The Sun Is Also a Star
Page 35
“Want to sing another one?” I ask. My voice rattles and I clear my throat. I look over at the TV. We didn’t get a chance to see her score before we started kissing. It’s 89%, which is terrible. It’s pretty hard to get less than 90% in norebang.
She glances over at the TV too but doesn’t say anything. I can’t fathom what’s happening in her head. Why’s she resisting this thing between us? She touches her hair, pulls on a strand and lets it go, pulls on another and lets it go.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
I slide over and close the distance she put between us. Her hands are clasped in her lap.
“What are you sorry for?” I ask.
“For running hot and cold.”
“You weren’t so cold just a minute ago,” I say, making the absolute lamest joke (along with puns, innuendos are the lowest form of humor) I could possibly make in this moment. I even waggle my eyebrows and then wait for her reaction. This could go either way.
A smile overtakes her face. Those storm clouds in her eyes don’t stand a chance. “Wow,” she says, her voice warm around her smile. “You sure have a way with words.”
“And the ladies,” I say, hamming it up even more. I’ll make a fool of myself just to make her laugh.
She laughs some more and leans back on the couch. “You sure you’re qualified to be a poet? That was the worst line I’ve ever heard.”
“You were expecting something—”
“More poetic,” she says.
“Are you kidding? Most poems are about sex.”
She’s skeptical. “Do you have actual data to back that up? I wanna see some numbers.”
“Scientist!” I accuse.
“Poet!” she retorts.
We both smile, delighted and not trying to hide our delight from each other.
“Most poems I’ve seen are about love or sex or the stars. You poets are obsessed with stars. Falling stars. Shooting stars. Dying stars.”
“Stars are important,” I say, laughing.
“Sure, but why not more poems about the sun? The sun is also a star, and it’s our most important one. That alone should be worth a poem or two.”
“Done. I will only write poems about the sun from now on,” I declare.
“Good,” she says.
“Seriously, though? I think most poems are about sex. Robert Herrick wrote a poem called ‘To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time.’ ”
She pulls her legs up to lotus position on the couch and doubles over with laughter. “He did not.”
“He did,” I say. “He was basically telling virgins to lose their virginity as soon as possible just in case they died. God forbid you should die a virgin.”
Her laughter fades. “Maybe he was just saying that we should live in the moment. As if today is all we have.”
She’s serious again, and sad, and I don’t know why. She rests the back of her neck against the sofa and looks up at the disco ball.
“Tell me about your dad,” I say.
“I don’t really want to talk about him.”
“I know, but tell me anyway. Why do you say he doesn’t love you?”
She picks her head up to look at me. “You’re relentless,” she says, and flops her head back again.
“Persistent,” I say.
“I dunno how to say it. My dad’s primary emotion is regret. It’s like he made some giant mistake in his past, like he took a wrong turn, and instead of ending up wherever he was supposed to be, he ended up in this life with me and mom and my brother instead.”
Her voice wobbles while she’s saying it, but she doesn’t cry. I reach out and take her hand and we both watch the TV screen. Her dancing score’s been replaced by a soundless ad for Atlantic City casinos.
“My mom makes these beautiful paintings,” I say to her. “Really incredible.”
I can still picture the tears in her eyes when my dad gave her the present. She’d said, “Yeobo, you didn’t have to do that.”
“It’s something only for you,” he said. “You used to paint all the time.”
I was so surprised by that. I thought I knew everything about my mom—about both of them, really—but here was this secret history I didn’t know about. I asked her why she stopped and she waved her hand in the air like she was wiping the years away.
“Long time ago,” she said.
I kiss Natasha’s hand and then confess: “Sometimes I think maybe she made a wrong turn having us.”
“Yes, but does she think that?”
“I don’t know,” I say. And then: “But if I had to guess, I would say I think she’s happy with the way her life turned out.”
“That’s good,” she says. “Can you imagine living your whole life thinking you made a mistake?” She actually shudders as she’s saying it.
I raise her hand to my lips and kiss it. Her breathing changes. I tug her forward, wanting to kiss her, but she stops me.
“Tell me why you want to be a poet,” she says.
I lean back and rub my thumb over her knuckles. “I don’t know. I mean, I don’t even know if it’s what I want for a career or anything. I don’t get how I’m supposed to know that already. All I know is I like to do it. I really like to do it. I have thoughts and I need to write them down, and when I write them down they come out as poems. It’s the best I ever feel about myself besides—”
I stop talking, not wanting to freak her out again.
She glances over at the TV too but doesn’t say anything. I can’t fathom what’s happening in her head. Why’s she resisting this thing between us? She touches her hair, pulls on a strand and lets it go, pulls on another and lets it go.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
I slide over and close the distance she put between us. Her hands are clasped in her lap.
“What are you sorry for?” I ask.
“For running hot and cold.”
“You weren’t so cold just a minute ago,” I say, making the absolute lamest joke (along with puns, innuendos are the lowest form of humor) I could possibly make in this moment. I even waggle my eyebrows and then wait for her reaction. This could go either way.
A smile overtakes her face. Those storm clouds in her eyes don’t stand a chance. “Wow,” she says, her voice warm around her smile. “You sure have a way with words.”
“And the ladies,” I say, hamming it up even more. I’ll make a fool of myself just to make her laugh.
She laughs some more and leans back on the couch. “You sure you’re qualified to be a poet? That was the worst line I’ve ever heard.”
“You were expecting something—”
“More poetic,” she says.
“Are you kidding? Most poems are about sex.”
She’s skeptical. “Do you have actual data to back that up? I wanna see some numbers.”
“Scientist!” I accuse.
“Poet!” she retorts.
We both smile, delighted and not trying to hide our delight from each other.
“Most poems I’ve seen are about love or sex or the stars. You poets are obsessed with stars. Falling stars. Shooting stars. Dying stars.”
“Stars are important,” I say, laughing.
“Sure, but why not more poems about the sun? The sun is also a star, and it’s our most important one. That alone should be worth a poem or two.”
“Done. I will only write poems about the sun from now on,” I declare.
“Good,” she says.
“Seriously, though? I think most poems are about sex. Robert Herrick wrote a poem called ‘To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time.’ ”
She pulls her legs up to lotus position on the couch and doubles over with laughter. “He did not.”
“He did,” I say. “He was basically telling virgins to lose their virginity as soon as possible just in case they died. God forbid you should die a virgin.”
Her laughter fades. “Maybe he was just saying that we should live in the moment. As if today is all we have.”
She’s serious again, and sad, and I don’t know why. She rests the back of her neck against the sofa and looks up at the disco ball.
“Tell me about your dad,” I say.
“I don’t really want to talk about him.”
“I know, but tell me anyway. Why do you say he doesn’t love you?”
She picks her head up to look at me. “You’re relentless,” she says, and flops her head back again.
“Persistent,” I say.
“I dunno how to say it. My dad’s primary emotion is regret. It’s like he made some giant mistake in his past, like he took a wrong turn, and instead of ending up wherever he was supposed to be, he ended up in this life with me and mom and my brother instead.”
Her voice wobbles while she’s saying it, but she doesn’t cry. I reach out and take her hand and we both watch the TV screen. Her dancing score’s been replaced by a soundless ad for Atlantic City casinos.
“My mom makes these beautiful paintings,” I say to her. “Really incredible.”
I can still picture the tears in her eyes when my dad gave her the present. She’d said, “Yeobo, you didn’t have to do that.”
“It’s something only for you,” he said. “You used to paint all the time.”
I was so surprised by that. I thought I knew everything about my mom—about both of them, really—but here was this secret history I didn’t know about. I asked her why she stopped and she waved her hand in the air like she was wiping the years away.
“Long time ago,” she said.
I kiss Natasha’s hand and then confess: “Sometimes I think maybe she made a wrong turn having us.”
“Yes, but does she think that?”
“I don’t know,” I say. And then: “But if I had to guess, I would say I think she’s happy with the way her life turned out.”
“That’s good,” she says. “Can you imagine living your whole life thinking you made a mistake?” She actually shudders as she’s saying it.
I raise her hand to my lips and kiss it. Her breathing changes. I tug her forward, wanting to kiss her, but she stops me.
“Tell me why you want to be a poet,” she says.
I lean back and rub my thumb over her knuckles. “I don’t know. I mean, I don’t even know if it’s what I want for a career or anything. I don’t get how I’m supposed to know that already. All I know is I like to do it. I really like to do it. I have thoughts and I need to write them down, and when I write them down they come out as poems. It’s the best I ever feel about myself besides—”
I stop talking, not wanting to freak her out again.
