Jackson's dead.

I killed him.

The silent car is filled with my terrified, gulping gasps. I take a wide-eyed glance around.

"Help," I whisper.

But there's no one around. The street is completely empty.

I have no idea where we are.

I slam my seatbelt lock, yank open the door, and leap out of the car, barely making it onto the street before my dinner resurfaces.

There's a dead man in my car.

A man. Dead. In the driver's seat of my Cooper.

This is not at all onbrand for Cooper. Coopers aren't killers' cars. Jeep Wranglers are. Or, um, whoever makes those windowless white vans. Who makes those anyway? I mean, those are creepy AF—

Focus!

A sob breaks the silence. No. Right now, I can't afford to freak out. I'll never stop weeping if I start crying.

What do I do?

Cops.

Yeah. 911. Right.

I reach to the back seat, averting my eyes from Jackson's body, and look for my purse—there it is.

Cell phone.

When I press the power button, nothing occurs. I grumble.

No, please. Out of power.

I take a shaky breath and reach inside Jackson's pocket. Maybe I'll find his phone in there. When the tips of my fingers brush against his trousers, my teeth clench so tight that my molars almost shatter.

Empty.

It makes me sick to think of groping about his pants for his phone.

Okay. That's OK. This is perfectly OK. I'll just... I'll wait here till a car passes.

Except.

Except we've been here for who knows how long, and no one has driven by. There are no houses, convenience stores, or anything else that may hold human life in this immediate vicinity. The factories appear to have been abandoned for years; many of the windows are shattered, and they are deafeningly quiet.

I'm not sure how much longer I can stay here. I can't tolerate it any longer.

I return my gaze to the car. Surprisingly, despite having collided with a tree, it appears to be in rather good condition. The hood is dented, and there's a huge crack going across one side of the windshield, but it appears to be drivable otherwise.

"No," I mutter to myself. I can't possibly drive it. Not the least because there is a dead guy in the driver's seat.

Then move him.

The thought of touching him again makes my entire body shiver. My mind, on the other hand, is like a caged wild beast, thrashing against the bars and snarling. I need to get out of here as soon as possible. I can't stand here any longer, waiting for someone to pass by and be kind enough to stop.

I open the driver's side door, gulping in small breaths of oxygen and yelping as Jackson's body slumps into the pavement.

Oh my goodness, I was not expecting that to happen.

Hang on. I should check for a pulse.

Or should I? He's so clearly dead. Yes, yes, I should.

I brush a shaky finger against his wrist, whimpering softly. I just manage to keep it there for two seconds before yanking my hand back and frantically wiping it on my shirt.

Dead. Very dead.

I take another long breath and fan my face, attempting to extinguish the fires in my cheeks, before reaching out and grabbing Jackson's arms. They're still warm. Argh. That somehow aggravates the situation. I clench my teeth and pull hard as bile surges up.

Thanks to my job, I've had to work out on a regular basis—carrying two big cameras with all those lenses for ten hours straight is brutal on my back and shoulders, so I try to improve my strength and endurance as much as possible. I also treat myself to a weekly session with Piyaar, the greatest personal trainer in my gym. As a result, when I tug on Jackson's body, it moves remarkably effortlessly.

Piyaar would be delighted.

Okay, Piyaar would definitely not be proud of the fact that I can move a 180-pound man whom I've killed. And why am I even thinking of Piyaar at this point? Because—my mind argues as I yank Jackson across the pavement, to the back of the car—because you need to think of anything and everything else that isn't, "Holy shit, I'm moving a dead body!"

I'm moving a dead body, holy shit.

Where? What should I do with him now?

I'm not going to be able to leave him here. That's really too harsh. But the idea of having it—him—in the back seat of the car while I'm driving sickens me. I eye the trunk.

Okay. Trunk it is.

I pull a jacket from the back seat and put it over his face as an afterthought. When Jackson was living, he was a jerk, but now that he's gone, I feel compelled to treat him with respect. To process all of this, I'm going to require a lot of therapy.

I feel a little better after I slam the trunk shut and Jackson is out of sight. More in control.

In control? I mean, who am I kidding? In my car, there is a literal corpse.

I sigh and shake my head. Let's not go into it. I climbed back into the car, a shiver running through my body.

Please, start, please—

As soon as I turn the key, the engine roars to life. My breath comes out in a whoosh, and I take a breath to relax. Or at least attempt to. I'll just drive until I find a payphone, and then I'll call 911.

Right.

I gently back out, cringing at the grinding sound my bumper makes as it travels down the road. Maybe I should go out and try to fix it, but I'm not going to. I can't bear spending another second in this terrible location.

As I drive down the road, my breath continues to rush out in short, terrified gasps, and the brighter the streets become, the more panicked I am.

This is insane. What exactly have I done?

My car's trunk now contains a corpse. When I called the cops, what would they say? I'm not sure what I'd say. What was I thinking when I did that? Who in their right mind would commit such a thing?

Question after question assaults my mind until a scream rips out of me, and in that instant, I realize: I can't go to the cops. They'll think I'm guilty of murder, that I'm some crazed killer, and they'll arrest me.

There's a gas station in the distance. This is my chance. I can stop there, rush inside, and beg for help. However, my foot refuses to let go of the gas pedal, and I speed straight past it.

It's as if my subconscious has taken control over my body and is pushing it to keep driving without looking back until I reach the 405 exit. I take it, my heart pounding incessantly at the familiar road sign, my head throbbing as I merge into the oncoming traffic. With a dead body in my trunk, I'm speeding down the 405 freeway.

A hysterical laugh bubbles out. It sounds cracked, slightly mad. Tears spring into my eyes when I see the sign for the 10.

So close to home. To safety. A lump forms in the back of my throat.

For the first time in years... I can't wait to get home to Ma.

Junior Year, 7 Years Ago

The stage has been set.

By stage, I mean that our table is groaning beneath the weight of all the dumpling plates stacked in the middle, and I've poured tea for everyone, so all I have to do now is... tell them.

Just blurt it out, Atilia. Just do it. Do the thing!

"Um, so—"

"We have a big announcement!" Ma says in Korean. Her pupils are dilated and her eyes twinkle. They remind me of Christmas lights. She claps enthusiastically, as if she were a child.

"Oh?" I lean back in my chair, my heart pounding after almost spilling words about Yoongi.

Calm down, heart. I'll try again after their big announcement.

Ma nods at Big Uncle, who straightens up regally. He clears his throat, "We have decided to make a family business."

"Um. Okay . . . wow. That's huge." My mind swims.

What business could they possibly put together?

Big Uncle says, "All of us," and for once, Second Uncle does not disagree.

They're all staring at me with smiles on their faces.

"Okay..." Why are they staring at me so intently? My gut churns with dread.

Oh my gosh, this is where they tell me they used the house as collateral for the loans they took out for this mysterious company. Alternatively, the company might be involved in the distribution of cocaine. Or human trafficking.

Wow, I have a low opinion of my family.

"What's the business?" I say, when I can't take the anticipation any longer.

"Weddings!" Third Uncle exclaims, raising his hands in a flourish.

"Taetae," Big Uncle frowns at him, "I was about to tell Tily that."

"Sorry," Third Uncle says, but he doesn't seem sorry at all.

"Weddings?" I scowl.

"Yes," replies Big Uncle, "I'll take care of the wedding cakes. I already make large, delicious birthday cakes."

I give a slow nod, remembering Big Uncle's enormous birthday cakes. There's no doubt that he makes wonderful cakes.

However, the others...

"I'll do makeup and hair for the bride," Second Uncle says. "I have a lot of devoted customers at the salon. They'll all follow me if I quit."

"I'll do the flower bouquets and flower arranging," Ma says.

"And I'll do the entertainment!" Third Uncle finishes. "I have so many fans in the Asian community, you know. No doubt they'll all want to hire me as a wedding singer."

Ma rolls her eyes and says in a loud whisper, "He's just tagging along. He's family, so we have to give him a job."

"Says the minimum wage supermarket worker," Third Uncle mutters.

The two of them glare at each other until Big Uncle snaps his fingers between them and says, "And Tily-ah, my sweet biscuit."

All eyes turn to me. I shrink back in my chair.

"Yeah?" I squeak.

"You'll be the photographer."

The breath is knocked out of me. I guess I should've seen it coming. Of course they'd want me to be their photographer. It makes sense; I am studying photography, after all.

But still.

"Um. I need a minute."

I leap out of my chair and weave my way through the crowd until I reach the restaurant's exit. I take a few deep breaths and try to calm down the whirling ideas in my head.

I'm annoyed, but I'm not sure why. I think there's a part of me that screams, "Don't I get to pick what I want to do with my degree?" However, when I take a step back and consider it, I like the concept of doing wedding photography. I suppose I'm primarily irritated by the fact that they've all taken this decision without consulting me.

Which is stupid, right?

I shouldn't be furious since they made the right decision. And it's a smart decision; they're right; they're capable of doing everything. Ma's floral arrangements are really stunning.

On birthdays, Big Uncle gets intoxicated, while Second Uncle has a devoted following at the salon. Third Uncle, on the other hand, believes he is a celebrity and has a beautiful voice.

We might be able to make it work.

And as soon as I think about it, I feel a swell of excitement within me. This is something we could do. This may be my family's ticket out of the squalid tiny home where we all live.

The door to the restaurant opens, noise spilling out. Ma brightens when she spots me.

"Eh, kenapa kamu keluar sini? Saya pergi mencari kamu di tandas, tapi kamu takda." She peers at me and frowns. She changes from Malaysian to English, as if she realised I was having a moment. "You okay? Why so sad?" My gut clenches with shame as I see her switch to English despite not being competent in the language. She's already made so many sacrifices for me, and I can't even communicate with her in her mother tongue.

I force a smile. "I'm not sad. I'm just trying to digest this whole family business thing."

"Ah, yes. Very big deal. But if you not interested, it's okay. We don't need photographer."

I stare at her. "But inside, you guys were like, 'Tily, you should be our photographer.'"

"Yes, of course we want you to be our photographer. You are the best photographer."

I laugh bitterly. "Ma, you don't know that. I'm a total newbie. I'd probably make a mess of everything."

"It's okay, we are all new babies. We start slow. You do that thing, what is it called? Spirit another photographer?"

"Shadow."

"Ah, yes. You become a shadow to wedding photographer, you learn first, then when you graduate, you can do this. But if you think, no, I don't like this wedding photography, then no need to join family business, it is okay."

I take her hands in mine and squeeze them together. It's difficult for her to tell me it's fine, that I don't have to join them, since I can see how enthusiastic she is at the idea of all of us working together.

"I'll do it, Ma."

"Really?" It crushes my heart to see her so happy.

"Yeah, of course. I'll look into wedding photography. I want to do this with you."

"Alahai, sayangku," Ma pulls me into a hug. It's not as tight as the ones Yoongi's family gives, but it's sweet in its own way. "You make your mama so happy."

I wrap my arms around her and close my eyes. I guess I'll have to tell them about Yoongi some other time.

Present Day

I stay in the garage for what seems like hours, puzzled as to how my life has become so out of control.

And what am I doing here in the first place? Why am I not in the police station but at home?

It's possible that it's not too late.

I'm sure I could go to the cops and explain everything. Maybe they'd be sympathetic. When I consider restarting the engine and driving out of the garage even though every ounce of vitality had been drained out of me, I sag against the steering wheel, boneless.

I just need to stay a little longer. Acquire enough bravery. Decide on what I would say to the police.

There's a hard knock on the door. I leap so hard that I collide with the car's roof. Now I know what the saying "jumped out of their skin" means.

"Kamu buat apa kat dalam tu? You drunk? Alamak, were you drunk driving?" Ma calls out in Malaysian, her voice muffled through the window.

I open the car door, heart thundering. "Ma, you scared me!"

She frowns at me. "What is it, sayang? What's wrong?"

I had no intention of telling her anything. Of course I wasn't—I don't want to tell Ma about it. She'd have no idea what to do, say, or do—

"I killed him, Ma." When I hear myself utter those words out, tears well up in my eyes.

He was killed by me. I mean, how many times do I have to repeat it?

"Kill him? Kill what? Alamak, Tily, how many times must I tell you, don't drink so much. You see, now you're not making any sense."

"I killed him, Ma. Jackson. The guy you set me up with!" And now, finally, I let the tears flow, because saying his name is awful. It's not just any body in my trunk; it's a body that once belonged to someone.

Ma comes to a halt in the middle of her rambling. She closes her mouth and stares at me for a few moments. When she talks again, it's in stuttering English. "This is like what you and Emms like to say? You kids always saying, 'Wah, you killing it!' Like that, kan?"

"No!" I'm in tears. "I mean, Ma, I literally killed him!"

I pull out my vehicle key and press a button since I don't know what else to do. Inside our little garage, the trunk opens with a click that sounds like a gunshot. All of a sudden, everything becomes louder; I can hear my own heartbeat and Ma's quick intake of breath.

"Atilia," she whispers, "this is joke, right? You just joking with me?"

"No, Ma, this isn't a joke."

A strangled laugh from Ma; then she shakes her head. "You kids, ya, you always think you are so funny." She wags a finger at me and strides to the back of the car, still shaking her head. "My daughter, such a knucklehead, so—WEH APA BENDA NI!" She stumbles back, hands covering her mouth.

I wince.

"Atilia," she hisses. "Tily! This is not funny."

She switches her gaze between me and the trunk. "Are those artificial limbs?" How do you pronounce it—man-ee-kween?"

I shake my head, fresh tears springing to my eyes. "No, Ma, it's not a mannequin. It's really Jackson, I swear."

She makes a noise that sounds like a combination between a yelp and a cry, then pauses for a while to gather her courage before peering farther into the trunk. When she sees the rest of the body, she whimpers again. I can only guess what she sees from her vantage point. The shoes came first—brown loafers with no socks—followed by the legs, the torso, and then the jacket that covered his face.

"Why you cover the face?" she says. "Something horrible happen to it, is it?" She shudders. "Is there something sticking out of the eye? Alamak, jangan bagitahu saya, saya taknak tahu." She flaps, grimacing. "Is it broken glass in his eye?"

"No, Ma. There's nothing sticking out of his eye. I just thought it would be, I don't know, more respectful."

"Oh." She nods. "Yes, you right, more respectful." She pats me on the cheek. "I raise you so well."

Hysteria rises from deep in my stomach and I have to swallow it. Trust Ma to take pride in my etiquette when I've just shown her my date, whom I've killed, in the trunk of my car.

"I just killed a person, so I don't know if you can say that you've raised me well."

"Oh, he must deserve it."

I bite my lip to keep from bursting into tears again. I'm so grateful that I don't have to explain myself to her.

"Okay!" Ma says this as she straightens up, suddenly feeling in control. She's not even struggling to breathe. She has a sparkle in her eye during the week leading up to Chinese New Year, when she goes completely insane and cleans the house like Marie Kondo on drugs.

"You. Now. Inside."

She slams the trunk shut and ushers me into the house through the back door.

She urges me to have a seat at the kitchen counter inside. I follow her orders because I'm too tired and dejected to protest. And, as much as I like admitting it, I'm pleased she's taking charge since I'm at a loss for what to do in this position. As a result, I slump into a chair, put my elbows on the kitchen counter, and hide my face in my hands.

Please let me wake up and find out that all this was a nightmare.

Any moment now.

A steaming cup of tea is placed in front of me.

"TKM," Ma says. "You drink now. You got too much 'yang,' your insides very hot. Your breath smell so bad." She shuffles out of the kitchen. I lock my gaze on her receding back.

Seriously, traditional Korean medicine? Who in their right mind would consider foul breath at this time?

Still, I take a drink, and the herbal tea is like an elixir, spreading its delicious warmth throughout my entire body, all the way down to my freezing fingertips. I take another sip, then another, and before I know it, I've finished the entire cup and am starting to feel better.

Ma strides back into the kitchen. "Okay, I call Big Uncle already. He will be here in few minutes."

"WHAT?" I jump out of my chair. "Ma, oh my god, I can't believe you did that."

For a brief moment, she appears perplexed, but then her expression brightens and she smiles, waving me away. "Oh, no worry, no worry, he say he will call everyone else for me, okay? Won't just be Big Uncle coming here, you don't worry, all your uncles will come too."

"WHAT??" I cry. I throw my head back and stare up at the ceiling. This can't be happening. "Ma, that's not—we shouldn't be telling everyone about this!"

Ma frowns. "Not everyone. Just your uncles."

"That's everyone!"

"Atilia," she tuts, disapproving. "They are family. It's different."

"It's murder!" I cry. "Or, well, not murder, it's more like self-defense, but still. Ma, there's a dead guy in my car. This is not the kind of thing you share with everyone, even if they're family."

"It's exactly kind of thing you share with family," Ma argues.

"What do you mean, it's exactly the kind of thing you share with family? What other things have you guys shared that are in any way like this?"

Ma waves me off and says, "Come, help me cut mango for uncles. If we don't offer any food very tak sopan."

"Seriously, Ma? You care about saving face right now? I think we're kinda beyond that, aren't we?"

She gives me a look as she bends down to open up the fruit drawer in the fridge. "Sayang, how can you say that? Your uncles coming over, so late at night, coming to help us get rid of body, and we don't even offer them any food? How can? Oh, we have Korean pears, good, good. Big Uncle's favorite. Wah, got strawberries too. Very good. Help me peel, don't be so rude to your uncles, you will bring shame."

"Oh, right, it's the lack of fruit that'll bring shame, not the dead body in the car."

I'm standing at the kitchen island with a peeler in one hand and a Korean pear in the other in less than a minute. My thoughts keep flowing, Bwaaa, this is so surreal. There is a dead body in my car and I'm standing here peeling fruit! 

I keep peeling and cutting for some reason. I suppose I should do that because I don't have any better ideas. The doorbell rings just as I finish slicing up the huge pear.

"Go get door," Ma says. She's still slicing up the last dragon fruit.

Still in that strange I-must-be-dreaming state of mind, I make my way to the front door. I'm not sure what to say to my uncles.

Thank you for coming to help figure out what to do with this guy I killed?

But I don't have to say anything because as soon as I open the door, Big Uncle pats my cheek and says in Korean, "My lovely niece, don't worry. Go sit down," and then strides past me. Second and Third Uncles follow, each one clucking, "Don't worry, we're here now, stop crying."

"I'm not crying—"

Before joining the others in the kitchen, Second Uncle tuts, as if my lack of tears were a personal insult to him. The kitchen erupts with noise, but not of the "Oh my gosh, Tily did what?" kind.

More of the "Wah, dragon fruit! Alahai, you shouldn't have bothered!" sort of comments. I can hear Ma yelling at her brothers to sit down and eat some mangoes as she pulls out chairs.

"Seojoon gave me a whole crate when he came back from Korea. A whole crate!" Taking a deep breath, I steel myself and go into the kitchen.

"Biscuit!" Big Uncle shouts.

Oh my goodness, here it is. They're going to start freaking out over the dead body now.

"Have you eaten?" Big Uncle says. "Come! Come here and sit down, oh, you look so pale." He gets up from his seat.

It's as though a switch has been flipped inside of me. I automatically hurry over, pushing him back down onto the chair, saying, "Please, Big Uncle, don't bother yourself. I'll grab a chair. You sit and enjoy the fruit, okay? Can I get you anything else?"

I sense Ma's approval from the corner of my eye, and it makes me want to both laugh and cry.

Seriously, I've just killed a man, and she still cares about me being respectful to my elders.

Big Uncle spears a sliced mango and takes a dainty bite. "Wah, so good."

 He takes another bite and sighs. "Nothing beats Malaysian mangoes."

"Yes, Malaysian mangoes are the sweetest," Ma says. "Does anyone want herbal tea? I boiled a pot for Tily and I have some left over."

"Tch, no thanks, I don't believe in that old-fashioned TKM stuff," Third Uncle says.

Ma glowers at him. "Traditional Korean medicine is actual medicine!" She goes on one of her regular rants about how TKM has been scientifically shown to work and is far superior than Western medicine, and so on.

I'm stuck in a nightmare. I'm aware of it.

I may have had a concussion as a result of the collision. Maybe I'm in a coma and my coma-brain is fabricating this bizarre scenario, since there's no way I'm sitting in the kitchen, watching my oldest uncles eat a mango while Ma and Third Uncle quarrel as Jackson cools off in the trunk of my car. Big Uncle sets down his fork with a significant clatter just as I'm ready to scream.

Everyone sits to attention.

"So," he says as he turns to face me and speaks in English. His gaze is eagle keen behind the gentle wrinkles that I know so well that I could draw them in my sleep. "Tell Big Uncle about what happened. Start from beginning."

I don't hesitate.

Big Uncle has a certain charm about him, a mix of firm authority and fatherly warmth that no one can resist. I'm so guilty for bringing them here in the middle of the night—to assist me with a dead body, no less—that I try to tell them the incident in Korean.

Second Uncle, though, warns me that my terrible Korean is causing him a headache and that I should simply stick to English. With some relief, I tell them about my date with Jackson, about how he insisted on driving me home, and the things he said.

My uncles and mother cover their mouths with horror and shake their heads.

"How could you set my Tily up with such a douchebag?" Third Uncle snaps at Ma.

Ma's face is as red as a Louboutin sole. "He was so nice online! Perfect gentleman, even offer to cook terung for me—er, for Tily."

"What's terung? Is that fermented shrimp paste?" I say.

"Tch, no," Ma says, switching to English. "Shrimp paste is belacan. Terung is eggplant."

Something clicks inside me. "He offered to cook me eggplant? That's weirdly specific."

Ma nods furiously. "It's why I think, wah, this boy is meant for you. He even know what is your favorite food."

"I need to see these chat messages."

My uncles all take their glasses out as Ma pulls her phone out of her pocket. Third Uncle swipes the phone from Ma's hand as she hands it to me.

"Hey!" Ma expresses herself.

Third Uncle turns away from her and starts scrolling. His brows arch upward, almost vanishing into his hairline, and he laughs hysterically.

"Why you laugh? What is so funny?" Ma snaps.

Third Uncle tosses the phone to me, still laughing so hard he can't catch his breath. I glance over the messages and...

Oh. My. Goodness.

It's a lot worse than I anticipated.

I look up at Ma, aghast. "You used my real name on this site? And is that—" I tap on the little icon next to my name, and it enlarges to show an actual picture of me.

"I don't know you are supposed to use fake name! How am I supposed to know that?"

"Maybe by not pretending to be me and making a fake dating account? I mean, for god's sake, look, Jackson didn't upload any pictures of himself!" Ma looks so hurt that I immediately regret saying that, "I'm sorry, Ma, I know you just wanted to help."

She gives a tiny nod, and I resume reading.

I grit my teeth in an effort to not snap at Ma again.

How many exclamation marks can the woman use in a single reply?

It continues on like this for a long time, with Jackson boasting and explaining in great detail each of the hotels he owns, and Ma responding in the most bimbotic way imaginable. Anyone reading this may assume I'm desperate for Jackson's approval, but I know Ma is being courteous.

This is how Mom raised me: by encouraging others to share about themselves, then finding the positive aspects of what they say and expressing gratitude. I'm not sure if it's a Korean or a Malaysian thing, but whatever it is, it seemed to work with Jackson.

He sends this message after only a few days of chatting back and forth:

Oh. My. Goodness. Noooo.

The term "tak sedap badan" in Malaysian implies "not feeling good" in English, although the literal translation is "body not delicious."

Third Uncle continues to cackle behind me, as the others exclaim, "What? What is it that is so amusing?"

I kept reading.

I slam the phone down on the table and stare at Ma. Third Uncle is laughing so hard that he is actually on the floor.

"What? What is it?" Big Uncle says. "He sound like very nice boy, offer to cook eggplant for you."

"Right?" Ma cries, gesturing wildly. "I read that and I think, wah, this boy is so lovely, so caring for my daughter, even ask her, is she thirsty?"

I bury my face in my hands. "Nooo! Ma, those emojis—the water droplets and the eggplant—they're sexual innuendos!" While Third Uncle howls with amusement, three sets of eyes gaze at me in bewilderment.

"Sexual... what do you mean? In-you-when-what?" Second Uncle says.

I can't believe I'm having this conversation with my uncles and mom right now. "Sexual innuendos. You know, like, sexual wordplay. The eggplant symbolizes the—um—the male uh, the um."

This is ridiculous.

For the love of God, I'm twenty-seven years old, yet I still can't say the word "penis" out loud in front of my mother and uncles because I'm sure they'd reprimand me. Instead, I air-draw the universal sign for penis with my index finger.

"Eggplant," Big Uncle says. "Yes, he say eggplant, we know that."

"No—"

"She means PENIS!" Third Uncle howls, and then doubles over again, laughing.

"What?" Ma gasps. "No. But—"

"That sound not right. I think you wrong," Big Uncle says stridently. He snatches the phone from me and frowns at it again. "See, he say, 'If I'd known, I would've asked you out sooner . . . I've got a real big one—' Oh."

He drops the phone on the counter as if it's turned into a cockroach.

Ma's standing there, frozen, a look of horror on her face.

"Ma, you okay?"

She turns to look at me slowly, then says, in a voice full of horrified wonder, "Eggplant is penis?"

"Yeah." I sigh, feeling so ashamed of my generation.

"I thought he mean, you know, fried eggplant. I thought—" She looks so lost and small that I can't help but feel sorry for her. I put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed.

"It's okay, Ma. I know."

"Yes, it's okay, everyone has to learn how to sext at some point," Third Uncle says.

I shoot him a dirty look.

"Sext?" Ma says.

"Don't worry about it," I say, patting her shoulder. "So, um. Okay, so this clarifies some things. Not that it excuses Jackson's behavior in any way, but I see now why he was so...uh—"

"Horny?" Third Uncle says. He grins when I shoot him another dirty look.

Ma's hand flies to her mouth again. "Sayang, is it... did I get boy killed because I say I want to eat his eggplant?"

I open my mouth to answer, but my uncles beat me to it, shouting, "NO!" in unison.

"So what if you say you want eat eggplant?" Second Uncle says. "Maybe one day you want eat eggplant, but then another day you don't want, is okay you change mind."

"Yes, he is very bad boy, very bad," Big Uncle says.

"But if I don't say, 'Wah, yes, I want to eat your eggplant,' then maybe he not so—you know—"

"Tily, what did you reply to him in the car when he said those things?" Third Uncle asks.

"I told him no, I wasn't interested in that. I moved his hand off my knee. I was pretty clear about what I wanted and didn't want."

"See?" Third Uncle says, triumphantly. "The eggplant doesn't matter. That was just flirting. Everybody does it. But he chose to take it further after Tily said no. It's not your fault."

I nod emphatically. "It really isn't your fault, Ma."

I suppress a small voice in my head that says: Well, it kind of is, in that if she hadn't impersonated me in the first place...

It's pointless to point fingers at this point.

"Okay, back to what happen," Big Uncle says. "So this baggy douche try touch you—"

"Douchebag," Third Uncle says.

Big Uncle waves him off. "Douchebaggy try touch you—"

"Then I sort of freaked out—panicked—and um, I may have Tased him a little."

Four pairs of eyes stare at me, horrified.

"Tily," Second Uncle breathes. "You have Taser?"

As I nod, I can't help but cringe. Here it comes. They're going to—

"Can we see?" Second Uncle says.

Huh?

"Wah, wonder what model you got," Big Uncle adds. "Is it like my one?"

He takes his LV bag from the kitchen counter and rummages through it, looking over his reading glasses.

Third Uncle sighs. "They got distracted again. Hey!" He claps at them, like they're raucous puppies. "Focus! It's very late and we have an early morning."

Big Uncle straightens up, clearing his throat. "Ah, sorry. You show me Taser later. Okay, so you Tase him. You get him where? Neck? Cheek?"

I gape at him. "Um, the neck."

They all nod.

"Always go for neck," Ma says. "I hear neck is best place to Tase. Very sensitive. Good, Atilia sayang." She pats my cheek with approval.

It takes me a second to recover my thoughts from the jumble of WTFness.

"And then, uh, he crashed the car, and when I recovered, he was—uh."

Ma responds simply, "He died already."

My uncles don't appear startled, which indicates Ma must have told them over the phone before they arrived, or that MY FAMILY IS A BUNCH OF PSYCHOPATHS. I choose to go with the former.

"Then how?" Second Uncle says.

That's something he can say again.

We sit silently for a while, each of us lost in contemplation.

For the record, I'm still thinking WHY ARE THEY SO CALM? WHAT IS GOING ON? AND OMG, I KILLED A MAN.

With a groan, Big Uncle removes his reading glasses. "Okay. Where is Jackson now?"

"In the trunk of my car," I answer, cringing once again at the absurdity of the situation.

He gives a nod. "Nobody see you, right?"

"I mean, I don't think so? There was no one around. It was a quiet street, I think he chose to go down that street because, uh, you know, he wanted to—you know."

My uncles and mother all swear in different languages, with a lot of F-words thrown around in Japanese, Korean, and Malaysian.

Ma hisses, "I tell you, eh, it's a good thing he's already dead, because otherwise I'd kill him."

Even Third Uncle nods solemnly in agreement. Hearing this brings tears to my eyes once more. The fact that they all agree that I did the right thing in defending myself is as comforting as a warm hug, and all I want to do now is fall into their arms and sob, letting them handle everything.

"Okay, so we getting rid of body," Big Uncle says, with his usual authority.

"Hang on," Third Uncle says, "why should we do that? Why not just go to the police? I mean, it sounds like a pretty clear-cut case of self-defense."

Ma scowls at him. "Yes, we know it is self-defense, but police don't know. They see we got dead body in trunk, they will for sure say, 'Oh my god, you murder him!'"

Third Uncle glares back at his sister, opens his mouth to say something, stops, turns to me, and says, "Why did you put the body in the trunk?"

Despite being the youngest of the lot, Third Uncle is still formidable. All the youngest in my family are.

Except for me, I guess.

I tremble beneath his scrutiny, my voice shaky. "Um. I was completely taken aback. I didn't want to wait another second for someone; my phone was dead, and I didn't want to drive back with it next to me. In retrospect, I believe I made the very worst decision possible."

"No, the worst option is to abandon him on the side of the road," Second Uncle adds.

"Oh, yeah, that one is much worse," Ma replies gratefully, nodding to him before giving Third Uncle another nasty look.

Third Uncle ignores her, "Surely if we go to the cops and explain everything, they'll see that Tilly is no killer. Look at her!"

I'm immediately the focus of four pairs of perceptive eyes. I make every attempt not to squirm away from the attention. Ma and Big Uncle exchange a glance. I know what he's asking Ma, even if he doesn't say it: It's your daughter, what do you want to do?

Ma straightens her back. "We're not going to the police. No, I don't trust them. We have no idea what they're saying. They might say she temperating the body—"

Third Uncle replies, " Tampered with the body, you mean."

Ma gives him a venomous glare. "They might say she block justice—"

"Obstructed justice," Third Uncle claims.

"It's very clear what I mean!" Ma snaps. "Yes, we know your English is very good, no need to show off, okay?"

Third Uncle throws his arms up. "I'm just helping!"

Third Uncle deflates when Big Uncle catches his eye and gives a slight shake of the head, and his breath comes out in an angry sigh.

"Do anything you want," he mumbles.

It's as though there's a fire beneath my skin. My cheeks are a fiery crimson. My mother and uncle are fighting over me. Okay, Ma and Third Uncle have never gotten along, and they fight every chance they get, but it still sucks to be the reason they're fighting now.

Big Uncle nods. "Okay, no police. Come, we go see body."

The words in italics are in Korean, while the words in italics and bold are in Malay.

Eh, kenapa kamu keluar sini? = Why did you come outside?
Saya pergi mencari kamu di tandas, tapi kamu takda. = I was looking for you in the bathroom, but you weren't there.
Kamu buat apa kat dalam tu? = What are you doing in there?
WEH APA BENDA NI = What is this? <an expression/ exclamation like surprised>
jangan bagitahu saya, saya taknak tahu. = Don't tell me, I don't want to know.
tak sopan. = not polite.
Weh, apa aku nak buat ni? = What am I going to do?

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