The Sun Is Also a Star

“So you noticed?” I press.

“Of course I noticed.”

I stop us in the lighted doorway of a Laundromat. The smell of detergent surrounds us. “You know why they’re staring, right?”

“It’s either because I’m not black or because you’re not Korean.” His face is shadowed, but I can hear the smile in his voice.

“I’m serious,” I say, frustrated. “Doesn’t it bother you?” I’m not sure why I’m pursuing this. Maybe I want proof that if we had the chance to continue, we would survive the weight of the stares.

He takes both my hands, so now we’re standing face to face.

“Maybe it does bother me,” he says, “but only peripherally. It’s like a buzzing fly, you know? Annoying, but not actually life-threatening.”

“But why do you think they’re doing it?” I want an answer.

He pulls me in for a hug. “I can see that this is important to you, and I really want to give you a good reason. But the truth is, I don’t care why. Maybe I’m naïve, but I do not give a single shit about anyone’s opinion of us. I do not care if we’re a novelty to them. I do not care about the politics of it. I don’t care if your parents approve, and I really, truly don’t care if mine do. What I care about is you, and I’m sure that love is enough to overcome all the bullshit. And it is bullshit. All the hand-wringing. All the talk about cultures clashing or preserving cultures and what will happen to the kids. All of it is one hundred percent pure, unadulterated bullshit, and I just refuse to care.”

I smile into his chest. My ponytail poet boy. I never before thought that not caring could be a revolutionary act.

We turn off the main drag onto a more residential street. I’m still trying to see the neighborhood as Daniel does. We pass by rows of adjoined clapboard houses. They’re small and aging but colorful and well-loved. The porches seem more overpopulated with knickknacks and hanging plants than I remember.

There was a time when my mom desperately wanted one of these houses. Earlier this year, before this mess began, she even took Peter and me to an open house. It had three bedrooms and a spacious kitchen. It had a basement she thought she could sublet for extra income. Because he adores our mother and knew we could never afford it, Peter pretended not to like it. He nitpicked.

“The backyard is too small and all the plants are dead,” he’d said. He stayed close to her side, and when we left she was not any sadder than when we went in.

We walk by another block of similar houses before the neighborhood changes again and we’re surrounded by mostly brick apartment buildings. These are not condos but rentals.

I issue a warning to Daniel. “It’s a mess from all the packing.”

“Okay,” he says, nodding.

“And it’s small.” I don’t mention that there’s only one bedroom. He’ll see soon enough. Besides, it’s only my home for a few hours more.

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’t chatter at me like they normally do. I stop by the row of metal mailboxes that hang on the wall. We have no mail, just a Chinese take-out menu wedged into the door. It’s from my dad’s favorite place, the same one he ordered from when he gave us the tickets for his play.

Someone’s always cooking something, and the lobby smells delicious: butter and onion and curry and other spices. My apartment’s on the third floor, so I take us to the stairs. As usual, the light for the first- and second-floor stairwell is broken. We end up walking silently in the dark until we get to the third floor.

“This is it,” I say, when we’re finally standing in front of 3A. In some ways it’s much too early to introduce Daniel to my house and family. If we had more time, then he’d already know all my little anecdotes. He’d know about the curtain in the living room that separates Peter’s “room” from mine. He’d know that my star map is my most prized possession. He’d know that if my mom offers him something to eat, he should just take it and eat the whole thing no matter how full he is.

I don’t know how to relay all that history. Instead, I tell him again: “It’s messy in there.”

It’s a weird kind of dissonance, seeing him stand here in front of my door. He fits and doesn’t fit at the same time. I’ve always known him, and we’ve only just met.

Our history is too compressed. We’re trying to fit a lifetime into a day.

“Should I take my jacket off?” he asks. “I feel like an idiot in this suit.”

“You don’t have to be nervous,” I say.

“I’m going to meet your parents. Now’s as good a time to be nervous as any.” He unbuttons the jacket but doesn’t take it off.

I touch the bruise on his lip. “The good thing is, you can screw up all you want. You’ll probably never see them again.”

He gives a small, sad smile. I’m just trying to make the best of our situation, and he knows it.

I take the key from my backpack and open the door.

All the lights are on and Peter’s playing dance hall reggae much too loud. I can feel the beat in my chest. Three packed suitcases lie just inside the door. Another two lie open off to the side.

I spot my mom right away. “Turn that music off,” she says to Peter when she sees me. He does, and the sudden silence is acute.