Free A Step from Heaven by An Na Page A

only ten seconds. Others talk and talk, making the information lady tilt her head to one side and blow her wispy bangs off her forehead. Every once in a while she picks a lint ball off her dark blue wool sweater. All the people she speaks with get another ticket to wait for one of the other windows.
    â€œSixty-two.”
    A Mexican couple dressed in matching crisp blue jeans and sweatshirts with a red Reebok logo across the chest step up to the window. The wife holds her purse with both hands and does most of the talking. The information lady is bilingual and answers back quickly in Spanish, pointing to the other window. She hands them a ticket. The husband takes the number, but the wife is still not satisfied with the answer. The two women go back and forth for a little while longer until the information lady refuses to say anything more, just keeps pointing to the other window.
    The wife gives up and joins her husband, who has inched to the left to lean up against the wall. They both study the number in his hand. They look up at the blinking red number over the window they are supposed to go to next. The husband shoves his hands deep into his pockets. He walks back to their seats. The wife continues to stand by the wall, her eyes locked on the red number, her lips moving silently as though praying for a quick turnover.
    Apa shifts in his seat and begins to mutter, This is going to take all day. Why do they not open up all the windows? He stands up and wanders around the waiting room, shuffling through newspapers left in empty seats. I lean my elbow on the armrest and prop my chin up with my hand. This will take all day. Even school is better than this.
    By the time the information lady calls out our number, “Ninety-three,” Apa has somehow managed to find an old Korea Times newspaper and is so busy reading that he does not hear her.
    Apa, I think that is our number, I say, nudging his arm.
    What? Apa looks up from his paper toward the information window.
    Where is the number, Apa? I ask.
    Here, Apa says, checking his pockets.
    The information lady calls out our number again. “Ninety-three.”
    I know that is our number, I say and stand up. Let us go.
    Apa follows after me, still searching for the lost number.
    â€œYes?” the information lady says.
    I start to step forward, but Apa rushes in past me. He found the number. He lays the wrinkled baby-blue scrap of paper on the counter and asks our question. “We here for green card. For her.” Apa points at me.
    â€œYou’ll have to go to window three. Here is your number.”
    Apa reaches out and takes the new number.
    â€œNo, wait,” I interrupt. “I have a green card. I’m supposed to renew it or something.” I turn to Apa and say, Apa, can you get my green card out?
    What are you doing? Apa asks me, his eyes slightly narrowed. This ahjimma has already given us a number for the next window.
    Apa, please give me the green card, I say again, a begging note cracking my voice. The information lady taps her pen against the counter. Apa pulls out his wallet and finds my card. He hands it over to the information lady instead of placing it in my outstretched hand.
    The information lady looks at the numbers and words written like ant trails on the back of my card. She looks up at me. “Are you turning thirteen?” she asks.
    â€œYes, that’s it. I’m supposed to renew my card, right?”
    â€œYes. Give me that number back and I’ll give you a new one for window four.”
    I turn to Apa and say, Apa, you have to give the number back.
    Apa growls low, What is going on? What are you telling this ahjimma? You better not get the wrong information. I cannot take off another day from work to come back here.
    Apa, you have to give back the number, I say again. She will give us another number. When Apa squints his eyes at me, I add, For the right window.
    Apa reluctantly places the baby-blue scrap of paper back