Just Ask (2 page)

“Really?”

“Of course.”

“And you really wouldn't tell Mom about my speeding ticket?”

“It'll be part of our deal. You don't tell anyone you're writing this column for me, and I won't tell Mom that you got the ticket.”

“And I can still get a car?”

He nodded. “And you'll even get paid for writing.”

“I'll get paid?”

He shrugged. “Well, not much, honey But we'll work out something.”

And so that's how I got stuck with this small pile of letters (supposedly from teens) for “Just Ask Jamie”— that's the actual name of the advice column. Of course,
Dad didn't just ask if I wanted it called that. But I guess it's okay. Although I wish he'd come up with something better for my pseudonym than Jamie. But he wanted to use a unisex name so kids wouldn't know whether I was a guy or girl. Well, whatever.

Also, my dad has linked me up with some “resources” for any tricky questions that might involve the law or anything outside of my expertise. “like what exactly is my expertise?” I asked him. He just laughed and assured me that I would be fine. We'll see.

Anyway, I've just finished practicing my violin (I have to get back into shape before school starts), and I decided I would “practice write” my answers to these letters in the safety zone of my own computer diary (which is accessible only with my secret password). I figure this will help me see whether I can really pull this thing off or not. I've picked the first letter to answer. Mostly I picked this one because it's a pretty basic question, no biggie. So here goes nothing.

Okay, now I have a problem. I feel like a total hypocrite because I haven't been completely honest with my mom. Oh, sure, I didn't go out and pierce my belly button. Although that might not be as bad as breaking the law, getting a ticket, and then not telling her. Of course, my dad did make a deal with me when he blackmailed me with the advice column. So maybe this is different. But if this is different, why do I feel guilty? Maybe I should write a letter to Jamie and just ask!

My dad actually liked the responses I wrote for the “Just Ask Jamie” column. I'm not sure whether to be hugely relieved or totally freaked. like who am I to be giving advice to kids my own age? What do I really know about life anyway? Still, my dad seems to have confidence in me. And besides, even if I totally blow at this, at least no one will ever know who this Jamie weirdo really is. That's some consolation.

Mostly I keep reminding myself that writing this column means I might soon have my own wheels. Even so, I felt pretty nervous when I saw my column appear in bold black and white in today's newspaper (the plan is to run it biweekly, on Tuesdays and Fridays).

To distract myself from obsessing over this column or, more specifically, how kids will react to my so-called “advice” (assuming they'll even read it, which is seriously
doubtful), I've been focusing my attention on this bright yellow Jeep Wrangler parked across the street. I've always thought it was pretty cool looking, but our neighbor just put a For Sale on it yesterday.

As soon as I saw that sign go up, I could barely stand it. I mean, what if someone else sees this great little Jeep and buys it before I have a chance? Because it's not only totally awesome, but it's also totally perfect for me. At least that's my opinion. And after going on and on about it last night, my dad finally agreed that we could take it for a test drive tomorrow morning. He even made an appointment with Carl. And I cannot wait.

Mom's all worried about safety issues now. She thinks that just because it has a soft top, I'll probably roll it the first time out and kill myself. I tried to explain to her the purpose of a “roll bar,” but that didn't seem to help matters. Finally I asked Carl, the Jeep owner, to convince my mom that it's perfectly fine. He promised to do his best.

I'm also going online to collect all the best safety data I can find on Jeeps. Of course, I'll be very discerning in what I allow my mom to read. Probably I'll just stick to the manufacturer's claims and promises. That should assure her I'll be safe behind the wheel of my new fun mobile. Oh, I can see myself now.

“Are you really getting that Jeep?” my best friend Natalie McCabe asked me after we jogged this morning. (We've been trying to get into better shape before school starts—her idea, of course, and I suspect a few days of
exercise is not enough to make much difference.)

Nat lives two houses down from me, and we've been best friends since fourth grade. Okay, on and off best friends. Sometimes she really aggravates me, and I suppose I've made her mad more than once too. But most of the time I don't know what I'd do without her. I guess she's the closest thing to a sister I'll ever have.

I paused to run my hand over the smooth surface of the hood. Carl had just waxed and detailed everything, and even though it was four years old, it looked like it could've been on a showroom floor. “I hope so,” I told her. “Dad and I are going to try it out tomorrow.”

“You are so lucky,” she said in what sounded like a slightly jealous voice.

“Hey, you'll get to ride in it too.”

She brightened then. “Oh, yeah. That's true. Okay, then I hope you get it, Kim. I'll be praying really hard that your parents will agree.”

Now this is one area where Natalie and I seriously part ways. I mean, she is so into this whole church, God, and praying thing, but I try not to let this get to me. And after this one ripsnorting disagreement last spring, I think she learned that it's wise to watch what she says around me.

“Thanks,” I told her. “Maybe I'll get it in time to drive us to school the first day.”

“That'd sure beat driving my old Toyota,” she said. Natalie's dad left this cruddy old pickup behind when he walked out on his wife and three kids last year.

“Which reminds me,” she said. “Do you want to go to the mall with me today? I just got paid, and I still need to get a couple of things for school.”

“I guess.” I reluctantly turned away from my dream Jeep. “But I don't see why you bother to get new clothes for school, Nat. What difference does it make if you wear something old or something new?”

She laughed as she glanced down at my old sweats. “I just keep hoping you're going to figure that one out, Kim.”

As usual I rolled my eyes at her, hopefully avoiding another you-have-absolutely-no-fashion-sense lecture. Yeah, whatever.

So it was settled that we'd go around two. In the meantime, I needed to practice my violin and then answer some more of these crazy letters. My dad just e-mailed me a whole new bunch today. But as I read through them, I'm beginning to wonder if these are really for real.

I mean, some of them are just totally bizarre. Like this one letter from a girl who's all bent out of shape because her little brother dressed up her male Chihuahua like a ballerina. And now she's worried that her dog might have a complex. Give me a break! Like a dog dressed in drag is going to need canine counseling or something.

Well, I don't think I'll even answer that one. That is, unless Tuesday's column needs a little comic relief. And considering some of the other heavier topics, it just
might. Like this one letter I saved for last, since I had to call one of my resources for some additional input.

Now I'm thinking about my own mom and how she'd do just about anything for me. Really, if I needed a heart transplant, I'll bet she'd offer me her own. Not that I'd let her, of course. But she's just like that.

My parents got married way back in the seventies, and my mom's dream had always been to have kids, but she had some health problems that made it impossible to get pregnant. After years and years of trying everything, my parents looked into adoption, but the waiting lists for American babies was so long, they decided to look outside of the country. Naturally, this is where I came in.

My parents finally discovered this international adoption service that happened to be linked to the Korean orphanage where I'd been “dropped off.” And by the time I was six months old, I was shipped off (well, flown, actually) to the United States where I became a part of the Peterson family of three.

I asked my parents why they didn't send off for more
Korean babies (since Mom had always wanted a houseful of kids), but they said they both agreed that I was more than enough.

I've never been quite sure how to take that, since I've heard through friends and relatives that I was a very fussy baby But I do know that they love me and probably wouldn't trade me for a backseat full of quiet and well-behaved orphans.

But when I think about this girl (Fed Up) and how her parents seem like they could care less about her, well, I guess it's times like this when I really question life in general. I mean, why do some people long for children but are unable to have them? And then other people can have children, but they desert them as infants? And why do some parents have kids of their own and then abandon them when they become teens? Does any of this make any sense?

I think it's things like this that made me start questioning God and religion in the first place. I mean, if life doesn't make sense, how can God make sense?

Well, it was questions like this that motivated me last spring to learn more about the religion of my ancestors. To be fair, it probably began about the same time Chloe Miller challenged me about what I believe.

“I was brought up as a Christian,” I tell her during one of our first conversations about religion. “But I'm just not into it anymore.”

“Why not?” she asks.

“I guess I don't buy it.”

“I didn't know it was for sale,” she shoots back at me. And I am thinking, yeah, very funny.

“Well, I suppose it was okay when I was a little girl. But now it just seems like some worn-out old fairy tale. I mean, think about all those totally whacked-out stories in the Bible, like the Noah dude building a boat and filling it with every species of animals on the planet and—”

“Hey, I was just reading about how scientists have discovered archaeological evidence which proves that really happened,” she tells me.

And so we went, back and forth, but not in an argumentative way She never made me feel bad about my questioning things. If anything, she totally validated me. “I used to do the exact same thing,” she tells me. “I questioned absolutely everything about God. But then He revealed Himself to me.”

“And you quit questioning?” I remember how skeptical I felt at what sounded like a pat answer to me. It reminded me of something our pastor might say.

“Not at all,” she assures me. “I still question tons of things. Only now I take my questions directly to God.”

“And I suppose He answers you?”

She kind of smiles then. “Well, not in words exactly. Sometimes its through the Bible or people or just life in general. But the answers usually come eventually. Oh, not for everything, of course. I guess there are some things we just have to wait on.”

But she got me thinking. And I had to admit that there seemed to be something missing in my life. Kind
of like a hole or a gap or a vacuum. I couldn't even really describe it. But maybe it was religion.

But that didn't mean it had to be the Christian religion. To be honest, I felt like I'd had my fill of that. So I decided to check out my own Korean roots. And after I looked into Chundoism (which turned out to be a more modem Korean religion that actually had some roots in Christianity), I decided to go a little further back in time. And that's when I began to investigate Buddhism.