by Zenith Knox

After closing up Dad’s barbershop, I head to Ju-hee’s store, my ritual every evening of every summer. Except today, my shadow punches the pavement and jabs the door handle of the store, as if they were those punks from around the block who almost took out Ju-hee’s father. As I enter, the bell on the door jingles, signaling another boxing round between the East and the West. The chimes echo and fade as if announcing me in an arena, Kenny Kenny Kenny…

I check for Ju-hee’s father, at the cash register behind the new bulletproof glass, even though he’s obviously in the hospital. I let out a breath of relief, since he’d always been watching me, as if searching for bulges of stolen merchandise. The security mirrors in the corners of the ceiling, his extra set of eyes, still tail me—given I’m the same tiny Black dot in the mirror as the guy who shot him. I pat my shirt pocket for the envelope. The weight of my note in it hunches my shoulders.

I don’t want to become

a dot in the mirror.

In the center of our arena, Ju-hee’s busy stocking a shelf with Hodori tigers—their stuffed tummies imprinted with Seoul 1988 and Olympic rings. So I lock the front door and slap up a sign that reads: 닫힘 – Closed. I finish chewing my mint, blow on the glass to smell my breath, and examine my teeth in the reflection. When I turn, Ju-hee narrows her eyes and casts a flirty smile past a braid draping her shoulder. Her bobby pin with imitation diamonds, bought on one of our many secret dates, catches the sunlight and invites me in.

I’m in an outside world

in the inner city.

My lungs expand with the aroma of ginger and garlic from the kimchi pancakes. I wander over to the wild snacks, chips that taste of shrimp and crunchy bars of sesame seeds with honey. Then Ju-hee approaches and sneaks my favorite treat—a lychee-flavored jelly candy in a shot-size plastic cup—in the front pocket of my jeans. My heart flutters and warm vibes travel through me until she withdraws her hand.

Ju-hee giggles and snatches the envelope from my shirt. My face tenses, as if the note in it were a match striking a strip. I grab for it.

I’m not ready to show her

the names of the guys I wrote,

who almost killed her father.

Not ready for her sorrow.

Ju-hee holds the envelope up to the sunset that pours through the window. Sweat trickles, stinging my eyes. I lunge for the envelope, the heat left from it scorching my skin. She turns her back to me, her sundress swishing with her laughter. My hands brush the bow of her belted waist, but she fakes me out. I’m probably blushing.

I prepare to pounce, but Ju-hee stops and stares at where her father would’ve watched, clasping a locket of her family, shielding her heart. I dart my eyes over to the unattended register. My words linger too long in my mind. Before she can find the note, I pry the envelope out of her fist and tuck it in my shirt pocket. She gazes up at me, her eyes welling and watery,her lips pressed together to hold in her hurt.

I’m not ready to explain that

I saw the shooter from Dad’s shop.

I’m not safe, not if I’m ratting.

Not safe from those guys or the cops.

I pull Ju-hee in for a hug, like last night’s black-and-white film, where each snapshot flickered from the reel, struggling to compose its scene. Through the window, I glare at the used-record shop, the barred-up liquor store, the half-broken laundromat—each of the businesses owned by folks who aren’t Black—blaming them for my frustration. But Ju-hee’s stray hairs tickle my chin, like the dandelion seeds out front we picked as kids, and keep me from losing my cool. The silhouettes of the stores bleed into darkness, and I drift into a daydream. Here, the store enhances with colors, bright and clear. Ju-hee fits her head perfectly into the crevice of my chest and escapes into my movie.

Do I kiss her? Or reveal

that Dad and I cut a deal—

leave the names, leave the city,

leave her. Yet I’m not ready.

The contrast of the real world returns as Ju-hee wipes her eyes and offers a fleeting smile. I release her into the aisle stacked with fifty-pound rice bags hanging off the edge, ready to tip and separate us. She disappears into the backroom to call for her ride. I stare at the register as though her father is still reading, buried behind his Life magazine featuring Mike Tyson, who psyches me out like a fighter before the big match.

I creep closer. The magazine is still there. Mike Tyson, his arms around his woman, flashes his two gold teeth.

Why can’t my girl and I just be happy?

Why am I even helping her father

when I’m only a dot in his mirror?

I pat my pocket—now practically a holster with a pistol—because if I don’t give Ju-hee the note, I may as well pull the trigger on her father, too. I raise the envelope as if throwing in a white towel to surrender. My hand trembles as I slip the envelope through the hole of the bulletproof glass and place it on top of Mike Tyson, where Ju-hee will find it tomorrow. I glance toward the backroom, my shoulders spread wide to fly.

I’m sorry that I’ve got to be your dot.

Ju-hee returns with her purse and cuts off the fluorescent lights. The rays of the evening sun dim and darken our different skin tones into a similar shade of gray. As we leave, the bell to the Korean store jingles, Kenny Kenny Kenny… one last time.

Zenith Knox is a Korean-American writer from the DC metropolitan area. Her stories are published, forthcoming, or shortlisted at BULL, Flash Fiction Magazine, 101 Words, and elsewhere. Visit her at ZenithKnox.wordpress.com.