Yolk(51)

“But maybe not as intimidating. Actually, fuck it. I don’t know. You’re still intimidating.”

I laugh at this. A sharp bark. I glance around, stunned by the assessment. “Me?”

“Yes, you. You were so intense. Big goth energy. Always reading some humongous book with a level of focus I’d never seen in a kid. You were way too busy to talk to me.”

“Oh, because you ever tried talking to me.” I remember the books. Mostly horror and romance paperbacks. I also remember Patrick with his comics, his video games, his earring, and once his dyed-purple hair, which had scandalized the church ladies. He also brought a few non-Korean friends to mass who ate the fishy-smelling soups and everything after church. It was fascinating that he’d reveal this part of his life to his friends, who seemed cool judging by their sneakers. Everyone was always talking to Patrick. I wish he’d stuck around to see me a few years later. When I pulled myself together.

“I tried talking to you,” he says, sipping his coffee.

“You talked to June, not me.” This I remember too, with a flutter of jealousy. June could talk to anyone.

“I talked to June because she yelled at me all the time. Acting like we already knew each other from the second we met. She high-key bullied me into lending her all my Civil War comics right as I was starting them. She said I had to make the concession because I was older and that was my duty.”

I laugh. It sounds exactly like June.

“But I talked to you,” he says, tapping his chin. “Or at least I tried. It was right around Easter because that mass was fucking brutal. You were wearing a Forest of Endor Summer Camp sweatshirt.”

I remember the sweatshirt. It was purple and it was June’s. My heart sinks. “Nope,” I tell him. “Wasn’t me. That was June’s.”

To be mistaken for June by strangers is one thing, but I’m upset. I feel duped by the premise of this nostalgic conversation. I flip through the plastic specials menu on the counter. “I’ve never seen a single Star Wars movie ever in my life,” I say coldly.

I’m relieved that this diner serves alcohol. I could order an Irish coffee without it seeming too big a deal. I can feel my face tightening, but Patrick’s oblivious. He nudges my knee with his.

“That’s exactly what you told me,” he says, barely keeping a straight face. “I swear to God. You said it just like that too. So snotty.” He leans in. “I spoke in Ewokese. I thought it was so cool.” He laughs, searching my face.

I grin. He’s right. I don’t remember.

“Wait, what did you say?”

“No fucking way.”

“Tell me,” I plead. “I might remember it.”

He shakes his head. “Nope. You gave me the most withering look and said, ‘Excuse me?’ So, I explained, which won me zero points, and then you said, I have never seen a Star Wars movie ever in my life. End quote.”

It certainly sounds like me. “God.” I shake my head. “What a dick.”

“And!” he says, remembering another detail. “June wasn’t even there. She was at some genius NASA thing that weekend. Me and Kiki wouldn’t hear the end of it from Pops. To this day he’s gutted that none of his kids inherited his math brain.”

That’s when it comes to me. He’s right. June was in Houston. LBJ Space Center. She’d won some big-deal data contest, and she and Dad had gone. I’d thrown a fit because Mom hadn’t washed any of my clothes, so I’d had to wear June’s top. I don’t remember Patrick talking to me, but I do vividly recall how the entry fee and hotel for that event was three hundred bucks. Meanwhile, they’d refused to pay for my gym membership, saying that I could just do jumping jacks in the driveway.

Our food arrives, so I proceed to cut it all into pieces and move it around. Breakfasts are easy because there are so many stations—your egg area, the potato pile no one finishes. Bacon’s easier to fake than sausages, but that’s fine. Fried eggs are a cinch because once you pop the yolks, no one checks how much you’ve eaten.

He cuts the donut with a knife. I take a huge, enthusiastic bite of my half and widen my eyes. I can practically hear my pupils contract into pinpricks. Sugar always does this to me. “Mmm,” I moan, and deposit the rest of it back onto the plate. I’m glad we’re sitting next to each other and not across. It makes the optics easier. Patrick tucks in with zeal, going nuts with the hot sauce and the ketchup and talking about his father.

I only vaguely remember his dad, but another memory of Patrick coils up to the surface. It was later that same year. He’d been gone all summer, and when he returned, he’d changed. Enough so that June noticed it first. “Did Patrick get hot?” she asked, jabbing me in the ribs when he and his family walked in.

All of a sudden, he was a head taller than his sister, who’d always been modelly. That wasn’t it though. There was an ease to the way he moved. I’d wondered all summer where he’d been. But I couldn’t admit that to June.

Right after mass, before the communal meal, Mom asked me to put the hymnals back in the car, and when I did, I saw him. He was at the other end of the lot and suddenly an adult. I kept my eyes on the ground, wishing I’d had earphones, debating whether or not to say hi. But just as I glanced up, he’d gotten a call, and the way his face broke into a smile, I could tell he was talking to a girlfriend or a crush or something. I kept my eyes straight ahead, ignoring him, even as I purposefully marched at an angle where he’d see me.