Plaid Pocket Coat

“Plaid pocket. Frayed cuffs. Midnight blue,” the boy explained.

He peaked over the books from the aisle one over as I stocked the new books section. He’d said he ended up in my town because of a coat he had bought at a Salvation Army store. His brown eyes gazed into mine across the books. A flutter went through my chest. I’ve never had someone look at me as if… as if he was really seeing me.

I averted my gaze. But the flutter was still there. “So… the coat really brought you here?” I went back to shelving the books so I wouldn’t have to face him.

“Yup. A piece of paper in its pocket. It said Lyndon.” He walked around the bookshelf to my row.

I paused, a book in midair, and stared back at him.

“I know it sounds impulsive.” He ran his hand through his hair that was tied in a ponytail. “But I’ve been trying to make a decision, and I took it as a sign.”

“As a sign…?”

“That coming here to Lyndon, Connecticut would help with my decision.”

“Of course, a sign to come here…” I walked back to the counter where I usually sit.

“Has it helped with your decision?”

He followed me to the front. “Maybe…” He glanced at me with those same intent eyes.

There was that flutter again. In my haste, I bumped the counter, and my notebook slid to the floor.

He leaned down to pick it up. “You draw?” His eyes widened like he just discovered something.

“Some…”

He flipped through page after page of my sketchbook. He was careful with my book.

“Actually, I draw a lot.” I rubbed the sweat from my hands on my jeans. “Paint too. It’s my thing.” My cheeks warmed. Only my art teacher and art friends saw my drawings and paintings. Now this stranger boy was flipping through them.

“You’re good.” He kept flipping page after page. “The way you capture… joy in these faces… and… and hope…”

My breath hitched. He… he really saw my drawings. “Moments… capturing moments.”

He studied one of the drawings. “This must be in Chinatown… but the faces of the group hug are not only Chinese but of all backgrounds.” He looked up. “Show me your Lyndon.”

I gaped. “I don’t know…” I only had a week before starting college. I had a lot to still do. He wasn’t part of my plan for today.

“I should have introduced myself. I’m Ken Wang from New York.”

I glanced up at the clock. “I’m not sure…”

“I know you don’t know me—how about you don’t have to tell me your name. Whatever time you can spare.” There were those intent eyes.

The flutter returned. Here was a boy that showed up because of a coat.

“I suppose… when I get off at noon.”

“Perfect.”

* * *

We grabbed sandwiches and walked to the park where I do many of my sketches. It’s my one pocket of time.

“Where is the coat now?” I sat at my usual bench and we started on our sandwiches.

“That’s the thing. I’ve been traveling with it all this time, but it disappeared while I was having tea at the corner coffee shop.”

“Why would someone take a coat on a hot August day?”

“It just disappeared.”

“You make it sound like it’s magic. I’m sure Lily and Mark, who own the cafe, can help find it.”

He stared at me. “Hmm, maybe it is magic. I mean I somehow came here and found an artist like you.”

Warmth flushed my face. “I’m sure there’s lots of artists in New York. Plus, art is just a hobby. I’ll be studying biology in college.”

He paused from his sandwich. “Biology… sounds like you know exactly what you want to do.”

“Both my parents are… are doctors.” I stared down at my white Keds, pushing the memory back. “It’s… it’s kind of our thing.” Going to U of Penn like my parents has been my goal… But his words tangled inside me. Do I know exactly what I want to do?

“I wish I was so certain like you. I like art. But is it my thing? Plus college costs money,” he said.

I turned to him. “Do you draw too?”

He opened the case hanging from his shoulder. “Photography and drawing. Actually, can I?” He started snapping photographs.

I started laughing. “Biting into a sandwich—now that’s graceful.”

“Capturing the moment.” He laughed and kept taking photographs—including a selfie of us both busting out loud.

Some kids ran over to us, curious. They started laughing too. Maybe seeing adults laugh was a rare sight. Maybe I felt different.

Everything about him, including his “magical” coat was so different. Was he even real? Was today even real?

“What’s the decision you’re trying to make?”

He lowered his camera. “Me.”

“What do you mean?”

Everything about him, including his “magical” coat was so different. Was he even real? Was today even real?

He looked out into the distance. “My dream is to create art. But I don’t know if that’s really my calling.”

How could he not know what he wants to do? But his words had a way of tangling inside me. “Your calling?”

“My mom needs help running the restaurant. I actually have a knack for business and cooking.” He gave a sideways smile. “My dad is a businessman—it doesn’t matter though. He left when I was five and wants nothing to do with us.” The earlier light dancing in his eyes dimmed.

“Sorry about your dad.” I leaned back on the bench.

He gave a small smile and leaned back too.

I stared down at my Keds. The memory pulled in my chest. “I know I said my parents are doctors… Actually, my mom passed away three years ago.” I gazed out to the park and swung my feet.

He didn’t say anything, but he covered his hand over mine.

My breath settled inside me. I didn’t feel so alone.

We sat like that for a while, watching the kids laugh and run.

Then, he sat up straight. I followed his gaze towards three boys—high school football players walking towards us.

“We should go.” He started to stand up, his camera gripped in his hand.

“Do you need to catch your train?”

The boys’ deep voices boomed as they approached.

“How about we go to your Chinatown?” He started walking.

I tossed the sandwich wrapper in the trash. Then fumbled, grabbing my sketchbook.

“It’s not really a Chinatown. It’s more like a street with a Chinese bakery and restaurant.”

As I sped after him, a couple of the players started running.

“We should hurry.” He reached for my hand, and we started walking fast.

The players’ heavy breathing heaved right beside us as one of them jumped up. He caught the football. “Sorry about that.” He threw the ball back to a player.

The boy stood stunned, no longer pulling me down the path.

He sighed. “I thought they were going to jump me.”

“Why?”

He paused a second, then answered. “Because I’m Asian.”

“Oh.” I had heard something like that happening in some towns a few years back. “That doesn’t happen here.”

He stared back at me. “Sorry. I… I’m on alert… ever since…” He rubbed his face.

“You okay?” I said.

“It really doesn’t happen here? We get slurs even in New York City.”

“I guess Lyndon is different.”

He gazed out to the park, its visitors and blue sky.

I wondered what had happened to him.

“You want to see the Chinese bakery?”

He rubbed his face again. “That’s right. Show me your Lyndon.”

As we walked, color returned to his face.

People crowded the bakery. Scents of steamed char siu baos and jasmine tea rose. A girl with a blond ponytail pointed to moon cakes in the glass display. A couple, an elderly Chinese man and a woman with a British accent, chatted at a back table. A father and son coming from a soccer practice savored sponge cakes.

The boy stood, mesmerized, inside the door. “They’re… they’re not all Chinese.”

“Of course not. This is one of the most popular bakeries here.”

A smile grew on his face as he stared at two little children, the girl with the blond pony tail and an Asian boy, now seated together eating mooncakes.

“Could I buy you a mooncake?” Then he snapped another photograph.

We walked each with a mooncake in our hand. He didn’t waste time taking two big bites out of his.

“There’s a decision I need to make,” he said.

I tilted my head in question as I bit into my mooncake.

“I’m trying to decide if I should enter a contest in two days.”

“What contest?”

He stopped walking, and so did I. “There’s this massive art contest in New York City in two days. Five top art schools in New York sponsor it every two years. Anyone seventeen to twenty-two can enter and showcase their art that one day. Twenty-five winners are chosen that same day, and they select the art school of their choice on full scholarship.”

My eyes widened. An art contest. One day to exhibit. Twenty-five winners selected to go to art school. The flutter returned.

“If I win, then I’ll know I’m meant to pursue art,” he said.

Meant to pursue art…

I shook out of my reverie. How can he let a contest determine his future? “That’s crazy. A contest doesn’t determine anything. Whether you win or not, art sounds like your calling. Why not instead apply to art schools? There are scholarships and grants to help.”

“Believe me, I’ve thought about art school a lot. I’d watch the art students enter the School of Visual Arts near my neighborhood and imagined myself doing the same.”

“You said art is your dream.”

He gazed at me. “Do you ever get that moment when you see something others don’t and you’ve got to capture it? Something stirring within you like a voice that needs to express, but you don’t know what it is or if it’s even real, but you create it anyway?”

There was that flutter. I knew what he was talking about.

“Or if it’ll all disappear, evaporate. Life can sometimes do that. That’s what happened to my mom. She was an artist until she lost her art…”

“Lost her art?”

“She came to the U.S. to study art, but Asians weren’t so welcome. I was only six or seven. I remember the day she packed up all her paints and art supplies and left them at a Salvation Army store.”

My chest tightened. I could almost see him: a small boy, heartbroken, watching his mom leave her precious art… leave her dream. I couldn’t imagine leaving my art. There was that flutter again.

I walked up to him, inches from him. “You can’t give up on YOUR dream. Not for anything. Not because of your mom.”

His face stilled when I realized I was shouting at him.

My cheeks warmed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to shout. I don’t know what came over me.”

He reached for my arm.

“No, you’re right.”

I swallowed.

“No one has come right out and said that to me. I needed to hear that.”

His jaws set as if he was making a decision. He looked at his watch. “I better catch the train back.”

I took in a deep breath. He was leaving. Part of me didn’t want him to go. Didn’t want this day to end. But I gave a smile. “Sure.”

He then pulled me into a hug. Heat warmed the back of my eyes, and I had to blink to keep the tears back. I hugged him back.

“Thank you. You gave me back hope.” With those words, he walked towards the train station.

Back at home, I started organizing what I need to pack for college. Then I flipped through the course catalogue, confirming the classes I marked for pre-med. I looked up the assigned dorm, the same as my mom’s, imagining living there. But the boy’s words tangled inside me, tugging me to the earlier part of the day. Did I really know what I wanted to do?

My sketchbook lay on my bed. I ran my hand over its well-worn cover. I then opened it to the one sketch I drew that day: the boy’s face, lit up when he made his decision. You gave me back hope. And now he was gone.

My heart beat, one, two, three. I stood up.

I ran out of the house. I went by the bookstore where he found me. I walked to the park where we laughed. I walked further to the Chinese bakery. I had to make sure it was all real. That the boy was real. I walked the long way back home as if I might see him waving down the street.

I passed by shops when one caught my eye. A Salvation Army store. I slowed down.

My breath hitched. In the front window hung a midnight blue coat with plaid pocket. Exactly as he had described. That’s when I knew.

I ran back home. Pulled open my portfolio case. Packed my backpack. Headed for the train station.

* * *

Today was the day. My chest kept fluttering as I straightened my drawings and paintings one more time on the assigned panel. My contest application tacked to the front read, “Title: Hope.”

A face peeked around the panel. “Hey, you came.” It was the boy.

He was real.

“Hey, you’re doing it.” It was good to see him.

“And so are you.” He smiled.

I reached my hand out. “I’m Lyndon Hope Nakano.”

Realization flashed in his face. He took my hand in his. “But of course YOU are Lyndon.” His panel was adorned with photographs from Lyndon, titled “Finding Hope.”

Hope.

I thought of the midnight blue coat with plaid pocket.

Magic.

I would soon know if art was my calling. But I already knew the answer.