Twenty-One

My head starts aching during the philosophy final. It’s a stress migraine, induced by this obnoxiously hard test. I curse Professor Aldana in my head. Next to me, Geoffrey is writing furiously, his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth, and on the other side Alexis alternates between jotting down answers and sitting thoughtfully, her pen tapping her chin. I squint at her paper, but it’s too hard to read her miniature writing.

Geoffrey doesn’t like Alexis, even if he won’t verbalize his feelings. A month ago, they had a tense standoff during a discussion in class. The topic was fate, free will, and human nature. Geoffrey had taken up the position that there was no such thing as fate or destiny; Alexis argued the opposite.

“You’re saying that everything is predetermined?” Geoffrey said. “Then what’s the point of anything? Why should I bother coming to class, studying, doing any of these things if all of this is set in stone anyway?” The other men in the class murmured in unison.

“I’m not saying that the choices you make are meaningless. You’re missing the point entirely,” Alexis said. “The choices you make absolutely matter. Put it this way: the major events in your life are predetermined, but the way you reach those events, the paths that you take? Those are shaped by your choices. Maybe your destiny is to become a doctor someday, Geoffrey, but the choices you make now determine whether it’s going to happen in ten years or thirty.”

Geoffrey snapped his mouth shut. His face was growing red, and it was obvious that he was agitated by what Alexis had said.

“I’m not missing any point,” he grumbled. “I could go out right now and jump in front of a moving car, and that would be the end of your vapid argument about fate and destiny.”

At that, Professor Aldana interjected, putting an end to the discussion. Alexis’s words, however, kept repeating in my head. For so long I had succumbed to the idea that I was powerless against my palja, that all I could do was strap myself in for the ride. But Alexis might be right. Sure, there are limitations on what I can or can’t do—I mean, I’m not going to be the president or a billionaire—but there are thousands of other things I can be.

Unfortunately, since then Geoffrey and Alexis have been avoiding each other pointedly. Whenever I bring up Alexis to Geoffrey, his eyes narrow. He doesn’t reference her directly, but he’ll make snide comments like: “I bet her school didn’t have a debate club,” or “It must be so nice to live in a fantasy world where you believe everything just happens for a reason.” Alexis is much nicer when I mention him, though the underlying message is the same. She simply changes the subject.

Between my two new friends, I’m caught in a tenuous situa­tion. I can’t ever bring them together in a room, not to study, not to eat, not to do anything. Admittedly, I’m much closer to Geoffrey than I am to Alexis, but whenever I’m with her, I want to sit next to her for as long as possible, even if we’re doing nothing. Even if, by the end, I feel inexplicably nervous and disoriented.

Burying my face in my hands, I try to envision the textbook. I was just reading it this morning. The section about women’s rights blurs in and out of my vision. I press harder against my eyes, feeling their firmness under the thin skin of my eyelids.

There’s a bright flash of blue in the fuzzy darkness. I concentrate on it until it materializes, taking the shape of an eye. One of George’s perfect eyes. It floats, just out of my reach. If I stretch, I can grab it, squeeze it between my fingertips. I’m so close. . . .

“Ji-won?”

My eyes fly open. I’m back in the lecture hall with Geoffrey and Alexis next to me. My paper, still blank, has fallen to the floor. Alexis’s hand is on my arm, her touch gentle. “Are you okay?”

I stand abruptly. The entire room turns to watch. “I have to go,” I mumble. “I feel sick.”

Professor Aldana nods at me sympathetically. As I walk to the front of the hall and shove my paper toward her—my stomach does a funny swoop when I realize that I’m probably going to fail—she whispers, “Get some rest.”

She feels sorry for me. I can tell, and I hate it. I hate her and her stupid exam, and I hate George and his awful blue eyes, and I hate everything and everyone.

Who am I becoming? What’s happening to me? In high school, I had the third highest GPA in my graduating class, and before getting to college I had never received a grade lower than an A minus. I sit on a bench facing one of the school’s libraries and try to shake the feeling of despair lodged deep in my chest.

Here’s the thing. Now that Appa’s gone, I have to try even harder. At least when he was around, he could help support Umma and Ji-hyun. But now, if I fail out of college, my life—and theirs—is over. There is no trust fund, no plan B, no time for me to figure out a secret talent. My mother can’t support me, since she can barely support herself. It’s up to me to get a good job and make enough money to help her get by.

I’ve always been jealous of the kids who have never had to deal with this crushing pressure. They have no idea how good they have it, how lucky they are. Often, I find myself wondering: What is it like to live freely, to live a life untethered, without having to be responsible for everyone around you?

There’s an hour before the bus arrives. I step into the library to try and distract myself. It’s grand, with intricately laid brickwork all along the walls, a checkered tile floor, and ornate chandeliers that hang high over our heads. The air is perfumed with the scent of paper and leather. I take a deep whiff before wandering over to the computers. Only one is available. I sit down and use my school ID to reserve it.

I lean back in the chair, peering at the students around me. They’re focused, paying me no attention. I huddle in front of my screen and search for images of “blue eyes.” On their own, the pictures don’t satisfy me. I need more. I google “How firm are blue eyes?” The result that comes up is completely unrelated to my question. Frowning, I try, “How do blue eyes feel compared to brown eyes?” Still nothing. I glance at the girl in the chair next to me. I know I’m not doing anything wrong, but I’m nervous.

I’m certain that blue eyes would taste amazing, much better than brown ones. Especially George’s eyes. I have no scientific evidence to prove this, but to me there’s nothing appetizing about brown. Brown is the mud scraped off the bottom of your shoe or the muck left at the bottom of the sink when you’re done washing the dishes. Brown is the color of decay.

Of course, I would never actually want to eat George’s eyes. I tell myself that it’s more of a morbid curiosity.

All eyes are pretty much the same, regardless of their color or whom they belong to. Why wouldn’t they be? They all have the same purpose: to see.

According to my search, the eyeball is an almost spherical shape. It’s composed of the cornea, the iris, the lens, the macula, the pupil, and the retina. The retina, which is connected to the brain by the optic nerve, is the part that does the “seeing,” sending images to our brain. In between the lens and the retina, there is a transparent, colorless jellylike substance that fills up two-thirds of the eyeball and gives it its shape.

“Excuse me?”

There’s a tap on my shoulder. I whirl around, exiting out of the window at the same time. Another student hovers behind me, his arms crossed. His eyes are a vivid blue. My stomach lurches. Has he seen my screen? Does he know what I’m doing, what I’m thinking?

“Can I help you?” I ask nervously.

“Sorry, but I think your time on the computer is up,” he says. “I booked it for one p.m.”

“Oh! I’m so sorry—” I stand up, collecting my things. My phone tumbles to the floor. He bends down to pick it up, handing it to me with a smile. Mesmerized, I take it from him, but I can’t stop staring. He looks at me, confused, and I force myself to look away before hurrying out the door.

I’ve missed the bus. I walk to the stop in a daze. I don’t remember anything about the boy in the library except for his eyes. It’s bizarre. I can’t tell you how tall he was or the shape of his face or even what he was wearing, but I can tell you for certain that his irises were the exact shade of the morning glories my father loved so much.