I'm Ok

by Patti Kim

  I try hard to hold back tears. To keep from crying, I bite into the Whopper, chew, and swallow to clear the lump in my throat. My legs shake under the table. My mother and the deacon sit face-to-face, unwrapping their sandwiches. They pour their two orders of onion rings onto the tray into one pile so they can share. How cute. They’re a pair. They’re a couple. To keep from throwing up, I stuff my mouth with onion rings. I gulp down my Coke, trying to douse the burn inside. It’s not heartburn. It’s a mad ache in my chest. I can’t breathe. I think I’m choking. I clear my throat. I cough. I can’t stop coughing.

  “Go. Excuse yourself,” my mother says.

  As I keep coughing, I get up and walk out of Burger King. I stand in the parking lot coughing like a smoker, which keeps me from crying and feeling hurt. I find my father’s car and sit on the hood, which still feels warm from the heat of the engine. I press my knuckles into the metal, promising myself to get the hell out of here.

  twenty-six

  Mickey comes up with the idea of practicing at the empty pool. We climb the fence with skates in backpacks. I get over easily. Mickey has a harder time, but she does it, and we run down the steps into the concrete box until we come to the deeper end. Eleven feet deep. We stand there among the fallen sticks and leaves and look up at the sky, its clouds as pretty as the ones in once-upon-a-time-happily-ever-after storybooks.

  The pool has a large, open space. A smooth surface. Four walls to keep me from colliding with cars and dying and rolling down to hell. And most importantly, no one to see us.

  “Hurry, get on the skates,” she whispers loudly, taking her shoes off and emptying her backpack.

  Mickey looks nervous. As she laces her skates, her hands tremble from the cold, the excitement, the fear. If we get caught, we could end up in jail for trespassing, but I’m not scared. Sure, my heart beats faster than usual and my hands get clammy, but I feel alert and alive and ready. Go ahead. Call me names. Spit in my face. Trip me. Laugh. Leave me out. Leave me behind. I’m fine. I’m fighting back. When you least expect it, I’m going to get you. I’m going to win.

  Mickey skates in circles like she knows what she’s doing, her hair teased into a mess. She controls and directs the spinning wheels. She looks composed, balanced, and confident, like she dances to a secret song playing in her head. She’s good, really good. Whatever jitters Mickey had coming down here, she skates them away. She does a fancy turn, stops right in front of me, and says, “Stop staring, Goo-Goo Eyes. Skate. Show me what you got.”

  “I don’t have anything. Like I told you, I stink at this,” I say.

  It takes a great deal of effort, strength, and concentration on my part to keep from falling. I consider standing without collapsing a personal accomplishment. Please do not ask me to move.

  “You gotta move,” she says.

  “Why?”

  “ ’Cause you’re gonna look stupid, and you’re gonna make me look stupid, and we ain’t winning with us looking stupid,” she says, and takes my hand.

  “Wait. Wait,” I say, pulling my hand away. “I have an idea. What if we make me like a robot or a scarecrow or a statue or even a rock? I’ll just stand still in a rock costume, and you could do your skating-dancing thing around me, and let’s say you’re skating-dancing around the rock and doing all your moves because you want the rock to turn into a prince, yeah, but it doesn’t really work out and the whole thing ends up very sad in the end because you give up and stop skating and just die next to the rock because you’re so tired because you skated yourself to death and that’s when the rock takes off his costume and it turns out that the rock transforms into a prince but it’s too late, since you died, and the prince sees that you died so he just turns back into a rock,” I say.

  “What the heckers? We ain’t doing some Romeo-Juliet nonsense. Oh my Lordy, that is so depressing. You wanna get booed off the stage?” she says, and takes my hand again.

  Mickey pulls me. I roll, my free arm stretched out for balance. Help. I’m petrified. My body is bent over and locked at a 135-degree angle. My butt sticks out as if searching for a toilet. I am forever frozen in the about-to-vomit-about-to-potty position.

  Just as I’m getting the hang of being rolled along, Mickey releases me across the pool. I skate. Actually, I roll. Right into a wall. I ricochet off the white wall of death, my arms forming big and useless circles to defy gravity. My feet don’t help. I back-shuffle for as long as I can. Then I fall.

  As Mickey skates over to me, she says, “The most important thing is to overcome your fear of falling, because that fear is going to keep you from skating or trying anything else in life. But as long as you can face that fear and let yourself fall, and fall properly, ’cause there’s a right way to fall and a wrong way to fall, then you are bound to win. Ok, you good at falling. You did it right. You landed on your butt. You got nothing to be afraid of. You’re a natural. As long as you fall on your butt, knees, hands, anywhere but your head, then you doing it right.”

  I get up, steady myself, brush off the leaves, and say, “I’m okay.”

  “It’s just like walking. One foot in front of the other,” she says.

  I straighten my back. I take small steps, one foot in front of the other. I don’t try to roll. I don’t try to go fast. It takes a while, but I make it to the other side of the pool. Mickey holds out her palm for a five. As I smack her a five, I fall again. But I get up and take my steps.

  “You got that part down. Now give your steps a little push,” she says.

  I do. I give my steps a little push, and I’m slowly skating from wall to wall. I fall a few more times, but I get up and keep going. Before I know it, I’m skating back and forth without falling as much.

  “Keep at it! You doing it,” she says, and skates uphill toward the shallow end of the pool. When she gets to the top, she squats down and pushes off with her hands. She rolls slowly at first. Then she picks up speed, gliding down the slope toward the deep end. Her hair blows away from her face. Her cheeks are splotched red. Her eyes are wide open with surprise.

  “I’m going again,” she says, and heads back to the top.

  I can’t skate up the incline, so I crawl my way to the shallow end. It’s a long way down. What if I crash into the wall, breaking all my bones and splattering blood all over? I squat and push off. As the wheels spin and I pick up speed, my stomach gets that nervous sinking feeling of butterflies fluttering. I can’t breathe. The wind blows. The white wall emerges out of the ground. Mickey waves from the bottom. Is she going to catch me?

  “Fall! Fall!” she yells.

  I wrap my arms around my head and let myself fall, tumbling the rest of the way down and landing at the skates of a cheering Mickey.

  On my back, I look up. The clouds move in the gray December sky. Six more days until Christmas. The air is cold and fresh. My throat feels dry. My heart beats fast.

  Mickey’s head pops into view and hovers over me, blocking the sky. She says, “You all right?”

  “Yeah,” I say, and sit up.

  “That was wild,” she says.

  “Yeah,” I say, and unlace the skates.

  “I ain’t got no doubt in my mind and in my heart of hearts that you will be ready for the talent show, and we are going to win that thing,” she says, taking off her skates.

  “Whatever you say.”

  “My daddy’s going to be there, hooting and hollering and whistling at us. He can blow the best whistles. They’re the loudest I ever heard. It’s the kind where you stick your fingers in your mouth and blow. He tried to teach me once, but I can’t do it. Is your mama and daddy coming?” she says.

  “They wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I say, feeling a sudden pang inside, like hunger that hurts. I wish my father had had lessons in falling.

  We throw the backpacks over the fence, and they land on the grass. We climb over and head home.

  “Where you come from again?” Mickey asks.

  “Korea,” I say.

 
“That’s far away, ain’t it?”

  “I guess.”

  “You got any brothers and sisters?”

  “No.”

  “Lucky duck. Wish I was an only child.”

  “I don’t know. It’s kind of boring.”

  “I guess so,” she says, and walks toward her apartment.

  “Bye. Thanks for not laughing at me,” I say.

  “We still got a lot of work to do. Tomorrow is another day,” she calls out, and disappears into her building.

  After I pass her apartment, I take off my shoes and put on Mickey’s old skates again and practice by skating home. One foot in front of the other. Give each step a little push. Stand tall and straight. No fear of falling. I keep thinking about my father falling. Was he afraid? Did he know there was a right way and a wrong way to fall? What if he’d tucked himself into a ball? What if he’d rolled as he landed? What if ?

  Then I wouldn’t be here skating toward the Shelter 365 with plans of running away.

  twenty-seven

  Deacon Koh wears an orange Speedo that’s so tight I can’t stop thinking about clementines and wishing Mickey came along so we could make fun of him. He also wears a matching orange swim cap with the black stripes of a tiger. I try not to stand near him. My trunks aren’t real swimming trunks. They’re a pair of old shorts that balloon as I climb down the ladder into the water. I flatten them out, and they hang heavy on my waist. Deacon Koh puts on his goggles and swims to the other end, showing off his stuff and leaving me at the wall. With me on my tiptoes, the water comes to my chin. I make my way toward the shallow end, where mothers wear their children on their backs, hips, and shoulders. The water is surprisingly warm. Koh swims toward me. Staying afloat, he asks, “Are you ready for your first lesson?”

  I shake my head no.

  “Don’t be scared. This is very easy. This is very natural. When we’re relaxed and calm and trusting in God, our bodies naturally float. But when we are full of fear and doubt and anxiety, our bodies tighten up, and we sink and drown. The first rule in swimming is to relax and trust in God. Then the second rule is to get your head wet. You have to get used to getting your face wet. Put your head in the water.”

  “No thanks,” I say.

  “It’s so easy. You can do it,” he says.

  “No,” I say.

  “It’s like taking a bath. Hold your breath and go under. Try it,” he says, taking a breath and dunking his head under. He swims closer to me and looks like he’s about to grab my ankle and pull me under, so I kick and step away. He emerges from the water dripping wet like a tiger fish.

  “Being comfortable putting your face in the water is the first step, the foundation to learning how to swim. You have to build a strong foundation. The Bible says that if you build a house on sand, that house will collapse, so you must build your house on stone, so it can withstand wind and storms,” he says.

  “Okay,” I say, wondering what the Bible has to do with swimming. If anything, more people in the Bible drown than swim.

  He slaps the water, splashing me, laughing.

  I say, “Stop.” I turn around, covering my face. He continues to splash my back, and I get annoyed. I turn around and splash him back.

  “Oh yeah? Show what you got,” he says in English, and splashes me back.

  We splash each other. Koh’s laughter echoes throughout the indoor pool. The lifeguard blows his whistle and says, “No splashing.”

  “No problemo,” he says to the lifeguard, and I want to disappear in the water.

  “Your face is all wet. Put your head under. Is no difference,” he says.

  “No,” I say.

  “Are you like a chicken?” he says.

  “Are you serious?” I say.

  “Oh, berry, berry serious,” he says, grabs my head, dunks me under, and holds me there. I can’t breathe. I flail in the water. I open my eyes. I reach for Koh’s glow-underwater Speedo, but my arms move in slow motion.

  He lets go. I stand. I breathe. With water up my nose and in my ears and eyes, I cough. I taste chlorine. My entire head stings, and I want to punch Koh so hard that his rubber head explodes like an overinflated balloon, but instead I whine, “Why’d you do that?”

  “Do you know how I learned to swim? I was five years old, and my father took me to a lake and threw me in. I figured it out all by myself. Swimming is very natural. Your body knows how to do it already. You have to give it the chance. You have to overcome your fears. Ok, you have so many fears. I can tell. But you have to face and overcome them or you will remain a chicken. A chicken is a terrible bird. It can’t even fly. It’s only good for eating. You can’t be a chicken anymore. Don’t you want to be a tiger? Proud, powerful, and courageous. Now put your mouth and nose in like this and blow bubbles,” he says.

  I do what he says and blow bubbles.

  “Every time your head goes in the water, you have to breathe out hard so the water doesn’t come inside your face. Breathe out hard like you’re blowing your nose. Later, when I teach you how to swim freestyle, I’ll show you the breathing rhythm, but for now you need to practice blowing bubbles when your head goes under,” he says.

  “Fine,” I say.

  “Now I will teach you how to float. Floating is the easiest and the hardest part about swimming. Do you remember how I said having a strong foundation is so very important? Floating is the foundation to swimming. This is the part where you must trust in God. Trust that you will be carried. You must be relaxed. If you’re tense and scared, your muscles will get tight and heavy and you will drown,” he says, and supports me with one hand while tipping me back with the other, as if lowering me into a coffin.

  I can’t stand looking up at him. Deacon Koh looks like a monster. I close my eyes, spread out my arms and legs, listen to the echo of voices and splashes coming from where the mothers and children play. I give up. I relax. I float. I move along the water until my head bumps against a rope. I open my eyes. The deacon is nowhere near me. Trying to stay relaxed, I stare up at the ceiling, where steel beams crisscross into a tangle of webs, and wonder what the next rule of swimming might be, wonder if the deacon has left me to float away so he can have my mother to himself. I float and move my arms slowly, steering myself toward the ladder. I climb out, my wet shorts heavy around my waist. I hold them up as I hobble to my towel.

  Wrapped in a towel and shivering, I sit and look for the deacon. His orange-and-black tiger head glides across the surface of the water, angling every four strokes for air. As I watch him swim laps, I feel doomed. The more I think about it, the more it makes sense. He has a motive. There’s mounting evidence, however circumstantial. Whenever I ride in the car with him, he never tells me to put on my seat belt like he does with my mother, and when he gives me water to drink, I swear I smell Clorox, and when he gives me food to eat, I smell gasoline. On top of that, he made me go on a walk with him in the woods, just the two of us, and picked a mushroom from the ground, lecturing me on the fungus’s nutritional benefits and how to identify poisonous ones. He assured me the one in his hand was not poisonous, perfectly safe to eat.

  “Try it. You’ll grow tall and strong.”

  “No thanks. I’m not hungry.”

  “No problemo.”

  Like one mushroom would transform me into an NBA player. And he keeps promising to take me to Ocean City once the weather warms up. Why take a nonswimmer to the ocean, where there are sharks and where the depth of the water shifts with each oncoming wave, sucking you into the mouth of the sea, farther and farther away from the shore? Is Deacon Koh attempting to murder me?

  I throw the towel over my head and rub my hair dry, telling myself to stop jumping to conclusions. I’m thinking crazy. Why do I dislike him so much? He tries too hard, and trying too hard shows desperation. He’s hiding something. I don’t trust him. He’s messing with my mother. She used to like me. She used to be nice to me. We were doing just fine before he came along with his self-righteous sermons, life insuranc
e policies, and no-problemo fast food. Who does he think he is? My father?

  twenty-eight

  My hands are freezing. To warm them up, I tuck my fingers into Danielle’s curly hair. Her head feels warm. Our class is outside for recess, and unless you’re playing basketball, chasing squirrels, or doing jumping jacks, it’s impossible to warm up. We hide behind a shrub, Danielle squatting in front of me. My hands reluctantly pull away from her warm head, divide a portion of her hair into three, and start to braid. I’m halfway done when my nose starts to run. Snot drips. I sniffle, but the snot’s too much and too far gone. As the goo slides to my mouth, I press my lips tightly together. I’m not about to eat my boogers. The snot drips down my chin and onto Danielle’s hair. I’m sorry, but I keep braiding. Maybe this’ll be my best braid yet. Maybe this’ll be my secret braiding ingredient.

  After I tie the end of the braid, I quickly wipe my face on the cuff of my jacket. As Danielle pays me with four quarters and takes off, a basketball rolls toward me. I stop it with my foot and pick it up. Asa shows up, looking for the ball. He sniffles. His nose drips like mine. He wipes it with the cuff of his jacket. With all my force and accuracy, I throw the ball at him. He catches it. He dribbles it, eyeing me between bounces, making sure I’m watching him show off. I sniffle, wipe my nose, and start to walk away, when Asa snaps the ball back to me with such precision that it magically appears between my hands. He tilts his head, pointing it to the court, and says, “We short, man. You in?”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah, you.”

  “Me?”

  “Get over here ’fore I rewind,” he says.

  I play basketball with Asa and his friends, and it’s not a humiliating disaster. I guess I’m running and dribbling and passing the ball. I must be. It’s a blurry fantasy. I’m sweaty and out of breath. I’m not making any baskets, but when I get the ball (it’s more like when the ball gets to me), I do exactly what my father said and pass it to the one who can make baskets, Asa. He scores, high-fives me, and I wonder, Wait. Is this really happening?