Claire Ahn - I Guess I Live Here Now

New Yorkers throw things away too easily. Sitting on the soccer field on 52nd Street and 11th Avenue, Im painting patterns on a small wooden stool I snagged from the block my mom and I live on, a few avenues east of here, and the turf makes the underside of my thighs feel prickly. Im wiping sweat from my forehead every few seconds so it doesnt drip onto the wet paint. My favorite oversized yellow sunflower-print dress is potentially ruined, with multiple smears of blue paint now dotting the hem.

Boo! Sophia pushes me lightly on the shoulders, causing me to almost knock my stool over.

I grip my stool in surprise. Soph! You cant scare someone whos already so nervous.

Youll live. Here, my best friend says, handing me a slice of pizza half falling off a paper plate. She looks especially cute todayher curly black hair tied up in massive space buns and dressed in a bright blue crop top with high-waisted white jeans. I got the goods, she says mischievously.

I inhale the cheesy aroma of 99 Cent Express Pizza and gratefully take the plate from her. Thanks, I say between bites. Soph, Im sweating. I lift up my pizza-holding arm and fan my armpit with my free hand.

Youre sweating because its the end of August, she replies. Cool stool. Another street find?

I ignore her question because I cant stop thinking about what were about to do. Are you sure this is a good idea? What if we get caught? Can you go to jail for this? The thought of my mom bailing me out raises goose bumps on my skin despite the beating sun. We have perfect records both in school and, well, criminally, as in zero offenses, and Im not sure junior year is the time to taint them.

Soph massages my shoulder like shes giving me a pep talk. Mel, if you walk down Tenth Avenue, all you smell is weed. No one gives. Itll be fine, trust me, she says confidently. We said wed try to be a little bit more badass this year, right?

Yeah, like a sip of alcohol, Soph, not potentially getting thrown in jail, I whisper, so no undercover cops hear us.

Soph raises her eyebrows at me and shrugs. If youve changed your mind, say the word and I wont force you. But mind you, it was your idea to be rebellious, she says in air quotes.

I sigh and look at her for a long time. Fine, but not here. I stand up, wrestling the dry part of my stool into my tote bag.

As we walk an avenue west, toward 12th, I feel sweat dripping down my neck and tie my hair up in a big bun with my favorite scrunchie. Were going to be juniors. I feel sentimental just stating that. In just two years, were going to be in colleges possibly outside of New York, although I cant imagine living anywhere but here.

I feel so old, Soph says. Oh yeah, what were you saying about your parents yesterday? On the phone, something about your dad not coming this month. You hung up so quickly.

Sorry, I freaked out thinking my mom mightve heard me. I shrug. Something feels off. My parents talk maybe once a month, if that, but these past two weeks, shes been on the phone with him almost every day. And she closes her door then comes out all tense afterward. Maybe its all in my head, but I doubt it.

I think Im more impressed they can talk that often from opposite ends of the world.

I shrug. Maybe its strange to other people, but Ive never known another living situation. My dad lives in Seoul, and while Ive only been there once, he visits us in New York City exactly three times a yearno more, no less. To me, Korea is what I see on TV during my moms Korean-drama marathons: boys with over-the-top romantic gestures who really need to stop grabbing girls arms, and girls who never sweat no matter how fast they run.

Why dont you just ask?

I chew on my lip in thought. I dont know. Feels weird.

Well, are you sad your dad didnt come this month? she adds.

No, not really. My mom said hes busy right now in Seoul. Maybe hell come visit in September. When my dad comes, hes usually here for just one week, so after sixteen years, I still dont fully feel comfortable around him, the way I do with my mom; hes the most formal and stern person I know, the quintessential Strict Asian Parent, a real-life K-drama figure.

When we reach 12th Avenue, we find a secluded corner and Sophia carefully draws a small white paper stick from her pocket. You ready? she asks me. She lifts it up to show me. My cousin rolled it up for us already.

My phone vibrates in the pocket of my tote bag and I jump about a foot, making my stool fall out.

God, Mel, you need to calm down. Youre going to get us caught, Soph chides me.

I open my phone and its my mom.

UMMA

taco bell for dinner tonight?

My thumbs nervously text back a thumbs-up emoji, and I put my phone away. My mom has her Scary Mother side but is usually a very chill person and my other best friend. Not every daughter has a mom that loves getting Taco Bell takeout as much as she does, and I know Im lucky. I feel a twinge of guilt and give Soph a concerned look, which she reads instantly.

Youre not backing out now, right?

No, Im not. We exchange grins and she pulls out a lighteralso from her cousin. I look at her trying to light the joint and stifle my laughter.

Struggling there?

She pulls a face at me. Shut up, I need to focus. Sweat beads on her forehead as she concentrates on the lighter, applying the flame very carefully to only the edge of the joint. Then you have to rotate it around slowly, so it burns evenly.

Look whos a pro.

My cousin taught me, and Google and YouTube. Apparently, if its burnt unevenly, might as well not even smoke it. She holds up her finished product. Ta-da! A work of art, Soph says, pointing to the tip of the burning joint.

What happens if it burns unevenly? I ask, leaning in to take a closer look.