Yolk

by Mary H.K. Choi

I pocket the credit card and fake ID. It’s funny how no one ever notices that the names don’t match. And that the photo isn’t my face. Partly it’s that they don’t expect criminals to look like me, an Asian art student dressed in black, but it also confirms a horrible suspicion: that no one’s ever looking at me. Really looking.

I love it all so hard, but just as much, I love that the guys at my deli know my coffee order. That I know to avoid an empty subway car as confidently as the closed mussel shell in a bowl.

June smacks my chest with the back of her hand, laughing. I turn in surprise. “Mom would be so fucking pissed that you thought of her because of that old-ass woman.” I shove her back, smiling. It’s true.

I unlock the metal gate at my apartment. My knees throb from the boots and my back aches from sucking in my stomach. I can’t wait to get out of these fucking jeans. All I want to do is peel off this costume, step into the shower, eat the world, and go to bed. Something tells me to listen for noise before I insert my keys. Quiet.

She says costume because shes pretending to be someone she isnt

“How do you feel about your sister?”

It’s always felt like pressing into a bruise to talk about June. It’s why I don’t do it. I shrug. “I just wish she liked me.”

“No.” Mari shakes her head sharply and rolls her eyes. “When they were in high school.” “Oh.” I smile, unsure about the appropriate reaction. “That’s cool.”

Me asf sometimes idk how to react to things people tell me

I drink it, looking over the rim of the mug at the wreckage. The emptied tub of ice cream, the crinkly bag of Life cinnamon crumbs, scattered Cheerios, and the square crusts of Jeremy’s oat bread where I’ve bitten out the pillowy centers.

Eating disorder, starves herself then binges

My phone comes alive in my hand as I take another sip of coffee. It’s June. Calling. This time I do something crazy and pick up. My sister asks me to come over later. I find myself wanting to go.

I also hadn’t known that certain cancers are overfunded, like breast cancer and leukemia, whereas esophageal and uterine cancers are underfunded. Even the scariest diseases aren’t immune to branding.

I fantasize about getting her a really nice checkerboard wood kind. The ultra-expensive Williams Sonoma one that lasts forever because it’s made of the butt ends of wood blocks.

Having sisters makes these scenes so much more real and sweet

I want her to tell me the day, the hour, and the exact minute when she’ll die. And I want her to go away so I can start preparing for it now with zero new memories because I have enough that I’ll miss.

We never had a plan to forestall June’s death. Only mine. Maybe she shouldn’t hide from me, either. Just in case. The subway jolts to a stop.

I overheard Mom telling her on the phone a few weeks later. I closed the door to my room, face burning. But the next time June was home, I left the bath towel for her on the bed, the one we always fought over because it was the biggest and softest. And I reminded Mom to make rice without red beans because June hates them.

Eyes hardened, hand aloft in a swat, she’s about as menacing as a Labradoodle in a tam-o’-shanter. “What the fuck was that?” June continues to glare. “Look, I’m not hitting a bitch with vagina cancer,” I protest as she smacks me again, harder and harder, this time laughing.

June smooths out the sheet. “Jesus, haven’t you heard of a mattress protector? This is a year old.” “Two and a half.” She glares at me. “I just hope these cum stains are yours.” I drag her onto the stain and when she falls, she laughs so hard it makes me laugh. “I hate you,” I tell her.

“We’re fine,” says June. “We just thought it would be nice for you to see us.” “Oh, okay.” Mom’s wearing a mint-green golf shirt with what appears to be a fake Ralph Lauren logo. The embroidered polo player’s missing his horse. “Not that I can see you,” she reiterates. “Do you need me to send a lamp?”

On long car rides as kids, she’d twist, practically strangling herself with the seat belt as she hurled her legs over mine to stretch out and sleep. It never seemed particularly comfortable. It was more the principle of it, that she could because she was older. I bite my lip to stop from smiling. June really is such an asshole.

This reminds me of soph and em and its making me cry

I can’t deal. I can’t feel my face. As I frantically hit the elevator button, heart speed-bagging the back of my throat, I realize that she never once said she was sorry. And that, despite it all, I left my ID for her on purpose. Just in case she needs it.

I’m too terrified to ask if Mom’s dead baby was called Ji-young, but I’m convinced of it. I know it’s not unheard of that people name their younger children after dead ones. Everything about my existence feels like a costume. And losing my name to June makes this wobbly feeling stronger.

I stare at the train tracks and imagine myself falling. I want to text Jeremy but don’t. Instead I buy a pack of gum at the newsstand, pop all the pieces into my mouth, and chew big. I really need someone to look at me.

I try not to meet anyone’s eyes. Everyone else’s need to be seen is embarrassing to me because I so badly need the same.