Or worse, what if Bongsunga knew about Jebi’s debt?
Bongsunga’s scowl faltered. “You think this is about something as petty as rent?”
That was when Jebi knew how badly they’d fucked up. In the ordinary course of things, Bongsunga took money very seriously. “Then what?”
Bongsunga opened the folder with tight, controlled motions, like she was close to ripping it in half. “I found this in your room,” she said, and held up a sheet of paper.
The first thing that surged through Jebi was irritation. They weren’t ten anymore; their sister, even an older sister who liked being the responsible one, shouldn’t be going through their room. And never mind that the two of them could afford two separate rooms, which allowed Jebi plenty of space for splashing ink about and storing art supplies, instead of sharing like so many of their neighbors did.
The second thing—
“Where did you find that?” Jebi blurted out, which was stupid, their sister had just told them. The red stamp of the Citizens’ Bureau faced outward, clearly visible to them.
In answer, Bongsunga’s eyes narrowed. “‘Tesserao Tsennan,’” she read, although she stumbled over the pronunciation; the sound ts didn’t occur in Hwamal words. Unlike Jebi, Bongsunga had only learned the bare minimum of Razanei words—what she called ‘Rassanmal,’ the Hwamal term for the language—necessary to survive. “Whose idea was this?”
As if they’d been conned into getting a name certificate by some feckless friend over drinks. “It was my idea,” they said loudly.
Bongsunga tugged at a lock of her hair, white-lipped. She closed her eyes, breathed in and out. Opened them.
“If that’s all—” Jebi said, daring to hope that they could get this argument over with and slip off to the kitchen for a proper dinner. Maybe Bongsunga didn’t realize what a name certificate cost. After all, she considered the whole business distasteful; might not have paid attention to the bureaucracy involved.
“I’m not finished,” Bongsunga said. She put the certificate back in the folder. “You could have gotten into—this could get you into trouble with patriots. I’ll burn this, and we’ll have no more of this nonsense.”
Jebi’s temper flared. “What do you mean, ‘burn this’? I spent good money on—”
They realized the admission was a mistake the moment the words left their mouth.
“Money,” Bongsunga repeated slowly. “What money?”
Jebi gritted their teeth. There was no way Bongsunga would understand taking out a loan for something like this, so they had to lie to her. “I took odd jobs. Painting posters, the endless pictures of tigers to sell in the markets, you know. Believe it or not, people will pay something for good art. And I’m good at what I do.”
“Then why do you need this—this—?” Bongsunga indicated the offending document.
“Listen,” Jebi said, “could we at least discuss this after dinner? Because I’m famished after—” They clamped their mouth shut. Stupid. They’d meant to tell Bongsunga—after. Only after they’d passed the exams and it was a done deal.
Bongsunga’s voice took on what Jebi always thought of as her Mom But Not Mom Voice. “After what?” she asked with deceptive calm.
In Jebi’s earliest memories, their mother had yelled occasionally—not malice, just an uncertain temper after the tribulations of raising two children with her husband dead. Of course, she hadn’t lived long. Bongsunga had sworn once that she would never yell. And for the most part she succeeded. Jebi often wished she would, because yelling—even throwing chopsticks—would have been more endurable than this deadly coldness.
“Let’s talk about this after dinner,” Jebi repeated, and looked down. Their hands were shaking.
“I told you that you should have had more breakfast,” Bongsunga said, as if that mattered right now.
Jebi loved their older sister, even when she was mad, but sometimes she acted like she was still the only grown person and Jebi was still a teenager. “Never mind,” they said, “I’m not hungry after all.” They got up to go to their room—hide in their room, if the truth be told, until this blew over, and maybe they were acting like a teenager after all. Unfortunately, their stomach betrayed them by growling loudly. At any other time, it would have been funny.
Bongsunga rose as well, leaving the folder next to her cushion on the floor. She caught Jebi’s arm. “Listen to me.”
Jebi froze.
“Whatever it is you did that you think is so clever”—she said the word with no particular inflection—“you might as well share it now. We’ll get through it together. We always have.”
Jebi’s heart ached, because they didn’t think together was what their sister would be feeling once they admitted where they’d been all day. “It’s not trouble,” they said, trying to buy time. “I haven’t gone down to the gambling parlors and lost the month’s rent, if that’s what you’ve been thinking.” The moneylender had given them until the end of the month to come up with the money. And the Razanei paid on time. The problem was going to go away.
Bongsunga’s brow furrowed. Whoops; bad joke, bad time, and even when she was in a good mood, Bongsunga had no sense of humor when it came to money. “If it isn’t trouble,” she said, “why are you avoiding telling me?”
An excellent question, and one whose answer would only infuriate her. Fine, then; better to get the explosion over with so the two of them could resume an ordinary existence. Besides, Bongsunga would come around once Jebi started bringing in more money. After all, she’d wanted to replace the floor cushions with nicer ones. Their current set was starting to look threadbare. Jebi liked how their sister’s face glowed when she was able to afford things without worrying about money, especially since they were painfully aware how tightly she budgeted so that Jebi could have the art supplies they needed. Bongsunga spent all day out of the house, hustling at tasks she refused to talk to Jebi about, and worked half the night on top of it. Jebi wanted her to be able to lead an easier life.
Jebi squared their shoulders and bowed slightly, as though presenting a petition to someone close to their age. “I took the Ministry of Art examination today,” they said. “I did well. It’ll be a steady job. I’ll bring in more money than the scribal stuff and cheap pictures I’ve been doing.”
Bongsunga let go of their arm, and for a moment Jebi thought she wasn’t mad anymore. “What name,” she said, “did you register under?”
“I don’t see why that’s—”
“Exactly. You don’t see.” Bongsunga’s mouth crimped. “Answer the question.”
Jebi lifted their head and looked their sister directly in the eye, which caused her eyes to narrow. After all, Jebi was the younger. They might push her, they might defy her, but open disrespect from a younger sibling was another matter.
On the other hand, at this point, etiquette was the least of Jebi’s problems.
“I registered as Tesserao Tsennan,” they said into Bongsunga’s hostile silence. They couldn’t help themself: they made a point of pronouncing the foreign name perfectly, as they had practiced so carefully in the markets and at the downtown districts when Bongsunga wasn’t around to overhear. The words spilled out of them in a tumble. “You know what it’s like for Hwagugin these days. The Rassanin”—they used the Hwamal term for Razan’s people with the ease of long practice—“give preference to their own when they hire.”