I nodded and took out my practice books to show her. Uhmma glanced at the red covers and nodded.
Remember, Mina, Uhmma started lecturing, you do not have another chance. Your senior year is very important. Mrs. Kim says that Jonathon only got into Stanford after he got a perfect score on his SAT. Which reminds me, Mrs. Kim has more books for you. From that expensive preparation class Jonathon took last summer.
I quietly nodded, but grabbed the counter, forcing all my hatred into the wood instead of my face. Mrs. Kim could go to hell and take along her pimply son, Jonathon. I had grown to hate him as much as Uhmma idolized him.
Jonathon and I had known each other since we were little kids and our families had met at church. Uhmma looked up to Mrs. Kim and called her older sister. It seemed like all my life everything the Kims did was perfect. Their beautiful house, their successful restaurant, the respect people showed them at church. Even after Mr. Kim passed away from a heart attack, the way Mrs. Kim continued to run their Korean restaurant and the way Jonathon had stepped up like a responsible man, taking over the books and managing the employees, was all an example for me. This was how a good, respectable family lived.
Jonathon, unlike me, had time to himself. He managed the restaurant’s finances and helped on busy weekend nights, but he never had the daily grind because he could afford to hire people. I barely had enough time to make a few afterschool meetings for chorus and clubs, and that was only because Uhmma knew it looked good on college applications. I had long ago stopped asking to go out with school friends and they had stopped asking me to come along. Which was fine with Uhmma, since she thought my church friends were better. But even that had been taken from me. I could picture Jonathon with my old crowd of friends at church. The way he watched me as I walked across the parking lot, trying to avoid him. From the way the group whispered and cut their eyes at me, I knew he had told them things. About me. About us.
I put away my books, placed the receipts in a manila envelope and shoved it under the counter. I turned to Uhmma and asked with dread, Do I have to pick up the books from Mrs. Kim?
She frowned. I do not believe she has any time today. She is so busy helping Jonathon get ready for Stanford.
Uhmma wheeled a bin of dirty clothes toward the back of the store. Mina, she called out, bring me those shirts by the sewing machine.
Yes, Uhmma, I answered and leaned back against the counter in relief. I had been getting careless. I needed to make sure that all my numbers were in order before I left the register each day. I could just imagine how understanding Uhmma would be if I told her I had decided to pay myself for all the work I did. That I was saving it for something important. I picked up the shirts and took them to the back.
Suna stood to one side of the machines, waiting to help load. Uhmma began sorting the clothes, looking over every inch of the garments for stains. She dropped clothes into piles depending on which stain remover she would have to apply before the washing. Suna pulled a dress from the bin and dropped it into a pile beside Uhmma. She reached in for another item. Uhmma bent down and picked up the dress that Suna had just placed there and shook her head. She shoved Suna’s hands out of the way.
Go, Uhmma ordered. Go help Apa.
Suna nodded, her lower lip caught between her teeth.
Apa sat on his stool, methodically placing an ironed shirt on a stand with a hook, pulling the plastic wrap over the shirt and then holding on to the hanger as he pressed a foot pedal that lowered the stand with a loud bang. He handed the hanger to Suna, who hung it on a conveyor belt suspended from the ceiling. Apa lifted the stand back up and hung another shirt on the hook. With each bang, with each bend of his back, Apa exhaled loudly.
Suna placed a hand on Apa’s shoulder, speaking softly in Korean. Apa, let me do this.
Yah, Suna, I am not an old man yet, Apa said.
Let me sit down. My legs are tired, Suna lied.
Apa glanced at her face, worry creasing his forehead. Did you get enough sleep? You were on the couch again this morning, Suna-ya. I do not like you wandering around at night like that.
I cannot help it, Apa. It just happens in my sleep. Suna gingerly took his elbow, trying to help him up to his feet.
Just this time, Apa said and slowly unfurled his long frame, knees creaking, back straightening. He stood and smiled down at Suna, patting her back.
Uhmma shook a shirt in my face. Mina! Mina!
“What?” I said with a scowl, turning back to Uhmma.
You are not paying attention. Uhmma waved a woman’s silk blouse in my face before throwing it into the pile with oil stains.
If I wanted a poor job done, I would have had your sister help, she said.
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from yelling back at Uhmma’s comment. I caught Suna’s eye and made an evil face at Uhmma’s back. Suna tried to smile, but her eyes were rimmed with tears.
Sometimes when I looked at Suna, I could feel my heart break. Suna had always been a sickly baby. Always catching one cold after another. Uhmma couldn’t stand Suna’s constant crying and need for attention. When it became too much, Uhmma walked to her bedroom, head bowed, her hands over her ears.
Once, I came home from school to find Suna’s small one-year-old body so tired from crying, she could barely crawl over to me. So
