John "Quirkless" Hwang (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lineman) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
stateofdecay2024-10-18 10:51 pm
lineman) wrote in stateofdecay2024-10-18 10:51 pm
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WHO: Ophelia Hwang & John Hwang
WHEN: 9/12/1995 and 4/4/2001.
WHERE: Seattle, WA
WHAT: Ophelia and John make breakfast and lunch, six years apart.
WARNINGS: N/A
September 12, 1995.
Their mother works 3 to 11 at the diner, so she can't pick them up from school. John doesn't think walking home is that big of a deal—he and Ophelia, hand in hand, completing the relatively uncomplicated route from their school to the house—but Eomma isn't worried about them getting lost or John being irresponsible. She worries about the bad drivers, impatient commuters getting off the expressway to take shortcuts through Yesler Terrace, jumping the curb to crush her children flat.
So they have to stay at school until their neighbor, Mrs. Reese, can pick them up. Today, Tuesday, they're keeping themselves occupied at the after-school cooking club. On the menu: pancakes.
"Jiji, egg please." John looks up at his sister, expecting to see her there with an egg ready to go, but Ophelia is otherwise occupied. John blinks. Ophelia has so many friends, he thinks, a little envyingly, although acknowledging his envy makes him feel pathetic. John goes quiet, deciding he'd rather have a wobbly batch of pancakes than pass up an opportunity to learn.
Ophelia, to her credit, isn't purposely ignoring her brother. It's just that Cass knows where Jason hid the goods—the blueberries and, more importantly, the chocolate chips—but her friends won't tell her where they're hidden, no matter how much she bugs them about it.
"You can't just take all the chocolate!" She's stomping her foot angrily, her tenuous patience as a ten-year-old gone. That seems to at least make Jason feel bad as he hands over the chocolate chips, with a snarky comment about her short temper matching her height to go along with it.
It's only because they've been friends for three whole years, practically a whole lifetime, that she doesn't respond and instead bounces back to her brother, happily showing off the bag of chocolate chips she's acquired. She pops a handful into her mouth and looks at the sad pancake batter that oh-so-clearly needs some chocolate chips to perfect them. "Here! For your pancakes!"
John accepts the bag of chocolate chips without question. His face shows no sign of discontent over his lack of egg, nor his earlier observation of Ophelia—he had even stomped his foot, mimicking Ophelia's action as he mimicked her frown. But he understands there are different levels of acceptability for what he can do as a twelve-year-old and what Ophelia can do at age ten. He would never stomp his foot in a conversation. He just finds the way she behaves with her friends interesting, actions and reactions coming easily to her. And most other people seem to have this talent, this innate understanding of how to act, so that's why he watches them. John thinks one day, his observations will pay off when he has friends of his own.
"You didn't want to join Cass and Jason's group?" John drops some chocolate chips into their eggless batter. This is how Eomma makes pancakes at home, anyway: fresh out of the box, add water, mix well, burn a little, and serve to your children as you dash out the door. He's careful not to look at Ophelia while he asks, so his face will not betray how he thinks (I'm glad you stayed with me, Jiji, I would have been lonely). "I thought you were best friends?"
"No, they're mean," She glares across the room at her friends, but looks contrite almost immediately. Even though she knows they can't hear her all the way on the other side of the room, she feels bad.
But that's not quite enough for her to take it back, because they did try to keep her from the chocolate chips and that's borderline unforgivable. She turns back to her brother instead, scrutinizing him. "You don't want to make pancakes with me?"
John stares down at Ophelia, scrutinizing her back—though he smiles as he does so, or tries his best to smile. His honest answer is yes and no: Yes, I want to make pancakes with you and No, I wish I was making pancakes with mean friends of my own.
"We are together all the time," John replies finally. His little sister will always be his little sister, no matter how old she is: babyish, sweet even in her sourest moments, and capable of inspiring within him boundless patience. "Maybe you want some time with your friends. I do not know."
Abruptly, he flips a stray chocolate chip at her, aiming to distract her. "I heard you got in trouble today for feeding a stray cat at recess. Mochi will not be happy about that. Are you going to tell him, or should I?"
"You're not supposed to be mean too," She frowns but her eyes are watching the bag of chocolate chips, just like John intended. It takes her a moment before she realizes she hasn't answered his question, but both options sound terrible.
"Nobody should tell Mochi."
“Keeping a secret so you do not hurt his feelings?” John squints his left eye at Ophelia in mock consternation. “That is the meanest thing of all.”
He flicks one more chocolate chip at her before moving to the side, gesturing for her to stand in front of the bowl of batter and their portable stove. “Here, Miss Meanie, can you help me with the pancakes? You decide how big you want each one to be. Then ladle it onto the pan.”
John doesn’t move too far away, intending to intervene if it looks like Ophelia might burn herself. He’s been reading parenting books on the weekends—all the experts say you should give your child responsibility early on, to boost their confidence. Ophelia isn’t his child, but sometimes, when Eomma isn’t home or is too tired to really be home despite the presence of her body, he feels like Ophelia is his child. He worries about her, about whether she feels happy or confident. “Go ahead.”
"I know how to make pancakes, John." She says, haughty and confident despite the fact that she very much does not know how to make pancakes. She's not even allowed to use the stove at home yet.
To show John just how she's definitely a pro-pancake pourer, she doesn't even bother to use the ladle and just grabs the bowl, tilting it above the pan and letting the batter fall in until the entire bottom of the pan is no longer visible. "Perfect!"
John watches his sister pour away the entirety of their bowl. He manages to smile through it, though he looks pained—the same expression he wore when Eomma donated all his WWE figures to charity last month. The great donation of his WWE figures was even worse actually, he thinks, because he'd bestowed upon each one an intricate friendship history. At the time, John had felt so sad he thought he must have become an adult. This, what Ophelia has done, is just goofy in comparison. "Perfect," John repeats, his pained expression falling away. "You have made one giant pancake."
His parenting books say you need to encourage your child even when they mess up, but you cannot rescue them from their own mistakes. So he holds out their spatula to Ophelia. "We are going to have to flip it. It's pretty big," John warns. "I will help, but you will need to tell me when. You have to investigate how done the pancake is by checking the bottom. Be very careful when you interact with a hot pan, Jiji."
"I know," she reiterates, lying just as much as before. She adds a "you're just like Eomma" while she watches the pan intently, resisting the urge to poke at the bubbles forming on the top of the batter.
There's a moment where she considers grabbing the pan and trying to flip it like she's seen people do on the Food Network shows that she sometimes sees, but there's a particularly loud sizzle that scares her too much to risk touching the handle. "Now?"
"Okay, now."
Stepping behind Ophelia, John guides her hands. He watches the same Food Network reruns Ophelia does—summoning all the power of his imagination to simultaneously conjure the mental image of a coin flipping and the belief that he is a super cool, top chef guy, John twists his wrist, and he and Ophelia flip the pancake together.
The pancake makes an arc in the air, landing back in the pan to reveal one perfectly cooked (if very large), golden side.
"Good job, Jiji!" John smiles. He lets go of her hands and steps away again.
Ophelia smiles at him, all signs of her previous not-quite-tantrum gone at the sight of her brother doing something so cool. Just like the chefs on tv, which is exactly what she tells John as she stares at the pancake in awe.
As she watches him plate the giant pancake and waits for it to cool off—she knows without even attempting that John would never let her eat it immediately out of the pan—she leans over and whispers to him, very seriously, "I bet our pancakes are better than Eomma's."
John freezes. Ophelia's comment is innocent, he knows this, but he cannot help but feel a slight defensiveness toward their mother. He's old enough to know that their mother worries about what she can and cannot give her children, her inadequacies both real and perceived, but he's not old enough to keep her worries from becoming his own.
"Maybe," he replies, making himself laugh the way he's seen adults do. "But I would not bet on it."
April 4, 2001.
John apologizes under his breath, trying his best not to step on people's toes as he makes his way back toward the aisle. The stadium at St. Theodore University, which is hosting this year's Washington State Taekwondo Championship, is old and inhospitably steep. When John looks to his right, the slope of stadium seating looks like the sheer side of a cliff. Despite how frightening this is, he smiles at the resulting lurch of vertigo, making himself move faster, more recklessly. Ophelia has just won, and he wants to be the first to congratulate her.
He rushes down the stairs, taking the steps two, sometimes three at a time. This too elicits a sickly, swooping feeling—he is going too fast, he feels like he might fall off the side of the stadium itself, but these are good feelings, John tells himself. He has just been expelled from the seminary; he has no money, no job, no idea what he will do for his future. His life is so empty and meaningless that he thinks falling will be worth it: if he falls he will also fly, if only for a moment. Or feel as though he'll as though he's flying, and that's good enough for him. Feelings can fill the emptiness of his life, false or ephemeral as they are.
When John finds Ophelia outside the locker rooms, he picks her up in a bear hug, twirling her around. "My sister, the killer," he laughs.
"Ji-tae!" Ophelia yells as her brother spins her, half exasperated and half fond. There's people giving them odd looks in the hallway, probably because of her yelling, but she pays them no mind. Once she's back solidly on the ground, she wraps her arm around her brother's waist and grins up at him.
"Did you watch the whole thing?" She'd glanced around before her first match, hoping to see where her family was sitting but there were too many people in the crowd to spot any of them. She'd spent a good ten minutes unsettled at the thought that maybe this would be the first time her brother would miss a championship.
It would have made sense for him to not want to be there, given everything going on. And she would never have held it against him—at least not for long—but nevertheless, it had shaken her when there was a tangible moment that she had to consider the reality of not having her brother in the crowd. Even at fifteen, long past the phase where she followed her big brother around everywhere like a baby duckling, she still wanted nothing more than to make him proud.
Well, maybe she wanted some things more like her learner's permit, but it was definitely still one of her priorities.
"The whole thing," John nods. He places his hands on her shoulders and kisses the top of her head, the way he used to do when they were children and he thought she needed reassurance. Doing this gives John a sense of reassurance as well. It's not true that he has nothing in his life, he thinks—he's still Ophelia's older brother. There's security in that and a sense of belonging, the kind that can exist between two people.
"Your kicks are becoming vicious," he continues, ruffling her hair. This leaves his hand damp with her sweat, but he doesn't mind. "I should be careful about hogging the TV."
She moves her head away from his hand, scrunching her nose in distaste. "I'm not a baby. Stop."
She could have moved out of his grasp easily, if she'd actually wanted to. It's little more than a half-hearted statement as she leaves herself wrapped around his waist, as much of a mess of mixed signals as she'd been ever since John had flown the nest, so to speak.
She knows it's probably not fair of her to do that, to say things that contradict her actions when it comes to John, but she thinks maybe he knows her well enough by now to understand her. "I wouldn't kick you that hard," she adds, as something of an apology for being unfair. "Maybe just a small kick to your shin if you're mean to me."
"I will not be mean to you, then," John replies, and kisses the top of Ophelia's head again.
Of course Ophelia is not a baby anymore, John thinks, not objectively. At fifteen, Ophelia is smart, strong, and determined—a champion, in so many senses of the word—and yet he cannot help but think of her as a little girl. During her last match, when she was fielding kicks and punches from her opponent, John wanted to run down to her and take every blow in her stead. He is not a good brother, he knows, affectionate at the wrong times and oddly, flatly unaffectionate when the time is otherwise right, but he can offer to stand between her and pain. Maybe this is the only good thing I can offer her, John thinks.
"Eomma is taking the oldies to the car. She said she would meet us there," John continues. He imagines himself sliding all his sadness and insecurity over whether he is good to Ophelia to the side, locking those thoughts away where they cannot bother either of them. "Do you want to get a celebratory lunch?" He smiles at her with his too-gummy smile. And, despite having no money, John adds, "I will pay."
She smiles up at him again, though this time a little bit uncertain. She's weighing the options in her head, of letting her brother treat her when she knows she shouldn't or disappoint him by turning him down.
The part of her that wants to make John happy wins out in the end, and she nods after a few moments of mulling it over. She has a plan, to make it less of a burden on her brother, at least in her mind. Uwajimaya, specifically the food hall. They can share hot pot to ease some of the financial burden and she'll be able to feign the need to step out for a phone call while she stops in one of the shops to get something for John. It's not a perfect plan, but it's at least better than just allowing him to treat her without anything in return.
"Boiling Point? We haven't had hot pot in a while."
John, unaware of his sister's calculations, hears 'Boiling Point' and thinks only of abundance. He nods, still smiling. "That sounds good."
He hadn't liked the food at the seminary. John dropped ten pounds in the short time he was there, too much weight for his already skinny frame, leaving him with hollow, sucked-out cheeks and a sickly, insectile physique. Upon returning to his mother's house, John has resumed eating her typically spartan meals, mostly processed carbohydrates that can be cooked and eaten quickly, and that leave the body even quicker. Thinking about hot pot, all the foods John likes—beef, tripe, jewel-black slices of wood ear mushroom—makes his mouth water. And best of all, it's what Ophelia wants.
After collecting Ophelia's things, John drives the family back to Seattle. Their grandparents are tired from the trip and their mother is perpetually exhausted, so he drops them off at home before taking Ophelia to the market. There, he lets her order their lunch, encouraging her to get 'everything she wants.' In the back of his mind, John knows he cannot afford all the things he urges her to select, but he ignores the jittery, nervous feeling of what if his debit card declines. I will get an overdraft, he thinks, it will be okay. Money is no object when it comes to the people you love.
Once their order is placed, John folds his hands, staring at Ophelia with what he imagines is a reassuring and brotherly gaze. In reality, his expression looks neutral, almost blank, the barely upturned corners of his mouth the only indication he is happy. "So you won another championship, Jiji. Do you think you will go pro?"
"No," It even surprises Ophelia how quickly she answers. She'd never really considered that her plans were so concrete, but once she says it, she knows that's what she wants. "Eomma wants me to."
She leaves off that it's mostly so she can get college scholarships. She's not sure if she should be mentioning college plans or not, right now. "I think I'll stop once they want me to compete as a senior."
John too is surprised by how quickly Ophelia answers. The phrase 'Eomma wants me to' feels like something tangible in the air between them, heavy and talismanic.
He has always danced around what Eomma wants, minded it, done it. The one time he tried not to do the thing his mother wanted, he ended up satisfying her anyway: their mother had not wanted John to go to the seminary and now he's back, right where she wants him to be. John’s expression turns cautious, his brows furrowing as he processes all of what Ophelia is telling him.
"This is what you want?" he asks, his voice slow and careful. "To stop?" Unspoken yet obvious in his tone of voice is the question, Why?
She nods, eyes flickering up to meet his before she turns her gaze to her tea, stomach sinking at the thought that maybe John wanted her to listen to Eomma and she'd found a way to disappoint him somehow.
"I might teach instead. Kwanjangnim said I would have a spot there if I want it," She speaks a little bit faster than before, still avoiding looking at him. "Do you think I should keep competing instead?"
John tries to make sense of Ophelia’s silent response, the way she is avoiding his eyes. He feels dismayed, realizing that in the months they were apart, his understanding of his sister has fallen behind her.
“I think you should do what makes you happy,” John replies cautiously. He begins to pick at a corner of his napkin, shredding a piece and balling it up. “But I thought competing made you happy?” Dismay again, to think that he doesn’t know what brings Ophelia joy anymore.
She shakes her head, eyes still averted. Anyone walking by the table might think she's just extremely interested in their neighboring table's choice in matcha flavored drinks. "No, it does. I wouldn't do it anymore at all if I didn't like it."
She bites her lip, finally raising her eyes again, looking apologetic as she continues. "I kinda just want to go to school without having all my free time taken up. Like to have the whole college experience, y'know?"
She looks away again, contrite about bringing up something that she's sure is a sore subject.
"The whole college experience." John looks dazed. He had been a middling student, unhappy in school with poor attendance—in fact, had been expelled from high school after his sophomore year for truancy. John only obtained his GED to apply for the seminary, and even then his admission was based on his letters of recommendation, begged from any priest or deacon who'd give him the time of day. He will never go to college, he realizes. His expression turns blank.
"I am happy for you. I think that is good." He balls up another shred of napkin. In his head, he goes over the list of questions you're supposed to ask about college. "Where are you thinking of going? What do you want to study?" Gratefully, he starts to sink into his script.
Instead of answering, Ophelia frowns, scrutinizing her brother's expressionless face. It's the exact outcome she'd been hoping to avoid and she has no idea how to go about fixing things so they can go back to the happiness of mere minutes before.
"UDub, maybe?" She looks at him unblinkingly, to see if his expression changes at all. And starts a list in her mind of every snack that John loves so she can calculate exactly how much she can afford to get while they're there.
"And I don't know. There's a lot of things that seem interesting."
The corner of John’s mouth twitches as he registers that Ophelia is scrutinizing his face. Realizing he’s likely gone blank, John makes himself smile, chiding himself that it is selfish to be sad when my sister wants to be happy. His smile feels increasingly genuine the longer he maintains it; the more he focuses on how happy Ophelia will be, the happier he feels.
“A lot of things,” he nods. “Have you thought about history? Or physics?”
"Not physics, I don't want to do that much math," She makes a face and sticks her tongue out in disgust, more at ease now that John's at least smiling. "UDub has an international studies school though. Some of the classes looked amusing."
She's about to mention a music class that only occasionally counts as an elective of Asian Studies when her phone vibrates. It's Cass, right on time and Ophelia turns to John apologetically, gesturing at her Nokia. "Cass. She probably just wants the rundown of the tournament. I'll be back in like five?"
Part of John feels relieved that Ophelia is leaving to talk to her friend. He cannot offer her the things her friends seem to readily and unthinkingly provide: wearing the right face, knowing what to say, easy affection.
"Okay," he nods. He gulps water to show Ophelia that he can keep himself occupied while she's on the phone, but, accidentally, he chokes. After a second of labored swallowing, John smiles at Ophelia, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Tell Cass I say hello. Or—maybe do not."
Ophelia tells Cass that her brother says hello, loud enough for John to overhear, as she walks out of the food hall, before sprinting to one of the shops. There's a reasonable amount of time that is allowed, she thinks, before the tenuous good mood becomes strained again so she needs to do things as quickly as possible.
Cass stays on the phone with her, which will later become a regret when Ophelia realizes that she's used far too many of her daytime minutes on something avoidable, but in the moment, she's a lifeline. She keeps reminding Ophelia to not forget to grab things, keeping track of the list of snacks that Ophelia had tallied off to her while she rushed to the area she knew contained Sanrio postcards.
Eleven minutes and thirteen seconds later, Ophelia finally returns to her brother, panting but happy as she sets a bag down on the table. "Sorry, I wanted to grab something while I was on the phone. I didn't mean to leave for so long."
John blinks. "Our food arrived."
He can just make out the brightly-colored packaging of snacks inside Ophelia's plastic bag, and squints in confusion. Why would she need snacks if they’re about to eat?
But Ophelia is no longer a baby, and John is vaguely aware that there is a certain time of month when she's predisposed to snacking. Maybe his awareness would not be so vague had John attended a crucial day of health education instead of staying at home to look at clouds. Still, he is aware. John decides not to mention the snacks, and instead politely moves their shared hot pot into the center of the table.
"Was Cass excited for you? I can drop you off at her house later if you want to talk more."
She gives him an apologetic look as she sits down and starts putting ingredients in the pot. "Yeah, she was, but you don't need to. As soon as we go home, I'm getting into my pjs and staying in them for at least twenty-four hours after we eat."
Ophelia then gestures at her bag before placing it on the table next to John. "I got snacks for us, so you can have a relaxation day too. We haven't had one of those in a while."
John raises his eyebrows before taking a look at the bag. "Shrimp chips," he mutters, saying what he sees. He looks back at Ophelia, considering.
Rotting at home for a full day does sound appealing to John, although he fears doing so will mean giving in to his worst instincts and giving up. He's not allowed to rest until he's found a job, gotten into a school, any school, or uncovered a previously unknown wealthy relation who will give him and his family at least $5,000 a month. But if he rots at home because Ophelia wants him to do so…
"I will probably take my pajamas off to shower at the twelve-hour mark," John replies, sounding a little strained. He feels like he's wrestling himself, doing something he wants only because it's what someone else wants. "But yes. That would be nice."
He pokes at a cube of tofu. "Thank you," he adds. "For buying the snacks."
Awkward silence, then, as John struggles to determine what to say next. He'd like to ask Ophelia how much she paid, so he can pay her back or at least pay half, but he feels somehow this would be the wrong thing to do. He clears his throat, deciding on an appropriate topic at least: "How is Jason? I thought he might come today."
"You're welcome," She grins at him as she grabs a bean sprout and pops it into her mouth.
"Jason decided not to compete for a while," Ophelia rolls her eyes, but there's no malice. "He decided he wants to be a skater, so he spends all his free time at Seaskate."
“Oh.” John continues to play with his food, trying to buy himself some time to navigate the conversation. “So does that mean you too spend much of your time at Seaskate? Because—”
Because you are dating Jason? John wonders, squinting one eye at Ophelia, as if that will enable him to see into her brain. She is very adamant they are not dating, however. John supposes he wouldn’t know what a successful dating relationship looks like. He had planned on dating and marrying Jesus Christ, and that went nowhere.
“—everyone enjoys spending time with their friends?”
"Not that much," she says automatically, but if she counts the free time she's had over the past month, a good majority of it has probably been spent there, despite the fact that the only time she ever stood on a skateboard, she somehow sent it flying into a wall with enough force that it left a hole.
"But Bee and Cass are there a lot too, and we made a new friend there and he's kinda-" Ophelia looks down at the hot pot, feeling warm for reasons she doesn't quite understand. "He's nice. We have fun there."
Oh no, John thinks, noticing that Ophelia's face has turned a little red. She's getting windburned from the hot pot. Trying to be helpful, he waves the steam out of her face, his hand right below her nose.
As he does this, John continues their conversation, registering that all of Ophelia's friends at the skate park are accounted for except one, the newcomer. Suspecting nothing, John asks, with all the bluntness of extreme naivete, "Who is he? The nice boy?"
Ophelia looks at him in confusion, but brushes it off as a John-ism she doesn't quite get yet. It's probably something she'll understand later, like so many things pertaining to her brother.
"Gabriel, he's from-" She pauses, trying to remember where but there's a list of cities going through her head and she's not sure which one is right. "Out of town. And then we started hanging out over spring break, I think?"
"I really—" She looks down again. "It's kind of like he's been in the group forever."
Ophelia keeps looking down whenever she talks about Nice Newcomer Boy Gabriel. John’s initial thought is that Ophelia is head over heels in love with this Gabriel, but he’s aware of his tendency to jump to that conclusion when trying to understand the emotional motivations of others. So, shoving that explanation aside as least likely, he decides to take Ophelia at her word. Which is that Gabriel is simply a very good friend.
“Wonderful,” John nods. He starts doling out pieces of meat, mushroom, and tofu to Ophelia, filling her bowl. “It is the worst when someone tries to join a group when they do not fit in.”
He pauses briefly, wondering if he should elaborate to Ophelia that he speaks from the experience of the unwelcome newcomer. Ah, but she already knows, John thinks, and shrugs. “You must have high compatibility with Gabriel if you feel this way.”
Ophelia frowns and opens her mouth, a rant at the ready as soon as he mentions fitting in. It's a sore subject for her, in a different way than it is to her brother. It's been a long time since she's gotten angry enough to fight someone over their treatment of John, but even the subtle reminder makes something burn in her, white-hot.
But she knows better than to get angry right then and there, when the only one present is the person she's upset on behalf of. There's no one to take anything out on, so she takes a deep breath. And then another, almost reflexively falling into one of the breathing exercises she knows all too well now.
Once she's calm enough to engage again, she smiles as though she hadn't done anything unusual at all. "I guess we do have high compatibility." Whatever anger that was left from before is gone as she says the words. "I actually think you'll get along with him. His taste in music is just as bad as yours is."
John is quiet as Ophelia breathes, observing her with a worried, knowing stare. She is better now than she was when she was younger, he reflects. Still, this sense of relief is undercut; he knows the things that move Ophelia to anger are sometimes about him. She used to fight other children as a first-grader, she saw each affront against him as an opportunity for battle, whereas John only saw those things as signals to retreat. After all, how many times can you listen to Just be yourself or You'll figure things out one day before you realize the problem must have been you all along? Shameful and embarrassing, to be a person marked by some invisible sign of difference, which everyone can recognize but cannot articulate. More shameful and embarrassing that Ophelia had to be involved. He was supposed to protect her, not the other way around. But even as a first-grader, she had been good with her fists—and better at winning.
John mimics Ophelia's smile as soon as she does it. "You mean just as good as mine, I think," John retorts. But he winks at her as he starts to serve himself. "Gabriel," he continues. "That is a nice name—the archangel of prophecy. What do you think?" John's tone takes on a teasing quality. "Is he bringing you good news?"
"You are like one step down from being a Nickelback fan," She makes a disgusted face at him, but her eyes are amused, just as they always are when they fall into the ease of sibling bickering.
"Maybe he's a harbinger of bad news. Prophecies don't have to be good." Ophelia bites back the urge to roll her eyes like she does any time John mentions anything biblical. There would certainly be more opportunities for her to do so in the future when it was not such a precarious time for him as being freshly kicked out of seminary.
"Hm." John places a slice of beef in his mouth, chewing it with his mouth open in an exaggerated fashion, solely to annoy Ophelia. He manages three extravagant chews before he feels disgusted with himself and swallows it down hard. "Generally true. But he mostly made good prophecies." John pounds his chest, wincing as his under-chewed beef slowly makes its way down.
"At any rate," he continues, voice now slightly hoarse. "I would like to meet him."
She looks at him in disgust again, but this time, it's more genuine. "You can't meet him if you're gonna be gross."
“I’m very well-mannered,” John replies somberly. Staring Ophelia down, he deliberately uses his tongue to move a stray piece of cilantro over his front teeth. “Look at how orderly I am.”
"Stop being gross," She groans and turns away so she can enjoy her own food in peace. Without having to witness anything her brother is doing.
"If you stop it, I'll invite him to the house so you can meet him soon. But you have to promise not to be gross on purpose."
John closes his mouth to swallow the cilantro. "Ophelia, look," he says, half instructing and half pleading, and bares his teeth to her. "All gone. I have stopped."
Silence now as he waits for Ophelia to turn back; even their hot pot bubbles without noise. John studies his sister's profile, proud and obstinate yet capped by that nest of her dark hair, still a little messed up from her head guard. Unable to help himself, John laughs at the contrast. "Do you still like me?" He can only ask because he knows what her answer will be. "Ophelia."
Ophelia shakes her head no, frowning just to sell it more. It's her tiny method of revenge for being a forced witness to such a display. She manages to keep her face straight for almost twenty whole seconds before she lets out another groan again and glares at him. "You can't play that card now! It's not fair."
At 'fair,' John ducks his head, penitent. "It's not fair," he repeats. He looks down at his bowl, assessing it for a moment before he plucks out his best slice of beef and deposits it in Ophelia's bowl.
"I will be good and normal," John continues. Their server, stopping by to refill their waters, does a double-take at this statement. "I will ask him about skateboarding and his favorite book, and then I will not say anything further to him."
"No, that's not what I mean," She sighs, pausing to think about her phrasing. "It's not about being normal. I know you're trying to gross me out on purpose. You're not allowed to do that if I invite Gabe around."
Ophelia turns her gaze to the ceiling as though it will tell her how to explain anything. "I don't want you to feel like you can't hang out with us." I need to see if Gabe is going to be kind to you before I get too invested in this is left unsaid.
John glances at the ceiling, checking to make sure there's nothing on it that he too should be looking at. Finding nothing, he studies Ophelia, the expression on her face unfinished somehow, as if her meaning is not fully expressed. He knows he plays a role in determining who Ophelia lets into her heart, though he is not quite sure about the role he plays. Gateguard? Arbiter? It doesn't matter. John understands enough:
"I will not be gross," he replies. Then pauses, waits for his sister to look at him again. "Gabriel seems very important to you," he continues. John is still learning when and when not to leave things unsaid; he opts to just say everything. "Jiji. I am excited to meet him and to know him"
"He could be," She says with a nod, still worried but hopeful. "Important, I mean. Maybe. I haven't decided yet."
WHEN: 9/12/1995 and 4/4/2001.
WHERE: Seattle, WA
WHAT: Ophelia and John make breakfast and lunch, six years apart.
WARNINGS: N/A
September 12, 1995.
Their mother works 3 to 11 at the diner, so she can't pick them up from school. John doesn't think walking home is that big of a deal—he and Ophelia, hand in hand, completing the relatively uncomplicated route from their school to the house—but Eomma isn't worried about them getting lost or John being irresponsible. She worries about the bad drivers, impatient commuters getting off the expressway to take shortcuts through Yesler Terrace, jumping the curb to crush her children flat.
So they have to stay at school until their neighbor, Mrs. Reese, can pick them up. Today, Tuesday, they're keeping themselves occupied at the after-school cooking club. On the menu: pancakes.
"Jiji, egg please." John looks up at his sister, expecting to see her there with an egg ready to go, but Ophelia is otherwise occupied. John blinks. Ophelia has so many friends, he thinks, a little envyingly, although acknowledging his envy makes him feel pathetic. John goes quiet, deciding he'd rather have a wobbly batch of pancakes than pass up an opportunity to learn.
Ophelia, to her credit, isn't purposely ignoring her brother. It's just that Cass knows where Jason hid the goods—the blueberries and, more importantly, the chocolate chips—but her friends won't tell her where they're hidden, no matter how much she bugs them about it.
"You can't just take all the chocolate!" She's stomping her foot angrily, her tenuous patience as a ten-year-old gone. That seems to at least make Jason feel bad as he hands over the chocolate chips, with a snarky comment about her short temper matching her height to go along with it.
It's only because they've been friends for three whole years, practically a whole lifetime, that she doesn't respond and instead bounces back to her brother, happily showing off the bag of chocolate chips she's acquired. She pops a handful into her mouth and looks at the sad pancake batter that oh-so-clearly needs some chocolate chips to perfect them. "Here! For your pancakes!"
John accepts the bag of chocolate chips without question. His face shows no sign of discontent over his lack of egg, nor his earlier observation of Ophelia—he had even stomped his foot, mimicking Ophelia's action as he mimicked her frown. But he understands there are different levels of acceptability for what he can do as a twelve-year-old and what Ophelia can do at age ten. He would never stomp his foot in a conversation. He just finds the way she behaves with her friends interesting, actions and reactions coming easily to her. And most other people seem to have this talent, this innate understanding of how to act, so that's why he watches them. John thinks one day, his observations will pay off when he has friends of his own.
"You didn't want to join Cass and Jason's group?" John drops some chocolate chips into their eggless batter. This is how Eomma makes pancakes at home, anyway: fresh out of the box, add water, mix well, burn a little, and serve to your children as you dash out the door. He's careful not to look at Ophelia while he asks, so his face will not betray how he thinks (I'm glad you stayed with me, Jiji, I would have been lonely). "I thought you were best friends?"
"No, they're mean," She glares across the room at her friends, but looks contrite almost immediately. Even though she knows they can't hear her all the way on the other side of the room, she feels bad.
But that's not quite enough for her to take it back, because they did try to keep her from the chocolate chips and that's borderline unforgivable. She turns back to her brother instead, scrutinizing him. "You don't want to make pancakes with me?"
John stares down at Ophelia, scrutinizing her back—though he smiles as he does so, or tries his best to smile. His honest answer is yes and no: Yes, I want to make pancakes with you and No, I wish I was making pancakes with mean friends of my own.
"We are together all the time," John replies finally. His little sister will always be his little sister, no matter how old she is: babyish, sweet even in her sourest moments, and capable of inspiring within him boundless patience. "Maybe you want some time with your friends. I do not know."
Abruptly, he flips a stray chocolate chip at her, aiming to distract her. "I heard you got in trouble today for feeding a stray cat at recess. Mochi will not be happy about that. Are you going to tell him, or should I?"
"You're not supposed to be mean too," She frowns but her eyes are watching the bag of chocolate chips, just like John intended. It takes her a moment before she realizes she hasn't answered his question, but both options sound terrible.
"Nobody should tell Mochi."
“Keeping a secret so you do not hurt his feelings?” John squints his left eye at Ophelia in mock consternation. “That is the meanest thing of all.”
He flicks one more chocolate chip at her before moving to the side, gesturing for her to stand in front of the bowl of batter and their portable stove. “Here, Miss Meanie, can you help me with the pancakes? You decide how big you want each one to be. Then ladle it onto the pan.”
John doesn’t move too far away, intending to intervene if it looks like Ophelia might burn herself. He’s been reading parenting books on the weekends—all the experts say you should give your child responsibility early on, to boost their confidence. Ophelia isn’t his child, but sometimes, when Eomma isn’t home or is too tired to really be home despite the presence of her body, he feels like Ophelia is his child. He worries about her, about whether she feels happy or confident. “Go ahead.”
"I know how to make pancakes, John." She says, haughty and confident despite the fact that she very much does not know how to make pancakes. She's not even allowed to use the stove at home yet.
To show John just how she's definitely a pro-pancake pourer, she doesn't even bother to use the ladle and just grabs the bowl, tilting it above the pan and letting the batter fall in until the entire bottom of the pan is no longer visible. "Perfect!"
John watches his sister pour away the entirety of their bowl. He manages to smile through it, though he looks pained—the same expression he wore when Eomma donated all his WWE figures to charity last month. The great donation of his WWE figures was even worse actually, he thinks, because he'd bestowed upon each one an intricate friendship history. At the time, John had felt so sad he thought he must have become an adult. This, what Ophelia has done, is just goofy in comparison. "Perfect," John repeats, his pained expression falling away. "You have made one giant pancake."
His parenting books say you need to encourage your child even when they mess up, but you cannot rescue them from their own mistakes. So he holds out their spatula to Ophelia. "We are going to have to flip it. It's pretty big," John warns. "I will help, but you will need to tell me when. You have to investigate how done the pancake is by checking the bottom. Be very careful when you interact with a hot pan, Jiji."
"I know," she reiterates, lying just as much as before. She adds a "you're just like Eomma" while she watches the pan intently, resisting the urge to poke at the bubbles forming on the top of the batter.
There's a moment where she considers grabbing the pan and trying to flip it like she's seen people do on the Food Network shows that she sometimes sees, but there's a particularly loud sizzle that scares her too much to risk touching the handle. "Now?"
"Okay, now."
Stepping behind Ophelia, John guides her hands. He watches the same Food Network reruns Ophelia does—summoning all the power of his imagination to simultaneously conjure the mental image of a coin flipping and the belief that he is a super cool, top chef guy, John twists his wrist, and he and Ophelia flip the pancake together.
The pancake makes an arc in the air, landing back in the pan to reveal one perfectly cooked (if very large), golden side.
"Good job, Jiji!" John smiles. He lets go of her hands and steps away again.
Ophelia smiles at him, all signs of her previous not-quite-tantrum gone at the sight of her brother doing something so cool. Just like the chefs on tv, which is exactly what she tells John as she stares at the pancake in awe.
As she watches him plate the giant pancake and waits for it to cool off—she knows without even attempting that John would never let her eat it immediately out of the pan—she leans over and whispers to him, very seriously, "I bet our pancakes are better than Eomma's."
John freezes. Ophelia's comment is innocent, he knows this, but he cannot help but feel a slight defensiveness toward their mother. He's old enough to know that their mother worries about what she can and cannot give her children, her inadequacies both real and perceived, but he's not old enough to keep her worries from becoming his own.
"Maybe," he replies, making himself laugh the way he's seen adults do. "But I would not bet on it."
April 4, 2001.
John apologizes under his breath, trying his best not to step on people's toes as he makes his way back toward the aisle. The stadium at St. Theodore University, which is hosting this year's Washington State Taekwondo Championship, is old and inhospitably steep. When John looks to his right, the slope of stadium seating looks like the sheer side of a cliff. Despite how frightening this is, he smiles at the resulting lurch of vertigo, making himself move faster, more recklessly. Ophelia has just won, and he wants to be the first to congratulate her.
He rushes down the stairs, taking the steps two, sometimes three at a time. This too elicits a sickly, swooping feeling—he is going too fast, he feels like he might fall off the side of the stadium itself, but these are good feelings, John tells himself. He has just been expelled from the seminary; he has no money, no job, no idea what he will do for his future. His life is so empty and meaningless that he thinks falling will be worth it: if he falls he will also fly, if only for a moment. Or feel as though he'll as though he's flying, and that's good enough for him. Feelings can fill the emptiness of his life, false or ephemeral as they are.
When John finds Ophelia outside the locker rooms, he picks her up in a bear hug, twirling her around. "My sister, the killer," he laughs.
"Ji-tae!" Ophelia yells as her brother spins her, half exasperated and half fond. There's people giving them odd looks in the hallway, probably because of her yelling, but she pays them no mind. Once she's back solidly on the ground, she wraps her arm around her brother's waist and grins up at him.
"Did you watch the whole thing?" She'd glanced around before her first match, hoping to see where her family was sitting but there were too many people in the crowd to spot any of them. She'd spent a good ten minutes unsettled at the thought that maybe this would be the first time her brother would miss a championship.
It would have made sense for him to not want to be there, given everything going on. And she would never have held it against him—at least not for long—but nevertheless, it had shaken her when there was a tangible moment that she had to consider the reality of not having her brother in the crowd. Even at fifteen, long past the phase where she followed her big brother around everywhere like a baby duckling, she still wanted nothing more than to make him proud.
Well, maybe she wanted some things more like her learner's permit, but it was definitely still one of her priorities.
"The whole thing," John nods. He places his hands on her shoulders and kisses the top of her head, the way he used to do when they were children and he thought she needed reassurance. Doing this gives John a sense of reassurance as well. It's not true that he has nothing in his life, he thinks—he's still Ophelia's older brother. There's security in that and a sense of belonging, the kind that can exist between two people.
"Your kicks are becoming vicious," he continues, ruffling her hair. This leaves his hand damp with her sweat, but he doesn't mind. "I should be careful about hogging the TV."
She moves her head away from his hand, scrunching her nose in distaste. "I'm not a baby. Stop."
She could have moved out of his grasp easily, if she'd actually wanted to. It's little more than a half-hearted statement as she leaves herself wrapped around his waist, as much of a mess of mixed signals as she'd been ever since John had flown the nest, so to speak.
She knows it's probably not fair of her to do that, to say things that contradict her actions when it comes to John, but she thinks maybe he knows her well enough by now to understand her. "I wouldn't kick you that hard," she adds, as something of an apology for being unfair. "Maybe just a small kick to your shin if you're mean to me."
"I will not be mean to you, then," John replies, and kisses the top of Ophelia's head again.
Of course Ophelia is not a baby anymore, John thinks, not objectively. At fifteen, Ophelia is smart, strong, and determined—a champion, in so many senses of the word—and yet he cannot help but think of her as a little girl. During her last match, when she was fielding kicks and punches from her opponent, John wanted to run down to her and take every blow in her stead. He is not a good brother, he knows, affectionate at the wrong times and oddly, flatly unaffectionate when the time is otherwise right, but he can offer to stand between her and pain. Maybe this is the only good thing I can offer her, John thinks.
"Eomma is taking the oldies to the car. She said she would meet us there," John continues. He imagines himself sliding all his sadness and insecurity over whether he is good to Ophelia to the side, locking those thoughts away where they cannot bother either of them. "Do you want to get a celebratory lunch?" He smiles at her with his too-gummy smile. And, despite having no money, John adds, "I will pay."
She smiles up at him again, though this time a little bit uncertain. She's weighing the options in her head, of letting her brother treat her when she knows she shouldn't or disappoint him by turning him down.
The part of her that wants to make John happy wins out in the end, and she nods after a few moments of mulling it over. She has a plan, to make it less of a burden on her brother, at least in her mind. Uwajimaya, specifically the food hall. They can share hot pot to ease some of the financial burden and she'll be able to feign the need to step out for a phone call while she stops in one of the shops to get something for John. It's not a perfect plan, but it's at least better than just allowing him to treat her without anything in return.
"Boiling Point? We haven't had hot pot in a while."
John, unaware of his sister's calculations, hears 'Boiling Point' and thinks only of abundance. He nods, still smiling. "That sounds good."
He hadn't liked the food at the seminary. John dropped ten pounds in the short time he was there, too much weight for his already skinny frame, leaving him with hollow, sucked-out cheeks and a sickly, insectile physique. Upon returning to his mother's house, John has resumed eating her typically spartan meals, mostly processed carbohydrates that can be cooked and eaten quickly, and that leave the body even quicker. Thinking about hot pot, all the foods John likes—beef, tripe, jewel-black slices of wood ear mushroom—makes his mouth water. And best of all, it's what Ophelia wants.
After collecting Ophelia's things, John drives the family back to Seattle. Their grandparents are tired from the trip and their mother is perpetually exhausted, so he drops them off at home before taking Ophelia to the market. There, he lets her order their lunch, encouraging her to get 'everything she wants.' In the back of his mind, John knows he cannot afford all the things he urges her to select, but he ignores the jittery, nervous feeling of what if his debit card declines. I will get an overdraft, he thinks, it will be okay. Money is no object when it comes to the people you love.
Once their order is placed, John folds his hands, staring at Ophelia with what he imagines is a reassuring and brotherly gaze. In reality, his expression looks neutral, almost blank, the barely upturned corners of his mouth the only indication he is happy. "So you won another championship, Jiji. Do you think you will go pro?"
"No," It even surprises Ophelia how quickly she answers. She'd never really considered that her plans were so concrete, but once she says it, she knows that's what she wants. "Eomma wants me to."
She leaves off that it's mostly so she can get college scholarships. She's not sure if she should be mentioning college plans or not, right now. "I think I'll stop once they want me to compete as a senior."
John too is surprised by how quickly Ophelia answers. The phrase 'Eomma wants me to' feels like something tangible in the air between them, heavy and talismanic.
He has always danced around what Eomma wants, minded it, done it. The one time he tried not to do the thing his mother wanted, he ended up satisfying her anyway: their mother had not wanted John to go to the seminary and now he's back, right where she wants him to be. John’s expression turns cautious, his brows furrowing as he processes all of what Ophelia is telling him.
"This is what you want?" he asks, his voice slow and careful. "To stop?" Unspoken yet obvious in his tone of voice is the question, Why?
She nods, eyes flickering up to meet his before she turns her gaze to her tea, stomach sinking at the thought that maybe John wanted her to listen to Eomma and she'd found a way to disappoint him somehow.
"I might teach instead. Kwanjangnim said I would have a spot there if I want it," She speaks a little bit faster than before, still avoiding looking at him. "Do you think I should keep competing instead?"
John tries to make sense of Ophelia’s silent response, the way she is avoiding his eyes. He feels dismayed, realizing that in the months they were apart, his understanding of his sister has fallen behind her.
“I think you should do what makes you happy,” John replies cautiously. He begins to pick at a corner of his napkin, shredding a piece and balling it up. “But I thought competing made you happy?” Dismay again, to think that he doesn’t know what brings Ophelia joy anymore.
She shakes her head, eyes still averted. Anyone walking by the table might think she's just extremely interested in their neighboring table's choice in matcha flavored drinks. "No, it does. I wouldn't do it anymore at all if I didn't like it."
She bites her lip, finally raising her eyes again, looking apologetic as she continues. "I kinda just want to go to school without having all my free time taken up. Like to have the whole college experience, y'know?"
She looks away again, contrite about bringing up something that she's sure is a sore subject.
"The whole college experience." John looks dazed. He had been a middling student, unhappy in school with poor attendance—in fact, had been expelled from high school after his sophomore year for truancy. John only obtained his GED to apply for the seminary, and even then his admission was based on his letters of recommendation, begged from any priest or deacon who'd give him the time of day. He will never go to college, he realizes. His expression turns blank.
"I am happy for you. I think that is good." He balls up another shred of napkin. In his head, he goes over the list of questions you're supposed to ask about college. "Where are you thinking of going? What do you want to study?" Gratefully, he starts to sink into his script.
Instead of answering, Ophelia frowns, scrutinizing her brother's expressionless face. It's the exact outcome she'd been hoping to avoid and she has no idea how to go about fixing things so they can go back to the happiness of mere minutes before.
"UDub, maybe?" She looks at him unblinkingly, to see if his expression changes at all. And starts a list in her mind of every snack that John loves so she can calculate exactly how much she can afford to get while they're there.
"And I don't know. There's a lot of things that seem interesting."
The corner of John’s mouth twitches as he registers that Ophelia is scrutinizing his face. Realizing he’s likely gone blank, John makes himself smile, chiding himself that it is selfish to be sad when my sister wants to be happy. His smile feels increasingly genuine the longer he maintains it; the more he focuses on how happy Ophelia will be, the happier he feels.
“A lot of things,” he nods. “Have you thought about history? Or physics?”
"Not physics, I don't want to do that much math," She makes a face and sticks her tongue out in disgust, more at ease now that John's at least smiling. "UDub has an international studies school though. Some of the classes looked amusing."
She's about to mention a music class that only occasionally counts as an elective of Asian Studies when her phone vibrates. It's Cass, right on time and Ophelia turns to John apologetically, gesturing at her Nokia. "Cass. She probably just wants the rundown of the tournament. I'll be back in like five?"
Part of John feels relieved that Ophelia is leaving to talk to her friend. He cannot offer her the things her friends seem to readily and unthinkingly provide: wearing the right face, knowing what to say, easy affection.
"Okay," he nods. He gulps water to show Ophelia that he can keep himself occupied while she's on the phone, but, accidentally, he chokes. After a second of labored swallowing, John smiles at Ophelia, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Tell Cass I say hello. Or—maybe do not."
Ophelia tells Cass that her brother says hello, loud enough for John to overhear, as she walks out of the food hall, before sprinting to one of the shops. There's a reasonable amount of time that is allowed, she thinks, before the tenuous good mood becomes strained again so she needs to do things as quickly as possible.
Cass stays on the phone with her, which will later become a regret when Ophelia realizes that she's used far too many of her daytime minutes on something avoidable, but in the moment, she's a lifeline. She keeps reminding Ophelia to not forget to grab things, keeping track of the list of snacks that Ophelia had tallied off to her while she rushed to the area she knew contained Sanrio postcards.
Eleven minutes and thirteen seconds later, Ophelia finally returns to her brother, panting but happy as she sets a bag down on the table. "Sorry, I wanted to grab something while I was on the phone. I didn't mean to leave for so long."
John blinks. "Our food arrived."
He can just make out the brightly-colored packaging of snacks inside Ophelia's plastic bag, and squints in confusion. Why would she need snacks if they’re about to eat?
But Ophelia is no longer a baby, and John is vaguely aware that there is a certain time of month when she's predisposed to snacking. Maybe his awareness would not be so vague had John attended a crucial day of health education instead of staying at home to look at clouds. Still, he is aware. John decides not to mention the snacks, and instead politely moves their shared hot pot into the center of the table.
"Was Cass excited for you? I can drop you off at her house later if you want to talk more."
She gives him an apologetic look as she sits down and starts putting ingredients in the pot. "Yeah, she was, but you don't need to. As soon as we go home, I'm getting into my pjs and staying in them for at least twenty-four hours after we eat."
Ophelia then gestures at her bag before placing it on the table next to John. "I got snacks for us, so you can have a relaxation day too. We haven't had one of those in a while."
John raises his eyebrows before taking a look at the bag. "Shrimp chips," he mutters, saying what he sees. He looks back at Ophelia, considering.
Rotting at home for a full day does sound appealing to John, although he fears doing so will mean giving in to his worst instincts and giving up. He's not allowed to rest until he's found a job, gotten into a school, any school, or uncovered a previously unknown wealthy relation who will give him and his family at least $5,000 a month. But if he rots at home because Ophelia wants him to do so…
"I will probably take my pajamas off to shower at the twelve-hour mark," John replies, sounding a little strained. He feels like he's wrestling himself, doing something he wants only because it's what someone else wants. "But yes. That would be nice."
He pokes at a cube of tofu. "Thank you," he adds. "For buying the snacks."
Awkward silence, then, as John struggles to determine what to say next. He'd like to ask Ophelia how much she paid, so he can pay her back or at least pay half, but he feels somehow this would be the wrong thing to do. He clears his throat, deciding on an appropriate topic at least: "How is Jason? I thought he might come today."
"You're welcome," She grins at him as she grabs a bean sprout and pops it into her mouth.
"Jason decided not to compete for a while," Ophelia rolls her eyes, but there's no malice. "He decided he wants to be a skater, so he spends all his free time at Seaskate."
“Oh.” John continues to play with his food, trying to buy himself some time to navigate the conversation. “So does that mean you too spend much of your time at Seaskate? Because—”
Because you are dating Jason? John wonders, squinting one eye at Ophelia, as if that will enable him to see into her brain. She is very adamant they are not dating, however. John supposes he wouldn’t know what a successful dating relationship looks like. He had planned on dating and marrying Jesus Christ, and that went nowhere.
“—everyone enjoys spending time with their friends?”
"Not that much," she says automatically, but if she counts the free time she's had over the past month, a good majority of it has probably been spent there, despite the fact that the only time she ever stood on a skateboard, she somehow sent it flying into a wall with enough force that it left a hole.
"But Bee and Cass are there a lot too, and we made a new friend there and he's kinda-" Ophelia looks down at the hot pot, feeling warm for reasons she doesn't quite understand. "He's nice. We have fun there."
Oh no, John thinks, noticing that Ophelia's face has turned a little red. She's getting windburned from the hot pot. Trying to be helpful, he waves the steam out of her face, his hand right below her nose.
As he does this, John continues their conversation, registering that all of Ophelia's friends at the skate park are accounted for except one, the newcomer. Suspecting nothing, John asks, with all the bluntness of extreme naivete, "Who is he? The nice boy?"
Ophelia looks at him in confusion, but brushes it off as a John-ism she doesn't quite get yet. It's probably something she'll understand later, like so many things pertaining to her brother.
"Gabriel, he's from-" She pauses, trying to remember where but there's a list of cities going through her head and she's not sure which one is right. "Out of town. And then we started hanging out over spring break, I think?"
"I really—" She looks down again. "It's kind of like he's been in the group forever."
Ophelia keeps looking down whenever she talks about Nice Newcomer Boy Gabriel. John’s initial thought is that Ophelia is head over heels in love with this Gabriel, but he’s aware of his tendency to jump to that conclusion when trying to understand the emotional motivations of others. So, shoving that explanation aside as least likely, he decides to take Ophelia at her word. Which is that Gabriel is simply a very good friend.
“Wonderful,” John nods. He starts doling out pieces of meat, mushroom, and tofu to Ophelia, filling her bowl. “It is the worst when someone tries to join a group when they do not fit in.”
He pauses briefly, wondering if he should elaborate to Ophelia that he speaks from the experience of the unwelcome newcomer. Ah, but she already knows, John thinks, and shrugs. “You must have high compatibility with Gabriel if you feel this way.”
Ophelia frowns and opens her mouth, a rant at the ready as soon as he mentions fitting in. It's a sore subject for her, in a different way than it is to her brother. It's been a long time since she's gotten angry enough to fight someone over their treatment of John, but even the subtle reminder makes something burn in her, white-hot.
But she knows better than to get angry right then and there, when the only one present is the person she's upset on behalf of. There's no one to take anything out on, so she takes a deep breath. And then another, almost reflexively falling into one of the breathing exercises she knows all too well now.
Once she's calm enough to engage again, she smiles as though she hadn't done anything unusual at all. "I guess we do have high compatibility." Whatever anger that was left from before is gone as she says the words. "I actually think you'll get along with him. His taste in music is just as bad as yours is."
John is quiet as Ophelia breathes, observing her with a worried, knowing stare. She is better now than she was when she was younger, he reflects. Still, this sense of relief is undercut; he knows the things that move Ophelia to anger are sometimes about him. She used to fight other children as a first-grader, she saw each affront against him as an opportunity for battle, whereas John only saw those things as signals to retreat. After all, how many times can you listen to Just be yourself or You'll figure things out one day before you realize the problem must have been you all along? Shameful and embarrassing, to be a person marked by some invisible sign of difference, which everyone can recognize but cannot articulate. More shameful and embarrassing that Ophelia had to be involved. He was supposed to protect her, not the other way around. But even as a first-grader, she had been good with her fists—and better at winning.
John mimics Ophelia's smile as soon as she does it. "You mean just as good as mine, I think," John retorts. But he winks at her as he starts to serve himself. "Gabriel," he continues. "That is a nice name—the archangel of prophecy. What do you think?" John's tone takes on a teasing quality. "Is he bringing you good news?"
"You are like one step down from being a Nickelback fan," She makes a disgusted face at him, but her eyes are amused, just as they always are when they fall into the ease of sibling bickering.
"Maybe he's a harbinger of bad news. Prophecies don't have to be good." Ophelia bites back the urge to roll her eyes like she does any time John mentions anything biblical. There would certainly be more opportunities for her to do so in the future when it was not such a precarious time for him as being freshly kicked out of seminary.
"Hm." John places a slice of beef in his mouth, chewing it with his mouth open in an exaggerated fashion, solely to annoy Ophelia. He manages three extravagant chews before he feels disgusted with himself and swallows it down hard. "Generally true. But he mostly made good prophecies." John pounds his chest, wincing as his under-chewed beef slowly makes its way down.
"At any rate," he continues, voice now slightly hoarse. "I would like to meet him."
She looks at him in disgust again, but this time, it's more genuine. "You can't meet him if you're gonna be gross."
“I’m very well-mannered,” John replies somberly. Staring Ophelia down, he deliberately uses his tongue to move a stray piece of cilantro over his front teeth. “Look at how orderly I am.”
"Stop being gross," She groans and turns away so she can enjoy her own food in peace. Without having to witness anything her brother is doing.
"If you stop it, I'll invite him to the house so you can meet him soon. But you have to promise not to be gross on purpose."
John closes his mouth to swallow the cilantro. "Ophelia, look," he says, half instructing and half pleading, and bares his teeth to her. "All gone. I have stopped."
Silence now as he waits for Ophelia to turn back; even their hot pot bubbles without noise. John studies his sister's profile, proud and obstinate yet capped by that nest of her dark hair, still a little messed up from her head guard. Unable to help himself, John laughs at the contrast. "Do you still like me?" He can only ask because he knows what her answer will be. "Ophelia."
Ophelia shakes her head no, frowning just to sell it more. It's her tiny method of revenge for being a forced witness to such a display. She manages to keep her face straight for almost twenty whole seconds before she lets out another groan again and glares at him. "You can't play that card now! It's not fair."
At 'fair,' John ducks his head, penitent. "It's not fair," he repeats. He looks down at his bowl, assessing it for a moment before he plucks out his best slice of beef and deposits it in Ophelia's bowl.
"I will be good and normal," John continues. Their server, stopping by to refill their waters, does a double-take at this statement. "I will ask him about skateboarding and his favorite book, and then I will not say anything further to him."
"No, that's not what I mean," She sighs, pausing to think about her phrasing. "It's not about being normal. I know you're trying to gross me out on purpose. You're not allowed to do that if I invite Gabe around."
Ophelia turns her gaze to the ceiling as though it will tell her how to explain anything. "I don't want you to feel like you can't hang out with us." I need to see if Gabe is going to be kind to you before I get too invested in this is left unsaid.
John glances at the ceiling, checking to make sure there's nothing on it that he too should be looking at. Finding nothing, he studies Ophelia, the expression on her face unfinished somehow, as if her meaning is not fully expressed. He knows he plays a role in determining who Ophelia lets into her heart, though he is not quite sure about the role he plays. Gateguard? Arbiter? It doesn't matter. John understands enough:
"I will not be gross," he replies. Then pauses, waits for his sister to look at him again. "Gabriel seems very important to you," he continues. John is still learning when and when not to leave things unsaid; he opts to just say everything. "Jiji. I am excited to meet him and to know him"
"He could be," She says with a nod, still worried but hopeful. "Important, I mean. Maybe. I haven't decided yet."
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