by Ellen Oh
Dedication
This book is dedicated to my mom and dad
and all the survivors of the Korean War.
May it no longer be the Forgotten War.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Book I: Junie
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Book II: Doha: June 28, 1950
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Book III: Junie
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Book IV: Jinjoo: June 26, 1950
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Book V: Junie
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Glossary
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Books by Ellen Oh
Copyright
About the Publisher
Book I
Junie
AUGUST IS STILL THE SUMMERTIME. So why do we have to go back to school? Shouldn’t school start in September, when the summer is actually over? I don’t get it. It’s literally only a week away.
“Junie, hurry up or you’ll miss the bus!”
The first day of school and I’m already filled with that horrible empty-stomach crampy feeling of dread.
“Junie!”
I can hear the slight annoyance in my mom’s voice and yet I’m still frozen in place in my room, staring at my schoolbag. It’s a brand-new messenger bag, dark gray with bright red straps, just like I wanted. But it also means going back to the terrible place.
Middle school.
“Junie Kim!”
“I’m coming!”
Grabbing my bag, I force myself to walk downstairs to the kitchen, where my mom is waiting. On the table is a peanut-butter-and-jelly waffle sandwich and a tall glass of milk. It’s what I call my power breakfast, and it’s my favorite. But today the thought of eating it makes my throat close up.
“You’re gonna have to wolf that down fast, honey.”
I shake my head. “I’m not hungry.”
“Eat a little anyway,” she says, pushing me into my seat. “You need to eat breakfast to get through the day.”
She packs my lunch sack into my schoolbag and picks up a big stack of files. My mom is a lawyer with the Department of Justice. It sounds really cool, but it keeps her really busy. That’s not as cool.
“Mom, can’t you drive me to school today? I don’t mind if I’m there early.”
She shakes her head regretfully. “I’m sorry, honey, but I have a meeting and I have to run now. Otherwise I’ll be late.”
There will be no escaping hell this morning.
It’s the worst thing in the world that my best friends don’t live near me, and therefore I have no one to ride the bus with. It would make the trip bearable. At least last year my older brother was on the bus with me. But now he’s going to high school. I’ll be all alone with the current worst person of Livingston Middle School.
The walk to the bus stop is only a few blocks from my house, but it reminds me of a nightmare I always have. It starts with a scary chase sequence and ends with me falling off a building, where the fall feels like an intense forever as I scream and scream and then I finally jerk awake. The problem with the falling nightmare is that even after waking up, I’m still scared, as if there’s more to come. That’s what it feels like reaching the bus stop. I don’t know what else is coming, but I know it will be bad.
“Hey, it’s the North Korean commie!”
Taking the middle-school bus every morning means listening to Tobias Rodney Thornton, the resident bully, spew racist hate at the only Asian student on the bus. That would be me. Junie Kim. I’m not the only nonwhite kid on the bus. But Tobias doesn’t mess with the Black or Latino boys, at least on the bus. Because there are more than one of them.
Tobias is nothing but a bully and a coward, just like his older brother, Satan. Actually, his real name is Samuel Austin Thornton, but Satan suits him better.
Nobody likes either of the Thornton brothers. They’re both big and mean and don’t care about what other people think of them. And Tobias is five foot ten and probably like two hundred pounds, so he could pummel anyone’s opinions into the sidewalk.
As long as I’ve had to deal with him, I’ve only ever seen him show two emotions: angry and more angry.
This morning he looks like he’s his normal mean.
“Commie!” he spits out as I scurry as far away from him as I can. The bus stop is on the corner of the local park, so there’s a lot of space for all of us to spread out. It’s one of the biggest stops, with anywhere from fifteen to twenty kids waiting every day. Since Tobias has planted himself on the grassy corner of the park, I rush over to the end of the sidewalk and stand next to a No Parking sign. I pray under my breath that he stays on the park side, but today is not my lucky day.
“Can’t you hear me talking to you, dog eater?”
I hunch up like a sad turtle and try to ignore him, but he’s now throwing sticks and dirt at me.
I look around, hoping something else will grab his attention.
Megan and her little clique huddle together, as far away from me as possible. We haven’t gotten along since I won first place for the sixth-grade essay contest and she got second. She’s never forgiven me for doing better in an English class when I was “foreign,” and she was American. Truth is, even though I was born and raised here, I’ll never be truly American to her.
I’m friendlier with some of the boys, but right now everyone is just trying to avoid Tobias’s attention, and since he’s focused on me, they’re all earnestly avoiding my eyes.
Everyone’s too afraid of him to stick up for me. I am overwhelmed with this weird feeling that is sadness, but in a way I’ve never felt before. It feels like hopelessness. It feels like this is the rest of my life.
The bus pulls up and I rush over to it. Since we’re the first stop, it’s completely empty. Even though it isn’t cool to sit in the front, I make sure to sit near the bus driver. Tobias is mean but not stupid. Our bus driver is not the friendliest man. He is no-nonsense and does not like troublemakers. He keeps the rowdier kids in line by standing up and glaring. Since he looks like he wrestles alligators for fun, it’s very effective.
The bus has a hierarchy to it. All the sixth graders have to sit in the front of the bus, while all the eighth graders lord it over everyone else in the back. Seventh graders sit in the middle or as close to the back as the eighth graders will allow. Since Tobias has claimed the back of the bus as his domain, I stay as far away from him as I can. In fact, I’d sit on top of the bus if I could, to avoid breathing the same air as him. While there’s only a few stops after ours, it always feels like the longest ride.
Livingston Middle School is a big, boxy red building that looks like a prison. W
e pull into the school parking lot and immediately notice that there are several police cars in front of the building. Usually there’s at least one police car every morning. But four of them? Something must be up.
Inside, everyone is speaking in hushed tones. The teachers don’t say good morning. They all look so serious.
The pale-yellow hallways are crowded with students, which is unusual. Sixth graders head straight to the cafeteria and seventh and eighth graders are supposed to line up in the gym before first period. But it looks like no one is in the gym. In the crowd I spot my best friends, Patrice and Amy. I weave over to them and see that Amy is crying and Patrice looks ready to hit something or someone. This is not surprising, because they are usually opposites in almost all ways. Patrice is model beautiful and always wears her thick black hair slicked back and pulled tight into a low ponytail. Her dark brown skin is absolutely flawless. Meanwhile, Amy has bushy, curly blond hair that springs out everywhere and a ghostly-white complexion that shows her multitude of freckles.
“What’s wrong?”
“Junie! Someone sprayed swastikas and racist graffiti all over the gym walls!” Patrice says angrily.
My mouth drops open in shock. “Did you see it?”
Patrice shakes her head. “They won’t let any of us in since the police are here. But everyone’s talking about it. It was targeting Blacks, Jews, and Asians.”
“That’s literally the three of us!” Amy suddenly looks really scared. “Do you think it was meant for us?”
Patrice bites her lip. “It’s not like we’re the only ones . . .”
“Does anyone know what it actually said?” I ask.
“I think only the teachers know for sure,” Patrice says. “And they’re taking it really seriously.”
“I don’t want to see it,” Amy replies. “Just hearing about it is awful. Who would hate us that much?”
We glance down the hallway where we see all the head administrators hovering around the gym doors. The morning bell rings, and the hallway fills with moving bodies. It’s loud, but not the normal boisterousness of a middle-school morning.
Patrice and I walk to English together while Amy leaves for her math class. None of us talk; we just wave. I feel lethargic and tired and I’m not even in first period yet. I look over at Patrice, who is walking quietly next to me, her eyebrows furrowed. I can feel the intensity of her emotions radiating from her. I rub her shoulder, and she gives me the saddest smile. In class we sit at our seats and are immediately surrounded by classmates.
“Did you hear what it said?”
“Who could it be?”
“Was it someone from our school?”
I don’t know how to respond, so I stay quiet, but I can see Patrice trying to hold back her temper.
Second bell rings, and Ms. Simon tells everyone to take their seats.
Suddenly, the PA system crackles, and we hear the principal’s voice over the loudspeaker.
“Good morning. This is Principal Sumner, and I am very sorry to have to start this day, our first day back to school, with such terrible news. Hateful racist and anti-Semitic graffiti was found in our gym. Hate has no place in this school, and we denounce this terrible criminal act. Our school is a place where all must feel free to learn, free of fear and hate. We must remind ourselves that our community stands for welcoming everyone, and it is our responsibility to provide a safe and welcoming environment. There is much work that we need to do, and there is healing that our community will need. An email has been sent to all parents this morning, and counselors will be available to speak with any student who needs their services.
“Due to this criminal act, our beautiful gym has been defaced. Therefore, all gym activities will be held outside today. Rest assured that we are taking this incident very seriously and will investigate this matter thoroughly with the Montgomery County police, and appropriate action will be taken against the perpetrators. We encourage anyone with information to come and talk to staff. This horrible act is not representative of our school and our student body and will not be tolerated.”
When he signs off, the classroom erupts in conversation.
Ms. Simon claps her hands several times to get our attention. “I know it’s hard to concentrate right now, but we do have a lesson to get through.”
Roland Mathers, who is kind of a know-it-all and talks like he’s forty, raises his hand and starts to speak even before she calls on him. “Ms. Simon, can you at least tell us exactly what was written on the walls? I think we should know what the vandals said about our community and if any of us might be in danger.”
Ms. Simon purses her lips. “I can’t tell you the exact nature of what was said, but I can tell you there were no direct threats. Just hateful words specifically aimed at the Black, Jewish, and Asian communities.”
Patrice’s hand shoots up in the air. “But Ms. Simon, doesn’t the very fact that racist and anti-Semitic words were used make it a threat?”
I tense up at her question. This is our first day with Ms. Simon, who is a middle-aged white lady, and I worry that she might be the type who doesn’t get it.
Ms. Simon nods. “You’re absolutely right, and I apologize. While no specific threats of harm were written, the very nature of the words themselves was meant to cause fear and intimidation. It is in fact a hate crime, which is why the police are involved. I know it’s frightening, but I assure you that the administration and the police are going to make sure that these perpetrators, whoever they are, are caught and punished.”
I can see Patrice is as relieved as I am to hear Ms. Simon speak so forcefully and call it a hate crime. She seems like a good teacher, one who really cares.
It’s hard to focus on classes after that. I keep wondering what exactly was written on the walls. How bad was it? In the hallways, nobody can talk about anything else, and rumors are all over the place. I hear bits and pieces as I walk by groups of students. Some are clearly shocked and afraid, while others are excited by the most interesting thing to happen in Livingston in a long time.
“I heard there were KKK symbols and that it said to deport all immigrants.”
“They said the handwriting looked like it had to be a student.”
“Well, it can’t be someone who goes here because they broke in late at night, and who would want to come back to school if they didn’t have to?”
“I don’t believe it. It’s all fake news. . . .”
Ugh, I really hate the term fake news. I whip my head around to see who made the last comment and am not surprised to see it’s one of the obnoxious boys wearing a red Make America Great Again hat. It was my mom who explained to me that the slogan was about exclusion and not inclusion. Who they didn’t want in this country, in order to make it a world they wanted. It’s why it hurts so much to see those hats. It makes me feel unwelcome in my own birthplace, and the country of my parents. The hats remind me of all the people who will never accept me as a real American.
Patrice grabs my hand, and I turn to see the anger tightening her lips into a straight line.
The boy knows we’ve heard him, and he starts following us and chanting “Fake news! Fake news!” and his friends laugh like hyenas. I’m clenching my teeth so hard I can feel my jaw hurt.
Patrice spins around and looks the boy dead in the eye.
“Piss off,” she says without raising her voice, but her eyes shoot lasers. The boy raises his hands in surrender, smirks, and turns away.
I wish I was more like Patrice. She’s not afraid to confront people, and she never looks foolish doing so.
“I hate the fake newsers,” Patrice says. “They do it deliberately. By denying it, they can pretend it doesn’t exist. No racism. No global warming. No refugees dying. It’s all about denying the truth.”
I look at Patrice in awe. Sometimes she sounds so much older than she really is.
She catches me looking and gives me a small smile. “I’m repeating what my parents say.”
“I know
,” I reply. “But it still sounds right when you say it.”
Our cafeteria is on the second floor and always feels way overcrowded and noisy. It has an unusual L shape, making it hard to navigate due to the crush of students. We head for our usual table in the far right corner, but have to pass the annoying popular kids’ table. They’re mostly white except for Esther Song, the only other Korean girl at our school, who never acknowledges my existence. She’s one of those Asians who ignores all other Asians because they remind them that they aren’t actually white. My mom says it’s internalized racism: when racism messes with you so much you hate who you are and wish you were white.
“Hey, Patrice, I bet you did all that vandalism just so you could say racism is still real. Help! I’m Black and a girl and I’m being oppressed!”
Stu Papadopolis is a smirky, two-faced weasel. But he’s also popular because he’s rich, and some girls think he’s good-looking, which I personally don’t get. He reminds me of a beady-eyed rat. And he wears so much cologne I literally gag whenever I’m near him. I want to arrest him for air pollution.
Patrice is glaring at him so hard her nostrils are flaring. “Stu, you are such a racist.”
He rolls his eyes dramatically, sending his idiot goons into hysterics. “See what I mean? She’s always screaming racism! News flash, Patrice, not everything is about race.”
“Only a privileged white guy would say that,” Patrice snaps at him.
“Now that’s racist and sexist!” Stu howls loudly. “I’m gonna report you to the administration. Oh, wait a minute. Nobody cares about white males anymore. Because we have ‘privilege.’” He uses finger quotes. “Right. We’re the ones that are really being discriminated against.”
Patrice is shaking with rage, and I’m so angry I just want to rip Stu’s head bald.
“You’re a horrible, nasty troll,” I shout at him.
“Shut up, Kim Jong Un. Why don’t you go back to your own Communist country?”
“This is my country! I was born here!” I’m so angry I can’t help but stumble over my words.
“Says who?”
“Says my birth certificate!”
“Pffft, fake news! You can get fake birth certificates from China.”
