coast. The bell was going to ring any minute. She cleared her throat. An ear-piercing, sharp alarm sounded.
John jumped off the desk and smacked right into Joyce, sending her reeling backwards and then falling to the floor.
“Oh, man. I’m sorry. I didn’t even see you there.” John reached out to her, offering his hand.
Without thinking, Joyce automatically reached up and grabbed the offered hand. He pulled her up in one graceful arch with a gentle and surprising strength. Joyce stood in front of him. He smiled down at her. She stared up into his eyes. Oh, Joyce thought. Oh, his eyes are amazing. Brown and green and amazing.
“You okay?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Here.” He bent down and grabbed her yearbook off the floor. “Sorry about that,” he said and handed her the yearbook. “That bell just makes me jump sometimes.”
Joyce nodded again.
“Have a good summer,” John said. He paused for a second right before he turned away. And winked.
Joyce gasped. On anyone else, the wink would have been cheesy as all hell. On anyone else, the wink would have been slimy and completely gross. On John Ford Kang, the wink was heartbreaking.
John started to walk away.
Joyce spun around and called out, “Wait!”
John paused.
Joyce raced up to him and thrust the yearbook out in front of her. “Can you sign this?”
He shrugged. “Yeah, sure. Okay.” He reached for the yearbook.
Joyce immediately pulled it back and fumbled around for the spot where Gina had signed. She felt her face flaming up. “Let me find a page,” she muttered.
John dropped his backpack to the floor and stood patiently. Joyce found the page with the orange tree and handed it to him. He stared down at Gina’s loopy handwriting.
“Do you have a pen?” he asked.
“Oh. No.” Joyce scanned the desktops and floors. There had to be one somewhere. “You wait. I go find one.” Joyce wanted to bite her tongue off. Why couldn’t she speak properly? What if he thought she was some FOB, fresh off the boat from Korea?
John reached down to his backpack. “No worries. I have one in my pack.”
It felt like hours as Joyce stood there and watched John open his pack and extract a blue pen and then reach for the yearbook. It was another lifetime watching him carefully think about what to say and then quickly jot it down. Joyce stood in her place and gazed up at him. At his firm muscled shoulders as he leaned over the yearbook. At his long slender fingers grasping the pen. Joyce marveled at the way his dark lashes curled at the edges. Perfect.
John glanced up, sensing her eyes on him, and Joyce jerked her eyes down. She nervously reached up to tuck her hair behind her ears, but remembered to stop herself just before she revealed too much.
“Here,” he said and closed the book before handing it back to her. “I didn’t get a yearbook this year or I’d have you sign mine,” he said apologetically. “I mean, fifty dollars for a yearbook seems extreme.”
“Yeah, my mom made me get one,” Joyce lied, her voice high and shrill.
Stupid, she berated herself. Here she was having her first real conversation with John and all she could come up with was that her mother made her? What about her jokes? Her cool line about summer? This wasn’t going the way she had planned.
John shoved his pen into the front pocket of his backpack. “See you around,” he said and gave her a nod before he turned to go.
“See you,” she called after him.
He raised his hand in acknowledgement and stepped out to the hallway, disappearing into the crowd.
Joyce stood in the middle of the silent empty classroom, staring out the door. Had that really happened? Did she just talk to John Ford Kang? She stared down at the yearbook in her hands. It hadn’t been executed with the suave sure lines that she had planned, and he wasn’t going to see her clever note, but at least she had taken the first step. John knew who she was now.
Joyce had even touched his hand. She sniffed her palm, hoping his scent had rubbed off on her. There was only a lingering sour trace of her nervous sweat. She thought about the color of his eyes. His beautiful, gorgeous, brown-green eyes. A loopy grin spread across her face as the realization slowly spread through her body. She did it. She really did it! A giddiness made her want to whoop out loud, stretch her arms to the skies and dance like some crazy in the park. John Ford Kang had signed her yearbook!
She wanted to shout it from the center of the quad. John Ford Kang signed my yearbook! She bit down on the webbing of skin between her thumb and forefinger to keep from yelling. Carefully, she cracked open the yearbook. She flipped the pages until she found his writing.
Hey Lynn,
It was great getting to know you in Chem.
Sorry about almost killing you on the last day of school.
Have a rockin summer.
JFK
Joyce closed her eyes. Every pore of her skin stung with shame and embarrassment. Joyce covered her face with her hands in humiliation. Lynn. He thought I was Lynn. Lynn. Joyce peeked to check again. There was no doubt. Hey Lynn. She couldn’t stop staring at the name. Lynn. Lynn Song. Lynn Song. The ugliest girl in school.
FOUR
joyce rode her bike to her parents’ Korean restaurant in downtown Orangedale. She took her time, wiping away the tears and forcing her mind to focus on anything besides the memory of Lynn’s name. As Joyce passed by the Quick Change Oil garage, she waved at a few of the guys standing outside, dirty oil rags hanging from their back pockets. Some of the crew liked to eat lunch at her parents’ place, putting money down on who could eat the most chili paste.
Jorge waved and called out, “Hey, Joyce, what time does Helen’s shift start?”
Another guy let loose a wolf whistle at the mention of Helen’s name.
As Joyce waved and pedaled away, Jorge called after her, “Tell your sister I’m still waiting for an answer to my marriage proposal.”
A block later, she passed a convenience store parking lot packed with middle school students celebrating
the beginning of vacation with slushies and candy. Joyce longed for a chocolate bar, but the thought of listening to all those excited voices forced her to pass. A longing for the simpler days of middle school unleashed another set of tears.
Helen and Joyce had both been forced to start over at new schools after Joyce’s family had bought the restaurant in the zip code that would allow their children to attend some of the best schools in Los Angeles County. For two whole glorious years, Joyce went to the middle school where no one knew about Helen Park. Joyce had been herself, and that had been good enough. It was only after Joyce entered high school that the comparisons started up again.
When Joyce first started at Orangedale High, she had joined the same clubs and played softball, just like Helen. With each introduction, Joyce was asked if she was really Helen’s sister, as though she might be the one confused. The more Helen tried to include Joyce, the worse Joyce felt. Eventually, Joyce realized there was no point in torturing herself and dropped out of everything. If Helen had asked a boy to sign her yearbook, he would have never gotten her name confused with anyone else.
Joyce turned into a strip mall and rode down the empty alley at the back of the building. As she approached the back door to the restaurant, Joyce could hear the sound of pots clanging and loud Korean music drifting out from the screen door. Joyce hopped off her bike and ran her hands over her face to clear any trace of her crying. With a deep breath, she pushed open the screen door. The pungent odor of chili, onions and garlic immediately saturated her senses.
“Hi,” she called out as she parked her bike in the storage room, next to the sacks of rice.
“Joyce,” her mother called.
“Yes, Uhmma?” Joyce walked into the kitchen.
Uhmma and Mrs. Lee, Gina’s mother, were sitting on large overturned white buckets, peeling onions. Their kerchiefs held back their hair, and they both wore matching red and blue aprons with the restaurant name, Arirang, across the front.
