“Yeah, hello?” he said, the words clipped.

I swallowed hard. “I'm sorry to wake you up. Can I talk to Rosie?” My voice sounded hollow, detached.

“Who is this?" he demanded.

“It’s Jennie. I'm sorry, Mr. Park. I need to talk to Rosie.”

He exhaled obvious irritation. “Just a minuted.”

My forehead rested against the steering wheel.

“Hello…," Rosie slurred. She cleared her throat. “Who is this?” The extension downstairs clicked off.

“Itʼs me."

"Jen?” Rosie's voice rose. “I’ve been calling you for hours. Where are you?”

My throat felt dry. Raw. I sat back and said, "I’m sitting in front of your house. I need you.”

A curtain in the upstairs window lettered. "I’ll be right there,” she said. “Donʼt go away.”

I laughed bitterly.

A few seconds later Rosie tripped out the front door, her baseball jersey clinging to her legs, one hightop on her foot and the other in her hand. She sprinted down the sidewalk and across the street. Her palm spread on my closed window and she peered in before charging around to the passenger side.

“Jennie? Lovie?” She shut the door and turned to me. I continued to stare ahead. Unseeing, numb. "What happened?” she asked.

I blinked over to her. “My mother kicked me out of the house.”

"No." Rosie lunged across the seat and threw her arms around me. “Jennie, no.” She held me, burrowed her head into my neck. “Oh, baby, no.ʼ

"Oh, baby, yes."

Rosie drew back. “You told her? About us?”

“No.” My voice sounded harsh, the way my insides felt, “I didn’t have to.”

Rosie frowned. “Somebody outed you? Who?”

"One guess.”

“l donʼt know."

“Your friend and mine."

Rosie looked confused.

"Hwa," I said.

Rosie shook her head. “I don’t believe that. Are you sure?”

I nodded. I was sure.

“Youʼre shivering. Itʼs freezing in here. Whereʼs your coat?”

I might’ve laughed again. “Guess I forgot it in the two minutes I had to pack.” Tears burned my eyes. "What am I going to do, Chaeyoungie?”

She held me again. “Stay here, of course, with me.”

"I can’t."

"Yes, you can. Come on.” She scooted out her side and ran around to open my door. Dragged me across the street and into the house.

Rosie’s parents were both up now. Mr. Park stood by the staircase as Claire wandered in from the kitchen, tightening her belt on her robe. "Jennie’s mom kicked her out,” Rosie informed them.

"Oh, sweetie.” Claire rushed over and hugged me. I didn’t think there could be any tears left, but a flood of them burst through the dam.

“She can stay here, right?" Rosie said. There was a challenge in her voice.

When neither of her parents consented right away, I said, “That’s okay. I’ll just go to a motel.”

"She can sleep on the hide-a-bed," Rosie’s dad said. I saw him eye Claire. “Weʼll talk about this in the morning. Letʼs everybody go back to bed and get some sleep.”

My eyes strayed to the mantel, where a clock read two thirty-five. How long had I been driving? How long had I sat in front of Rosie’s house? What day was it?

There was a flurry of activity and somehow the couch in the living room transformed into a bed. “This is stupid, Dad,” I heard Rosie say through the fog in my brain. “Why can’t she sleep in my room?”

“Rosie,” he warned.

She muttered a curse under her breath. The next thing I knew I was slipping between the sheets. Had I undressed myself? Then Claire was smoothing my hair — or was that Rosie? And my cell was ringing.

Someone had enclosed the phone in my hand. “Hello?" I answered quietly.

“Hi, lovie. It's me. Are you all right? That's a stupid question, of course you’re not all right. Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really." I rolled over, pulling my knees to my chest. Shivering again, but not from cold.

“I wish you were up here with me in bed. I wish I could hold you."

“Talk to me, Rosie," I said. “'Talk to me until I fall asleep.”

“Did I ever tell you about the time my dad caught me kissing this little neighbour girl behind our garage?" She chuckled softly. “My first love. Age six.”

I smiled, clung to the phone, to her voice, until all the sounds in my head muted and faded and vanished into the night.

***

Breakfast at the Parks’ was a mob scene. Everyone converged on the kitchen at the same time, grabbing a bowl and their favorite box of cereal off the counter. Spoons clattered and clanged as a milk carton got passed around. Rosie stationed me in the chair beside her. Across the table, Alice said, “Hey,” and hitched her chin, looking sympathetic. Rosie must've filled her in. Eric pointed with his spoon, mouth jammed full of Froot Loops, and asked, "What’s she doing here?”

Rosie replied, “She lives here now.”

“No, I don't." I glared at Rosie. The tears threatened to rerun, so I got up fast. As I started folding the sheets on the hide-a-bed, I heard Mr. Park say, “Come on, guys. Get a move on.” I felt him come up behind me and linger. “Hang in there, kid." He patted my shoulder. “It’s not the end of the world.”

Easy for him to say; he was living the American dream. The clock on the mantel chimed eight o'clock and I trudged back to the kitchen. "I forgot my money. Could somebody loan me five dollars for gas so I can get to school?" I couldn't help it; I burst into tears.

Rosie threw her arms around me. From the counter where she was pouring coffee, Claire said, “Why don’t you stay home today? You're in no shape to go to school. Rosie, you take Jennie up to your room so she can go back to bed."

“Really?” Rosie’s eyes widened.

“Alone,” her mother intoned. "You both look exhausted, but youʼre going to school.” She evil-eyed Rosie.

“Mom –”

“No!”

Rosie grabbed my hand and dragged me through the living room and up the stairs.

***

It’s a myth that things always look brighter in the morning. Every time I’d nod off and wake up, the nightmare was blacker. Bleaker. Too exhausted to sleep anymore, I just lay in Rosie’s bed, absorbing my surroundings. Her room. I’d never been up here before. She had a cache of stuffed animals in a net overhead. Stacks of CDs by the bed. No closet doors, but the space was packed with clothes. Her dresser mirror had stickers all over it; pink triangles, rainbow hearts, and lightning bolts. A few photos were wedged under the frame and I straggled out of bed to look at them.

There was a family shot — Rosie, her older sister, I assumed, Alice, and Eric standing by a Christmas tree. One of Rosie in a short red dress, posing like a model. The other pics were friends, I guessed, a mix of girls and guys. A couple of familiar faces, though not from Seoul. Where had I seen them? I removed one of the photos to examine it more closely.

It was a group shot. A rainbow banner behind the group read, “LGBT Queer and Questioning." The lesbigay club at Washington Central, had to be. There were six or seven guys in it, as many girls. Rosie sat on the floor in the front row, hugging her knees. Her hair was longer, darker. Everyone was smiling or laughing, their arms around each others’ shoulders. Rosie was smiling, too, but it wasn’t a happy smile. She seemed far away, removed from the others. It made me wonder again why she’d transferred.

But only for a moment. Thank God she had.

I put the photo back. Noticed a flyer on her dresser announcing a performance of Unity last Saturday night. Last Saturday? I frowned. Rosie told me she was working on Saturday. Why would she lie? She’d never lie to me. The performance must’ve been canceled, or rescheduled.

The aroma of freshly baked bread swirled up my nose. Instinct and hunger took over. I wriggled into Rosie's high-ups and headed downstairs.

Claire was in the kitchen checking on two loaves of bread in the oven. Two more were cooling on a rack. They smelled unbelievable.

“Hi, sweetie," she said when I hesitated in the doorway. “Why donʼt you sit down and Iʼll fix you a bowl of soup. Nothing like chicken soup for the soul.”

My throat constricted. That was the book I bought Mom for Christmas: Chicken Soup for the Mothers Soul.

Claire ladled out a huge bowl of noodle soup and served it up with a plate of homemade buttered bread. She sliced me a wedge of cheesecake, too, then sliding into a chair across from me, she folded her hands on the table and said, “She’ll come around. It just takes time.”

I blinked up at her. “You donʼt know my mom.”

Claire cocked her head. “Do you want me to call her? I could talk to her.”

My eyes fell. “No.” God, no. It wouldn’t help to have my mother screaming at Claire. "I’ll deal with it. But thanks." I slurped a spoonful of soup. It didn’t taste like chicken; it didn't taste at all. Great. I'd lost all sensation. “This is delicious." I forced a smile.

Claire worried about a loose thread on her sweater sleeve. "She just overreacted. It can be a rude awakening, you know." The oven timer buzzed and Claire scraped back her chair. “She has to get used to the idea, that’s all.”

“How long did it take you?" I asked.

She either didn't hear or didn’t care for the question. I watched her remove the loaves from the oven and set them atop the burners. "It hasn’t been easy with Rosie," she finally said. “Not that she’s… gay." Claire faltered, as if it hurt to speak the truth.

“Just that she’s so out there. Iʼm afraid for her all the time. I donʼt want her to get hurt.”

She turned and looked at me, through me. I didn’t know what she expected me to say. “Like the locker incident?” I settled on.

"What locker incident?" she snapped.

"Nothing." Shit. I stuffed my big mouth full of bread.

“Dammit." Claire folded her arms. “I don’t understand why she has to flaunt her sexuality. It’s a private thing. She should keep it that way. Be discreet, like her sister. I don’t see you out there exposing yourself to the world.”

Not because I wouldn’t, I wanted to say. And it wasn’t about sexuality. Not entirely. It was about identity. Love.

Claire added, “She’s just asking for trouble.”

I thought she was asking for acceptance. I almost said it. Good thing my mouth was full because now was not the time to debate the visibility issue. Not the time to debate anything.

Removing her apron, Claire let out a weary breath and said, “I want her to be happy. That’s all Mason and I have ever wanted for our kids. I’m sure your mother feels the same way, Jennie. We want so much for our kids to grow up and have all the things we never had. We have high hopes for you. Expectations, dreams. Then, something like this…” Her voice trailed away.

Something like this. Right. Shattered dreams. When it came to my mom, shattered dreams seemed to be my specialty.