You Are Here, page 10
It came out twisted.
Natalie knew exactly how he felt. And, remembering the look she’d shared with the girl in the food court earlier, she knew how much that little moment of connection had meant to her. Catching the boy’s eye, Natalie tugged down her mask to offer him her own painful smile. An I’ve-been-there-too smile. A you’re-not-alone smile.
The corner of his mouth twitched. After a second, he turned back to his teammates.
Ruefully, she covered her face again.
“Hmm . . .” Beside her, Beth was studying the menu. “So do you think your mom will help you with your Nezuko cosplay?”
“I think so.” Natalie nodded. She didn’t know exactly how she’d bring it up, and she didn’t know how it was going to go. Maybe Bachan would be there. Maybe they’d open up some of her old steamer trunks, pulling out the brightly patterned cloth, still smelling of mothballs. Maybe the kimono would be too big for her. Maybe her steps in her mom’s geta would be unsteady. But she was hopeful (a warm, fluttering feeling), and she had plenty of time to learn. “I’m going to ask her when I get home.”
8
Henry
There were only two people from Henry Yun’s family traveling to New Jersey that day, and it would have been unremarkable that Henry himself was the calmer of the two, if not for the fact that he was twelve years old, and the other person was his father. Henry hadn’t always been the more calm one, but then again, Henry’s parents hadn’t always been divorced. “The only constant in life is change,” Henry’s mom liked to say. Henry knew that was true, but he also knew being true didn’t stop it from being a giant pain in the butt.
The thing Henry had heard back in the security line didn’t help, either. It’d been several minutes since Henry’s ears had been assailed by the sound of someone talking in an insultingly fake Asian accent, real “ching chong” kind of stuff. And even though he and his dad had put their belts and shoes on the conveyor belt and were about to walk through the body scanner, he was still pretty agitated about it. To be fair, everyone in the airport was pretty agitated by then, since whatever had gone on in the security line had been bad enough to make TSA shut one line down entirely.
“You hanging in there, buddy?” asked James Yun, the less calm of the two Yuns (by just a little bit, to be fair), as they put their shoes back on and started toward their gate. James was an academic librarian who often went to conferences—he served on committees and the like—and so spent a lot of time in airports. The committee work sounded like the most boring thing on the planet to Henry, but he liked that his dad always brought home a bunch of free books that hadn’t been officially published yet—advanced promotional copies, the publishers called them. Henry liked books more than almost anything, except maybe cats and donuts.
What Henry didn’t like was his dad getting upset, so he was relieved to be the only one who’d noticed what had happened back at security—it would have set his dad off, for sure, and Henry wasn’t about to tell him what he’d missed—but he also felt a little ashamed about not having done anything, because wasn’t racism something people should stop? But what if “people” meant him, Henry, who’d never met a fight he wasn’t willing to run away from? His aikido sensei always talked about walking away from fights unless they were unavoidable. That made sense to Henry, but he’d actually started taking aikido classes to learn how to fight, because bullies were everywhere, and he was tired of being afraid of them, and anyway, he wasn’t even sure there was a connection between keeping secrets from his dad and walking away from a fight in the first place.
Ugh. Life is complicated.
“I’m okay, Dad—I bet this trip’s less stressful than when I was four and we flew to Washington, DC, right?” Henry said. It was a blatant attempt to change the subject, but Henry knew it would probably work, because that kind of thing usually worked on Henry when other people did it to him.
“You remember that, do you?” James knew full well that Henry didn’t remember, but Henry understood the question was part of his dad’s routine when telling the story, and he didn’t mind. It was an entertaining story, after all.
“No, Dad. I was four.”
“Right, too young to remember—you had a meltdown every time we had to leave one part of the airport and go to another one,” James said, looking around and sweeping his hand up in an arc as they passed a crowded gate and entered an empty stretch of the concourse with no seats at all.
“Totally kicking and screaming, right?” Henry said. James laughed, and Henry relaxed a little. Taking care of his dad was a lot of work.
“Kicking and screaming while lying on your back, even,” James said.
Henry snorted in amusement.
“Scarred for life,” James said. “Your mom and I, that is.”
Henry very obviously and visibly rolled his eyes, even though the joke was honestly really good for a dad joke.
“Hey, don’t roll your eyes at me,” James said, making an equally exaggerated scowl.
Henry stared at his dad with an extremely fixed, bug-eyed expression. He started to veer into the flow of foot traffic coming the other way, and James gently course-corrected Henry with a hand on his shoulder.
“This is when your mom would tell us we’re both acting like cartoon characters,” James said. “Have I told you about the time my friend Brian’s mother said that to me?”
“Yep,” Henry said. “Were you acting like a cartoon character?”
“I’m sure I was trying to act friendly and whatnot, like a neurotypical person. I was teaching myself how to do it, but I wasn’t very good at it yet. I’m glad you’ve had better help with that.”
They both lapsed into silence and stayed that way as they walked through the airport, noting the locations of the bathrooms, the food court, and—Henry was excited to see—a bookstore. Both of them would feel better once they’d actually found the gate they’d be leaving from, but Henry would be sure to come back to the bookstore once they’d done so. As they walked past, Henry heard someone inside talking like they were on a phone.
“Yeah, the flight’s been delayed indefinitely. . . . I know, right? Who brings that kind of stuff through security? Foreigners . . .”
And just like that, Henry’s excitement fizzled out.
“Dad.”
“Yes, big boy?”
“Do you ever get scared?”
James looked sideways at Henry, who was looking at his own hands and noticing the contrast in texture between his wrinkly palms and the smooth fuzziness of the carpet as his feet moved across it.
“Now, that is an interesting question,” James said. “Scared of what, exactly?”
Henry shrugged. “I don’t know. People, I guess.”
James thought about it for a minute, fiddling with the black wire of his glasses frame. “Yes,” he said, at last. “Not always for the same reasons, but sometimes, yes.”
Henry nodded. “Me too.”
“Henry, did something happen that I missed?”
Yes, but I’m not telling you what it was, and ugh.
“No,” Henry said, wincing internally. “I mean, not just now, but . . .”
James wasn’t a perfect parent, and he and Henry both knew it, but one thing he did know how to do was wait patiently while Henry figured out what to say—and whether he actually wanted to say it. They walked on, catching the occasional glimpse of a plane or a baggage truck outside the terminal windows.
“There’s a lot of mean people,” Henry said finally, unable to articulate something better.
“In the world, you mean,” James said.
“In the world, at school, probably in this airport . . .”
“I’m sorry,” James said unhelpfully. “Best to let it go.”
Henry gave his dad a stink eye look that he sometimes used for comic effect, although not this time. “I hate feeling scared, Dad.”
“I do, too, big boy. It’s not a good feeling.”
Henry sighed. “People are the worst,” he said.
“Sometimes.”
“And people are confusing.”
“All the time, yes,” James said with a very restrained smile.
“I know it’s an autistic thing, but some autistic things suck,” Henry said, suddenly feeling tired.
“I’m sorry, kiddo.”
They reached their gate, found an empty row of seats, and sat down, carefully arranging their bags on the seats on either side of them, like a layer of insulation against other travelers. The big digital sign at the check-in desk was showing their flight information, but the only word that really mattered right then was “delayed.” James went over to talk with the gate agent and came back shaking his head.
“Sorry, buddy, they don’t actually know when our flight will take off—the airport’s a total mess right now.”
“Yay for us,” Henry said.
They sat for a few minutes, recovering from the noisy walk across the airport and thinking, and Henry leaned sideways and rested his head against his dad’s arm, glad that at least they were together.
“Is Halmoni going to be weird about the autistic thing?” Henry asked, voicing his biggest worry about their trip.
“About you being autistic? Or about me being autistic?”
“About anyone being autistic, Dad. But yeah, especially me, now that I’ve been diagnosed. And I guess you, too, since you’ve been diagnosed as well.”
James smiled. “I am her son, and that part’s relevant. Weird in what way?”
“I don’t know, in, like, telling me not to stim because it’ll bring bad luck, or talking about all her friends and their kids, none of whom I’ve ever met, or whatever. When she does that, I feel like I’m gonna fall into a coma.”
James shrugged. “She probably will talk about them, but that’s not just your halmoni, buddy. That’s every grandparent, parent, aunt, and uncle on the planet. Everyone’s older relatives talk about their friends, and their friends’ kids, and other people you don’t know or care about, whether anyone in the room’s autistic or not.”
“Great.”
“Also, I don’t think your halmoni will be weird because you’re autistic and everyone knows it now,” he said. “I think it’s because she’s autistic but doesn’t know it, and wouldn’t ever talk about it if she did.”
Henry took a moment to let that wind through his brain as he stared at the concourse, where an uneven stream of people kept rushing by, much like the thoughts in his head. A girl marched past, looking very purposeful, followed by a younger boy with a unicorn sticker on his face.
“Come on, Ezzie,” the girl called back to the boy, who hurried to catch up and let the girl take his hand. They vanished around a corner. Cool sticker, Henry absently thought before turning back to his father.
“What do you think would happen if I asked Halmoni if she’s autistic, too?” he said.
James snorted. “Oh, she’d say no—like I said, she has no idea. You gotta remember your halmoni’s Korean, like, Korean Korean, not Korean American. A lot of Koreans from her generation aren’t super enlightened about neurodivergence. Or therapy. Or anything about mental health.”
“Ugh,” Henry said. “So, I’m too autistic and I’m not Korean enough, because I’m autistic and talk about it?”
James snorted again. “Knock it off with the ‘too autistic’ and ‘not Korean enough.’ You’re the perfect amount of both.”
Henry considered that for a moment. “Is there an imperfect amount of either?”
“No.”
Henry nodded. “Okay. Can we stop talking about this and go to the bookstore already?”
“Of course! We can’t be in an airport and not go to the airport bookstore. What kind of father do you think I am?”
Henry cupped his chin in his fingers, being certain to really exaggerate it, so his dad would know he was kidding. “Hmm . . . an autistic dad, a Korean dad—”
“Korean American,” James said. “Just plain Korean is different, you know.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Henry said, gathering his bags. “Okay, a Korean American dad, a librarian dad, a dad who yells at everyone, then apologizes to everyone over and over and over and over—”
“Aw, now you’re just being mean,” James said, using an exaggerated sad voice, so Henry would know he was kidding.
“Well, you raised me,” Henry said, leading his father to the bookstore.
Henry and James, who were both very methodical about shopping for books, got down to business when they entered the store. First, they looked at the books, all the books, then the magazines, then back to the books, where they made their top five picks, which they narrowed down to three, then two, then one. Henry disliked how small the selection of books was—especially the kids’ books—in comparison to non-airport bookstores, but it was a lot better than having no bookstore at all.
“There are never any books about autistic Korean characters,” Henry said as they waited in line. He grabbed a chocolate bar from the display in front of the cash registers. “Can I get one of these?”
“My Father of the Year campaign will take a hit if I let you eat that, but since we’re on vacation, I’ll make an exception,” James said. “And you can’t expect too much from an airport bookstore, especially since there are never any books about autistic Korean characters, even in the really good bookstores.”
“Somebody needs to write those,” Henry said.
“Maybe that’ll be you, Henry.”
“Hmm. Maybe.” After taking a few minutes to process the idea, Henry asked, “Do you really think I could, Dad?”
“Do what?” James said, looking up from the copy of Crying in H Mart he’d decided to buy, despite already having a copy at home. (Henry did a survey of all of his dad’s books every year or so, just to know what his future reading options were.)
“Write a book about an autistic Korean American character.”
“Yes,” James said as he gently closed his book, “I do. I think that with time and practice, you could do that very well.”
They left the bookstore feeling recharged, partly because of the new books, partly because the store had been relatively empty—which was always less stressful for both father and son—and partly because Henry was very absorbed by the idea of writing a book starring an autistic Korean American character, a book in which someone like him got to be the hero.
I could write a story about an aikido student, he thought. An autistic, Korean American aikido student who likes cats and donuts. Or maybe who has a cat named Donut.
The prospect of food brightened their moods further, and after successfully acquiring a sausage-and-mushroom pizza, they felt downright cheerful.
“Hey, look, other Asian people,” Henry said as they miraculously scored an empty booth at the end of the food court near a coffee stand. He pointed at two girls, one bigger than the other, standing in line at McDonald’s. “Safety in numbers, right, Dad?”
“Not necessarily,” James said.
“Geez, Dad, you’re such an Eeyore.” Henry slid into his seat in the booth.
“An Eeyore?” James said, rubbing his head with both hands, making his already messy hair stand up in spiky clumps. “I don’t think so! And why is a crabby donkey from a book written by a British white man the first thing you can think of to call me?”
“It’s not the first thing, it’s just the most accurate thing,” Henry said with a toothy grin. “Even British white men get it right sometimes—at least until I write my own book and come up with something better to call you.”
James laughed. “You know who’s not Korean enough?” he said.
“You,” Henry said.
“That’s right, me, because no self-respecting Korean dad would accept this kind of insolence from his son!”
“Yes, they would. Korean American dads aren’t a monolith, you know.”
“I am a Korean American dad,” James said.
“And look at you being all not a monolith and everything!”
This time they both laughed.
“You’re a great kid, Henry. I’m lucky to be your father.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
They stopped talking to tend to the serious business of finishing the pizza.
As James chewed his final bite, Henry carefully scraped up the last glob of cheese and toppings in the middle of the empty box, thinking about what kind of pizza his aikido-practicing character would prefer, and whether Donut the cat would try to eat any of the pizza or not.
“Hey, I need to use the bathroom,” James said, tossing their used napkins into the pizza box and closing it.
“Can I meet you at the gate?” Henry said, thinking it might be nice to have a few minutes to himself.
“Sure, I’ll be right there.”
As Henry started back toward the gate, imagining reasons why his character might be at an airport, two boys—one who looked about Henry’s age, and one who was definitely younger—came out of an electronics store up ahead, saw Henry, and started snickering as they approached.
Henry felt his body stiffen up, and suddenly it felt awkward just to be walking. At the same time, his mind went into overdrive. Henry’s brain was always full of thoughts, not just one thought, and not just some thoughts, but all the thoughts at once, all the time. So, in that moment, he saw in his mind all the bullies who’d ever come at him, and he felt every molecule of humiliation he associated with always backing away from them. And then a new thought entered his mind: My autistic aikido character wouldn’t back away.
The taller boy said something behind his hand to the shorter boy, and as they passed by, he veered to the side and walked right at Henry, who knew from experience that the boy’s intent was to drive his shoulder right into Henry’s and knock him off-balance.
Henry saw it coming, and a cluster of thoughts popped into his head—not chaotically, as they so often did, but softly, calmly, and powerfully. He thought about his sensei teaching an exercise about not letting people get in your way:
