A Cab Called Reliable by Patti Kim Page A

she brushes and braids my hair. But my hair is too short for braids. He hopes to find her frying bean cakes while I stand behind her stirring the batter. Instead, he finds a snoring Loo Lah lolling on our sofa.
    All she knows how to do is bathe, shampoo, feed, and groom herself. Her nails are painted pale pink. Her brows are plucked and drawn in. Her face is massaged. She has the awful habit of picking at the mascara clumped on her eyelashes, which look to me like the legs of an ant. Loo Lah’s not my mother. No matter what, she never will be. Loo Lah will have to pack her things and leave when my real mother and little brother return.
    I remember when my father worked overtime all week and finally when Friday came around, he came home early, about four o’clock, with his paycheck. My mother turned off the stove, untied her apron, and went into her bedroom to change into her brown dress with the pink baby umbrellas on it. When she came out, her hair was long and wavy, and I could tell she had just brushed it. She was wearing red lipstick and blue eyeshadow. Min Joo and I put our shoes on and waited at the door, while our mother and father got ready. She walked from the radiator in the kitchen to the one in the living room, then to the one in our bedroom, looking for her pantyhose. The water in the bathroom was running, and we could hear our father humming. Min Joo and I, tired of waiting, played Gahi Bahi Boh, which the stupid kids at school called paper, rock, scissors. Gahi Bahi Boh. Min Joo held out a fist. I held out two fingers. Our mother and father came into the living room. Father was slapping his shaven cheeks, smiling and singing, Hurry, let’s go.
    Min Joo always sat behind Mother, and I always sat behind Father. Min Joo wanted to play Gahi Bahi Boh some more, but I told him no. Then he wanted to play Mook Jji Bbah, but I told him no. I simply wanted to sit still and watch Pershing Market, Buckingham Theater, Rosenthal, AOK TV move along outside while I listened to the Carpenters singing about rainy days and Mondays always getting them down. When Father whispered how much he made this week, Mother smiled, so I thought this would be a good time to tell her what Mina’s mother had said about Min Joo and me. She said Min Joo had Mother’s personality, but looked like Father. I had Father’s personality, but looked like Mother. When I said that, my mother turned her head toward me and snapped, So you really believe you look like your mother? I sank into my seat and sang, Hanging around, hanging, nothing to do but frown, rainy days and Mondays always get me down.
    When we got to the restaurant, Father ordered four Gino Giants, four medium french fries, four medium Cokes, and a small coleslaw for Mother because she had to have a side dish with her meal. Father wanted to sit at a table next to the men’s room so that he could watch his Ford Fairlane from his seat, but Mother said the smell was making her lose her appetite. So Min Joo and I moved to another table, and I waited for her to give me my Gino Giant. She picked up the tray of food. Father lit a cigarette. She walked toward the table Min Joo and I had chosen. Mother’s purse slid off her shoulders and landed on her forearm. The tray shook. One of the Gino Giants, which was still in its wrapping, fell to the floor. She picked it up, blew on it, and put it in front of me. That was the only time she ever served me first.
    I was born first. The firstborn was supposed to get everything first. So why? Why did she always buy him new pants and shirts? Why did she feed him first? Why did he get the cotton quilts, while I slept with sheets? Why did he get a two-wheeler when he didn’t even know how to ride? I knew the plums were hidden for him.
    I remember when Min Joo broke the vase Grandmother sent from Korea. Mother had told him not to bounce balls in the living room, but he did. When she heard the vase crack, she rushed in, leaving the