Where I Live

by Brenda Rufener

  He tilts his chin toward me, still staring at his plate. That’s when I see the tear. Right there, balancing on his cheek.

  Whatthehelliswrongwiththisboy?

  Here’s me, saving the one who matters most from his most embarrassing moment. Consider it debt recovery.

  I slide my hand toward his and he locks his finger around mine. Under normal circumstances, my body would heat, ignite, combust. Frankly, I’m surprised by the finger hold. It’s nice, but Seung’s terrible with timing.

  I climb onto my knees on the bench and shout, “Hey, Ham!” and motion toward Bea and Beth. Ham mumbles and I point, signaling him to move ass, now. He does, after a thirty-second hug with Jarrell.

  “Your food’s getting cold,” I say as Ham slides into the booth.

  “Not hungry,” Ham says, and if Seung’s finger wasn’t hooked around mine, I’d beckon the marching band to play in Ham’s honor, because Ham is never not hungry.

  I shove Seung to the edge of the seat and slide out of the booth. He becomes an uncaged animal. First pausing, unsure what to do, then sprinting to the door looking like a completely cute dork. I jog backward, yelling to Ham, “Meet us at Seung’s later! SAT prep, or something.”

  “I think I’m getting kicked out of school. Remember?” Ham shouts back. “Screw the SAT!”

  I ignore Ham’s remark because I’m trying to reschedule his upcoming three-day suspension for after the SAT, and his parents are already on top of purchasing pricey reclaimed wood and floor-to-ceiling windows to rebuild the wall, bigger and better and more Ham-like. “Meet us anyway!” I shout, and head out the door.

  When we reach Gold Nugget, I ask Seung if we’re skipping class, and he answers by opening the car door and revving the engine. We drive beside Cheese Country’s glass windows and I crane my neck at Ham having lunch with Bea and Beth. Jarrell sits in the booth. Beside Ham.

  We drive for five minutes before I decide it’s safe to speak. “Were you crying back there?” The words belly flop from my lips. Seung can’t deny it, but I’m fairly certain he will.

  “First Ham. Then Bea. Then you. Then me.”

  I ignore Seung’s Dr. Seuss-ish sentiment. “Maybe go easy on Bea.”

  “Linden, she follows me everywhere I go. And I know I should like it because the rules of being a guy say I should, right? She’s beautiful and vulnerable and seems like she’s into me. But it’s too much. I already have pressure figuring out you and me, and the SAT.”

  “You and me?” I tuck my hair behind my ear and wait for Seung to answer. He leaves me hanging.

  We stop for slushies and I suggest we pick one up for Ham, but Seung suggests Triangle Park because Ham has two more classes—those we’re skipping—and a meeting with the principal to negotiate his suspension.

  We drive to the park, and as expected, no one is there because they’re where they should be. School. We teeter and totter and try to balance our drinks while bouncing up and down. I ask Seung if he’s really going to go away to college.

  “Not if I bomb the SAT,” he says.

  I laugh, but he’s wearing his serious face.

  “They say it could impact your future.”

  Seung chuckles. “No one cares about your SAT score, Linden.”

  “College admission boards do.”

  I dig my heels into the dirt and try to balance our weight on the teeter-totter.

  I inch higher into the air. “Seung Rhee, your score matters more than you know.”

  When I reach the top, Seung jumps off his seat and balances it in his hand so I don’t crash to the ground. He pushes the totter until it teeters parallel. “You matter more than a score. And for that reason alone, I’ll study.”

  I suddenly feel like ripping off my coat. I mean, it’s forty degrees Fahrenheit and hot as hell.

  Seung lowers the teeter-totter to the ground and I bounce gently on the dirt.

  “Let’s go to my house before Ham shows up on the step.”

  He snatches my hand and we jog toward the car.

  Seung’s house is silent. Mr. and Mrs. Rhee aren’t home from work. No warm welcomes or hello-how-was-your-day? Just two truant teens exhausted and hungry and in need of head space.

  “Food. That’s what I need,” Seung says.

  He opens the refrigerator and unloads a tray of enchiladas, premade and wrapped in foil. He rips off the tin foil and replaces it with plastic wrap.

  “It’s Thursday,” I say. “Shouldn’t you be eating American food?”

  “Enchiladas aren’t American?”

  “They’re Mexican.”

  “Everyone in the world eats enchiladas,” he says. “It’s like saying pizza is Italian, fries are French.”

  The argument fizzles and I focus on the smell of cumin and cilantro piping from the microwave. The enchiladas would be better in the oven, crispy with burned cheese, but when it comes to Mrs. Rhee’s cooking, I’m the least picky. Her food is five-star, no matter how it’s heated.

  We scoot into the dining room, where we wolf tortillas and scoops of cheese, chatting little between bites. The sauce is white and green and tastes like a garden of chives. I’d love to talk spices and how Mrs. Rhee should ghostwrite recipes for celebrity chefs, but Seung is deep in thought, and I’m sure the last thing he wants to discuss is his mother’s cooking.

  Seung tears off a chunk of tortilla and dunks it in sauce. He catches me staring. “What?”

  I tap my mouth. “Right there. Cheese. Dangling from your lips.”

  I slide out of my chair and walk into the kitchen, shoveling four more bites of enchilada sauce into my mouth on the way. Seung follows me into the kitchen, and I wipe my mouth with my sleeve. He passes by me, then turns and grabs the plate from my hands. He rinses it off and loads it into the dishwasher, then reaches for a rag and runs it underwater. When he turns around, I snatch the dishcloth from his hands and walk to the table to wipe up our mess.

  “You don’t have to do that,” he says.

  “I know. I want to.” And then I catch him watching me, and I feel like I should move a certain way, wiggle my hips or something. I mean it’s obvious he’s staring at my ass and I’m not sure how to enjoy it. My thoughts smack me in the face, and I launch the rag at Seung. He catches it, tosses it into the sink, grabs my hand, and says, “C’mon.”

  We end up in the basement, crammed together on one section of the sectional couch. Our usual L shape changes to a hyphen. Head to head. My stomach feels fuller than it has in weeks, almost to the point of discomfort, which is something new. My heart? Yeah. It’s jam-packed, too.

  “Want to study for the SAT?” Of course, I don’t mean what I’m asking.

  “No.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “Want to watch TV?” Seung asks.

  “No.”

  “Neither do I.”

  Seung rolls over and slides up the couch to a seated position. I stretch and stare at the ceiling.

  “Thanks for rescuing me,” he says.

  “Thanks for believing me,” I say. “Besides, I was just saving you from an embarrassing moment.”

  Seung pauses, then says, “Linden? You ever feel like you’re suffocating?”

  All the time. “Sometimes.”

  “This year was supposed to be different,” he says. “I wanted to be different. To do things I’d never done.”

  “Which are?”

  “Take no shit. Be me. And yet, I don’t even know who I am.”

  “You’re Seung Rhee. Homecoming king. I’d say you’re off to a great start being different.”

  “Homecoming king was hardly my goal. I want to do what Seung Rhee wants to do. Not what everyone expects me to do, or what my parents think I should do.”

  I clamp my mouth shut, while Seung calculates who he is, who he wants to be, and I’m the last person qualified to chime in with advice. I won’t even share who I really am. There’s another long pause. I clear my throat. It’s time to be honest, truthful, and show Seung he mat
ters most.

  “Don’t you want to know about all that stuff in my bag?” I ask, and hold my breath.

  Seung inches toward me. “Nope. Not now.”

  “But don’t you want to talk?”

  Seung reaches for my face, and his fingertips fall against my cheek.

  “Not really.”

  “But don’t you want to—”

  “I’d rather do this.”

  Seung’s head missiles at mine. His chin where his eyes go, his face upside down. When I stare at him all I see are nose and lips and the reverse face that forms when someone is topsy-turvy. He puckers, leans in for a kiss, and I start to laugh.

  “What?” Seung freezes, his lips a millimeter from mine.

  “Nothing.”

  “Are you laughing?”

  “No.”

  “You are.”

  “I’m not. I promise.”

  “You’re laughing at me?”

  “No. No. Not you. Not even.”

  “You are.”

  “I’m not,” I say. “It’s just that you’re upside down and I’m fixating on your nose, your mouth, and it looks like a tiny Seung face without eyes. You know when you look at someone upside down and their lips move but . . .”

  Seung moves that missing millimeter.

  His hands press against my cheeks.

  “I’d like to kiss you now,” he whispers. “Would that be okay?”

  And here’s me finally shutting the hell up because I’m kissing my best friend, and feeling it in every single cell of my body.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  MR. GEORGE FORCES A MEETING the following day at school. And by force, I mean, he shuts the door, locks it, and says, “I’m forcing you four to stay. Don’t like it? Call the cops.”

  Kristen says, “But I’m going to be late for class. Mr. Dique hates when we’re late.”

  Mr. George says, “Mr. Dique needs to get out more. Live life. Have fun. Screw him.”

  Ham’s eyebrows reach his hairline, a grin spreads ear to ear.

  I open and close the clasp on my bag five thousand times until Mr. George clears his throat.

  “Bea is no longer working for the paper,” he says.

  “What? Why?” Ham asks.

  Mr. George shushes Ham. “We considered a corrective story authored by Bea and published by Bea.” He sighs. “But we won’t be doing that.”

  “Wait. What?” I ask. “How do you know about Bea?”

  Mr. George frowns. “She told me. She said everyone knew.”

  “Then why aren’t you clearing the air?” Seung asks. “Move forward with a corrective story. Everyone thinks Linden wrote that article.”

  Mr. George nods. “Not so simple, Seung.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Everyone looks at me for more, which I don’t have. So I simply shrug my shoulders and repeat, “Oh, yeah.”

  “I think we should let the story fizzle and fade,” Mr. George says. “It’s a sensitive subject. We have to examine things objectively, not emotionally.”

  “So ignore shit.” Seung drops his phone on the desk.

  Mr. George half smiles, but not in a happy way.

  “What will Bea do?” I ask. “Will she be okay?”

  “Bea’s already done what she needed to,” Mr. George says.

  “Which is?” Ham and I ask in unison.

  “Talked to me and met with a counselor.”

  “That’s all?” I snap. “What about the police? Reed Clemmings can’t get away with this shit. He’s been hurting her for a while. That monster deserves punishment!”

  “Would you settle for ridicule?” Mr. George says. “His cover has been blown. Word will travel. It always does. But it’s up to Bea now.”

  I nod. “To tell her story.”

  Mr. George sighs. “Exactly. We all have stories. Don’t we, Linden? It’s up to us whether we want to share them or not.”

  I don’t see Reed or his smile when I sit in front of him in class. I’m preoccupied with Seung’s lips, his taste, and Mr. George’s last words. My mind juggles subjects and bullet points, each fighting for first place in line.

  I don’t care if people think Reed hurt me. I don’t care if those comments put my reputation on the line. It’s not like I had some big rep to protect in the first place. Maybe I should be angry. It’s no secret that Seung wants me to be. At least a little. It would help him forget that he watched me kiss that monster. But Seung doesn’t know I have a backstory, too. Like Mr. George said, we all have stories.

  My eyes are forward and I’m listening to Principal Falls talk about the SAT. Her focus is test anxiety and how to stomp its ass. I should be more concerned about the test designed to change my life, but my heart isn’t here, and neither is my desire. I’ve always seen The Test as my ticket to freedom, college, a permanent address, but right now everything else weighs more.

  A throat clears, and I make the mistake of turning around. Reed eyeballs me up and down and shifts his jaw to the right, then left. His eyes are bloodshot and he looks like he needs sleep. It irritates me that he’s here in class, with Bea. He shouldn’t be allowed to be here.

  I shift in my chair and lean back to show him I’m relaxed, worry free. Sure, I know he punches female faces, but for all he knows, I’m the largest liar on the planet. If others believe I wrote that article, Reed might, too. He’s probably wondering what other lies I’ll spread. Maybe he thinks Bea and I planned the article together and are working as a team to expose him to the school. Let him wonder. Let him marvel. It serves him right.

  Principal Falsetto chirps about positive self-talk while fingers slide into the back pocket of my jeans. In other words, someone’s touching my ass.

  I whip around and see Seung moving to an empty seat in front of the class, far from Bea. Way to stick up for your girlfriend, Seung. Because those kisses coated in enchilada sauce mean we arrived at a whole new level of friendship.

  Reed clears his throat again and I make another mistake of looking into his eyes. He eyeballs my ass and shifts his jaw, again. I stare until I hear his teeth click. Then I fish for the note he poked in my pocket.

  I stare at the back of Seung’s head, five people in front of me. I wonder why he won’t turn around and wave me toward him. There’s another empty seat up front.

  Why doesn’t Seung rescue me like I rescued him?

  “Open the note,” Reed whispers.

  I sigh, hard. “Piss off.”

  A coin hits my back. It’s hard and it hurts. My mind screams, Ouch! but I’ll never say it out loud. What I would say, however, is, this: “He’s trying to hurt me again!” I shout it, loud and clear.

  Here’s me, Linden Rose, not giving a fuck what anyone thinks.

  Principal Falsetto asks if there’s a problem, which of course there is, but she’s months late to the party to solve it.

  I flip the coin at Reed’s face and say, “Keep the fucking change,” then swing my backpack over my shoulder and stomp toward the door.

  Footsteps pound behind me, but I don’t turn around. Seung would never let me leave alone. Not after that scene.

  At my locker, I finally whip around, yelling, “You know what that ass—”

  But my mouth can’t finish the sentence. How could it?

  Reed has his finger on my lips, shushing me. He’s teary and saying, “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It’s like I’m trapped in this body full of rage and I can’t escape.”

  For a moment I wonder if he’s plagiarizing Kerouac again, but his tears keep me focused on his face, cautioning me about his next move.

  “Did you read the note?” he says with eyes wide. “Because I really need you to read that note.”

  I don’t answer. His finger still mashes my lips.

  “I never meant to hurt anyone. I don’t like hurting people.”

  He’s believable. Convincing. Maybe he doesn’t want to hurt anyone. But it doesn’t change that he has.

  He says, “Everyone screws up so
metimes. I need someone to give me another chance.”

  For a second I think he believes I’m that someone.

  Then, for another second, I’m certain.

  He says, “I want to kiss you again.”

  I nod, thinking, Yeah, I’m sure you do, and suddenly his face is on mine.

  He whispers, “I’m sorry,” but he’s telling the wrong girl.

  He says, “I can’t stop kissing you,” but he’s forcing my mouth open and I’m clamping my lips shut.

  “Stop,” I tell him, but he’s busy finishing what he started at homecoming, what he wrote in the note.

  Linden Rose—I can’t stop thinking about your taste.

  He says, “You taste so good.”

  I push his chest and shout, “Fuck off!”

  He says, “I’d never hurt you.”

  “Is that what you told Bea?”

  He winces, but his face is stone.

  He’s Reed Clemmings. Perfection personified. At least that’s what everyone has always thought. He keeps to himself, does what his coach tells him to do. He’s become the brand our school wants him to be. Performing the way they tell him to perform, in class, on the football field. At least while eyes watch.

  He pushes me against the locker and I shove back.

  “You’re not Bea,” he says. “Bea’s a liar. You can’t believe anything she says.”

  He bites my lip and I imagine biting his. But my mouth won’t budge. It won’t even say, “Fuck off,” again. Fear does that sometimes. It freezes you, stifles fluid movements, especially when you’ve always been told to sit still, close your eyes, pretend not to exist. My face winces at his sour breath. I try to lift my hand to push him off me, but he grabs my wrist and slams it against the locker, above my head. His tongue dives into my mouth.

  I jerk to the side, struggling for air.

  Seung.

  Standing at the end of the hall, sleeves pushed to his elbows, ready to accept his rescue mission.

  Seung.

  Staring at my hands, one flat against the locker, the other gripping an earlobe, ready to yank.

  But he won’t move. He won’t rescue. He’s frozen, too, but it’s not Reed he’s afraid of.

  I want to shout, “Seung! It’s not what it looks like!” but Reed presses his chest against mine and prevents me from budging. He hisses at my cheek, “Stay the fuck away from Bea.” I squirm; he grabs my chin and kisses me long enough for Seung to watch everything we’ve ever had smash apart.