Somewhere Only We Know(28)

“Is your Korean really good now?” Jack hopped down some steps to avoid stepping on a discarded tissue.

I sidestepped the offensive paper. “Yeah. Once you’re there, it’s like … the mother tongue returns in full force.”

He laughed. “Does that feel good? To speak Korean well?”

“Hm. I guess it does? You grew up with a lot of other Asian kids, right?” I asked.

He nodded. “Yeah. Like, half my school.”

“Same,” I said, chewing on my lip in concentration. “So, I felt very Korean? Like, I’m connected to these roots, I have no identity issues! But then I got to Korea and felt like … an alien or something. It made me so embarrassed that I didn’t speak Korean that well.”

“Like it was a reflection of your bad upbringing or something?” he asked.

“Yes!” I pointed at him. “Exactly that!”

Jack shook his head. “My family went to Seoul last year and when my sister couldn’t speak Korean very well to a cab driver he started like, berating my parents. Saying they should have done a better job.”

My mouth dropped open. “Wow. Rude.”

“Right?” Jack shoved his hands in his pockets as he walked next to me. Our elbows bumped with the movement. “Anyway. My mom gave him an earful, of course, but I still felt a little ashamed. Like a bad Korean kid.”

I let out a short laugh. “That’s kind of the low-key feeling all Korean kids have. Guilt—the greatest motivator.”

He smiled. “Truth. I’m always feeling … guilty for wanting the things I want.”

“What do you want?” I asked, looking at him intently. I was so curious, because sometimes the guilt of wanting to be free from K-pop obligations was so intense that I felt like I couldn’t breathe.

“I want … I don’t know.” His voice was quiet and he looked down at the sidewalk.

“Come on, say it,” I said, bumping my hip against his.

He didn’t answer right away. “I don’t want the things my parents want for me. And beyond that … I’m not sure yet.”

Hm. In a weird way, I had no idea what that felt like. I’d known what I’d wanted since I was six. I didn’t know what to say. But after a few moments, I finally said, “I know what it’s like to have expectations put on you.” Not by my parents, but he didn’t have to know that.

He looked over at me and I felt a jolt of energy pass between us. Not flirty or anything—a connection of some kind. I never got to talk to anyone about stuff like this. Korean American kid stuff. No one really understood this part of me in Korea.

And it felt good because I didn’t have to lie. In a weird way, I could be a true version of myself as Fern.





CHAPTER TWENTY


JACK


Lucky was turning out to be a great liar.

Here’s the thing with good lying: You don’t take risks by getting bogged down with details, making things complicated and tying yourself up in some web of deception.

You selectively tell truths.

Then when you’re saying what you’re saying, you exhibit the very real signs of truthiness. Like Lucky was.

We walked down Hollywood Road, a busy thoroughfare that took us from Sheung Wan back to Central, where we had met last night.

An ancient banyan tree grew out of the side of a cinder block wall, its roots snaking over the crumbling concrete all the way down to the sidewalk. Lucky reached up and touched the stringy roots hanging off the branches, giving them a tug.

From behind, I took a quick photo.

The photos from the shoe store turned out great—Lucky reaching over to tie her shoelaces, looking at her reflection, expression thoughtful as she contemplated her shoes, these tools of comfort in a life so full of restraints. Ooh, that was good.

LUCKY STEPS OUT

My phone buzzed. Trevor had finally gotten my message and texted back: Are you serious? I got a tip that Lucky went missing last night.

I grinned and texted: She was with me. I knew it was slimy and misleading, but it was also catnip for someone like Trevor. He responded immediately: If you’re telling the truth, this could change everything for you. Follow that asset, get that story.

Yes. Yes.

Lucky stopped ahead of me and sniffed the air. “What is that?”

The air was tinged with telltale smoke. “Oh, we’re right by Man Mo Temple. That’s the incense people burn.”

We walked up ahead to an open gate, beyond which were two ancient one-story buildings set inside a small concrete courtyard. It was packed with tourists buying bundles of incense sticks and lighting them in various altars, filling the entire block with smoke.

When I first moved to Hong Kong, I was struck by the incongruous image of this old temple plopped right in the center of a busy intersection, a few feet away from a street full of cars, hipsters, and grandmothers. Now I walked by it like, ten times a day and barely noticed it. Just a building from the nineteenth century straight chillin’, that’s all.

Lucky looked at me for about half a second before skipping inside, headed toward the stalls carrying the incense.

A LUCKY PRAYER

I followed her inside, where the noise of the street was muffled and replaced with softer, more hushed noises: matches lighting, feet shuffling on the stone floor, the quiet snap of a camera. It was packed with tourists, and the air was thick with smoke from the incense.