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No matter how much I scrub, the dye doesn’t come off my skin. I got most of it out of my hair, and I’ve covered the rest with long sleeves and long pants, but the big blue mark around my eye isn’t going away, even with concealer and foundation. If it wasn’t so splotchy I might look like I’ve been punched.
It can’t stay forever. Or at least I hope not. Minji promised to see me again, maybe even tomorrow since it’s a Tuesday. It would be nice if it were gone before then. I have no idea why he wants to see me, but I’d like to look normal in front of him.
“Honey,” Mom says, calling through my door. “Are you in there?”
She’s home tonight, which is rare, no urgent social meetings to keep up appearances I guess. I want to spend time with her, but every time we’re in a room together I’m not sure what to do. At least she’s making an effort to come up here and see me. Although, I can’t have PTS posters covering my walls like I’d like in case she sees them.
“Yeah mom, door’s open,” I call back.
She walks in, her white sheath dress perfectly pressed, her brown hair neatly curled, her makeup un-smudged. She looks a lot like me, a Texas beauty queen. Except, I got my father’s light green eyes. I’ve also never had Botox.
“Are you hungry?” she asks, not looking at me, but shutting the door behind her. “I sent Frida home—” she startles back, her hands going over her mouth. “What happened to your face?”
I didn’t think it was that bad. Minji even liked it.
It’s not that I want to lie to her, but telling the whole truth is too painful. “We had a pep rally at school today. It’ll go away.”
She touches my face, examining. “I hope so.”
I lean away from her, although I’m tempted to knock her hand off. “It will.”
She gives me a tight smile. “If it doesn’t come off by tomorrow, let’s call Dr. White.”
The dermatologist? Do we really have to go that far? I don’t mind it that much. “Okay,” I say, because that’s what I do as a daughter.
“It ruined my cheer uniform, though,” I add. It comes out like a whiny puppy. I didn’t realize how starved I was for sympathy until she walked in and started judging.
“That’s okay, Hon,” she says. “It’s just money.”
Just money? I know how much that uniform costs, and Mom spends like a drunken socialite. She couldn’t bear it if she wasn’t the richest. That’s why Dad works an extra job making money at his foundation.
She rubs her thumb across my face, hard. As if that will take it off. It’s nothing like when Minji touched me. His touch said he cared, not this.
“Mom, stop.”
“Sorry,” she says flinching away. “Just wanted to make sure. How’s your homework coming?”
My homework is fine. I’ve never had a problem with grades, although I know Mom would hate it if I got so much as a B. Suddenly, I’m irritated. I thought she came in here to find out about me, not nitpick my flaws.
“It’s good,” I respond, a little tighter than I probably should.
She offers another smile—fake as mine—then stands. I hope that means my I-want-to-be-left-alone-now-vibe is working.
Instead of leaving, she starts to walk around my room, inspecting. Everything is in perfect order, because I don’t have another choice. Frida, our maid, puts everything away daily. She scrubs the white furniture accented with light blue and silver, too. No fingerprints, no dust. I learned long ago if I didn’t want my stuff touched, I had to hide it on my own.
“I heard something strange today,” Mom finally says as she looks over my bookshelf, then back to me.
No. I’m not taking this bait. If she wants to say something to me, she can say it. I won’t be begging her to know what’s on her mind.
She pivots, and we make eye contact. “Dylan broke up with you?”
That’s it. She’s just laid out the real reason she’s here, bluntly.
“I was planning on dumping him, anyway,” I say. Lately, my mouth has had a mind of its own. If Dad were home, I’d be punished for talking back. He’d probably take my phone anyway or something.
In the past I would be devastated, but since I still have zero texts today, again, I don’t think I’d be hurt. Abby hasn’t even asked how I am.
I shut my eyes, clench my teeth, and breathe in through my nose.
“Sorry, Mom,” I say, throat closing in. “I’m not feeling well. I shouldn’t have said that. I’d like to rest now.”
I don’t see her do it, but I feel her weight on the bed sitting next to me. “Things will get better. I’ll talk to Dylan’s mom and we’ll—”
“No!” I shout, eyes flying open.
Mom startles back, her mouth hanging open. She’s usually doesn’t let herself be caught off-guard, but I’ve struck a nerve.
My fists ball as I try to calm myself down. “I don’t want to date Dylan anymore. I never did. I like someone else.”
Mom perks up, sets her hands on her lap, and puts the brightest smile on her face. “That’s great, who is it?”
She’s hoping it’s some other powerful and influential family. Well, Minji isn’t lacking influence. I think PTS’s last music video got three million hits in twenty-four hours, and yet, it’s still considered other. It’s something people in my neighborhood wouldn’t get at all. Because it’s a different language, culture, something that’s not patriotic.
Screw all of that. I’ve spent the last seventeen years of my life trying to be what everyone else wanted me to be, and in the course of a day I lost it all. None of it was real. It was all contrived to be someone on the outside I’m not.
“Mom,” I say feeling my courage coming back to me. “I like K-pop.”
She gives me a blank stare like I imagined she would. I get off my bed and open my desk drawer, pulling out the binder of photo cards I’ve been secretly stashing as I buy K-pop albums. I pull out a picture of Minji, get myself a piece of tape, and put him in the prime real-estate spot behind my computer.
“My favorite song is Swag,” I continue, still not looking at my mom, but instead waking up my computer. “And it only has a few lines of English in it.”
I lean over my desk chair to type in the music video to YouTube. “Here.” I say, turning the screen to face her and click play. Hyungkook comes out first dressed in a police outfit and looking smoking. It switches between all seven boys dressed up in different dream occupations, but Minji can’t be missed.
He has stunning red hair here. Not a natural red, but a super sexy color all the same. When he dances, my eyes can’t leave him. I try to notice the other six boys, I do. Minji simply won’t allow it. Whenever he’s on screen he’s larger than life.
The memory of today clouds my thoughts, coming through distorted. He’s a God and I’m just a girl. Not once today or yesterday did he need to be kind to me. He could’ve ridden the wave of his celebrity and ignored me.
I feel a hand on my shoulder, and I tense as I remember my mom in the room.
“Corrine,” she says, her voice soft.
I look at her, tears filling my eyes. I should have told her earlier if she was going to react so gently.
She turns me around the rest of the way and holds firm to my shoulders. “It’s okay, Honey. I understand how hard a breakup can be.”
I walk out of her grip, brow furrowing. “What?”
“I had a bad breakup when I was your age, too—”
“This is not about Dylan!” I shout. Since I’m coming clean I might as well admit it all. “My relationship with him was fake to keep you happy. I never liked him, and I never will.”
I might as well have punched Mom for the way she looks. “You don’t mean that,” she says like it’s a fact.
“Oh no,” I respond, folding my arms. “I do.”
“Honey,” she starts, reaching out.
I take another step back from her. “I like K-pop. I think Asian men are way sexier than most Americans think they are, and I’m not going to change my mind.”
Mom shakes her head. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do. I love K-pop, and I have a crush on Minji,” I say, pointing at his picture.
“He looks like a girl!” Mom shouts.
I gasp. Freeze. Hold my breath. “You did not say that.”
It’s Mom’s turn to fold her arms, but she juts out her chin like she won. “I said it. You will stop this craziness, now. I will call Dylan’s mom and work things out, and you’ll go back to being my daughter.”
I knew this would happen. I might as well have announced I’m a drug addict.
“I’m still your daughter,” I say, a tear falling in earnest. “But if you want me to pick between that and K-pop, I’ll pick K-pop.”
Pain wells in my chest and numbs my insides. I don’t mean it, not really, but I have to make my mom see how ridiculous she’s being.
“And now,” I continue, “I’d like you to either leave, or let me go, because I’m not changing my mind.”
Mom sits back on my bed, her eyes searching my ceiling. “I don’t get it,” she says. “All these years—”
“Mom,” I bark pointing at the door.
She nods, getting back on her feet. “I’ll give you time to think this through. I’m sure you’ll come to the right decision.”
With that, she leaves. If the right decision is abandoning K-pop, it’s not going to happen.
For the first time in my life, I wish I wasn’t a Miller-Hayden.
