“No pneumonia today,” he says, twiddling his fingers through the yarn. “Did you want it back? I won’t need this in Los Angeles. It would go better with your red coat anyway.”
I hold my hands up to stop him from unwrapping the scarf. “Please, keep it. It was meant to be passed on.”
“Well, thanks again. Are you a teacher or an editor?” Jack asks, nodding toward the pen. “No one I know writes in red ink.”
“I probably shouldn’t be,” I say guiltily. “In Chinese culture, it’s bad luck to write people’s names in red ink. It’s like writing them a death sentence. Which is why Ionlywrite names with this pen. Got anyone in mind?” A certain Bill comes to mind.
Jack’s eyes widen.
“I’m kidding,” I say, exhaling. It really has been a day. “My Pó Po was a teacher. She would mark students’ papers in red ink to make sure they knew when they had made a mistake.”
“Brutal,” he grunts.
“Right?” I hold the red pen up horizontally, my eyes moving from the cap to the base. “This was one of her Discipline Pens. That’s what I called it as a kid. Sometimes she’d grade my finger paintings with her comments, always in red. So now I use the pen to counteract all the Fs she would dole out like candy.”
“She graded your finger paintings?” Jack asks with an undertone of surprise.
“I like to think she wanted me to be the best I could be.” Thissentiment makes me think of Mom and how hard she worked. I’m sure she felt the weight of Pó Po’s criticism, too.
I breathe out, a cloud forming in front of me. “I’m changing the meaning of it and using it for good.”
Jack looks impressed. “You seem like the kind of person who can take something bad and make it good.”
His words are a sweet addition to this bitter day.
Jack glances around us. “Unusual that our paths crossed again.”
“Maybe it’s good you left something behind at your event,” I reason.
“I never do that,” he says.
I bounce the end of the pen against my hand. “Forget things or go to events?”
He grins. “Both. Now I’m notebookless, and you know what, I don’t really want to talk about it,” he says as he looks at his watch. “I should go.”
I hand Jack my pen. “Not until you write your wish.”
Jack pats his jacket, feeling around for something. “I always have a pen on me. I must have left that behind, too,” he says with a sigh.
“Write anything but my name,” I instruct.
“Well, there goes my wish,” he mumbles, glancing up at me.
His words throw me off. Even though I think he’s kidding, heat rises in my chest. I stay silent as he scribbles down on the side of the lantern,Anything but my name.
I cross my arms. “You give up on wishes that easily, huh?”
“I’m all wished out for the day,” he says, the corner of his lips slightly tugging upward.
“Let’s release this, then. You grab that side.”
“We’re not actually releasing this,” Jack says flatly.
“What else would we do with it? It’s tradition.” Above us, glowing lanterns float into the night, paper stars rising above the NewYork City skyline. Tonight, New Yorkers will witness temporary constellations.
Jack shifts his footing. “Is this legal? We’re going to be arrested. Don’t we need launch permission?”
“Launch permission?” I repeat with a laugh. “That’s not how this works. But if our lantern lands on the steps of a police station, then we’re definitely screwed. Our fingerprints are all over this thing. They might even bring in a forensics team to identify our handwriting. And if it’s me they find first, I’m giving up your name in exchange for immunity. Of course, this is if the lantern doesn’t catch on fire first.”
