Stacie’s nodding-dog routine induces a tightness in Stephanie’s chest, which is mirrored in her thin red lips.
Pointing at some small bowls of soup, Chef explains, — Maeuntang is spicy, hot seafood soup that include white fish, vegetable, bean curd, red-pepper powder. Twoenjang-guk is a fermented soybean paste soup with baby clams in its broth.
— Yummy, Stacie exclaims.
— Vegetable dish is also popular in Korea. Korean call dishes made with only vegetable namool. There two kind, one cold and raw, other warm and steamed.
— Namool, Stacie repeats.
The chef is glowing as his chest expands with pride. — Korean table settings are the 3, 5, 7, 9 or 12 chop, depending on the number of side dishes served. The average family takes three or four side dishes. When family hold celebrations or party, a dozen or more dishes served. Chopstick and spoons used for eating. Different from Japanese and Chinese, Korean use more thin chopstick made with metal, not wood.
— Mmm-hmm! Stacie smacks her lips.
Stephanie’s eyebrows arch, her open mouth quivering slightly before settling to form an appraising but urgent smile. Can we shut the fuck up and just eat this stuff that you’ve brought, that we didn’t order, she thinks, suddenly time-anxious. This afternoon will herald a potentially demanding consultation with Millie, the self-harming marmoset.
Kendra waltzes back from the restroom, equilibrium restored by another Xanax. It’s not kicking in yet, and it’s no placebo, but she savors the glow of anticipation, of knowing it will before long. Her friends note that she’s changed her eyeliner from yellow to a rose color. — Looks interesting, Stephanie says approvingly, not herself knowing whether she means Kendra’s makeup or the food.
— This is Korean stuff, Kennie, Stacie sings excitedly at her.
— Korean food have various side dish, Chef continues to Stephanie’s obvious chagrin. — Favorite side dish are bean-paste soup, broiled beef, fish, cabbage kimchi, and steamed vegetables. He accusingly fingers the various dishes like they were suspects in an ID parade. Then he taps the menu. — Full-course Korean meal called Hanjoungshik. Compose of grilled fish, steamed short ribs, and other meat and vegetable dishes with streamed rice, soup, and kimchi.
— What’s kimchi? asks Stacie, as Stephanie swallows a long gulp of air and drums her big nails on the table.
— Kimchi best-known Korean food. It is vegetable dish, highly seasoned with pepper, garlic, etcetera. Served with every kind of Korean meal. Stimulate appetite like pickles. Contains amounts of good nutritions such as vitamin C and fiber. Try, he commands, looking at Kendra.
Kendra spoons some up onto her plate, then takes a small forkful. — It’s very good, she nods in endorsement. Stephanie gratefully follows suit, as does Stacie.
The chef responds with a graceful bow. — Enjoy, he says, before retreating.
— I kind of like that chef, Stacie says as he departs, — that inscrutable oriental demeanor. It’s kind of neat. What do you think, Kennie?
Kendra is daydreaming. She is wondering if the rich developer guy, Clint his name is, will call her. — About what?
— Never mind, Stacie wearily sings, then changes her tack: — How’s Karla getting on?
— I cannat believe that the same sperm and egg sources that produced me provided the raw material to manufacture her, Kendra rants, aware that the Xanax she’s popped in the restroom is perhaps lifting her again. — She’s got one of those lame and passé tattoos above her ass that she thinks is sooo punk rock. It makes her look like a crack whore. And she must weigh over a hundred and thirty pounds.
— Ugh! Stephanie winces, then adds with concern, — Is she like, depressed or something?
— I don’t know what shit’s going down with her. Kendra shakes her head so emphatically she is moved to subsequently check that her hair is still secured back. — All I know is I had to intervene at my mom’s last weekend. I pulled her over to the full-length mirror and lifted up her tank top. I pointed at her stomach and said: ‘Care.’
— How did she react? Stephanie asks.
Kendra shrugs, taking in a long breath as she painfully watches a bum with a cart shuffle past the window, so gratified that he does not stop or turn to look in. Thank you. She nods tersely at Stephanie in shared relief. — The usual crappy defensive-offensive rhetoric about me being anorexic, you know how they lash out. She narrows her eyes. — You think I was wrong?
— No, not at all. I just think that the intervention could have been a little more structured, Stephanie offers.
Kendra considers this. Steph was pretty smart. Sometimes Kendra wishes she’d stayed on to do a masters at DePaul. Now Stephanie was almost a partner in that pet behavioralist practice on Clark, while she was stuck in real estate.
But she was making money.
— I ran into Monica Santiano yesterday, y’know from Highland Park. She’s moved into the city, Stephanie informs them. — You know what she said to me: ‘I really got to hang out with you guys.’ I was like, ugh, a total DNA situation! Stephanie and Kendra high-five each other.
— I thought she was kinda fun, Stacie says. — What’s DNA mean?
— Desperate and Needy Alert, they sing at her in unison. — Another one we added to our lexicon, I think it was in CJ’s on Wednesday, Kendra elaborates smugly. — Where were you, Stace?
Stacie looks a little forlorn as the conversation drifts back to work. — How’s the wonderful world of real estate? Stephanie asks Kendra.
— Still booming, and still lucrative, Kendra chirps, swinging into breezy professional mode, before something sours in her mouth. She hesitates for a second, then lets rip: — But that fat lesbo bitch Marilyn’s been on my case. She’s sooo disgusting, sitting there packing her face with Doritos all day and she doesn’t even have a college degree, she rasps.
— Loo-zir! Stephanie ticks, stretching out her fingers to examine her nail extensions. They were perhaps a bit long for the metal chopsticks.
— I see her looking at me sometimes in that creepy way, and then she breaks into that revolting smile of hers. And that horrible mole on her face. Yuk! Then sometimes she’ll go all girly and gross and make comments about straight girls wanting to experiment, Kendra winces. — It kinda makes me wanna puke!
— Gross, Stacie acknowledges.
— And bordering on sexual harassment. Stephanie’s head twists. — Somebody oughta stick a lawsuit on that bitch’s fat ass!
Kendra nods thoughtfully. Then she looks searchingly, imploringly, at Stephanie and Stacie. All suddenly raise imaginary rifles into the air, training and then firing them on invisible targets. — She’s so NRA, they scoff.
The girls exchange high-fives. — Not Really Awesome, they squeal in a delighted harmony. They catch the chef observing their antics, his dark eyes glimmering, and they raise embarrassed hands to mouths to stifle their nervous giggles.
It took Kendra a while to get ready for her run that evening. The gray DePaul sweatshirt and blue shorts were pulled on quickly enough, as were the Nike Air Zoom Moire trainers, a hundred bucks a throw and selected because their color matched the shirt, but the hair had to be off the face and the ponytail tied high. Most of all, the makeup needed to be just right. Too little was not an option, but too much indicated a lack of serious sporting edge, perhaps even hinting at sexual laziness or passivity. This stuff she used was subtle and didn’t run, not that Kendra intended to do much sweating.