Yolk(72)

I finger the fabric. It’s a high-end British label that I’m surprised she knows about. It has a peak lapel and gorgeous drape. I slip it over my arms.

“Oh, that works,” she says, and tosses the trousers at my face. I try on the pants in the bathroom. When I return, I look at both of us in the mirror, dressed in black, with demure makeup.

“Hi, I’m June.” I wave into the mirror stiffly. “I like Domino’s Pizza and finance dipshits. The A Star Is Born soundtrack is the most important thing that’s ever happened to me despite never having seen the movie. Or even being aware that there’re four of them.”

June hip checks me. “And I’m Jayne,” she parrots back. “I’m partial to oat milk, bands that no one cares about, white boys who hate me, trust-fund poverty, and I still think tattoos are subversive even though literally every-fucking-body has one.”

She smiles. “And tote bags for boring magazines.”

I laugh. To be honest, I’m a little touched that she knows so much about me.



* * *



I take a deep breath in the lot as June parks. She drove us in Dad’s car since our parents had choir practice beforehand.

“Don’t get worked up,” she says, applying lipstick in the rearview. I pull out my compact and powder my forehead.

“Easy for you. You love this shit.”

June blots her lips and checks her teeth. “Nobody loves this shit.”

“Then why do you do it?”

June rolls her eyes and caps her lipstick.

“Because being in a family is about doing shit you don’t want to for the benefit of other people,” she says. “Mom and Dad sacrificed everything for us, and they want the stupidest, basic shit in return.”

“What? Like lying to them about still having a job?”

June side-eyes me. “Do you listen to the words other people say to you, or is just a high-pitched droning?” She tosses her lipstick in her purse. “Mom and Dad want to know that we’re safe. They want proof that they did a good job. Why the fuck would I tell them I got fired? Mom calling me three thousand times a day and losing sleep won’t get me a new job. I’m protecting her. And whatever. I’m already talking to headhunters. I’ll have a new job as soon as all this shit is under control. People don’t really want to know how you’re doing. They want to wait until you’re done telling them so they can tell you how they’re doing.”

June shrugs. “Mom’s the same way. I don’t think it bothers me as much as it used to.”

My sister smiles at me with deranged brightness. “People like capable, positive people. It has nothing to do with reality.” June flashes her teeth even wider. “See? Boom. Different person.”

She pops open the door. “Just make us look good, okay? For me.” June gets out before I can answer.

Mom’s church is called, aptly, Church of the Korean Martyrs. Dead serious. At least that’s how it’s referred to once a week on Saturday nights. The Korean Catholic community in the greater San Antonio area leases the church at 6:00 p.m. every Saturday from a Catholic high school. A different, richer Catholic church gets the prime time slot of Sunday mornings. After mass, we eat in the gym. I snap a picture of the plastic banner that we sling on top of the regular Sacred Heart sign. I want to send it to Patrick even though I still haven’t listened to his three-minute sermon on my phone.

“You think one day we’ll get to have church on an actual Sunday?” asks June as she opens the door.

“But then we wouldn’t be martyrs,” I tell her.

“Yeah, right,” she says, nudging me. “As if these fools only martyr on weekends.”

It’s our bit. We’d said some variation of this every Saturday. I stopped coming when Mom left. I couldn’t stand the hypocrisy of pretending we were still a family. To her credit, Mom didn’t make me. I took it as an acknowledgment of her guilt.

A sour man in the back glares at us for talking. I smile serenely without teeth, then pretend to dip my finger in the holy water to dab the sign of the cross on my forehead and over my heart. I don’t care how blessed it is, this shit could cure smallpox and still have pink eye floating around in it.

“Jesus,” mutters June, taking it all in. She leads us to our usual spot, the row immediately after the pews reserved for the choir. Right behind the organ. It’s all so much smaller than I remember. The wood-paneled, maroon-carpeted box looks like the waiting room of an old folks’ home. My eyes search the room, landing on the brownish water stain that resembles Italy’s boot on the back wall. I used to zone out on that stain, staring until it melted and I could feel myself melting along with it.

June gets up to say a few hellos. Hugging choir members spiffily done up in their freshly steamed purple robes, bowing deep as she greets each one. I hang back. Even fortified by my sister’s suit, I can’t stomach it. There’s Kim Theresa. Im Theresa. Park Helena. The other Kim Theresa, the one that lives out by Fort Sam Houston. I watch June shrewdly navigate the flock. She has a mind like a steel trap for differentiating Theresas.

“You look fantastic, Jayne,” one of them calls out to me from two pews over, wriggling her fingers in greeting. She has a dewy, open face and frizzy bangs. “You’d never know how fat you used to be,” she stage-whispers. “You’re a stick. A stick! And you must be at least a hundred and seventy centimeters tall. You could model.”