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Thisisaworkoffiction.Names,characters,places,andincidentseitheraretheproductoftheauthor’simaginationorareusedfictitiously.Anyresemblancetoactualpersons,livingordead,events,orlocalesisentirelycoincidental.
Textcopyright©2016byNicolaYoonCoverartbyDominiqueFalla
Allrightsreserved.PublishedintheUnitedStatesbyDelacortePress,animprintofRandomHouseChildren’sBooks,adivisionofPenguinRandomHouseLLC,NewYork.
DelacortePressisaregisteredtrademarkandthecolophonisatrademarkofPenguinRandomHouseLLC.
Quotethispagecopyright©1994CarlSagan.ReprintedwithpermissionfromDemocritusProperties,LLC.Allrightsreserved.ThismaterialcannotbefurthercirculatedwithoutwrittenpermissionofDemocritusProperties,LLC.
randomhouseteens.com
Educatorsandlibrarians,foravarietyofteachingtools,visitusatRHTeachersLibrarians.com
LibraryofCongressCataloging-in-PublicationDataisavailableuponrequest.ISBN 9780553496680(hc)—ISBN 9780553496697(lib.bdg.)—ebookISBN 9780553496703—ISBN 9781524716301(intl.tr.pbk.)
RandomHouseChildren’sBookssupportstheFirstAmendmentandcelebratestherighttoread.
v4.1
ep
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ContentsCoverOtherTitlesTitlePageCopyrightDedicationEpigraph
PrologueDanielNatashaDanielNatashaIreneaHistoryDanielCharlesJaeWonBaeFamilyNatashaIrieDanielNatashaIreneNatashaSamuelKingsleyDanielNatashaTheConductorDanielNatashaDanielNatasha
Half-LifeDanielDonaldChristiansenNatashaDanielNatashaDanielNatashaMultiversesDanielNatashaDanielNatashaDanielNatashaLoveDanielNatashaHannahWinterAttorneyJeremyFitzgeraldDanielNatashaDanielNatashaHairDanielNatashaDanielNatashaDanielNatashaHairDaniel
NatashaDanielNatashaSamuelKingsleyDanielTheWaitressNatashaDanielNatashaDanielNatashaDanielNatashaDanielNatashaDanielNatashaDanielNatashaDanielNatashaDanielNatashaDanielFateNatashaDanielNatashaSamuelKingsleyDanielNatashaNatashaKingsleyDaniel
NatashaSamuelKingsleyNatashaDanielDaeHyunBaeNatashaDanielNatashaDanielNatashaDanielNatashaDanielNatashaDanielNatashaDanielJoeNatashaDanielEyesDanielNatashaSamuelKingsleyDanielJeremyFitzgeraldHannahWinterNatashaDanielNatashaDanielNatashaDaniel
NatashaDanielNatashaDaniel+NatashaFourMinutesNatashaDanielTimeandDistanceEpilogueIrene:AnAlternateHistory
AcknowledgmentsAbouttheAuthorReadtheBookThatEveryone,EveryoneFellinLoveWith.
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Itdoesnoharmtotheromanceofthesunsettoknowalittleaboutit.
—PaleBlueDot,CarlSagan
DoIdareDisturbtheuniverse?
InaminutethereistimeFordecisionsandrevisionswhichaminutewillreverse.
—TheLoveSongofJ.AlfredPrufrock,T.S.Eliot
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CARLSAGANSAIDthatifyouwanttomakeanapplepiefromscratch,youmust first invent the universe.When he says “from scratch,” hemeans fromnothing.Hemeans froma timebefore theworldevenexisted. Ifyouwant tomakeanapplepiefromnothingatall,youhavetostartwiththeBigBangandexpanding universes, neutrons, ions, atoms, black holes, suns, moons, oceantides, the Milky Way, Earth, evolution, dinosaurs, extinction-level events,platypuses, Homo erectus, Cro-Magnon man, etc. You have to start at thebeginning.Youmustinventfire.Youneedwaterandfertilesoilandseeds.Youneedcowsandpeople tomilk themandmorepeople tochurn thatmilk intobutter.Youneedwheatandsugarcaneandappletrees.Youneedchemistryandbiology.Forareallygoodapplepie,youneedthearts.Foranapplepiethatcanlast forgenerations, youneed theprintingpress and the IndustrialRevolutionandmaybeevenapoem.Tomakeathingassimpleasanapplepie,youhavetocreatethewholewide
world.
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LocalTeenAcceptsDestiny,AgreestoBecomeDoctor,StereotypeIt’s Charlie’s fault that my summer (and now fall) has been one absurd
headline after another.Charles JaeWonBae, akaCharlie,my older brother,firstbornsonofafirstbornson,surprisedmyparents(andalltheirfriends,andthe entire gossiping Korean community of Flushing, New York) by gettingkicked out of Harvard University (Best School, my mother said, when hisacceptance letter arrived). Now he’s been kicked out ofBest School, and allsummermymomfrownsanddoesn’tquitebelieveanddoesn’tquiteunderstand.
Whyyougradessobad?Theykickyouout?Whytheykickyouout?Whynotmakeyoustayandstudymore?Mydadsays,Notkickout.Requiretowithdraw.Notthesameaskickout.Charliegrumbles:It’sjusttemporary,onlyfortwosemesters.Under this unholy barrage of my parents’ confusion and shame and
disappointment,evenIalmostfeelbadforCharlie.Almost.
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MYMOMSAYSIT’STIMEformetogiveupnow,andthatwhatI’mdoingisfutile.She’supset,soheraccentisthickerthanusual,andeverystatementisaquestion.“Younothinkistimeforyoutogiveupnow,Tasha?Younothinkthatwhat
youdoingisfutile?”Shedrawsoutthefirstsyllableoffutileforasecondtoolong.Mydaddoesn’t
say anything.He’smutewith anger or impotence. I’m never surewhich.Hisfrownissodeepandsocompletethatit’shardtoimaginehisfacewithanotherexpression.Ifthiswereevenjustafewmonthsago,I’dbesadtoseehimlikethis,butnowIdon’treallycare.He’sthereasonwe’reallinthismess.Peter,mynine-year-oldbrother,istheonlyoneofushappywiththisturnof
events.Rightnow,he’spackinghissuitcaseandplaying“NoWoman,NoCry”byBobMarley.“Old-schoolpackingmusic,”hecalledit.DespitethefactthathewasbornhereinAmerica,Petersayshewantstolive
inJamaica.He’salwaysbeenprettyshyandhasahardtimemakingfriends.Ithink he imagines that Jamaicawill be a paradise and that, somehow, thingswillbebetterforhimthere.The four of us are in the living roomofour one-bedroomapartment.The
livingroomdoublesasabedroom,andPeterandIshareit.Ithastwosmallsofabeds thatwepull out at night, and abrightblue curtaindown themiddle forprivacy.Rightnowthecurtainispulledasidesoyoucanseebothourhalvesatonce.It’sprettyeasytoguesswhichoneofuswantstoleaveandwhichwantsto
stay.Mysidestill looks lived-in.Mybooksareonmysmall IKEAshelf.Myfavoritepictureofmeandmybestfriend,Bev,isstillsittingonmydesk.We’rewearing safety goggles and sexy-pouting at the camera in physics lab. The
safetygogglesweremy idea.The sexy-poutingwashers. Ihaven’t removedasingleitemofclothingfrommydresser.Ihaven’teventakendownmyNASAstar map poster. It’s huge—actually eight posters that I taped together—andshowsallthemajorstars,constellations,andsectionsoftheMilkyWayvisiblefromtheNorthernHemisphere.ItevenhasinstructionsonhowtofindPolarisandnavigateyourwaybystarsincaseyougetlost.ThepostertubesIboughtforpackingitareleaningunopenedagainstthewall.OnPeter’s side, virtually all the surfaces are bare,most of his possessions
alreadypackedawayintoboxesandsuitcases.My mom is right, of course—what I’m doing is futile. Still, I grab my
headphones, my physics textbook, and some comics. If I have time to kill,maybeIcanfinishupmyhomeworkandread.Petershakeshisheadatme.“Whyareyoubringingthat?”heasks,meaning
thetextbook.“We’releaving,Tasha.Youdon’thavetoturninhomework.”Peterhasjustdiscoveredthepowerofsarcasm.Heusesiteverychancehe
gets.Idon’tbotherrespondingtohim,justputmyheadphonesonandheadforthe
door.“Backsoon,”Isaytomymom.Shekissesherteethandturnsaway.Iremindmyselfthatshe’snotupsetwith
me.Tasha,isnotyoumeupsetwith,youknow?issomethingshesaysalotthesedays. I’m going to the United States Citizenship and Immigration Services(USCIS)buildingindowntownManhattantoseeifsomeonetherecanhelpme.Weareundocumentedimmigrants,andwe’rebeingdeportedtonight.Today ismy last chance to try to convince someone—or fate—tohelpme
findawaytostayinAmerica.Tobeclear:Idon’tbelieveinfate.ButI’mdesperate.
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REASONSITHINKCharlesJaeWonBae,akaCharlie,IsanAsshole(InNoParticularOrder):
1. Beforethisepicandspectacular(andwhollydelightful)failureatHarvard,hehasbeenunrelentinglygoodateverything.Nooneissupposedtobegoodateverything.MathandEnglishandbiologyandchemistryandhistoryandsports.It’snotdecenttobegoodateverything.Threeorfourthingsatthemost.Eventhatispushingtheboundsofgoodtaste.
2. He’saman’sman,meaninghe’sanassholealotofthetime.Mostofthetime.Allofthetime.
3. Heistall,withchiseled,sculpted,andevery-romance-novel-everadjectiveforcheekbones.Thegirls(allthegirls,notjusttheKoreanBiblestudyones)sayhislipsarekissable.
4. Allthiswouldbefine—anembarrassmentofriches,tobesure;atadtoomanytreasurestobebestowedonasinglehuman,certainly—ifhewerenice.Butheisnot.CharlesJaeWonBaeisnotkind.Heissmugand,worstofall,heisabully.He’sanasshole.Aninveterateone.
5. Hedoesn’tlikeme,andhasn’tlikedmeforyears.
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I PUT MY PHONE, headphones, and backpack into the gray bin beforewalking through the metal detector. The guard—her name tag says Irene—stopsmybinfromtravelingontotheconveyorbelt,asshe’sdoneeveryday.Ilookupatheranddon’tsmile.Shelooksdownintothebin,flipsmyphoneover,andstaresatthecase,as
she’sdoneeveryday.ThecaseisthecoverartforanalbumcalledNevermindbythebandNirvana.Everydayherfingerslingeronthebabyonthecover,andeveryday Idon’t likeher touching it.Nirvana’s lead singerwasKurtCobain.Hisvoice,thedamageinit,thewayit’snotatallperfect,thewayyoucanfeeleverythinghe’sever felt in it, thewayhisvoice stretchesout so thin thatyouthinkit’sgoingtobreakandthenitdoesn’t,istheonlythingthat’skeptmesanesincethisnightmarebegan.Hismiseryissomuchmoreabjectthanmine.She’stakingalongtime,andIcan’tmissthisappointment.Iconsidersaying
something,but Idon’twant tomakeher angry.Probably shehatesher job. Idon’twanttogiveherareasontodelaymeevenfurther.Sheglancesupatmeagain but shows no sign that she recognizesme, even though I’ve been hereeverydayfor the lastweek.Toher I’mjustanotheranonymousface,anotherapplicant,anothersomeonewhowantssomethingfromAmerica.
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NATASHAISNOTATALL correctabout Irene. Irene lovesher job.Morethanlovesit—needsit.It’salmostthesolehumancontactshehas.It’stheonlythingkeepinghertotalanddesperatelonelinessatbay.Everyinteractionwiththeseapplicantssavesherlifejustalittle.Atfirstthey
barelynoticeher.Theydumptheiritemsintothebinandwatchcloselyastheygothroughthemachine.MostaresuspiciousthatIrenewillpocketloosechangeor a pen or keys or whatever. In the normal course of things, the applicantwouldnevernoticeher,butshemakessuretheydo.It’sheronlyconnectiontotheworld.Soshewaylayseachbinwithasingleglovedhand.Thedelayislongenough
that theapplicant is forced to lookupandmeethereyes.Toactually see thepersonstandinginfrontofthem.Mostmumbleareluctantgoodmorning,andthewordsfillherupalittle.Othersaskhowshe’sdoingandsheexpandsalittlemore.Ireneneveranswers.Shedoesn’tknowhow.Instead,shelooksbackdownat
the bin and scrutinizes each object for clues, for some bit of information tostoreawayandexaminelater.Morethananything,shewishesshecouldtakeherglovesoffandtouchthe
keys and the wallets and the loose change. She wishes she could slide herfingertips along the surfaces,memorizing textures and letting the artifacts ofother people’s lives seep into her. But she can’t delay the line too long.Eventuallyshesendsthebinanditsownerawayfromher.Last night was a particularly bad night for Irene. The impossible hungry
mouthofherlonelinesswantedtoswallowherinasinglepiece.Thismorningsheneedscontacttosaveherlife.Shedragshereyesawayfromaretreatingbinanduptothenextapplicant.
It’sthesamegirlwho’sbeencomingeverydaythisweek.Shecan’tbemorethanseventeen.Likeeveryoneelse, thegirldoesn’t lookupfromthebin.Shekeepshereyesfocusedonit,likeshecan’tbeartobepartedfromthehot-pinkheadphonesandhercellphone.Irenelaysherglovedhandonthesideofthebintopreventitsslideoutofherlifeandontotheconveyorbelt.The girl looks up and Irene inflates. She looks as desperate as Irene feels.
Irenealmostsmilesather.Inherheadshedoessmileather.Welcomeback.Nicetoseeyou,Irenesays,butonlyinherhead.In reality, she’s already looking down, studying the girl’s phone case. The
picture on it is of a fat white baby boy completely submerged in clear bluewater. The baby is spread-eagled and looks more like he’s flying thanswimming.Hismouthandeyesareopen.Infrontofhimadollarbilldanglesona fishhook.Thepicture isnotdecent,andevery time Irene looksat it shefeelsherselftakeanextrabreath,asifsheweretheoneunderwater.Shewantstofindareasontoconfiscatethephone,butthereisnone.
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IKNOWTHEPRECISEMOMENTwhenCharliestoppedlikingme.ItwasthesummerIturnedsixandheturnedeight.Hewasridinghisshinynewbike(red, ten-speed, awesome) with his shiny new friends (white, ten years old,awesome).Eventhoughtherewerelotsofhintsallsummerlong,Ihadn’treallyfiguredoutthatI’dbeendemotedtoAnnoyingYoungerBrother.Thatdayheandhisfriendsrodeawaywithoutme.Ichasedhimforblocks
andblocks,callingout,“Charlie,”convincedthathejustforgottoinviteme.IpedaledsofastthatIgottired(six-year-oldsonbikesdon’tgettired,sothat’ssayingsomething).Whydidn’tIjustgiveup?Ofcoursehecouldhearmecalling.Finally he stopped and hopped off his bike. He shoved it into the dirt,
kickstandbedamned,andstoodtherewaitingformetocatchup.Icouldseethathewasangry.Hekickeddirtontohisbiketomakesureeveryonewasclearonthatfact.
“Hyung,” I began, using the title younger brothers use for older brothers. Iknew it was a bigmistake as soon as I said it. Hiswhole face turned red—cheeks,nose, the tipsofhisears—thewhole thing.Hewaspracticallyaglow.His eyes darted sideways towhere his new friendswerewatching us likewewereonTV.“What’dhejustcallyou?”theshorteroneasked.“IsthatsomekindofsecretKoreancode?”thetalleronechimedin.Charlie ignored themboth and got right inmy face. “What are you doing
here?”Hewassopissedthathisvoicecrackedalittle.Ididn’thaveananswer,buthereallydidn’twantone.Whathewantedwasto
hitme. I saw it in the way he clenched and unclenched his fists. I saw himtrying to figureout howmuch troublehewould get in if hedidhitme right
thereintheparkinfrontofboyshebarelyknew.“Whydon’tyougetsomefriendsofyourownandstopfollowingmearound
likeababy?”hesaidinstead.Heshould’vejusthitme.He grabbed his bike out of the dirt and puffed himself up with somuch
angryairIthoughthe’dburst,andI’dhavetotellMomthatherolderandmoreperfectsonexploded.“My name is Charles,” he said to those boys, daring them to say another
word.“Areyoucomingorwhat?”Hedidn’twaitforthem,didn’tlookbacktoseeiftheywerecoming.Theyfollowedhimintotheparkandintosummerandinto high school, just like many other people would eventually follow him.SomehowIhadmademybrotherintoaking.I’venevercalledhimhyungagain.
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DANIEL IS RIGHT ABOUT CHARLES. He’s an asshole through andthrough.Somepeoplegrowoutoftheirlessernatures,butCharleswillnot.Hewillsettleintoit,theskinthatwasalwaysgoingtobehis.Butbeforethat,beforehebecomesapoliticianandmarrieswell,beforehe
changes his name to Charles Bay, before he betrays his good wife andconstituents at every turn,before toomuchmoneyand successandmuch toomuchofgettingeverythingthathewants,hewilldoagoodandselflessthingforhisbrother.Itwillbethelastgoodandselflessthingthatheeverdoes.
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WHENMINSOOFELL INLOVEwithDaeHyun, shedidnotexpect thatlovetotakethemfromSouthKoreatoAmerica.ButDaeHyunhadbeenpoorallhis life.Hehadacousin inAmericawho’dbeendoingwellforhimself inNewYorkCity.Hepromisedtohelp.Formostimmigrants,movingtothenewcountryisanactoffaith.Evenif
you’ve heard stories of safety, opportunity, and prosperity, it’s still a leap toremove yourself from your own language, people, and country. Your ownhistory.Whatifthestoriesweren’t true?Whatifyoucouldn’tadapt?Whatifyouweren’twantedinthenewcountry?Intheend,onlysomeofthestoriesweretrue.Likeallimmigrants,MinSoo
andDaeHyunadaptedasmuchastheywereable.Theyavoidedthepeopleandplacesthatdidn’twantthem.DaeHyun’scousindidhelp,andtheyprospered,faithrewarded.A few years later, whenMin Soo learned that she was pregnant, her first
thoughtwas ofwhat to nameher child. Shehad this feeling that inAmericanamesdidn’tmeananything,not like theydid inKorea. InKorea, the familynamecamefirst and told theentirehistoryofyourancestry. InAmerica, thefamilynameiscalledthelastname.DaeHyunsaiditshowedthatAmericansthinktheindividualismoreimportantthanthefamily.Min Soo agonized over the choice of the personal name,whatAmericans
calledthefirstname.ShouldhersonhaveanAmericanname,somethingeasyforhisteachersandclassmatestopronounce?ShouldtheysticktotraditionandselecttwoChinesecharacterstoformatwo-syllablepersonalname?Names are powerful things. They act as an identitymarker and a kind of
map, locating you in time and geography. More than that, they can be acompass. In the end,Min Soo compromised. She gave her son anAmerican
namefollowedbyaKoreanpersonalnamefollowedby the familyname.ShenamedhimCharles JaeWonBae.Shenamedher second sonDaniel JaeHoBae.Intheend,shechoseboth.KoreanandAmerican.AmericanandKorean.Sotheywouldknowwheretheywerefrom.Sotheywouldknowwheretheyweregoing.
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I’M LATE. I enter the waiting room and head over to the receptionist. Sheshakes her head at me like she’s seen this before. Everyone here has seeneverythingbefore,andtheydon’treallycarethatit’sallnewtoyou.“You’llhavetocallthemainUSCISlineandmakeanewappointment.”“Idon’thavetimeforthat,”Isay.Iexplainabouttheguard,Irene,andher
strangeness. I say itquietly and reasonably.She shrugs and looksdown. I amdismissed.Onanyotherday,Iwouldbecompliant.“Pleasecallher.CallKarenWhitney.Shetoldmetocomeback.”“Yourappointmentwasfor8a.m.It isnow8:05a.m.She’sseeinganother
applicant.”“Please.It’snotmyfaultI’mlate.Shetoldme—”Her face hardens. No matter what I say, she will not be moved. “Ms.
Whitney isalreadywithanotherapplicant.”Shesays it likeEnglish isnotmyfirstlanguage.“Callher,”Idemand.MyvoiceisloudandIsoundhysterical.Alltheother
applicants, even the ones who don’t speak English, are staring at me.Desperationtranslatesintoeverylanguage.Thereceptionistnodsatasecurityguardstandingbythedoor.Beforehecan
reachme, thedoor that leads to themeetingroomsopensup.Averytallandthinmanwithdarkbrownskinbeckonsme.Henodstothereceptionist.“It’sallright,Mary.I’lltakeher.”Iwalkthroughthedoorquicklybeforehechangeshismind.Hedoesn’tlook
atme,justturnsandstartsdownaseriesofhallways.IfollowsilentlyuntilhestopsinfrontofKarenWhitney’soffice.“Waithere,”hesaystome.He’sonlygoneforafewseconds,butwhenhe
returnshe’sholdingaredfolder—myfile.
Wewalkdownanotherhallwayuntilwefinallycometohisoffice.“MynameisLesterBarnes,”hesays.“Haveaseat.”“I’vebeen—”Heholdsupahandtosilenceme.“Everything I need to know is in this file.” He pinches the corner of the
folderandshakesitatme.“DoyourselfafavorandstayquietwhileIreadit.”Hisdeskissoneatyoucantellheprideshimselfonit.He’sgotamatching
set of silver-colored desk accessories—a pen holder, trays for incoming andoutgoingmail,andevenabusinesscardholderwithLRBengravedonit.Whoevenusesbusinesscardsanymore?Ireachforward,takeone,andslipitintomypocket.The tall cabinet behind him is a landscape of color-coded stacks of files.
Eachfileholdssomeone’slife.ArethecolorsofthefilesasobviousasIthinktheyare?MyfileisRejectionRed.Afterafewminuteshelooksupatme.“Whyareyouhere?”“Karen—Ms.Whitney—toldmetocomeback.She’sbeenkindtome.She
saidmaybetherewassomething.”“Karen’snew.”Hesays it likehe’sexplaining something tome,but Idon’t
knowwhatitis.“Your family’s last appeal was rejected. The deportation stands, Ms.
Kingsley.Youandyourfamilywillhavetoleavetonightattenp.m.”Hecloses thefileandpushesaboxof tissues towardme inanticipationof
mytears.ButI’mnotacryer.Ididn’tcrywhenmyfatherfirsttoldusaboutthedeportationorders,orwhen
anyoftheappealswererejected.Ididn’tcrylastwinterwhenIfoundoutmyex-boyfriendRobwascheating
onme.Ididn’tevencryyesterdaywhenBevandIsaidourofficialgoodbye.We’d
bothknownformonths that thiswascoming. Ididn’t cry,but still—itwasn’teasy.Shewould’vecomewithmetoday,butshe’sinCaliforniawithherfamily,touringBerkeleyandacoupleofotherstateschools.“Maybe you’ll still be here when I get back,” she insisted after our
seventeenthhug.“Maybeeverythingwillworkout.”Bev’salwaysbeenrelentlesslyoptimistic,eveninthefaceofdireodds.She’s
thekindofgirlwhobuyslotterytickets.I’mthekindofgirlwhomakesfunofpeoplewhobuylotterytickets.So. I’m definitely not going to start crying now. I stand up and gathermy
thingsandheadtowardthedoor.Ittakesallmyenergytocontinuenotbeingacryer.InmyheadIhearmymother’svoice.
Don’tletyoupridegetthebetterofyou,Tasha.I turnaround. “So there’s reallynothingyoucando tohelpme? I’mreally
goingtohavetoleave?”IsayitinsuchasmallvoicethatIbarelyhearmyself.Mr. Barnes doesn’t have any trouble hearing. Listening to quiet, miserablevoicesisinhisjobdescription.Hetapstheclosedfilewithhisfingers.“Yourdad’sDUI—”“Ishisproblem.WhydoIhavetopayforhismistake?”Myfather.HisonenightoffameledtoaDUIledtousbeingdiscoveredled
tomelosingtheonlyplaceIcallhome.“You’re still here illegally,” he says, but his voice is not as hard as it was
before.I nod but don’t say anything, because now I really will cry. I put my
headphonesonandheadforthedooragain.“I’vebeentoyourcountry.I’vebeentoJamaica,”hesays.He’ssmilingatthe
memoryofhistrip.“Ihadanicetime.Everythingisiriethere,man.You’llbeallright.”Psychiatriststellyounottobottleupyourfeelingsbecausethey’lleventually
explode.They’renotwrong.I’vebeenangryformonths.ItfeelslikeI’vebeenangrysincethebeginningoftime.Angryatmyfather.AngryatRob,whotoldmejustlastweekthatweshouldbeabletobefriendsdespite“everything,”i.e.thefactthathecheatedonme.NotevenBevhasescapedmyanger.Allfallshe’sbeenworryingaboutwhere
toapply tocollegebasedonwhereherboyfriend—Derrick—isapplying.Sheregularly checks the time difference between different college locations.Dolong-distance relationships work? she asks every few days. The last time sheaskedItoldhermaybesheshouldn’tbaseherentirefutureonhercurrenthighschoolboyfriend.Shedidnottakeitwell.Bevthinksthey’lllastforever.Ithinkthey’ll last throughgraduation.Maybe into the summer. It tookmedoingherphysicshomeworkforweekstomakeituptoher.AndnowamanwhohasprobablyspentnomorethanaweekinJamaicais
tellingmethateverythingwillbeirie.Itakemyheadphonesoff.“Wheredidyougo?”Iask.“Negril,”hesays.“Veryniceplace.”“Didyouleavethehotelgrounds?”“Iwantedto,butmy—”
“Butyourwifedidn’twanttobecauseshewasscared,right?Theguidebooksaiditwasbesttostayontheresortgrounds.”Isitdownagain.Herestshischinon thebackofhisclaspedhands.For thefirst timesince
thisconversationbegan,he’snotinchargeofit.“Wassheconcernedabouthersafety?”Iputairquotesaroundsafety,asifit
weren’treallyathingtobeconcernedabout.“Ormaybeshejustdidn’twanttoruinhervacationmoodbyseeinghowpooreveryonereallyis.”TheangerI’vesuppressedrisesfrommybellyandintomythroat.“You listened to Bob Marley, and a bartender got you some pot, and
someonetoldyouwhatiriemeans,andyouthinkyouknowsomething.Yousawa tiki bar and a beach and your hotel room.That is not a country.That is aresort.”Heholdsuphishandslikehe’sdefendinghimself,likehe’stryingtopushthe
wordsintheairbackintome.Yes,I’mbeingawful.No,Idon’tcare.“Don’ttellmeI’llbeallright.Idon’tknowthatplace.I’vebeenheresinceI
waseightyearsold.Idon’tknowanyoneinJamaica.Idon’thaveanaccent.Idon’tknowmyfamily there,not thewayyou’resupposedtoknowfamily. It’smysenioryear.Whataboutpromandgraduationandmyfriends?”Iwanttobeworryingaboutthesamedumbthingsthey’reworryingabout.Ievenjuststartedgettingmyapplication togetherforBrooklynCollege.Mymomsavedfor twoyearssoshecouldtraveltoFloridaandbuymea“good”socialsecuritycard.A“good”cardisonewithactualstolennumbersprintedonitinsteadoffakeones.The man who sold it to her said that the less expensive ones with bogusnumberswouldn’t get past background checks and college applications.Withthecard,Icanapplyforfinancialaid.IfIcangetascholarshipalongwiththeaid, I might even be able to afford SUNY Binghamton and other in-stateschools.“Whataboutcollege?”Iask,cryingnow.Mytearsareunstoppable.They’ve
beenwaitingforalongtimetocomeout.Mr.Barnesslidesthetissueboxevenclosertome.Itakesixorsevenanduse
themandthentakesixorsevenmore.Igathermythingsagain.“Doyouhaveanyideawhatit’slikenottofitinanywhere?”AgainIsayittooquietlytobeheard,andagainhehearsme.I’m all the way to the door, my hand on the knob, when he says, “Ms.
Kingsley.Wait.”
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MAYBE YOU’VE HEARD the word irie before. Maybe you’ve traveled toJamaica and know that it has some roots in the Jamaican dialect, patois.Ormaybeyouknow that it hasother roots in theRastafari religion.The famousreggaesingerBobMarleywashimselfaRastafarianandhelpedspreadthewordbeyondtheJamaicanshores.Somaybewhenyouhearthewordyougetasenseofthehistoryofthereligion.Maybe you know that Rastafari is a small offshoot of the three main
Abrahamic religions—Christianity, Islam, and Judaism. You know thatAbrahamic religions aremonotheistic and center on differing incarnations ofAbraham.MaybeinthewordyouhearechoesofJamaicainthe1930s,whenRastafariwasinvented.Ormaybeyouhearechoesofitsspiritualleader,HaileSelassieI,EmperorofEthiopiafrom1930to1974.And so when you hear the word, you hear the original spiritual meaning.
Everything isall right between you and your god, and therefore between youand theworld.Tobe irie is tobe inahighandcontentspiritualplace. In theword,youheartheinventionofreligionitself.Ormaybeyoudon’tknowthehistory.YouknownothingofGodorspiritor language.Youknowthepresent-day
colloquialdictionarydefinition.Tobeirieissimplytobeallright.Sometimes if you look a word up in the dictionary, you’ll see some
definitionsmarkedasobsolete.Natashaoftenwondersaboutthis,howlanguagecanbeslippery.Awordcanstartoffmeaningone thingandendupmeaninganother.Isitfromoveruseandoversimplification,likethewayirieistaughttotouristsat Jamaicanresorts? Is it frommisuse, like thewayNatasha’s father’sbeenusingitlately?Beforethedeportationnotice,herefusedtospeakwithaJamaicanaccentor
useJamaicanslang.Nowthattheyarebeingforcedtogoback,he’sbeenusingnew vocabulary, like a tourist studying foreign phrases for a trip abroad.Everythingirie,man,hesaystocashiersingrocerystoreswhoaskthestandardretailHowareyou?Hesaysirietothepostmandroppingoffmailwhoasksthesame thing. His smile is too big. He pushes his hands into his pockets andthrowshisshouldersbackandactsliketheworldhasshoweredhimwithmoregifts than he can reasonably accept. His whole act is so obviously fake thatNatasha’s sure everyonewill see through him, but then they don’t.Hemakesthemfeelgoodmomentarily,likesomeofhisobviousgoodfortunewillruboffonthem.Words,Natashathinks,shouldbehavemorelikeunitsofmeasure.Ameteris
a meter is a meter. Words shouldn’t be allowed to change meanings. Whodecidesthatthemeaninghaschanged,andwhen?Isthereanin-betweentimewhen the word means both things? Or a time when the word doesn’t meananythingatall?NatashaknowsthatifshehastoleaveAmerica,allherfriendships,evenwith
Bev,willfade.Sure,they’lltrytostayintouchatthebeginning,butitwon’tbethesameasseeingeachothereveryday.Theywon’tdouble-datetoprom.Nocelebratingacceptancelettersorcryingoverrejectionones.Nosillygraduationpictures. Instead, timewillpass and thedistancewill seemfarthereveryday.Bev will be in America doing American things. Natasha will be in Jamaicafeelinglikeastrangerinthecountryofherbirth.Howlongbeforeherfriendsforgetabouther?Howlongbeforeshepicksup
aJamaicanaccent?HowlongbeforesheforgetsthatshewaseverinAmerica?Onedayinthefuture,themeaningofiriewillmoveon,anditwillbecome
just another word with a long list of archaic or obsolete definitions. Iseverythingirie?someonewillaskyouinaperfectAmericanaccent.Everything’sirie,youwillrespond,meaningeverything’sjustokay,butyoureallydon’tfeelliketalkingaboutit.NeitherofyouwillknowaboutAbrahamortheRastafarireligionortheJamaicandialect.Thewordwillbedevoidofanyhistoryatall.
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Local Teen Trapped in Parental Vortex of Expectation and Disappointment,Doesn’tExpecttoBeRescuedThenicethingabouthavinganoverachievingassholeforanolderbrotheris
thatittakesthepressureoff.Charliehasalwaysbeengoodenoughfortwosons.Nowthathe’snotsoperfectafterall,thepressure’sonme.Here’saconversationI’vehad1.3billion(giveortake)timessincehe’sbeen
home:Mom:Yourgradesstillokay?Me:Yup.Mom:Biology?Me:Yup.Mom:Whataboutmath?Youdon’tlikemath.Me:IknowIdon’tlikemath.Mom:Butgradesstillokay?Me:StillaB.Mom:WhynoAyet?Aigo.It’stimeyougetseriousnow.Younotlittleboy
anymore.TodayIhaveacollegeadmissioninterviewwithaYalealum.YaleisSecond-
Best School, but for once, I put my foot down and refused to apply to BestSchool(Harvard).TheideaofbeingCharlie’syoungerbrotheratanotherschoolisabridgeentirelytoofar.Besides,whoknowsifHarvardwouldeventakemenowthatCharlie’sbeensuspended.MymomandIareinthekitchen.Becauseofmyinterview,she’ssteaming
frozenmandu(dumplings)formeasatreat.I’mhavingapre-manduappetizerof Cap’n Crunch (the best cereal known to mankind) and writing in my
Moleskinenotebook. I’mworkingon apoemabout heartbreak that I’vebeenworkingonforever(giveortake).TheproblemisthatI’veneverhadmyheartbroken,soI’mhavingahardtime.Writingatthekitchentablefeelslikealuxury.Iwouldn’tbeabletodoitif
mydadwerehere.Hedoesn’tdisapproveofmypoem-writing tendenciesoutloud,butdisapprovehedefinitelydoes.My mom interrupts my eating and writing for a variation on our usual
conversation. I’mcruising throughit,addingmy“yup’s” throughmouthfulsofcereal,whenshechangesupthescript.Insteadoftheusual“Younotlittleboyanymore,”shesays:“Don’tbelikeyourbrother.”Shesaysit inKorean.Foremphasis.AndbecauseofGodorFateorSheer
RottenLuck,Charliewalksintothekitchenjustintimetohearhersayit.Istopchewing.Anyonelookinginatusfromtheoutsidewouldthinkthingsarecopacetic.A
mothermakingbreakfast forher two sons.One sonat the table eatingcereal(nomilk).Another sonentering thescenefromstage left.He’sabout tohavebreakfastaswell.But that’s not what’s really happening.Mom is so ashamed about Charlie
hearing her that she blushes. It’s faint, but it’s there. She offers him somemandu,eventhoughhehatesKoreanfoodandhasrefusedtoeatitsincejuniorhigh.AndCharlie?He justpretends.Hepretendshedoesn’tunderstandKorean.
Hepretendshedidn’thearherofferofdumplings.HepretendsIdon’texist.He almost foolsmeuntil I look at his hands.They curl into fists and give
away the truth.Heheardandheunderstood.Shecould’vecalledhimanepicdouchebag,ananimatronicdickcompletewithballsac,anditwould’vebeenbetterthantellingmenottobelikehim.Mywholelifeit’sbeentheopposite.Whycan’tyoubemorelikeyourbrother?ThisReversalofFortuneisnotgoodforeitherofus.Charlietakesaglassfromthecupboardandfillsitwithtapwater.Drinking
water from the tap is just to pissMomoff. She opens hermouth to say theusual“No.Drinkfilter,”butsheclosesitagain.Charliegulpsthewaterdowninthreequickswallowsandputs theglassbackintothecupboardunwashed.Heleavesthecupboardopen.“Umma,givehimabreak,”Itellherafterhe’sgone.I’mpissedathimand
I’mpissedfor him.Myparents havebeen relentlesswith the criticism. I canonlyimaginehowassitisforhimworkingatthestorealldaywithmydad.I
bet my dad berates him in between smiling at customers and answeringquestions about extensions and tea tree oils and treating chemically damagedhair.(Myparentsownabeautysupplyshopthatsellsblackhaircareproducts.It’scalledBlackHairCare.)Sheopensthesteamerbaskettocheckonthemandu.Thesteamfogsupher
glasses.WhenIwasalittlekidthatusedtomakemelaugh,andshewouldhamitupbylettingthemgetassteamyaspossibleandthenpretendingshecouldn’tseeme.Nowshejustpullsthemfromherfaceandwipesthemwithadishcloth.“Whathappentoyourbrother?Whyhefail?Heneverfail.”Withoutherglassesshelooksyounger,prettier.Isitweirdtothinkyourmom
is pretty? Probably. I’m sure that thought never occurs to Charlie. All hisgirlfriends(allsixofthem)havebeenverycute,slightlychubbywhitegirlswithblondhairandblueeyes.No, I’m lying. There was one girl, Agatha. She was his last high school
girlfriendbeforecollege.Shehadgreeneyes.Momputsherglassesbackonandwaits,likeI’mgoingtohaveananswerfor
her. She hates not knowing what happens next. Uncertainty is her enemy. Ithinkit’sbecauseshegrewuppoorinSouthKorea.“Heneverfail.Somethinghappen.”AndnowI’mevenmorepissed.MaybenothinghappenedtoCharles.Maybe
hefailedoutbecausehesimplydidn’tlikehisclasses.Maybehedoesn’twanttobeadoctor.Maybehedoesn’tknowwhathewants.Maybehejustchanged.Butwe’re not allowed to change inmy household.We’re on a track to be
doctors,andthere’snogettingoff.“Youboyshave it tooeasyhere.Americamakeyousoft.” If Ihadabrain
cellforeverytimeIheardthis,I’dbeagoddamngenius.“Wewerebornhere,Mom.Wewerealwayssoft.”Shescoffs.“Whataboutinterview?Youready?”Shelooksmeoverandfinds
melacking.“Youcuthairbeforeinterview.”Formonthsshe’sbeenaftermetogetridofmyshortponytail.Imakeanoisethatcouldbeeitheragreementordisagreement.SheputsaplateofmanduinfrontofmeandIeatitinsilence.Becauseofthebiginterview,myparentsletmehavethedayofffromschool.
It’sstillonlyeighta.m.,butnowayamIstaying in thehouseandhavinganymoreoftheseconversations.BeforeIcanescape,shehandsmeamoneypouchwithdepositslipstotaketomydadatthestore.“Appa forgot.You bring to him.” I’m sure shemeant to give it toCharlie
before he left for the store but forgot because of their little incident in the
kitchen.Itakethepouch,grabmynotebook,anddragmyselfupstairstogetdressed.
Mybedroom is at the end of a long hallway. I pass byCharlie’s room (doorclosedasalways)andmyparents’room.Mymom’sgotacoupleofunopenedblank canvases leaning against their doorframe.Today’s her day off from thestore,andIbetshe’slookingforwardtospendingthedayalonepainting.Latelyshe’sbeenworkingonroaches,flies,andbeetles.I’vebeenteasingher,sayingthatshe’sinherGrossInsectPeriod,butIlikeitevenmorethanherAbstractOrchidPeriodfromafewmonthsago.Itakeaquickdetourintotheemptybedroomthatsheusesasherstudioto
see if she’s painted anything new. Sure enough, there’s one of an enormousbeetle. The canvas is not especially large, but the beetle takes up the entirespace.Mymom’spaintingshavealwaysbeenbrightlycoloredandbeautiful,butsomething about applying all that color to her intricate, almost anatomicaldrawings of insects makes them something more than beautiful. This one’spaintedindarklypearlescentgreens,blues,andblacks.Itscarapaceshimmerslikespilledoilonwater.Threeyearsagoforherbirthday,mydadsurprisedherbyhiringpart-time
help for the store so shewouldn’t have to go in every day.He also bought astartersetofoilpaintsandsomecanvases.I’dneverseenhercryoverapresentbefore.She’sbeenpaintingeversince.BackinmyroomIwonderfor the ten thousandth time(giveor take)what
herlifewouldbelikeifsheneverleftKorea.Whatifshenevermetmydad?WhatifsheneverhadCharlieandme?Wouldshebeanartistnow?Igetdressedinmynewcustom-tailoredgraysuitandredtie.“Toobright,”
mymomsaidabout the tiewhenwewereshopping.Evidently,onlypaintingsareallowedtobecolorful.Iconvincedherbysayingthatredwouldmakemelookconfident.Checkingmyselfinthemirrornow,Ihavetosaythatthesuitdoesmakeme lookconfidentanddebonair(yes,debonair).ToobadI’monlywearingitforthisinterviewandnotforsomethingthatactuallymatterstome.IchecktheweatheronmyphoneanddecideIdon’tneedacoat.Thehighwillbesixty-sevendegrees—aperfectfallday.Despitemy irritationwith thewayshe treatedCharlie, Ikissmymomand
promisetogetmyhaircut,andthenIgetoutofthehouse.Laterthisafternoonmy lifewillhopona trainheaded forDoctorDaniel JaeHoBae station,butuntilthenthedayismine.I’mgoingtodowhatevertheworldtellsmeto.I’mgoingtoactlikeI’minagoddamnBobDylansongandblowinthedirectionofthewind. I’m going to pretendmy future’swide open, and that anything canhappen.
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EVERYTHINGHAPPENSFORAREASON.Thisisathingpeoplesay.Mymomsays ita lot.“Thingshappenfora reason,Tasha.”Usuallypeoplesay itwhen something goes wrong, but not too wrong. A nonfatal car accident. Asprainedankleinsteadofabrokenone.Tellingly, my mom has not said it in reference to our deportation. What
reasoncouldtherebeforthisawfulthinghappening?Mydad,whosefaultthiswholethingis,says,“Youcan’talwaysseeGod’splan.”Iwanttotellhimthatmaybeheshouldn’tleaveeverythinguptoGodandthathopingagainsthopeisnotalifestrategy,butthatwouldmeanIwouldhavetotalktohim,andIdon’twanttotalktohim.Peoplesaythesethingstomakesenseoftheworld.Secretly,intheirheartof
hearts,almosteveryonebelievesthatthere’ssomemeaning,somewillfulnesstolife.Fairness.Basicdecency.Good thingshappen togoodpeople.Bad thingsonlyhappentobadpeople.Noonewants tobelieve that life is random.Mydad sayshedoesn’tknow
wheremycynicismcomesfrom,butI’mnotacynic.Iamarealist.It’sbettertoseelifeasitis,notasyouwishittobe.Thingsdon’thappenforareason.Theyjusthappen.ButherearesomeObservableFacts:IfIhadn’tbeenlatetomyappointment,
I wouldn’t have met Lester Barnes. And if he hadn’t said the word irie, Iwouldn’thavehadmymeltdown.AndifIhadn’thadmymeltdown,Iwouldn’tnowhavethenameofalawyerknownas“thefixer”clutchedinmyhand.Iheadoutofthebuildingpastsecurity.Ihaveanirrationalandtotallyunlike-
me urge to thank that security guard—Irene—but she’s a few feet away andbusyfondlingsomeoneelse’sstuff.Icheckmyphoneformessages.Eventhoughit’sonly5:30a.m.inCalifornia
wheresheis,Bev’stextedastringofquestionmarks.Icontemplatetellingheraboutthislatestdevelopmentbutthendecideit’snotreallyadevelopment.
Nothingyet, I textback.Selfishly Iwishagain that shewereherewithme.Actually,whatIwishisthatIweretherewithher,touringcollegesandhavinganormalsenior-yearexperience.Ilookdownatthenoteagain.JeremyFitzgerald.Mr.Barneswouldn’tletme
callforanappointmentfromhisphone.“It’saverylongshot,”hesaid,beforebasicallyshovingmeoutthedoor.ObservableFact:Youshouldnevertakelongshots.Bettertostudytheodds
andtaketheprobableshot.However,ifthelongshotisyouronlyshot,thenyouhavetotakeit.
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ONHERLUNCHBREAK, Irenedownloads theNirvanaalbumforherself.Shelistenstoitthreetimesinarow.InKurtCobain’svoiceshehearsthesamethingNatashahears—aperfectandbeautifulmisery,avoicestretchedsothinwithlonelinessandwantingthatitshouldbreak.Irenethinksitwouldbebetterifitdidbreak,betterthanlivingwithwantingandnothaving,betterthanlivingitself.ShefollowsKurtCobain’svoicedowndowndowntoaplacewhereitisblack
allthetime.Afterlookinghimuponline,shefindsthatCobain’sstorydoesnothaveahappyending.Irenemakesaplan.Todaywillbethelastdayofherlife.Thetruthis,she’sbeenthinkingaboutkillingherselfonandoffforyears.In
Cobain’slyricsshefinallyfindsthewords.Shewritesasuicidenoteaddressedtonoone:“Ohwell.Whatever.Nevermind.”
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I’MONLYTWOSTEPSOUTofthebuildingbeforeIdialthenumber.“I’dliketomakeanappointmentfortodayassoonaspossible,please.”The woman who answers sounds like she’s in a construction zone. In the
backgroundIhear thesoundofadrilland loudbanging. Ihave torepeatmynametwice.“Andwhat’stheissue?”sheasks.I hesitate. The thing about being an undocumented immigrant is you get
reallygoodatkeepingsecrets.Beforethiswholedeportationadventurebegan,the only person I toldwasBev, even though she’s not usually that greatwithsecrets.“Theyjustslipout,”shesays,asifshehasabsolutelynocontrolofthethings
comingoutofhermouth.Still,evenBevknewhowimportantitwastokeepthisone.“Hello, ma’am? Can you tell me your issue?” the woman on the phone
promptsagain.Ipressthephoneclosertomyearandstandstillinthemiddleofthesteps.
Aroundme,theworldspeedsuplikeamovieonfast-forward.Peoplewalkupanddownthestairsat threetimesspeedwithjerkymovements.Cloudszoombyoverhead.Thesunchangespositioninthesky.“I’mundocumented,”Isay.MyheartraceslikeI’vebeenrunningaverylong
wayforaverylongtime.“Ineedtoknowmorethanthat,”shesays.SoItellher.I’mJamaican.MyparentsenteredthecountryillegallywhenI
was eight. We’ve been here ever since. My dad got a DUI. We’re beingdeported.LesterBarnesthoughtAttorneyFitzgeraldcouldhelp.
Shesetsanappointmentforelevena.m.“AnythingelseIcanhelpyouwith?”sheasks.“No,”Isay.“Thatwillbeenough.”The lawyer’s office is uptown fromwhere I am, close to Times Square. I
checkmyphone:8:35a.m.Asmallbreezekicksup,liftingthehemofmyskirtand playing through my hair. The weather is surprisingly mild for mid-November.MaybeIdidn’tneedmyleatherjacketafterall.Imakeaquickwishfor a not-too-freezing winter before remembering that I probably won’t bearoundtoseeit.Ifsnowfallsinacityandnooneisaroundtofeelit,isitstillcold?Yes.Theanswertothatquestionisyes.Ipullmyjacketcloser.It’sstillhardformetobelievethatmyfutureisgoing
tobedifferentfromtheoneI’dplanned.Two and a half hours to go.My school’s only a fifteen-minutewalk from
here.IbrieflyconsiderheadingoversoIcanhaveonelastlookatthebuilding.It’saverycompetitivesciencemagnethighschool,andIworkedveryhardtogetintoit.Ican’tbelievethataftertodayImayneverseeitagain.IntheendIdecideagainstgoing;toomanypeopletoruninto,andtoomanyquestionslike“Whyaren’tyouinschooltoday?”thatIdon’twanttoanswer.Instead,Idecidetokilltimebywalkingthethreemilestothelawyer’soffice.
Myfavoritevinylrecordstoreisontheway.Iputmyheadphonesonandqueueup theTempleof theDog album. It’s a 1990s grunge rockkind of a day, allangstandloudguitar.ChrisCornell’svoicerisesandIletitcarrysomeofmycaresaway.
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NATASHA’SFATHER,SAMUEL,MOVEDTOAmerica a full two yearsbeforetherestofhisfamilydid.TheplanwasthatSamuelwouldgofirstandestablish himself as a Broadway actor. It would be easier to do that withouthavingtoworryaboutawifeandsmallchild.Withoutthem,hewouldbefreetogoonauditionsonamoment’snotice.He’dbefreetomakeconnectionswiththeactingcommunityinNewYorkCity.Originallyitwasonlysupposedtobefor one year, but one became two. It would’ve become three, but Natasha’smomcouldnotandwouldnotwaitanylonger.She was only six at the time, but Natasha remembers the phone calls to
America. She could always tell because hermom had to dial all those extranumbers. The calls were fine at first. Her father sounded like her dad. Hesoundedhappy.Afteraboutayear,hisvoicechanged.Hehadafunnynewaccentthatwas
more lilt and twang than patois. He sounded less happy. She rememberslisteningtotheirconversations.Shecouldn’thearhisside,butshedidn’tneedto.“Howmuchlongeryouexpectustowaitforyou?”“But,Samuel?Wenotnofamilynomorewithyouover thereandweover
here.”“Talktoyoudaughter,man.”Andthenoneday,theywereleavingJamaicaforgood.Natashasaidgoodbye
toherfriendsandtotherestofherfamily,fullyexpectingthatshewouldseethemagain,maybeatChristmastime.Shedidn’tknowthenwhatitmeanttobean undocumented immigrant. How it meant that you could never go homeagain. How your home wouldn’t even feel like home anymore, just anotherforeignplacetoreadabout.Onthedaytheyleft,sheremembersbeingonthe
plane andworrying about just how theywould fly through the clouds, beforerealizingthatcloudswerenotlikecottonballsatall.Shewonderedifherdadwouldrecognizeher,andifhewouldstillloveher.Ithadbeensuchalongtime.Buthedidrecognizeherandhestilllovedher.Attheairport,heheldthem
soclose.“Lawd,butmedidmissyoutwo,youknow,”hesaid,andheheldthemeven
closer.He looked the same. In thatmoment, he even sounded the same, hispatois thesameas italwayswas.Hesmelleddifferent, though, likeAmericansoapandAmericanclothesandAmericanfood.Natashadidn’tmind.Shewassohappytoseehim.Shecouldgetusedtoanything.For the twoyears that Samuelwas alone inAmerica, he livedwith anold
familyfriendofhismother’s.Hedidn’tneedajob,andheusedhissavingstocoverwhatlittleexpenseshehad.After everyonemoved toAmerica, that had to change. He got a job as a
securityguardworkingatoneofthebuildingsonWallStreet.Hefoundthemaone-bedroomapartmentforrentintheFlatbushsectionofBrooklyn.“Mecanmakethiswork,”hesaidtoPatricia.Hechosethegraveyardshiftso
hewouldhavetimetoauditionduringtheday.Buthewastiredduringtheday.Andtherewerenopartsforhim,andtheaccentwouldjustnotgoawayno
matterhowhetried.Itdidn’thelpthatPatriciaandNatashaspoketohimwithfull Jamaican accents, even though he tried to teach them the “proper”Americanpronunciation.Andrejectionwasnotaneasything.Tobeanactoryou’resupposedtohave
thick skin, but Samuel’s skin was never thick enough. Rejection was likesandpaper.Hisskinsloughedawayunderitsconstantonslaught.Afterawhile,Samuelwasn’tsurewhichwouldlastlonger:himselforhisdreams.
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ResignedLocalTakesWestbound7TraintoChildhood’sEndSure, I canbe a littledramatic, but that’swhat it feels like.This train is a
Magic Fucking Train speedingme from childhood (joy, spontaneity, fun) toadulthood (misery, predictability, absolutely no fun will be had by anyone).WhenIgetoffIwillhaveaplanandtastefullygroomed(meaningshort)hair.I’ll no longer read (or write) poetry—only biographies of Very ImportantPeople. I’llhaveaPointofViewonserioussubjectssuchasImmigration, therole of the Catholic Church in an increasingly secular society, the relativesuckageofprofessionalfootballteams.Thetrainstops,andhalfthepeopleclearout.Iheadtomyfavoritespot—the
two-seater in the cornernext to the conductor’s box. I spreadmyselfout andtakeupbothseats.Yes,it’sobnoxious.ButIhaveagoodreasonforthisbehaviorthatinvolvesa
completelyemptytrainonenightattwoa.m.(waypost-curfew)andamanwithabig-ass snakewrappedaroundhisneckwhochose to sitnext tomedespitetherebeingonethousand(giveortake)emptyseats.I takemynotebookoutof the innerpocketofmysuit jacket. It’saboutan
hourtoThirty-FourthStreetinManhattan,wheremyfavoritebarberis,andthispoem won’t write itself. Fifty minutes (and three very poorly written lines)later, we’re only a couple of stops away from mine. Magic Fucking Train’sdoorsclose.Wemakeitabout twentyfeet intothetunnelandgrindtoahalt.Thelightsflickeroff,becauseofcoursetheydo.Wesitforfiveminutesbeforetheconductordecidescommunicationwouldbegood.Iexpecttohearhimsaythatthetrainwillbemovingshortly,etc.,butwhathesaysisthis:“LAdiesandGENtlemen.UpuntilyesterdayIwasjustlikeyou.Iwasona
traingoingNOwhere,justlikeyou.”
Holyshit.Usuallythefreakypeopleareonthetrain,notdrivingthetrain.Myfellowpassengerssitupstraighter.Whatthehell?thoughtballoonsfloatoverallourheads.“ButsomethingHAPpenedtome.IhadareligiousEXperience.”I’mnotsurewherehe’sfrom(Crazytown,population1).Heoverpronounces
the beginnings of words and sounds like he’s smiling the whole time he’sevangelizing.“GodHIMselfcamedownfromHEAvenandhesavedme.”Foreheadsaresmackedandeyesarerolledincompletedisbelief.“HEwillsaveyoutoo,butyouhavetoACcepthimintoyourhearts.ACcept
himnowbeforeyoureachyourfinalDEStination.”NowI’mgroaningtoo,becausepunsaretheabsoluteworst.Aguyinasuit
yellsoutthattheconductorshouldjustshutthefuckupanddrivethetrain.Amothercoversherlittlegirl’searsandtellstheguythatthere’snoneedforthatkindoflanguage.WemightgetallLordoftheFliesonthenumber7train.Ourconductor/evangelistgoesquiet,andit’sanotherminuteofsittinginthe
dark before we move again.We pull into the Times Square station, but thedoorsdon’topenrightaway.Thespeakerscrackleon.“LAdiesandGENtlemen.This train isnowoutofSERvice.Doyourselfa
FAvor.Getoutofhere.YouwillfindGodifyoulookforhim.”Weallgetoutofthetrain,somewherebetweenrelievedandangry.Everyone’sgotsomeplacetobe.FindingGodisnotontheschedule.
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HUMAN BEINGS ARENOT REASONABLE creatures. Instead of beingruledbylogic,weareruledbyemotions.Theworldwouldbeahappierplaceiftheoppositeweretrue.Forexample,basedonasinglephonecall,Ihavebeguntohopeforamiracle.Idon’tevenbelieveinGod.
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THECONDUCTOR’SDIVORCE had not been easy on him.One day hiswifeannouncedthatshe’dsimplystoppedlovinghim.Shecouldnotexplainit.Shewasn’thavinganaffair.Therewasnooneelseshewantedtobewith.Butthelovesheoncefelthadvanished.In the four years since his divorce became final, it’s fair to say that the
conductorhasbecome somethingof anunbeliever.He remembers theirvowsspoken in front ofGod and everyone. If the personwho’smeant to love youforevercansuddenlystop,thenwhatistheretobelievein?Unmoored and uncertain, he’s drifted from city to city, apartment to
apartment,jobtojob,anchoredtotheworldbyalmostnothing.Hehastroublefalling asleep. The only thing that helps is watching late-night TV with thesoundmuted.Theendlesscascadeofimagesstillshismindandsendshimofftosleep.Onenight,ashe’sperformingthissameritual,ashowhe’sneverseencatches
hiseye.Amanisstandingatalecterninfrontofahugeaudience.Behindhimisanenormousscreenwiththesameman’sfaceprojectedonit.Heisweeping.The camerapans to showa rapt audience. Someof themare crying, but theconductorcantellit’snotfromsadness.That night hedoesnot sleep.Heunmutes the sound and staysup all night
watchingtheshow.Thenextday,hedoessomeresearchandfindsEvangelicalChristianity,and
it takeshimonajourneyhedidnotknowheneeded.Hefinds that therearefourmainpartstobecominganEvangelicalChristian.First,youmustbebornagain.Theconductor loves thenotion thatyoucanbemadeanew,freeofsinandthereforeworthyofloveandsalvation.Secondandthird,youmustbelievewhollyintheBibleandthatChristdiedsowemayallbeforgivenofoursins.
Finallyyoumustbecomeakindofactivist,sharingandspreadingthegospel.Whichiswhytheconductormakeshisannouncementovertheloudspeakers.
How can he not share his newfound joywith his fellowman?And it is joy.There’sapurekindofjoyinthecertaintyofbelief.Thecertaintythatyourlifehaspurposeandmeaning.That,thoughyourearthlylifemaybehard,there’sabetterplaceinyourfuture,andGodhasaplantogetyouthere.Thatallthethingsthathavehappenedtohim,eventhebad,havehappened
forareason.
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SINCEI’MLETTINGTHEUNIVERSEdictatemylifeonthisFinalDayofChildhood,Idon’tbotherwaitingforanothertraintotakemetoThirty-FourthStreet.TheconductorsaidtogofindGod.Maybehe(orshe—butwhoarewekidding? God’s definitely a guy. How else to explain war, pestilence, andmorningwood?)isrighthereinTimesSquarejustwaitingtobefound.AssoonasI’monthestreet,though,IrememberthatTimesSquareisakindofhell(afierypitofflickeringneonsignsadvertisingallsevendeadlysins).Godwouldneverhangouthere.IwalkdownSeventhAvenuetowardmybarber,keepingmyeyeoutforsome
kindofSign.OnThirty-SeventhIspotachurch.Iclimbthestairsandtrythedoor,butit’slocked.Godmustbesleepingin.Ilookleftandright.StillnoSign.I’mlookingforsomethingsubtle,alongthelinesofalong-hairedmanturningwaterintowineandholdingaplacardproclaiminghimselftobeJesusChrist,OurLordandSavior.Suitbedamned, I sitdownon thesteps.Backacross thestreet,peopleare
making their way around a girl who is swaying slightly. She’s black with anenormous, curly Afro and almost-as-enormous pink headphones. Theheadphonesarethekindthathavegiantearpadsforblockingoutsound(also,therestoftheworld).Hereyesareclosedandshehasonehandoverherheart.She’scompletelyblissedout.Thewholethinglastsaboutfivesecondsbeforesheopenshereyes.Shelooks
around, hunches her shoulders like she’s embarrassed, and hurries away.Whatevershe’s listeningtomustbeamazingtocauseher to loseherselfrightthereinthemiddleofthesidewalkinNewYorkCity.TheonlythingI’veeverfeltthatwayaboutiswritingpoetry,andthatcannevergoanywhere.I’dgiveanythingtoreallywantthelifemyparentswantforme.Lifewould
be easier if I were passionate about wanting to be a doctor. Being a doctor
seemslikeoneof thosethingsyou’resupposed tobepassionateabout.Savinglivesandallthat.ButallIfeelismeh.Iwatchasshewalksaway.Shemovesherbackpacktooneshoulder,andI
see it:DEUSEXMACHINA is printed in bigwhite letters on the back of herleatherjacket.Godfromthemachine.Iheartheconductor’svoiceinmyheadandwonderifit’saSign.I’mnotusuallyastalker,andI’mnotfollowingher,exactly.I’mmaintaininga
noncreepy,half-blockdistancebetweenus.ShegoesintoastorecalledSecondComingRecords.Ishityounot.Iknow
now:it’sdefinitelyaSign,andI’mseriousaboutblowingwiththewindtoday.Iwanttoknowwhereitleads.
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IDUCKINTOTHERECORDstore,hopingtoavoidthestaresofanyonewhosawme acting unbalanced on the sidewalk. Iwas having amomentwithmymusic.ChrisCornellsinging“HungerStrike”getsmeeverytime.Hesingsthechoruslikehe’salwaysbeenhungry.Inside SecondComing, the lights are dim and the air smells like dust and
lemon-scentedairfreshener, like italwaysdoes.They’vechanged the layoutalittlesincethelasttimeIwashere.Therecordsusedtobearrangedbydecade,but now it’s bymusical genre. Each section has its own era-defining poster:NevermindbyNirvanaforgrunge.BlueLinesbyMassiveAttack for trip-hop.StraightOuttaComptonbyN.W.A.forrap.Icould spendalldayhere. If todaywerenotToday, Iwould spendallday
here.ButIdon’thavethetimeorthemoney.I’mheaded to trip-hopwhen I notice a couplemakingout in thepopdiva
section in the far back corner. They’re lip-locked next to a poster ofLike aVirginbyMadonna,soIcan’tmakeoutthefacesexactly,butIknowtheboy’sprofileintimately.It’smyex-boyfriendRob.Hismake-outpartnerisKelly,thegirlhecheatedonmewith.Ofall thepeopletoruninto, todayofalldays.Whyisn’theinschool?He
knows this ismyplace.Hedoesn’teven likemusic.Mymom’svoicerings inmyhead.Thingshappenforareason,Tasha.Idon’tbelievethatsentiment,butstill,therehastobealogicalexplanationforthehorriblenessofthisday.IwishBevwerewithme.Ifshewere,Iwouldn’thaveevencomeintotherecordstore.Too old and boring, she’d say. Instead, we’d probably be in Times Squarewatching tourists and trying to guess where they were from based on theirclothes.Germanstendtowearshortsnomattertheweather.As if watching Rob and Kelly try to eat each other’s faces weren’t gross
enough,Iseeherhandsnakeout,snatcharecord,andthenslipitbetweentheirbodiesandintoherverybulky,perfect-for-stealingjacket.No.Way.I’d rather burnmy eyes out than keep watching, but I do. I can’t actually
believewhatI’mseeing.Theydevoureachotherforanotherfewseconds,andthenherhandsneaksoutagain.“OhmyGod, they’regross.Whyare theysogross?”Thewordsslipoutof
mymouthbeforeIcanstopthem.Likemymom,Ihaveatendencytosaymythoughtsoutloud.“She’sjustgonnastealthat?”asksanequallyincredulousvoicebesideme.I
quicklyglanceovertoseewhoI’mtalkingto.It’sanAsianboywearingagraysuitandaridiculouslybrightredtie.Iturnbacktowatchsomemore.“Doesn’tanybodyworkhere?Can’ttheysee
what’shappening?”Iask,moretomyselfthantohim.“Shouldn’twesaysomething?”“Tothem?”Iask,gesturingatthelittlethieves.“Thestaff,maybe?”Ishakemyheadwithoutlookingathim.“Iknowthem,”Isay.“StickyFingersisyourfriend?”Hisvoiceisslightlyaccusatory.“She’smyboyfriend’sgirlfriend.”RedTie turns his attention away from the crime in progress and ontome.
“Howdoesthatwork,exactly?”heasks.“I mean ex-boyfriend,” I say. “He cheated on me with her, actually.” I’m
moreflusteredaboutseeingRobthanIrealize.It’stheonlyexplanationformevolunteeringthatpieceofinformationtoastranger.RedTieshiftshisattentionbacktothepettylarceny.“Greatpair,acheater
andathief.”Ihalflaugh.“Weshouldtellsomeone,”hesays.Ishakemyhead.“Noway.Youdoit.”“Strengthinnumbers,”hesaysback.“If I say something, it’s going to look like I’m jealous and messing with
them.”“Areyou?”Ilookathimagain.Hisfaceissympathetic.“That’skindofapersonalquestion,isn’tit,RedTie?”Iask.
Heshrugs.“Wewerehavingamoment,”hesays.“Nope,” I say, and turn awayagain towatch them.Rob feelsmewatching
andcatchesmyeyebeforeIcanlookaway.“JesusChristbleedingonaPopsiclestick,”Iwhisperundermybreath.Robgivesmehispatentedstupidhalfsmileandawave. Ialmostgivehim
thefinger.HowdidIdatehimforeightmonthsandfourdays?HowdidI letthisaccompliceholdmyhandsandkissme?IfaceRedTie.“Ishecomingoverhere?”“Yup.”“Maybewe shouldmake out or something, like spies do in themovies,” I
suggest.RedTieblusheshard.“I’mnotserious,”Isay,smiling.Hedoesn’tsayanything,justblushessomemore.Iwatchthecolorwarmhis
face.Rob’stherebeforeRedTiecanpullhimselftogethertorespond.“Hey,”hesays.Hisvoiceisadeep,reassuringbaritone.It’soneofthethings
I liked about him. Also, he looks like a young BobMarley, only white andwithoutthedreadlocks.“Whyareyouandyourgirlfriendstealingthings?”RedTiecutsinbeforeI
cansayanythingtoRob.Robholdshishandsupandtakesastepback.“Whoa,dude,”hesays.“Keep
yourvoicedown.”Hepastesthestupidhalfsmilebackonhisstupidface.RedTiegetsevenlouder.“Thisisanindependentrecordstore.Thatmeans
it’sfamily-owned.You’restealingfromrealpeople.Doyouknowhowharditisforsmallbusinessestosurvivewhenpeoplelikeyoujusttakestuff?”RedTieisrighteous,andRobevenmanagestolookalittlechastened.“Don’tlooknow,butIthinkyourgirlfriendjustgotbusted,”Isay.Twostore
employeesarewhisperingfuriouslyatKellyandtappingthefrontofherjacket.Rob’sstupidfacefinallylosesitsstupidsmile.Insteadofgoingovertorescue
Kelly, he shoveshishands intohispockets andwalk-runsout the frontdoor.Kellycallsout tohimashebolts,buthedoesn’t stop.Oneof theemployeesthreatenstocallthecops.Shebegshimnotto,andpullstworecordsfromherjacket.Shehasgoodtaste.IspotMassiveAttackandPortishead.Theemployeesnatchesthemfromherhand.“ComebackinhereagainandI
willcallthecops.”Sheboltsfromthestore,callingafterRob.
“Well,thatwasfun,”RedTiesaysaftershe’sgone.He’ssmilingabigwidesmileandlookingatmewithhappyeyes.Igetasuddensenseofdéjàvu.I’vebeenherebefore. I’venoticed thosebright eyes and that smile. I’ve evenhadthisconversation.Butthenthemomentpasses.Hesticksouthishandforashake.“Daniel,”hesays.Hishandisbigandwarmandsoftandholdsontomineforalittletoolong.“Nicetomeetyou,”Isay,andtakemyhandback.Hissmile isnice,really
nice, but I don’t have time for boys in suits with nice smiles. I put myheadphonesbackon.He’sstillwaitingformetotellhimmyname.“Haveanicelife,Daniel,”Isay,andwalkoutthedoor.
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Would-Be Casanova Shakes Cute Girl’s Hand, Offers Her Home Loan withReasonableInterestRateIshookherhand.I’mwearingasuitandatieandIshookherhand.WhatamI?Abanker?Whomeetsacutegirlandshakesherhand?Charliewould’ve said somethingcharming toher.They’dbehavingacozy
coffeesomeplacedarkandromantic.She’dalreadybedreamingoflittlehalf-Korean,half–AfricanAmericanbabies.
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OUTSIDE,THESTREETSAREMOREcrowdedthanbefore.Thecrowdisa mix of tourists who’ve wandered too far from Times Square and actualworkingNewYorkerswishingthetouristswouldjustgobacktoTimesSquare.Alittlewaysdownthestreet,IspyRobandKelly.Istandtherestaringatthemforalittlewhile.She’scrying,andnodoubthe’stryingtoexplainthatheisnotan unfaithful, disloyal jerk. I have a feeling he will be successful. He’s verypersuasive,andshewantstobepersuaded.Heand I satnext to eachother inAPPhysics last year.Theonly reason I
noticedhimatallwasbecauseheaskedforhelpontheisotopesandhalf-livesunit. I’m something of an overachiever in that class.He askedme out to themoviesafterhepassedthefollowingweek’squiz.Coupledom was new to me, but I liked it. I liked meeting at his locker
betweenclassesandalwayshavingplansfortheweekend.Ilikedbeingthoughtofasacouple,anddouble-datingwithBevandDerrick.AsmuchasIhatetoadmititnow,Ilikedhim.Andthenhecheated.Icanstillrememberfeelinghurtandbetrayedand,weirdly,ashamed.Likeitwasmyfaulthecheated.ThethingIcouldneverfigureout,though,waswhyhepretended.WhynotjustbreakupwithmeandgooutwithKellyinstead?Still, gettingoverhimdidn’t take that long at all.And that’s the thing that
makesmewary.Wheredidallthosefeelingsgo?Peoplespendtheirwholeliveslooking for love.Poemsand songs andentirenovels arewritten about it.Buthowcanyoutrustsomethingthatcanendassuddenlyasitbegins?
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THEHALF-LIFEOFASUBSTANCE is thetimeit takesforit toloseonehalfofitsinitialvalue.Innuclearphysics,it’sthetimeittakesforunstableatomstoloseenergyby
emittingradiation.Inbiology,itusuallyreferstothetimeittakestoeliminatehalf of a substance (water, alcohol, pharmaceuticals) from the body. Inchemistry,itisthetimerequiredtoconvertonehalfofareactant(hydrogenoroxygen,forexample)toproduct(water).In love, it’s theamountof time it takesfor lovers tofeelhalfofwhat they
oncedid.When Natasha thinks about love, this is what she thinks: nothing lasts
forever. Like hydrogen-7 or lithium-5 or boron-7, love has an infinitesimallysmallhalf-lifethatdecaystonothing.Andwhenit’sgone,it’slikeitwasneverthereatall.
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GIRLWHOHASNONAMEisstoppedatacrosswalkaheadofme.IswearI’mnotfollowingher.She’sjustgoingmyway.Hersuper-pinkheadphonesareback on, and she’s swaying to hermusic again. I can’t see her face, but I’mguessinghereyesareclosed.Shemissesawalkcycle,andnowI’mrightbehindher.Ifsheturnedaround,shewoulddefinitelythinkI’mstalkingher.Thelightturnsredagainandshestepsoffthecurb.She’snotpayingenoughattention to realize that aguy in awhiteBMWis
abouttorunthatredlight.ButI’mcloseenough.Iyankherbackwardbyherarm.Ourfeettangle.Wetripovereachotherand
fallontothesidewalk.Shelandshalfontopofme.Herphone’snotas lucky,andcrashesagainstthepavement.Acoupleofpeopleaskifwe’reokay,butmostjustmakeabeelinearoundus
asifwe’rejustanotherobjectintheobstaclecoursethatisNewYorkCity.No-NameGirl shifts herself offme and looks down at her phone. A few
cracksspiderwebacrossthescreen.“What.The.Hell?”shesays,notaquestionsomuchasaprotest.“Youokay?”“Thatguyalmostkilledme.”Ilookupandseethatthecarhaspulledoverto
thesideon thenextblock. Iwant togoyellat thedriver,but Idon’twant toleaveheralone.“Youokay?”Iaskagain.“DoyouknowhowlongI’vehadthis?”AtfirstIthinkshemeansherphone,
butit’sherheadphonesshe’scradlinginherhands.Somehowtheygotdamagedduringour fall.Oneof theearpads isdanglingfromwires,and thecasing iscracked.Shelookslikeshe’sgoingtocry.
“I’llbuyyouanotherpair.”I’mdesperatetopreventhertears,butnotbecauseI’mnobleoranything.I’mkindofacontagioncryer.Youknowhowwhenoneperson starts yawning, everyone else starts yawning too? Or when someonevomits,thesmellmakesyouwanttohurl?I’mlikethat,exceptwithcrying,andIhavenointentionofcryinginfrontofthecutegirlwhoseheadphonesIjustbroke.Apartofherwantstosayyestomyoffer,butIalreadyknowshewon’t.She
pressesherlipstogetherandshakesherhead.“It’stheleastIcando,”Isay.Finallyshelooksatme.“Youalreadysavedmylife.”“Youwouldn’thavedied.Alittlemaimed,maybe.”I’mtryingtogethertolaugh,butnothingdoing.Hereyesfillwithtears.“I’m
havingjusttheworstday,”shesays.Ilookawaysoshedoesn’tseemyowntearsforming.
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DONALDCHRISTIANSENKNOWS the price of priceless things.He hasactuarial tables in his mind. He knows the cost of a human life lost in anairplanecrash,acaraccident,aminingdisaster.Heknowsthesethingsbecausehe once worked in insurance. It was his job to price the unwanted andunexpected.The price of accidentally running over a seventeen-year-old girl who was
clearly not paying attention is considerably less than the price for his owndaughter,killedbyatextingdriver.Infact,thefirstthinghe’dthoughtwhenheheard the news about his daughter was what price the driver’s insurancecompanywouldpay.Hepullsovertothesideoftheroad,turnsonhishazards,andlayshishead
onthesteeringwheel.Hetouchestheflaskinhisinsidecoatpocket.Dopeoplerecoverfromthesethings?Hedoesn’tthinktheydo.It’s been two years, but the grieving has not left him, shows no signs of
leavinguntil it’s takeneverything fromhim. Ithas costhimhismarriage,hissmile,hisabilitytoeatenough,sleepenough,andfeelenough.Ithascosthimhisabilitytobesober.WhichiswhyhealmostranoverNatashajustnow.Donaldisnotsurewhattheuniversewastryingtotellhimbytakingawayhis
only daughter, but here iswhat he learned: no one can put a price on losingeverything.Andanother thing: all your futurehistories canbedestroyed in asinglemoment.
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REDTIELOOKSAWAYFROMME.Ithinkhe’sabouttocry,whichmakesno senseat all.Heoffers tobuymenewheadphones.Even if I lethim,newonescouldn’treplacethese.I’ve had them since right after we moved to America. When my father
boughtthemforme,hewasstillhopefulforallhewouldaccomplishhere.Hewasstill trying toconvincemymomthat themoveawayfromthecountryofourbirth,awayfromallourfriendsandfamily,wouldbeworthitintheend.Hewas going to hit it big. Hewas going to get theAmericanDream that evenAmericansdreamabout.Heusedmeandmybrothertohelpconvincemymom.Heboughtusgiftson
layaway,thingswecouldbarelyaffordevenonlayaway.Ifwewerehappyhere,thenmaybethemovewasrightafterall.I didn’t care what the reason for the gifts was. These way-too-expensive
headphones were my favorite of them all. I only cared that they were myfavoritecolorandpromisedaudiophile-qualitysound.Theyweremyfirstlove.Theyknow allmy secrets.Theyknowhowmuch I used toworshipmydad.TheyknowthatIkindofhatemyselffornotworshipinghimatallnow.ItseemslikesuchalongtimeagowhenIthoughttheworldofhim.Hewas
someexoticplanetandIwashisfavoritesatellite.Buthe’snoplanet, just thefinalfadinglightofanalreadydeadstar.And I’mnot a satellite. I’m space junk,hurtling as far as I can away from
him.
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I DON’T THINK I’VE EVER noticed anyone the way I’m noticing her.Sunlightfiltersthroughherhair,makingitlooklikeakindofhaloaroundherhead.A thousand emotions pass over her face.Her eyes are black andwide,with long lashes. I can imagine staring into them for a long time.Right nowthey’redull,butIknowexactlywhattheywouldlooklikebrightandlaughing.Iwonder if Icanmakeher laugh.Herskin isawarmandglowingbrown.Herlips are pink and full, and I’m probably staring at them for far too long.Fortunately,she’stoosadtonoticewhatashallow(andhorny)jerkIam.Shelooksupfromherbrokenheadphones.Asoureyesmeet,Igetakindof
déjàvu,butinsteadoffeelinglikeI’mrepeatingsomethinginthepast,itfeelslikeI’mexperiencingsomethingthatwillhappeninmyfuture.Iseeusinoldage.Ican’tseeourfaces;Idon’tknowwhereorevenwhenweare.ButIhaveastrange andhappy feeling that I can’t quite describe. It’s likeknowing all thewordstoasongbutstillfindingthembeautifulandsurprising.
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ISTANDUPANDDUSTmyselfoff.Thisdaycan’tgetanyworse. Itmusteventuallyend. “Wereyoufollowingme?” Iaskhim. I’mcrankierand testierthanIshouldbewithsomeonewhojustsavedmylife.“Man,Iknewyouwouldthinkthat.”“You just happened tobe right behindme?” I fiddlewithmyheadphones,
tryingtoreattachtheearpad,butit’shopeless.“MaybeIwasmeanttosaveyourlifetoday,”hesays.Iignorethat.“Okay,thanksforyourhelp,”Isay,preparingtoleave.“Atleasttellmeyourname,”heblurtsout.“RedTie—”“Daniel.”“Okay,Daniel.Thankyouforsavingme.”“That’sa longname.”Hiseyesdon’t leavemine.He’snotgoing togiveup
untilItellhim.“Natasha.”I thinkhe’sgoing to shakemyhandagain,but insteadhe shoveshishands
intohispockets.“Nicename.”“Sogladyouapprove,”Isay,givinghimmymostsarcastictone.Hedoesn’tsayanythingelse,justlooksatmewithaslightfrown,asifhe’s
tryingtofiguresomethingout.FinallyIcan’ttakeitanymore.“Whyareyoustaringatme?”Heblushesagain,andnowI’mstaring.Icanseehowitmightbefuntotease
himjusttogethimtoblush.Iletmyeyeswanderthesharpplanesofhisface.He is classically handsome; debonair, even.Watching him stand there in hissuit, I can picture him in a black-and-white Hollywood romantic comedy
tradingwitty banterwith his heroine.His eyes are clear brown and deep-set.SomehowIcan tellhesmilesa lot.His thickblackhair ispulledback intoaponytail.ObservableFact:Theponytailpusheshimfromhandsometokindofsexy.“Nowyou’restaring,”hesaystome.It’smyturntoblush.Iclearmythroat.“Whyareyouwearingasuit?”“Ihaveaninterviewlater.Wannagogetsomethingtoeat?”“Whatfor?”Iask.“Yale.Alumniadmissioninterview.Iappliedearlydecision.”Ishakemyhead.“No,Imeantwhydoyouwanttogetsomethingtoeat?”“I’mhungry?”hesays,asifhe’snotsureexactly.“Hmmm,”Isay.“I’mnot.”“Coffee,then?Orteaorsodaorfilteredwater?”“Why?”Iask,realizingthathe’snotgoingtogiveup.His shoulders shrug,buthiseyesdon’t. “Whynot?Besides, I’mpretty sure
youowemeyourlifesinceIjustsavedit.”“Believeme,”Itellhim,“youdon’twantmylife.”
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WEWALKTWOLONGBLOCKSwesttowardNinthAveandpassnofewerthanthreecoffeeshops.Twoofthemarefromthesamenationalcoffeechain(have you ever seen anyone actually dunk a donut?). I choose the non-chain,independentonebecausewemom-and-popplacesgottasticktogether.Theplaceisallmahoganyanddarkwoodfurnitureandsmellsjustlikeyou’d
thinkitwould.It’salsojustslightlyover-the-top.Andbyslightly,Imeanthereareseveraloilpaintingsofsinglecoffeebeanshangingonthewall.Whoknewcoffee-beanportraiturewasathing?Whoknewtheycouldlooksoforlorn?There’s barely anyone else here, and the three baristas behind the counter
lookprettybored. I try to spiceup their livesbyorderinganoverlyelaboratedrinkinvolvinghalfshots,milksofvaryingfatcontent,andcaramel,aswellasvanillasyrup.Theystilllookbored.Natasha orders black coffee with no sugar. It’s hard not to read her
personalityintohercoffeeorder.Ialmostsaysomething,butthenIrealizeshemightthinkI’mmakingarace-relatedjoke,whichwouldbeaverypoor(onascale from Poor to Extremely Poor—the full scale is Poor, Somewhat Poor,Moderately Poor, Very Poor, and Extremely Poor) way to start off thisrelationship.Sheinsistsonpaying,sayingit’stheleastshecando.Mydrinkis$6.38andI
letherknowthatthecostofsavingalifeisatleasttwoelaboratecoffeedrinks.Shedoesn’tevensmile.Ichooseatableinbackasfarawayfromthenon-actionaspossible.Assoon
aswesit,shepullsoutherphonetocheckthe time.It’sstillworking,despitethecracksonthescreen.Sherunsherthumbalongthemandsighs.“Havetobesomewhere?”Iask.
“Yes,”shesays,andturnsthephoneoff.Iwaitforhertocontinue,butshe’sdefinitelynotgoingto.Herfacedaresme
toaskhermore,butI’vereachedmyquotaofdaringthings(1=followingcutegirl, 2= yelling at ex-boyfriendof cute girl, 3= saving life of cute girl, 4=askingoutcutegirl)fortheday.Wesitinanot-at-all-comfortablesilenceforthirty-threeseconds.Ifallinto
thatsuper-self-consciousstateyougetintowhenyou’rewithsomeonenewandyoureallywantthemtolikeyou.Iseeallmymovements throughhereyes.Doesthishandgesturemakeme
seem likea jerk?Aremyeyebrowscrawlingoffmyface? Is thisa sexyhalfsmileordoIlooklikeI’mhavingastroke?I’mnervous,soIexaggerateallmymovements.IBLOWonmycoffee,SIP
it,STIR it,playing thepartofanactualhuman teenageboyhavinganactualbeveragecalledcoffee.Iblow toohardonmydrinkanda little foamfliesup. I couldnotbeany
cooler.Iwouldtotallydateme(notreally).It’shardtosay,butshemayhavesmiledeversoslightlyatthefoamflight.“Stillhappyyousavedmylife?”sheasks.Itaketoobigasipandburnnotonlymytonguebutapathallthewaydown
mythroat.JesusChrist.MaybethisisasignIshouldjustgiveup.Iamclearlynotmeanttoimpressthisgirl.“ShouldIregretit?”Iask.“Well,I’mnotexactlybeingnicetoyou.”She’sprettydirect,soIdecidetobedirecttoo.“That’strue,butIdon’thave
atimemachinetogobackandundoit.”Isayitwithastraightface.“Wouldyou?”sheasks,frowningslightly.“Ofcoursenot,”Isay.WhatkindofjerkdoesshethinkIam?She excuses herself to go to the bathroom. So that I don’t just sit there
lookinguninterestingwhenshegetsback,Ipulloutmynotebooktofiddlewithmypoem.I’mstillwritingwhenshegetsback.“Ohno,”shegroansasshesitsbackdown.“What?”Iask.Shegesturestomynotebook.“You’renotapoet,areyou?”Her eyes are smiling, but still, I close it quickly and slip it back into my
jacket.Maybethiswasn’tsuchagoodidea.WhatamIthinkingwithmydéjà-vu-in-
reverse nonsense? I’m just putting off the future. Like my parents want, I’ll
marry a lovely Korean American girl. Unlike Charles, I don’t have anythingagainst Korean girls. He says they’re not his type, but I don’t really get theconceptofhavingatype.Mytypeisgirls.Allofthem.WhywouldIlimitmydatingpool?I’llbeagreatdoctorwithexcellentbedsideskills.I’llbeperfectlyhappy.But something about Natasha makes me think my life could be
extraordinary.It’sbetterforhertobemeanandforusgoonseparatepaths.Icanthinkof
exactlynowaysthatmyparents(mostlymydad)wouldbeokaywithmedatingablackgirl.Still,Igiveitonelasttry.“Whatwouldyoudowithatimemachineifyou
hadone?”Forthefirsttimesincewesatdown,shedoesn’tseemirritatedorbored.She
furrowsherbrowandleansforward.“Canittravelintothepast?”“Ofcourse.It’satimemachine,”Isay.Shegivesmealookthatsaysthere’ssomuchIdon’tknow.“Timetravelto
thepastisacomplicatedbusiness.”“Saywe’vegottenpastthecomplications.Whatwouldyoudo?”She puts down her coffee, folds her arms across her chest. Her eyes are
brighter.“Andwe’reignoringthegrandfatherparadox?”sheasks.“Completely,”Isay,pretendingIhaveacluewhatshe’stalkingabout,butshe
callsmeout.“You don’t know the grandfather paradox?” Her voice is incredulous, like
I’vemissedsomebasicinformationabouttheworld(likehowbabiesaremade).Issheasci-finerd?“Nope.Don’tknowit,”Isay.“Okay.Let’ssayyouhaveanevilgrandfather.”“He’sdead.IonlymethimonceinKorea.Heseemednice.”“AreyouKorean?”sheasks.“KoreanAmerican.Iwasbornhere.”“I’mJamaican,”shesays.“Iwasbornthere.”“Butyoudon’thaveanaccent.”“Well,I’vebeenhereforawhile.”ShetightensherholdonhercupandIcan
feelhermoodstartingtoshift.“Tellmeaboutthisparadox,”Iprod,tryingtodistracther.Itworksandshe
brightensupagain.“Okay.Yes.Let’ssayyourgrandfatherwasalive,andhewasevil.”“Aliveandevil,”Isay,nodding.“He’s reallyevil, soyou inventa timemachineandgoback in time tokill
him.Sayyoukillhimbeforehemeetsyourgrandmother.Thatwouldmeanthatoneofyourparentsisneverbornandthatyouareneverborn,soyoucan’tgobackintimetokillhim.But!Ifyoukillhimafterhemeetsyourgrandmother,thenyouwillbeborn,andthenyou’llinventatimemachinetogobackintimetokillhim.Thisloopwillgoonforever.”“Huh.Yes,we’redefinitelyignoringthat.”“AndtheNovikovself-consistencyprincipletoo,Iguess?”Ithoughtshewascutebefore,butshe’sevencuternow.Herfaceisanimated,
herhairisbouncing,andhereyesaresparking.She’sgesturingwithherhands,talkingaboutresearchersatMITandprobabilitybendingtopreventparadoxes.“Sotheoretically,youwouldn’tbeabletokillyourgrandfatheratall,because
the gun would misfire at just the right moment, or you would have a heartattack—”“OracuteJamaicangirlwouldwalkintotheroomandbowlmeover.”“Yes. Something strange and improbable would happen so that the
impossiblecouldn’t.”“Huh,”Isayagain.“That’smorethana‘huh,’ ”shesays,smiling.Itismorethanahuh,butIcan’tthinkofanythingcleverorwittytosay.I’m
havingtroublethinkingandlookingatheratthesametime.There’saJapanesephrase that I like:koinoyokan. Itdoesn’tmean loveat
first sight. It’s closer to love at second sight. It’s the feeling when youmeetsomeonethatyou’regoingtofallinlovewiththem.Maybeyoudon’tlovethemrightaway,butit’sinevitablethatyouwill.I’m pretty sure that’s what I’m experiencing right now. The only slight
(possiblyinsurmountable)problemisthatI’mprettysurethatNatashaisnot.
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IDON’TTELLREDTIE the complete truth aboutwhat Iwould dowith atime machine if I had one. I would travel back in time and make it so thegreatestdayofmyfather’s lifeneverhappenedat all. It is completely selfish,butit’swhatIwoulddosomyfuturewouldn’thavetobeerased.Instead,Iexplainallthesciencetohim.BythetimeI’mdone,he’sgivingme
alooklikehe’sinlovewithme.Itturnsouthe’sneverheardofthegrandfatherparadoxortheNovikovself-consistencyprinciple,whichkindofsurprisesme.I guess I assumed he’d be nerdy because he’s Asian, which is crappy ofmebecauseIhatewhenotherpeopleassumethingsaboutmelikeIlikerapmusicorI’mgoodatsports.Fortherecord,onlyoneofthosethingsistrue.BesidesthefactthatI’mbeingdeportedtoday,Iamreallynotagirltofallin
love with. For one thing, I don’t like temporary, nonprovable things, andromanticloveisbothtemporaryandnonprovable.The other, secret thing that I don’t say to anyone is this: I’m not sure I’m
capableoflove.Eventemporarily.WhenIwaswithRob,Ineverfeltthewaythesongssayyou’resupposedtofeel.Ididn’tfeelsweptawayorconsumed.Ididn’tneedhimlikeIneededair. I really likedhim.I liked lookingathim.Ilikedkissinghim.ButIalwaysknewIcouldlivewithouthim.“RedTie,”Isay.“Daniel,”heinsists.“Don’tfallinlovewithme,Daniel.”Heactuallysputtersouthiscoffee.“WhosaysI’mgoingto?”“ThatlittleblacknotebookIsawyouscribblingin,andyourface.Yourbig,
wide-open,couldn’t-fool-anybody-about-anythingfacesaysyou’regoingto.”He blushes again, because blushing is his entire state of being. “Andwhy
shouldn’tI?”heasks.
“BecauseI’mnotgoingtofallinlovewithyou.”“Howdoyouknow?”“Idon’tbelieveinlove.”“It’snotareligion,”hesays.“Itexistswhetheryoubelieveinitornot.”“Oh,really?Canyouproveit?”“Lovesongs.Poetry.Theinstitutionofmarriage.”“Please.Wordsonpaper.Canyouusethescientificmethodonit?Canyou
observe it,measure it, experimentwith it, and repeat your experiments?Youcannot. Can you slice it and stain it and study it under a microscope? Youcannot.Canyougrowitinapetridishormapitsgenesequence?”“Youcannot,”hesays,mimickingmyvoiceandlaughing.Ican’thelplaughingtoo.SometimesItakemyselfalittleseriously.Hespoonsa layerof foamoffhiscoffeeand intohismouth. “Yousay it’s
just words on paper, but you have to admit all those people are feelingsomething.”Inod.“Somethingtemporaryandnotatallmeasurable.Peoplejustwantto
believe.Otherwisetheywouldhavetoadmitthatlifeisjustarandomseriesofgoodandbadthingsthathappenuntilonedayyoudie.”“Andyou’reokaywithbelievingthatlifehasnomeaning?”“WhatchoicedoIhave?Thisiswhatlifeis.”Anotherspoonoffoamandmorelaughterfromhim.“Sonofate,nodestiny,
nomeant-to-beforyou?”“I am not a nincompoop,” I say, definitely enjoying myself more than I
shouldbe.Heloosenshistieandrelaxesbackintohischair.Astrandofhishairescapes
hisponytail,andIwatchashetucksitbehindhisear.Insteadofpushinghimaway, my nihilism is only making him more comfortable. He seems almostmerry.“Idon’tthinkI’veevermetanyonesocharminglydeluded,”hesays,asifI’m
acuriosity.“Andyoufindthatappealing?”Iask.“Ifinditinteresting,”hesays.I takea lookaround thecafé.Somehow, it’s filledupwithoutmenoticing.
Peoplelinethebar,waitingfortheirorders.Thespeakersareplaying“YellowLedbetter” by Pearl Jam—another one of my favorite nineties grunge-rockbands.Ican’thelpit.IhavetoclosemyeyestolistentoEddieVeddermumble-singthechorus.
When Iopen themagain,Daniel is staringatme.He shifts forward sohischairisgroundedagainonallfourlegs.“WhatifItoldyouIcouldgetyoutofallinlovewithmescientifically?”“Iwouldscoff,”Isay.“Alot.”
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ONE POSSIBLE SOLUTION to the grandfather paradox is the theory ofmultiverses originally set forth by Hugh Everett. According to multiversetheory,everyversionofourpastandfuturehistoriesexists,justinanalternateuniverse.Foreveryeventatthequantumlevel,thecurrentuniversesplitsintomultiple
universes.Thismeans that for every choice youmake, an infinite number ofuniversesexistinwhichyoumadeadifferentchoice.The theory neatly solves the grandfather paradox by positing separate
universesinwhicheachpossibleoutcomeexists,therebyavoidingaparadox.Inthiswaywegettolivemultiplelives.Thereis,forexample,auniversewhereSamuelKingsleydoesnotderailhis
daughter’slife.AuniversewherehedoesderailitbutNatashaisabletofixit.Auniversewherehedoesderailitandsheisnotabletofixit.Natashaisnotquitesurewhichuniverseshe’slivinginnow.
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AreaBoyAttemptstoUseSciencetoGettheGirlIwasn’tkiddingaboutthefalling-in-love-scientificallything.Therewaseven
anarticleintheNewYorkTimesaboutit.Aresearcherputtwopeopleinalabandhadthemaskeachotherabunchof
intimate questions. Also, they had to stare into each other’s eyes for fourminuteswithout talking. I’m pretty sure I’m not getting her to do the staringthingwithmerightnow.Tobehonest,Ididn’treallybelievethearticlewhenIread it. You can’t just make people fall in love, right? Love is way morecomplicatedthanthat.It’snotjustamatterofchoosingacoupleofpeopleandmakingthemaskeachothersomequestions,andthenloveblossoms.Themoonandthestarsareinvolved.I’mcertainofit.Nevertheless.According to the article, the result of the experimentwas that the two test
subjects did indeed fall in love and getmarried. I don’t know if they stayedmarried. (I kinda don’twant to know, because if they did staymarried, thenlove is lessmysterious than I think andcan be grown in a petri dish. If theydidn’tstaymarried,thenloveisasfleetingasNatashasaysitis.)I pull outmy phone and look up the study. Thirty-six questions.Most of
themareprettystupid,butsomeofthemareokay.I likethestaring-into-the-eyesthing.I’mnotabovescience.
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HETELLSMEABOUTSOMEstudyinvolvingalabandquestionsandlove.Iamskepticalandsayso.I’malsoslightlyintriguedbutdon’tsayso.“Whatarethefivekeyingredientstofallinginlove?”heasksme.“Idon’tbelieveinlove,remember?”Ipickupmyspoonandstirmycoffee,
eventhoughthere’snothingtostirtogether.“Sowhatarethelovesongsreallyabout?”“Easy,”Isay.“Lust.”“Andmarriage?”“Well, lust fades, and then there are children to raise and bills to pay. At
somepoint itjustbecomesfriendshipwithmutualself-interestfor thebenefitofsocietyandthenextgeneration.”ThesongendsjustasIfinishtalking.Foramomentallwecanhearareglassesclinkingandmilkfrothing.“Huh,”hesays,considering.“Yousaythatalot,”Isay.“Icouldnotdisagreewithyoumore.”Headjustshisponytailwithoutletting
hishairfallintohisface.ObservableFact:Iwanttoseehishairfallintohisface.ThemoreItalktohim,thecuterhegets.Ievenlikehisearnestness,despite
the fact that Iusuallyhateearnestness.The sexyponytailmaybeaddlingmybrain. It’s just hair, I tellmyself. Its function is to keep the headwarm andprotectitagainstultravioletradiation.There’snothinginherentlysexyaboutit.“Whatarewetalkingaboutagain?”heasks.Isayscienceatthesametimethathesayslove,andwebothlaugh.“Whataretheingredients?”hepromptsmeagain.“Mutualself-interestandsocioeconomiccompatibility.”
“Doyouevenhaveasoul?”“Nosuchthingasasoul,”Isay.HelaughsatmeasifI’mkidding.“Well,”hesaysafterherealizesthatI’m
not kidding, “My ingredients are friendship, intimacy, moral compatibility,physicalattraction,andtheXfactor.”“What’stheXfactor?”“Don’tworry,”hesays.“Wealreadyhaveit.”“Goodtoknow,”Isay,laughing.“I’mstillnotgoingtofallinlovewithyou.”“Givemetoday.”He’ssuddenlyserious.“It’snotachallenge,Daniel.”Hejuststaresatmewiththosebrightbrowneyes,waitingforananswer.“Youcanhaveonehour,”Isay.He frowns. “Only an hour? What happens then? Do you turn into a
pumpkin?”“IhaveanappointmentandthenIhavetogohome.”“What’stheappointment?”heasks.Insteadofanswering,I lookaroundthecafé.Abaristacallsoutastringof
orders.Someonelaughs.Someoneelsestumbles.Istirmycoffeeunnecessarilyagain.“I’mnotgoingtotellyou,”Isay.“Okay,”hesays,unfazed.He’smadeuphismindaboutwhathewants,andwhathewantsisme.Iget
thefeelinghecanbedeterminedandpatient.Ialmostadmirehimforit.Buthedoesn’t know what I know. I’ll be a resident of another country tomorrow.Tomorrow,I’llbegonefromhere.
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ISHOWHERMYPHONE, andwe argueoverwhichquestions to choose.We definitely don’t have time for all thirty-six. She wants to ixnay the fourminutesofsoulfullystaringintoeachother’seyes,butthat’snothappening.Theeye thing ismy ace in the hole. Allmy ex-girlfriends (okay, one ofmy ex-girlfriends—okay, I’ve only ever had one girlfriend, now ex-girlfriend) haveliked my eyes a lot. Grace (the aforementioned singular in the extreme ex-girlfriend)saidtheylookedlikegemstones,specificallysmokyquartz(jewelrymakingwasherhobby).Weweremakingoutinherroomwhenshefirstsaidit,andshestoppedmidsessiontogetanexampleforme.Anyway,myeyesarelikequartz(thesmokykind)andgirls(atleastone)dig
it.The questions fall into three categories, each more personal than the
previous. Natasha wants to stick with the least personal ones from the firstcategory,butIixnaythataswell.Fromcategory#1(leastintimate)wechoose:
#1. Giventhechoiceofanyoneintheworld,whomwouldyouwantasadinnerguest?
#2. Wouldyouliketobefamous?Inwhatway?
#7. Doyouhaveasecrethunchabouthowyouwilldie?
Fromcategory#2(mediumintimacy):
#17. Whatisyourmosttreasuredmemory?
#24. Howdoyoufeelaboutyourrelationshipwithyourmother?
Fromcategory#3(mostintimate):
#25. Makethreetrue“we”statementseach.Forinstance,“Wearebothinthisroomfeeling…”
#29. Sharewithyourpartneranembarrassingmomentinyourlife.
#34. Yourhouse,containingeverythingyouown,catchesfire.Aftersavingyourlovedonesandpets,youhavetimetosafelymakeafinaldashtosaveanyoneitem.Whatwoulditbe?Why?
#35. Ofallthepeopleinyourfamily,whosedeathwouldyoufindmostdisturbing?Why?
We end up with ten questions, because Natasha thinks that for numbertwenty-four we should talk about our relationship with both ourmother andfather.“How come mothers are always the ones most blamed for screwing up
children?Fathersscrewkidsupperfectlywell.”Shesaysit likesomeonewithfirsthandexperience.Shechecksthetimeonherphoneagain.“Ishouldgo,”shesays,pushingher
chair back and standing too quickly. The table wobbles. Some of her coffeesplashesout.“Shit.Shit,”shesays.It’skindofanoverreaction.Ireallywanttoaskabout
theappointmentandherfather,butIknowbetterthantoaskrightnow.Igetup,grabsomenapkins,andcleanupthespill.Thelookshegivesmeissomewherebetweengratitudeandexasperation.“Let’sgetoutofhere,”Isay.“Yeah,okay.Thanks,”shesays.I watch as she navigates around the line of coffee-starved people to go
outside. Probably I shouldn’t stare at her legs, but they’re great (the third-greatestpairI’veeverseen).IwanttotouchthemalmostasmuchasIwanttokeeptalkingtoher(maybealittlemore),buttherearenocircumstancesunderwhichshewouldletmedothat.Either she’s trying to shake me loose, or we are in a speed-walking
competitionthatI’munawareof.Shedashesbetweenacoupleofslowwalkersand skirts along the outside of sidewalk scaffolding to avoid having to slowdownforpeople.Maybe I should give up. I don’t know why I haven’t yet. The universe is
clearlytryingtosavemefrommyself.IbetifIlookedforsignsaboutparting
ways,Iwouldfindthem.“Whereareweheading?”Iaskherwhenwecometoastopatacrosswalk.
ThehaircutI’msupposedtobegettingisgoingtohavetowait.I’mprettysuretheyletpeoplewithlonghairgotocollege.“I am heading uptown tomy appointment and you are tagging alongwith
me.”“Yes,Iam,”Isay,ignoringhernot-at-all-subtleemphasizing.Wecross thestreetandwalkalongquietlyforafewminutes.Themorning
settles into itself.A few storeshaveproppedopen their doors.Theweather’stoo cold for air-conditioning and toohot for closeddoors. I’m suremydad’sdonethesamethingatourstore.Wepass theextraordinarilywell litandextremelycrowdedwindowdisplay
ofanelectronicsstore.EveryiteminthedisplayistaggedwitharedONSALE!sticker.Therearehundredsofthesestoresalloverthecity.Ican’tunderstandhowtheystayinbusiness.“Whoevenshopsinthese?”Iwonderoutloud.“Peoplewholiketohaggle,”shesays.Half a block later we pass another, virtually identical store and we both
laugh.Itakeoutmyphone.“So.Youreadyforthesequestions?”“Youarerelentless,”shesays,notlookingatme.“Persistent,”Icorrecther.Sheslowsdownandlooksoveratme.“Doyoureallythinkaskingmedeep,
philosophical questions is going tomakeus fall in love?”Sheputs air quotes(oh,howIdislikeairquotes)arounddeepandphilosophicalandfallinlove.“Think of it as an experiment,” I say. “What’d you say before about the
scientificmethod?”Thisgetsmeasmallsmile.“Scientistsshouldn’texperimentonthemselves,”shecounters.“Notevenforthegreatergood?”Iask.“Forfurtheringmankind’sknowledge
ofitself?”Thatgetsmeabiglaugh.
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USINGSCIENCEAGAINSTMEisprettysmart.Four Observable Facts: He’s perfectly silly. And too optimistic. And too
earnest.Andprettygoodatmakingmelaugh.“Numberone’stoohard,”hesays.“Let’sstartwithquestiontwo:Wouldyou
liketobefamousandhow?”“Youfirst,”Itellhim.“I’dbeafamouspoetinchief.”Ofcoursehewould.ObservableFact:He’sahopelessromantic.“You’dbebroke,”Itellhim.“Brokewithmoneybutrichwithwords,”hecountersimmediately.“I’m going to vomit right here on the sidewalk.” I say it too loudly and a
womaninasuitgivesusawideberth.“I’llcleanyouup,”hesays.Really,he’stoosincerebyhalf.“Whatdoesapoetinchiefevendo?”Iask.“Offerswiseandpoeticcounsel.I’dbethepersonworldleaderscametowith
nastyphilosophicalproblems.”“Thatyousolvebywritingthemapoem?”Theskepticisminmyvoicecannot
bemissed.“Orreadingone,”hesays,withmoreunflappablesincerity.Imakesomegaggingsounds.Hebumpsmelightlywithhisshoulderandthensteadiesmewithhishandon
myback.IlikethefeelofhishandsomuchthatIspeedupalittletoavoidit.“Youcanbecynicalallyouwant,butmanyalifecanbesavedbypoetry,”he
says.
Iscourhisfaceforasignthathe’sjoking,butno—hereallydoesbelieveit.Whichissweet.Alsostupid.Butmostlysweet.“Whataboutyou?Whatkindoffamedoyouwant?”heasks.Thisisaneasyone.“I’dbeabenevolentdictator.”Helaughs.“Ofanyparticularcountry?”“Ofthewholeworld,”Isay,andhelaughssomemore.“Alldictatorsthinkthey’rebenevolent.Eventheonesholdingmachetes.”“I’mprettysurethoseonesknowthey’rebeinggreedy,murderousbastards.”“Butyouwouldn’tbethat?”heasks.“Nope. Pure benevolence from me. I would decide what was good for
everyoneanddoit.”“Butwhatifwhat’sgoodforonepersonisn’tgoodforanother?”Ishrug.“Can’tpleaseeveryone.Asmypoetinchief,youcouldcomfortthe
loserwithagoodpoem.”“Touché,”hesays,smiling.Hepullsouthisphoneagainandbeginsthumbing
throughthequestions.Itakeaquicklookatmyownphone.ForasecondI’msurprised by the crack in the screen, until I remember my fall from earlier.Whataday I’mhaving.Again, I’m thinkingaboutmultiversesandwonderingabouttheoneswherebothmyphoneandheadphonesarestillintact.There’sauniversewhereIstayedhomeandpackedlikemymomwantedme
to.Myphoneandheadphonesarefine,butIdidn’tmeetDaniel.There’s a universewhere Iwent to school and am safely sitting inEnglish
classinsteadofalmostbeinghitbyacar.Again,noDaniel.InanotherDaniel-lessuniverse,IdidgotoUSCIS,butIdidn’tmeetDaniel
intherecordstore,soourchattingdidn’thaveachancetodelayme.IarrivedatthecrosswalkbeforetheBMWdrivershowedup,andtherewasnonear-missaccident.Myphoneandheadphonesremainintact.Of course, there is an infinite number of these universes, including one
where I didmeetDaniel but hewasn’t able to saveme at the crosswalk, andmorethanjustmyphoneandheadphonesarebroken.I sigh and check the distance toAttorneyFitzgerald’s office. Twelvemore
blocks. Iwonder howmuch itwill cost to fixmy screen.But then,maybe Iwon’tneedtogetitfixed.I’llprobablyneedtogetanewphoneinJamaica.Danielinterruptsmythoughts,andI’mkindofgrateful.Idon’twanttothink
aboutanythinghavingtodowithleaving.“All right,” he says. “Let’s move on to number seven.What’s your secret
hunchabouthowyou’lldie?”
“Statistically speaking, a black woman living in the United States is mostlikelytodieattheageofseventy-eightfromheartdisease.”Wecometoanothercrosswalkandhetugsmebackfromstandingtooclose
to the edge.His gesture andmy response are so familiar, likewe’ve done itmanytimesbefore.Hepinchesmyjacketattheelbowandtugsjustslightly.Ibackuptowardhimandindulgehisprotectiveness.“So the heart’s gonna get you, then?” he asks. I forget for amoment that
we’retalkingaboutdeath.“Mostlikely,”Isay.“Whataboutyou?”“Murder.Gasstationorliquorstoreorsomeplacelikethat.Someguywitha
gunwillberobbingtheplace.I’lltrytobeaherobutdosomethingstupidlikeknock over the soda can pyramid, and that’ll freak robber guy out, andwhatwould’ve been your average stick-’em-upwill turn into a bloodbath.News ateleven.”Ilaughathim.“Soyou’regoingtodieanincompetenthero?”“I’mgoingtodietrying,”hesays,andwelaughtogether.We cross the street. “Thisway,” I tell himwhen he starts heading straight
insteadofright.“WeneedtogoovertoEighth.”Hepivotsandgrinsatmelikewe’reonanepicadventure.“Hangon,”hesays,shruggingoutofhisjacket.Itseemsweirdlyintimateto
watchashetakesitoff,soIwatchtwoveryold,verycrankyguysargueoverasingle cab a few feet fromus.There are at least three other free cabs in theimmediatevicinity.ObservableFact:Peoplearen’tlogical.“Will this fit in your backpack?” he asks, holding the jacket out tome. I
knowhe’snotaskingmetowear it, likeI’mhisgirlfriendorsomething.Still,carryinghisjacketstrikesmeasevenmoreintimatethanwatchinghimtakeitoff.“Areyousure?”Iask.“It’llgetwrinkled.”“Doesn’tmatter,”hesays.Heguidesmeofftothesidesowe’renotblocking
the other pedestrians, and suddenly we’re standing pretty close. I don’tremembernoticinghisshouldersbefore.Weretheythisbroadasecondago?Ipullmyeyesawayfromhischestanduptohisface,butthat’snotanybetterformyequilibrium.Hiseyesareevenclearerandbrownerinthesunlight.Theyarekindofbeautiful.Islipmybackpackoffmyshoulderandplace it squarelybetweenussohe
hastobackupalittle.
Hefoldsthejacketneatlyandputsitinside.His shirt is a crispwhite, and the red tie standsout evenmorewithouthis
jacket on. I wonder what he looks like in regular clothes, and what regularclothesareforhim.NodoubtjeansandaT-shirt—theuniformofallAmericanboyseverywhere.IsitthesameforJamaicanboys?Mymoodturnssomberatthethought.Idon’twanttostartoveragain.Itwas
hardenoughwhenwefirstmovedtoAmerica.Idon’twanttohavetolearntheritualsandcustomsofanewhighschool.Newfriends.Newcliques.Newdresscodes.Newhangouts.Iscootaroundhimandstartwalking.“AsianAmericanmenaremostlikely
todieofcancer,”Isay.He frowns and double-steps to catch up. “Really? I don’t like that. What
kind?”“I’mnotsure.”“Weshouldprobablyfindout,”hesays.He sayswe as if there’s some future of us together where our respective
mortalitieswillmattertoeachother.“Youreallythinkyou’lldieofheartdisease?”heasks.“Notsomethingmore
epic?”“Whocaresaboutepic?Deadisdead.”Hejuststaresatme,waitingforananswer.“Okay,”Isay.“Ican’tbelieveI’m
abouttotellyouthis.IsecretlythinkI’mgoingtodrown.”“Likeintheopenocean,savingsomeone’slifeorsomething?”“Inthedeependofahotelpool,”Isay.He stops walking and pulls me off to the side again. Amore considerate
pedestrian there’s never been. Most people just stop in the middle of thesidewalk.“Wait,”hesays.“Youcan’tswim?”Ishrinkmyheaddownintomyjacket.“No.”His eyes are searching my face and he’s laughing at me without actually
laughing.“Butyou’reJamaican.Yougrewupsurroundedbywater.”“Islandheritagenotwithstanding,Ican’tswim.”Icantellhewantstomakefunofme,butheresists.“I’llteachyou,”hesays.“When?”“Someday.Soon.CouldyouswimwhenyoulivedinJamaica?”heasks.“Yup,butthenwegothere,andinsteadoftheoceantheyhadpools.Idon’t
likechlorine.”“Youknowtheyhavesaltwaterpoolsnow.”“Thatshiphassailed,”Isay.Nowhedoesmakefunofme.“What’syourshipcalled?GirlWhoGrewUp
onanIsland,WhichIsaThingSurroundedonAllSidesbyWater,Can’tSwim?Becausethatwouldbeagoodname.”I laugh and thump him on the shoulder. He grabsmy hand and holdsmy
fingers. I trynot towishhe couldmakegoodonhispromise to teachme toswim.
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IAMASCHOLARCOMPILING theBookofNatasha.Here’swhatIknowso far:She’s a sciencegeek.She’sprobably smarter thanme.Her fingers areslightlylongerthanmineandfeelgoodinmyhands.Shelikeshermusicangsty.She’sworriedaboutsomethinghavingtodowithhermysteriousappointment.“Tellmeagainwhyyou’rewearingasuit?”sheasks.Igroanlongandloudandwithfeeling.“Let’stalkaboutGodinstead.”“Igettoaskquestionstoo,”shesays.We walk single file underneath more sidewalk scaffolding. (At any given
moment approximately 99 [give or take] percent of Manhattan is underconstruction.)“IappliedtoYale.Ihaveaninterviewwithanalumlater.”“Areyounervous?”sheasks,whenwe’residebysideagain.“IwouldbeifIgavetwoshits.”“Butyouonlygiveoneshit?”“Maybehalfashit,”Isay,laughing.“Soyourparentsaremakingyoudoit?”A sudden yelling from the street grabs our attention, but it’s only one
cabdrivershoutingatanother.“My parents are first-generation Korean immigrants,” I say by way of
explanation.Sheslowsherwalkingandlooksoveratme.“Idon’tknowwhatthatmeans,”
shesays.Ishrug.“Itmeansitdoesn’tmatterwhatIwant.I’mgoingtoYale.I’mgoing
tobeadoctor.”“Andyoudon’twantthat?”
“Idon’tknowwhatIwant,”Isay.From the lookonher face, thatwas theworst thing I could say.She turns
awayfrommeandstartswalkingfaster.“Well,youmightaswellbeadoctor,then.”“What’dIdojustnow?”Iask,catchinguptoher.Shewavesmeoff.“It’syourlife.”IfeellikeI’mclosetofailingatest.“Well,whatdoyouwanttobewhenyou
growup?”“Adatascientist,”shesays,withnohesitation.Iopenmymouth toaskWTF,butshefillsme inwithapracticedspeech.
I’mnotthefirstpersontohaveWTF’dhercareerchoice.“Data scientists analyze data, separate the noise from the signal, discern
patterns,drawconclusions,andrecommendactionsbasedontheresults.”“Arecomputersinvolved?”“Yes,ofcourse,”shesays.“There’salotofdatainthisworld.”“That’s so practical.Have you always knownwhat youwanted to be?” It’s
hardtokeeptheenvyoutofmyvoice.Shestopswalkingagain.Atthisrate,we’llnevergetwhereshe’sgoing.“This
isn’tdestiny.Ichosethiscareer.Itdidn’tchooseme.I’mnotfatedtobeadatascientist. There’s a career section in the library at school. I did research ongrowing fields in the sciences, and ta-da. No fate or destiny involved, justresearch.”“Soit’snotsomethingyou’repassionateabout?”Sheshrugsandstartswalkingagain.“Itsuitsmypersonality,”shesays.“Don’tyouwanttodosomethingyoulove?”“Why?”sheasks,likeshegenuinelydoesn’tunderstandtheappealofloving
something.“It’salonglifetospenddoingsomethingyou’reonlymehabout,”Iinsist.We
scootaroundacombinationpretzel/hotdogcartthatalreadyhasaline.Itsmellslikesauerkrautandmustard(akaheaven).Shewrinkleshernose.“It’sevenlongerifyouspenditchasingdreamsthat
cannever,evercometrue.”“Wait,”Isay.Iputmyhandonherarmtoslowherdownalittle.“Whosays
theycan’tcometrue?”This earnsmea sidewaysglance. “Please.Doyouknowhowmanypeople
wanttobeactorsorwritersorrockstars?Alot.Ninety-ninepercentofthemwon’tmakeit.Zeropointninepercentofthoseleftwillmakebarelyanymoney
doingit.Onlythelastzeropointonepercentmakeitbig.Everybodyelsejustwastestheirlivestryingtobethem.”“Areyousecretlymyfather?”Iask.“Isoundlikeafifty-year-oldKoreanman?”“Withouttheaccent.”“Well,he’sjustlookingoutforyou.Whenyou’reahappydoctormakinglots
ofmoney,you’llthankhimthatyoudidn’tbecomesomestarvingartisthatingyourdayjobanddreamingpointlesslyaboutmakingitbig.”Iwonderifsherealizeshowpassionatesheisaboutnotbeingpassionate.She turns to look at me narrow-eyed. “Please don’t tell me you’re serious
aboutthepoetrything.”“Godforbid,”Isaywithmockoutrage.We pass by aman holding a sign that says PLEASE HELP. DOWN ONMY
LUCK.Acabbieonamissionhonkslongandloudatanothercabbie,alsoonamission.“Arewereallysupposedtoknowwhatwewanttodofortherestofourlives
attheripeoldageofseventeen?”“Don’tyouwanttoknow?”sheasks.She’sdefinitelynotafanofuncertainty.“Iguess?IwishIcouldlivetenlivesatonce.”Shewavesmeoffagain.“Ugh.Youjustdon’twanttochoose.”“That’s not what I mean. I don’t want to get stuck doing something that
doesn’t mean anything to me. This track I’m on? It goes on forever. Yale.Medical school. Residency. Marriage. Children. Retirement. Nursing home.Funeralhome.Cemetery.”Maybeit’sbecauseoftheimportanceoftheday,maybeit’smeetingher,but
rightnowit’scrucialtosayexactlywhatImean.“We have big, beautiful brains. We invent things that fly. Fly. We write
poetry.Youprobablyhatepoetry,but it’shardtoarguewith ‘ShallIcomparetheetoasummer’sday?Thouartmorelovelyandmoretemperate’intermsofsheer beauty. We are capable of big lives. A big history. Why settle?Whychoosethepracticalthing,themundanething?Weareborntodreamandmakethethingswedreamabout.”ItallcomesoutmorepassionatelythanIintend,butImeaneveryword.Oureyesmeet.There’ssomethingbetweenusthatwasn’tthereaminuteago.Iwaitforhertosaysomethingflip,butshedoesn’t.Theuniversestopsandwaitsforus.Sheopensherpalmandshe’sgoingtotakemyhand.She’ssupposedtotake
myhand.We’remeanttowalkthroughthisworldtogether.Iseeitinhereyes.Wearemeanttobe.I’mcertainofthisinawayI’mnotcertainaboutanythingelse.Butshedoesn’ttakemyhand.Shewalkson.
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WEAREHAVINGAMOMENTIdon’twanttobehaving.Whentheysaytheheartwantswhatitwants,they’retalkingaboutthepoetic
heart—theheartof love songsand soliloquies, theone that canbreakas if itwerejust-formedglass.They’renottalkingabouttherealheart,theonethatonlyneedshealthyfoods
andaerobicexercise.Butthepoeticheartisnottobetrusted.Itisfickleandwillleadyouastray.It
willtellyouthatallyouneedisloveanddreams.Itwillsaynothingaboutfoodandwater and shelter andmoney. Itwill tell you that this person, the one infrontofyou,theonewhocaughtyoureyeforwhateverreason,istheOne.Andheis.Andsheis.TheOne—forrightnow,untilhisheartorherheartdecidesonsomeoneelseorsomethingelse.Thepoeticheartisnottobetrustedwithlong-termdecision-making.Iknowallthesethings.IknowthemthewayIknowthatPolaris,theNorth
Star,isnotactuallythebrighteststarinthesky—it’sthefiftieth.And still here I amwithDaniel in themiddle of the sidewalk, onwhat is
almost certainlymy lastday inAmerica.My fickle,nonpractical, non-future-considering,nonsensicalheartwantsDaniel.Itdoesn’tcarethathe’stooearnestorthathedoesn’tknowwhathewantsorthathe’sharboringdreamsofbeingapoet,aprofessionthatleadstoheartbreakandthepoorhouse.Iknowthere’snosuchthingasmeant-to-be,andyethereIamwonderingif
maybeI’vebeenwrong.Iclosemyopenpalm,whichwantstotouchhim,andIwalkon.
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ACCORDINGTOSCIENTISTS, THEREARE three stages of love: lust,attraction,andattachment.And,itturnsout,eachofthestagesisorchestratedbychemicals—neurotransmitters—inthebrain.Asyoumightexpect,lustisruledbytestosteroneandestrogen.Thesecondstage,attraction,isgovernedbydopamineandserotonin.When,
for example, couples report feeling indescribably happy in each other’spresence,that’sdopamine,thepleasurehormone,doingitswork.Taking cocaine fosters the same level of euphoria. In fact, scientists who
studyboththebrainsofnewloversandcocaineaddictsarehard-pressedtotellthedifference.The second chemical of the attraction phase is serotonin. When couples
confess that they can’t stop thinking about each other, it’s because theirserotoninlevelhasdropped.PeopleinlovehavethesamelowserotoninlevelsaspeoplewithOCD.The reason theycan’t stop thinkingabout eachother isthattheyareliterallyobsessed.Oxytocin and vasopressin control the third stage: attachment or long-term
bonding.Oxytocinisreleasedduringorgasmandmakesyoufeelclosertothepersonyou’vehadsexwith.It’salsoreleasedduringchildbirthandhelpsbondmothertochild.Vasopressinisreleasedpostcoitally.Natasha knows these facts cold. Knowing them helped her get over Rob’s
betrayal.Sosheknows:loveisjustchemicalsandcoincidence.SowhydoesDanielfeellikesomethingmore?
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THEREAREEXACTLYNOITEMSon the listof things Iwant todo lessthangotomyinterview.Andyet.It’salmostelevena.m.,andifI’mgoingtogotothisthingthenIneedtogetgone.NatashaandIhavebeenwalkingalonginsilenceeversinceTheMoment.I
wishIcouldsayit’sacomfortablesilence,butitisn’t.Iwanttotalktoheraboutit—TheMoment—butwhoknowsifsheevenfeltit.Nowaydoesshebelieveinthatstuff.MidtownManhattanisdifferentfromwherewefirstmet.Moreskyscrapers
andfewersouvenirshops.Thepeopleactdifferenttoo.They’renottouristsoutforpleasureor shopping.There’snoexcitementorgawkingor smiling.Thesepeopleworkintheseskyscrapers.I’mprettysuremyappointmentissomewhereinthisneighborhood.Wekeepwalkingandnot talkinguntilweget toagiantconcreteandglass
monstrosity of a building. It amazes me that people spend their entire daysinsideplaceslikethisdoingthingstheydon’tloveforpeopletheydon’tlike.Atleastbeingadoctorwillbebetterthanthat.“ThisiswhereI’mgoing,”shesays.“I can wait for you out here,” I say, like a person who doesn’t have an
appointmentthatwilldeterminehisfutureinjustoveranhour.“Daniel,” she says, using the stern voice she’s sure to use on our future
children (she’lldefinitelybe thedisciplinarian). “Youhavean interviewand Ihavethis…thing.Thisiswherewesaygoodbye.”She’sright.Imaynotwantthefuturemyparentshaveplannedforme,butI
don’thaveanybetterideas.IfIstayheremuchlonger,mytrainwillderailfromitstrack.It occurs to me that maybe that’s what I want. Maybe all the things I’m
feeling for Natasha are just excuses to make it derail. After all, my parentswouldneverapprove.NotonlyisshenotKorean,sheisblack.There’snofuturehere.Thatandthefactthatmyextremelikeforherisclearlyunrequited.Andlove
isnotloveifit’snotrequited,right?Ishouldgo.I’mgoingtogo.I’mgettinggone.“You’reright,”Isay.She’s surprised, andmaybe even a little disappointed, but what difference
doesthatmake?Shehastowantthis,andclearlyshedoesnot.
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I WASN’T EXPECTING HIM to say that, and I didn’t expect to feeldisappointed,butIdo.WhyamIthinkingaboutromancewithaboyI’llneverseeagain?Myfuturegetsdecidedinfiveminutes.We’restandingcloseenoughtothebuilding’sslidingglassdoorsthatthecool
oftheair-conditioningwashesovermyskinaspeopleenterandexit.Hesticksouthishandforashakebutquicklypullsitback.“Sorry,”hesays,
andblushes.Hefoldshisarmsacrosshischest.“Well,I’mgoing,”Isay.“You’regoing,”hesays,andthenneitherofusmoves.WestandtherenotsayinganythingforanotherfewsecondsuntilIremember
I stillhavehis jacket inmybackpack. I take itoutandwatchashe shrugs itbackon.“Inthatsuit,youlooklikeyoushouldworkinthisbuilding,”Isaytohim.Imeanitasacompliment,buthedoesn’ttakeitasone.Hetugsathistieandgrimaces.“MaybeIwilloneday.”“Well,”Isayaftermorestaring-and-not-talking.“Thisisgettingawkward.”“Shouldwejusthug?”“Ithoughtyousuitsonlyshookhands.”I’mtryingtokeepmytonelight,but
myvocalcordsgoallhuskyandweird.Hesmilesanddoesn’ttrytokeepanyofthesadnessoffhisface.Howcanhe
besookaywithshowingoffhisheart?Ihavetolookawayfromhim.Idon’twantwhateverishappeningbetweenus
tohappen,butitfeelsliketryingtostoptheweatherfromhappening.Thedoorsopenandthecoolairwashesovermyskinagain.I’mhotandcold
atthesametime.Iopenmyarmsforahugatthesamemomenthedoes.We
try tohugeachotherfromthesamesideandendupbumpingchests instead.Welaughawkwardlyandstopmoving.“I’mgoingtogoright,”hesays.“Yougoleft.”“Okay,”Isay,andgoleft.Heholdsme,andsincewe’rebothaboutthesame
heightmyfacebrushesagainsthischeek,whichissoftandsmoothandwarm.Ilet my head drop onto his shoulder andmy body relaxes in his arms. For aminute,I letmyselffeelhowtiredIam.It’shardtryingtoholdontoaplacethatdoesn’twantyou.ButDanieldoeswantme.Ifeelitinthewayheholdsmetight.Ipulloutofhisarmsanddon’tmeethiseyes.Hedecidesnottosaywhateverhewasgoingtosay.Igetoutmyphoneandcheckthetime.“Timetogo,”hesays,beforeIcansayitfirst.Iturnandwalkintothecoldbuilding.IthinkabouthimasIsigninwithsecurity.IthinkabouthimasIcrossthe
lobbyfloor. I thinkabouthim in theelevatoranddown the longhallwayandeverymomentuntilthemomentthatIhavetostopthinkingabouthim,whenIentertheoffice.Theconstructionnoises Iheardover thephoneearlierwereactuallydue to
construction, because the office is only halfway built. The walls are partlypainted, and bare bulbs hang from the ceiling. Sawdust and paint splotchescoverthetarpedfloor.Behindthedesk,awomansitswithbothhandsrestingonherofficephone,asifshe’swillingittoring.Despiteherbrightredlipstickand rose-rouged cheeks, she’s verypale.Herhair is deepblack andperfectlystyled. Something about her doesn’t seem quite real. She seems like she’splayingapart—anextra fromanold-schoolDisneycartoonor fromaperiodmoviesetinthe1950sthatcalledforsecretaries.Herdeskisneat,withcolor-codedstacksoffiles.There’samugthatsaysPARALEGALSDOITCHEAPER.Shesmilesasad,tremblingsmileasIapproach.“DoIhavetherightplace?”Iaskoutloud.Shestaresatmemutely.“IsthisAttorneyFitzgerald’soffice?”Iprompt.“You’reNatasha,”shesays.ShemustbethepersonIspokewithearlier.Iapproachthedesk.“Ihave somebadnews,” she says.Mystomachclenches. I’mnot readyfor
whatshe’sgoingtosay.Is itoverbeforeit’sevenbegun?Hasmyfatealreadybeendecided?AmIreallybeingdeportedtonight?
Amaninpaint-splatteredoverallswalksinandstartsdrilling.SomeoneelseIcan’t see begins hammering. Shedoesn’t changeher volume to adjust for thenoise.Imoveevenclosertothedesk.“Jeremy—AttorneyFitzgerald—wasinacaraccidentanhourago.He’sstill
inthehospital.Hiswifesayshe’sfine,justafewbruises.Buthewon’tbebackuntillatethisafternoon.”Hervoicesoundsnormal,buthereyesareanythingbut.Shepullsthephone
alittlecloserandlooksatitinsteadofme.“Butwe have an appointment now.”Mywhine is uncharitable, but I can’t
helpit.“Ireallyneedhimtohelpme.”Nowshedoeslookatme,eyeswideandincredulous.“Didn’tyouhearwhatI
said?Hewashitbyacar.Hecan’tbehererightnow.”Shepushesasheafofformsatmeanddoesn’tlookatmeagain.It takesme at least fifteenminutes to fill out the paperwork.On the first
form,IanswerseveralvariationsonthequestionsofwhetherI’macommunist,acriminal,oraterroristandwhetherIwouldtakeuparmstodefendtheUnitedStates.Iwouldnot,butstillIchecktheboxthatsaysyes.Another form asks for details about what’s happened in the deportation
processsofar.Thefinalformisaclientquestionnairethatasksmetogiveafullaccounting
ofmytimein theUnitedStates. Idon’tknowwhat tosay. Idon’tknowwhatAttorneyFitzgeraldis lookingfor.Doeshewanttoknowhowweenteredthecountry?Howwe hid?How it feels every time I write downmy fake socialsecurity number on a school form?How every time I do, I picturemymomgettingonthatbustoFlorida?Does he want to know how it feels to be undocumented? Or how I keep
waitingforsomeonetofindoutIdon’tbelonghereatall?Probablynot.He’s lookingforfacts,notphilosophy,soIwrite themdown.
WetraveledtoAmericaonatouristvisa.Whenitcametimeforustoleave,westayed. We have not left the country since. We have committed no crimes,exceptformydad’sDUI.I hand her back the forms and she flips immediately to the client
questionnaire.“Youneedmorehere,”shesays.“Likewhat?”“WhatdoesAmericameantoyou?Whydoyouwanttostay?Howwillyou
contributetomakingAmericagreater?”“Isthatreally—”“AnythingJeremycanusetohumanizeyouwillhelp,”shesays.
IfpeoplewhowereactuallybornherehadtoprovetheywereworthyenoughtoliveinAmerica,thiswouldbeamuchlesspopulatedcountry.She flips through my other forms as I write about what a hardworking,
optimistic,patrioticcitizenIwouldbe.IwritethatAmericaismyhomeinmyheart, and how citizenshipwill legalizewhat I already feel. I belong here. Inshort, I am more sincere than I’m ever comfortable being. Daniel would beproudofme.Daniel.He’sprobablyonatrainonhiswaytohisappointment.Willhedotheproper
thing and become a doctor after all?Will he think ofme in the future andremember the girl he spent two hours with one day in New York?Will hewonderwhateverhappenedtome?Maybehe’lldoaGooglesearchusingonlymyfirstnameandnotgetveryfar.Morelikely,though,he’llforgetaboutmebythisevening,asIwillcertainlyforgetabouthim.Thephone rings as Iwrite, and she grabs it before it has a chance to ring
twice.“OhmyGod, Jeremy.Are you all right?” She closes her eyes, cradles the
phonewithbothhands,andpressesitclosetoherface.“Iwantedtocome,butyourwifesaidIshouldholddownthefort.”Hereyesflickopenwhenshesaysthewordwife.“Areyousureyou’reokay?”Themoreshelistens,thebrightershebecomes.
Herfaceflushesandhereyesshinewithhappytears.She’s so obviously in lovewith him I expect to see heart bubbles floating
aroundtheroom.Aretheyhavinganaffair?“Iwantedtocome,”shewhispersagain.Afteraseriesofmurmuredokays,
shehangsupthephone.“He’sallright.”Shebeams.Herwholebodyisaglowwithrelief.“That’sgreat,”Isay.Shetakestheformsfrommyhands.Iwaitasshereadsthroughthem.“Wouldyouliketohearsomegoodnews?”sheasks.OfcourseIwould.Inodslowly.“I’veseenlotsofcaseslikethis,andIthinkyou’llbeokay.”Idon’tknowwhatIwasexpectinghertosay,butcertainlynotthis.“Youreallythinkhe’llbeabletohelp?”Icanhearthehopeandskepticismin
myownvoice.“Jeremy never loses,” she says, so proudly that she could be talking about
herself.
But of course, that can’t be true. Everyone loses something sometime. Ishouldaskhertobemoreprecise, togivemeanexactwin/lossratiosoIcandecidehowtofeel.“There’shope,”shesayssimply.Even though I hate poetry, a poem I read for English class pops intomy
head.“Hope”isthethingwithfeathers.Iunderstandconcretelywhatthatmeansnow.Somethinginsidemychestwantstoflyout,wantstosingandlaughanddancewithrelief.Ithankherandleavetheofficequickly,beforeIcanaskhersomethingthat
takesawaythisfeeling.UsuallyIfallonthesideofknowingthetruth,evenifthetruthisbad.It’snottheeasiestwayofbeing.Sometimesthetruthcanhurtmorethanyouexpect.A fewweeksagomyparentswerearguing in theirbedroomwith thedoor
closed. It was one of those rare occasionswhenmymom actually got angrywithmydadtohisface.Peterfoundmeeavesdroppingoutsidetheirdoor.Aftertheyweredonearguing,IaskedhimifhewantedtoknowwhatI’dheard,buthedidn’t.Hesaidhecouldtell thatwhateverI learnedwasbad,andhedidn’treallywant anybadness in his life just then.At the time Iwas annoyedwithhim.ButlaterIthoughtmaybehe’dbeenright.IwishedIcouldunhearwhatI’doverheard.Backinthehallway,Ileanmyforeheadagainstthewallandhesitate.Idebate
goingback into the office to press her formoredetails but decide against it.Whatgoodwillitdo?Imightaswellwaitfortheofficialwordfromthelawyer.Besides,I’mtiredofworrying.Iknowthatwhatshesaidisnotaguarantee.ButI need to feel something other than resigned dread.Hope seems like a goodsubstitute.I consider callingmyparents to tell themabout this newdevelopment, but
thenIdon’tdo thateither. Ihavenonewinformation toshare.WhatwouldIsay? Aman I don’t know has sent me to see another man I don’t know. Aparalegal,whoisnotalawyer,whomIalsodon’tknow,sayseverythingmightbeallright.What’stheuseingettingallourhopesup?The person I really want to talk to is Daniel, but he’s long gone to his
interview.IwishI’dbeennicertohim.IwishI’dgottenhisphonenumber.Whatifthisimmigrationnonsenseresolvesitself?IfIgettostay,howwillI
findhimagain?BecausenomatterhowmuchIpretendeditdidn’texist,therewassomethingbetweenus.Somethingbig.
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HANNAHHASALWAYSTHOUGHTOF herself as living in a fairy talewhere she’s not the star. She’s neither the princess nor the fairy godmother.Neither the high, evil witch nor her familiar. Hannah is a minor character,illustrated for the first time on page twelve or thirteen. The cook, perhaps,presiding over crumpets and sugarplums. Or maybe she’s the handmaiden,good-naturedandjustoutofview.Itwasn’t until shemet and startedworking forAttorney JeremyFitzgerald
that she imagined shecouldbecome the star. Inhimshe recognizedherOneTrueLove.HerHappily-Ever-After.Thisdespite thefact thatheisamarriedman.Despitethefactthathe’safathertotwoyoungchildren.Hannahneverbelievedhewouldloveherbackuntilthedayhedidjustthat.Thatdayistoday.
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JEREMYFITZGERALDwascrossingthestreetwhenadrunkanddistraughtman—aninsuranceactuary—inawhiteBMWhithimattwentymilesperhour.Theblowwasn’tenoughtokillhim,butitwasenoughtomakehimconsiderhiseventualdeathandhiscurrentlife.Itwasenoughtomakehimadmittohimselfthathewasinlovewithhisparalegal,HannahWinter,andthathehadbeenforsometimenow.Atsomepoint later today,whenhereturns tohisoffice,hewillwordlessly
takeHannahintohisarms.Hewillholdherandwonder,verybriefly,aboutthefuturethatlovingherwillcosthim.
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AreaTeenagerChoosesPoorlyMymother,thepacifist,wouldkillmedeadifsheknewwhatI’djustdone.I
rescheduledmy interview.For a girl.Not even aKoreangirl, a blackgirl.AblackgirlIdon’treallyknow.AblackgirlIdon’treallyknow,whomightnotevenlikeme.Thewomanon thephonesaidmy timingwasperfect.She’dbeenabout to
callmetorescheduleaswell.TheonlyappointmentIcouldgetisforlateintheday, 6 p.m., so here I am in the lobby of the buildingwhere I leftNatasha,readingthedirectoryandkeepinganeyeoutforher.Mostofthetenantsofthisbuildingare lawyers (J.D.,Esq.)andaccounting types (CPA,CFA,etc.). I’venever seen somany degree abbreviations inmy life.Daniel JaeHoBae, FB(FoolishBoy),DTF(DoomedtoFailure).Whatappointmentcouldshepossiblyhave in thisbuilding?Either she’san
heiresswithmoneytoinvest,orshe’sintroubleandneedsalawyertohelpher.Acrossthelobby,theelevatordoorsopenandshewalksout.WhenIwasreschedulingmyappointment,apartofmewondered if Iwas
beingridiculous.AgirlI’vejustmetisn’tworthjeopardizingmyfutureover.ItwaseasiertohavethatthoughtwhenIwasn’tlookingather,becausenowIcan’trememberwhyIhesitatedatall.Ofcourseshe’sworthit.AndIcan’texplainit.Yes,she’spretty.Thecombinationofherbighairandbrightblackeyesand
fullpink lips isundeniablycute.Also,shehas thenicest legs thatexist in theknownworld(Imovedthemuptonumberonefromnumberthreeaftercarefulstudy—I’m being objective here). So yes, I’m definitely attracted to her, butthere’s something else too, and I’m not just saying that because she has thenicestlegsintheknownuniverse.Objectivelyspeaking.
Iwatchasshemakesherwayacrossthelobby.She’slookingaround,tryingtofindsomethingorsomeone.Hershouldersliterallysagwhenshedoesn’tfindit.She’sgottabelookingforme,right?Unlessshemetanotherpotentialloveofherlifeinthethirtyminutesshewasawayfromme.Outside,shedoesaslow360onewayandthenaslower360theotherway.
Whoevershe’slookingforisstillnotthere.
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HE’SNOTINTHELOBBY,andhe’snotoutsideinthecourtyard.Ihavetoadmitthathe’snothereandthatIwantedhimtobe.Mystomachfeelsalittlehollow,likeI’mhungry,butfoodisnotwhatIwant.Theday’sgottenwarmer.Itakeoffmyjacket,folditovermyforearm,and
standtheretryingtodecidewhattodonext.I’mreluctanttoleave,andreluctanttoadmittomyselfthatIdon’twanttoleave.It’snotthatIthinkweweremeantto be or anything ridiculous like that.But itwould’vebeennice to spend thenext few hours with him. Itmight’ve been nice to go on a date with him. Iwould’velikedtoknowifheblusheswhenhekisses.ThisisthelastplaceIsawhim.IfI leave,thenIhavenochanceofseeing
himagain.Iwonderhowhisinterviewisgoing.Ishesayingtherightthings,orishelettingallhisdoubtandexistentialangstshinethrough?Theboyneedsalifecoach.I’mabouttogowhensomethingmakesmetakeafinallookaround.Iknow
it’s not possible to feel a specific person’s presence. More than likely mysubconsciousspottedhimasIwaswalkingthroughthelobby.Peopleusepoeticlanguage to describe things they don’t understand.Usually there’s a scientificexplanationifyouonlylookforit.Anyway,thereheis.Heishere.
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SHE’SWALKINGTOWARDME.AcoupleofhoursagoIwould’vesaidthatherfacewasexpressionless,butI’mbecomingaNatashaexpert,andherfaceisonlytryingtobeexpressionless.IfIhadtoguess,Iwouldsaythatshe’shappytoseeme.“Whathappenedtoyourinterview?”sheasksassoonasshe’scloseenough.Nohug.No“I’msohappytoseeyou.”MaybeI’mnotsuchaNatashaexpert
afterall.DoIgowiththefactsorthetruth(curiously,thesearenotalwaysthesame)?
Thefactis,Ipostponed.Thetruthis,IpostponedsoIcouldspendmoretimewithher.Igowiththetruth:“IpostponedsoIcouldspendmoretimewithyou.”“Areyouinsane?Thisisyourlifewe’retalkingabout.”“Ididn’tburnthebuildingtotheground,Tash.Ijustmovedituntillater.”“WhoisTash?”sheasks,butthere’sasmileatthecornerofherlips.“Howdidyour thinggo?”Ipointmychin in thedirectionof theelevators.
Hersmilegoesaway.Notetoself:Donotbringthisupagain.“Fine.Ihavetocomebackatthree-thirty.”Ilookatmyphone:11:35a.m.“Lookslikewehavemoretimetogether,”I
say.Iexpecthertorollhereyes,butshedoesn’t.Itakeitasasmallvictory.Sheshiversalittleandrubsherhandsdownherforearms.Icanseethegoose
bumpsonherskin,andnowI’velearnedanotherthingabouther:shegetscoldeasily.Itakeherjacketandhelpherintoit.Sheslidesonearminandthentheother,andthenshrugstoadjusttheshoulders.Ihelpherwiththecollar.It’sasmallthing.I letmyhandrestonthebackofherneck,andsheleans
back intome just slightly.Her hair ticklesmynose. It’s a small thing, but it
feelslikesomethingwe’vebeendoingforalongtimenow.Sheturns,andIhavetoliftmyhandssoIdon’ttouchhermoreintimately.
Whereverwe’regoing,we’renotthereyet.“Areyousureyou’renotjeopardizing—”shebegins.“Idon’tactuallycare.”“Youshouldcare.”Shestops talkingand looksupatmewithrestlesseyes.
“Youdiditforme?”“Yes.”“WhatmakesyousosureI’mworthit?”“Instinct,”Isay.Idon’tknowwhatitisaboutherthatmakesmefearlesswith
thetruth.Hereyeswidenandsheshiversslightly.“You’reimpossible,”shesays.“It’spossible,”Isay.Shelaughs,andherblackeyessparkleatme.“Whatshouldwedonow?”she
asks.IneedtogetmyhaircutandIneedtogetthepouchanddepositslipstomy
dad.Iwanttodoneitherofthesethings.WhatIwanttodoisfindsomeplacecozyandcozyupwithher.But.Thepouchneedstobedelivered.Iaskherifshe’s up for a trip toHarlem and she agrees.Really, this is the absolute lastthingI shouldbedoing. If thereareworse ideas than this, Idon’tknowwhatthey are.My dad’s just going to freak her out. She’s going tomeet him andimaginethathe’swhatI’llbelikeinfiftyyears,andthenshe’llgoflyingforthehillsbecausethat’swhatIwoulddoinherplace.My dad’s a weird guy. I say weird but what I mean is epically fucking
strange.First,hedoesn’treally talktoanyoneexceptcustomers.This includesmeandCharlie.Unlessberatingcountsastalking.Ifberatingcounts,thenhe’ssaidmoretoCharliethispastsummerandfallthanhehasinnineteenyears.Imaybeexaggerating,butonlyslightly.I don’t know how I’m going to explain Natasha to him or Charlie. Well,
Charlie I don’t really care about, but my dad will notice her. He’ll knowsomething’sup in the samewayhealwaysknowswhichcustomer is going toshopliftorwho’sgoodforanIOUandwho’snot.Later tonight at dinner, he’ll say something to mymom in Korean in the
voiceheusestocomplainaboutAmericans.Idon’treallywanteitheroftheminvolvedinthisyet.We’renotreadyforthatkindofpressure.Natasha says that all families are strange, and it’s true. I’ll have to ask her
moreaboutherfamilylaterafterwedothisthing.Wedescendintothesubway.
HARLEM ISONLYA TWENTY-FIVE-MINUTE subway ride fromwherewewere,but it’s likewe’vegone toadifferentcountry.Theskyscrapershavebeen replaced by small, closely packed stores with bright awnings. The airsmellsbrighter,lesslikeacityandmorelikeaneighborhood.Almosteveryoneonthestreetisblack.Danieldoesn’tsayanythingaswewalkalongMartinLutherKingBoulevard
towardhisparents’store.HeslowsdownwhenwepassbyanemptystorefrontwithahugeFORRENT signandapawnshopwithagreenawning.Finallywestopinfrontofablackhaircareandbeautysupplystore.It’scalledBlackHairCare.I’vebeenintolotsofthese.“Godownthestreet
tothebeautysupplyandpickupsomerelaxerforme,”saysmymothereverytwomonthsorso.It’sathing.Everyoneknowsit’sathinghowalltheblackhaircareplacesare
ownedbyKoreansandwhataninjusticethatis.Idon’tknowwhyIdidn’tthinkofitwhenDanielsaidtheyownedastore.I can’t see inside because the windows are covered with old, sun-faded
postersofsmilingandsuitedblackwomenallwiththesamechemicallytreatedhairstyle. Apparently—according to these posters, at least—only certainhairstylesareallowedtoattendboardmeetings.Evenmymomisguiltyofthiskindof sentiment. Shewasn’t happywhen I decided towear anAfro, sayingthatit isn’tprofessional-looking.ButI likemybigAfro.Ialsolikedwhenmyhairwaslongerandrelaxed.I’mhappytohavechoices.They’reminetomake.Nexttome,Danielissonervoushe’svibrating.Iwonderifit’sbecauseI’m
going tomeet his dad, or because of the politics of his parents’ owning thisstore.Hefacesmeandtugshistiefromsidetoside,asifit’sbeentootightthiswholetime.
“Somydad’s really—”Hestopsandstartsagain. “Andmybrother’s really—”Hiseyesareeverywhereexceptonmineandhisvoice isstrained,probably
becausehe’stryingtospeakwithoutbreathing.“Maybe you could just wait out here,” he says, finally getting an entire
sentenceout.AtfirstIdon’treallythinkanythingofit.Ifigureeveryone’sembarrassedby
theirfamily.I’membarrassedaboutmine.Well,myfather,atleast.InDaniel’splace,I’ddothesamething.Mycheatingex,Rob,nevermetmyfather.Itwasjust easier. No listening to my father’s too-thick, fake American accent. Nowatchinghim try to findanopening sohecan talk abouthimself andall hisplansforthefutureandhowhe’sgoingtobefamousoneday.We’restandingjust infrontof thestorewhentwoblackteenagegirlswalk
outlaughingwitheachother.Anotherwoman,alsoblack,walksin.It occurs tome thatmaybe he’s not embarrassed about his family.Maybe
he’sembarrassedaboutme.Ormaybehe’safraidhisparentswillbeashamedofme.Idon’tknowwhyIdidn’tthinkofthisbefore.America’snotreallyameltingpot.It’smorelikeoneofthosedividedmetal
plateswithseparatesectionsforstarch,meat,andveggies. I’mlookingathimand he’s still not looking at me. Suddenly we’re having a moment I didn’texpect.
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IN FIFTEENTH-CENTURY AFRICAN CIVILIZATIONS, hairstyles weremarkers of identity. Hairstyle could indicate everything from tribe or familybackground to religion to social status. Elaborate hairstyles designated powerand wealth. A subdued style could be a sign that you were in a state ofmourning.Morethanthat,haircouldhavespiritualimportance.Becauseit’sonyour head—the highest part of your body and closest to the skies—manyAfricansvieweditasapassagewayforspiritstothesoul,awaytointeractwithGod.That history was erased with the dawn of slavery. On slave ships, newly
capturedAfricanswereforciblyshavedinaprofoundactofdehumanization,anactthateffectivelyseveredthelinkbetweenhairandculturalidentity.Postslavery, African American hair took on complex associations. “Good”
hairwas seen as anything closer toEuropean standardsofbeauty.Goodhairwasstraightandsmooth.Curly,texturedhair,thenaturalhairofmanyAfricanAmericans,wasseenasbad.Straighthairwasbeautiful.Tightlycurledhairwasugly.Intheearly1900s,MadamC.J.Walker,anAfricanAmerican,becameamillionaire by inventing and marketing hair care products to black women.Most famously, she improved on the design of the “hot comb,” a device forstraighteninghair. In the1960s,GeorgeE. Johnsonmarketed the“relaxer,”achemical product used to straighten otherwise curly African American hair.According tosomeestimates, theblackhaircare industry isworthmore thanonebilliondollarsannually.Sincepostslaverydaysandthroughtomoderntimes,debatehasragedinthe
AfricanAmerican community.What does it mean to wear your hair naturalversus straightened? Is straightening your hair a form of self-hatred?Does itmeanyouthinkyourhairinitsnaturalstateisnotbeautiful?Ifyouwearyour
hairnaturally,areyoumakingapoliticalstatement,claimingblackpower?ThewayAfricanAmericanwomenweartheirhairhasoftenbeenaboutmuchmorethan vanity. It’s been aboutmore than just an individual’s notion of her ownbeauty.WhenNatashadecidestowearhersinanAfro,it’snotbecauseshe’saware
ofall thishistory.Shedoes itdespitePatriciaKingsley’sassertions thatAfrosmakewomen lookmilitantandunprofessional.Thoseassertionsare rooted infear—fearthatherdaughterwillbeharmedbyasocietythatstillsooftenfearsblackness. Patricia also doesn’t raise her other objection: Natasha’s newhairstyle feels like a rejection. She’s been relaxing her own hair all her life.She’drelaxedNatasha’ssinceshewastenyearsold.ThesedayswhenPatricialooks at her daughter, she doesn’t see as much of herself reflected back asbefore,andithurts.Butofcourse,allteenagersdothis.Allteenagersseparatefromtheirparents.Togrowupistogrowapart.IttakesthreeyearsforNatasha’snaturalhairtogrowinfully.Shedoesn’tdo
ittomakeapoliticalstatement.Infact,shelikedhavingherhairstraight.Inthefuture, shemaymake it straight again. She does it because shewants to trysomethingnew.Shedoesitsimplybecauseitlooksbeautiful.
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AreaBoyIsasBiganAssholeasHisBrother“Maybeyoucouldjustwaitouthere,” Isaid, likeI’mashamedofher, like
I’mtryingtokeepherhidden.Myregretisinstantaneous.Nowaitingforafewminutestorealizethefullimpactofmywords.Nope.Nope.Nope.Immediateandall-consuming.Andoncethey’reout,Ican’tbelieveIsaidthem.IsthiswhatI’mmadeof?
Nothing?I’mabiggerassholethanCharlie.Ican’tlookather.HereyesareonmyfaceandIcan’tlookather.Iwantthat
timemachine.Iwantthelastminuteback.Ifuckedup.Ifit’sgoingtobeDanielandNatasha,thendealingwithmydad’sracismis
onlythebeginning.ButsheandIarejustatthebeginning,andIjustdon’twanttohave todealwithhimrightnow. Iwant todo theeasy thing,not the rightthing.Iwanttofallinlove,withanemphasisonthefallingpart.Noobstacles in theway, please.Noone needs to get bruised up falling in
love.Ijustwanttofallthewayeverybodyelsegetsto.
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I’LLBEFINE.I’llbefinewaitinghere.Iunderstand.ReallyIdo.Butthere’spartofme,the
partthatdoesn’tbelieveinGodortruelove,thatreallywantshimtoprovemewrong about not believing in those things. I want him to choose me. Eventhoughit’swaytooearlyinthehistoryofus.Eventhoughit’snotwhatIwoulddo.Iwanthimtobeasnobleashefirstseemedtobe,butofcoursehe’snot.Nobodyis.SoIlethimoffhisownhook.“Don’tworrysomuch,”Isay.“I’llwait.”
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WHENYOU’REBORN,THEY(Godorlittlealiensorwhoever)shouldsendyou into theworldwithabunchof freepasses.ADo-Over,aRainCheck,aTake-Backsie,aGetOutofJailFreeCard.IwouldusemyDo-Overnow.IlookupatherandrealizesheknowsexactlywhatI’mgoingthrough.She’ll
understandifIjustgoinsideandhandoverthepouchandcomebackoutside.ThenwecanjustcontinueonourwayandIwon’thavetohaveany“Whowasthat girl?” conversations later withmy dad. No “Once you go black” cracksfrom Charlie. This little weirdness will be a small hiccup on our road togreatness,toepiccoupledom.ButIcan’tdoit.Ican’tleaveherouthere.Partlybecauseit’stherightthing
todo.ButmostlybecausesheandIarenotreallyatthebeginning.“CanItrythatagain?”Iask,deployingmyDo-Over.ShesmilessobigthatIknowthatwhateverhappenswillbeworthit.
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ABELLCHIMESASSOONasweenter.It’slikeeveryotherbeautysupplystore I’ve ever been in. It’s small and crammed with rows of metal shelvesoverflowingwithplasticbottlespromising that their secret formula isbest foryourhair,skin,etc.Thecashregister is rightacrossfromtheentrance, so I seehisfather right
away.ImmediatelyIknowwhereDanielgetshisgoodlooks.Hisdadisolderand balding, but he has the same sharp bone structure and perfectlysymmetrical face that make Daniel so attractive. He’s busy ringing up acustomer and doesn’t acknowledge Daniel at all, though I’m sure he saw usboth.Thecustomerisaboyaroundmyage,blackwithshortpurplehair,threeliprings,onenosering,aneyebrowring,andtoomanyearringstocount.Iwanttoseewhathe’sbuying,butit’salreadybagged.Danielpullsthepouchfromhissuitpocketandstartstowalkover.Hisdad
giveshimabriefglance.I’mnotsurewhatwascommunicated,butDanielstopsmovingandsighs.“Youneedtogotothebathroomoranything?”heasks.“There’soneinthe
back.”Ishakemyhead.Hestranglesthepouchwithhishands.“Well,thisisit.Thisisthestore.”“Wanttoshowmearound?”Iasktohelpdistracthim.“Not much to see. First three aisles are for hair. Shampoo, conditioner,
extensions, dyes, lots of chemical things I don’t understand. Aisle three ismakeup.Aislefourisequipment.”Heglancesathisdad,buthe’sstillbusy.“Doyouneedsomething?”heasks.Itouchmyhair.“No,I—”
“Ididn’tmeanaproduct.Wehaveafridgeinthebackwithsodaandstuff.”“Sure,”Isay.Iliketheideaofseeingbehindthescenes.We walk down the hair dye aisle. All the boxes feature broadly smiling
womenwiththemostperfectlycoloredandstyledhair.It’snothairdyebeingsoldinthesebottles,it’shappiness.Istopinfrontofagroupofboxeswithbrightlycoloreddyesandpickupa
pink one. There’s a very small, secret, impractical part of me that’s alwayswantedpinkhair.IttakesDanielafewsecondstorealizethatI’vestoppedwalking.“Pink?”heasks,whenheseestheboxinmyhand.Iwiggleitathim.“Whynot?”“Doesn’tseemlikeyourstyle.”Of course he’s completely right, but I hate that he thinks so. Am I too
predictable and boring? I think back to the boy I saw when we entered thestore.Ibethekeepseveryoneguessing.“Showshowmuchyouknow,” I say, andpatmyhair.His eyes followmy
hand, and now I’m really self-conscious and hoping he’s not going to ask totouchmyhairorabunchofdumbquestionsaboutit.NotthatIdon’twanthimtotouchmyhair,becauseIdo—justnotasacuriosity.“IthinkyouwouldlookbeautifulwithagiantpinkAfro,”hesays.Sincerityissexy,andmycynicalheartnotices.“Thewholethingwouldn’tbepink.Maybejusttheends.”Hereachesforthebox,sonowwe’rebothholdingitandfacingeachotherin
anaislethatreallyonlyhasenoughspaceforone.“Itwouldlooklikestrawberryfrosting,”hesays.Withhisotherhandhepulls
afewstrandsofmyhairthroughhisfingers,andIfindthatIdon’tmind,notonelittlebit.“Oh,look.My.Little.Brotherishere,”saysavoicefromtheendoftheaisle.
Danieljerkshishandfrommyhair.Webothletgoofthedyeatthesametime,andtheboxclatterstothefloor.Danielbendstopickitup.Iturntofaceourinterloper.He’s taller andbroader thanDaniel.Onhis face, the familybone structure
seems even sharper. He rests the broom he was holding against a shelf andsauntersdowntheaisletowardus.Hiswide,darkeyesarefilledwithcuriosityandakindofmischievousglee.I’mnotsureIlikehim.Danielstandsupandhandsthedyebacktome.
“What’sup,Charlie?”heasks.“The.Sky. Is.Up.Little brother,” saysCharlie. I get the feelinghe’s been
usingthatphrasethatsamewayforalltheirlives.He’slookingatmeashesaysit,andhisfaceismoresneerthansmile.“Who.Is.This?”heasks,stillonlylookingatme.Nexttome,Danieltakesadeepbreathandreadieshimselftosaysomething,
butIjumpin.“I’mNatasha.”Hestaresatmeasiftheremustbemoretosay.“Afriendof
yourbrother’s,”Icontinue.“Oh, I thought maybe he’d caught a shoplifting customer.” His face is a
parodyof innocence.“Wegeta lotof thoseinastore likethis.”Hiseyesarelaughingandmean.“I’msureyouunderstand.”Idefinitelydon’tlikehim.“Jesus Christ, Charlie,” Daniel says. He takes a step toward Charlie but I
grabhishand.Hestopsandlinkshisfingerswithmineandsqueezes.Charliemakesabigshowoflookingdownatourjoinedhandsandthenback
upatus.“IsthiswhatIthinkitis?Isitlooooove,Little.Brother?”Heclapshishands
togetherwithaloudsmackanddoesalaughingtwo-stepdance.“This.Is.Great.Yes.Youknowwhatthismeans,don’tyou?Alltheheatwill
beoffme.Whenthe’rentsfindoutaboutthis,I’llbeaBoyScoutagain.Fuckacademicprobation.”He’s laughing loudly now and rubbing his palms together, like a villain
detailinghisplansforworlddomination.“Wow.You’reanasshole,”Isay,unabletohelpmyself.HesmilesasifI’vepaidhimacompliment.Butthesmiledoesn’tlastlong.He looks at our hands again and then atDaniel. “You’re such a punk,” he
says.“Whereareyougonnagowiththis?”IsqueezeDaniel’shandtighterandpullittomyside.IwanttoproveCharlie
wrong.“Doyourthingandlet’sgetoutofhere,”Isay.Henods,andweturnaway—andwalkright intohisfather. Ipullmyhand
from his at the same time he’s lettingmine go, but it’s too late. His father’salreadyseenus.
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GiantBagofDicksMasqueradesasTeenageBoy,FoolsExactlyNoOneCharlieisagiantbagofdicksthatI’dliketolightonfire.Iwanttohithimin
hisperfectlysmugface.It’snotanewemotionforme,sinceI’vewantedtodoitsinceIwasten,butthistimehe’sfinallygonetoofar.I’mthinkinghowgooditwill feel to break my hand on his face, but I’m also focused on the feel ofNatasha’shandinmine.I need to get her out of here beforemy family derailsmy life just as it’s
gettingstarted.“Whatareyoudoing?”myfatherasksinKorean.I decide to ignore the question he’s really asking. Instead, I hold out the
pouchforhimtotake.“Mom said I had to bring you this.” I say it inEnglish soNatasha doesn’t
thinkwe’retalkingabouther.Charlie sidlesupnextme. “Wantme tohelp translate foryourfriend?”he
asks.Heoveremphasizesfriend.Because being a dick on fire isCharlie’s raison
d’être.Mydadgiveshimahardlook.“Ithoughtyoudon’tunderstandKorean,”he
saystoCharlie.Charlieshrugs.“Igetby.”Notevenmydad’sdisapprovalcanstophimfrom
enjoyinghimselfatmyexpense.“IsthatwhyyoufailoutofHarvard?Youonlygetby?”Thisparthesaysin
Koreanbecausethelastthingmydadwouldwanttodoisairourdirtylaundryinfrontofamiguksaram.AnAmerican.Charliedoesn’tgiveacrapandtranslatesanyway,buthe’ssmilingalittleless.
“Don’tworry,”hesays toNatasha.“He’snot talkingaboutyou.Notyet.He’s
justcallingmestupid.”Dad’sfacegoescompletelyblank,soIknowhe’sreallyangrynow.Charlie’s
gothimtrapped.AnythinghesaysCharliewilltranslate,andmydad’ssenseofpropriety can’t allow that to happen. Instead, he turns into Deferential StoreOwnerlikeI’veseenhimdoamilliontimestoamillioncustomers.“You want something before you leave?” he asks Natasha. He clasps his
hands,halfbendsatthewaist,andsmileshisbestcustomer-servicesmile.“No,thankyou,Mr.—”Shestopsbecauseshedoesn’tknowmylastname.Mydaddoesn’tanswer.“Yes. Yes. You friend of Daniel’s. Take anything you want.” This is an
accidentinprogress,butIdon’tknowhowtostopit.Hepatsathispocketsuntilhefindshisglassesandpeersatthebottlesontheshelf.“Notthisaisle,”hemutters.“Comewithme.”Maybeifwejustgoalongthiswillallbeoverquickly.NatashaandIfollow
himhelplesslywhileCharlielaughs.Mydadfindswhathe’s lookingforoneaisleover. “Here.Relaxerforyour
hair.”HepullsabigblackandwhitetubfromashelfandhandsittoNatasha.“Relaxer,”hesaysagain.“Makeyourhairnotsobig.”HowwasIbornintothisfamilyandhowcanIgetoutofit?Charlielaughslongandloud.Istarttosaythatshedoesn’tneedanything,butNatashainterrupts.“Thank
you,Mr.—”“Bae,”Isay,becausesheshouldknowmylastname.“Mr.Bae.Idon’tneedany—”“Hairtoobig,”hesaysagain.“Ilikeitbig,”shesays.“Better get a different boyfriend, then,” says Charlie. He waggles his
eyebrowstomakesureweallgethisinnuendo.I’msurprisedhedoesn’tfollowitupwithahandgesture just tobeabsolutelyclear.Mysurprisedoesn’t last,becauseheholdshisthumbandforefingerapartbyaninch.“Good joke,Charlie,” I say. “Yes,my penis is only an inch long.” I don’t
bothertolookatmyfather’sface.Natasha turns to me and her mouth actually drops open. She’s definitely
reconsideringherrecentlifechoices.Ipracticallyflingthepouchatmyfather.Thingscannotgetanyworse, so I reachforherhanddespite thefact thatmyfatherisstandingrightthere.Mercifully,sheletsmetakeit.“Thankyou, comeagain,” boomsCharliewhenwe’re almost out thedoor.
He’slikeapiginshit.Orjusttheshit.I flip him off and ignore the vast disapproval coming from my father,
becausethere’llbetimeforthatlater.
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I’M LAUGHING EVEN THOUGH I know I shouldn’t. That was the mostperfectlyawfulexperience.PoorDaniel.ObservableFact:Familiesaretheworst.We’realmostall thewayback to thesubwaystationbeforehefinallystops
tuggingmealong.Heslapsapalmagainstthebackofhisneckandhangshishead.“I’msorry,”hesays,soquietlythatImorelip-readitthanhearit.I’m trying to keepmy laughter suppressed, because he looks like someone
died,butI’mhavingahardtime.Theimageofhisdadtryingtoshovethetubofrelaxeratmerisesinmymindandthelaughterjustbubblesoutofme.OnceIstart,Ican’tstop.Iclutchmystomachashystericstakemeover.Danieljuststaresatme.Hisfrownissodeepitmightbecomepermanent.“Thatwasterrible,”Isay,finallycalm.“Idon’tthinkthatcould’vegoneany
worse.Racistdad.Racistandsexistolderbrother.”Danielrubsthespotonhisneckandfrownssomemore.“And the store! Imean, theancientpostersof thosewomen,andyourdad
critiquingmyhair,andyourbrothermakingasmallpenisjoke.”By the time I’m done listing all the things that were awful, I’m laughing
again.Ittakeshimafewmoreseconds,butfinallyhesmilestoo,andI’mgladforit.“I’mgladyouthinkthisisfunny,”hesays.“Comeon,”Isay.“Tragedyisfunny.”“Areweinatragedy?”heasks,smilingbroadlynow.“Ofcourse.Isn’tthatwhatlifeis?Wealldieattheend.”“I guess so,” he says.He steps closer, takesmyhand, and places it on his
chest.Istudymynails.Istudymycuticles.Anythingtoavoidlookingupintothose
browneyesofhis.Hisheartthrumsbeneathmyfingers.FinallyIlookupandhecoversmyhandwithhis.“I’msorry,”hesays.“I’msorryaboutmyfamily.”I nod, because the feel of his heartbeat is doing funny things tomy vocal
cords.“I’msorryabouteverything,aboutthewholehistoryoftheworldandallits
racismandtheunfairnessofallofit.”“What are you even saying? It’s not your fault. You can’t apologize for
racism.”“IcanandIdo.”Jesus.Savemefromtheniceandsincereboyswhofeelthingstoodeeply.I
stillthinkwhathappenedisfunnyinitsperfectawfulness,butIunderstandhisshametoo.It’shardtocomefromsomeplaceorsomeoneyou’renotproudof.“You’renotyourdad,”Isay,buthedoesn’tbelieveme.Iunderstandhisfear.
Whoareweifnotaproductofourparentsandtheirhistories?
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DANIEL’S FAMILY DID NOT ENTER the black hair care business bychance.WhenDaeHyunandMinSoomovedtoNewYorkCity,therewasanentire community of fellow South Korean immigrants waiting to help them.DaeHyun’scousingavethemaloanandadvisedthemtoopenablackhaircarestore.Hiscousinhadasimilarstore,asdidmanyotherimmigrantsinhisnewcommunity.Thestoreswerethriving.ThedominanceofSouthKoreansintheblackhaircareindustryalsodidnot
happen by chance. It began in the 1960swith the rise in popularity of wigsmadewithSouthKoreanhair in theAfricanAmericancommunity.Thewigswere sopopular that theSouthKoreangovernmentbanned theexportof rawhairfromitsshores.ThisensuredthatwigsfeaturingSouthKoreanhaircouldonlybemadeinSouthKorea.Atthesametime,theU.S.governmentbannedthe import of wigs that contained hair from China. Those two actionseffectivelysolidifiedthedominanceofSouthKoreainthewigmarket.Thewigbusinessnaturallyevolvedtothemoregeneralblackhaircarebusiness.It’sestimatedthatSouthKoreanbusinessescontrolbetweensixtyandeighty
percent of that market, including distribution, retail, and, increasingly,manufacturing.Be it forcultural reasonsorfor racialones, thisdominance indistributionmakesitnearlyimpossibleforanyothergrouptogainafootholdinthe industry. South Korean distributors primarily distribute to South Koreanretailers,effectivelyshuttingeveryoneelseoutofthemarket.Dae Hyun is not aware of any of this history. What he knows is this:
America is the landofopportunity.Hischildrenwillhavemorethanheoncedid.
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IWANTTOTHANKHER for not hatingme.After that experience inmyparents’store,whocouldblameher?Also,shedidn’tneedtoreacttomyfamilyas peacefully as she did. If she’d yelled at both my brother and my dad, Iwould’ve understood. It’s a miracle (water-into-wine variety) that she’s stillwillingtohangoutwithme,andI’mmorethangratefulforit.Instead of saying all that, I ask her if shewants to get some lunch.We’re
backat the subwayentrance,andall Iwant todo isgetas farawayfromthestoreaspossible.IftheDlinewenttothemoon,I’dbuyaticket.“I’mstarving,”Isay.Sherollshereyes.“Starving,really?Youhaveapenchantforexaggeration.”“It’stooffsetyourprecision.”“Doyouhaveaplaceinmind?”sheasks.IsuggestmyfavoriterestaurantinKoreatownandsheagrees.Wefindside-by-sideseatsonthetrainandsettlein.It’lltakefortyminutesto
getallthewaybackdowntown.Itakeoutmyphonetofindmorequestions.“Readyformore?”Iaskher.Sheslidesclosertomesoourshouldersarepressedtogether,andpeersdown
atmyphone.She’ssocloseherhairticklesmynose.Ican’thelpit.ItakewhatIthinkisadiscreetsniffofherhairthatisnotdiscreetatall.Shescootsawayfromme,eyeswideandmortified.“Didyoujustsmellme?”
sheasks.Shetouchesthesectionofhairwheremynosejustwas.Idon’tknowwhattosay.IfIadmitit,I’mcreepyandweird.IfIdenyit,I’m
aliarandcreepyandweird.Shepullsthestrandsthatshe’stouchingacrosshernoseandsniffsat itherself.NowIneedtomakesurethatshedoesn’t thinkIthinkherhairsmellsbad.
“No.Imean,yes.Yes,Ismelledit.”Istoptalkingbecausehereyeshavegonewiderthaneyesshouldbeableto
go.“And?”sheprompts.It takesme a second to work out what she’s asking. “It smells good. You
knowsometimesinspringwhenitrainsjustforlikefiveminutesandthenthesuncomesoutrightawayandthewater’sevaporatingandtheairisstilldamp?Itsmellslikethat.Reallygood.”Imakemymouthcloseeventhoughitjustwantstokeeptalking.Ilookback
downatmyphoneandwait,hopingshe’llcomecloseagain.
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HETHINKSMYHAIRSMELLSlikespringrain.I’mreallytryingtoremainstoicandunaffected.IremindmyselfthatIdon’t likepoetic language.Idon’tlikepoetry.Idon’tevenlikepeoplewholikepoetry.ButI’mnotdeadinsideeither.
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SHECOMESCLOSEAGAINandIbarrelahead,becauseapparently that’swhoIamwiththisgirl.Maybepartoffallinginlovewithsomeoneelseisalsofallinginlovewithyourself.IlikewhoIamwithher.IlikethatIsaywhat’sonmymind.IlikethatIbarrelaheaddespitetheobstaclessheraises.NormallyIwouldgiveup,butnottoday.Iraisemyvoiceovertheclackingofthetrainagainstthetracks.“Right.On
tosectiontwo.”Ilookupfrommyphone.“Readyforthis?We’relevelingupontheintimacy.”Shefrownsatmebutstillnods. Ireadthequestionsaloudandshechooses
numbertwenty-four:Howdoyoufeelaboutyourrelationshipwithyourmother(andfather)?“Youhavetogofirst,”shesays.“Well. You met my dad.” I don’t even know where to begin with this
question.OfcourseIlovehim,butyoucanlovesomeoneandstillhaveanot-so-greatrelationshipwiththem.Iwonderhowmuchofournon-relationshipisbecauseoftypicalfatherversusteenageboystuff(ateno’clockcurfew,really?)and howmuch of it is cultural (Korean Korean versus Korean American). Idon’tknowifit’sevenpossibletoseparatethetwo.SometimesIfeellikewe’reonoppositesidesofasoundproofedglasswall.Wecanseeeachotherbutwecan’theareachother.“Soyoufeelbad,then?”sheteases.Ilaughbecauseit’ssuchasimpleandconcisewaytodescribesomethingso
complicated.Thetrainbrakessuddenlyandjostlesusevenclosertogether.Shedoesn’tmoveaway.“Andyourmom?”sheasks.“Prettygood,”Isay,andrealizethatImeanit.“She’skindoflikeme.She
paints. She’s artistic.” Funny, I’ve never thought of us being the same in thiswaybefore.“Nowyourturn.”Shelooksatme.“RemindmeagainwhyIagreedtothis?”“Want to stop?” I ask, even though Iknow she’ll sayno.She’s thekindof
personwhofinisheswhatshestarts.“I’llmakeiteasyonyou.Youcanjustgivemeathumbs-uporthumbs-down,okay?”Shenods.“Mom?”IaskThumbs-up.“Wayup?”“Let’snotgooverboard.I’mseventeenandshe’smymom,”shesays.“Dad?”Thumbs-down.“Waydown?”Iask.“Way,way,waydown.”
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“IT’SHARDTOLOVESOMEONEwhodoesn’t loveyouback,”Itellhim.Heopenshismouthandthenclosesitagain.Hewantstotellmethatofcoursemyfatherlovesme.Allparentslovetheirchildren,hewantstosay.Butthat’snottrue.Nothingiseveruniversal.Mostparentslovetheirchildren.It’struethatmymother loves me. Here’s another thing that’s also true: I ammy father’sgreatestregret.HowdoIknow?Hesaidsohimself.
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SAMUEL KINGSLEY WAS CERTAIN BEING famous was his destiny.SurelyGodwouldn’thavegiftedhimwithallthistalentwithnoplacetodisplayit.And then Patricia came along. Surely God wouldn’t have given him a
beautifulwifeandchildrenifhedidn’tmeantoprovideforthem.Samuel remembers themoment hemet her.Theywere still in Jamaica, in
MontegoBay.It’dbeenrainingoutside,oneofthosetropicalstormsthatstartas suddenly as they stop.He’d ducked into a clothing store for shelter so hewouldn’tbesoakedforhisaudition.Shewas the storemanager, so thefirst timehe sawher shewaswearinga
nametagandlookingveryofficial.Herhairwasshortandcurlyandshehadthebiggest,prettiest,shyesteyeshe’deverseen.Henevercouldresistashygirl—allthatcautionandmystery.He’dquotedBobMarleyandRobertFrost.He’dsung.Patricianeverstooda
chanceagainsttheforceofhischarm.Hisauditiontimecameandwent,buthedidn’tcare.Hecouldn’tgetenoughofthoseeyesthatwidenedsodramaticallyattheslightestflirtation.Still,apartofhimhadsaidtostayaway.Someprescientpartofhimsawthe
twopathsdivergingintheyellowwood.Maybeifhe’dchosentheotherpath,ifhe’dleftthestoreinsteadofstayed,itwould’vemadeallthedifference.
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“KOREANFOOD?BESTFOOD.Healthy.Goodforyou,”IsaytoNatasha,imitating mymom. It’s something she says every time we go out to dinner.CharliealwayssuggestswegotoanAmericanplace,butMomandDadalwaystakeustoKorean,eventhoughweeatKoreanfoodathomeeveryday.Idon’tmindbecauseitturnsoutIagreewithmymom.Koreanfood?Bestfood.Natasha and I don’t havemuch time left before her appointment, and I’m
beginningtodoubtthatIcanmakeherfallinlovewithmeinthenextcoupleofhours.ButIcanatleastmakeherwanttoseemeagaintomorrow.Wewalkintomyfavoritesoondubujointtogreetingsof“Annyeonghaseyo”
fromthestaff.Ilovethisplace,andtheirseafoodstewisalmostasgoodasmymom’s.It’snotfancyatall,justsmallwoodentablesinthecentersurroundedbyboothson theperimeter. It’snot crowded rightnow, sowemanage to snagabooth.Natashaasksmetoorderforher.“I’lleatwhateveryoutellmeto,”shesays.I ring the little bell attached to the table and a waitress appears almost
instantly.Iordertwoseafoodsoondubu,kalbi,andpajun.“There’sabell?”sheasksafterthewaitressleaves.“Awesome,right?We’reapracticalpeople,”Isay,onlyhalfkidding.“Takes
allthemysteryoutoffoodservice.Whenwillmywaiterappear?WhenwillIgetthecheck?”“DoAmerican restaurants know about this? Because we should tell them.
Bellsshouldbemandatory.”Ilaughandagree,butthenshetakesitback.“No,Ichangedmymind.Canyouimaginesomejerkjustleaningonthebell
demandingketchup?”Thepanchan,complimentarysidedishes,arrivealmostimmediately.Apart
ofmebraces tohave to explain toherwhat she’s eating.Once, a friendof afriendmade aWhat’s in this food? Is it dog? joke. I felt like shit but still Ilaughed.It’soneofthosemomentsthatmakesmewantthatDo-OverCard.Natasha,though,doesn’taskanyquestionsaboutthefood.Thewaitresscomesoverandhandsusbothchopsticks.“Oh,canIhaveafork,please?”Natashaasks.Thewaitressgivesheradisapprovinglookandturnstome.“Teachgirlfriend
howtousechopsticks,”shesays,andwalksaway.Natashalooksatmewithwideeyes.“Doesthatmeanshe’snotgoingtobring
meafork?”Ilaughandshakemyhead.“Whatthehell?”“Iguessyoushouldteachmehowtousechopsticks,”shesays.“Don’tworryabouther,”Isay.“Somepeoplearen’thappyuntileverythingis
donetheirway.”She shrugs. “Every culture is like that. The Americans, the French, the
Jamaicans,theKoreans.Everyonethinkstheirwayisthebestway.”“UsKoreansmightactuallyberight,though,”Isay,grinning.Thewaitressreturnsandplacesthesoupandtwouncookedeggsinfrontof
us.Shetossespaper-cladspoonsintothecenterofthetable.“What’sthiscalled?”Natashaasks,whenthewaitressisoutofearshot.“Soondubu,”Isay.She watches me crack my egg into the soup and bury it under cubes of
steaming tofu and shrimp and clams so it will cook. She does the same anddoesn’tmakeacommentaboutwhetherit’ssafetoeat.“Thisisdelicious,”shesays,sippingaspoonful.Shepracticallywiggleswith
pleasure.“How come you call yourself Korean?” she asks after a few more sips.
“Weren’tyoubornhere?”“Doesn’tmatter.PeoplealwaysaskwhereI’mfrom.Iused tosayhere,but
thentheyaskwhereareyoureallyfrom,andthenIsayKorea.SometimesIsayNorthKorea and thatmyparents and I escaped from awater dungeon filledwithpiranhaswhereKimJong-unwasholdingusprisoner.”Shedoesn’tsmilelikeIexpectherto.ShejustasksmewhyIdothat.“Becauseitdoesn’tmatterwhatIsay.Peopletakeonelookatmeandbelieve
whattheywant.”“That sucks,” she says, scooping up some kimchi and popping it into her
mouth.Icouldwatchhereatallday.
“I’m used to it.My parents think I’m not Korean enough. Everybody elsethinksI’mnotAmericanenough.”“Thatreallysucks.”Shemovesonfromthekimchitobeansprouts.“Idon’t
thinkyoushouldsayyou’refromKorea,though.”“Whynot?”“Becauseit’snottrue.You’refromhere.”I lovehowsimplethis isforher.I lovethathersolutiontoeverythingis to
tellthetruth.Istrugglewithmyidentityandshetellsmejusttosaywhat’strue.“It’snotuptoyoutohelpotherpeoplefityouintoabox,”shesays.“Dopeopledoittoyou?”“Yeah,exceptI’mreallynotfromhere,remember?WemovedherewhenI
waseight.Ihadanaccent.ThefirsttimeIsawsnow,IwasinhomeroomandIwassoamazedIstooduptostareatit.”“Ohno.”“Ohyes,”shesays.“Didtheotherkids—”“Itwasn’tpretty.”Shemock-shiversatthememory.“Wanttohearsomething
evenworse?My first spelling quiz the teachermarked that I spelled favoritewrongbecauseIincludedtheu.”“Thatiswrong.”“Nope.”Shewavesherspoonatme.“ThecorrectEnglishspelling includes
theu.SosayeththeQueenofEngland.Lookitup,Americanboy.Anyway,IwassuchalittlenerdthatIwenthomeandbroughtherthedictionaryandgotmypointsback.”“Youdidn’t.”“Idid,”shesays,smiling.“Youreallywantedthosepoints.”“Thosepointsweremine.”Shegiggles then,which isnota thing I thought
shedid.Ofcourse, I’veonlyknownher for a fewhours, soobviously Idon’tknow everything about her yet. I love this part of getting to know someone.Howeverynewpieceof information, everynewexpression, seemsmagical. Ican’timaginethisbecomingoldandboring.Ican’timaginenotwantingtohearwhatshehastosay.“Stopdoingthat,”shesays.“What?”“Staringatme.”
“Okay,” I say. Iunearthmyeggandsee that it’scookedperfectly toa softboil.“Let’seatthemtogether,”Itellher.“It’sthebestpart.”Shescoopshersout,andnowwe’rebothsittingthereegginspoon,spoonin
hand.“Onthree.One.Two.Three.”We pop the eggs into ourmouths. I watch as her eyeswiden. I know the
momenttheyolkburstsinhermouth.Shecloseshereyeslikethisisthemostdeliciousthingshe’severtasted.ShesaidnottostarebutI’mstaring.Ilovethewaysheseemstofeelthingswithherentirebody.Iwonderwhyagirlwhoissoobviouslypassionateissoadamantlyagainstpassion.
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LEARNHOWTOUSECHOPSTICKS.Teachgirlfriendhowtousechopsticks.Myson,hedid the same thing.Hedatewhitegirl.Myhusband?Hedon’t
acceptit.Atfirst,Iagreewithhim.Wedon’tspeaktooursonforayearafterhe told us. I thought:We don’t talk to him.Make him see reason, come tosenses.Wedon’t talkandImisshim.Imissmy littleboyandhisAmericanjokes
andthewayhepinchmycheeksandtellmeI’mtheprettiestofalltheommas.My son, whowas never embarrassed ofmewhen all the other boys get tooAmerican.Wedon’ttalktohimforoverayear.FinallywhenhecallIthinkthisisit.He
finallyunderstand.Whitegirlwill neverunderstandus,neverbeKorean.Butonlycalltosayhe’sgettingmarried.Hewantsustocometowedding.Ihearinhisvoicehowmuchhelovesher.Ihearhowheloveshermorethanme.IhearthatifIdon’tgotohiswedding,Iwilllosemyonlyson.Myonlyson,wholovesme.ButDaddy say no.My son begged us to come and I say no until he stop
begging.Hegotmarried.IsawpicturesontheFacebook.Theyhavefirstson.IsawpicturesontheFacebook.Theyhaveanotherchild.Agirlthistime.Mysohn-jah,andIonlyknowthemfromcomputer.Nowwhentheseboyscomeinherewiththesegirlswhodon’tlookliketheir
ommas, I get angry. This country try to take everything from you. Yourlanguage,yourfood,yourchildren.
JUST UNDER TWO HOURS to go before my appointment, and Danielreallywantstogotonorebang,whichistheKoreanwordforkaraoke.Karaokeis itself the Japanese word for embarrassing oneself by singing in front of aroomfilledwithstrangerswhoareonlytheretolaughatyou.“It’s not like theAmerican version,” he insistswhen I balk. “This ismuch
morecivilized.”Bycivilized,hemeansthatyouembarrassyourselfinasmall,privateroomin
frontofonlyyourfriendsinstead.Hisfavoritenorebangplaceiscoincidentallyrightnextdoortowherewe’vejusthadlunch.It’sownedandoperatedbythesamepeople, sowedon’tevenhave togooutsidebecause there’sanentranceinsidetherestaurant.Daniel chooses one of the smallest rooms, but it’s still big.They’re clearly
meanttoaccommodatepartiesofsixoreightinsteadofjusttwo.Theroomisdimly lit, and plush red leather couches linemost of the perimeter. A largesquarecoffeetablesitsjustinfrontofthecouches.Onitthere’samicrophone,acomplicated-lookingremote,andathickbookthathasSongMenuwrittenonthe cover in three languages. Next to the door there’s a large TVwhere thelyricswillappear.Adiscoballhangsfromtheceiling.Bev would love this place. First, she has kind of an obsession with disco
balls. She has four hanging from the ceiling of her room and a disco balllamp/clockcontraption.Second,she’sgotagreatvoiceandwilltakeanyexcusetouseitinfrontofgroupsofpeople.Icheckmyphoneformoretextsfromher,butthere’snothing.She’sjustbusy,Itellmyself.Shehasn’tforgottenaboutmealready.I’mstillhere.Daniel closes thedoor. “I can’tbelieveyou’veneverbeen tonorebang,”he
says.
“Shocking,Iknow,”Isayback.Withthedoorclosed,theroomfeelssmallandintimate.Hegivesmealooklikehe’sthinkingthesamething.“Let’sgetsomedessert,”hesays,andpressesabuttononthewallforservice.
The samewaitress from the restaurant appears to takeourorder.Shedoesn’tbothertolookatme.Danielordersuspatbingsoo,whichturnsouttobeshavedicewithfruit,small,softricecakes,andsweetredbeans.“Likeit?”heasks.It’simportanttohimthatIdo.I finish it in six spoonfuls. What’s not to like? It’s sweet and cold and
delicious.HebeamsatmeandIbeamback.ObservableFact:Ilikemakinghimhappy.ObservableFact:Idon’tknowwhenthathappened.He grabs the song menu from the table and flips to the English section.
Whileheagonizesoversongchoice, Iwatch theK-popvideosplayingon thetelevision.They’recandy-coloredandinfectious.“Justchooseasong,”Itellhimwhenthethirdvideostarts.“Thisisnorebang,”hesays.“Youdon’tjustchooseasong.Asongchooses
you.”“Tellmeyou’rekidding,”Isay.Hewinks atme and begins loosening his tie. “Yes, I’m kidding, but pipe
down. I’m trying to find something to properly impress you with my vocalstylings.”Heunbuttonsthetopbuttonofhisshirt.Iwatchhishandsashepullsthetie
offoverhishead.It’snotlikehe’stakinghisclothesoff.It’snotlikehe’sgettingundressedrighthereinfrontofme.Butitfeelslikeheis.Ican’tseeanythingscandalous, justaquickglimpseof theskinathis throat.Hepulls therubberbandfromhishairandtossesittothetable.Hishairisjustlongenoughtofallinto his face, and he brushes it behind his ears absentmindedly. I can’t helpstaring.ItfeelslikeI’vebeenwaitingforhimtodothisallday.Observablefact:Heisprettyhotwithhishairdown.Observablefact:He’sprettyhotwithhishairuptoo.Ipullmyeyesawayandstareattheairconditioneronthewallinstead.I’m
consideringadjustingthetemperaturedown.Herollsuphissleeves,whichmakesmelaugh.He’sactinglikewe’reabout
to engage in serious physical labor. I’m trying not to notice the long, smoothlinesofhisforearms,butmyeyeskeeptravelingoverthem.
“Areyouagoodsinger?”Iask.Helooksatmewithmocksolemnity,buthisdancingeyesgivehimaway.“Notgonna lie,”he says. “I amgood. Italian-opera-singergood.”Hegrabs
theremotetokeyinhissongchoice.“Areyou?”heasks.Idon’tanswer.He’llfindoutsoonenough.Infact,mysingingwilldefinitely
curehimofthecrushhehasonme.ObservableFact:Iamtheworstsingeronearth.He stands up and walks to the open area in front of the television.
Apparently,he’sgoing toneedspace tomaneuver.Headjustshis stanceuntilhisfeetareplantedwide,bowshisheadsothathishairobscureshisface,andholds themicrophone up in the air in one hand—classic rock star pose. It’s“TakeaChanceonMe”byABBA.Heputsahandoverhisheartandcroonsthefirstverse.Àlathesongtitle,it’sallabouttakingchances,specificallymetakingachanceonhim.Bythesecondverse,he’swarmedupandthrowingmecheesypopstarlooks
witheyebrowraises,penetratingstares,andpoutylips.Accordingtothelyrics,wecandosomanyfunthingsaslongaswe’retogether.Thefunthingsincludedancing,walking,talking,andlisteningtomusic.Strangely,there’snomentionofkissing.Hepantomimeseachactivitylikesomesortofderangedmime,andIcan’tstoplaughing.Versethreehashimdownonhiskneesinfrontofme.There’ssomethingin
thelyricsaboutfeelingallalonewhenprettybirdshaveflownthatIdon’tquiteunderstand.AmIthebird?Ishe?Whyaretherebirds?For the rest of the songhe’sbackuponhis feet, gripping themicrophone
withbothhandsandsingingwithabandon.Myhystericallaughterdoesn’tfazehim.Also,hewasn’tkiddingaboutbeingagoodsinger.He’sexcellent.Heevendoes his own backing vocals, which consists of him singing “take a chance”overandoveragain.And it’s not like he’s trying to be sexy. It’s just funny. So funny that it
becomessexy.Ididn’tknowfunnycoulddothat.Inoticethewayhisdressshirtstretches across his chest as he does his discomoves. I notice how long hisfingersarewhenherunshishandsthroughhishairdramatically.Inoticehowniceandfirmhisbuttlooksinhissuitpants.ObservableFact:Ihaveathingforbutts.Givenmycrappyday,noneofthisshouldbeworkingonme.Butitdefinitely
is.It’shiscompletelackofself-consciousness.Hedoesn’tcareifhe’smakingafoolofhimself.Hisonlygoalistomakemelaugh.It’salongsong,andhe’shotandsweatybytheendofit.Afterhe’sdone,he
watches themonitoruntilacandy-pinkcartoonmicrophonedancesacross thescreenandholdsupasign:99%.Thescreenfillswithconfetti.Igroan.“Youdidn’tsaytherewouldbegrades.”Hethrowsmeatriumphantgrinandcollapsesontheseatrightnexttome.
Ourforearmsbrushandseparateandbrushagain.Ifeelridiculousfornoticingit,butIdonoticeit.Hemovesawaytoretrievethemicrophoneandhandittome.“Bringit,”hesays.
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IWISHI’DTHOUGHTABOUTdoingnorebangearlier.Beingalonewithherinadimlylitroomisalittlebitofheaven(discoheaven).She’sflippingthroughthe songbookandmakingnoises aboutbeinga terrible singer. I’m staringather,gettingmyfixin,becauseshe’stoodistractedtotellmetoquitdoingit.Ican’tdecidewhatpartofherfaceismyfavorite.Rightnowitmightbeher
lips.She’sholdingthebottomoneinherteethinwhatIthinkisherthe-agony-of-too-many-choicesface.Finally she chooses. Instead of picking up the remote, she bends over the
tabletoreachitandenterthecode.HerdresspullsupalittleandIcanseethebackofherthighs.Theyhavelittlecreasemarksfromthecouch.Iwanttowrapmyhandaroundthemandsmooththemarkswithmythumb.SheturnstolookatmeandIcan’tevenpretendIwasn’tstaring.Idon’twant
to. IwantherandIwanther toknowthat Iwanther.Shedoesn’t lookawayfromme.Her lipspart (they really are thenicest lips in theknownuniverse)andshetoucheshertonguetoherbottomone.I’mgoingtogetupandI’mgoingtokissher.Noforceonearthcanstopme,
exceptthathersongstartsandcrushesthemomentwithmelancholy.I recognize the opening chords. It’s “Fell onBlackDays” bySoundgarden.
The song starts with the band’s lead singer, Chris Cornell, telling us thateverythinghe’sfearedhascometolife.Itgoesallthewaydownhillfromthereuntilwegettothechorus,wherewelearnonebilliontimes(giveortake)thathe’sfallenonblackdays.Itis(objectivelyspeaking)oneofthemostdepressingsongseverwritten.Nevertheless,Natasha loves it.She strangles themikewithbothhandsand
squeezes her eyes shut. Her singing is earnest and heartfelt and completelyawful.
It’snotgood.Atall.I’mprettysureshe’stone-deaf.Anynoteshedoeshitispurelycoincidental.
Sheswaysawkwardlyfromsidetosidewithhereyesclosed.Shedoesn’tneedtoreadthelyricsbecausesheknowsthissongbyheart.Bythetimeshegetstothefinalchorus,she’sforgottenaboutmetotally.Her
awkwardnessmeltsaway.Thesingingisstillnotgood,butshe’sgotonehandover her heart and she’s belting a lyric about not knowing her fatewith realemotioninhervoice.Mercifully,itends.It’sacureforhappiness,thatsong.Shepeeksatme.I’ve
never seenher lookshy.Shebitesherbottom lipagainandscrunchesupherface.She’sadorable.“Ilovethatsong,”shesays.“It’salittlemorose,isn’tit?”Itease.“Alittleangstneverhurtanyone.”“You’retheleastangst-riddenpersonI’veevermet.”“Nottrue,”shesays.“I’mjustgoodatpretending.”Idon’t thinkshemeant toadmit that tome.Idon’t thinkshe likestoshow
hersoftspots.Sheturnsawayandputsthemikedownonthetable.ButI’mnotlettinghergetawayfromthismoment.Igrabherhandandpull
hertowardme.Shedoesn’tresist,andIdon’tstoppullinguntilthefulllengthsof our bodies are touching. I don’t stop pulling until she’s in my breathingspace.“Thatwastheworstsingingever,”Isay.Hereyesareshining.“ItoldyouIwasbad,”shesays.“Youdidn’t.”“InmyheadIdid.”“AmIinyourhead?”Iaskher.She’ssoclosethatIcanfeeltheslightheatfromherblush.Iputmyhandonherwaist andburymyfingers inherhair.Anythingcan
happeninthebreathofspacebetweenus.Iwaitforher,forhereyestosayyes,andthenIkissher.HerlipsarelikesoftpillowsandIsinkintothem.Westartoutchaste,just lipstouching, tasting,butsoonwecan’tgetenough.Shepartsher lips and our tongues tangle and retreat and tangle again. I’m hardeverywhere but it feels too good, too right to be embarrassed about. She’smakinglittlemoaningsoundsthatmakemewanttokissherevenmore.Idon’tcarewhatshesaysaboutloveandchemicals.Thiswillnotfadeaway.
Thisismorethanchemistry.Shepullsaway,andhereyesareshimmeringblackstarslookingintomine.“Comeback,”Isay,andkissherlikethere’snotomorrow.
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I CAN’TSTOP. I DON’T want to stop.My body absolutely does not carewhat my brain thinks. I feel his kiss everywhere. The tips of my hair. Thecenterofmybelly.Thebacksofmyknees.Iwanttopullhimintome,andIwanttomeltintohim.Wemovebackwardandthebackofmylegsbumpintothecouch.Heguides
medownuntilhe’shalfontopofmebutwithonelegstillontheground.Ineedtokeepkissing.Mybodyishectic.Ican’tgetenough.Ican’tgetclose
enough.Somethingchaoticand insistentbuilds insideme. I’marchingoff thecouchtogetclosertohimthanIalreadyam.Hishandsqueezesmywaistandtravels up to my chest. He brushes lightly over my breast. I wrap my armsaroundhisneckandthenthreadmyfingersintohishair.Finally.I’vewantedtodothatallday.ObservableFact:Idon’tbelieveinmagic.ObservableFact:Wearemagic.
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HOLY…OceanofPDF.com
…SHIT.OceanofPDF.com
WECANNOTHAVESEXinthenorebang.We.Can.Not.ButI’mgoingtogoaheadandadmitthatIwantto.IfIdon’tstopkissingher
I’mgoingtoaskherto,andIdon’twanthertothinkI’mthekindofguywhowouldaskagirlhe’sjustmettohavesexinthenorebangaftertheirfirst(quasi)date,eventhoughI’mtotallythatkindofguybecauseJesusChrist,Ireallydowanttohavesexwithherrightnowrighthereinthenorebang.
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MYHANDSCANNOTSTOPtouchinghim.Theyslidethemselvesoutofhishairanddowntothehard,shiftingmusclesofhisback.Oftheirownvolitiontheyslideoverhisbutt.AsIsuspected,itisspectacular.Firmandroundandperfectlyproportioned.
It’sthekindofbuttthatrequiresholding.Heshouldneverwearpants.IpalmandsqueezeitanditfeelsevenbetterthanI’dexpected.Hepusheshimselfup,armsoneithersideofmyhead,andsmilesatme.“It’s
notamelon,youknow.”“Ilikeit,”Isay,andsqueezeagain.“It’syours,”hetellsme.“Haveyoueverconsideredwearingchaps?”Iask.“Absolutelynot,”hesays,laughingandblushing.Ireallylikemakinghimblush.He lowers himself and kissesme again. It feels like there’s no part ofme
that’snotbeingkissedrightnow.Idragmyhandsawayfromhisbuttanduptohisshoulderstoslowusdown.IfIkisshimanymore,it’sjustgoingtomakeitharderonmelater.So.Nomorekissing.
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IFEELTHEHESITATION inherlips,andtobehonest,I’malittlefreakedoutbyhowintensethisistoo.Ipushmyselfupandpullheruptoseated.Ipalmthebackofherneckandrestmyforeheadagainsthers.We’rebothbreathingtoofast,tooragged.Iknewwehadchemistry,butIdidn’texpectthis.We’rekindlingamidlightningstrikes.Alitmatchanddrywood.FireDanger
signsandaforestwaitingtobeburned.Ofallthewaystodaycould’vegone,Icouldn’thavepredictedthis.Butnow
I’msurethateverythingthat’shappenedtodayhasbeenleadingmetoherandustothismomentandthismomenttotherestofourlives.EvenCharlie’s academic probation fromHarvard feels like it’s part of the
plantogetustothispoint.IfnotforCharlieandhisfuck-up,mymomwouldn’thavesaidwhatshedidthismorning.If she hadn’t, I wouldn’t have left so early for the haircut that I have not
gottenyet.Iwouldn’thavegottenonthe7trainwiththetheologicalconductorlooking
forGod.Ifnotforhim,Iwouldn’thaveleftthesubwaytowalk,andIwouldn’thave
seenNatashahavingherreligiousmusicalexperience.Ifnotfortheconductor’stalkofGod,Iwouldn’thavenoticedherDEUSEXMACHINAjacket.Ifnotforthatjacket,Iwouldn’thavefollowedherintotherecordstore.Ifnotforherthievingex-boyfriend,Iwouldn’thavespokentoher.EventhejerkintheBMWdeservessomecredit.Ifhehadn’trunthatred,I
wouldn’thavegottenasecondchancewithher.Allofit,everything,wasleadingusbackhere.Whenwe’rebothbreathingnormallyagain,Ikissthetipofhernose.
“Toldyou,”Isay,andkissitagain.“Nosefetishist,”shesays,andthen:“Whatdidyoutellme?”Ipunctuatemywordswithnosekisses.“We.”Kiss.“Are.”Kiss.“Meant.”Kiss.“To.”Kiss.“Be.”Kiss.She pulls away. Her eyes have been replaced by storm clouds, and she
untangles her limbs frommine. It’s hard to let her go, like pulling magnetsapart.DidIfreakheroutwithmytalkoffate?Shescootsoveronthecouchandputswaytoomuchspacebetweenus.Idon’twanttoletthemomentgo.AfewsecondsagoIthoughtitwouldlastforever.“Wanttosinganotherone?”Iask.MyvoicerattlesandIclearmythroat.I
lookoverattheTV.Wedidn’tgetachancetoseeherscorebeforewestartedkissing. It’s 89%, which is terrible. It’s pretty hard to get less than 90% innorebang.SheglancesoverattheTVtoobutdoesn’tsayanything.Ican’tfathomwhat’s
happeninginherhead.Why’ssheresistingthisthingbetweenus?Shetouchesherhair,pullsonastrandandletsitgo,pullsonanotherandletsitgo.“I’msorry,”shesays.Islideoverandclosethedistancesheputbetweenus.Herhandsareclasped
inherlap.“Whatareyousorryfor?”Iask.“Forrunninghotandcold.”“Youweren’t socoldjustaminuteago,” I say,making theabsolute lamest
joke (along with puns, innuendos are the lowest form of humor) I couldpossiblymakeinthismoment.Ievenwagglemyeyebrowsandthenwaitforherreaction.Thiscouldgoeitherway.A smile overtakes her face. Those storm clouds in her eyes don’t stand a
chance.“Wow,”shesays,hervoicewarmaroundhersmile.“Yousurehavea
waywithwords.”“Andtheladies,”Isay,hammingitupevenmore.I’llmakeafoolofmyself
justtomakeherlaugh.She laughs some more and leans back on the couch. “You sure you’re
qualifiedtobeapoet?ThatwastheworstlineI’veeverheard.”“Youwereexpectingsomething—”“Morepoetic,”shesays.“Areyoukidding?Mostpoemsareaboutsex.”She’sskeptical.“Doyouhaveactualdatatobackthatup?Iwannaseesome
numbers.”“Scientist!”Iaccuse.“Poet!”sheretorts.Webothsmile,delightedandnottryingtohideourdelightfromeachother.“Most poems I’ve seen are about love or sex or the stars. You poets are
obsessedwithstars.Fallingstars.Shootingstars.Dyingstars.”“Starsareimportant,”Isay,laughing.“Sure,butwhynotmorepoemsaboutthesun?Thesunisalsoastar,andit’s
ourmostimportantone.Thataloneshouldbeworthapoemortwo.”“Done.Iwillonlywritepoemsaboutthesunfromnowon,”Ideclare.“Good,”shesays.“Seriously,though?Ithinkmostpoemsareaboutsex.RobertHerrickwrote
apoemcalled‘TotheVirgins,toMakeMuchofTime.’ ”Shepulls her legsup to lotuspositionon the couch anddoublesoverwith
laughter.“Hedidnot.”“Hedid,”Isay.“Hewasbasicallytellingvirginstolosetheirvirginityassoon
aspossiblejustincasetheydied.Godforbidyoushoulddieavirgin.”Her laughter fades. “Maybe he was just saying that we should live in the
moment.Asiftodayisallwehave.”She’sseriousagain,andsad,andIdon’tknowwhy.Shereststhebackofher
neckagainstthesofaandlooksupatthediscoball.“Tellmeaboutyourdad,”Isay.“Idon’treallywanttotalkabouthim.”“Iknow,buttellmeanyway.Whydoyousayhedoesn’tloveyou?”Shepicksherheaduptolookatme.“You’rerelentless,”shesays,andflops
herheadbackagain.“Persistent,”Isay.
“Idunnohowtosayit.Mydad’sprimaryemotionisregret.It’slikehemadesomegiantmistakeinhispast,likehetookawrongturn,andinsteadofendingupwhereverhewassupposedtobe,heendedupinthislifewithmeandmomandmybrotherinstead.”Hervoicewobbleswhileshe’ssayingit,butshedoesn’tcry.Ireachoutand
take her hand and we both watch the TV screen. Her dancing score’s beenreplacedbyasoundlessadforAtlanticCitycasinos.“Mymommakesthesebeautifulpaintings,”Isaytoher.“Reallyincredible.”I can still picture the tears in her eyeswhenmydad gave her the present.
She’dsaid,“Yeobo,youdidn’thavetodothat.”“It’ssomethingonlyforyou,”hesaid.“Youusedtopaintallthetime.”I was so surprised by that. I thought I knew everything aboutmymom—
about both of them, really—but here was this secret history I didn’t knowabout.Iaskedherwhyshestoppedandshewavedherhandintheairlikeshewaswipingtheyearsaway.“Longtimeago,”shesaid.IkissNatasha’shandandthenconfess:“SometimesIthinkmaybeshemade
awrongturnhavingus.”“Yes,butdoesshethinkthat?”“Idon’tknow,”Isay.Andthen:“ButifIhadtoguess,IwouldsayI think
she’shappywiththewayherlifeturnedout.”“That’sgood,”shesays.“Canyouimaginelivingyourwholelifethinkingyou
madeamistake?”Sheactuallyshuddersasshe’ssayingit.I raise her hand to my lips and kiss it. Her breathing changes. I tug her
forward,wantingtokissher,butshestopsme.“Tellmewhyyouwanttobeapoet,”shesays.I leanbackandrubmy thumboverherknuckles. “Idon’tknow. Imean, I
don’tevenknowifit’swhatIwantforacareeroranything.Idon’tgethowI’msupposedtoknowthatalready.AllIknowisIliketodoit.Ireallyliketodoit.Ihave thoughtsandIneed towrite themdown,andwhenIwrite themdowntheycomeoutaspoems.It’sthebestIeverfeelaboutmyselfbesides—”Istoptalking,notwantingtofreakheroutagain.Sheraisesherheadfromthesofa.“Besideswhat?”Hereyesarebright.She
wantstoknowtheanswer.“Besidesyou.Youmakemefeelgoodaboutmyselftoo.”Shepullsherhandoutofmine.Ithinkshe’sgoingintoretreatmodeagain,
butno.Sheleansforwardandkissesmeinstead.
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IKISSHIMTOGEThimtostoptalking.IfhekeepstalkingIwilllovehim,andIdon’twanttolovehim.Ireallydon’t.Asstrategiesgo,it’snotmyfinest.Kissingisjustanotherwayoftalkingexceptwithoutthewords.
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ONEDAY IWILLWRITEANODE about kissing. Iwill call it “Ode to aKiss.”Itwillbeepic.
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WE’D PROBABLY STILL BE KISSING if our cranky waitress hadn’treturnedtodemandtoknowifwewantedanythingelsetoeat.Wedidn’t,anditwas time to go anyway. I still want to take him to theMuseum of NaturalHistory,myfavoriteplaceinNewYork.Itellhimthatandwewalkoutside.After thedarkof thenorebang, thesunseems toobright.Andnot just the
sun—everything seems too much. The city is much too loud and much toocrowded.Forafewseconds,I’mdisorientedbythebusinessesstackedhighontopof
eachotherwithKoreansignageuntilIrememberthatwe’reinKoreatown.ThissectionofthecityissupposedtolooklikeSeoul.Iwonderifitdoes.Isquintagainstthesunandcontemplategoingbackinside.I’mnotreadyfortherowdy,bustlingrealityofNewYorktoreassertitselfyet.That’sthethoughtthatbringsmetomysenses:Reality.This is reality.The
smell of rubber and exhaust, the sound of toomany cars going nowhere, thetasteofozoneintheair.Thisisreality.Inthenorebangwecouldpretend,butnotouthere.It’soneofthethingsIlikemostaboutNewYorkCity.Itdeflectsanyattemptsyoumaketolietoyourself.Weturntoeachotheratthesametime.We’reholdinghands,buteventhat
feelslikepretendnow.Itugmyhandfromhistoadjustmybackpack.HewaitsformetogiveitbackbutI’mnotquitereadyyet.
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AreaBoyIncapableofLeavingWellEnoughAloneWe’resittingsidebysideon the train,andeven though itkeepsjostlingus
together, I can feel her slipping away. No one is seated across from us; wewatcheachother inthewindow.Myeyesslidetoherfaceasshe looksaway.Hereyes slide tomineas Ido the same.Herbackpack’s inher lapand she’shuggingittoherchestlikeitmightgetupandwalkawayatanysecond.Icouldreachoutandtakeherhand,forcetheissue,butIwanthertobethe
onetodoitthistime.Iwanthertoacknowledgethisthingbetweenusoutloud.Ican’tleavewellenoughalone.Iwanthertosaythewords.We’remeanttobe.Something.Anything.Ineedtohearthem.ToknowthatI’mnotaloneinthis.Ishouldletitgo.Iamgoingtoletitgo.“Whatareyousoafraidof?”Iask,notlettingitgoatall.
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IHATEPRETENSE,BUTHERE IAM pretending. “What are you talkingabout?”Isaytohisreflectioninthesubwaywindowinsteadoftohim.
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IALMOSTBELIEVETHATSHEdoesn’tknowwhatI’mtalkingabout.Oureyesmeetinthewindowlikeit’stheonlyplacewecanlookateachother.“We’remeanttobe,”Iinsist.Itcomesoutallwrong—bossyandscoldingand
pleadingallatthesametime.“Iknowyoufeelittoo.”Shedoesn’tsayaword,justgetsupandgoestostandbythetraindoors.If
angerwerelikeheat,I’dbeabletoseethewavesradiatingfromherbody.Partofmewantstogotoherandapologize.Partofmewantstodemandto
knowjustwhatherproblemisanyway.ImakemyselfremainseatedforthetwostopsleftuntilthetrainfinallyscreechesintotheEighty-FirstStreetstation.The doors open. She pushes her way through the crowd and runs up the
stairs.Assoonaswe’reatthetop,sheshuntsustothesideandswingsaroundtofaceme.“Don’t you tell me what to feel,” she whisper-shouts. She’s going to say
somethingelsebutdecidesagainstit.Instead,shewalksawayfromme.She’sfrustrated,butnowIamtoo.Icatchupwithher.“What’syourproblem?”IactuallythrowmyhandsupintheairasIsayit.Idon’twanttobefightingwithher.CentralParkisjustacrossthestreet.The
trees are lush and beautiful in their fall colors. Iwant towander through theparkwithherandwritepoemsinmynotebook.Iwanthertomakefunofmeforwritingpoems inmynotebook. Iwanther toeducatemeon thehowandwhytheleaveschangecolor.I’msuresheknowstheexactscienceofit.Sheswingsherbackpackontobothshouldersandcrossesherarmsinfront
ofherbody.“Meant-to-bedoesn’texist,”shesays.Idon’twanttohaveaphilosophicaldiscussion,soIconcede.“Okay,butifit
did,then—”She cutsme off. “No. Enough. It just doesn’t. And even if it did, we are
definitelynot.”“Howcanyousay that?” IknowI’mbeingunreasonableand irrationaland
probablylotsofotherthingsIshouldn’tbe.Thisisnotsomethingyoucanfightwithanotherpersonabout.Youcan’tpersuadesomeonetoloveyou.Asmallbreezerustlestheleavesaroundus.It’scoldernowthanit’sbeenall
day.“Because it’s true. We’re not meant to be, Daniel. I’m an undocumented
immigrant.I’mbeingdeported.TodayismylastdayinAmerica.TomorrowI’llbegone.”Maybe there’s anotherway to interpret herwords.My brain picks out the
most important ones and rearranges them, hoping for a different meaning. Ieventrytocomposeaquickpoem,butthewordswon’tcooperate.Theyjustsitthere,tooheavyformetopickup.
Last.Undocumented.America.Gone.
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ORDINARILYSOMETHINGlikethis—fightinginpublic—wouldembarrassme,but IbarelyevennoticeanyoneexceptDaniel. If I’mhonestwithmyself,it’sbeenlikethisallday.Hepresseshisforeheadintohishandsandhishairformsacurtainaroundhis
face.Idon’tknowwhatI’msupposedtosayordonow.Iwanttotakethewordsback.Iwanttokeeppretending.It’smyfaultthatthingswentsofar.Ishould’vetoldhimfromthebeginning,but Ididn’t thinkwe’dget to thispoint. Ididn’tthinkIwouldfeelthismuch.
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“IPOSTPONEDMYAPPOINTMENTbecauseofyou.”MyvoiceissoquietthatIdon’tknowifImeanforhertohearme,butshedoes.Her eyeswiden. She starts to say three different things before settling on:
“Wait.Thisismyfault?”I’mdefinitelyaccusingherofsomething.I’mnotsurewhat.Abikecourier
hopsontothesidewalkalittletooclosetous.Someoneyellsathimtousethestreet.Iwanttoyellathimtoo.Followtherules,Iwanttosay.“Youcould’vewarnedme,”Isay.“Youcould’vetoldmeyouwereleaving.”“Ididwarnyou,”shesays,defensivenow.“Notenough.Youdidn’tsayyou’dbe livinginanothercountry in less than
twenty-fourhours.”“Ididn’tknowthatwe’d—”Iinterrupther.“Youknewwhenwemetwhatwasgoingonwithyou.”“Itwasn’tyourbusinessthen.”“Andit isnow?”Eventhoughthesituationishopeless,justhearinghersay
it’smybusinessnowgivesmesomehope.“Itriedtowarnyou,”sheinsistsagain.“Nothardenough.Here’showyoudoit.Youopenyourmouthandyousay
thetruth.Noneofthiscrapaboutnotbelievinginloveandpoetry.‘Daniel,I’mleaving,’yousay.‘Daniel,don’tfallinlovewithme,’yousay.”“Ididsaythosethings.”She’snotyelling,butshe’snotbeingquieteither.Averyfashionable toddler inapeacoatgivesuswideeyesand tugsonher
father’shand.Atyrannyoftourists(completewithguidebooks)checksusoutlikewe’reondisplay.Ilowermyvoice.“Yes,butIdidn’tthinkyoumeantthem.”
“Whosefaultisthat?”shedemands.Idon’thaveanythingtosaytothat,andwejuststareateachother.“You can’t really be falling for me,” she says, quieter now. Her voice is
somewherebetweendistressanddisbelief.Again I don’t have anything to say. Even I’m surprised by howmuch I’ve
beenfeelingforherallday.Thethingaboutfallingisyoudon’thaveanycontrolonyourwaydown.Itrytocalmtheairbetweenus.“Whycan’tIbefallingforyou?”Iask.She tugshardon the straps ofher backpack. “Because that’s stupid. I told
younotto—”And now I’ve had enough.My heart’s been onmy sleeve all day, and it’s
prettybruisedupnow.“Justgreat.Youdon’tfeelanything?WasIkissingmyselfbackthere?”“Youthinkafewkissesmeanforever?”“Ithinkthosekissesdid.”She closes her eyes.When she opens them again, I think I see pity there.
“Daniel—”shebegins.Icutheroff.Idon’twantpity.“No.Whatever.Idon’twanttohearit.Igetit.
Youdon’tfeelthesame.You’releaving.Haveanicelife.”Itakealloftwostepsbeforeshesays,“You’rejustlikemyfather.”“I don’t even knowyour father,” I saywhile puttingmy jacket on. It feels
tightersomehow.She foldsher arms acrossher chest. “Doesn’tmatter.You’re just likehim.
Selfish.”“Iamnot.”NowI’mdefensive.“Yesyouare.Youthinktheentireworldrevolvesaroundyou.Yourfeelings.
Yourdreams.”Ithrowmyhandsup.“Thereisnothingwrongwithhavingdreams.Imaybe
astupiddreamer,butatleastIhavethem.”“Why is that a virtue?” she demands. “All you dreamer types think the
universeexistsjustforyouandyourpassion.”“Betterthannothavinganyatall.”Shenarrowshereyesatme,readytodebate.“Really?Why?”Ican’tbelieveIhavetoexplainthis.“That’swhatwe’reputonearthtodo.”“No,” she says, shaking her head. “We’re put here to evolve and survive.
That’sit.”
Iknew she’dbring science into it. She can’t reallybelieve that. “Youdon’tbelievethat,”Isay.“Youdon’tknowmewellenoughtosaythat,”shesays.“Besides,dreamingis
aluxuryandnoteveryonehasit.”“Yes, butyou do.You’re afraid of becoming your dad.You don’t want to
choosethewrongthing,soyoudon’tchooseanythingatall.”Iknowthere’sabetterwayformetotellherthis,butI’mnotfeelinglikemybestselfrightnow.“IalreadyknowwhatIwanttobe,”shesays.Ican’tstopmyselffromscoffing.“Adatascientistorwhatever?That’snota
passion.It’sjustajob.Havingdreamsneverkilledanybody.”“Nottrue,”shesays.“Howcanyoubethisnaïve?”“Well,I’dratherbenaïvethanwhateveritisyouare.Youonlyseethingsthat
arerightinfrontofyourface.”“Betterthanseeingthingsthataren’tthere.”Andnowwe’reatanimpasse.Thesunhidesbehindacloudandacoolbreezeblowsoverus fromacross
CentralPark.Wewatcheachotherforalittlewhile.Shelooksdifferentoutofthesunlight.IimagineIdotoo.ShethinksI’mnaïve.Morethanthat,shethinksI’mridiculous.Maybeit’sbetter toendthingsthisway.Better tohaveatragicandsudden
end than to have a long, drawn-out onewherewe realize thatwe’re just toodifferent,andthatlovealoneisnotenoughtobindus.Ithinkallthesethings.Ibelievenoneofthem.Thewindpicksupagain. It stirsherhaira little. Icanpicture itwithpink
tipssoclearly.Iwould’velikedtoseeit.
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“YOUSHOULDGO,”ITELLHIM.“Sothat’sit?”heasks.I’mgladhe’s being a jerk. Itmakes things easier. “Are you thinking at all
about me? I wonder how Natasha’s feeling. How did she get to be anundocumented immigrant? Does she want to go live in a country she doesn’tknowatall?Isshecompletelydevastatedbywhat’shappeningtoherlife?”Ireadguiltonhisface.Hetakesasteptowardme,butIbackup.Hestopsmoving.“You’re justwaiting for someone to save you.Don’t want to be a doctor?
Don’tbeadoctor,then.”“It’snotthatsimple,”hesaysquietly.Inarrowmyeyesathim.“Toquoteyoufromfiveminutesago.Here’show
youdo it:Youopenyourmouthandsaywhat’s true. ‘MomandDad? Idon’twanttobeadoctor,’yousay.‘IwanttobeapoetbecauseIamstupidanddon’tknowbetter,’yousay.”“Youknowit’snotthateasy,”hesays,evenquieterthanbefore.Itugonthestrapsonmybackpack.It’stimetogo.We’rejustdelayingthe
inevitable.“YouknowwhatIhate?”Iask.“Ireallyhatepoetry.”“Yeah,Iknow,”hesays.“Shutup.Ihateit,butIreadsomethingoncebyapoetnamedWarsanShire.
It says that you can’t make a home out of human beings, and that someoneshould’vetoldyouthat.”Iexpecthimtotellmethatthesentimentisnottrue.Ievenwanthimto,but
hedoesn’tsayanything.“Yourbrotherwasright.There’snoplacefor this togo.Besides,youdon’t
loveme,Daniel.You’rejustlookingforsomeonetosaveyou.Saveyourself.”
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AreaTeenConvincedThatHisLifeIsCompleteandUtterShitHowIwanthertoberight.HowIwantnottobefallinginlovewithherat
all.Iwatchherwalkaway,andIdon’tstopherorfollowher.Whatanabsolute
idiotI’vebeen.I’vebeenactinglikesomemystical,crystal-worshipingdummy.Ofcoursethisiswhat’shappeningnow.Allthisnonsensicaltalkaboutfateanddestinyandmeant-to-be.Natasha’s right.Life is just a seriesofdumbdecisions and indecisions and
coincidencesthatwechoosetoascribemeaningto.Schoolcafeteriaoutofyourfavoritepastrytoday?Itmustbebecausetheuniverseistryingtokeepyouonyourdiet.Thanks,Universe!Youmissedyourtrain?Maybethetrain’sgoingtoexplodeinthetunnel,or
PatientZeroforsomehorriblebirdflu(waterfowl,goose,pterodactyl)isonthattrain,andthankgoodnessyouweren’tonitafterall.Thanks,Universe!Noonebothers tofollowupwithdestiny, though.Thecafeteria just forgot
therewasanotherboxintheback,andyougotasliceofcakefromyourfriendanyway. You fumed while waiting for another train, but one came alongeventually.Noonediedonthetrainyoumissed.Noonesomuchassneezed.Wetellourselvestherearereasonsforthethingsthathappen,butwe’rejust
tellingourselvesstories.Wemakethemup.Theydon’tmeananything.
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FATEHASALWAYSBEENtherealmofthegods,thougheventhegodsaresubjecttoit.In ancientGreekmythology, the Three Sisters of Fate spin out a person’s
destinywithin three nights of their birth. Imagine your newborn child in hisnursery. It’sdarkand soft andwarm, somewherebetween twoand foura.m.,oneofthosehoursthatbelongexclusivelytothenewlybornorthedying.The first sister—Clotho—appears next to you. She’s amaiden, young and
smooth.Inherhandssheholdsaspindle,andonitshespinsthethreadsofyourchild’slife.Next to her is Lachesis, older and more matronly than her sister. In her
hands, she holds the rod used tomeasure the thread of life. The length anddestinyofyourchild’slifeisinherhands.FinallywehaveAtropos—old,haggardly.Inevitable.Inherhandssheholds
theterribleshearsshe’llusetocutthethreadofyourchild’slife.Shedeterminesthetimeandmannerofhisorherdeath.Imaginetheawesomeandawfulsightofthesethreesisterspressedtogether,
presidingoverhiscrib,determininghisfuture.In modern times, the sisters have largely disappeared from the collective
consciousness, but the idea of Fate hasn’t.Why do we still believe? Does itmaketragedymorebearabletobelievethatweourselveshadnohandinit,thatwecouldn’thavepreventedit?Itwasalwayseverthus.Thingshappenforareason,saysNatasha’smother.WhatshemeansisFate
has a Reason and, though youmay not know it, there’s a certain comfort inknowingthatthere’saPlan.Natasha is different. She believes in determinism—cause and effect. One
action leads to another leads to another.Your actionsdetermineyour fate. In
thiswayshe’snotunlikeDaniel’sdad.Daniel lives in the nebulous space in between.Maybe he wasn’t meant to
meetNatashatoday.Maybeitwasrandomchanceafterall.But.Oncetheymet,therestofit,thelovebetweenthem,wasinevitable.
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I’MNOTGOINGTOLET thisthingwithDanielstopmefromgoingtothemuseum.Thisisoneofmyfavoriteareasofthecity.Thebuildingsherearen’tquite as tall as those in Midtown. It’s nice being able to see patches ofuninterruptedsky.Tenminutes later, I’m in themuseum inmy favorite section—theHall of
Meteorites.Mostpeopleheadrightthroughthisroomtothegemstoneonenextdoor,withitsflashypreciousandsemipreciousrocks.ButIlikethisone.Ilikehowdarkandcoolandspareitis.Ilikethatthere’shardlyeveranyonehere.All around the room, vertical cases with shining spotlights display small
sectionsofmeteorites.ThecaseshavenameslikeJewelsfromSpace,BuildingPlanets,andOriginsoftheSolarSystem.Iheadrightovertomyfavoriteofallthemeteorites—Ahnighito.It’sactually
justasectionofthemuchlargerCapeNewYorkmeteor.Ahnighitoisthirty-fourtonsofironandisthelargestmeteoriteondisplayinanymuseum.Istepup to the platform that it sits on and trailmy hands across it. The surface ismetal-coldandpockmarkedfromthousandsoftinyimpacts.Iclosemyeyes,letmyfingersdipinandoutofthedivots.It’shardtobelievethatthishunkofironis from outer space.Harder still to believe that it contains the origins of thesolar system. This room is my church, and standing on this platform is mypillar.TouchingthisrockistheclosestIevercometobelievinginGod.This iswhere Iwould’ve takenDaniel. Iwould’ve toldhim towritepoetry
about space rocks and impact craters. The sheer number of actions andreactions it’s taken to form our solar system, our galaxy, our universe, isastonishing.Thenumberofthingsthathadtogoexactlyrightisoverwhelming.Comparedtothat,whatisfallinginlove?Aseriesofsmallcoincidencesthat
wesaymeanseverythingbecausewewanttobelievethatourtinylivesmatter
on a galactic scale. But falling in love doesn’t even begin to compare to theformationoftheuniverse.It’snotevenclose.
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“Symmetries”APoembyDanielJaeHoBae
Iwillstayonmyside.Andyouwillstayonan-other
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MYFATHERANDIWEREcloseonce.InJamaica,andevenafterwemovedhere, we were inseparable. Most times it felt like me and my dad—theDreamers—againstmymomandmybrother—theNon-Dreamers.HeandIwatchedcrickettogether.Iwashisaudiencewhenheranlinesfor
auditions.WhenhewasfinallyafamousBroadwayactor,hewouldgetmeallthebestpartsforlittlegirls,he’dsay.Ilistenedtohisstoriesabouthowourlifewouldbeafterhebecame famous. I listened longaftermymomandbrotherhadstoppedlistening.Thingsstartedtochangeaboutfouryearsago,whenIwasthirteen.Mymom
gotsickoflivinginaone-bedroomapartment.AllherfriendsinJamaicalivedin their own houses. She got sick of my dad working in the same job forbasically the samepay.Shegot sickofhearingwhatwouldhappenwhenhisshipcamein.Sheneversaidanythingtohim,though,onlytome.
You children too big to be sleeping in the living room now. You need youprivacy.
Inevergoingtohavearealkitchenandarealfridge.Istimeforhimtogiveupthatfoolishnessnow.Andthenhelosthisjob.Idon’tknowifhewasfiredorlaidoff.Mymom
saidoncethatshethoughthequit,butshecouldn’tproveit.On theday ithappenedhe said: “Maybe isablessing indisguise.Giveme
moretimetopursuemeacting.”Idon’tknowwhohewastalkingto,butnooneresponded.Now that he wasn’t working, he said he would audition for roles. But he
hardlyeverdid.Therewasalwaysanexcuse:Menotrightforthatpart.Themnotgoingtolikemeaccent,man.
Megettingtoooldnow.Actingisayoungmangame.Whenmymomgothomefromwork in theevening,myfather toldherhe
wastrying.ButmybrotherandIknewbetter.Istillrememberthefirsttimewesawhimdisappearintoaplay.PeterandI
hadwalkedhomefromschool.Weknewsomethingstrangewasupbecausethefrontdoorwashangingopen.Ourfatherwasinthelivingroom—ourbedroom.Idon’tknowifhedidn’thearuscomein,buthedidn’treact.Hewasholdingabookinhishand.LaterIrealizeditwasactuallyaplay—ARaisinintheSun.Hewaswearingawhitebutton-upshirtandslacksandrecitingthelines.I’m
not sure why he was even holding the play because he already had itmemorized. I still remember parts of the monologue. The character saidsomethingaboutseeinghisfuturestretchedoutinfrontofhimandhowit—thefuture—wasjustaloomingemptyspace.Whenmyfatherfinallynoticeduswatching,hescoldedusforsneakingup
onhim.AtfirstIthoughthewasjustembarrassed.Noonelikesbeingcaughtunawares.Later,though,Irealizeditwasmorethanthat.Hewasashamed,asifwe’dcaughthimcheatingorstealing.AfterthatheandIdidn’tdomuchofanythingtogetheranymore.Hestopped
watchingcricket.Heturneddownallmyofferstohelphimmemorizelines.Hisside of my parents’ bedroom grew more cluttered with stacks of used andyellowedpaperbacksoffamousplays.Heknewalltheroles,notjusttheleadsbutthebitpartsaswell.Eventuallyhestoppedwithallpretenseofauditioningor lookingforajob.
Mymom gave up the pretense that we’d ever own a house or even find anapartmentwithmorethanonebedroom.Shetookextrashiftsatworktomakeendsmeet.Lastsummer,IgotajobatMcDonald’sinsteadofvolunteeringatNewYorkMethodisthospitallikeIusedto.It’sbeenover threeyearsof this.Wecomehomefromschool to findhim
locked in his bedroom, running lines with no one. His favorite parts are thelong, dramatic monologues. He is Macbeth and Walter Lee Younger. Hecomplainsbitterlyaboutthisorthatactorandhislackofskill.Heheapspraiseonthosehejudgestobegood.Twomonthsago, throughnofaultofhisown,hegotapart.Someonehe’d
metyearsagoduringoneofhisauditionswasstagingaproductionofARaisinin theSun.Whenhe toldmymom, thefirst thingsheaskedwas“Howmuchyougettingpaid?”NotCongratulations.NotI’msoproudofyou.NotWhichpart?orWhenisit?
orAreyousoexcited?JustHowmuchyougettingpaid?
Shelookedathimwithflateyeswhenshesaidit.Unimpressedeyes.Tiredeyesthathadjustcomeofftwoshiftsinarow.I thinkwewereall a little shocked.She’deven shockedherself.Yes, she’d
beenfrustratedwithhimforyears,butthatonemomentshowedusallhowfaraparttheyreallywerenow.EvenPeter,whosideswithmymotherinallthings,flinchedalittle.Still.Youcouldn’tfaulther.Notreally.Myfatherhadbeendreaminghislife
awayforyears.Helivedinthoseplaysinsteadoftherealworld.Hestilldoes.Mymotherdidn’thavetimefordreaminganymore.NeitherdoI.
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HE’S A LITTLE AFRAID OF NATASHA, to be honest. The things she’sinterested in now? Chemistry and physics and math. Where did they comefrom? Sometimes when he looks at her doing her homework at the kitchentable,hethinksshebelongstosomeoneelse.Herworldisbiggerthanhimandthethingshetaughthertobeinterestedin.Hedoesn’tknowwhensheoutgrewhim.Onenight after she andPeter had gone tobed, hewent to thekitchen for
water. She’d left hermath book and homework on the table. Samuel doesn’tknowwhat overcame him, but he turned on the light, sat down, and flippedthroughthebook.It lookedlikehieroglyphics, likesomeancientlanguageleftbyatimeandapeoplehecouldneverhopetounderstand.Itfilledhimwithakind of dread. He sat there for a long time, running his fingers over thesymbols, wishing his skin were porous enough to let all the knowledge andhistoryoftheworldin.After that night, every time he looked at her he had the vague sense that
someonehadcomeinwhenhewasn’tlookingandsnatchedhissweetlittlegirlaway.Sometimes,though,hestillcatchesaglimpseoftheoldNatasha.She’llgive
him a look like she used to when she was younger. It’s a look that wantssomething from him.A look that wants him to bemore, domore, and lovemore.Heresentsit.Sometimesheresentsher.Hasn’thedoneenoughalready?She’shisfirstchild.He’salreadygivenupallhisdreamsforher.
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I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO with myself now. I’m supposed to beblowingwiththewind,butthere’snowindanymore.IwanttogetahobooutfitandasandwichboardandscrawlWhatnow,Universe?acrossit.Nowmightbeagoodtimetoadmitthattheuniverseisnotpayingattention,though.It’sfairtosaythatIhateeverythingandeveryone.Theuniverseisanasshole,justlikeCharlie.Charlie.Thatsackofshit.Charlie, who told my would-be girlfriend that we didn’t stand a chance.
Charlie,whoaccusedherofbeinga shoplifter.Charlie,who toldher Ihadasmalldick.Charlie,whoI’vewantedtopunchinthefaceforelevenyearsnow.Maybethisisthewind.MyhateforCharlie.Notimelikethepresent.I’vegotnothinglefttolosetoday.
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THEPARALEGALISALITTLEmorerumpledwhenIseeherthistime.Alockofherhairisoutofplaceandfallsintohereyes.Hereyesareglitterunderthe fluorescent lights, andherbright red lipstick isgone.She looks like she’sbeenkissed.I checkmyphone tomake sure I’mnot too early or late, but I’m right on
time.“Welcomeback,Ms.Kingsley.Followme,please.”She stands and begins walking. “Jeremy—I mean, Mr. Fitz—I mean,
AttorneyFitzgeraldisjustthroughhere.”Sheknocksquietlyattheonlydoorandwaits,eyesevenbrighterthanbefore.Thedoorswingsopen.Imightaswellnotbestandingthere,becauseAttorneyFitzgeralddoesn’tsee
meatall.Helooksathisparalegalinawaythatmakesmewanttoapologizeforintruding.She’slookingathiminthesameway.Iclearmythroatveryloudly.Finallyhedragshiseyesawayfromher.“Thankyou,Ms.Winter,”hesays.
Hemightaswellbedeclaringhislove.I follow him. He sits down at his desk and presses his fingers against his
temples.He’sgotasmallbandagejustabovehiseyebrowandanotheraroundhiswrist.Helookslikeanolderandmoreharriedversionofthepictureonhiswebsite.Theonlythingsthatarethesamearethathe’swhite,andhiseyesarebrightgreen.“Sitsitsitsit,”hesays,all inonebreath.“Sorryforthedelay.Ihada little
accidentthismorning,butnowwedon’thavemuchtime,soplease,tellmehowthisallcametopass.”
I’mnotsurewheretobegin.ShouldItellthislawyertheentirehistory?WhatshouldIinclude?IfeellikeIneedtogobackintimetoexplainitall.ShouldItellhimaboutmyfather’saborteddreams?ShouldItellhimthatI
thinkdreamsneverdieevenwhenthey’redead?ShouldItellhimthatIsuspectmy father lives a better life in his head? In that life, he’s renowned andrespected.Hiskidslookuptohim.Hiswifewearsdiamondsandistheenvyofmenandwomenalike.Iwouldliketoliveinthatworldtoo.Idon’tknowwheretobegin,soIstartwiththenightheruinedourlives.
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THETHEATERWASEVENSMALLERthanPeterandIexpected.ThesignsaidMAXIMUMCAPACITY:40PEOPLE.Ticketswerefifteendollarseach,withthe proceeds going to cover the rental of the space for two hours on aWednesday night. The actorsweren’t given complimentary tickets for friendsandfamily,sohehadtobuythreeforus.Myfatherlovesritualandceremonybuthasveryfewthingstoberitualistic
orceremonialabout.Nowhehadthisplay,andthesetickets.Hecouldn’thelphimself. First he went out and picked up Chinese takeout—General Tso’schickenandshrimpfriedriceforeveryone.Hesatusalldownattheverysmalltableinourkitchen.Wenevereatatthe
table,becauseit’scrampedwithmorethantwopeoplesittingatit.Thatnight,though, he insisted we eat together as a family. He even served us himself,whichisathingthathadneverhappenedbefore.Tomymomhesaid,“See?Igotpaperplatessoyoudon’thaveabunchofdishestowashuplater.”HesaiditwithaperfectAmericanaccent.Mymomdidn’trespond.Weshould’vetakenthatasasign.Assoonasweweredoneeating,hestoodandheldaplainwhiteenvelopeup
intheairlikeitwasatrophy.“Let’sseewhatwehavefordessert,”hesaid.Hemade,andheld,eyecontact
with each of us in turn. I watched asmymom cut her eyes away from himbeforehemovedontoPeterandthentome.“Myfamily.Pleasedometheverygreathonorofcomingtoseemeperform
theroleofWalterLeeYoungerintheVillageTroupe’sproductionofARaisinintheSun.”Then he opened the envelope slowly, like hewas at theAcademyAwards
announcingtheBestActorcategory.Hetookouttheticketsandhandedoneto
eachofus.Helookedsoproud.Morethanthat,helookedsopresent.Forafewminutes,hewasn’t lost inhishead,oraplay,orsomedreamfantasy.Hewasrighttherewithus,andhedidn’twanttobesomewhereelse.I’dforgottenwhatthatwaslike.Hehasthisgazethatcanmakeyoufeelseen.There was a time when my father thought the world of me, and I really
misseditrightthen.Morethanthat,though?ImissedthedayswhenIthoughttheworldofhim,andthoughthecoulddonowrong.Iusedtobelievethatallittook tomake him happy was us, his family. There are pictures ofme fromwhenIwasthreewearingaMYDADISTHECOOLESTT-shirt.Onittherewasafatherpenguinandadaughterpenguinholdinghands, surroundedby icybluehearts.IwishIstillfeltthatway.Growingupandseeingyourparents’flawsislike
losingyourreligion.Idon’tbelieveinGodanymore.Idon’tbelieveinmyfathereither.Mymotherkissedherteethwhenhegavehertheticket.Shemightaswell
haveslappedhim.“Youandyoufoolishness,”shesaid,andstoodup.“Youcankeepyouticket.Inotgoinganywhere.”Shewalkedoutofthekitchen.Welistenedasshewalkedthetwentystepsto
thebathroomandslammedthedoorwithallhermight.Noneofusknewwhattosay.Peterslumpedinhischairandhunghishead
so you couldn’t findhis face under his dreadlocks. I just looked at the spacewhereshe’dbeen.Myfather’seyesdisappearedbehindhisdreamingveil.Inhistypicaldenial-of-realityway,hesaid:“Don’tworry’boutyoumother.Shedon’tmeanit,man.”Butshedidmeanit.Shedidn’tgowithus.EvenPetercouldn’tconvinceher.
Shesaidtheticketpricewasawasteofherhard-earnedmoney.Onthenightoftheshow,PeterandItookthesubwayalonetothetheater.
My father had gone ahead to get ready. We sat in the first row and didn’tmentiontheemptyseatnexttous.Iwanttobeabletosaynowthathewasnotgood.Thathistalentswereonly
mediocre.Mediocrewouldexplainall theyearsof rejection. Itwouldexplainwhyhegaveupandretreatedfromreallifeandintohishead.AndIdon’tknowifIcanseemyfatherclearly.MaybeI’mstillseeingwithmyold,hero-worshipeyes,butwhatIsawwasthis:Hewasexcellent.Hewastranscendent.Hebelongedonthatstagemorethanhe’severbelongedwithus.
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AreaTeenPrettySureDayCan’tGetWorse,IsWrongAboutThatMydad’swithacustomerwhenIwalkin.Hiseyestellmethathewillhave
manythingstosaytomelater.Imightaswellgiveussomemoretotalkabout.It’s just after the lunch rush, so the store’s pretty empty. There’s only one
othercustomer—awomanlookingatblowdryers.Idon’t seeCharliecleaningor restockinganyof theshelves, so I figurehe
mustbeslackingoffinthestockroomintheback.I’mnotevennervous.Idon’tgiveashitifhebeatsmyfacein,solongasI
saywhatIhavetosayfirst. Idropmyjacketoutsidethestockroomdoorandturnthehandle,butit’slocked.There’snoreasonforittobelockedwithhiminit.He’sprobablyjackingoffinthere.HepullsthedooropenbeforeIcanpoundonit.Insteadofhisusualsneer,
hisfaceisacombinationoftiredanddefensive.Hemust’vethoughtitwasmydadtryingtogetin.Assoonasheseesit’sjustme,hisfacegoesintofullsuperiorassholesmirk.
Hemakesashowoflookingovermyshoulderandaroundme.“Where’s your girlfriend?” He says girlfriend like it’s a joke, the way you
wouldsayawordlikebooger.Istandtherelookingathim,tryingtofigureoutnothowwe’rerelated,but
why.Hepushespastme,deliberatelybumpingintomyshoulder.“Shedumpyoualready?”heasks,aftertakingaquicklookdownacoupleof
aislestoverifythatshe’sreallynothere.Hisshit-eatinggrinisfirmlyinplace.He’sbaitingme,Iknow.Iknowit,andstill—I’mlettingthehookpierceme
like somedumbfish that’sbeenhookedabillion timesbeforeand stillhasn’tfigureditoutyetthathooksaretheenemy.
“Fuckyou,Charlie,”Isay.Thatcatcheshimoffguard.Hestopssmilingandtakesagoodlookatme.
Mytieandjacketaremissing.Myshirt’suntucked.Idon’t looklikesomeonewhohastheMostImportantInterviewofHisLifeinacoupleofhours.Ilooklikesomeonewhowantstogetintoafight.Hepuffshimselfup likeablowfish.He’salwaysbeensoproudof the two
yearsandtwoinchesthathehasonme.It’sjusthimandmebackhere,andthatmakeshimbold.“Why. Are. You. Here. Little. Brother?” he asks. He steps closer, so that
we’retoetotoe,andpusheshisfaceclosertomine.Heexpectsmetobackdown.Idon’tbackdown.“Icametoaskyouaquestion.”Hepullshisfacebackjustalittle.“Sure,I’dfuckher,”hesays.“Isthatwhat
happened?Shewantmeinsteadofyou?”The thingaboutbeinga fishonahook is themoreyou try togetoff, the
moretrappedyouare.Thehookjustburiesitselfdeeperandyoubleedalittlemore.Youcan’tgetoffthehook.Youcanonlygothroughit.Saidanotherway:thehookhastogothroughyou,andit’sgonnahurtlikeamotherfucker.“Whyareyoulikethis?”Iaskhim.If I’ve surprised him, he doesn’t show it. He just goes on with his usual
shittiness.“Likewhat?Bigger,stronger,smarter,better?”“No.Whyareyouanassholetome?What’dIdotoyou?”Thistimehecan’thidehissurprise.Hepullsoutofmyspace,eventakesa
stepback.“Whatever.Thatwhatyoucameherefor?Towhineaboutmebeingmeanto
you?”Helooksmeupanddownagain.“Youlooklikeshit.Don’tyouhavetotrytogetintoSecond-BestSchooltoday?”“Idon’tcareaboutthat.Idon’tevenwanttogo.”Isayitquietly,butitstill
feelsgoodtosayitatall.“Speak.Up.Little.Brother.Ididn’thearyou.”“I don’t want to go,” I say louder, before realizing that my dad left his
position at the register and is now close enough to hearme.He starts to saysomething,butthenthedoorbellchimes.Hepivotsaway.IturnbacktoCharlie.“I’vebeentryingtofigureitoutforyears.MaybeIdid
somethingtoyouwhenwewereyoungerandIdon’tremember.”Hesnorts.“Whatcouldyoudotome?You’retoopathetic.”
“Soyou’rejustanasshole?”Iask.“Justthewayyou’remade?”“I’mstronger.Andsmarter.Andbetterthanyou.”“If you’re so smart, what are you doing back here, Charlie? Is it big fish,
smallpondsyndrome?WereyoujustatinydouchebagfishatHarvard?”Heclencheshisfists.“Watchyourmouth.”Myguessisgood.Morethangood,even.“I’mright,aren’tI?You’renot thebest there.Turnsoutyou’renot thebest
hereeither.HowdoesitfeeltobeSecond-BestSon?”I’mtheonewiththehooknow.Hisfaceisredandhe’spuffinghimselfback
up.Hegetsrightinmyface.Ifheclencheshisjawanymoreitwillbreak.“YouwanttoknowwhyIdon’tlikeyou?Becauseyou’rejustlikethem.”He
pointshischininthedirectionofourdad.“YouandyourKoreanfoodandyourKorean friends and studyingKorean in school. It’s pathetic.Don’t you get it,LittleBrother?You’rejustlikeeverybodyelse.”Wait.What?“YouhatemebecauseIhaveKoreanfriends?”“Korean is all you are,” he spits out. “We’re not even from the goddamn
country.”AndIgetit.Ireallydo.Somedaysit’shardtobeinAmerica.SomedaysI
feellikeI’mhalfwaytothemoon,trappedbetweentheEarthandit.Thefightleavesme.I’mjustsorryforhimnow,andthat’sexactlytheworst
thingIcandotohim.Heseesthepityonmyface.Itenrageshim.Hegrabsmebythecollar.“Fuckyou.You thinkbecause yougrewyourhair out andyou likepoetry
anybody’s gonna treat you any different?You think because you bring someblackgirlinhere?OrshouldIcallherAfricanAmerican,ormaybejust—”ButIdon’tlethimgetthewordout.IthoughtIwouldhavetoworkmyself
uptoit,butIdon’thaveto.Ipunchhimrightinthefuckingface.Myfistcatcheshimaround theeyesocketarea, somyknuckleshitmostly
bone. It hurts me more than it has any right to, given that I’m the onesupposedlydeliveringthisbeatdown.Hestumblesbackbutdoesn’tfallflatlikepeopledointhemovies.Thisis,frankly,disappointing.Still,thelookonhisfaceisworthalltheI’m-
sure-they’re-brokenbonesinmyhand.Idefinitelyhurthim.WhatImeanis:Icausedhimphysicalpain,aswasmyintention.IwantedhimtoknowthatI,hisLittleBrother,coulddishitoutandnotjusttakeit.NowheknowsIcanhurt
him,andthatI’mdoneputtingupwithhiscrap.Idon’tdoenoughdamage,though.Iwatchhisexpressionturnfrompainto
surprisetorage.Hecomesatmewithhisextratwoinchesandhisextratwentypoundsofmuscle.Firsthepunchesmeinthestomach.Iswearit’slikehisfistgoesthroughmy
stomachandoutthroughmyspinalcord.IdoubleoverandthinkthatmaybeI’lljuststayinthisposition,buthe’snothavingit.Hepullsmeupbymycollar.ItrytoblockmyfacewithmyhandsbecauseIknowthat’swherehe’sgoing,butthestomachpunchmakesmeslow.Hisfistsmashesintothesideofmymouth.Mylipsplitsopenontheinside
frombashingintomyteeth.Itsplitsopenontheoutsidebecausethebastardhitmewhilewearingsomegiant-asssecretsocietyring.That’sgonnaleaveamark(possiblyforever).He’sstillgotmycollarinhisfist,readytodeliveranotherblow,butI’mready
forhim. Iblockmy facewithmyhandsandbringmyknee rightup intohisballs—hard, but not hard enough to prevent him from having future littledemonspawnchildren.I’mnicelikethat.He’sdownontheground,clutchingthefamilyjewelsthathewisheswerenot
Korean,andI’mholdingmyjaw,tryingtofigureoutifIstillhaveallmyteeth,whenmydadcomesovertous.
“Museuniriya?”hesays.Whichlooselytranslatesto“WHAT’SGOINGONHERE?”
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ATTORNEYFITZGERALD’SFINGERSaresteepledandhiseyesarefixedonmine.Heleansforwardinhischairslightly.Ican’tdecideifhe’slistening,orifhejustwantstolooklikehe’slistening.Howmany stories likeminehasheheardover theyears? I’mamazed that
he’snottellingmetogettothepoint.Ifinishtellinghimeverythingaboutthenightinquestion:The actors took three bows. Theywould’ve taken a fourth if the audience
membershadn’tstartedfilingout.Afterward, Peter and I stayed in our seats, waiting for our father to come
backouttogetus.Wewaitedforthirtyminutesbeforeheshowedup.Idon’tthinkitwasbecauseheknewwewerewaiting.Heappearedthroughthethickred curtains andwalked to the center of the stage.He stood there for a fullminute,juststaringoutintothenow-emptytheater.I don’t believe in souls, but his soul was on his face. I’ve never seen him
happier.I’mcertainhewillneverbethathappyagain.PeterbrokethespellbecauseIcouldn’tbringmyselftodoit.“Youready,Pops?”heshouted.Myfatherlookeddownatuswithhisfarawayeyes.Whenhelooksatuslike
thatI’mnotsureifit’shimwho’smissing,orus.Petergotuncomfortable,thewayhealwaysdoeswhenmyfatherdoesthat.
“Pops?Youready,man?”Whenmyfatherfinallyspoke,hehadnotraceofaJamaicanaccentandno
Jamaicandictionatall.Hesoundedlikeastranger.“Youchildrengoonahead.Iwillseeyoulater.”I speed through the rest of the story. My father spends the rest of that
eveningdrinkingwithhisnewactorfriends.Hedrinkstoomuch.Onhiswayhome,heramshiscarintoaparkedpolicecar.Inhisdrunkennesshetellsthepolice officer the whole history of our coming to America. I imagine hemonologued for this audience of one. He tells the policeman we’reundocumented immigrants, and thatAmericanevergavehima fair shot.TheofficerarrestshimandcallsImmigrationandCustomsEnforcement.Attorney Fitzgerald’s brows are furrowed. “But why would your father do
that?”heasks.It’saquestionIknowtheanswerto.
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CHARACTERSPatriciaKingsley,43SamuelKingsley,45
ACTTWOSCENETHREE
Interior bedroom. A single queen-sized bed with headboard dominates thespace.Perhapsapictureframeortwo.TheflooronSamuel’ssideofthebedisoverflowingwithbooks.Stagerightweseeanopeningtoahallway.Samueland Patricia’s teenage daughter is listening, but neither Samuel nor Patriciaknowsit.It’snotclearthattheywouldcareiftheydid.
PATRICIA:Lawdhavemercy,Kingsley.
Sheisseatedontheedgeofherbed.Herfaceisinherhands.Herspeechismuffled.
SAMUEL:Itdon’tmeannothing,man.Wegoingtogetagoodlawyer.
SamuelKingsley is standingonhis sideof theroom.He ishunchedwithhisface in shadow. A spotlight shines brightly on the single sheet of paper heholdsinhislefthand.
PATRICIA:Andhowweagopayforalawyer,Kingsley?
SAMUEL:Lawd,Patsy.Wefigureitout,man.
Patriciatakesherfaceoutofherhandsandlooksatherhusbandasifshe’sseeinghimforthefirsttime.
PATRICIA:Yourememberthedaywedidmeet?
Samuel slowly crumples the paper in his hand. He continues to do thisthroughoutthescene.
PATRICIA:Youdon’t remember,Kingsley?Howyoucame into the store,thenyoukeptcomingbackdayafterday?Thatwassofunny.Onedayyoubuysomethingandthenextdayyoureturnituntilyouwearmedown.
SAMUEL:Wasn’tnowearingdown,Patsy.Itwascourting.
PATRICIA:Yourememberallthepromisesyoumakeme,Kingsley?
SAMUEL:Patsy—
PATRICIA: You say all me dreams would come true. We going havechildren andmoney and big house.You sayme happinessmore importantthanyouown.Yourememberthat,Kingsley?
Sherisesfromthebedandthespotlightfollowsherasshemoves.
SAMUEL:Patsy—
PATRICIA:Letmetellyousomething.Ididn’tbelieveyouwhenwestartedout.ButafteratimeIchangemymind.Youagoodactor,Kingsley,becauseyoumakemebelievealltheprettythingsyousaytome.
ThepaperinSamuel’shandisfullycrumplednow.Thespotlightmovestohisfaceandhe’snolongerhunched.Heisangry.
SAMUEL: You know what me tired of hearing about?Me tired of yourdreams.What’boutmine?
Ifitwasn’tforyouandchildrenthem,IwouldhaveallthethingsIwant.You complain ’bout house and kitchen and extra bedroom.Butwhat ’boutme?Idon’thaveanyofthethingthemthatIwant.Idon’tgettousemyGod-giventalent.IruethedayIwalkintothatstore.Ifitwasn’tforyouandthechildren,my
lifewouldbebetta.IwouldbedoingthethingGodputmeonthisearthtodo. I don’t want hear nothingmore ’bout your dreams. Them not nothingcomparedtomine.
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BUT I DON’T TELL ATTORNEY Fitzgerald that part—about how myfather’swifeandchildrenarehisgreatestregretbecausewegot inthewayofthelifehedreamedforhimself.Instead, I say, “A few weeks after he was arrested we got the Notice to
AppearletterfromHomelandSecurity.”HelooksoveroneoftheformsIfilledoutearlierfortheparalegalandgetsa
yellowlegalpadoutofhisdeskdrawer.“SothenyouwenttotheMasterCalendarHearing.Didyoubringalawyer
withyou?”“Onlymy parentswent,” I tell him. “And they didn’t bring a lawyer.”My
momandItalkedaboutitalotbeforetheappointment.Shouldwehirealawyerwe couldn’t really afford, orwait to seewhat happened at thehearing?We’dreadonlinethatyoudidn’treallyneedalawyerforthefirstappointment.Atthatpointmyfatherwasstillinsistingthateverythingwouldmiraculouslyworkitselfout.Idon’tknow.Maybewewantedtobelievethatwastrue.Attorney Fitzgerald shakes his head and jots something down on his legal
pad.“Soatthehearing,thejudgetellsthemtheycanacceptVoluntaryRemovalor file for Cancellation of Removal.” He looks down at my forms. “YouryoungerbrotherisaU.S.citizen?”“Yes,” I say, watching as he notes that down too. Peter was born almost
exactly ninemonths after wemoved here.My parents were still happy witheachotherthen.Myfatherdidn’t accept theVoluntaryRemoval at thathearing.Thatnight,
mymomandIresearchedCancellationofRemoval.Inordertoqualify,mydadneededtohavelivedintheUnitedStatesforatleasttenyears,haveshowngoodmoral character, and be able to prove that being deported would cause an
extreme hardship on a spouse, parent, or child who was a U.S. citizen.Wethought Peter’s citizenship was going to be our saving grace. We hired thecheapestlawyerwecouldfindandwenttotheMeritsHearingarmedwiththisnewstrategy.Butasitturnsout,it’sverydifficulttoprove“extremehardship.”Going back to Jamaica will not put Peter’s life in danger, and no one caresabout thepsychological danger of uprooting a child fromhis home, not evenPeterhimself.“And at the Merits Hearing the judge denies your case and your father
accepts the Voluntary Removal.” Attorney Fitzgerald says it flatly, like theoutcomewasinevitable.Inodinsteadofansweringoutloud.I’mnotsureI’llbeabletotalkwithout
crying.AnyhopeIhadisslippingaway.I’darguedthatweshouldappealthejudge’sdecision,butourlawyeradvised
against it. She said we had no case and that we were out of options. Shesuggested we leave voluntarily so we wouldn’t have a deportation on ourrecords.Thatwaywe’dhaveahopeofreturningoneday.Fitzgeraldputshispendownandleansbackinhischair.“Whydidyougoto
USCIStoday?It’snoteventheirjurisdiction.”Ihavetoclear the tearspooling inmythroatbeforeIcananswer.“Ididn’t
know what else to do.” The truth is, despite the fact that I don’t believe inmiracles,Iwashopingforone.He’ssilentforalongtime.FinallyIcan’ttakeanymore.“It’sokay,”Isay.“IknowI’moutofoptions.I
don’tevenknowwhyIcamehere.”Imakeamovetogetup,buthewavesmebackdown.Hesteepleshisfingers
againandlooksaroundtheoffice.Ifollowhiseyestotheunpackedboxesliningthewall just tohis right.Behindhim,a folding ladder restsagainstanemptybookshelf.“We’rejustmovingin,”hesays.“Theconstructionguysweresupposedtobe
done weeks ago, but you know what they say about plans.” He smiles andtouchesthebandageonhisforehead.“Areyouokay,Mr.Fitz—”“I’mfine,”hesays,rubbingatthebandage.Hepicksupaframedpicturefromhisdeskandlooksatit.“Thisistheonly
thingI’veunpackedsofar.”HeturnsthepicturesoIcanseeit.It’shimwithhiswifeandtwochildren.Theyseemhappy.Ismilepolitely.He puts it back down and looks atme. “You’re never out of options,Ms.
Kingsley.”Ittakesmeasecondtorealizethathe’sbacktotalkingaboutmycase.Ilean
forwardinmyseat.“Areyousayingyoucanfixthis?”“I’moneofthebestimmigrationlawyersinthiscity,”hesays.“Buthow?”Iask. I laymyhandsonhisdesk,pressmyfingersagainst the
wood.“Letme go see a judge friend ofmine.He’ll be able to get theVoluntary
Removalreversedsoatleastyoudon’thavetoleavetonight.AfterthatwecanfileanappealwiththeBIA—theBoardofImmigrationAppeals.”Hecheckshiswatch.“Justgivemeacoupleofhours.”Iopenmymouthtoaskformorefactsandspecifics.Ifindthemreassuring.
The poem comes back to me. “Hope” is the thing with feathers. I close mymouth.For thesecondtimetodayI’m lettinggoof thedetails.MaybeIdon’tneedthem.Itwouldbesonicetoletsomeoneelsetakeoverthisburdenforalittlewhile.
“Hope”isthethingwithfeathers.Ifeelitflutteringinmyheart.
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MYDADLOOKSATME fromhead to toe, and I feel like the second-rateslackerhe’salwaystakenmefor.IwillalwaysbeSecondSontohim,nomatterwhatCharliedoes.ImustlookevenworsethanwhenIfirstcamein.Thetopbuttonofmyshirt ismissingfromwhereCharliegrabbedme.There’sevenabloodstainonitfrommybustedlip.I’msweaty,andmyhairisstickingtothesideofmyface.PremiumYalematerialrighthere.Hegivesmeanorder.“Getsomeiceforyourlipandcomebackouthere.”Charlie’s next. “You hit your little brother? That what you learn from
America?Tohityourfamily?”Ialmostwanttostayandhearwherethisgoes,butmyfatlipisgettingfatter.
IgointothebackroomandgrabacanofCokeandpressitagainstmylip.I’veneverlikedthisroom.It’stoosmallandalwayscloggedwithhalf-opened
boxesofproduct.Therearenochairs,soIsitonthefloorwithmybackagainstthedoorsonoonecangetin.Ineedfiveminutesbeforedealingwithmylifeagain.Mylipthrobsintimetomyheartbeat.IwonderifIneedstitches.Ipressthe
cancloserandwaittofeel(ornotfeel)thenumbness.This is what I get for letting the Fates guideme—beat up, girlfriend-less,
future-less.Why did I postponemy interview?Worse,why did I letNatashawalkaway?Maybeshewasright.I’mjust lookingforsomeonetosaveme.I’mlooking
forsomeonetotakemeoffthetrackmylifeison,becauseIdon’tknowhowtodo it myself. I’m looking to get overwhelmed by love andmeant-to-be anddestinysothatthedecisionsaboutmyfuturewillbeoutofmyhands.Itwon’tbemedefyingmyparents.ItwillbeFate.The Coke can does the trick. I can’t feel my lip anymore. Good thing
Natasha’s nothere, becausemykissingdays areover, at least for today.Andwithher,there’snotomorrow.Notthatshe’deverletmekissheragain.Fromtheothersideofthedoor,mydadordersmetocomeout.Iputthecan
backinthefridgeandtuckmyshirtin.Iopenthedoortofindhimstandingtherealone.Heleansinclosetome.“I
have a question for you,” he says. “Why do you think it matters what youwant?”Thewayheasks, it’s likehe’s genuinelyconfusedby theemotion.What is
thisdesireandwantingthatyouspeakof?He’sconfusedbywhytheymatteratall.“Whocareswhatyouwant?Theonlythingthatmattersiswhatisgoodfor
you.YourmotherandIonlycareaboutwhatisgoodforyou.Yougotoschool,youbecomeadoctor,youbesuccessful.Thenyouneverhavetoworkinastorelike this.Then youhavemoney and respect, and all the things youwantwillcome. You find a nice girl and have children and you have the AmericanDream.Whywouldyouthrowyourfutureawayfortemporarythingsthatyouonlywantrightnow?”It’sthemostmyfatherhaseversaidtomeatonce.He’snotevenangryashe
says it. He talks like he’s trying to teachme something basic. One plus oneequalstwo,son.Ever since he bought the oil paints for omma, I’ve wanted to have a
conversationlikethiswithhim.I’vewantedtoknowwhyhewantsthethingshewants for us.Why it’s so important to him. I want to ask him if he thinksomma’slifewould’vebeenbetterifshe’dkeptpainting.Iwanttoknowifhe’ssadthatshegaveitupforhimandforus.Maybe thismoment right nowbetweenmy dad andme is themeaning of
today.MaybeIcanbegintounderstandhim.Maybehecanbegintounderstandme.
“Appa—”Ibegin,butheholdshishanduptosilencemeandkeepsitthere.Theairaroundusisstillandmetallic.Helooksatmeandthroughmeandpastmetosomeothertime.“No,”he says. “You letmefinish.Maybe Imake it tooeasy foryouboys.
Maybethisismyfault.Youdon’tknowyourhistory.Youdon’tknowwhatpoorcando.Idon’ttellyoubecauseIthinkthingsarebetterthatway.Betternottoknow.MaybeIamwrong.”I’msoclose.I’mattheedgeofknowinghim.We’reattheedgeofknowing
eachother.
I’mgoingtotellhimthatIdon’twantthethingsformyselfthathewantsforme.I’mgoingtotellhimthatI’llbeokayanyway.
“Appa—”Ibeginagain,butagainhishandgoesthroughtheair.AgainIamsilenced.HeknowswhatI’mgoingtosay,andhedoesn’twanttohearit.MyfatherisshapedbythememoryofthingsIwillneverknow.“Enough.Youdon’tgotoYaleandbecomeadoctor,thenyoufindajoband
payforcollegeyourself.”Hewalksbacktothefrontofthestore.I’lladmitthatthere’ssomethingrefreshingabouthavingitalllaidoutforme
likethis.FutureorNoFuture.Mysuitjacketisstillcrumpledbythedoor.Igrabitandputiton.Thelapel
almostcoversthebloodstain.IlookaroundforCharlie,buthe’snowheretobefound.Iwalktothedoor.Mydad’sbehindthecashregister,staringoffatnothing.
I’mabouttoleavewhenhesaysthefinalthing,thethinghe’sbeenwaitingtosay.“Isawthewayyoulookatthatgirl,”hesays.“Butthatcanneverbe.”“Ithinkyou’rewrong,”Itellhim.“Doesn’tmatterwhatyouthink.Youdotherightthing.”Wemakeandholdeyecontact. It’s theholdingofeyecontact that tellsme
he’snotsurewhatI’mgoingtodo.NeitheramI.
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DAE HYUN BAE OPENS AND CLOSES the cash register. Opens andcloses it again.Maybe it really ishis fault thathis sons are theway theyare.He’s told them nothing about his past. He does it because he’s a fatherwholoveshissonsfiercely,andit’shiswayofprotectingthem.Hethinksofpovertyasakindofcontagion,andhedoesn’twantthemtohearaboutitlesttheycatchit.Heopenstheregisterandpacksthelargebillsintothedepositpouch.Charlie
andDaniel thinkmoneyandhappinessarenotrelated.Theydon’tknowwhatpooris.Theydon’tknowthatpovertyisasharpknifecarvingawayatyou.Theydon’tknowwhatitdoestoabody.Toamind.WhenDaeHyunwasthirteenandstilllivinginSouthKorea,hisfatherbegan
grooming him to take over the family’s meager crab fishing business. Thebusiness barelymade anymoney.Every seasonwas a fight for survival.Andeveryseasontheysurvived,butjustbarely.Formostofhischildhood,therewasnever any doubt inDaeHyun’smind that he would eventually take over thebusiness.Hewastheeldestofthreesons.Itwashisplace.Familyisdestiny.Hecanstillrememberthedaythatsparkedasmallrebellioninhismind.For
thefirsttime,hisfatherhadtakenhimoutonthefishingboat.DaeHyunhatedit.Trappedinthecoldmesh-metalbaskets,thecrabsformedafurious,writhingcolumnofdesperation.Theyscrabbledandclawed theirwayovereachother,tryingtogettothetopandtoescape.Evennow, thememoryof that firstday still cropsupatunexpected times.
DaeHyunwishes he could forget it. He’d imagined that coming toAmericawouldwipe it clean.But thememory always comes back.Those crabs nevergaveup.Theyfoughtuntiltheydied.Theywould’vedoneanythingtoescape.
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IT’S HARD TO KNOW HOW to feel now. I don’t really trust what’shappened,ormaybeIjusthaven’thadenoughtimetoprocessit.Icheckmyphone.Bev’sfinallytexted.Sheloves,loves,lovesBerkeley.She
says she thinks she’sdestined togo there.Also,Californiaboys are cute in adifferentwayfromNewYorkboys.ThelasttextaskshowIam,withastringofbrokenheartemojis.IdecidetocallandtellherwhatAttorneyFitzgeraldsaid,butshedoesn’tpickup.
callme,Itext.Ipushmyway through the revolvingdoorsandout into thecourtyard,and
thenIjuststopmoving.Ahandfulofpeoplearehavinglunchonthebenchesnexttothefountain.Separategroupsoffastwalkersinsuitsgoinandoutofthebuilding.Alineofblacktowncarsidlesatthecurbwhiletheirdriverssmokeandchatwitheachother.Howcanthisbethesameday?Howcanallthesepeoplebegoingabouttheir
livestotallyoblivioustowhat’sbeenhappeningtomine?Sometimesyourworldshakes so hard, it’s difficult to imagine that everyone else isn’t feeling it too.That’show I feltwhenwe first got thedeportationnotice. It’s alsohow I feltwhenIfiguredoutthatRobwascheatingonme.ItakeoutmyphoneagainandlookupRob’snumberbeforerememberingI
deletedit.Mybrainholdsontonumbers,though,andIdialhisfrommemory.Idon’trealizewhyI’mcallinguntilI’mactuallyonthephonewithhim.“Heyyyyyyyy, Nat,” he drawls. He doesn’t even have the grace to sound
surprised.“Myname’snotNat,”Isay.NowthatIhavehimonthephone,I’mnotsureI
wanthimonthephone.“Not coolwhat you and your new dude did today.”His voice is deep and
slow and lazy, like it’s always been. Funny how things that once seemed socharmingcanbecomedullandannoying.Wethinkwewantallthetimeintheworldwiththepeoplewelove,butmaybewhatweneedistheopposite.Justafiniteamountof time,sowestill thinktheotherpersonis interesting.Maybewedon’tneedactstwoandthree.Maybeloveisbestinactone.I ignore his scolding, and the urge to point out that he was the one
shoplifting,andthereforehewastheuncoolone.“Ihaveaquestion,”Isay.“Goforit,”hesays.“Whydidyoucheatonme?”Something falls to the floor on his end and he stammers the beginning of
threedifferentanswers.“Calmdown,”Isay.“I’mnotcallingtofightwithyouandIdefinitelydon’t
want togetbacktogether. I justwant toknow.Whydidn’tyoujustbreakupwithme?Whycheat?”“Idon’tknow,”hesays,managingtostumbleoverthreesimplewords.“Comeon,”Iurge.“There’sgottabeareason.”He’squiet,thinking.“Ireallydon’tknow.”Istaysilent.“You’regreat,”hesays.“AndKelly’sgreat.Ididn’twanttohurtyourfeelings
and I didn’t want to hurt her feelings.”He sounds sincere, and I don’t knowwhattodowiththat.“Butyoumust’velikedherbettertocheat,right?”“No.Ijustwantedbothofyou.”“That’sit?”Iask.“Youdidn’twanttochoose?”“That’sit,”hesays,asifthat’senough.This answer is so wholly lame, so unbelievably unsatisfying, that I almost
hangup.Danielwouldneverfeelthisway.Hisheartchooses.“Onemorequestion.Doyoubelieveintrueloveandallthatstuff?”“No. You know me better than that. You don’t believe in it either,” he
remindsme.Don’tI?“Okay.Thanks.”I’mabouttohangup,buthestopsme.“CanIatleasttellyouthatI’msorry?”heasks.“Goahead.”“I’msorry.”“Okay,”Isay.“Don’tcheatonKelly.”“Iwon’t,”hesays.Ithinkhemeansitwhilehe’ssayingit.
IshouldcallmyparentsandtellthemaboutAttorneyFitzgerald,butthey’renotwhoIwanttotellrightnow.Daniel.Ineedtofindhimandtellhim.RobsaysIdon’tbelieveintruelove.Andhe’sright.Idon’t.ButImightwantto.
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ILEAVETHESTORE.Aviolinistisstandingonamilkcrateinfrontofthepawnshop rightnextdoor.She’spaleand scrawnyandbedraggled inapoeticsortofway,likesomethingoutofDavidCopperfield.Unlikeher, theviolin ispristine. I listen for a few seconds but don’t know if she’s any good. I knowthere’sanobjectivewaytojudgethesethings.Issheplayingalltherightnotesintherightorderandintune?Butthere’sanotherwaytojudgetoo:doesthismusicbeingplayedrighthere,
rightnow,mattertosomeone?Idecideitmatterstome.Ijogbacktowheresheisanddropadollarintoher
hat.There’sasignnexttothehatthatIdon’tread.Idon’treallywanttoknowherstory.Ijustwantthemusicandthemoment.MydadsaidNatashaandIcanneverworkout.Andmaybehe’sright,butnot
for the reasonshe thinks.What an idiot I’vebeen. I shouldbewithher rightnow,eveniftodayisallwehave.Especiallyiftodayisallwehave.We live in the Age of the Cell Phone, but I do not have her cell phone
number. I don’t even know her last name. Like an idiot, I Google “NatashaFacebook New York City” and get 5,780,000 hits. I click through maybe ahundredlinks,andwhiletheNatashasareallquitelovely,noneofthemismyNatasha.Whoknewthathernamewassoflippingpopular?It’s 4:15 p.m. and the streets are starting to fill up again with evening
commutersheadingforthesubways.Likeme,theylookworseforwear.Ijogonthecurbtopreventpedestriansonthesidewalkfromslowingmedown.Idon’thaveaplanexcepttofindheragain.Theonlythingtodoistogoto
herLastKnownLocation—thelawyer’sofficeonFifty-Second—andhopethatFateisonmysideandshe’sstillthere.
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ACOUPLE,BOTHWITHBRIGHTblueMohawks,isarguinginfrontoftheFifty-Second Street subway entrance. They’re doing that weird whisper-hissthingthatcouplesdowhentheyfightinpublic.Ican’thearwhatthey’resaying,but theirgestures say it all.She’soutragedathim.He’sexasperatedwithher.They’redefinitelynotatthebeginningoftheirrelationship.Theybothlooktoowearyforthat.Youcanseetheirlonghistoryjustinthewaytheyleantowardeachother.Isthisthelastfightthey’lleverhave?Isthistheonethatendsitall?IlookbackatthemafterIpass.OnceuponatimeI’msuretheywereinlove.
Maybetheystillare,butyoucan’ttellfromlooking.
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IDESCENDINTOTHESUBWAYandsayaprayertothesubwaygods(yes,multiplegods)thatthetrainridewillbefreeofelectricalissuesandreligiouslychallengedconductors.WhatifI’mtoolate?Whatifshe’salreadygone?Whatifstoppingtogivea
dollartothatvioliniststartedachainofeventsthatcausesmetomissher?We pull into the station. Directly across the platform, the downtown train
pullsinatthesametime.Ourdoorsclose,butthetraindoesn’tmove.Ontheplatform,agroupofabouttwentypeopleinbrightlycoloredskintight
bodysuitsmaterializes.Theylookliketropicalbirdsagainstthedarkgrayofthesubway. They line up and then freeze in place, waiting for something to setthemoff.It’sa flashmob.The trainacross theplatformdoesn’tmoveeither.Oneof
thedancers,aguyinelectricbluewithanenormouspackage,pressesplayonaboombox.Atfirstitjustseemslikechaos,eachpersondancingtotheirowntune,but
then I realize they’re justoffsetbya fewseconds. It’s like singing ina roundexcept they’re dancing. They start outwith ballet andmove on to disco, andthenbreak-dancing,beforethesubwaycopscatchon.Thedancersscatterandmyfellowpassengersapplaudwildly.Wepull away, but now the atmosphere in the train is completely changed.
Peoplearesmilingateachotherandsayinghowcoolthatwas.It’satleastthirtyseconds before everyone puts back on his or her protective I’m-on-a-train-filled-with-strangersface.Iwonderifthatwasthedancers’intention—togetusalltoconnectjustforamoment.
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I’MSITTINGWITHMYBACK to theplatform,so Idon’t reallyseehowitstarts.TheonlywayIknowsomethingunusual ishappening is that theentiretraincarseemstobelookingatsomethingbehindme.Iturnaroundandfindthatthere’saflashmobdancingontheplatform.They’reallwearingverybrightclothinganddiscodancing.
OnlyinNewYorkCity,Ithink,andtakeoutmyphonetosnapafewpictures.Myfellowpassengerscheerandclap.Oneguyevenstartsdoinghisownmoves.Thedancedoesn’t last long,because three subwaycopsbreak itup.Afew
boosgoupbeforeeveryoneresumesbeingimpatientaboutthetrainnotmoving.Normally I would’ve wondered what the point of those people was. Don’t
they have jobs or something better to do? IfDanielwere here, he’d say thatmaybethisisthethingthey’resupposedtobedoing.Maybethewholepointofthedancersisjusttobringalittlewonderintoourlives.Andisn’tthatjustasvalidapurposeasany?
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IDARTOUToftheFifty-SecondStreetsubwayandalmostrunintoacouplemakingoutlikenobody’sbusiness.Evenwithoutthebluehair,they’dbehardtomiss because they’re basically fused together from head to toe. They need aroom, and stat. Seriously. It’s like they’re having an emergency make-outsession right here on the sidewalk.They’ve each got the other’s ass firmly inhand.Mutualassgrabbage.Apinched-facemanmakesadisapprovingcluckingsoundashewalksby.A
littleboygawksatthemwithawide-openmouth.Hisdadcovershiseyes.Watching them makes me unreasonably happy. I guess the cliché is true.
People in lovewanteveryoneelse tobe in love. Ihope theirrelationship lastsforever.
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IMAKETHERIGHTontoMLKBoulevardandwalktowardDaniel’sstore.Attheshopnextdoortohis,agirlisstandingonamilkcrate,playingviolin.She’swhite,withlongblackhairthathasn’tbeenwashedinalongtime.Herfaceistoothin—notfashionablethin,buthungrythin.She’ssuchasad,strangesightthatIhavetostop.ThesignnexttohertiphatreadsPLEASEHELP.NEED$$$TOBUYVIOLIN
BACK FROM LOAN SHARK. A thick black arrow on the sign points to thepawnshop.Ican’timaginehowlifeledhertothisplace,butItakeoutadollarandthrowitintoherhat,bringinghertotaltotwodollars.The door to the pawnshop opens, and an enormous white guy in a white
tracksuitcomesoutandovertous.Heisalljowlsandscowls.“Time’sup,”hesays,holdingouthisgianthandtoher.Shestopsplayingimmediatelyandhopsdownfromthecrate.Shegathersthe
moneyfromthehatandgivesittohim.Sheevengiveshimthehat.Tracksuitpocketsthemoneyandputsthehatonhishead.“Howmuchisleft?”sheasks.Hetakesasmallnotebookandpenciloutofhispocketandwritessomething
down.“Onefifty-oneand twenty-threecents.”Hesnapshis fingersather fortheviolin.Shehugstheviolintoherchestbeforerelinquishingit.“I’llbebacktomorrow.Youpromisenottosellit?”sheasks.Hegruntsanassent.“Youshowup,Idon’tsellit,”heconcedes.“Ipromisetobehere,”shesays.“Promisesdon’tmeanshit,”hesays,andwalksaway.Shelooksatthestorefrontforalongtime.Ican’ttellfromherfacewhether
EVENIFNATASHAWERESTILLhere,Iwouldn’tknowwheretogointheglass monstrosity of a building. I stare at the directory, trying to divine herlocation.Iknowshewenttoseealawyer,butthedirectoryisnotveryspecific.For instance, it doesn’t say Attorney So-and-So, Immigration Lawyer toSeventeen-Year-Old Jamaican Girls Named Natasha. I ransack my mind andcomeupwithnothing.Itakeoutmyphonetocheckthetime.JustoveranhouruntilmyDatewith
Destiny. It occurs tome that I should check thenewaddress the receptionistgavemeearlier.Ifit’stoofaraway,I’llhavetheperfectexcusetoditchit.According to Google Maps, though, I’m already there. Either Google is
havinganexistentialcrisis,orIam.Ilookattheaddressagainandthenbackupatthedirectory.Noshit.Myinterviewisinthisbuilding.IamalreadywhereI’msupposedtobe.
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IPUSHTHEDOOROPEN,andthebellchimeswithhappyoptimism.Iamnotthatoptimisticaboutmychanceshere.ButIhavetotry.Iexpect toseeDaniel’sdadbehindthecounter,butCharlie’s there instead.
He’s typing somethingonhisphone andbarelyglancesup. Iwonderwho I’dhavemoreluckwith—Charlieorhisdad.Idon’thaveachoice,though,becausehisdadisnowhereinsight.Iwalkuptothecounter.“Hey,”Isay.Hekeepstypingawayforafewsecondsbeforebangingthephonedownon
thecounter.Probablynotthebestwaytogreetapotentialcustomer.“WhatcanIhelpyouwith?”heasks,whenhefinallylooksup.I’mshockedtoseethathiseyesocketisredandswollen.Itwillbebruised
black-and-blue by morning. He raises his hand and touches his eye self-consciously.Hisknucklesarebruisedtoo.It takes him a second to recognize me. “Wait. Aren’t you Daniel’s little
girlfriend?”Hemustpracticesneeringinthemirror.He’sexcellentatit.“Yes,”Isay.Helookspastme,searchingforDaniel.“Whereisthatlittleshit?”“I’mnotsure.Iwashoping—”Ibegin.He cutsme off and givesme a slow,wide smile. I think he’s trying to be
sexy.Icanseehow,ifyoudidn’tknowhimatall,itwouldwork.ButIdoknowhimalittle,andthesmilemakesmewanttopunchhimintheothereye.“Comebackforthebetterbrother,Isee.”Hewinksthebadeyeandthenflinchesinpain.ObservableFact:Idon’tbelieveinkarma.
ButImightstart.“Doyouhavehiscellphonenumber?”Iask.Heleansbackinhischairandpicksuphisphonefromthecounter.“Youtwo
getintoafightorsomething?”AsmuchasIdon’twanttotellhimanything,Ihavetokeepthiscordial.“Somethinglikethat,”Isay.“Doyouhaveit?”Heflipshisphoneendoverend.“YougotaKoreanboyfetishorwhat?”He’ssmirking,buthiseyesarewatchingmesteadily.AtfirstIthinkhe’sjust
goading me—but then I realize it’s a serious question. He cares about theanswer.I’mnotsureifheevenknowshowmuchhecares.“Whydoesithavetobeafetish?”Iask.“Whycan’tIjustlikeyourbrother?”Hescoffs.“Please.What’stolike?Guyslikehimareadimeadozen.”And then I realize what Charlie’s problem with Daniel is. He hates that
Daniel doesn’t hate himself. For all his uncertainties, Daniel is still morecomfortableinhisskinthanCharliewilleverbeinhis.Ifeelsorryforhim,butIdon’tletitshow.“Pleasehelpme.”“Tell me why I should.” He’s not smiling or sneering or smirking at all
anymore.He has all the power andwe both know it. I don’t know himwellenoughtoappealtothegoodpartofhim.I’mnotevensureifthere isagoodpartofhim.“Think howmuch trouble I’ll cause for your brother,” I say. “He’s in love
withme.Hewon’tgivemeupnomatterwhatyourparentssayordo.Youcanjustsitbackandenjoytheshow.”Hethrowshisheadbackandlaughs.Hereallyisnotagoodperson.Imean,
hemighthavesomegoodparts.Ithinkmostpeopledo.ButCharlie’sbadpartsoutweighthegoodones.I’msuretherearegoodreasonsheisthewayheis,butthenIdecidethatthereasonsdon’tmatter.Somepeopleexistinyourlifetomakeitbetter.Somepeopleexisttomakeit
worse.Still,though,hedoesagoodthingforhisbrother:hegivesmethenumber.
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MYPHONERINGS,andIalmostdropitlikeit’spossessed.Idon’trecognizethenumber,butansweranyway.“Hello?”“IsthisDaniel?”“Natasha?”Iask,eventhoughIknowit’sher.“Yes,it’sme.”Hervoicesmiles.“Yourbrothergavemeyournumber.”NowIbegin tosuspect it’sapractical jokebymyassholebrother.Noway
wouldheeverdosomethingsokind.“Whoisthis?”Idemand.“Daniel,it’sme.It’sreallyme.”“Hegaveyoumynumber?”“Maybehe’snotsobadafterall,”shesays.“Notachance,”Isayback,andwebothlaugh.Ifoundher.Well,shefoundme.Ican’tbelieveit.“Whereareyou?”“Ijustleftyourstore.Whereareyou?”“I’matyourlawyer’sofficebuilding.”“What?Why?”“It’stheonlyplaceIcouldthinktofindyou.”“You’vebeenlookingforme?”Hervoiceisshy.“Willyouforgivemeforbeingsuchajerkearlier?”“It’sokay.Ishould’vetoldyou.”
“Itwasn’tmybusiness.”“Yesitwas,”shesays.It’snotthethreewordsIwanttohearfromher,butit’sdamnclose.
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HE’SSITTINGONONEOFTHEBENCHES that face the fountain andwritinginhisnotebook.IknewI’dbehappytoseehim,butIdidn’texpecttofeelgleeful.Ihavetostopmyselffromjumpingupanddownandclappingmyhandsandmaybedoingatwirl.Gleeful.Whichisnotlikeme.SoIdon’tdoit.Butthesmileonmyfaceneedstobemeasuredinmilesinsteadofinches.I slide onto the bench and bump his shoulder with mine. He pulls the
notebookuptohisface,coveringhismouth,andthenturnstofaceme.Hiseyesarewideanddancing.Idon’tthinkanyone’severbeenashappytoseeanyoneasDanielistoseeme.“Hey,”hesaysfrombehindthenotebook.Ireachouttolowerthebook,butheshiftshisbodybackfromme.“What’swrong?”Iask.“Imighthavegottenintoasmallfight,”hesays.“YougotintoasmallfightandnowIcan’tseeyourface?”“Ijustwantedtowarnyoufirst.”Ireachoutagain.Thistimeheletsmelowerthebook.Therightsideofhis
lipisswollenandbruised.Helookslikehe’sbeeninaboxingmatch.“Youfoughtwithyourbrother,”Isay,makingtheconnection.“Hehaditcoming.”Hekeepshisfaceneutral,downplayinghisfeelingsfor
mybenefit.“Ididn’tthinkpoetsfought.”“Areyoukidding?We’re theworst.”He smilesatme,but then flinches in
pain.“I’mfine,”hesays,watchingmyface.“Itlooksworsethanitis.”“Whydidyoufight?”Iask.“Itdoesn’tmatter.”“Yesitdoes—”“Noitdoesn’t.”Hislipsarefirmandstraight.Whateverhappened,he’snot
goingtotellme.“Wasitaboutme?”Iask,eventhoughIknowtheanswer.Henods.Idecidetoletitgo.It’senoughtoknowthathethinksI’mworthfightingfor.“Iwas prettymad at youbefore,” I say. I need to say it beforewe go any
further.“Iknow.I’msorry.Ijustcouldn’tbelieveit.”“ThatIdidn’ttellyou?”Iask.“No. That after all the things that had to happen to get us tomeet today,
somethingelsewasgonnatearusapart.”“Youreallyarehopeless.”“It’spossible,”hesays.Irestmyheadonhisshoulderandtellhimaboutgoingtothemuseumand
Ahnighitoandall the things thathad togo right forour solar system,galaxy,anduniversetoform.Itellhimcomparedtothat,fallinginlovejustseemslikesmallcoincidences.Hedoesn’tagree,andI’mgladforit.Ireachoutagainandtouchhislip.Hecapturesmyhandandturnshisfaceintomypalmandkissesthe center. I’venever reallyunderstood thephrase theyhavechemistry beforenow.Afterall,everythingischemistry.Everythingiscombinationandreaction.Theatomsinmybodyalignthemselveswiththeatomsinhis.It’sthewayI
knewhewasstillinthelobbyearliertoday.Hekissesthecenterofmypalmagain,andIsigh.Touchinghimisorderand
chaos,likebeingassembledanddisassembledatthesametime.“You said youhad goodnews,” he says. I read thehopeonhiswide-open
face.What if it hadn’tworked out?Howwouldwe have survived being tornapart?Becauseitfeelsimpossiblenow,theideathatwedon’tbelongtogether.Butthen,Ithink,ofcoursewewould’vesurvived.Separationisnotfatal.Still, I’mgladwedon’thavetofindout.“Thelawyersayshethinkshecan
figureitout.HethinksI’llgettostay,”Isay.“Howsureishe?”heasks.Surprisingly,he’smoreskepticalthanIam.“Don’tworry.Heseemedprettysure,”Isay,andletmyhappytearsfall.For
once,I’mnotembarrassedtobecrying.
“Yousee?”hesays.“We’remeanttobe.Let’sgocelebrate.”Hepullsmeinclose.Itugthetieoutofhishairandrunmyfingersthrough
it.He buries his hands inmine and leans in to kissme, but I putmy fingeragainsthislipstostophim.“Holdthatkiss,”Isay.Itoccurstomethatthere’sonecallIwanttomake.It’sasillyimpulse,but
Daniel’salmostgotmebelievinginmeant-to-be.Thisentirechainofeventswasstartedbythesecurityguardwhodelayedme
thismorning.Ifitweren’tforherfondlingmystuff,thenIwouldn’thavebeenlate.There’dhavebeennoLesterBarnes,noAttorneyFitzgerald.NoDaniel.IdigaroundmybackpackandpulloutLesterBarnes’sbusinesscard.Mycall
goesstraighttovoicemail.Ileavearamblingmessagethankinghimforhelpingmeandaskinghimtothankthesecurityguardforme.“Shehas longbrownhairandsadeyesandshe toucheseveryone’s stuff,” I
sayasaway todescribeher.Justbefore Ihangup, I rememberhername.“IthinkhernameisIrene.Pleasetellherthanksforme.”Danielgivesmeaquizzicallook.“I’llexplainlater,”Itellhim,andscootmywaybackintohisarms.“Backto
norebang?”Iaskagainsthislips.Myheartistryingtoescapemybodythroughmychest.“No,”hesays.“Ihaveabetteridea.”
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“WANTTOKNOWSOMETHINGCRAZY?” IaskasI leadherbackintothebuilding.“Myinterviewappointmentisheretoo.”“Noway,”shesays,andstopswalkingbriefly.Igrinather,dyingtoknowhowherscientificbrainisgoingtodealwiththis
epiclevelofcoincidence.“Whataretheodds?”Shelaughsatme.“Enjoyingyourself,areyou?”“Yousee?I’vebeenrightallday.Weweremeanttomeet.Ifwehadn’tmet
earlier,maybewewould’vemetnow.”Mylogiciscompletelyrefutablebutshedoesn’trefuteme.Instead,sheslipsherhandintomineandsmiles.Imaymakeabelieveroutofheryet.Myplanistogetustotheroofsothatwecanmakeoutinprivacy.Wesign
informyappointmentatthesecuritydesk.Theguarddirectsustotheelevatorbanks.Theonewegetonmustbethelocal,becauseitstopsatpracticallyeveryfloor.Suitedpeoplegetonandoff,talkingloudlyaboutVeryImportantThings.Despite what Natasha said earlier, I can never work in a building like this.Finallyweget to the top floor.Wegetoff, finda stairwell, andwalkuponeflightandstraightintoalockedgraydoorwithaNOROOFACCESSsign.I refuse tobelieve it.Clearly theroof is justbehind thesedoors. I turn the
handle,hopingforamiracle,butit’slocked.Irestmyforeheadagainstthesign.“Opensesame,”Isaytothedoor.Magically,itopens.“Whatthehell?”Istumbleforward,rightintothesamesecurityguardfrom
thelobby.Unlikeus,hemust’vetakenanexpresselevator.“Youkidsaren’talloweduphere,”hegrunts.Hesmellslikecigarettesmoke.I pull Natasha through the doorway withme. “We just wanted to see the
view,” I say, in my most-respectful-with-just-a-hint-of-pleading-but-non-
whiningvoice.Heraisesskepticaleyebrowsandstartstosaysomething,butacoughingfit
overtakeshimuntilhe’shunchedoverandthumpinghisheartwithhisfist.“Areyouokay?”Natashaasks.He’sonlybentslightlynow,bothhandsonhis
thighs.Natashaputsahandonhisshoulder.“Gotthiscough,”hesaysbetweencoughs.“Well,youshouldn’tsmoke,”shetellshim.Hestraightensandwipeshiseyes.“Yousoundlikemywife.”“She’sright,”shesays,notmissingabeat.Itrytogiveheralookthatsaysdon’targuewiththeoldsecurityguardwith
thelungproblem,otherwisehewon’tletusstayuphereandmakeout,butevenifsheinterpretedmyfacialexpressioncorrectly,sheignoresme.“Iusedtobeacandystriperinapulmonaryward.Thatcoughdoesnotsound
good.”Webothstareather.I,becauseI’mpicturingherinacandystriperoutfitand
thenpicturingheroutofit.I’mprettysurethisisgoingtobemynewnighttimefantasy.Idon’tknowwhyhe’sstaringather.Hopefullynotforthesamereason.“Givethemtome,”shesays,holdingoutherhandforhispackofcigarettes.
“You need to stop smoking.” I don’t know how she manages to sound sogenuinelyconcernedandbossyatthesametime.Hepulls thepackoutofhis jacketpocket. “You think Ihaven’t tried?”he
asks.Ilookathimagain.He’stoooldtobedoingthisjob.Helookslikeheshould
beretiredandspoilinghisgrandkidssomewhereinFlorida.Natashakeepsholdingoutherhanduntilhehandsoverthepack.“Becarefulofthisone,”hesaystome,smiling.“Yes,sir.”Heputshisjacketon.“HowdoyouknowIwon’tjustgogetsomemore?”he
asksher.“IguessIdon’t,”shesays,shrugging.He looks at her for a long moment. “Life doesn’t always go the way you
plan,”hesays.Icanseethatshedoesn’tbelievehim.Hecanseeittoo,butheletsitgo.“Stay away from the edge,” he says,winking at both of us. “Have a good
time.”
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THEGIRLREMINDEDHIMalittleofhisBeth.Directbutsweet.That,morethananything,iswhyheletthemstayupontheroof.Heknowsperfectlywellthattheonlyviewthey’llbelookingatiseachother.Noharminthat,hethinks.HeandhisBethwerethesameway.Andnotjustat thebeginningoftheir
marriage,butallthroughout.Theywonthelotterywitheachother,theylikedtosay.Bethdiedlastyear.Sixmonthsafterthey’dbothretired.Infact,thecancer
diagnosis came the day after retirement. They had so many plans. Alaskancruise to see the aurora borealis (hers). Venice to drink grappa and see thecanals(his).That’sthethingthatgetstoJoeevennow.Alltheplansthey’dmade.Allthe
saving.Allthewaitingaroundfortheperfecttime.Andforwhat?Fornothing.Thegirlisright,ofcourse.Heshouldn’tsmoke.AfterhelostBeth,hetook
himselfoutofretirementandtookupsmokingagain.Whatdiditmatterifheworkedhimself todeath?Whatdid itmatter ifhe smokedhimself todeath?Therewasnothinglefttolivefor,nothinglefttoplanfor.Hetakesonelastlookatthegirlandtheboybeforeclosingthedoor.They’re
lookingateachotherlikethere’snowhereelsethey’dratherbe.HeandhisBethwerelikethatonce.Maybehewillgiveupsmokingafterall.Maybehe’llmakesomenewplans.
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DANIELWALKSTOTHEEDGEoftheroofandlooksoutatthecity.Hishairislooseandblowinginthebreezeandhe’sgothispoetfaceon.Thenon-bruisedsideofhisfacesmiles.I go to himand slipmyhand into his. “Aren’t you gonnawrite something
down,poetboy?”Itease.Hesmileswider,butdoesn’tturntolookatme.“Itlookssodifferentfromup
here,doesn’tit?”heasks.Whatdoesheseewhenhelooksout?Iseemilesofrooftops,mostofthem
empty.Afewofthemarepopulatedwithlong-abandonedthings—nonworkingHVACunits, broken office furniture. Some have gardens, and Iwonderwhotendsthem.Danieltakesouthisnotebooknow,andImovealittleclosertotheedge.Beforethesebuildingswerebuildings,theywerejusttheskeletonsofthem.
Beforetheywereskeletons,theywerecrossbeamsandgirders.Metalandglassand concrete. And before that, they were construction plans. Before that,architecturalplans.Andbeforethat,justanideasomeonehadforthemakingofacity.Danielputsawayhisnotebookandpullsmebackfromtheedge.Heputshis
handsonmywaist.“Whatdoyouevenwriteinthere?”Iask.“Plans,”he says.His eyes aremerryand staringatmy lips and I’mhaving
troublethinking.Itakealittlestepbackbuthefollows,likewe’redancing.“I—Jesus.Haveyoubeenthissexythewholeday?”Iask.Helaughsandblushes.“I’mgladyouthinkI’msexy.”Hiseyesarestillonmy
lips.
“IsitgonnahurtifIkissyou?”Iaskhim.“It’llbeagoodpain.”Heputshisotherhandonmywaistlikehe’sanchoring
us. My heart just will not settle down. Kissing him can’t be as good as Iremember.Whenwehadourfirstkiss,IthoughtIwaskissinghimforthelasttime. I’m sure thatmade itmore intense.This kisswill bemore normal.Nofireworksandchaos,justtwopeoplewholikeeachotheralot,kissing.Igetonmytiptoesandmoveinevencloser.Finallyhiseyesmeetmine.He
moveshishandfrommywaistandplaces itovermyheart. Itbeatsunderhispalmlikeit’sbeatingforhim.Ourlipstouch,andItrytokeepmyeyesopenforaslongaspossible.Itry
nottosuccumbtothecrazyentropyofthisthingbetweenus.Idon’tunderstandit.Whythisperson?WhyDanielandnotanyoftheboysbefore?Whatifwehadn’tmet?WouldIhavehadaperfectlyordinarydayandnotknowthatIwasmissingsomething?I wrapmy arms around his neck and lean into him, but I can’t get close
enough.Therestless,chaoticfeelingisback.IwantthingsthatIcanname,andsomethingsthatIcan’t.Iwantthisonemomenttolastforever,butIdon’twanttomissalltheothermomentstocome.Iwantourentirefuturetogether,butIwantithereandnow.I’mslightlyoverwhelmedandbreakthekiss.“Go.Over.There,”Isay,and
punctuate eachwordwith a kiss. I point to a spot far away fromme, out ofkissingrange.“Here?”heaskstakingasinglestepback.“Atleastfivemore.”Hegrinsatme,butcomplies.“Allourkissesaren’tgoingtobelikethat,arethey?”Iaskhim.“Likewhat?”“Youknow.Insane.”“Ilovehowdirectyouare,”hesays.“Really?MymomsaysIgotoofar.”“Maybe.Istillloveit,though.”Ilowermyeyesanddon’trespond.“Howmuchtimeuntilyourinterview?”I
ask.“Fortyminutes.”“Gotanymoreofthoselovequestionsforme?”“You’renotinlovewithmeyet?”Hisvoiceisfilledwithmockincredulity.“Nope,”Isay,andsmileathim.
ITFEELSLIKEAMIRACLEthatwegettosithereonthisrooftop,likewe’repartofasecretskycity.Thesunisslowlyretreatingacross thebuildings,butit’snotdarkyet.Itwillbesoon,butfornowthere’sonlyanideaofdarkness.Natasha and I are sitting cross-legged against thewall next to the stairwell
door.We’reholdinghands,andshe’srestingherheadonmyshoulder.Herhairissoftagainstthesideofmyface.“Areyoureadyforthedinnerguestquestionyet?”Iask.“YoumeanwhoI’dinvite?”“Yup.”“Ugh,no.Yougofirst,”shesays.“Easy,”Isay.“God.”Sheraisesherheadfrommyshoulderto lookatme.“Youreallybelievein
God?”“Ido.”“Oneguy?Inthesky?Withsuperpowers?”Herdisbeliefisn’tmocking,just
investigative.“Notexactlylikethat,”Isay.“What,then?”Isqueezeherhand.“Youknowthewaywefeelrightnow?Thisconnection
between us that we don’t understand and we don’t want to let go of? That’sGod.”“Holyhell,”sheexclaims.“Youpoetboysaredangerous.”Shepullsmyhandintoherlapandholdsitwithbothofhers.Itiltmyheadbackandwatchthesky,tryingtopickshapesoutoftheclouds.
“Here’swhatIthink,”Isay.“Ithinkwe’reallconnected,everyoneonearth.”
Sherunsherfingertipsovermyknuckles.“Eventhebadpeople?”“Yes.Buteveryonehasatleastalittlegoodinthem.”“Nottrue,”shesays.“Okay,” Iconcede.“Buteveryonehasdoneat leastonegood thing in their
lifetime.Doyouagreewiththat?”Shethinksitoverandthenslowlynods.Igoon.“I thinkall thegoodpartsofusareconnectedonsome level.The
part that shares the lastdoublechocolatechipcookieordonates tocharityorgivesadollartoastreetmusicianorbecomesacandystriperorcriesatApplecommercialsorsaysIloveyouorIforgiveyou.Ithinkthat’sGod.Godistheconnectionoftheverybestpartsofus.”“Andyouthinkthatconnectionhasaconsciousness?”sheasks.“Yeah,andwecallitGod.”Shelaughsaquietlaugh.“Areyoualwaysso—”“Erudite?”Iask,interrupting.Shelaughsloudernow.“Iwasgonnasaycheesy.”“Yes.I’mknownfarandwideformycheesiness.”“I’mkidding,” shesays,bumpingher shoulder intomine.“I really like that
you’vethoughtaboutit.”AndIhavetoo.ThisisnotthefirsttimeI’vehadthesethoughts,butit’sthe
firsttimeI’vereallybeenabletoarticulatethem.Somethingaboutbeingwithhermakesmemybestself.I pull her hand tomy lips and kiss her fingers. “What about you?” I ask.
“Youdon’tbelieveinGod?”“I like your idea of it. I definitely don’t believe in the fire and brimstone
one.”“Butyoubelieveinsomething?”She frowns, uncertain. “I really don’t know. I guess I’mmore interested in
whypeoplefeelliketheyhavetobelieveinGod.Whycan’titjustbescience?Science is wondrous. The night sky? Amazing. The inside of a human cell?Incredible.Somethingthattellsuswe’rebornbadandthatpeopleusetojustifyall theirpettyprejudicesandawfulness? Idunno. Iguess Ibelieve in science.Scienceisenough.”“Huh,”Isay.Sunlightreflectsoffthebuildings,andtheairaroundustakes
onanorangetinge.Ifeelcocoonedeveninthiswide-openspace.She says, “Did you know that the universe is approximately twenty-seven
percentdarkmatter?”
Ididnotknowthat,butofcourseshedoes.“Whatisdarkmatter?”Delight is theonlywordfor the lookonherface.Shetugsherhandoutof
mine,rubsherpalmstogether,andsettlesintoexplain.“Well,scientistsaren’texactlysure,butit’sthedifferencebetweenanobject’s
mass and the mass calculated by its gravitational effect.” She raises hereyebrowsexpectantly,asifshe’ssaidsomethingprofoundandearth-shattering.Iamprofoundlyun-earth-shattered.Shesighs.Dramatically.“Poets,” she mutters, but with a smile. “Those two masses should be the
same.”Sheraisesanexplanatoryfinger.“Theyshouldbethesame,butthey’renot,forverylargebodieslikeplanets.”“Oh,that’sinteresting,”Isay,reallymeaningit.“Isn’tit?”She’sbeamingatmeandI’mreallyagonerforthisgirl.“Also,it
turns out the visiblemass of a galaxy doesn’t have enough gravity to explainwhyitdoesn’tflyapart.”IshakemyheadtoletherknowIdon’tunderstand.Shegoeson.“Ifwecalculatethegravitationalforcesofalltheobjectswecan
detect, it’s not enough to keep galaxies and stars in orbit around each other.Therehastobemorematterthatwecan’tsee.Darkmatter.”“Okay,Igetit,”Isay.Shegivesmeskepticaleyes.“No, really,” I say. “I get it. Dark matter is twenty-seven percent of the
universe,yousaid?”“Approximately.”“And it’s thereasonwhyobjectsdon’thurtle themselvesoff intodeepdark
space?It’swhatkeepsusboundtogether?”Herskepticismturnsintosuspicion.“Whatisyouraddledpoetbraingetting
at?”“You’regonnahateme.”“Maybe,”sheagrees.“Darkmatterislove.It’stheattractingforce.”“OhGodJesusno.Yuck.Blech.You’retheworst.”“Oh,Iamgood,”Isay,laughinghard.“Theabsoluteworst,” shesays,butshe leans inand laughshardalongwith
me.
“I’mtotallyright,”Isay,triumphant.Irecaptureherhand.She groans again, but I can tell she’s thinking about it.Maybe she doesn’t
disagreeasmuchasshethinksshedoes.I scroll through the questions on my phone. “Okay, I have another one.
Completethefollowingsentence:We’rebothinthisroomfeeling…”“LikeIhavetopee,”shesays,smiling.“Youreallyhatetalkingaboutseriousthings,don’tyou?”“Haveyoueverhad topee reallybad?” sheasks. “It’s a serious thing.You
couldcauseseriousdamagetoyourbladderby—”“Doyoureallyhavetopee?”Iask.“No.”“Answerthequestion,”Itellher.I’mnotlettingherjokeherwayoutofthis
one.“Youfirst,”shesays,sighing.“Happy,horny,andhopeful.”“Alliteration.Nice.”“Yourturn,andyouhavetobesincere,”Itellher.Shestickshertongueoutatme.“Confused.Scared.”Ipullherhandintomylap.“Whyareyouscared?”“It’sbeenalongday.ThismorningIthoughtIwasbeingdeported.I’vebeen
gearingmyselfupforthatfortwomonths.NowitlookslikeI’llgettostay.”She turns to look at me. “And then there’s you. I didn’t know you this
morning, and now I don’t really remember not knowing you. It’s all a littlemuch.Ifeeloutofcontrol.”“Whyisthatsobad?”Iask.“Iliketoseethingscoming.Iliketoplanahead.”AndIgetit.Ireallydo.Weareprogrammedtoplanahead.It’spartofour
rhythm.Thesunriseseverydayanddeferstothemooneverynight.“Likethesecurityguardsaid,though—planningdoesn’talwayswork.”“Doyouthink that’s true?I thinkmostlyyoucanplan.Mostly thingsdon’t
justcomeoutofnowhereandbowlyouover.”“Probablythedinosaursthoughtthattoo,andlookwhathappenedtothem,”I
tease.HersmileissobroadthatIhavetotouchherface.Sheturnsherfaceinto
mypalmandkissesit.“Extinction-leveleventsnotwithstanding,Ithinkyoucanplanahead,”shesays.
“Ibowledyouover,”Iremindher,andshedoesn’tdenyit.“Anyway,”Isay.“Sofaryouonlyhavetwothings—confusedandscared.”“Allright,allright.I’llgiveyouwhatyouwantandsay‘happy.’ ”Isighdramatically.“Youcould’vesaidthatonefirst.”“Ilikesuspense,”shesays.“Noyoudon’t.”“You’reright.Ihatesuspense.”“Happybecauseofme?”Iask.“Andnotbeingdeported.Butmostlyyou.”She pulls our joined hands to her lips and kisses mine. I could stay here
forever interrupting our talking with kissing, interrupting our kissing withtalking.“Whenarewedoingthestaring-into-each-other’s-eyesthing?”Iask.SherollstheveryeyesthatIwanttostareinto.“Later.Afteryourinterview,”
shesays.“Don’tbescared,”Itease.“What’stobescaredof?Allyou’llseeisirisandpupil.”“Theeyesarethewindowstothesoul,”Icounter.“Stuffandnonsense,”shesays.Icheckthetimeonmyphoneunnecessarily.Iknowit’salmosttimeformy
interview,butIwant to lingerouthere inskycitysomemore.“Let’sget inacouplemore questions,” I say. “Lightning round.What’s yourmost treasuredmemory?”“ThefirsttimeIgottoeaticecreaminaconeinsteadofinacup,”shesays
withnohesitation.“Howoldwereyou?”“Four.Chocolateicecreamwhilewearinganall-whiteEasterSundaydress.”“Whoseideawasthat?”Iask.“Myfather’s,” she says, smiling. “Heused to think Iwas thegreatest thing
ever.”“Andhedoesn’tanymore?”“No,”shesays.Iwaitforhertocontinue,butshemoveson:“What’syourmemory?”“We took a family trip toDisneyWorld when I was seven. Charlie really
wantedtogoonSpaceMountain,butmymomthoughtit’dbetooscaryformeandshewouldn’t lethimgobyhimself.Andneitherofmyparentswantedto
go.”Shetightenshergriponmyhands,whichiscutesinceIclearlysurvivedthe
experience.“Sowhathappened?”“IconvincedmymomthatIreallywasn’tscared.ItoldherI’dbeenlooking
forwardtotheridesinceforever.”“Butyouweren’t?”sheasks.“No.Iwasscaredshitless.IjustdiditforCharlie.”She bumpsmy shoulder and teases. “I already like you.You don’t have to
convincemethatyou’reasaint.”“That’sthething.Iwasn’tbeingsaintly.IthinkIknewourrelationshipwasn’t
goingtolast.IwasjusttryingtoconvincehimIwasworthit.Itworkedtoo.HetoldmeIwasbraveandheletmefinishallhispopcorn.”Itiltmyheadbackandlookupattheclouds.They’rebarelymovingacross
thesky.“Do you think it’s funny that both of our favoritememories are about the
peopleweliketheleastnow?”Iask.“Maybe that’swhywedislike them,” she says. “Thedistancebetweenwho
theywereandwhotheyareissowide,wehavenohopeofgettingthemback.”“Maybe,”Isay.“Youknowwhattheworstpartofthatstoryis?”“What?”“Ihaterollercoasterstothisdaybecauseofthattrip.”Shelaughs,andIlaughwithher.
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SCIENTISTS THEORIZE that the first “eyes” were nothing more than apigmented,light-sensitivespotontheskinofsomeancientcreature.Thatspotgaveittheabilitytosenselightfromdark—anadvantage,sincedarknesscouldindicate that a predatorwas close enough toblockout light.Becauseof this,they survived more, reproduced more, and passed this ability down to theiroffspring. Random mutations created a deepening depression in the light-sensitivespot.Thisdepressionledtoslightlybettervisionand,therefore,moresurvival.Overtime,thatlight-sensitivespotevolvedtobecomethehumaneye.Howdidwegofromeyesasasurvivalmechanismtotheideaofloveatfirst
sight?Or the idea that eyes are thewindows to the soul?Or to the clichéofloversstaringendlesslyintoeachother’seyes?Studieshaveshownthatthepupilsofpeoplewhoareattractedtoeachother
dilatefromthepresenceofdopamine.Otherstudiessuggestthatthreadsintheeye can indicate personality tendencies, and that maybe eyes are a kind ofwindowtothesoulafterall.Andwhatabouttheloverswhospendhoursstaringintoeachother’seyes?Is
itadisplayoftrust?IwillletyouincloseandtrustyounottohurtmewhileI’min this vulnerable position. And if trust is one of the foundations of love,perhapsthestaringisawaytobuildorreinforceit.Ormaybeit’ssimplerthanthat.Asimplesearchforconnection.Tosee.Tobeseen.
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ATTORNEY FITZGERALD’S DOOR is at the end of a long, gray, andmostly featurelesshallway. I try (andfail)not to take thisasa signaboutmyfuture.There’s nonameon thedoor, just a number.Noone answerswhen Iknock.Maybehe’sleftforthedayalready?Becausethatwouldbeideal.Thenitwouldn’tbemyfaultthatIdidn’tgettogotoYaleandbecomeadoctor.NevermindthatI’mtenminuteslatebecauseofallthekissing.Iregretnothing.Iturnthehandleandwalkrightintoasobbingwoman.She’snotevencrying
into her hands to hide her face like people usually do. She’s standing in themiddleoftheroomtakinghugegulpsofairwithtearsstreamingdownherface.Hermascaraisstreakedacrosshercheeksandhereyesarepuffyandred,likeshe’sbeencryingforalongtime.When she realizes that I’m standing there, she stops crying andwipes her
facewiththebackofherhands.Thewipingmakesitworse,sonowmascaraisacrosshernosetoo.“Areyouokay?”Iask,asking thedumbestquestionIcan thinkof.Clearly
she’snotokay.“I’m fine,” she says. She chews on her bottom lip and tries to smooth her
hair,butagain,shemakestheproblemworse.“You’reDanielBae,”shesays.“You’reherefortheadmissioninterview.”I take a step toward her. “Can I get you a glass of water or a tissue or
something?”IspyanemptyboxofKleenexonherdesknexttoaPARALEGALSDOITCHEAPERmug.“I’mcompletely fine.He’s just through there,” she says,pointing toadoor
behindher.“Areyousureyou’re—”Ibegin,butshecutsmeoff.“Ihavetogonow.Tellhimthathe’sthemostwonderfulpersonI’veevermet
butthatIhavetogo.”I say “Okay,” even though I won’t be telling him any of that. Also, it’s a
prettysmalloffice.He’sprobablyalreadyheardherdeclaration.Shewalksback toherdeskandpicksup thePARALEGALSmug. “And tell
himthatIwanttostay,butIcan’t.It’sbetterforbothofus.”Then she starts crying again.And now I can feelmy own eyeswelling up
withtears.Notcool.Shestopscryingabruptlyandstaresatme.“Areyoucrying?”sheasks.Iwipemy eyes. “It’s just a stupid thing that happens tome. I start crying
whenIseeotherpeoplecrying.”“That’sreallysweet.”Nowthatit’snotdrowningintears,hervoiceiskindof
musical.“It’skindofapainintheass,actually.”“Language,”shesays,frowning.“Sorry.”Whatkindofpersonobjectstoaninnocentwordlikeass?Sheacceptsmysorrywithaslightnod.“Wejustmovedintothisoffice,and
nowI’llneverseeitagain.”Shesnifflesandthenwipeshernose.“IfI’dknownhowthiswouldend,Iwouldneverhavestarted.”“Everyonewants tobeable topredict the future,” I say.Hereyes fillwith
tearsagainevenasshe’snoddingheragreement.“When Iwas a little girl, fairy talesweremy favorite books because even
beforeyouopenedthem,youknewhowtheyweregoingtoend.Happilyeverafter.” She glances at the closed door behind her, closes her eyes, and opensthemagain.“Inthefairytales,theprincessneverdoesthewrongthing.”The office door behind me opens. I turn, curious to see what the most
wonderfulpersonintheworldlookslike.Exceptforthebandageoverhisrighteye,helooksprettynormal.“DanielBae?”heasks,lookingonlyatme.Hiseyesdon’tflitovertoherfor
evenasecond.Iholdoutmyhandforashake.“Mr.Fitzgerald.It’snicetomeetyou.”Hedoesn’t shakemyhand. “You’re late,” he says, andwalks back into his
office.Iturntosaygoodbyetothesecretary,butshe’salreadygone.
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ITAKEMYPHONEOUTofmybackpack.Stillnoreturncallor textfromBev.Maybeshe’sonanothertour.IremembershesaidshewantedtomakeittoUniversityofCalifornia,SanFrancisco,too.Ishouldcallmymom.ProbablyIshould’vecalledheratmanypointstoday.
She’scalledthreemoretimeswhileDanielandIwereontheroof.Itexther:cominghomesoon.Thephonebuzzesbackatmealmostimmediately.Iguessshe’sbeenwaiting
forwordfromme.
beentryingtoreachufor2hours.
sorry!Itextback.Shealwayshastohavethelastword,soIwaitfortheinevitablereply:
sononewsthen?hopeudidn’tgetuhopesup.
Itossthephoneintomybackpackwithoutanswering.SometimesIthinkmymom’sworstfearisbeingdisappointed.Shecombats
thisbytryingherhardestnevertogetherhopesup,andurgingeveryoneelsetodothesame.It doesn’t always work. Once she brought home a casting-call flyer for an
Off-Off-Off-Broadwayplayformyfather.Idon’tknowwhereshefounditorevenwhattherolewas.Hetookitfromherandevensaidthankyou,butI’mprettysurehenevercalledthenumber.I decide to wait for the final call from Attorney Fitzgerald before saying
anythingtoher.Mymom’salreadydealtwithtoomuchdisappointment.Thetroublewithgettingyourhopestoofarupis:it’salongwaydown.
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SOMEPEOPLEAREBORNFOR greatness.God give a lucky few of ussometalentandthenputusonearthtomakeuseofit.OnlytwotimesinmylifeIgettousemine.TwomonthsagowhenIdidA
RaisinintheSuninManhattan,andtenyearsagowhenIdiditinMontegoBay.There’s just something about me and that play that was meant to be. In
Jamaica,theDailycalledmyperformancemiraculous.Igotastandingovation.Me.Nottheotheractors.Mealone.Isafunnything.ThatplaysendmetoAmerica,andnowitsendingmeback
toJamaica.Patricia ask me how me could tell the cop all our business.Him not no
preacher,shesay.Itnotnoconfession,shesay.I tellherIwasjustdrunkandcomingoff thestagehigh.Thehighest thingyoucando is the thingGodputyouonthisearthtodo.ItellherIdidn’tmeantodoit.AndistruewhatItellher,buttheopposite
truetoo.MaybeIdoitonpurpose.Thisnotnoconfession.Ijustsayingthatthethoughtisthereinmymind.MaybeIdoitonpurpose.Wecouldn’tevenfillalltheseatsintheplace.America donewithme and I donewith it.More than anything, that night
remind me. In Jamaica I got a standing ovation. In America I can’t get anaudience.Idon’tknow.MaybeIdoitonpurpose.Youcangetlostinyouownmind,
likeyougonetoanothercountry.Allyouthoughtsinanotherlanguageandyoucan’treadthesignseventhoughtheyeverywhereallaroundyou.
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THEFIRSTTHING ISEE onhis desk is a filewithNatasha’s nameon it.NatashaKingsley,itsays.Ithastobeher,right?HowmanyNatashaKingsleyscould therebe?Notonlyareourmeetings in the samebuilding,but alsoherlawyer and my interviewer are the same person? The odds have to beastronomical,right?Ican’twaittoseethelookonherfacewhenItellher.I look up at him and then around the office for other signs. “Are you an
immigrationlawyer?”Iask.HelooksupfromwhatIpresumeismyapplication.“Iam.Why?”“IthinkIknowoneofyourclients,”Isay,andpickupthefile.Hesnatchesitawayfromme.“Don’ttouchthat.It’sprivileged.”Hepullsitas
farawayfrommeaspossible.IgrinatFitzgeraldandhefrownsbackatme.“Yeah,sorry,”Isay.“It’sjust
yousavedmylife.”“Whatareyoutalkingabout?”HeflexeshisrightwristandInoticethathis
hand isbandaged.NowI remember thathisparalegal saidhe’dbeen inacaraccident.Ipointatthefile.“Ijustmether—Natasha—today.”He’s still frowning at me, not getting it. “When I met her she was being
deported,butthenshemetwithyouandyoudidyourlawyermagic,andnowshe’sgoingtostay.”Hereststhebandagedhandonhisdesk.“Andhowdidthatsaveyourlife?”“She’stheOne,”Isay.Hefrowns.“Didn’tyousayyoujustmethertoday?”“Yup.”Ican’tdoanythingaboutthebigsmileonmyface.“Andshe’s theOne?”Hedoesn’t actuallyputairquotesaround“theOne,”
but I can hear them in his voice.Vocal air quotes (not better than actual airquotes).Hesteepleshisfingersandstaresatmeforagoodlongwhile.“Whyareyou
here?”heasks.Isthisatrickquestion?“Formyadmissioninterview?”Helooksmeoverpointedly.“No,really.Whyareyouhereinmyofficeright
now?Youobviouslydon’tcareaboutthisinterview.Youshowupherelookinglikeyou’vebeeninabrawl.It’saseriousquestion.Whydidyoucomehere?”There’snowaytoanswerthisbuthonestly.“Myparentsmademe.”“Howoldareyou?”“Seventeen.”Helooksdownatmyfile.“Itsaysherethatyou’reinterestedinthepre-med
track.Areyou?”“Notreally,”Isay.“Notreallyorno?”Lawyerslikecertainty.“No.”“Nowwe’regettingsomewhere,”hesays.“DoyouwanttogotoYale?”“Idon’tevenknowifIwanttogotocollege.”He leans forward in his chair. I feel like I’m being cross-examined. “And
what’syourbigdream?”“Tobeapoet.”“Ohgood,”hesays.“Somethingpractical.”“Believeitornot,I’veheardthatonebefore.”Heleansinevenmore.“I’llaskyouagain.Whyareyouhere?”“Ihavetobe.”“Noyoudon’t,”hefiresback.“Youcanjustgetupandwalkoutthatdoor.”“Ioweittomyparents.”“Why?”“Youwouldn’tunderstand.”“Tryme.”Isigh(long-sufferingvariety).“Myparentsare immigrants.Theymoved to
thiscountryforabetter life.Theyworkall the timesomybrotherandIcanhave theAmericanDream.Nowhere in theAmericanDreamdoes it sayyoucanskipcollegeandbecomeastarvingartist.”“Itsayswhateveryouwantitto.”Isnort.“Notinmyfamilyitdoesn’t.IfIdon’tdothis,Igetcutoff.Nofunds
forcollege.Nonothing.”Thisconfessionatleaststopshisrapid-firequestioning.Heleansbackinhis
chair.“Wouldtheyreallydothat?”heasks.Iknowtheanswer,butIcan’tmakemyselfsay it rightaway.I thinkabout
mydad’sfaceearlierthisafternoon.He’ssodeterminedthatCharlieandIhaveabetterlifethanhedid.He’lldoanythingtoguaranteeit.“Yes,”Isay.“Hewould.”Butnotbecausehe’sevil.Andnotbecausehe’sa
StereotypicalKoreanParent.Butbecausehecan’tseepasthisownhistorytoletushaveours.Alotofpeoplearelikethat.Fitzgeraldwhistles low.“SoIguessyouhave tobesure thepoetry thing is
worthit.”NowI’mtheoneleaningin.“Haven’tyoueverdonesomethingonlybecause
you’reobligatedto?Justbecauseyoumadeapromise?”His eyesdrift away frommine.Forwhatever reason, thisquestion changes
thedynamicbetweenus.Itfeelslikewe’reinthesameboat.“Meetingyourobligationsisthedefinitionofadulthood,kid.Ifyou’regoing
tomakemistakesandbreakpromises,now’sthetime.”Hestopstalking,flexeshiswrist,andgrimaces.“Getyourscrewingupdone
now, when the consequences aren’t so bad. Trustme. It gets harder to do itlater.”Sometimespeopletellyouthingsbynottellingyouthings.Iglanceathisleft
handandseehisweddingring.“Isthatwhathappenedtoyou?”Iask.He unsteeples his fingers and twists the ring around his finger. “I’m a
marriedmanwithtwokids.”“Andyou’rehavinganaffairwithyourparalegal.”Herubsatthebandageabovehiseye.“Itjuststartedtoday.”Helooksoverto
hiscloseddoor, as ifhe’shoping she’llbe standing right there. “Ended todaytoo,”hesaysquietly.Ididn’tactuallyexpecthimtoadmitit,andnowI’mnotsurewhattosay.“YouthinkI’mabadguy,”hesays.“Ithinkyou’remyinterviewer,”Ianswer.Maybeit’sbetterforustojustget
thisinterviewbackoncourse.Hecovershiseyeswithhishands.“Imethertoolate.I’vealwayshadlousy
timing.”I don’t know what to tell him. Not that he’s looking to me for advice.
OrdinarilyIwouldsayfollowyourheart.Buthe’samarriedman.Hisheartisnottheonlyoneinvolved.“Sowhatareyougonnado?Lethergo?”Iask.He looks atme for a long time, thinking. “You’re going to have to do the
same,”hesaysfinally.HepullsNatasha’s file fromunder his elbow. “I couldn’t do it. I thought I
could,butIcouldn’t.”“Dowhat?”Iask.“Stopherdeportation.”He’sgoingtohavetospellitoutforme,becauseI’mnotprocessingwhathe’s
saying. “Your Natasha is getting deported tonight after all. I couldn’t stop itfromhappening.Thejudgewouldn’toverturntheVoluntaryRemoval.”Idon’tknowwhataVoluntaryRemovalis,butallIcanthinkisthatthere’sa
mistake.It’sdefinitelyamistake.NowI’mhopingitreallyisadifferentNatashaKingsley.“I’msorry,kid,”hesays.Heslidesthefileacrosstome,asifmylookingatit
issomehowgoingtohelp.Iflipitopen.It’ssomesortofofficialform.AllIseeis her name: Natasha Katherine Kingsley. I didn’t know her middle name.Katherine.Itsuitsher.Ishutthefileandslideitbacktohim.“Therehastobesomethingyoucan
do.”Thefingersteepleisbackandheshrugs.“I’vetriedeverythingalready.”Theshrugpissesmeoff.Thisisnotasmallthing.Thisisn’tOh,youmissed
yourappointment.Comeagaintomorrow.ThisisNatasha’slife.Andmine.Istandup.“Youdidn’ttryhardenough,”Iaccusehim.I’mwillingtobetthe
affairwithhissecretaryhassomethingtodowiththis.Ibethe’sspentthedaybreakingpromisestohiswifeandchildren.AndtoNatashatoo.“Look,Iknowyou’reupset.”Hisvoice iseven, likehe’s tryingtocalmme
down.ButIdon’twanttobecalm.Ipressmyhandsintohisdeskandleanforward.
“Therehastobesomethingyoucando.It’snotherfaultherdadissuchafuck-up.”He slideshis chairback from thedesk. “Sorry.HomelandSecuritydoesn’t
likeitifyouoverstayyourvisa.”“But shewas justakid.Shedidn’thaveachoice. It’snot likeshecould’ve
saidMom,Dad,ourvisaisexpired.WeshouldgobacktoJamaicanow.”“Doesn’tmatter.Thelawhastodrawalinesomewhere.Theirlastappealwas
denied.Theonlyhopewasthejudge.Iftheyleavetonight,thenthere’saslightchanceshecanreapplyforavisainafewyears.”“ButAmericaisherhome,”Ishout.“Itdoesn’tmatterwhereshewasborn.”I
don’tsaytherestofit,whichisthatshebelongswithme.“Iwish therewas something I coulddo,” he says.He touches thebandage
abovehis eyeagainand seemsgenuinely sorry.Maybe I’mwrongabouthim.Maybehereallydidtry.“I’mplanningoncallingherafteryouandIaredonehere,”hesays.Afterwe’redone. I’vecompletely forgotten that thismeeting is supposed to
beaboutmegetting intoYale.“You’rejustgoingtocallherandtellheroverthephone?”“Doesitmatterhowshehearsit?”heasks,frowning.“Of course itmatters.” I don’twant her to hear theworst newsof her life
overthephonefromsomeoneshebarelyknows.“I’lldoit,”Isay.“I’lltellher.”Heshakeshishead.“Ican’tletyoudothat.It’smyjob.”Ijustsittherenotknowingwhattodo.Mylipthrobs.Thespotonmyribs
whereCharliepunchedmehurts.TheplaceinmyheartwhereNatashaishurts.“I’msorry,kid,”hesaysagain.“What if she doesn’t get on the plane? What if she just stays?” I am
desperate.Breakingthelawseemsasmallpricetopaytogethertostay.Anotherheadshake.“Idon’trecommendthat.Asalawyerorotherwise.”Ihavetogettoherandtellherfirst.Idon’twanthertobealonewhenshe
hearsthenews.I walk out of his office and into the empty reception area. The paralegal
didn’tcomeback.Hefollowsme.“Sothat’sit?”heasks.“Nomoreinterview?”Idon’tstopwalking.“Yousaidityourself.Idon’treallycareaboutYale.”HeputsahandonmyarmsoIhavetoturnandfacehim.“Look,IknowI
said you should get your screwing up done nowwhile you’re still a kid, butYale’sabigdeal.Goingtherecouldopenalotofdoorsforyou.Itdidforme.”Andmaybehe’sright.MaybeI’mbeingshortsighted.I look around his office. How long will it take for the construction to be
done?Iwonder.Howlongwillittakeforhimtohireanewparalegal?Ijutmychininthedirectionofherdesk.“Youdidallthethingsyouwere
supposedto,andyou’restillnothappy.”Herubsagainatthebandageabovehiseyeanddoesn’tlookoveratthedesk.
He’stired,butnotthekindoftiredthatsleepingcanfix.
Itellhim,“IfIdon’tgonow,I’llalwaysregretit.”“What’sanotherhalfanhourtofinishthisinterview?”heinsists.Doeshereallyneedmetotellhimthatallthesecondsmatter?Thatourown
universeexplodedintoexistenceinthespaceofabreath?“Timecounts,Mr.Fitzgerald,”Itellhim.Finallyheturnsawayfrommeandlooksattheemptydesk.“Butyouknowthatalready,”Isay.
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JEREMYFITZGERALDDIDN’TTELLDANIEL the truth. The reason hewasn’t able to stop Natasha’s deportation is that he missed the courtappointmentwiththejudgewhocould’vereversedtheVoluntaryRemoval.Hemisseditbecausehe’sinlovewithHannahWinter,andinsteadofgoingtoseethejudge,hespenttheafternoonatahotelwithher.Aloneinhispartiallybuiltoffice,JeremywillthinkofDanielBaeconstantly
for the next week.Hewill rememberwhatDaniel said about time counting.He’llrememberwithperfectclarityDaniel’sbustedlipandbloodiedshirt.He’llremember how that was nothing compared to the complete devastation onDaniel’s facewhenhe learned thenewsaboutNatasha.Likesomeonehandedhimagrenadeandexplodedhislifeapart.Sometimeinthenextmonth,Jeremywilltellhiswifethathenolongerloves
her. That it will be best for her and the children if he leaves. He will callHannahWinter,andhewillmakeherpromisesandhewillkeepallofthem.Hissonwillneversettledownormarryorhavechildrenorforgivehisfather
for his betrayal. His daughter willmarry her first girlfriend,Marie. Shewillspendmost of that firstmarriage anticipating and then causing its end.AfterMarie, no onewill ever love her quite asmuch again.And though she’ll getmarriedtwicemore,she’llneverloveanyoneasmuchasshedidMarie.JeremyandHannah’schildrenwillgrowuptoloveothersinthesimpleand
uncomplicatedwayofpeoplewhohavealwaysknownwherelovecomesfrom,andaren’tafraidofitsloss.All of which isn’t to say that Jeremy Fitzgerald did the right thing or the
wrongthing.It’sonlytosaythis:lovealwayschangeseverything.
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NOWTHATTHESUNHASset,theair’sgottenmuchcolder.It’snothardtoimaginethatwinter’sjustaroundthecorner.I’llhavetounearthmybulkyblackcoatandmyboots.Itugmyjacketcloserandcontemplategoinginsidetothelobby,where it’swarm. I’monmyway inwhenDanielwalks out the slidingglassdoors.HeseesmeandIexpectasmile,buthisfaceisgrim.Howbadlycouldhis
interviewhavegone?“Whathappened?”IaskassoonasIreachhim.I’mimaginingtheworst,like
hegotintoafightwithhisinterviewer,andnowhe’sbannedfromapplyingtoanycollegeatall,andhisfutureisruined.Heputshishandonmyface. “I really loveyou,”he says.He’snot joking.
Thishasnothingtodowithoursillybet.Hesaysitthewayyouwouldsayittosomeonewhoisdyingoryoudon’texpecttoseeagain.“Daniel,what’swrong?”Ipullhishandawayfrommyface,butIholdonto
it.“I loveyou,”hesaysagain,andrecapturesmyfacewithhisotherhand.“It
doesn’tmatterifyousayitback.Ijustwantyoutoknowit.”Myphonerings.It’sthelawyer’soffice.“Don’tanswerit,”hesays.OfcourseI’mgoingtoanswerit.Hetouchesmyhandtostopme.“Pleasedon’t,”hesaysagain.NowI’malarmed.IclickIgnore.“Whathappenedtoyouinthere?”He squeezes his eyes shut.When he opens them again they’re filled with
tears.“Youcan’tstayhere,”hesays.At first I don’t get it. “Why? Is the building closing for the night?” I look
aroundforguardsaskingustoleave.Tearsslidedownhischeeks.Certainandunwantedknowledgebloomsinmy
mind.Ipullmyhandoutofhis.“Whatwasyourinterviewer’sname?”Iwhisper.He’snoddingnow.“Myinterviewerwasyourlawyer.”“Fitzgerald?”“Yes,”hesays.Ipulloutmyphoneandlookatthenumberagain,stillrefusingtounderstand
whathe’s tellingme.“I’vebeenwaitingforhimtocall.Didhesaysomethingaboutme?”Ialreadyknowtheanswer.Iknowit.Ittakeshimacoupleoftriestogetthewordsout.“Hesaidhecouldn’tget
theorderoverturned.”“Buthesaidhecoulddoit,”Iinsist.Hesqueezesmyhandandtriestopullmecloser,butIresist.Idon’twantto
becomforted.Iwanttounderstand.I back away from him. “Are you sure?Whywere you even talking about
me?”Hewipesahanddownhisface.“Therewasallthisweirdshitgoingonwith
himandhisparalegal,andyourfilewasjustonhisdesk.”“Thatstilldoesn’texplain—”Hegrabsmyhandagain.Ipullitawayforcefullythistime.“Stop!Juststop!”
Iyell.“I’msorry,”hesays,andletsmego.Itakeanotherstepback.“Justtellmewhathesaidexactly.”“He said the deportation order stands and that it’s better if you and your
familyleavetonight.”I turn away and listen tomyvoicemail. It’s him—AttorneyFitzgerald.He
saysthatIshouldcallhim.Thathehasunfortunatenews.IhangupandstareatDanielmutely.Hestarts tosaysomething,butIjust
wanthimtostop.Iwantthewholeworldtostop.Therearetoomanymovingparts that are outside of my control. I feel like I’m in an elaborate RubeGoldbergcontraptionthatsomeoneelsedesigned.Idon’tknowthemechanismto trigger it. I don’t know what happens next. I only know that everythingcascades,andthatonceitstartsitwon’tstop.
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Heartsdon’tbreak.It’sjustanotherthingthepoetssay.HeartsarenotmadeOfglassOrboneOranymaterialthatcouldSplinterOrFragmentOrShatter.Theydon’tCrackIntoPieces.Theydon’tFallApart.Heartsdon’tbreak.Theyjuststopworking.Anoldwatchfromanothertimeandnopartstofixit.
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WE’RESITTINGNEXTTOTHE fountain andDaniel’s holdingmy hand.Hissuitjacketisaroundmyshoulders.Hereallyisakeeper.He’sjustnotminetokeep.“Ihavetogohome,”Isaytohim.It’sthefirstthingI’vesaidinoverhalfan
hour.Hepullsme close again. I’m finally ready to let him.His shoulders are so
broadandsolid.Irestmyheadonone.Ifitthere.Iknewitthismorning,andIknowitnow.“Whatarewegoingtodo?”hewhispers.There’semailandSkypeandtextsandIMsandmaybeevenvisitstoJamaica.
ButevenasIthinkit,IknowIwon’tletthathappen.Wehaveseparatelivestolead.Ican’tleavemyheartherewhenmylifeisthere.AndIcan’ttakehisheartwithmewhenhiswholefutureishere.Iliftmyheadfromhisshoulder.“Howwastherestoftheinterview?”He touches my cheek and then tilts my head back down. “He said he’d
recommendme.”“That’sgreat,”Isay,withabsolutelynoenthusiasm.“Yeah,”hesays,enthusiasmlevelmatchingmine.IamcoldbutIdon’twanttomove.Movingfromthisspotwillstartthechain
reactionthatendswithmeonaplane.Anotherfiveminutesgoby.“Ireallyshouldgohome,”Isay.“Flight’satten.”Hepulls outhis phone to check the time. “Threehours to go.Areyou all
packedupalready?”“Yes.”
“I’llgowithyou,”hesays.Myheartmakesaleap.ForacrazysecondIthinkhemeanshe’llgowithme
toJamaica.Heseesthethoughtinmyeyes.“Imeantoyourhouse.”“I knowwhat youmeant,” I snap. I am resentful. I am ridiculous. “I don’t
thinkthat’sagoodidea.MyparentsarethereandIhavetoomuchtodo.You’lljustgetintheway.”Heraiseshimselfupandholdsouthishandformine.“Here’swhatwe’renot
goingtodo.Wearenotgoingtoargue.Wearenotgoingtopretendthat thisisn’ttheworstthingonearth,becauseitis.We’renotgoingtogoourseparatewaysbeforeweabsolutelyhaveto.I’mgoingwithyoutoyourparents’house.I’m going tomeet them, and they’re going to likeme, and I’m not going topunchyourdad.Instead,I’mgoingtoseewhetheryou lookmore likehimoryourmom.Yourlittlebrotherwillactlikealittlebrother.MaybeI’llfinallygettohearthatJamaicanaccentyou’vebeenhidingfrommeallday.I’mgoingtolookat theplacewhereyou sleepandeatand liveandwish I’dknownjustalittlesoonerthatyouwererighthere.”I start to interrupt, but he continues talking. “I’m going with you to your
house,andthenwe’regoingtotakeacabtotheairport,justthetwoofus.ThenI’mgoingtowatchyougetonaplaneandfeelmyheartgetrippedoutofmyfucking chest, and then I’m going to wonder for the rest of my life whatcould’vehappenedifthisdayhadn’tgonejustexactlythewayit’sgone.”Hestopstotakeabreath.“Isthatokaywithyou?”heasks.
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SHESAYSYES.I’mnotreadytosaygoodbye.I’llneverbereadytosayit.Itakeherhandandwestartwalkingtowardthesubwayinsilence.She’s wearing her backpack on one shoulder and I can see the DEUS EX
MACHINA print again. Was it really just this morning that we met? Thismorning that Iwanted toblowwherever thewind tookme?What Iwouldn’tgiveforGodtoreallybeinthemachine.Headline:AreaTeenDefeatsImmigrationandCustomsEnforcementDivision
oftheDepartmentofHomelandSecurity,LivesHappilyEverAfterwithHisOneTrueLoveThankstoThisOneWeirdLegalLoopholeNoOneConsideredUntiltheLastMinuteandNowWeWillHaveaChaseScenetoStopHerfromGettingonthePlane.Butthat’snotwhat’sgoingtohappen.AlldayI’vebeenthinkingthatweweremeanttobe.Thatallthepeopleand
places,allthecoincidenceswerepushingustobetogetherforever.Butmaybethat’snot true.What if this thingbetweenuswasonlymeant to last theday?What ifwe are each other’s in-between people, away station on the road tosomeplaceelse?Whatifwearejustadigressioninsomeoneelse’shistory?
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“DIDYOUKNOWTHATJAMAICAhasthesixthhighestmurderrateintheworld?”Iaskhim.We’re on the Q train headed to Brooklyn. It’s packed with evening
commutersandwe’restanding,holdingontoapole.Danielhasonehandonmyback.Hehasn’tstoppedtouchingmesincewelefttheofficebuilding.Maybeifhekeepsholdingontome,Iwon’tflyaway.“Whataretheotherfive?”heasks.“Honduras,Venezuela,Belize,ElSalvador,andGuatemala.”“Huh,”hesays.“DidyoualsoknowthatJamaicaisstillaceremonialmemberoftheBritish
Commonwealth?”Idon’twaitforananswer.“IamasubjectoftheQueen.”IfIhadroomtodo
acurtsy,Iwould.Thetrainscreechestoastop.Morepeoplegetonthanoff.“WhatelsecanI
tellyou?Thepopulationistwopointninemillion.BetweenoneandtenpercentofpeopleidentifyasRastafarians.TwentypercentofJamaicanslivebelowthepovertyline.”Hemovesa littleclosersoI’malmostcompletelysurroundedbyhim.“Tell
meonegoodthingyouremember,”hesays.“Notthefacts.”Idon’twanttobeoptimistic.Idon’twanttoadjusttothisnewfuture.“Ileft
whenIwaseight.Idon’trememberthatmuch.”Hepresses.“Notyourfamily?Cousins?Friends?”“Irememberhavingthem,butIdon’tknowthem.Mymomforcesustoget
on the phone with them every year at Christmas. They make fun of myAmericanaccent.”
“One good thing,” he says. His eyes are deep brown now, almost black.“Whatdidyoumissthemostafteryoufirstmovedhere?”Idon’thavetothinkabouttheanswerforverylong.“Thebeach.Theocean
hereisweird.It’sthewrongkindofblue.It’scold.It’stoorough.JamaicaisintheCaribbeanSea.Thewateristhisblue-greencolorandverycalm.Youcanwalkoutforalongtimeandyou’dstillonlybewaist-deep.”“Thatsoundsnice,”hesays.Hisvoicetremblesalittle.I’mafraidtolookup
becausethenwe’llbothbecryingonthetrain.“Wanttofinishthequestionsfromsectionthree?”Iask.He gets out his phone. “Number twenty-nine. Share with your partner an
embarrassingmomentinyourlife.”The train stopsagain, and this timemorepeoplegetoff thanon.Wehave
moreroom,butDanielstaysclosetomeasifwedon’t.“EarliertodayintherecordstorewithRobwasprettyembarrassing,”Isay.“Really?Youdidn’tseemembarrassed,justpissed.”“Ihaveagoodpokerface,unlikesomeoneelseIknow,”Isay,andnudgehim
withmyshoulder.“Butwhyembarrassed?”“Hecheatedonmewithher.EverytimeIseethemtogetherIfeellikemaybe
Iwasn’tgoodenough.”“Thatguywasjustacheater.It’snothingtodowithyou.”Hegrabsmyhand
andholdsontoit.Ikindoflovehisearnestness.“Iknow.Icalledhimearliertodaytoaskhimwhyhedidit.”I’vesurprisedhim.“Youdid?Whatdidhesay?”“Hewantedusboth.”“Jackass.IfIeverseethatguyagain,I’llkickhisass.”“Gotathirstforbloodnowthatyou’vebeeninyourfirstfight,doyou?”“I’mafighter,notalover,”hesays,misquotingMichaelJackson.“Didyour
parentscarethathewaswhite?”“They never met him.” I couldn’t imagine taking him to meet my dad.
Watchingthemtalktoeachotherwould’vebeentorturous.Also,Ineverwantedhimtoseehowsmallourapartmentwas.Intheend,IguessIreallydidn’twanthimtoknowme.WithDaniel,it’sdifferentsomehow.Iwanthimtoseeallofme.Thelightsflickeroffandcomerightbackon.Hesqueezesmyfingers.“My
parentsonlywantustodateKoreangirls.”
“You’renotdoingagoodjoblisteningtothem,”Itease.“Well,it’snotlikeI’vedatedatonofgirls.OneKorean.Charlie,though?It’s
likehe’sallergictononwhitegirls.”ThetrainjostlesusandIholdontothepolewithbothhands.“Youwantto
knowthesecrettoyourbrother?”Heputshishandontopofmine.“What’sthesecret?”“Hedoesn’tlikehimselfverymuch.”“Youthinkso?”hesays,considering.HewantstheretobeareasonCharlie
isthewayheis.“Trustmeonthis,”Isay.We screech around a long corner.He steadiesmewith a hand againstmy
backandleavesitthere.“WhyonlyKoreangirlsforyourparents?”Iask.“Theythinkthey’llunderstandKoreangirls.Eventheonesraisedhere.”“ButthosegirlsarebothAmericanandKorean.”“I’mnotsayingitmakessense,”hesays,smiling.“Whataboutyou?Doyour
parentscarewhoyoudate?”I shrug. “I’ve never asked. I guess probably they would prefer me to
eventuallymarryablackguy.”“Why?”“Same reason as yours. Somehow they’ll understand him better. And he’ll
understandthembetter.”“Butit’snotlikeallblackpeoplearethesame,”hesays.“NeitherareallKoreangirls.”“Parentsareprettystupid.”He’sonlyhalfkidding.“Ithinktheythinkthey’reprotectingus,”Isay.“Fromwhat?Honestly,whocanevengiveashitaboutthisstuff?Weshould
knowbetterbynow.”“Maybeourkidswill,”Isay.Iregretthewordsevenasthey’reflyingoutof
mymouth.Thelightsflickeroffagainandwecometoacompletestopbetweenstations.
Ifocusontheyellow-orangeglowofthesafetylightsinthetunnel.“Ididn’tmeanourkids,”Isayintothedark.“Imeantthenextgenerationof
kids.”“Iknowwhatyoumeant,”hesaysquietly.Now that I’ve thought it and said it, I can’t unthink it and unsay it.What
wouldourkidslooklike?IfeelthelossofsomethingIdon’tevenknowIwant.
WepullintotheCanalStreetstation,thelastundergroundstopbeforewegoover the Manhattan Bridge. The doors close and we both turn to face thewindow.WhenweemergefromthetunnelthefirstthingIseeistheBrooklynBridge.It’sjustpastduskandthelightsareonalongthesuspensioncables.Myeyesfollowtheirlongarcsacrossthesky.Thebridgeisbeautifulatnight,butit’s the city skyline that astonishes me every time I see it. It looks like atowering sculpture of lighted glass and metal, like a machined piece of art.From this distance, the city looks orderly and planned, as if all of it werecreatedatonetimeforonepurpose.Whenyou’reinsideit,though,itfeelslikechaos.Ithinkbacktowhenwewereontheroofearlier.Iimaginedthecityasitwas
beingbuilt.NowIprojectitoutintoanapocalypticfuture.Thelightsdimandthe glass falls away, leaving just themetal skeletons of buildings. Eventuallythose rust and crumble. The streets are uprooted, green with wild plants,overrunwithwildanimals.Thecityisbeautifulandruined.Wedescendbackintothetunnel.IknowforsurethatIwillalwayscompare
every city skyline toNewYork’s. Just as Iwill always compare everyboy toDaniel.
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“WHAT’SYOUR MOST EMBARRASSINGMOMENT?” she asks whenthebridgedisappearsfromview.“You’re kidding, right?Youwere there for it.Withmy dad telling you to
changeyourhairandmybrothermakingsmall-penisjokes?”Shelaughs.“Thatwasprettybad.”“I will live a thousand lifetimes and it will still be themost embarrassing
thingthat’severhappenedtome.”“Idunno.YourdadandCharliecouldfigureoutawaytotopit.”Igroanandrubthebackofmyneck.“Weshouldallbebornwithafamily
Do-OverCard.Atsixteen,yougetachancetoevaluateyoursituationandthenyoucanchoosetostayinyourcurrentfamilyorstartoverwithanewone.”Shetugsmyhanddownfrommyneckandholdsontoit.“Wouldyougetto
choosewhothenewfamilyis?”sheasks.“Nope.Youtakeyourchances.”“Soonedayyoujustshowuponsomestrangers’doorstep?”“Ihaven’tworkedoutallthedetailsyet,”Itellher.“Maybeonceyoumake
yourdecisionyougetrebornintoanewfamily?”“Doesyouroldfamilyjustthinkyoudied?”“Yes.”“Butthat’ssocruel,”shesays.“Okay,okay.Maybetheyjustforgetyoueverexisted.Anyway,Idon’tthink
manypeoplewouldswitch.”She shakes her head. “I disagree. I think a lot of peoplewould.There are
somebadfamiliesinthisworld.”“Wouldyou?”Iaskher.
Shedoesn’tsayanythingforawhile,andI listentotherhythmofthetrainwhileshethinksitover.I’veneverwishedforatraintoslowdownbefore.“CouldIgivemycard tosomeonewhoreallyneeded it?”sheasks. Iknow
she’sthinkingaboutherdad.Ikissherhair.“Whataboutyou?Wouldyoustayinyourfamily?”sheasks
me.“CouldIuseittobootCharlieoutinstead?”Shelaughs.“Maybethesecardsaren’tsuchagreatidea.Canyouimagineif
everyonehadthepowertomesswitheveryoneelse’slives?Chaos.”But of course, this is the problem.We already have that power over each
other.
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IT’SSTRANGEBEINGINMYneighborhoodwithDaniel.I’mtryingtoseeitthroughhiseyes.AftertherelativewealthofMidtownManhattan,mysectionofBrooklynfeelsevenpoorer.Manyof thesamekindsofstores line thesix-block drag that I use to walk home. There are Jamaican jerk restaurants,bulletproofedChineserestaurants,bulletproofedliquorstores,discountclothingstores,andbeautysalons.Everyblockhasatleastonecombinationdeli/grocerystore, windows almost entirely covered in beer and cigarette posters. Everyblockhasatleastonecheck-cashingshop.Thestoresareallcrammedtogether,fightingforthesamepieceofrealestate.I’mgratefulforthedarksoDanielcan’tseehowrun-downeverythingis.I’m
immediatelyashamedofmyselfforhavingthethought.Hetakesmyhand,andwewalkalonginsilenceforafewminutes.Icanfeel
curiouseyesonus.Itoccurstomethatthiswould’vebecomenormalforus.“Peoplearestaringatus,”Isay.“It’sbecauseyou’resobeautiful,”hesaysback,withoutmissingabeat.“Soyounoticed?”Ipress.“OfcourseInoticed.”I stop us in the lighted doorway of a Laundromat. The smell of detergent
surroundsus.“Youknowwhythey’restaring,right?”“It’seitherbecauseI’mnotblackorbecauseyou’renotKorean.”Hisfaceis
shadowed,butIcanhearthesmileinhisvoice.“I’mserious,”Isay,frustrated.“Doesn’titbotheryou?”I’mnotsurewhyI’m
pursuing this.Maybe Iwantproof that ifwehad the chance to continue,wewouldsurvivetheweightofthestares.Hetakesbothmyhands,sonowwe’restandingfacetoface.
“Maybeitdoesbotherme,”hesays,“butonlyperipherally.It’slikeabuzzingfly,youknow?Annoying,butnotactuallylife-threatening.”“Butwhydoyouthinkthey’redoingit?”Iwantananswer.Hepullsmeinforahug.“Icanseethatthisisimportanttoyou,andIreally
wanttogiveyouagoodreason.Butthetruthis,Idon’tcarewhy.MaybeI’mnaïve,butIdonotgiveasingleshitaboutanyone’sopinionofus.Idonotcareifwe’reanoveltytothem.Idonotcareaboutthepoliticsofit.Idon’tcareifyour parents approve, and I really, truly don’t care if mine do.What I careaboutisyou,andI’msurethatloveisenoughtoovercomeallthebullshit.Andit is bullshit. All the hand-wringing. All the talk about cultures clashing orpreservingculturesandwhatwillhappento thekids.Allof it isonehundredpercentpure,unadulteratedbullshit,andIjustrefusetocare.”Ismileintohischest.Myponytailpoetboy.Ineverbeforethoughtthatnot
caringcouldbearevolutionaryact.Weturnoff themaindragontoamoreresidential street. I’mstill trying to
see theneighborhoodasDanieldoes.Wepassby rowsofadjoinedclapboardhouses.They’resmallandagingbutcolorfulandwell-loved.TheporchesseemmoreoverpopulatedwithknickknacksandhangingplantsthanIremember.Therewas a timewhenmymomdesperatelywanted one of these houses.
Earlierthisyear,beforethismessbegan,sheeventookPeterandmetoanopenhouse. It had three bedrooms and a spacious kitchen. It had a basement shethought shecouldsublet forextra income.Becauseheadoresourmotherandknewwecouldneveraffordit,Peterpretendednottolikeit.Henitpicked.“Thebackyardistoosmallandalltheplantsaredead,”he’dsaid.Hestayed
closetoherside,andwhenweleftshewasnotanysadderthanwhenwewentin.We walk by another block of similar houses before the neighborhood
changesagainandwe’resurroundedbymostlybrickapartmentbuildings.Thesearenotcondosbutrentals.IissueawarningtoDaniel.“It’samessfromallthepacking.”“Okay,”hesays,nodding.“And it’s small.” I don’t mention that there’s only one bedroom. He’ll see
soonenough.Besides,it’sonlymyhomeforafewhoursmore.The little girls from apartment 2C are sitting on the front steps when we
arrive. Daniel’s presence makes them shy. They duck their heads and don’tchatteratmeliketheynormallydo.Istopbytherowofmetalmailboxesthathangonthewall.Wehavenomail,justaChinesetake-outmenuwedgedintothedoor.It’sfrommydad’sfavoriteplace,thesameoneheorderedfromwhen
hegaveustheticketsforhisplay.Someone’salwayscookingsomething,andthelobbysmellsdelicious:butter
andonionandcurryandotherspices.Myapartment’son the thirdfloor, so Itakeustothestairs.Asusual,thelightforthefirst-andsecond-floorstairwellisbroken.Weendupwalkingsilentlyinthedarkuntilwegettothethirdfloor.“Thisisit,”Isay,whenwe’refinallystandinginfrontof3A.Insomeways
it’smuchtooearlytointroduceDanieltomyhouseandfamily.Ifwehadmoretime, then he’d already know all my little anecdotes. He’d know about thecurtaininthelivingroomthatseparatesPeter’s“room”frommine.He’dknowthatmy starmap ismymost prized possession.He’d know that ifmymomoffershimsomethingtoeat,heshouldjust take itandeat thewhole thingnomatterhowfullheis.Idon’tknowhowtorelayallthathistory.Instead,Itellhimagain:“It’smessy
inthere.”It’saweirdkindofdissonance,seeinghimstandhereinfrontofmydoor.He
fitsanddoesn’tfitatthesametime.I’vealwaysknownhim,andwe’veonlyjustmet.Ourhistoryistoocompressed.We’retryingtofitalifetimeintoaday.“ShouldItakemyjacketoff?”heasks.“Ifeellikeanidiotinthissuit.”“Youdon’thavetobenervous,”Isay.“I’mgoingtomeetyourparents.Now’sasgoodatimetobenervousasany.”
Heunbuttonsthejacketbutdoesn’ttakeitoff.I touch thebruiseonhis lip. “Thegood thing is,youcan screwupallyou
want.You’llprobablyneverseethemagain.”Hegivesasmall,sadsmile.I’mjusttryingtomakethebestofoursituation,
andheknowsit.Itakethekeyfrommybackpackandopenthedoor.AllthelightsareonandPeter’splayingdancehallreggaemuchtooloud.I
canfeel thebeat inmychest.Threepackedsuitcases lie just inside thedoor.Anothertwolieopenofftotheside.Ispotmymomrightaway.“Turnthatmusicoff,”shesaystoPeterwhenshe
seesme.Hedoes,andthesuddensilenceisacute.Sheturnstome.“Lawd,Tasha.Ibeencallingandcallingyoufor—”IttakesherasecondtonoticeDaniel.Whenshedoes,shestopstalkingand
looksbackandforthbetweenusforalongtime.“Whothis?”sheasks.
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NATASHAINTRODUCESmetohermom.“He’safriendofmine,”shesays.I’mfairlycertainIheardahesitationbefore
friend.Hermomheardittoo,andnowshe’sstudyingmelikeI’manalienbug.“Sorrytomeetyouunderthesecircumstances,Mrs.Kingsley.”Iholdoutmy
handforashake.ShegivesNatashaalook(thehowcouldyoudothistome?variety),butthen
wipesherpalmdown the sideofherdress andgivesmeabrief shake andabriefersmile.Natashamovesusfromthelittlehallwaywherewe’reclusteredintotheliving
room.Atleast,Ithinkit’salivingroom.Abrightblueclothiscrumpledonthefloor, and a length of string bisects the room. Then I notice there’s two ofeverything—sofabed,chestofdrawers,desk.Thisistheirbedroom.ShesharesitwithPeter.WhenNatashasaidtheirapartmentwassmall,Ididn’trealizeshemeanttheywerepoor.There’sstillsomuchIdon’tknowabouther.Her brother walks over to me, hand outstretched and smiling. He has
dreadlocksandoneofthefriendliestfacesI’veeverseen.“Tasha’sneverbroughtaguyherebefore,”hesays.Hisinfectioussmilegets
evenbigger.Igrinbackathimandshakehishand.BothNatashaandhermomwatchus
openly.“Tasha,Ineedtotalktoyou,”hermomsays.Natashadoesn’ttakehereyesoffPeterandme.Iwonderifshe’simagininga
futurewherewebecomefriends.IknowIam.Sheturnstofacehermom.“IsitaboutDaniel?”sheasks.
Hermom’snow-pursedlipscouldnotgetanypursier(yes,pursier).“Tasha—”EvenIcanheartheMomisabouttogetpissedoffwarninginher
tone,butNatashajustignoresit.“Because if it is about Daniel, we can just do it right here. He’s my
boyfriend.”Shesneaksaquickquestioningglanceatme,andInod.Herdadwalksthroughthedoorwayacrossfromusatjustthatsecond.Due to Anomaly in the Space-Time Continuum, Area Dads Have Perfect
TimingAllDay“Boyfriend?”hesays.“Sincewhenyouhaveboyfriend?”Iturnandstudyhim.NowI’vegottheanswertomyquestionofwhoNatasha
lookslike.She’sbasicallyherdad,exceptinbeautifulgirlform.Andwithout the scowl. I’ve never seen a deeper scowl than the scowl that
existsonhisfacerightnow.His Jamaican accent is thick, and I process thewords a little after he says
them. “Thatwhat you been doing all day instead of helping you family packup?”hedemands,movingfartherintotheroom.AsidefromthelittleNatashahastoldme,Idon’treallyknowthehistoryof
theirrelationship,butIcanseeitonherfacenow.Angeristhere,andhurt,anddisbelief.Still, thepeacekeeper inmedoesn’twant to see themfight. I touchmyhandtothesmallofherback.“I’m okay,” she says to me quietly. I can tell she’s steeling herself for
something.Shesquaresherselftohim.“No.WhatIwasdoingalldaywastryingtofix
yourmistakes.Iwastryingtopreventourfamilyfrombeingkickedoutofthecountry.”“It don’t look nothing like that to me,” he retorts. He turns to me, scowl
deepening.“Youknowthesituation?”I’mtoosurprisedthathe’stalkingtometoanswer,soIjustnod.“Thenyouknowthatnownotnotimeforstrangerstobehere,”hesays.Natasha’sspinestiffensundermyhand.“He’snotastranger,”shesays.“He’s
myguest.”“Andthisismyhouse.”Hestraightenshimselfashesaysit.“Yourhouse?”Hervoiceisloudandincredulousnow.Whateverrestraintshe
hadbeforeisslippingawayquickly.Shewalkstothecenterofthelivingroom,holdsherarmsopenwideandturnsacircle.“This apartment thatwe’ve lived in for nine years, because you think your
shipisgoingtocomesailinginanydaynow,isyourhouse?”
“Baby.Notnopointinrehashingallthisnow,”hermomsaysfromherplaceinthedoorway.Natashaopenshermouthtosaysomethingbutclosesitagain.Icanseeher
deflate.“Okay,Mom,”shesays,lettinggoofwhatevershewasgoingtosay.Iwonderhowmanytimesshe’sdonethatforhermother.Ithinkthat’sgoingtobetheendofit,butI’mwrong.“No,man,”herdadsays.“No,man.Mewanthearwhatshehavetosayto
me.”Hewidenshisstanceandfoldshisarmsacrosshischest.Natasha does the same thing and they square off, mirror images of each
other.
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IWOULD’VELETITGO formymom.Ialwaysdo.Just lastnightshesaidthatthefourofushadtobeaunitedfront.“Itgoingbehardatfirst,”she’dsaid.Wearegoingtohavetolivewithher
motheruntilwehaveenoughmoneytorentourownplace.“Ineverthinkmelifewouldcometothis,”shesaidbeforeshewenttobed.Iwould’ve let itgo if Ihadn’tmetDaniel. Ifhehadn’t increasedbyavery
significantonethenumberofthingsI’dbelosingtoday.Iwould’veletitgoifmy father weren’t using his thick and forced Jamaican accent again. It’s justanotheract.Tohearhimyouwouldthinkhe’dneverleftJamaica,thatthepastnineyearsneverhappened.Hereallydoesthinkourlivesaremake-believe.I’msickofhimpretending.“IheardwhatyousaidtoMomaftertheplay.Yousaidwewereyourgreatest
regret.”Hesagsandthescowlleaveshisface.Ican’tnametheemotionthatreplaces
it,butitseemsgenuine.Finally.Somethingrealfromhim.HestartstosaysomethingbutIhavemoretosay.“I’msorrythatlifedidn’t
giveyouallthethingsyouwanted.”AsI’msayingit,IrealizethatIdomeanit.I know what disappointment is now. I can understand how it could last alifetime.“Medidn’tmeanit,Tasha.Itwasjusttalk.Allofitwasjust—”Iholdmyhanduptostophisapology.That’snotwhatIwantfromhim.“I
want you to know that you were really amazing in the play. Just incredible.Transcendent.”Hehastearsinhiseyesnow.I’mnotsureifit’sbecauseIcomplimentedhim
orifit’sregretorsomethingelse.“Maybeyouwereright,”Icontinue.“Youweren’tmeanttohaveus.Maybe
youreallywerecheated.”He’s shakinghishead,denyingmywords. “Was just talk,Tasha,man.Me
reallydidn’tmeannothingbyit.”Butofcoursehedid.Hemeantitandhedidn’t.Both.Atthesametime.“Itdoesn’tmatterifyoumeantitornot.Thisisthelifeyou’reliving.It’snot
temporaryandit’snotpretendandthere’snodo-over.”IsoundlikeDaniel.Theworstpartofoverhearing thatconversationbetweenhimandmymom
was that it spoiled all the good memories I had of him. Did he regret myexistencewhenwewerewatchingcricketmatchestogether?Whataboutwhenhewasholdingmetightattheairportwhenwewereallfinallyreunited?WhataboutthedayIwasborn?Tearsarestreamingdownhisfacenow.WatchinghimcryhurtsmorethanI
everthoughtitcould.Still,there’sonemorethingIhavetosay.“Youdon’tgettoregretus.”Hemakesasound,andnowIknowwhatalifetimeofpainsoundslike.Peoplemakemistakes all the time. Small ones, like you get in the wrong
checkoutline.Theonewiththeladywithahundredcouponsandacheckbook.Sometimesyoumakemedium-sizedones.Yougotomedicalschoolinstead
ofpursuingyourpassion.Sometimesyoumakebigones.Yougiveup.Isitdownonmysofabed.I’mmoretiredthanIrealize,andnotasangryasI
thought. “Whenweget to Jamaica, youhave to at least try.Goonauditions.AndbebettertoMom.She’sdoneeverything,andshe’stired,andyouoweittous.Youdon’tgettoliveinyourheadanymore.”Mymom’scryingnow.Peterwalksintoherarmsforahug.Myfathergoes
tothemboth,andmymomacceptshim.Asone, theyturntolookatmeandgestureforme to join them. I turn toDaniel first.Hehugsmeso tightly, it’slikewe’resayinggoodbyealready.
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THEDRIVERLOADSNATASHA’SSUITCASE into the trunk.Peterandherparentshavealreadygoneaheadtotheairportviaaseparatecab.Inside,NatashalaysherheadonDaniel’sshoulder.Herhairtickleshisnose.
It’safeelinghewisheshe’dhavemoretimetogetusedto.“Doyouthinkwewould’veworkedoutintheend?”sheaskshim.“Yes.”Hesaysitwithouthesitation.“Doyou?”“Yes.”“Youfinallycamearound.”Asmileisinhisvoice.“Howhardwouldithavebeenforyourparents?”sheasks.“Itwouldtakethemalongtime.Longerformydad.Idon’tthinkthey’dhave
cometoourwedding.”ApictureofthatfuturedayfloatsupinNatasha’smind.Sheseesanocean.Danielhandsomeinhistuxedo.Herhandonhisfacewipingawaythesadnessathisparents’absence.ThejoyonhisfacewhenshefinallysaysIdo.“How many kids do you want?” she asks, after the pain of that vision
recedes.“Two.Whataboutyou?”She lifts her head fromhis shoulder, hesitant, but then confesses: “I’mnot
sureifIwantanyatall.Wouldyou’vebeenokaywiththat?”Hedidn’texpectthatanswer,andittakeshimamomenttoacceptit.“Ithink
so.Idon’tknow.Maybeyou’dchangeyourmind.MaybeIwould.”“Ihavesomethingtotellyou,”shesays,layingherheadbackdown.“What?”“Youshouldn’tbeadoctor.”He turns his head, smiles into her hair. “What about doing the practical
thing?”“Practicalityisoverrated,”shesays.“Areyoustillgoingtobeadatascientist?”“Idon’tknow.Maybenot.It’dbenicetobepassionateaboutsomething.”“Whatadifferenceadaymakes,”hesays.Neitherofthemspeaks,becausewhatistheretosay?It’sbeenalongday.Natasha breaks their glum silence. “So, how many more questions do we
haveleft?”Hetakesouthisphone.“Twomorefromsectionthree.Andwestillhaveto
stareintoeachother’seyesforfourminutes.”“Wecoulddothatormakeoutrighthere.”From the front seat their driver,Miguel, interrupts. “You guys know I can
hearyou,right?”Helooksatthemintherearviewmirror.“Icanseeyoutoo.”Then he laughs a bigmeaty laugh. “Some people get in the cab and like topretendI’mdeafandblind,butIain’t.Justsoyouknow.”Helaughshismeatylaughagain,andNatashaandDanielcan’thelpbutjoin
him.But theirjoinedlaughterfadesas therealityof themomentreasserts itself.
DanieltakesNatasha’sfaceinhishandsandtheykisssoftkisses.Thechemistryis still there.They’reboth toowarm,bothunsurewhat todowithhands thatseemmeantonlyfortouchingeachother.Migueldoesn’tsayaword.He’shadhisheartbrokenbefore.Heknowswhat
damagelookslike.Danielspeaksfirst.“Questionthirty-four.Whatwouldyousavefromafire?”Natasha considers. It does feel to her like her entireworld is being razed.
Andtheonethingthatshewantstosave,shecan’t.ToDanielshesays:“Idon’thaveanythingyet,butI’llfigureitout.”“Goodenough,”hesays.“Mine’seasy.Mynotebook.”Hetoucheshisjacketpockettoreassurehimselfit’sstillthere.“Last question,” he says. “Of all the people in your family, whose death
wouldyoufindthemostdisturbing,andwhy?”“Mydad.”Danielnotesthatit’sthefirsttimeNatasha’scalledhimdadinsteadoffather.“Why?”heasks.“Becausehe’snotdoneyet.Whataboutyou?”“Yours,”hesays.
“I’mnotyourfamily,though.”“Yes you are,” he says, thinking about what Natasha said earlier about
multiverses.Insomeotheruniversetheyaremarried,maybewithtwochildren,ormaybewithnone.“Youdon’thavetosayitback.Ijustwantyoutoknow.”There are things to say to him, and Natasha doesn’t know where, doesn’t
knowhowtobegin.Maybethat’swhyDanielwantstobeapoet,sohecanfindtherightwords.“Iloveyou,Daniel,”shesaysatlast.Hegrinsather.“Iguessthequestionnaireworked.”Shesmiles.“Yay,science.”Amomentpasses.“Iknow,”Danielsays,finally.“Ialreadyknow.”
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DANIEL SETS HIS PHONE TIMER for four minutes and takes bothNatasha’shandsinhis.Aretheysupposedtoholdhandsduringthispartoftheexperiment? He’s not sure. According to the study, this is the final step forfallinginlove.Whathappensifyou’realreadyinlove?Atfirsttheybothfeelprettysilly.Natashawantstosayaloudthatthisistoo
goofy.Helpless,almostembarrassedsmilesovertaketheirfaces.Natashalooksaway,butDanielsqueezesherhands.Staywithmeiswhathemeans.Bythesecondminute,they’relessself-conscious.Theirsmilesdriftawayand
theycatalogeachother’sface.NatashathinksofherAPBiologyclassandwhatsheknowsofeyesandhow
theywork.Anopticalimageofhisfaceisbeingsenttoherretina.Herretinaisconverting those images to electronic signals. Her optic nerve is transmittingthose signals toher visual cortex.Sheknowsnow that she’ll never forget thisimage of his face. She’ll know exactly when clear brown eyes became herfavoritekind.For his part,Daniel is trying to find the rightwords to describe her eyes.
They’re light anddarkat the same time.Like someonedrapedaheavyblackclothoverabrightstar.Bythethirdminute,Natasha’srelivingthedayandallthemomentsthatled
themhere.SheseestheUSCISbuilding, thatstrangesecurityguardcaressingherphone case,LesterBarnes’skindness,RobandKelly shoplifting,meetingDaniel, Daniel saving her life, meeting Daniel’s dad and brother, norebang,kissing,themuseum,therooftop,morekissing,Daniel’sfacewhenhetoldhershecouldn’tstay,herdad’scryingfacefilledwithregret,thismomentrightnowinthecab.Danielisthinkingnotaboutpastevents,butfutureones.Istheresomething
elsethatcouldleadthembacktoeachother?During the final minute, hurt settles into their bones. It colonizes their
bodies,spreadstotheirtissueandmusclesandbloodandcells.Thephonetimerbuzzes.Theywhisperpromisestheysuspecttheywon’tbe
abletokeep—phonecalls,emails,textmessages,andeveninternationalflights,expensesbedamned.“Thisdaycan’tbeallthereis,”Danielsaysonce,andthentwice.Natashadoesn’tsaywhatshesuspects.Thatmeanttobedoesn’thavetomean
forever.Theykiss, andkiss again.When they do finally pull apart, it’swith a new
knowledge.Theyhaveasensethatthelengthofadayismutable,andyoucanneverseetheendfromthebeginning.Theyhaveasensethatlovechangesallthingsallthetime.That’swhatloveisfor.
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MYMOMHOLDSMYHANDasIstareoutthewindow.Everythingwillbeallright,Tasha,shesays.Webothknowthat’smoreahopethanaguarantee,butI’lltakeitnevertheless.Theplaneascends,andtheworldI’veknownfades.Thecitylightsrecedeto
pinpricks,untiltheylooklikeearthboundstars.OneofthosestarsisDaniel.Iremindmyselfthatstarsaremorethanjustpoetic.Ifyouneedto,youcannavigateyourwaybythem.
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MYPHONERINGS.It’smyparentscallingforthemillionthtime.They’llbepissedwhenIgethome,andthat’sfine.Thistimenextyear,I’llbesomeplaceelse.Idon’tknowwhere,butnothere.
I’mnotsurecollegeisforme.AtleastnotYale.Atleastnotyet.AmImakingamistake?Maybe.Butit’sminetomake.IlookuptotheskyandimagineIcanseeNatasha’splanethere.NewYorkCity has toomuch light pollution. It blinds us to the stars, the
satellites,theasteroids.Sometimeswhenwelookup,wedon’tseeanythingatall.Buthere isa true thing:Almosteverything in thenight skygivesoff light.
Evenifwecan’tseeit,thelightisstillthere.
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NATASHAANDDANIELtrytostayintouch,andforatimetheydo.Thereareemailsandphonecallsandtextmessages.Buttimeanddistancearelove’snaturalenemies.Andthedaysgetfull.NatashaenrollsinschoolinKingston.HerclassiscalledSixthForminstead
ofsenioryear.Inordertoattenduniversity,shehastostudyfortheCaribbeanAdvancedProficiencyExamsandherA-levelexams.Money is scarce, soshewaitressestohelpherfamily.ShefakesaJamaicanaccentuntilitbecomesreal.Shefindsafamilyoffriends.Shelearnstolikeandthentolovethecountryofherbirth.It’snotthatNatashawantstoletDanielgo;it’sthatshehasto.Itisn’tpossible
forhertoliveintwoworldssimultaneously,heartinoneplace,bodyinanother.SheletsgoofDanieltoavoidbeingrippedapart.Forhispart,DanielfinisheshighschoolbutdeclinesYale.Hemovesoutof
hisparents’house,works two jobs,andattendsHunterCollegepart-time.HemajorsinEnglishandwritessmall,sadpoems.Andeventheonesthatarenotaboutherarestillabouther.It’snotthatDanielwantstoletNatashago.Heholdsonforaslongashecan.
Buthehearsthestraininhervoiceacrossthedistance.Inhernewaccent,hehearsthecadenceofherslippingawayfromhim.Moreyearspass.NatashaandDanielenter theadultworldofpracticalities
andresponsibilities.Natasha’smother gets sick five years after theirmove.Shedies before the
sixth.Afewmonthsafterthefuneral,NatashathinksaboutcallingDaniel,butithasbeenfartoolong.Shedoesn’ttrusthermemoryofhim.
Peter,herbrother, thrives in Jamaica.Hemakes friendsandfinally findsaplacewherehefits.Sometimeinthefuture,longafterhismomhasdied,he’llfall in lovewithaJamaicanwomanandmarryher.They’llhaveonedaughterandhe’llnameherPatriciaMarleyKingsley.SamuelKingsleymoves fromKingston toMontegoBay.Heacts ina local
communitytheater.AfterPatricia’sdeath,hefinallyunderstandsthathechosecorrectlythatdayinthestore.Daniel’smomanddad sell the store to anAfricanAmerican couple.They
buyanapartment inSouthKoreaandspendhalf theyear thereandtheotherhalf inNewYorkCity.Eventually theystopexpecting their sons tobe solelyKorean.Afterall,theywereborninAmerica.CharliepullshisgradesupandgraduatessummacumlaudefromHarvard.
After graduation, he barely ever speaks to any member of his family again.Danielfillsthevoidinhisparents’heartsinthewaysthathe’sable.Hedoesn’tmissCharlieverymuchatall.Stillmore years pass, andNatasha no longer knowswhat that day inNew
YorkCitymeans.Shecomes tobelieve thatshe imaginedthemagicofbeingwithDaniel.Whenshethinksofthatday,she’scertainshehasromanticizeditinthewayoffirstloves.OnegoodthingdidcomefromhertimewithDaniel.Shelooksforapassion
andfindsitinthestudyofphysics.Somenights,inthesoft,helplessmomentsbefore sleep comes, she recalls their conversation on the roof about love anddarkmatter.Hesaidthatloveanddarkmatterwerethesame—theonlythingthat kept the universe from flying apart.Her heart speeds up every time shethinksofit.Thenshesmilesinthedarknessandputsthememoryuponashelfintheplaceforold,sentimental,impossiblethings.AndevenDanielno longerknowswhat thatdaymeans, thatday thatonce
meanteverything.Heremembersallthelittlecoincidencesittooktogetthemtomeetandfallinlove.Thereligiousconductor.Natashacommuningwithhermusic.TheDEUSEXMACHINAjacket.Theshopliftingex-boyfriend.TheerrantBMWdriver.Thesecurityguardsmokingontheroof.Ofcourse,ifNatashacouldhearhismemories,shewouldpointoutthefact
that theydidn’tendup together,and that thesame things thatwent rightalsowentwrong.He remembers another moment: They’d just found each other again after
theirfight.She’dtalkedaboutthenumberofeventsthathadtogoexactlyrighttoformtheiruniverse.She’dsaidfallinginlovecouldn’tcompete.He’salwaysthoughtshewaswrongaboutthat.
Becauseeverything looks likechaosupclose.Daniel thinks it’samatterofscale.Ifyoupullbackfarenoughandwaitforlongenough,thenorderemerges.Maybetheiruniverseisjusttakinglongertoform.
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IT’SBEENTENYEARS,butIrene’sneverforgottenthemoment—orthegirl—that saved her life. She was working as a security guard at the USCISbuildinginNewYorkCity.Oneofthecaseofficers—LesterBarnes—stoppedbyherstation.Hetoldherthatagirlleftamessageonhisvoicemailforher.Thegirlhadsaidthankyou.Ireneneverknewwhatshewasbeingthankedfor,butthethank-youcamejustintime.Becauseattheendoftheday,Irenehadplannedtocommitsuicide.She’dwrittenhersuicidenoteat lunch.She’dmentallychartedherroute to
theroofofherapartmentbuilding.Butforthatthank-you.Thefactthatsomeonesawherwasthebeginning.ThatnightshelistenedtotheNirvanaalbumagain.InKurtCobain’svoice,
Irene heard a perfect and beautiful misery, a voice stretched so thin withlonelinessandwantingthatitshouldbreak.Buthisvoicedidn’tbreak,andtherewasakindofjoyinittoo.Shethoughtaboutthatgirlmakingtheefforttocallandleaveamessagejust
forher.ItshiftedsomethinginsideIrene.Notenoughtohealher,butenoughtomakehercallasuicidepreventionhotline.Thehotlineledtotherapy.Therapyledtomedicationthatsavesherlifeeveryday.Twoyearsafterthatnight,IrenequitherjobatUSCIS.Sherememberedthat
as a child she dreamt of being a flight attendant.Nowher life is simple andhappy, and she lives it on planes. And because she knows airplanes can belonelyplacesandbecausesheknowshowdesperatelonelinesscanbe,shepaysextra attention to her passengers. She takes care of themwith an earnestnessthatnootherattendantdoes.Shecomfortsthoseflyinghomealoneforfunerals,sadnessseepingfromeverypore.Sheholdshandswiththeacrophobicandthe
agoraphobic.Irenethinksofherselfasaguardianangelwithmetallicwings.Andso it isnowthatshe’smakingherfinalchecksbefore takeoff, looking
forpassengerswhoaregoingtoneedalittleextrahelp.Theyoungmanin7Aiswritinginalittleblacknotebook.He’sAsian,withshortblackhairandkindbutseriouseyes.Hechewsthetopofhispen,thinks,writes,andthenchewssomemore. Irene admires his unselfconsciousness. He acts like he’s alone in theworld.Her eyes travel on and flit across the young black woman in 8C. She’s
wearing earbuds andhas a big, curlyAfro that’s been dyedpink at the ends.Irenefreezes.Sheknowsthatface.Thewarmthofthewoman’sskin.Thelongeyelashes.Thefullpink lips.The intensity.Surely thiscan’tbe the samegirl.Theonewhosavedherlife?Theoneshe’swantedtothankfortenyearsnow?Thecaptainannouncestakeoff,andIrene’sforcedtosit.Fromherjumpseat,
shestaresatthewomanuntilthere’snodoubtinhermind.Assoonas theplanereachescruisingaltitude, shegoesover to thewoman
andkneelsintheaislenexttoher.“Miss,”shesays,andcan’tpreventhervoicefromshaking.Thewomantakesoutherearbudsandgivesherahesitantsmile.“Thisisgoingtosoundsostrange,”Irenebegins.Shetellsthewomanabout
thatday inNewYork—thegraybin, theNirvanaphonecase,howshe’dseenhereveryday.The woman watches her warily, not saying anything. Something like pain
flitsacrossherface.There’sahistorythere.Nevertheless,Irenecarrieson.“Yousavedmylife.”“ButIdon’tunderstand,”thewomansays.Shehasanaccent,Caribbeanand
somethingelse.Irenetakesthewoman’shand.Thewomantensesbutletshertakeit.Curious
eyeswatchthemfromallaround.“You left amessage forme saying thankyou. I don’t evenknowwhatyou
werethankingmefor.”The youngman in 7A peers between the seats. Irene catches his eye and
frowns.Hepullsaway.Sheturnsherattentionbacktothewoman.“Doyourememberme?”Ireneasks.Suddenlyit’sveryimportanttoherthat
this girl, nowwoman, rememberher.Thequestion leaves hermouth and shebecomestheoldIrene—aloneandafraid.Affectedbutnotaffecting.Time hiccups and Irene feels herself torn between two universes. She
imaginesthattheplanedisintegrates,firstthefloorandthentheseatsandthen
themetallicshell.Sheandthepassengersaresuspendedinmidairwithnothingtohold themexceptpossibility.Next, thepassengers themselvesshimmeranddematerialize. One by one they flicker and vanish, phantoms of a differenthistory.AllthatremainsnowisIreneandthiswoman.“Irememberyou,”thewomansays.“MynameisNatasha,andIremember
you.”Theyoungmanin7Apeersoverthetopoftheseat.“Natasha,”hesays.Hisfaceiswideopenandhisworldisfulloflove.Natashalooksup.Time stumbles back into place. The plane and the seats re-form. The
passengerssolidifyintoflesh.Andblood.Andbone.Andheart.“Daniel,”shesays.Andagain,“Daniel.”
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Immigrating to a new country is an act of hope, bravery, and, sometimes,desperation.I’dliketosayabigthank-youtoallthepeoplewho’vemadelongjourneys to distant shores for whatever reason. May you find what you’relooking for. Always know that the country of your destination is better forhavingyouinit.Next, Ineed to thankmyown immigrantparents.Theyare,bothof them,
dreamers.EverythingI’veachievedisbecauseofthem.TotheteamsatAlloyEntertainmentandRandomHouseChildren’sBooks:
Thankyouforbelievinginthisimpossiblebook.Thankyoufortakingchanceswithme.WendyLoggia,JoelleHobeika,SaraShandler,JoshBank,andJillianVandall,youaremydreamteam.Iamtheluckiestwriterintheworldtohaveyou in my corner. Enormous thanks also to John Adamo, Elaine Damasco,Felicia Frazier, RomyGolan, Beverly Horowitz, Alison Impey, Kim Lauber,Barbara Marcus, Les Morgenstein, Tamar Schwartz, Tim Terhune, KristaVitola,andAdrienneWaintraub.Nothinghappenswithoutyou.Oneofthebest thingsaboutbeingawriter isgettingtomeetyourreaders.
Toeverysinglepersonwhohasreadmybooks,cometoasigning,sentmeanemail, or reached out via socialmedia; to every librarian, teacher, bookstoreowner/worker, and blogger: THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU.YouarethereasonIgettohavemydreamjob.Thankyouforallyourloveandsupport.Over the last couple of years I’vemet somewonderfulwriterswho’ve also
become wonderful friends: David Arnold, Anna Carey, Charlotte Huang,CarolineKepnes,KerryKletter,AdamSilvera,andSabaaTahir,thankyouforyour generous support and friendship. I wouldn’t have survived this crazyjourneywithoutyouguys.ThanksalsototheLAwritercrewandtheFearlessFifteenersdebutgroup.Whatacrazyyear2015was!It’sbeengreatgettingtoknowyouall.Here’stomanymoreyearsofwritingbooks.SpecialandveryheartfeltthankstoYoonHoBai,JungKim,EllenOh,and
David Yoon for answering my endless questions about Korean and KoreanAmericanculture.Yourthoughtsandguidancewereinvaluable.
And then therearemysuper sweeties,DavidandPenny.Youguysaremysmalluniverse.You’remyreasonforeverything.Iloveyoumostofall.
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NICOLA YOON is the number one New York Times bestselling author ofEverything,Everything.ShegrewupinJamaicaandBrooklynandlivesinLosAngeleswithherfamily.She’salsoahopelessromanticwhofirmlybelievesthatyoucanfallinloveinaninstantandthatitcanlastforever.
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Readthebookthateveryone,everyonefellinlovewith.
Excerptcopyright©2015byNicolaYoonwithinteriorillustrationsbyDavidYoon.PublishedbyDelacortePress,animprintofRandomHouseChildren’sBooks,adivisionof
PenguinRandomHouseLLC,NewYork.
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I’VEREADMANYmorebooksthanyou.Itdoesn’tmatterhowmanyyou’veread.I’vereadmore.Believeme.I’vehadthetime.In my white room, against my white walls, on my glistening white
bookshelves,bookspinesprovidetheonlycolor.Thebooksareallbrand-newhardcovers—nogermysecondhandsoftcoversforme.TheycometomefromOutside,decontaminatedandvacuum-sealedinplasticwrap.Iwouldliketoseethemachinethatdoesthis.Iimagineeachbooktravelingonawhiteconveyorbelt toward rectangularwhite stationswhere roboticwhite arms dust, scrape,spray,andotherwisesterilizeituntil it’sfinallydeemedcleanenoughtocometome.When a newbook arrives,my first task is to remove thewrapping, aprocessthatinvolvesscissorsandmorethanonebrokennail.Mysecondtaskistowritemynameontheinsidefrontcover.
PROPERTYOF:MadelineWhittier
Idon’tknowwhyIdothis.There’snooneelsehereexceptmymother,whoneverreads,andmynurse,Carla,whohasnotimetoreadbecauseshespendsallhertimewatchingmebreathe.Irarelyhavevisitors,andsothere’snoonetolendmybooksto.There’snoonewhoneedsremindingthattheforgottenbookonhisorhershelfbelongstome.
REWARDIFFOUND(Checkallthatapply):
This is the section that takesme the longest time, and I vary itwith eachbook.Sometimestherewardsarefanciful:⁰Picnicwithme(Madeline)inapollen-filledfieldofpoppies,
lilies,andendlessman-in-the-moonmarigoldsunderaclearbluesummersky.
⁰Drinkteawithme(Madeline)inalighthouseinthemiddleoftheAtlanticOceaninthemiddleofahurricane.
⁰Snorkelwithme(Madeline)offMolokinitospottheHawaiianstatefish—thehumuhumunukunukuapuaa.
Sometimestherewardsarenotsofanciful:⁰Avisitwithme(Madeline)toausedbookstore.⁰Awalkoutsidewithme(Madeline),justdowntheblockandback.⁰Ashortconversationwithme(Madeline),discussinganythingyou
want,onmywhitecouch,inmywhitebedroom.Sometimestherewardisjust:⁰Me(Madeline).
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MY DISEASE IS as rare as it is famous. It’s a form of Severe CombinedImmunodeficiency,butyouknowitas“bubblebabydisease.”Basically,I’mallergictotheworld.Anythingcantriggeraboutofsickness.It
couldbethechemicalsinthecleanerusedtowipethetablethatIjusttouched.Itcouldbesomeone’sperfume. Itcouldbe theexotic spice in thefoodI justate.Itcouldbeone,orall,ornoneofthesethings,orsomethingelseentirely.Nooneknowsthetriggers,buteveryoneknowstheconsequences.AccordingtomymomIalmostdiedasaninfant.AndsoIstayonSCIDrow.Idon’t leavemyhouse,havenotleftmyhouseinseventeenyears.
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“MOVIE NIGHT OR Honor Pictionary or Book Club?” my mom asks whileinflatingabloodpressurecuffaroundmyarm.Shedoesn’tmentionherfavoriteof all ourpost-dinner activities—PhoneticScrabble. I lookup to see thathereyesarealreadylaughingatme.“Phonetic,”Isay.Shestopsinflatingthecuff.OrdinarilyCarla,myfull-timenurse,wouldbe
takingmy blood pressure and filling outmy daily health log, butmymom’sgivenher thedayoff. It’smybirthdayandwealwaysspend theday together,justthetwoofus.Sheputsonherstethoscopesothatshecanlistentomyheartbeat.Hersmile
fades and is replaced by hermore serious doctor’s face. This is the face herpatientsmostoftensee—slightlydistant,professional,andconcerned.Iwonderiftheyfinditcomforting.ImpulsivelyIgiveheraquickkissontheforeheadtoremindherthatit’sjust
me,herfavoritepatient,herdaughter.Sheopenshereyes,smiles,andcaressesmycheek.Iguessifyou’regoingto
bebornwithanillnessthatrequiresconstantcare, thenit’sgoodtohaveyourmomasyourdoctor.A few seconds later she givesme her best I’m-the-doctor-and-I’m-afraid-I-
have-some-bad-news-for-you face. “It’s your big day. Why don’t we playsomethingyouhaveanactualchanceofwinning?HonorPictionary?”SinceregularPictionarycan’treallybeplayedwithtwopeople,weinvented
HonorPictionary.Onepersondraws and theotherperson is onherhonor tomakeherbestguess.Ifyouguesscorrectly,theotherpersonscores.I narrow my eyes at her. “We’re playing Phonetic, and I’m winning this
time,”Isayconfidently,thoughIhavenochanceofwinning.InallouryearsofplayingPhoneticScrabble,orFonetikSkrabbl,I’veneverbeatenheratit.ThelasttimeweplayedIcameclose.Butthenshedevastatedmeonthefinalword,playingJEENZonatriplewordscore.“OK.”Sheshakesherheadwithmockpity.“Anythingyouwant.”Shecloses
herlaughingeyestolistentothestethoscope.
—
Wespendtherestofthemorningbakingmytraditionalbirthdaycakeofvanillaspongewith vanilla cream frosting.After it’s cooled, I apply anunreasonablythinlayeroffrosting,justenoughtocoverthecake.Weare,bothofus,cakepeople,notfrostingpeople.Fordecoration,Idraweighteenfrosteddaisieswithwhitepetals and awhite center across the top.On the sides I fashiondrapedwhitecurtains.“Perfect.”MymompeersovermyshouldersasIfinishup.“Justlikeyou.”Iturntofaceher.She’ssmilingawide,proudsmileatme,buthereyesare
brightwithtears.“You.Are.Tragic,”Isay,andsquirtadollopoffrostingonhernose,which
only makes her laugh and cry some more. Really, she’s not usually thisemotional,butsomethingaboutmybirthdayalwaysmakesherbothweepyandjoyful at the same time.And if she’sweepy and joyful, then I’mweepy andjoyful,too.“Iknow,”shesays, throwingherhandshelplesslyup in theair.“I’mtotally
pathetic.”Shepullsmeintoahugandsqueezes.Frostinggetsintomyhair.
—
Mybirthdayistheonedayoftheyearthatwe’rebothmostacutelyawareofmyillness. It’s the acknowledging of the passage of time that does it. Anotherwholeyearofbeingsick,nohopeforacureon thehorizon.Anotheryearofmissingallthenormalteenagerythings—learner’spermit,firstkiss,prom,firstheartbreak, first fender bender. Another year ofmymom doing nothing butworking and taking care ofme. Every other day these omissions are easy—easier,atleast—toignore.Thisyearisalittleharderthantheprevious.Maybeit’sbecauseI’meighteen
now.Technically,I’manadult.Ishouldbeleavinghome,goingofftocollege.Mymomshouldbedreadingempty-nestsyndrome.ButbecauseofSCID,I’mnotgoinganywhere.
—
Later,afterdinner,shegivesmeabeautifulsetofwatercolorpencilsthathadbeen onmy wish list formonths.We go into the living room and sit cross-leggedinfrontofthecoffeetable.Thisisalsopartofourbirthdayritual:Shelightsasinglecandleinthecenterofthecake.Iclosemyeyesandmakeawish.Iblowthecandleout.
“Whatdidyouwishfor?”sheasksassoonasIopenmyeyes.Reallythere’sonlyonethingtowishfor—amagicalcurethatwillallowme
torunfreeoutsidelikeawildanimal.ButInevermakethatwishbecauseit’simpossible.It’slikewishingthatmermaidsanddragonsandunicornswerereal.InsteadIwishforsomethingmore likely thanacure.Something less likely tomakeusbothsad.“Worldpeace,”Isay.
—
Three slicesof cake later,webeginagameofFonetik. Idonotwin. Idon’tevencomeclose.SheusesallsevenlettersandputsdownPOKALIPnexttoanS.POKALIPS.“What’sthat?”Iask.“Apocalypse,”shesays,eyesdancing.“No,Mom.Noway.Ican’tgivethattoyou.”“Yes,”isallshesays.“Mom,youneedanextraA.Noway.”“Pokalips,”shesaysforeffect,gesturingattheletters.“Ittotallyworks.”Ishakemyhead.“POKALIPS,”sheinsists,slowlydraggingouttheword.“OhmyGod,you’rerelentless,”Isay,throwingmyhandsup.“OK,OK,I’ll
allowit.”“Yesssss.”Shepumpsher fist and laughs atmeandmarksdownhernow-
insurmountable score. “You’ve never really understood this game,” she says.“It’sagameofpersuasion.”Islicemyselfanotherpieceofcake.“Thatwasnotpersuasion,”Isay.“That
wascheating.”“Samesame,”shesays,andwebothlaugh.“YoucanbeatmeatHonorPictionarytomorrow,”shesays.After I lose, we go to the couch and watch our favorite movie, Young
Frankenstein.Watching it isalsopartofourbirthdayritual. Iputmyhead inher lap,andshestrokesmyhair,andwe laughat thesamejokes in thesameway thatwe’ve been laughing at them for years.All in all, not a badway tospendyoureighteenthbirthday.
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I’MREADINGONmywhitecouchwhenCarlacomesinthenextmorning.“Felizcumpleaños,”shesingsout.Ilowermybook.“Gracias.”“Howwasthebirthday?”Shebeginsunpackinghermedicalbag.“Wehadfun.”“Vanillacakeandvanillafrosting?”sheasks.“Ofcourse.”“YoungFrankenstein?”“Yes.”“Andyoulostatthatgame?”sheasks.“We’reprettypredictable,huh?”“Don’tmindme,”shesays,laughing.“I’mjustjealousofhowsweetyouand
yourmamaare.”She picks up my health log from yesterday, quickly reviews my mom’s
measurementsandaddsanewsheet to theclipboard. “ThesedaysRosacan’tevenbebotheredtogivemethetimeofday.”Rosa isCarla’s seventeen-year-old daughter.According toCarla theywere
reallycloseuntilhormonesandboystookover.Ican’timaginethathappeningtomymomandme.Carla sits next tome on the couch, and I hold outmy hand for the blood
pressurecuff.Hereyesdroptomybook.“FlowersforAlgernonagain?”sheasks.“Doesn’tthatbookalwaysmakeyou
cry?”“Onedayitwon’t,”Isay.“Iwanttobesuretobereadingitonthatday.”Sherollshereyesatmeandtakesmyhand.Itiskindofaflipanswer,butthenIwonderifit’strue.MaybeI’mholdingouthopethatoneday,someday,thingswillchange.
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FLOWERSFORALGERNONBYDANIELKEYESSpoileralert:Algernonisamouse.Themousedies.
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I’MUPTOthepartwhereCharlierealizesthatthemouse’sfatemaybehisownwhenIhearaloudrumblingnoiseoutside.Immediatelymymindgoestoouterspace.Ipictureagiantmothershiphoveringintheskiesaboveus.Thehousetremblesandmybooksvibrateontheshelves.Asteadybeeping
joins the rumbling and I know what it is. A truck. Probably just lost, I tellmyself,tostaveoffdisappointment.Probablyjustmadeawrongturnontheirwaytosomeplaceelse.But thentheenginecutsoff.Doorsopenandclose.Amomentpasses,and
thenanother,andthenawoman’svoicesingsout,“Welcometoournewhome,everybody!”Carlastaresatmehardforafewseconds.Iknowwhatshe’sthinking.It’shappeningagain.
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“CARLA,”ISAY,“itwon’tbelikelasttime.”I’mnoteightyearsoldanymore.“I want you to promise—” she begins, but I’m already at the window,
sweepingthecurtainsaside.IamnotpreparedforthebrightCaliforniasun.I’mnotpreparedforthesight
of it, high andblazing hot andwhite against thewashed-outwhite sky. I amblind. But then the white haze overmy vision begins to clear. Everything ishaloed.Iseethetruckandthesilhouetteofanolderwomantwirling—themother.I
seeanoldermanatthebackofthetruck—thefather.Iseeagirlmaybealittleyoungerthanme—thedaughter.Then I see him.He’s tall, lean, andwearing all black: blackT-shirt, black
jeans,blacksneakers,andablackknitcapthatcovershishaircompletely.He’swhitewith a pale honey tan and his face is starkly angular.He jumps downfromhisperchatthebackofthetruckandglidesacrossthedriveway,movingasifgravityaffectshimdifferentlythanitdoestherestofus.Hestops,cockshisheadtooneside,andstaresupathisnewhouseasifitwereapuzzle.After a few seconds he begins bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet.
Suddenlyhetakesoffatasprintandrunsliterallysixfeetupthefrontwall.Hegrabsawindowsillanddanglesfromitforasecondortwoandthendropsbackdownintoacrouch.“Nice,Olly,”sayshismother.“Didn’tItellyoutoquitdoingthatstuff?”hisfathergrowls.Heignoresthembothandremainsinhiscrouch.Ipressmyopenpalmagainst theglass,breathlessas if I’ddone thatcrazy
stuntmyself. I look fromhim to thewall to thewindowsill and back to himagain.He’snolongercrouched.He’sstaringupatme.Oureyesmeet.VaguelyIwonderwhat he sees inmywindow—strange girl inwhitewithwide staringeyes.Hegrinsatmeandhisfaceisnolongerstark,nolongersevere.I trytosmileback,butI’msoflusteredthatIfrownathiminstead.
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THATNIGHT, Idreamthat thehousebreatheswithme.Iexhaleandthewallscontract likeapinprickedballoon,crushingmeas itdeflates. I inhaleandthewallsexpand.Asinglebreathmoreandmylifewillfinally,finallyexplode.
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HISMOM’SSCHEDULE6:35AM-Arrivesonporchwithasteamingcupofsomethinghot.Coffee?6:36AM-Staresoffintoemptylotacrossthewaywhilesippingherdrink.Tea?7:00AM-Reentersthehouse.7:15AM-Backonporch.Kisseshusbandgood-bye.Watchesashiscardrives
away.9:30AM-Gardens.Looksfor,finds,anddiscardscigarettebutts.1:00PM-Leaveshouseincar.Errands?5:00PM-PleadswithKaraandOllytobeginchores“beforeyourfathergets
home.”
KARA’S(SISTER)SCHEDULE10:00AM-Stompsoutsidewearingblackbootsandafuzzybrownbathrobe.10:01AM-Checkscellphonemessages.Shegetsalotofmessages.10:06AM-Smokesthreecigarettesinthegardenbetweenourtwohouses.10:20AM-Digsaholewiththetoeofherbootsandburiescigarettecarcasses.10:25AM–5:00PM-Textsortalksonthephone.5:25PM-Chores.
HISDAD’SSCHEDULE7:15AM-Leavesforwork.6:00PM-Arriveshomefromwork.6:20PM-Sitsonporchwithdrink#1.6:30PM-Reentersthehousefordinner.7:00PM-Backonporchwithdrink#2.7:25PM-Drink#3.7:45PM-Yellingatfamilybegins.10:35PM-Yellingatfamilysubsides.
OLLY’SSCHEDULEUnpredictable.
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HISFAMILYCALLShimOlly.Well,hissisterandhismomcallhimOlly.Hisdad calls himOliver.He’s the one Iwatch themost.His bedroom is on thesecond floor and almost directly across frommine and his blinds are almostalwaysopen.Somemornings he sleeps in until noon. Others, he’s gone from his room
beforeIwaketobeginmysurveillance.Mostmornings,though,hewakesat9a.m.,climbsoutofhisbedroom,andmakeshisway,Spider-Man-style,totheroofusingthesiding.Hestaysupthereforaboutanhourbeforeswinging,legsfirst,backintohisroom.NomatterhowmuchItry,Ihaven’tbeenabletoseewhathedoeswhenhe’supthere.Hisroomisemptybutforabedandachestofdrawers.Afewboxesfrom
the move remain unpacked and stacked by the doorway. There are nodecorationsexceptforasingleposterforamoviecalledJumpLondon.Ilookeditupandit’saboutparkour,whichisakindofstreetgymnastics,whichexplainshowhe’sabletodoallthecrazystuffthathedoes.ThemoreIwatch,themoreIwanttoknow.
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TableofContents
OtherTitles 2TitlePage 3Copyright 4Contents 5Dedication 10Epigraph 11Prologue 12Daniel 13Natasha 14Daniel 16Natasha 17IreneaHistory 18Daniel 20CharlesJaeWonBae 22Family 23Natasha 25Irie 29Daniel 31Natasha 36Irene 38Natasha 39SamuelKingsley 41Daniel 43Natasha 45TheConductor 46Daniel 48Natasha 50Daniel 54
Natasha 55Half-Life 56Daniel 57DonaldChristiansen 59Natasha 60Daniel 61Natasha 62Daniel 64Natasha 68Multiverses 71Daniel 72Natasha 73Daniel 75Natasha 78Daniel 83Natasha 87Love 88Daniel 89Natasha 91HannahWinter 97AttorneyJeremyFitzgerald 98Daniel 99Natasha 101Daniel 102Natasha 105Hair 107Daniel 109Natasha 110Daniel 111Natasha 112
Daniel 115
Natasha 118Hair 120Daniel 121Natasha 123Daniel 124Natasha 126SamuelKingsley 127Daniel 128TheWaitress 132Natasha 134Daniel 138Natasha 141Daniel 142Natasha 143Daniel 144Natasha 145Daniel 146Natasha 151Daniel 152Natasha 153Daniel 154Natasha 155Daniel 156Natasha 158Daniel 159Natasha 162Daniel 164Fate 165Natasha 167
Daniel 169Natasha 170SamuelKingsley 173Daniel 174Natasha 175NatashaKingsley 177Daniel 179Natasha 183SamuelKingsley 185Natasha 188Daniel 191DaeHyunBae 194Natasha 195Daniel 198Natasha 199Daniel 200Natasha 201Daniel 202Natasha 203Daniel 205Natasha 206Daniel 208Natasha 210Daniel 213Joe 216Natasha 217Daniel 220Eyes 226Daniel 227Natasha 229
SamuelKingsley 231Daniel 232
JeremyFitzgerald 238HannahWinter 239Natasha 240Daniel 242Natasha 243Daniel 245Natasha 246Daniel 250Natasha 252Daniel 255Natasha 258Daniel+Natasha 260FourMinutes 263Natasha 265Daniel 266TimeandDistance 267EpilogueIrene:AnAlternateHistory 270Acknowledgments 273AbouttheAuthor 275ReadtheBookThatEveryone,EveryoneFellinLoveWith. 276