Yolk(17)

“Uh,” says June, bumping her elbow into me. I’m hovering, which she hates.

“Do you cook a lot?” I perch on a barstool on the other side of the kitchen island. I imagine intimate get-togethers, dinner dates, charcuterie. She probably has a book club or something.

“Not really,” she says, keeping her eyes on the pan. “Never had time.”

She scoops up the escaped peppercorns. They look like tiny cannonballs. As she returns them to the bag, she wipes her brow with the back of her hand. “Careful with your eyes, Juju.” My jaw stiffens. She goes about her business, acting as if she hasn’t heard, crinkling the cellophane loudly.

I hadn’t meant to call her that. It’s been years since I’ve called her that.

“How was school?” she asks after a moment.

“Fine.” I sound sharper than I’d intended. I hate when she polices my whereabouts.

She tosses the pre-fried bean curd from the cutting board into the sauce.

“That’s not the right bean curd.” The adult part of me wants to bop the little sister part right in the nose.

“So don’t eat it,” she says without skipping a beat and then sucks the ends of her cooking chopsticks.

This shuts me up. It smells good.

She stops midstir to study me.

“What?”

June looks pensive. Like a baby taking a shit. There’s no telling what she’s thinking.

“Nothing.” She looks away. “I had something to tell you, but I forgot.”

I wonder if she’s mad at me.

“Seriously, what?”

“Nothing,” she snaps.

It’s probably about the tofu. Or calling her “Juju.”

“Uh, um, so…” I hop off the stool and go to my bag, desperate to defuse the tension. “I got you something. It’s dumb. And small. It’s from my store—the store I work at. I just figured…”

I offer her the paper sleeve. One of her hands is manning the pan that’s smoking; the other’s tossing its contents with chopsticks. “Sorry,” I say hurriedly, removing the corkscrew, crumpling the bag and shoving it in my pocket. “Worst timing for a present.” I lay it down on the counter. “It’s not even really a present. It’s more just… functional.”

“No. It’s perfect. Thank you,” she says, a little too brightly, throwing her aromatics into the pan. They crackle, and the apartment air fills with a convincingly Szechuan bouquet. She coughs as the peppers smoke. “Oh shit,” she says, turning back to me. “Is that what you wanted? Do you want wine?”

“No.” I shake my head. “I mean, sure, but I can get it.” I open her fridge. I’m shocked by its contents. It’s crammed with random half-eaten, uncovered food. I shut the door, averting my attention, embarrassed to have spied. “I got you one because you couldn’t find it last time. Remember you offered me red because that’s the one you liked better, but…”

“Oh.” She’s smiling with so much effort. “That’s so thoughtful.”

“Oh.” I wave the air. “It was only twelve bucks.”

We are so cringey. I barely know what to do with my hands. She turns and busies herself with the rest of the cooking.

“So, did you want red?” I ask her.

“I’m okay,” she says. “Did you?”

“I’ll just have water.” I watch as she slices scallions, and the rhythmic motion of it—the scratchy sound—soothes me.

“Remember when you wanted to take over Mom and Dad’s restaurant?”

“Yeah,” she says distractedly. “What a nightmare that would’ve been.”

I open a cabinet. It’s completely empty. “What do you need?” interjects June.

“Water glasses.”

“It’s this one.” She points at the cabinet over the sink. I grab two from the four in there, fill them with tap water, and set them on the bar. “Thanks,” she says.

“Want me to do the rice?”

“Sure.” She turns, opens the drawer behind her, and hands me a flat white paddle. There’s a tiny rice cooker on the counter by her fridge. It’s small and cheap and doesn’t match the other gleaming appliances, but I’m surprised she even has one. She hands me two blue bowls.

We both make shit rice, at least according to Mom. We never add enough water and never bother to soak it the way she does. The trick is to add enough water so that it just about meets the first line on your ring finger. Even still, we both eyeball it and get it wrong. I open the steaming lid, digging around the cooker to break it up.

I scoop her two lumps because it’s bad luck to give someone a single scoop and then portion out a tiny clump for myself. I don’t think the luck thing counts if it’s yours.

She inspects my meager bowl. “I had a late lunch.” She frowns briefly and hands me the ladle so I can serve myself. I spoon a little. I can probably get away with two pieces of tofu. The sauce is thickened with cornstarch and glistening with oil. She fixes her plate, grabs kimchi from the fridge, which we add to our bowls with chopsticks. I pause at the white barstools. “Those make my ass numb,” she says. I follow her to the couch.

I warm my hands on the bowl and take a small taste. It’s amazing to eat something hot for once. I haven’t had home-cooked Asian food in forever. I take another bite. “This is really good.”