Third Place: Thursday

Christina Yang
Sep 19
11 min read

Thursday

by Christina Yang

Third Place

Jun has always said cities are dead in the daytime, but come alive at night. Blank stares and hollow laughter fade and become few and far between—as long as you know to avoid the parts of the city with the pubs and clubs—until nothing remains but the gentle, velvet black of the night, and the moon and all those stars, their glow reflecting off of the skyscrapers that go on for miles and miles. Without the daytime clamour, thoughts, rather than actions take a front seat. After all, do the most vivid features of life not emerge in bed after a long day, while gazing up at a bare ceiling? When streetlamps are the only guiding light, does one not feel the most human then?

That is why without fail, every Thursday evening, from 8:00 pm to 10:00 pm, Jun finds her way to the top of this particular skyscraper. Like every week since this became a personal tradition, Jun has come prepared with a topic to think about, for the full two hours. She knows that no one can know this because she is sure that if they do, they will laugh. Last week, she spent them thinking about frogs, and the week before that, it was her upcoming Aerospace Design exam. Next week, as she has already planned out, she will be thinking about Arc de Triomphe. Today, she is to contemplate her childhood.

When Jun was twelve years old, she received second place in the city’s Year 6 Spelling Bee. That was great, except Misa had won first place. That day at recess, she snuck to the bin behind the girls’ toilets and threw the trophy into the black, bottomless abyss.

That afternoon, when Misa showed their parents her shining golden trophy, Jun slipped into the backyard. Unfortunately, on this occasion they were particularly exclamatory. Even as she crouched in the grass, and examined the rows of plants, she could hear their voices.

“Oh, my clever, clever girl!” she heard her mother say.

“Darling, come on, stand by the wall now. Yes, yes, say cheese! Your grandparents will be so proud of you!” she heard her father exclaim.

Ah, Jun thought. The usual ritual.

She knew what would happen next. Her parents would fuss over Misa some more, and her photos, alongside pictures of the trophy (in particular, the name on the trophy), would be posted on their mother’s Facebook page. Jun could already imagine the caption. There would be an overuse of emojis and capitalisation. Their father would repost it. Jun would take this all in, and note the blandness of both their parents’ Facebook pages. On one occasion, she had calculated the approximate percentages of their composition: her mother’s was 50% Misa, 20% the whole family, 20% the roses she was growing, 10% Jun; her father’s was 40% her mother’s cooking, 40% Misa, 15% motivational quotes, 5% Jun.

She was crouched before Misa’s succulents, thinking of those numbers. She wished she had not calculated them, because now she could not forget. She looked at the little row of succulents in front of her feet. They were perfect, like Misa. Those adorable, round, soft succulents, she wanted to tear out of their cute hand-painted pots, tear them out in fistfuls and throw them on the floor. She wanted to smash the pots afterwards, and stomp on them, until they broke into a shattered mosaic of pastel pink and pale purple. She wanted, she wanted,—she would, she would, she would—

There was no point, and Jun knew this. The succulents grew on, and on.

This was the philosophy she developed through her observations in primary school. It started with ballet when both Misa and Jun were five. Her memories had obscured whether Misa had indeed even been better than Jun in the class’s rendition of The Nutcracker, but it didn’t matter. Twice as much was given to Misa: candy for the excellent performance, hugs, photographs, compliments.

Then, it was the grades, which Jun felt were always asymptotically approaching Misa’s but hardly ever surpassed them. She had started acting upon the there is no point thoughts when she was eleven years old. There was no point to the prizes, the good grades, the effort of showing an achievement, only to be given just a polite smile. Whether her family knew of them or not, nothing would change. Certificates became scrap paper for math problems, and awards would get put in the recycling bin. Sometimes, if she was feeling particularly courageous, trophies and medals would be placed on a sidewalk, or in a public park far from the family house. Let someone else see. Let someone know.

The only ones she kept were those from the later years of high school, necessary for scholarships to attend university in a faraway land.

High school, however, had not been easier. It came with a new set of unique problems.

In her childhood naivete, Jun had not noticed (or perhaps had not allowed herself to notice) the other, surface-level discrepancy between herself and Jun. However, others, who perhaps had not placed themselves in denial in the way Jun always secretly did, were more observant, Are you guys really twins? You look so different!

“What do you mean by that?” Jun had asked, keeping her voice purposely innocent, sickly sweet almost.

“Oh no, nothing at all! I was just wondering.”

“What were you wondering about?”

“You guys just look different. But I thought you guys were twins.”

“We are,” Jun said, feeling her patience slip away. Just as she was about to retort, she stopped and all the things she felt, and wanted to say, got stuck in her throat.

What kind of person doesn’t know the difference between identical and fraternal twins at fourteen years old?
Of course you mean something by this question. Go on, spit it out. Don’t be such a coward.
I should have known this would happen.
There is no point.

“Just ignore them,” Misa had advised her, when she had bitterly brought this exchange up. Easy for you to say were the words that ran through Jun’s head. “You’ll never get it,” almost boiled over the brim.

But she did not let it spill out. Instead, she just nodded and let silence fill the moment.

In the end, Misa was right. People got used to the idea that Misa and Jun were fundamentally different. Jun watched painfully in real time as they let the awareness of this difference bleed into every facet of their voices, their faces, their conversations.

On one occasion, Jun had confronted her reflection. Where Misa’s skin was smooth, hers was strewn with acne; where Misa’s eyes were bright and clear as a spring sky, hers seemed clouded; where Misa’s body stored fat in all the right places, her body stored it in all the wrong places; where Misa’s nose was the one all the girls wanted to replicate in rhinoplasties, hers was like the noses of the girls wanting to get the rhinoplasties. She had questioned the nature of genetics then. From then on, she would do so, again and again and again, seeking blindly for an explanation that did not exist. But she could not blame others for pointing out the difference. Jun felt it was almost natural to do so; after all, the endless void between herself and Misa seemed almost as if a perversion of biology.

Ultimately, this was not dissimilar to their parents' talk of Misa’s achievements and academics. It was only more subtle while being equally, insultingly blatant.

Even so, Jun began to question one evening in bed: What makes them think they can be commentators in my life? But she quickly brushed her own thoughts away. It was her own fault. She should have fully adapted to the nosy, prying nature of humankind long ago. She knew it was her own fault that she still let the comments, and Misa’s little statements seep through her cracks and into her life.

It was her own dreadfulness, and her own inability to learn from her past mistakes that caused this. She had only needed to extend the sentiments, protections and precautions she always made regarding awards and academics, into this other part of her inferiority.

And she eventually did.

This time three years ago, the Year 10 school formal was approaching.

“Do you think I look okay?” Misa had asked Jun anxiously. She was biting her nails again.

“Better than okay,” Jun had replied as she squeezed toothpaste onto her toothbrush. Catching the reflection of the two of them, she almost burst out laughing. She had tried and tried, but she could never get used to it. It was an absurdity to know they were related; the very thought required suspension of disbelief on her part. Generous ruffles of sunshine yellow that flowed like sun-kissed sand to the floor were a jarring contrast to the lumpy grey sweater next to it. Jun noted this because she did not want to look at their faces.

“I need to catch up on homework”, was the lie Jun had told when Misa asked her why she was not planning on attending. There is no point was the real explanation. The phrase had become a satellite in her head. Around and around, again and again.

“Wish you were going, Jun. It won’t be as fun without you.”

“You’ll have a great time,” Jun said, smiling at her sister through the mirror.

This was not an unfounded presumption. This statement was more real than truth itself, more tangible than the hard plastic of the toothbrush in her hand. Like the great waves of her dress that swept the ground beneath their feet, Misa would flow effortlessly through the social interactions, would graciously accept and return the compliments of jealous girls, could, and would dance with any boy she wanted.

But then she would return home, and hug Jun, the scent of laughter still all over her, and tell Jun that they took so many photos, but wished Jun was in them too. Jun would laugh and agree, and say it was unfortunate that she had been too busy, but at least she was caught up on her homework now. In bed that night, Jun would think about everything she missed. Not just this day, but all the other days, all the hours, all the minutes of shared jokes, shared food, the feeling she could only intellectualise but not experience: that simultaneously nothing was required of her, yet everything was expected. Because for Jun, it was the very opposite.

How many petty disappointments does it take?

But Jun hated gatherings with extended family and family friends most of all. The word Misa rang in her ears, constantly, like an alarm that would not, could not be stopped.

“Misa, sweetie! You’ve grown into a gorgeous young woman!” their aunt declared. “And you, Jun, how are you doing? Oh my, Jun, I just noticed your eye bags. You mustn't stay up so late from now on. Boys don’t like girls with such dark circles! I’m sure your sister can give you some tips!”

But of course, it was not just the aunts and uncles. “Misa’s going to be studying law? I wouldn’t expect anything less!” their grandmother chuckled over the phone. Jun had run from the living room then. She refused to hear the rest.

“I want my daughter to grow up like your Misa!” their father’s friend had said on one occasion, his mouth moving noisily, excessively, his mustache trembling ardently.

Stop —

“How so?” their father asked, attempting to feign nonchalance. Jun knew he loved to hear Misa be piled with praise, although he always attempted to appear only pleasantly curious.

Stop, stop —

“Well, my daughter could do with better grades. Her Maths especially. It’s almost pitiful to look when compared with your daughter!”

Stop, stop, stop —

The chicken on her plate suddenly looked very unappealing. “Are you okay, Jun?” Misa asked privately, beneath her breath.

It’s you, it’s all just because of you.

Jun knows she is lying to herself when she thinks she likes the nighttime because it is more alive than the daytime. She likes the nighttime because it is then when most of those voices stop, and the stupid, carefree faces of other people are gone, and she has to deal with only one face—the ugly one in the mirror—and one voice—the putrid one in her head. And tonight, like many other nights, she has the great privilege to do this: to look across a city with lights that are as bright as fallen stars, and think about the way those memories cling to her—her face, her body, her clothes—still, and to think of all the ways she has failed—still.

She sits into a crouch, like all those times she escaped to the garden as a child. There is no point to this, she knows. But all at once, she cannot stop herself.

And she cries and cries, cries for everything she is, for everything she might have been, for every old hurt, for every old happiness, cries for the anguish and hope of wanting to be a child, with all of a child’s whims and wants and insecurities, for the privilege of being inadequate and being forgiven, for the luxury of tendernesses and fondnesses. She cries for the desire to, at last, at last, believe a person’s compliments, when for years and years, all the positive things ever said about her, she had swatted away; for the invisible wish to be seen despite all her mistakes and hatefulness—because of all her mistakes and hatefulness.

Jun is in the middle of this when her phone rings. It is Misa. She hurtles back to reality, falling at the speed of light. Time and space rush by in an instant, the lights seem to blur, and she imagines Misa sitting in the living room of the rented apartment they share. Indeed, this faraway land she always dreamed of, Misa exists in also. It had seemed to their parents and everyone else the perfect arrangement. Their respective universities were close to one another. No one could imagine why one of the two sisters might struggle with this, even now. Even now, with the eyes of judgement across the oceans, Jun cannot stop and experience that old feeling rise inside her when Misa tells her of some success, some opportunity.

In this moment, Jun steadies herself until the heaving of her chest stops, and her voice can hold steady.

“Jun, you’re out late again?”

“It’s a Thursday, remember? Don’t expect me to be back until 10:30.”

“Sorry, I forgot. What are you doing on Thursdays again?”

“I’m just busy on Thursdays. On the regular.”

Jun hears Misa sigh over the phone. “Get back safe, okay? I’ll wait for you in the living room.”

“I’ve told you before, there’s no need to wait for me. I’ve always come back just fine.”

“And I’ve told you, Jun. You’ll always be my little sister.”

“By nine minutes.”

“Doesn’t change the fact. Anyway, see you in a bit.”

It is 9:12 pm. She still has forty-eight minutes to think about her childhood. She thinks and thinks, but all that appears is Misa’s face: when they were six, seven, eleven, fourteen, seventeen, eighteen, now. All that appears in front of her eyes is Misa’s rosy cheeks, and dentist’s smile, and her fearless, ignorant concern.

Jun does not want to know why. She is studying at her favourite university in this faraway land she always prayed for. She lives with her loathsome sister, who is so easy to love. She is in a city full of her hopes and her dreams and her stars. Jun knows all this, but when she looks up towards the heavens, she cannot see them. She can only gaze across the scenery before her, and calm her ragged breaths, and pretend the lights left on at night—by the human propensity to waste away—are what she wants.

Tomorrow is a Friday, which is the day neither of them have university. She knows that in ten hours' time at breakfast, Misa will jokingly and good-naturedly ask again what she does on Thursday nights. She will tease her and ask her if she has a secret boyfriend. Jun will answer her with a vibrant grin, and Misa will roll her eyes, and laugh, and ask if she wants to go to the mall today, or bake cookies with her this afternoon. And she will say she never understands why Jun is so secretive about her Thursday nights, and why she claims to like the nighttime so much.

Of course you don’t, Jun will think. But I need this. For myself.

Winning pieces are published as received.