The Way You Make Me Feel(49)
While he was recovering, I pulled out a small cake that had Transformers toys all over it. It said “Happy Birthday, Son!” on it. This time Rose burst out laughing. “What the heck?”
Hamlet placed candles in it, methodical and thoughtful in their placement so that they complemented the tiny robots and cars and things. I took out a lighter and lit the candles. “It’s not like there weren’t more appropriate cakes, but we thought this one provided the most entertainment.”
“Good call,” she said, a grin still plastered on her face.
We sang “Happy Birthday” to her, Hamlet in a low voice, kind of embarrassed the entire time. I, of course, sang with vibrato in a volume so loud that people around us starting joining in. By the end of it, there were, like, thirty voices wishing Rose a happy birthday.
She couldn’t stop smiling after she blew out the candles. “Thanks, guys.”
“You’re very welcome,” Hamlet said, already slicing the cake expertly. He handed her a slice on a My Little Pony paper plate with a plastic fork.
Although we were sitting there eating a Transformers cake off of paper plates with colorful ponies on them, there was a conspicuous lack of irony in this moment. It was something I noticed every time I hung out with these guys because I had become so used to a certain behavior with Patrick and Felix. Where everything was a joke, a mockery, a way to separate ourselves from feeling stuff for real. It was easier not to feel the real stuff—and Patrick the slacker was all about easy. Felix, he was so preoccupied with being cool all the time. And Rose and Hamlet? I watched them set up the Connect 4 we had purchased at the dollar store and immediately throw themselves into it, competitive and serious within seconds.
They were the opposite of that. They were all in.
When the movie ended, we headed to Hamlet’s car. I held his hand in one hand and a lawn chair in the other.
Rose stayed close to us as we walked down the dark paths toward the parking lot. She glanced around the headstones nervously. “I can’t believe I just watched that movie in the cemetery. I’m never going to fall asleep tonight.”
That night, at two a.m., I texted her a gif of Linda Blair’s head spinning. I could practically hear her scream from miles away.
CHAPTER 22
The next weekend, I stood in front of the fan in the living room, letting it cool off my face. Summer in our apartment was the pits. We only had one of those window air conditioners, and it barely kept the living room cool, let alone the whole apartment.
As we got more and more experienced with the truck, my dad let Rose and me each have some solo Sundays, since we only had one routine stop. And today, Rose was manning the KoBra. It was a rare day off together for my dad and me, and being hot and miserable was how we were spending it.
My dad was draped across the sofa like a rag doll, trying not to move. Flo hadn’t left the cool porcelain of the bathtub in hours. We were like a Renaissance painting. Suddenly, my dad sprang up. “Ooh, let’s get naengmyeon!” Cold Korean buckwheat noodles, often served with slushy, icy beef broth. The best and only thing to eat on a hot summer day.
My dad started to do an excited-for-food dance: pulling his cap down low and making weird, wobbly moves with his legs, while keeping his arms up at chest level.
I hated it so much that I loved it. He stopped dancing long enough to ask, “Hey, do you mind if Kody comes along?”
Yes.
But my dad’s hopeful and nervous expression made me bite my tongue. And I never hung out with his girlfriends, so I knew it must be somewhat important. I plastered on a smile and said, “No, that’s cool.”
A half hour later, we were all piled into my dad’s old rear-wheel-drive Nissan, still souped up from his racing days. You could hear us coming from a mile away. Kody had politely offered me shotgun, but my dad’s quick warning glance stopped me from taking it. “No, you go ahead.” I crammed myself into the tiny back seat instead, cursing her with every bump—my dad did not believe in suspension.
We pulled into a packed strip mall—storefronts crowded with neon lettering in both Korean and English, the parking lot manned by two valet guys who somehow made sense of the automobile Tetris. The icy-cold AC hit us when we opened the glass double doors into the restaurant. I shivered instantly and noticed the patrons huddled over their big metal bowls, also shivering in their shorts and tanks.
The smiling yet gruff hostess led us to our table, which was under a floating flat-screen TV playing K-pop videos. The tabletops were laid with paper place mats emblazoned with beer advertisements. “Hey, isn’t this the actress you have the hots for?” I asked Pai, pointing at the dewy face on the mat, being a brat in front of his girlfriend. Maybe it was the hot day or the pressure of meeting Kody, but I couldn’t stop myself.
He peered down at it. “Nah.”
“Plastic surgery confuses all.”
Kody laughed and I allowed myself to be pleased for .5 seconds. My dad threw the little paper packaging for the metal chopsticks at me. “Hey! Not everyone gets plastic surgery.”
“Maybe not, but probably every actress!” This was a common argument between us. Because I was one step further removed from Korea, my dad always felt super defensive about Korean culture. I liked to tease him about it to rile him up—especially about plastic surgery.
Before my dad could answer, the server came over and asked for our orders. You had about thirty seconds to review a menu at K-Town restaurants.