Hello Stranger(2)

It was a good thing—and no surprise—that my call went straight to his voicemail. It meant I could make my next call. To somebody who did care.

“What!” my friend Sue shouted as soon as the words were out. “That’s huge!” She stretched out the U for what felt like a full minute. Huuuuuuuuuuuuuuuge.

And I just let myself enjoy it.

“The grand prize is ten thousand dollars,” I added when she was done.

“Oh my god,” she said. “Even huger.”

“And guess what else?”

“What?”

“The big show—the juried show where they pick the winner—is here. In Houston.”

“I thought it was Miami this year.”

“That was last year.”

“So you don’t even have to travel!” Sue said.

“Which is perfect! Because I can’t afford to!”

“It’s meant to be!”

“But is it too meant to be? Is it so in my favor, it’ll jinx me?”

“There’s no such thing as too meant to be,” Sue said. Then, as if there’d been a question, she said, “Anyway, it’s settled.”

“What’s settled?”

“We have to throw a party!” she said. Ever the extreme extrovert.

“A party?” I said, in a meek attempt at resistance.

“A party! A party!” Sue practically sang into the phone. “You’ve been tragically failing at life for years and years! We have to celebrate!”

Tragically failing at life seemed a bit harsh.

But fine. She wasn’t wrong.

“When?” I said, already dreading all the cleaning I’d have to do.

“Tonight!”

It was already close to sunset. “I can’t throw a—” I started, but before I even got to “party tonight,” it was decided.

“We’ll do it on your rooftop. You needed a housewarming party, anyway.”

“It’s not a house,” I corrected. “It’s a hovel.”

“A hovelwarming, then,” Sue went on, taking it in stride.

“Won’t your parents get mad?” I asked. Mr. and Mrs. Kim owned the building—and technically I wasn’t even supposed to be living there.

“Not if it’s a party for you.”

Sue, whose Korean given name, Soo Hyun, had been slightly Americanized by an immigration official, had also disappointed her parents by becoming an art major in college—which was how we’d bonded—although her parents were too softhearted to stay mad for long. Eventually they’d kind of adopted me, and they liked to tease Sue by calling me their favorite child.

All to say—this party was happening.

This was our Oscar and Felix dynamic. Sue always optimistically, energetically, and joyfully searched out ways for us to extrovert. And I always resisted. And then grudgingly gave in.

“You can’t organize a party in two hours,” I protested.

“Challenge accepted,” Sue said. Then she added, “I’ve already sent the group text.”

But I still kept protesting, even after I’d lost. “My place isn’t fit for a party. It’s not even fit for me.”

Sue wasn’t going to fight me on that. I was sleeping on a Murphy bed I’d found in the large trash. But she was also not brooking protests. “We’ll all stay outside. It’s fine. You can finally hang those bulb lights. We’ll invite everybody awesome. All you have to do is get some wine.”

“I can’t afford wine.”

But Sue wasn’t liking my attitude. “How many people entered the first round?” she demanded.

“Two thousand,” I said, already giving in.

“How many finalists are there?”

“Ten,” I answered.

“Exactly,” Sue said. “You’ve already annihilated one thousand nine hundred and ninety competitors.” She paused for impact, then snapped her fingers as she said, “What’s another nine?”

“How is that relevant?” I asked.

“You’re about to win ten thousand dollars. You can afford one bottle of wine.”



* * *



AND SO SUE set about making a last-minute party happen.

She invited all our art-major friends—with the exception of my ex-boyfriend, Ezra—and some of her art-teacher buddies, and her longtime boyfriend, Witt—not an artist: a business guy who’d been the captain of his track team in college. Sue’s parents approved of him, even though he wasn’t Korean, because he was sweet to her—and also because he made a good living and so, as her dad put it, she could be “a starving artist without having to starve.”

Sue said—lovingly—that Witt could be our token jock.

My job was to put on the vintage pink party dress with appliquéd flowers that had once been my mother’s and that I wore only on very, very special occasions … and then to go off in search of the most wine I could get with a twenty-dollar bill.

I lived in the old, warehouse-y part of downtown, and the only grocery store within walking distance had been there since the 1970s—a cross between a bodega and a five-and-dime. There was fresh fruit up front, and old-time R&B played on the sound system, and Marie, the ever-present owner, sat by the register. She always wore bright-patterned caftans that lit up her warm brown skin, and she called everybody baby.