Where I Live

by Brenda Rufener

  “Ham! Wait. . . .” My voice is muffled by the engine. Toby points his two fingers at us as he backs up. His stupid stage direction is getting old, fast. The door of Gold Nugget springs back, then snaps shut. I lean out the window and watch my best friend ride away with his enemy.

  “What was it again that Abe Lincoln said?”

  Seung sighs. “Ham’s made his enemy his friend.”

  We sit quietly and replay what happened in our minds. After a couple of minutes, I break the silence. “So, I guess this means I’m riding shotgun.”

  Seung smiles, but a worried look swathes his face. “I guess this means you are.”

  Chapter Twelve

  MY FIRST GLIMPSE OF HAM is during the last five minutes of the game. The score is zero to zero for what seems like forever. Seung tracks back to the car to grab a blanket. He tosses it over Kristen and me, and the three of us huddle and laugh and blow on each other’s hands for warmth. I couldn’t care less about the plunging temperature or the possibility of sleeping beneath the stars. Tonight I’m focused on having fun with friends. Feeling like I finally fit in.

  It’s the end of fourth quarter when I hear a chant of what I believe to be Ham’s name. It starts as a dull hum and hits a high note thirty seconds deep.

  Ham-HamHamHam.

  Ham-HamHamHam.

  It sounds like a fraternity drinking game and quite possibly Ham’s demise.

  I elbow Seung and point to the far corner of the field. We stare in awe as our bare-chested, formal-trousered friend pirouettes across the football field. A dad behind us shouts, “Hey, Chunk from the Goonies,” and a mom, who should be ashamed of herself, yells, “Do the truffle shuffle, kid!” The crowd erupts with laughter.

  “Oh my God!” Kristen shouts. “That’s Ham!”

  I jump from the bleacher for a better view, and Seung steps beside me at the railing. “What the hell is he doing, and why is he doing it?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, “but I wish he’d stop.”

  The referee whistles and waves his arms in the air like he’s swatting gnats. One oversized, overstuffed, truffle-shuffling gnat. Ham grips his belly and twists the skin to synchronous chants from sidelined players.

  Ham-Ham-HamHamHam.

  Ham-Ham-HamHamHam.

  “Stop laughing!” I shout at the row of parents behind us. “Stop laughing now!” I want to jump over the fence and wrap Ham in my blanket. Order everyone off the field. Scream that the show’s over. Time to head home.

  A referee lunges at Ham, and he sprints toward the crowd. He sidesteps the yard lines, passing front and center at the fifty-yard line. He drops his belly to wave wildly at us with both hands.

  Seung cups his mouth and shouts, “What is wrong with you?”

  “Having fun!” Ham yells, now pounding invisible drums. “You should try it sometime.” Ham flashes his teeth and blows me a kiss. “Love you, guys!” he shouts.

  “Be careful!” I holler as Ham’s foot slides switch to full-fledged crisscross scissor steps.

  “All part of the plan, Linden! Remember? And I’m just getting started!”

  “What plan?” Seung yells.

  Ham answers by pointing in our direction, and that’s when I see T.P., leaning against the chain link fence, signaling Ham to spin like a top. I nudge Seung and he says, “Toby’s making him do this nonsense.”

  I shake my head, unsure who I’d rather be in charge of Ham’s nonsense, T.P. or Ham. But beyond the surface, Ham seems to be maintaining control of the situation.

  The crowd cheers as the referee closes in. Ham trips over his feet and sprawls flat on the field, back first. The mob explodes, first booing the referee, then cheering for Ham. Jarrell drops his helmet on the field, sprints toward Ham, and lifts him up—but Ham drops to his knees, then speed-crawls off the field.

  Seung senses that my worry has returned. “He said he’s just having fun, Linden. It’s what Ham does best.”

  I point at Toby’s fist pumping at the moon. “I hope this is part of Ham’s plan.”

  “I’m sure it is,” Seung says.

  Kristen jumps up and down with the cheering crowd, shouting, “I’m having fun, too!” her blond curls loosening and spilling from their clips. I’ve never seen her relax like this before. Maybe Seung and I should learn a lesson from Ham and Kristen, and stop standing here like stiffs.

  Seung smiles and I link my arm through his. I reach for Kristen’s hand and join her in jumping. It takes Seung a minute, but before long he’s hopping, too.

  We watch while T.P. slinks down the side of the stadium to meet up with Ham. They race behind the bleachers as Toby yelps, “Shit was awesome! Now time to get my drink on!”

  The next time we see Ham is in the gymnasium.

  Kristen scurries off to talk business with Principal Falsetto, and Seung bumps his head on a low-hanging pagoda. I swat the paper away and we stop and stare at the carnage that our high school gym has become. Mistletoe. Everywhere. In the shape of upside-down artificial bonsai trees.

  “Holy shit,” Seung says, his eyes wide and twinkling under the red flashing lights.

  “Whispers of the Orient.”

  Complete with kimonos, plastic trees, and fake-gold-leaf dragons. The homecoming committee outdid themselves by stuffing every stereotypical Asian trope into one room. Everything they could shape out of paper and plastic, that is.

  I don’t know whether to laugh or vomit. I nudge Seung with my elbow and he chuckles. Then reaches for my hand.

  “It’s about time my people receive recognition. Especially at this school.” Seung waves his hand, the one unattached to mine. “Even if it is this.”

  My hand slips from Seung’s grip and our fingers fumble against each other’s forearms until they lock back in place. I swallow hard and we walk deeper and deeper into Hinderwood’s Orient.

  When I see Ham he is shirtless, except for the “cape.” Well, Ham is technically wearing a shirt, if one calls a tuxedo vest a shirt. His jacket sleeves are tied around his neck and flop in rhythm to the music as he twists and turns. Where his white button-up went remains a mystery until Bea and Beth circle Ham and link arms like they did with Reed in the Pajama Day photo. As they walk center stage, I notice that Beth’s hips are wrapped in Ham’s shirt. Ham performs what I believe to be a slow dance but looks more like a mating ritual for a sloth.

  Seung groans and repeats his earlier rant. “What the hell is he doing, and why is he doing it?”

  I shake my head. It’s not so much Ham’s dancing, which I’ve grown to admire, as the affectionate groping between Bea and Ham, Ham and Beth, and Ham and Ham. He’s literally dancing with himself, arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders. The three are all smiles and seem to be enjoying each other’s company. I’m damn suspicious.

  Seung and I discuss dancing, but since neither of us dances, in public or private, we stare at Ham until Bea’s laser-beam eyes target my other best friend.

  First she glances over Ham’s shoulder and a smile spreads across her face.

  She beelines toward Seung, with so much force that I actually step back, out of her way, immediately regretting my move. Bea twists to her side and blocks me from my space next to Seung. He squeezes my hand but our grip weakens, slips. Bea tugs him into the crowd, and I’m left with a shit-ton of jealousy stacked on my shoulders.

  I’m alone with my green-eyed monster for only a few seconds before Jarrell appears beside me. He watches Ham do-si-do with Beth, twirling her in circles. I belly laugh and plop onto a foldable chair. Jarrell sits next to me.

  “Good game tonight.”

  “Until we were interrupted.” Jarrell points at Ham and leans forward with elbows on his knees. “Please tell me he hasn’t been drinking.”

  Poor Jarrell. He’s remembering last year’s episode. The one that prompted Seung’s Rule. Jarrell was there to pick up the pieces. And by pieces, I mean chunks. After Ham blew a few on the hood of Jarrell’s car following an emotionally complicated night
of what appeared to be beer guzzling but was later revealed as an energy-drink overdose. Ham said he needed to blow off steam, so as Ham does, he called a few near-strangers and asked them to come over to his house. Jarrell was the only one who showed. Seung and I were already there because we’re not strangers and don’t count. By the time Jarrell arrived, Ham was uncontrollable, uncontainable. So, basically, he was Normal Ham.

  “I don’t think so,” I say, then remember the scotch, the revenge plot, and Toby’s “get my drink on” comment. It’s not like Ham requires liquid courage, though. But maybe this preplanned prank is bigger than Ham or his personality.

  Out of the corner of my eye I catch Bea draping her arms around Seung, then plopping her head onto his chest. She runs one hand up and down his jacket, causing Seung’s spine to stiffen. He moves like a robot. A rather constipated robot in desperate need of grease.

  “Where’s your date?” Jarrell asks.

  I point at Seung.

  “And yours?” I ask, ears perked and poised for confirmation that he and Ham might just be an actual thing in need of confirmation.

  Jarrell shrugs. “Well, I thought I had one, but I guess not. . . .”

  I want to ask Jarrell if Ham’s his date, but I don’t want to butt in where I don’t belong. I mean, shouldn’t Ham be the one to tell me who he’s dating? Besides, Ham insisted I not react.

  Principal Falsetto squawks into the microphone, informing us the votes are counted. Hinderwood High has chosen its royalty. Winners to be announced within the hour. Kristen squeals from the stage.

  The music bounces from country to pop and the crowd begins to bob their arms in the air. I bump Jarrell and wave good-bye. He nods as I race toward the bleachers. When I reach the bench, I slide down the back row toward the exit, to avoid Principal Falsetto. Kristen’s talking to Falsetto’s sister, which makes me pause longer than I should. When I reach the side door, the one that will lead me to the fire escape, a hand squeezes my bare shoulder.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  I whip around and my nose digs deep into Reed Clemmings’s shearling jacket. I position myself to answer truthfully, mouth open and eyes wide, but something stops me. I don’t need Reed knowing about my trips to the outdoor fire escape.

  “Nowhere.”

  “Sure about that?”

  Yes, Reed, I’m sure I’m going nowhere you need to know. I bite my tongue and hold on to the words.

  “Well, wherever you’re going, I’ll join. I need air to breathe.”

  I snicker at the obvious and slide past him, out the door, saying, “I really need to go.”

  The fire escape beckons—otherwise I’ll be spending the night in the windy outdoors.

  “Good idea.” Reed winks, twice, or maybe the red lights make it hard for him to focus. I’m unsure if he’s complimenting my plan or planning to join, so I step into the grass to find out.

  The door shuts and Reed marches behind me.

  Here’s me, living in the proverbial moment, the place I swore I’d be tonight, staring at the stars with Reed, while Seung slow-dances with Bea. Could this night complicate my life more?

  The only way out is to straight-shoot the truth. So I say, “I need to check something,” and stomp off toward the metal stairs.

  “I’ll come with you,” he says, and jogs after me in the dark.

  I pound through the tall-weeded grass near the corner of the school. Blades brush against my calves, making me happy I slid into my own shoes and out of Mrs. Rhee’s.

  “Wait up!” Reed shouts as I jump a knee-high bush.

  Wait up? For you? I’m sort of surprised he’s still behind me.

  When we reach the bottom of the fire-escape stairs, he asks, “Where are you going?”

  I point. “Up there.”

  He smiles and his snow-bright teeth sparkle. He’s probably never missed a brush, floss, or dental appointment in his life.

  I skip the last two stairs and lunge for the top, pouncing on my makeshift metal doorstop like a cat jumping on one of those rubber mice. I forget all about Reed, or the tight dress riding up my ass. I forget the fact that he followed me up the stairs and is observing everything I do. I slide the shank with my foot and yank the door open.

  “What are you doing?” he asks as I bend over to secure the railroad tie beneath the door.

  Good question. What am I doing here with Reed? Letting him see where I live, what I do. I won’t even let Ham or Seung get this close.

  “I might need to get in here later.” The words fly from my mouth before I can stop them. I jerk the door handle to make sure it’s secure, then walk toward the stairs.

  Reed blocks the exit with his arms. “Wait. Can’t we stay here longer? Look at the stars, or something?”

  I choke out, “Sure. I guess,” but the words squeak and I slap my hand to my lips. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m standing two stories high beneath the stars with Reed, or that he witnessed my preparations for breaking and entering. Possibly it’s the question he asked . . . because when he said we, my response was faint, my voice trembled.

  “They’re going to announce the royal court, and I am so over it.” He slaps the rail with his palms. “I’m over this whole fucking place.”

  Of course you are. You’re Reed Fucking Clemmings.

  I stare at him, at his jacket. I wonder what it smells like, all wool lined and warm. A football dipped in deodorant, probably.

  I think about Seung and Bea and wonder if Toby interrupted their dance. I wonder if Seung’s nose is bloody from the beating he took for “stealing someone’s girl.” I wonder if Seung’s smiling while he dances with Bea like he smiles at me when I insult his driving or tell him he’s hot. I wonder who makes him smile more.

  “Aren’t you excited to be king?”

  Reed scoffs. “I’m not king.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because Bea and I argued.”

  Bea. That explains everything. Why Reed wanted to go outside, why he needed to escape. Bea. Slobbering all over Seung, patting his chest, probably pretending to know the geographical difference between North and South Korea. Bea. Paying attention to Ham so that she could pay attention to Seung.

  I shiver and attempt to mind-control Reed into handing over his coat, because the chill is inching up my spine and crawling over my limbs. I need Seung’s blanket in the worst way, but he stuffed it in the car before heading in to the dance. I also need Reed to transform into Seung.

  “So you and Bea haven’t been together for a while, right?”

  “Define together.”

  “She’s with Toby Patters now.”

  “Something like that.”

  “So shouldn’t Toby be king? I mean, logistically, he is with Bea, and she’s always the queen.” I clamp my lips together to prevent my teeth from chattering. Wind whips against my bare back.

  “Who knows what the future might bring,” Reed says, using his sexy voice. Okay, his normal voice.

  There’s a smile in Reed’s eyes, or maybe a reflection of the crescent moon. I should turn around, but I don’t. I’m instantly warm from my nose to big toe. Reed doesn’t pick up on my heat, though. He slithers out of his jacket like the rock-star, sexy gentleman that he always acts like, and says, “Here. You’re cold.”

  He drapes me in suede and shearling. The scent of football, cocoa, and—I’m not going to lie, it’s either beer or B.O.—inches up my nose. Not quite the smell I expected. Reed is his own tailgate party. He smiles again and I’m positive now, it’s not the moon’s reflection.

  “Who’s your date?” he asks as I stand drowning in suede, empty sleeves tapping my thighs.

  I crinkle my nose, fighting to remember. For a while tonight, at Seung’s house, with his mom, later huddling and jumping with Kristen, and then when he reached for my hand and led me deep into the dance, I felt like I was on the biggest date of my life. But now Seung is dancing with Bea. And though he looked like an in-need-of-a-laxative
robot, he did ask his mom for pictures of us, even after the just Linden comment.

  “My best friend,” I whisper.

  Reed nods and puckers his lips. It’s his kiss look, I know it.

  I flop back toward the fire escape, jacket arms swinging and slapping me on the hips. “We should go back inside before we get caught.”

  “I don’t care if I get caught.”

  I smile. I like his style, but arguably, risks aren’t my thing. Remaining unnoticed is. “I do,” I say. “I care if I get caught.”

  Reed groans but tags behind me, down the stairs and to the side door of the gym.

  It is the third time I see Ham.

  Spinning in circles, puking, hands on his hips, half naked, and alone. Several strips of duct tape stick to his stomach like markings for a runway.

  “Ohmygod, Ham!” I sprint toward him. “Are you okay?” I reach over his shoulders to stop him from spinning.

  “I don’t feel so well, Linden.” Ham drops to his knees. “I need a mint.”

  I dig my hand into his front pocket.

  “Whoa, whoa—easy, Linden.” Even Ham’s laughs are slurred.

  I pop a mint into Ham’s gaping mouth. “What have you been doing?” Knowing full well what I’ve seen him doing, but more concerned about the moments missed.

  Ham grabs my arm for balance and whispers, “Gaining trust.”

  I wipe spit from his mouth and ask, “Are you going to be okay?”

  “I am now that you’re here, Linden. Just cold. So very cold.”

  I tear off Reed’s jacket to cover Ham’s bare chest but am stopped midremoval. “No!” Reed snaps. “That’s fine shearling. I don’t want puke on it. Someone should get towels.”

  I huff and grunt and shout, “Towels! Now!” and point to the door. Reed jumps and disappears into the gym, along with his jacket.

  “The sky is spinning,” Ham moans.

  “Kneel down.” I push on Ham’s shoulders and his knees bend. “What happened? Did you drink your dad’s scotch?”

  “It was something I ate.”

  I rub Ham’s shoulders. “You sure? We ate the same things.”