Thirty-One

“Ji-won!” I look up from my lunch of hard-boiled eggs and cherry tomatoes. Geoffrey is hurrying toward me, his backpack bouncing on his shoulders. His jacket is unzipped; underneath, he’s wearing a T-shirt displaying the face of Ruth Bader Ginsberg. To my surprise, he puts his arm around me. I wait for a second before shrugging it off.

“Are you avoiding me?” he says playfully. “Why is it so hard to find you these days?”

“I just saw you in class,” I say through a mouthful of egg.

“Yeah, but I was looking for you after. You disappeared quick.” Looking at my lunch, he wrinkles his nose. “That’s all you’re eating?”

“Yeah.”

“Is this one of those fad diets?” He laughs. “You don’t need to diet, Ji-won. I think you look perfect. Don’t you know dieting is a patriarchal tool used to control women? It’s not your fault. The institutional sexism propagated through the mainstream media and our societal norms and the capitalist superstructure as a whole is a form of gender persecution.” Remembering my conversation with Alexis, I make a face, annoyed.

“I’m not on a diet.”

He watches as I pick up another egg and bite into it. It’s bliss, feeling my teeth cut through the firm, jellylike whites. “By the way, I was driving by that grocery store your mother works at, and I was wondering if you had any suggestions on what I should get. I want to start cooking Korean food. And while I’m there, maybe I can introduce myself to her.”

I stop mid-chew. “How did you know which grocery store she works at?” I ask, confused. “Did I mention it to you?”

“Huh?” Geoffrey cocks his head. “Yeah, you did. Remember? We were talking about what our parents did, and I was telling you that my stepdad is a mechanic and that my mom is a nurse.”

“Right. . . .”

“Anyway,” he says, changing the subject. “You keep running away before I can give you your Christmas present.”

“I told you, you didn’t have to get me a present,” I stammer. The irritation I was feeling disappears, replaced by bash­ful­ness.

“I know I didn’t have to get you anything, but I wanted to.” He rummages through his backpack and pulls out a beautifully wrapped rectangular box, complete with a sage-green ribbon. “Here. Open it!”

I take the gift from him and tug at the ribbon until it unravels. Folding it neatly, I tuck it to the side. Geoffrey smiles, amused. “Just tear it open,” he urges.

“It’s too pretty for that.”

“You’re being ridiculous.” He snatches it from my hands and rips the paper off with a single pull. Underneath, there’s a lacquered wooden box painted with tiny cranes and a forest of bamboo. It’s lovely. I shake it; it rattles loudly.

“What is it?”

“Take off the top.”

I open it excitedly, but when I see what’s inside, my stomach plummets. They’re chopsticks. Shiny metal chopsticks, the handles painted a mixture of pastel colors. I blink at them, confused.

“What is this?”

Geoffrey puffs out his chest. “Aren’t they great? I thought of you immediately when I saw them. They’re so beautiful and elegantly designed. It was between those and a little porcelain doll that looked exactly like you. But the chopsticks won out in the end, since I know you’ll use them every day.”

What the fuck?

My cheeks burn. Geoffrey waits expectantly, his arms outstretched. He’s reaching for a hug. I dodge it at the last second, stepping backward. “Well? Do you like them?”

“Um . . .” My face is stiff and frozen.

Why the fuck would you get me chopsticks? What is wrong with you?

I keep nodding, as though I am one of Ji-hyun’s stupid bobble­heads. “Thanks, I guess.”

The chopsticks are heavy in my hands as I walk into the apartment. I set them down on the counter. My head is spinning from the interaction and the sudden bout of revulsion I feel toward Geoffrey. In the living room, George is sprawled out on the couch. He’s fast asleep, his chest rising and falling steadily with every breath. Up. Down. Up. Down. “Ji-hyun? Umma?” I whisper, tiptoeing through the rooms. “Is anyone home?”

The apartment is silent, and I’m alone with George. It feels like one of my dreams. I stand and watch him.

I should go. I don’t trust myself around him.

At the same time, I can’t tear myself away. The late afternoon sun illuminates his face, bathing it in a golden light. I lean in and trace the curve of his eyelids, the delicate veins visible through the paper-thin skin. I touch them gently. He breathes through his mouth, each exhale warm against my chin.

Pull his eyelid back. Feel his eye socket.

I graze his skin, enthralled at the thought. The sun dips into the horizon; its reflections dance across the white wall behind George’s motionless body.

The kitchen clock ticks, each sound louder than the last. Soon I can hear nothing else. Tick. Tick. Tick. Pain blooms in my temples. Tick. Tick. Tick. Each time I hear it, the ache expands until my body is fully enveloped. My fingers tingle. I lie back on the carpet. The ceiling is dizzyingly, blindingly white. I close my eyes.

When I open them moments later, it’s dark. The apartment is silent. I grab the side of the couch and hoist myself up. George is still on the couch, and he’s snoring, his mouth wide open. A surge of adrenaline rushes through my body.

I’ve been in this dream before. My body moves automatically. I pad into the kitchen; the tiles are shockingly cold beneath my feet. On the edge of the sink there’s a paring knife, exactly where Umma left it this morning. A piece of apple skin is stuck to the blade. The apples were on sale at the Korean market; she had purchased too many of them.

“We’re all eating one apple every day until they’re gone,” she said.

I take the knife in my hand and feel the weight of it, the handle smooth in my sweating palm. I imagine slipping it between socket and flesh. I point the knife at George’s stomach, his neck. I’ve never gotten this far in any of my dreams, and now that I’m here, I don’t know what to do. I press the blade lightly against his cheek. A pinprick of blood appears.

You can end this right now. You can destroy him.

I touch him tenderly, fluttering my fingertips over his forehead. But there’s a strange feeling, a quiet discomfort that grows as I linger over him. The dream is too vivid. Everything is too clear. The hand holding the knife falls limply to my side; I graze my exposed thigh and gasp. Pain blooms where I’ve cut myself, right below the hem of my shorts.

Is this real, or is it a dream? I can’t tell. I can’t. But why does my thigh hurt? Why can I feel droplets of blood running down my leg?

There’s an ugly voice inside my head. It’s not real, it hisses. None of this is. Just kill him. Taste his eyes.

I want to. More than anything. So what if it’s real?

I’m shaking so badly that the knife falls out of my hand. It lands on the coffee table with a clatter, and George bolts upright.

“Huh?” His hair is disheveled; his T-shirt rides up on his stomach, revealing his pale paunch and a line of hair that disappears into the elastic waistband of his shorts. “JW, is that you?” He blinks, adjusting to the darkness. “Why are all the lights off?”

I don’t say anything.

“God, I’m dizzy.” He stretches and yawns. “It feels like someone’s slipped me a sleeping pill or something.”

The knife is on the table, just a short distance away. He’s disoriented and confused, his reaction time slow. The image flashes in my head: George, lying on the floor, blood spurting from his neck. Empty, gaping holes where his eyes should be. In the quiet, he follows my gaze to the table. Seeing the knife, he scrambles backward, nearly falling off the sofa.

His fear is palpable, and it is delicious.

“Uh . . . JW?” he says, his voice quivering. “What’s with the knife? Why are you standing there like that?”

The temptation lingers. But I can’t hurt George. I can’t. He’s going to marry my mother. He’s going to be my stepfather. Thinking about it makes bile rise in my throat.

I clear my throat. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I was trying to wake you up. I was cutting up some fruit because I was hungry, and I was checking to see if you wanted some, too.” The lie slips from my tongue easily, as though it’s the truth. I bend over and pick up the knife and show him the apple peel stuck to the blade.

His shoulders sag with relief, and he laughs. There’s a drop of blood trickling down his cheek from where I cut him. He still hasn’t noticed. “God. I thought I was in a nightmare.”

“I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You? Scare me?” he scoffs. “What’s there to be afraid of? Little Oriental girls are nothing to worry about.”

“Oriental? What am I, a rug?”

“You young kids get offended so easily. And at the silliest things. Back when I was a child, ‘Asian’ and ‘Oriental’ had the same meaning.” He shakes his head and sits up. “It’s nothing to be offended about. Like the word ‘mongoloid.’ ”

His words hit me like a physical blow.

I should have killed you in your sleep.

I clutch the knife so tightly that my arm shakes.

“The fruit? Do you want any?” I ask through gritted teeth.

“No thanks.” He scratches his stomach absentmindedly, before swiping at his cheek. His fingers come away red with blood. “Ooh,” he says. “I must have scratched myself.”