The Sun Is Also a Star€¦ · Half-Life Daniel Donald Christiansen Natasha Daniel Natasha Daniel Natasha Multiverses

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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.

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LibraryofCongressCataloging-in-PublicationDataisavailableuponrequest.ISBN 9780553496680(hc)—ISBN 9780553496697(lib.bdg.)—ebookISBN 9780553496703—ISBN 9781524716301(intl.tr.pbk.)

RandomHouseChildren’sBookssupportstheFirstAmendmentandcelebratestherighttoread.

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ContentsCoverOtherTitlesTitlePageCopyrightDedicationEpigraph

PrologueDanielNatashaDanielNatashaIreneaHistoryDanielCharlesJaeWonBaeFamilyNatashaIrieDanielNatashaIreneNatashaSamuelKingsleyDanielNatashaTheConductorDanielNatashaDanielNatasha

Half-LifeDanielDonaldChristiansenNatashaDanielNatashaDanielNatashaMultiversesDanielNatashaDanielNatashaDanielNatashaLoveDanielNatashaHannahWinterAttorneyJeremyFitzgeraldDanielNatashaDanielNatashaHairDanielNatashaDanielNatashaDanielNatashaHairDaniel

NatashaDanielNatashaSamuelKingsleyDanielTheWaitressNatashaDanielNatashaDanielNatashaDanielNatashaDanielNatashaDanielNatashaDanielNatashaDanielNatashaDanielNatashaDanielFateNatashaDanielNatashaSamuelKingsleyDanielNatashaNatashaKingsleyDaniel

NatashaSamuelKingsleyNatashaDanielDaeHyunBaeNatashaDanielNatashaDanielNatashaDanielNatashaDanielNatashaDanielNatashaDanielJoeNatashaDanielEyesDanielNatashaSamuelKingsleyDanielJeremyFitzgeraldHannahWinterNatashaDanielNatashaDanielNatashaDaniel

NatashaDanielNatashaDaniel+NatashaFourMinutesNatashaDanielTimeandDistanceEpilogueIrene:AnAlternateHistory

AcknowledgmentsAbouttheAuthorReadtheBookThatEveryone,EveryoneFellinLoveWith.

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Formymomanddad,whotaughtmeaboutdreamsandhowtocatchthem

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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.

“Getready,”Isay.

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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.

Learnhowtousechopsticks.Thiscountrycan’thaveeverything.

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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

sheagreeswithhim.

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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.

“Don’tworry,”hesays.“We’vegottime.”

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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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AndTheyLivedHappilyEverAfter.

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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.”

THEENDOceanofPDF.com

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.

[email protected]

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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