The last time I saw you was summer of ‘19. You had dark hair then, and it was down to your waist, straight like a ribbon. Your features were slight and elongated. I only found out you were Korean after you left –– your mom cried as she spelled your name in Hangul to translate for the posters.
We rode our bikes at midnight but it was still buggy outside. Soft perfume from your temples swam lazily, and the mosquitoes liked it. You complained the whole time about your legs getting bitten, so we switched shirts. The long sleeves covered your burns.
“Tammy,” you complained, “I think it’s an Asian thing. They bite me to the core. I’ve got little scars on my legs from picking at them, I learned to make an X with my fingernail from Uncle.”
Your uncle stayed with you after your dad died. We didn’t talk about him a lot.
“JJ, stop whining. We’ll bike up fast. Once we’re around this pond and up to the outlook, we’ll be good.”
You smiled at me, taking one hand off the handle to reach your ankle and itch.
By the time we reached the top of the hill, it was 1 am. Your phone was dying and I didn’t bring mine. I had snuck out in a hurry but your Mom didn’t care, at least that’s what you said. The stars hung from strings above us; we were so far away from the city, so distant from all that light pollution. Three stars were lined up perfectly and I pointed to them.
“Look! Orion!”
“Where?” you squinted. “I don’t see it.”
“The three in the middle is his belt. Look, to the right there’s his bow and his left hand is pointing up.”
“Oh,” your eyes widened, “Look what I found, Tammy!”
“What?”
You smiled. “The Big Spoon!”
“The Big Dipper?”
“Spoon,” you sighed and I knew you had said it on purpose to make me laugh.
“There’s the North Star,” I pointed. “That one, the brightest.”
You looked up, your black irises shining. “God, Tammy. That star is God.”
“God’s not real, JJ.”
“Of course God’s real, look at that. Who else could that be?”
When you first left, I looked for you everywhere. I texted you frantically, piles of blue speech bubbles piling atop the next. After three weeks I stopped; they were all pathetic.
“JJ, where are you?” “Where did you go? Where are you? JJ, please come home.” They evolved into long paragraphs: sentiments and inside jokes, little details about my day. “Mr. Kean gave us another history project only three days before it’s supposed to be due. I’m writing mine on Kristallnacht. I don’t know much about it...” And then: “JJ, do you remember when we went night swimming? Summer ‘19. What a crazy summer.”
“JJ, come back.”
“JJ, I miss you.”
I don’t know. Maybe your phone died.
Your Uncle came to my house after a month. That was when I met your mother too. I was interrogated about our adventures, how close we were, where we went, and whom we knew. Did we do drugs? Meet up with boys Any parties? Who did you talk to online?
I was completely honest –– anything to find you. But months passed, the police gave up, then your family did. Your mom still invited me over almost every week and she cooked bibimbap for me. We sat in silent solidarity, never mentioning your name.
Uncle moved out.
“Nothing left for me here,” he said, his arms straining around a brown box. I nodded. Me too.
But everything was left unopened and I never asked you why. I should have, JJ, why you burnt yourself or why you never wanted to be touched. We talked about other things on our bikes, over bonfires, on the grass in late spring. I knew every word you scrawled on your red Converse in Sharpie, every eyeliner you stole from the pharmacy. You were a collector, always had been, and I was the archivist.
JJ, you became another collection in my archive. It was easier to bury you in my brain than to let you live. You were dead. I assumed it all along, but after one year went by, I finally decided.
I washed the burns out for you and it was the only time we ever mentioned it. On your left forearm, a giant patch of yellow crust. I could see where the layers of skin were seared away.
You were sitting in the bathtub, looking at the faucet. I ran the water lukewarm. You kept your bra and underwear on, and they darkened as you sunk.
I put my hand on your back. We had gotten Neosporin and hydrogen peroxide from the town’s pharmacy, none of which was sufficient. Part of your arm was charred so I ran my washcloth over the black, trying to scrub it off. It wouldn’t bleed and my stomach floated.
It was two days old, and had blistered badly. They were gigantic; I didn’t want to pop them. I slathered the cream onto your arm and wrapped it loosely with old gauze.
You looked at me as I treated your burns. I looked away.
“Tammy,” you whispered. “Are you crying?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“It’s just steam from the bath.”
You became silent, staring at my hands as they worked.
“Nobody’s ever done that.”
“What, JJ?”
“Cried for me.”
My palms shook. I looked up, and there you were. You reached up to my face with your good arm. I felt your fingertips along my jaw. You kissed me.
“Why did you do that?”
“I wanted to.”
“I don’t get it.”
The ends of your hair floated in the bath like a mermaid’s. You rested your head on the side of the tub and looked straight at me. “Thank you.”
We never talked about the kiss. We would touch each other and that alone was flirtatious. Your knee, pressing into mine, holding my hand as we walked out for ice cream, bumping hips as we danced... Intimacy was welcomed but not sought out.
Sometimes you would shrink back if it came without warning. Your eyes would flicker and that killed me. I became good at touching you only when you expected it, as too much of our friendship was spontaneous. You needed it both ways.
Orion’s bow pointed to you, summer of 2021. I took Megan up to our spot and kissed while we rested in the grass. An airplane flickered through the sky, but it was so dark I couldn’t see the tail. Maybe it was God. I told that to Meg.
“You believe in God?”
“No.”
“Then why is that God? Babe, it’s just an airplane.”
“Then how could it be so bright?”
“I don’t know, airplanes are bright.” She flipped onto her stomach and lowered herself over me. We kissed again and she slipped her hand into my pants.
Your pain was never supposed to be mine, JJ. I gave it back, looking at the airplane with Megan. She found it silly, but she loved me.
I thought I saw you once. I was going to the South to visit my dad. I drove instead of taking the plane, and I stopped at a convenience store to pee.
The girl had her mask on. I could tell she was Asian. Her hair was bleach blonde and shoulder length, her hands steady as she pumped the gas. I walked past her and used the bathroom. Inside the dingy stall, my mind shook —I was almost sure. I ran out into the light as the girl stepped into the car and drove away. I could barely tell by the glare, but her legs were scattered with mosquito bites.
I looked to the sky and Orion was pointing, the Big Spoon smiled, the North Star was following you. God shone onto the gas-station girl, laughing at how love becomes a stranger.
Mira Goldstein Mira Goldstein is an 18-year-old true crime addict, Korean Jew, and word archivist. When she's not writing poetry under her covers, Mira can be seen at the Paradise Rock Club listening to indie artists, cross-legged on the MBTA, or on an obscure adventure in Boston with her girlfriend.
