“So two for sun—”

“One for fun,” Jeff cuts in with a bad attempt at a rhyme.

Kelly rolls her eyes before turning to me. “Where would you go?”

“Korea.” It pops out before I give it much thought.

“Korea?” The three people at the table say it as one.

Their surprise takes me aback. I peer around the table. “What? Why can’t I go to Korea?”

“You’ve never mentioned wanting to go to Korea, like, ever,” Kelly says, retrieving the Juul from Jeff.

“I know. It’s an idea.” One that I can’t seem to push aside.

“Why there?” Jeff frowns.

“It’s where she’s from, dummy.” Kelly flicks Jeff’s ear.

“But you don’t know shit about Korea, right, Hara? Ow, Kells, that hurt.” Jeff rubs his biceps—the one Kelly punched after attacking his ear. “Remember when I asked her the date the Korean War ended and you guys all got up in my face about it, saying it was racist and that I can’t use her as a reference dictionary and that just because she’s Korean doesn’t mean she has to know anything about Korea?”

“Two plus two doesn’t equal fish,” I reply a bit tartly, and maybe it’s because I’m tired of Jeff or maybe I’m feeling defensive because he’s right. I don’t know shit about Korea. I opened my browser the other day to look something up and realized I couldn’t even type in a phrase because I didn’t have the Korean keyboard layout downloaded onto my computer. My knowledge of my birth country is so shallow it would barely fill a thimble.

“Just because Hara looks Korean doesn’t mean she is a real Korean. Not like Boyoung,” Kelly replies. “Hara’s American.”

Ouch. The real thing again. But do I have any right to be mad at Kelly when I’ve tried to separate myself from my Asianness as much as possible? I’ve been asked more than once where I’m from and I always answer, Here, which is never enough because the people who ask that question don’t want here to be the answer. The question has context, which is you look different from me so you must be from somewhere else, definitely not here. I know this is what they’re asking but I hate the question so I always repeat my answer. I’m from here. From Iowa. From America. Just like you. Plus, I don’t feel Korean—whatever that feels like—but I know that next to Boyoung, the differences are stark.

It’s not the language difference either. There’s something about Boyoung that is innately different, from the way that she dresses (always up) to the expertly applied makeup (I’ve tried to copy Boyoung’s eyeliner technique, resulting in comedic black-eye results) to the mannerisms (never show your teeth while laughing, eating, or smiling). I actually hadn’t realized how not Korean I was until Boyoung came along.

“I didn’t know you wanted to go to Korea,” Boyoung says softly.

“Like I said, it was just a thought.” A thought brought on by a surprise email, my father’s unexpected death, and this uncertainty that has surrounded me for too long. Lately, wherever I walked, whatever I did, didn’t feel right. It is as if my life is this once-favorite jacket that I’d washed in water that was too hot and now it is tight around the arms and the zipper works only half the time. It doesn’t mean that the jacket will fit right if I go to Korea, but maybe it’s time to try.