Chapter 9 #2
“Cool,” Gavin says, taking it from her and adding it to our basket.
We thank her and move to the next aisle, where Gavin loads his basket with wild mushrooms and Parmigiano-Reggiano and…
is that truffle oil? And he calls me delusional.
Who does he expect is going to cook for us, Mom?
I’m about to call him out for his unrealistic expectations when I get distracted by a revolving stand of cheap flip-flops that I get overexcited about.
I don’t wait to purchase them before tearing the tag off a pair and slipping them on.
The state of the ground from the house to the convenience store, crumbling or cracked on every square inch, must be the worst I’ve stepped on.
And as someone who’s gone to several fashion shoots in third-world countries, I have stepped on some of the most uncultivated ground.
By now my blisters have blisters. As soon as my arches melt into the synthetic rubber soles, I sigh. Sweet relief.
On the counter I place the price tag of the flip-flops along with the items Gavin unloads from our basket.
We nod politely at the cashier. He grunts, presumably a hello, before he starts adding the items into an old-timey cash register that’s a type of old that’s historical.
I wonder if it’s in workable condition. Sure enough, the keys on the machine manually move a tiny plate that stamps the corresponding symbol of each key onto the paper receipt.
Between the cashier’s mannerisms, which are as ill-fashioned as his attire, and the clickety-clack of a machine that belongs in a museum, I’m not sure where I am or when I am. What’s next? Ma has dysentery?
“That’ll be thirty-nine even.” His gruff voice startles us. Then he cranks a wheel that pushes the paper out, and he tears a piece off and hands it to us. Gavin is just as mesmerized as I am, staring at the receipt in his hand.
“What are you waiting for?” I say to Gavin when he doesn’t move. “Pay the guy.”
Gavin puts a hand in his pocket. A split second later, he tenses up. After patting down his other pockets, he deflates. “Yeah, I left my wallet at home,” he confirms. “Elena.” He stares at me expectantly.
My head jerks back, leveling my gaze with his. “Elena what?” I balk. “Don’t tell me you expect me to pay? Weren’t you the one who said you could manage buying the groceries without me?”
His nostrils flare. “Weren’t you the one bragging about having all this money?” he counters while doing an imaginary hair flip.
I don’t know what’s more insulting—the accusation that this is somehow my fault, or that he honestly thinks that I’m so thirsty for attention that I’d stoop to something as basic as hair-flipping. What’s next, twirling chewing gum around my finger?
“All of my money’s in a bank account, remember? And I haven’t carried a wallet in years. Don’t you have a debit card or something? Since you’re so responsible?” I seethe.
“Elena,” he says through gritted teeth, “all of that is on Apple Pay, and we can’t use our phones anymore, remember?” He points a finger to his head, as if to remind me I have a brain and should consider using it sometimes.
It’s about now that I notice the cashier of dubious intentions watching us with intense curiosity.
He’s got that type of lethal combination of mullet and haphazard denim on denim that says he was born with a suspended driver’s license.
With his series of reckless decisions so bold, I can only guess what he’s capable of.
And if I’m not mistaken, has his glare become more menacing?
Gavin waits expectantly, as if the problem is going to solve itself, which, considering how he’s gotten through life so far, tracks.
So, once again, it’s up to me to get us out of this mess.
As a natural problem-solver, I’ve been able to get out of a lot of things.
Speeding tickets, late fees, indecent proposals from wealthy shipping magnates…
but insufficient funds? I’m in uncharted territory here.
In my panic, images of us washing pots and pans to pay off our debt flash before my eyes.
“I can spot you if you don’t have any cash with you.” The girl from earlier appears from behind us, and just in time. I was beginning to think indentured servitude was our only option.
“Thank you,” I say, at the same time that Gavin says, “No, we can’t impose.”
She pauses, unsure of how to proceed. When we don’t move, she makes an executive decision and hands the cashier two twenty-dollar bills.
“Thanks, Hal,” she says when she receives her change.
Despite her cheerful disposition, he gives her the same grunt in response, making me realize the guy’s attitude toward us is not personal but one of general disgruntlement.
And it’s no wonder. If I lived here—permanently, that is—I’d be perpetually angry too.
“Thanks for spotting us,” Gavin says before we leave the store.
“No problem.” She hesitates. “I don’t think I’ve met you before. I’m Callie,” she says.
“Gavin.” He sticks his hand out awkwardly, then retracts it to wave at her.
I recoil from secondhand embarrassment. I’ve always known Gavin was socially awkward.
At birthday parties, he was the kid who sat off to the side, removed from the rest of the group when they sang “Happy Birthday.” And he was the birthday kid.
But I thought he’d grown out of that. At least that’s what it seemed like in all the articles I googled about him.
“You seem about my age. Are you in high school? Or college?”
“High school or college?” Then, inexplicably, he begins coughing. His brain seems to be malfunctioning. Right. Time to do damage control.
“Hi, Callie. It’s nice to meet you. I’m Gavin’s sister, Elena.” I swoop in and flash my disarming smile.
Callie’s expression changes. “Elena?” Her eyes light up in a way I’m more than familiar with by now. “You must be—”
“Yes, I am.” I nod, smiling modestly. I knew Mr. Ahn was wrong. It was only a matter of time before someone would recognize me here. And if I had to put my money on anyone, it would be someone like Callie. She’s cute in that no-makeup makeup type of way.
“That’s what I thought.” Callie seems delighted.
Now that I’m getting a proper look, I notice she’s about our age too. I could even see us becoming friends. That is, if we were staying long enough to make friends. I give a subtle I-told-you-so look to Gavin, who seems even more uncomfortable than before, which I didn’t think was possible.
“I usually know everyone here, so I know when new people move into the town.”
I blink at her. New people? As in, people she’s never met before? I deflate. So, Callie doesn’t recognize me.
“Or maybe I’m wrong. Have you been here long?” she asks, noticing the shift in my expression.
Without thinking, I say, “Yes,” at the same time that Gavin says, “No.” It feels like we’ve been here an eternity.
“What we mean to say is, we arrived here yesterday,” Gavin says after a subtle but intense glance at me.
“But we’re not staying very long,” I add, recovering from the unexpected anonymity.
“Oh, I see,” Callie says, seeming to buy our clumsy explanation. “That’s a shame. It would’ve been nice to have more people my age around here.”
I’m struck by her sincerity, since she obviously doesn’t know who we are. Why should Callie care if nobodies like us stick around?
Gavin clears his throat. “How can we pay you back?”
“And I promise, we’re not poor or anything. We left our wallets at home, I swear.” Without the recognition, I feel the need to make the distinction.
Gavin side-eyes me.
“No, I believe you.” Callie takes notice of my ensemble. “You wouldn’t be able to find something as nice as this in any store around here.”
“Thanks.” I manage a weak smile. At least this outfit wasn’t a total waste.
“You can find me here.” Callie motions to the convenience store. “I come to the store to restock the shelves every morning around this time.”
“We’ll make sure to run into you here to pay you back before we leave,” Gavin says.
“No problem.” Callie smiles. “Hope to see you around.”
After we say our goodbyes, we head back down the dirt road with our groceries in tow.
As we walk I stare at my pedicured toes in the cheap shoes.
The burgundy polish clashing against the neon-pink flamingo-print flip-flops is like me in this town.
I don’t belong here. Because Callie wasn’t the only person who didn’t recognize me. No one did.
“What’s wrong?” Gavin says when we pass by another couple on the other side of the road.
“Who says anything’s wrong?” I say defensively.
“You haven’t talked about that person’s hairstyle or this person’s clothes in a minute,” he says.
“I’m just surprised that no one recognized us.
” The incident with Hal reminded me of how much I have to lose if I can’t recover from this setback.
Without my reputation, I have zero credibility.
“I mean, considering how much It’s Ok! has been in the news lately,” I add so he can’t accuse me of being a narcissist.
“No one wants to be associated with the George Bronstein scandal,” he says, buying my explanation. “It should be a relief to know people here don’t recognize us.”
That’s easy for Gavin to say. He receives validation in many forms, whereas I only get it in one.
“In fact, we should count ourselves lucky. If it weren’t for Callie, the cashier could have called the authorities on us when we didn’t have money to pay for our things. Then our cover would’ve surely been blown. We’re not supposed to be drawing attention to ourselves, remember?”
“Not like you handled yourself any better. Your inability to answer her very basic question about yourself was so sus, I’d be surprised if she doesn’t rush off to google our names on a wired computer somewhere.”
“I panicked. I didn’t know if I should tell her I was in college, because then she’d ask me where, and I wouldn’t know what to tell her without giving up specific information about us.”
I guess his explanation makes sense. Sort of. Telling anyone here that he attends USC, a school with almost fifty thousand students, would not have outed us in any way. But as much as Gavin can’t understand my thought process, I can’t begin to understand his.
Excerpt
“I work seven days a week. Anyone who works five days a week is missing out on two days of progress.”
The American Dream Achieved: The Story of Dale Ok, Founder of It’s Ok!
Transcript
60 Minutes Interview with Gloria Ok
Interviewer: I would think his farming background would be very relevant to his business work ethic. Is that not true?
Gloria: Well, yes. Working on a farm is incredibly hard work.
Interviewer: Then why isn’t it mentioned in his autobiography?
Gloria: Dale doesn’t like to talk about his humble beginnings.
Interviewer: Really? Why not?
Gloria: Korea has a hierarchical society, and status matters. For many of us, what kind of family you were born into determines your future. Doctors become doctors. Scholars become scholars. And farmers become farmers.
Interviewer: But how does that affect him as a businessman in the US?
Gloria: It shouldn’t. But it matters to Dale.