Prologue to new WIP about sisters

“Emily, you’re pretty. But you’re not beautiful enough to get bad grades,” Mom undid a particularly sticky knot with a swift tug of her paddle brush and I tucked my lips to keep from yelping.

“I’m not being mean here,” she exchanged her torture implement for one with boar bristles, pulling through the last of the knots with determination.

“I’m just telling you not to calibrate your expectations to your sister’s. Jane is beautiful, she has different options. You need to study.”

“Yes Mommy.”

She fastened my favorite barrette with blue rhinestones to the back of my head, where only others could enjoy its sparkles.

“There, done!” she pulled the hair back with a flourish.

I examined my reflection in the mirror in front of me. My thick brows, lips thinner than Jane’s, and wideset eyes that Papa teased me for, because they made me look like a bunny. All in all, I didn’t mind what I saw. But then I remembered.

I’d gotten a B+ yesterday.

When I handed Mommy the paper, with the round, fat “B” and the tilted “+,” her mouth got short. She wasn’t mad, at least I don’t think so. But she looked at me like I was something new to her. Something she didn’t care to understand.

And when I started to explain why, she said, “everyone makes mistakes. Smart girls just don’t make them again.” I shook away the thought.

Jane was over on my parents’ bed, combing through her doll’s hair. From where I sat, I could just make out her knobby knees and feet and swinging over the side of the frame.

We didn’t usually talk about Jane’s beauty or my brain because they were like the plant in the corner of the kitchen. Always there and usually boring.

Our brother David was “enterprising,” I was “smart,” and Jane was “pretty.”

Sometimes strangers would stare at the symmetry of her face, the high cheekbones framing thick, straight eyebrows and serious catlike eyes, and occasionally tell Mom that Jane should model.

It didn’t bother me. But I also didn’t know it was about options.

I thought it was about A’s. I could do A’s.

Mom picked up the lacquered hand mirror inlaid with mother-of-pearl and from Korea – “an antique,” Dad said, handing it to her like an offering to Buddha.

“And when you’re older, we’ll get these taken care of.”

Mom dug her pinky finger into the corner of my eye to create the same eyes she has - the same ones Jane has, the ones that looked bigger.

“See?” she said, lowering her face to share the reflection in the hand mirror. “Better, right?”

I nodded. The fluttery feeling of hope rose in my stomach, but it was quickly followed by something sad like a frog that can’t hop because his leg is broken.

“It’s ok, Baby, the universe gives us different things. But she’s always fair,” her kiss on my forehead was light.

“Mom! Mooooom!” Jane ran into the room with a plastic unicorn. She cut its rainbow mane into a mohawk that bounced urgently. “My turn now?” she asked. “You look nice,” her eyes ran over me from head to toe. “I want my hair like Emily’s!” she decided, clenching her fists with a stomp.

Mom shook her head. “No Jane. Your hair must be pulled off your face to show it off. We are seeing the Fallons today, and it’s important we all look our best. This is business. The way we show up gives us leverage in partnership.”

Jane pouted, sticking out her big bow lips which made her look like a fish. But I guess that fishy mouth was one of the things that made her beautiful.

“What does leverage mean?” Jane asked, wiggling her butt on Mom’s lap.

“Power. Beauty is power. Money is power. Competence is also power,” Mom shrugged. “It’s all the same,” she swept Jane’s hair into an ugly bun. “And they might have a boy, Jack, but we have two girls and a boy. That makes us more blessed, and we must make the most of it.” She tapped Jane’s shoulder with the boar bristles. “Sit still.”

I stuck my tongue out at her.

Everyone knew princesses wore their hair down.

I looked at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, taking in my long hair, big eyebrows and big cheeks, I had better grades than Jane, I beat her at just about every race, and besides, there was nothing wrong with the way I looked.

“Jack Fallon is cute,” Jane suddenly declared to no one.

“He is,” Mom nodded.

He is, I thought. I met my eyes in the mirror again. I guess they could be a little bigger.

“Mom?” I ask, patting the back of my head to make sure my prized barrette is still there. “Can you show me how to make the bulgogi?”

The marinated sweet and savory, thinly sliced Korean meat dish is one of my favorites and Mom has finally promised to teach me. I eye Jane who sits perfectly still, obediently allowing our mother to pull her hair tight and painful off her face, slicking it back into the neatest, most boring looking ponytail I’ve ever seen.

“Oh no, that’s right I was going to make that,” she says more to herself. “Thank you for reminding me, Emily. You’ll have to wear an apron.”

**

Soy sauce, sugar, toasted sesame oil, crushed garlic, freshly ground black pepper, and water set aside in its own bowl grace the counter as Mom fastens an apron around my waist, rolling up the bottom and using clothespins to keep it short.

“Don’t forget the kiwi, Mama,” I said. “To soften the meat, remember?”

“Oh yes, I knew I’d missed something,” she smiles at me. “That will help since we only have a few hours to let it sit.

“Jane, do you want to help us?” Mom asks standing on her toes to peer over to the family room.

Please don’t. Please don’t. Please don’t. I pray silently.

“No – I’m giving Stardust another haircut!” Jane says from in front of the television. “See? Besides, I don’t want to get my dress all stinky,” she holds up her unicorn. There is no hair left to cut though.

Most of the food for today has been pre-cooked by me and Mom. She’s lucky I reminded her about the bulgogi.

Cooking Korean food was the only time I trusted myself because I knew everything. Well, not everything obviously, but enough, like how long to cook the bean sprouts, the spinach, how much sesame seed and oil to use, and how to stay between savory that makes your mouth water, and too salty you have to gulp down cups of tea, like the restaurants do their food.

We throw in the thinly sliced meat and the marinade ingredients with kiwi and onion, and it’s my job to separate all the pieces of steak so they can each soak up as much of the good stuff as possible.

**

“That was a wonderful meal, Susan,” Mr. Fallon, Jim to Mom and Dad, says wiping his mouth.

“Emily helped cook quite a bit of it, actually,” Mom says. “She’s naturally gifted at anything quantitative.”

“Smart girl,” Mrs. Fallon says, smiling at me.

“So yea, normally I wouldn’t be too keen on a split that is quite blatantly unfair considering the capital I’d be bringing into the partnership,” Mr. Fallon says. “But this dinner just about convinced me that if any family is capable enough to make a 40-60 split something to be grateful for, it’s the Kims,” he says.

I look at Dad who pours a glass of cognac for Mr. Fallon and himself, toasting to them both.

When Mr. Fallon gets up to go to the bathroom, he mouths “thank you,” to Mom, seated next to him, leaning over to kiss her receptive cheek.

I steal a glance at Jack who is seated next to our brother and he’s looking at me, savoring a piece of bulgogi in his cheek just the way I do. “This is really good, Em,” he says.

“Thanks,” I blush.