by Marie G. Lee
The inside of the school was like something preserved for a museum: floors waxed and gleaming, rows of shiny lockers, not a single one bent or graffitied. At El Caldero High, such a sight would’ve been considered a miracle, like when the face of Jesus appeared in a tortilla this lady was frying.
“Much cleaner than your old school, don’t you think?” O-Ma asked us in English. I could tell she was practicing up for meeting the principal. She looked calm, but the hand that clutched the folder with our school records was a hand with a mission. You couldn’t have pried that thing away from her.
We followed the trophy cases, which contained rows of gleaming trophies and framed pictures of sports teams, plaques in the shape of Minnesota. We found the door marked PRINCIPAL and bumped into the big man himself, Mr. Ripanen. His office was right there when you came in—you didn’t have to be admitted through several sets of doors like at our school.
“Hello, hello, the Kim family,” he boomed, extending his hands in welcome.
“Yes, I was the one who call earlier,” O-Ma said, almost shyly.
“Come in, come in,” he said, ushering us into the office. We let O-Ma sit closest to him. He had a poster that said rr TAKES A VILLAGE TO RAISE A CHILD over his desk. Sujin would love it, I was thinking.
Young’s school report caught his eye right away.
“Young has a great record,” he said, looking from me to her, as if he were trying to figure out which was which. I know we looked alike as babies—the same hair that stuck up like a mad scientist’s, the same black-comma eyes—but this was ridiculous.
“Let’s see, just about straight A’s, a few—just a few—math awards.” He leaned back in his chair, a finger to his lips as if he were trying to keep a laugh or something inside.
“She was first runner-up in the state math contest,” O-Ma volunteered. “And she was just accepted into L.A. Young People’s Orchestra.”
He seemed slightly relieved, and wheeled his chair to face Young head-on. He asked her about her interests, and she said she’d like to find an orchestra as well as get in some higher-level math courses, since she had already taken trig.
“We have a very good marching band,” Mr. Ripanen said. “They’ve played all over the state.” Young smiled politely. I think for her the idea of playing her precious silver flute in some band was about as inviting as mud wrestling. “And we’ll see about those classes.”
“And you’re Chan,” he said to me. I wasn’t sure if that was a question, but I nodded my head to be on the safe side. He scanned my record. I’m pretty much a B/occasional-A student, but let me tell you, that still requires an effort.
“Very good,” he said diplomatically. He asked me what my interests were. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to sound like a moron next to Young.
“I like to read,” I said finally, even though both Young and O-Ma were looking at me in surprise. “I’m glad we live by the library.”
“Good, good,” Mr. Ripanen said heartily. “Good to be a reader. My son’s a reader, absolutely loves books.”
I was thinking about mentioning soccer, but after he said that, I decided that his kid was probably a geek, so I shouldn’t risk upsetting him. For a guy that big to have a geeky kid, that must be a drag. Besides, O-Ma and Abogee—especially Abogee—have never counted sports as a legit school activity.
“Anyone can build muscle,” Abogee would say, pointing to his arm. Then he’d point to his head. “But building brain, that’s much tougher.”
“And what about school bus?” O-Ma asked.
Mr. Ripanen looked puzzled.
“What about it?”
“Where do children pick it up?”
Mr. Ripanen still looked puzzled. “You live on Howard Street, by the library, right?”
O-Ma nodded.
“There isn’t a bus.” Mr. Ripanen looked amused.
“But it’s so far,” O-Ma protested.
“The only kids who get bus service are the ones in Neeshawatin, which is almost an hour away. You should see what a headache it is getting them here when it snows.”
So Young and I were going to walk to school every day, rain, shine—or snow. Argh. I know most people think Californians jump in their car to visit their next-door neighbors, but that’s an exaggeration. We were a mile from school. Definitely driving distance.
“You’re less than a mile from the school,” Mr. Ripanen said, as if my thoughts were broadcast on a billboard. “I’d say it’s less than three-quarters of a mile. And it’s good to walk. Kids don’t get enough exercise these days.”
Oh, yeah? And what about your geeky son?
O-Ma accepted all this gracefully. “Okay, if they supposed to walk, they walk.”
“We’ll have something to tell our grandkids,” Young added cheerfully. I wanted to pinch her.
Mr. Ripanen informed us that Young and I would be entering eleventh grade, right on schedule.
“Chan, Young, I need you to help me start cleaning up the store,” Abogee announced. “We will begin immediately after lunch.”
Mrs. Knutson offered us some Spam sandwiches. At first O-Ma and Abogee declined—no, no, too much trouble; we don’t want to eat up your food—but the third time Mrs. Knutson offered, they pounced. Abogee said to us that Spam is considered a delicacy in Korea. Young gave me a look. We knew Spam was made of rodent parts.
Mrs. Knutson looked pleased. “Spam is made right here in Minnesota,” she said. “There’s plenty to go around.”
After lunch Young and I sat around waiting for Abogee. There was no sound coming in from the open window except for the occasional purr of a car, the chirp of a bird. No clanking, honking, or cursing. No sirens, no whoosh-creak of a bus going by. It was just … nothing.
Weird.
“You know what? I think Abogee’s taking a nap.”
I strained my ears. Sure enough, there was a slight breathing noise coming from the bedroom, regular as ocean waves.
“That’s a new one.”
Young looked worried. “I know. It’s not like him.” She hesitated. “I wonder if I’ll have to sell my flute.”
“What?” Young’s flute is a solid-silver number that cost a couple hundred bucks. “Do you have a drug habit you haven’t told me about?”
“Oppa, this is serious,” she said. “I have a feeling money’s going to be kind of tight around here.”
“When hasn’t it been tight?” Once, Abogee had chewed us out because he thought we were wasting toilet paper. He rationed us to three squares per dump. Unbelievable. O-Ma gave Young and me some money to buy extra rolls on the sly.
“Listen, Sis. I’m sure we got a fair sum of money from selling the store.”
“Abogee loaned Bong a lot of money to buy this one. We aren’t making anything now.”
“Hey, kid, it’ll be all right.” I put my arm around her. “Your oppa will make sure of that.”
Of course, I was worried too. It’s cheaper to live in the boonies, but you’re also going to have fewer customers. And it’s not like O-Ma and Abogee’s friends are around to give us things like they used to: fresh fish from Mr. Lee’s fishing boat, bags of rice, clothes from the ones who owned stores. I got my favorite soccer shorts from Mr. Park, Abogee’s best friend. I picked them out myself.
“Oppa, I’m scared,” Young said, her eyes all liquidy like a puppy’s.
“It’ll be all right, Young.” I stopped to listen to myself. What slim pickings in my big-brother repertoire. I took a breath.
“Okay, then let’s do something. Maybe we need to take charge. Let’s wake Abogee up and get him on the ball.”
Young gave me a look, like, I dare you.
I went upstairs.
Abogee was sleeping on the Korean quilt, the one that had patterns of dragons on it. He slept neatly, his arms close to his sides like a soldier. Their room, never big to begin with, looked even smaller with all the stuff crammed in. From the corner the Buddha statue grinned at me from under a st
ack of legal looking papers.
Next to the bed was Abogee’s Bible. Back in L.A. he’d always kept it next to the bed too.
For some reason I picked it up. I looked at the gilt embossed on the cover and realized that even though I knew the Korean word for Bible, Songkyong, I had no idea what it looked like written, had no idea which of these clusters of letters spelled it out.
I opened the book. The text was split in two columns: English on one side, Korean on the other. There were some notations in Korean, on both sides. The writing was faded and wispy, as if it had been painted on by spider legs. On Sunday mornings, even though Abogee didn’t have time to go to church, he was always up early with a cup of coffee, studying the Bible. He’d translate the Korean to English and then check himself with the English version.
What I remember, too, was whenever there was a lull at the Extravaganza, he’d pull out his Korean-English dictionary and just read it, like he was reading a book.
A thought suddenly occurred to me. Was this how he taught himself English?
I would’ve given a lot to know what the writing in the margins said. I guess I would’ve given a lot to know anything, only I didn’t want to have to ask him. Sounds crazy, doesn’t it?
Abogee’s snores went up, then down. SNARK!-wheeze. SNARK!-wheeze. His forehead was creased, as if he had to concentrate on staying asleep. I put the Bible gently back in its place and left the room.
When Abogee appeared at dinner, he looked like he’d just come out of a coma. Young and I didn’t say a thing. He and O-Ma went to bed early.
eight
When I saw the all the kids walking up the lawn, converging at the brick school building, my heart went from its normal lub-dub, lub-dub to lub-dubdubdub, lub-dubdubdub.
A bunch of girls in T-shirts that said IRON RIVER CHEERLEADERS were practicing jumps and pyramids on the front lawn. They stopped and stared as Young and I went by.
The kids looked normal enough, like kids, anyway, but I finally figured out what was weird.
They were all blond.
Blond beyond California blond. Albino blond. Some had hair so light you practically couldn’t see individual strands, like their hair was molded out of butter. I strained to catch a glimpse of the familiar black hair and black eyes of the Asian or Mexican kids. Or the dark skin of the black kids. Nope. It was a complete whiteout. Young was staring too.
“Do you think people will know we’re twins?” she asked. Her voice quavered a little.
“We do look alike, don’t we?” I said. My own voice sounded thin, like it was cracking around the edges. Man, I had to do better than this. My own little sister was taking this better than I was.
My first class was biology. I trudged to the room on the second floor, took a deep breath, and walked in.
Everyone got really quiet.
I took a seat in the back and instinctively reached for the bill of my baseball cap—which wasn’t there. At my old school I wore my L.A. Dodgers hat all the time. I could hide under it if I wanted to daydream. I wouldn’t have minded hiding under it now.
But no more. There’s a dress code here. No hats, shorts, open-toe sandals, midriff-baring tops, and other things I can’t remember. Unbelievable. The closest our old school came to that was when they said you couldn’t wear gang-related stuff.
I snuck a look at the guy next to me and noticed that he was wearing a T-shirt with a dazed smiley face that said GET HIGH on it. Then I saw how he was staring at me.
Everyone was staring. Okay, so I’m a two-headed mutant rhino, so thick-skinned that I won’t notice if you gawk. I tried to act like I didn’t care.
I’m a lousy actor.
The door opened and a tall skinny man who looked like Prince Charles charged into the room.
“Sorry I’m late, class,” he said, glancing at the wall clock. “As you’ve probably figured out, I’m Mr. Minsky, your biology teacher.”
He looked at a sheet of paper waiting on his desk.
“Chan Jung Kim. New student. Did I say your name right?”
I nodded. I guess it didn’t take too much for him to figure I was the new guy. “Please call me Chan.”
“Okay. Welcome to Iron River High School. Class, give a hand to your new classmate, Chan Kim.” Everyone clapped listlessly.
I was a little disappointed that Mr. Minsky didn’t mention I was from L.A. He just told us to put covers on our textbooks.
I had to do this hello-I’m-Chan-I’m-new-thanks-for-the-applause routine for three more classes and then it was lunch. In that time, no one had come up to me offering to be my best buddy, so I was going to have to sit alone. That’s what happens when you’re new.
It made it a billion times worse, the way everyone was blabbering on excitedly to everyone—How was your summer? Did you see so-and-so?—just the way I’d be if I were back home. Crud. Now I didn’t even know where the stupid lunchroom was.
I saw this guy coming from the opposite direction.
Blond, no surprise, but he was wearing Adidas Sambas turf shoes. Soccer shoes. The first I’d seen here.
He looked like a player, the way he moved, shoulders flat out, arms curved but ready at his side. Maybe even a wing—he had that look, right down to his ALL-PRO T-shirt.
“Yo!” I said. I don’t know what possessed me. “Know where the lunchroom is?”
He gestured vaguely in the direction I’d been heading, then he moved on.
From down the hall I could hear the noise. Dishes clanking, voices at a low-key roar. I imagined sitting by myself, eating, and having a bunch of strangers watch me do it. Maybe I’d find Young. Great. We could eat alone together.
Forget this. I wasn’t going to play by the rules of Hicksville High. I was going to find a quiet place by myself to chew on my sandwich.
I turned and took the opposite corridor to its end. A sign pointed to the gym. What the heck. I crossed a tiny indoor running track and went in.
A bunch of guys, including ALL-PRO, were sitting on the bleachers. Most of them looked like your typical jocks. A couple of them were in black shirts and shredded jeans, like the metalheads at my old school. Except that at El Caldero, the metalheads were all skinny heroin-addicts-in-training. Every one of these guys was huge, like a lumberjack.
They all stopped talking and stared at me as I walked in.
“Who the hell are you?” said a guy whose muscles jumped like shot-put balls under his black Megadeth T-shirt. He had dirty blond hair that hung in quasi-Rasta clumps like a mop.
“Who wants to know?”
“I wanna know. When Rom asks, you answer, weeg.”
I wasn’t exactly sure what a weeg was, but I figured it wasn’t anything good, since the guy next to him started to laugh like a hyena. This guy’s hair and eyes were dark; he looked almost Mexican. I found myself staring at him, trying to figure out what he was.
“Hey, new guy,” said ALL-PRO. “Where ya from?”
“L.A.”
The guys, collectively, all sort of went “Hmm.” Like this development was slightly interesting to them.
But I wasn’t going to stand around for them. I went to a comer of the gym, sat on a bench, and inhaled my sandwich. I hadn’t brought anything to drink, so the peanut butter practically strangled me on the way down.
Young and I walked home together. For about three blocks we didn’t say anything. Then we both started talking at once: “Howwasit?” “Whatdidyouthink?”
“You first,” Young said.
“No, ladies first.”
“It sucked.”
“Same.”
We walked.
“Everyone is about as friendly as cacti,” I said, thinking specifically of the guys at lunch. “Like they have so much to feel superior about. Iron River, home of an iron mine, state football champs when I was in kindergarten. Whoopee.”
Young took a breath.
“Some girl called me ‘pancake face’ in the hall.”
“Whoa—” I said. “What was
that all about?”
Young shrugged. Her shoulder blades pointed out from under her shirt like wings. “I think she meant my face is flat.” She pushed her hand in close to her face, as if measuring it.
“Your face isn’t flat,” I said, fuming. “That girl’s brain is flat.” Jesus. My sister gets insulted by a bigoted yahoo on our first day of school. That’s all I needed to hear.
When we got home, there was a smell of cookies baking. We could hear Mrs. Knutson saying to O-Ma, “So you just flatten ’em out with a fork like this after you dip ’em in sugar to get that crisscrossy pattern. Easy, yah?”
Young and I had warm cookies—something we’d never had before because O-Ma was always busy working—and we felt a little better.
nine
Another afternoon of nothing awaited. Back in L.A., O-Ma and Abogee had started making me go to these after-school hakwon to bone up for the SATs. In between that I had soccer practice, and on weekends I worked at the store. That was then. Now I watched Oprah, and when I got tired of that I went outside and kicked the soccer ball around for a while. I practiced some of the passes Manuel had taught me, but it’s not so easy to do with just one person. I hated to admit it, but I was almost hoping for some homework.
I didn’t even have any small projects, like putting covers on my books. O-Ma had made these great denim ones for both me and Young on Mrs. Knutson’s sewing machine. It was cool seeing my old jeans on my books, but I don’t know where she got the time to do it—she seemed to be running around so much all day and all night.
So was Abogee. Each day he was gone by the time Young and I ate breakfast, and he didn’t come home until dinner, which we had extra late, just for him. And every night he just came home and ate, no progress reports, no nothing.
Maybe he could use some help. I changed my clothes and walked downtown.
Our store was called Froggie’s Express, and it was nestled between a Singer sewing machine store and Koski’s Pharmacy. I went through the door, which was open, even though the sign said CLOSED, and found Abogee standing behind a grimy counter. He was sweating, but it was hard to see exactly what he’d been doing because the store looked like Godzilla had come shopping: boxes upturned on the floor, shelves standing bare while others looked like they’d been pulled down. In the middle of it all was a pile of crumbling cinder blocks.
