Chapter 2 Introductions

CHAPTER TWO

Outside the store, the sun hangs a little lower than it did minutes ago. The barber across the street flips the sign on the shop door from OPEN to CLOSED, and the dry cleaner walks with her bags down the street. The once busy street is growing empty, many customers and shop owners ending their day at five o'clock. While some cities never sleep, Kalamazoo where my family immigrated to, has an unofficial yet respected curfew. The scenic town is located in Michigan state and has a mixture of groomed greenery and picket-fence houses. Lampposts with ornate designs almost seem like accessories on the impeccably clean streets lined with small commercial buildings that are white or brick. It's the kind of close-knit, my-nose-in-your-business town where everyone knows everyone, where news travels too fast, and neighbors gift each other pies and casseroles and other American dishes I have only heard of but have never tried. It's also the kind of town where a very small percentage of the residents look like me.

My father would not have liked it here. His picture of loud and busy states involved neon lights and glass skyscrapers, a multicultural hub with a liveliness that wasn't set to start and end by a clock.

When I asked my mother why we couldn't live in New York City like Dad would have wanted, she told me to be grateful we didn't have to struggle. She told me to be thankful my uncle-my father's older brother, who has lived in Tennessee for some years-is a generous and kind man with the means to take care of us. I am grateful. But sometimes I think if we lived in the part of New York my father imagined, he would feel more present. Alive.

I sigh and look over at the children's performing arts studio beside the dry cleaner-Little Big Star. Through its large window, a group of girls dance in sync; they leap in the air and then twirl on their toes. I stop walking and watch, immersed in their performance. I've walked past the studio a few times, during the rare occasions my mom forces me to leave the house and run errands with her. Each time, I've stared through the window and watched either a dance routine or a musical performance. The music and voices always fill the streets, faint but still audible. Usually, I'm captivated until my mom calls for my attention. Today, the thing that diverts my focus from the studio is the sound of quick footsteps moving toward me.

"Hey." The hooded guy from Techies jogs forward and stops once he reaches me. His breath is quick and short. He looks at the studio briefly, a small furrow between his eyebrows, then turns to me. "Don't judge me," he says with a hand on his chest. "I'm a little winded. Coach's gonna have to whip me back into shape during practice." He laughs, but I frown, completely confused and slightly uneasy.

Why is he following me? To be more precise, why is he running after me in a disguise?

As if sensing my apprehension, he takes a step back. "I must be freaking you out right now. I didn't mean to. I was just ... um ... sorry." He smiles timidly, and I relax. Despite his getup, he doesn't seem like a threat.

I study him through narrowed eyes. "Why are you dressed like a burglar on a budget?"

He chuckles. "What?"

"You know-the glasses, the cap, the hoodie. It looks like you're about to rob a house but can't afford a proper disguise? Hence being a burglar on a budget."

"Well, I would like to point out that most burglars are on a budget. Hence them being burglars."

"And I would like to point out that smart burglars invest in good disguises and really commit."

"Well, I guess I'm not a very smart burglar."

"Yeah," I agree. "It seems like you aren't."

It occurs to me, as we're both smiling, that I haven't stammered or paused awkwardly since we started speaking. I've forgotten about my accent and the feeling of inadequacy I developed since moving here. I don't know where that feeling has gone, but I hope it stays at bay until this conversation ends.

"I'll admit," he says, "this is a terrible disguise. But I'm not a burglar. Promise. I'm actually trying to avoid some people." He turns around and surveys the street. When he's satisfied with his inspection, he faces me again. "My friends."

"You're trying to avoid your friends? Why?"

"I've spent the whole summer with them. I just needed a break, you know? Some time to myself. So I planned to grab a video game from Techies and go home to chill before any of them see me."

"Oh." I glance at his empty hand. "Where is the game?"

"Well, I didn't get a chance to grab one. I was looking through the stack when..."

"You came to the rescue of my DVD player."

He laughs. "Yeah. And then after you left, I-"

"You ran after me." I frown, then lift an eyebrow. "Why?"

"Well, I noticed your accent. I wanted to tell you I like it."

"Accent? What accent? I don't have an accent."

"Um ... I..." He bites his lip. "Right. Sorry. My mistake."

"Relax. I'm just joking." I smile, and my cheeks grow warm. He likes my accent, one of two things that make me stand out in this city. "I'm from Hawaii. I just moved here."

"Really? That's cool. Did your whole family move too?"

I consider the question, then shake my head. My father's absence is still new to me. Sometimes I forget he's gone. I laugh; I get wrapped up in a movie about teenagers; I meet a peculiar guy in a terrible disguise, and my grief is temporarily suspended-hanging over my head like a hammer, waiting for the precise moment to fall and hit me with a staggering force.

This is the moment.

A tightness gathers in my chest, and my heart thumps. I have taught myself how to survive these moments, how to contain my grief until I am alone, behind a closed door.First, I shut my eyes.

Second, I breathe with intention.

In and out.

Slow and steady.

Third, I imagine my breaths as a tide of cool blue water flowing through me-dousing the flare of emotion and then soothing the disquiet.

"Hey." His voice is gentle, laced with a touch of concern. "Are you all right?"

I open my eyes and nod. "Yes. But I need to go. Thank you again for your help."

"Yeah. Sure. And sorry for ... you know. Keeping you."

I start to leave, then stop. "You know what's unfair?"

He shakes his head.

"The fact that you've been staring at my face this entire time, and I don't know what you look like."

"Yeah." He smiles, nodding. "I guess that's unfair." In one swift motion, he pulls the sunglasses from his face.

I don't mean for it to happen, but it does-automatically, as if my body is programmed to react to his striking hazel-brown eyes. Soft flutters explode in my stomach, then intensify and travel like a ripple through my whole body. I'm dazed until he takes a small step toward me.

"Are you okay?"

"Um ... yeah ... yes." I force my eyes away from his and look toward the path that leads home. "I should go. Bye."

With the DVD player pressed to my chest, I rush down the street. There's an irrepressible urge at the pit of my stomach, compelling me to turn around. To look at him. One more time.

So I do.