by Jessica Kim
“Only in America they have this kind of nonsense.” He scoffs. “Pay money to tell jokes.”
Yuri steps in.
“I think it would be great for Yumi to attend a performing arts camp.” She leans toward Mom and says in a lowered voice, “You know, so she can work on her . . . communication skills.”
Um, hello. I can still hear you. I’m right here.
“The camp has all these activities to help kids with their confidence. They practice speaking in front of groups. With Yumi being so shy and everything, this might be beneficial for her. She’ll need these skills for college interviews, job interviews . . .”
Mom’s brows bunch together the way they do when she’s perplexed. My heart flutters. She’s actually considering it.
But then Yuri goes all in and starts laying it on infomercial-thick. Her voice is eager. Too eager.
“I just checked out the website a few minutes ago. It looks like a worthwhile educational investment. For it being two weeks long, from twelve thirty to three, which is after hagwon, by the way . . . two hundred dollars is not a bad deal—”
Dad cuts her off right there. “Absolutely not,” he barks. There is no question in his voice.
Yuri stops talking immediately.
I blink hard. His rejection feels like a giant anvil strapped around my ankle, yanking me off the cliff like in those vintage Road Runner cartoons. This is exactly why I never ask for anything. The disappointment hurts too much.
Dad gives Mom a little head bob. Mom’s lips press into a line.
“Yumi, you have your exam coming up in a week and a half.” She clears the plates from the table. “You do not have time to do any camp right now.”
“You need to focus on getting the scholarship,” Dad grunts from behind the monitor. “Anyway, we cannot afford to send you to camp right now. Hagwon is already expensive enough.” He gets up from the desk. “You can read the joke book at the library for free.”
“See?” I whisper to Yuri from across the table. “Told you.”
I knew going in that my parents wouldn’t understand why I’d want to do this, but why do I feel so disappointed?
Then, to make matters worse, Mom adds, “Also, Mrs. Pak called earlier. She wants to meet with you before hagwon.”
Just great. What now?
CHAPTER 7
When I get to Mrs. Pak’s office the next day, it takes three attempts to muster the courage to knock on the door.
“Come in,” her voice blares from inside. How can such a small human have such a big voice?
The first thing I notice is the bulletin board full of pictures of high school students in graduation gowns behind her desk. Each portrait is labeled with the kid’s name, graduation year, and university. Harvard, Princeton, Yale, Stanford, UC Berkeley, UCLA. I stifle a giggle when I spot Yuri’s photo up there. She looks so babyish in her goofy Coke-bottle glasses and oversized cap and gown. And then I remember it’s because she was barely fifteen.
Mrs. Pak, her back ramrod straight in her chair, catches me gawking. “You can be on my Wall of Excellence, too, Yumi,” she says, “if you learn to apply yourself.” She folds her slender hands together under her chin. “Sit down.” She gestures to the chair next to me.
I trip over my feet and stumble into the seat.
“I called you in here today because I want to discuss your progress.”
She pauses.
“You aren’t progressing enough,” she says bluntly.
I flinch, but I’m not that surprised. Korean adults are all about talking without a filter. I can’t count how many times I’ve been told “You need to pinch your nose so it’s not so flat” or “Your sister is a genius. What happened to you?” My American side is offended, but my Korean side knows it’s not a big deal.
“You haven’t shown any significant growth since your diagnostic exam.”
MRS. PAK’S HAGWON
REACHING FOR IVY LEAGUE DREAMS
“Oh no.” You could eat dinner on that thing. I’ll have to jump more than ten percentage points in ten days in order to secure the scholarship.
“Don’t despair.” Mrs. Pak puts on her bifocal half-glasses, the kind that sit low on her nose. “The good news is you’re a smart girl. Not a genius like your sister, but you know the material.”
She pulls out a thick file folder from her cabinet and rustles through it. “However, you have to make some significant changes. Up here.” She thumps her temple, then hands me a packet of my work.
“What do you notice about your tests?” Mrs. Pak watches me as I flip through the papers.
I don’t see anything amiss, but I have to say something. “Uh, they’re not bubbled in very neatly?”
“Ha! That’s the least of your worries.” She snatches the sheet from me. “Look here.” She points to a geometry problem. “Your calculations are correct. You even bubbled in the correct answer initially.” She points out the erase marks. “But then you second-guessed yourself and ultimately went with the wrong answer.”
I tense up all over.
“You did that repeatedly.”
She punches some numbers into a calculator with her long skinny finger. “If you had stuck with your original answers, you would have scored ninety-four percent, which is much closer to your goal.”
Okay. Life returns to me. That’s not so bad. Ninety-four percent is in the same neighborhood as ninety-eight percent, at least. I can handle that.
“You’re letting this test get into your head. Why do you think that is?” She stares at me.
“S-sometimes I get a little nervous,” I mumble.
Biggest understatement ever.
Mrs. Pak takes off her glasses. “Mm-hmm,” she says, like she’s mulling something over in her head.
It’s silent for a moment. Then our conversation takes a strange turn.
“Yumi, what exactly are you afraid of?” She presses her hands on the desk like she’s flattening the surface with her sheer force of will.
Uh. Is this a trick question? I mean, I know the answer, but I’m not about to say it out loud. I grip the sides of the metal folding chair and wait her out in silence.
But then she leans a little closer. “Yumi, what are you afraid of? Answer honestly.”
I pick at my cuticles. “I guess . . . maybe I’m afraid . . . of you,” I answer in a whisper.
Mrs. Pak puts one hand on her hip like she’s going to level with me. “Think about it. I weigh one hundred pounds. Not nearly enough for an actual Pak Attack,” she says with a trace of humor. “And we both know any grade I give you doesn’t count for anything.”
She taps the desktop with her perfectly manicured fingernail. “Ask yourself, why are you afraid of me?”
“I don’t know.” My voice cracks a little. “I guess I’m afraid to disappoint you and my parents and everyone else. I’m not as smart as my sister, so—”
“Wrong!” Mrs. Pak shouts. “Your problem is not your intelligence. Your problem is that you’re hampered by your own indecision. Don’t you see? Your fear of disappointment is holding you back. Like handcuffs. You need to stop worrying about failure and trust in your own instincts.”
“But I don’t know how.”
“Well, Yumi, sometimes you have to pretend you’re more confident than you are until you become that way.”
A chill runs down my spine, like someone threw a glass of ice-cold water at my face. Fake it till you make it. Just like when I was pretending to be Kay at the Haha Club.
Then Mrs. Pak scrawls something on a yellow legal pad. She tears off the sheet and presses it into my palm.
In neat loopy script it reads, The only failure is not trying.
“What’s this?” I ask, grappling with what it means.
“This is your new motto. Stop worrying about living up to other people’s expectatio
ns and pursue excellence on your own terms.”
“Um. Thank you.” I don’t know what to do with it, so I fold it into quarters and put it in my pocket.
And before the moment gets too touchy-feely, Mrs. Pak adds, “I want you to copy this sentence one hundred times.”
Like, by hand? Is she serious? How is that going to help me?
Mrs. Pak gets up from behind her desk and opens the door for me to exit. “It’s due tomorrow.”
CHAPTER 8
“Watch where you’re going!” the mustached vendor yells right as I barrel into the colorful umbrella shading his elote cart.
“Sorry.” I prop the umbrella upright and scurry past pedestrians down the street toward the library.
I’m so distracted, I can’t think straight, let alone walk straight.
Even though it’s been hours since meeting with Mrs. Pak, my brain is still swirling with questions. Could she be right about me? What would my life look like if I stopped worrying about what people think? I’d be able to order for myself at a restaurant and correct my PE teacher when she pronounces my name “Yummy.” And maybe I’d stand up to my parents and actually make a case for going to camp at the Haha Club.
Whoa.
I might have solved the secret of the universe, but something stops me cold. From the corner of my eye, I spy a small shadow trailing me from behind as I cross Western Avenue. Is someone following me? I zigzag my way through the crowded crosswalk, but the shadow is right on my tail. My heart hammers against my ribs as I get to the other side. I consider my options. I could make a run for it or duck inside the Parisian-style Korean bakery.
But no. I won’t.
I’m sick of being worried all the time.
In one quick motion, I pivot and shout, “Back off!” assuming the fighting stance I learned in tae kwon do when I was little.
“AHHHHHHHH!”
I’m a mere moment away from gouging the creep in the eye sockets with my two stiff fingers when it registers in my brain who it is.
“Felipe!” I utter, relaxing my trembling hands. “Sorry, I thought you were a kidnapper or something.” I wasn’t expecting to ever see him again.
Color comes back into his face. “Kay, I didn’t know you did martial arts.”
“I took tae kwon do for a few years, you know . . . just for kicks.” I kick my foot up for flair. It feels like something Kay would do.
“Funny,” he says with a chuckle. “Sorry about startling you. I wanted to make sure it was you before I said hi.”
“Pshh. I wasn’t scared.” I shrug teasingly. “You’re the one who screamed like a banshee.”
“Excuse you. That was my supersonic scream.” He takes a superhero stance with his chest puffed out and fists on hips. In a deep voice, he says, “I can shatter objects, level skyscrapers, and incapacitate my enemies using the power of my supersonic scream.” Then he squeezes his eyes shut and screeches at the top of his lungs. “AHHHHH!”
I burst into laughter. “Felipe, stop! You’re going to freak people out.” I cover his mouth with my hand.
“Never underestimate the power of my scream, Kay.” Then he does it again, punching his arms and doing kicks into the air. He yells, “KAPOW! BOOM! SMASH!” without a care in the world that everyone on the street is staring at him.
I love it.
We walk through the palm tree–lined boulevard past strip malls marked with signs written in Hangul, reenacting our favorite comedy sketches until we arrive at the Haha Club.
Felipe holds the door open for me.
I knew it was coming, and now here we are.
My moment of truth.
Do I go back to comedy camp as Kay or not?
I still don’t know.
“Hey, I’m going to use the bathroom,” I tell him, knowing full well I might not return.
“Sounds good. I’ll see you inside.” Felipe disappears through the hallway.
After closing the bathroom door, I splash water on my face.
What should I do?
Standing in front of the mirror, I search for answers, but only dark doubts crawl into my ear.
Look at yourself, Yumi. You aren’t a comedian. You’re an awkward, lanky Korean girl from Koreatown. You can hardly get through a conversation without a stomachache. You think you can make people laugh? Onstage? You’re not even that funny. And what are you going to do when the real Kay shows up? How are you going to explain that? What are Mom and Dad going to think when they find out? Is this really worth it?
I yank a paper towel from the dispenser and bury my face in it.
This is all too big to overcome.
A lump forms in my throat.
Maybe that’s my answer: I can’t. I ball up the paper towel and toss it toward the trash, missing by a few inches. Of course. When I reach to pick up the ball, something slips out of my pocket. It’s Mrs. Pak’s note. I unfold the sheet of yellow paper and read the words again.
The only failure is not trying.
Goose bumps prickle my skin.
Yuri’s words haunt me, too. If you go along blindly with whatever Mom and Dad say, you’ll be chasing their dreams, not your own.
Winston, hagwon, the SSAT. All that stuff is for my parents.
My jokes, those are for me.
That spark when I craft the perfect punch line, the satisfaction of coming up with a fresh take for a bit, the excitement of nailing just the right wording . . . it’s the best. It makes me feel like what I have to say is worth listening to.
I inhale deeply as I stare intently at the mirror again.
Look at yourself. You made the whole camp laugh yesterday. You did that. Here at camp, you are funny and confident and you fit in. As Kay Nakamura, you have nothing to be afraid of. This is just the thing you were hoping for: a fresh new start.
I pick up the paper-towel ball from the ground.
This time I crouch, aim, and shoot. It lands in the wastebasket with a swoosh.
Score.
CHAPTER 9
By the time I get to the auditorium, it’s too late to join Felipe in the front row, so I slide into an empty seat in the back. I guess I’m really doing this.
My heart races as Jasmine Jasper goes over announcements onstage. “We’ve got a bit of a rodent problem in the building, so please no food or drinks in the auditorium. I’m not about that hide-and-squeak life.”
She wiggles her fingers and puckers her face with her tongue hanging out like she’s had some sour kimchi.
I giggle. Yeah, this is where I’m supposed to be.
Jasmine continues. “This Saturday, I’ll be hosting a community service field trip to the nursing home around the corner. It can get kind of lonely there for some folks, so I thought it’d be fun to do a little show for them. Tell some jokes to lift their spirits. If you’re interested in joining me, meet me here at ten and we’ll walk over together. Totally optional, but it’ll be fun!”
I jot down the date.
“And lastly, mark your calendars. Next Thursday, we’ll be performing a special stand-up showcase here at the Haha Club. It’s going to be poppin’, so get the word out to your friends and family now.”
Friends and family? The thought of my parents watching me tell jokes onstage makes me twitch. Maybe coming back here was a mistake. If Mom and Dad ever find out what I’m up to, they might just grill me. On the barbecue.
I’m contemplating hightailing it out of there when Jasmine does her three-clap thing and, like I’m in a trance, I clap back the rhythm with the other campers, shaking off my hefty thoughts.
Logic returns to me. Mrs. Pak said that I have to stop living my life in fear and start pursuing excellence on my own terms. Sure, she wasn’t talking about this camp exactly, but it certainly applies here, too. What better place is there to learn how to get people to listen than a c
omedy club?
My stomach settles as I sit back in my seat.
“For our warm-up today, we’re going to talk about the ‘Yes, and’ principle of improvisational comedy,” Jasmine explains. “It’s basically the idea that you should accept what the other person has stated with a yes, then expand on that line of thinking with an and.
“That means you have to go with whatever your groupmates come up with, no matter how bonkers it is. This practice of layering will help your joke composition for your stand-up. Make sure to pay attention to your partners’ body language and tone, because the goal is to tell a story together.”
She raises three fingers. “Before we start, I need everyone to get into groups of three.”
Instead, I break into a sweat. Everyone scrambles into groups, but I hesitate, standing there like a giant dork. I get flashbacks of being in biology lab at Winston all over again. Alone. Pathetic. Without a group to call my own. Needing the teacher to assign me to one.
But then, from the other side of the room, Felipe hollers, “Kay! Join us.” He’s with Sienna, who is sporting an oversized black beret today.
“Yeah, c’mon, Kay,” she says, beckoning me with both arms.
That’s right. I stand up tall. Here at the Haha Club, I’m Kay, and Kay has no problems making friends.
Jasmine explains, “The premise of the sketch is you’re on a family road trip. Each person will act out a given emotion. For the first set, the emotions are”—she reads from her clipboard—“angry, hungry, and scared.”
She looks up expectantly. “Now, who wants to start?”
Sure as heck not me. I look down at my shoelaces to avoid eye contact. There’s no way I’m going up there without watching a few groups go first.
But then Sienna starts flailing her arm in the air like she urgently needs to use the bathroom.
“Oh, someone came with her game face on. And game . . . hat.” Jasmine smiles broadly.
“Thanks, it’s my dad’s,” Sienna replies.
I take another look. What kind of dad wears a beret like that? Is he a French painter? Or a mime? This girl is so intriguing.