TheSunIsAlsoaStarbyNicolaYoon.pdf

Thisisaworkoffiction.Names,characters,places,andincidentseitheraretheproductoftheauthor’simaginationorareusedfictitiously.Anyresemblancetoactualpersons,livingordead,events,orlocalesisentirelycoincidental.

CoverartbyDominiqueFalla

Allrightsreserved.PublishedintheUnitedStatesbyDelacortePress,animprintofRandomHouseChildren’sBooks,adivisionofPenguinRandomHouseLLC,NewYork.

DelacortePressisaregisteredtrademarkandthecolophonisatrademarkofPenguinRandomHouseLLC.

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ISBN 9780553496680(hc)—ISBN 9780553496697(lib.bdg.)—ebookISBN 9780553496703—ISBN 9781524716301(intl.tr.pbk.)

RandomHouseChildren’sBookssupportstheFirstAmendmentandcelebratestherighttoread.

v4.1

ContentsCover

OtherTitles

TitlePage

Dedication

Epigraph

Prologue

Daniel

Natasha

Daniel

Natasha

IreneaHistory

Daniel

CharlesJaeWonBae

Family

Natasha

Irie

Daniel

Natasha

Irene

Natasha

SamuelKingsley

Daniel

Natasha

TheConductor

Daniel

Natasha

Daniel

Natasha

Half-Life

Daniel

DonaldChristiansen

Natasha

Daniel

Natasha

Daniel

Natasha

Multiverses

Daniel

Natasha

Daniel

Natasha

Daniel

Natasha

Love

Daniel

Natasha

HannahWinter

AttorneyJeremyFitzgerald

Daniel

Natasha

Daniel

Natasha

Hair

Daniel

Natasha

Daniel

Natasha

Daniel

Natasha

Hair

Daniel

Natasha

Daniel

Natasha

SamuelKingsley

Daniel

TheWaitress

Natasha

Daniel

Natasha

Daniel

Natasha

Daniel

Natasha

Daniel

Natasha

Daniel

Natasha

Daniel

Natasha

Daniel

Natasha

Daniel

Natasha

Daniel

Fate

Natasha

Daniel

Natasha

SamuelKingsley

Daniel

Natasha

NatashaKingsley

Daniel

Natasha

SamuelKingsley

Natasha

Daniel

DaeHyunBae

Natasha

Daniel

Natasha

Daniel

Natasha

Daniel

Natasha

Daniel

Natasha

Daniel

Natasha

Daniel

Joe

Natasha

Daniel

Eyes

Daniel

Natasha

SamuelKingsley

Daniel

JeremyFitzgerald

HannahWinter

Natasha

Daniel

Natasha

Daniel

Natasha

Daniel

Natasha

Daniel

Natasha

Daniel+Natasha

FourMinutes

Natasha

Daniel

TimeandDistance

EpilogueIrene:AnAlternateHistoryAcknowledgments

AbouttheAuthor

ReadtheBookThatEveryone,EveryoneFellinLoveWith.

Formymomanddad,whotaughtmeaboutdreamsandhowtocatchthem

Itdoesnoharmtotheromanceofthesunsettoknowalittleaboutit.

—PaleBlueDot,CarlSagan

DoIdare

Disturbtheuniverse?

Inaminutethereistime

Fordecisionsandrevisionswhichaminutewillreverse.

—TheLoveSongofJ.AlfredPrufrock,T.S.Eliot

CARLSAGANSAIDthatifyouwanttomakeanapplepiefromscratch,youmust first invent the universe.When he says “from scratch,” hemeans fromnothing.Hemeans froma timebefore theworldevenexisted. Ifyouwant tomakeanapplepiefromnothingatall,youhavetostartwiththeBigBangandexpanding universes, neutrons, ions, atoms, black holes, suns, moons, oceantides, the Milky Way, Earth, evolution, dinosaurs, extinction-level events,platypuses, Homo erectus, Cro-Magnon man, etc. You have to start at thebeginning.Youmustinventfire.Youneedwaterandfertilesoilandseeds.Youneedcowsandpeople tomilk themandmorepeople tochurn thatmilk intobutter.Youneedwheatandsugarcaneandappletrees.Youneedchemistryandbiology.Forareallygoodapplepie,youneedthearts.Foranapplepiethatcanlast forgenerations, youneed theprintingpress and the IndustrialRevolutionandmaybeevenapoem.

Tomakeathingassimpleasanapplepie,youhavetocreatethewholewideworld.

LocalTeenAcceptsDestiny,AgreestoBecomeDoctor,Stereotype

It’s Charlie’s fault that my summer (and now fall) has been one absurdheadline after another.Charles JaeWonBae, akaCharlie,my older brother,firstbornsonofafirstbornson,surprisedmyparents(andalltheirfriends,andthe entire gossiping Korean community of Flushing, New York) by gettingkicked out of Harvard University (Best School, my mother said, when hisacceptance letter arrived). Now he’s been kicked out ofBest School, and allsummermymomfrownsanddoesn’tquitebelieveanddoesn’tquiteunderstand.

Whyyougradessobad?Theykickyouout?Whytheykickyouout?Whynotmakeyoustayandstudymore?

Mydadsays,Notkickout.Requiretowithdraw.Notthesameaskickout.

Charliegrumbles:It’sjusttemporary,onlyfortwosemesters.

Under this unholy barrage of my parents’ confusion and shame anddisappointment,evenIalmostfeelbadforCharlie.Almost.

MYMOMSAYSIT’STIMEformetogiveupnow,andthatwhatI’mdoingisfutile.She’supset,soheraccentisthickerthanusual,andeverystatementisaquestion.

“Younothinkistimeforyoutogiveupnow,Tasha?Younothinkthatwhatyoudoingisfutile?”

Shedrawsoutthefirstsyllableoffutileforasecondtoolong.Mydaddoesn’tsay anything.He’smutewith anger or impotence. I’m never surewhich.Hisfrownissodeepandsocompletethatit’shardtoimaginehisfacewithanotherexpression.Ifthiswereevenjustafewmonthsago,I’dbesadtoseehimlikethis,butnowIdon’treallycare.He’sthereasonwe’reallinthismess.

Peter,mynine-year-oldbrother,istheonlyoneofushappywiththisturnofevents.Rightnow,he’spackinghissuitcaseandplaying“NoWoman,NoCry”byBobMarley.“Old-schoolpackingmusic,”hecalledit.

DespitethefactthathewasbornhereinAmerica,PetersayshewantstoliveinJamaica.He’salwaysbeenprettyshyandhasahardtimemakingfriends.Ithink he imagines that Jamaicawill be a paradise and that, somehow, thingswillbebetterforhimthere.

The four of us are in the living roomofour one-bedroomapartment.Thelivingroomdoublesasabedroom,andPeterandIshareit.Ithastwosmallsofabeds thatwepull out at night, and abrightblue curtaindown themiddle forprivacy.Rightnowthecurtainispulledasidesoyoucanseebothourhalvesatonce.

It’sprettyeasytoguesswhichoneofuswantstoleaveandwhichwantstostay.Mysidestill looks lived-in.Mybooksareonmysmall IKEAshelf.Myfavoritepictureofmeandmybestfriend,Bev,isstillsittingonmydesk.We’rewearing safety goggles and sexy-pouting at the camera in physics lab. Thesafetygogglesweremy idea.The sexy-poutingwashers. Ihaven’t removeda

singleitemofclothingfrommydresser.Ihaven’teventakendownmyNASAstar map poster. It’s huge—actually eight posters that I taped together—andshowsallthemajorstars,constellations,andsectionsoftheMilkyWayvisiblefromtheNorthernHemisphere.ItevenhasinstructionsonhowtofindPolarisandnavigateyourwaybystarsincaseyougetlost.ThepostertubesIboughtforpackingitareleaningunopenedagainstthewall.

OnPeter’s side, virtually all the surfaces are bare,most of his possessionsalreadypackedawayintoboxesandsuitcases.

My mom is right, of course—what I’m doing is futile. Still, I grab myheadphones, my physics textbook, and some comics. If I have time to kill,maybeIcanfinishupmyhomeworkandread.

Petershakeshisheadatme.“Whyareyoubringingthat?”heasks,meaningthetextbook.“We’releaving,Tasha.Youdon’thavetoturninhomework.”

Peterhasjustdiscoveredthepowerofsarcasm.Heusesiteverychancehegets.

Idon’tbotherrespondingtohim,justputmyheadphonesonandheadforthedoor.“Backsoon,”Isaytomymom.

Shekissesherteethandturnsaway.Iremindmyselfthatshe’snotupsetwithme.Tasha,isnotyoumeupsetwith,youknow?issomethingshesaysalotthesedays. I’m going to the United States Citizenship and Immigration Services(USCIS)buildingindowntownManhattantoseeifsomeonetherecanhelpme.Weareundocumentedimmigrants,andwe’rebeingdeportedtonight.

Today ismy last chance to try to convince someone—or fate—tohelpmefindawaytostayinAmerica.

Tobeclear:Idon’tbelieveinfate.ButI’mdesperate.

REASONSITHINKCharlesJaeWonBae,akaCharlie,IsanAsshole(InNoParticularOrder):

1. Beforethisepicandspectacular(andwhollydelightful)failureatHarvard,hehasbeenunrelentinglygoodateverything.Nooneissupposedtobegoodateverything.MathandEnglishandbiologyandchemistryandhistoryandsports.It’snotdecenttobegoodateverything.Threeorfourthingsatthemost.Eventhatispushingtheboundsofgoodtaste.

2. He’saman’sman,meaninghe’sanassholealotofthetime.Mostofthetime.Allofthetime.

3. Heistall,withchiseled,sculpted,andevery-romance-novel-everadjectiveforcheekbones.Thegirls(allthegirls,notjusttheKoreanBiblestudyones)sayhislipsarekissable.

4. Allthiswouldbefine—anembarrassmentofriches,tobesure;atadtoomanytreasurestobebestowedonasinglehuman,certainly—ifhewerenice.Butheisnot.CharlesJaeWonBaeisnotkind.Heissmugand,worstofall,heisabully.He’sanasshole.Aninveterateone.

5. Hedoesn’tlikeme,andhasn’tlikedmeforyears.

I PUT MY PHONE, headphones, and backpack into the gray bin beforewalking through the metal detector. The guard—her name tag says Irene—stopsmybinfromtravelingontotheconveyorbelt,asshe’sdoneeveryday.

Ilookupatheranddon’tsmile.

Shelooksdownintothebin,flipsmyphoneover,andstaresatthecase,asshe’sdoneeveryday.ThecaseisthecoverartforanalbumcalledNevermindbythebandNirvana.Everydayherfingerslingeronthebabyonthecover,andeveryday Idon’t likeher touching it.Nirvana’s lead singerwasKurtCobain.Hisvoice,thedamageinit,thewayit’snotatallperfect,thewayyoucanfeeleverythinghe’sever felt in it, thewayhisvoice stretchesout so thin thatyouthinkit’sgoingtobreakandthenitdoesn’t,istheonlythingthat’skeptmesanesincethisnightmarebegan.Hismiseryissomuchmoreabjectthanmine.

She’stakingalongtime,andIcan’tmissthisappointment.Iconsidersayingsomething,but Idon’twant tomakeher angry.Probably shehatesher job. Idon’twanttogiveherareasontodelaymeevenfurther.Sheglancesupatmeagain but shows no sign that she recognizesme, even though I’ve been hereeverydayfor the lastweek.Toher I’mjustanotheranonymousface,anotherapplicant,anothersomeonewhowantssomethingfromAmerica.

NATASHAISNOTATALL correctabout Irene. Irene lovesher job.Morethanlovesit—needsit.It’salmostthesolehumancontactshehas.It’stheonlythingkeepinghertotalanddesperatelonelinessatbay.

Everyinteractionwiththeseapplicantssavesherlifejustalittle.Atfirsttheybarelynoticeher.Theydumptheiritemsintothebinandwatchcloselyastheygothroughthemachine.MostaresuspiciousthatIrenewillpocketloosechangeor a pen or keys or whatever. In the normal course of things, the applicantwouldnevernoticeher,butshemakessuretheydo.It’sheronlyconnectiontotheworld.

Soshewaylayseachbinwithasingleglovedhand.Thedelayislongenoughthat theapplicant is forced to lookupandmeethereyes.Toactually see thepersonstandinginfrontofthem.Mostmumbleareluctantgoodmorning,andthewordsfillherupalittle.Othersaskhowshe’sdoingandsheexpandsalittlemore.

Ireneneveranswers.Shedoesn’tknowhow.Instead,shelooksbackdownatthe bin and scrutinizes each object for clues, for some bit of information tostoreawayandexaminelater.

Morethananything,shewishesshecouldtakeherglovesoffandtouchthekeys and the wallets and the loose change. She wishes she could slide herfingertips along the surfaces,memorizing textures and letting the artifacts ofother people’s lives seep into her. But she can’t delay the line too long.Eventuallyshesendsthebinanditsownerawayfromher.

Last night was a particularly bad night for Irene. The impossible hungrymouthofherlonelinesswantedtoswallowherinasinglepiece.Thismorningsheneedscontacttosaveherlife.Shedragshereyesawayfromaretreatingbinanduptothenextapplicant.

It’sthesamegirlwho’sbeencomingeverydaythisweek.Shecan’tbemorethanseventeen.Likeeveryoneelse, thegirldoesn’t lookupfromthebin.Shekeepshereyesfocusedonit,likeshecan’tbeartobepartedfromthehot-pinkheadphonesandhercellphone.Irenelaysherglovedhandonthesideofthebintopreventitsslideoutofherlifeandontotheconveyorbelt.

The girl looks up and Irene inflates. She looks as desperate as Irene feels.Irenealmostsmilesather.Inherheadshedoessmileather.

Welcomeback.Nicetoseeyou,Irenesays,butonlyinherhead.

In reality, she’s already looking down, studying the girl’s phone case. Thepicture on it is of a fat white baby boy completely submerged in clear bluewater. The baby is spread-eagled and looks more like he’s flying thanswimming.Hismouthandeyesareopen.Infrontofhimadollarbilldanglesona fishhook.Thepicture isnotdecent,andevery time Irene looksat it shefeelsherselftakeanextrabreath,asifsheweretheoneunderwater.

Shewantstofindareasontoconfiscatethephone,butthereisnone.

IKNOWTHEPRECISEMOMENTwhenCharliestoppedlikingme.ItwasthesummerIturnedsixandheturnedeight.Hewasridinghisshinynewbike(red, ten-speed, awesome) with his shiny new friends (white, ten years old,awesome).Eventhoughtherewerelotsofhintsallsummerlong,Ihadn’treallyfiguredoutthatI’dbeendemotedtoAnnoyingYoungerBrother.

Thatdayheandhisfriendsrodeawaywithoutme.Ichasedhimforblocksandblocks,callingout,“Charlie,”convincedthathejustforgottoinviteme.IpedaledsofastthatIgottired(six-year-oldsonbikesdon’tgettired,sothat’ssayingsomething).

Whydidn’tIjustgiveup?Ofcoursehecouldhearmecalling.

Finally he stopped and hopped off his bike. He shoved it into the dirt,kickstandbedamned,andstoodtherewaitingformetocatchup.Icouldseethathewasangry.Hekickeddirtontohisbiketomakesureeveryonewasclearonthatfact.

“Hyung,” I began, using the title younger brothers use for older brothers. Iknew it was a bigmistake as soon as I said it. Hiswhole face turned red—cheeks,nose, the tipsofhisears—thewhole thing.Hewaspracticallyaglow.His eyes darted sideways towhere his new friendswerewatching us likewewereonTV.

“What’dhejustcallyou?”theshorteroneasked.

“IsthatsomekindofsecretKoreancode?”thetalleronechimedin.

Charlie ignored themboth and got right inmy face. “What are you doinghere?”Hewassopissedthathisvoicecrackedalittle.

Ididn’thaveananswer,buthereallydidn’twantone.Whathewantedwastohitme. I saw it in the way he clenched and unclenched his fists. I saw himtrying to figureout howmuch troublehewould get in if hedidhitme right

thereintheparkinfrontofboyshebarelyknew.

“Whydon’tyougetsomefriendsofyourownandstopfollowingmearoundlikeababy?”hesaidinstead.

Heshould’vejusthitme.

He grabbed his bike out of the dirt and puffed himself up with somuchangryairIthoughthe’dburst,andI’dhavetotellMomthatherolderandmoreperfectsonexploded.

“My name is Charles,” he said to those boys, daring them to say anotherword.“Areyoucomingorwhat?”Hedidn’twaitforthem,didn’tlookbacktoseeiftheywerecoming.Theyfollowedhimintotheparkandintosummerandinto high school, just like many other people would eventually follow him.SomehowIhadmademybrotherintoaking.

I’venevercalledhimhyungagain.

DANIEL IS RIGHT ABOUT CHARLES. He’s an asshole through andthrough.Somepeoplegrowoutoftheirlessernatures,butCharleswillnot.Hewillsettleintoit,theskinthatwasalwaysgoingtobehis.

Butbeforethat,beforehebecomesapoliticianandmarrieswell,beforehechanges his name to Charles Bay, before he betrays his good wife andconstituents at every turn,before toomuchmoneyand successandmuch toomuchofgettingeverythingthathewants,hewilldoagoodandselflessthingforhisbrother.Itwillbethelastgoodandselflessthingthatheeverdoes.

WHENMINSOOFELL INLOVEwithDaeHyun, shedidnotexpect thatlovetotakethemfromSouthKoreatoAmerica.ButDaeHyunhadbeenpoorallhis life.Hehadacousin inAmericawho’dbeendoingwellforhimself inNewYorkCity.Hepromisedtohelp.

Formostimmigrants,movingtothenewcountryisanactoffaith.Evenifyou’ve heard stories of safety, opportunity, and prosperity, it’s still a leap toremove yourself from your own language, people, and country. Your ownhistory.Whatifthestoriesweren’t true?Whatifyoucouldn’tadapt?Whatifyouweren’twantedinthenewcountry?

Intheend,onlysomeofthestoriesweretrue.Likeallimmigrants,MinSooandDaeHyunadaptedasmuchastheywereable.Theyavoidedthepeopleandplacesthatdidn’twantthem.DaeHyun’scousindidhelp,andtheyprospered,faithrewarded.

A few years later, whenMin Soo learned that she was pregnant, her firstthoughtwas ofwhat to nameher child. Shehad this feeling that inAmericanamesdidn’tmeananything,not like theydid inKorea. InKorea, the familynamecamefirst and told theentirehistoryofyourancestry. InAmerica, thefamilynameiscalledthelastname.DaeHyunsaiditshowedthatAmericansthinktheindividualismoreimportantthanthefamily.

Min Soo agonized over the choice of the personal name,whatAmericanscalledthefirstname.ShouldhersonhaveanAmericanname,somethingeasyforhisteachersandclassmatestopronounce?ShouldtheysticktotraditionandselecttwoChinesecharacterstoformatwo-syllablepersonalname?

Names are powerful things. They act as an identitymarker and a kind ofmap, locating you in time and geography. More than that, they can be acompass. In the end,Min Soo compromised. She gave her son anAmericannamefollowedbyaKoreanpersonalnamefollowedby the familyname.She

namedhimCharles JaeWonBae.Shenamedher second sonDaniel JaeHoBae.

Intheend,shechoseboth.KoreanandAmerican.AmericanandKorean.

Sotheywouldknowwheretheywerefrom.

Sotheywouldknowwheretheyweregoing.

I’M LATE. I enter the waiting room and head over to the receptionist. Sheshakes her head at me like she’s seen this before. Everyone here has seeneverythingbefore,andtheydon’treallycarethatit’sallnewtoyou.

“You’llhavetocallthemainUSCISlineandmakeanewappointment.”

“Idon’thavetimeforthat,”Isay.Iexplainabouttheguard,Irene,andherstrangeness. I say itquietly and reasonably.She shrugs and looksdown. I amdismissed.Onanyotherday,Iwouldbecompliant.

“Pleasecallher.CallKarenWhitney.Shetoldmetocomeback.”

“Yourappointmentwasfor8a.m.It isnow8:05a.m.She’sseeinganotherapplicant.”

“Please.It’snotmyfaultI’mlate.Shetoldme—”

Her face hardens. No matter what I say, she will not be moved. “Ms.Whitney isalreadywithanotherapplicant.”Shesays it likeEnglish isnotmyfirstlanguage.

“Callher,”Idemand.MyvoiceisloudandIsoundhysterical.Alltheotherapplicants, even the ones who don’t speak English, are staring at me.Desperationtranslatesintoeverylanguage.

Thereceptionistnodsatasecurityguardstandingbythedoor.Beforehecanreachme, thedoor that leads to themeetingroomsopensup.Averytallandthinmanwithdarkbrownskinbeckonsme.Henodstothereceptionist.“It’sallright,Mary.I’lltakeher.”

Iwalkthroughthedoorquicklybeforehechangeshismind.Hedoesn’tlookatme,justturnsandstartsdownaseriesofhallways.IfollowsilentlyuntilhestopsinfrontofKarenWhitney’soffice.

“Waithere,”hesaystome.He’sonlygoneforafewseconds,butwhenhe

returnshe’sholdingaredfolder—myfile.

Wewalkdownanotherhallwayuntilwefinallycometohisoffice.“MynameisLesterBarnes,”hesays.“Haveaseat.”

“I’vebeen—”

Heholdsupahandtosilenceme.

“Everything I need to know is in this file.” He pinches the corner of thefolderandshakesitatme.“DoyourselfafavorandstayquietwhileIreadit.”

Hisdeskissoneatyoucantellheprideshimselfonit.He’sgotamatchingset of silver-colored desk accessories—a pen holder, trays for incoming andoutgoingmail,andevenabusinesscardholderwithLRBengravedon it.Whoevenusesbusinesscardsanymore?Ireachforward,takeone,andslipitintomypocket.

The tall cabinet behind him is a landscape of color-coded stacks of files.Eachfileholdssomeone’slife.ArethecolorsofthefilesasobviousasIthinktheyare?MyfileisRejectionRed.

Afterafewminuteshelooksupatme.“Whyareyouhere?”

“Karen—Ms.Whitney—toldmetocomeback.She’sbeenkindtome.Shesaidmaybetherewassomething.”

“Karen’snew.”Hesays it likehe’sexplaining something tome,but Idon’tknowwhatitis.

“Your family’s last appeal was rejected. The deportation stands, Ms.Kingsley.Youandyourfamilywillhavetoleavetonightattenp.m.”

Hecloses thefileandpushesaboxof tissues towardme inanticipationofmytears.ButI’mnotacryer.

Ididn’tcrywhenmyfatherfirsttoldusaboutthedeportationorders,orwhenanyoftheappealswererejected.

Ididn’tcrylastwinterwhenIfoundoutmyex-boyfriendRobwascheatingonme.

Ididn’tevencryyesterdaywhenBevandIsaidourofficialgoodbye.We’dbothknownformonths that thiswascoming. Ididn’t cry,but still—itwasn’teasy.Shewould’vecomewithmetoday,butshe’sinCaliforniawithherfamily,touringBerkeleyandacoupleofotherstateschools.

“Maybe you’ll still be here when I get back,” she insisted after ourseventeenthhug.“Maybeeverythingwillworkout.”

Bev’salwaysbeenrelentlesslyoptimistic,eveninthefaceofdireodds.She’sthekindofgirlwhobuyslotterytickets.I’mthekindofgirlwhomakesfunofpeoplewhobuylotterytickets.

So. I’m definitely not going to start crying now. I stand up and gathermythingsandheadtowardthedoor.Ittakesallmyenergytocontinuenotbeingacryer.InmyheadIhearmymother’svoice.

Don’tletyoupridegetthebetterofyou,Tasha.

I turnaround. “So there’s reallynothingyoucando tohelpme? I’mreallygoingtohavetoleave?”IsayitinsuchasmallvoicethatIbarelyhearmyself.Mr. Barnes doesn’t have any trouble hearing. Listening to quiet, miserablevoicesisinhisjobdescription.

Hetapstheclosedfilewithhisfingers.“Yourdad’sDUI—”

“Ishisproblem.WhydoIhavetopayforhismistake?”

Myfather.HisonenightoffameledtoaDUIledtousbeingdiscoveredledtomelosingtheonlyplaceIcallhome.

“You’re still here illegally,” he says, but his voice is not as hard as it wasbefore.

I nod but don’t say anything, because now I really will cry. I put myheadphonesonandheadforthedooragain.

“I’vebeentoyourcountry.I’vebeentoJamaica,”hesays.He’ssmilingatthememoryofhistrip.“Ihadanicetime.Everythingisiriethere,man.You’llbeallright.”

Psychiatriststellyounottobottleupyourfeelingsbecausethey’lleventuallyexplode.They’renotwrong.I’vebeenangryformonths.ItfeelslikeI’vebeenangrysincethebeginningoftime.Angryatmyfather.AngryatRob,whotoldmejustlastweekthatweshouldbeabletobefriendsdespite“everything,”i.e.thefactthathecheatedonme.

NotevenBevhasescapedmyanger.Allfallshe’sbeenworryingaboutwheretoapply tocollegebasedonwhereherboyfriend—Derrick—isapplying.Sheregularly checks the time difference between different college locations.Dolong-distance relationships work? she asks every few days. The last time sheaskedItoldhermaybesheshouldn’tbaseherentirefutureonhercurrenthighschoolboyfriend.Shedidnottakeitwell.Bevthinksthey’lllastforever.Ithinkthey’ll last throughgraduation.Maybe into the summer. It tookmedoingherphysicshomeworkforweekstomakeituptoher.

AndnowamanwhohasprobablyspentnomorethanaweekinJamaicaistellingmethateverythingwillbeirie.

Itakemyheadphonesoff.“Wheredidyougo?”Iask.

“Negril,”hesays.“Veryniceplace.”

“Didyouleavethehotelgrounds?”

“Iwantedto,butmy—”

“Butyourwifedidn’twanttobecauseshewasscared,right?Theguidebooksaiditwasbesttostayontheresortgrounds.”Isitdownagain.

Herestshischinon thebackofhisclaspedhands.For thefirst timesincethisconversationbegan,he’snotinchargeofit.

“Wassheconcernedabouthersafety?”Iputairquotesaroundsafety,asifitweren’treallyathingtobeconcernedabout.“Ormaybeshejustdidn’twanttoruinhervacationmoodbyseeinghowpooreveryonereallyis.”TheangerI’vesuppressedrisesfrommybellyandintomythroat.

“You listened to Bob Marley, and a bartender got you some pot, andsomeonetoldyouwhatiriemeans,andyouthinkyouknowsomething.Yousawa tiki bar and a beach and your hotel room.That is not a country.That is aresort.”

Heholdsuphishandslikehe’sdefendinghimself,likehe’stryingtopushthewordsintheairbackintome.

Yes,I’mbeingawful.

No,Idon’tcare.

“Don’ttellmeI’llbeallright.Idon’tknowthatplace.I’vebeenheresinceIwaseightyearsold.Idon’tknowanyoneinJamaica.Idon’thaveanaccent.Idon’tknowmyfamily there,not thewayyou’resupposedtoknowfamily. It’smysenioryear.Whataboutpromandgraduationandmyfriends?”Iwanttobeworryingaboutthesamedumbthingsthey’reworryingabout.Ievenjuststartedgettingmyapplication togetherforBrooklynCollege.Mymomsavedfor twoyearssoshecouldtraveltoFloridaandbuymea“good”socialsecuritycard.A“good”cardisonewithactualstolennumbersprintedonitinsteadoffakeones.The man who sold it to her said that the less expensive ones with bogusnumberswouldn’t get past background checks and college applications.Withthecard,Icanapplyforfinancialaid.IfIcangetascholarshipalongwiththeaid, I might even be able to afford SUNY Binghamton and other in-stateschools.

“Whataboutcollege?”Iask,cryingnow.Mytearsareunstoppable.They’vebeenwaitingforalongtimetocomeout.

Mr.Barnesslidesthetissueboxevenclosertome.Itakesixorsevenandusethemandthentakesixorsevenmore.Igathermythingsagain.“Doyouhaveanyideawhatit’slikenottofitinanywhere?”AgainIsayittooquietlytobeheard,andagainhehearsme.

I’m all the way to the door, my hand on the knob, when he says, “Ms.Kingsley.Wait.”

MAYBE YOU’VE HEARD the word irie before. Maybe you’ve traveled toJamaica and know that it has some roots in the Jamaican dialect, patois.Ormaybeyouknow that it hasother roots in theRastafari religion.The famousreggaesingerBobMarleywashimselfaRastafarianandhelpedspreadthewordbeyondtheJamaicanshores.Somaybewhenyouhearthewordyougetasenseofthehistoryofthereligion.

Maybe you know that Rastafari is a small offshoot of the three mainAbrahamic religions—Christianity, Islam, and Judaism. You know thatAbrahamic religions aremonotheistic and center on differing incarnations ofAbraham.MaybeinthewordyouhearechoesofJamaicainthe1930s,whenRastafariwasinvented.Ormaybeyouhearechoesofitsspiritualleader,HaileSelassieI,EmperorofEthiopiafrom1930to1974.

And so when you hear the word, you hear the original spiritual meaning.Everything isall right between you and your god, and therefore between youand theworld.Tobe irie is tobe inahighandcontentspiritualplace. In theword,youheartheinventionofreligionitself.

Ormaybeyoudon’tknowthehistory.

YouknownothingofGodorspiritor language.Youknowthepresent-daycolloquialdictionarydefinition.Tobeirieissimplytobeallright.

Sometimes if you look a word up in the dictionary, you’ll see somedefinitionsmarkedasobsolete.Natashaoftenwondersaboutthis,howlanguagecanbeslippery.Awordcanstartoffmeaningone thingandendupmeaninganother.Isitfromoveruseandoversimplification,likethewayirieistaughttotouristsat Jamaicanresorts? Is it frommisuse, like thewayNatasha’s father’sbeenusingitlately?

Beforethedeportationnotice,herefusedtospeakwithaJamaicanaccentor

useJamaicanslang.Nowthattheyarebeingforcedtogoback,he’sbeenusingnew vocabulary, like a tourist studying foreign phrases for a trip abroad.Everythingirie,man,hesaystocashiersingrocerystoreswhoaskthestandardretailHowareyou?Hesaysirietothepostmandroppingoffmailwhoasksthesame thing. His smile is too big. He pushes his hands into his pockets andthrowshisshouldersbackandactsliketheworldhasshoweredhimwithmoregifts than he can reasonably accept. His whole act is so obviously fake thatNatasha’s sure everyonewill see through him, but then they don’t.Hemakesthemfeelgoodmomentarily,likesomeofhisobviousgoodfortunewillruboffonthem.

Words,Natashathinks,shouldbehavemorelikeunitsofmeasure.Ameterisa meter is a meter. Words shouldn’t be allowed to change meanings. Whodecidesthatthemeaninghaschanged,andwhen?Isthereanin-betweentimewhen the word means both things? Or a time when the word doesn’t meananythingatall?

NatashaknowsthatifshehastoleaveAmerica,allherfriendships,evenwithBev,willfade.Sure,they’lltrytostayintouchatthebeginning,butitwon’tbethesameasseeingeachothereveryday.Theywon’tdouble-datetoprom.Nocelebratingacceptancelettersorcryingoverrejectionones.Nosillygraduationpictures. Instead, timewillpass and thedistancewill seemfarthereveryday.Bev will be in America doing American things. Natasha will be in Jamaicafeelinglikeastrangerinthecountryofherbirth.

Howlongbeforeherfriendsforgetabouther?HowlongbeforeshepicksupaJamaicanaccent?HowlongbeforesheforgetsthatshewaseverinAmerica?

Onedayinthefuture,themeaningofiriewillmoveon,anditwillbecomejust another word with a long list of archaic or obsolete definitions. Iseverythingirie?someonewillaskyouinaperfectAmericanaccent.Everything’sirie,youwillrespond,meaningeverything’sjustokay,butyoureallydon’tfeelliketalkingaboutit.NeitherofyouwillknowaboutAbrahamortheRastafarireligionortheJamaicandialect.Thewordwillbedevoidofanyhistoryatall.

Local Teen Trapped in Parental Vortex of Expectation and Disappointment,Doesn’tExpecttoBeRescued

Thenicethingabouthavinganoverachievingassholeforanolderbrotheristhatittakesthepressureoff.Charliehasalwaysbeengoodenoughfortwosons.Nowthathe’snotsoperfectafterall,thepressure’sonme.

Here’saconversationI’vehad1.3billion(giveortake)timessincehe’sbeenhome:

Mom:Yourgradesstillokay?

Me:Yup.

Mom:Biology?

Me:Yup.

Mom:Whataboutmath?Youdon’tlikemath.

Me:IknowIdon’tlikemath.

Mom:Butgradesstillokay?

Me:StillaB.

Mom:WhynoAyet?Aigo.It’stimeyougetseriousnow.Younotlittleboyanymore.

TodayIhaveacollegeadmissioninterviewwithaYalealum.YaleisSecond-Best School, but for once, I put my foot down and refused to apply to BestSchool(Harvard).TheideaofbeingCharlie’syoungerbrotheratanotherschoolisabridgeentirelytoofar.Besides,whoknowsifHarvardwouldeventakemenowthatCharlie’sbeensuspended.

MymomandIareinthekitchen.Becauseofmyinterview,she’ssteamingfrozenmandu(dumplings)formeasatreat.I’mhavingapre-manduappetizerof Cap’n Crunch (the best cereal known to mankind) and writing in myMoleskinenotebook. I’mworkingon apoemabout heartbreak that I’vebeenworkingonforever(giveortake).TheproblemisthatI’veneverhadmyheartbroken,soI’mhavingahardtime.

Writingatthekitchentablefeelslikealuxury.Iwouldn’tbeabletodoitifmydadwerehere.Hedoesn’tdisapproveofmypoem-writing tendenciesoutloud,butdisapprovehedefinitelydoes.

My mom interrupts my eating and writing for a variation on our usualconversation. I’mcruising throughit,addingmy“yup’s” throughmouthfulsofcereal,whenshechangesupthescript.Insteadoftheusual“Younotlittleboyanymore,”shesays:

“Don’tbelikeyourbrother.”

Shesaysit inKorean.Foremphasis.AndbecauseofGodorFateorSheerRottenLuck,Charliewalksintothekitchenjustintimetohearhersayit.Istopchewing.

Anyonelookinginatusfromtheoutsidewouldthinkthingsarecopacetic.Amothermakingbreakfast forher two sons.One sonat the table eatingcereal(nomilk).Another sonentering thescenefromstage left.He’sabout tohavebreakfastaswell.

But that’s not what’s really happening.Mom is so ashamed about Charliehearing her that she blushes. It’s faint, but it’s there. She offers him somemandu,eventhoughhehatesKoreanfoodandhasrefusedtoeatitsincejuniorhigh.

AndCharlie?He justpretends.Hepretendshedoesn’tunderstandKorean.Hepretendshedidn’thearherofferofdumplings.HepretendsIdon’texist.

He almost foolsmeuntil I look at his hands.They curl into fists and giveaway the truth.Heheardandheunderstood.Shecould’vecalledhimanepicdouchebag,ananimatronicdickcompletewithballsac,anditwould’vebeenbetterthantellingmenottobelikehim.Mywholelifeit’sbeentheopposite.Whycan’tyoubemorelikeyourbrother?ThisReversalofFortuneisnotgoodforeitherofus.

Charlietakesaglassfromthecupboardandfillsitwithtapwater.Drinkingwater from the tap is just to pissMomoff. She opens hermouth to say theusual“No.Drinkfilter,”butsheclosesitagain.Charliegulpsthewaterdownin

threequickswallowsandputs theglassbackintothecupboardunwashed.Heleavesthecupboardopen.

“Umma,givehimabreak,”Itellherafterhe’sgone.I’mpissedathimandI’mpissedfor him.Myparents havebeen relentlesswith the criticism. I canonlyimaginehowassitisforhimworkingatthestorealldaywithmydad.Ibet my dad berates him in between smiling at customers and answeringquestions about extensions and tea tree oils and treating chemically damagedhair.(Myparentsownabeautysupplyshopthatsellsblackhaircareproducts.It’scalledBlackHairCare.)

Sheopensthesteamerbaskettocheckonthemandu.Thesteamfogsupherglasses.WhenIwasalittlekidthatusedtomakemelaugh,andshewouldhamitupbylettingthemgetassteamyaspossibleandthenpretendingshecouldn’tseeme.Nowshejustpullsthemfromherfaceandwipesthemwithadishcloth.

“Whathappentoyourbrother?Whyhefail?Heneverfail.”

Withoutherglassesshelooksyounger,prettier.Isitweirdtothinkyourmomis pretty? Probably. I’m sure that thought never occurs to Charlie. All hisgirlfriends(allsixofthem)havebeenverycute,slightlychubbywhitegirlswithblondhairandblueeyes.

No, I’m lying. There was one girl, Agatha. She was his last high schoolgirlfriendbeforecollege.

Shehadgreeneyes.

Momputsherglassesbackonandwaits,likeI’mgoingtohaveananswerforher. She hates not knowing what happens next. Uncertainty is her enemy. Ithinkit’sbecauseshegrewuppoorinSouthKorea.

“Heneverfail.Somethinghappen.”

AndnowI’mevenmorepissed.MaybenothinghappenedtoCharles.Maybehefailedoutbecausehesimplydidn’tlikehisclasses.Maybehedoesn’twanttobeadoctor.Maybehedoesn’tknowwhathewants.Maybehejustchanged.

Butwe’re not allowed to change inmy household.We’re on a track to bedoctors,andthere’snogettingoff.

“Youboyshave it tooeasyhere.Americamakeyousoft.” If IhadabraincellforeverytimeIheardthis,I’dbeagoddamngenius.

“Wewerebornhere,Mom.Wewerealwayssoft.”

Shescoffs.“Whataboutinterview?Youready?”Shelooksmeoverandfindsmelacking.“Youcuthairbeforeinterview.”Formonthsshe’sbeenaftermeto

getridofmyshortponytail.Imakeanoisethatcouldbeeitheragreementordisagreement.SheputsaplateofmanduinfrontofmeandIeatitinsilence.

Becauseofthebiginterview,myparentsletmehavethedayofffromschool.It’sstillonlyeighta.m.,butnowayamIstaying in thehouseandhavinganymoreoftheseconversations.BeforeIcanescape,shehandsmeamoneypouchwithdepositslipstotaketomydadatthestore.

“Appa forgot.You bring to him.” I’m sure shemeant to give it toCharliebefore he left for the store but forgot because of their little incident in thekitchen.

Itakethepouch,grabmynotebook,anddragmyselfupstairstogetdressed.Mybedroom is at the end of a long hallway. I pass byCharlie’s room (doorclosedasalways)andmyparents’room.Mymom’sgotacoupleofunopenedblank canvases leaning against their doorframe.Today’s her day off from thestore,andIbetshe’slookingforwardtospendingthedayalonepainting.Latelyshe’sbeenworkingonroaches,flies,andbeetles.I’vebeenteasingher,sayingthatshe’sinherGrossInsectPeriod,butIlikeitevenmorethanherAbstractOrchidPeriodfromafewmonthsago.

Itakeaquickdetourintotheemptybedroomthatsheusesasherstudiotosee if she’s painted anything new. Sure enough, there’s one of an enormousbeetle. The canvas is not especially large, but the beetle takes up the entirespace.Mymom’spaintingshavealwaysbeenbrightlycoloredandbeautiful,butsomething about applying all that color to her intricate, almost anatomicaldrawings of insects makes them something more than beautiful. This one’spaintedindarklypearlescentgreens,blues,andblacks.Itscarapaceshimmerslikespilledoilonwater.

Threeyearsagoforherbirthday,mydadsurprisedherbyhiringpart-timehelp for the store so shewouldn’t have to go in every day.He also bought astartersetofoilpaintsandsomecanvases.I’dneverseenhercryoverapresentbefore.She’sbeenpaintingeversince.

BackinmyroomIwonderfor the ten thousandth time(giveor take)whatherlifewouldbelikeifsheneverleftKorea.Whatifshenevermetmydad?WhatifsheneverhadCharlieandme?Wouldshebeanartistnow?

Igetdressedinmynewcustom-tailoredgraysuitandredtie.“Toobright,”mymomsaidabout the tiewhenwewereshopping.Evidently,onlypaintingsareallowedtobecolorful.Iconvincedherbysayingthatredwouldmakemelookconfident.Checkingmyselfinthemirrornow,Ihavetosaythatthesuitdoesmakeme lookconfidentanddebonair(yes,debonair).ToobadI’monly

wearingitforthisinterviewandnotforsomethingthatactuallymatterstome.IchecktheweatheronmyphoneanddecideIdon’tneedacoat.Thehighwillbesixty-sevendegrees—aperfectfallday.

Despitemy irritationwith thewayshe treatedCharlie, Ikissmymomandpromisetogetmyhaircut,andthenIgetoutofthehouse.Laterthisafternoonmy lifewillhopona trainheaded forDoctorDaniel JaeHoBae station,butuntilthenthedayismine.I’mgoingtodowhatevertheworldtellsmeto.I’mgoingtoactlikeI’minagoddamnBobDylansongandblowinthedirectionofthewind. I’m going to pretendmy future’swide open, and that anything canhappen.

EVERYTHINGHAPPENSFORAREASON.Thisisathingpeoplesay.Mymomsays ita lot.“Thingshappenfora reason,Tasha.”Usuallypeoplesay itwhen something goes wrong, but not too wrong. A nonfatal car accident. Asprainedankleinsteadofabrokenone.

Tellingly, my mom has not said it in reference to our deportation. Whatreasoncouldtherebeforthisawfulthinghappening?Mydad,whosefaultthiswholethingis,says,“Youcan’talwaysseeGod’splan.”Iwanttotellhimthatmaybeheshouldn’tleaveeverythinguptoGodandthathopingagainsthopeisnotalifestrategy,butthatwouldmeanIwouldhavetotalktohim,andIdon’twanttotalktohim.

Peoplesaythesethingstomakesenseoftheworld.Secretly,intheirheartofhearts,almosteveryonebelievesthatthere’ssomemeaning,somewillfulnesstolife.Fairness.Basicdecency.Good thingshappen togoodpeople.Bad thingsonlyhappentobadpeople.

Noonewants tobelieve that life is random.Mydad sayshedoesn’tknowwheremycynicismcomesfrom,butI’mnotacynic.Iamarealist.It’sbettertoseelifeasitis,notasyouwishittobe.Thingsdon’thappenforareason.Theyjusthappen.

ButherearesomeObservableFacts:IfIhadn’tbeenlatetomyappointment,I wouldn’t have met Lester Barnes. And if he hadn’t said the word irie, Iwouldn’thavehadmymeltdown.AndifIhadn’thadmymeltdown,Iwouldn’tnowhavethenameofalawyerknownas“thefixer”clutchedinmyhand.

Iheadoutofthebuildingpastsecurity.Ihaveanirrationalandtotallyunlike-me urge to thank that security guard—Irene—but she’s a few feet away andbusyfondlingsomeoneelse’sstuff.

Icheckmyphoneformessages.Eventhoughit’sonly5:30a.m.inCaliforniawheresheis,Bev’stextedastringofquestionmarks.Icontemplatetellingher

aboutthislatestdevelopmentbutthendecideit’snotreallyadevelopment.

Nothingyet, I textback.Selfishly Iwishagain that shewereherewithme.Actually,whatIwishisthatIweretherewithher,touringcollegesandhavinganormalsenior-yearexperience.

Ilookdownatthenoteagain.JeremyFitzgerald.Mr.Barneswouldn’tletmecallforanappointmentfromhisphone.

“It’saverylongshot,”hesaid,beforebasicallyshovingmeoutthedoor.

ObservableFact:Youshouldnevertakelongshots.Bettertostudytheoddsandtaketheprobableshot.However,ifthelongshotisyouronlyshot,thenyouhavetotakeit.

ONHERLUNCHBREAK, Irenedownloads theNirvanaalbumforherself.Shelistenstoitthreetimesinarow.InKurtCobain’svoiceshehearsthesamethingNatashahears—aperfectandbeautifulmisery,avoicestretchedsothinwithlonelinessandwantingthatitshouldbreak.Irenethinksitwouldbebetterifitdidbreak,betterthanlivingwithwantingandnothaving,betterthanlivingitself.

ShefollowsKurtCobain’svoicedowndowndowntoaplacewhereitisblackallthetime.Afterlookinghimuponline,shefindsthatCobain’sstorydoesnothaveahappyending.

Irenemakesaplan.Todaywillbethelastdayofherlife.

Thetruthis,she’sbeenthinkingaboutkillingherselfonandoffforyears.InCobain’slyricsshefinallyfindsthewords.Shewritesasuicidenoteaddressedtonoone:“Ohwell.Whatever.Nevermind.”

I’MONLYTWOSTEPSOUTofthebuildingbeforeIdialthenumber.“I’dliketomakeanappointmentfortodayassoonaspossible,please.”

The woman who answers sounds like she’s in a construction zone. In thebackgroundIhear thesoundofadrilland loudbanging. Ihave torepeatmynametwice.

“Andwhat’stheissue?”sheasks.

I hesitate. The thing about being an undocumented immigrant is you getreallygoodatkeepingsecrets.Beforethiswholedeportationadventurebegan,the only person I toldwasBev, even though she’s not usually that greatwithsecrets.

“Theyjustslipout,”shesays,asifshehasabsolutelynocontrolofthethingscomingoutofhermouth.

Still,evenBevknewhowimportantitwastokeepthisone.

“Hello, ma’am? Can you tell me your issue?” the woman on the phonepromptsagain.

Ipressthephoneclosertomyearandstandstillinthemiddleofthesteps.Aroundme,theworldspeedsuplikeamovieonfast-forward.Peoplewalkupanddownthestairsat threetimesspeedwithjerkymovements.Cloudszoombyoverhead.Thesunchangespositioninthesky.

“I’mundocumented,”Isay.MyheartraceslikeI’vebeenrunningaverylongwayforaverylongtime.

“Ineedtoknowmorethanthat,”shesays.

SoItellher.I’mJamaican.MyparentsenteredthecountryillegallywhenIwas eight. We’ve been here ever since. My dad got a DUI. We’re beingdeported.LesterBarnesthoughtAttorneyFitzgeraldcouldhelp.

Shesetsanappointmentforelevena.m.

“AnythingelseIcanhelpyouwith?”sheasks.

“No,”Isay.“Thatwillbeenough.”

The lawyer’s office is uptown fromwhere I am, close to Times Square. Icheckmyphone:8:35a.m.Asmallbreezekicksup,liftingthehemofmyskirtand playing through my hair. The weather is surprisingly mild for mid-November.MaybeIdidn’tneedmyleatherjacketafterall.Imakeaquickwishfor a not-too-freezing winter before remembering that I probably won’t bearoundtoseeit.Ifsnowfallsinacityandnooneisaroundtofeelit,isitstillcold?

Yes.Theanswertothatquestionisyes.

Ipullmyjacketcloser.It’sstillhardformetobelievethatmyfutureisgoingtobedifferentfromtheoneI’dplanned.

Two and a half hours to go.My school’s only a fifteen-minutewalk fromhere.IbrieflyconsiderheadingoversoIcanhaveonelastlookatthebuilding.It’saverycompetitivesciencemagnethighschool,andIworkedveryhardtogetintoit.Ican’tbelievethataftertodayImayneverseeitagain.IntheendIdecideagainstgoing;toomanypeopletoruninto,andtoomanyquestionslike“Whyaren’tyouinschooltoday?”thatIdon’twanttoanswer.

Instead,Idecidetokilltimebywalkingthethreemilestothelawyer’soffice.Myfavoritevinylrecordstoreisontheway.Iputmyheadphonesonandqueueup theTempleof theDog album. It’s a 1990s grunge rockkind of a day, allangstandloudguitar.ChrisCornell’svoicerisesandIletitcarrysomeofmycaresaway.

NATASHA’SFATHER,SAMUEL,MOVEDTOAmerica a full two yearsbeforetherestofhisfamilydid.TheplanwasthatSamuelwouldgofirstandestablish himself as a Broadway actor. It would be easier to do that withouthavingtoworryaboutawifeandsmallchild.Withoutthem,hewouldbefreetogoonauditionsonamoment’snotice.He’dbefreetomakeconnectionswiththeactingcommunityinNewYorkCity.Originallyitwasonlysupposedtobefor one year, but one became two. It would’ve become three, but Natasha’smomcouldnotandwouldnotwaitanylonger.

She was only six at the time, but Natasha remembers the phone calls toAmerica. She could always tell because hermom had to dial all those extranumbers. The calls were fine at first. Her father sounded like her dad. Hesoundedhappy.

Afteraboutayear,hisvoicechanged.Hehadafunnynewaccentthatwasmore lilt and twang than patois. He sounded less happy. She rememberslisteningtotheirconversations.Shecouldn’thearhisside,butshedidn’tneedto.

“Howmuchlongeryouexpectustowaitforyou?”

“But,Samuel?Wenotnofamilynomorewithyouover thereandweoverhere.”

“Talktoyoudaughter,man.”

Andthenoneday,theywereleavingJamaicaforgood.Natashasaidgoodbyetoherfriendsandtotherestofherfamily,fullyexpectingthatshewouldseethemagain,maybeatChristmastime.Shedidn’tknowthenwhatitmeanttobean undocumented immigrant. How it meant that you could never go homeagain. How your home wouldn’t even feel like home anymore, just anotherforeignplacetoreadabout.Onthedaytheyleft,sheremembersbeingonthe

plane andworrying about just how theywould fly through the clouds, beforerealizingthatcloudswerenotlikecottonballsatall.Shewonderedifherdadwouldrecognizeher,andifhewouldstillloveher.Ithadbeensuchalongtime.

Buthedidrecognizeherandhestilllovedher.Attheairport,heheldthemsoclose.

“Lawd,butmedidmissyoutwo,youknow,”hesaid,andheheldthemevencloser.He looked the same. In thatmoment, he even sounded the same, hispatois thesameas italwayswas.Hesmelleddifferent, though, likeAmericansoapandAmericanclothesandAmericanfood.Natashadidn’tmind.Shewassohappytoseehim.Shecouldgetusedtoanything.

For the twoyears that Samuelwas alone inAmerica, he livedwith anoldfamilyfriendofhismother’s.Hedidn’tneedajob,andheusedhissavingstocoverwhatlittleexpenseshehad.

After everyonemoved toAmerica, that had to change. He got a job as asecurityguardworkingatoneofthebuildingsonWallStreet.Hefoundthemaone-bedroomapartmentforrentintheFlatbushsectionofBrooklyn.

“Mecanmakethiswork,”hesaidtoPatricia.Hechosethegraveyardshiftsohewouldhavetimetoauditionduringtheday.

Buthewastiredduringtheday.

Andtherewerenopartsforhim,andtheaccentwouldjustnotgoawaynomatterhowhetried.Itdidn’thelpthatPatriciaandNatashaspoketohimwithfull Jamaican accents, even though he tried to teach them the “proper”Americanpronunciation.

Andrejectionwasnotaneasything.Tobeanactoryou’resupposedtohavethick skin, but Samuel’s skin was never thick enough. Rejection was likesandpaper.Hisskinsloughedawayunderitsconstantonslaught.Afterawhile,Samuelwasn’tsurewhichwouldlastlonger:himselforhisdreams.

ResignedLocalTakesWestbound7TraintoChildhood’sEnd

Sure, I canbe a littledramatic, but that’swhat it feels like.This train is aMagic Fucking Train speedingme from childhood (joy, spontaneity, fun) toadulthood (misery, predictability, absolutely no fun will be had by anyone).WhenIgetoffIwillhaveaplanandtastefullygroomed(meaningshort)hair.I’ll no longer read (or write) poetry—only biographies of Very ImportantPeople. I’llhaveaPointofViewonserioussubjectssuchasImmigration, therole of the Catholic Church in an increasingly secular society, the relativesuckageofprofessionalfootballteams.

Thetrainstops,andhalfthepeopleclearout.Iheadtomyfavoritespot—thetwo-seater in the cornernext to the conductor’s box. I spreadmyselfout andtakeupbothseats.

Yes,it’sobnoxious.ButIhaveagoodreasonforthisbehaviorthatinvolvesacompletelyemptytrainonenightattwoa.m.(waypost-curfew)andamanwithabig-ass snakewrappedaroundhisneckwhochose to sitnext tomedespitetherebeingonethousand(giveortake)emptyseats.

I takemynotebookoutof the innerpocketofmysuit jacket. It’saboutanhourtoThirty-FourthStreetinManhattan,wheremyfavoritebarberis,andthispoem won’t write itself. Fifty minutes (and three very poorly written lines)later, we’re only a couple of stops away from mine. Magic Fucking Train’sdoorsclose.Wemakeitabout twentyfeet intothetunnelandgrindtoahalt.Thelightsflickeroff,becauseofcoursetheydo.Wesitforfiveminutesbeforetheconductordecidescommunicationwouldbegood.Iexpecttohearhimsaythatthetrainwillbemovingshortly,etc.,butwhathesaysisthis:

“LAdiesandGENtlemen.UpuntilyesterdayIwasjustlikeyou.IwasonatraingoingNOwhere,justlikeyou.”

Holyshit.Usuallythefreakypeopleareonthetrain,notdrivingthetrain.Myfellowpassengerssitupstraighter.Whatthehell?thoughtballoonsfloatoverallourheads.

“ButsomethingHAPpenedtome.IhadareligiousEXperience.”

I’mnotsurewherehe’sfrom(Crazytown,population1).Heoverpronouncesthe beginnings of words and sounds like he’s smiling the whole time he’sevangelizing.

“GodHIMselfcamedownfromHEAvenandhesavedme.”

Foreheadsaresmackedandeyesarerolledincompletedisbelief.

“HEwillsaveyoutoo,butyouhavetoACcepthimintoyourhearts.ACcepthimnowbeforeyoureachyourfinalDEStination.”

NowI’mgroaningtoo,becausepunsaretheabsoluteworst.Aguyinasuityellsoutthattheconductorshouldjustshutthefuckupanddrivethetrain.Amothercoversherlittlegirl’searsandtellstheguythatthere’snoneedforthatkindoflanguage.WemightgetallLordoftheFliesonthenumber7train.

Ourconductor/evangelistgoesquiet,andit’sanotherminuteofsittinginthedark before we move again.We pull into the Times Square station, but thedoorsdon’topenrightaway.Thespeakerscrackleon.

“LAdiesandGENtlemen.This train isnowoutofSERvice.DoyourselfaFAvor.Getoutofhere.YouwillfindGodifyoulookforhim.”

Weallgetoutofthetrain,somewherebetweenrelievedandangry.

Everyone’sgotsomeplacetobe.FindingGodisnotontheschedule.

HUMAN BEINGS ARENOT REASONABLE creatures. Instead of beingruledbylogic,weareruledbyemotions.Theworldwouldbeahappierplaceiftheoppositeweretrue.Forexample,basedonasinglephonecall,Ihavebeguntohopeforamiracle.

Idon’tevenbelieveinGod.

THECONDUCTOR’SDIVORCE had not been easy on him.One day hiswifeannouncedthatshe’dsimplystoppedlovinghim.Shecouldnotexplainit.Shewasn’thavinganaffair.Therewasnooneelseshewantedtobewith.Butthelovesheoncefelthadvanished.

In the four years since his divorce became final, it’s fair to say that theconductorhasbecome somethingof anunbeliever.He remembers theirvowsspoken in front ofGod and everyone. If the personwho’smeant to love youforevercansuddenlystop,thenwhatistheretobelievein?

Unmoored and uncertain, he’s drifted from city to city, apartment toapartment,jobtojob,anchoredtotheworldbyalmostnothing.Hehastroublefalling asleep. The only thing that helps is watching late-night TV with thesoundmuted.Theendlesscascadeofimagesstillshismindandsendshimofftosleep.

Onenight,ashe’sperformingthissameritual,ashowhe’sneverseencatcheshiseye.Amanisstandingatalecterninfrontofahugeaudience.Behindhimisanenormousscreenwiththesameman’sfaceprojectedonit.Heisweeping.The camerapans to showa rapt audience. Someof themare crying, but theconductorcantellit’snotfromsadness.

That night hedoesnot sleep.Heunmutes the sound and staysup all nightwatchingtheshow.

Thenextday,hedoessomeresearchandfindsEvangelicalChristianity,andit takeshimonajourneyhedidnotknowheneeded.Hefinds that therearefourmainpartstobecominganEvangelicalChristian.First,youmustbebornagain.Theconductor loves thenotion thatyoucanbemadeanew,freeofsinandthereforeworthyofloveandsalvation.Secondandthird,youmustbelievewhollyintheBibleandthatChristdiedsowemayallbeforgivenofoursins.Finallyyoumustbecomeakindofactivist,sharingandspreadingthegospel.

Whichiswhytheconductormakeshisannouncementovertheloudspeakers.How can he not share his newfound joywith his fellowman?And it is joy.There’sapurekindofjoyinthecertaintyofbelief.Thecertaintythatyourlifehaspurposeandmeaning.That,thoughyourearthlylifemaybehard,there’sabetterplaceinyourfuture,andGodhasaplantogetyouthere.

Thatallthethingsthathavehappenedtohim,eventhebad,havehappenedforareason.

SINCEI’MLETTINGTHEUNIVERSEdictatemylifeonthisFinalDayofChildhood,Idon’tbotherwaitingforanothertraintotakemetoThirty-FourthStreet.TheconductorsaidtogofindGod.Maybehe(orshe—butwhoarewekidding? God’s definitely a guy. How else to explain war, pestilence, andmorningwood?)isrighthereinTimesSquarejustwaitingtobefound.AssoonasI’monthestreet,though,IrememberthatTimesSquareisakindofhell(afierypitofflickeringneonsignsadvertisingallsevendeadlysins).Godwouldneverhangouthere.

IwalkdownSeventhAvenuetowardmybarber,keepingmyeyeoutforsomekindofSign.OnThirty-SeventhIspotachurch.Iclimbthestairsandtrythedoor,butit’slocked.Godmustbesleepingin.Ilookleftandright.StillnoSign.I’mlookingforsomethingsubtle,alongthelinesofalong-hairedmanturningwaterintowineandholdingaplacardproclaiminghimselftobeJesusChrist,OurLordandSavior.

Suitbedamned, I sitdownon thesteps.Backacross thestreet,peoplearemaking their way around a girl who is swaying slightly. She’s black with anenormous, curly Afro and almost-as-enormous pink headphones. Theheadphonesarethekindthathavegiantearpadsforblockingoutsound(also,therestoftheworld).Hereyesareclosedandshehasonehandoverherheart.She’scompletelyblissedout.

Thewholethinglastsaboutfivesecondsbeforesheopenshereyes.Shelooksaround, hunches her shoulders like she’s embarrassed, and hurries away.Whatevershe’s listeningtomustbeamazingtocauseher to loseherselfrightthereinthemiddleofthesidewalkinNewYorkCity.TheonlythingI’veeverfeltthatwayaboutiswritingpoetry,andthatcannevergoanywhere.

I’dgiveanythingtoreallywantthelifemyparentswantforme.Lifewouldbe easier if I were passionate about wanting to be a doctor. Being a doctorseemslikeoneof thosethingsyou’resupposed tobepassionateabout.Saving

livesandallthat.ButallIfeelismeh.

Iwatchasshewalksaway.Shemovesherbackpacktooneshoulder,andIseeit:DEUSEXMACHINAisprintedinbigwhitelettersonthebackofherleatherjacket.God from the machine. I hear the conductor’s voice in my head andwonderifit’saSign.

I’mnotusuallyastalker,andI’mnotfollowingher,exactly.I’mmaintaininganoncreepy,half-blockdistancebetweenus.

ShegoesintoastorecalledSecondComingRecords.Ishityounot.Iknownow:it’sdefinitelyaSign,andI’mseriousaboutblowingwiththewindtoday.Iwanttoknowwhereitleads.

IDUCKINTOTHERECORDstore,hopingtoavoidthestaresofanyonewhosawme acting unbalanced on the sidewalk. Iwas having amomentwithmymusic.ChrisCornellsinging“HungerStrike”getsmeeverytime.Hesingsthechoruslikehe’salwaysbeenhungry.

Inside SecondComing, the lights are dim and the air smells like dust andlemon-scentedairfreshener, like italwaysdoes.They’vechanged the layoutalittlesincethelasttimeIwashere.Therecordsusedtobearrangedbydecade,but now it’s bymusical genre. Each section has its own era-defining poster:NevermindbyNirvanaforgrunge.BlueLinesbyMassiveAttack for trip-hop.StraightOuttaComptonbyN.W.A.forrap.

Icould spendalldayhere. If todaywerenotToday, Iwould spendalldayhere.ButIdon’thavethetimeorthemoney.

I’mheaded to trip-hopwhen I notice a couplemakingout in thepopdivasection in the far back corner. They’re lip-locked next to a poster ofLike aVirginbyMadonna,soIcan’tmakeoutthefacesexactly,butIknowtheboy’sprofileintimately.It’smyex-boyfriendRob.Hismake-outpartnerisKelly,thegirlhecheatedonmewith.

Ofall thepeopletoruninto, todayofalldays.Whyisn’theinschool?Heknows this ismyplace.Hedoesn’teven likemusic.Mymom’svoicerings inmyhead.Thingshappenforareason,Tasha.Idon’tbelievethatsentiment,butstill,therehastobealogicalexplanationforthehorriblenessofthisday.IwishBevwerewithme.Ifshewere,Iwouldn’thaveevencomeintotherecordstore.Too old and boring, she’d say. Instead, we’d probably be in Times Squarewatching tourists and trying to guess where they were from based on theirclothes.Germanstendtowearshortsnomattertheweather.

As if watching Rob and Kelly try to eat each other’s faces weren’t grossenough,Iseeherhandsnakeout,snatcharecord,andthenslipitbetweentheir

bodiesandintoherverybulky,perfect-for-stealingjacket.

No.Way.

I’d rather burnmy eyes out than keep watching, but I do. I can’t actuallybelievewhatI’mseeing.Theydevoureachotherforanotherfewseconds,andthenherhandsneaksoutagain.

“OhmyGod, they’regross.Whyare theysogross?”ThewordsslipoutofmymouthbeforeIcanstopthem.Likemymom,Ihaveatendencytosaymythoughtsoutloud.

“She’sjustgonnastealthat?”asksanequallyincredulousvoicebesideme.IquicklyglanceovertoseewhoI’mtalkingto.It’sanAsianboywearingagraysuitandaridiculouslybrightredtie.

Iturnbacktowatchsomemore.“Doesn’tanybodyworkhere?Can’ttheyseewhat’shappening?”Iask,moretomyselfthantohim.

“Shouldn’twesaysomething?”

“Tothem?”Iask,gesturingatthelittlethieves.

“Thestaff,maybe?”

Ishakemyheadwithoutlookingathim.“Iknowthem,”Isay.

“StickyFingersisyourfriend?”Hisvoiceisslightlyaccusatory.

“She’smyboyfriend’sgirlfriend.”

RedTie turns his attention away from the crime in progress and ontome.“Howdoesthatwork,exactly?”heasks.

“I mean ex-boyfriend,” I say. “He cheated on me with her, actually.” I’mmoreflusteredaboutseeingRobthanIrealize.It’stheonlyexplanationformevolunteeringthatpieceofinformationtoastranger.

RedTieshiftshisattentionbacktothepettylarceny.“Greatpair,acheaterandathief.”

Ihalflaugh.

“Weshouldtellsomeone,”hesays.

Ishakemyhead.“Noway.Youdoit.”

“Strengthinnumbers,”hesaysback.

“If I say something, it’s going to look like I’m jealous and messing withthem.”

“Areyou?”

Ilookathimagain.Hisfaceissympathetic.

“That’skindofapersonalquestion,isn’tit,RedTie?”Iask.

Heshrugs.“Wewerehavingamoment,”hesays.

“Nope,” I say, and turn awayagain towatch them.Rob feelsmewatchingandcatchesmyeyebeforeIcanlookaway.

“JesusChristbleedingonaPopsiclestick,”Iwhisperundermybreath.

Robgivesmehispatentedstupidhalfsmileandawave. Ialmostgivehimthefinger.HowdidIdatehimforeightmonthsandfourdays?HowdidI letthisaccompliceholdmyhandsandkissme?

IfaceRedTie.“Ishecomingoverhere?”

“Yup.”

“Maybewe shouldmake out or something, like spies do in themovies,” Isuggest.

RedTieblusheshard.

“I’mnotserious,”Isay,smiling.

Hedoesn’tsayanything,justblushessomemore.Iwatchthecolorwarmhisface.

Rob’stherebeforeRedTiecanpullhimselftogethertorespond.

“Hey,”hesays.Hisvoiceisadeep,reassuringbaritone.It’soneofthethingsI liked about him. Also, he looks like a young BobMarley, only white andwithoutthedreadlocks.

“Whyareyouandyourgirlfriendstealingthings?”RedTiecutsinbeforeIcansayanythingtoRob.

Robholdshishandsupandtakesastepback.“Whoa,dude,”hesays.“Keepyourvoicedown.”Hepastesthestupidhalfsmilebackonhisstupidface.

RedTiegetsevenlouder.“Thisisanindependentrecordstore.Thatmeansit’sfamily-owned.You’restealingfromrealpeople.Doyouknowhowharditisforsmallbusinessestosurvivewhenpeoplelikeyoujusttakestuff?”

RedTieisrighteous,andRobevenmanagestolookalittlechastened.

“Don’tlooknow,butIthinkyourgirlfriendjustgotbusted,”Isay.TwostoreemployeesarewhisperingfuriouslyatKellyandtappingthefrontofherjacket.

Rob’sstupidfacefinallylosesitsstupidsmile.InsteadofgoingovertorescueKelly, he shoveshishands intohispockets andwalk-runsout the frontdoor.Kellycallsout tohimashebolts,buthedoesn’t stop.Oneof theemployeesthreatenstocallthecops.Shebegshimnotto,andpullstworecordsfromherjacket.Shehasgoodtaste.IspotMassiveAttackandPortishead.

Theemployeesnatchesthemfromherhand.“ComebackinhereagainandIwillcallthecops.”

Sheboltsfromthestore,callingafterRob.

“Well,thatwasfun,”RedTiesaysaftershe’sgone.He’ssmilingabigwidesmileandlookingatmewithhappyeyes.Igetasuddensenseofdéjàvu.I’vebeenherebefore. I’venoticed thosebright eyes and that smile. I’ve evenhadthisconversation.

Butthenthemomentpasses.

Hesticksouthishandforashake.“Daniel,”hesays.

Hishandisbigandwarmandsoftandholdsontomineforalittletoolong.

“Nicetomeetyou,”Isay,andtakemyhandback.Hissmile isnice,reallynice, but I don’t have time for boys in suits with nice smiles. I put myheadphonesbackon.He’sstillwaitingformetotellhimmyname.

“Haveanicelife,Daniel,”Isay,andwalkoutthedoor.

Would-Be Casanova Shakes Cute Girl’s Hand, Offers Her Home Loan withReasonableInterestRate

Ishookherhand.I’mwearingasuitandatieandIshookherhand.

WhatamI?Abanker?

Whomeetsacutegirlandshakesherhand?

Charliewould’ve said somethingcharming toher.They’dbehavingacozycoffeesomeplacedarkandromantic.She’dalreadybedreamingoflittlehalf-Korean,half–AfricanAmericanbabies.

OUTSIDE,THESTREETSAREMOREcrowdedthanbefore.Thecrowdisa mix of tourists who’ve wandered too far from Times Square and actualworkingNewYorkerswishingthetouristswouldjustgobacktoTimesSquare.Alittlewaysdownthestreet,IspyRobandKelly.Istandtherestaringatthemforalittlewhile.She’scrying,andnodoubthe’stryingtoexplainthatheisnotan unfaithful, disloyal jerk. I have a feeling he will be successful. He’s verypersuasive,andshewantstobepersuaded.

Heand I satnext to eachother inAPPhysics last year.Theonly reason Inoticedhimatallwasbecauseheaskedforhelpontheisotopesandhalf-livesunit. I’m something of an overachiever in that class.He askedme out to themoviesafterhepassedthefollowingweek’squiz.

Coupledom was new to me, but I liked it. I liked meeting at his lockerbetweenclassesandalwayshavingplansfortheweekend.Ilikedbeingthoughtofasacouple,anddouble-datingwithBevandDerrick.AsmuchasIhatetoadmititnow,Ilikedhim.Andthenhecheated.Icanstillrememberfeelinghurtandbetrayedand,weirdly,ashamed.Likeitwasmyfaulthecheated.ThethingIcouldneverfigureout,though,waswhyhepretended.WhynotjustbreakupwithmeandgooutwithKellyinstead?

Still, gettingoverhimdidn’t take that long at all.And that’s the thing thatmakesmewary.Wheredidallthosefeelingsgo?Peoplespendtheirwholeliveslooking for love.Poemsand songs andentirenovels arewritten about it.Buthowcanyoutrustsomethingthatcanendassuddenlyasitbegins?

THEHALF-LIFEOFASUBSTANCE is thetimeit takesforit toloseonehalfofitsinitialvalue.

Innuclearphysics,it’sthetimeittakesforunstableatomstoloseenergybyemittingradiation.Inbiology,itusuallyreferstothetimeittakestoeliminatehalf of a substance (water, alcohol, pharmaceuticals) from the body. Inchemistry,itisthetimerequiredtoconvertonehalfofareactant(hydrogenoroxygen,forexample)toproduct(water).

In love, it’s theamountof time it takesfor lovers tofeelhalfofwhat theyoncedid.

When Natasha thinks about love, this is what she thinks: nothing lastsforever. Like hydrogen-7 or lithium-5 or boron-7, love has an infinitesimallysmallhalf-lifethatdecaystonothing.Andwhenit’sgone,it’slikeitwasneverthereatall.

GIRLWHOHASNONAMEisstoppedatacrosswalkaheadofme.IswearI’mnotfollowingher.She’sjustgoingmyway.Hersuper-pinkheadphonesareback on, and she’s swaying to hermusic again. I can’t see her face, but I’mguessinghereyesareclosed.Shemissesawalkcycle,andnowI’mrightbehindher.Ifsheturnedaround,shewoulddefinitelythinkI’mstalkingher.Thelightturnsredagainandshestepsoffthecurb.

She’snotpayingenoughattention to realize that aguy in awhiteBMWisabouttorunthatredlight.ButI’mcloseenough.

Iyankherbackwardbyherarm.Ourfeettangle.Wetripovereachotherandfallontothesidewalk.Shelandshalfontopofme.Herphone’snotas lucky,andcrashesagainstthepavement.

Acoupleofpeopleaskifwe’reokay,butmostjustmakeabeelinearoundusasifwe’rejustanotherobjectintheobstaclecoursethatisNewYorkCity.

No-NameGirl shifts herself offme and looks down at her phone. A fewcracksspiderwebacrossthescreen.

“What.The.Hell?”shesays,notaquestionsomuchasaprotest.

“Youokay?”

“Thatguyalmostkilledme.”Ilookupandseethatthecarhaspulledovertothesideon thenextblock. Iwant togoyellat thedriver,but Idon’twant toleaveheralone.

“Youokay?”Iaskagain.

“DoyouknowhowlongI’vehadthis?”AtfirstIthinkshemeansherphone,butit’sherheadphonesshe’scradlinginherhands.Somehowtheygotdamagedduringour fall.Oneof theearpads isdanglingfromwires,and thecasing iscracked.

Shelookslikeshe’sgoingtocry.

“I’llbuyyouanotherpair.”I’mdesperatetopreventhertears,butnotbecauseI’mnobleoranything.I’mkindofacontagioncryer.Youknowhowwhenoneperson starts yawning, everyone else starts yawning too? Or when someonevomits,thesmellmakesyouwanttohurl?I’mlikethat,exceptwithcrying,andIhavenointentionofcryinginfrontofthecutegirlwhoseheadphonesIjustbroke.

Apartofherwantstosayyestomyoffer,butIalreadyknowshewon’t.Shepressesherlipstogetherandshakesherhead.

“It’stheleastIcando,”Isay.

Finallyshelooksatme.“Youalreadysavedmylife.”

“Youwouldn’thavedied.Alittlemaimed,maybe.”

I’mtryingtogethertolaugh,butnothingdoing.Hereyesfillwithtears.“I’mhavingjusttheworstday,”shesays.

Ilookawaysoshedoesn’tseemyowntearsforming.

DONALDCHRISTIANSENKNOWS the price of priceless things.He hasactuarial tables in his mind. He knows the cost of a human life lost in anairplanecrash,acaraccident,aminingdisaster.Heknowsthesethingsbecausehe once worked in insurance. It was his job to price the unwanted andunexpected.

The price of accidentally running over a seventeen-year-old girl who wasclearly not paying attention is considerably less than the price for his owndaughter,killedbyatextingdriver.Infact,thefirstthinghe’dthoughtwhenheheard the news about his daughter was what price the driver’s insurancecompanywouldpay.

Hepullsovertothesideoftheroad,turnsonhishazards,andlayshisheadonthesteeringwheel.Hetouchestheflaskinhisinsidecoatpocket.Dopeoplerecoverfromthesethings?Hedoesn’tthinktheydo.

It’s been two years, but the grieving has not left him, shows no signs ofleavinguntil it’s takeneverything fromhim. Ithas costhimhismarriage,hissmile,hisabilitytoeatenough,sleepenough,andfeelenough.

Ithascosthimhisabilitytobesober.

WhichiswhyhealmostranoverNatashajustnow.

Donaldisnotsurewhattheuniversewastryingtotellhimbytakingawayhisonly daughter, but here iswhat he learned: no one can put a price on losingeverything.Andanother thing: all your futurehistories canbedestroyed in asinglemoment.

REDTIELOOKSAWAYFROMME.Ithinkhe’sabouttocry,whichmakesno senseat all.Heoffers tobuymenewheadphones.Even if I lethim,newonescouldn’treplacethese.

I’ve had them since right after we moved to America. When my fatherboughtthemforme,hewasstillhopefulforallhewouldaccomplishhere.Hewasstill trying toconvincemymomthat themoveawayfromthecountryofourbirth,awayfromallourfriendsandfamily,wouldbeworthitintheend.Hewas going to hit it big. Hewas going to get theAmericanDream that evenAmericansdreamabout.

Heusedmeandmybrothertohelpconvincemymom.Heboughtusgiftsonlayaway,thingswecouldbarelyaffordevenonlayaway.Ifwewerehappyhere,thenmaybethemovewasrightafterall.

I didn’t care what the reason for the gifts was. These way-too-expensiveheadphones were my favorite of them all. I only cared that they were myfavoritecolorandpromisedaudiophile-qualitysound.Theyweremyfirstlove.Theyknow allmy secrets.Theyknowhowmuch I used toworshipmydad.TheyknowthatIkindofhatemyselffornotworshipinghimatallnow.

ItseemslikesuchalongtimeagowhenIthoughttheworldofhim.HewassomeexoticplanetandIwashisfavoritesatellite.Buthe’snoplanet, just thefinalfadinglightofanalreadydeadstar.

And I’mnot a satellite. I’m space junk,hurtling as far as I can away fromhim.

I DON’T THINK I’VE EVER noticed anyone the way I’m noticing her.Sunlightfiltersthroughherhair,makingitlooklikeakindofhaloaroundherhead.A thousand emotions pass over her face.Her eyes are black andwide,with long lashes. I can imagine staring into them for a long time.Right nowthey’redull,butIknowexactlywhattheywouldlooklikebrightandlaughing.Iwonder if Icanmakeher laugh.Herskin isawarmandglowingbrown.Herlips are pink and full, and I’m probably staring at them for far too long.Fortunately,she’stoosadtonoticewhatashallow(andhorny)jerkIam.

Shelooksupfromherbrokenheadphones.Asoureyesmeet,Igetakindofdéjàvu,butinsteadoffeelinglikeI’mrepeatingsomethinginthepast,itfeelslikeI’mexperiencingsomethingthatwillhappeninmyfuture.Iseeusinoldage.Ican’tseeourfaces;Idon’tknowwhereorevenwhenweare.ButIhaveastrange andhappy feeling that I can’t quite describe. It’s likeknowing all thewordstoasongbutstillfindingthembeautifulandsurprising.

ISTANDUPANDDUSTmyselfoff.Thisdaycan’tgetanyworse. Itmusteventuallyend. “Wereyoufollowingme?” Iaskhim. I’mcrankierand testierthanIshouldbewithsomeonewhojustsavedmylife.

“Man,Iknewyouwouldthinkthat.”

“You just happened tobe right behindme?” I fiddlewithmyheadphones,tryingtoreattachtheearpad,butit’shopeless.

“MaybeIwasmeanttosaveyourlifetoday,”hesays.

Iignorethat.“Okay,thanksforyourhelp,”Isay,preparingtoleave.

“Atleasttellmeyourname,”heblurtsout.

“RedTie—”

“Daniel.”

“Okay,Daniel.Thankyouforsavingme.”

“That’sa longname.”Hiseyesdon’t leavemine.He’snotgoing togiveupuntilItellhim.

“Natasha.”

I thinkhe’sgoing to shakemyhandagain,but insteadhe shoveshishandsintohispockets.“Nicename.”

“Sogladyouapprove,”Isay,givinghimmymostsarcastictone.

Hedoesn’tsayanythingelse,justlooksatmewithaslightfrown,asifhe’stryingtofiguresomethingout.

FinallyIcan’ttakeitanymore.“Whyareyoustaringatme?”

Heblushesagain,andnowI’mstaring.Icanseehowitmightbefuntoteasehimjusttogethimtoblush.Iletmyeyeswanderthesharpplanesofhisface.

He is classically handsome; debonair, even.Watching him stand there in hissuit, I can picture him in a black-and-white Hollywood romantic comedytradingwitty banterwith his heroine.His eyes are clear brown and deep-set.SomehowIcan tellhesmilesa lot.His thickblackhair ispulledback intoaponytail.

ObservableFact:Theponytailpusheshimfromhandsometokindofsexy.

“Nowyou’restaring,”hesaystome.It’smyturntoblush.

Iclearmythroat.“Whyareyouwearingasuit?”

“Ihaveaninterviewlater.Wannagogetsomethingtoeat?”

“Whatfor?”Iask.

“Yale.Alumniadmissioninterview.Iappliedearlydecision.”

Ishakemyhead.“No,Imeantwhydoyouwanttogetsomethingtoeat?”

“I’mhungry?”hesays,asifhe’snotsureexactly.

“Hmmm,”Isay.“I’mnot.”

“Coffee,then?Orteaorsodaorfilteredwater?”

“Why?”Iask,realizingthathe’snotgoingtogiveup.

His shoulders shrug,buthiseyesdon’t. “Whynot?Besides, I’mpretty sureyouowemeyourlifesinceIjustsavedit.”

“Believeme,”Itellhim,“youdon’twantmylife.”

WEWALKTWOLONGBLOCKSwesttowardNinthAveandpassnofewerthanthreecoffeeshops.Twoofthemarefromthesamenationalcoffeechain(have you ever seen anyone actually dunk a donut?). I choose the non-chain,independentonebecausewemom-and-popplacesgottasticktogether.

Theplaceisallmahoganyanddarkwoodfurnitureandsmellsjustlikeyou’dthinkitwould.It’salsojustslightlyover-the-top.Andbyslightly,Imeanthereareseveraloilpaintingsofsinglecoffeebeanshangingonthewall.Whoknewcoffee-beanportraiturewasathing?Whoknewtheycouldlooksoforlorn?

There’s barely anyone else here, and the three baristas behind the counterlookprettybored. I try to spiceup their livesbyorderinganoverlyelaboratedrinkinvolvinghalfshots,milksofvaryingfatcontent,andcaramel,aswellasvanillasyrup.

Theystilllookbored.

Natasha orders black coffee with no sugar. It’s hard not to read herpersonalityintohercoffeeorder.Ialmostsaysomething,butthenIrealizeshemightthinkI’mmakingarace-relatedjoke,whichwouldbeaverypoor(onascale from Poor to Extremely Poor—the full scale is Poor, Somewhat Poor,Moderately Poor, Very Poor, and Extremely Poor) way to start off thisrelationship.

Sheinsistsonpaying,sayingit’stheleastshecando.Mydrinkis$6.38andIletherknowthatthecostofsavingalifeisatleasttwoelaboratecoffeedrinks.Shedoesn’tevensmile.

Ichooseatableinbackasfarawayfromthenon-actionaspossible.Assoonaswesit,shepullsoutherphonetocheckthe time.It’sstillworking,despitethecracksonthescreen.Sherunsherthumbalongthemandsighs.

“Havetobesomewhere?”Iask.

“Yes,”shesays,andturnsthephoneoff.

Iwaitforhertocontinue,butshe’sdefinitelynotgoingto.Herfacedaresmetoaskhermore,butI’vereachedmyquotaofdaringthings(1=followingcutegirl, 2= yelling at ex-boyfriendof cute girl, 3= saving life of cute girl, 4=askingoutcutegirl)fortheday.

Wesitinanot-at-all-comfortablesilenceforthirty-threeseconds.Ifallintothatsuper-self-consciousstateyougetintowhenyou’rewithsomeonenewandyoureallywantthemtolikeyou.

Iseeallmymovements throughhereyes.Doesthishandgesturemakemeseem likea jerk?Aremyeyebrowscrawlingoffmyface? Is thisa sexyhalfsmileordoIlooklikeI’mhavingastroke?

I’mnervous,soIexaggerateallmymovements.IBLOWonmycoffee,SIPit,STIR it,playing thepartofanactualhuman teenageboyhavinganactualbeveragecalledcoffee.

Iblow toohardonmydrinkanda little foamfliesup. I couldnotbeanycooler.Iwouldtotallydateme(notreally).It’shardtosay,butshemayhavesmiledeversoslightlyatthefoamflight.

“Stillhappyyousavedmylife?”sheasks.

Itaketoobigasipandburnnotonlymytonguebutapathallthewaydownmythroat.JesusChrist.MaybethisisasignIshouldjustgiveup.Iamclearlynotmeanttoimpressthisgirl.

“ShouldIregretit?”Iask.

“Well,I’mnotexactlybeingnicetoyou.”

She’sprettydirect,soIdecidetobedirecttoo.“That’strue,butIdon’thaveatimemachinetogobackandundoit.”Isayitwithastraightface.

“Wouldyou?”sheasks,frowningslightly.

“Ofcoursenot,”Isay.WhatkindofjerkdoesshethinkIam?

She excuses herself to go to the bathroom. So that I don’t just sit therelookinguninterestingwhenshegetsback,Ipulloutmynotebooktofiddlewithmypoem.I’mstillwritingwhenshegetsback.

“Ohno,”shegroansasshesitsbackdown.

“What?”Iask.

Shegesturestomynotebook.“You’renotapoet,areyou?”

Her eyes are smiling, but still, I close it quickly and slip it back into myjacket.

Maybethiswasn’tsuchagoodidea.WhatamIthinkingwithmydéjà-vu-in-reverse nonsense? I’m just putting off the future. Like my parents want, I’llmarry a lovely Korean American girl. Unlike Charles, I don’t have anythingagainst Korean girls. He says they’re not his type, but I don’t really get theconceptofhavingatype.Mytypeisgirls.Allofthem.WhywouldIlimitmydatingpool?

I’llbeagreatdoctorwithexcellentbedsideskills.

I’llbeperfectlyhappy.

But something about Natasha makes me think my life could beextraordinary.

It’sbetterforhertobemeanandforusgoonseparatepaths.Icanthinkofexactlynowaysthatmyparents(mostlymydad)wouldbeokaywithmedatingablackgirl.

Still,Igiveitonelasttry.“Whatwouldyoudowithatimemachineifyouhadone?”

Forthefirsttimesincewesatdown,shedoesn’tseemirritatedorbored.Shefurrowsherbrowandleansforward.

“Canittravelintothepast?”

“Ofcourse.It’satimemachine,”Isay.

Shegivesmealookthatsaysthere’ssomuchIdon’tknow.“Timetraveltothepastisacomplicatedbusiness.”

“Saywe’vegottenpastthecomplications.Whatwouldyoudo?”

She puts down her coffee, folds her arms across her chest. Her eyes arebrighter.

“Andwe’reignoringthegrandfatherparadox?”sheasks.

“Completely,”Isay,pretendingIhaveacluewhatshe’stalkingabout,butshecallsmeout.

“You don’t know the grandfather paradox?” Her voice is incredulous, likeI’vemissedsomebasicinformationabouttheworld(likehowbabiesaremade).Issheasci-finerd?

“Nope.Don’tknowit,”Isay.

“Okay.Let’ssayyouhaveanevilgrandfather.”

“He’sdead.IonlymethimonceinKorea.Heseemednice.”

“AreyouKorean?”sheasks.

“KoreanAmerican.Iwasbornhere.”

“I’mJamaican,”shesays.“Iwasbornthere.”

“Butyoudon’thaveanaccent.”

“Well,I’vebeenhereforawhile.”ShetightensherholdonhercupandIcanfeelhermoodstartingtoshift.

“Tellmeaboutthisparadox,”Iprod,tryingtodistracther.Itworksandshebrightensupagain.

“Okay.Yes.Let’ssayyourgrandfatherwasalive,andhewasevil.”

“Aliveandevil,”Isay,nodding.

“He’s reallyevil, soyou inventa timemachineandgoback in time tokillhim.Sayyoukillhimbeforehemeetsyourgrandmother.Thatwouldmeanthatoneofyourparentsisneverbornandthatyouareneverborn,soyoucan’tgobackintimetokillhim.But!Ifyoukillhimafterhemeetsyourgrandmother,thenyouwillbeborn,andthenyou’llinventatimemachinetogobackintimetokillhim.Thisloopwillgoonforever.”

“Huh.Yes,we’redefinitelyignoringthat.”

“AndtheNovikovself-consistencyprincipletoo,Iguess?”

Ithoughtshewascutebefore,butshe’sevencuternow.Herfaceisanimated,herhairisbouncing,andhereyesaresparking.She’sgesturingwithherhands,talkingaboutresearchersatMITandprobabilitybendingtopreventparadoxes.

“Sotheoretically,youwouldn’tbeabletokillyourgrandfatheratall,becausethe gun would misfire at just the right moment, or you would have a heartattack—”

“OracuteJamaicangirlwouldwalkintotheroomandbowlmeover.”

“Yes. Something strange and improbable would happen so that theimpossiblecouldn’t.”

“Huh,”Isayagain.

“That’smorethana‘huh,’ ”shesays,smiling.

Itismorethanahuh,butIcan’tthinkofanythingcleverorwittytosay.I’m

havingtroublethinkingandlookingatheratthesametime.

There’saJapanesephrase that I like:koinoyokan. Itdoesn’tmean loveatfirst sight. It’s closer to love at second sight. It’s the feeling when youmeetsomeonethatyou’regoingtofallinlovewiththem.Maybeyoudon’tlovethemrightaway,butit’sinevitablethatyouwill.

I’m pretty sure that’s what I’m experiencing right now. The only slight(possiblyinsurmountable)problemisthatI’mprettysurethatNatashaisnot.

IDON’TTELLREDTIE the complete truth aboutwhat Iwould dowith atime machine if I had one. I would travel back in time and make it so thegreatestdayofmyfather’s lifeneverhappenedat all. It is completely selfish,butit’swhatIwoulddosomyfuturewouldn’thavetobeerased.

Instead,Iexplainallthesciencetohim.BythetimeI’mdone,he’sgivingmealooklikehe’sinlovewithme.Itturnsouthe’sneverheardofthegrandfatherparadoxortheNovikovself-consistencyprinciple,whichkindofsurprisesme.I guess I assumed he’d be nerdy because he’s Asian, which is crappy ofmebecauseIhatewhenotherpeopleassumethingsaboutmelikeIlikerapmusicorI’mgoodatsports.Fortherecord,onlyoneofthosethingsistrue.

BesidesthefactthatI’mbeingdeportedtoday,Iamreallynotagirltofallinlove with. For one thing, I don’t like temporary, nonprovable things, andromanticloveisbothtemporaryandnonprovable.

The other, secret thing that I don’t say to anyone is this: I’m not sure I’mcapableoflove.Eventemporarily.WhenIwaswithRob,Ineverfeltthewaythesongssayyou’resupposedtofeel.Ididn’tfeelsweptawayorconsumed.Ididn’tneedhimlikeIneededair. I really likedhim.I liked lookingathim.Ilikedkissinghim.ButIalwaysknewIcouldlivewithouthim.

“RedTie,”Isay.

“Daniel,”heinsists.

“Don’tfallinlovewithme,Daniel.”

Heactuallysputtersouthiscoffee.“WhosaysI’mgoingto?”

“ThatlittleblacknotebookIsawyouscribblingin,andyourface.Yourbig,wide-open,couldn’t-fool-anybody-about-anythingfacesaysyou’regoingto.”

He blushes again, because blushing is his entire state of being. “Andwhyshouldn’tI?”heasks.

“BecauseI’mnotgoingtofallinlovewithyou.”

“Howdoyouknow?”

“Idon’tbelieveinlove.”

“It’snotareligion,”hesays.“Itexistswhetheryoubelieveinitornot.”

“Oh,really?Canyouproveit?”

“Lovesongs.Poetry.Theinstitutionofmarriage.”

“Please.Wordsonpaper.Canyouusethescientificmethodonit?Canyouobserve it,measure it, experimentwith it, and repeat your experiments?Youcannot. Can you slice it and stain it and study it under a microscope? Youcannot.Canyougrowitinapetridishormapitsgenesequence?”

“Youcannot,”hesays,mimickingmyvoiceandlaughing.

Ican’thelplaughingtoo.SometimesItakemyselfalittleseriously.

Hespoonsa layerof foamoffhiscoffeeand intohismouth. “Yousay it’sjust words on paper, but you have to admit all those people are feelingsomething.”

Inod.“Somethingtemporaryandnotatallmeasurable.Peoplejustwanttobelieve.Otherwisetheywouldhavetoadmitthatlifeisjustarandomseriesofgoodandbadthingsthathappenuntilonedayyoudie.”

“Andyou’reokaywithbelievingthatlifehasnomeaning?”

“WhatchoicedoIhave?Thisiswhatlifeis.”

Anotherspoonoffoamandmorelaughterfromhim.“Sonofate,nodestiny,nomeant-to-beforyou?”

“I am not a nincompoop,” I say, definitely enjoying myself more than Ishouldbe.

Heloosenshistieandrelaxesbackintohischair.Astrandofhishairescapeshisponytail,andIwatchashetucksitbehindhisear.Insteadofpushinghimaway, my nihilism is only making him more comfortable. He seems almostmerry.

“Idon’tthinkI’veevermetanyonesocharminglydeluded,”hesays,asifI’macuriosity.

“Andyoufindthatappealing?”Iask.

“Ifinditinteresting,”hesays.

I takea lookaround thecafé.Somehow, it’s filledupwithoutmenoticing.Peoplelinethebar,waitingfortheirorders.Thespeakersareplaying“YellowLedbetter” by Pearl Jam—another one of my favorite nineties grunge-rockbands.Ican’thelpit.IhavetoclosemyeyestolistentoEddieVeddermumble-singthechorus.

When Iopen themagain,Daniel is staringatme.He shifts forward sohischairisgroundedagainonallfourlegs.“WhatifItoldyouIcouldgetyoutofallinlovewithmescientifically?”

“Iwouldscoff,”Isay.“Alot.”

ONE POSSIBLE SOLUTION to the grandfather paradox is the theory ofmultiverses originally set forth by Hugh Everett. According to multiversetheory,everyversionofourpastandfuturehistoriesexists,justinanalternateuniverse.

Foreveryeventatthequantumlevel,thecurrentuniversesplitsintomultipleuniverses.Thismeans that for every choice youmake, an infinite number ofuniversesexistinwhichyoumadeadifferentchoice.

The theory neatly solves the grandfather paradox by positing separateuniversesinwhicheachpossibleoutcomeexists,therebyavoidingaparadox.

Inthiswaywegettolivemultiplelives.

Thereis,forexample,auniversewhereSamuelKingsleydoesnotderailhisdaughter’slife.AuniversewherehedoesderailitbutNatashaisabletofixit.Auniversewherehedoesderailitandsheisnotabletofixit.Natashaisnotquitesurewhichuniverseshe’slivinginnow.

AreaBoyAttemptstoUseSciencetoGettheGirl

Iwasn’tkiddingaboutthefalling-in-love-scientificallything.TherewasevenanarticleintheNewYorkTimesaboutit.

Aresearcherputtwopeopleinalabandhadthemaskeachotherabunchofintimate questions. Also, they had to stare into each other’s eyes for fourminuteswithout talking. I’m pretty sure I’m not getting her to do the staringthingwithmerightnow.Tobehonest,Ididn’treallybelievethearticlewhenIread it. You can’t just make people fall in love, right? Love is way morecomplicatedthanthat.It’snotjustamatterofchoosingacoupleofpeopleandmakingthemaskeachothersomequestions,andthenloveblossoms.Themoonandthestarsareinvolved.I’mcertainofit.

Nevertheless.

According to the article, the result of the experimentwas that the two testsubjects did indeed fall in love and getmarried. I don’t know if they stayedmarried. (I kinda don’twant to know, because if they did staymarried, thenlove is lessmysterious than I think andcan be grown in a petri dish. If theydidn’tstaymarried,thenloveisasfleetingasNatashasaysitis.)

I pull outmy phone and look up the study. Thirty-six questions.Most ofthemareprettystupid,butsomeofthemareokay.I likethestaring-into-the-eyesthing.

I’mnotabovescience.

HETELLSMEABOUTSOMEstudyinvolvingalabandquestionsandlove.Iamskepticalandsayso.I’malsoslightlyintriguedbutdon’tsayso.

“Whatarethefivekeyingredientstofallinginlove?”heasksme.

“Idon’tbelieveinlove,remember?”Ipickupmyspoonandstirmycoffee,eventhoughthere’snothingtostirtogether.

“Sowhatarethelovesongsreallyabout?”

“Easy,”Isay.“Lust.”

“Andmarriage?”

“Well, lust fades, and then there are children to raise and bills to pay. Atsomepoint itjustbecomesfriendshipwithmutualself-interestfor thebenefitofsocietyandthenextgeneration.”ThesongendsjustasIfinishtalking.Foramomentallwecanhearareglassesclinkingandmilkfrothing.

“Huh,”hesays,considering.

“Yousaythatalot,”Isay.

“Icouldnotdisagreewithyoumore.”Headjustshisponytailwithoutlettinghishairfallintohisface.

ObservableFact:Iwanttoseehishairfallintohisface.

ThemoreItalktohim,thecuterhegets.Ievenlikehisearnestness,despitethe fact that Iusuallyhateearnestness.The sexyponytailmaybeaddlingmybrain. It’s just hair, I tellmyself. Its function is to keep the headwarm andprotectitagainstultravioletradiation.There’snothinginherentlysexyaboutit.

“Whatarewetalkingaboutagain?”heasks.

Isayscienceatthesametimethathesayslove,andwebothlaugh.

“Whataretheingredients?”hepromptsmeagain.

“Mutualself-interestandsocioeconomiccompatibility.”

“Doyouevenhaveasoul?”

“Nosuchthingasasoul,”Isay.

HelaughsatmeasifI’mkidding.“Well,”hesaysafterherealizesthatI’mnot kidding, “My ingredients are friendship, intimacy, moral compatibility,physicalattraction,andtheXfactor.”

“What’stheXfactor?”

“Don’tworry,”hesays.“Wealreadyhaveit.”

“Goodtoknow,”Isay,laughing.“I’mstillnotgoingtofallinlovewithyou.”

“Givemetoday.”He’ssuddenlyserious.

“It’snotachallenge,Daniel.”

Hejuststaresatmewiththosebrightbrowneyes,waitingforananswer.

“Youcanhaveonehour,”Isay.

He frowns. “Only an hour? What happens then? Do you turn into apumpkin?”

“IhaveanappointmentandthenIhavetogohome.”

“What’stheappointment?”heasks.

Insteadofanswering,I lookaroundthecafé.Abaristacallsoutastringoforders.Someonelaughs.Someoneelsestumbles.

Istirmycoffeeunnecessarilyagain.“I’mnotgoingtotellyou,”Isay.

“Okay,”hesays,unfazed.

He’smadeuphismindaboutwhathewants,andwhathewantsisme.Igetthefeelinghecanbedeterminedandpatient.Ialmostadmirehimforit.Buthedoesn’t know what I know. I’ll be a resident of another country tomorrow.Tomorrow,I’llbegonefromhere.

ISHOWHERMYPHONE, andwe argueoverwhichquestions to choose.We definitely don’t have time for all thirty-six. She wants to ixnay the fourminutesofsoulfullystaringintoeachother’seyes,butthat’snothappening.Theeye thing ismy ace in the hole. Allmy ex-girlfriends (okay, one ofmy ex-girlfriends—okay, I’ve only ever had one girlfriend, now ex-girlfriend) haveliked my eyes a lot. Grace (the aforementioned singular in the extreme ex-girlfriend)saidtheylookedlikegemstones,specificallysmokyquartz(jewelrymakingwasherhobby).Weweremakingoutinherroomwhenshefirstsaidit,andshestoppedmidsessiontogetanexampleforme.

Anyway,myeyesarelikequartz(thesmokykind)andgirls(atleastone)digit.

The questions fall into three categories, each more personal than theprevious. Natasha wants to stick with the least personal ones from the firstcategory,butIixnaythataswell.

Fromcategory#1(leastintimate)wechoose:

#1. Giventhechoiceofanyoneintheworld,whomwouldyouwantasadinnerguest?

#2. Wouldyouliketobefamous?Inwhatway?

#7. Doyouhaveasecrethunchabouthowyouwilldie?

Fromcategory#2(mediumintimacy):

#17. Whatisyourmosttreasuredmemory?

#24. Howdoyoufeelaboutyourrelationshipwithyourmother?

Fromcategory#3(mostintimate):

#25. Makethreetrue“we”statementseach.Forinstance,“Wearebothinthisroomfeeling…”

#29. Sharewithyourpartneranembarrassingmomentinyourlife.

#34. Yourhouse,containingeverythingyouown,catchesfire.Aftersavingyourlovedonesandpets,youhavetimetosafelymakeafinaldashtosaveanyoneitem.Whatwoulditbe?Why?

#35. Ofallthepeopleinyourfamily,whosedeathwouldyoufindmostdisturbing?Why?

We end up with ten questions, because Natasha thinks that for numbertwenty-four we should talk about our relationship with both ourmother andfather.

“How come mothers are always the ones most blamed for screwing upchildren?Fathersscrewkidsupperfectlywell.”Shesaysit likesomeonewithfirsthandexperience.

Shechecksthetimeonherphoneagain.“Ishouldgo,”shesays,pushingherchair back and standing too quickly. The table wobbles. Some of her coffeesplashesout.

“Shit.Shit,”shesays.It’skindofanoverreaction.Ireallywanttoaskabouttheappointmentandherfather,butIknowbetterthantoaskrightnow.

Igetup,grabsomenapkins,andcleanupthespill.

Thelookshegivesmeissomewherebetweengratitudeandexasperation.

“Let’sgetoutofhere,”Isay.

“Yeah,okay.Thanks,”shesays.

I watch as she navigates around the line of coffee-starved people to gooutside. Probably I shouldn’t stare at her legs, but they’re great (the third-greatestpairI’veeverseen).IwanttotouchthemalmostasmuchasIwanttokeeptalkingtoher(maybealittlemore),buttherearenocircumstancesunderwhichshewouldletmedothat.

Either she’s trying to shake me loose, or we are in a speed-walkingcompetitionthatI’munawareof.Shedashesbetweenacoupleofslowwalkersand skirts along the outside of sidewalk scaffolding to avoid having to slowdownforpeople.

Maybe I should give up. I don’t know why I haven’t yet. The universe isclearlytryingtosavemefrommyself.IbetifIlookedforsignsaboutpartingways,Iwouldfindthem.

“Whereareweheading?”Iaskherwhenwecometoastopatacrosswalk.

ThehaircutI’msupposedtobegettingisgoingtohavetowait.I’mprettysuretheyletpeoplewithlonghairgotocollege.

“I am heading uptown tomy appointment and you are tagging alongwithme.”

“Yes,Iam,”Isay,ignoringhernot-at-all-subtleemphasizing.

Wecross thestreetandwalkalongquietlyforafewminutes.Themorningsettles into itself.A few storeshaveproppedopen their doors.Theweather’stoo cold for air-conditioning and toohot for closeddoors. I’m suremydad’sdonethesamethingatourstore.

Wepass theextraordinarilywell litandextremelycrowdedwindowdisplayofanelectronicsstore.EveryiteminthedisplayistaggedwitharedONSALE!sticker.Therearehundredsofthesestoresalloverthecity.Ican’tunderstandhowtheystayinbusiness.

“Whoevenshopsinthese?”Iwonderoutloud.

“Peoplewholiketohaggle,”shesays.

Half a block later we pass another, virtually identical store and we bothlaugh.

Itakeoutmyphone.“So.Youreadyforthesequestions?”

“Youarerelentless,”shesays,notlookingatme.

“Persistent,”Icorrecther.

Sheslowsdownandlooksoveratme.“Doyoureallythinkaskingmedeep,philosophical questions is going tomakeus fall in love?”Sheputs air quotes(oh,howIdislikeairquotes)arounddeepandphilosophicalandfallinlove.

“Think of it as an experiment,” I say. “What’d you say before about thescientificmethod?”

Thisgetsmeasmallsmile.

“Scientistsshouldn’texperimentonthemselves,”shecounters.

“Notevenforthegreatergood?”Iask.“Forfurtheringmankind’sknowledgeofitself?”

Thatgetsmeabiglaugh.

USINGSCIENCEAGAINSTMEisprettysmart.

Four Observable Facts: He’s perfectly silly. And too optimistic. And tooearnest.Andprettygoodatmakingmelaugh.

“Numberone’stoohard,”hesays.“Let’sstartwithquestiontwo:Wouldyouliketobefamousandhow?”

“Youfirst,”Itellhim.

“I’dbeafamouspoetinchief.”

Ofcoursehewould.ObservableFact:He’sahopelessromantic.

“You’dbebroke,”Itellhim.

“Brokewithmoneybutrichwithwords,”hecountersimmediately.

“I’m going to vomit right here on the sidewalk.” I say it too loudly and awomaninasuitgivesusawideberth.

“I’llcleanyouup,”hesays.

Really,he’stoosincerebyhalf.“Whatdoesapoetinchiefevendo?”Iask.

“Offerswiseandpoeticcounsel.I’dbethepersonworldleaderscametowithnastyphilosophicalproblems.”

“Thatyousolvebywritingthemapoem?”Theskepticisminmyvoicecannotbemissed.

“Orreadingone,”hesays,withmoreunflappablesincerity.

Imakesomegaggingsounds.

Hebumpsmelightlywithhisshoulderandthensteadiesmewithhishandonmyback.IlikethefeelofhishandsomuchthatIspeedupalittletoavoidit.

“Youcanbecynicalallyouwant,butmanyalifecanbesavedbypoetry,”he

says.

Iscourhisfaceforasignthathe’sjoking,butno—hereallydoesbelieveit.Whichissweet.Alsostupid.Butmostlysweet.

“Whataboutyou?Whatkindoffamedoyouwant?”heasks.

Thisisaneasyone.“I’dbeabenevolentdictator.”

Helaughs.“Ofanyparticularcountry?”

“Ofthewholeworld,”Isay,andhelaughssomemore.

“Alldictatorsthinkthey’rebenevolent.Eventheonesholdingmachetes.”

“I’mprettysurethoseonesknowthey’rebeinggreedy,murderousbastards.”

“Butyouwouldn’tbethat?”heasks.

“Nope. Pure benevolence from me. I would decide what was good foreveryoneanddoit.”

“Butwhatifwhat’sgoodforonepersonisn’tgoodforanother?”

Ishrug.“Can’tpleaseeveryone.Asmypoetinchief,youcouldcomforttheloserwithagoodpoem.”

“Touché,”hesays,smiling.Hepullsouthisphoneagainandbeginsthumbingthroughthequestions.Itakeaquicklookatmyownphone.ForasecondI’msurprised by the crack in the screen, until I remember my fall from earlier.Whataday I’mhaving.Again, I’m thinkingaboutmultiversesandwonderingabouttheoneswherebothmyphoneandheadphonesarestillintact.

There’sauniversewhereIstayedhomeandpackedlikemymomwantedmeto.Myphoneandheadphonesarefine,butIdidn’tmeetDaniel.

There’s a universewhere Iwent to school and am safely sitting inEnglishclassinsteadofalmostbeinghitbyacar.Again,noDaniel.

InanotherDaniel-lessuniverse,IdidgotoUSCIS,butIdidn’tmeetDanielintherecordstore,soourchattingdidn’thaveachancetodelayme.IarrivedatthecrosswalkbeforetheBMWdrivershowedup,andtherewasnonear-missaccident.Myphoneandheadphonesremainintact.

Of course, there is an infinite number of these universes, including onewhere I didmeetDaniel but hewasn’t able to saveme at the crosswalk, andmorethanjustmyphoneandheadphonesarebroken.

I sigh and check the distance toAttorneyFitzgerald’s office. Twelvemoreblocks. Iwonder howmuch itwill cost to fixmy screen.But then,maybe I

won’tneedtogetitfixed.I’llprobablyneedtogetanewphoneinJamaica.

Danielinterruptsmythoughts,andI’mkindofgrateful.Idon’twanttothinkaboutanythinghavingtodowithleaving.

“All right,” he says. “Let’s move on to number seven.What’s your secrethunchabouthowyou’lldie?”

“Statistically speaking, a black woman living in the United States is mostlikelytodieattheageofseventy-eightfromheartdisease.”

Wecometoanothercrosswalkandhetugsmebackfromstandingtoocloseto the edge.His gesture andmy response are so familiar, likewe’ve done itmanytimesbefore.Hepinchesmyjacketattheelbowandtugsjustslightly.Ibackuptowardhimandindulgehisprotectiveness.

“So the heart’s gonna get you, then?” he asks. I forget for amoment thatwe’retalkingaboutdeath.

“Mostlikely,”Isay.“Whataboutyou?”

“Murder.Gasstationorliquorstoreorsomeplacelikethat.Someguywithagunwillberobbingtheplace.I’lltrytobeaherobutdosomethingstupidlikeknock over the soda can pyramid, and that’ll freak robber guy out, andwhatwould’ve been your average stick-’em-upwill turn into a bloodbath.News ateleven.”

Ilaughathim.“Soyou’regoingtodieanincompetenthero?”

“I’mgoingtodietrying,”hesays,andwelaughtogether.

We cross the street. “Thisway,” I tell himwhen he starts heading straightinsteadofright.“WeneedtogoovertoEighth.”

Hepivotsandgrinsatmelikewe’reonanepicadventure.

“Hangon,”hesays,shruggingoutofhisjacket.Itseemsweirdlyintimatetowatchashetakesitoff,soIwatchtwoveryold,verycrankyguysargueoverasingle cab a few feet fromus.There are at least three other free cabs in theimmediatevicinity.

ObservableFact:Peoplearen’tlogical.

“Will this fit in your backpack?” he asks, holding the jacket out tome. Iknowhe’snotaskingmetowear it, likeI’mhisgirlfriendorsomething.Still,carryinghisjacketstrikesmeasevenmoreintimatethanwatchinghimtakeitoff.

“Areyousure?”Iask.“It’llgetwrinkled.”

“Doesn’tmatter,”hesays.Heguidesmeofftothesidesowe’renotblockingthe other pedestrians, and suddenly we’re standing pretty close. I don’tremembernoticinghisshouldersbefore.Weretheythisbroadasecondago?Ipullmyeyesawayfromhischestanduptohisface,butthat’snotanybetterformyequilibrium.Hiseyesareevenclearerandbrownerinthesunlight.Theyarekindofbeautiful.

Islipmybackpackoffmyshoulderandplace it squarelybetweenussohehastobackupalittle.

Hefoldsthejacketneatlyandputsitinside.

His shirt is a crispwhite, and the red tie standsout evenmorewithouthisjacket on. I wonder what he looks like in regular clothes, and what regularclothesareforhim.NodoubtjeansandaT-shirt—theuniformofallAmericanboyseverywhere.

IsitthesameforJamaicanboys?

Mymoodturnssomberatthethought.Idon’twanttostartoveragain.ItwashardenoughwhenwefirstmovedtoAmerica.Idon’twanttohavetolearntheritualsandcustomsofanewhighschool.Newfriends.Newcliques.Newdresscodes.Newhangouts.

Iscootaroundhimandstartwalking.“AsianAmericanmenaremostlikelytodieofcancer,”Isay.

He frowns and double-steps to catch up. “Really? I don’t like that. Whatkind?”

“I’mnotsure.”

“Weshouldprobablyfindout,”hesays.

He sayswe as if there’s some future of us together where our respectivemortalitieswillmattertoeachother.

“Youreallythinkyou’lldieofheartdisease?”heasks.“Notsomethingmoreepic?”

“Whocaresaboutepic?Deadisdead.”

Hejuststaresatme,waitingforananswer.“Okay,”Isay.“Ican’tbelieveI’mabouttotellyouthis.IsecretlythinkI’mgoingtodrown.”

“Likeintheopenocean,savingsomeone’slifeorsomething?”

“Inthedeependofahotelpool,”Isay.

He stops walking and pulls me off to the side again. Amore consideratepedestrian there’s never been. Most people just stop in the middle of thesidewalk.“Wait,”hesays.“Youcan’tswim?”

Ishrinkmyheaddownintomyjacket.“No.”

His eyes are searching my face and he’s laughing at me without actuallylaughing.“Butyou’reJamaican.Yougrewupsurroundedbywater.”

“Islandheritagenotwithstanding,Ican’tswim.”

Icantellhewantstomakefunofme,butheresists.“I’llteachyou,”hesays.

“When?”

“Someday.Soon.CouldyouswimwhenyoulivedinJamaica?”heasks.

“Yup,butthenwegothere,andinsteadoftheoceantheyhadpools.Idon’tlikechlorine.”

“Youknowtheyhavesaltwaterpoolsnow.”

“Thatshiphassailed,”Isay.

Nowhedoesmakefunofme.“What’syourshipcalled?GirlWhoGrewUponanIsland,WhichIsaThingSurroundedonAllSidesbyWater,Can’tSwim?Becausethatwouldbeagoodname.”

I laugh and thump him on the shoulder. He grabsmy hand and holdsmyfingers. I trynot towishhe couldmakegoodonhispromise to teachme toswim.

IAMASCHOLARCOMPILING theBookofNatasha.Here’swhatIknowso far:She’s a sciencegeek.She’sprobably smarter thanme.Her fingers areslightlylongerthanmineandfeelgoodinmyhands.Shelikeshermusicangsty.She’sworriedaboutsomethinghavingtodowithhermysteriousappointment.

“Tellmeagainwhyyou’rewearingasuit?”sheasks.

Igroanlongandloudandwithfeeling.“Let’stalkaboutGodinstead.”

“Igettoaskquestionstoo,”shesays.

We walk single file underneath more sidewalk scaffolding. (At any givenmoment approximately 99 [give or take] percent of Manhattan is underconstruction.)

“IappliedtoYale.Ihaveaninterviewwithanalumlater.”

“Areyounervous?”sheasks,whenwe’residebysideagain.

“IwouldbeifIgavetwoshits.”

“Butyouonlygiveoneshit?”

“Maybehalfashit,”Isay,laughing.

“Soyourparentsaremakingyoudoit?”

A sudden yelling from the street grabs our attention, but it’s only onecabdrivershoutingatanother.

“My parents are first-generation Korean immigrants,” I say by way ofexplanation.

Sheslowsherwalkingandlooksoveratme.“Idon’tknowwhatthatmeans,”shesays.

Ishrug.“Itmeansitdoesn’tmatterwhatIwant.I’mgoingtoYale.I’mgoingtobeadoctor.”

“Andyoudon’twantthat?”

“Idon’tknowwhatIwant,”Isay.

From the lookonher face, thatwas theworst thing I could say.She turnsawayfrommeandstartswalkingfaster.“Well,youmightaswellbeadoctor,then.”

“What’dIdojustnow?”Iask,catchinguptoher.

Shewavesmeoff.“It’syourlife.”

IfeellikeI’mclosetofailingatest.“Well,whatdoyouwanttobewhenyougrowup?”

“Adatascientist,”shesays,withnohesitation.

Iopenmymouth toaskWTF,butshefillsme inwithapracticedspeech.I’mnotthefirstpersontohaveWTF’dhercareerchoice.

“Data scientists analyze data, separate the noise from the signal, discernpatterns,drawconclusions,andrecommendactionsbasedontheresults.”

“Arecomputersinvolved?”

“Yes,ofcourse,”shesays.“There’salotofdatainthisworld.”

“That’s so practical.Have you always knownwhat youwanted to be?” It’shardtokeeptheenvyoutofmyvoice.

Shestopswalkingagain.Atthisrate,we’llnevergetwhereshe’sgoing.“Thisisn’tdestiny.Ichosethiscareer.Itdidn’tchooseme.I’mnotfatedtobeadatascientist. There’s a career section in the library at school. I did research ongrowing fields in the sciences, and ta-da. No fate or destiny involved, justresearch.”

“Soit’snotsomethingyou’repassionateabout?”

Sheshrugsandstartswalkingagain.“Itsuitsmypersonality,”shesays.

“Don’tyouwanttodosomethingyoulove?”

“Why?”sheasks,likeshegenuinelydoesn’tunderstandtheappealoflovingsomething.

“It’salonglifetospenddoingsomethingyou’reonlymehabout,”Iinsist.Wescootaroundacombinationpretzel/hotdogcartthatalreadyhasaline.Itsmellslikesauerkrautandmustard(akaheaven).

Shewrinkleshernose.“It’sevenlongerifyouspenditchasingdreamsthat

cannever,evercometrue.”

“Wait,”Isay.Iputmyhandonherarmtoslowherdownalittle.“Whosaystheycan’tcometrue?”

This earnsmea sidewaysglance. “Please.Doyouknowhowmanypeoplewanttobeactorsorwritersorrockstars?Alot.Ninety-ninepercentofthemwon’tmakeit.Zeropointninepercentofthoseleftwillmakebarelyanymoneydoingit.Onlythelastzeropointonepercentmakeitbig.Everybodyelsejustwastestheirlivestryingtobethem.”

“Areyousecretlymyfather?”Iask.

“Isoundlikeafifty-year-oldKoreanman?”

“Withouttheaccent.”

“Well,he’sjustlookingoutforyou.Whenyou’reahappydoctormakinglotsofmoney,you’llthankhimthatyoudidn’tbecomesomestarvingartisthatingyourdayjobanddreamingpointlesslyaboutmakingitbig.”

Iwonderifsherealizeshowpassionatesheisaboutnotbeingpassionate.

She turns to look at me narrow-eyed. “Please don’t tell me you’re seriousaboutthepoetrything.”

“Godforbid,”Isaywithmockoutrage.

WepassbyamanholdingasignthatsaysPLEASEHELP.DOWNONMYLUCK.Acabbieonamissionhonkslongandloudatanothercabbie,alsoonamission.

“Arewereallysupposedtoknowwhatwewanttodofortherestofourlivesattheripeoldageofseventeen?”

“Don’tyouwanttoknow?”sheasks.She’sdefinitelynotafanofuncertainty.

“Iguess?IwishIcouldlivetenlivesatonce.”

Shewavesmeoffagain.“Ugh.Youjustdon’twanttochoose.”

“That’s not what I mean. I don’t want to get stuck doing something thatdoesn’t mean anything to me. This track I’m on? It goes on forever. Yale.Medical school. Residency. Marriage. Children. Retirement. Nursing home.Funeralhome.Cemetery.”

Maybeit’sbecauseoftheimportanceoftheday,maybeit’smeetingher,butrightnowit’scrucialtosayexactlywhatImean.

“We have big, beautiful brains. We invent things that fly. Fly. We writepoetry.Youprobablyhatepoetry,but it’shardtoarguewith ‘ShallIcompare

theetoasummer’sday?Thouartmorelovelyandmoretemperate’intermsofsheer beauty. We are capable of big lives. A big history. Why settle?Whychoosethepracticalthing,themundanething?Weareborntodreamandmakethethingswedreamabout.”

ItallcomesoutmorepassionatelythanIintend,butImeaneveryword.

Oureyesmeet.There’ssomethingbetweenusthatwasn’tthereaminuteago.

Iwaitforhertosaysomethingflip,butshedoesn’t.

Theuniversestopsandwaitsforus.

Sheopensherpalmandshe’sgoingtotakemyhand.She’ssupposedtotakemyhand.We’remeanttowalkthroughthisworldtogether.Iseeitinhereyes.Wearemeanttobe.I’mcertainofthisinawayI’mnotcertainaboutanythingelse.

Butshedoesn’ttakemyhand.Shewalkson.

WEAREHAVINGAMOMENTIdon’twanttobehaving.Whentheysaytheheartwantswhatitwants,they’retalkingaboutthepoetic

heart—theheartof love songsand soliloquies, theone that canbreakas if itwerejust-formedglass.

They’renottalkingabouttherealheart,theonethatonlyneedshealthyfoodsandaerobicexercise.

Butthepoeticheartisnottobetrusted.Itisfickleandwillleadyouastray.Itwilltellyouthatallyouneedisloveanddreams.Itwillsaynothingaboutfoodandwater and shelter andmoney. Itwill tell you that this person, the one infrontofyou,theonewhocaughtyoureyeforwhateverreason,istheOne.Andheis.Andsheis.TheOne—forrightnow,untilhisheartorherheartdecidesonsomeoneelseorsomethingelse.

Thepoeticheartisnottobetrustedwithlong-termdecision-making.

Iknowallthesethings.IknowthemthewayIknowthatPolaris,theNorthStar,isnotactuallythebrighteststarinthesky—it’sthefiftieth.

And still here I amwithDaniel in themiddle of the sidewalk, onwhat isalmost certainlymy lastday inAmerica.My fickle,nonpractical, non-future-considering,nonsensicalheartwantsDaniel.Itdoesn’tcarethathe’stooearnestorthathedoesn’tknowwhathewantsorthathe’sharboringdreamsofbeingapoet,aprofessionthatleadstoheartbreakandthepoorhouse.

Iknowthere’snosuchthingasmeant-to-be,andyethereIamwonderingifmaybeI’vebeenwrong.

Iclosemyopenpalm,whichwantstotouchhim,andIwalkon.

ACCORDINGTOSCIENTISTS, THEREARE three stages of love: lust,attraction,andattachment.And,itturnsout,eachofthestagesisorchestratedbychemicals—neurotransmitters—inthebrain.

Asyoumightexpect,lustisruledbytestosteroneandestrogen.

Thesecondstage,attraction,isgovernedbydopamineandserotonin.When,for example, couples report feeling indescribably happy in each other’spresence,that’sdopamine,thepleasurehormone,doingitswork.

Taking cocaine fosters the same level of euphoria. In fact, scientists whostudyboththebrainsofnewloversandcocaineaddictsarehard-pressedtotellthedifference.

The second chemical of the attraction phase is serotonin. When couplesconfess that they can’t stop thinking about each other, it’s because theirserotoninlevelhasdropped.PeopleinlovehavethesamelowserotoninlevelsaspeoplewithOCD.The reason theycan’t stop thinkingabout eachother isthattheyareliterallyobsessed.

Oxytocin and vasopressin control the third stage: attachment or long-termbonding.Oxytocinisreleasedduringorgasmandmakesyoufeelclosertothepersonyou’vehadsexwith.It’salsoreleasedduringchildbirthandhelpsbondmothertochild.Vasopressinisreleasedpostcoitally.

Natasha knows these facts cold. Knowing them helped her get over Rob’sbetrayal.Sosheknows:loveisjustchemicalsandcoincidence.

SowhydoesDanielfeellikesomethingmore?

THEREAREEXACTLYNOITEMSon the listof things Iwant todo lessthangotomyinterview.Andyet.It’salmostelevena.m.,andifI’mgoingtogotothisthingthenIneedtogetgone.

NatashaandIhavebeenwalkingalonginsilenceeversinceTheMoment.IwishIcouldsayit’sacomfortablesilence,butitisn’t.Iwanttotalktoheraboutit—TheMoment—butwhoknowsifsheevenfeltit.Nowaydoesshebelieveinthatstuff.

MidtownManhattanisdifferentfromwherewefirstmet.Moreskyscrapersandfewersouvenirshops.Thepeopleactdifferenttoo.They’renottouristsoutforpleasureor shopping.There’snoexcitementorgawkingor smiling.Thesepeopleworkintheseskyscrapers.I’mprettysuremyappointmentissomewhereinthisneighborhood.

Wekeepwalkingandnot talkinguntilweget toagiantconcreteandglassmonstrosity of a building. It amazes me that people spend their entire daysinsideplaceslikethisdoingthingstheydon’tloveforpeopletheydon’tlike.Atleastbeingadoctorwillbebetterthanthat.

“ThisiswhereI’mgoing,”shesays.

“I can wait for you out here,” I say, like a person who doesn’t have anappointmentthatwilldeterminehisfutureinjustoveranhour.

“Daniel,” she says, using the stern voice she’s sure to use on our futurechildren (she’lldefinitelybe thedisciplinarian). “Youhavean interviewand Ihavethis…thing.Thisiswherewesaygoodbye.”

She’sright.Imaynotwantthefuturemyparentshaveplannedforme,butIdon’thaveanybetterideas.IfIstayheremuchlonger,mytrainwillderailfromitstrack.

It occurs to me that maybe that’s what I want. Maybe all the things I’m

feeling for Natasha are just excuses to make it derail. After all, my parentswouldneverapprove.NotonlyisshenotKorean,sheisblack.There’snofuturehere.

Thatandthefactthatmyextremelikeforherisclearlyunrequited.Andloveisnotloveifit’snotrequited,right?

Ishouldgo.

I’mgoingtogo.

I’mgettinggone.

“You’reright,”Isay.

She’s surprised, andmaybe even a little disappointed, but what differencedoesthatmake?Shehastowantthis,andclearlyshedoesnot.

I WASN’T EXPECTING HIM to say that, and I didn’t expect to feeldisappointed,butIdo.WhyamIthinkingaboutromancewithaboyI’llneverseeagain?Myfuturegetsdecidedinfiveminutes.

We’restandingcloseenoughtothebuilding’sslidingglassdoorsthatthecooloftheair-conditioningwashesovermyskinaspeopleenterandexit.

Hesticksouthishandforashakebutquicklypullsitback.“Sorry,”hesays,andblushes.Hefoldshisarmsacrosshischest.

“Well,I’mgoing,”Isay.

“You’regoing,”hesays,andthenneitherofusmoves.

WestandtherenotsayinganythingforanotherfewsecondsuntilIrememberI stillhavehis jacket inmybackpack. I take itoutandwatchashe shrugs itbackon.

“Inthatsuit,youlooklikeyoushouldworkinthisbuilding,”Isaytohim.

Imeanitasacompliment,buthedoesn’ttakeitasone.

Hetugsathistieandgrimaces.“MaybeIwilloneday.”

“Well,”Isayaftermorestaring-and-not-talking.“Thisisgettingawkward.”

“Shouldwejusthug?”

“Ithoughtyousuitsonlyshookhands.”I’mtryingtokeepmytonelight,butmyvocalcordsgoallhuskyandweird.

Hesmilesanddoesn’ttrytokeepanyofthesadnessoffhisface.Howcanhebesookaywithshowingoffhisheart?

Ihavetolookawayfromhim.Idon’twantwhateverishappeningbetweenustohappen,butitfeelsliketryingtostoptheweatherfromhappening.

Thedoorsopenandthecoolairwashesovermyskinagain.I’mhotandcold

atthesametime.Iopenmyarmsforahugatthesamemomenthedoes.Wetry tohugeachotherfromthesamesideandendupbumpingchests instead.Welaughawkwardlyandstopmoving.

“I’mgoingtogoright,”hesays.“Yougoleft.”

“Okay,”Isay,andgoleft.Heholdsme,andsincewe’rebothaboutthesameheightmyfacebrushesagainsthischeek,whichissoftandsmoothandwarm.Ilet my head drop onto his shoulder andmy body relaxes in his arms. For aminute,I letmyselffeelhowtiredIam.It’shardtryingtoholdontoaplacethatdoesn’twantyou.ButDanieldoeswantme.Ifeelitinthewayheholdsmetight.

Ipulloutofhisarmsanddon’tmeethiseyes.

Hedecidesnottosaywhateverhewasgoingtosay.

Igetoutmyphoneandcheckthetime.

“Timetogo,”hesays,beforeIcansayitfirst.

Iturnandwalkintothecoldbuilding.

IthinkabouthimasIsigninwithsecurity.IthinkabouthimasIcrossthelobbyfloor. I thinkabouthim in theelevatoranddown the longhallwayandeverymomentuntilthemomentthatIhavetostopthinkingabouthim,whenIentertheoffice.

Theconstructionnoises Iheardover thephoneearlierwereactuallydue toconstruction, because the office is only halfway built. The walls are partlypainted, and bare bulbs hang from the ceiling. Sawdust and paint splotchescoverthetarpedfloor.Behindthedesk,awomansitswithbothhandsrestingonherofficephone,asifshe’swillingittoring.Despiteherbrightredlipstickand rose-rouged cheeks, she’s verypale.Herhair is deepblack andperfectlystyled. Something about her doesn’t seem quite real. She seems like she’splayingapart—anextra fromanold-schoolDisneycartoonor fromaperiodmoviesetinthe1950sthatcalledforsecretaries.Herdeskisneat,withcolor-codedstacksoffiles.There’samugthatsaysPARALEGALSDOITCHEAPER.

Shesmilesasad,tremblingsmileasIapproach.

“DoIhavetherightplace?”Iaskoutloud.

Shestaresatmemutely.

“IsthisAttorneyFitzgerald’soffice?”Iprompt.

“You’reNatasha,”shesays.

ShemustbethepersonIspokewithearlier.Iapproachthedesk.

“Ihave somebadnews,” she says.Mystomachclenches. I’mnot readyforwhatshe’sgoingtosay.Is itoverbeforeit’sevenbegun?Hasmyfatealreadybeendecided?AmIreallybeingdeportedtonight?

Amaninpaint-splatteredoverallswalksinandstartsdrilling.SomeoneelseIcan’t see begins hammering. Shedoesn’t changeher volume to adjust for thenoise.Imoveevenclosertothedesk.

“Jeremy—AttorneyFitzgerald—wasinacaraccidentanhourago.He’sstillinthehospital.Hiswifesayshe’sfine,justafewbruises.Buthewon’tbebackuntillatethisafternoon.”

Hervoicesoundsnormal,buthereyesareanythingbut.Shepullsthephonealittlecloserandlooksatitinsteadofme.

“Butwe have an appointment now.”Mywhine is uncharitable, but I can’thelpit.“Ireallyneedhimtohelpme.”

Nowshedoeslookatme,eyeswideandincredulous.“Didn’tyouhearwhatIsaid?Hewashitbyacar.Hecan’tbehererightnow.”Shepushesasheafofformsatmeanddoesn’tlookatmeagain.

It takesme at least fifteenminutes to fill out the paperwork.On the firstform,IanswerseveralvariationsonthequestionsofwhetherI’macommunist,acriminal,oraterroristandwhetherIwouldtakeuparmstodefendtheUnitedStates.Iwouldnot,butstillIchecktheboxthatsaysyes.

Another form asks for details about what’s happened in the deportationprocesssofar.

Thefinalformisaclientquestionnairethatasksmetogiveafullaccountingofmytimein theUnitedStates. Idon’tknowwhat tosay. Idon’tknowwhatAttorneyFitzgeraldis lookingfor.Doeshewanttoknowhowweenteredthecountry?Howwe hid?How it feels every time I write downmy fake socialsecurity number on a school form?How every time I do, I picturemymomgettingonthatbustoFlorida?

Does he want to know how it feels to be undocumented? Or how I keepwaitingforsomeonetofindoutIdon’tbelonghereatall?

Probablynot.He’s lookingforfacts,notphilosophy,soIwrite themdown.WetraveledtoAmericaonatouristvisa.Whenitcametimeforustoleave,westayed. We have not left the country since. We have committed no crimes,exceptformydad’sDUI.

I hand her back the forms and she flips immediately to the clientquestionnaire.“Youneedmorehere,”shesays.

“Likewhat?”

“WhatdoesAmericameantoyou?Whydoyouwanttostay?HowwillyoucontributetomakingAmericagreater?”

“Isthatreally—”

“AnythingJeremycanusetohumanizeyouwillhelp,”shesays.

IfpeoplewhowereactuallybornherehadtoprovetheywereworthyenoughtoliveinAmerica,thiswouldbeamuchlesspopulatedcountry.

She flips through my other forms as I write about what a hardworking,optimistic,patrioticcitizenIwouldbe.IwritethatAmericaismyhomeinmyheart, and how citizenshipwill legalizewhat I already feel. I belong here. Inshort, I am more sincere than I’m ever comfortable being. Daniel would beproudofme.

Daniel.

He’sprobablyonatrainonhiswaytohisappointment.Willhedotheproperthing and become a doctor after all?Will he think ofme in the future andremember the girl he spent two hours with one day in New York?Will hewonderwhateverhappenedtome?Maybehe’lldoaGooglesearchusingonlymyfirstnameandnotgetveryfar.Morelikely,though,he’llforgetaboutmebythisevening,asIwillcertainlyforgetabouthim.

Thephone rings as Iwrite, and she grabs it before it has a chance to ringtwice.

“OhmyGod, Jeremy.Are you all right?” She closes her eyes, cradles thephonewithbothhands,andpressesitclosetoherface.“Iwantedtocome,butyourwifesaidIshouldholddownthefort.”Hereyesflickopenwhenshesaysthewordwife.

“Areyousureyou’reokay?”Themoreshelistens,thebrightershebecomes.Herfaceflushesandhereyesshinewithhappytears.

She’s so obviously in lovewith him I expect to see heart bubbles floatingaroundtheroom.Aretheyhavinganaffair?

“Iwantedtocome,”shewhispersagain.Afteraseriesofmurmuredokays,shehangsupthephone.“He’sallright.”Shebeams.Herwholebodyisaglowwithrelief.

“That’sgreat,”Isay.

Shetakestheformsfrommyhands.Iwaitasshereadsthroughthem.

“Wouldyouliketohearsomegoodnews?”sheasks.

OfcourseIwould.Inodslowly.

“I’veseenlotsofcaseslikethis,andIthinkyou’llbeokay.”

Idon’tknowwhatIwasexpectinghertosay,butcertainlynotthis.

“Youreallythinkhe’llbeabletohelp?”Icanhearthehopeandskepticisminmyownvoice.

“Jeremy never loses,” she says, so proudly that she could be talking aboutherself.

But of course, that can’t be true. Everyone loses something sometime. Ishouldaskhertobemoreprecise, togivemeanexactwin/lossratiosoIcandecidehowtofeel.

“There’shope,”shesayssimply.

Even though I hate poetry, a poem I read for English class pops intomyhead.“Hope”isthethingwithfeathers.Iunderstandconcretelywhatthatmeansnow.Somethinginsidemychestwantstoflyout,wantstosingandlaughanddancewithrelief.

Ithankherandleavetheofficequickly,beforeIcanaskhersomethingthattakesawaythisfeeling.UsuallyIfallonthesideofknowingthetruth,evenifthetruthisbad.It’snottheeasiestwayofbeing.Sometimesthetruthcanhurtmorethanyouexpect.

A fewweeksagomyparentswerearguing in theirbedroomwith thedoorclosed. It was one of those rare occasionswhenmymom actually got angrywithmydadtohisface.Peterfoundmeeavesdroppingoutsidetheirdoor.Aftertheyweredonearguing,IaskedhimifhewantedtoknowwhatI’dheard,buthedidn’t.Hesaidhecouldtell thatwhateverI learnedwasbad,andhedidn’treallywant anybadness in his life just then.At the time Iwas annoyedwithhim.ButlaterIthoughtmaybehe’dbeenright.IwishedIcouldunhearwhatI’doverheard.

Backinthehallway,Ileanmyforeheadagainstthewallandhesitate.Idebategoingback into the office to press her formoredetails but decide against it.Whatgoodwillitdo?Imightaswellwaitfortheofficialwordfromthelawyer.Besides,I’mtiredofworrying.Iknowthatwhatshesaidisnotaguarantee.ButI need to feel something other than resigned dread.Hope seems like a good

substitute.

I consider callingmyparents to tell themabout this newdevelopment, butthenIdon’tdo thateither. Ihavenonewinformation toshare.WhatwouldIsay? Aman I don’t know has sent me to see another man I don’t know. Aparalegal,whoisnotalawyer,whomIalsodon’tknow,sayseverythingmightbeallright.What’stheuseingettingallourhopesup?

The person I really want to talk to is Daniel, but he’s long gone to hisinterview.

IwishI’dbeennicertohim.

IwishI’dgottenhisphonenumber.

Whatifthisimmigrationnonsenseresolvesitself?IfIgettostay,howwillIfindhimagain?BecausenomatterhowmuchIpretendeditdidn’texist,therewassomethingbetweenus.Somethingbig.

HANNAHHASALWAYSTHOUGHTOF herself as living in a fairy talewhere she’s not the star. She’s neither the princess nor the fairy godmother.Neither the high, evil witch nor her familiar. Hannah is a minor character,illustrated for the first time on page twelve or thirteen. The cook, perhaps,presiding over crumpets and sugarplums. Or maybe she’s the handmaiden,good-naturedandjustoutofview.

Itwasn’t until shemet and startedworking forAttorney JeremyFitzgeraldthat she imagined shecouldbecome the star. Inhimshe recognizedherOneTrueLove.HerHappily-Ever-After.Thisdespite thefact thatheisamarriedman.Despitethefactthathe’safathertotwoyoungchildren.

Hannahneverbelievedhewouldloveherbackuntilthedayhedidjustthat.

Thatdayistoday.

JEREMYFITZGERALDwascrossingthestreetwhenadrunkanddistraughtman—aninsuranceactuary—inawhiteBMWhithimattwentymilesperhour.Theblowwasn’tenoughtokillhim,butitwasenoughtomakehimconsiderhiseventualdeathandhiscurrentlife.Itwasenoughtomakehimadmittohimselfthathewasinlovewithhisparalegal,HannahWinter,andthathehadbeenforsometimenow.

Atsomepoint later today,whenhereturns tohisoffice,hewillwordlesslytakeHannahintohisarms.Hewillholdherandwonder,verybriefly,aboutthefuturethatlovingherwillcosthim.

AreaTeenagerChoosesPoorly

Mymother,thepacifist,wouldkillmedeadifsheknewwhatI’djustdone.Irescheduledmy interview.For a girl.Not even aKoreangirl, a blackgirl.AblackgirlIdon’treallyknow.AblackgirlIdon’treallyknow,whomightnotevenlikeme.

Thewomanon thephonesaidmy timingwasperfect.She’dbeenabout tocallmetorescheduleaswell.TheonlyappointmentIcouldgetisforlateintheday, 6 p.m., so here I am in the lobby of the buildingwhere I leftNatasha,readingthedirectoryandkeepinganeyeoutforher.Mostofthetenantsofthisbuildingare lawyers (J.D.,Esq.)andaccounting types (CPA,CFA,etc.). I’venever seen somany degree abbreviations inmy life.Daniel JaeHoBae, FB(FoolishBoy),DTF(DoomedtoFailure).

Whatappointmentcouldshepossiblyhave in thisbuilding?Either she’sanheiresswithmoneytoinvest,orshe’sintroubleandneedsalawyertohelpher.

Acrossthelobby,theelevatordoorsopenandshewalksout.

WhenIwasreschedulingmyappointment,apartofmewondered if Iwasbeingridiculous.AgirlI’vejustmetisn’tworthjeopardizingmyfutureover.ItwaseasiertohavethatthoughtwhenIwasn’tlookingather,becausenowIcan’trememberwhyIhesitatedatall.

Ofcourseshe’sworthit.AndIcan’texplainit.

Yes,she’spretty.Thecombinationofherbighairandbrightblackeyesandfullpink lips isundeniablycute.Also,shehas thenicest legs thatexist in theknownworld(Imovedthemuptonumberonefromnumberthreeaftercarefulstudy—I’m being objective here). So yes, I’m definitely attracted to her, butthere’s something else too, and I’m not just saying that because she has the

nicestlegsintheknownuniverse.Objectivelyspeaking.

Iwatchasshemakesherwayacrossthelobby.She’slookingaround,tryingtofindsomethingorsomeone.Hershouldersliterallysagwhenshedoesn’tfindit.She’sgottabelookingforme,right?Unlessshemetanotherpotentialloveofherlifeinthethirtyminutesshewasawayfromme.

Outside,shedoesaslow360onewayandthenaslower360theotherway.Whoevershe’slookingforisstillnotthere.

HE’SNOTINTHELOBBY,andhe’snotoutsideinthecourtyard.Ihavetoadmitthathe’snothereandthatIwantedhimtobe.Mystomachfeelsalittlehollow,likeI’mhungry,butfoodisnotwhatIwant.

Theday’sgottenwarmer.Itakeoffmyjacket,folditovermyforearm,andstandtheretryingtodecidewhattodonext.I’mreluctanttoleave,andreluctanttoadmittomyselfthatIdon’twanttoleave.It’snotthatIthinkweweremeantto be or anything ridiculous like that.But itwould’vebeennice to spend thenext few hours with him. Itmight’ve been nice to go on a date with him. Iwould’velikedtoknowifheblusheswhenhekisses.

ThisisthelastplaceIsawhim.IfI leave,thenIhavenochanceofseeinghimagain.Iwonderhowhisinterviewisgoing.Ishesayingtherightthings,orishelettingallhisdoubtandexistentialangstshinethrough?Theboyneedsalifecoach.

I’mabouttogowhensomethingmakesmetakeafinallookaround.Iknowit’s not possible to feel a specific person’s presence. More than likely mysubconsciousspottedhimasIwaswalkingthroughthelobby.Peopleusepoeticlanguage to describe things they don’t understand.Usually there’s a scientificexplanationifyouonlylookforit.

Anyway,thereheis.

Heishere.

SHE’SWALKINGTOWARDME.AcoupleofhoursagoIwould’vesaidthatherfacewasexpressionless,butI’mbecomingaNatashaexpert,andherfaceisonlytryingtobeexpressionless.IfIhadtoguess,Iwouldsaythatshe’shappytoseeme.

“Whathappenedtoyourinterview?”sheasksassoonasshe’scloseenough.

Nohug.No“I’msohappytoseeyou.”MaybeI’mnotsuchaNatashaexpertafterall.

DoIgowiththefactsorthetruth(curiously,thesearenotalwaysthesame)?Thefactis,Ipostponed.Thetruthis,IpostponedsoIcouldspendmoretimewithher.Igowiththetruth:

“IpostponedsoIcouldspendmoretimewithyou.”

“Areyouinsane?Thisisyourlifewe’retalkingabout.”

“Ididn’tburnthebuildingtotheground,Tash.Ijustmovedituntillater.”

“WhoisTash?”sheasks,butthere’sasmileatthecornerofherlips.

“Howdidyour thinggo?”Ipointmychin in thedirectionof theelevators.Hersmilegoesaway.Notetoself:Donotbringthisupagain.

“Fine.Ihavetocomebackatthree-thirty.”

Ilookatmyphone:11:35a.m.“Lookslikewehavemoretimetogether,”Isay.Iexpecthertorollhereyes,butshedoesn’t.Itakeitasasmallvictory.

Sheshiversalittleandrubsherhandsdownherforearms.Icanseethegoosebumpsonherskin,andnowI’velearnedanotherthingabouther:shegetscoldeasily.Itakeherjacketandhelpherintoit.Sheslidesonearminandthentheother,andthenshrugstoadjusttheshoulders.Ihelpherwiththecollar.

It’sasmallthing.I letmyhandrestonthebackofherneck,andsheleans

back intome just slightly.Her hair ticklesmynose. It’s a small thing, but itfeelslikesomethingwe’vebeendoingforalongtimenow.

Sheturns,andIhavetoliftmyhandssoIdon’ttouchhermoreintimately.Whereverwe’regoing,we’renotthereyet.

“Areyousureyou’renotjeopardizing—”shebegins.

“Idon’tactuallycare.”

“Youshouldcare.”Shestops talkingand looksupatmewithrestlesseyes.“Youdiditforme?”

“Yes.”

“WhatmakesyousosureI’mworthit?”

“Instinct,”Isay.Idon’tknowwhatitisaboutherthatmakesmefearlesswiththetruth.

Hereyeswidenandsheshiversslightly.“You’reimpossible,”shesays.

“It’spossible,”Isay.

Shelaughs,andherblackeyessparkleatme.“Whatshouldwedonow?”sheasks.

IneedtogetmyhaircutandIneedtogetthepouchanddepositslipstomydad.Iwanttodoneitherofthesethings.WhatIwanttodoisfindsomeplacecozyandcozyupwithher.But.Thepouchneedstobedelivered.Iaskherifshe’s up for a trip toHarlem and she agrees.Really, this is the absolute lastthingI shouldbedoing. If thereareworse ideas than this, Idon’tknowwhatthey are.My dad’s just going to freak her out. She’s going tomeet him andimaginethathe’swhatI’llbelikeinfiftyyears,andthenshe’llgoflyingforthehillsbecausethat’swhatIwoulddoinherplace.

My dad’s a weird guy. I say weird but what I mean is epically fuckingstrange.First,hedoesn’treally talktoanyoneexceptcustomers.This includesmeandCharlie.Unlessberatingcountsastalking.Ifberatingcounts,thenhe’ssaidmoretoCharliethispastsummerandfallthanhehasinnineteenyears.Imaybeexaggerating,butonlyslightly.

I don’t know how I’m going to explain Natasha to him or Charlie. Well,Charlie I don’t really care about, but my dad will notice her. He’ll knowsomething’sup in the samewayhealwaysknowswhichcustomer is going toshopliftorwho’sgoodforanIOUandwho’snot.

Later tonight at dinner, he’ll say something to mymom in Korean in the

voiceheusestocomplainaboutAmericans.Idon’treallywanteitheroftheminvolvedinthisyet.We’renotreadyforthatkindofpressure.

Natasha says that all families are strange, and it’s true. I’ll have to ask hermoreaboutherfamilylaterafterwedothisthing.Wedescendintothesubway.

“Getready,”Isay.

HARLEM ISONLYA TWENTY-FIVE-MINUTE subway ride fromwherewewere,but it’s likewe’vegone toadifferentcountry.Theskyscrapershavebeen replaced by small, closely packed stores with bright awnings. The airsmellsbrighter,lesslikeacityandmorelikeaneighborhood.Almosteveryoneonthestreetisblack.

Danieldoesn’tsayanythingaswewalkalongMartinLutherKingBoulevardtowardhisparents’store.HeslowsdownwhenwepassbyanemptystorefrontwithahugeFORRENTsignandapawnshopwithagreenawning.Finallywestopinfrontofablackhaircareandbeautysupplystore.

It’scalledBlackHairCare.I’vebeenintolotsofthese.“Godownthestreettothebeautysupplyandpickupsomerelaxerforme,”saysmymothereverytwomonthsorso.

It’sathing.Everyoneknowsit’sathinghowalltheblackhaircareplacesareownedbyKoreansandwhataninjusticethatis.Idon’tknowwhyIdidn’tthinkofitwhenDanielsaidtheyownedastore.

I can’t see inside because the windows are covered with old, sun-fadedpostersofsmilingandsuitedblackwomenallwiththesamechemicallytreatedhairstyle. Apparently—according to these posters, at least—only certainhairstylesareallowedtoattendboardmeetings.Evenmymomisguiltyofthiskindof sentiment. Shewasn’t happywhen I decided towear anAfro, sayingthatit isn’tprofessional-looking.ButI likemybigAfro.Ialsolikedwhenmyhairwaslongerandrelaxed.I’mhappytohavechoices.They’reminetomake.

Nexttome,Danielissonervoushe’svibrating.Iwonderifit’sbecauseI’mgoing tomeet his dad, or because of the politics of his parents’ owning thisstore.Hefacesmeandtugshistiefromsidetoside,asifit’sbeentootightthiswholetime.

“Somydad’s really—”Hestopsandstartsagain. “Andmybrother’s really

—”

Hiseyesareeverywhereexceptonmineandhisvoice isstrained,probablybecausehe’stryingtospeakwithoutbreathing.

“Maybe you could just wait out here,” he says, finally getting an entiresentenceout.

AtfirstIdon’treallythinkanythingofit.Ifigureeveryone’sembarrassedbytheirfamily.I’membarrassedaboutmine.Well,myfather,atleast.InDaniel’splace,I’ddothesamething.Mycheatingex,Rob,nevermetmyfather.Itwasjust easier. No listening to my father’s too-thick, fake American accent. Nowatchinghim try to findanopening sohecan talk abouthimself andall hisplansforthefutureandhowhe’sgoingtobefamousoneday.

We’restandingjust infrontof thestorewhentwoblackteenagegirlswalkoutlaughingwitheachother.Anotherwoman,alsoblack,walksin.

It occurs tome thatmaybe he’s not embarrassed about his family.Maybehe’sembarrassedaboutme.Ormaybehe’safraidhisparentswillbeashamedofme.Idon’tknowwhyIdidn’tthinkofthisbefore.

America’snotreallyameltingpot.It’smorelikeoneofthosedividedmetalplateswithseparatesectionsforstarch,meat,andveggies. I’mlookingathimand he’s still not looking at me. Suddenly we’re having a moment I didn’texpect.

IN FIFTEENTH-CENTURY AFRICAN CIVILIZATIONS, hairstyles weremarkers of identity. Hairstyle could indicate everything from tribe or familybackground to religion to social status. Elaborate hairstyles designated powerand wealth. A subdued style could be a sign that you were in a state ofmourning.Morethanthat,haircouldhavespiritualimportance.Becauseit’sonyour head—the highest part of your body and closest to the skies—manyAfricansvieweditasapassagewayforspiritstothesoul,awaytointeractwithGod.

That history was erased with the dawn of slavery. On slave ships, newlycapturedAfricanswereforciblyshavedinaprofoundactofdehumanization,anactthateffectivelyseveredthelinkbetweenhairandculturalidentity.

Postslavery, African American hair took on complex associations. “Good”hairwas seen as anything closer toEuropean standardsofbeauty.Goodhairwasstraightandsmooth.Curly,texturedhair,thenaturalhairofmanyAfricanAmericans,wasseenasbad.Straighthairwasbeautiful.Tightlycurledhairwasugly.Intheearly1900s,MadamC.J.Walker,anAfricanAmerican,becameamillionaire by inventing and marketing hair care products to black women.Most famously, she improved on the design of the “hot comb,” a device forstraighteninghair. In the1960s,GeorgeE. Johnsonmarketed the“relaxer,”achemical product used to straighten otherwise curly African American hair.According tosomeestimates, theblackhaircare industry isworthmore thanonebilliondollarsannually.

Sincepostslaverydaysandthroughtomoderntimes,debatehasragedintheAfricanAmerican community.What does it mean to wear your hair naturalversus straightened? Is straightening your hair a form of self-hatred?Does itmeanyouthinkyourhairinitsnaturalstateisnotbeautiful?Ifyouwearyourhairnaturally,areyoumakingapoliticalstatement,claimingblackpower?ThewayAfricanAmericanwomenweartheirhairhasoftenbeenaboutmuchmore

than vanity. It’s been aboutmore than just an individual’s notion of her ownbeauty.

WhenNatashadecidestowearhersinanAfro,it’snotbecauseshe’sawareofall thishistory.Shedoes itdespitePatriciaKingsley’sassertions thatAfrosmakewomen lookmilitantandunprofessional.Thoseassertionsare rooted infear—fearthatherdaughterwillbeharmedbyasocietythatstillsooftenfearsblackness. Patricia also doesn’t raise her other objection: Natasha’s newhairstyle feels like a rejection. She’s been relaxing her own hair all her life.She’drelaxedNatasha’ssinceshewastenyearsold.ThesedayswhenPatricialooks at her daughter, she doesn’t see as much of herself reflected back asbefore,andithurts.Butofcourse,allteenagersdothis.Allteenagersseparatefromtheirparents.Togrowupistogrowapart.

IttakesthreeyearsforNatasha’snaturalhairtogrowinfully.Shedoesn’tdoittomakeapoliticalstatement.Infact,shelikedhavingherhairstraight.Inthefuture, shemaymake it straight again. She does it because shewants to trysomethingnew.

Shedoesitsimplybecauseitlooksbeautiful.

AreaBoyIsasBiganAssholeasHisBrother

“Maybeyoucouldjustwaitouthere,” Isaid, likeI’mashamedofher, likeI’mtryingtokeepherhidden.Myregretisinstantaneous.Nowaitingforafewminutestorealizethefullimpactofmywords.Nope.Nope.Nope.Immediateandall-consuming.

Andoncethey’reout,Ican’tbelieveIsaidthem.IsthiswhatI’mmadeof?Nothing?

I’mabiggerassholethanCharlie.

Ican’tlookather.HereyesareonmyfaceandIcan’tlookather.Iwantthattimemachine.Iwantthelastminuteback.

Ifuckedup.

Ifit’sgoingtobeDanielandNatasha,thendealingwithmydad’sracismisonlythebeginning.ButsheandIarejustatthebeginning,andIjustdon’twanttohave todealwithhimrightnow. Iwant todo theeasy thing,not the rightthing.Iwanttofallinlove,withanemphasisonthefallingpart.

Noobstacles in theway, please.Noone needs to get bruised up falling inlove.Ijustwanttofallthewayeverybodyelsegetsto.

I’LLBEFINE.I’llbefinewaitinghere.Iunderstand.ReallyIdo.Butthere’spartofme,the

partthatdoesn’tbelieveinGodortruelove,thatreallywantshimtoprovemewrong about not believing in those things. I want him to choose me. Eventhoughit’swaytooearlyinthehistoryofus.Eventhoughit’snotwhatIwoulddo.Iwanthimtobeasnobleashefirstseemedtobe,butofcoursehe’snot.Nobodyis.SoIlethimoffhisownhook.

“Don’tworrysomuch,”Isay.“I’llwait.”

WHENYOU’REBORN,THEY(Godorlittlealiensorwhoever)shouldsendyou into theworldwithabunchof freepasses.ADo-Over,aRainCheck,aTake-Backsie,aGetOutofJailFreeCard.IwouldusemyDo-Overnow.

IlookupatherandrealizesheknowsexactlywhatI’mgoingthrough.She’llunderstandifIjustgoinsideandhandoverthepouchandcomebackoutside.ThenwecanjustcontinueonourwayandIwon’thavetohaveany“Whowasthat girl?” conversations later withmy dad. No “Once you go black” cracksfrom Charlie. This little weirdness will be a small hiccup on our road togreatness,toepiccoupledom.

ButIcan’tdoit.Ican’tleaveherouthere.Partlybecauseit’stherightthingtodo.ButmostlybecausesheandIarenotreallyatthebeginning.

“CanItrythatagain?”Iask,deployingmyDo-Over.

ShesmilessobigthatIknowthatwhateverhappenswillbeworthit.

ABELLCHIMESASSOONasweenter.It’slikeeveryotherbeautysupplystore I’ve ever been in. It’s small and crammed with rows of metal shelvesoverflowingwithplasticbottlespromising that their secret formula isbest foryourhair,skin,etc.

Thecashregister is rightacrossfromtheentrance, so I seehisfather rightaway.ImmediatelyIknowwhereDanielgetshisgoodlooks.Hisdadisolderand balding, but he has the same sharp bone structure and perfectlysymmetrical face that make Daniel so attractive. He’s busy ringing up acustomer and doesn’t acknowledge Daniel at all, though I’m sure he saw usboth.Thecustomerisaboyaroundmyage,blackwithshortpurplehair,threeliprings,onenosering,aneyebrowring,andtoomanyearringstocount.Iwanttoseewhathe’sbuying,butit’salreadybagged.

Danielpullsthepouchfromhissuitpocketandstartstowalkover.Hisdadgiveshimabriefglance.I’mnotsurewhatwascommunicated,butDanielstopsmovingandsighs.

“Youneedtogotothebathroomoranything?”heasks.“There’soneintheback.”

Ishakemyhead.Hestranglesthepouchwithhishands.

“Well,thisisit.Thisisthestore.”

“Wanttoshowmearound?”Iasktohelpdistracthim.

“Not much to see. First three aisles are for hair. Shampoo, conditioner,extensions, dyes, lots of chemical things I don’t understand. Aisle three ismakeup.Aislefourisequipment.”

Heglancesathisdad,buthe’sstillbusy.

“Doyouneedsomething?”heasks.

Itouchmyhair.“No,I—”

“Ididn’tmeanaproduct.Wehaveafridgeinthebackwithsodaandstuff.”

“Sure,”Isay.Iliketheideaofseeingbehindthescenes.

We walk down the hair dye aisle. All the boxes feature broadly smilingwomenwiththemostperfectlycoloredandstyledhair.It’snothairdyebeingsoldinthesebottles,it’shappiness.

Istopinfrontofagroupofboxeswithbrightlycoloreddyesandpickupapink one. There’s a very small, secret, impractical part of me that’s alwayswantedpinkhair.

IttakesDanielafewsecondstorealizethatI’vestoppedwalking.

“Pink?”heasks,whenheseestheboxinmyhand.

Iwiggleitathim.“Whynot?”

“Doesn’tseemlikeyourstyle.”

Of course he’s completely right, but I hate that he thinks so. Am I toopredictable and boring? I think back to the boy I saw when we entered thestore.Ibethekeepseveryoneguessing.

“Showshowmuchyouknow,” I say, andpatmyhair.His eyes followmyhand, and now I’m really self-conscious and hoping he’s not going to ask totouchmyhairorabunchofdumbquestionsaboutit.NotthatIdon’twanthimtotouchmyhair,becauseIdo—justnotasacuriosity.

“IthinkyouwouldlookbeautifulwithagiantpinkAfro,”hesays.

Sincerityissexy,andmycynicalheartnotices.

“Thewholethingwouldn’tbepink.Maybejusttheends.”

Hereachesforthebox,sonowwe’rebothholdingitandfacingeachotherinanaislethatreallyonlyhasenoughspaceforone.

“Itwouldlooklikestrawberryfrosting,”hesays.Withhisotherhandhepullsafewstrandsofmyhairthroughhisfingers,andIfindthatIdon’tmind,notonelittlebit.

“Oh,look.My.Little.Brotherishere,”saysavoicefromtheendoftheaisle.Danieljerkshishandfrommyhair.Webothletgoofthedyeatthesametime,andtheboxclatterstothefloor.Danielbendstopickitup.Iturntofaceourinterloper.

He’s taller andbroader thanDaniel.Onhis face, the familybone structure

seems even sharper. He rests the broom he was holding against a shelf andsauntersdowntheaisletowardus.Hiswide,darkeyesarefilledwithcuriosityandakindofmischievousglee.

I’mnotsureIlikehim.

Danielstandsupandhandsthedyebacktome.

“What’sup,Charlie?”heasks.

“The.Sky. Is.Up.Little brother,” saysCharlie. I get the feelinghe’s beenusingthatphrasethatsamewayforalltheirlives.He’slookingatmeashesaysit,andhisfaceismoresneerthansmile.

“Who.Is.This?”heasks,stillonlylookingatme.

Nexttome,Danieltakesadeepbreathandreadieshimselftosaysomething,butIjumpin.

“I’mNatasha.”Hestaresatmeasiftheremustbemoretosay.“Afriendofyourbrother’s,”Icontinue.

“Oh, I thought maybe he’d caught a shoplifting customer.” His face is aparodyof innocence.“Wegeta lotof thoseinastore likethis.”Hiseyesarelaughingandmean.“I’msureyouunderstand.”

Idefinitelydon’tlikehim.

“Jesus Christ, Charlie,” Daniel says. He takes a step toward Charlie but Igrabhishand.Hestopsandlinkshisfingerswithmineandsqueezes.

Charliemakesabigshowoflookingdownatourjoinedhandsandthenbackupatus.

“IsthiswhatIthinkitis?Isitlooooove,Little.Brother?”Heclapshishandstogetherwithaloudsmackanddoesalaughingtwo-stepdance.

“This.Is.Great.Yes.Youknowwhatthismeans,don’tyou?Alltheheatwillbeoffme.Whenthe’rentsfindoutaboutthis,I’llbeaBoyScoutagain.Fuckacademicprobation.”

He’s laughing loudly now and rubbing his palms together, like a villaindetailinghisplansforworlddomination.

“Wow.You’reanasshole,”Isay,unabletohelpmyself.

HesmilesasifI’vepaidhimacompliment.Butthesmiledoesn’tlastlong.

He looks at our hands again and then atDaniel. “You’re such a punk,” hesays.“Whereareyougonnagowiththis?”

IsqueezeDaniel’shandtighterandpullittomyside.IwanttoproveCharliewrong.“Doyourthingandlet’sgetoutofhere,”Isay.

Henods,andweturnaway—andwalkright intohisfather. Ipullmyhandfrom his at the same time he’s lettingmine go, but it’s too late. His father’salreadyseenus.

GiantBagofDicksMasqueradesasTeenageBoy,FoolsExactlyNoOne

CharlieisagiantbagofdicksthatI’dliketolightonfire.Iwanttohithiminhisperfectlysmugface.It’snotanewemotionforme,sinceI’vewantedtodoitsinceIwasten,butthistimehe’sfinallygonetoofar.I’mthinkinghowgooditwill feel to break my hand on his face, but I’m also focused on the feel ofNatasha’shandinmine.

I need to get her out of here beforemy family derailsmy life just as it’sgettingstarted.

“Whatareyoudoing?”myfatherasksinKorean.

I decide to ignore the question he’s really asking. Instead, I hold out thepouchforhimtotake.

“Mom said I had to bring you this.” I say it inEnglish soNatasha doesn’tthinkwe’retalkingabouther.

Charlie sidlesupnextme. “Wantme tohelp translate foryourfriend?”heasks.

Heoveremphasizesfriend.Because being a dick on fire isCharlie’s raisond’être.

Mydadgiveshimahardlook.“Ithoughtyoudon’tunderstandKorean,”hesaystoCharlie.

Charlieshrugs.“Igetby.”Notevenmydad’sdisapprovalcanstophimfromenjoyinghimselfatmyexpense.

“IsthatwhyyoufailoutofHarvard?Youonlygetby?”ThisparthesaysinKoreanbecausethelastthingmydadwouldwanttodoisairourdirtylaundryinfrontofamiguksaram.AnAmerican.

Charliedoesn’tgiveacrapandtranslatesanyway,buthe’ssmilingalittleless.“Don’tworry,”hesays toNatasha.“He’snot talkingaboutyou.Notyet.He’sjustcallingmestupid.”

Dad’sfacegoescompletelyblank,soIknowhe’sreallyangrynow.Charlie’sgothimtrapped.AnythinghesaysCharliewilltranslate,andmydad’ssenseofpropriety can’t allow that to happen. Instead, he turns into Deferential StoreOwnerlikeI’veseenhimdoamilliontimestoamillioncustomers.

“You want something before you leave?” he asks Natasha. He clasps hishands,halfbendsatthewaist,andsmileshisbestcustomer-servicesmile.

“No,thankyou,Mr.—”Shestopsbecauseshedoesn’tknowmylastname.

Mydaddoesn’tanswer.

“Yes. Yes. You friend of Daniel’s. Take anything you want.” This is anaccidentinprogress,butIdon’tknowhowtostopit.Hepatsathispocketsuntilhefindshisglassesandpeersatthebottlesontheshelf.

“Notthisaisle,”hemutters.“Comewithme.”

Maybeifwejustgoalongthiswillallbeoverquickly.NatashaandIfollowhimhelplesslywhileCharlielaughs.

Mydadfindswhathe’s lookingforoneaisleover. “Here.Relaxerforyourhair.”HepullsabigblackandwhitetubfromashelfandhandsittoNatasha.

“Relaxer,”hesaysagain.“Makeyourhairnotsobig.”

HowwasIbornintothisfamilyandhowcanIgetoutofit?

Charlielaughslongandloud.

Istarttosaythatshedoesn’tneedanything,butNatashainterrupts.“Thankyou,Mr.—”

“Bae,”Isay,becausesheshouldknowmylastname.

“Mr.Bae.Idon’tneedany—”

“Hairtoobig,”hesaysagain.

“Ilikeitbig,”shesays.

“Better get a different boyfriend, then,” says Charlie. He waggles hiseyebrowstomakesureweallgethisinnuendo.I’msurprisedhedoesn’tfollowitupwithahandgesture just tobeabsolutelyclear.Mysurprisedoesn’t last,becauseheholdshisthumbandforefingerapartbyaninch.

“Good joke,Charlie,” I say. “Yes,my penis is only an inch long.” I don’tbothertolookatmyfather’sface.

Natasha turns to me and her mouth actually drops open. She’s definitelyreconsideringherrecentlifechoices.Ipracticallyflingthepouchatmyfather.Thingscannotgetanyworse, so I reachforherhanddespite thefact thatmyfatherisstandingrightthere.Mercifully,sheletsmetakeit.

“Thankyou, comeagain,” boomsCharliewhenwe’re almost out thedoor.He’slikeapiginshit.Orjusttheshit.

I flip him off and ignore the vast disapproval coming from my father,becausethere’llbetimeforthatlater.

I’M LAUGHING EVEN THOUGH I know I shouldn’t. That was the mostperfectlyawfulexperience.PoorDaniel.

ObservableFact:Familiesaretheworst.

We’realmostall thewayback to thesubwaystationbeforehefinallystopstuggingmealong.Heslapsapalmagainstthebackofhisneckandhangshishead.

“I’msorry,”hesays,soquietlythatImorelip-readitthanhearit.

I’m trying to keepmy laughter suppressed, because he looks like someonedied,butI’mhavingahardtime.Theimageofhisdadtryingtoshovethetubofrelaxeratmerisesinmymindandthelaughterjustbubblesoutofme.OnceIstart,Ican’tstop.Iclutchmystomachashystericstakemeover.Danieljuststaresatme.Hisfrownissodeepitmightbecomepermanent.

“Thatwasterrible,”Isay,finallycalm.“Idon’tthinkthatcould’vegoneanyworse.Racistdad.Racistandsexistolderbrother.”

Danielrubsthespotonhisneckandfrownssomemore.

“And the store! Imean, theancientpostersof thosewomen,andyourdadcritiquingmyhair,andyourbrothermakingasmallpenisjoke.”

By the time I’m done listing all the things that were awful, I’m laughingagain.Ittakeshimafewmoreseconds,butfinallyhesmilestoo,andI’mgladforit.

“I’mgladyouthinkthisisfunny,”hesays.

“Comeon,”Isay.“Tragedyisfunny.”

“Areweinatragedy?”heasks,smilingbroadlynow.

“Ofcourse.Isn’tthatwhatlifeis?Wealldieattheend.”

“I guess so,” he says.He steps closer, takesmyhand, and places it on hischest.

Istudymynails.Istudymycuticles.Anythingtoavoidlookingupintothosebrowneyesofhis.Hisheartthrumsbeneathmyfingers.

FinallyIlookupandhecoversmyhandwithhis.

“I’msorry,”hesays.“I’msorryaboutmyfamily.”

I nod, because the feel of his heartbeat is doing funny things tomy vocalcords.

“I’msorryabouteverything,aboutthewholehistoryoftheworldandallitsracismandtheunfairnessofallofit.”

“What are you even saying? It’s not your fault. You can’t apologize forracism.”

“IcanandIdo.”

Jesus.Savemefromtheniceandsincereboyswhofeelthingstoodeeply.Istillthinkwhathappenedisfunnyinitsperfectawfulness,butIunderstandhisshametoo.It’shardtocomefromsomeplaceorsomeoneyou’renotproudof.

“You’renotyourdad,”Isay,buthedoesn’tbelieveme.Iunderstandhisfear.Whoareweifnotaproductofourparentsandtheirhistories?

DANIEL’S FAMILY DID NOT ENTER the black hair care business bychance.WhenDaeHyunandMinSoomovedtoNewYorkCity,therewasanentire community of fellow South Korean immigrants waiting to help them.DaeHyun’scousingavethemaloanandadvisedthemtoopenablackhaircarestore.Hiscousinhadasimilarstore,asdidmanyotherimmigrantsinhisnewcommunity.Thestoreswerethriving.

ThedominanceofSouthKoreansintheblackhaircareindustryalsodidnothappen by chance. It began in the 1960swith the rise in popularity of wigsmadewithSouthKoreanhair in theAfricanAmericancommunity.Thewigswere sopopular that theSouthKoreangovernmentbanned theexportof rawhairfromitsshores.ThisensuredthatwigsfeaturingSouthKoreanhaircouldonlybemadeinSouthKorea.Atthesametime,theU.S.governmentbannedthe import of wigs that contained hair from China. Those two actionseffectivelysolidifiedthedominanceofSouthKoreainthewigmarket.Thewigbusinessnaturallyevolvedtothemoregeneralblackhaircarebusiness.

It’sestimatedthatSouthKoreanbusinessescontrolbetweensixtyandeightypercent of that market, including distribution, retail, and, increasingly,manufacturing.Be it forcultural reasonsorfor racialones, thisdominance indistributionmakesitnearlyimpossibleforanyothergrouptogainafootholdinthe industry. South Korean distributors primarily distribute to South Koreanretailers,effectivelyshuttingeveryoneelseoutofthemarket.

Dae Hyun is not aware of any of this history. What he knows is this:America is the landofopportunity.Hischildrenwillhavemorethanheoncedid.

IWANTTOTHANKHER for not hatingme.After that experience inmyparents’store,whocouldblameher?Also,shedidn’tneedtoreacttomyfamilyas peacefully as she did. If she’d yelled at both my brother and my dad, Iwould’ve understood. It’s a miracle (water-into-wine variety) that she’s stillwillingtohangoutwithme,andI’mmorethangratefulforit.

Instead of saying all that, I ask her if shewants to get some lunch.We’rebackat the subwayentrance,andall Iwant todo isgetas farawayfromthestoreaspossible.IftheDlinewenttothemoon,I’dbuyaticket.

“I’mstarving,”Isay.

Sherollshereyes.“Starving,really?Youhaveapenchantforexaggeration.”

“It’stooffsetyourprecision.”

“Doyouhaveaplaceinmind?”sheasks.

IsuggestmyfavoriterestaurantinKoreatownandsheagrees.

Wefindside-by-sideseatsonthetrainandsettlein.It’lltakefortyminutestogetallthewaybackdowntown.

Itakeoutmyphonetofindmorequestions.“Readyformore?”Iaskher.

Sheslidesclosertomesoourshouldersarepressedtogether,andpeersdownatmyphone.She’ssocloseherhairticklesmynose.Ican’thelpit.ItakewhatIthinkisadiscreetsniffofherhairthatisnotdiscreetatall.

Shescootsawayfromme,eyeswideandmortified.“Didyoujustsmellme?”sheasks.Shetouchesthesectionofhairwheremynosejustwas.

Idon’tknowwhattosay.IfIadmitit,I’mcreepyandweird.IfIdenyit,I’maliarandcreepyandweird.Shepullsthestrandsthatshe’stouchingacrosshernoseandsniffsat itherself.NowIneedtomakesurethatshedoesn’t thinkIthinkherhairsmellsbad.

“No.Imean,yes.Yes,Ismelledit.”

Istoptalkingbecausehereyeshavegonewiderthaneyesshouldbeabletogo.

“And?”sheprompts.

It takesme a second to work out what she’s asking. “It smells good. Youknowsometimesinspringwhenitrainsjustforlikefiveminutesandthenthesuncomesoutrightawayandthewater’sevaporatingandtheairisstilldamp?Itsmellslikethat.Reallygood.”

Imakemymouthcloseeventhoughitjustwantstokeeptalking.Ilookbackdownatmyphoneandwait,hopingshe’llcomecloseagain.

HETHINKSMYHAIRSMELLSlikespringrain.I’mreallytryingtoremainstoicandunaffected.IremindmyselfthatIdon’t likepoetic language.Idon’tlikepoetry.Idon’tevenlikepeoplewholikepoetry.

ButI’mnotdeadinsideeither.

SHECOMESCLOSEAGAINandIbarrelahead,becauseapparently that’swhoIamwiththisgirl.Maybepartoffallinginlovewithsomeoneelseisalsofallinginlovewithyourself.IlikewhoIamwithher.IlikethatIsaywhat’sonmymind.IlikethatIbarrelaheaddespitetheobstaclessheraises.NormallyIwouldgiveup,butnottoday.

Iraisemyvoiceovertheclackingofthetrainagainstthetracks.“Right.Ontosectiontwo.”Ilookupfrommyphone.“Readyforthis?We’relevelingupontheintimacy.”

Shefrownsatmebutstillnods. Ireadthequestionsaloudandshechoosesnumbertwenty-four:Howdoyoufeelaboutyourrelationshipwithyourmother(andfather)?

“Youhavetogofirst,”shesays.

“Well. You met my dad.” I don’t even know where to begin with thisquestion.OfcourseIlovehim,butyoucanlovesomeoneandstillhaveanot-so-greatrelationshipwiththem.Iwonderhowmuchofournon-relationshipisbecauseoftypicalfatherversusteenageboystuff(ateno’clockcurfew,really?)and howmuch of it is cultural (Korean Korean versus Korean American). Idon’tknowifit’sevenpossibletoseparatethetwo.SometimesIfeellikewe’reonoppositesidesofasoundproofedglasswall.Wecanseeeachotherbutwecan’theareachother.

“Soyoufeelbad,then?”sheteases.

Ilaughbecauseit’ssuchasimpleandconcisewaytodescribesomethingsocomplicated.Thetrainbrakessuddenlyandjostlesusevenclosertogether.Shedoesn’tmoveaway.

“Andyourmom?”sheasks.

“Prettygood,”Isay,andrealizethatImeanit.“She’skindoflikeme.She

paints. She’s artistic.” Funny, I’ve never thought of us being the same in thiswaybefore.“Nowyourturn.”

Shelooksatme.“RemindmeagainwhyIagreedtothis?”

“Want to stop?” I ask, even though Iknow she’ll sayno.She’s thekindofpersonwhofinisheswhatshestarts.“I’llmakeiteasyonyou.Youcanjustgivemeathumbs-uporthumbs-down,okay?”

Shenods.

“Mom?”Iask

Thumbs-up.

“Wayup?”

“Let’snotgooverboard.I’mseventeenandshe’smymom,”shesays.

“Dad?”

Thumbs-down.

“Waydown?”Iask.

“Way,way,waydown.”

“IT’SHARDTOLOVESOMEONEwhodoesn’t loveyouback,”Itellhim.Heopenshismouthandthenclosesitagain.Hewantstotellmethatofcoursemyfatherlovesme.Allparentslovetheirchildren,hewantstosay.Butthat’snottrue.Nothingiseveruniversal.Mostparentslovetheirchildren.It’struethatmymother loves me. Here’s another thing that’s also true: I ammy father’sgreatestregret.

HowdoIknow?

Hesaidsohimself.

SAMUEL KINGSLEY WAS CERTAIN BEING famous was his destiny.SurelyGodwouldn’thavegiftedhimwithallthistalentwithnoplacetodisplayit.

And then Patricia came along. Surely God wouldn’t have given him abeautifulwifeandchildrenifhedidn’tmeantoprovideforthem.

Samuel remembers themoment hemet her.Theywere still in Jamaica, inMontegoBay.It’dbeenrainingoutside,oneofthosetropicalstormsthatstartas suddenly as they stop.He’d ducked into a clothing store for shelter so hewouldn’tbesoakedforhisaudition.

Shewas the storemanager, so thefirst timehe sawher shewaswearinganametagandlookingveryofficial.Herhairwasshortandcurlyandshehadthebiggest,prettiest,shyesteyeshe’deverseen.Henevercouldresistashygirl—allthatcautionandmystery.

He’dquotedBobMarleyandRobertFrost.He’dsung.Patricianeverstoodachanceagainsttheforceofhischarm.Hisauditiontimecameandwent,buthedidn’tcare.Hecouldn’tgetenoughofthoseeyesthatwidenedsodramaticallyattheslightestflirtation.

Still,apartofhimhadsaidtostayaway.Someprescientpartofhimsawthetwopathsdivergingintheyellowwood.Maybeifhe’dchosentheotherpath,ifhe’dleftthestoreinsteadofstayed,itwould’vemadeallthedifference.

“KOREANFOOD?BESTFOOD.Healthy.Goodforyou,”IsaytoNatasha,imitating mymom. It’s something she says every time we go out to dinner.CharliealwayssuggestswegotoanAmericanplace,butMomandDadalwaystakeustoKorean,eventhoughweeatKoreanfoodathomeeveryday.Idon’tmindbecauseitturnsoutIagreewithmymom.Koreanfood?Bestfood.

Natasha and I don’t havemuch time left before her appointment, and I’mbeginningtodoubtthatIcanmakeherfallinlovewithmeinthenextcoupleofhours.ButIcanatleastmakeherwanttoseemeagaintomorrow.

Wewalkintomyfavoritesoondubujointtogreetingsof“Annyeonghaseyo”fromthestaff.Ilovethisplace,andtheirseafoodstewisalmostasgoodasmymom’s.It’snotfancyatall,justsmallwoodentablesinthecentersurroundedbyboothson theperimeter. It’snot crowded rightnow, sowemanage to snagabooth.

Natashaasksmetoorderforher.“I’lleatwhateveryoutellmeto,”shesays.

I ring the little bell attached to the table and a waitress appears almostinstantly.Iordertwoseafoodsoondubu,kalbi,andpajun.

“There’sabell?”sheasksafterthewaitressleaves.

“Awesome,right?We’reapracticalpeople,”Isay,onlyhalfkidding.“Takesallthemysteryoutoffoodservice.Whenwillmywaiterappear?WhenwillIgetthecheck?”

“DoAmerican restaurants know about this? Because we should tell them.Bellsshouldbemandatory.”

Ilaughandagree,butthenshetakesitback.

“No,Ichangedmymind.Canyouimaginesomejerkjustleaningonthebelldemandingketchup?”

Thepanchan,complimentarysidedishes,arrivealmostimmediately.Apartofmebraces tohave to explain toherwhat she’s eating.Once, a friendof afriendmade aWhat’s in this food? Is it dog? joke. I felt like shit but still Ilaughed.It’soneofthosemomentsthatmakesmewantthatDo-OverCard.

Natasha,though,doesn’taskanyquestionsaboutthefood.

Thewaitresscomesoverandhandsusbothchopsticks.

“Oh,canIhaveafork,please?”Natashaasks.

Thewaitressgivesheradisapprovinglookandturnstome.“Teachgirlfriendhowtousechopsticks,”shesays,andwalksaway.

Natashalooksatmewithwideeyes.“Doesthatmeanshe’snotgoingtobringmeafork?”

Ilaughandshakemyhead.“Whatthehell?”

“Iguessyoushouldteachmehowtousechopsticks,”shesays.

“Don’tworryabouther,”Isay.“Somepeoplearen’thappyuntileverythingisdonetheirway.”

She shrugs. “Every culture is like that. The Americans, the French, theJamaicans,theKoreans.Everyonethinkstheirwayisthebestway.”

“UsKoreansmightactuallyberight,though,”Isay,grinning.

Thewaitressreturnsandplacesthesoupandtwouncookedeggsinfrontofus.Shetossespaper-cladspoonsintothecenterofthetable.

“What’sthiscalled?”Natashaasks,whenthewaitressisoutofearshot.

“Soondubu,”Isay.

She watches me crack my egg into the soup and bury it under cubes ofsteaming tofu and shrimp and clams so it will cook. She does the same anddoesn’tmakeacommentaboutwhetherit’ssafetoeat.

“Thisisdelicious,”shesays,sippingaspoonful.Shepracticallywiggleswithpleasure.

“How come you call yourself Korean?” she asks after a few more sips.“Weren’tyoubornhere?”

“Doesn’tmatter.PeoplealwaysaskwhereI’mfrom.Iused tosayhere,butthentheyaskwhereareyoureallyfrom,andthenIsayKorea.SometimesIsayNorthKorea and thatmyparents and I escaped from awater dungeon filledwithpiranhaswhereKimJong-unwasholdingusprisoner.”

Shedoesn’tsmilelikeIexpectherto.ShejustasksmewhyIdothat.

“Becauseitdoesn’tmatterwhatIsay.Peopletakeonelookatmeandbelievewhattheywant.”

“That sucks,” she says, scooping up some kimchi and popping it into hermouth.Icouldwatchhereatallday.

“I’m used to it.My parents think I’m not Korean enough. Everybody elsethinksI’mnotAmericanenough.”

“Thatreallysucks.”Shemovesonfromthekimchitobeansprouts.“Idon’tthinkyoushouldsayyou’refromKorea,though.”

“Whynot?”

“Becauseit’snottrue.You’refromhere.”

I lovehowsimplethis isforher.I lovethathersolutiontoeverythingis totellthetruth.Istrugglewithmyidentityandshetellsmejusttosaywhat’strue.

“It’snotuptoyoutohelpotherpeoplefityouintoabox,”shesays.

“Dopeopledoittoyou?”

“Yeah,exceptI’mreallynotfromhere,remember?WemovedherewhenIwaseight.Ihadanaccent.ThefirsttimeIsawsnow,IwasinhomeroomandIwassoamazedIstooduptostareatit.”

“Ohno.”

“Ohyes,”shesays.

“Didtheotherkids—”

“Itwasn’tpretty.”Shemock-shiversatthememory.“Wanttohearsomethingevenworse?My first spelling quiz the teachermarked that I spelled favoritewrongbecauseIincludedtheu.”

“Thatiswrong.”

“Nope.”Shewavesherspoonatme.“ThecorrectEnglishspelling includestheu.SosayeththeQueenofEngland.Lookitup,Americanboy.Anyway,IwassuchalittlenerdthatIwenthomeandbroughtherthedictionaryandgotmypointsback.”

“Youdidn’t.”

“Idid,”shesays,smiling.

“Youreallywantedthosepoints.”

“Thosepointsweremine.”Shegiggles then,which isnota thing I thoughtshedid.Ofcourse, I’veonlyknownher for a fewhours, soobviously Idon’tknow everything about her yet. I love this part of getting to know someone.Howeverynewpieceof information, everynewexpression, seemsmagical. Ican’timaginethisbecomingoldandboring.Ican’timaginenotwantingtohearwhatshehastosay.

“Stopdoingthat,”shesays.

“What?”

“Staringatme.”

“Okay,” I say. Iunearthmyeggandsee that it’scookedperfectly toa softboil.“Let’seatthemtogether,”Itellher.“It’sthebestpart.”

Shescoopshersout,andnowwe’rebothsittingthereegginspoon,spooninhand.

“Onthree.One.Two.Three.”

We pop the eggs into ourmouths. I watch as her eyeswiden. I know themomenttheyolkburstsinhermouth.Shecloseshereyeslikethisisthemostdeliciousthingshe’severtasted.ShesaidnottostarebutI’mstaring.Ilovethewaysheseemstofeelthingswithherentirebody.Iwonderwhyagirlwhoissoobviouslypassionateissoadamantlyagainstpassion.

LEARNHOWTOUSECHOPSTICKS.Teachgirlfriendhowtousechopsticks.

Myson,hedid the same thing.Hedatewhitegirl.Myhusband?Hedon’tacceptit.Atfirst,Iagreewithhim.Wedon’tspeaktooursonforayearafterhe told us. I thought:We don’t talk to him.Make him see reason, come tosenses.

Wedon’t talkandImisshim.Imissmy littleboyandhisAmericanjokesandthewayhepinchmycheeksandtellmeI’mtheprettiestofalltheommas.My son, whowas never embarrassed ofmewhen all the other boys get tooAmerican.

Wedon’ttalktohimforoverayear.FinallywhenhecallIthinkthisisit.Hefinallyunderstand.Whitegirlwill neverunderstandus,neverbeKorean.Butonlycalltosayhe’sgettingmarried.Hewantsustocometowedding.Ihearinhisvoicehowmuchhelovesher.Ihearhowheloveshermorethanme.IhearthatifIdon’tgotohiswedding,Iwilllosemyonlyson.Myonlyson,wholovesme.

ButDaddy say no.My son begged us to come and I say no until he stopbegging.

Hegotmarried.IsawpicturesontheFacebook.

Theyhavefirstson.IsawpicturesontheFacebook.

Theyhaveanotherchild.Agirlthistime.

Mysohn-jah,andIonlyknowthemfromcomputer.

Nowwhentheseboyscomeinherewiththesegirlswhodon’tlookliketheirommas, I get angry. This country try to take everything from you. Yourlanguage,yourfood,yourchildren.

Learnhowtousechopsticks.

Thiscountrycan’thaveeverything.

JUST UNDER TWO HOURS to go before my appointment, and Danielreallywantstogotonorebang,whichistheKoreanwordforkaraoke.Karaokeis itself the Japanese word for embarrassing oneself by singing in front of aroomfilledwithstrangerswhoareonlytheretolaughatyou.

“It’s not like theAmerican version,” he insistswhen I balk. “This ismuchmorecivilized.”

Bycivilized,hemeansthatyouembarrassyourselfinasmall,privateroominfrontofonlyyourfriendsinstead.Hisfavoritenorebangplaceiscoincidentallyrightnextdoortowherewe’vejusthadlunch.It’sownedandoperatedbythesamepeople, sowedon’tevenhave togooutsidebecause there’sanentranceinsidetherestaurant.

Daniel chooses one of the smallest rooms, but it’s still big.They’re clearlymeanttoaccommodatepartiesofsixoreightinsteadofjusttwo.Theroomisdimly lit, and plush red leather couches linemost of the perimeter. A largesquarecoffeetablesitsjustinfrontofthecouches.Onitthere’samicrophone,acomplicated-lookingremote,andathickbookthathasSongMenuwrittenonthe cover in three languages. Next to the door there’s a large TVwhere thelyricswillappear.Adiscoballhangsfromtheceiling.

Bev would love this place. First, she has kind of an obsession with discoballs. She has four hanging from the ceiling of her room and a disco balllamp/clockcontraption.Second,she’sgotagreatvoiceandwilltakeanyexcusetouseitinfrontofgroupsofpeople.Icheckmyphoneformoretextsfromher,butthere’snothing.She’sjustbusy,Itellmyself.Shehasn’tforgottenaboutmealready.I’mstillhere.

Daniel closes thedoor. “I can’tbelieveyou’veneverbeen tonorebang,”hesays.

“Shocking,Iknow,”Isayback.

Withthedoorclosed,theroomfeelssmallandintimate.

Hegivesmealooklikehe’sthinkingthesamething.

“Let’sgetsomedessert,”hesays,andpressesabuttononthewallforservice.The samewaitress from the restaurant appears to takeourorder.Shedoesn’tbothertolookatme.Danielordersuspatbingsoo,whichturnsouttobeshavedicewithfruit,small,softricecakes,andsweetredbeans.

“Likeit?”heasks.It’simportanttohimthatIdo.

I finish it in six spoonfuls. What’s not to like? It’s sweet and cold anddelicious.

HebeamsatmeandIbeamback.

ObservableFact:Ilikemakinghimhappy.

ObservableFact:Idon’tknowwhenthathappened.

He grabs the song menu from the table and flips to the English section.Whileheagonizesoversongchoice, Iwatch theK-popvideosplayingon thetelevision.They’recandy-coloredandinfectious.

“Justchooseasong,”Itellhimwhenthethirdvideostarts.

“Thisisnorebang,”hesays.“Youdon’tjustchooseasong.Asongchoosesyou.”

“Tellmeyou’rekidding,”Isay.

Hewinks atme and begins loosening his tie. “Yes, I’m kidding, but pipedown. I’m trying to find something to properly impress you with my vocalstylings.”

Heunbuttonsthetopbuttonofhisshirt.Iwatchhishandsashepullsthetieoffoverhishead.It’snotlikehe’stakinghisclothesoff.It’snotlikehe’sgettingundressedrighthereinfrontofme.Butitfeelslikeheis.Ican’tseeanythingscandalous, justaquickglimpseof theskinathis throat.Hepulls therubberbandfromhishairandtossesittothetable.Hishairisjustlongenoughtofallinto his face, and he brushes it behind his ears absentmindedly. I can’t helpstaring.ItfeelslikeI’vebeenwaitingforhimtodothisallday.

Observablefact:Heisprettyhotwithhishairdown.

Observablefact:He’sprettyhotwithhishairuptoo.

Ipullmyeyesawayandstareattheairconditioneronthewallinstead.I’mconsideringadjustingthetemperaturedown.

Herollsuphissleeves,whichmakesmelaugh.He’sactinglikewe’reaboutto engage in serious physical labor. I’m trying not to notice the long, smoothlinesofhisforearms,butmyeyeskeeptravelingoverthem.

“Areyouagoodsinger?”Iask.

Helooksatmewithmocksolemnity,buthisdancingeyesgivehimaway.

“Notgonna lie,”he says. “I amgood. Italian-opera-singergood.”Hegrabstheremotetokeyinhissongchoice.“Areyou?”heasks.

Idon’tanswer.He’llfindoutsoonenough.Infact,mysingingwilldefinitelycurehimofthecrushhehasonme.

ObservableFact:Iamtheworstsingeronearth.

He stands up and walks to the open area in front of the television.Apparently,he’sgoing toneedspace tomaneuver.Headjustshis stanceuntilhisfeetareplantedwide,bowshisheadsothathishairobscureshisface,andholds themicrophone up in the air in one hand—classic rock star pose. It’s“TakeaChanceonMe”byABBA.Heputsahandoverhisheartandcroonsthefirstverse.Àlathesongtitle,it’sallabouttakingchances,specificallymetakingachanceonhim.

Bythesecondverse,he’swarmedupandthrowingmecheesypopstarlookswitheyebrowraises,penetratingstares,andpoutylips.Accordingtothelyrics,wecandosomanyfunthingsaslongaswe’retogether.Thefunthingsincludedancing,walking,talking,andlisteningtomusic.Strangely,there’snomentionofkissing.Hepantomimeseachactivitylikesomesortofderangedmime,andIcan’tstoplaughing.

Versethreehashimdownonhiskneesinfrontofme.There’ssomethinginthelyricsaboutfeelingallalonewhenprettybirdshaveflownthatIdon’tquiteunderstand.AmIthebird?Ishe?Whyaretherebirds?

For the rest of the songhe’sbackuponhis feet, gripping themicrophonewithbothhandsandsingingwithabandon.Myhystericallaughterdoesn’tfazehim.Also,hewasn’tkiddingaboutbeingagoodsinger.He’sexcellent.Heevendoes his own backing vocals, which consists of him singing “take a chance”overandoveragain.

And it’s not like he’s trying to be sexy. It’s just funny. So funny that itbecomessexy.Ididn’tknowfunnycoulddothat.Inoticethewayhisdressshirtstretches across his chest as he does his discomoves. I notice how long hisfingersarewhenherunshishandsthroughhishairdramatically.Inoticehowniceandfirmhisbuttlooksinhissuitpants.

ObservableFact:Ihaveathingforbutts.

Givenmycrappyday,noneofthisshouldbeworkingonme.Butitdefinitelyis.It’shiscompletelackofself-consciousness.Hedoesn’tcareifhe’smakingafoolofhimself.Hisonlygoalistomakemelaugh.

It’salongsong,andhe’shotandsweatybytheendofit.Afterhe’sdone,hewatches themonitoruntilacandy-pinkcartoonmicrophonedancesacross thescreenandholdsupasign:99%.Thescreenfillswithconfetti.

Igroan.“Youdidn’tsaytherewouldbegrades.”

Hethrowsmeatriumphantgrinandcollapsesontheseatrightnexttome.Ourforearmsbrushandseparateandbrushagain.Ifeelridiculousfornoticingit,butIdonoticeit.

Hemovesawaytoretrievethemicrophoneandhandittome.

“Bringit,”hesays.

IWISHI’DTHOUGHTABOUTdoingnorebangearlier.Beingalonewithherinadimlylitroomisalittlebitofheaven(discoheaven).She’sflippingthroughthe songbookandmakingnoises aboutbeinga terrible singer. I’m staringather,gettingmyfixin,becauseshe’stoodistractedtotellmetoquitdoingit.

Ican’tdecidewhatpartofherfaceismyfavorite.Rightnowitmightbeherlips.She’sholdingthebottomoneinherteethinwhatIthinkisherthe-agony-of-too-many-choicesface.

Finally she chooses. Instead of picking up the remote, she bends over thetabletoreachitandenterthecode.HerdresspullsupalittleandIcanseethebackofherthighs.Theyhavelittlecreasemarksfromthecouch.Iwanttowrapmyhandaroundthemandsmooththemarkswithmythumb.

SheturnstolookatmeandIcan’tevenpretendIwasn’tstaring.Idon’twantto. IwantherandIwanther toknowthat Iwanther.Shedoesn’t lookawayfromme.Her lipspart (they really are thenicest lips in theknownuniverse)andshetoucheshertonguetoherbottomone.

I’mgoingtogetupandI’mgoingtokissher.Noforceonearthcanstopme,exceptthathersongstartsandcrushesthemomentwithmelancholy.

I recognize the opening chords. It’s “Fell onBlackDays” bySoundgarden.The song starts with the band’s lead singer, Chris Cornell, telling us thateverythinghe’sfearedhascometolife.Itgoesallthewaydownhillfromthereuntilwegettothechorus,wherewelearnonebilliontimes(giveortake)thathe’sfallenonblackdays.Itis(objectivelyspeaking)oneofthemostdepressingsongseverwritten.

Nevertheless,Natasha loves it.She strangles themikewithbothhandsandsqueezes her eyes shut. Her singing is earnest and heartfelt and completelyawful.

It’snotgood.

Atall.

I’mprettysureshe’stone-deaf.Anynoteshedoeshitispurelycoincidental.Sheswaysawkwardlyfromsidetosidewithhereyesclosed.Shedoesn’tneedtoreadthelyricsbecausesheknowsthissongbyheart.

Bythetimeshegetstothefinalchorus,she’sforgottenaboutmetotally.Herawkwardnessmeltsaway.Thesingingisstillnotgood,butshe’sgotonehandover her heart and she’s belting a lyric about not knowing her fatewith realemotioninhervoice.

Mercifully,itends.It’sacureforhappiness,thatsong.Shepeeksatme.I’venever seenher lookshy.Shebitesherbottom lipagainandscrunchesupherface.She’sadorable.

“Ilovethatsong,”shesays.

“It’salittlemorose,isn’tit?”Itease.

“Alittleangstneverhurtanyone.”

“You’retheleastangst-riddenpersonI’veevermet.”

“Nottrue,”shesays.“I’mjustgoodatpretending.”

Idon’t thinkshemeant toadmit that tome.Idon’t thinkshe likestoshowhersoftspots.Sheturnsawayandputsthemikedownonthetable.

ButI’mnotlettinghergetawayfromthismoment.Igrabherhandandpullhertowardme.Shedoesn’tresist,andIdon’tstoppullinguntilthefulllengthsof our bodies are touching. I don’t stop pulling until she’s in my breathingspace.

“Thatwastheworstsingingever,”Isay.

Hereyesareshining.“ItoldyouIwasbad,”shesays.

“Youdidn’t.”

“InmyheadIdid.”

“AmIinyourhead?”Iaskher.

She’ssoclosethatIcanfeeltheslightheatfromherblush.

Iputmyhandonherwaist andburymyfingers inherhair.Anythingcanhappeninthebreathofspacebetweenus.Iwaitforher,forhereyestosayyes,andthenIkissher.HerlipsarelikesoftpillowsandIsinkintothem.Westart

outchaste,just lipstouching, tasting,butsoonwecan’tgetenough.Shepartsher lips and our tongues tangle and retreat and tangle again. I’m hardeverywhere but it feels too good, too right to be embarrassed about. She’smakinglittlemoaningsoundsthatmakemewanttokissherevenmore.

Idon’tcarewhatshesaysaboutloveandchemicals.Thiswillnotfadeaway.Thisismorethanchemistry.Shepullsaway,andhereyesareshimmeringblackstarslookingintomine.

“Comeback,”Isay,andkissherlikethere’snotomorrow.

I CAN’TSTOP. I DON’T want to stop.My body absolutely does not carewhat my brain thinks. I feel his kiss everywhere. The tips of my hair. Thecenterofmybelly.Thebacksofmyknees.Iwanttopullhimintome,andIwanttomeltintohim.

Wemovebackwardandthebackofmylegsbumpintothecouch.Heguidesmedownuntilhe’shalfontopofmebutwithonelegstillontheground.

Ineedtokeepkissing.Mybodyishectic.Ican’tgetenough.Ican’tgetcloseenough.Somethingchaoticand insistentbuilds insideme. I’marchingoff thecouchtogetclosertohimthanIalreadyam.Hishandsqueezesmywaistandtravels up to my chest. He brushes lightly over my breast. I wrap my armsaroundhisneckandthenthreadmyfingersintohishair.Finally.I’vewantedtodothatallday.

ObservableFact:Idon’tbelieveinmagic.

ObservableFact:Wearemagic.

HOLY…

…SHIT.

WECANNOTHAVESEXinthenorebang.We.

Can.

Not.

ButI’mgoingtogoaheadandadmitthatIwantto.IfIdon’tstopkissingherI’mgoingtoaskherto,andIdon’twanthertothinkI’mthekindofguywhowouldaskagirlhe’sjustmettohavesexinthenorebangaftertheirfirst(quasi)date,eventhoughI’mtotallythatkindofguybecauseJesusChrist,Ireallydowanttohavesexwithherrightnowrighthereinthenorebang.

MYHANDSCANNOTSTOPtouchinghim.Theyslidethemselvesoutofhishairanddowntothehard,shiftingmusclesofhisback.Oftheirownvolitiontheyslideoverhisbutt.

AsIsuspected,itisspectacular.Firmandroundandperfectlyproportioned.It’sthekindofbuttthatrequiresholding.Heshouldneverwearpants.

IpalmandsqueezeitanditfeelsevenbetterthanI’dexpected.

Hepusheshimselfup,armsoneithersideofmyhead,andsmilesatme.“It’snotamelon,youknow.”

“Ilikeit,”Isay,andsqueezeagain.

“It’syours,”hetellsme.

“Haveyoueverconsideredwearingchaps?”Iask.

“Absolutelynot,”hesays,laughingandblushing.

Ireallylikemakinghimblush.

He lowers himself and kissesme again. It feels like there’s no part ofmethat’snotbeingkissedrightnow.Idragmyhandsawayfromhisbuttanduptohisshoulderstoslowusdown.IfIkisshimanymore,it’sjustgoingtomakeitharderonmelater.

So.

Nomorekissing.

IFEELTHEHESITATION inherlips,andtobehonest,I’malittlefreakedoutbyhowintensethisistoo.Ipushmyselfupandpullheruptoseated.Ipalmthebackofherneckandrestmyforeheadagainsthers.We’rebothbreathingtoofast,tooragged.Iknewwehadchemistry,butIdidn’texpectthis.

We’rekindlingamidlightningstrikes.Alitmatchanddrywood.FireDangersignsandaforestwaitingtobeburned.

Ofallthewaystodaycould’vegone,Icouldn’thavepredictedthis.ButnowI’msurethateverythingthat’shappenedtodayhasbeenleadingmetoherandustothismomentandthismomenttotherestofourlives.

EvenCharlie’s academic probation fromHarvard feels like it’s part of theplantogetustothispoint.IfnotforCharlieandhisfuck-up,mymomwouldn’thavesaidwhatshedidthismorning.

If she hadn’t, I wouldn’t have left so early for the haircut that I have notgottenyet.

Iwouldn’thavegottenonthe7trainwiththetheologicalconductorlookingforGod.

Ifnotforhim,Iwouldn’thaveleftthesubwaytowalk,andIwouldn’thaveseenNatashahavingherreligiousmusicalexperience.Ifnotfortheconductor’stalkofGod,Iwouldn’thavenoticedherDEUSEXMACHINAjacket.

Ifnotforthatjacket,Iwouldn’thavefollowedherintotherecordstore.

Ifnotforherthievingex-boyfriend,Iwouldn’thavespokentoher.

EventhejerkintheBMWdeservessomecredit.Ifhehadn’trunthatred,Iwouldn’thavegottenasecondchancewithher.

Allofit,everything,wasleadingusbackhere.

Whenwe’rebothbreathingnormallyagain,Ikissthetipofhernose.

“Toldyou,”Isay,andkissitagain.

“Nosefetishist,”shesays,andthen:“Whatdidyoutellme?”

Ipunctuatemywordswithnosekisses.

“We.”

Kiss.

“Are.”

Kiss.

“Meant.”

Kiss.

“To.”

Kiss.

“Be.”

Kiss.

She pulls away. Her eyes have been replaced by storm clouds, and sheuntangles her limbs frommine. It’s hard to let her go, like pulling magnetsapart.DidIfreakheroutwithmytalkoffate?Shescootsoveronthecouchandputswaytoomuchspacebetweenus.Idon’twanttoletthemomentgo.AfewsecondsagoIthoughtitwouldlastforever.

“Wanttosinganotherone?”Iask.MyvoicerattlesandIclearmythroat.IlookoverattheTV.Wedidn’tgetachancetoseeherscorebeforewestartedkissing. It’s 89%, which is terrible. It’s pretty hard to get less than 90% innorebang.

SheglancesoverattheTVtoobutdoesn’tsayanything.Ican’tfathomwhat’shappeninginherhead.Why’ssheresistingthisthingbetweenus?Shetouchesherhair,pullsonastrandandletsitgo,pullsonanotherandletsitgo.

“I’msorry,”shesays.

Islideoverandclosethedistancesheputbetweenus.Herhandsareclaspedinherlap.

“Whatareyousorryfor?”Iask.

“Forrunninghotandcold.”

“Youweren’t socoldjustaminuteago,” I say,making theabsolute lamestjoke (along with puns, innuendos are the lowest form of humor) I could

possiblymakeinthismoment.Ievenwagglemyeyebrowsandthenwaitforherreaction.Thiscouldgoeitherway.

A smile overtakes her face. Those storm clouds in her eyes don’t stand achance.“Wow,”shesays,hervoicewarmaroundhersmile.“Yousurehaveawaywithwords.”

“Andtheladies,”Isay,hammingitupevenmore.I’llmakeafoolofmyselfjusttomakeherlaugh.

She laughs some more and leans back on the couch. “You sure you’requalifiedtobeapoet?ThatwastheworstlineI’veeverheard.”

“Youwereexpectingsomething—”

“Morepoetic,”shesays.

“Areyoukidding?Mostpoemsareaboutsex.”

She’sskeptical.“Doyouhaveactualdatatobackthatup?Iwannaseesomenumbers.”

“Scientist!”Iaccuse.

“Poet!”sheretorts.

Webothsmile,delightedandnottryingtohideourdelightfromeachother.

“Most poems I’ve seen are about love or sex or the stars. You poets areobsessedwithstars.Fallingstars.Shootingstars.Dyingstars.”

“Starsareimportant,”Isay,laughing.

“Sure,butwhynotmorepoemsaboutthesun?Thesunisalsoastar,andit’sourmostimportantone.Thataloneshouldbeworthapoemortwo.”

“Done.Iwillonlywritepoemsaboutthesunfromnowon,”Ideclare.

“Good,”shesays.

“Seriously,though?Ithinkmostpoemsareaboutsex.RobertHerrickwroteapoemcalled‘TotheVirgins,toMakeMuchofTime.’ ”

Shepulls her legsup to lotuspositionon the couch anddoublesoverwithlaughter.“Hedidnot.”

“Hedid,”Isay.“Hewasbasicallytellingvirginstolosetheirvirginityassoonaspossiblejustincasetheydied.Godforbidyoushoulddieavirgin.”

Her laughter fades. “Maybe he was just saying that we should live in themoment.Asiftodayisallwehave.”

She’sseriousagain,andsad,andIdon’tknowwhy.Shereststhebackofherneckagainstthesofaandlooksupatthediscoball.

“Tellmeaboutyourdad,”Isay.

“Idon’treallywanttotalkabouthim.”

“Iknow,buttellmeanyway.Whydoyousayhedoesn’tloveyou?”

Shepicksherheaduptolookatme.“You’rerelentless,”shesays,andflopsherheadbackagain.

“Persistent,”Isay.

“Idunnohowtosayit.Mydad’sprimaryemotionisregret.It’slikehemadesomegiantmistakeinhispast,likehetookawrongturn,andinsteadofendingupwhereverhewassupposedtobe,heendedupinthislifewithmeandmomandmybrotherinstead.”

Hervoicewobbleswhileshe’ssayingit,butshedoesn’tcry.Ireachoutandtake her hand and we both watch the TV screen. Her dancing score’s beenreplacedbyasoundlessadforAtlanticCitycasinos.

“Mymommakesthesebeautifulpaintings,”Isaytoher.“Reallyincredible.”

I can still picture the tears in her eyeswhenmydad gave her the present.She’dsaid,“Yeobo,youdidn’thavetodothat.”

“It’ssomethingonlyforyou,”hesaid.“Youusedtopaintallthetime.”

I was so surprised by that. I thought I knew everything aboutmymom—about both of them, really—but here was this secret history I didn’t knowabout.Iaskedherwhyshestoppedandshewavedherhandintheairlikeshewaswipingtheyearsaway.

“Longtimeago,”shesaid.

IkissNatasha’shandandthenconfess:“SometimesIthinkmaybeshemadeawrongturnhavingus.”

“Yes,butdoesshethinkthat?”

“Idon’tknow,”Isay.Andthen:“ButifIhadtoguess,IwouldsayI thinkshe’shappywiththewayherlifeturnedout.”

“That’sgood,”shesays.“Canyouimaginelivingyourwholelifethinkingyoumadeamistake?”Sheactuallyshuddersasshe’ssayingit.

I raise her hand to my lips and kiss it. Her breathing changes. I tug herforward,wantingtokissher,butshestopsme.

“Tellmewhyyouwanttobeapoet,”shesays.

I leanbackandrubmy thumboverherknuckles. “Idon’tknow. Imean, Idon’tevenknowifit’swhatIwantforacareeroranything.Idon’tgethowI’msupposedtoknowthatalready.AllIknowisIliketodoit.Ireallyliketodoit.Ihave thoughtsandIneed towrite themdown,andwhenIwrite themdowntheycomeoutaspoems.It’sthebestIeverfeelaboutmyselfbesides—”

Istoptalking,notwantingtofreakheroutagain.

Sheraisesherheadfromthesofa.“Besideswhat?”Hereyesarebright.Shewantstoknowtheanswer.

“Besidesyou.Youmakemefeelgoodaboutmyselftoo.”

Shepullsherhandoutofmine.Ithinkshe’sgoingintoretreatmodeagain,butno.Sheleansforwardandkissesmeinstead.

IKISSHIMTOGEThimtostoptalking.IfhekeepstalkingIwilllovehim,andIdon’twanttolovehim.Ireallydon’t.Asstrategiesgo,it’snotmyfinest.Kissingisjustanotherwayoftalkingexceptwithoutthewords.

ONEDAY IWILLWRITEANODE about kissing. Iwill call it “Ode to aKiss.”

Itwillbeepic.

WE’D PROBABLY STILL BE KISSING if our cranky waitress hadn’treturnedtodemandtoknowifwewantedanythingelsetoeat.Wedidn’t,anditwas time to go anyway. I still want to take him to theMuseum of NaturalHistory,myfavoriteplaceinNewYork.Itellhimthatandwewalkoutside.

After thedarkof thenorebang, thesunseems toobright.Andnot just thesun—everything seems too much. The city is much too loud and much toocrowded.

Forafewseconds,I’mdisorientedbythebusinessesstackedhighontopofeachotherwithKoreansignageuntilIrememberthatwe’reinKoreatown.ThissectionofthecityissupposedtolooklikeSeoul.Iwonderifitdoes.Isquintagainstthesunandcontemplategoingbackinside.I’mnotreadyfortherowdy,bustlingrealityofNewYorktoreassertitselfyet.

That’sthethoughtthatbringsmetomysenses:Reality.This is reality.Thesmell of rubber and exhaust, the sound of toomany cars going nowhere, thetasteofozoneintheair.Thisisreality.Inthenorebangwecouldpretend,butnotouthere.It’soneofthethingsIlikemostaboutNewYorkCity.Itdeflectsanyattemptsyoumaketolietoyourself.

Weturntoeachotheratthesametime.We’reholdinghands,buteventhatfeelslikepretendnow.Itugmyhandfromhistoadjustmybackpack.HewaitsformetogiveitbackbutI’mnotquitereadyyet.

AreaBoyIncapableofLeavingWellEnoughAlone

We’resittingsidebysideon the train,andeven though itkeepsjostlingustogether, I can feel her slipping away. No one is seated across from us; wewatcheachother inthewindow.Myeyesslidetoherfaceasshe looksaway.Hereyes slide tomineas Ido the same.Herbackpack’s inher lapand she’shuggingittoherchestlikeitmightgetupandwalkawayatanysecond.

Icouldreachoutandtakeherhand,forcetheissue,butIwanthertobetheonetodoitthistime.Iwanthertoacknowledgethisthingbetweenusoutloud.Ican’tleavewellenoughalone.Iwanthertosaythewords.We’remeanttobe.Something.Anything.Ineedtohearthem.ToknowthatI’mnotaloneinthis.

Ishouldletitgo.

Iamgoingtoletitgo.

“Whatareyousoafraidof?”Iask,notlettingitgoatall.

IHATEPRETENSE,BUTHERE IAM pretending. “What are you talkingabout?”Isaytohisreflectioninthesubwaywindowinsteadoftohim.

IALMOSTBELIEVETHATSHEdoesn’tknowwhatI’mtalkingabout.Oureyesmeetinthewindowlikeit’stheonlyplacewecanlookateachother.

“We’remeanttobe,”Iinsist.Itcomesoutallwrong—bossyandscoldingandpleadingallatthesametime.“Iknowyoufeelittoo.”

Shedoesn’tsayaword,justgetsupandgoestostandbythetraindoors.Ifangerwerelikeheat,I’dbeabletoseethewavesradiatingfromherbody.

Partofmewantstogotoherandapologize.Partofmewantstodemandtoknowjustwhatherproblemisanyway.ImakemyselfremainseatedforthetwostopsleftuntilthetrainfinallyscreechesintotheEighty-FirstStreetstation.

The doors open. She pushes her way through the crowd and runs up thestairs.Assoonaswe’reatthetop,sheshuntsustothesideandswingsaroundtofaceme.

“Don’t you tell me what to feel,” she whisper-shouts. She’s going to saysomethingelsebutdecidesagainstit.Instead,shewalksawayfromme.

She’sfrustrated,butnowIamtoo.Icatchupwithher.

“What’syourproblem?”IactuallythrowmyhandsupintheairasIsayit.

Idon’twanttobefightingwithher.CentralParkisjustacrossthestreet.Thetrees are lush and beautiful in their fall colors. Iwant towander through theparkwithherandwritepoemsinmynotebook.Iwanthertomakefunofmeforwritingpoems inmynotebook. Iwanther toeducatemeon thehowandwhytheleaveschangecolor.I’msuresheknowstheexactscienceofit.

Sheswingsherbackpackontobothshouldersandcrossesherarmsinfrontofherbody.“Meant-to-bedoesn’texist,”shesays.

Idon’twanttohaveaphilosophicaldiscussion,soIconcede.“Okay,butifitdid,then—”

She cutsme off. “No. Enough. It just doesn’t. And even if it did, we aredefinitelynot.”

“Howcanyousay that?” IknowI’mbeingunreasonableand irrationalandprobablylotsofotherthingsIshouldn’tbe.Thisisnotsomethingyoucanfightwithanotherpersonabout.

Youcan’tpersuadesomeonetoloveyou.

Asmallbreezerustlestheleavesaroundus.It’scoldernowthanit’sbeenallday.

“Because it’s true. We’re not meant to be, Daniel. I’m an undocumentedimmigrant.I’mbeingdeported.TodayismylastdayinAmerica.TomorrowI’llbegone.”

Maybe there’s anotherway to interpret herwords.My brain picks out themost important ones and rearranges them, hoping for a different meaning. Ieventrytocomposeaquickpoem,butthewordswon’tcooperate.Theyjustsitthere,tooheavyformetopickup.

Last.

Undocumented.

America.

Gone.

ORDINARILYSOMETHINGlikethis—fightinginpublic—wouldembarrassme,but IbarelyevennoticeanyoneexceptDaniel. If I’mhonestwithmyself,it’sbeenlikethisallday.

Hepresseshisforeheadintohishandsandhishairformsacurtainaroundhisface.Idon’tknowwhatI’msupposedtosayordonow.Iwanttotakethewordsback.Iwanttokeeppretending.It’smyfaultthatthingswentsofar.Ishould’vetoldhimfromthebeginning,but Ididn’t thinkwe’dget to thispoint. Ididn’tthinkIwouldfeelthismuch.

“IPOSTPONEDMYAPPOINTMENTbecauseofyou.”MyvoiceissoquietthatIdon’tknowifImeanforhertohearme,butshedoes.

Her eyeswiden. She starts to say three different things before settling on:“Wait.Thisismyfault?”

I’mdefinitelyaccusingherofsomething.I’mnotsurewhat.Abikecourierhopsontothesidewalkalittletooclosetous.Someoneyellsathimtousethestreet.Iwanttoyellathimtoo.Followtherules,Iwanttosay.

“Youcould’vewarnedme,”Isay.“Youcould’vetoldmeyouwereleaving.”

“Ididwarnyou,”shesays,defensivenow.

“Notenough.Youdidn’tsayyou’dbe livinginanothercountry in less thantwenty-fourhours.”

“Ididn’tknowthatwe’d—”

Iinterrupther.“Youknewwhenwemetwhatwasgoingonwithyou.”

“Itwasn’tyourbusinessthen.”

“Andit isnow?”Eventhoughthesituationishopeless,justhearinghersayit’smybusinessnowgivesmesomehope.

“Itriedtowarnyou,”sheinsistsagain.

“Nothardenough.Here’showyoudoit.Youopenyourmouthandyousaythetruth.Noneofthiscrapaboutnotbelievinginloveandpoetry.‘Daniel,I’mleaving,’yousay.‘Daniel,don’tfallinlovewithme,’yousay.”

“Ididsaythosethings.”She’snotyelling,butshe’snotbeingquieteither.

Averyfashionable toddler inapeacoatgivesuswideeyesand tugsonherfather’shand.Atyrannyoftourists(completewithguidebooks)checksusoutlikewe’reondisplay.

Ilowermyvoice.“Yes,butIdidn’tthinkyoumeantthem.”

“Whosefaultisthat?”shedemands.

Idon’thaveanythingtosaytothat,andwejuststareateachother.

“You can’t really be falling for me,” she says, quieter now. Her voice issomewherebetweendistressanddisbelief.

Again I don’t have anything to say. Even I’m surprised by howmuch I’vebeenfeelingforherallday.Thethingaboutfallingisyoudon’thaveanycontrolonyourwaydown.

Itrytocalmtheairbetweenus.“Whycan’tIbefallingforyou?”Iask.

She tugshardon the straps ofher backpack. “Because that’s stupid. I toldyounotto—”

And now I’ve had enough.My heart’s been onmy sleeve all day, and it’sprettybruisedupnow.

“Justgreat.Youdon’tfeelanything?WasIkissingmyselfbackthere?”

“Youthinkafewkissesmeanforever?”

“Ithinkthosekissesdid.”

She closes her eyes.When she opens them again, I think I see pity there.“Daniel—”shebegins.

Icutheroff.Idon’twantpity.“No.Whatever.Idon’twanttohearit.Igetit.Youdon’tfeelthesame.You’releaving.Haveanicelife.”

Itakealloftwostepsbeforeshesays,“You’rejustlikemyfather.”

“I don’t even knowyour father,” I saywhile puttingmy jacket on. It feelstightersomehow.

She foldsher arms acrossher chest. “Doesn’tmatter.You’re just likehim.Selfish.”

“Iamnot.”NowI’mdefensive.

“Yesyouare.Youthinktheentireworldrevolvesaroundyou.Yourfeelings.Yourdreams.”

Ithrowmyhandsup.“Thereisnothingwrongwithhavingdreams.Imaybeastupiddreamer,butatleastIhavethem.”

“Why is that a virtue?” she demands. “All you dreamer types think theuniverseexistsjustforyouandyourpassion.”

“Betterthannothavinganyatall.”

Shenarrowshereyesatme,readytodebate.“Really?Why?”

Ican’tbelieveIhavetoexplainthis.“That’swhatwe’reputonearthtodo.”

“No,” she says, shaking her head. “We’re put here to evolve and survive.That’sit.”

Iknew she’dbring science into it. She can’t reallybelieve that. “Youdon’tbelievethat,”Isay.

“Youdon’tknowmewellenoughtosaythat,”shesays.“Besides,dreamingisaluxuryandnoteveryonehasit.”

“Yes, butyou do.You’re afraid of becoming your dad.You don’t want tochoosethewrongthing,soyoudon’tchooseanythingatall.”Iknowthere’sabetterwayformetotellherthis,butI’mnotfeelinglikemybestselfrightnow.

“IalreadyknowwhatIwanttobe,”shesays.

Ican’tstopmyselffromscoffing.“Adatascientistorwhatever?That’snotapassion.It’sjustajob.Havingdreamsneverkilledanybody.”

“Nottrue,”shesays.“Howcanyoubethisnaïve?”

“Well,I’dratherbenaïvethanwhateveritisyouare.Youonlyseethingsthatarerightinfrontofyourface.”

“Betterthanseeingthingsthataren’tthere.”

Andnowwe’reatanimpasse.

Thesunhidesbehindacloudandacoolbreezeblowsoverus fromacrossCentralPark.Wewatcheachotherforalittlewhile.Shelooksdifferentoutofthesunlight.IimagineIdotoo.ShethinksI’mnaïve.Morethanthat,shethinksI’mridiculous.

Maybeit’sbetter toendthingsthisway.Better tohaveatragicandsuddenend than to have a long, drawn-out onewherewe realize thatwe’re just toodifferent,andthatlovealoneisnotenoughtobindus.

Ithinkallthesethings.Ibelievenoneofthem.

Thewindpicksupagain. It stirsherhaira little. Icanpicture itwithpinktipssoclearly.Iwould’velikedtoseeit.

“YOUSHOULDGO,”ITELLHIM.“Sothat’sit?”heasks.

I’mgladhe’s being a jerk. Itmakes things easier. “Are you thinking at allabout me? I wonder how Natasha’s feeling. How did she get to be anundocumented immigrant? Does she want to go live in a country she doesn’tknowatall?Isshecompletelydevastatedbywhat’shappeningtoherlife?”

Ireadguiltonhisface.Hetakesasteptowardme,butIbackup.

Hestopsmoving.

“You’re justwaiting for someone to save you.Don’t want to be a doctor?Don’tbeadoctor,then.”

“It’snotthatsimple,”hesaysquietly.

Inarrowmyeyesathim.“Toquoteyoufromfiveminutesago.Here’showyoudo it:Youopenyourmouthandsaywhat’s true. ‘MomandDad? Idon’twanttobeadoctor,’yousay.‘IwanttobeapoetbecauseIamstupidanddon’tknowbetter,’yousay.”

“Youknowit’snotthateasy,”hesays,evenquieterthanbefore.

Itugonthestrapsonmybackpack.It’stimetogo.We’rejustdelayingtheinevitable.“YouknowwhatIhate?”Iask.“Ireallyhatepoetry.”

“Yeah,Iknow,”hesays.

“Shutup.Ihateit,butIreadsomethingoncebyapoetnamedWarsanShire.It says that you can’t make a home out of human beings, and that someoneshould’vetoldyouthat.”

Iexpecthimtotellmethatthesentimentisnottrue.Ievenwanthimto,buthedoesn’tsayanything.

“Yourbrotherwasright.There’snoplacefor this togo.Besides,youdon’tloveme,Daniel.You’rejustlookingforsomeonetosaveyou.Saveyourself.”

AreaTeenConvincedThatHisLifeIsCompleteandUtterShit

HowIwanthertoberight.HowIwantnottobefallinginlovewithheratall.

Iwatchherwalkaway,andIdon’tstopherorfollowher.WhatanabsoluteidiotI’vebeen.I’vebeenactinglikesomemystical,crystal-worshipingdummy.Ofcoursethisiswhat’shappeningnow.Allthisnonsensicaltalkaboutfateanddestinyandmeant-to-be.

Natasha’s right.Life is just a seriesofdumbdecisions and indecisions andcoincidencesthatwechoosetoascribemeaningto.Schoolcafeteriaoutofyourfavoritepastrytoday?Itmustbebecausetheuniverseistryingtokeepyouonyourdiet.

Thanks,Universe!

Youmissedyourtrain?Maybethetrain’sgoingtoexplodeinthetunnel,orPatientZeroforsomehorriblebirdflu(waterfowl,goose,pterodactyl)isonthattrain,andthankgoodnessyouweren’tonitafterall.

Thanks,Universe!

Noonebothers tofollowupwithdestiny, though.Thecafeteria just forgottherewasanotherboxintheback,andyougotasliceofcakefromyourfriendanyway. You fumed while waiting for another train, but one came alongeventually.Noonediedonthetrainyoumissed.Noonesomuchassneezed.

Wetellourselvestherearereasonsforthethingsthathappen,butwe’rejusttellingourselvesstories.Wemakethemup.Theydon’tmeananything.

FATEHASALWAYSBEENtherealmofthegods,thougheventhegodsaresubjecttoit.

In ancientGreekmythology, the Three Sisters of Fate spin out a person’sdestinywithin three nights of their birth. Imagine your newborn child in hisnursery. It’sdarkand soft andwarm, somewherebetween twoand foura.m.,oneofthosehoursthatbelongexclusivelytothenewlybornorthedying.

The first sister—Clotho—appears next to you. She’s amaiden, young andsmooth.Inherhandssheholdsaspindle,andonitshespinsthethreadsofyourchild’slife.

Next to her is Lachesis, older and more matronly than her sister. In herhands, she holds the rod used tomeasure the thread of life. The length anddestinyofyourchild’slifeisinherhands.

FinallywehaveAtropos—old,haggardly.Inevitable.Inherhandssheholdstheterribleshearsshe’llusetocutthethreadofyourchild’slife.Shedeterminesthetimeandmannerofhisorherdeath.

Imaginetheawesomeandawfulsightofthesethreesisterspressedtogether,presidingoverhiscrib,determininghisfuture.

In modern times, the sisters have largely disappeared from the collectiveconsciousness, but the idea of Fate hasn’t.Why do we still believe? Does itmaketragedymorebearabletobelievethatweourselveshadnohandinit,thatwecouldn’thavepreventedit?Itwasalwayseverthus.

Thingshappenforareason,saysNatasha’smother.WhatshemeansisFatehas a Reason and, though youmay not know it, there’s a certain comfort inknowingthatthere’saPlan.

Natasha is different. She believes in determinism—cause and effect. Oneaction leads to another leads to another.Your actionsdetermineyour fate. In

thiswayshe’snotunlikeDaniel’sdad.

Daniel lives in the nebulous space in between.Maybe he wasn’t meant tomeetNatashatoday.Maybeitwasrandomchanceafterall.

But.

Oncetheymet,therestofit,thelovebetweenthem,wasinevitable.

I’MNOTGOINGTOLET thisthingwithDanielstopmefromgoingtothemuseum.Thisisoneofmyfavoriteareasofthecity.Thebuildingsherearen’tquite as tall as those in Midtown. It’s nice being able to see patches ofuninterruptedsky.

Tenminutes later, I’m in themuseum inmy favorite section—theHall ofMeteorites.Mostpeopleheadrightthroughthisroomtothegemstoneonenextdoor,withitsflashypreciousandsemipreciousrocks.ButIlikethisone.Ilikehowdarkandcoolandspareitis.Ilikethatthere’shardlyeveranyonehere.

All around the room, vertical cases with shining spotlights display smallsectionsofmeteorites.ThecaseshavenameslikeJewelsfromSpace,BuildingPlanets,andOriginsoftheSolarSystem.

Iheadrightovertomyfavoriteofallthemeteorites—Ahnighito.It’sactuallyjustasectionofthemuchlargerCapeNewYorkmeteor.Ahnighitoisthirty-fourtonsofironandisthelargestmeteoriteondisplayinanymuseum.Istepup to the platform that it sits on and trailmy hands across it. The surface ismetal-coldandpockmarkedfromthousandsoftinyimpacts.Iclosemyeyes,letmyfingersdipinandoutofthedivots.It’shardtobelievethatthishunkofironis from outer space.Harder still to believe that it contains the origins of thesolar system. This room is my church, and standing on this platform is mypillar.TouchingthisrockistheclosestIevercometobelievinginGod.

This iswhere Iwould’ve takenDaniel. Iwould’ve toldhim towritepoetryabout space rocks and impact craters. The sheer number of actions andreactions it’s taken to form our solar system, our galaxy, our universe, isastonishing.Thenumberofthingsthathadtogoexactlyrightisoverwhelming.

Comparedtothat,whatisfallinginlove?Aseriesofsmallcoincidencesthatwesaymeanseverythingbecausewewanttobelievethatourtinylivesmatteron a galactic scale. But falling in love doesn’t even begin to compare to the

formationoftheuniverse.

It’snotevenclose.

“Symmetries”

APoembyDanielJaeHoBae

Iwill

stayonmy

side.Andyouwill

stayonan-

other

MYFATHERANDIWEREcloseonce.InJamaica,andevenafterwemovedhere, we were inseparable. Most times it felt like me and my dad—theDreamers—againstmymomandmybrother—theNon-Dreamers.

HeandIwatchedcrickettogether.Iwashisaudiencewhenheranlinesforauditions.WhenhewasfinallyafamousBroadwayactor,hewouldgetmeallthebestpartsforlittlegirls,he’dsay.Ilistenedtohisstoriesabouthowourlifewouldbeafterhebecame famous. I listened longaftermymomandbrotherhadstoppedlistening.

Thingsstartedtochangeaboutfouryearsago,whenIwasthirteen.Mymomgotsickoflivinginaone-bedroomapartment.AllherfriendsinJamaicalivedin their own houses. She got sick of my dad working in the same job forbasically the samepay.Shegot sickofhearingwhatwouldhappenwhenhisshipcamein.Sheneversaidanythingtohim,though,onlytome.

You children too big to be sleeping in the living room now. You need youprivacy.

Inevergoingtohavearealkitchenandarealfridge.Istimeforhimtogiveupthatfoolishnessnow.

Andthenhelosthisjob.Idon’tknowifhewasfiredorlaidoff.Mymomsaidoncethatshethoughthequit,butshecouldn’tproveit.

On theday ithappenedhe said: “Maybe isablessing indisguise.Givememoretimetopursuemeacting.”

Idon’tknowwhohewastalkingto,butnooneresponded.

Now that he wasn’t working, he said he would audition for roles. But hehardlyeverdid.Therewasalwaysanexcuse:

Menotrightforthatpart.

Themnotgoingtolikemeaccent,man.

Megettingtoooldnow.Actingisayoungmangame.

Whenmymomgothomefromwork in theevening,myfather toldherhewastrying.ButmybrotherandIknewbetter.

Istillrememberthefirsttimewesawhimdisappearintoaplay.PeterandIhadwalkedhomefromschool.Weknewsomethingstrangewasupbecausethefrontdoorwashangingopen.Ourfatherwasinthelivingroom—ourbedroom.Idon’tknowifhedidn’thearuscomein,buthedidn’treact.Hewasholdingabookinhishand.LaterIrealizeditwasactuallyaplay—ARaisinintheSun.

Hewaswearingawhitebutton-upshirtandslacksandrecitingthelines.I’mnot sure why he was even holding the play because he already had itmemorized. I still remember parts of the monologue. The character saidsomethingaboutseeinghisfuturestretchedoutinfrontofhimandhowit—thefuture—wasjustaloomingemptyspace.

Whenmyfatherfinallynoticeduswatching,hescoldedusforsneakinguponhim.AtfirstIthoughthewasjustembarrassed.Noonelikesbeingcaughtunawares.Later,though,Irealizeditwasmorethanthat.Hewasashamed,asifwe’dcaughthimcheatingorstealing.

AfterthatheandIdidn’tdomuchofanythingtogetheranymore.Hestoppedwatchingcricket.Heturneddownallmyofferstohelphimmemorizelines.Hisside of my parents’ bedroom grew more cluttered with stacks of used andyellowedpaperbacksoffamousplays.Heknewalltheroles,notjusttheleadsbutthebitpartsaswell.

Eventuallyhestoppedwithallpretenseofauditioningor lookingforajob.Mymom gave up the pretense that we’d ever own a house or even find anapartmentwithmorethanonebedroom.Shetookextrashiftsatworktomakeendsmeet.Lastsummer,IgotajobatMcDonald’sinsteadofvolunteeringatNewYorkMethodisthospitallikeIusedto.

It’sbeenover threeyearsof this.Wecomehomefromschool to findhimlocked in his bedroom, running lines with no one. His favorite parts are thelong, dramatic monologues. He is Macbeth and Walter Lee Younger. Hecomplainsbitterlyaboutthisorthatactorandhislackofskill.Heheapspraiseonthosehejudgestobegood.

Twomonthsago, throughnofaultofhisown,hegotapart.Someonehe’dmetyearsagoduringoneofhisauditionswasstagingaproductionofARaisinin theSun.Whenhe toldmymom, thefirst thingsheaskedwas“Howmuch

yougettingpaid?”

NotCongratulations.NotI’msoproudofyou.NotWhichpart?orWhenisit?orAreyousoexcited?JustHowmuchyougettingpaid?

Shelookedathimwithflateyeswhenshesaidit.Unimpressedeyes.Tiredeyesthathadjustcomeofftwoshiftsinarow.

I thinkwewereall a little shocked.She’deven shockedherself.Yes, she’dbeenfrustratedwithhimforyears,butthatonemomentshowedusallhowfaraparttheyreallywerenow.EvenPeter,whosideswithmymotherinallthings,flinchedalittle.

Still.Youcouldn’tfaulther.Notreally.Myfatherhadbeendreaminghislifeawayforyears.Helivedinthoseplaysinsteadoftherealworld.Hestilldoes.Mymotherdidn’thavetimefordreaminganymore.

NeitherdoI.

HE’S A LITTLE AFRAID OF NATASHA, to be honest. The things she’sinterested in now? Chemistry and physics and math. Where did they comefrom? Sometimes when he looks at her doing her homework at the kitchentable,hethinksshebelongstosomeoneelse.Herworldisbiggerthanhimandthethingshetaughthertobeinterestedin.Hedoesn’tknowwhensheoutgrewhim.

Onenight after she andPeter had gone tobed, hewent to thekitchen forwater. She’d left hermath book and homework on the table. Samuel doesn’tknowwhat overcame him, but he turned on the light, sat down, and flippedthroughthebook.It lookedlikehieroglyphics, likesomeancientlanguageleftbyatimeandapeoplehecouldneverhopetounderstand.Itfilledhimwithakind of dread. He sat there for a long time, running his fingers over thesymbols, wishing his skin were porous enough to let all the knowledge andhistoryoftheworldin.

After that night, every time he looked at her he had the vague sense thatsomeonehadcomeinwhenhewasn’tlookingandsnatchedhissweetlittlegirlaway.

Sometimes,though,hestillcatchesaglimpseoftheoldNatasha.She’llgivehim a look like she used to when she was younger. It’s a look that wantssomething from him.A look that wants him to bemore, domore, and lovemore.Heresentsit.Sometimesheresentsher.Hasn’thedoneenoughalready?She’shisfirstchild.He’salreadygivenupallhisdreamsforher.

I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO with myself now. I’m supposed to beblowingwiththewind,butthere’snowindanymore.IwanttogetahobooutfitandasandwichboardandscrawlWhatnow,Universe?acrossit.Nowmightbeagoodtimetoadmitthattheuniverseisnotpayingattention,though.

It’sfairtosaythatIhateeverythingandeveryone.

Theuniverseisanasshole,justlikeCharlie.

Charlie.

Thatsackofshit.

Charlie, who told my would-be girlfriend that we didn’t stand a chance.Charlie,whoaccusedherofbeinga shoplifter.Charlie,who toldher Ihadasmalldick.Charlie,whoI’vewantedtopunchinthefaceforelevenyearsnow.

Maybethisisthewind.MyhateforCharlie.

Notimelikethepresent.

I’vegotnothinglefttolosetoday.

THEPARALEGALISALITTLEmorerumpledwhenIseeherthistime.Alockofherhairisoutofplaceandfallsintohereyes.Hereyesareglitterunderthe fluorescent lights, andherbright red lipstick isgone.She looks like she’sbeenkissed.

I checkmyphone tomake sure I’mnot too early or late, but I’m right ontime.

“Welcomeback,Ms.Kingsley.Followme,please.”

She stands and begins walking. “Jeremy—I mean, Mr. Fitz—I mean,AttorneyFitzgeraldisjustthroughhere.”

Sheknocksquietlyattheonlydoorandwaits,eyesevenbrighterthanbefore.

Thedoorswingsopen.

Imightaswellnotbestandingthere,becauseAttorneyFitzgeralddoesn’tseemeatall.Helooksathisparalegalinawaythatmakesmewanttoapologizeforintruding.She’slookingathiminthesameway.

Iclearmythroatveryloudly.

Finallyhedragshiseyesawayfromher.“Thankyou,Ms.Winter,”hesays.Hemightaswellbedeclaringhislove.

I follow him. He sits down at his desk and presses his fingers against histemples.He’sgotasmallbandagejustabovehiseyebrowandanotheraroundhiswrist.Helookslikeanolderandmoreharriedversionofthepictureonhiswebsite.Theonlythingsthatarethesamearethathe’swhite,andhiseyesarebrightgreen.

“Sitsitsitsit,”hesays,all inonebreath.“Sorryforthedelay.Ihada littleaccidentthismorning,butnowwedon’thavemuchtime,soplease,tellmehowthisallcametopass.”

I’mnotsurewheretobegin.ShouldItellthislawyertheentirehistory?WhatshouldIinclude?IfeellikeIneedtogobackintimetoexplainitall.

ShouldItellhimaboutmyfather’saborteddreams?ShouldItellhimthatIthinkdreamsneverdieevenwhenthey’redead?ShouldItellhimthatIsuspectmy father lives a better life in his head? In that life, he’s renowned andrespected.Hiskidslookuptohim.Hiswifewearsdiamondsandistheenvyofmenandwomenalike.

Iwouldliketoliveinthatworldtoo.

Idon’tknowwheretobegin,soIstartwiththenightheruinedourlives.

THETHEATERWASEVENSMALLERthanPeterandIexpected.ThesignsaidMAXIMUMCAPACITY:40PEOPLE.Ticketswerefifteendollarseach,withtheproceedsgoingtocovertherentalofthespacefortwohoursonaWednesdaynight.Theactorsweren’tgivencomplimentaryticketsforfriendsandfamily,sohehadtobuythreeforus.

Myfatherlovesritualandceremonybuthasveryfewthingstoberitualisticorceremonialabout.Nowhehadthisplay,andthesetickets.Hecouldn’thelphimself. First he went out and picked up Chinese takeout—General Tso’schickenandshrimpfriedriceforeveryone.

Hesatusalldownattheverysmalltableinourkitchen.Wenevereatatthetable,becauseit’scrampedwithmorethantwopeoplesittingatit.Thatnight,though, he insisted we eat together as a family. He even served us himself,whichisathingthathadneverhappenedbefore.Tomymomhesaid,“See?Igotpaperplatessoyoudon’thaveabunchofdishestowashuplater.”HesaiditwithaperfectAmericanaccent.

Mymomdidn’trespond.Weshould’vetakenthatasasign.

Assoonasweweredoneeating,hestoodandheldaplainwhiteenvelopeupintheairlikeitwasatrophy.

“Let’sseewhatwehavefordessert,”hesaid.Hemade,andheld,eyecontactwith each of us in turn. I watched asmymom cut her eyes away from himbeforehemovedontoPeterandthentome.

“Myfamily.PleasedometheverygreathonorofcomingtoseemeperformtheroleofWalterLeeYoungerintheVillageTroupe’sproductionofARaisinintheSun.”

Then he opened the envelope slowly, like hewas at theAcademyAwardsannouncingtheBestActorcategory.Hetookouttheticketsandhandedoneto

eachofus.Helookedsoproud.Morethanthat,helookedsopresent.Forafewminutes,hewasn’t lost inhishead,oraplay,orsomedreamfantasy.Hewasrighttherewithus,andhedidn’twanttobesomewhereelse.I’dforgottenwhatthatwaslike.Hehasthisgazethatcanmakeyoufeelseen.

There was a time when my father thought the world of me, and I reallymisseditrightthen.Morethanthat,though?ImissedthedayswhenIthoughttheworldofhim,andthoughthecoulddonowrong.Iusedtobelievethatallittook tomake him happy was us, his family. There are pictures ofme fromwhenIwasthreewearingaMYDADISTHECOOLESTT-shirt.On it therewasafatherpenguinandadaughterpenguinholdinghands, surroundedby icybluehearts.

IwishIstillfeltthatway.Growingupandseeingyourparents’flawsislikelosingyourreligion.Idon’tbelieveinGodanymore.Idon’tbelieveinmyfathereither.

Mymotherkissedherteethwhenhegavehertheticket.Shemightaswellhaveslappedhim.“Youandyoufoolishness,”shesaid,andstoodup.“Youcankeepyouticket.Inotgoinganywhere.”

Shewalkedoutofthekitchen.Welistenedasshewalkedthetwentystepstothebathroomandslammedthedoorwithallhermight.

Noneofusknewwhattosay.Peterslumpedinhischairandhunghisheadso you couldn’t findhis face under his dreadlocks. I just looked at the spacewhereshe’dbeen.Myfather’seyesdisappearedbehindhisdreamingveil.Inhistypicaldenial-of-realityway,hesaid:

“Don’tworry’boutyoumother.Shedon’tmeanit,man.”

Butshedidmeanit.Shedidn’tgowithus.EvenPetercouldn’tconvinceher.Shesaidtheticketpricewasawasteofherhard-earnedmoney.

Onthenightoftheshow,PeterandItookthesubwayalonetothetheater.My father had gone ahead to get ready. We sat in the first row and didn’tmentiontheemptyseatnexttous.

Iwanttobeabletosaynowthathewasnotgood.Thathistalentswereonlymediocre.Mediocrewouldexplainall theyearsof rejection. Itwouldexplainwhyhegaveupandretreatedfromreallifeandintohishead.AndIdon’tknowifIcanseemyfatherclearly.MaybeI’mstillseeingwithmyold,hero-worshipeyes,butwhatIsawwasthis:

Hewasexcellent.

Hewastranscendent.

Hebelongedonthatstagemorethanhe’severbelongedwithus.

AreaTeenPrettySureDayCan’tGetWorse,IsWrongAboutThat

Mydad’swithacustomerwhenIwalkin.Hiseyestellmethathewillhavemanythingstosaytomelater.

Imightaswellgiveussomemoretotalkabout.

It’s just after the lunch rush, so the store’s pretty empty. There’s only oneothercustomer—awomanlookingatblowdryers.

Idon’t seeCharliecleaningor restockinganyof theshelves, so I figurehemustbeslackingoffinthestockroomintheback.

I’mnotevennervous.Idon’tgiveashitifhebeatsmyfacein,solongasIsaywhatIhavetosayfirst. Idropmyjacketoutsidethestockroomdoorandturnthehandle,butit’slocked.There’snoreasonforittobelockedwithhiminit.He’sprobablyjackingoffinthere.

HepullsthedooropenbeforeIcanpoundonit.Insteadofhisusualsneer,hisfaceisacombinationoftiredanddefensive.Hemust’vethoughtitwasmydadtryingtogetin.

Assoonasheseesit’sjustme,hisfacegoesintofullsuperiorassholesmirk.Hemakesashowoflookingovermyshoulderandaroundme.

“Where’s your girlfriend?” He says girlfriend like it’s a joke, the way youwouldsayawordlikebooger.

Istandtherelookingathim,tryingtofigureoutnothowwe’rerelated,butwhy.Hepushespastme,deliberatelybumpingintomyshoulder.

“Shedumpyoualready?”heasks,aftertakingaquicklookdownacoupleofaislestoverifythatshe’sreallynothere.Hisshit-eatinggrinisfirmlyinplace.

He’sbaitingme,Iknow.Iknowit,andstill—I’mlettingthehookpiercemelike somedumbfish that’sbeenhookedabillion timesbeforeand stillhasn’tfigureditoutyetthathooksaretheenemy.

“Fuckyou,Charlie,”Isay.

Thatcatcheshimoffguard.Hestopssmilingandtakesagoodlookatme.Mytieandjacketaremissing.Myshirt’suntucked.Idon’t looklikesomeonewhohastheMostImportantInterviewofHisLifeinacoupleofhours.Ilooklikesomeonewhowantstogetintoafight.

Hepuffshimselfup likeablowfish.He’salwaysbeensoproudof the twoyearsandtwoinchesthathehasonme.It’sjusthimandmebackhere,andthatmakeshimbold.

“Why. Are. You. Here. Little. Brother?” he asks. He steps closer, so thatwe’retoetotoe,andpusheshisfaceclosertomine.

Heexpectsmetobackdown.

Idon’tbackdown.

“Icametoaskyouaquestion.”

Hepullshisfacebackjustalittle.“Sure,I’dfuckher,”hesays.“Isthatwhathappened?Shewantmeinsteadofyou?”

The thingaboutbeinga fishonahook is themoreyou try togetoff, themoretrappedyouare.Thehookjustburiesitselfdeeperandyoubleedalittlemore.Youcan’tgetoffthehook.Youcanonlygothroughit.Saidanotherway:thehookhastogothroughyou,andit’sgonnahurtlikeamotherfucker.

“Whyareyoulikethis?”Iaskhim.

If I’ve surprised him, he doesn’t show it. He just goes on with his usualshittiness.“Likewhat?Bigger,stronger,smarter,better?”

“No.Whyareyouanassholetome?What’dIdotoyou?”

Thistimehecan’thidehissurprise.Hepullsoutofmyspace,eventakesastepback.

“Whatever.Thatwhatyoucameherefor?Towhineaboutmebeingmeantoyou?”Helooksmeupanddownagain.“Youlooklikeshit.Don’tyouhavetotrytogetintoSecond-BestSchooltoday?”

“Idon’tcareaboutthat.Idon’tevenwanttogo.”Isayitquietly,butitstillfeelsgoodtosayitatall.

“Speak.Up.Little.Brother.Ididn’thearyou.”

“I don’t want to go,” I say louder, before realizing that my dad left hisposition at the register and is now close enough to hearme.He starts to saysomething,butthenthedoorbellchimes.Hepivotsaway.

IturnbacktoCharlie.“I’vebeentryingtofigureitoutforyears.MaybeIdidsomethingtoyouwhenwewereyoungerandIdon’tremember.”

Hesnorts.“Whatcouldyoudotome?You’retoopathetic.”

“Soyou’rejustanasshole?”Iask.“Justthewayyou’remade?”

“I’mstronger.Andsmarter.Andbetterthanyou.”

“If you’re so smart, what are you doing back here, Charlie? Is it big fish,smallpondsyndrome?WereyoujustatinydouchebagfishatHarvard?”

Heclencheshisfists.“Watchyourmouth.”

Myguessisgood.Morethangood,even.

“I’mright,aren’tI?You’renot thebest there.Turnsoutyou’renot thebesthereeither.HowdoesitfeeltobeSecond-BestSon?”

I’mtheonewiththehooknow.Hisfaceisredandhe’spuffinghimselfbackup.Hegetsrightinmyface.Ifheclencheshisjawanymoreitwillbreak.

“YouwanttoknowwhyIdon’tlikeyou?Becauseyou’rejustlikethem.”Hepointshischininthedirectionofourdad.“YouandyourKoreanfoodandyourKorean friends and studyingKorean in school. It’s pathetic.Don’t you get it,LittleBrother?You’rejustlikeeverybodyelse.”

Wait.What?

“YouhatemebecauseIhaveKoreanfriends?”

“Korean is all you are,” he spits out. “We’re not even from the goddamncountry.”

AndIgetit.Ireallydo.Somedaysit’shardtobeinAmerica.SomedaysIfeellikeI’mhalfwaytothemoon,trappedbetweentheEarthandit.

Thefightleavesme.I’mjustsorryforhimnow,andthat’sexactlytheworstthingIcandotohim.Heseesthepityonmyface.Itenrageshim.Hegrabsmebythecollar.

“Fuckyou.You thinkbecause yougrewyourhair out andyou likepoetryanybody’s gonna treat you any different?You think because you bring someblackgirlinhere?OrshouldIcallherAfricanAmerican,ormaybejust—”

ButIdon’tlethimgetthewordout.IthoughtIwouldhavetoworkmyselfuptoit,butIdon’thaveto.

Ipunchhimrightinthefuckingface.

Myfistcatcheshimaround theeyesocketarea, somyknuckleshitmostlybone. It hurts me more than it has any right to, given that I’m the onesupposedlydeliveringthisbeatdown.Hestumblesbackbutdoesn’tfallflatlikepeopledointhemovies.

Thisis,frankly,disappointing.Still,thelookonhisfaceisworthalltheI’m-sure-they’re-brokenbonesinmyhand.Idefinitelyhurthim.WhatImeanis:Icausedhimphysicalpain,aswasmyintention.IwantedhimtoknowthatI,hisLittleBrother,coulddishitoutandnotjusttakeit.NowheknowsIcanhurthim,andthatI’mdoneputtingupwithhiscrap.

Idon’tdoenoughdamage,though.Iwatchhisexpressionturnfrompaintosurprisetorage.Hecomesatmewithhisextratwoinchesandhisextratwentypoundsofmuscle.

Firsthepunchesmeinthestomach.Iswearit’slikehisfistgoesthroughmystomachandoutthroughmyspinalcord.IdoubleoverandthinkthatmaybeI’lljuststayinthisposition,buthe’snothavingit.Hepullsmeupbymycollar.ItrytoblockmyfacewithmyhandsbecauseIknowthat’swherehe’sgoing,butthestomachpunchmakesmeslow.

Hisfistsmashesintothesideofmymouth.Mylipsplitsopenontheinsidefrombashingintomyteeth.Itsplitsopenontheoutsidebecausethebastardhitmewhilewearingsomegiant-asssecretsocietyring.That’sgonnaleaveamark(possiblyforever).

He’sstillgotmycollarinhisfist,readytodeliveranotherblow,butI’mreadyforhim. Iblockmy facewithmyhandsandbringmyknee rightup intohisballs—hard, but not hard enough to prevent him from having future littledemonspawnchildren.

I’mnicelikethat.

He’sdownontheground,clutchingthefamilyjewelsthathewisheswerenotKorean,andI’mholdingmyjaw,tryingtofigureoutifIstillhaveallmyteeth,whenmydadcomesovertous.

“Museuniriya?”hesays.Whichlooselytranslatesto“WHAT’SGOINGONHERE?”

ATTORNEYFITZGERALD’SFINGERSaresteepledandhiseyesarefixedonmine.Heleansforwardinhischairslightly.Ican’tdecideifhe’slistening,orifhejustwantstolooklikehe’slistening.

Howmany stories likeminehasheheardover theyears? I’mamazed thathe’snottellingmetogettothepoint.Ifinishtellinghimeverythingaboutthenightinquestion:

The actors took three bows. Theywould’ve taken a fourth if the audiencemembershadn’tstartedfilingout.

Afterward, Peter and I stayed in our seats, waiting for our father to comebackouttogetus.Wewaitedforthirtyminutesbeforeheshowedup.Idon’tthinkitwasbecauseheknewwewerewaiting.Heappearedthroughthethickred curtains andwalked to the center of the stage.He stood there for a fullminute,juststaringoutintothenow-emptytheater.

I don’t believe in souls, but his soul was on his face. I’ve never seen himhappier.I’mcertainhewillneverbethathappyagain.

PeterbrokethespellbecauseIcouldn’tbringmyselftodoit.

“Youready,Pops?”heshouted.

Myfatherlookeddownatuswithhisfarawayeyes.WhenhelooksatuslikethatI’mnotsureifit’shimwho’smissing,orus.

Petergotuncomfortable,thewayhealwaysdoeswhenmyfatherdoesthat.“Pops?Youready,man?”

Whenmyfatherfinallyspoke,hehadnotraceofaJamaicanaccentandnoJamaicandictionatall.Hesoundedlikeastranger.

“Youchildrengoonahead.Iwillseeyoulater.”

I speed through the rest of the story. My father spends the rest of that

eveningdrinkingwithhisnewactorfriends.Hedrinkstoomuch.Onhiswayhome,heramshiscarintoaparkedpolicecar.Inhisdrunkennesshetellsthepolice officer the whole history of our coming to America. I imagine hemonologued for this audience of one. He tells the policeman we’reundocumented immigrants, and thatAmericanevergavehima fair shot.TheofficerarrestshimandcallsImmigrationandCustomsEnforcement.

Attorney Fitzgerald’s brows are furrowed. “But why would your father dothat?”heasks.

It’saquestionIknowtheanswerto.

CHARACTERS

PatriciaKingsley,43

SamuelKingsley,45

ACTTWOSCENETHREE

Interior bedroom. A single queen-sized bed with headboard dominates thespace.Perhapsapictureframeortwo.TheflooronSamuel’ssideofthebedisoverflowingwithbooks.Stagerightweseeanopeningtoahallway.Samueland Patricia’s teenage daughter is listening, but neither Samuel nor Patriciaknowsit.It’snotclearthattheywouldcareiftheydid.

PATRICIA:Lawdhavemercy,Kingsley.

Sheisseatedontheedgeofherbed.Herfaceisinherhands.Herspeechismuffled.

SAMUEL:Itdon’tmeannothing,man.Wegoingtogetagoodlawyer.

SamuelKingsley is standingonhis sideof theroom.He ishunchedwithhisface in shadow. A spotlight shines brightly on the single sheet of paper heholdsinhislefthand.

PATRICIA:Andhowweagopayforalawyer,Kingsley?

SAMUEL:Lawd,Patsy.Wefigureitout,man.

Patriciatakesherfaceoutofherhandsandlooksatherhusbandasifshe’sseeinghimforthefirsttime.

PATRICIA:Yourememberthedaywedidmeet?

Samuel slowly crumples the paper in his hand. He continues to do this

throughoutthescene.

PATRICIA:Youdon’t remember,Kingsley?Howyoucame into the store,thenyoukeptcomingbackdayafterday?Thatwassofunny.Onedayyoubuysomethingandthenextdayyoureturnituntilyouwearmedown.

SAMUEL:Wasn’tnowearingdown,Patsy.Itwascourting.

PATRICIA:Yourememberallthepromisesyoumakeme,Kingsley?

SAMUEL:Patsy—

PATRICIA: You say all me dreams would come true. We going havechildren andmoney and big house.You sayme happinessmore importantthanyouown.Yourememberthat,Kingsley?

Sherisesfromthebedandthespotlightfollowsherasshemoves.

SAMUEL:Patsy—

PATRICIA:Letmetellyousomething.Ididn’tbelieveyouwhenwestartedout.ButafteratimeIchangemymind.Youagoodactor,Kingsley,becauseyoumakemebelievealltheprettythingsyousaytome.

ThepaperinSamuel’shandisfullycrumplednow.Thespotlightmovestohisfaceandhe’snolongerhunched.Heisangry.

SAMUEL: You know what me tired of hearing about?Me tired of yourdreams.What’boutmine?

Ifitwasn’tforyouandchildrenthem,IwouldhaveallthethingsIwant.You complain ’bout house and kitchen and extra bedroom.Butwhat ’boutme?Idon’thaveanyofthethingthemthatIwant.Idon’tgettousemyGod-giventalent.

IruethedayIwalkintothatstore.Ifitwasn’tforyouandthechildren,mylifewouldbebetta.IwouldbedoingthethingGodputmeonthisearthtodo. I don’t want hear nothingmore ’bout your dreams. Them not nothingcomparedtomine.

BUT I DON’T TELL ATTORNEY Fitzgerald that part—about how myfather’swifeandchildrenarehisgreatestregretbecausewegot inthewayofthelifehedreamedforhimself.

Instead, I say, “A few weeks after he was arrested we got the Notice toAppearletterfromHomelandSecurity.”

HelooksoveroneoftheformsIfilledoutearlierfortheparalegalandgetsayellowlegalpadoutofhisdeskdrawer.

“SothenyouwenttotheMasterCalendarHearing.Didyoubringalawyerwithyou?”

“Onlymy parentswent,” I tell him. “And they didn’t bring a lawyer.”MymomandItalkedaboutitalotbeforetheappointment.Shouldwehirealawyerwe couldn’t really afford, orwait to seewhat happened at thehearing?We’dreadonlinethatyoudidn’treallyneedalawyerforthefirstappointment.Atthatpointmyfatherwasstillinsistingthateverythingwouldmiraculouslyworkitselfout.Idon’tknow.Maybewewantedtobelievethatwastrue.

Attorney Fitzgerald shakes his head and jots something down on his legalpad.“Soatthehearing,thejudgetellsthemtheycanacceptVoluntaryRemovalor file for Cancellation of Removal.” He looks down at my forms. “YouryoungerbrotherisaU.S.citizen?”

“Yes,” I say, watching as he notes that down too. Peter was born almostexactly ninemonths after wemoved here.My parents were still happy witheachotherthen.

Myfatherdidn’t accept theVoluntaryRemoval at thathearing.Thatnight,mymomandIresearchedCancellationofRemoval.Inordertoqualify,mydadneededtohavelivedintheUnitedStatesforatleasttenyears,haveshowngoodmoral character, and be able to prove that being deported would cause an

extreme hardship on a spouse, parent, or child who was a U.S. citizen.Wethought Peter’s citizenship was going to be our saving grace. We hired thecheapestlawyerwecouldfindandwenttotheMeritsHearingarmedwiththisnewstrategy.Butasitturnsout,it’sverydifficulttoprove“extremehardship.”Going back to Jamaica will not put Peter’s life in danger, and no one caresabout thepsychological danger of uprooting a child fromhis home, not evenPeterhimself.

“And at the Merits Hearing the judge denies your case and your fatheraccepts the Voluntary Removal.” Attorney Fitzgerald says it flatly, like theoutcomewasinevitable.

Inodinsteadofansweringoutloud.I’mnotsureI’llbeabletotalkwithoutcrying.AnyhopeIhadisslippingaway.

I’darguedthatweshouldappealthejudge’sdecision,butourlawyeradvisedagainst it. She said we had no case and that we were out of options. Shesuggested we leave voluntarily so we wouldn’t have a deportation on ourrecords.Thatwaywe’dhaveahopeofreturningoneday.

Fitzgeraldputshispendownandleansbackinhischair.“WhydidyougotoUSCIStoday?It’snoteventheirjurisdiction.”

Ihavetoclear the tearspooling inmythroatbeforeIcananswer.“Ididn’tknow what else to do.” The truth is, despite the fact that I don’t believe inmiracles,Iwashopingforone.

He’ssilentforalongtime.

FinallyIcan’ttakeanymore.“It’sokay,”Isay.“IknowI’moutofoptions.Idon’tevenknowwhyIcamehere.”

Imakeamovetogetup,buthewavesmebackdown.Hesteepleshisfingersagainandlooksaroundtheoffice.Ifollowhiseyestotheunpackedboxesliningthewall just tohis right.Behindhim,a folding ladder restsagainstanemptybookshelf.

“We’rejustmovingin,”hesays.“Theconstructionguysweresupposedtobedone weeks ago, but you know what they say about plans.” He smiles andtouchesthebandageonhisforehead.

“Areyouokay,Mr.Fitz—”

“I’mfine,”hesays,rubbingatthebandage.

Hepicksupaframedpicturefromhisdeskandlooksatit.“ThisistheonlythingI’veunpackedsofar.”HeturnsthepicturesoIcanseeit.It’shimwithhis

wifeandtwochildren.Theyseemhappy.

Ismilepolitely.

He puts it back down and looks atme. “You’re never out of options,Ms.Kingsley.”

Ittakesmeasecondtorealizethathe’sbacktotalkingaboutmycase.Ileanforwardinmyseat.“Areyousayingyoucanfixthis?”

“I’moneofthebestimmigrationlawyersinthiscity,”hesays.

“Buthow?”Iask. I laymyhandsonhisdesk,pressmyfingersagainst thewood.

“Letme go see a judge friend ofmine.He’ll be able to get theVoluntaryRemovalreversedsoatleastyoudon’thavetoleavetonight.AfterthatwecanfileanappealwiththeBIA—theBoardofImmigrationAppeals.”

Hecheckshiswatch.“Justgivemeacoupleofhours.”

Iopenmymouthtoaskformorefactsandspecifics.Ifindthemreassuring.The poem comes back to me. “Hope” is the thing with feathers. I close mymouth.For thesecondtimetodayI’m lettinggoof thedetails.MaybeIdon’tneedthem.Itwouldbesonicetoletsomeoneelsetakeoverthisburdenforalittlewhile.

“Hope”isthethingwithfeathers.Ifeelitflutteringinmyheart.

MYDADLOOKSATME fromhead to toe, and I feel like the second-rateslackerhe’salwaystakenmefor.IwillalwaysbeSecondSontohim,nomatterwhatCharliedoes.ImustlookevenworsethanwhenIfirstcamein.Thetopbuttonofmyshirt ismissingfromwhereCharliegrabbedme.There’sevenabloodstainonitfrommybustedlip.I’msweaty,andmyhairisstickingtothesideofmyface.PremiumYalematerialrighthere.

Hegivesmeanorder.“Getsomeiceforyourlipandcomebackouthere.”

Charlie’s next. “You hit your little brother? That what you learn fromAmerica?Tohityourfamily?”

Ialmostwanttostayandhearwherethisgoes,butmyfatlipisgettingfatter.IgointothebackroomandgrabacanofCokeandpressitagainstmylip.

I’veneverlikedthisroom.It’stoosmallandalwayscloggedwithhalf-openedboxesofproduct.Therearenochairs,soIsitonthefloorwithmybackagainstthedoorsonoonecangetin.Ineedfiveminutesbeforedealingwithmylifeagain.

Mylipthrobsintimetomyheartbeat.IwonderifIneedstitches.Ipressthecancloserandwaittofeel(ornotfeel)thenumbness.

This is what I get for letting the Fates guideme—beat up, girlfriend-less,future-less.Why did I postponemy interview?Worse,why did I letNatashawalkaway?

Maybeshewasright.I’mjust lookingforsomeonetosaveme.I’mlookingforsomeonetotakemeoffthetrackmylifeison,becauseIdon’tknowhowtodo it myself. I’m looking to get overwhelmed by love andmeant-to-be anddestinysothatthedecisionsaboutmyfuturewillbeoutofmyhands.Itwon’tbemedefyingmyparents.ItwillbeFate.

The Coke can does the trick. I can’t feel my lip anymore. Good thing

Natasha’s nothere, becausemykissingdays areover, at least for today.Andwithher,there’snotomorrow.

Notthatshe’deverletmekissheragain.

Fromtheothersideofthedoor,mydadordersmetocomeout.Iputthecanbackinthefridgeandtuckmyshirtin.

Iopenthedoortofindhimstandingtherealone.Heleansinclosetome.“Ihave a question for you,” he says. “Why do you think it matters what youwant?”

Thewayheasks, it’s likehe’s genuinelyconfusedby theemotion.What isthisdesireandwantingthatyouspeakof?He’sconfusedbywhytheymatteratall.

“Whocareswhatyouwant?Theonlythingthatmattersiswhatisgoodforyou.YourmotherandIonlycareaboutwhatisgoodforyou.Yougotoschool,youbecomeadoctor,youbesuccessful.Thenyouneverhavetoworkinastorelike this.Then youhavemoney and respect, and all the things youwantwillcome. You find a nice girl and have children and you have the AmericanDream.Whywouldyouthrowyourfutureawayfortemporarythingsthatyouonlywantrightnow?”

It’sthemostmyfatherhaseversaidtomeatonce.He’snotevenangryashesays it. He talks like he’s trying to teachme something basic. One plus oneequalstwo,son.

Ever since he bought the oil paints for omma, I’ve wanted to have aconversationlikethiswithhim.I’vewantedtoknowwhyhewantsthethingshewants for us.Why it’s so important to him. I want to ask him if he thinksomma’slifewould’vebeenbetterifshe’dkeptpainting.Iwanttoknowifhe’ssadthatshegaveitupforhimandforus.

Maybe thismoment right nowbetweenmy dad andme is themeaning oftoday.MaybeIcanbegintounderstandhim.Maybehecanbegintounderstandme.

“Appa—”Ibegin,butheholdshishanduptosilencemeandkeepsitthere.Theairaroundusisstillandmetallic.Helooksatmeandthroughmeandpastmetosomeothertime.

“No,”he says. “You letmefinish.Maybe Imake it tooeasy foryouboys.Maybethisismyfault.Youdon’tknowyourhistory.Youdon’tknowwhatpoorcando.Idon’ttellyoubecauseIthinkthingsarebetterthatway.Betternottoknow.MaybeIamwrong.”

I’msoclose.I’mattheedgeofknowinghim.We’reattheedgeofknowingeachother.

I’mgoingtotellhimthatIdon’twantthethingsformyselfthathewantsforme.I’mgoingtotellhimthatI’llbeokayanyway.

“Appa—”Ibeginagain,butagainhishandgoesthroughtheair.AgainIamsilenced.HeknowswhatI’mgoingtosay,andhedoesn’twanttohearit.

MyfatherisshapedbythememoryofthingsIwillneverknow.

“Enough.Youdon’tgotoYaleandbecomeadoctor,thenyoufindajobandpayforcollegeyourself.”

Hewalksbacktothefrontofthestore.

I’lladmitthatthere’ssomethingrefreshingabouthavingitalllaidoutformelikethis.FutureorNoFuture.

Mysuitjacketisstillcrumpledbythedoor.Igrabitandputiton.Thelapelalmostcoversthebloodstain.

IlookaroundforCharlie,buthe’snowheretobefound.

Iwalktothedoor.Mydad’sbehindthecashregister,staringoffatnothing.I’mabouttoleavewhenhesaysthefinalthing,thethinghe’sbeenwaitingtosay.

“Isawthewayyoulookatthatgirl,”hesays.“Butthatcanneverbe.”

“Ithinkyou’rewrong,”Itellhim.

“Doesn’tmatterwhatyouthink.Youdotherightthing.”

Wemakeandholdeyecontact. It’s theholdingofeyecontact that tellsmehe’snotsurewhatI’mgoingtodo.

NeitheramI.

DAE HYUN BAE OPENS AND CLOSES the cash register. Opens andcloses it again.Maybe it really ishis fault thathis sons are theway theyare.He’s told them nothing about his past. He does it because he’s a fatherwholoveshissonsfiercely,andit’shiswayofprotectingthem.Hethinksofpovertyasakindofcontagion,andhedoesn’twantthemtohearaboutitlesttheycatchit.

Heopenstheregisterandpacksthelargebillsintothedepositpouch.CharlieandDaniel thinkmoneyandhappinessarenotrelated.Theydon’tknowwhatpooris.Theydon’tknowthatpovertyisasharpknifecarvingawayatyou.Theydon’tknowwhatitdoestoabody.Toamind.

WhenDaeHyunwasthirteenandstilllivinginSouthKorea,hisfatherbegangrooming him to take over the family’s meager crab fishing business. Thebusiness barelymade anymoney.Every seasonwas a fight for survival.Andeveryseasontheysurvived,butjustbarely.Formostofhischildhood,therewasnever any doubt inDaeHyun’smind that he would eventually take over thebusiness.Hewastheeldestofthreesons.Itwashisplace.Familyisdestiny.

Hecanstillrememberthedaythatsparkedasmallrebellioninhismind.Forthefirsttime,hisfatherhadtakenhimoutonthefishingboat.DaeHyunhatedit.Trappedinthecoldmesh-metalbaskets,thecrabsformedafurious,writhingcolumnofdesperation.Theyscrabbledandclawed theirwayovereachother,tryingtogettothetopandtoescape.

Evennow, thememoryof that firstday still cropsupatunexpected times.DaeHyunwishes he could forget it. He’d imagined that coming toAmericawouldwipe it clean.But thememory always comes back.Those crabs nevergaveup.Theyfoughtuntiltheydied.Theywould’vedoneanythingtoescape.

IT’S HARD TO KNOW HOW to feel now. I don’t really trust what’shappened,ormaybeIjusthaven’thadenoughtimetoprocessit.

Icheckmyphone.Bev’sfinallytexted.Sheloves,loves,lovesBerkeley.Shesays she thinks she’sdestined togo there.Also,Californiaboys are cute in adifferentwayfromNewYorkboys.ThelasttextaskshowIam,withastringofbrokenheartemojis.IdecidetocallandtellherwhatAttorneyFitzgeraldsaid,butshedoesn’tpickup.

callme,Itext.

Ipushmyway through the revolvingdoorsandout into thecourtyard,andthenIjuststopmoving.Ahandfulofpeoplearehavinglunchonthebenchesnexttothefountain.Separategroupsoffastwalkersinsuitsgoinandoutofthebuilding.Alineofblacktowncarsidlesatthecurbwhiletheirdriverssmokeandchatwitheachother.

Howcanthisbethesameday?Howcanallthesepeoplebegoingabouttheirlivestotallyoblivioustowhat’sbeenhappeningtomine?Sometimesyourworldshakes so hard, it’s difficult to imagine that everyone else isn’t feeling it too.That’show I feltwhenwe first got thedeportationnotice. It’s alsohow I feltwhenIfiguredoutthatRobwascheatingonme.

ItakeoutmyphoneagainandlookupRob’snumberbeforerememberingIdeletedit.Mybrainholdsontonumbers,though,andIdialhisfrommemory.Idon’trealizewhyI’mcallinguntilI’mactuallyonthephonewithhim.

“Heyyyyyyyy, Nat,” he drawls. He doesn’t even have the grace to soundsurprised.

“Myname’snotNat,”Isay.NowthatIhavehimonthephone,I’mnotsureIwanthimonthephone.

“Not coolwhat you and your new dude did today.”His voice is deep and

slow and lazy, like it’s always been. Funny how things that once seemed socharmingcanbecomedullandannoying.Wethinkwewantallthetimeintheworldwiththepeoplewelove,butmaybewhatweneedistheopposite.Justafiniteamountof time,sowestill thinktheotherpersonis interesting.Maybewedon’tneedactstwoandthree.Maybeloveisbestinactone.

I ignore his scolding, and the urge to point out that he was the oneshoplifting,andthereforehewastheuncoolone.“Ihaveaquestion,”Isay.

“Goforit,”hesays.

“Whydidyoucheatonme?”

Something falls to the floor on his end and he stammers the beginning ofthreedifferentanswers.

“Calmdown,”Isay.“I’mnotcallingtofightwithyouandIdefinitelydon’twant togetbacktogether. I justwant toknow.Whydidn’tyoujustbreakupwithme?Whycheat?”

“Idon’tknow,”hesays,managingtostumbleoverthreesimplewords.

“Comeon,”Iurge.“There’sgottabeareason.”

He’squiet,thinking.“Ireallydon’tknow.”

Istaysilent.

“You’regreat,”hesays.“AndKelly’sgreat.Ididn’twanttohurtyourfeelingsand I didn’t want to hurt her feelings.”He sounds sincere, and I don’t knowwhattodowiththat.

“Butyoumust’velikedherbettertocheat,right?”

“No.Ijustwantedbothofyou.”

“That’sit?”Iask.“Youdidn’twanttochoose?”

“That’sit,”hesays,asifthat’senough.

This answer is so wholly lame, so unbelievably unsatisfying, that I almosthangup.Danielwouldneverfeelthisway.Hisheartchooses.

“Onemorequestion.Doyoubelieveintrueloveandallthatstuff?”

“No. You know me better than that. You don’t believe in it either,” heremindsme.

Don’tI?“Okay.Thanks.”I’mabouttohangup,buthestopsme.

“CanIatleasttellyouthatI’msorry?”heasks.

“Goahead.”

“I’msorry.”

“Okay,”Isay.“Don’tcheatonKelly.”

“Iwon’t,”hesays.Ithinkhemeansitwhilehe’ssayingit.

IshouldcallmyparentsandtellthemaboutAttorneyFitzgerald,butthey’renotwhoIwanttotellrightnow.Daniel.Ineedtofindhimandtellhim.

RobsaysIdon’tbelieveintruelove.Andhe’sright.Idon’t.

ButImightwantto.

ILEAVETHESTORE.Aviolinistisstandingonamilkcrateinfrontofthepawnshop rightnextdoor.She’spaleand scrawnyandbedraggled inapoeticsortofway,likesomethingoutofDavidCopperfield.Unlikeher, theviolin ispristine. I listen for a few seconds but don’t know if she’s any good. I knowthere’sanobjectivewaytojudgethesethings.Issheplayingalltherightnotesintherightorderandintune?

Butthere’sanotherwaytojudgetoo:doesthismusicbeingplayedrighthere,rightnow,mattertosomeone?

Idecideitmatterstome.Ijogbacktowheresheisanddropadollarintoherhat.There’sasignnexttothehatthatIdon’tread.Idon’treallywanttoknowherstory.Ijustwantthemusicandthemoment.

MydadsaidNatashaandIcanneverworkout.Andmaybehe’sright,butnotfor the reasonshe thinks.What an idiot I’vebeen. I shouldbewithher rightnow,eveniftodayisallwehave.Especiallyiftodayisallwehave.

We live in the Age of the Cell Phone, but I do not have her cell phonenumber. I don’t even know her last name. Like an idiot, I Google “NatashaFacebook New York City” and get 5,780,000 hits. I click through maybe ahundredlinks,andwhiletheNatashasareallquitelovely,noneofthemismyNatasha.Whoknewthathernamewassoflippingpopular?

It’s 4:15 p.m. and the streets are starting to fill up again with eveningcommutersheadingforthesubways.Likeme,theylookworseforwear.Ijogonthecurbtopreventpedestriansonthesidewalkfromslowingmedown.

Idon’thaveaplanexcepttofindheragain.TheonlythingtodoistogotoherLastKnownLocation—thelawyer’sofficeonFifty-Second—andhopethatFateisonmysideandshe’sstillthere.

ACOUPLE,BOTHWITHBRIGHTblueMohawks,isarguinginfrontoftheFifty-Second Street subway entrance. They’re doing that weird whisper-hissthingthatcouplesdowhentheyfightinpublic.Ican’thearwhatthey’resaying,but theirgestures say it all.She’soutragedathim.He’sexasperatedwithher.They’redefinitelynotatthebeginningoftheirrelationship.Theybothlooktoowearyforthat.Youcanseetheirlonghistoryjustinthewaytheyleantowardeachother.Isthisthelastfightthey’lleverhave?Isthistheonethatendsitall?

IlookbackatthemafterIpass.OnceuponatimeI’msuretheywereinlove.Maybetheystillare,butyoucan’ttellfromlooking.

IDESCENDINTOTHESUBWAYandsayaprayertothesubwaygods(yes,multiplegods)thatthetrainridewillbefreeofelectricalissuesandreligiouslychallengedconductors.

WhatifI’mtoolate?Whatifshe’salreadygone?Whatifstoppingtogiveadollartothatvioliniststartedachainofeventsthatcausesmetomissher?

We pull into the station. Directly across the platform, the downtown trainpullsinatthesametime.Ourdoorsclose,butthetraindoesn’tmove.

Ontheplatform,agroupofabouttwentypeopleinbrightlycoloredskintightbodysuitsmaterializes.Theylookliketropicalbirdsagainstthedarkgrayofthesubway. They line up and then freeze in place, waiting for something to setthemoff.

It’sa flashmob.The trainacross theplatformdoesn’tmoveeither.Oneofthedancers,aguyinelectricbluewithanenormouspackage,pressesplayonaboombox.

Atfirstitjustseemslikechaos,eachpersondancingtotheirowntune,butthen I realize they’re justoffsetbya fewseconds. It’s like singing ina roundexcept they’re dancing. They start outwith ballet andmove on to disco, andthenbreak-dancing,beforethesubwaycopscatchon.Thedancersscatterandmyfellowpassengersapplaudwildly.

Wepull away, but now the atmosphere in the train is completely changed.Peoplearesmilingateachotherandsayinghowcoolthatwas.It’satleastthirtyseconds before everyone puts back on his or her protective I’m-on-a-train-filled-with-strangersface.Iwonderifthatwasthedancers’intention—togetusalltoconnectjustforamoment.

I’MSITTINGWITHMYBACK to theplatform,so Idon’t reallyseehowitstarts.TheonlywayIknowsomethingunusual ishappening is that theentiretraincarseemstobelookingatsomethingbehindme.Iturnaroundandfindthatthere’saflashmobdancingontheplatform.They’reallwearingverybrightclothinganddiscodancing.

OnlyinNewYorkCity,Ithink,andtakeoutmyphonetosnapafewpictures.Myfellowpassengerscheerandclap.Oneguyevenstartsdoinghisownmoves.

Thedancedoesn’t last long,because three subwaycopsbreak itup.Afewboosgoupbeforeeveryoneresumesbeingimpatientaboutthetrainnotmoving.

Normally I would’ve wondered what the point of those people was. Don’tthey have jobs or something better to do? IfDanielwere here, he’d say thatmaybethisisthethingthey’resupposedtobedoing.Maybethewholepointofthedancersisjusttobringalittlewonderintoourlives.Andisn’tthatjustasvalidapurposeasany?

IDARTOUToftheFifty-SecondStreetsubwayandalmostrunintoacouplemakingoutlikenobody’sbusiness.Evenwithoutthebluehair,they’dbehardtomiss because they’re basically fused together from head to toe. They need aroom, and stat. Seriously. It’s like they’re having an emergency make-outsession right here on the sidewalk.They’ve each got the other’s ass firmly inhand.Mutualassgrabbage.

Apinched-facemanmakesadisapprovingcluckingsoundashewalksby.Alittleboygawksatthemwithawide-openmouth.Hisdadcovershiseyes.

Watching them makes me unreasonably happy. I guess the cliché is true.People in lovewanteveryoneelse tobe in love. Ihope theirrelationship lastsforever.

IMAKETHERIGHTontoMLKBoulevardandwalktowardDaniel’sstore.Attheshopnextdoortohis,agirlisstandingonamilkcrate,playingviolin.She’swhite,withlongblackhairthathasn’tbeenwashedinalongtime.Herfaceistoothin—notfashionablethin,buthungrythin.She’ssuchasad,strangesightthatIhavetostop.

ThesignnexttohertiphatreadsPLEASEHELP.NEED$$$TOBUYVIOLINBACKFROMLOANSHARK.A thickblackarrowon thesignpoints to thepawnshop. Ican’timaginehowlifeledhertothisplace,butItakeoutadollarandthrowitintoherhat,bringinghertotaltotwodollars.

The door to the pawnshop opens, and an enormous white guy in a whitetracksuitcomesoutandovertous.Heisalljowlsandscowls.

“Time’sup,”hesays,holdingouthisgianthandtoher.

Shestopsplayingimmediatelyandhopsdownfromthecrate.Shegathersthemoneyfromthehatandgivesittohim.Sheevengiveshimthehat.

Tracksuitpocketsthemoneyandputsthehatonhishead.

“Howmuchisleft?”sheasks.

Hetakesasmallnotebookandpenciloutofhispocketandwritessomethingdown.“Onefifty-oneand twenty-threecents.”Hesnapshis fingersather fortheviolin.

Shehugstheviolintoherchestbeforerelinquishingit.

“I’llbebacktomorrow.Youpromisenottosellit?”sheasks.

Hegruntsanassent.“Youshowup,Idon’tsellit,”heconcedes.

“Ipromisetobehere,”shesays.

“Promisesdon’tmeanshit,”hesays,andwalksaway.

Shelooksatthestorefrontforalongtime.Ican’ttellfromherfacewhethersheagreeswithhim.

EVENIFNATASHAWERESTILLhere,Iwouldn’tknowwheretogointheglass monstrosity of a building. I stare at the directory, trying to divine herlocation.Iknowshewenttoseealawyer,butthedirectoryisnotveryspecific.For instance, it doesn’t say Attorney So-and-So, Immigration Lawyer toSeventeen-Year-Old Jamaican Girls Named Natasha. I ransack my mind andcomeupwithnothing.

Itakeoutmyphonetocheckthetime.JustoveranhouruntilmyDatewithDestiny. It occurs tome that I should check thenewaddress the receptionistgavemeearlier.Ifit’stoofaraway,I’llhavetheperfectexcusetoditchit.

According to Google Maps, though, I’m already there. Either Google ishavinganexistentialcrisis,orIam.Ilookattheaddressagainandthenbackupatthedirectory.

Noshit.Myinterviewisinthisbuilding.

IamalreadywhereI’msupposedtobe.

IPUSHTHEDOOROPEN,andthebellchimeswithhappyoptimism.Iamnotthatoptimisticaboutmychanceshere.ButIhavetotry.

Iexpect toseeDaniel’sdadbehindthecounter,butCharlie’s there instead.He’s typing somethingonhisphone andbarelyglancesup. Iwonderwho I’dhavemoreluckwith—Charlieorhisdad.Idon’thaveachoice,though,becausehisdadisnowhereinsight.

Iwalkuptothecounter.“Hey,”Isay.

Hekeepstypingawayforafewsecondsbeforebangingthephonedownonthecounter.Probablynotthebestwaytogreetapotentialcustomer.

“WhatcanIhelpyouwith?”heasks,whenhefinallylooksup.

I’mshockedtoseethathiseyesocketisredandswollen.Itwillbebruisedblack-and-blue by morning. He raises his hand and touches his eye self-consciously.Hisknucklesarebruisedtoo.

It takes him a second to recognize me. “Wait. Aren’t you Daniel’s littlegirlfriend?”

Hemustpracticesneeringinthemirror.He’sexcellentatit.

“Yes,”Isay.

Helookspastme,searchingforDaniel.“Whereisthatlittleshit?”

“I’mnotsure.Iwashoping—”Ibegin.

He cutsme off and givesme a slow,wide smile. I think he’s trying to besexy.Icanseehow,ifyoudidn’tknowhimatall,itwouldwork.ButIdoknowhimalittle,andthesmilemakesmewanttopunchhimintheothereye.

“Comebackforthebetterbrother,Isee.”

Hewinksthebadeyeandthenflinchesinpain.

ObservableFact:Idon’tbelieveinkarma.

ButImightstart.

“Doyouhavehiscellphonenumber?”Iask.

Heleansbackinhischairandpicksuphisphonefromthecounter.“Youtwogetintoafightorsomething?”

AsmuchasIdon’twanttotellhimanything,Ihavetokeepthiscordial.

“Somethinglikethat,”Isay.“Doyouhaveit?”

Heflipshisphoneendoverend.“YougotaKoreanboyfetishorwhat?”

He’ssmirking,buthiseyesarewatchingmesteadily.AtfirstIthinkhe’sjustgoading me—but then I realize it’s a serious question. He cares about theanswer.I’mnotsureifheevenknowshowmuchhecares.

“Whydoesithavetobeafetish?”Iask.“Whycan’tIjustlikeyourbrother?”

Hescoffs.“Please.What’stolike?Guyslikehimareadimeadozen.”

And then I realize what Charlie’s problem with Daniel is. He hates thatDaniel doesn’t hate himself. For all his uncertainties, Daniel is still morecomfortableinhisskinthanCharliewilleverbeinhis.

Ifeelsorryforhim,butIdon’tletitshow.“Pleasehelpme.”

“Tell me why I should.” He’s not smiling or sneering or smirking at allanymore.He has all the power andwe both know it. I don’t know himwellenoughtoappealtothegoodpartofhim.I’mnotevensureifthere isagoodpartofhim.

“Think howmuch trouble I’ll cause for your brother,” I say. “He’s in lovewithme.Hewon’tgivemeupnomatterwhatyourparentssayordo.Youcanjustsitbackandenjoytheshow.”

Hethrowshisheadbackandlaughs.Hereallyisnotagoodperson.Imean,hemighthavesomegoodparts.Ithinkmostpeopledo.ButCharlie’sbadpartsoutweighthegoodones.I’msuretherearegoodreasonsheisthewayheis,butthenIdecidethatthereasonsdon’tmatter.

Somepeopleexistinyourlifetomakeitbetter.Somepeopleexisttomakeitworse.

Still,though,hedoesagoodthingforhisbrother:hegivesmethenumber.

MYPHONERINGS,andIalmostdropitlikeit’spossessed.Idon’trecognizethenumber,butansweranyway.

“Hello?”

“IsthisDaniel?”

“Natasha?”Iask,eventhoughIknowit’sher.

“Yes,it’sme.”Hervoicesmiles.“Yourbrothergavemeyournumber.”

NowIbegin tosuspect it’sapractical jokebymyassholebrother.Nowaywouldheeverdosomethingsokind.

“Whoisthis?”Idemand.

“Daniel,it’sme.It’sreallyme.”

“Hegaveyoumynumber?”

“Maybehe’snotsobadafterall,”shesays.

“Notachance,”Isayback,andwebothlaugh.

Ifoundher.

Well,shefoundme.

Ican’tbelieveit.

“Whereareyou?”

“Ijustleftyourstore.Whereareyou?”

“I’matyourlawyer’sofficebuilding.”

“What?Why?”

“It’stheonlyplaceIcouldthinktofindyou.”

“You’vebeenlookingforme?”Hervoiceisshy.

“Willyouforgivemeforbeingsuchajerkearlier?”

“It’sokay.Ishould’vetoldyou.”

“Itwasn’tmybusiness.”

“Yesitwas,”shesays.

It’snotthethreewordsIwanttohearfromher,butit’sdamnclose.

HE’SSITTINGONONEOFTHEBENCHES that face the fountain andwritinginhisnotebook.IknewI’dbehappytoseehim,butIdidn’texpecttofeelgleeful.Ihavetostopmyselffromjumpingupanddownandclappingmyhandsandmaybedoingatwirl.

Gleeful.

Whichisnotlikeme.

SoIdon’tdoit.

Butthesmileonmyfaceneedstobemeasuredinmilesinsteadofinches.

I slide onto the bench and bump his shoulder with mine. He pulls thenotebookuptohisface,coveringhismouth,andthenturnstofaceme.Hiseyesarewideanddancing.Idon’tthinkanyone’severbeenashappytoseeanyoneasDanielistoseeme.

“Hey,”hesaysfrombehindthenotebook.

Ireachouttolowerthebook,butheshiftshisbodybackfromme.

“What’swrong?”Iask.

“Imighthavegottenintoasmallfight,”hesays.

“YougotintoasmallfightandnowIcan’tseeyourface?”

“Ijustwantedtowarnyoufirst.”

Ireachoutagain.Thistimeheletsmelowerthebook.Therightsideofhislipisswollenandbruised.Helookslikehe’sbeeninaboxingmatch.

“Youfoughtwithyourbrother,”Isay,makingtheconnection.

“Hehaditcoming.”Hekeepshisfaceneutral,downplayinghisfeelingsformybenefit.

“Ididn’tthinkpoetsfought.”

“Areyoukidding?We’re theworst.”He smilesatme,but then flinches inpain.“I’mfine,”hesays,watchingmyface.“Itlooksworsethanitis.”

“Whydidyoufight?”Iask.

“Itdoesn’tmatter.”

“Yesitdoes—”

“Noitdoesn’t.”Hislipsarefirmandstraight.Whateverhappened,he’snotgoingtotellme.

“Wasitaboutme?”Iask,eventhoughIknowtheanswer.

Henods.

Idecidetoletitgo.It’senoughtoknowthathethinksI’mworthfightingfor.

“Iwas prettymad at youbefore,” I say. I need to say it beforewe go anyfurther.

“Iknow.I’msorry.Ijustcouldn’tbelieveit.”

“ThatIdidn’ttellyou?”Iask.

“No. That after all the things that had to happen to get us tomeet today,somethingelsewasgonnatearusapart.”

“Youreallyarehopeless.”

“It’spossible,”hesays.

IrestmyheadonhisshoulderandtellhimaboutgoingtothemuseumandAhnighitoandall the things thathad togo right forour solar system,galaxy,anduniversetoform.Itellhimcomparedtothat,fallinginlovejustseemslikesmallcoincidences.Hedoesn’tagree,andI’mgladforit.Ireachoutagainandtouchhislip.Hecapturesmyhandandturnshisfaceintomypalmandkissesthe center. I’venever reallyunderstood thephrase theyhavechemistry beforenow.Afterall,everythingischemistry.Everythingiscombinationandreaction.

Theatomsinmybodyalignthemselveswiththeatomsinhis.It’sthewayIknewhewasstillinthelobbyearliertoday.

Hekissesthecenterofmypalmagain,andIsigh.Touchinghimisorderandchaos,likebeingassembledanddisassembledatthesametime.

“You said youhad goodnews,” he says. I read thehopeonhiswide-openface.What if it hadn’tworked out?Howwouldwe have survived being torn

apart?Becauseitfeelsimpossiblenow,theideathatwedon’tbelongtogether.Butthen,Ithink,ofcoursewewould’vesurvived.Separationisnotfatal.

Still, I’mgladwedon’thavetofindout.“Thelawyersayshethinkshecanfigureitout.HethinksI’llgettostay,”Isay.

“Howsureishe?”heasks.Surprisingly,he’smoreskepticalthanIam.

“Don’tworry.Heseemedprettysure,”Isay,andletmyhappytearsfall.Foronce,I’mnotembarrassedtobecrying.

“Yousee?”hesays.“We’remeanttobe.Let’sgocelebrate.”

Hepullsmeinclose.Itugthetieoutofhishairandrunmyfingersthroughit.He buries his hands inmine and leans in to kissme, but I putmy fingeragainsthislipstostophim.“Holdthatkiss,”Isay.

Itoccurstomethatthere’sonecallIwanttomake.It’sasillyimpulse,butDaniel’salmostgotmebelievinginmeant-to-be.

Thisentirechainofeventswasstartedbythesecurityguardwhodelayedmethismorning.Ifitweren’tforherfondlingmystuff,thenIwouldn’thavebeenlate.There’dhavebeennoLesterBarnes,noAttorneyFitzgerald.NoDaniel.

IdigaroundmybackpackandpulloutLesterBarnes’sbusinesscard.Mycallgoesstraighttovoicemail.Ileavearamblingmessagethankinghimforhelpingmeandaskinghimtothankthesecurityguardforme.

“Shehas longbrownhairandsadeyesandshe toucheseveryone’s stuff,” Isayasaway todescribeher.Justbefore Ihangup, I rememberhername.“IthinkhernameisIrene.Pleasetellherthanksforme.”

Danielgivesmeaquizzicallook.

“I’llexplainlater,”Itellhim,andscootmywaybackintohisarms.“Backtonorebang?”Iaskagainsthislips.Myheartistryingtoescapemybodythroughmychest.

“No,”hesays.“Ihaveabetteridea.”

“WANTTOKNOWSOMETHINGCRAZY?” IaskasI leadherbackintothebuilding.“Myinterviewappointmentisheretoo.”

“Noway,”shesays,andstopswalkingbriefly.

Igrinather,dyingtoknowhowherscientificbrainisgoingtodealwiththisepiclevelofcoincidence.“Whataretheodds?”

Shelaughsatme.“Enjoyingyourself,areyou?”

“Yousee?I’vebeenrightallday.Weweremeanttomeet.Ifwehadn’tmetearlier,maybewewould’vemetnow.”Mylogiciscompletelyrefutablebutshedoesn’trefuteme.Instead,sheslipsherhandintomineandsmiles.Imaymakeabelieveroutofheryet.

Myplanistogetustotheroofsothatwecanmakeoutinprivacy.Wesigninformyappointmentatthesecuritydesk.Theguarddirectsustotheelevatorbanks.Theonewegetonmustbethelocal,becauseitstopsatpracticallyeveryfloor.Suitedpeoplegetonandoff,talkingloudlyaboutVeryImportantThings.Despite what Natasha said earlier, I can never work in a building like this.Finallyweget to the top floor.Wegetoff, finda stairwell, andwalkuponeflightandstraightintoalockedgraydoorwithaNOROOFACCESSsign.

I refuse tobelieve it.Clearly theroof is justbehind thesedoors. I turn thehandle,hopingforamiracle,butit’slocked.

Irestmyforeheadagainstthesign.“Opensesame,”Isaytothedoor.

Magically,itopens.

“Whatthehell?”Istumbleforward,rightintothesamesecurityguardfromthelobby.Unlikeus,hemust’vetakenanexpresselevator.

“Youkidsaren’talloweduphere,”hegrunts.Hesmellslikecigarettesmoke.

I pull Natasha through the doorway withme. “We just wanted to see the

view,” I say, in my most-respectful-with-just-a-hint-of-pleading-but-non-whiningvoice.

Heraisesskepticaleyebrowsandstartstosaysomething,butacoughingfitovertakeshimuntilhe’shunchedoverandthumpinghisheartwithhisfist.

“Areyouokay?”Natashaasks.He’sonlybentslightlynow,bothhandsonhisthighs.Natashaputsahandonhisshoulder.

“Gotthiscough,”hesaysbetweencoughs.

“Well,youshouldn’tsmoke,”shetellshim.

Hestraightensandwipeshiseyes.“Yousoundlikemywife.”

“She’sright,”shesays,notmissingabeat.

Itrytogiveheralookthatsaysdon’targuewiththeoldsecurityguardwiththelungproblem,otherwisehewon’tletusstayuphereandmakeout,butevenifsheinterpretedmyfacialexpressioncorrectly,sheignoresme.

“Iusedtobeacandystriperinapulmonaryward.Thatcoughdoesnotsoundgood.”

Webothstareather.I,becauseI’mpicturingherinacandystriperoutfitandthenpicturingheroutofit.I’mprettysurethisisgoingtobemynewnighttimefantasy.

Idon’tknowwhyhe’sstaringather.Hopefullynotforthesamereason.

“Givethemtome,”shesays,holdingoutherhandforhispackofcigarettes.“You need to stop smoking.” I don’t know how she manages to sound sogenuinelyconcernedandbossyatthesametime.

Hepulls thepackoutofhis jacketpocket. “You think Ihaven’t tried?”heasks.

Ilookathimagain.He’stoooldtobedoingthisjob.HelookslikeheshouldberetiredandspoilinghisgrandkidssomewhereinFlorida.

Natashakeepsholdingoutherhanduntilhehandsoverthepack.

“Becarefulofthisone,”hesaystome,smiling.

“Yes,sir.”

Heputshisjacketon.“HowdoyouknowIwon’tjustgogetsomemore?”heasksher.

“IguessIdon’t,”shesays,shrugging.

He looks at her for a long moment. “Life doesn’t always go the way youplan,”hesays.

Icanseethatshedoesn’tbelievehim.Hecanseeittoo,butheletsitgo.

“Stay away from the edge,” he says,winking at both of us. “Have a goodtime.”

THEGIRLREMINDEDHIMalittleofhisBeth.Directbutsweet.That,morethananything,iswhyheletthemstayupontheroof.Heknowsperfectlywellthattheonlyviewthey’llbelookingatiseachother.Noharminthat,hethinks.

HeandhisBethwerethesameway.Andnotjustat thebeginningoftheirmarriage,butallthroughout.Theywonthelotterywitheachother,theylikedtosay.

Bethdiedlastyear.Sixmonthsafterthey’dbothretired.Infact,thecancerdiagnosis came the day after retirement. They had so many plans. Alaskancruise to see the aurora borealis (hers). Venice to drink grappa and see thecanals(his).

That’sthethingthatgetstoJoeevennow.Alltheplansthey’dmade.Allthesaving.Allthewaitingaroundfortheperfecttime.

Andforwhat?Fornothing.

Thegirlisright,ofcourse.Heshouldn’tsmoke.AfterhelostBeth,hetookhimselfoutofretirementandtookupsmokingagain.Whatdiditmatterifheworkedhimself todeath?Whatdid itmatter ifhe smokedhimself todeath?Therewasnothinglefttolivefor,nothinglefttoplanfor.

Hetakesonelastlookatthegirlandtheboybeforeclosingthedoor.They’relookingateachotherlikethere’snowhereelsethey’dratherbe.HeandhisBethwerelikethatonce.

Maybehewillgiveupsmokingafterall.Maybehe’llmakesomenewplans.

DANIELWALKSTOTHEEDGEoftheroofandlooksoutatthecity.Hishairislooseandblowinginthebreezeandhe’sgothispoetfaceon.Thenon-bruisedsideofhisfacesmiles.

I go to himand slipmyhand into his. “Aren’t you gonnawrite somethingdown,poetboy?”Itease.

Hesmileswider,butdoesn’tturntolookatme.“Itlookssodifferentfromuphere,doesn’tit?”heasks.

Whatdoesheseewhenhelooksout?Iseemilesofrooftops,mostofthemempty.Afewofthemarepopulatedwithlong-abandonedthings—nonworkingHVACunits, broken office furniture. Some have gardens, and Iwonderwhotendsthem.

Danieltakesouthisnotebooknow,andImovealittleclosertotheedge.

Beforethesebuildingswerebuildings,theywerejusttheskeletonsofthem.Beforetheywereskeletons,theywerecrossbeamsandgirders.Metalandglassand concrete. And before that, they were construction plans. Before that,architecturalplans.Andbeforethat,justanideasomeonehadforthemakingofacity.

Danielputsawayhisnotebookandpullsmebackfromtheedge.Heputshishandsonmywaist.

“Whatdoyouevenwriteinthere?”Iask.

“Plans,”he says.His eyes aremerryand staringatmy lips and I’mhavingtroublethinking.Itakealittlestepbackbuthefollows,likewe’redancing.

“I—Jesus.Haveyoubeenthissexythewholeday?”Iask.

Helaughsandblushes.“I’mgladyouthinkI’msexy.”Hiseyesarestillonmylips.

“IsitgonnahurtifIkissyou?”Iaskhim.

“It’llbeagoodpain.”Heputshisotherhandonmywaistlikehe’sanchoringus. My heart just will not settle down. Kissing him can’t be as good as Iremember.Whenwehadourfirstkiss,IthoughtIwaskissinghimforthelasttime. I’m sure thatmade itmore intense.This kisswill bemore normal.Nofireworksandchaos,justtwopeoplewholikeeachotheralot,kissing.

Igetonmytiptoesandmoveinevencloser.Finallyhiseyesmeetmine.Hemoveshishandfrommywaistandplaces itovermyheart. Itbeatsunderhispalmlikeit’sbeatingforhim.

Ourlipstouch,andItrytokeepmyeyesopenforaslongaspossible.Itrynottosuccumbtothecrazyentropyofthisthingbetweenus.Idon’tunderstandit.Whythisperson?WhyDanielandnotanyoftheboysbefore?Whatifwehadn’tmet?WouldIhavehadaperfectlyordinarydayandnotknowthatIwasmissingsomething?

I wrapmy arms around his neck and lean into him, but I can’t get closeenough.Therestless,chaoticfeelingisback.IwantthingsthatIcanname,andsomethingsthatIcan’t.Iwantthisonemomenttolastforever,butIdon’twanttomissalltheothermomentstocome.Iwantourentirefuturetogether,butIwantithereandnow.

I’mslightlyoverwhelmedandbreakthekiss.“Go.Over.There,”Isay,andpunctuate eachwordwith a kiss. I point to a spot far away fromme, out ofkissingrange.

“Here?”heaskstakingasinglestepback.

“Atleastfivemore.”

Hegrinsatme,butcomplies.

“Allourkissesaren’tgoingtobelikethat,arethey?”Iaskhim.

“Likewhat?”

“Youknow.Insane.”

“Ilovehowdirectyouare,”hesays.

“Really?MymomsaysIgotoofar.”

“Maybe.Istillloveit,though.”

Ilowermyeyesanddon’trespond.“Howmuchtimeuntilyourinterview?”Iask.

“Fortyminutes.”

“Gotanymoreofthoselovequestionsforme?”

“You’renotinlovewithmeyet?”Hisvoiceisfilledwithmockincredulity.

“Nope,”Isay,andsmileathim.

“Don’tworry,”hesays.“We’vegottime.”

ITFEELSLIKEAMIRACLEthatwegettosithereonthisrooftop,likewe’repartofasecretskycity.Thesunisslowlyretreatingacross thebuildings,butit’snotdarkyet.Itwillbesoon,butfornowthere’sonlyanideaofdarkness.

Natasha and I are sitting cross-legged against thewall next to the stairwelldoor.We’reholdinghands,andshe’srestingherheadonmyshoulder.Herhairissoftagainstthesideofmyface.

“Areyoureadyforthedinnerguestquestionyet?”Iask.

“YoumeanwhoI’dinvite?”

“Yup.”

“Ugh,no.Yougofirst,”shesays.

“Easy,”Isay.“God.”

Sheraisesherheadfrommyshoulderto lookatme.“YoureallybelieveinGod?”

“Ido.”

“Oneguy?Inthesky?Withsuperpowers?”Herdisbeliefisn’tmocking,justinvestigative.

“Notexactlylikethat,”Isay.

“What,then?”

Isqueezeherhand.“Youknowthewaywefeelrightnow?Thisconnectionbetween us that we don’t understand and we don’t want to let go of? That’sGod.”

“Holyhell,”sheexclaims.“Youpoetboysaredangerous.”

Shepullsmyhandintoherlapandholdsitwithbothofhers.

Itiltmyheadbackandwatchthesky,tryingtopickshapesoutoftheclouds.“Here’swhatIthink,”Isay.“Ithinkwe’reallconnected,everyoneonearth.”

Sherunsherfingertipsovermyknuckles.“Eventhebadpeople?”

“Yes.Buteveryonehasatleastalittlegoodinthem.”

“Nottrue,”shesays.

“Okay,” Iconcede.“Buteveryonehasdoneat leastonegood thing in theirlifetime.Doyouagreewiththat?”

Shethinksitoverandthenslowlynods.

Igoon.“I thinkall thegoodpartsofusareconnectedonsome level.Thepart that shares the lastdoublechocolatechipcookieordonates tocharityorgivesadollartoastreetmusicianorbecomesacandystriperorcriesatApplecommercialsorsaysIloveyouorIforgiveyou.Ithinkthat’sGod.Godistheconnectionoftheverybestpartsofus.”

“Andyouthinkthatconnectionhasaconsciousness?”sheasks.

“Yeah,andwecallitGod.”

Shelaughsaquietlaugh.“Areyoualwaysso—”

“Erudite?”Iask,interrupting.

Shelaughsloudernow.“Iwasgonnasaycheesy.”

“Yes.I’mknownfarandwideformycheesiness.”

“I’mkidding,” shesays,bumpingher shoulder intomine.“I really like thatyou’vethoughtaboutit.”

AndIhavetoo.ThisisnotthefirsttimeI’vehadthesethoughts,butit’sthefirsttimeI’vereallybeenabletoarticulatethem.Somethingaboutbeingwithhermakesmemybestself.

I pull her hand tomy lips and kiss her fingers. “What about you?” I ask.“Youdon’tbelieveinGod?”

“I like your idea of it. I definitely don’t believe in the fire and brimstoneone.”

“Butyoubelieveinsomething?”

She frowns, uncertain. “I really don’t know. I guess I’mmore interested inwhypeoplefeelliketheyhavetobelieveinGod.Whycan’titjustbescience?Science is wondrous. The night sky? Amazing. The inside of a human cell?

Incredible.Somethingthattellsuswe’rebornbadandthatpeopleusetojustifyall theirpettyprejudicesandawfulness? Idunno. Iguess Ibelieve in science.Scienceisenough.”

“Huh,”Isay.Sunlightreflectsoffthebuildings,andtheairaroundustakesonanorangetinge.Ifeelcocoonedeveninthiswide-openspace.

She says, “Did you know that the universe is approximately twenty-sevenpercentdarkmatter?”

Ididnotknowthat,butofcourseshedoes.

“Whatisdarkmatter?”

Delight is theonlywordfor the lookonherface.Shetugsherhandoutofmine,rubsherpalmstogether,andsettlesintoexplain.

“Well,scientistsaren’texactlysure,butit’sthedifferencebetweenanobject’smass and the mass calculated by its gravitational effect.” She raises hereyebrowsexpectantly,asifshe’ssaidsomethingprofoundandearth-shattering.

Iamprofoundlyun-earth-shattered.

Shesighs.Dramatically.

“Poets,” she mutters, but with a smile. “Those two masses should be thesame.”Sheraisesanexplanatoryfinger.“Theyshouldbethesame,butthey’renot,forverylargebodieslikeplanets.”

“Oh,that’sinteresting,”Isay,reallymeaningit.

“Isn’tit?”She’sbeamingatmeandI’mreallyagonerforthisgirl.“Also,itturns out the visiblemass of a galaxy doesn’t have enough gravity to explainwhyitdoesn’tflyapart.”

IshakemyheadtoletherknowIdon’tunderstand.

Shegoeson.“Ifwecalculatethegravitationalforcesofalltheobjectswecandetect, it’s not enough to keep galaxies and stars in orbit around each other.Therehastobemorematterthatwecan’tsee.Darkmatter.”

“Okay,Igetit,”Isay.

Shegivesmeskepticaleyes.

“No, really,” I say. “I get it. Dark matter is twenty-seven percent of theuniverse,yousaid?”

“Approximately.”

“And it’s thereasonwhyobjectsdon’thurtle themselvesoff intodeepdarkspace?It’swhatkeepsusboundtogether?”

Herskepticismturnsintosuspicion.“Whatisyouraddledpoetbraingettingat?”

“You’regonnahateme.”

“Maybe,”sheagrees.

“Darkmatterislove.It’stheattractingforce.”

“OhGodJesusno.Yuck.Blech.You’retheworst.”

“Oh,Iamgood,”Isay,laughinghard.

“Theabsoluteworst,” shesays,butshe leans inand laughshardalongwithme.

“I’mtotallyright,”Isay,triumphant.Irecaptureherhand.

She groans again, but I can tell she’s thinking about it.Maybe she doesn’tdisagreeasmuchasshethinksshedoes.

I scroll through the questions on my phone. “Okay, I have another one.Completethefollowingsentence:We’rebothinthisroomfeeling…”

“LikeIhavetopee,”shesays,smiling.

“Youreallyhatetalkingaboutseriousthings,don’tyou?”

“Haveyoueverhad topee reallybad?” sheasks. “It’s a serious thing.Youcouldcauseseriousdamagetoyourbladderby—”

“Doyoureallyhavetopee?”Iask.

“No.”

“Answerthequestion,”Itellher.I’mnotlettingherjokeherwayoutofthisone.

“Youfirst,”shesays,sighing.

“Happy,horny,andhopeful.”

“Alliteration.Nice.”

“Yourturn,andyouhavetobesincere,”Itellher.

Shestickshertongueoutatme.“Confused.Scared.”

Ipullherhandintomylap.“Whyareyouscared?”

“It’sbeenalongday.ThismorningIthoughtIwasbeingdeported.I’vebeengearingmyselfupforthatfortwomonths.NowitlookslikeI’llgettostay.”

She turns to look at me. “And then there’s you. I didn’t know you thismorning, and now I don’t really remember not knowing you. It’s all a littlemuch.Ifeeloutofcontrol.”

“Whyisthatsobad?”Iask.

“Iliketoseethingscoming.Iliketoplanahead.”

AndIgetit.Ireallydo.Weareprogrammedtoplanahead.It’spartofourrhythm.Thesunriseseverydayanddeferstothemooneverynight.“Likethesecurityguardsaid,though—planningdoesn’talwayswork.”

“Doyouthink that’s true?I thinkmostlyyoucanplan.Mostly thingsdon’tjustcomeoutofnowhereandbowlyouover.”

“Probablythedinosaursthoughtthattoo,andlookwhathappenedtothem,”Itease.

HersmileissobroadthatIhavetotouchherface.Sheturnsherfaceintomypalmandkissesit.“Extinction-leveleventsnotwithstanding,Ithinkyoucanplanahead,”shesays.

“Ibowledyouover,”Iremindher,andshedoesn’tdenyit.

“Anyway,”Isay.“Sofaryouonlyhavetwothings—confusedandscared.”

“Allright,allright.I’llgiveyouwhatyouwantandsay‘happy.’ ”

Isighdramatically.“Youcould’vesaidthatonefirst.”

“Ilikesuspense,”shesays.

“Noyoudon’t.”

“You’reright.Ihatesuspense.”

“Happybecauseofme?”Iask.

“Andnotbeingdeported.Butmostlyyou.”

She pulls our joined hands to her lips and kisses mine. I could stay hereforever interrupting our talking with kissing, interrupting our kissing withtalking.

“Whenarewedoingthestaring-into-each-other’s-eyesthing?”Iask.

SherollstheveryeyesthatIwanttostareinto.“Later.Afteryourinterview,”shesays.

“Don’tbescared,”Itease.

“What’stobescaredof?Allyou’llseeisirisandpupil.”

“Theeyesarethewindowstothesoul,”Icounter.

“Stuffandnonsense,”shesays.

Icheckthetimeonmyphoneunnecessarily.Iknowit’salmosttimeformyinterview,butIwant to lingerouthere inskycitysomemore.“Let’sget inacouplemore questions,” I say. “Lightning round.What’s yourmost treasuredmemory?”

“ThefirsttimeIgottoeaticecreaminaconeinsteadofinacup,”shesayswithnohesitation.

“Howoldwereyou?”

“Four.Chocolateicecreamwhilewearinganall-whiteEasterSundaydress.”

“Whoseideawasthat?”Iask.

“Myfather’s,” she says, smiling. “Heused to think Iwas thegreatest thingever.”

“Andhedoesn’tanymore?”

“No,”shesays.

Iwaitforhertocontinue,butshemoveson:“What’syourmemory?”

“We took a family trip toDisneyWorld when I was seven. Charlie reallywantedtogoonSpaceMountain,butmymomthoughtit’dbetooscaryformeandshewouldn’t lethimgobyhimself.Andneitherofmyparentswantedtogo.”

Shetightenshergriponmyhands,whichiscutesinceIclearlysurvivedtheexperience.“Sowhathappened?”

“IconvincedmymomthatIreallywasn’tscared.ItoldherI’dbeenlookingforwardtotheridesinceforever.”

“Butyouweren’t?”sheasks.

“No.Iwasscaredshitless.IjustdiditforCharlie.”

She bumpsmy shoulder and teases. “I already like you.You don’t have toconvincemethatyou’reasaint.”

“That’sthething.Iwasn’tbeingsaintly.IthinkIknewourrelationshipwasn’tgoingtolast.IwasjusttryingtoconvincehimIwasworthit.Itworkedtoo.He

toldmeIwasbraveandheletmefinishallhispopcorn.”

Itiltmyheadbackandlookupattheclouds.They’rebarelymovingacrossthesky.

“Do you think it’s funny that both of our favoritememories are about thepeopleweliketheleastnow?”Iask.

“Maybe that’swhywedislike them,” she says. “Thedistancebetweenwhotheywereandwhotheyareissowide,wehavenohopeofgettingthemback.”

“Maybe,”Isay.“Youknowwhattheworstpartofthatstoryis?”

“What?”

“Ihaterollercoasterstothisdaybecauseofthattrip.”

Shelaughs,andIlaughwithher.

SCIENTISTS THEORIZE that the first “eyes” were nothing more than apigmented,light-sensitivespotontheskinofsomeancientcreature.Thatspotgaveittheabilitytosenselightfromdark—anadvantage,sincedarknesscouldindicate that a predatorwas close enough toblockout light.Becauseof this,they survived more, reproduced more, and passed this ability down to theiroffspring. Random mutations created a deepening depression in the light-sensitivespot.Thisdepressionledtoslightlybettervisionand,therefore,moresurvival.Overtime,thatlight-sensitivespotevolvedtobecomethehumaneye.

Howdidwegofromeyesasasurvivalmechanismtotheideaofloveatfirstsight?Or the idea that eyes are thewindows to the soul?Or to the clichéofloversstaringendlesslyintoeachother’seyes?

Studieshaveshownthatthepupilsofpeoplewhoareattractedtoeachotherdilatefromthepresenceofdopamine.Otherstudiessuggestthatthreadsintheeye can indicate personality tendencies, and that maybe eyes are a kind ofwindowtothesoulafterall.

Andwhatabouttheloverswhospendhoursstaringintoeachother’seyes?Isitadisplayoftrust?IwillletyouincloseandtrustyounottohurtmewhileI’min this vulnerable position. And if trust is one of the foundations of love,perhapsthestaringisawaytobuildorreinforceit.Ormaybeit’ssimplerthanthat.

Asimplesearchforconnection.

Tosee.

Tobeseen.

ATTORNEY FITZGERALD’S DOOR is at the end of a long, gray, andmostly featurelesshallway. I try (andfail)not to take thisasa signaboutmyfuture.There’s nonameon thedoor, just a number.Noone answerswhen Iknock.Maybehe’sleftforthedayalready?Becausethatwouldbeideal.Thenitwouldn’tbemyfaultthatIdidn’tgettogotoYaleandbecomeadoctor.NevermindthatI’mtenminuteslatebecauseofallthekissing.Iregretnothing.

Iturnthehandleandwalkrightintoasobbingwoman.She’snotevencryinginto her hands to hide her face like people usually do. She’s standing in themiddleoftheroomtakinghugegulpsofairwithtearsstreamingdownherface.Hermascaraisstreakedacrosshercheeksandhereyesarepuffyandred,likeshe’sbeencryingforalongtime.

When she realizes that I’m standing there, she stops crying andwipes herfacewiththebackofherhands.Thewipingmakesitworse,sonowmascaraisacrosshernosetoo.

“Areyouokay?”Iask,asking thedumbestquestionIcan thinkof.Clearlyshe’snotokay.

“I’m fine,” she says. She chews on her bottom lip and tries to smooth herhair,butagain,shemakestheproblemworse.

“You’reDanielBae,”shesays.“You’reherefortheadmissioninterview.”

I take a step toward her. “Can I get you a glass of water or a tissue orsomething?”IspyanemptyboxofKleenexonherdesknexttoaPARALEGALSDOITCHEAPERmug.

“I’mcompletely fine.He’s just through there,” she says,pointing toadoorbehindher.

“Areyousureyou’re—”Ibegin,butshecutsmeoff.

“Ihavetogonow.Tellhimthathe’sthemostwonderfulpersonI’veevermet

butthatIhavetogo.”

I say “Okay,” even though I won’t be telling him any of that. Also, it’s aprettysmalloffice.He’sprobablyalreadyheardherdeclaration.

ShewalksbacktoherdeskandpicksupthePARALEGALSmug.“AndtellhimthatIwanttostay,butIcan’t.It’sbetterforbothofus.”

Then she starts crying again.And now I can feelmy own eyeswelling upwithtears.Notcool.

Shestopscryingabruptlyandstaresatme.“Areyoucrying?”sheasks.

Iwipemy eyes. “It’s just a stupid thing that happens tome. I start cryingwhenIseeotherpeoplecrying.”

“That’sreallysweet.”Nowthatit’snotdrowningintears,hervoiceiskindofmusical.

“It’skindofapainintheass,actually.”

“Language,”shesays,frowning.

“Sorry.”Whatkindofpersonobjectstoaninnocentwordlikeass?

Sheacceptsmysorrywithaslightnod.“Wejustmovedintothisoffice,andnowI’llneverseeitagain.”Shesnifflesandthenwipeshernose.“IfI’dknownhowthiswouldend,Iwouldneverhavestarted.”

“Everyonewants tobeable topredict the future,” I say.Hereyes fillwithtearsagainevenasshe’snoddingheragreement.

“When Iwas a little girl, fairy talesweremy favorite books because evenbeforeyouopenedthem,youknewhowtheyweregoingtoend.Happilyeverafter.” She glances at the closed door behind her, closes her eyes, and opensthemagain.“Inthefairytales,theprincessneverdoesthewrongthing.”

The office door behind me opens. I turn, curious to see what the mostwonderfulpersonintheworldlookslike.Exceptforthebandageoverhisrighteye,helooksprettynormal.

“DanielBae?”heasks,lookingonlyatme.Hiseyesdon’tflitovertoherforevenasecond.

Iholdoutmyhandforashake.“Mr.Fitzgerald.It’snicetomeetyou.”

Hedoesn’t shakemyhand. “You’re late,” he says, andwalks back into hisoffice.

Iturntosaygoodbyetothesecretary,butshe’salreadygone.

ITAKEMYPHONEOUTofmybackpack.Stillnoreturncallor textfromBev.Maybeshe’sonanothertour.IremembershesaidshewantedtomakeittoUniversityofCalifornia,SanFrancisco,too.

Ishouldcallmymom.ProbablyIshould’vecalledheratmanypointstoday.She’scalledthreemoretimeswhileDanielandIwereontheroof.

Itexther:cominghomesoon.

Thephonebuzzesbackatmealmostimmediately.Iguessshe’sbeenwaitingforwordfromme.

beentryingtoreachufor2hours.

sorry!Itextback.

Shealwayshastohavethelastword,soIwaitfortheinevitablereply:

sononewsthen?hopeudidn’tgetuhopesup.

Itossthephoneintomybackpackwithoutanswering.

SometimesIthinkmymom’sworstfearisbeingdisappointed.Shecombatsthisbytryingherhardestnevertogetherhopesup,andurgingeveryoneelsetodothesame.

It doesn’t always work. Once she brought home a casting-call flyer for anOff-Off-Off-Broadwayplayformyfather.Idon’tknowwhereshefounditorevenwhattherolewas.Hetookitfromherandevensaidthankyou,butI’mprettysurehenevercalledthenumber.

I decide to wait for the final call from Attorney Fitzgerald before sayinganythingtoher.Mymom’salreadydealtwithtoomuchdisappointment.

Thetroublewithgettingyourhopestoofarupis:it’salongwaydown.

SOMEPEOPLEAREBORNFOR greatness.God give a lucky few of ussometalentandthenputusonearthtomakeuseofit.

OnlytwotimesinmylifeIgettousemine.TwomonthsagowhenIdidARaisinintheSuninManhattan,andtenyearsagowhenIdiditinMontegoBay.

There’s just something about me and that play that was meant to be. InJamaica,theDailycalledmyperformancemiraculous.Igotastandingovation.

Me.Nottheotheractors.Mealone.

Isafunnything.ThatplaysendmetoAmerica,andnowitsendingmebacktoJamaica.

Patricia ask me how me could tell the cop all our business.Him not nopreacher,shesay.Itnotnoconfession,shesay.I tellherIwasjustdrunkandcomingoff thestagehigh.Thehighest thingyoucando is the thingGodputyouonthisearthtodo.

ItellherIdidn’tmeantodoit.AndistruewhatItellher,buttheoppositetruetoo.MaybeIdoitonpurpose.Thisnotnoconfession.Ijustsayingthatthethoughtisthereinmymind.MaybeIdoitonpurpose.Wecouldn’tevenfillalltheseatsintheplace.

America donewithme and I donewith it.More than anything, that nightremind me. In Jamaica I got a standing ovation. In America I can’t get anaudience.

Idon’tknow.MaybeIdoitonpurpose.Youcangetlostinyouownmind,likeyougonetoanothercountry.Allyouthoughtsinanotherlanguageandyoucan’treadthesignseventhoughtheyeverywhereallaroundyou.

THEFIRSTTHING ISEE onhis desk is a filewithNatasha’s nameon it.NatashaKingsley,itsays.Ithastobeher,right?HowmanyNatashaKingsleyscould therebe?Notonlyareourmeetings in the samebuilding,but alsoherlawyer and my interviewer are the same person? The odds have to beastronomical,right?Ican’twaittoseethelookonherfacewhenItellher.

I look up at him and then around the office for other signs. “Are you animmigrationlawyer?”Iask.

HelooksupfromwhatIpresumeismyapplication.“Iam.Why?”

“IthinkIknowoneofyourclients,”Isay,andpickupthefile.

Hesnatchesitawayfromme.“Don’ttouchthat.It’sprivileged.”Hepullsitasfarawayfrommeaspossible.

IgrinatFitzgeraldandhefrownsbackatme.“Yeah,sorry,”Isay.“It’sjustyousavedmylife.”

“Whatareyoutalkingabout?”HeflexeshisrightwristandInoticethathishand isbandaged.NowI remember thathisparalegal saidhe’dbeen inacaraccident.

Ipointatthefile.“Ijustmether—Natasha—today.”

He’s still frowning at me, not getting it. “When I met her she was beingdeported,butthenshemetwithyouandyoudidyourlawyermagic,andnowshe’sgoingtostay.”

Hereststhebandagedhandonhisdesk.“Andhowdidthatsaveyourlife?”

“She’stheOne,”Isay.

Hefrowns.“Didn’tyousayyoujustmethertoday?”

“Yup.”Ican’tdoanythingaboutthebigsmileonmyface.

“Andshe’s theOne?”Hedoesn’t actuallyputairquotesaround“theOne,”but I can hear them in his voice.Vocal air quotes (not better than actual airquotes).

Hesteepleshisfingersandstaresatmeforagoodlongwhile.“Whyareyouhere?”heasks.

Isthisatrickquestion?“Formyadmissioninterview?”

Helooksmeoverpointedly.“No,really.Whyareyouhereinmyofficerightnow?Youobviouslydon’tcareaboutthisinterview.Youshowupherelookinglikeyou’vebeeninabrawl.It’saseriousquestion.Whydidyoucomehere?”

There’snowaytoanswerthisbuthonestly.“Myparentsmademe.”

“Howoldareyou?”

“Seventeen.”

Helooksdownatmyfile.“Itsaysherethatyou’reinterestedinthepre-medtrack.Areyou?”

“Notreally,”Isay.

“Notreallyorno?”Lawyerslikecertainty.

“No.”

“Nowwe’regettingsomewhere,”hesays.“DoyouwanttogotoYale?”

“Idon’tevenknowifIwanttogotocollege.”

He leans forward in his chair. I feel like I’m being cross-examined. “Andwhat’syourbigdream?”

“Tobeapoet.”

“Ohgood,”hesays.“Somethingpractical.”

“Believeitornot,I’veheardthatonebefore.”

Heleansinevenmore.“I’llaskyouagain.Whyareyouhere?”

“Ihavetobe.”

“Noyoudon’t,”hefiresback.“Youcanjustgetupandwalkoutthatdoor.”

“Ioweittomyparents.”

“Why?”

“Youwouldn’tunderstand.”

“Tryme.”

Isigh(long-sufferingvariety).“Myparentsare immigrants.Theymoved tothiscountryforabetter life.Theyworkall the timesomybrotherandIcanhave theAmericanDream.Nowhere in theAmericanDreamdoes it sayyoucanskipcollegeandbecomeastarvingartist.”

“Itsayswhateveryouwantitto.”

Isnort.“Notinmyfamilyitdoesn’t.IfIdon’tdothis,Igetcutoff.Nofundsforcollege.Nonothing.”

Thisconfessionatleaststopshisrapid-firequestioning.Heleansbackinhischair.“Wouldtheyreallydothat?”heasks.

Iknowtheanswer,butIcan’tmakemyselfsay it rightaway.I thinkaboutmydad’sfaceearlierthisafternoon.He’ssodeterminedthatCharlieandIhaveabetterlifethanhedid.He’lldoanythingtoguaranteeit.

“Yes,”Isay.“Hewould.”Butnotbecausehe’sevil.Andnotbecausehe’saStereotypicalKoreanParent.Butbecausehecan’tseepasthisownhistorytoletushaveours.

Alotofpeoplearelikethat.

Fitzgeraldwhistles low.“SoIguessyouhave tobesure thepoetry thing isworthit.”

NowI’mtheoneleaningin.“Haven’tyoueverdonesomethingonlybecauseyou’reobligatedto?Justbecauseyoumadeapromise?”

His eyesdrift away frommine.Forwhatever reason, thisquestion changesthedynamicbetweenus.Itfeelslikewe’reinthesameboat.

“Meetingyourobligationsisthedefinitionofadulthood,kid.Ifyou’regoingtomakemistakesandbreakpromises,now’sthetime.”

Hestopstalking,flexeshiswrist,andgrimaces.“Getyourscrewingupdonenow, when the consequences aren’t so bad. Trustme. It gets harder to do itlater.”

Sometimespeopletellyouthingsbynottellingyouthings.Iglanceathislefthandandseehisweddingring.

“Isthatwhathappenedtoyou?”Iask.

He unsteeples his fingers and twists the ring around his finger. “I’m amarriedmanwithtwokids.”

“Andyou’rehavinganaffairwithyourparalegal.”

Herubsatthebandageabovehiseye.“Itjuststartedtoday.”Helooksovertohiscloseddoor, as ifhe’shoping she’llbe standing right there. “Ended todaytoo,”hesaysquietly.

Ididn’tactuallyexpecthimtoadmitit,andnowI’mnotsurewhattosay.

“YouthinkI’mabadguy,”hesays.

“Ithinkyou’remyinterviewer,”Ianswer.Maybeit’sbetterforustojustgetthisinterviewbackoncourse.

Hecovershiseyeswithhishands.“Imethertoolate.I’vealwayshadlousytiming.”

I don’t know what to tell him. Not that he’s looking to me for advice.OrdinarilyIwouldsayfollowyourheart.Buthe’samarriedman.Hisheartisnottheonlyoneinvolved.

“Sowhatareyougonnado?Lethergo?”Iask.

He looks atme for a long time, thinking. “You’re going to have to do thesame,”hesaysfinally.

HepullsNatasha’s file fromunder his elbow. “I couldn’t do it. I thought Icould,butIcouldn’t.”

“Dowhat?”Iask.

“Stopherdeportation.”

He’sgoingtohavetospellitoutforme,becauseI’mnotprocessingwhathe’ssaying. “Your Natasha is getting deported tonight after all. I couldn’t stop itfromhappening.Thejudgewouldn’toverturntheVoluntaryRemoval.”

Idon’tknowwhataVoluntaryRemovalis,butallIcanthinkisthatthere’samistake.It’sdefinitelyamistake.NowI’mhopingitreallyisadifferentNatashaKingsley.

“I’msorry,kid,”hesays.Heslidesthefileacrosstome,asifmylookingatitissomehowgoingtohelp.Iflipitopen.It’ssomesortofofficialform.AllIseeis her name: Natasha Katherine Kingsley. I didn’t know her middle name.Katherine.Itsuitsher.

Ishutthefileandslideitbacktohim.“Therehastobesomethingyoucando.”

Thefingersteepleisbackandheshrugs.“I’vetriedeverythingalready.”

Theshrugpissesmeoff.Thisisnotasmallthing.Thisisn’tOh,youmissedyourappointment.Comeagaintomorrow.ThisisNatasha’slife.Andmine.

Istandup.“Youdidn’ttryhardenough,”Iaccusehim.I’mwillingtobettheaffairwithhissecretaryhassomethingtodowiththis.Ibethe’sspentthedaybreakingpromisestohiswifeandchildren.AndtoNatashatoo.

“Look,Iknowyou’reupset.”Hisvoice iseven, likehe’s tryingtocalmmedown.

ButIdon’twanttobecalm.Ipressmyhandsintohisdeskandleanforward.“Therehastobesomethingyoucando.It’snotherfaultherdadissuchafuck-up.”

He slideshis chairback from thedesk. “Sorry.HomelandSecuritydoesn’tlikeitifyouoverstayyourvisa.”

“But shewas justakid.Shedidn’thaveachoice. It’snot likeshecould’vesaidMom,Dad,ourvisaisexpired.WeshouldgobacktoJamaicanow.”

“Doesn’tmatter.Thelawhastodrawalinesomewhere.Theirlastappealwasdenied.Theonlyhopewasthejudge.Iftheyleavetonight,thenthere’saslightchanceshecanreapplyforavisainafewyears.”

“ButAmericaisherhome,”Ishout.“Itdoesn’tmatterwhereshewasborn.”Idon’tsaytherestofit,whichisthatshebelongswithme.

“Iwish therewas something I coulddo,” he says.He touches thebandageabovehis eyeagainand seemsgenuinely sorry.Maybe I’mwrongabouthim.Maybehereallydidtry.

“I’mplanningoncallingherafteryouandIaredonehere,”hesays.

Afterwe’redone. I’vecompletely forgotten that thismeeting is supposed tobeaboutmegetting intoYale.“You’rejustgoingtocallherandtellheroverthephone?”

“Doesitmatterhowshehearsit?”heasks,frowning.

“Of course itmatters.” I don’twant her to hear theworst newsof her lifeoverthephonefromsomeoneshebarelyknows.“I’lldoit,”Isay.“I’lltellher.”

Heshakeshishead.“Ican’tletyoudothat.It’smyjob.”

Ijustsittherenotknowingwhattodo.Mylipthrobs.ThespotonmyribswhereCharliepunchedmehurts.TheplaceinmyheartwhereNatashaishurts.

“I’msorry,kid,”hesaysagain.

“What if she doesn’t get on the plane? What if she just stays?” I amdesperate.Breakingthelawseemsasmallpricetopaytogethertostay.

Anotherheadshake.“Idon’trecommendthat.Asalawyerorotherwise.”

Ihavetogettoherandtellherfirst.Idon’twanthertobealonewhenshehearsthenews.

I walk out of his office and into the empty reception area. The paralegaldidn’tcomeback.

Hefollowsme.“Sothat’sit?”heasks.“Nomoreinterview?”

Idon’tstopwalking.“Yousaidityourself.Idon’treallycareaboutYale.”

HeputsahandonmyarmsoIhavetoturnandfacehim.“Look,IknowIsaid you should get your screwing up done nowwhile you’re still a kid, butYale’sabigdeal.Goingtherecouldopenalotofdoorsforyou.Itdidforme.”

Andmaybehe’sright.MaybeI’mbeingshortsighted.

I look around his office. How long will it take for the construction to bedone?Iwonder.Howlongwillittakeforhimtohireanewparalegal?

Ijutmychininthedirectionofherdesk.“Youdidallthethingsyouweresupposedto,andyou’restillnothappy.”

Herubsagainatthebandageabovehiseyeanddoesn’tlookoveratthedesk.He’stired,butnotthekindoftiredthatsleepingcanfix.

Itellhim,“IfIdon’tgonow,I’llalwaysregretit.”

“What’sanotherhalfanhourtofinishthisinterview?”heinsists.

Doeshereallyneedmetotellhimthatallthesecondsmatter?Thatourownuniverseexplodedintoexistenceinthespaceofabreath?

“Timecounts,Mr.Fitzgerald,”Itellhim.

Finallyheturnsawayfrommeandlooksattheemptydesk.

“Butyouknowthatalready,”Isay.

JEREMYFITZGERALDDIDN’TTELLDANIEL the truth. The reason hewasn’t able to stop Natasha’s deportation is that he missed the courtappointmentwiththejudgewhocould’vereversedtheVoluntaryRemoval.Hemisseditbecausehe’sinlovewithHannahWinter,andinsteadofgoingtoseethejudge,hespenttheafternoonatahotelwithher.

Aloneinhispartiallybuiltoffice,JeremywillthinkofDanielBaeconstantlyfor the next week.Hewill rememberwhatDaniel said about time counting.He’llrememberwithperfectclarityDaniel’sbustedlipandbloodiedshirt.He’llremember how that was nothing compared to the complete devastation onDaniel’s facewhenhe learned thenewsaboutNatasha.Likesomeonehandedhimagrenadeandexplodedhislifeapart.

Sometimeinthenextmonth,Jeremywilltellhiswifethathenolongerlovesher. That it will be best for her and the children if he leaves. He will callHannahWinter,andhewillmakeherpromisesandhewillkeepallofthem.

Hissonwillneversettledownormarryorhavechildrenorforgivehisfatherfor his betrayal. His daughter willmarry her first girlfriend,Marie. Shewillspendmost of that firstmarriage anticipating and then causing its end.AfterMarie, no onewill ever love her quite asmuch again.And though she’ll getmarriedtwicemore,she’llneverloveanyoneasmuchasshedidMarie.

JeremyandHannah’schildrenwillgrowuptoloveothersinthesimpleanduncomplicatedwayofpeoplewhohavealwaysknownwherelovecomesfrom,andaren’tafraidofitsloss.

All of which isn’t to say that Jeremy Fitzgerald did the right thing or thewrongthing.It’sonlytosaythis:lovealwayschangeseverything.

AndTheyLivedHappilyEverAfter.

NOWTHATTHESUNHASset,theair’sgottenmuchcolder.It’snothardtoimaginethatwinter’sjustaroundthecorner.I’llhavetounearthmybulkyblackcoatandmyboots.Itugmyjacketcloserandcontemplategoinginsidetothelobby,where it’swarm. I’monmyway inwhenDanielwalks out the slidingglassdoors.

HeseesmeandIexpectasmile,buthisfaceisgrim.Howbadlycouldhisinterviewhavegone?

“Whathappened?”IaskassoonasIreachhim.I’mimaginingtheworst,likehegotintoafightwithhisinterviewer,andnowhe’sbannedfromapplyingtoanycollegeatall,andhisfutureisruined.

Heputshishandonmyface. “I really loveyou,”he says.He’snot joking.Thishasnothingtodowithoursillybet.Hesaysitthewayyouwouldsayittosomeonewhoisdyingoryoudon’texpecttoseeagain.

“Daniel,what’swrong?”Ipullhishandawayfrommyface,butIholdontoit.

“I loveyou,”hesaysagain,andrecapturesmyfacewithhisotherhand.“Itdoesn’tmatterifyousayitback.Ijustwantyoutoknowit.”

Myphonerings.It’sthelawyer’soffice.

“Don’tanswerit,”hesays.

OfcourseI’mgoingtoanswerit.

Hetouchesmyhandtostopme.“Pleasedon’t,”hesaysagain.

NowI’malarmed.IclickIgnore.“Whathappenedtoyouinthere?”

He squeezes his eyes shut.When he opens them again they’re filled withtears.“Youcan’tstayhere,”hesays.

At first I don’t get it. “Why? Is the building closing for the night?” I lookaroundforguardsaskingustoleave.

Tearsslidedownhischeeks.Certainandunwantedknowledgebloomsinmymind.Ipullmyhandoutofhis.

“Whatwasyourinterviewer’sname?”Iwhisper.

He’snoddingnow.“Myinterviewerwasyourlawyer.”

“Fitzgerald?”

“Yes,”hesays.

Ipulloutmyphoneandlookatthenumberagain,stillrefusingtounderstandwhathe’s tellingme.“I’vebeenwaitingforhimtocall.Didhesaysomethingaboutme?”

Ialreadyknowtheanswer.Iknowit.

Ittakeshimacoupleoftriestogetthewordsout.“Hesaidhecouldn’tgettheorderoverturned.”

“Buthesaidhecoulddoit,”Iinsist.

Hesqueezesmyhandandtriestopullmecloser,butIresist.Idon’twanttobecomforted.Iwanttounderstand.

I back away from him. “Are you sure?Whywere you even talking aboutme?”

Hewipesahanddownhisface.“Therewasallthisweirdshitgoingonwithhimandhisparalegal,andyourfilewasjustonhisdesk.”

“Thatstilldoesn’texplain—”

Hegrabsmyhandagain.Ipullitawayforcefullythistime.“Stop!Juststop!”Iyell.

“I’msorry,”hesays,andletsmego.

Itakeanotherstepback.“Justtellmewhathesaidexactly.”

“He said the deportation order stands and that it’s better if you and yourfamilyleavetonight.”

I turn away and listen tomyvoicemail. It’s him—AttorneyFitzgerald.HesaysthatIshouldcallhim.Thathehasunfortunatenews.

IhangupandstareatDanielmutely.Hestarts tosaysomething,butIjustwanthimtostop.Iwantthewholeworldtostop.Therearetoomanymoving

parts that are outside of my control. I feel like I’m in an elaborate RubeGoldbergcontraptionthatsomeoneelsedesigned.Idon’tknowthemechanismto trigger it. I don’t know what happens next. I only know that everythingcascades,andthatonceitstartsitwon’tstop.

Heartsdon’tbreak.

It’sjustanotherthingthepoetssay.

Heartsarenotmade

Ofglass

Orbone

Oranymaterialthatcould

Splinter

OrFragment

OrShatter.

Theydon’t

CrackIntoPieces.

Theydon’t

FallApart.

Heartsdon’tbreak.

Theyjuststopworking.

Anoldwatchfromanothertimeandnopartstofixit.

WE’RESITTINGNEXTTOTHE fountain andDaniel’s holdingmy hand.Hissuitjacketisaroundmyshoulders.

Hereallyisakeeper.He’sjustnotminetokeep.

“Ihavetogohome,”Isaytohim.It’sthefirstthingI’vesaidinoverhalfanhour.

Hepullsme close again. I’m finally ready to let him.His shoulders are sobroadandsolid.Irestmyheadonone.Ifitthere.Iknewitthismorning,andIknowitnow.

“Whatarewegoingtodo?”hewhispers.

There’semailandSkypeandtextsandIMsandmaybeevenvisitstoJamaica.ButevenasIthinkit,IknowIwon’tletthathappen.Wehaveseparatelivestolead.Ican’tleavemyheartherewhenmylifeisthere.AndIcan’ttakehisheartwithmewhenhiswholefutureishere.

Iliftmyheadfromhisshoulder.“Howwastherestoftheinterview?”

He touches my cheek and then tilts my head back down. “He said he’drecommendme.”

“That’sgreat,”Isay,withabsolutelynoenthusiasm.

“Yeah,”hesays,enthusiasmlevelmatchingmine.

IamcoldbutIdon’twanttomove.Movingfromthisspotwillstartthechainreactionthatendswithmeonaplane.

Anotherfiveminutesgoby.

“Ireallyshouldgohome,”Isay.“Flight’satten.”

Hepulls outhis phone to check the time. “Threehours to go.Areyou allpackedupalready?”

“Yes.”

“I’llgowithyou,”hesays.

Myheartmakesaleap.ForacrazysecondIthinkhemeanshe’llgowithmetoJamaica.

Heseesthethoughtinmyeyes.“Imeantoyourhouse.”

“I knowwhat youmeant,” I snap. I am resentful. I am ridiculous. “I don’tthinkthat’sagoodidea.MyparentsarethereandIhavetoomuchtodo.You’lljustgetintheway.”

Heraiseshimselfupandholdsouthishandformine.“Here’swhatwe’renotgoingtodo.Wearenotgoingtoargue.Wearenotgoingtopretendthat thisisn’ttheworstthingonearth,becauseitis.We’renotgoingtogoourseparatewaysbeforeweabsolutelyhaveto.I’mgoingwithyoutoyourparents’house.I’m going tomeet them, and they’re going to likeme, and I’m not going topunchyourdad.Instead,I’mgoingtoseewhetheryou lookmore likehimoryourmom.Yourlittlebrotherwillactlikealittlebrother.MaybeI’llfinallygettohearthatJamaicanaccentyou’vebeenhidingfrommeallday.I’mgoingtolookat theplacewhereyou sleepandeatand liveandwish I’dknownjustalittlesoonerthatyouwererighthere.”

I start to interrupt, but he continues talking. “I’m going with you to yourhouse,andthenwe’regoingtotakeacabtotheairport,justthetwoofus.ThenI’mgoingtowatchyougetonaplaneandfeelmyheartgetrippedoutofmyfucking chest, and then I’m going to wonder for the rest of my life whatcould’vehappenedifthisdayhadn’tgonejustexactlythewayit’sgone.”

Hestopstotakeabreath.“Isthatokaywithyou?”heasks.

SHESAYSYES.I’mnotreadytosaygoodbye.I’llneverbereadytosayit.Itakeherhandandwestartwalkingtowardthesubwayinsilence.

She’s wearing her backpack on one shoulder and I can see the DEUS EXMACHINAprintagain.Wasitreallyjustthismorningthatwemet?Thismorningthat Iwanted to blowwherever thewind tookme?What Iwouldn’t give forGodtoreallybeinthemachine.

Headline:AreaTeenDefeatsImmigrationandCustomsEnforcementDivisionoftheDepartmentofHomelandSecurity,LivesHappilyEverAfterwithHisOneTrueLoveThankstoThisOneWeirdLegalLoopholeNoOneConsideredUntiltheLastMinuteandNowWeWillHaveaChaseScenetoStopHerfromGettingonthePlane.

Butthat’snotwhat’sgoingtohappen.

AlldayI’vebeenthinkingthatweweremeanttobe.Thatallthepeopleandplaces,allthecoincidenceswerepushingustobetogetherforever.Butmaybethat’snot true.What if this thingbetweenuswasonlymeant to last theday?What ifwe are each other’s in-between people, away station on the road tosomeplaceelse?

Whatifwearejustadigressioninsomeoneelse’shistory?

“DIDYOUKNOWTHATJAMAICAhasthesixthhighestmurderrateintheworld?”Iaskhim.

We’re on the Q train headed to Brooklyn. It’s packed with eveningcommutersandwe’restanding,holdingontoapole.Danielhasonehandonmyback.Hehasn’tstoppedtouchingmesincewelefttheofficebuilding.Maybeifhekeepsholdingontome,Iwon’tflyaway.

“Whataretheotherfive?”heasks.

“Honduras,Venezuela,Belize,ElSalvador,andGuatemala.”

“Huh,”hesays.

“DidyoualsoknowthatJamaicaisstillaceremonialmemberoftheBritishCommonwealth?”

Idon’twaitforananswer.“IamasubjectoftheQueen.”IfIhadroomtodoacurtsy,Iwould.

Thetrainscreechestoastop.Morepeoplegetonthanoff.“WhatelsecanItellyou?Thepopulationistwopointninemillion.BetweenoneandtenpercentofpeopleidentifyasRastafarians.TwentypercentofJamaicanslivebelowthepovertyline.”

Hemovesa littleclosersoI’malmostcompletelysurroundedbyhim.“Tellmeonegoodthingyouremember,”hesays.“Notthefacts.”

Idon’twanttobeoptimistic.Idon’twanttoadjusttothisnewfuture.“IleftwhenIwaseight.Idon’trememberthatmuch.”

Hepresses.“Notyourfamily?Cousins?Friends?”

“Irememberhavingthem,butIdon’tknowthem.Mymomforcesustogeton the phone with them every year at Christmas. They make fun of myAmericanaccent.”

“One good thing,” he says. His eyes are deep brown now, almost black.“Whatdidyoumissthemostafteryoufirstmovedhere?”

Idon’thavetothinkabouttheanswerforverylong.“Thebeach.Theoceanhereisweird.It’sthewrongkindofblue.It’scold.It’stoorough.JamaicaisintheCaribbeanSea.Thewateristhisblue-greencolorandverycalm.Youcanwalkoutforalongtimeandyou’dstillonlybewaist-deep.”

“Thatsoundsnice,”hesays.Hisvoicetremblesalittle.I’mafraidtolookupbecausethenwe’llbothbecryingonthetrain.

“Wanttofinishthequestionsfromsectionthree?”Iask.

He gets out his phone. “Number twenty-nine. Share with your partner anembarrassingmomentinyourlife.”

The train stopsagain, and this timemorepeoplegetoff thanon.Wehavemoreroom,butDanielstaysclosetomeasifwedon’t.

“EarliertodayintherecordstorewithRobwasprettyembarrassing,”Isay.

“Really?Youdidn’tseemembarrassed,justpissed.”

“Ihaveagoodpokerface,unlikesomeoneelseIknow,”Isay,andnudgehimwithmyshoulder.

“Butwhyembarrassed?”

“Hecheatedonmewithher.EverytimeIseethemtogetherIfeellikemaybeIwasn’tgoodenough.”

“Thatguywasjustacheater.It’snothingtodowithyou.”Hegrabsmyhandandholdsontoit.Ikindoflovehisearnestness.

“Iknow.Icalledhimearliertodaytoaskhimwhyhedidit.”

I’vesurprisedhim.“Youdid?Whatdidhesay?”

“Hewantedusboth.”

“Jackass.IfIeverseethatguyagain,I’llkickhisass.”

“Gotathirstforbloodnowthatyou’vebeeninyourfirstfight,doyou?”

“I’mafighter,notalover,”hesays,misquotingMichaelJackson.“Didyourparentscarethathewaswhite?”

“They never met him.” I couldn’t imagine taking him to meet my dad.Watchingthemtalktoeachotherwould’vebeentorturous.Also,Ineverwantedhimtoseehowsmallourapartmentwas.Intheend,IguessIreallydidn’twant

himtoknowme.

WithDaniel,it’sdifferentsomehow.Iwanthimtoseeallofme.

Thelightsflickeroffandcomerightbackon.Hesqueezesmyfingers.“MyparentsonlywantustodateKoreangirls.”

“You’renotdoingagoodjoblisteningtothem,”Itease.

“Well,it’snotlikeI’vedatedatonofgirls.OneKorean.Charlie,though?It’slikehe’sallergictononwhitegirls.”

ThetrainjostlesusandIholdontothepolewithbothhands.“Youwanttoknowthesecrettoyourbrother?”

Heputshishandontopofmine.“What’sthesecret?”

“Hedoesn’tlikehimselfverymuch.”

“Youthinkso?”hesays,considering.HewantstheretobeareasonCharlieisthewayheis.

“Trustmeonthis,”Isay.

We screech around a long corner.He steadiesmewith a hand againstmybackandleavesitthere.“WhyonlyKoreangirlsforyourparents?”Iask.

“Theythinkthey’llunderstandKoreangirls.Eventheonesraisedhere.”

“ButthosegirlsarebothAmericanandKorean.”

“I’mnotsayingitmakessense,”hesays,smiling.“Whataboutyou?Doyourparentscarewhoyoudate?”

I shrug. “I’ve never asked. I guess probably they would prefer me toeventuallymarryablackguy.”

“Why?”

“Same reason as yours. Somehow they’ll understand him better. And he’llunderstandthembetter.”

“Butit’snotlikeallblackpeoplearethesame,”hesays.

“NeitherareallKoreangirls.”

“Parentsareprettystupid.”He’sonlyhalfkidding.

“Ithinktheythinkthey’reprotectingus,”Isay.

“Fromwhat?Honestly,whocanevengiveashitaboutthisstuff?Weshouldknowbetterbynow.”

“Maybeourkidswill,”Isay.Iregretthewordsevenasthey’reflyingoutofmymouth.

Thelightsflickeroffagainandwecometoacompletestopbetweenstations.Ifocusontheyellow-orangeglowofthesafetylightsinthetunnel.

“Ididn’tmeanourkids,”Isayintothedark.“Imeantthenextgenerationofkids.”

“Iknowwhatyoumeant,”hesaysquietly.

Now that I’ve thought it and said it, I can’t unthink it and unsay it.Whatwouldourkidslooklike?IfeelthelossofsomethingIdon’tevenknowIwant.

WepullintotheCanalStreetstation,thelastundergroundstopbeforewegoover the Manhattan Bridge. The doors close and we both turn to face thewindow.WhenweemergefromthetunnelthefirstthingIseeistheBrooklynBridge.It’sjustpastduskandthelightsareonalongthesuspensioncables.Myeyesfollowtheirlongarcsacrossthesky.Thebridgeisbeautifulatnight,butit’s the city skyline that astonishes me every time I see it. It looks like atowering sculpture of lighted glass and metal, like a machined piece of art.From this distance, the city looks orderly and planned, as if all of it werecreatedatonetimeforonepurpose.Whenyou’reinsideit,though,itfeelslikechaos.

Ithinkbacktowhenwewereontheroofearlier.Iimaginedthecityasitwasbeingbuilt.NowIprojectitoutintoanapocalypticfuture.Thelightsdimandthe glass falls away, leaving just themetal skeletons of buildings. Eventuallythose rust and crumble. The streets are uprooted, green with wild plants,overrunwithwildanimals.Thecityisbeautifulandruined.

Wedescendbackintothetunnel.IknowforsurethatIwillalwayscompareevery city skyline toNewYork’s. Just as Iwill always compare everyboy toDaniel.

“WHAT’SYOUR MOST EMBARRASSINGMOMENT?” she asks whenthebridgedisappearsfromview.

“You’re kidding, right?Youwere there for it.Withmy dad telling you tochangeyourhairandmybrothermakingsmall-penisjokes?”

Shelaughs.“Thatwasprettybad.”

“I will live a thousand lifetimes and it will still be themost embarrassingthingthat’severhappenedtome.”

“Idunno.YourdadandCharliecouldfigureoutawaytotopit.”

Igroanandrubthebackofmyneck.“WeshouldallbebornwithafamilyDo-OverCard.Atsixteen,yougetachancetoevaluateyoursituationandthenyoucanchoosetostayinyourcurrentfamilyorstartoverwithanewone.”

Shetugsmyhanddownfrommyneckandholdsontoit.“Wouldyougettochoosewhothenewfamilyis?”sheasks.

“Nope.Youtakeyourchances.”

“Soonedayyoujustshowuponsomestrangers’doorstep?”

“Ihaven’tworkedoutallthedetailsyet,”Itellher.“Maybeonceyoumakeyourdecisionyougetrebornintoanewfamily?”

“Doesyouroldfamilyjustthinkyoudied?”

“Yes.”

“Butthat’ssocruel,”shesays.

“Okay,okay.Maybetheyjustforgetyoueverexisted.Anyway,Idon’tthinkmanypeoplewouldswitch.”

She shakes her head. “I disagree. I think a lot of peoplewould.There aresomebadfamiliesinthisworld.”

“Wouldyou?”Iaskher.

Shedoesn’tsayanythingforawhile,andI listentotherhythmofthetrainwhileshethinksitover.I’veneverwishedforatraintoslowdownbefore.

“CouldIgivemycard tosomeonewhoreallyneeded it?”sheasks. Iknowshe’sthinkingaboutherdad.

Ikissherhair.“Whataboutyou?Wouldyoustayinyourfamily?”sheasksme.

“CouldIuseittobootCharlieoutinstead?”

Shelaughs.“Maybethesecardsaren’tsuchagreatidea.Canyouimagineifeveryonehadthepowertomesswitheveryoneelse’slives?Chaos.”

But of course, this is the problem.We already have that power over eachother.

IT’SSTRANGEBEINGINMYneighborhoodwithDaniel.I’mtryingtoseeitthroughhiseyes.AftertherelativewealthofMidtownManhattan,mysectionofBrooklynfeelsevenpoorer.Manyof thesamekindsofstores line thesix-block drag that I use to walk home. There are Jamaican jerk restaurants,bulletproofedChineserestaurants,bulletproofedliquorstores,discountclothingstores,andbeautysalons.Everyblockhasatleastonecombinationdeli/grocerystore, windows almost entirely covered in beer and cigarette posters. Everyblockhasatleastonecheck-cashingshop.Thestoresareallcrammedtogether,fightingforthesamepieceofrealestate.

I’mgratefulforthedarksoDanielcan’tseehowrun-downeverythingis.I’mimmediatelyashamedofmyselfforhavingthethought.

Hetakesmyhand,andwewalkalonginsilenceforafewminutes.Icanfeelcuriouseyesonus.Itoccurstomethatthiswould’vebecomenormalforus.

“Peoplearestaringatus,”Isay.

“It’sbecauseyou’resobeautiful,”hesaysback,withoutmissingabeat.

“Soyounoticed?”Ipress.

“OfcourseInoticed.”

I stop us in the lighted doorway of a Laundromat. The smell of detergentsurroundsus.“Youknowwhythey’restaring,right?”

“It’seitherbecauseI’mnotblackorbecauseyou’renotKorean.”Hisfaceisshadowed,butIcanhearthesmileinhisvoice.

“I’mserious,”Isay,frustrated.“Doesn’titbotheryou?”I’mnotsurewhyI’mpursuing this.Maybe Iwantproof that ifwehad the chance to continue,wewouldsurvivetheweightofthestares.

Hetakesbothmyhands,sonowwe’restandingfacetoface.

“Maybeitdoesbotherme,”hesays,“butonlyperipherally.It’slikeabuzzingfly,youknow?Annoying,butnotactuallylife-threatening.”

“Butwhydoyouthinkthey’redoingit?”Iwantananswer.

Hepullsmeinforahug.“Icanseethatthisisimportanttoyou,andIreallywanttogiveyouagoodreason.Butthetruthis,Idon’tcarewhy.MaybeI’mnaïve,butIdonotgiveasingleshitaboutanyone’sopinionofus.Idonotcareifwe’reanoveltytothem.Idonotcareaboutthepoliticsofit.Idon’tcareifyour parents approve, and I really, truly don’t care if mine do.What I careaboutisyou,andI’msurethatloveisenoughtoovercomeallthebullshit.Andit is bullshit. All the hand-wringing. All the talk about cultures clashing orpreservingculturesandwhatwillhappento thekids.Allof it isonehundredpercentpure,unadulteratedbullshit,andIjustrefusetocare.”

Ismileintohischest.Myponytailpoetboy.Ineverbeforethoughtthatnotcaringcouldbearevolutionaryact.

Weturnoff themaindragontoamoreresidential street. I’mstill trying tosee theneighborhoodasDanieldoes.Wepassby rowsofadjoinedclapboardhouses.They’resmallandagingbutcolorfulandwell-loved.TheporchesseemmoreoverpopulatedwithknickknacksandhangingplantsthanIremember.

Therewas a timewhenmymomdesperatelywanted one of these houses.Earlierthisyear,beforethismessbegan,sheeventookPeterandmetoanopenhouse. It had three bedrooms and a spacious kitchen. It had a basement shethought shecouldsublet forextra income.Becauseheadoresourmotherandknewwecouldneveraffordit,Peterpretendednottolikeit.Henitpicked.

“Thebackyardistoosmallandalltheplantsaredead,”he’dsaid.Hestayedclosetoherside,andwhenweleftshewasnotanysadderthanwhenwewentin.

We walk by another block of similar houses before the neighborhoodchangesagainandwe’resurroundedbymostlybrickapartmentbuildings.Thesearenotcondosbutrentals.

IissueawarningtoDaniel.“It’samessfromallthepacking.”

“Okay,”hesays,nodding.

“And it’s small.” I don’t mention that there’s only one bedroom. He’ll seesoonenough.Besides,it’sonlymyhomeforafewhoursmore.

The little girls from apartment 2C are sitting on the front steps when wearrive. Daniel’s presence makes them shy. They duck their heads and don’t

chatteratmeliketheynormallydo.Istopbytherowofmetalmailboxesthathangonthewall.Wehavenomail,justaChinesetake-outmenuwedgedintothedoor.It’sfrommydad’sfavoriteplace,thesameoneheorderedfromwhenhegaveustheticketsforhisplay.

Someone’salwayscookingsomething,andthelobbysmellsdelicious:butterandonionandcurryandotherspices.Myapartment’son the thirdfloor, so Itakeustothestairs.Asusual,thelightforthefirst-andsecond-floorstairwellisbroken.Weendupwalkingsilentlyinthedarkuntilwegettothethirdfloor.

“Thisisit,”Isay,whenwe’refinallystandinginfrontof3A.Insomewaysit’smuchtooearlytointroduceDanieltomyhouseandfamily.Ifwehadmoretime, then he’d already know all my little anecdotes. He’d know about thecurtaininthelivingroomthatseparatesPeter’s“room”frommine.He’dknowthatmy starmap ismymost prized possession.He’d know that ifmymomoffershimsomethingtoeat,heshouldjust take itandeat thewhole thingnomatterhowfullheis.

Idon’tknowhowtorelayallthathistory.Instead,Itellhimagain:“It’smessyinthere.”

It’saweirdkindofdissonance,seeinghimstandhereinfrontofmydoor.Hefitsanddoesn’tfitatthesametime.I’vealwaysknownhim,andwe’veonlyjustmet.

Ourhistoryistoocompressed.We’retryingtofitalifetimeintoaday.

“ShouldItakemyjacketoff?”heasks.“Ifeellikeanidiotinthissuit.”

“Youdon’thavetobenervous,”Isay.

“I’mgoingtomeetyourparents.Now’sasgoodatimetobenervousasany.”Heunbuttonsthejacketbutdoesn’ttakeitoff.

I touch thebruiseonhis lip. “Thegood thing is,youcan screwupallyouwant.You’llprobablyneverseethemagain.”

Hegivesasmall,sadsmile.I’mjusttryingtomakethebestofoursituation,andheknowsit.

Itakethekeyfrommybackpackandopenthedoor.

AllthelightsareonandPeter’splayingdancehallreggaemuchtooloud.Icanfeel thebeat inmychest.Threepackedsuitcases lie just inside thedoor.Anothertwolieopenofftotheside.

Ispotmymomrightaway.“Turnthatmusicoff,”shesaystoPeterwhensheseesme.Hedoes,andthesuddensilenceisacute.

Sheturnstome.“Lawd,Tasha.Ibeencallingandcallingyoufor—”

IttakesherasecondtonoticeDaniel.Whenshedoes,shestopstalkingandlooksbackandforthbetweenusforalongtime.

“Whothis?”sheasks.

NATASHAINTRODUCESmetohermom.

“He’safriendofmine,”shesays.I’mfairlycertainIheardahesitationbeforefriend.Hermomheardittoo,andnowshe’sstudyingmelikeI’manalienbug.

“Sorrytomeetyouunderthesecircumstances,Mrs.Kingsley.”Iholdoutmyhandforashake.

ShegivesNatashaalook(thehowcouldyoudothistome?variety),butthenwipesherpalmdown the sideofherdress andgivesmeabrief shake andabriefersmile.

Natashamovesusfromthelittlehallwaywherewe’reclusteredintothelivingroom.Atleast,Ithinkit’salivingroom.Abrightblueclothiscrumpledonthefloor, and a length of string bisects the room. Then I notice there’s two ofeverything—sofabed,chestofdrawers,desk.Thisistheirbedroom.ShesharesitwithPeter.WhenNatashasaidtheirapartmentwassmall,Ididn’trealizeshemeanttheywerepoor.

There’sstillsomuchIdon’tknowabouther.

Her brother walks over to me, hand outstretched and smiling. He hasdreadlocksandoneofthefriendliestfacesI’veeverseen.

“Tasha’sneverbroughtaguyherebefore,”hesays.Hisinfectioussmilegetsevenbigger.

Igrinbackathimandshakehishand.BothNatashaandhermomwatchusopenly.

“Tasha,Ineedtotalktoyou,”hermomsays.

Natashadoesn’ttakehereyesoffPeterandme.Iwonderifshe’simaginingafuturewherewebecomefriends.IknowIam.

Sheturnstofacehermom.“IsitaboutDaniel?”sheasks.

Hermom’snow-pursedlipscouldnotgetanypursier(yes,pursier).

“Tasha—”EvenIcanheartheMomisabouttogetpissedoffwarninginhertone,butNatashajustignoresit.

“Because if it is about Daniel, we can just do it right here. He’s myboyfriend.”Shesneaksaquickquestioningglanceatme,andInod.

Herdadwalksthroughthedoorwayacrossfromusatjustthatsecond.

Due to Anomaly in the Space-Time Continuum, Area Dads Have PerfectTimingAllDay

“Boyfriend?”hesays.“Sincewhenyouhaveboyfriend?”

Iturnandstudyhim.NowI’vegottheanswertomyquestionofwhoNatashalookslike.She’sbasicallyherdad,exceptinbeautifulgirlform.

Andwithout the scowl. I’ve never seen a deeper scowl than the scowl thatexistsonhisfacerightnow.

His Jamaican accent is thick, and I process thewords a little after he saysthem. “Thatwhat you been doing all day instead of helping you family packup?”hedemands,movingfartherintotheroom.

AsidefromthelittleNatashahastoldme,Idon’treallyknowthehistoryoftheirrelationship,butIcanseeitonherfacenow.Angeristhere,andhurt,anddisbelief.Still, thepeacekeeper inmedoesn’twant to see themfight. I touchmyhandtothesmallofherback.

“I’m okay,” she says to me quietly. I can tell she’s steeling herself forsomething.

Shesquaresherselftohim.“No.WhatIwasdoingalldaywastryingtofixyourmistakes.Iwastryingtopreventourfamilyfrombeingkickedoutofthecountry.”

“It don’t look nothing like that to me,” he retorts. He turns to me, scowldeepening.“Youknowthesituation?”

I’mtoosurprisedthathe’stalkingtometoanswer,soIjustnod.

“Thenyouknowthatnownotnotimeforstrangerstobehere,”hesays.

Natasha’sspinestiffensundermyhand.“He’snotastranger,”shesays.“He’smyguest.”

“Andthisismyhouse.”Hestraightenshimselfashesaysit.

“Yourhouse?”Hervoiceisloudandincredulousnow.Whateverrestraintshe

hadbeforeisslippingawayquickly.Shewalkstothecenterofthelivingroom,holdsherarmsopenwideandturnsacircle.

“This apartment thatwe’ve lived in for nine years, because you think yourshipisgoingtocomesailinginanydaynow,isyourhouse?”

“Baby.Notnopointinrehashingallthisnow,”hermomsaysfromherplaceinthedoorway.

Natashaopenshermouthtosaysomethingbutclosesitagain.Icanseeherdeflate.“Okay,Mom,”shesays,lettinggoofwhatevershewasgoingtosay.Iwonderhowmanytimesshe’sdonethatforhermother.

Ithinkthat’sgoingtobetheendofit,butI’mwrong.

“No,man,”herdadsays.“No,man.Mewanthearwhatshehavetosaytome.”Hewidenshisstanceandfoldshisarmsacrosshischest.

Natasha does the same thing and they square off, mirror images of eachother.

IWOULD’VELETITGO formymom.Ialwaysdo.Just lastnightshesaidthatthefourofushadtobeaunitedfront.

“Itgoingbehardatfirst,”she’dsaid.Wearegoingtohavetolivewithhermotheruntilwehaveenoughmoneytorentourownplace.“Ineverthinkmelifewouldcometothis,”shesaidbeforeshewenttobed.

Iwould’ve let itgo if Ihadn’tmetDaniel. Ifhehadn’t increasedbyaverysignificantonethenumberofthingsI’dbelosingtoday.Iwould’veletitgoifmy father weren’t using his thick and forced Jamaican accent again. It’s justanotheract.Tohearhimyouwouldthinkhe’dneverleftJamaica,thatthepastnineyearsneverhappened.Hereallydoesthinkourlivesaremake-believe.I’msickofhimpretending.

“IheardwhatyousaidtoMomaftertheplay.Yousaidwewereyourgreatestregret.”

Hesagsandthescowlleaveshisface.Ican’tnametheemotionthatreplacesit,butitseemsgenuine.Finally.Somethingrealfromhim.

HestartstosaysomethingbutIhavemoretosay.“I’msorrythatlifedidn’tgiveyouallthethingsyouwanted.”AsI’msayingit,IrealizethatIdomeanit.I know what disappointment is now. I can understand how it could last alifetime.

“Medidn’tmeanit,Tasha.Itwasjusttalk.Allofitwasjust—”

Iholdmyhanduptostophisapology.That’snotwhatIwantfromhim.“Iwant you to know that you were really amazing in the play. Just incredible.Transcendent.”

Hehastearsinhiseyesnow.I’mnotsureifit’sbecauseIcomplimentedhimorifit’sregretorsomethingelse.

“Maybeyouwereright,”Icontinue.“Youweren’tmeanttohaveus.Maybe

youreallywerecheated.”

He’s shakinghishead,denyingmywords. “Was just talk,Tasha,man.Mereallydidn’tmeannothingbyit.”

Butofcoursehedid.Hemeantitandhedidn’t.Both.Atthesametime.

“Itdoesn’tmatterifyoumeantitornot.Thisisthelifeyou’reliving.It’snottemporaryandit’snotpretendandthere’snodo-over.”IsoundlikeDaniel.

Theworstpartofoverhearing thatconversationbetweenhimandmymomwas that it spoiled all the good memories I had of him. Did he regret myexistencewhenwewerewatchingcricketmatchestogether?Whataboutwhenhewasholdingmetightattheairportwhenwewereallfinallyreunited?WhataboutthedayIwasborn?

Tearsarestreamingdownhisfacenow.WatchinghimcryhurtsmorethanIeverthoughtitcould.Still,there’sonemorethingIhavetosay.

“Youdon’tgettoregretus.”

Hemakesasound,andnowIknowwhatalifetimeofpainsoundslike.

Peoplemakemistakes all the time. Small ones, like you get in the wrongcheckoutline.Theonewiththeladywithahundredcouponsandacheckbook.

Sometimesyoumakemedium-sizedones.Yougotomedicalschoolinsteadofpursuingyourpassion.

Sometimesyoumakebigones.

Yougiveup.

Isitdownonmysofabed.I’mmoretiredthanIrealize,andnotasangryasIthought. “Whenweget to Jamaica, youhave to at least try.Goonauditions.AndbebettertoMom.She’sdoneeverything,andshe’stired,andyouoweittous.Youdon’tgettoliveinyourheadanymore.”

Mymom’scryingnow.Peterwalksintoherarmsforahug.Myfathergoestothemboth,andmymomacceptshim.Asone, theyturntolookatmeandgestureforme to join them. I turn toDaniel first.Hehugsmeso tightly, it’slikewe’resayinggoodbyealready.

THEDRIVERLOADSNATASHA’SSUITCASE into the trunk.Peterandherparentshavealreadygoneaheadtotheairportviaaseparatecab.

Inside,NatashalaysherheadonDaniel’sshoulder.Herhairtickleshisnose.It’safeelinghewisheshe’dhavemoretimetogetusedto.

“Doyouthinkwewould’veworkedoutintheend?”sheaskshim.

“Yes.”Hesaysitwithouthesitation.“Doyou?”

“Yes.”

“Youfinallycamearound.”Asmileisinhisvoice.

“Howhardwouldithavebeenforyourparents?”sheasks.

“Itwouldtakethemalongtime.Longerformydad.Idon’tthinkthey’dhavecometoourwedding.”ApictureofthatfuturedayfloatsupinNatasha’smind.Sheseesanocean.Danielhandsomeinhistuxedo.Herhandonhisfacewipingawaythesadnessathisparents’absence.ThejoyonhisfacewhenshefinallysaysIdo.

“How many kids do you want?” she asks, after the pain of that visionrecedes.

“Two.Whataboutyou?”

She lifts her head fromhis shoulder, hesitant, but then confesses: “I’mnotsureifIwantanyatall.Wouldyou’vebeenokaywiththat?”

Hedidn’texpectthatanswer,andittakeshimamomenttoacceptit.“Ithinkso.Idon’tknow.Maybeyou’dchangeyourmind.MaybeIwould.”

“Ihavesomethingtotellyou,”shesays,layingherheadbackdown.

“What?”

“Youshouldn’tbeadoctor.”

He turns his head, smiles into her hair. “What about doing the practicalthing?”

“Practicalityisoverrated,”shesays.

“Areyoustillgoingtobeadatascientist?”

“Idon’tknow.Maybenot.It’dbenicetobepassionateaboutsomething.”

“Whatadifferenceadaymakes,”hesays.

Neitherofthemspeaks,becausewhatistheretosay?It’sbeenalongday.

Natasha breaks their glum silence. “So, how many more questions do wehaveleft?”

Hetakesouthisphone.“Twomorefromsectionthree.Andwestillhavetostareintoeachother’seyesforfourminutes.”

“Wecoulddothatormakeoutrighthere.”

From the front seat their driver,Miguel, interrupts. “You guys know I canhearyou,right?”Helooksatthemintherearviewmirror.“Icanseeyoutoo.”Then he laughs a bigmeaty laugh. “Some people get in the cab and like topretendI’mdeafandblind,butIain’t.Justsoyouknow.”

Helaughshismeatylaughagain,andNatashaandDanielcan’thelpbutjoinhim.

But theirjoinedlaughterfadesas therealityof themomentreasserts itself.DanieltakesNatasha’sfaceinhishandsandtheykisssoftkisses.Thechemistryis still there.They’reboth toowarm,bothunsurewhat todowithhands thatseemmeantonlyfortouchingeachother.

Migueldoesn’tsayaword.He’shadhisheartbrokenbefore.Heknowswhatdamagelookslike.

Danielspeaksfirst.“Questionthirty-four.Whatwouldyousavefromafire?”

Natasha considers. It does feel to her like her entireworld is being razed.Andtheonethingthatshewantstosave,shecan’t.

ToDanielshesays:“Idon’thaveanythingyet,butI’llfigureitout.”

“Goodenough,”hesays.“Mine’seasy.Mynotebook.”

Hetoucheshisjacketpockettoreassurehimselfit’sstillthere.

“Last question,” he says. “Of all the people in your family, whose deathwouldyoufindthemostdisturbing,andwhy?”

“Mydad.”

Danielnotesthatit’sthefirsttimeNatasha’scalledhimdadinsteadoffather.

“Why?”heasks.

“Becausehe’snotdoneyet.Whataboutyou?”

“Yours,”hesays.

“I’mnotyourfamily,though.”

“Yes you are,” he says, thinking about what Natasha said earlier aboutmultiverses.Insomeotheruniversetheyaremarried,maybewithtwochildren,ormaybewithnone.“Youdon’thavetosayitback.Ijustwantyoutoknow.”

There are things to say to him, and Natasha doesn’t know where, doesn’tknowhowtobegin.Maybethat’swhyDanielwantstobeapoet,sohecanfindtherightwords.

“Iloveyou,Daniel,”shesaysatlast.

Hegrinsather.“Iguessthequestionnaireworked.”

Shesmiles.“Yay,science.”

Amomentpasses.

“Iknow,”Danielsays,finally.“Ialreadyknow.”

DANIEL SETS HIS PHONE TIMER for four minutes and takes bothNatasha’shandsinhis.Aretheysupposedtoholdhandsduringthispartoftheexperiment? He’s not sure. According to the study, this is the final step forfallinginlove.Whathappensifyou’realreadyinlove?

Atfirsttheybothfeelprettysilly.Natashawantstosayaloudthatthisistoogoofy.Helpless,almostembarrassedsmilesovertaketheirfaces.Natashalooksaway,butDanielsqueezesherhands.Staywithmeiswhathemeans.

Bythesecondminute,they’relessself-conscious.Theirsmilesdriftawayandtheycatalogeachother’sface.

NatashathinksofherAPBiologyclassandwhatsheknowsofeyesandhowtheywork.Anopticalimageofhisfaceisbeingsenttoherretina.Herretinaisconverting those images to electronic signals. Her optic nerve is transmittingthose signals toher visual cortex.Sheknowsnow that she’ll never forget thisimage of his face. She’ll know exactly when clear brown eyes became herfavoritekind.

For his part,Daniel is trying to find the rightwords to describe her eyes.They’re light anddarkat the same time.Like someonedrapedaheavyblackclothoverabrightstar.

Bythethirdminute,Natasha’srelivingthedayandallthemomentsthatledthemhere.SheseestheUSCISbuilding, thatstrangesecurityguardcaressingherphone case,LesterBarnes’skindness,RobandKelly shoplifting,meetingDaniel, Daniel saving her life, meeting Daniel’s dad and brother, norebang,kissing,themuseum,therooftop,morekissing,Daniel’sfacewhenhetoldhershecouldn’tstay,herdad’scryingfacefilledwithregret,thismomentrightnowinthecab.

Danielisthinkingnotaboutpastevents,butfutureones.Istheresomethingelsethatcouldleadthembacktoeachother?

During the final minute, hurt settles into their bones. It colonizes theirbodies,spreadstotheirtissueandmusclesandbloodandcells.

Thephonetimerbuzzes.Theywhisperpromisestheysuspecttheywon’tbeabletokeep—phonecalls,emails,textmessages,andeveninternationalflights,expensesbedamned.

“Thisdaycan’tbeallthereis,”Danielsaysonce,andthentwice.

Natashadoesn’tsaywhatshesuspects.Thatmeanttobedoesn’thavetomeanforever.

Theykiss, andkiss again.When they do finally pull apart, it’swith a newknowledge.Theyhaveasensethatthelengthofadayismutable,andyoucanneverseetheendfromthebeginning.Theyhaveasensethatlovechangesallthingsallthetime.

That’swhatloveisfor.

MYMOMHOLDSMYHANDasIstareoutthewindow.Everythingwillbeallright,Tasha,shesays.Webothknowthat’smoreahopethanaguarantee,butI’lltakeitnevertheless.

Theplaneascends,andtheworldI’veknownfades.Thecitylightsrecedetopinpricks,untiltheylooklikeearthboundstars.OneofthosestarsisDaniel.Iremindmyselfthatstarsaremorethanjustpoetic.

Ifyouneedto,youcannavigateyourwaybythem.

MYPHONERINGS.It’smyparentscallingforthemillionthtime.They’llbepissedwhenIgethome,andthat’sfine.

Thistimenextyear,I’llbesomeplaceelse.Idon’tknowwhere,butnothere.I’mnotsurecollegeisforme.AtleastnotYale.Atleastnotyet.

AmImakingamistake?Maybe.Butit’sminetomake.

IlookuptotheskyandimagineIcanseeNatasha’splanethere.

NewYorkCity has toomuch light pollution. It blinds us to the stars, thesatellites,theasteroids.Sometimeswhenwelookup,wedon’tseeanythingatall.

Buthere isa true thing:Almosteverything in thenight skygivesoff light.Evenifwecan’tseeit,thelightisstillthere.

NATASHAANDDANIELtrytostayintouch,andforatimetheydo.Thereareemailsandphonecallsandtextmessages.

Buttimeanddistancearelove’snaturalenemies.

Andthedaysgetfull.

NatashaenrollsinschoolinKingston.HerclassiscalledSixthForminsteadofsenioryear.Inordertoattenduniversity,shehastostudyfortheCaribbeanAdvancedProficiencyExamsandherA-levelexams.Money is scarce, soshewaitressestohelpherfamily.ShefakesaJamaicanaccentuntilitbecomesreal.Shefindsafamilyoffriends.Shelearnstolikeandthentolovethecountryofherbirth.

It’snotthatNatashawantstoletDanielgo;it’sthatshehasto.Itisn’tpossibleforhertoliveintwoworldssimultaneously,heartinoneplace,bodyinanother.SheletsgoofDanieltoavoidbeingrippedapart.

Forhispart,DanielfinisheshighschoolbutdeclinesYale.Hemovesoutofhisparents’house,works two jobs,andattendsHunterCollegepart-time.HemajorsinEnglishandwritessmall,sadpoems.Andeventheonesthatarenotaboutherarestillabouther.

It’snotthatDanielwantstoletNatashago.Heholdsonforaslongashecan.Buthehearsthestraininhervoiceacrossthedistance.Inhernewaccent,hehearsthecadenceofherslippingawayfromhim.

Moreyearspass.NatashaandDanielenter theadultworldofpracticalitiesandresponsibilities.

Natasha’smother gets sick five years after theirmove.Shedies before thesixth.Afewmonthsafterthefuneral,NatashathinksaboutcallingDaniel,butithasbeenfartoolong.Shedoesn’ttrusthermemoryofhim.

Peter,herbrother, thrives in Jamaica.Hemakes friendsandfinally findsaplacewherehefits.Sometimeinthefuture,longafterhismomhasdied,he’llfall in lovewithaJamaicanwomanandmarryher.They’llhaveonedaughterandhe’llnameherPatriciaMarleyKingsley.

SamuelKingsleymoves fromKingston toMontegoBay.Heacts ina localcommunitytheater.AfterPatricia’sdeath,hefinallyunderstandsthathechosecorrectlythatdayinthestore.

Daniel’smomanddad sell the store to anAfricanAmerican couple.Theybuyanapartment inSouthKoreaandspendhalf theyear thereandtheotherhalf inNewYorkCity.Eventually theystopexpecting their sons tobe solelyKorean.Afterall,theywereborninAmerica.

CharliepullshisgradesupandgraduatessummacumlaudefromHarvard.After graduation, he barely ever speaks to any member of his family again.Danielfillsthevoidinhisparents’heartsinthewaysthathe’sable.Hedoesn’tmissCharlieverymuchatall.

Stillmore years pass, andNatasha no longer knowswhat that day inNewYorkCitymeans.Shecomes tobelieve thatshe imaginedthemagicofbeingwithDaniel.Whenshethinksofthatday,she’scertainshehasromanticizeditinthewayoffirstloves.

OnegoodthingdidcomefromhertimewithDaniel.Shelooksforapassionandfindsitinthestudyofphysics.Somenights,inthesoft,helplessmomentsbefore sleep comes, she recalls their conversation on the roof about love anddarkmatter.Hesaidthatloveanddarkmatterwerethesame—theonlythingthat kept the universe from flying apart.Her heart speeds up every time shethinksofit.Thenshesmilesinthedarknessandputsthememoryuponashelfintheplaceforold,sentimental,impossiblethings.

AndevenDanielno longerknowswhat thatdaymeans, thatday thatoncemeanteverything.Heremembersallthelittlecoincidencesittooktogetthemtomeetandfallinlove.Thereligiousconductor.Natashacommuningwithhermusic.TheDEUSEXMACHINA jacket.Theshopliftingex-boyfriend.TheerrantBMWdriver.Thesecurityguardsmokingontheroof.

Ofcourse,ifNatashacouldhearhismemories,shewouldpointoutthefactthat theydidn’tendup together,and that thesame things thatwent rightalsowentwrong.

He remembers another moment: They’d just found each other again aftertheirfight.She’dtalkedaboutthenumberofeventsthathadtogoexactlyrighttoformtheiruniverse.She’dsaidfallinginlovecouldn’tcompete.

He’salwaysthoughtshewaswrongaboutthat.

Becauseeverything looks likechaosupclose.Daniel thinks it’samatterofscale.Ifyoupullbackfarenoughandwaitforlongenough,thenorderemerges.

Maybetheiruniverseisjusttakinglongertoform.

IT’SBEENTENYEARS,butIrene’sneverforgottenthemoment—orthegirl—that saved her life. She was working as a security guard at the USCISbuildinginNewYorkCity.Oneofthecaseofficers—LesterBarnes—stoppedbyherstation.Hetoldherthatagirlleftamessageonhisvoicemailforher.Thegirlhadsaidthankyou.Ireneneverknewwhatshewasbeingthankedfor,butthethank-youcamejustintime.Becauseattheendoftheday,Irenehadplannedtocommitsuicide.

She’dwrittenhersuicidenoteat lunch.She’dmentallychartedherroute totheroofofherapartmentbuilding.

Butforthatthank-you.

Thefactthatsomeonesawherwasthebeginning.

ThatnightshelistenedtotheNirvanaalbumagain.InKurtCobain’svoice,Irene heard a perfect and beautiful misery, a voice stretched so thin withlonelinessandwantingthatitshouldbreak.Buthisvoicedidn’tbreak,andtherewasakindofjoyinittoo.

Shethoughtaboutthatgirlmakingtheefforttocallandleaveamessagejustforher.ItshiftedsomethinginsideIrene.Notenoughtohealher,butenoughtomakehercallasuicidepreventionhotline.Thehotlineledtotherapy.Therapyledtomedicationthatsavesherlifeeveryday.

Twoyearsafterthatnight,IrenequitherjobatUSCIS.Sherememberedthatas a child she dreamt of being a flight attendant.Nowher life is simple andhappy, and she lives it on planes. And because she knows airplanes can belonelyplacesandbecausesheknowshowdesperatelonelinesscanbe,shepaysextra attention to her passengers. She takes care of themwith an earnestnessthatnootherattendantdoes.Shecomfortsthoseflyinghomealoneforfunerals,sadnessseepingfromeverypore.Sheholdshandswiththeacrophobicandtheagoraphobic.Irenethinksofherselfasaguardianangelwithmetallicwings.

Andso it isnowthatshe’smakingherfinalchecksbefore takeoff, lookingforpassengerswhoaregoingtoneedalittleextrahelp.Theyoungmanin7Aiswritinginalittleblacknotebook.He’sAsian,withshortblackhairandkindbutseriouseyes.Hechewsthetopofhispen,thinks,writes,andthenchewssomemore. Irene admires his unselfconsciousness. He acts like he’s alone in theworld.

Her eyes travel on and flit across the young black woman in 8C. She’swearing earbuds andhas a big, curlyAfro that’s been dyedpink at the ends.Irenefreezes.Sheknowsthatface.Thewarmthofthewoman’sskin.Thelongeyelashes.Thefullpink lips.The intensity.Surely thiscan’tbe the samegirl.Theonewhosavedherlife?Theoneshe’swantedtothankfortenyearsnow?

Thecaptainannouncestakeoff,andIrene’sforcedtosit.Fromherjumpseat,shestaresatthewomanuntilthere’snodoubtinhermind.

Assoonas theplanereachescruisingaltitude, shegoesover to thewomanandkneelsintheaislenexttoher.

“Miss,”shesays,andcan’tpreventhervoicefromshaking.

Thewomantakesoutherearbudsandgivesherahesitantsmile.

“Thisisgoingtosoundsostrange,”Irenebegins.Shetellsthewomanaboutthatday inNewYork—thegraybin, theNirvanaphonecase,howshe’dseenhereveryday.

The woman watches her warily, not saying anything. Something like painflitsacrossherface.There’sahistorythere.

Nevertheless,Irenecarrieson.“Yousavedmylife.”

“ButIdon’tunderstand,”thewomansays.Shehasanaccent,Caribbeanandsomethingelse.

Irenetakesthewoman’shand.Thewomantensesbutletshertakeit.Curiouseyeswatchthemfromallaround.

“You left amessage forme saying thankyou. I don’t evenknowwhatyouwerethankingmefor.”

The youngman in 7A peers between the seats. Irene catches his eye andfrowns.Hepullsaway.Sheturnsherattentionbacktothewoman.

“Doyourememberme?”Ireneasks.Suddenlyit’sveryimportanttoherthatthis girl, nowwoman, rememberher.Thequestion leaves hermouth and shebecomestheoldIrene—aloneandafraid.Affectedbutnotaffecting.

Time hiccups and Irene feels herself torn between two universes. Sheimaginesthattheplanedisintegrates,firstthefloorandthentheseatsandthenthemetallicshell.Sheandthepassengersaresuspendedinmidairwithnothingtohold themexceptpossibility.Next, thepassengers themselvesshimmeranddematerialize. One by one they flicker and vanish, phantoms of a differenthistory.

AllthatremainsnowisIreneandthiswoman.

“Irememberyou,”thewomansays.“MynameisNatasha,andIrememberyou.”

Theyoungmanin7Apeersoverthetopoftheseat.

“Natasha,”hesays.Hisfaceiswideopenandhisworldisfulloflove.

Natashalooksup.

Time stumbles back into place. The plane and the seats re-form. Thepassengerssolidifyintoflesh.Andblood.Andbone.Andheart.

“Daniel,”shesays.Andagain,“Daniel.”

THEEND

Immigrating to a new country is an act of hope, bravery, and, sometimes,desperation.I’dliketosayabigthank-youtoallthepeoplewho’vemadelongjourneys to distant shores for whatever reason. May you find what you’relooking for. Always know that the country of your destination is better forhavingyouinit.

Next, Ineed to thankmyown immigrantparents.Theyare,bothof them,dreamers.EverythingI’veachievedisbecauseofthem.

TotheteamsatAlloyEntertainmentandRandomHouseChildren’sBooks:Thankyouforbelievinginthisimpossiblebook.Thankyoufortakingchanceswithme.WendyLoggia,JoelleHobeika,SaraShandler,JoshBank,andJillianVandall,youaremydreamteam.Iamtheluckiestwriterintheworldtohaveyou in my corner. Enormous thanks also to John Adamo, Elaine Damasco,Felicia Frazier, RomyGolan, Beverly Horowitz, Alison Impey, Kim Lauber,Barbara Marcus, Les Morgenstein, Tamar Schwartz, Tim Terhune, KristaVitola,andAdrienneWaintraub.Nothinghappenswithoutyou.

Oneofthebest thingsaboutbeingawriter isgettingtomeetyourreaders.Toeverysinglepersonwhohasreadmybooks,cometoasigning,sentmeanemail, or reached out via socialmedia; to every librarian, teacher, bookstoreowner/worker, and blogger: THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU.YouarethereasonIgettohavemydreamjob.Thankyouforallyourloveandsupport.

Over the last couple of years I’vemet somewonderfulwriterswho’ve alsobecome wonderful friends: David Arnold, Anna Carey, Charlotte Huang,CarolineKepnes,KerryKletter,AdamSilvera,andSabaaTahir,thankyouforyour generous support and friendship. I wouldn’t have survived this crazyjourneywithoutyouguys.ThanksalsototheLAwritercrewandtheFearlessFifteenersdebutgroup.Whatacrazyyear2015was!It’sbeengreatgettingtoknowyouall.Here’stomanymoreyearsofwritingbooks.

SpecialandveryheartfeltthankstoYoonHoBai,JungKim,EllenOh,andDavid Yoon for answering my endless questions about Korean and KoreanAmericanculture.Yourthoughtsandguidancewereinvaluable.

And then therearemysuper sweeties,DavidandPenny.Youguysaremy

smalluniverse.You’remyreasonforeverything.Iloveyoumostofall.

NICOLA YOON is the number one New York Times bestselling author ofEverything,Everything.ShegrewupinJamaicaandBrooklynandlivesinLosAngeleswithherfamily.She’salsoahopelessromanticwhofirmlybelievesthatyoucanfallinloveinaninstantandthatitcanlastforever.

[email protected]

Readthebookthateveryone,everyonefellinlovewith.

LLC,NewYork.

I’VEREADMANYmorebooksthanyou.Itdoesn’tmatterhowmanyyou’veread.I’vereadmore.Believeme.I’vehadthetime.

In my white room, against my white walls, on my glistening whitebookshelves,bookspinesprovidetheonlycolor.Thebooksareallbrand-newhardcovers—nogermysecondhandsoftcoversforme.TheycometomefromOutside,decontaminatedandvacuum-sealedinplasticwrap.Iwouldliketoseethemachinethatdoesthis.Iimagineeachbooktravelingonawhiteconveyorbelt toward rectangularwhite stationswhere roboticwhite arms dust, scrape,spray,andotherwisesterilizeituntil it’sfinallydeemedcleanenoughtocometome.When a newbook arrives,my first task is to remove thewrapping, aprocessthatinvolvesscissorsandmorethanonebrokennail.Mysecondtaskistowritemynameontheinsidefrontcover.

PROPERTYOF:MadelineWhittier

Idon’tknowwhyIdothis.There’snooneelsehereexceptmymother,whoneverreads,andmynurse,Carla,whohasnotimetoreadbecauseshespendsallhertimewatchingmebreathe.Irarelyhavevisitors,andsothere’snoonetolendmybooksto.There’snoonewhoneedsremindingthattheforgottenbookonhisorhershelfbelongstome.

REWARDIFFOUND(Checkallthatapply):

This is the section that takesme the longest time, and I vary itwith eachbook.Sometimestherewardsarefanciful:

⁰Picnicwithme(Madeline)inapollen-filledfieldofpoppies,lilies,andendlessman-in-the-moonmarigoldsunderaclearbluesummersky.

⁰Drinkteawithme(Madeline)inalighthouseinthemiddleoftheAtlanticOceaninthemiddleofahurricane.

⁰Snorkelwithme(Madeline)offMolokinitospottheHawaiianstatefish—thehumuhumunukunukuapuaa.

Sometimestherewardsarenotsofanciful:

⁰Avisitwithme(Madeline)toausedbookstore.⁰Awalkoutsidewithme(Madeline),justdowntheblock

andback.⁰Ashortconversationwithme(Madeline),discussing

anythingyouwant,onmywhitecouch,inmywhitebedroom.

Sometimestherewardisjust:

⁰Me(Madeline).

MY DISEASE IS as rare as it is famous. It’s a form of Severe CombinedImmunodeficiency,butyouknowitas“bubblebabydisease.”

Basically,I’mallergictotheworld.Anythingcantriggeraboutofsickness.ItcouldbethechemicalsinthecleanerusedtowipethetablethatIjusttouched.Itcouldbesomeone’sperfume. Itcouldbe theexotic spice in thefoodI justate.Itcouldbeone,orall,ornoneofthesethings,orsomethingelseentirely.Nooneknowsthetriggers,buteveryoneknowstheconsequences.AccordingtomymomIalmostdiedasaninfant.AndsoIstayonSCIDrow.Idon’t leavemyhouse,havenotleftmyhouseinseventeenyears.

“MOVIE NIGHT OR Honor Pictionary or Book Club?” my mom asks whileinflatingabloodpressurecuffaroundmyarm.Shedoesn’tmentionherfavoriteof all ourpost-dinner activities—PhoneticScrabble. I lookup to see thathereyesarealreadylaughingatme.

“Phonetic,”Isay.

Shestopsinflatingthecuff.OrdinarilyCarla,myfull-timenurse,wouldbetakingmy blood pressure and filling outmy daily health log, butmymom’sgivenher thedayoff. It’smybirthdayandwealwaysspend theday together,justthetwoofus.

Sheputsonherstethoscopesothatshecanlistentomyheartbeat.Hersmilefades and is replaced by hermore serious doctor’s face. This is the face herpatientsmostoftensee—slightlydistant,professional,andconcerned.Iwonderiftheyfinditcomforting.

ImpulsivelyIgiveheraquickkissontheforeheadtoremindherthatit’sjustme,herfavoritepatient,herdaughter.

Sheopenshereyes,smiles,andcaressesmycheek.Iguessifyou’regoingtobebornwithanillnessthatrequiresconstantcare, thenit’sgoodtohaveyourmomasyourdoctor.

A few seconds later she givesme her best I’m-the-doctor-and-I’m-afraid-I-have-some-bad-news-for-you face. “It’s your big day. Why don’t we playsomethingyouhaveanactualchanceofwinning?HonorPictionary?”

SinceregularPictionarycan’treallybeplayedwithtwopeople,weinventedHonorPictionary.Onepersondraws and theotherperson is onherhonor tomakeherbestguess.Ifyouguesscorrectly,theotherpersonscores.

I narrow my eyes at her. “We’re playing Phonetic, and I’m winning thistime,”Isayconfidently,thoughIhavenochanceofwinning.InallouryearsofplayingPhoneticScrabble,orFonetikSkrabbl,I’veneverbeatenheratit.ThelasttimeweplayedIcameclose.Butthenshedevastatedmeonthefinalword,playingJEENZonatriplewordscore.

“OK.”Sheshakesherheadwithmockpity.“Anythingyouwant.”Sheclosesherlaughingeyestolistentothestethoscope.

—

Wespendtherestofthemorningbakingmytraditionalbirthdaycakeofvanillaspongewith vanilla cream frosting.After it’s cooled, I apply anunreasonablythinlayeroffrosting,justenoughtocoverthecake.Weare,bothofus,cakepeople,notfrostingpeople.Fordecoration,Idraweighteenfrosteddaisieswithwhitepetals and awhite center across the top.On the sides I fashiondrapedwhitecurtains.

“Perfect.”MymompeersovermyshouldersasIfinishup.“Justlikeyou.”

Iturntofaceher.She’ssmilingawide,proudsmileatme,buthereyesarebrightwithtears.

“You.Are.Tragic,”Isay,andsquirtadollopoffrostingonhernose,whichonly makes her laugh and cry some more. Really, she’s not usually thisemotional,butsomethingaboutmybirthdayalwaysmakesherbothweepyandjoyful at the same time.And if she’sweepy and joyful, then I’mweepy andjoyful,too.

“Iknow,”shesays, throwingherhandshelplesslyup in theair.“I’mtotallypathetic.”Shepullsmeintoahugandsqueezes.Frostinggetsintomyhair.

—

Mybirthdayistheonedayoftheyearthatwe’rebothmostacutelyawareofmyillness. It’s the acknowledging of the passage of time that does it. Anotherwholeyearofbeingsick,nohopeforacureon thehorizon.Anotheryearofmissingallthenormalteenagerythings—learner’spermit,firstkiss,prom,firstheartbreak, first fender bender. Another year ofmymom doing nothing butworking and taking care ofme. Every other day these omissions are easy—easier,atleast—toignore.

Thisyearisalittleharderthantheprevious.Maybeit’sbecauseI’meighteennow.Technically,I’manadult.Ishouldbeleavinghome,goingofftocollege.Mymomshouldbedreadingempty-nestsyndrome.ButbecauseofSCID,I’mnotgoinganywhere.

—

Later,afterdinner,shegivesmeabeautifulsetofwatercolorpencilsthathadbeen onmy wish list formonths.We go into the living room and sit cross-leggedinfrontofthecoffeetable.Thisisalsopartofourbirthdayritual:Shelightsasinglecandleinthecenterofthecake.Iclosemyeyesandmakeawish.Iblowthecandleout.

“Whatdidyouwishfor?”sheasksassoonasIopenmyeyes.

Reallythere’sonlyonethingtowishfor—amagicalcurethatwillallowmetorunfreeoutsidelikeawildanimal.ButInevermakethatwishbecauseit’simpossible.It’slikewishingthatmermaidsanddragonsandunicornswerereal.InsteadIwishforsomethingmore likely thanacure.Something less likely tomakeusbothsad.

“Worldpeace,”Isay.

—

Three slicesof cake later,webeginagameofFonetik. Idonotwin. Idon’tevencomeclose.

SheusesallsevenlettersandputsdownPOKALIPnexttoanS.POKALIPS.

“What’sthat?”Iask.

“Apocalypse,”shesays,eyesdancing.

“No,Mom.Noway.Ican’tgivethattoyou.”

“Yes,”isallshesays.

“Mom,youneedanextraA.Noway.”

“Pokalips,”shesaysforeffect,gesturingattheletters.“Ittotallyworks.”

Ishakemyhead.

“POKALIPS,”sheinsists,slowlydraggingouttheword.

“OhmyGod,you’rerelentless,”Isay,throwingmyhandsup.“OK,OK,I’llallowit.”

“Yesssss.”Shepumpsher fist and laughs atmeandmarksdownhernow-insurmountable score. “You’ve never really understood this game,” she says.“It’sagameofpersuasion.”

Islicemyselfanotherpieceofcake.“Thatwasnotpersuasion,”Isay.“Thatwascheating.”

“Samesame,”shesays,andwebothlaugh.

“YoucanbeatmeatHonorPictionarytomorrow,”shesays.

After I lose, we go to the couch and watch our favorite movie, YoungFrankenstein.Watching it isalsopartofourbirthdayritual. Iputmyhead inher lap,andshestrokesmyhair,andwe laughat thesamejokes in thesameway thatwe’ve been laughing at them for years.All in all, not a badway to

spendyoureighteenthbirthday.

I’MREADINGONmywhitecouchwhenCarlacomesinthenextmorning.

“Felizcumpleaños,”shesingsout.

Ilowermybook.“Gracias.”

“Howwasthebirthday?”Shebeginsunpackinghermedicalbag.

“Wehadfun.”

“Vanillacakeandvanillafrosting?”sheasks.

“Ofcourse.”

“YoungFrankenstein?”

“Yes.”

“Andyoulostatthatgame?”sheasks.

“We’reprettypredictable,huh?”

“Don’tmindme,”shesays,laughing.“I’mjustjealousofhowsweetyouandyourmamaare.”

She picks up my health log from yesterday, quickly reviews my mom’smeasurementsandaddsanewsheet to theclipboard. “ThesedaysRosacan’tevenbebotheredtogivemethetimeofday.”

Rosa isCarla’s seventeen-year-old daughter.According toCarla theywerereallycloseuntilhormonesandboystookover.Ican’timaginethathappeningtomymomandme.

Carla sits next tome on the couch, and I hold outmy hand for the bloodpressurecuff.Hereyesdroptomybook.

“FlowersforAlgernonagain?”sheasks.“Doesn’tthatbookalwaysmakeyoucry?”

“Onedayitwon’t,”Isay.“Iwanttobesuretobereadingitonthatday.”

Sherollshereyesatmeandtakesmyhand.

Itiskindofaflipanswer,butthenIwonderifit’strue.

MaybeI’mholdingouthopethatoneday,someday,thingswillchange.

FLOWERSFORALGERNONBYDANIELKEYES

Spoileralert:Algernonisamouse.Themousedies.

I’MUPTOthepartwhereCharlierealizesthatthemouse’sfatemaybehisownwhenIhearaloudrumblingnoiseoutside.Immediatelymymindgoestoouterspace.Ipictureagiantmothershiphoveringintheskiesaboveus.

Thehousetremblesandmybooksvibrateontheshelves.Asteadybeepingjoins the rumbling and I know what it is. A truck. Probably just lost, I tellmyself,tostaveoffdisappointment.Probablyjustmadeawrongturnontheirwaytosomeplaceelse.

But thentheenginecutsoff.Doorsopenandclose.Amomentpasses,andthenanother,andthenawoman’svoicesingsout,“Welcometoournewhome,everybody!”

Carlastaresatmehardforafewseconds.Iknowwhatshe’sthinking.

It’shappeningagain.

“CARLA,”ISAY,“itwon’tbelikelasttime.”I’mnoteightyearsoldanymore.

“I want you to promise—” she begins, but I’m already at the window,sweepingthecurtainsaside.

IamnotpreparedforthebrightCaliforniasun.I’mnotpreparedforthesightof it, high andblazing hot andwhite against thewashed-outwhite sky. I amblind. But then the white haze overmy vision begins to clear. Everything ishaloed.

Iseethetruckandthesilhouetteofanolderwomantwirling—themother.Iseeanoldermanatthebackofthetruck—thefather.Iseeagirlmaybealittleyoungerthanme—thedaughter.

Then I see him.He’s tall, lean, andwearing all black: blackT-shirt, blackjeans,blacksneakers,andablackknitcapthatcovershishaircompletely.He’swhitewith a pale honey tan and his face is starkly angular.He jumps downfromhisperchatthebackofthetruckandglidesacrossthedriveway,movingasifgravityaffectshimdifferentlythanitdoestherestofus.Hestops,cockshisheadtooneside,andstaresupathisnewhouseasifitwereapuzzle.

After a few seconds he begins bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet.Suddenlyhetakesoffatasprintandrunsliterallysixfeetupthefrontwall.Hegrabsawindowsillanddanglesfromitforasecondortwoandthendropsbackdownintoacrouch.

“Nice,Olly,”sayshismother.

“Didn’tItellyoutoquitdoingthatstuff?”hisfathergrowls.

Heignoresthembothandremainsinhiscrouch.

Ipressmyopenpalmagainst theglass,breathlessas if I’ddone thatcrazystuntmyself. I look fromhim to thewall to thewindowsill and back to himagain.He’snolongercrouched.He’sstaringupatme.Oureyesmeet.VaguelyIwonderwhat he sees inmywindow—strange girl inwhitewithwide staringeyes.Hegrinsatmeandhisfaceisnolongerstark,nolongersevere.I trytosmileback,butI’msoflusteredthatIfrownathiminstead.

THATNIGHT, Idream that the house breatheswithme. I exhale and thewallscontract likeapinprickedballoon,crushingmeas itdeflates. I inhaleandthewallsexpand.Asinglebreathmoreandmylifewillfinally,finallyexplode.

HISMOM’SSCHEDULE

6:35AM-Arrivesonporchwithasteamingcupofsomethinghot.Coffee?6:36AM-Staresoffintoemptylotacrossthewaywhilesippingherdrink.Tea?7:00AM-Reentersthehouse.7:15AM-Backonporch.Kisseshusbandgood-bye.Watchesashiscardrivesaway.9:30AM-Gardens.Looksfor,finds,anddiscardscigarettebutts.1:00PM-Leaveshouseincar.Errands?5:00PM-PleadswithKaraandOllytobeginchores“beforeyourfathergetshome.”

KARA’S(SISTER)SCHEDULE

10:00AM-Stompsoutsidewearingblackbootsandafuzzybrownbathrobe.10:01AM-Checkscellphonemessages.Shegetsalotofmessages.10:06AM-Smokesthreecigarettesinthegardenbetweenourtwohouses.10:20AM-Digsaholewiththetoeofherbootsandburiescigarettecarcasses.10:25AM–5:00PM-Textsortalksonthephone.5:25PM-Chores.

HISDAD’SSCHEDULE

7:15AM-Leavesforwork.6:00PM-Arriveshomefromwork.6:20PM-Sitsonporchwithdrink#1.6:30PM-Reentersthehousefordinner.7:00PM-Backonporchwithdrink#2.7:25PM-Drink#3.7:45PM-Yellingatfamilybegins.10:35PM-Yellingatfamilysubsides.

OLLY’SSCHEDULE

Unpredictable.

HISFAMILYCALLShimOlly.Well,hissisterandhismomcallhimOlly.HisdadcallshimOliver.He’stheoneIwatchthemost.Hisbedroomisonthesecondfloor and almost directly across frommine and his blinds are almost alwaysopen.

Somemornings he sleeps in until noon. Others, he’s gone from his roombeforeIwaketobeginmysurveillance.Mostmornings,though,hewakesat9a.m.,climbsoutofhisbedroom,andmakeshisway,Spider-Man-style,totheroofusingthesiding.Hestaysupthereforaboutanhourbeforeswinging,legsfirst,backintohisroom.NomatterhowmuchItry,Ihaven’tbeenabletoseewhathedoeswhenhe’supthere.

Hisroomisemptybutforabedandachestofdrawers.Afewboxesfromthe move remain unpacked and stacked by the doorway. There are nodecorationsexceptforasingleposterforamoviecalledJumpLondon.Ilookeditupandit’saboutparkour,whichisakindofstreetgymnastics,whichexplainshowhe’sabletodoallthecrazystuffthathedoes.ThemoreIwatch,themoreIwanttoknow.

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Other Titles
Title Page
Copyright
Contents
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Daniel
Natasha
Daniel
Natasha
Irene a History
Daniel
Charles Jae Won Bae
Family
Natasha
Irie
Daniel
Natasha
Irene
Natasha
Samuel Kingsley
Daniel
Natasha
The Conductor
Daniel
Natasha
Daniel
Natasha
Half-Life
Daniel
Donald Christiansen
Natasha
Daniel
Natasha
Daniel
Natasha
Multiverses
Daniel
Natasha
Daniel
Natasha
Daniel
Natasha
Love
Daniel
Natasha
Hannah Winter
Attorney Jeremy Fitzgerald
Daniel
Natasha
Daniel
Natasha
Hair
Daniel
Natasha
Daniel
Natasha
Daniel
Natasha
Hair
Daniel
Natasha
Daniel
Natasha
Samuel Kingsley
Daniel
The Waitress
Natasha
Daniel
Natasha
Daniel
Natasha
Daniel
Natasha
Daniel
Natasha
Daniel
Natasha
Daniel
Natasha
Daniel
Natasha
Daniel
Natasha
Daniel
Fate
Natasha
Daniel
Natasha
Samuel Kingsley
Daniel
Natasha
Natasha Kingsley
Daniel
Natasha
Samuel Kingsley
Natasha
Daniel
Dae Hyun Bae
Natasha
Daniel
Natasha
Daniel
Natasha
Daniel
Natasha
Daniel
Natasha
Daniel
Natasha
Daniel
Joe
Natasha
Daniel
Eyes
Daniel
Natasha
Samuel Kingsley
Daniel
Jeremy Fitzgerald
Hannah Winter
Natasha
Daniel
Natasha
Daniel
Natasha
Daniel
Natasha
Daniel
Natasha
Daniel + Natasha
Four Minutes
Natasha
Daniel
Time and Distance
Epilogue Irene: An Alternate History
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Read the Book That Everyone, Everyone Fell in Love With.

TheSunIsAlsoaStarbyNicolaYoon.pdf

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