Finding Junie Kim

by Ellen Oh

I could see my dad trying to calm Mom down, but she was upset, which for some reason made me really mad.

  “Well, they all have cell phones and can text each other and have group chats,” I snapped at her. “What did you expect would happen?”

  “That’s it? They’re not friends with you because you don’t have a cell phone?” Dad asked in surprise.

  I had a headache and I didn’t want to talk anymore. I just wanted to go home and sleep.

  “Please, let me go home,” I begged. “I don’t feel well. I just want to get out of here.”

  At home, I went straight to bed and slept through dinner. I was surprised they let me sleep.

  This morning, Justin woke me up before he left for school.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were having a hard time?” he asked.

  Sitting up in bed, I rubbed my eyes. “I don’t know.”

  He gave me a serious look. “Don’t do that again,” he said. “I’m your Oppa. I’m supposed to look out for you.”

  I snorted at him saying Oppa. He has never wanted me to use the Korean word for big brother. “We’re in America,” he’d say. “Call me by my name.”

  It would feel odd to call him that now.

  “You’re missing school to meet with therapists today, huh?” Justin asked.

  I nodded.

  “Good luck.” He handed me a small box of my favorite chocolates and waved goodbye.

  I was touched and surprised. Justin is the black hole of food in the family. I’m amazed he had the willpower not to eat them all. Instead, I enjoyed every bite and went back to sleep.

  Then Mom woke me at ten to eat breakfast and head to the first therapist. The one I didn’t like. She was older, with dyed red hair that made her pale skin look sickly white. She smiled a lot, but her eyes were dead-fish cold.

  After the appointment, my parents took me to my favorite burger place. I wished I could tell them not to bother. They could have just made me a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich and I wouldn’t have cared. I’ve lost my sense of taste and my appetite. As we waited for our food, my mom pulled out a cell phone box and passed it to me. I stared at it blankly.

  “Had we known that you would be left out of your friend group, we would have gotten you a cell phone earlier, Junie,” my mom said.

  This is my mom’s solution-based thinking. Junie is depressed. Junie lost her friends. Solution—get Junie a cell phone.

  I pushed the box back. “I don’t want it.”

  “But why?”

  I have no one to call. No one to text. If anything, the cell phone made me more aware of my loneliness. I blinked back tears. Why am I always crying?

  “It’s okay, Junie,” my dad said. “We’ll hold on to it until you’re ready.”

  My burger and fries arrived with a chocolate milkshake, but the food just didn’t appeal to me. Even the smell of it made me want to gag. I gulped down the milkshake, because it was cold and sweet and the only thing I could really taste. It’s funny how I can only taste the sweet things when I’m feeling so sad and bitter.

  Now I’m at the second therapist’s office. She’s part of a group called Barton & Associates that have offices in a townhouse. The building is cute on the outside and warm and cozy on the inside, with bright lighting and fun posters on the walls. There’s one family waiting inside the waiting area, but otherwise it’s quiet. After a few minutes, the therapist comes out. She’s a very kind-looking woman with long, curly brown hair and a warm smile that crinkles her eyes.

  “Hi, Junie. I’m Rachel. How about we come into my office with your parents and just get to know each other a little bit?”

  I follow her into her office. It’s big with pale-yellow walls that have really pretty watercolor paintings and a comfy blue sofa. There’s a large coffee table that has all these cool things on it. An Etch A Sketch, a block puzzle, a Rubik’s Cube, a small sand-raking garden, putty, and so much more. She sees my attention is caught by the Rubik’s Cube, and she places it in my hands.

  “I can never get more than one side done,” she says. “Maybe you’ll be better than I am.”

  She begins to chat with my parents, and I mostly tune out. It’s the fourth time I’ve had to sit through my childhood medical history and my current issues. Every so often, Rachel directs a question or comment to me. I just nod, shake my head, or shrug. I have no words to contribute in this discussion. I don’t want to be here. I play with the putty or stare up at the pretty watercolor painting.

  “Junie, I want you and your parents to know that anything you tell me in therapy is confidential,” Rachel says. “I will not share anything you say with your parents unless you expressly agree that I can or if you say something that makes me believe you are in danger.”

  I’m mildly interested to hear this, especially because I can see my mom is not that happy about it.

  “I want to explain what we do here in this practice,” Rachel continues. “When I work with clients, I like to teach them about mindfulness and emotion regulation.”

  I just stare at her blankly. None of this makes any sense to me.

  “Mindfulness is the ability to be in control of your mind. To be present in the now without judgment or overthinking. It’s just the act of being. And emotion regulation is a skill set that helps you to be in charge of yourself during periods of high emotions.”

  I nod. It sounds good, I guess.

  “Now, let’s send your parents out so we can get to know each other.”

  After my parents leave, Rachel shows me a binder filled with pages of different kinds of furniture sets clipped out of magazines.

  “I’m thinking of redoing my bedroom and need some advice. I’ve been told I have horrible taste, and I really want something modern. Since you are an artist, I’d love to hear your thoughts. What do you think of my choices?”

  It’s so unexpected that I look out of pure curiosity. She shows me a wide range of photos of rooms ranging from fancy to simple, elaborate to plain, ugly to beautiful.

  “I kind of like this one, but I’m just not sure about it,” she says, pointing to a hideous mess of a room that’s as far from modern as you can imagine. I think I once saw a room like this in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. It’s all dark colors and busy patterns. It doesn’t look like it would suit Rachel. But I don’t want to hurt her feelings.

  “That’s nice but not really that modern,” I say carefully. “I think these choices over here would fit more what you said you were looking for.”

  I point to a set of photos of rooms I like. They’re very clean and bright with sleek and simple furniture. When I grow up, I’d love a room like that.

  Rachel nods and proceeds to admire the three choices I’ve set aside, asking me questions about what details I like and if my room is like this.

  I laugh. “I think my mom had a fairy-tale princess crisis when she had me,” I say. “My room is purple, and my bed has a big white canopy on it.”

  “That sounds really lovely. Don’t you like it?”

  I grimace. “I’d rather have my brother’s room. Although he’s filthy. But his room is just a room, not some Disney Princess fairy-tale suite.”

  “Have you ever thought to tell your parents how you feel and ask them to change your room? You’re older, and the style might not suit your current maturity level.”

  “Yeah, you’re right, but my mom always talks about how much she wanted a room like mine when she was little but never got it. I don’t want to hurt her feelings.”

  “That’s very sweet. But I have a feeling your mom won’t be as hurt as you might think,” Rachel says. “Do you always tend to keep your thoughts and emotions to yourself?”

  I think about it. “Yeah, I guess so.”

  She pauses as she takes some notes in a leather journal that looks very professional. “Do you have difficulty talking about your feelings?”

  Yes, definitely yes. I nod.

  “Do you ever feel overwhelmed by your feelings?”


  Absolutely. I nod again.

  “When you get angry, do you let your emotions out, or do you let them simmer internally?”

  “That depends,” I say. “Sometimes I’m so mad I yell at people. But other times I run away.”

  “Tell me about a time you ran away.”

  And just like that, I find myself telling her all about the graffiti and the fight with my friends. For the first time, I tell someone what’s hurting me, and I cry almost the entire time. When we’re done, I am so relieved. I feel as if a heavy weight has just gotten a little bit lighter. My burden is still there, but now I’ve shared it with someone, and it feels good. Maybe this therapy thing might be good for me. I don’t know, but I’m willing to give it a try.

  I WAS ONLY IN SCHOOL three days this week, and I’m already feeling anxious about going back. I’m in my bed, staring up at the canopy and wondering how mad my mom would be if I tore all the sheer white fabric off. I don’t mind the light purple walls, but the flowy, white fabric tied in bows is too much. But then I think about what Rachel said. That she was sure Mom would understand. I stand up on my bed and start to reach for the fabric, but I’m too short. At that moment, my mom knocks and walks in. She has a glass of water and my bottle of antidepressants.

  “Honey, I . . . what are you doing?” she asks.

  Sheepishly I sit down on the edge of my bed. “I really don’t like all the fabric hanging down. It isn’t my style.”

  Mom sits next to me and gives me a side hug. “You know what? I always thought I wanted one of these beds when I was young, but I know what you mean. It’s not really my style either! I’ll take them off for you today.”

  There is this little glow of happiness I feel at her words, and I find myself smiling at my mom. She passes me a pill and the glass of water and I take it quickly.

  “How soon will the medicine help me, Mom?” I ask.

  “The doctor said it takes a few days to a week to get into your system,” she replies.

  “Do you think it will work?” I look at her skeptically. I don’t know how a pill can help me feel better.

  My mom holds my hand. “I don’t know for sure, but I don’t think it will hurt,” she says. “But I think the biggest help will be your therapy. I’m so glad you like Rachel.”

  I nod. I don’t know if medicine will help, but I think talking with Rachel has already started helping me.

  “Junie, I’m sorry to do this, but I have to go into the office this weekend, and Dad has to take Justin to a few games today. I don’t want to leave you alone. Is it okay if I take you to Grandma and Grandpa’s house?”

  I hesitate. “Did you tell them?” I ask.

  “Oh no, I just said you’ve not been feeling well.” Mom pats my hair. “Junie, we won’t share your private business. It’s up to you whether or not you want to tell Grandma and Grandpa.”

  “Okay then,” I say, although I really don’t want to go anywhere.

  We pull up to their cute little house. It’s literally the type that every little kid draws, a square with a triangle roof. I always think of it as the house the three bears lived in when Goldilocks broke in. Seriously, that girl was a total crook. Imagine breaking into someone’s house, eating all their food, breaking all their furniture, and then sleeping in their bed. I always thought the story would have been better if the hungry bears had eaten Goldilocks for dinner.

  My grandparents’ house has red brick and bright white trim and a pretty garden full of flowers because they love gardening. Their backyard is full of vegetables that they grow and send to us to eat.

  Mom drops me off and waits for me to knock on the door. When Grandma lets me in, Mom waves goodbye and takes off. Once I’m inside, Grandma immediately urges me to the dining table, where soup, rice, and a lot of banchan, Korean side dishes, are set out for one person.

  “You must be hungry. Eat first.”

  This is what Grandma says whenever she sees me. I always wonder if my face looks like I’m constantly starving.

  The dining room is nice and bright and has wallpaper with fruit designs. When I was little, I saw the Willy Wonka movie and decided to lick the cherries on the wall. I tried several of them before realizing they didn’t actually taste like cherries. I can still see little scrapes from where I nibbled at it.

  As I sit at the table in front of Grandma’s delicious food, Grandpa plops down next to me.

  “Can I have some too?”

  “What is this, your second breakfast?” Grandma questions him.

  “Seeing Junie eat makes me hungry again.” He smiles at me.

  Grandma shakes her head and brings Grandpa some soup and rice also. She then fills the banchan plates with more of my favorites.

  “Otherwise, your Grandpa will eat them all, and what will my poor Junie eat?”

  She gives me a kiss on the cheek, puts on her jacket, and grabs her bag.

  “It’s Saturday, so I have a lot of appointments today! Lots of houses to show!” She waves goodbye and runs out the door. Grandma is always busy. My mom says Grandma was always like that. She doesn’t understand the art of doing nothing. Even when she rests, she is doing something. She and Grandpa are so different. Grandma’s hair is still black with some graying at her temples. I’m pretty sure she dyes it regularly but leaves some gray to make it look more realistic. I wish I could tell her that the black dye she uses is not very natural looking. Meanwhile Grandpa has a shock of snow-white hair. I think Grandpa looks handsome and dignified.

  As the door closes behind her, Grandpa and I look at each other and then start eating with gusto.

  “I love Korean breakfast,” I say around a mouthful of rice and kimchee. “Rice is my favorite. I would eat it three times a day every day.”

  “Spoken like a true Korean,” Grandpa responds approvingly. He leans forward. “Although I only eat like this when you come over,” he says confidingly. “Usually breakfast is bread and jam with my coffee.”

  “Yeah, but you love bread and jam,” I say. “It’s your favorite.”

  He nods. “I didn’t have it when I was your age. The first time I had bread and jam wasn’t until I was in college.”

  I can feel my eyes widen at the thought of not having bread and jam. It was unthinkable. But then I couldn’t imagine growing up during wartime.

  “What about peanut butter?” I ask with my mouth full.

  “Never ate it until I came to America,” he replies. He is wrapping rice and little anchovies in my favorite kim, little flat squares of salty, crispy seaweed, and says “ah” to me. I swallow quickly and open wide so he can pop it into my mouth.

  After breakfast I help Grandpa clear the table and wash up. He makes me a cup of hot chocolate with little marshmallows, and then we go sit in the cozy living room. There are several watercolor copies of famous paintings hanging on the walls. They were all painted by my grandfather when he retired. My favorite is of a vase of sunflowers by Claude Monet. I saw the original in New York when my mom took me to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I like my grandpa’s better.

  When he’s not gardening, Grandpa likes to re-create his favorite paintings from the Metropolitan Museum and the Smithsonian American Art Museum. He is an amazing artist. They look like the originals, but different in a way that is so clearly my grandfather’s style. Light and vibrant. Looking at his art makes me happy. I hope to one day be as good as he is. My mom says she’s jealous that all the artistic talent skipped her generation and manifested in me.

  Grandpa sits in his big brown comfy armchair that doesn’t match the fancy yellow-striped sofa set that Grandma picked out. But the armchair suits Grandpa and is way more comfortable than the elegant-but-hard-as-a-rock sofa I’m sitting on.

  “Tell me, how’s school?” Grandpa asks as he settles into his seat.

  I blow on my cocoa and sip up the melted goodness of the marshmallows before I respond. “It sucks.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  I don’t even know where to st
art. Talking about it at the therapist’s wore me out, so I just focus on my hot chocolate.

  My grandpa pulls out a bag of walnuts and proceeds to crack them open. I don’t like the taste of walnuts, but I find myself fascinated by the methodical cracking. My grandpa hums slightly as he gathers a pile of nuts. It’s all very calming for some reason. It’s so hypnotizing that I find myself speaking without even realizing it.

  “They found racist graffiti all over the walls of the gym and the boys’ bathroom,” I finally say. “There were swastikas and lots of racist stuff.”

  Grandpa makes a tutting sound with his tongue. “Aigo,” he says. “That’s terrible. Especially in a middle school. Who can it be?”

  I shake my head. “Nobody knows.”

  “Against Asians too?”

  “Yeah. It was even in the newspaper—didn’t you see it?”

  Adjusting his glasses, Grandpa peers at me in concern.

  “It seems like every week there is some kind of terrible racist incident happening in this country. What did your mom and dad say?”

  “They’re upset. Because it was inside the school, not outside. There’s going to be a parents’ meeting next week about it at school.”

  “You think a student could have done something like that?”

  My thoughts immediately go to Tobias, and I nod firmly. I wouldn’t put it past him to do something just like that.

  “That’s just terrible,” Grandpa says. “What a sad life to think of other people in such demeaning ways.”

  “Racists are the worst,” I say. “But it’s not like there’s anything we can do about it.”

  “That’s not true! Why do you say that?”

  “Because they hate us,” I answer. “They just hate us for not being like them. Talking to them is a waste of time. They will never change.”

  Grandpa seems surprised at my words. “Do you really believe people can’t change?”

  I can feel my depression creeping up on me, weighing me down with heaviness.

  “Bad people are always bad.” I think of Tobias and his brother and Stu Papadopolis and his friend group. They probably don’t think they are bad people, but their actions make them bad.