Chapter Text
It’s nobody’s business. That’s what Mom says every time they move. The old place was too small, too ugly, too close to work, too far from work. The old place was paid for by some man whose name Hyunjin can’t remember and whose face Mom doesn’t love anymore. The old place had bugs, had leaks, had a lock that couldn’t keep some man out. A different man–one who had a key and enough motivation to get inside whenever he wanted.
It’s nobody’s business why they move, when they move, where. He can’t tell his teachers about some man–not the one with money and not the one with a key and not the one before that, before that, before that. And not the one now, whatever his name is.
He can’t tell his friends, either, but that’s not a problem. Hyunjin doesn’t have friends. Hyunjin has a second-hand uniform that doesn’t fit right. He has a backpack empty of assignments and a chest full of hope.
April is a good month. It’s a bad time to start at a new school but it’s a great time to play outside.
Hyunjin’s new school is just like the others–a brown brick exterior, a white fluorescent interior. Hyunjin’s class is on the first floor because he’s only in first grade, though big kids get to go upstairs. The food is so-so but Hyunjin eats every bite. The desks are small but the students are, too. They’re rowdy and quiet and sweet and mean and tall and short and Hyunjin fits in among them just as well as he fits in among anyone else.
It’s normal for kids to stick around once class lets out for the afternoon. Some of them have cleaning duties–preparing the desks, whiteboards, and bathrooms for the next day’s learning–and others have extracurriculars. Others stay for the sake of it, disinterested in catching their bus, in walking home, in seeing what’s behind their front door this time. Others still find a ball, kick it around outside, laugh and shout with their peers until that front door becomes an inevitability.
Hyunjin doesn’t have friends, but he wants to. He’s smaller than the group of boys running a rough game of soccer in the schoolyard and they don’t let him forget it.
“You can’t play with us!” a boy with spiky hair shouts when Hyunjin asks to join. Hyunjin had watched them for six whole minutes, counting down each passing second until he worked up the courage to raise his voice, then waited two more minutes to do it again when they couldn’t hear him.
“Why not?” Hyunjin blinks, bringing his hands up to his chest, the overlong sleeves of his uniform shirt allowing just his fingers to poke out.
“You’re a baby!” a boy with large front teeth yells. He doesn’t look much older than Hyunjin, but he must be at least a second grader. Hyunjin realizes that he doesn’t recognize anyone here, so all of them must be big kids.
“I’m in first grade,” Hyunjin says, his lower lip jutting out.
Even though it’s true, it’s the wrong thing to say. One of the boys–the tallest one with the widest shoulders and the biggest belly–begins to laugh. Then the one with spiky hair joins him, then the one with large teeth, then all of them are hollering their amusement, throwing their voices at Hyunjin like sticks and stones. He thinks it’s supposed to hurt, but it doesn’t. He watches them laugh and he wonders what’s so funny.
They turn from him at once, focusing instead on their game of soccer that does not include first graders. Hyunjin huffs and plops onto the soft, green grass to watch, but then an adult shouts at one of the second graders from across the schoolyard–his dad, Hyunjin thinks, telling him it’s time to go home.
Hyunjin watches that spiky head retreat, hanging low with resignation. He feels his fingertips tingle with the realization that the soccer teams are unbalanced now. He whips his head back toward the field, eyes wide and hopeful as he meets the gaze of the tallest one with the widest shoulders and the biggest belly.
“Fine,” he huffs. He doesn’t introduce himself, but Hyunjin heard the other boys call him Kangin. “You can play, but we aren’t going easy on you just because you’re little.”
Hyunjin beams up at his new teammates, excited to run and kick and laugh even when they stay true to their word. They knock into his side, trip him on purpose, laugh when one of his shoes flies off, when he scrapes his hands, when he rips holes in the knees of his ill-fitting pants.
“Come on,” Kangin sneers, rolling his eyes as Hyunjin collects himself off the grass. “If you can’t play right, you can’t play at all!”
“But the teams will be uneven,” Hyunjin says, brushing off his clothes. Small green stains litter his white shirt and his gray trousers, but Hyunjin doesn’t mind. It feels good to have proof of making friends, of having fun, of playing outside.
“So?” Kangin says. “You’re not even helping us. We would score more goals if you weren’t here.”
Hyunjin doesn’t think that’s true and he doesn’t think it matters, either. They haven’t been scoring goals, but neither has the other team. More often than not, the ball flies off into the parking lot long before it gets near the net. They send Hyunjin to chase it down, which he does happily every time, enjoying the task and the successful completion of it. He thinks it’s okay if nobody gets any points because at least they get to play.
But it’s important to Kangin that they win, and if it’s important to Kangin, it should probably be important to Hyunjin, too. Kangin is in third grade. He has class upstairs. Everyone listens to him, even the kids on the other team, which means Hyunjin should do the same.
So, he’ll score a goal. It doesn’t matter that everyone is bigger and older and better at playing soccer than Hyunjin because he really thinks he can do it.
Hyunjin rushes down the field of uneven ground, stumbling over stones and panting hard as he goes, desperate to get the ball, to get a point, to prove himself. He slams into one of the second graders the same way they’ve been slamming into him, knocking the boy into the dirt and stealing the ball away. He doesn’t stop to make sure he’s okay, instead choosing to barrel down the field toward the unmanned goal, kicking the ball as hard as he can with his toe. It hurts, but the ball goes flying into the net.
He turns around with his arms in the air and a grin on his face only to be met with a series of shocked, open mouths. For a moment he thinks he’s misunderstood. The second grader is still on the ground. Nobody is excited about his goal, nobody is devastated about the now uneven scores. But then Kangin snorts. Then Kangin laughs. Then Kangin puts Hyunjin in a headlock and spins him around.
“That was crazy!” he shouts. Slowly, other voices begin to speak up, complimenting Hyunjin’s speed, laughing at the second grader he took out, cheering for their victory.
April is a good month. It’s a great time to play outside but it’s a bad time to go home, to push open his front door, to be greeted by the smell of something chemical and harsh, to meet the gaze of some man he’s never seen before and likely will never see again.
“Mom!” Hyunjin shouts as he trots inside, nearly forgetting to toe off his shoes before making his way into the living room. He slips his backpack down his shoulders, letting it land on the floor in a heap before he spots Mom on the couch with a glass in hand. “I played soccer!”
“Did you?” she asks, eyes wet and unfocused. She slips her legs out of the man’s lap, shifting so she kneels on the couch, facing the front door. She leans across the back, watching Hyunjin as he takes in the scene. “Did you win?”
“Who’s that?” Hyunjin asks, picking his bag up again and holding it tight to his chest, his fingers just barely poking out from his sleeves.
“I’m your mom’s friend,” he says, eyes narrowing at Hyunjin. “Don’t you have homework to do?”
“No,” Mom says, “he has a soccer game to tell us about. Come sit, baby.” She pats the space between her and her friend, but Hyunjin doesn’t move.
“I ripped my pants,” he says, hugging the bag so tight, a stray pencil inside begins to stab his arm. “The knees. I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay, baby,” Mom says. “If you leave them on the table, I’ll fix them tonight. Go get changed.”
Hyunjin does as she says, shedding his dirtied uniform in favor of his favorite blue shorts and his favorite red T-shirt and his favorite green socks.
Hyunjin’s room is small and cluttered, an array of brightly colored cars and dinosaurs constantly littering his floor. Mom tells him to keep it clean and he tries, but his idea of cleaning stops at shoving everything beneath his bed. Besides, it’s not like the rest of the house is clean. There are always dishes in the sink, always crumbs on the floor, always bits and pieces of their life scattered around. That’s what happens when you move like they do. Mom says this house is permanent, this school is permanent, but Mom has said that before.
The couch is empty and Mom’s bedroom door is closed when Hyunjin returns. Hyunjin doesn’t know everything, but he knows enough to know she’ll be busy for a while. He leaves his tattered school pants on the table as requested and slips out the front door again. He doesn’t know where Kangin lives or where the second graders live or where anyone lives. He doesn’t know his way around the neighborhood very well, but he knows enough to circle the block and not get lost. With luck, he’ll find a playground or a park or another group of kids with a ball.
Hyunjin finds sun rays and tiny, manicured lawns that are much prettier than his own. He finds empty sidewalks and chirping birds that sing songs nobody else is listening to. He finds a burst of energy and runs and runs and runs as fast as he can down the street–faster than the cars, faster than he’s ever run before.
He slows down to a jog, a trot, a happy little walk as he continues. He hops over cracks and kicks pebbles and he forgets about the ache in his knees and the scrapes on his hands. He forgets about the way Mom’s drink smelled so dizzy and he forgets the man who poured it for her. He forgets long enough that he forgets where he’s going and instead of turning left, circling his block, ending up back home again, Hyunjin turns right.
He doesn’t find Kangin or the second graders or anyone he met at school. He doesn’t find a playground or a park or another group of kids with a ball. But he does find someone.
“What are you doing?” Hyunjin calls out, but his voice isn’t loud enough to carry. He watches as a boy several houses down sits on a bike, twisting the handlebars back and forth, rotating the wheels but keeping the pedals stationary. He does this three times before hunching his shoulders and then, without warning, he springs into the air, taking the bike with him. Hyunjin gasps as the tires lift two inches from the ground, then land crooked, sending the boy sprawling onto sun-heated pavement.
Hyunjin starts to run again, his eyes blown wide as he draws nearer. He leans over the boy laying flat on the driveway, the bike tangled between his legs.
“Are you okay?” Hyunjin gasps, scanning him for signs of injury.
“Did you see that?” he asks, blinking up at Hyunjin.
“Yeah,” Hyunjin says. “Are you okay?”
“I’m trying to do tricks,” he says, kicking his bike away so he can stand up. He’s taller than Hyunjin–probably at least a second grader.
“You fell,” Hyunjin says. “Are you okay?”
“Stop asking me that,” he grumbles, brushing off his dirty shorts. “Falling is just part of it. You fell, too.”
“What?”
“Your knees.”
Hyunjin looks down at his knees, exposed and red and raw. He meant to wash them clean once he got home, to show Mom and ask her for a bandage and maybe a piece of candy to make it hurt less. But she smelled of something chemical and harsh, so he forgot all about it.
“Oh, yeah,” Hyunjin sighs. “I was playing soccer. Falling is just part of it.”
“Stay here,” the boy says. He runs toward his house before Hyunjin has the chance to object. He crashes against the door, picking up too much speed for the short distance, then clumsily slips inside. He returns moments later with a box in hand.
“What are you doing?” Hyunjin asks. Instead of answering, the boy bends down and blows on his scratches. Hyunjin watches as he takes a bright orange bandage out of his box and delicately places it over the biggest scrape on Hyunjin’s left knee, then his right. He inspects his handiwork, leaning in close to stare at Hyunjin’s injuries before coming to some conclusion. He reaches back into the box of bandages and pulls out a whole handful, then lunges forward. Hyunjin screams and stumbles backward, but the boy is on him, shoving his hand into Hyunjin’s pocket before stepping away again.
“You have to keep scratches clean,” the boy lectures, furrowing his brow at Hyunjin.
“Well, you have to wear a helmet when you ride a bike!” Hyunjin shoots back, smoothing down his crumpled shorts, taking note of the way his pocket bulges with neon orange bandages now.
“No, I’m in my driveway,” he says. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“But you fell.”
“So?”
“So, what if you hit your head?”
“Do you play soccer with a helmet?”
“No!”
“But what if you hit your head?” the boy echoes, his tone a mockery of Hyunjin’s own.
Hyunjin rolls his eyes until only the whites show. He doesn’t know how to talk to this boy and he doesn’t know if he wants to, either.
“Does Kangin live near here?” Hyunjin asks, looking around as if he might materialize at the mere mention of his name.
“Kangin?” the boy says, wrinkling his nose. “Kim Kangin? No. Minho lives near here.”
“Who’s Minho?”
“Me.”
“Oh,” Hyunjin blinks. “Okay. Well, I’m Hyunjin. I live over there,” he says, gesturing in the general direction of the entire neighborhood.
“Okay,” Minho says. “You’re friends with Kangin?”
“Yeah,” Hyunjin beams, bouncing slightly on his toes. “We play soccer together.”
“Cool,” Minho says, his lip curled in a way Hyunjin doesn’t understand. “Well, bye.”
“What!” Hyunjin shouts, his voice loud with shock. He wants to say more, to ask about Kangin again, to ask about any parks nearby, but Minho backs away from him, maintaining eye contact until he collides with the front door. He fumbles for the handle, opening it without looking and stepping inside.
Hyunjin stares at the space Minho occupied just a second ago, mouth hanging open. He catches movement in his periphery, turning to see that Minho has peeled back curtains on a window next to the door. He watches Hyunjin again, unflinching, unblinking as Hyunjin throws his arms wide in confusion. They stay like that for minutes before Hyunjin decides that Minho is strange, his bike is strange, his bandages are strange, and he wants to go home.
So, home he goes. It takes him a little bit longer than usual to find his way back, realizing his mistake of turning right instead of left. But he manages it without issue, he opens the front door without issue, and he’s grateful to see his presence has not been missed at all.
In the morning, the man is gone, the smell still lingers, and his pants still have holes. Hyunjin thinks nobody will notice because he covers his knees completely with orange bandages layered carefully on top of one another, safely hiding all the skin beneath. They’ll think he has patches on his pants. They’ll think he’s stylish.
“What’s on your knees?” Kangin asks, knocking his shoulder into Hyunjin’s as they walk down the hall together. He stumbles forward, nearly falling before he catches his balance. Kangin laughs as he teeters, poised to push him further, but deciding against it when a teacher passes by.
“Bandages,” Hyunjin says. “Because I fell yesterday.”
“That’s so gay,” Kangin huffs, rolling his eyes. His gaggle of second graders echo the sentiment, laughing at Hyunjin, pointing at him, saying that word over and over.
“What’s that mean?” Hyunjin asks, his cheeks heating up at the jeers even if he doesn’t fully understand them.
“It means, um,” Kangin stutters, his brows hanging low over his eyes. “My brother says it. It means stupid. Only losers use bandages when they get hurt. Especially orange ones.”
“Oh…” Hyunjin trails off, glancing down at his legs. “Minho said you have to keep scratches clean, though.”
“Who?” Kangin asks, stopping in the middle of the hall. Hyunjin bumps into him, then gets shoved back with one hand. “Minho? Lee Minho?”
“I don’t know…” Hyunjin mumbles, shrinking in on himself. “He has a bike.”
“Don’t listen to Lee Minho,” Kangin says, his face wrinkled as if tasting something sour. “He’s so annoying. He’s always trying to get us in trouble. Stay away from him.”
“Okay,” Hyunjin nods. “He seemed kind of…”
“Kind of what?” Kangin asks, snarling down at Hyunjin.
“Kind of…weird,” Hyunjin says. “Kind of, um, gay.” The word sits strangely on his tongue.
Kangin laughs and laughs and his friends laugh and laugh so much that the hallway rings with the sound of it. Hyunjin tries to join, a shaky smile forming on nervous lips, though he doesn’t know why he feels so uncertain.
It’s a relief when Kangin goes upstairs to his class and Hyunjin isn’t expected to follow him. His chest feels lighter now that he’s alone, but it’s not a sensation that lasts long.
Hyunjin’s teacher notices the holes in his pants right away. She does not mistake the bandages for cool patches and even if she did, patches like that are against the school dress code. As are the holes, of which she sternly reminds him.
“Get them fixed or replaced,” Mrs. Park warns. “I won’t do anything today, but if you come to school with ripped pants again, you’ll get in trouble.”
A chill runs down Hyunjin’s spine at the thought of it. He feels a little like crying, a little like throwing up, but he knows getting sick means going home and he doesn’t want to do that yet. Not before he can play soccer again. So instead, he sits at his desk and he does his best to pay attention. Hyunjin will leave his pants on the table again and Mom will sew them up and scrub away the grass stains that persist and everything will be fine.
Hyunjin tells himself that all day long. He tells himself that again the next day when his pants still have holes. And the next day. And the next day. And the next.
Kangin laughs at Hyunjin’s pants every morning before class and Mrs. Park makes a note every afternoon when he goes home. Eventually he will be punished. Not that she wants to, not that it brings her joy. It doesn’t. But there are rules, Hyunjin. No holes, Hyunjin.
On some days, Hyunjin is assigned to stay after class to clean up along with a handful of his fellow students. Everyone in every grade does it at least once a week. It’s to teach them discipline and teamwork, but all it really teaches them is how to pretend like they’re helping when in reality they’re just standing around.
Hyunjin doesn’t fake it, though. The whiteboard needs to be erased so he erases it. The desks need to be sanitized so he sanitizes them. If he doesn’t, who will?
The more he does this at school, the more he does it at home, too. There are used cups colored purple sitting on the coffee table, on the kitchen table, on Mom’s bedside table. There are plates in the sink. There are stains in the carpet.
Mom does her best. She drinks a lot of water and a lot of coffee and she does a lot of work around the house, but sometimes she drinks a lot of something else, too. Medicine, she calls it. Something that smells bitter but feels good. Hyunjin isn’t allowed to try it, but he doesn't like medicine anyway.
Those are the days when Hyunjin helps out the most–days when Mom doesn’t feel good and Mom needs her medicine and Mom can’t play after dinner. If he doesn’t, who will? Not whichever man is sprawled out on their couch, his lips also stained a familiar shade of purple.
On other days, Hyunjin isn’t assigned to stay after class, but he stays anyway. Not to clean, but to hang out with Kangin.
Some people say Kangin is mean, Kangin is bad news, but Hyunjin doesn’t think so. When Kangin pushes a first grader down, it’s because he got in the way. When Kangin insults a fourth grader’s laugh, it’s because it really is annoyingly loud. When Kangin does anything, it’s because it’s deserved. When the other kids cry, they’re just being babies. When the other kids tattle, Kangin can rely on Hyunjin to have his back, right?
“Hyunjin,” Mrs. Park says softly, beckoning Hyunjin to approach her desk. He hesitates to stand, knowing the holes in his knees are still unmended and growing wider with wear. “Do you remember what we talked about?”
“No…” he says, bringing his arms to his chest.
“The dress code, Hyunjin,” she sighs. “Other teachers have brought it up to me. I can’t ignore it anymore.”
Hyunjin nods, his lips pressed together in a thin line so he doesn’t cry. He knows she threatened punishment weeks ago, but a small, hopeful part of him thought maybe she changed her mind and decided that actually, no, holes are allowed in school uniforms.
“Starting tomorrow, you’ll stay after class to clean every day until your pants are fixed,” she says, brow creased as she studies him. “The other kids won’t have to. It’ll just be you. Do you think that sounds fair?”
“Yes,” he says. He means no.
“Hyunjin,” she says. “If this continues, we’ll have to escalate the punishment. Do you know what escalate means?”
“No,” he says. He means yes.
“It will get worse. Some teachers take points off their students’ grades for repeated offenses.”
Hyunjin nods, his gaze focused on the space between his feet. His shoes are a bit too big, a bit too wide. Mom says he’ll grow into them. They might feel loose now, but soon enough they’ll be perfect. He wonders how much longer that will take.
“Hyunjin,” Mrs. Park says. She waits three seconds, four seconds, seven seconds until Hyunjin finally looks up at her again, eyes wet and wide and struggling to focus on her. “Is everything okay at home?”
It’s a question he’s heard before. From teachers, from someone else’s parents, from strangers at the grocery store when they see how Mom limps, how she stumbles, how she stutters. It seems like a quiz every time, like the correct answer is clear to everyone else, but not to him. If he says yes, we’re fine, they won’t believe him. If he says no, we’re struggling, something else will happen. He doesn’t know what, but he thinks it will be bad.
“It’s nobody’s business,” Hyunjin finally says, the words coming out slick with fear and rehearsal.
“Excuse me?”
“It’s…” Hyunjin trails off. He looks over his shoulder, finding several pairs of eyes staring at him. They can see his ill fitting shirt and his ill fitting pants and his ill fitting shoes. They can see his wild hair and his permanent frown and his unbridled uncertainty. They can see it all and it’s nobody’s business.
“Mr. Hwang.”
Hyunjin turns around again at Mrs. Park’s voice, stern and low.
“You don’t speak to me like that,” she says, cold in a way that frightens him. “It’s annoying, right? When people are nosy? It’s nobody’s business. But it’s my job to take care of you when you’re in this classroom. I can’t do that if you lie to me.”
“Okay,” Hyunjin nods. He can’t make sense of it–what she feels or what she wants or how he can give it to her.
“I’ll ask again,” she says. “Is everything okay at home?”
“Yes,” he nods, offering her a smile full of teeth sparkling white. He eats all his meals and he brushes after each one. Everything is fine at home.
Mrs. Park stares at him for a long time. He feels her gaze like X-ray vision–which he just learned about on TV two days ago–and he thinks she sees his bones and sees the weariness etched into them. He thinks she can see the smell chemical and harsh that sometimes imbeds itself into his hair, his skin, his clothes. He thinks she can see it all.
“Get those pants fixed,” she finally says. “Tonight.”
He will. He’ll go home and he’ll study spelling and he’ll ask Mom to mend his pants again even if some man is over. Even if the air smells the way it always does. Even if the carpet is stained. He will, he will, he will.
He doesn’t.
Mom asks how his day was and she listens carefully to every word. Mom cuts him an apple and he doesn’t mind that the pieces are strangely shaped. Mom tells him she loves him and he believes her. He leaves his pants on the table like she said that first day, but she doesn’t notice. She takes a sip and she lays down on the couch and Hyunjin lays down beside her.
The next day, Hyunjin takes his time with cleaning duty. When he’s here by himself, nobody sees him run from one end of the classroom to the other with a broom in hand, pretending to be a witch as he sweeps. Nobody sees him toss trash like he’s a star basketball player, laughing when he finally gets a paper towel in. Nobody sees the orange bandages he puts on his knees even though they’ve long since healed.
He stays much later than he should, only leaving when Mrs. Park finally kicks him out, says go home, says that’s good enough. Hyunjin peeks at her through the small window toward the top of the classroom door, trying to catch a glimpse of her admiring how clean everything is, how hard he worked, but the window is a little too high and Mrs. Park is a little too out of sight.
He huffs, lowering himself from tip toes and stepping back from the classroom, careless with his movements in what he thinks is an empty hallway. He yelps as his back collides with something, knocking him off balance. He stumbles, then crashes to the floor, his arms and legs sprawled out like a starfish–which he just learned about on TV two days ago.
“What’d you do that for?” someone asks, and Hyunjin almost doesn’t recognize him. His hair is brushed nicely and his uniform is free of wrinkles and his cheek sports a straight red scratch that goes right up to his eye.
“I didn’t mean to,” Hyunjin huffs, scrambling to his feet–a task Minho does not offer to help him with.
“You need to stop falling,” Minho says, shaking his head. “Otherwise, I’m going to make you wear a helmet.”
“What!” Hyunjin exclaims, brushing off his clothes. “You’re the one who needs a helmet, not me!”
“Nuh uh,” he says, watching Hyunjin gather his things and fix his hair and grumble to himself about stupid bikes and stupid helmets and stupid, stupid, stupid.
“What happened to your face?” Hyunjin asks once he realizes Minho isn’t going to say anything else.
“Why are you still at school?”
“I got in trouble,” Hyunjin says. “My pants are out of dress code.”
“Oh,” Minho says, blinking at his knees, both of them adorned with familiar orange bandages. Hyunjin’s cheeks flare red as he tries to shift them out of sight, but he can’t hide without turning around completely. “Is your knee hurt again?”
“No,” Hyunjin says. “Is your face hurt?”
“Obviously.”
“Why?”
“I was fighting.”
“You shouldn’t do that.”
“Aren’t you friends with Kangin?” Minho asks.
“Yeah?”
“Okay, well, tell him that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Who do you think I was fighting?” Minho says. “He didn’t get detention, though. Just me.”
“Well, maybe you shouldn’t bother him,” Hyunjin says, narrowing his eyes.
“What?” Minho says, his brows shooting high on his forehead.
“He would leave you alone if you didn’t mess with him,” Hyunjin shrugs. “Did you ever think of that? The only time he hurts people is when they do something first.”
“Oh,” Minho blinks, as if realizing it for the first time. “Does he hurt you?”
“Not really,” Hyunjin says. “Not unless I’m in the way.”
“Oh,” Minho blinks again. He stares at Hyunjin’s knees for longer than is comfortable, then turns on his heel and marches down the hallway without another word.
“Hey!” Hyunjin calls after him. He knows Minho is a tattletale, a bully, a bother. Hyunjin’s heard it all and he knows it’s best to leave him alone, but it’s rude to walk away like that. It’s rude to pick fights with Hyunjin’s friend, too. “Did you hear what I said?”
Minho did hear what he said, of course, and he hears everything Hyunjin continues to say as they travel deeper into the school. He hears the petty insults and the childish jabs, the accusations of causing trouble, of making Kangin look bad, of being a weirdo loser the whole school hates. He parrots everything he’s ever heard Kangin say and then some, growing agitated the more Minho ignores him.
Hyunjin doesn’t stop until he realizes he has no idea where they are. It’s some upstairs classroom with big windows and colorful pictures covering every inch of the walls and he’s here alone with Lee Minho who gets into fights and is bigger and older and taller and Hyunjin thinks he should apologize, he should run, but then Minho is grabbing his shirt and pulling him close and Hyunjin thinks oh, God, he’s going to hit me–!
But instead, Minho kneels in front of Hyunjin and pinches the hole in his right pant leg closed. He takes a bottle of glue that Hyunjin didn’t see him grab and runs it along the seam until it begins to drip. He tells Hyunjin to keep it closed, then does the same to the other side. They stay like that until the glue dries, then Minho puts the bottle back in the teacher’s desk.
“Now you won’t get in trouble for dress code violations, right?” Minho says, looking at his handiwork. The seams are uneven, the glue is ugly, but it works.
“Yeah…” Hyunjin trails off, kicking one leg out, then the other, testing the durability. He should stop falling just to be safe, but he thinks it’ll hold together as he walks around.
“Well, bye,” Minho says. He turns on his heel and speed walks out of the art classroom before Hyunjin has the chance to protest. He listens to Minho’s steps echo through the empty hall, growing fainter and fainter as the afternoon slowly turns to evening.
Hyunjin realizes that if he doesn’t get home soon, Mom will notice and Hyunjin doesn’t want her to notice.
It’s not like Mom doesn’t know Hyunjin will be back later than usual. It’s not like he doesn’t come back late everyday anyway. Mrs. Park gave him an official note to pass along to her–one with an explanation and a signature and everything. He thinks she read it. He gave it to her–put it on the kitchen table right next to his pants.
But when he gets home, Mom is on the phone, pacing around their living room with eyes blown wide and hands shaking.
“Hyunjin!” she shouts when he finally walks through the front door. He freezes in place, halfway out of his shoes when he hears the panic in her voice. She runs up to him, phone call forgotten as she trips, stumbles, and scoops him into an unexpected hug. “Where have you been?”
“I’m sorry,” Hyunjin says, his words muffled by her embrace.
“You are never home this late,” she snaps, pulling back to reveal tear streaked cheeks and an unfamiliar fear in her eyes. His lower lip wobbles for just a second, overwhelmed with guilt and worry and emotions he doesn’t have the vocabulary to describe. “I was scared to death, baby. I thought something happened. Where were you?”
“I was at school,” he says, his voice coming out delicate and wavering. A few tears cascade down his cheeks, salty and sorry both. He hides behind his hands, not wanting to be seen. “I had to stay late because I’m in trouble.”
“What?” she blinks. “Why? What happened?”
“I told you,” he sniffs. “My pants were ripped. That’s against the rules so I had to–I had to–”
He lets himself be pulled into her chest for another hug, this time warm and comfortable and sweet. She rocks him back and forth, stroking his hair and humming as he cries.
“I’m sorry, baby. I was supposed to fix those, right?”
He nods.
“Well, they look fixed now. Did you do this?” she asks, tugging on his pants.
He shakes his head.
“Your teacher?”
No.
“Your friend?”
No.
“Well, they were very kind to help you, whoever it was,” she sighs. “I’m sorry, baby. I forgot. But I’ll buy you new ones, okay? I don’t think this glue will hold up in the wash.”
“We don’t have to wash them,” Hyunjin hiccups.
“Yes, we do,” she chuckles. “You have grass stains on here, too. You’ve been busy, haven’t you, baby? Winning lots of soccer games?”
He sniffs. He nods. He finally pulls away to take off his shoes and set his bag down. His eyes hurt and his chest feels funny and his nose tickles with that familiar scent. Even now, even with her being so nice and smiling so wide, he can still smell it.
“I’ll pay more attention,” she says, combing her fingers through his hair one last time before standing back up. “This won’t happen again, okay? I promise.”
“Okay,” Hyunjin says, staring down at the floor.
“Hey, what if we had dessert for dinner?” she asks, a hint of mischief creeping into her voice as she says it. “As a reward.”
“Reward?” he asks, his gaze snapping up to meet hers. “For what?”
“I’ve seen you cleaning up around here sometimes,” she says. “It’s very impressive. Your teacher must love having you in her classroom. You work so hard.”
Hyunjin beams before he has the chance to stop himself. He hides his face in his hands again, disguising pink cheeks and pride and the warmest, happiest feeling blossoming in his chest. It spreads to every little piece of him, engulfing him in the rarity of joy.
Dessert for dinner is something he’s only seen on TV. He doesn’t know anybody else who gets to do that, but he and Mom do–a wonderful treat for the two of them, no strange man in sight. They eat red beans and rice coated in a generous amount of white sugar and it’s the best meal Hyunjin has ever had. He asks for it again the next day and the next and the next, but she refuses. It’s a sometimes thing, Hyunjin. Eat your vegetables, Hyunjin.
Hyunjin does eat his vegetables even though he hates them and he gets a new pair of pants even though they still don’t fit right and he enjoys his last days of school before they’re released for summer break even though none of his classmates want to talk to him.
Only Kangin wants to be Hyunjin’s friend, but Hyunjin is happier with him than with no one.
He’s sun-pink and dripping in sweat by the time he makes it to Kangin’s house–a difficult, thirty minute walk from his own home. The others are there–the boy with large teeth and the boy with spiky hair and all the boys Hyunjin spends his time with, but doesn’t really know.
They play soccer in the backyard and Hyunjin is so hot and so tired that he throws up in the grass. Kangin yells at Hyunjin for being gross and Mom has to come pick him up. She tells Hyunjin he shouldn’t go to that house anymore.
Hyunjin says he won’t. He means he will.
Not every day because sometimes Mom pays attention like she promised, making sure he wears sunscreen and drinks water and isn’t falling on his knees. But there are still bad days, still purple stained cups and glass tumblers with something brown and acrid lingering in the bottom, still some man who Hyunjin can’t remember seeing before.
On those days, Hyunjin walks to Kangin’s house and doesn’t throw up even when he gets too hot. Kangin laughs at him and with him and pushes him down and grins when Hyunjin does the same to a second grader. Kangin shows him weird videos on his brother’s computer and tells Hyunjin not to tell anyone what he saw.
“Did you know starfish can grow a new leg if one gets chopped off?” Hyunjin says, lazily dribbling the soccer ball down the sidewalk. He doesn’t know where they’re going and he doesn’t think Kangin does, either. They had been playing in his yard as they always do, but Kangin said they should leave. Shouts and slams echoed around his house, loud enough to permeate through the sliding backdoor. Hyunjin couldn’t make out any of the words, but they sounded male and female and angry and scary and Hyunjin didn’t like hearing it.
“No they can’t,” Kangin snaps, glaring at Hyunjin and kicking the ball away from him. Hyunjin nearly trips on Kangin’s extended leg, but he manages to stay upright. The ball bounces down the street, narrowly avoiding the unforgiving tires of an approaching car.
They can, but Hyunjin has learned not to argue. Instead, he looks right, left, and trots into the street to retrieve the ball. He carries it as they walk, taking his place next to Kangin again.
“Did you know lobsters have blue blood?” he says, remembering the time Kangin said his favorite color is blue.
“Stop making things up, Hyunjin!” Kangin shouts. “You’re so annoying sometimes!”
He manages to hold his tongue for several more blocks. They find a walking path that winds through tall grass and a smattering of trees. The ground is squishy and wet like a marsh, with lots of bugs and tiny fish swimming around the shallow water. Hyunjin steps carefully, making sure to stay on the dry parts so his shoes don’t get muddy. His friends pay no mind, life finally bleeding back into them as they run and splash and play.
He smiles as he watches them, happy to see them happy, and happy most of all to see Kangin grin as one of the second graders falls into a puddle. Hyunjin takes a few steps toward them, intent on helping him up, but he stops with a gasp, his eyes landing on something wonderful.
“A turtle!” he exclaims, setting the soccer ball down as he shifts direction. He squats beside it, beaming as he peers inside the shell. There he can see a tiny pair of eyes looking back at him, hiding away from the heat and from Hyunjin both. “Did you know–”
“God, shut up!” Kangin whines, approaching Hyunjin from behind. He knocks his knees into Hyunjin’s back, nearly pushing him on top of the turtle. Hyunjin grabs onto the grass to steady himself, cringing at the mud that squelches beneath his fingernails. “What? Can turtles shoot laser beams out of their eyes? Can they fly?”
Hyunjin doesn’t respond. Instead, he stares inside the turtle’s shell, wishing he could fit in there with him. They’d be good friends, he thinks, if only Hyunjin could shrink.
“Or, what did you say before?” Kangin continues, coming around to stand in front of the turtle. “Will its legs grow back if I chop them off? Will it bleed blue if I stomp on its shell?”
“No!” Hyunjin gasps, scrambling to his feet. He stares wide eyed at Kangin, holding out his dirtied hands as if to keep him at bay. “Don’t–”
“I wasn’t going to!” Kangin shouts, slapping Hyunjin’s arms until he puts them down again. “Only freaks do things like that, Hyunjin! People like you!”
“No, I would never–”
“You’re so weird sometimes!” he continues, drawing the attention of the other boys. They slowly come closer, circling around Hyunjin and Kangin and the turtle. “Do you think I’m some kind of weirdo? You’re such a baby!”
“I’m not–”
“What would you even do?” Kangin asks, his eyes cutting over to the turtle. He takes a step toward it, raising one leg into the air until his foot hangs precariously over the shell. He wobbles as he shifts his gaze back to Hyunjin, eyes cold despite the heat and cruel despite their friendship. “I could stomp it if I wanted. What would you even do?”
“Don’t,” Hyunjin whispers, staring at the turtle. He tries to send a message directly into its brain–run away, hide and never come out again! But it doesn’t listen.
“Or what?” Kangin snarls. He begins to tilt, losing his balance on the wet, uneven ground. The sudden movement is enough to startle Hyunjin out of his stupor, the fear of witnessing something so vile propelling him forward.
“Don’t!” he shrieks. He launches at Kangin, slamming into him with all his weight. Kangin is bigger, wider, thicker than Hyunjin in every regard, but he was already falling, already vulnerable, and Hyunjin is determined. They collapse to the ground in a heap of limbs and screams and mud.
Hyunjin is quickly thrown off, his back landing strangely on a rock half buried into the dirt. Kangin yells something angry and embarrassed and mean. He’s on Hyunjin before Hyunjin can so much as yelp, pulling his hair and jerking his head back and forth and back and forth. The other boys are shouting, too, some asking him to stop, some encouraging him to keep going. Someone kicks his leg. Someone punches his hip. Nobody stomps the turtle.
By the time they’re done, Hyunjin is crying. Snot drips down his face and he wonders if the kids at school hate him for defending Kangin against their grievances. Hyunjin thinks he would. Hyunjin thinks he does.
They leave him there on the ground, sniveling and alone except for the turtle, still hiding in its shell. Their laughter rings loud in his ear–louder than their threats, their screams, their insults. He hears that laughter when he sits up, when he limps away, when he roams around the neighborhood until he sees anything familiar. He can find his way back home, but he doesn’t want to go home right now. Today is a bad day. Today Mom has someone over. Today she might not pay attention and if she isn’t going to notice his scrapes and bruises, he doesn’t want her to notice him at all.
Once Hyunjin gets to the end of the street, he turns right instead of left. He wanders and wanders, going deeper into the neighborhood than he’s ever been before. He doesn’t see anyone and if anyone sees him, they don’t say a thing. He supposes it’s nobody’s business why he looks like this anyway, why he cries like this, why he’s out here at all.
A smile teases at the corners of his lips when he spots a playground in the distance. He’s wanted to find one for so long and now that he has, he doesn’t feel good enough to use it.
First he sees a red, spiral tube slide and a small rock climbing wall. Then he sees the swing sets, four seats swaying in the gentle breeze. Woodchips cover the ground, offering a soft place to land should someone fall from the monkeybars, from the rope ladder, from any of the equipment.
Hyunjin glances around, looking for any other kids who might be playing, but there’s no one. A sigh escapes his chest as he steps onto the woodchips, satisfied with his isolation and the way the ground shifts beneath his feet as he walks. It’s comforting to know his imbalance can be blamed on something other than the ache in his bones.
He thinks about climbing onto the equipment, about running around and laughing and playing the way a kid is meant to, but he doesn’t have the energy. Instead, he lays down on the ground and grabs a handful of woodchips. He places them on his chest, then grabs more and more until his torso is nearly buried. He shimmies his legs around until they start to nestle into the ground as well, bits of earth poking into his already irritated skin.
Hyunjin closes his eyes, still blindly covering himself as he lays there, intent on burying himself completely. But then he hears something. It’s quiet, barely there at first. He freezes in place, straining his ears until he can be sure that, yes, there is a noise–something like spokes turning and lips whistling. Something like someone coming.
Hyunjin sits bolt upright, woodchips flying off his chest as he scrambles to his feet. He whips his head around, looking for a place to run, a place to hide before anyone sees him in this state. He hears the sound of tires stopping on pavement, stray twigs and leaves crunching beneath the rubber. He sprints as fast as he can toward the tube slide, crawling up into it and sticking his arms and legs out to keep himself in place.
If he holds his breath, he can hear feet running over woodchips, the squeak of a swing pushing back and forth, then…nothing. For two seconds, five seconds, ten, the playground is completely still. Hyunjin lets out a shaky breath, relief filling his lungs at the thought of being alone again. But then–
“Hello?” someone calls out, the word echoing between the red plastic walls of the slide. Hyunjin gasps, his grip slipping for just a second before he catches himself again. “Who’s in there?”
“Nobody,” he says quickly, then squeezes his eyes shut.
“Come out,” the boy says, slapping a hand against the slide. “Please?”
Silence stretches between them for one minute, two minutes, three…
Right as Hyunjin begins to think it’s safe again, he hears a series of loud steps pound against the playground equipment, then a thud as someone slips into the slide. Hyunjin shouts wordless and afraid when a pair of legs collide with his torso, pushing him out into the open air again. He tumbles from the slide gracelessly, landing on his back as another body lands on top of him.
“Ow,” Hyunjin groans, trying to roll away from the weight squishing him so mercilessly.
“It’s you,” the weight says, and when Hyunjin peeks one eye open, he sees a familiar face.
“Minho,” he grumbles, squeezing his eyes shut tight again.
“What’s wrong?” Minho asks, climbing off Hyunjin to sit next to him instead. Hyunjin stays put, his body begging for reprieve from too much rowdiness in one day.
“Nothing,” Hyunjin says, his voice breaking on that single word. His face screws up as he tries to hold back tears, sick of crying and sick of hurting and sick of second and third and fourth and fifth graders. Sick of everything and everyone.
Hyunjin startles when he feels fingers on his face, his eyes shooting open to find Minho looming over him. He’s about to scream and run away when he realizes that Minho is peeling something, then sticking it to his cheek.
“You have a scratch,” he mumbles, tapping on the bandage until it adheres fully. His gaze scans Hyunjin’s nose, his forehead, his chin, brow furrowing more and more as he looks. He sits back, taking in Hyunjin’s entire appearance. “You have a lot of scratches.”
“Yeah…” Hyunjin says, his voice as uneven as the ground on which they sit. He opens his mouth again to explain, to assuage his worries, but all that comes out is a whimper, a whine, a cry. He can’t stop the tears that roll across his face, over his new bandage, down his neck until they soak into his filthy shirt collar.
Minho blinks at him, eyes wide and mouth hanging open. Hyunjin slams his hands onto his face, unwilling to look at Minho as he sobs and unwilling to let Minho look at him, either. He curls in on himself, shaking with the effort of emotion, barely noticing when a gentle hand strokes up and down his back.
“It’s okay,” Minho says, his voice soft. “It’s okay, Hyunjin.”
Hyunjin doesn’t know that it is, but it’s nice to hear anyway. He feels that warm hand on his warm back the entire time he cries. He feels warm fingers on his warm legs, on his warm arms, on his warm face again. By the time he calms down enough to open his eyes and face Minho, he finds a smattering of bandages all over his body, covering scrapes and bruises as best they can.
“I’m sorry,” Hyunjin manages between ragged breaths. He pushes onto his elbows, then strains until he can sit up all the way. He lets his head hang low as he rubs leftover tears and snot and dirt from his face.
“It’s okay,” Minho says again, patting Hyunjin’s back. “It’s okay to cry.”
“No,” Hyunjin sniffs, casting one quick glance at Minho before looking away again. He draws his knees to his chest, noticing the bandages situated there. “I’m sorry for being so mean to you.”
“Oh,” Minho blinks, the hand on his back stilling.
“I really thought…” Hyunjin trails off. He sighs before burying his face in his hands. It muffles his words, but Hyunjin thinks that’s the only way he can get them out. “I really thought you were bad. Kangin always said you were and I believed him. But you aren’t bad. Kangin is bad and his friends are bad and I’m bad and–”
“It’s okay,” Minho cuts him off, scooting through the woodchips until he’s sitting directly in front of Hyunjin. “I know what he’s like. And you’re just in first grade.”
“What’s that got to do with it?” Hyunjin says, his head snapping up to finally return Minho’s gaze. He glares at him, ready to fight back yet again.
“Nothing,” Minho laughs, an amused smirk decorating his face. “Just that you’re younger than us and you don’t know anything.”
“I know plenty of things!” Hyunjin huffs. “I know about starfish and lobsters and turtles and even more than that, too!”
“Not about the kids at school,” Minho says, shrugging. “It’s okay. You don’t have to.”
“Whatever,” Hyunjin mumbles.
“So, was it him?” Minho asks. “He hurt me before, too. A lot of times. It’s just what he does.”
“He was going to stomp a turtle.”
“What?” Minho gasps. “Did he? He didn’t, right?”
“No,” Hyunjin says. “I stopped him. I got in the way and then he got mad.”
“Thank goodness,” Minho sighs. Hyunjin peeks at him, unable to stop himself from smiling when he sees Minho lean back dramatically, a hand placed over his heart and his eyes shut in relief. “I’m glad you were there.”
Hyunjin pouts at Minho until he notices, then pointedly looks at all the bandages covering his injuries.
“I’m not glad you got hurt,”Minho rolls his eyes. “I’m glad you saved the turtle. I think that’s cool.”
“Yeah,” Hyunjin shrugs. “I guess it was pretty cool.”
Minho snorts, taking a handful of woodchips and throwing them at Hyunjin. He squeals, shuffling back to avoid the attack, but he isn’t fast enough. He grabs a handful of his own, hurling it at Minho who doesn’t even try to dodge. They stay like that for a while, getting comfortable on the ground, occasionally covering each other in woodchips until their clothes are completely obscured by them.
“Can we be friends?” Hyunjin asks, dusting himself off one last time before heading home.
“Third graders aren’t usually friends with first graders,” Minho says, wrinkling his nose. He screams as Hyunjin reaches out to slap his arm, rubbing at the spot like it’s some grievous injury. “Fine, fine! We can be friends!”
Hyunjin smiles when he hears that and he smiles the entire walk home, too. He smiles when he pushes the front door open and he smiles when he notices Mom’s man has left. His smile falters a bit when he sees her sleeping on the couch, her face matching his in more ways than usual. His smile falters a bit more when he peels off one of his bandages, then gently sticks it to the big, red-blue-purple splotch on her face.
He doesn’t wake her with his touch or when he pads into the kitchen and pulls out their rice, their beans, their white sugar. He doesn’t wake her when he does his best to assemble everything, to warm it in the microwave, to portion it into two separate bowls. He doesn’t wake her when he eats, though he will wake her soon so she can eat, too. It’s not as good as when she made it, but he hopes it’ll cheer her up nonetheless.
April is a good month. June is better, and July is better still. Hyunjin gets to see Minho every day for four whole weeks. Minho teaches him how to ride a bike. Hyunjin teaches him how to kick a soccer ball. Minho teaches him how to climb a tree. Hyunjin teaches him how to catch flies.
“Why don’t you ever play with anyone your own age?” Minho asks, adding the finishing touches to his sidewalk chalk portrait of Hyunjin. He looks more like a ferret than a human, but Hyunjin is appreciative of his hard work nonetheless.
“Why would I?” Hyunjin asks, adding devil’s horns to his rendition of Minho. “I have you.”
And Hyunjin does have Minho. That entire summer, he has Minho any time he needs him. When school starts again, Hyunjin stops playing soccer outside and instead walks home with Minho. He eats snacks with Minho. He plays games with Minho. Everything is with Minho.
It’s so good, Hyunjin almost forgets about what’s behind his own front door. Almost.