But it is kind of a big deal. I’m split between feeling giddy with excitement and jittery with self-consciousness. I might as well post a photo on Instagram: “@entireworld, here’s me making out with my girlfriend! #lookatme #getaroom.” I glance at Christina and Arturo to gauge their reaction, but they’re starring in their very own Instagram couples’ moment—he’s leaning against the car and she’s leaning back against him, her head resting in the little hollow between his shoulder and his neck. It would be kind of romantic, except for the ginormous bag of Cheetos that Arturo is snarfing down in between whatever cheesy nothings he’s whispering in her ear.
So, okay. I’ll try to relax and enjoy being with Jamie. That’s what couples do, right? But as Jamie’s fingers start tracing a series of loops from my knee up to my thigh, I’m afraid it will become as distracting to the others as it is to me. I put my hand over hers as a gentle hint to stop, but she misinterprets and pulls my hand around her back as she turns to me and plants a salty kiss next to my mouth.
I can’t help it this time. I stiffen and sit straight up. “What?” says Jamie.
“Oh. Nothing, really, it’s just—”
“Are you embarrassed? About us?” I can’t read her expression. She’s kind of smiling, kind of not. Hurt? Confused? Amused?
“No, I—well, kind of. Sort of. But not about us because of . . . you know. It’s more like . . .” I can’t explain it without sounding like a total prude. I almost want to say that I don’t want people knowing what we do in private, but that’s not it, either. It’s not like it’s a secret what couples do behind closed doors.
“You don’t have to be embarrassed. Look at them.” Jamie nods in the direction of Christina and Arturo, who are now staring deep into each other’s eyes and licking Cheeto dust off each other’s fingers.
How can I explain? “I’m just, I’m not that comfortable with—stuff like that. In public,” I say. “It just seems—” I clamp my mouth shut before the word “immodest” escapes, and I realize that Mom has taken over my brain. I cast about for a better word, but all I can come up with is “inappropriate,” “indiscreet,” and “unseemly.” “I’m sorry, it’s just. It’s an Asian thing, I guess. It’s my mom and dad. I’ve never even seen them hug each other, and forget about kissing. It just feels too private to show other people.” Wow, does that sound weak. Jamie considers this for a moment, and then nods and lets go of my hand. “Sorry. Maybe I’ll get more comfortable later. You know, like with time.”
“No, it’s okay.” She makes puppy-dog eyes at me. “But can you just give me one little kiss? To tide me over?”
“Oh, all right.” I kiss the corner of her jaw, where it meets her neck—chaste and seductive at the same time, I figure, and then we spend a few seconds smiling besottedly at each other. That, I can handle. Soon, with Arturo and Christina safely enveloped in a haze of lust and Cheeto dust, Jamie and I drift into a warm, hand-holding, dreamy discussion of possibilities for romantic dates in the future.
JJ bursts out of the store and storms over to us, holding a six-pack of Dr Pepper. No beer. He dumps the soda on the roof of the car (“Watch it!” yelps Arturo) and starts griping. “He swore this ID would work here. Robert’s such a liar.”
“Omigod, JJ, you better not—” Christina says, but JJ is already making his way toward an older couple, holding out what remains of his cash and saying, “Hey, could you do me a huge favor?”
Christina looks like she’s going to go after him, but Arturo pulls her back. “Don’t trip. He’ll give up in a few minutes, and then we can go.” She settles back irritably into his arms.
Five minutes and three failed attempts later, JJ throws up his hands and turns back to the car yelling, “I quit!”
“It’s about fuckin’ time!” Arturo calls back. We’re all laughing as JJ swaggers toward us shouting abuse and trading insults with Arturo when a cop car pulls into the lot.
“Aw, shit,” breathes Arturo. JJ morphs visibly. He hunches his shoulders, sticks his hands in his pockets, and drops the swagger in favor of a sort of shamble.
Even here at the car, there’s a change. Jamie moves the tiniest bit away from me, and although Arturo and Christina don’t change their posture, their attention has clearly shifted away from each other. “I bet that store guy called them,” says Christina. “I knew this was gonna happen.”
“No one gets in trouble for trying to buy beer,” I say.
Everyone looks at me like I’ve just asked where I can find the switch to turn off the moon. Jamie says, “If the cop’s in a bad mood you can get arrested.” I think back to all the drinking stories I used to hear in Wisconsin, but of all the failed attempts to buy alcohol that I can remember, I’ve never heard of anyone being arrested or getting in trouble. People got turned down and that was that. It never seemed like a big deal.
JJ has almost reached us when the squad car door opens and a police officer gets out and saunters over to our corner of the lot. “Shit,” says Arturo again. “Be chill.” Then he shoves Christina off him, wipes his orange fingers on his jeans, and walks out past JJ with his hand extended to greet the cop. “Good evening, officer. Can we help you?” he says brightly.
The cop, a tall man with a paunch, too-tight trousers, and a name tag that reads D. BARLOWE, ignores Arturo and surveys the scene: me and Jamie on the hood of the car, Christina leaning against the rear door, clutching the Cheetos bag and licking her fingers, and JJ slouching by the rearview mirror. “Looks like a party,” he says.
“We’re just hanging out with friends, you know, just snacking on junk food and soda,” offers Arturo. He points at the Dr Pepper on the roof of the car.
“Good. Wouldn’t want to have to take you in for anything shady.” Officer Barlowe looks pointedly at JJ.
“Oh, no, sir.”
“Seriously,” Jamie breaks in, “we were just sitting here. Eating.” She holds up the Pringles can.
“I’ll decide whether you’re breaking the law. Let’s see your ID, amigo.”
Arturo pulls his driver’s license out. “See? I just turned seventeen. Had my license for thirteen months now. No tickets, no nothing.”
I turn to Jamie, confused. She whispers, “You’re not allowed to drive other teenagers until you’ve had your license for a full year. He just wants a reason to nail us.”
After scrutinizing Arturo’s license, Officer Barlowe returns it with a glare. Then he sniffs the air, to check if we’ve been smoking, I guess. Not getting anything, he looks around at us again, and this time his gaze lights on me. “Well, look at this—one of these things is not like the others. What’s your name, young lady?”
“Sana,” I croak.
“Nice name. What is that, Korean?”
“Japanese.”
“Huh.” He nods. “My brother was stationed in Yokohama for a coupla years. Right near Tokyo, right? What a great city.” I’ve never been to Yokohama or Tokyo, but I nod. “No crime, real clean, people are real polite and friendly . . . Not like here.” He chuckles. I give him what I hope is a polite and friendly smile. “Japanese food, too. Love that stuff. Even sushi. Ma-goo-roh. That’s tuna, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You ever been to Gombei in Japantown?”