A Tragic Kind of Wonderful

Sure. Where’s Connor?

Probably home. C u soon.

While I wait in the living room for Zumi to pedal over, Mom leaves to go buy the weekly groceries. Not long after, I hear a squeal from the front of the house—tires on the driveway from someone braking too hard. Must be Aunt Joan rolling in from wherever she spent the night.

Six feet tall, stick thin, ginger, pasty, spotted, graceful as a giraffe walking backward, that’s Mom’s little sister, HJ—short for Hurricane Joan. She calls herself the redheaded stepchild but my own freckles prove the genes are in our family tree. The door opens hard enough to bounce off the wall, possibly adding another dent; keys jangle, she kicks the entry table, brushes the pedal of my bike, drops what sounds like her work binders, or her cavernous purse, or both, and mutters “Shit!” three or four times.

Her Saturday moods depend on when she comes home from being out Friday night. This morning she seems pretty upbeat and starts rooting around in the fridge, so wherever she was didn’t include breakfast but didn’t leave her in a sour mood.

A minute later, Zumi pounds on the front door. I know it’s her because she uses the side of her fist instead of knuckles. It’s new to HJ, though.

“What the hell? Jehovah’s Witnesses getting more aggressive?”

“No, it’s—” I crack my shin on the coffee table trying to run around it. “Ow, shit!”

“It’s okay, I’ll get it. I’m in the mood for a fun argument.” HJ opens the door.

“Oh,” she says. “You don’t look like you’re here to talk about Jesus. Unless you’re hiding a Bible behind your back. You here for Mel?”

“Yeah,” Zumi says. “You’re not her. Unless you got taller and older since yesterday.”

“Older?” HJ raises her eyebrows. “How old do you think I am?”

“No, Zumi, don’t!” I say, rubbing my throbbing shin.

Zumi squints. “Twenty-nine?”

HJ squints back. “Honest answer?”

Zumi winces. “Not really?”

HJ sighs and steps aside for Zumi to come in. “What kind of name is Zumi anyway? Sounds Aztec or Mayan.”

“Do I look like I’m from Mexico?”

“You look like you’re from Japan but I bet you aren’t.”

Zumi smiles. “I was born a couple miles from here. On the kitchen table, supposedly. I’m still not sure if it’s a true story or just something my brother wants me to believe and my parents keep playing along.”

I laugh. I think if Annie were here, she’d have said, “Zumi, gross!” with a look of genuine disgust. She wouldn’t have laughed. But then again, if Annie were here, Zumi wouldn’t have said it.

“Zumi,” I say. “This is my aunt Joan.”

“Call me HJ.” She walks back to the kitchen.

“I like her,” Zumi says, not whispering. “Where can I get one?”

“Be careful what you wish for.”

We spend the next couple hours sitting in my room, talking and laughing. I keep expecting her to stand up and say it’s time to go, or call Connor, but she doesn’t. She stays for lunch—Frankenstein sandwiches we make from random stuff in the fridge—and then we’re back in my bedroom.

“Hey,” Zumi says. “Is that what I think it is?”

My closet door is ajar and she pulls it all the way open. She grabs a box. Oh no …

“Why do you have a karaoke machine in here?”

“Because … my aunt was a very different kind of teenager? And she can’t understand that? And she keeps trying to fix me?”

“It’s never been opened.”

“I keep meaning to return it. I guess it’s too late, now. You can have it if you want.”

“Already got one. Let’s go!” She’s out the door.

I find Zumi in the living room behind the TV. The karaoke box is torn open on the floor.

“What are you doing?”

“Looking for pirate treasure. Oh wait, I already found some. I just need to plug it in …”

Against my silent hope, Zumi gets it working in less than two minutes. She thumbs through the screen menu with the remote. “No songs from this century? So much Madonna, my mom would love it, but God, if I hear ‘Borderline’ one more time … See anything you want to sing?”

I don’t answer.

“Here’s some less ancient stuff … not bad … something for everyone. What’s first?”

“You,” I say. “You first.”

“Okay,” Zumi says.

I regret my word choice. The clear implication is that I’ll go second.

The screen scrolls to LADY GAGA and stops on “Bad Romance.”

It starts, blaring at high volume, but Zumi doesn’t soften it. The first lyrics on the screen aren’t words, just chanting, and she dives right in. She’s done this before. Not just karaoke; this exact song.

I glance out through the dining room and see Mom and HJ standing outside the glass door, staring in, drawn by the commotion. It looks like they were eating lunch at the backyard picnic table.

Zumi belts out the song like her life depends on it, rocking left and right. She even stretches her arm out to point at the imaginary audience behind the TV.

It’s loud and shocking, and she sings so fluidly without stumbling, it takes a moment to register that her voice is … off. I don’t know anything about singing, but I understand it requires skill beyond saying the right words at the right times. Zumi lacks this skill.

She spins around and points at me, singing without needing to watch the screen. I see it on her face, behind the grin she’s fighting to suppress. She knows she’s a lousy singer.

I cover my face—I can’t let her see what I’m thinking. She laughs and spins around again, singing louder now.

It’s glorious.