A Step from Heaven (12 page)

My own sky-blue dress is tight around the shoulders and back, but long enough that it still looks like it fits. Uhmma lowered the hem a few months ago. Only if you look real close can you see the faded line from where the hem used to be.

I sit with Amanda and her parents even though Apa has forbidden me to see her. He will never know, and Uhmma does not mind if I see Amanda at school. Mr. and Mrs. Doyle ask why I haven't been around lately. I smile awkwardly and give them the same excuse I give Amanda, “I have a lot of homework.” Amanda rolls her eyes and complains I study way too much. By the time the principal steps up to the podium to begin the awards ceremony, my entire face has flamed red from my lies.

Amanda receives an award for English. When her name is announced and she stands up to accept the certificate, Mr. Doyle runs up ahead of her, snapping pictures as though she is a runway model. The flashes make Amanda falter in mid-step. She waves her father away and everyone in the crowd chuckles like they know how she feels. Amanda shakes the principal's hand, then gets a hug and a certificate from Mrs. Connor, our English teacher. Amanda walks quickly back to her seat. Mrs. Doyle claps and claps until the gym grows quiet again and the boom of her hands rings out.

After all the department awards have been handed out, they go to the GPA awards. One person in every class with the highest grade point average receives a certificate.

“The ninth-grade GPA award goes to Yungpark.”

At first I am not sure if they called me because the name sounds so garbled, but when Amanda gives me a nudge, I stand up. Amanda and her parents clap loudly as I walk to the front to shake the principal's hand. He hands me the certificate, and for a second I am lost in the reflection of the shiny gold stamp.

After the ceremony ends, Mr. and Mrs. Doyle offer to give me a lift home. I panic and blurt out the truth: “That's okay, I can take the bus.”

Mrs. Doyle frowns. “Now do you think that's safe, Young? Is that how you got here? Couldn't your parents—”

“Actually, Mrs. Doyle,” I break in, “if you could give me a lift to the library, I have to finish up some of my research for the history final.”

Amanda raises one eyebrow. She knows I'm almost done.

“It's pretty late, Young. Are you sure you want to go to the
library? We can drop you at your house,” Mrs. Doyle says.

“The library closes late tonight and I'd rather get the research over with.”

“Linda, come on,” Mr. Doyle says to his wife. “Young knows what she's doing. Look at that certificate in her hand. She didn't earn that by picking her nose.”

“Daaad!” Amanda groans and grabs my arm, leading me to the door of the gym.

On the car ride to the library, Mr. Doyle begins to sing along to a song on the radio. Amanda complains that he is embarrassing her in front of her friend. Mr. Doyle looks back at me in the rear-view mirror and winks. I smile even though I know Amanda thinks her parents are way too dorky. She is always saying she can't take them anywhere.

A few blocks before the library, a line of cars are stopped on the street. Up ahead, the blue and red lights of two police cars flash in the night. Mrs. Doyle leans to one side to see what the problem is. “I wonder what happened?” she worries. The cars slowly inch forward.

As we near the police cars, Mr. Doyle starts to nod as though he understands what is going on. He turns in his seat to look at us and explains, “They're just doing one of those sobriety checks.”

“You mean for drunk driving?” Amanda asks.

Mr. Doyle nods and turns back around.

My chest tightens in anticipation even though I know Mr. Doyle has not been drinking. I think about Apa and how he was arrested. For some crazy reason, I begin to worry that maybe they'll recognize me. See me as the daughter of the man they arrested. Or worse, what if Apa is pulled to the side?

The police officer beams his flashlight into the car, making me squint for a second.

“Hello, Officer,” Mr. Doyle says.

“Sir, where are you coming from tonight?”

Mr. Doyle jerks his thumb toward the back seat. “Officer, I'm carrying two of the smartest kids at Wagner High School.”

The officer peers back at us. “That so,” he says, smiling.

Mr. Doyle waves Amanda's certificate in the air. “My daughter won an award for English and her friend got the highest GPA in the ninth grade,” Mr. Doyle brags.

“That's fine work. Fine work,” the officer says. He waves his flashlight forward and says quickly, “Be careful on the roads, we have a lot of end-of-the-school-year and graduation parties going on.”

“Sure thing, Officer,” Mr. Doyle says and drives forward.

Only after the car rounds the corner do I finally let myself breathe. That was so easy. Mr. Doyle even made the guy smile. In my neighborhood, the police never get out of their cars unless it is to arrest someone or harass them with questions. Usually they cruise the streets slowly, their eyes hard and heavy with mistrust. I never thought they could actually care about other people.

After the library closes, I walk to the apartment and stay up late into the night, waiting for Uhmma to come home so I can show her the award. Uhmma holds the certificate in her hands, tilting it back and forth so the light will catch the gold medal stamp.

You were number one in your class? Uhmma asks and holds up her thumb.

Number one, Uhmma, I say and hold up my pointer finger.

Uhmma studies the certificate again. Here, she says, pointing. That is your name.

Yes.

I am very proud of you, Young Ju, Uhmma says. She picks up my hand and gives it a squeeze. Tell me, she says. Tell me about the ceremony. Did they clap very loud?

I nod.

Did Amanda and her parents stand when you went up?

I wrinkle my brow, trying to remember, and nod again.

My goodness, Uhmma says smiling. A special ceremony to honor you.

No, Uhmma, I groan. There were many people who received awards. Amanda got one for English.

Yes, that is very nice. But that was not for being number one in the class. English is just one subject.

Yes, but it is still a good award.

Tell me what else happened. Did you have to make a speech?

No.

Did you bow?

No, Uhmma. It is not like that. I only shook the principal's hand.

Good. He is a very important man. Do you think we should send him a gift?

No, Uhmma, I groan again.

Young Ju, Uhmma says and gazes steadily into my eyes. I am very sorry I could not be there for your important night. She shakes her head and laments, To think of all those people there to honor you, and your own parents could not take a night off from
their jobs. Aigoo, Young Ju. What kind of parents do you have? Your Apa will be so proud of you.

I bow my head, ashamed to remember how scared I was that the police would recognize me or that I might see Apa pulled over. I ask Uhmma, Should we try to wait up for Apa?

Uhmma frowns at the clock and then shakes her head. She says, I will leave it in a place where he will see it.

Uhmma places my certificate in the middle of the coffee table, next to the
Korea Times
newspaper. It stays there the whole night, untouched. The next morning, Uhmma tries to explain that Apa must have slept downtown in his car because he was so tired. He had to get up early to take care of a lawn down there anyway.

When Apa finally does come home, he covers the entire coffee table with his newspaper. Underneath the scattered sheets, the certificate lies tossed aside like a useless piece of mail. I push away the newspaper and pick up my award. Mr. Doyle's voice, bragging to the police officer that Amanda and I are two of the smartest kids at Wagner, rings in my head. If only I were his daughter, I think and crush the corner of the award. It's only a piece of paper.

I look down at my name and begin to crumple the entire certificate, but a tiny black smudge catches my eye. For some reason, before I can think, I lift the certificate to my nose. Ammonia and bleach. An ache deep and wide as the sea threatens to drown my heart.

Sunday morning I walk out of my room and Uhmma is already in the kitchen, standing with her back to me, cleaning the counter. “Uhmma,” I call as I walk down the hallway, not because I need something but simply to say I am awake.

But today, instead of her usual greeting, Did you sleep well, Uhmma's back stiffens and she quickly puts something into a brown paper bag she is holding at her side. Without turning to face me, Uhmma tells me over her shoulder, Hurry up and take a shower. We are late for church.

I walk into the living room, wondering how we could be late when it is still only seven o'clock and church does not start for another two hours. I sit down on the couch, ready to turn on the television, when I notice a strange odor in the air. Along with the smell of stale cigarettes and lingering garlic and fish from last night's dinner, there's something else. Like air freshener at a gas station bathroom. Country flowers or Tea Rose. I sniff the strange odor and look around the room. Everything looks the same.

I sniff the air again, wondering if Uhmma got up early to clean the house, which would not be unusual. But this is not the smell of Comet or Windex.

Young Ju, Uhmma calls from the kitchen. I told you to take a shower. Go now.

Uhmma, I say, wanting to ask her about the smell.

Now, Young Ju. I do not want to hear your whys, Uhmma insists. Go right now.

After my shower, I knock on Joon's door. There is no answer. I walk in anyway. Joon usually hides in his room until someone drags him out of bed.

“Go away,” Joon croaks from under the pillow.

“Joon,” I whisper. “Something's wrong.”

“What's new.”

“Joon!” I shake his shoulders, try to lift the pillow off his face.

“Knock it off, Uhn-nee,” Joon cries and holds the pillow tightly in place.

I give a hard yank and the pillow is mine. Joon sits up. “Uhn-nee, what do you want?”

“Something's wrong,” I say again.

“What are you talking about?” Joon grabs the pillow out of my hands and falls back on it, one arm tucked under his head.

“I don't know what it is. Just something smells funny in the living room.”

Joon rolls his eyes, but the way his nostrils flare and stay flared, the way they get after a lecture and a few cuffs on the head or a kick in the stomach from Apa, I know he is listening.

“So what,” Joon says and rolls over. “You're probably smelling your own stinkiness.”

“Joon, I'm being serious. It was a weird smell.”

“Well, what was it then?”

I try to remember the odor, the edge in the air. I search his room for something that might help me put a name to this thing. I bite the inside of my cheek. “I don't know.”

“Great. You got wigged out by a smell?”

“It wasn't just that,” I insist. I don't tell him it was the way the smell made the back of my neck tense up.

“Uhn-nee, forget it. Uhmma was probably cleaning the house. You know how she is in the morning.”

“You think so?” My hands suddenly feel cold and stiff. I sit on them so that the backs of my thighs will keep them warm.

Joon starts to snore and pretends he is going back to sleep. I yank the pillow from under his head and tell him, “Uhmma wants us to get ready for church.”

Joon groans.

Uhmma is gone from the kitchen when I walk out of Joon's room. I circle through the living room again, sniffing the air, wondering at the strange odor that does not belong in this house. In the kitchen, I lift up the lid from the soup pot and check to see what's for breakfast. Empty. I put the lid back down and lean against the counter. No breakfast? Uhmma always has breakfast ready. My mouth begins to water, not from hunger, but from the familiar nervousness that makes my stomach throw up all of its contents. I start to look for the brown bag I saw Uhmma with earlier. I open the yellow plastic trash can. Empty. I pace up and down the length of the kitchen. I have to find that smell.

Outside, I notice the station wagon is gone from its usual spot on the street. We'll have to walk to Mrs. Song's, an ahjimma we met at church who lives a few miles away, for a ride. Uhmma refuses to let her pick us up for church even though we are right along the way. She does not want to inconvenience Mrs. Song more than she believes we already do.

Along the side of the house, Mr. Owner keeps two garbage cans, a black one for us and a brown one for him, just so we don't mix up our garbage and end up filling more than our allotted space. I pick up the lid of the black can and notice Uhmma's tight knot at the top of the white plastic trash bag. Just thinking about taking apart that knot makes me put the lid back down and walk away. After a few steps, I stop and kick the ground, spraying up the dust and loose gravel.

I go through the trash carefully, using an old cereal box to push through the mucky parts. By the second bag, I find it. An old rusted can of Country Fresh Lysol. I sit back on my legs and stare at the can. Why did Uhmma spray this? It explains the strange smell, but what about the brown paper bag? I lift out the white trash bags. At the bottom of the can is the brown paper bag. Now that I have found it, I am not sure that I want to look inside. I stand with my hands on my hips, staring down into the trash can, wondering if I should reach in and take it out.

“Uhn-nee.”

Joon's voice startles me and makes me jump.

“What are you doing?” Joon asks.

“Joon,” I say angrily, still feeling my heart pound, “what do you want?”

Joon leans forward and peeks into the trash can.

“Stop that,” I say. “That's trash.”

“So?” Joon shrugs and reaches in to pick up the brown paper bag. He peers inside, then pulls out an empty glass bottle with a white label that reads
JIM BEAM
and a red and blue Budweiser beer can. Joon sets them on the ground. Each time Joon reaches into the
bag, he pulls out another Bud can. Soon a row of ten cans and the Jim Beam bottle line the wall.