5.2

Cries and Laughters

“She laughs as you make a show of eating her hair, laughs and laughs until you finally kiss her on the mouth.”

Sweet whispers in my ear — dreamy, melodic words set to music. There’s something behind them too, some meaning, some message —

“What?”

Can’t turn around, supposed to work on the equations, but can’t ignore that voice either.

“How do you write my name in Korean?”

This is a novelty for you. Merely a curiosity.

“Like this.”

It’s nothing really, just a phonetic spelling of the name. But it lights up your face, so pretty and beneficent, an overwhelming angelic glow threatening to erase the features. I’d write it a thousand times if it meant a thousand smiles like that.

“How do you pronounce it?”

“The same. Think names sound the same in all languages, you just write it differently.”

“That’s neat.”

How could you be so interested in this? It’s only a language. There’s nothing remarkable about it. Perhaps because it’s so different from European languages, so different from English.

“And how do you write your name?”

Shrug. See?

“Yours is so much shorter than mine.”

“But yours is prettier.”

“Think so?”

A bright smile turning brighter, a pretty face turning prettier, making conversation difficult, showered with so much beauty. What are we talking about?

“Yeah. What does it mean?”

“What?”

“Your name.”

“Oh, wish I knew, Mother picked it because she liked the way it sounded.”

“Why don’t you give it a meaning yourself? It’d be better than what someone else had in mind.”

“You can’t just give a meaning to a name.”

“Why not?”

“Because others wouldn’t know?”

“That’s OK, it’ll be our little secret.”

She’s considering it. She likes the idea. Her eyes shimmering like a boundless ocean under a clearest sky.

“I like that.”

I thought you might.

“So, what do you want it to mean?”

“Any suggestions?”

“Has to be something you want, not me.”

“Still, I want your opinion. What do you think?”

“How about ‘too pretty’? Your name’s too pretty and it fits you.”

“You think I’m too pretty?”

“Yeah.”

“What does that mean? Too pretty for what?”

“I don’t know.” Thought I was complimenting you, did I screw up?

Except it’s the truth. You are too pretty, too pretty to be real, but apparently you didn’t know that.

“I think that’s superficial.”

“Beauty is superficial?”

“Yes, it’s only the appearance.”

And what’s wrong with that? Without appearance, there would be nothing. And it’s not just appearance, it’s how you carry yourself, how you act. And it affects how you feel, how you think, how you live, how you relate. It affects others even more; it’s anything but superficial. You denounce it so easily because you’re so beautiful, you don’t have to live with the consequences of ugliness. Your parents never preferred someone else to you, your parents never found it a chore to do things for you, and you never had to ask twice for anything. Don’t you realize the power you have? Don’t you realize that you’re the reason I can tolerate existence? That you’re the reason I look forward to school every day? That you’re the reason life is magical?

“So art is superficial too?” After all, beauty is one of its goals.

“That’s not the same.”

Why isn’t it? If anything you’re more beautiful than any art, than anything art could be. The beauty of all the art in the world is superficial compared to you . . .

“How about ‘the keeper of happiness’? Because when you smile, you spread happiness all around.” It sounds corny, but it’s true.

A brilliant smile.

“Really? Did I just make you happy?”

My best look of bliss. Open one eye a little, is she buying it?

“Oh, get out!” Giggle. “Now you’re teasing.”

I may tease but it’s true, you’re the keeper of happiness. With you, happiness comes easily. Without you, well, I don’t know how it’s possible.

Diary:

Stepmother’s playing a new game. She makes wild accusations with no basis in truth. To only Father, of course. They argue for a while because he can’t believe it or because he knows the games she plays. But she persists adamantly, angry that he doesn’t believe her. Then he calls me down and demands whether it’s true. Demands, for example, whether I talk back to her. At first, I can’t say anything, too stunned at the absurdity. But he asks again, angry that it might be true, ready to dish out a beating. I deny meekly, always meekly, because I chose to play a dunce. She doesn’t look at me the whole time because she knows I’m telling the truth. But to please her perhaps, he orders that I stop. Orders repeatedly. All I can do is nod quietly because it’s not in this personality to protest, “How can I stop if I’ve never done it in the first place?” Logic isn’t part of the deal, only obedience.

When I’m not being yelled at, things are tolerable because my mind is always elsewhere, always thinking of Stephanie. Even the chores aren’t too bad because they can be done in peace, and peace is all I need to feel content.

English isn’t exactly fun to learn, but I’m making rapid progress. I can watch TV now and understand what’s going on most of the time though the actors still speak too fast. I’m also picking up a lot of slang. Though people sometimes make fun of me because I don’t always use them correctly, I’m learning.

I practice typing at least an hour every day on an old manual typewriter they’ve abandoned in the basement. This helps me with English, especially with vocabulary and spelling, and it has a calming effect on me. When I’m angry I go down to the basement and type furiously till I’m pacified, keys often jamming together because I type so fast. The speed comes from taking my anger out on the machine. Pretty soon I’ll be typing sixty words per minute.

Classes are going great. Math, in particular, is a surprise. In Korea, I’d never do homework or pay attention in class, but I could cram for tests and do well. This didn’t work for math, however, at least not beyond sixth grade. Too many concepts to understand, and they had to be understood in order, shaky foundation causing more and more confusion. It’s usually too much for one night’s cramming especially when there’s more than one test the next day. But I don’t have a problem paying attention anymore, maybe because Stephanie’s in the class. I don’t know why, but I feel like being a model student when she’s watching, I feel like I should be perfect. I must be trying to impress her because this behavior doesn’t make sense otherwise. They go so slow I could skip every other class and still get an A. But I don’t skip classes, and I pay attention and do my homework. I’ve never realized how much easier things are this way. It sure beats reading the textbook. As long as teachers cover everything in class, I’ll never have to read a textbook again. What’s even better, it eliminates the need to study or cram for tests. All because of a small investment in class time and homework. Much more efficient than what I used to do because you have to attend classes anyway.

Perfect as only dreams can be. The grass in harmony with all the visiting flowers. The sky, the air, and the earth in peaceful coexistence. You and Stephanie lying side by side on soft, yielding grass on top of a hill, only a few feet away from the clouds.

She reaches up, trying to pull one down, the one shaped like a donut except it’s ridiculously large. Her small hand grasping air; it’s just out of reach. She giggles. Perhaps at the absurdity of the attempt.

“Seems so close,” she says.

“It is,” you say as you grab it and hand it to her, her small hands looking even smaller holding the giant donut-shaped cloud.

She dips a finger into the cloud, gathering some around it, then puts it into her mouth.

“Sweet,” she says smiling, “like cotton candy.”

You watch her eat it, soft, delicate strands spreading around her mouth, the giant thing disappearing quickly. It must not have much substance.

“Here, have a taste, it’s very sweet.” She offers you a fingerful.

You taste it and continue to lick her finger clean until she starts to laugh, the cloud in her other hand flickering slightly.

You suddenly tear off a portion and rub it on her hair. “No!” she cries, trying to dodge, but it’s too late, it’s smeared all over her hair, a white and golden mess. You jump on top of her, trapping her underneath, and slowly bring your face down toward hers, her eyes locking on yours momentarily and then closing. Her lips open a little. She must think you’ll kiss her. But you kiss her hair instead and taste the slice of heaven, now hopelessly entangled together. She’s right. It is very sweet. Even more so on her.

She laughs as you make a show of eating her hair, laughs and laughs until you finally kiss her on the mouth. Then silence except for the two mouths exploring each other, content just to kiss all day, one of those luxurious kisses with no goal, no hurry, the lingering taste of the cloud only adding to the euphoria . . .

You eventually break off to look at her. She looks so peaceful with her eyes still closed, a smile slowly forming around her lips. Maybe dazed. You brush your hand against her cheeks, remaining for a moment to savor the softness, touching her smile, capturing it, preserving it. Her essence still lingering in the air, too lovely for one glance, too intense for one touch, too luscious for one kiss . . .

I find you almost halfway around the world, in another land, another culture, another language. I’ve been looking for you and didn’t know it. I’ve been waiting for you and didn’t know it. But here you are; I’ve finally found you. In my sight, in my arms, in my embrace . . . just as I thought you’d be, just as I imagined you’d be, just as I hoped you’d be . . .

Her eyes open, meeting yours, and locked again for a long time as you play gently with her hair . . .

A serialized coming-of-age novel about a boy who must decide whether to live or die after surviving an abusive family and the death of his love. Read in order: 1.1, 1.2, 2.1, 2.2, 3.1, 3.2, 4.1, 4.2, 5.1. Next.