I'm Ok

by Patti Kim

  I burst out laughing.

  Koh drives us home. He walks my mother and me to our apartment building.

  “Thank you,” he says to her.

  “Thank you,” she says to him, and elbows me to say thank you.

  “Thank you,” I say, feeling exhausted from being thankful all evening.

  “Let me help you,” he says, reaching for the doggie bag in my mother’s hand.

  “It’s fine,” she says.

  “Are you sure?” he says.

  “We’ll see you on Sunday,” she says.

  “Until Sunday,” he says.

  “Drive carefully,” she says.

  “Good night,” he says.

  It’s all very horrible and tiring and boring to stand here listening to this nonsense. I open the door and enter our building. My mother steps in behind me, while Koh says, “Happy Thanksgiving.”

  “Happy Thanksgiving,” she says.

  The door finally closes. My mother sighs. I take the doggie bag as she takes my arm and limps up the stairs. When I get into the apartment, I hurry to the window to make sure Koh isn’t hanging around under our balcony like some lovesick Romeo. His lonely figure moves swiftly through the shadows. The headlights come on. He drives to the stop sign. He stops. The right-turn signal blinks. He’s a careful driver. My father never would’ve come to a complete stop on a holiday night with no one in sight, and he wouldn’t have bothered signaling. At least the Cougar is safe. Koh turns right and drives out of the parking lot, prowling away into the night.

  twenty

  The next morning my mother asks me, “Do you think the deacon is good-looking?” Then she answers her own question. “He’s not exactly good-looking, but he’s not bad-looking either. Looks aren’t important anyway. What’s most important is if he’s kind. Do you think he’s kind?” Before I can respond, “No, not really,” she answers, “I think he’s nice. Did you see how he made sure I put on my seat belt? He paid for dinner. He walked us home, too. That’s a real gentleman. He has a house and two cars. He’s a businessman. They make a lot of money. Don’t you want to live in a big house? You would have your own bathroom. Don’t you want your own bathroom?”

  “Sure,” I say, shrugging.

  “Bathrooms aren’t that important. What I really want for you is to have a role model to follow. Deacon Koh is a good example for you. He’s different from everyone we know. He doesn’t work long hours running a store. He doesn’t labor with his hands. He uses his mind to make a living. He works smart. He knows things. He’s sophisticated. He can teach you. I want you to learn all you can from him. He knows a great deal about making money and buying real estate and business opportunities,” she says.

  “I heard he made money off dead people,” I say.

  “Where did you hear that?” she asks.

  “Church.”

  “Who said that?”

  “Some ajummas in the kitchen.”

  “What exactly did they say?”

  “I don’t know. They said something about the deacon getting rich after his wives died, because of some life insurance or something like that,” I say.

  My mother covers her mouth. She looks horrified. She says, “Those gossips! They work like dogs to make a living, and they see someone doing it without having to run a store or cook and clean for other people, and it makes them feel worthless and stupid, so they spread nasty rumors. If we’d known to get life insurance, we wouldn’t have it so hard right now. We wouldn’t be living like this. Deacon Koh’s been talking to me about preparing for the unexpected. He said that a life insurance policy for me is very affordable, since I’m still fairly young and healthy and a woman. It’s cheaper for women. And policies for children are even less. He said to see it as an investment. The money will grow in value over the years. It can help pay for your education,” she says.

  “Fine,” I say.

  “The deacon is a very smart man. He knows a lot about money. He doesn’t live from hand to mouth like the rest of us. Ok-ah, there are two kinds of people in this world. People who labor with their backs and people who labor using their minds. I want you to be one who uses his mind. It’s too late for me, but you can do it, especially with someone like Deacon Koh around,” she says.

  “Why is it too late for you?” I ask.

  The question makes my mother stop.

  “Like you said, you’re young and healthy, and the insurance companies see value in that, so why is it too late for you?” I ask again.

  “It’s too late. It’s too late for me,” she says, her eyes tearing up.

  “I’ll do it. I’ll do it. I’ll learn everything from Deacon Koh,” I say quickly, because I don’t want her to cry.

  “Do you promise?”

  “Yes, Ŏmma. I’ll do my best. I’ll learn as much as I can. May I go outside now?” I ask.

  “Aigo, aigo, you’re such a good son. Be careful,” she says, patting my head.

  I put on my shoes and coat, hurry out the door, and run toward the parking lot, making an escape from my mother’s latest ambitions for me to become like Deacon Koh.

  Not many cars around. Some boys make free throws at the court. I run to the swimming pool, hold the fence, and catch my breath, looking into the bottom of the empty pool and remembering my father telling me there are two kinds of people in this world: those who swim and those who drown. I’m drowning in stress and pressure. My father was supposed to show me how to swim. Who will teach me now?

  Someone covers my eyes from behind and says, “Guess who?”

  I immediately recognize the voice, and the cold fingertips feel good pressed against my eyes. “Oh, it’s you,” I say.

  “Say my name or I ain’t letting go,” she says, and laughs.

  “Mick the Hick?” I say.

  “Shut up,” she says, lets her hands go, and slaps my back. “How’d you know? That’s so mean. I hate that. It’s not even original. It’s just stupid. How’d you like it if I called you Uk?”

  “I don’t care. Everyone butchers it anyway. Join the club,” I say.

  “How you supposed to say it? Ain’t it like ‘oak’?”

  “Actually, it’s Ok,” I say.

  “Oak.”

  “Close enough.”

  “No, it ain’t. Tell me how to say it.”

  “Say ‘pork.’ ”

  “Pork.”

  “Drop the p sound.”

  “Ork.”

  “Drop the r sound.”

  “Ok.”

  “That’s it!”

  “Ok. Ok. Oh, I get it.”

  “Don’t move your lips when you say it. They have to hold that O shape the whole time.”

  “Ok. Oak. Hey, you’re right,” she says.

  “Yeah, the position of your lips and tongue determines what sound comes out of your mouth,” I say.

  “You oughta be a speech doctor.”

  Mickey stands taller than usual. She wears a shaggy green coat made of fake fur that’s clumped and matted like old carpet. On her feet are a pair of roller skates.

  “Why do you dress like that?” I ask.

  “ ’Cause it’s retro. It’s my style. You wouldn’t understand,” she says, throwing on the hood and twirling around like a model. There’s a tear in the back of the coat.

  “That’s not retro. That’s just old,” I say.

  “Look who’s talking, Mr. Ratty Old Jeans are so tight and tore up, why you even bother to put them on?” she says.

  “I guess because I don’t have anything else,” I say.

  “You lie,” she says.

  “Fine,” I say.

  “You just trying to tug at my heartstrings and make me feel sorry for you,” she says.

  “Okay,” I say.

  “No, for honest to God, you ain’t got no other pants?” she says.

  “Not really. These are it,” I say.

  “Oh my Lordy, I am so sorry,” she says.

  “Why? It’s not your fault.” I lean against the fe
nce.

  Mickey’s hair is still in the braid I did days ago, sort of. Strands of hair stick out all over her head as if in constant static. She looks friendly and cheerful. She looks like she can give satisfying hugs. I know hugs, since I’ve received my share due to my braiding business, and not all hugs are created equal.

  “How’d you know I was here?”

  “Spied you at my window. See? I live right there. That’s my room. I was just looking out the window, bored to death, when there you were, running for your life,” she says, balancing on her skates. They’re white with red and blue stripes.

  “You can skate?”

  “No, Einstein. That’s why I have them on, ’cause I like falling flat on my face.”

  I tap her shoulder, say, “Tag, you’re it,” and run because there’s a part of me that wants to see Mickey McDonald fall flat on her face. There’s also a part of me that wants to see if she can really roller-skate. I bolt for the creek.

  “Grrrrrrrr,” she growls, pretending she’s a bear. She comes after me.

  Mickey McDonald might not be much of a runner, but the girl can skate. Fast. On concrete, asphalt, grass, and gravel. I can’t lose her. I make a sharp turn around a building. She follows. I hide behind a car. She finds me. I lose steam. I need to catch my breath. I jump into the creek and hide in the tunnel, which makes things worse because it amplifies my panting like an echo chamber.

  “I hear you,” she says, and climbs down the rocks, tiptoeing on her stoppers. She rolls into the tunnel and says, “Yoo-hoo! I see you!” Her voice echoes. I run toward the other end, where the opening is the size of a doughnut.

  Halfway through the tunnel I look back and Mickey is gone. Probably too scared of the dark, too chicken to get her precious skates wet. My feet, shoes, and pant legs are soaked. I feel cold. I slow down and jog, checking out the graffiti. I walk past a plump black heart pierced with an arrow, blood dripping off its tip.

  I reach the other side. Sitting on the trunk of a fallen tree, Mickey waits for me. Her cheeks are flushed pink. Her breath appears like fog in the cold air. “What took so long?” she asks.

  “I stopped for a smoke,” I say, crawling out.

  Mickey laughs loud and hard. She leans back and fills the air with her guffaw. She isn’t laughing at me. She’s laughing at something funny I said. There’s a difference. This laughter doesn’t make me feel small or turn my face hot and red. This laughter makes me feel big and happy. I want to say something funnier to keep her laughing, but instead I walk past her.

  “Hey, where you going?” she says.

  “Home,” I say.

  “Oh no you’re not,” she says, and stands up, blocking my way. She tousles my hair. I pull away. She tries to create a side part and pat down my bristles, which keep springing back up.

  “It’s not like I need a comb-over,” I say.

  She laughs again. I like her laugh. She taps my shoulder and says, “Tag, you’re it.”

  “I’m going home,” I say.

  “No fair,” she says.

  “I’m wet. I’m hungry,” I say.

  “We got leftovers, and you can borrow one of my dresses. Hey, I got an idea! How about you comb over to my place?” she says.

  Her invitation stops me. Not only does her corny play on words make my insides flip with lightness and delight, but never in my life have I been invited to the home of another schoolmate. Never. Not one birthday party or sleepover. Not one want-to-come-over-after-school sort of deal. Mickey McDonald isn’t my first choice, but I’m curious. I also don’t want to go home wet and listen to my mother talk about her new boyfriend. I’m also hungry.

  “Okay,” I say.

  “What’s your favorite part of the turkey?”

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “I hope it ain’t the legs, ’cause they’re gone. I got one, and Benny got one. He sucked on that bone like it was a pacifier. The boy is seven years old. That’s just shameful. A seven-year-old ain’t suppose to suck on a pacifier. So I knocked it out of his hand, and he cried like a big old baby. Then Charlie got a hold of it off the floor. Charlie’s our dog. Benny chased Charlie down. They was tug-of-warring for the bone. Benny won, and then he stuck it right back into his mouth and sucked. Didn’t even clean off the dog cooties. Gross. You know dogs eat poo and throw up, right? You got any pets?” she asks, spinning on her skates.

  “No,” I say.

  “Well, we got three cats and one dog. Charlie, Sabrina, Jill, and Kelly. Get it?” she asks, balancing on one skate.

  “No,” I say, wondering how she isn’t falling. If I could spin like that, I’d skate for the talent show.

  “You don’t get it? Charlie, Sabrina, Jill, and Kelly? Oh man! It’s Charlie’s Angels,” she says, and stops skating to look at me like I’m completely out of it.

  “Oh, like that old show,” I say.

  “I loooooove Charlie’s Angels. They don’t make ’em like that anymore. I can get my hair to look like Jill’s if I tease it up real big. Kelly is a boy cat. But that’s okay. He don’t know no different. It’s like when Benny was little, and I put makeup on him and dressed him up like a girl and made him do the Miss America walk,” she says, and pretends to be Miss America, holding a bouquet in one arm while the other is raised in the air, her cupped hand oscillating like a periscope. She adjusts her crown so it doesn’t fall off. She smiles big, waves, brushes away tears, mouths, “Thank you, I love you,” and blows kisses at the audience. She’s good, like she’s done it a million times, which makes me wonder if this is her talent for the show.

  She makes fun of Miss America, while wanting to be Miss America at the same time. I know that feeling. Mocking the impossible happens when you know something you want badly is out of your reach and you give up trying and make fun of it instead so you don’t feel so lousy.

  Mickey is funny, and she’s smart. I smile, but I keep myself from laughing and applauding because she’s the friendless Old McDonald of the class. I don’t know why no one likes her. Then she turns her backside to the adoring audience, sticks out her butt, and lets one rip. Loud. Like the final call of a sick and dying bassoon. I laugh. She laughs. Her pink gums show. She snorts and shakes. I hold my stomach and laugh out loud until my eyes fill with tears and my stomach cramps and my cheeks feel warm and I want to make Mickey McDonald my best friend.

  “Mick!” a voice calls.

  Mickey stops laughing and looks up. A woman stands on top of the hill. She wears an orange jacket over a long yellow bathrobe. Her hair is yellow too. She looks like the setting sun. She inhales on her cigarette, blows out a stream of smoke, and taps off the ashes into the grass. Once she sees that Mickey is walking toward her, the woman turns and leaves.

  “I gotta go,” Mickey says over her shoulder, and takes off.

  Her green shaggy coat hangs off her shoulders. Her pants hang low, showing a patch of pale skin. She hitches up her pants as she skates to the woman, who is already out of sight. That must be her mother, the one who cooks their Thanksgiving dinner. What’s my favorite part of the turkey? I like the leg too. I like holding the drumstick in my hand and biting into the meat like a Viking. What’s my favorite side dish? My first favorite is the stuffing. My second favorite is sweet potatoes with marshmallows. What’s my favorite dessert? Even though pumpkin pie is the more traditional Thanksgiving dessert, I’m going to say apple pie because I’ve never tried pumpkin pie in my life.

  twenty-one

  During science class Mickey walks by and puts a note on my desk. The piece of paper is folded into a football. It has “PORK” written in capital letters with the P and R crossed out. I stare at it.

  That’s pretty clever. I want to stand it on its tip and flick it across the room for a field goal, but that means touching it, and I don’t want to touch it.

  Then Asa walks by, takes the note, and slips it into his pocket. He limp-struts to the pencil sharpener and takes his sweet time sharpening his pencil. When he’s done, he holds it be
tween his teeth and limp-struts back to his desk. As he passes me, I say, “Give it back.”

  “Make me,” he says, biting down on his pencil.

  “No one can make you do anything, Asa. I’m asking nicely to please give it back,” I say.

  “And I’m asking you nice to go make me an egg roll,” he says, laughing so loud that the pencil falls out of his mouth.

  I evil-eye him, struggling to breathe.

  “Boy going to stare me down? How you see through them slits?” Asa says.

  “I can see just fine. I can read just fine too. Can you? Can you read, Asa?” I say.

  “Shut up.”

  “What’re you going to do with a note, anyway? You can’t even read it. You’re illiterate,” I say.

  Asa bucks, knocking over the book on my desk, and stares down at me. I stare back. I’m very familiar with the look of worry in someone’s eyes, and Asa looks worried. He throws the note at me and walks away. Now I understand the true meaning of the saying “Knowledge is power.” I feel powerful. I beat Asa.

  I hold the note in my desk, feeling 80 percent dread, 19 percent curiosity, and 1 percent excitement. The excitement is probably left over from having beaten Asa. I unfold the note, wondering what nonsensical message Mick has. I like-like you. Do you like-like me? Check yes or no. My heart pounds as I look down to read it.

  It’s a drawing of two stick figures running. The smaller stick figure, with the big, round head and needles for hair and shoes that have holes and drip water, is being chased by a stick figure with a big, round body and wheels on her feet and a Miss America crown atop troll-doll hair and a turkey leg in one hand and puffs of gas coming out of her butt.

  It’s funny. Mickey’s cartoon makes me laugh. I don’t like-like her. No way. But she’s all right.

  I fold up the note and put it in my pocket.