Fireworks Page 2

  “We’re fine, thank you,” Stephanie answers for me as I fish for the house key.

  Ester giggles nervously behind me as I unlock the door.

  One by one we shuffle in. I take off my shoes and dump my backpack onto the floor, grateful for the relief. Soon the three of us are chilling on the living room sofa, our legs stretched out on the coffee table. No one else is home to correct our bad manners.

  “Are you always going to be this shy around Mrs. Xu?” I ask Ester.

  Shy is the last word I’d use to describe someone who pushes the boundaries of our school dress code daily with fake-leather miniskirts that upset all the conservative moms who drive by in their minivans.

  “Can you blame me? It’s unbelievable!” Ester exclaims, throwing up her arms. “To think her son, the kid you grew up with, is the Kite.”

  “We know. It’s not like you haven’t said this before,” Stephanie says, disappearing into the kitchen to pour herself a glass of water. “Isn’t Kite your least favorite member?”

  “I don’t have a least favorite,” Ester says, aghast at the thought. “Wayne is my bias. I like everyone else equally.”

  So, as I said, Karnival consists of five members.

  There’s O-Kei, one of two main vocalists, born in Incheon, South Korea, and twenty years old as of this January, making him the oldest member and by default the group leader.

  Yoosung is the other main vocalist and the second oldest, born in Seoul and a resident of Australia for six years before returning to his home country to pursue music.

  Then we have Xiaoming, the rapper and best dancer of the group (depending on who you ask). He hails from Taiwan and learned Korean for three years before his debut. He turned nineteen last month, two weeks before Wayne.

  Wayne is a sub vocalist and the best dancer (also depending on who you ask). Fans refer to him as a “spicy maple cookie” because he seems intimidating on the outside but is sweet and soft on the inside. Being Korean Canadian has something to do with it, too.

  Finally, there’s Kite.

  Kite is many things. He’s the youngest member, at eighteen years old. He’s a sub vocalist and a gifted pianist. He’s an old classmate, an old friend, and my former next-door neighbor who is very much talked about to this day despite his absence.

  “Does Mrs. Xu know anything about Karnival doing a world tour?” Ester asks as she tries and fails to sound uninterested. “Is Kite visiting anytime soon? If he is, maybe he could bring Wayne, and I could get a selfie—”

  I reach for the pillow on the nearby recliner and bop Ester over the head with it, in time for her stomach to start growling. Mine does the same. I regret not taking Mrs. Xu up on her offer of scallion pancakes.

  Stephanie returns with a glass of water and a take-out menu. “Let’s order pizza.”

  “A splendid idea.” I whip my phone out from my back pocket. “Tell me what toppings you want or forever hold your peace.”

  “I want pineapple and bacon with a drizzle of Wayne,” Ester says, wriggling her brows, “if you catch my drift. Yum yum.”

  I bop Ester once more.

  At night when I’m dreaming

  I see a phantom image of you, pale and shimmering

  Your dress is like a cape, weightless and dark as midnight

  We leave everything behind and fly to a new world

  Lyrics from “Lights Fantastic,” cowritten by O-Kei, Kite, and industry hitmaker Kang Jihyun, translated from Korean.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to take the night off?” Aunt Mei asks for the third time.

  “Trust me. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be,” I assure her.

  Aunt Mei purses her lips, ready to ask the same question for the fourth time, until a group of guys in identical college sweatshirts file in through the front door. We greet them from behind the register: “Welcome to Dāngrán Bakery!”

  One guy acknowledges us with a small nod before picking up a tray and a pair of tongs from the self-service station near the entrance. Like many people before him, he lays a sheet of wax paper onto the tray and begins to peruse our selection of savory breads and pastries, limited at this hour of night. His friends come straight to the counter, bypassing all the carbohydrates to stare at the digital menu mounted above us that lists all the beverages we have to offer.

  After an intense study, one guy says, “Can I get two large taro milk teas?”

  Aunt Mei hands me a ticket and I get to work.

  Mom and Aunt Mei opened Dāngrán Bakery nearly a decade ago. It’s your typical Asian bakery that sells coffee and bubble tea, situated between a nail salon and a Vietnamese sandwich shop in a modest strip mall. Mom manages a small but loyal kitchen staff, and business has been strong since our grand opening. I occasionally help out when I’m not bogged down by school, club activities, and community service. Mom doesn’t like having me around too often; she thinks I should be at the movies, playing video games, or hanging out with my friends, doing “whatever it is teenage girls do.” I like to do all that, but I also like to help my family.

  Placing the two drinks into a to-go carrier, I slide the order across the counter into the customer’s waiting hands. Aunt Mei rings up more people, and then the bakery empties out.

  Aunt Mei checks the time. It’s almost eight-thirty.

  “We have a half hour until closing. You can go home if you want,” she offers.

  “There’s nothing to do at home. I might as well stay and clean,” I say.

  Tonight is prom night. Stephanie and Ester are unavailable until further notice. Since I elected not to attend, the only thing waiting for me at home is season one of My Hero Academia and more food and travel channels on YouTube.

  “Enchanted Forest” is this year’s prom theme. Our school reserved a banquet hall at the Hyatt. The venue is replete with lanterns, fairy glow jars, paper butterflies, topiary animals, and other faux foliage. Kellie outdid herself with the indoor gazebo she fashioned out of a patio tent, some string lights, and white tulle.

  Stephanie and Ester have been posting to Instagram all night long, from the moment they got ready at home to the moment they stepped onto the dance floor and realized dancing in heels isn’t as easy as it looks.

  Both are stunning in their evening gowns. Stephanie’s custom mermaid dress fits her perfectly. She could be mistaken for Le Ha Anh’s younger sister, with her plump red lips and long black hair pinned back with jeweled ornaments. Meanwhile, Ester, who wouldn’t be caught dead without her fishnets, is unrecognizable in a teal modern-day interpretation of a baro’t saya, with a titillating low-cut back and a detachable sheer shawl with pearl beadwork. I had no idea what a baro’t saya was until Ester explained it to me, and now I’m a teeny bit more educated in Philippine culture.

  Personally, I would’ve chosen a sapphire-blue or porcelain-white qipao. Aunt Mei would’ve bought me one if I’d gone to prom.

  Regret nips at me like a harmless bug bite. Being a reluctant dancer is a flimsy excuse for missing out on a once-in-a-lifetime experience, especially since Ester, who hates dolling herself up, ended up going and looking like a fairy-tale princess. I’m sure I would’ve enjoyed myself without the dancing, and it’s not as though I couldn’t afford to attend….

  I don’t know.

  Prom is meant to be special. It should live up to your expectations and elicit a smile when the nostalgia rolls in at your ten-year high school reunion. Stephanie’s been dreaming about this night for years, not because she wants it to be the most romantic night of her life, but because she wants to be the belle of the ball.

  She can be quite the show-off.

  Going to prom with someone I’m head over heels for would’ve made it worthwhile for me. But I’m not head over heels for anyone, which I guess is the ultimate reason I decided not to go. Kellie’s promposal was sweet, but if prom can’t b
e everything I want it to be, then I’m better off without it.

  Mom saunters through the kitchen doors, and I nearly mistake her for Aunt Mei. They are identical twins. They share the same oval face, the same wide nose and pointed chin. You have to learn their personalities to differentiate them. Aunt Mei is a sugar cookie, whereas Mom is more like a sweet pork bun coated in sharp cheddar.

  “Honey, go next door and buy me a banh mi,” Mom says, holding out a ten-dollar bill.

  “You know they’re not going to let us pay.” I head out without taking the money.

  We have this unspoken arrangement with the Vietnamese shop: they get a discount on all bakery purchases, and in return, we get free sandwiches.

  I step inside Pho King Delight and find Connie Xu at a corner table, her mouth a vacuum as she slurps a bowl of pho. Her oversized hoodie is tugged all the way down to her nose, but her neon yellow soccer cleats give her away.

  Meanwhile, Jason’s busy wiping tables. I sneak up from behind and tap him on the shoulder, ducking low when he looks back.

  He sighs. “Lulu, I know you’re there.”

  I stand to full height. “It was worth a try.”

  “Suffer the consequences!” Jason springs into action, locking me in a choke hold before I can sidestep him. He ruffles my hair with a sweaty palm as I squirm against him. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at prom?”

  “Not everyone goes to prom. Plenty of people I know stayed home. Now let go!”

  “No need to yell. I’ve got customers here,” Jason says, granting me my freedom. “Let me guess: two ham banh mis with extra jalapeños for Ms. Li?”

  “Yes, and slice them in half!” I say, loud enough for Jason to hear me as he disappears into the kitchen, leaving me with Connie.

  I’ve known Connie since she was in diapers, back when I was taller than her, however momentary it was. Only two years apart, we used to have playdates—hosting tea parties for our stuffed animals, molding candy sushi out of the worst things possible for our teeth, pretending the floor was lava—and then she discovered her love for soccer. After that, all her free time went toward perfecting her game and kicking mud into her opponent’s face. I never acquired a taste for mud; naturally we parted ways.

  “Hey,” I say with a timid wave.

  “Hey,” she says without looking up.

  Connie’s always been on the quiet side: hard to read and deliberate with her words. I suppose she has to be, now that her brother is famous.

  Kite’s real name is Kai Xu. He debuted under a stage name, like most members of Karnival. We attended the same preschool and were classmates until he dropped out of eighth grade to become a K-pop trainee with Dream Drop Media. The story of how he got scouted is one of luck. After clicking through a series of recommended videos, a talent agent stumbled across Kite’s YouTube channel—all thirteen videos of his piano renditions of hit singles by big K-pop artists—and invited him to audition in LA.

  An hour before his audition, Kite called me to ask if I would wish him good luck. His nerves were getting the best of him. He thought being Chinese American would disqualify him and that nobody would want someone who wasn’t already fluent in Korean, not even a small but reputable label like Dream Drop.

  Memorizing lyrics was one thing, but writing them was another, he said.

  Despite his self-doubt, he got a callback and moved to South Korea shortly after. He hasn’t been home since. His parents have gone to visit him twice in the last four years.

  It hurt to see him go.

  In elementary school, I liked having him around.

  Knowing he was around.

  Every weekday morning we waited at the same bus stop, and every weekday afternoon we walked home together. We went trick-or-treating together every Halloween, and at the end of the night we’d pool all our candy into one huge pile. I let him have his chocolate, and he let me have my fruity candy. Connie took whatever was left, in addition to her own stash.

  Kite was my go-to person whenever we had to pair up in class. And I was his. We refused to work with others. It got to the point where our fifth-grade teacher had to assign partners. He called us inseparable—that is, until he separated us.

  Kite and I spent less time together in middle school. He met new people, and so did I. Being neighbors saved our friendship from deteriorating altogether—long enough for Kite to say goodbye not only to me but to everyone and everything else he left behind for a new life in a new country.

  For what it’s worth, I was the first person he told when Dream Drop reached out to him. Calling me from LA before his audition must count for something.

  I wanted to keep in touch, but his training schedule and confidentiality agreement, which barred him from having any unauthorized social media presence, made coordinating a phone call nearly impossible. This was before you factored in the thirteen-hour time difference.

  We exchanged emails here and there the first year he was gone. He took a whole month to respond to one email I sent, and then he stopped responding altogether. Anything I hear about him now comes either from the internet or from Mrs. Xu.

  But I’m happy Kite is out there living his dream. He wanted to be a singer ever since fifth grade, when he discovered 2PM and SHINee. He was the one who introduced me to K-pop, proving to me that heaven does exist on earth.

  I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel a little special having a personal history with Kite. But it does have its drawbacks. Over the years people have befriended me in order to get close to Kite. They lost interest in me as soon as they realized I couldn’t fulfill their fantasies.

  Now imagine being Connie.

  There was an incident last year where the Xus were bombarded with fan mail for weeks on end after someone leaked Kite’s home address. The letters they received could fill a bathtub. The mailman started joking about how the Xus better send Connie to Hogwarts before a burly giant broke down their door. Nobody was laughing, however, when some fans stalked Connie on her way home and begged her to deliver their love letters to Kite.

  Dream Drop released a statement instructing fans to stop harassing Kite’s family, which didn’t deter the extreme ones, the sasaengs. It took multiple attempts to get the police to act, and when they did, it was because our neighbors filed a collective complaint about how teenage girls were setting up camp on our street and creating a public disturbance.

  “I heard that Lawrence asked you to prom.” Connie breaks the silence between us.

  I blink away my surprise. “He didn’t ask me, but I heard he wanted to.”

  “Looks like I dodged a bullet.” Connie slips some money onto the table and starts to leave. “See you later,” she says before going out the door.

  Jason emerges from the kitchen with a baguette sticking out of a paper bag.

  I cross my arms. “What took so long? Did you have to go out and buy jalapeños?”

  “Nope, just taking my sweet time, hoping you and Connie would find something to talk about,” he says with a sly grin.

  “You’re not playing matchmaker, are you? Just because I go both ways doesn’t—”

  “I just want to hear Connie’s voice once in a while. She eats here more than you, but it’s always your voice buzzing in my head. Kind of like a mosquito you can’t get rid of.”

  “Oh, please. As if anyone could get rid of wǒ.”

  “What does wǒ mean?”

  “It means me. This is elementary Chinese, Jason.”

  “Did I mention you’re like a mosquito I can’t get rid of?”

  * * *

  I help Mom and Aunt Mei close up, and we get home around ten. We share the banh mis and have them with some lemon balm tea.

  Before I call it a night, the doorbell rings. I find Ester outside in her baro’t saya, her updo about to come undone. She welcomes herself inside.

  “I tak
e it prom went well?” I follow Ester as she charges into my room and motions me to unbutton the clasp around her neck that holds her dress up.

  “Better than expected. Kellie won prom queen. You would’ve earned bragging rights if you’d been her date.” Ester lets her dress fall to her ankles. “Steph and I were going to drive down to Kellie’s beach house for prom weekend, but something came up.”

  I rummage through my closet for an extra pair of pajamas and set them aside on my vanity. I already know Ester plans to sleep over.

  “Damn, Ester.” I watch as she brushes her hair and helps herself to my makeup wipes. “Don’t leave me in suspense. What happened?”

  “So I’m in the bathroom, reapplying my mascara—”

  “I love the color, by the way.”

  “Me too! Who knew teal could look this sexy?” Not missing a beat, she picks up from where she left off. “So I’m in the bathroom, reapplying my mascara, getting ready to leave, when Steph asks if I heard any news about Karnival. I check Twitter, and people are going crazy about Kite setting his Instagram to private.”

  Only three members are on Instagram: Xiaoming, Wayne, and Kite. They opened their accounts back in February after getting approval from Dream Drop.

  “Do you know why?” I ask. “It wasn’t that long ago he opened an account.”

  “No one knows. I doubt it means anything good. Why open an account, only to make it private? Maybe someone hacked it? Ugh, this better be a publicity stunt and not the beginning of some scandal.”

  I grimace. “I hope you’re right—wait, did you bail on prom weekend just to tell me this? You could’ve told me over the phone.”

  Ester is stunned into silence. Common sense isn’t so common when you’re a Firework, apparently. “Well, it’s not like I wanted to stay at Kellie’s beach house that badly. I don’t really belong in Kellie’s circle anyway.”

  “Is Stephanie mad that you ditched her?”

  “Nope, she seemed relieved.”