The Sun Is Also a Star(59)

There’s no way to answer this but honestly. “My parents made me.”

“How old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

He looks down at my file. “It says here that you’re interested in the pre-med track. Are you?”

“Not really,” I say.

“Not really or no?” Lawyers like certainty.



“No.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” he says. “Do you want to go to Yale?”

“I don’t even know if I want to go to college.”

He leans forward in his chair. I feel like I’m being cross-examined. “And what’s your big dream?”

“To be a poet.”

“Oh good,” he says. “Something practical.”

“Believe it or not, I’ve heard that one before.”

He leans in even more. “I’ll ask you again. Why are you here?”

“I have to be.”

“No you don’t,” he fires back. “You can just get up and walk out that door.”

“I owe it to my parents.”

“Why?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

I sigh (long-suffering variety). “My parents are immigrants. They moved to this country for a better life. They work all the time so my brother and I can have the American Dream. Nowhere in the American Dream does it say you can skip college and become a starving artist.”

“It says whatever you want it to.”

I snort. “Not in my family it doesn’t. If I don’t do this, I get cut off. No funds for college. No nothing.”

This confession at least stops his rapid-fire questioning. He leans back in his chair. “Would they really do that?” he asks.



I know the answer, but I can’t make myself say it right away. I think about my dad’s face earlier this afternoon. He’s so determined that Charlie and I have a better life than he did. He’ll do anything to guarantee it.

“Yes,” I say. “He would.” But not because he’s evil. And not because he’s a Stereotypical Korean Parent. But because he can’t see past his own history to let us have ours.

A lot of people are like that.

Fitzgerald whistles low. “So I guess you have to be sure the poetry thing is worth it.”

Now I’m the one leaning in. “Haven’t you ever done something only because you’re obligated to? Just because you made a promise?”

His eyes drift away from mine. For whatever reason, this question changes the dynamic between us. It feels like we’re in the same boat.

“Meeting your obligations is the definition of adulthood, kid. If you’re going to make mistakes and break promises, now’s the time.”

He stops talking, flexes his wrist, and grimaces. “Get your screwing up done now, when the consequences aren’t so bad. Trust me. It gets harder to do it later.”

Sometimes people tell you things by not telling you things. I glance at his left hand and see his wedding ring.

“Is that what happened to you?” I ask.

He unsteeples his fingers and twists the ring around his finger. “I’m a married man with two kids.”



“And you’re having an affair with your paralegal.”

He rubs at the bandage above his eye. “It just started today.” He looks over to his closed door, as if he’s hoping she’ll be standing right there. “Ended today too,” he says quietly.

I didn’t actually expect him to admit it, and now I’m not sure what to say.

“You think I’m a bad guy,” he says.

“I think you’re my interviewer,” I answer. Maybe it’s better for us to just get this interview back on course.

He covers his eyes with his hands. “I met her too late. I’ve always had lousy timing.”

I don’t know what to tell him. Not that he’s looking to me for advice. Ordinarily I would say follow your heart. But he’s a married man. His heart is not the only one involved.

“So what are you gonna do? Let her go?” I ask.

He looks at me for a long time, thinking. “You’re going to have to do the same,” he says finally.

He pulls Natasha’s file from under his elbow. “I couldn’t do it. I thought I could, but I couldn’t.”

“Do what?” I ask.

“Stop her deportation.”

He’s going to have to spell it out for me, because I’m not processing what he’s saying. “Your Natasha is getting deported tonight after all. I couldn’t stop it from happening. The judge wouldn’t overturn the Voluntary Removal.”

I don’t know what a Voluntary Removal is, but all I can think is that there’s a mistake. It’s definitely a mistake. Now I’m hoping it really is a different Natasha Kingsley.



“I’m sorry, kid,” he says. He slides the file across to me, as if my looking at it is somehow going to help. I flip it open. It’s some sort of official form. All I see is her name: Natasha Katherine Kingsley. I didn’t know her middle name. Katherine. It suits her.

I shut the file and slide it back to him. “There has to be something you can do.”