“Thirteen, and his name is Ryder.”

“Oh my Lord. Don’t even get me started on that name. Who names their child that?” She taps my wrist. “Make the ganache bees fat. Everyone likes a good amount of chocolate with their lemon.”

It’s better than Hara, I think as I pipe extra-large bees onto the wax paper and then stick the slivered almond wings onto the bodies. The start of every school year was always a joy, as I had to listen to each new teacher massacre my name. It’s ha-rah, not hair-a. I should’ve made a sign and pasted it onto my chest. Unfortunately, that minor trial didn’t prepare me for the embarrassment I’d experience in college when I learned from one of the Asian exchange students that my name was the same as some famous Korean porn actress’s. Each time I passed one of the few Asian students, I swear I’d always hear a slight twittering of laughter, so I never hung out with them—not that I was asked. International students are a tight bunch. They all spoke at least two languages, if not more, and when they said something to me in Korean, my only response was a dumb, blank stare.

I didn’t belong with the Asian international student clique, and it wasn’t simply that I lacked the ability to communicate with them. I didn’t understand the language puns they made. I didn’t know the foods they referenced or the cultural landmarks. Lotte Tower? Myeongdong? Gwanghwamun Square? Every cultural reference escaped me. I was other with them as well. The single commonality we had was that our features were similar.

Boyoung is the first Asian friend I’ve ever had.

“He’ll be spelling that name for every teacher from preschool through graduate school—not that she’ll be able to pay for that even with that measly insurance policy. It’s a good thing you have a job; otherwise, that would be one more area where he let you down.”

I keep my mouth shut. Mom doesn’t want my input.

As expected, she barrels on. “I’m making three different kinds of sandwiches, but I’m not sure how many to make. Perhaps two per person? So that would be . . . How many people did I say were coming?” She abandons the cakes and rushes to the refrigerator, pulling out cucumbers and cream cheese and salmon spread.

“Thirteen.” I grab the bag of white chocolate and lay down the stripes on the backs of the bees.

“Thirteen. Right. That’s not a good number. I should’ve invited one more person. Although do I even have enough chairs for thirteen? Maybe that’s too many. What about something to drink? I’ve tea, of course, but should we have a dessert wine? Do they serve dessert wines with high tea?” She leaves the vegetables and spreads on the counter to grab her phone.

I slide the sheet of finished cake decorations into the freezer and stash the pies in the refrigerator. With the dessert completed, I tackle the finger sandwiches. At least Mom is serving something that I can make. At the last party she hosted, Mom had wanted to serve four different types of homemade pasta composed of things like spinach and pumpkin. Together, we mangled ravioli pouches and fettucine noodles for hours before I gave up and ran to Whole Foods for packaged pasta.