I drafted this novel about 20 years ago and recently unearthed and revised it in light of the renewed specter of anti-Asian hate in the United States. While one of its two main plots is a first-time romance, its other contains some dark themes, including racism, violence and suicide. So if you're hoping for a lighthearted sexy romp, this isn't the story you're looking for. If you came here because you like other stories I've written, thank you! I hope you'll like this one too. -- Van
Copyright © 2021 to the author.
**
As usual, Luke had overslept. His mother didn't try to hide her vexation with him as she shook him awake. As the boy stirred, a book slid off his bed and tumbled to the floor.
"Get up!" she said. "It's the first day of school and you don't want to be late."
Luke opened his eyes and blinked at the blurry face above him. He groped for his glasses on the nightstand and put them on. His mother's frown sharpened into focus.
"Huh?"
"First day of school," she repeated. "Get up. You're late."
It took him a moment to comprehend her words. When they sank in, he sat straight up and stared at his mother in panic.
"Ohmygod!" he said. "I forgot."
The lines between his mother's eyebrows deepened.
"Watch your language," she barked. "Now get up and take a shower and I'll fix you something to eat on your way to school."
She spun around on one tiny foot and stalked into the hallway.
"Such a lazy son," he heard her say as her heels clacked down the stairs. "Why did God give me such a lazy boy?"
Years ago, such words would have, and did, hurt the sensitive boy. He never meant to irritate his parents, but seemed to have a special talent for doing just that. At the family's restaurant in Queens, they had learned he had no skill at all with the cash register. He nearly sliced off a finger with a cleaver as a cook tried to teach him food prep. And last spring, the night before a gunman robbed his father of hundreds of dollars, he had dropped a tray on a family of five. He still cringed at the memory. The dishes had not broken, but the food had missed no one. His parents had had to replace the food, pay for their dry cleaning and apologize until the family left.
"He looks a little skinny to be hefting trays anyway," the man had said, trying to help. The remark had reminded his mother of the strong, coordinated son who had died.
"Go to the kitchen," she ordered as Luke bent forward to help dab the Kung Pao chicken from the woman's blouse.
For the rest of the night, he had washed dishes, the one task he did well. He had done nothing since but wash dishes and fill rice boxes for takeout, at least until his parents sold their thriving restaurant to start again, here in Pennsylvania.
Luke turned on the shower and clambered in, clipping one foot on the edge of the tub as he often did. He winced, then put aside his thoughts of pain and restaurant failure to consider the coming day.
Those thoughts held equally little pleasure. At his last school, Luke had not fit in with the other kids. All he wanted was peace and freedom to read his books and write his stories. From the first day, other kids had taunted, teased and punched him when they could. They soaked his precious books in the toilet. A couple had stolen his lunch money. Only when his younger brother stepped in did he get any respite, and that never lasted.
As water sluiced down his body, Luke wondered why he and Mark had turned out so differently. Like John, Mark had no trouble taking care of himself -- but then, Mark worked out and did martial arts, something Luke had tried exactly once and quit. He hated the kicks and punches, and couldn't bring himself to hit anyone else. Besides that, his weak right leg made him a target, something the other kids in the class had figured out within two minutes.
But underneath his muscles, Mark had an inner toughness too, just like John. No one dared to call him names. And although he was smart, earned good grades and played in the band, no one called him a geek and a loser.
Luke sighed. He would never be as good as his brothers -- the dead or the living.
He turned off the water, dried himself, and walked back to his room. He could hear his brother, sister and mother talking downstairs and that reminded him to hurry. He put on the first shirt and pants he found and slipped on socks and sneakers. He ran his fingers through his thick hair. It seemed damp, but it would dry on the way to school. When it came down to it, he didn't really care how it looked anyway.
He clomped down the stairs and stepped into the kitchen in time to see Mark and Mary carry their plates to the sink. Too late for breakfast, he thought wistfully. Then his mother turned and held out a thick sandwich wrapped in a paper towel.
"Don't be late," she warned him as he took it from her. Then she surprised him by standing on her toes to kiss his cheek. He couldn't remember the last time she had done that. She stood back and looked up at her eldest son.
"It's your senior year. You have an opportunity to start over this year. Nobody knows you. I want you to promise to try hard. Be diligent and make your father and me proud of you."
As he gaped at her, her face changed, just a little, and he saw in her eyes that she didn't expect this year to be any different either.
"I will," he said, trying to sound sincere. "I will."
**
Mary's middle school started later than the high school, so Mark and Luke left without her. Neither spoke as they strode down the sidewalk, Luke because the ham and bread in his mouth prevented speech and Mark because he normally said nothing if he had nothing to say. The people who saw them figured Mark for the older boy. His muscular body contrasted sharply with Luke's skinny, shorter frame. Mark walked with the easy confidence of an athlete, while Luke hunched his shoulders and stared at the ground, almost as if apologizing for his existence.
In the last couple of years, Mark had tried a few times to coach Luke on how to walk and stand so that bullies would not single him out as a target, but Luke seemed to slide naturally and inevitably into a slouch the second he left the house.
"People won't respect you if you hunch over like Igor in
Frankenstein
," Mark had said during their last such session. "You've got to look like someone not to mess with, and that means not wandering around in a daze all the time. You walk like a tourist, not a New Yorker. And you're too skinny. Why don't you work out with me and put some muscle on your bones? I could use a workout partner."
The thought of spending more than two seconds in a sweaty, smelly weight room had filled Luke with horror, and he had glanced down at his leg.
"Don't even start with me about that," Mark had snapped. "Three months of working out with me and it would be just as strong as the other one." He shook his head. "I just don't get it. Why do you want to look like a victim?"
"It shouldn't matter what I look like," Luke had argued. "People should respect my rights anyway."
