Yunho clenched his teeth. A strange charity, this. As if to make bad news better by speaking slowly. It never worked. It made it worse.

Her tone, as she continued, was insolent. “I have just been notified by Jaejoong’s teacher that he appeared in class today with cuts and scrapes up and down his arms. We were wondering what happened.”

But this was not a question. It was an accusation.

No. We were wondering not what happened. But we are wondering if you are beating him. If he comes to school with his arms torn up because at home, you lash out at him. Ten years, fifteen years, however many you have cared for him-we don’t care. You’re beating him now, aren’t you? We, of the all-knowing school system, whose eyes see plain to all that can happen because we read about it, because we listen to lectures of the professionals. Yes. We know. You are beating him. Abusing him.

Yunho clenched his teeth and strove to answer.
* * *
Hot words were behind him. A tumble of burning words, smoking to pour forth thrashed against Yunho’s mind. Words about the audacity of the implication, the unjustness of it. And had he not kept his hand so firmly grasped on the steering wheel, his knuckles quickly turning whiter and whiter, had the young man not bit his lip so that he feared it might bleed, those hot words would have spilled out as Yunho gave way to his temper.

Clearing his throat, as the inside of his mouth felt dry and raw, Yunho began to reply, “Jaejoong. . . Is. . . fine,” he said, a long pause between each word, struggling to remain decent. “Last night some group of boys and hit him. He’s okay though.”

“I see,” she replied, before pausing for some time.

Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, feeling as if he were on trial for some crime he had committed, Yunho waited for the secretary to continue, to make some other insightful comment she memorized from a book.

“Well, we just want to make sure all our students are safe, Mr. Jung. I hope you understand that. I hope you weren‘t offended-”

“Of course I understand,” he replied tightly, cutting her off. “Thank you for the concern.”

Not waiting for yet another stinging blow to be made in the name of concern, the young man thanked her quickly, and hung up.

And for a moment, taking several deep breaths to cool the tingling warmth accumulating underneath his collar, Yunho managed to smile. Really, this was not the first time he had received a call from Purple Line inquiring about the current state of Jaejoong’s welfare. And to be fair, the last call had been far more difficult to stand up to than this one.

Glancing at his unnaturally white knuckles and prying his strangle-hold off the steering wheel, Yunho remembered that day. Well, actually, it had been the night before.

Dinner was late that night, and Yunho remembered standing in the kitchen begrudging himself the fact that he chose to make pad-thai that night given all the separate ingredients required, each needing to be prepared before any actual cooking might begin. And somewhere between making sure the sprouts were not sporting any more dirt than he had washed off into the sink and watching the clock to time just when he should take the rice noodles out of the hot water so they would not become a tangled pile of eatable mush-Yunho was beginning to wonder if pizza might have been easier.
One call and delivered to your home is a cardboard box with a nestled steaming pie of cheesy goodness. What about how healthy it was? It was easier than timing all the ingredients going into the wok and risking third degree burns as he swirled them about, hoping each one would finish cooking at exactly the same time.

And about the time Yunho regretted the recipe he had cut out of a noodle package, there came a resounding thud from the other room, followed quickly by a low wail. Nearly knocking the wok off the stove, Yunho sped out of the kitchen and into the living room. On the floor, right by the sofa ,crumpled up, his hands over one eye, was Jaejoong.

Kneeling by him, Yunho asked what had happened; for the last time he glanced in to the living room, as he had the habit of always looking in on his brother, Jaejoong lay asleep on the couch. And through mumbled words, muffled greatly by tears, his hands still clasped tightly over one eye, Jaejoong managed to reply that he had fallen off the sofa.

Catching the looming sizzling sound that warned of food quickly burning, the acrid aroma drifting out from the kitchen, Yunho did not understand. He did not understand how Jaejoong falling off the couch had much, if anything, to do with his eye. But when Jaejoong pointed an accusing finger at a near-by table, Yunho realized; he had hit his eye.

And terrible though it seemed, as much as Yunho reproached himself for it being his first thought though he moved quickly to place an ice pack over Jaejoong‘s eye-the young man remembered his first thought was how much he hoped there would be no bruise in the morning when Jaejoong went to school. No bruise, blotched and purple to try and explain to the searching eyes of teachers.

How would it sound?

Well, you see-he was just laying there, asleep and he rolled off the couch and hit himself. No, I didn’t see him fall. Yes, I’m telling you-he rolled off the couch and-

And just as he dreaded, the next morning, after dropping Jaejoong off, wishing very much Jaejoong could simply wear sunglasses all day long to hide the one red, puffy eye, Yunho had not yet cleared the parking lot when his phone rang with a certain veracity. And to the all-mighty voice on the other end, Yunho tried to explain, as naturally as he could how Jaejoong ended up with that black eye.

At last breathing freely, Yunho pulled himself out of his thoughts as he turned off the road and into the parking lot, to go to work.

The official position Yunho held at Shine Inc. declared him as Head Supervisor for Advertising. What that position entitled him to was a stack of illustrations and slogans overflowing his desk every day when he came in and the inbox on the company computer’s email packed to bursting. Also, the young man was entitled to the phone on his desk ringing every five to ten minutes with some frantic voice on the other end either telling him of some catastrophe that happened in another department that he simply must come see to this very instant, or an aggravated voice accusing him of not having completed a layout urgently needed yesterday. The final royalty of the position being the inept staff he worked with.

However, trying though the job was, for despite all the headaches he received, the paycheck that came every other week made seven cups of coffee a day worth it.

Still trying desperately to finish college when he applied, Yunho entered the firm as a secretary. Long were those days, where he was called upon to stuff and and seal five hundred envelopes, hurry out to the nearest coffee shop and find new and improved ways to balance ten cups of coffee for three blocks, or sit with a phone hermetically sealed to his ear as he made endless phone calls.

How long he may have stayed on just like that Yunho sometimes wondered. But one day, his boss gone from the office for lunch break number 2, an executive from an adjoining branch came in. At that particular moment, Yunho happened to be sitting behind his boss’ desk, shuffling through an assortment of papers and took little notice of the well-dressed man who came in. And as the well-dressed man, obviously not knowing he spoke to the secretary, explained to him that a decision must be made about whether the color for the newest product should be blue or orange, Yunho hardly listened. So, when two different color versions of the same ad were placed in front of him, and he pointed to the blue one, thinking it some new color the boss wanted to paint the office-the executive was very excited and hustled out of the room, saying Yunho would hear from him soon.

And it was not a moment too soon. For the next day, undergoing a severe reprimand for his carelessness, a call came through to put the well-mannered, soft-spoken young man on. Management wanted to give him a raise.

So, Yunho was raised to a new office, with a secretary of his own-and a whole new endless list to be gone through each day.

Stepping in to the pleasantly cool office air, Yunho made his way up to the third floor, and into his office, nodding as if he really listened to the chatter his secretary prattled at him as he sat down at his desk, his only response to her being a request for a cup of coffee.

The first of seven.

To those he worked with, Jung Yunho was very well liked. And while some may have resented his sudden raise at first, they were quick to appreciate the young man who asked for everything so politely and preformed each task given to him so expediently. The men in the office respected Yunho’s apparent work ethic, many of them maintaining that one must be of a certain mold to take on any curve thrown his way with such resigned calmness. The women wished their son, boyfriend, husband could be more like Yunho. So polite and charming. The kind of man to climb up a tree and rescue a kitten.

And to those who worked closely enough to know something of Yunho’s personal life-they were always the ones to support him in any decision.
* * *
By the time Yunho left work, it was later than he wanted it to be. Sliding into his car, the young man sped swiftly out onto the road, blessing the unusual lack of traffic and headed quickly to pick Jaejoong up from school.

As automatically as a light switch, Yunho’s mind flipped from all the buzzing thoughts of work, over to the never-ending list of what-he-had-to-do-next. Running through those needs that always need to be done, the ever-present chores Yunho completed every day, the young man tried to think if there was anything else about today he needed to do. Yes, he promised Jaejoong they would go out to dinner, but dinner was not for a few hours, at least. Yes, he had to go to the grocery store; as the refrigerator was shamefully bare. Yes. What else? There had been something else.

Right. Mrs. Morton and her audition for Jaejoong. An odd prick snapped at Yunho’s side. The audition. Of course she had not called it that; in fact, all she had really said was for Jaejoong to come over so that her conductor-friend might hear him.

So he might lavish his grandiose attention on the young boy who played so incredibly well. Whose fingers flew over the keys with such stunning speed, keeping in mind what he was.

And what he was not.

Yes, it was an audition. A strange audition where those of the upper-bracket deign to look down and grant to one poor soul the chance of a lifetime. How fitting the chance should go to Jaejoong. The boy-man. How the audience would lap up such fodder and praise the wonderful conductor for his generosity.

And, as he drove, Yunho lingered over what it might mean to just skip the whole thing. How easy it would be. To simply forget.

And the idea stayed close to the young man as he drove up to Purple Line, pulling the car over to the curb and getting out to wait for Jaejoong. Standing there, leaning up against the car, Yunho thought the idea a fine one.

After all, suppose Jaejoong was offered the chance to go; it would be one more thing to do, to make sure was done. And far from Yunho, what about Jaejoong? Who knew what kind of pressures, excitements, and attentions this “opportunity” might bring. Who knew what these new moments might mean to Jaejoong. Might do to him.

If the sun shines too brightly-the rainbow fades away.

The bell rang. And as the doors to Purple Line opened and a tumult of children tumbled out, like some kind of fantastic kaleidoscope-Yunho saw Jaejoong. His backpack ready to slip off his shoulder, his arm only through one side of his coat while he reached down to try and put his shoes back on-for whatever reason they were off, Yunho saw his brother look around. The bright eyes found Yunho, as the gentle face, a moment ago furrowed in the dilemma of the right shoe on the left foot and the left shoe on the right foot, burst into a smile.

And though Jaejoong tripped as he ran, though his backpack was practically on the ground, and his coat useless, he called out as if nothing was wrong, “Yunho!”

Watching him come, Yunho said to himself, “Okay. We’ll go to the audition.”

For if the sun does not shine at all, then neither can the rainbow.

Getting in the car, Jaejoong bubbled happily about all he had done that day at school. Much of his conversation focused on some game he played during gym class, the object of which was to get down on all fours and have someone else hold your legs while you walked on your hands. And leaning his head back on the car seat, Jaejoong looked ponderingly out the window and commented that he much preferred being the one to hold his classmates legs-for being the one to walk on his hands hurt as he toppled several times face first.

Listening to his brother speak with as much gravity about a game of wheelbarrow as one might speak on the current fiscal state of the union, Yunho smiled. And all the previous pangs and pricks slipped from him. And even though, deep down, a part of him did not really want to face this audition, somehow now, it did not seem so bad.

Still placing exactly when they should go over to Mrs. Morton’s, Yunho decided that a quick trip to the grocery store first might be in order. He knew that once he and Jaejoong left her house, Jaejoong would want to eat and to try and persuade him then to go to the store, despite the fact that he always enjoyed going, would be too hard and hardly worth the effort. In fact, even now, with Jaejoong knowing they were to go out to dinner, it still might be difficult.

Still, deciding that now was probably the best time, Yunho said, “Jae, Mrs. Morton asked you to come over today; one of her friends wants to hear you play. And we’re gonna go out to eat, too. But I want to run to the store real quick, okay?”

Jaejoong, who at this point had bent over to try and put the right shoe on the right foot and the left shoe on the left foot, looked up and said quite matter-of-factly, “Can’t we go to Mrs. Morton’s now? I don’t want to go to the store.”

“No Jae. We’ll go to the store first.”

The young boy, shifting uncomfortably on his seat, his face clouding somewhat, said again, “I don’t want to go!”

Looking over to Jaejoong, Yunho thought back to the time he had attended one of those lectures on “How to Raise the Disabled Child” just to remind himself why he did not attend them. And sitting in the audience, surrounded mostly by women who clung to every word the notable published professor said, Yunho decided this would be the last lecture he attended.

The topic of the day was how to speak properly to the child and how the word “no” should be avoided as much as possible. The professor professed it inhibits the child, makes them feel as if they are being restrained. The word “no” has a negative effect on the child and stunts a certain mental development in making them feel as if any attempt on their part will be met with restrictions.

Sitting there, Yunho wanted very badly to ask if the word “no” was still permissible when the child, thinking that all the food in the refrigerator must be getting cold, took all of it out and placed it by the heater. And all the food spoiled quite quickly. Was the word “no” permissible then? Or would the parent/guardian be inhibiting some form of self-expression in not allowing the child to make sure two hundred dollars worth of groceries were not too cold?

Of course, Yunho did not ask the question; although he dearly wanted to. He dearly wanted to look up to the professional, in all his limitless knowledge and ask if the word “no” when coupled with some deeper, did not change things a bit. For one does not raise a child with words. A child is not raised, but kept and cherished, far more precious- One stands in front of the child, behind them-ready to stop the world, and carry the child to safety.

Turning back to Jaejoong, reaching his hand out for his brother to hold, he said again, very softly and very firmly, “No Jae. We’ll go to the store first.”

And Jaejoong, taking Yunho’s hand with both of his own, a smile blossoming over his mouth as he held his brother’s hand, replied, “Okay, Yunho Okay-okay!”