Fiona and Jane(19)

Won poured out three glasses. My first taste of beer nearly made me gag. I sipped slowly, trying to get used to the bitter taste, the bubbles burning down my throat. Half a glass in, I felt heady, my face warm to the touch.

“You like it?” Won said. “This is nice, right?”

A loud burp escaped Fiona’s throat, and she clapped a hand over her mouth.

“I don’t know how I feel,” I replied honestly. “Is this drunk? Am I?” Won refilled my glass.

“Won, I love you,” Fiona said. He grunted. “No, really,” she said earnestly. “I love you.” She turned to me. “And, Jane, I love you, too. I love you the most.”

“This one turns into a happy ass.” Won looked as pleased as I’d ever seen him. “What about you?”

“Jane,” said Fiona from across the table. “Girl, you okay?”

“I love you, too,” I said.

“Oh shit,” Won said. “You’re one of those depressed drunks.”

“What?” I said. “No I’m not.”

“Two types,” Won said knowingly. “You’re not going to start crying, are you?”

“The waiter,” Fiona said. “He’s kind of cute.”

“Him?” Won said. “You got on beer goggles.”

“I do?” Fiona said. “What’s that?” Then she laughed again.



* * *



? ? ?

Fiona, Won, and I have been friends since second grade, Miss King’s class. Same junior high and same high school, too, until Won got tossed last year, when we were sophomores. He was already on probation for ditching, a couple of fights, some other stuff. Then one day last April this football player, a big Samoan dude, decided to punk him for no good reason.

Won had the kind of face that summoned bullies like flies to dog shit. They thought he was stuck up because of the Boyz II Men–inspired cable-knit sweaters; preppy button-down shirts; and cuffed chinos he wore when everyone else sported white tube socks with Adidas slides, size forty waist jeans, and XXL Fruit of the Loom tees. People called him “Pretty Boy” and “Richie Rich,” and they didn’t mean it like a compliment, either.

Fetu toed up at lunchtime and said he heard Won was talking trash about his girl. Not only did Won suffer the humiliation of getting his ass beat in front of everyone in the quad, our evil vice principal decided it was the last straw for Won’s disciplinary offenses and kicked him out (nothing happened to Fetu; he was a senior with two months left and was untouchable anyway because of his rushing yards average). Won got sent down to the continuation school with the druggies, pregnant girls, and gangbangers. Last stop before dropping out, juvie, or deportation.

Won wasn’t who people thought he was, though. He wasn’t some spoiled fuck-up with a dad who owned a chain of liquor stores or gas stations or SAT cram schools. We knew other Koreans like that, sure. But Won ganked all his fancy clothes. Shoplifting came easy to him, Won said, because mall security was always too busy hassling the Black kids to notice a skinny Asian redeeming his five-finger discount. For years he’d used a fake address to go to school with us, a better district than the one in his zip code.

Most of the boys we knew from school were Neanderthals with pimples, drenched in Cool Water cologne. Won wasn’t like them. He was different. We felt safe with him. Fiona and I would never actually tell him to his face, but Won was all right by us.



* * *



? ? ?

We finished the pitcher. I felt a weight in my shoulders, a strange muscle ache.

“I can’t go home like this,” Fiona said.

Won asked what she wanted to do. It was a little after ten o’clock.

“The beach?” I ventured.

Won claimed he was sober enough to drive Shamu, even though he was as bright red in the face as Fiona. “Trust me,” he said. “I’ve done this before.”

We paid the bill, each of us contributing what we could—me with my allowance and some leftover lunch money, Fiona and her tutoring-job funds, and Won with cash from who knew where, probably a side hustle reselling the stuff he stole from the mall.

Fiona asked the waiter about his name when he picked up the black plastic tray.

“Sung?” Her voice was dreamy. “The past participle for ‘sing.’?”

The waiter held a blank expression in his eyes. But when Fiona smiled at him, he smiled back. His fingers flew to the scar on his face, as if to hide it.

“Let’s bounce.” When Won stood from the table, Sung’s gaze shifted to him and back to Fiona again.

I made Won promise to drive slow. On the way to Huntington Beach, we passed by an Albertaco’s, and Won pulled into the drive-through. Fiona, slumped in the passenger seat, perked up and leaned over Won to shout into the crackling box.

“Carne asada taquitos,” she cried. “Con salsa roja. Por favor! Gracias!” To Won and me, she said, slurring, “I’m taking AP Spanish, okay? I’m getting a five on that bitch.”

We cackled and hooted, called her a nerd.

Everyone at school knew Fiona was smart and respected her giant brain, but she wasn’t considered a geek. She had those big doe eyes with real double-eyelids that other girls tried to approximate with bits of glue or tiny strips of Scotch tape. Her lashes went out to there, and her skin hardly ever broke out. And because she had her tutoring gigs, with more clients all the time from positive recommendations, Fiona always had dough to spend on new clothes and kicks. She worked extra hard the last six months to save up cash and buy Shamu.