When You Trap a Tiger, page 15
I don’t understand how Halmoni can be the only person who makes me feel seen, but can also make Mom feel so forgotten. How is that possible? How could one person do such opposite things at the same time?
“And then?” My voice cracks. I’m afraid of what comes next.
But Mom shakes her head. “There’s nothing bad, Lily. Nothing magical or interesting, not like her fairy tales. It was just…real life. I grew up.”
I don’t want to be like that when I get older. I don’t want to drift apart or away. I pull my legs up and curl my knees into my chest.
“Lily, my relationship with Halmoni never ended. It just changed.”
“I don’t want things to change,” I say.
She looks at me intently, like she needs me to understand. “Lily, everything changes. That’s normal. But I never stopped loving her. That’s why we’re here, because I love her so much. We all do. And I know Halmoni’s episodes are scary, but she loves you, too. Those momentary lapses are the illness, not her.”
I think about the mud, and a pit of shame grows in my stomach. “I let her down.”
“I did, too,” Mom says, so quietly that her words are almost lost to the sound of rain. “But we’re trying our best, and that’s what matters. We’re all just trying our best.”
Mom wants me to apologize, but she gives me time to reflect, so we decide: tomorrow.
Tonight: Think about what you want to say. Tonight: Get some sleep. Rest.
Which shouldn’t be hard, because by the time night falls, I’m exhausted.
Sam is upstairs waiting.
She sits cross-legged on her bed, headphones suffocating her ears, and she rips them off as soon as she sees me. “I didn’t mean to rat you out.”
I walk past her and flop onto my bed.
“But you have to admit,” she says, “that was wild. Why’d you do that?”
I close my eyes. I have to see the tiger later, but for now my bed is warm and cozy.
“Lily?” Sam insists, leaning forward in her bed. There’s something almost panicked in her voice. “What’s wrong with you? Answer me. I already said I was sorry. Why won’t you answer me?”
I pretend I am Sam, with headphones jammed against my ears. I pretend I am Sam, staring at a glowing screen, ignoring the world around me. I pretend I am Sam and I do not answer.
If she can’t be trusted with secrets, I won’t tell her any.
I curl up in bed and pull the blankets over my head.
Long, long ago, when tiger walked like man, there were two sisters….
Sam exhales sharply. “You’re really gonna give me the silent treatment?”
The two sisters loved each other, more than anything. More than rice cakes. More than the earth. More than the stars.
“You know,” she goes on, “it’s not like mud would actually keep people grounded or anything. There’s no magic. Like, really. We have to grow up. We can’t keep believing in all these things.”
Buried under the covers, I stare at the tiny holes in my quilt. They look like stars, and I make a wish on one of them. I wish that Sam would stop talking.
But she doesn’t. Sam is on a roll, and she won’t stop now, no matter how hard I wish.
She says, “You think this is all about you? You think you’re the only one who’s upset? I hate this. I hate it here. I hate that we’re watching Halmoni forget her life and forget us and we’re watching her die.” The words spiral out of her fast. She takes a breath. “But whatever. I just want it to end. I want it to be over already.”
Her words chill the room by ten thousand degrees.
My heart stammers, and I push the covers back. “Take it back,” I say. “Knock on wood.”
Her voice is ragged, broken glass. “I don’t believe in that stuff anymore.”
“But you have to. How could you say that?”
She doesn’t answer. She swallows and looks almost doubtful, like she knows she’s wrong.
But then she shrugs and turns away, disappearing into her blankets.
* * *
I lie in bed without moving, breathing hard, waiting for what feels like hours, until Sam falls asleep.
When she’s snoring, when the coast is clear, I sneak downstairs to deliver the third star jar to the tiger. Sam might not believe, but I do.
I push the basement door open, but when I creak down the steps, I find only an empty room.
The tiger isn’t there.
It’s just a dusty basement with a bunch of old boxes, lit by a thin strip of window.
“Hello?” I whisper, but there’s nothing. No trace of magic tonight.
The tiger said we were running out of time to help Halmoni, and now the tiger’s gone, and I don’t know why—but then I remember.
I told the tiger to leave me alone, and she said, As you wish.
Only I didn’t mean completely. Now she’s gone, and I don’t know how to unwish it.
I wake up with worry weighing on my chest, heavy as a tiger.
I waited in the basement for almost an hour, but she never showed up, and I never felt that pull right below my heart—that unsettling sense of impatience that told me she was waiting.
If she’s mad about what I said—if I wished her away and she won’t come back to the basement—I have to find her somewhere else. I have to get her back and finish the stories before there’s more consequences. Before the worst consequence.
I’m distracted for most of the morning, but after breakfast Mom tells me to get dressed. It’s time to apologize.
“You’ll feel better afterward,” she tells me, and I know she’s probably right, but I still take forever to get ready, brushing my teeth for five minutes, braiding and rebraiding my hair.
It’s not that I don’t want to say I’m sorry. But it doesn’t have to be now. I have other things to think about. Before I go downstairs, I break off a new piece of mugwort and stuff it into my pocket. It didn’t do much to protect me from the tiger, but maybe it will protect me from awkward conversations.
Then I lift the camo top hat from my dresser. I have to return it.
I hold it in my hands and try to ignore the sadness inside me, the feeling that something has changed and I can never go back.
Mom packs me into the car and drives me to Ricky’s.
“You’ve got to do it now, Lily,” she says. “If you put things off for later, you’ll never do them. They’ll become harder and scarier, and one day you’ll realize you’ve run out of time.”
I don’t answer. Absentmindedly I fiddle with the mugwort in my pocket, letting the crinkle and crunch soothe me.
Mom glances over. “What’s that noise?”
I freeze. I’m not exactly sure how Mom would feel about the mugwort, but knowing how she reacts to most things from Halmoni…probably not well. “Nothing.”
Her eyes narrow. “Lily, show me what’s in your pocket.”
Hiding it isn’t worth the fight, so I pull it out and hold it flat in my palm.
She frowns. “Is that mugwort?”
“Yeah.”
Mom turns back to the road as she drives, and sighs, “I’m assuming that’s from Halmoni?”
The tone of her voice is a warning, but I say, “Yes.”
“That’s an herbal remedy that Halmoni’s been taking. It helps with her nausea, but some people think it causes vivid dreams and nightmares. None of it’s evidence based, of course, and it’s not dangerous. But you don’t need any more stress.”
“Oh.” I look back at the shriveled herb in my palm. I haven’t dreamed anything weird. Unless the tiger was all a dream…
But, no. The tiger was real. I know she was.
“I’m fine,” I tell her. “Halmoni said this is protection.”
Mom purses her lips: the picking-her-battles face. “Okay, just be careful. Don’t eat it or anything,” she says. Then, “Here we are.”
Mom parks and we walk past the fancy bushes and ring the fancy doorbell, and Ricky’s fancy dad answers.
“Joan,” he says, “nice to see you. Again.”
Mom grimaces.
And I really, really don’t want to say anything to Ricky’s dad, but when something’s wrong, you have to fix it. Especially when it’s wrong because of you. “Don’t blame my mom,” I tell him. “She’s a very good worker and doesn’t do…strange things.”
Mom looks like she can’t decide if she wants to hug me or hide behind the rabbit bush.
Ricky’s dad almost smiles. “I recognize that. I know what it’s like to have a strange child.”
I’m not sure how to respond to that, but I’ll take it as a win.
“Speaking of strange kids,” he says, and then calls back into the house. “Ricky, please take your friend to the den.”
The phrase Take your friend to the den has a bit of a murder vibe to it, but when Ricky shows up, he looks sheepish. He’s wearing a plain black baseball cap. It’s the most normal I’ve ever seen him.
He gives me an uncertain wave and then leads me into the blue-themed living room. It’s basically the same as the red room, only a few degrees colder. I shiver.
Ricky sits on the couch and I join him, settling into the opposite end. The cushions are lumpy and hard, and I feel like I should push my shoulders back and sit with proper posture.
“Here’s your hat,” I say, handing him the top hat.
He takes it without meeting my eyes and sets it between us. “Thanks.”
Ricky digs a toe into the rug, looking up at the ceiling, then down at the floor—even though there’s nothing interesting to see.
I clear my throat multiple times.
There’s nothing more awkward than your parents forcing you to interact. It’d be fine if I’d come to apologize on my own. But this is weird.
On the scale of awkward-to-busy silence, this one is want-to-disappear-level bad.
I force myself to speak. “I’m sorry about the mud.”
Ricky exhales. “I’m sorry, too. About the stuff we said about your grandma. I mean, your harmony.”
I blink at him, confused.
“I want you to feel more comfortable, so I’m using the Korean word,” he explains. “But I can stop if you want. I don’t know what you want. What do you want?”
“Oh,” I say. “It’s hall-moe-knee, not harmony. But, yeah, you can call her whatever you want.”
I didn’t expect him to apologize, and now I don’t know what to do.
He swallows. “I apologize for judging your culture and for being intolerant of other beliefs. I created a hostile environment, and…” He frowns, like he’s trying to remember his lines. Then he sighs and crumples, looking at me with pain on his face. “I really am sorry. My friends and I can be kind of the worst sometimes. I know my dad thinks that. And I’m sure my teachers do. And…you know, everyone.”
I bite my lip. Ricky’s dad seems nicer than he did in the grocery store, but it’s still sad that Ricky feels that way.
He takes a breath and continues. “But we really do think your hall-money is cool. Everybody in town does. And I feel really bad that she’s sick. I feel really bad that I said she’s sick. Sometimes my mouth keeps talking even when my brain knows it shouldn’t.”
I can’t help but smile. “Thanks,” I say. I didn’t realize how much I was hoping to hear that. How much of a relief it is to know he doesn’t think Halmoni is creepy or scary or whatever. “I don’t think you’re the worst. And I shouldn’t have fed you mud.” I mean this, mostly. But if Halmoni’s right about the spell, it might not be so bad for him.
He shrugs. “Mud has vitamins, probably. I’ve eaten worse.”
“Oh.”
“A worm,” he says. “Only once, though. And also another time, a Raisinet that definitely was not a Raisinet. I’m still not sure…Well, never mind.”
I wait to see if he’s joking, but he’s serious. I fight back a smile. “But still. Sorry. It’s not like me to do that.” Then I correct myself. “Or, I guess it is? But I didn’t know that until now.”
“It’s okay,” he says. “Let’s stop apologizing now. Apologizing is awkward.”
I tug at one of my braids. “Do your friends hate me?”
He laughs. “They think you’re supercool. They kept referring to you as Witch Girl. But not in a bad way. Anyone who does something like that is probably worth knowing.”
I sneak a glance at him. He’s staring at me, but he looks away fast. His cheeks go splotchy.
In that moment, I don’t feel like an invisible girl.
But I also don’t want to be known for putting mud in someone’s pudding. I wonder if there’s a way to be a visible person and a good person at the same time.
“Is that going to be my reputation in school now?” I ask.
He tilts his head, thinking. “Well, yeah. But only until the next big thing.”
Then after a moment, he adds, “I think it’s nice that you’re doing something to help your halmoni.” He still says it wrong, like hail-money, but he’s trying, and I appreciate it.
He looks at his feet before saying, “I wish I did something more, for my mom.”
Oh. His used-to mom. Before, I thought he’d feel better if I ignored that. But now I think talking might be good. “I’m sorry. Is she…”
“She’s not dead. She left. Last year. And we haven’t heard from her since.”
I wonder if, somehow, that makes it worse. Would I feel better or worse if Dad had just left? If, instead of crashing, he’d just kept driving and never turned around? It feels wrong to think about that, but I can’t help it. It’s weird to think about how I could be a different person if I had Ricky’s life. In a different life, how much would I change—and how much would I stay the same?
Ricky continues, “But I think, like, maybe if I did more to make her want to stay, she would have. She was a stay-at-home mom, and she always helped me with homework and stuff. Except these past couple of years, I started getting better at school, so I didn’t really need help, and we didn’t hang out as much, and maybe she thought I was fine without her.”
“Oh. I’m really sorry.” Suddenly, his self-sabotage over the language arts test and the tutoring makes sense.
He shrugs. “You don’t have to say sorry. Everyone says sorry, but that doesn’t help, because it’s not their fault and they can’t fix it.”
“Well, I know that sometimes people feel trapped in their own skin, and they have to leave. It’s part of them, and I guess you can’t control that.” I think of the tiger-mother and the tiger-daughter. I think of Mom and Sam. And I think of Halmoni. I almost don’t trust myself to speak without my voice wobbling, but I say, “Sometimes, no matter how much you want people to stay, you have to let them go.”
Ricky looks sad, but he gives me a real smile. “I’ve never had a friend who got it before.”
“Me neither,” I tell him. “It helps.”
And in the spirit of getting it, I ask, “Do you ever feel like parts of you are changing, in a way you don’t really understand?”
When he makes a face, I realize, horrifyingly, that it sounds like I’m talking about puberty. Quick-fast I clarify: “Not like…Never mind. I mean, like, you don’t know who you’re supposed to be anymore. And you want to figure out who you really are but you don’t know how—and you’re scared that you won’t like the answer.”
He clears his throat. “Uh, that’s a deep question. I don’t know. I don’t feel like I have to figure that out yet. That’s for when you’re, like, thirty and you have a midlife crisis.”
“Yeah,” I say, even though I feel a flutter of embarrassment. I must sound so weird.
He shrugs. “But, I don’t know, that kind of sounds like what happens in comic books. The hero is just a regular person, until suddenly the world needs them. And they have powers and a cool suit, but underneath it all, they’re still trying to figure it out. They’re still scared.”
A strand of hair escapes my braid, and I tuck it behind my ear. “And what then? What do they do?”
He shrugs. “They save the world anyway, even though they’re not ready. And they get stronger, and they learn who they are as they go along.”
I nod. It’s comforting that not even superheroes have it figured out. But at the same time, of course, they save the world. They’re super.
“I think that’s how you figure out who you are,” Ricky says. “You do new, brave things, and you find out who you is in not-you situations. Does that make sense?”
“Maybe,” I say.
He grins. “Yeah, well, it doesn’t matter for us anyway. We don’t have to worry about, you know, the meaning of life. The only thing we need to worry about is what’s in our pudding.”
I laugh. After spending so much time worrying, it’s nice to be around someone who isn’t afraid. Someone who believes that good things happen.
“Wait,” I say. “One more question. So, if the hypothetical tiger trap didn’t work, what should I do next?”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Okay, I know you vetoed the whole raw meat thing, but hear me out—”
“Oh boy,” I say, fighting back a laugh.
He continues, “Technically, yes, raw meat is going to start smelling bad after a few hours. And technically, yes, it may attract unwanted non-tiger creatures, like rats or raccoons. Those are both fair points. But would that be worth it to accurately recreate a hypothetical tiger trap? I mean, maybe. Probably. Yes, yes, I think so.”
Unfortunately, I already tried bait with the star jars. “I don’t think bait is the answer to this problem.”
His eyes narrow. “You know, this hypothetical stuff is getting pretty suspicious. If there’s a real tiger, you know you have to tell me. Friends don’t let friends miss out on tigers.”
