We snag Hanh on the way to Elaine’s one-person carnival, and the three of us successfully extract her from the Dancing Hole of Doom she’s digging for herself by telling her that we want some girl time. Jimmy wanders away and sits down with the guys, but there’s no stopping Elaine, who is pretty much the living embodiment of “dance like no one’s watching,” so Hanh, Reggie, and I form a human shield and let her go for it. I actually envy her, in a way. I wish I could throw myself into the moment like she does. Though maybe with a little more grace.
Over the next hour, I find myself glancing over at Jamie constantly, and I know she’s watching me, too, because I catch her at it five times (yes, I’m counting). Each time our eyes meet, I’m filled with that same shimmering energy that I felt when we were next to each other, and even though I still have to be sneaky about looking at her, it’s kind of exhilarating to know it’s our secret now, not just mine. At nine thirty, we leave the dance and head to PopStar. I’ve never been out to karaoke, and with the exception of the Glen Lake Country Club disaster, never out with friends this late. And definitely never after having just made out with the most beautiful, amazing, perfect girl at school. I tune in and out of the conversation in the van, and I close my eyes and smile to think that just a while ago I was stretched out on this very seat with Jamie. The memory gives me goose bumps. This is the best night ever.
20
JANET, JIMMY, AND A FEW OTHERS MEET US in the parking lot in front of PopStar, which is located in a random Korean strip mall in Santa Clara. Janet’s sister Debbie is there with three of her SCU friends and a backpack full of vodka. After a quick round of introductions, we head in, with Hanh keeping a firm hand on Elaine’s arm so she won’t rush over and start hanging on Jimmy.
The host, a bored-looking older lady, confirms Debbie’s reservation and leads the way through a warren of narrow fluorescent-lit hallways to our room. The room itself is about the size of my bedroom—which is to say you could squeeze a full-size bed, a dresser, and a desk into it with a little room left in the middle to walk around. In the corner across from the door, there’s a raised platform with a mic stand and a teleprompter-looking thing. On the wall behind the stage is a large plasma screen, and a tiny disco ball hangs from the ceiling. The other walls are lined with benches. A remote control for the karaoke machine sits on top of a stack of binders full of song titles in five different languages: Mandarin, Korean, Japanese, Vietnamese, and English.
We file in, and Elaine rushes for the binders, picks one, and starts flipping through it. She’s got a great voice, so I’m sure she wants to get herself in the queue early and show off a little for Jimmy. “Hey, lemme see,” says Jimmy, and he beckons Elaine over to sit beside him. In a flash, she’s practically in his lap as they pore over the selections together. Reggie shrugs at me.
“Who knew that throwing yourself at someone could work?” she mutters. “It’s so unfair.”
“What’s unfair? It’s not like you ever do anything to let guys know you’re interested,” says Hanh. “Though actually, it is unfair. It’s not supposed to work that way.”
“It’s because she’s a tiny, adorable little kitten.” Reggie looks down at herself and shakes her head.
“Shut up,” I say. “Give me a break. You’re just fine.”
“My mom says I look like a water buffalo,” says Reggie.
“Fuck your mom,” says Hanh. “My mom says I’m fat. Well, my grandmother does. Asian moms live to say shit like that. It’s what they do. You should know better than to listen. And you should also know better than to think you have to be skinny to be pretty. Anyone who cares what size you are is an asshole. Come on, let’s go get some snacks.”
Hanh collects cash from everyone, and in a couple of minutes, Hanh, Reggie, and I are standing at the vending machine in the lobby, evaluating the selection. If you had by some miracle missed the K-Pop posters on the wall and the little ceramic cat waving good-bye on the front desk, you’d know who this place catered to by looking at the vending machine. Rice crackers. Shrimp chips. Squid jerky. Pocky. Pretz. All Asian brands except for a row of Pringles and kettle chips at the bottom.
We decide on ten boxes of Pocky, one of my favorite snacks and the least disgusting of our options, though I do love shrimp chips. Pocky are cracker sticks—actual thin little sticks of cracker—dipped in chocolate. They’re delicious, and they have a ton of different flavors: regular chocolate, milk chocolate dipped in almonds, white chocolate, dark chocolate, maple, cheesecake, strawberry, green tea. Nom.
Hanh and I are feeding dollar bills into the machine when I hear the door open behind us and a group of customers walks in, jabbering in Japanese. Suddenly, my ears prick up. I could swear I hear Dad’s voice in the mix. But that’s impossible. He’s not due back in town for four more days.
“Hello, I hab resa-bation fo Kiyohara. Pahty obe six.” I freeze. Now there’s no mistaking it. It’s his voice, loud and clear and drunk—his accent gets extra heavy when he’s been drinking. Reggie looks at me warily.
“My dad!” I mouth at her. I don’t know which is worse: feeling humiliated that he sounds like such a loser, or feeling terrified that he’ll see me.
Reggie enters the numbers for the Pocky and raises her eyebrows. “Are you sure?”
I nod.
“Fuck,” whispers Hanh.
Ka-thunk. Ka-thunk. Ka-thunk. Three boxes of Pocky fall out of their cubbyhole. Someone in the group behind us says something that’s funny, apparently, because they all laugh, my dad loudest of all. I crouch down, pull my hair to the side to hide my face, and reach in to grab the Pocky boxes, and Hanh chooses this moment to pull out her phone and take a selfie. I can feel her doing her fashion model pose.
Omigod-omigod-omigod, she’s going to get me killed. I stay in my crouch and try to scoot behind Reggie’s legs. Please don’t let him look over here and see me.
“What the hell are you doing?” Reggie hisses at me.
“Reg, take one with me!” says Hahn.
“What—no!” protests Reggie. “Hanh, stop it!” But Hanh gives Reggie’s arm a yank, and Reggie gives in, to prevent her from drawing any more attention our way. “Oh, okay, fine.”
I smash myself right up against the machine and stick my hand in the opening at the bottom, scrabbling around at nothing, hoping it looks like I’m just trying to reach that one last box and praying Dad doesn’t decide to come over to buy some Pocky, himself.
But no one comes over. They follow the receptionist down the hallway to their party room, and I stand up and start breathing again. “So he said your last name, but was that really your dad?” Hanh asks, her voice low.
“I don’t know. I was afraid to look. It sure sounded like him.”
Reggie appears from around the corner and waves frantically. “They’ve gone in. Quick, hurry before they send someone out for snacks!”