Chapter 10 Break A Leg #3
“Um. Kind of. It’s complicated.” Jiwon evaded, glancing out the window, and I could immediately tell that it was a sensitive topic.
“Oh no.” I sighed in disappointment. “Was it unrequited? Did he not like you back?”
“If only it were that simple. Eighth grade is complicated. Dad says it always is,” she quoted, shaking her head.
“Tell me about them, even if it’s just a little bit. Come on, Jiwonie!” I pleaded, suddenly overcome by curiosity at the thought of a boy lovely enough to captivate the Jiwon Kwon, who I looked up to more than life at the time.
“Oh God, no!” She blushed, her ivory cheeks tinting rose. “Forget it…”
“Oh, so you’re the only one who gets to ask questions around here?” I challenged.
“If I tell you, you have to swear to never bring it up again so help me God—”
“I swear!” I agreed, and we pinkie-promised.
“You know you can’t ever break this, yeah? Pinkie promises are as good as law,” she clarified, and I rolled my eyes.
“Yeah, yeah, sure. Go on now.”
“Well… they’re a grade above me…” she began.
“Yes…”
“And they’re the smartest person in their whole year.” She explained, then suddenly turned timid. “But…”
“What is it?”
“But I don’t think I can be with them. Maybe it’s better this all stays a fantasy.” She sighed, her face turning somber.
“Hey, don’t be so pessimistic, Jiwon, come on.” I attempted to encourage her, but it was no use. “Sometimes things have an odd way of aligning in our favor.”
“I don’t think—”
“What I think is that you want to keep this crush a secret because you’re aware of the fact that once you voice it aloud, everything becomes ten times more real.
And reality is the archnemesis of fantasy—this huge wrecking ball that destroys your sacred sanctuary of make-believe.
” I pondered, and for a moment she simply stared back at me in disbelief, then shrugged it off.
“Always so philosophical, Yesoh.” Jiwon sighed, biting her nervous nails. “Maybe it’s all in my head…”
“My mother always said that the best things usually are,” I concluded. “In our heads.”
Just then I caught a glimpse of Beck and Wynter outside helping Bae construct her little lemonade stand she’d managed to talk them into making—because according to her, they always did it in the movies, so in Bae’s terms it was rather fitting.
I watched as the harsh summer gusts knocked over the banner of the stand, painted by the entrepreneur herself in backward lettering.
At first it seemed like a lost cause, and I was certain Bae would soon burst into tears, but then Beck and Wynter shared a knowing glance.
Wynter swooped Bae up into his arms, lifted her onto his shoulders, and started running around as Beck chased them across the lawn.
“I’m gonna get you!” Beck played along, and any trace of sadness Bae might’ve felt dissolved as she erupted into giggles, all of them out of breath. “Get back here! Two against one isn’t fair!”
Their raven curls carried whispers of white, as always, and were tousled by the impatient air.
In that moment, they almost appeared unearthly—like fae folk who’d snuck onto earth, like elusive sprites who got bored of the hidden world and somehow bled into ours.
They were light on their feet and easy on the eyes, almost as if it were an act orchestrated to distract you from the fact that their hearts were heavy.
“Come on, let’s go make sandwiches and surprise everyone,” Jiwon suggested.
“Yeah, sure. Can I invite Syd? She’s probably bored of watching Jax and Cahya play Dungeons and Dragons all afternoon.” I proposed, and Jiwon smiled warmly.
“No, you can leave her locked in March House watching the boys geek out till her ears bleed,” Jiwon teased as we made our way downstairs, turning the kitchen lights on.
“Okay, ouch…” I grumbled as she tossed me a pack of ham from the fridge and I caught it like a quarterback.
“Dude, I’m kidding. Of course you can. The door’s always open—you know that.” Jiwon corrected, laying out twelve slices of whole-wheat bread on six plates. “Tell her to bring the Pretty Little Liars box-set DVDs with her, or she’s not getting one of my Michelin-star-worthy ham and cheese toasties.”
“Noted…” I nodded slowly, then proceeded to ring Syd and invite her over to the Kwons’.
We all sat around the television watching reruns of Pretty Little Liars.
Usually whenever I did this with my brothers—be it watching Twilight, Aquamarine, or any girly film—they’d poke fun at me and suggest we watch Transformers or something.
But Wynter never once complained. He never once showed any ounce of disapproval.
He was just happy his sisters were happy. He just enjoyed whatever they did.
He was seated at the table behind us all, having cleared out a section of the kitchen counter as he worked on some of his holiday homework. The scene in front of him was scattered with papers and mathematical instruments—an overwhelming amount of work for a 10th grader.
“I wish I was like Alison DiLaurentis…” Bae sighed, flopping down on the carpet as she blew a strand away from her face.
“You want to go missing?” Beck deadpanned in confusion. “Odd aspiration there, Bae Bee.”
“No, but I think it’s pretty cool when people want to remember you. And never forget.” Bae hummed. “Also, stop calling me that. I’ll tell Dad.”
“Oh, come on, we must bring back that iconic nickname—Bae Bee!” Jiwon teased, and she and Beck made simultaneous buzzing sounds. I chuckled.
“You guys never take me seriously. The only person who ever did was—” Bae grumbled, then glanced at the credenza that held all the photographs of their mother. She swallowed her words like bitter coffee.
There was a beat of silence, and I watched the shift in Beck’s eyes—contorting from pained to empathetic. She tapped her lap, and Bae hopped on as her older sister wrapped her arms around her frame. A rare sign of affection from her—she was never the touchy type.
“Hey,” Beck cooed. “I’m sorry. We were only teasing.”
“Yeah, Bae-Bee, don’t take it to heart.” Jiwon smiled, and Bae tossed a pillow at her.
“Come on, let us have this!”
“Fine. It’s not as bad as ‘Baen of our existence’ was.” Bae accepted her fate. Even still, Beck didn’t let go of her. She never did.
I stood up and took my plate to the kitchen to wash it—a pitiful excuse to watch Wynter from the corner of my eye in all his quiet comfort. I scrubbed the plate a thousand times as he ran around the frames of my mind. He was gorgeous. Always has been and always will be.
“Leave them,” he spoke plainly, without glancing up.
“What?”
“The dishes. You guys made the food; I’ll wash them.” He persisted, taking his pencil between his pillowy lips, brows furrowing in concentration before circling the right answer.
“Always just, aren’t you?” I teased, and he smiled, shaking his head.
“Mostly,” he responded. “It’s the right thing to do, isn’t it?”
“Your sisters are lucky to have you. You know that, right?” I reminded him, in case he didn’t know.
“I would argue it’s quite the contrary,” he said, finally glancing up at me. “I’m lucky to have them.”
“I see.” I smiled, glancing down. “What are you working on?”
“Parallel lines,” he explained, and I walked around the table to glimpse the page. “See—parallel lines are lines that are close but under no circumstances do they ever intersect. Never meet. Never touch.”
“It makes you wonder,” I contemplated. “What’s the point of being in such close proximity if they can never actually merge together?”
“Maybe sometimes just being is enough,” he proposed, leaning back. “Maybe they just want to be next to each other. I don’t know.”
“That’s kind of like asymptotes in calculus,” I recalled. “You’re in AP, right?”
“Was there any other option?” he mused, then chuckled. “I’m kidding. Mostly.”
“Well, yeah. Asymptotes are lines that a curve approaches but never actually touches, no matter how far it goes. They represent boundaries that are infinitely close yet never intersect.” I explained, taking a seat beside him at the table.
“Someone could compose poetry out of these math terms. Maybe make it more interesting.” He suggested.
“Go ahead, Shakespeare. Blow me away,” I challenged.
“They were like asymptotes—drawn toward each other by some invisible force, yet bound by a fate that kept them apart. No matter how close they came, how much they curved toward one another, they would never truly meet. Their connection was a line approaching infinity—always almost, but never quite. A love defined by the ache of what could never be.” He recited dramatically, and I laughed, clapping my hands.
“Bravo!” I cheered. “What in the heavens above do you even know about love, Wynter Kwon?”
“In all transparency,” he said, “nothing at all. And I think I’m okay with that. I don’t think my purpose on earth has anything to do with romantic pursuits.”
“Then what is it?” I wondered.
“What is what?”
“Your purpose here.”
“To stay on the ice as long as I can,” he explained. “As long as I can.”
“Can I ask you something?” I wondered, glancing up at the streak of white in his hair.
“Yes.”
“Why do you and the girls all have white stripes in your hair?” I asked, curiosity bubbling over. He smiled almost as if he knew I’d been dying to ask.
“What answer would you like?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe that you’re all magic!” I proposed, and his eyes glistened at my words. “Are you magic?”
“I don’t think so… but maybe if that was what you wanted, it could be true somehow.” He pondered. “Do you want the truth?”
“Sure.”
“It’s a condition called poliosis. It’s genetic,” he explained.
“Are you sick?” I gasped, confusion overwhelming me, and he laughed so hard tears collected in his eyes.
“What?”
“Of course we’re not ill, Yesoh. It’s just a condition where pigment is absent in the hair—and sometimes the underlying skin—creating a natural streak.” He clarified, and my cheeks burned in embarrassment.
“Oh.” I sighed in relief. “Sorry.”
“No, it’s alright. You can ask whatever you want,” he nodded. Then paused. “Mostly.”
“Do you think that in every lifetime you have lots of sisters?” I asked.
“Yes,” he agreed. “Do you think that in every lifetime you have lots of brothers?”
“Hopefully not!” I chuckled. “Do you think that in every lifetime you’re a figure skater?”
He paused, then glanced at the credenza, swallowing hard.
“I think that in every lifetime, I’m on thin ice,” he concluded.
But deep down in my heart, I was praying to every God I knew existed that in every lifetime, Mr. Kwon decided to move away from Nottingham and buy the little house on Clementine Street—that in every lifetime, there was some way, somehow, that led me right to Wynter.