2. Chapter Two
The hill’s awful in summer. My sneakers slap against the concrete steps that curve up through the neighborhood, and by the time I reach the top sweat drips down the back of my neck, soaking into my collar. I swipe my arm across my face but it doesn’t help much, just smears the wet around.
Mom and Dad are both at work. Dad’s at the factory until six, and Mom picked up an extra shift at the restaurant because Mrs. Lim called in sick again.
The fridge at home has half a jar of kimchi and some eggs that smell kinda funny.
My stomach’s been growling for a long time.
The Parks are gone too, off visiting family somewhere for the week, so there’s no chance of Mrs. Park sneaking me a snack through the basement window like she sometimes does when Mom’s running late.
So I climb the hill because I know Ryowoon will be at the top of it. He’s always at the top of it.
The playground comes into view past the last row of houses, empty and baking under the sun. The metal slide looks like it’s glowing, and I know that if you touch it right now you’ll burn your hand off. Nobody else is dumb enough to be out here in this kind of heat. Just us, I guess.
“Ryowoon!” I yell, cupping my hands around my mouth. “Yah, Cha Ryowoon!”
Nothing. Just the creak of the swings moving a little in the breeze, empty seats swaying like ghosts are sitting in them.
I walk closer, kicking at a pebble, and walk closer to the tunnel underneath the slide, the plastic one shaped like a dome.
It’s dark in there even with the sun so bright everywhere else.
I crouch down and peer inside, and my heart does a little jump when I see feet. Bare feet, dirty on the bottom, toes curled up.
“Ryowoon?”
The feet twitch. Then the rest of him shifts, he groans as he sits up too fast and smacks his head on the top of the tunnel, cursing the way his dad curses, using a word I know I’m not supposed to say even though I’ve heard it plenty of times when I’m around him.
“Ow, shit—” He blinks at me, squinting against the light.
His hair’s sticking up in every direction, damp against his forehead.
His shirt’s soaked through, stuck to his ribs, and I can count them a little too easily through the fabric.
His face is red from the heat, and his eyes look glassy and unfocused for a second before they focus on me.
“What are you doing under there?” I ask. “It’s like two-hundred degrees.”
“Sleeping,” he mutters.
“In a tunnel?”
“S’dark. And cooler than my room.” He rubs at his eyes with the back of his hand.
I frown, looking at him harder now that he’s crawled out into the light. The skin around his eye looks all purple and swollen, and when he lifts his arm to rub at his face I see more dark purple splotches scattered down his skin like paint splatters.
“Yah, Cha Ryowoon.” I say, indignant. “Did Uncle beat you up again?”
“Shut up, Seyeon.” He doesn’t look at me as shoves himself toward the edge of the tunnel and slides out onto the sand, wincing a little when his feet push down. He blinks up at me, squinting against the sun. “What took you so long anyway?”
I shrug, kicking at the sand with the toe of my sneaker. “I was waiting to see if Mrs. Yoon was gonna set up her cart. Thought maybe I could get her to give me a fishcake if I promised my mom and dad would pay her back later.” I sigh. “But it’s probably too hot. She’s not coming out.”
Ryowoon looks at me for a second. “Are you hungry?”
I nod automatically, because I am, my stomach’s been squeezing tightly for the last hour.
He frowns, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “Maybe if we go down to the market, we can find something.”
He starts pushing himself up, wobbly on his feet, and I reach down without really thinking and grab his arm to help haul him upright.
He doesn’t say thanks, but he doesn’t shake me off either, and that’s how I know it’s fine.
We start off down the hill together, his steps a little uneven, leaning to one side, and I slow down so he can keep up.
We stick to the shade where we can find it, ducking along the sides of buildings, past Mr. Han’s gate with the mean dog that barks at everybody, past the laundry hanging limply in the heat. At the cross street Ryowoon stops walking all of a sudden and points.
“Look.”
He means the convenience store on the corner, the one with the striped awning that looks kind of old. The big freezer cooler sits right up near the front, right by the rolled-up metal doors, half tucked out of view if you’re standing at the register.
“Do you want a popsicle?” he asks.
I look at him in confusion. “But we don’t got any money.”
He shrugs. “If we’re quick maybe we can just take some.”
“That’s not nice,” I say, because it’s not. My mom would smack the back of my head if she heard me even thinking about it.
Ryowoon turns and glares at me. “Are you hungry or not?”
I don’t say anything else after that. I just follow him.
We creep along the side of the building together, Ryowoon in front like always, peeking around the corner first before he waves me forward.
Through the front I can see Mrs. Nam sitting on her stool behind the counter, the little television bolted up near the ceiling flickering with a drama filled with shouting and crying, the sound crackling with static every few seconds.
She has her chin propped in her hand, eyes locked on the screen.
Ryowoon motions for me to follow and ducks low, weaving between the outside shelves stacked with bags of shrimp chips and boxes of instant noodles until we reach the freezer tucked near the edge of the building.
It’s one of those chest ones, the kind you have to push the sliding glass top open to reach inside, and it’s got a layer of frost built up along the seams that makes little crystal patterns.
We both go up on our toes to see over the edge.
Ryowoon puts both hands on the top and pushes, the door creaking open with a soft hiss of cold air that spills out over both our faces, and for a second I forget all about being scared because it feels so good against my hot skin.
He reaches inside, fingers curling around the handle of a popsicle box.
“What do you rascals think you’re doing?”
Ryowoon jerks back so fast he smacks his elbow against the metal edge of the freezer, and I don’t even have time to yelp before strong fingers clamp down on my ear and twist.
“OW!” I screech, my hand flying up to grab at Mrs. Nam’s wrist, but she’s got Ryowoon by the other ear too, both of us bent at weird angles.
“Little brats,” she mutters, and her voice doesn’t sound like the sweet grandma voice she uses when she’s ringing up candy for the older kids. “Thought you could just help yourselves to my popsicles, did you? Sneaking around like a couple of alley cats.”
Ryowoon yanks, trying to twist free, his bare feet digging into the gravel as he pulls against her grip with his whole body. “Let go, ajumma!”
“I should march both of you straight to your parents this instant,” she says, ignoring him completely, “and let them deal with you.”
The tears start almost instantly, hot and fast, blurring everything into smudges of color. “Please don’t,” I blurt in a wobbly voice. “Please, we were just hungry, I swear, my mom and dad are both at work and there’s nothing in the fridge, and Ryowoon’s—”
I stop myself before I say anything about his dad, some instinct in me stronger than the fear telling me not to say it, not here, not to a stranger. But Mrs. Nam isn’t even looking at me anymore.
Her fingers loosen on my ear, just slightly, her face tilting toward Ryowoon instead. I follow her gaze and my stomach drops all over again when I realize what she’s staring at. The bruise around his eye, dark and puffy in the daylight, worse than I even noticed back at the tunnel.
“You’re Sebeom and Sungkyu’s boys, aren’t you?” she asks.
I nod fast, sniffling, wiping snot on the back of my hand. Ryowoon just glares at her, jaw tight, refusing to answer, refusing to even blink.
Mrs. Nam’s mouth presses into a thin line. She looks between the two of us for a long moment, thoughts shifting behind her eyes. Finally she lets go of both our ears at once, and I stumble back, rubbing at the sore spot, sniffling.
“Come with me,” she says, already turning, her rubber sandals slapping against the pavement as she heads toward the side of the building.
Ryowoon and I look at each other. I mouth are we in trouble and he just shrugs, though his hands are curled into fists like he’s ready to bolt if this turns into something worse.
But neither of us runs. We just follow her through a little gate at the side of the store that leads into a small courtyard behind it, her house attached right there like a little burrow tucked behind the shop.
She sits us down on the low wooden platform beside a table with folding legs.
The courtyard smells like garlic and sesame oil, a wind chime clinking softly against the side of the house.
Ryowoon and I exchange another nervous glance, both of us sitting stiff and still, waiting for the punishment that’s coming.
A few minutes pass. Mrs. Nam disappears back into the house, and I hear the clatter of dishes, the sound of a burner clicking on. My stomach growls loudly and Ryowoon snorts, the first sound he’s made since we sat down.
Then she comes back out carrying a tray loaded with more food than I’ve seen in weeks.
Two bowls of rice, steaming. Grilled fish, the skin crispy and golden.
A little dish of boiled eggs, kimchi, spinach with sesame seeds glistening on top.
She sets it down in front of us without a word, then straightens, wiping her hands on her apron, watching us with her arms crossed.
“Eat,” she says.