Unidentified Suburban Object

by Mike Jung

  “Chase Edwards!”

  Whatever, I was still happy. I actually wiggled in my seat with happiness.

  “Pssst!”

  I turned toward Shelley to see her waving her letter in my face.

  “I got France!” she said, keeping her voice down but not whispering. “How did she know I’m a quarter French?”

  I shrugged. “Lucky guess? I got South Korea.”

  “Well, yeah,” Shelley said. “You only had a whole conversation about it.”

  “Emily Neilson!”

  As Ms. Lee kept going through the alphabet, people started making comments about their country assignments.

  “Turkey? Aw, man …”

  “Is Micronesia even a real country?”

  “New Zealand, awesome! Hobbit movies!”

  “Tom Wolcott!”

  Ms. Lee handed Tom his envelope and waited as everyone waved their letters around and squawked like parakeets.

  “OKAY!” she said after a minute, loud enough that everyone shut up right away. “There are two things I want you to know before we really dig in to the structure of this project. One, you’ll be working in teams — the research you do on your country will include its diplomatic relationship with your teammate’s country.”

  The class’s lazy population (most of the class, in other words) groaned out loud. I could practically read their minds — Oh no, twice as much work, Ms. Lee is so mean! Weaklings. I reached out with my left hand without looking and sure enough, Shelley’s fist bumped mine right on cue.

  “Two, your research should definitely include one aspect of your country that you’re particularly interested in, whether it’s something like baseball — ”

  Ms. Lee nodded at Eric Snyder, who wore baseball jerseys every day except for the days when he wore football jerseys. Eric pumped his fist. Dork.

  “ — music — ”

  Ms. Lee nodded at Lindsay, who was wearing a T-shirt she’d obviously gotten at the Martha Flynn concert over the summer. Lindsay beamed.

  “ — or fashion.”

  Ms. Lee looked at me, and she didn’t just nod — she smiled, and the rush of happiness I felt was probably way out of proportion, but oh wow, it was obvious that she knew what I was wearing!

  I decided that Ms. Lee was my favorite teacher ever. My favorite PERSON ever.

  Shelley had a Mathlete meeting during lunch, so she couldn’t wait for me to finish talking to Ms. Lee after class. That was okay with me, since it meant I could take my time. I carried my backpack in one hand, not wanting to sling it over my shoulder and squish my hanbok sleeve, and walked up to her desk as the class emptied out. Ms. Lee looked up from a stack of papers and smiled.

  “What can I help you with, Chloe?” she said.

  I never have trouble asking questions at school, even to the principal, but I’d never asked a teacher if she liked the same music as me before. Do you listen to Tiger Rabbit too? suddenly felt like the stupidest question in existence, so I asked my other question instead.

  “Can you give me some advice about the family story assignment?”

  “Of course.” Ms. Lee nodded once, firmly.

  “It’s my parents,” I said, and suddenly I was so nervous I had to look at the floor and clamp my arms across my stomach.

  “I’m not surprised,” Ms. Lee said in a semi-laughing way, which made my nerves settle down a little.

  “They … you remember my ‘pseudo-Korean’ paper from last year? My parents didn’t help me with that at all.”

  “Hmmm.” Ms. Lee stopped smiling. “I remember some of what you wrote about them.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s even worse than that.”

  I was breaking one of the most important rules of dealing with teachers: NEVER blame your parents for a crappy grade. It’s like saying your dog ate your homework — they won’t believe you, and you’ll be on their suspicious list from then on.

  I took a deep breath, and when I breathed out that lungful of air a giant avalanche of frustration came crashing out with it.

  “My mom and dad never, ever talk to me about being Korean. They don’t tell me anything about when they lived there, or what it was like to come here, or anything else. When I wrote that paper I asked them to help me with it; they just started talking about something else, like I hadn’t even said anything!”

  Ms. Lee, frowning, put her elbow on her desk and planted her chin on her hand as I got more worked up.

  “Shelley and I made mandu the other day and I didn’t even bother giving some to my mom because I knew she wouldn’t bother to try them. I know the family story assignment is an easy one, but I’m not going to have any family stories, and it’s not fair! They won’t help me!”

  I stopped to take a breath and also realized I was about to cry, so I ended up taking about twenty really deep breaths in a row, which made me dizzy. Ms. Lee just sat there with her chin on her hand until I stopped acting like I needed an ambulance and was able to breathe normally again.

  “Sorry,” I said, pressing both palms against my forehead. “Sorry for yelling, I …”

  “It’s fine, Chloe.” Ms. Lee folded her arms on the desk in front of her. “It sounds like you’ve been bottling up a lot of frustration.”

  “Yeah.” Understatement of the year.

  “I’m glad you’re being honest with me,” Ms. Lee said. “I want to help you as much as I can, and we can definitely think about how to approach the academic work, but it also sounds like there are other, more personal issues involved. I really encourage you to make an appointment with Mrs. Fenwick — she’s the best person to ask for help with family matters.”

  Aaaaagh, Ms. Lee was sending me to the guidance counselor! She half-smiled, curling up one side of her mouth.

  “Don’t look like that, Chloe, I’m not kicking you to the curb — like I said on the first day of class, I understand what it’s like being the child of immigrants. We’ll talk, and I can help you figure out some strategies for future work. But my guess is that you need to talk to someone about your parents outside of this one assignment, and I’m not the appropriate person for that. Mrs. Fenwick knows how to help you. Okay?”

  I heaved a sigh. “Should I go over there right now?”

  “I think it can wait a few minutes,” Ms. Lee said. “First let’s talk about the Model UN project. You know that the family narrative portion of that is optional, right?”

  I blinked. “It’s for extra credit, right?”

  Ms. Lee smiled for real, using both sides of her mouth and everything.

  “Extra credit is optional.”

  I just stared at her, because even my favorite teacher ever was capable of being completely wrong. Extra credit? Optional? Ms. Lee laughed.

  “I understand your commitment to getting the extra credit, Chloe, really I do, but I think concentrating on the heart of the project is a good idea, whether you pursue the extra credit or not. I imagine you’re pairing up with Shelley for the diplomatic relations part?”

  I nodded. “She’s France.”

  “Wonderful. And was I right when I guessed you’d like to explore fashion as another part of the project?”

  “Maybe, although I was wondering if it’d be okay to do music instead.”

  “K-pop? You’re obviously a Tiger Rabbit fan.”

  BAM, just like that I was cheered up.

  “Is that …” I pointed at Ms. Lee’s finger, and she actually blushed a little.

  “Yes, that’s a Tiger Rabbit ring, although I wear it mostly because it was a gift.”

  Another Tiger Rabbit fan! I instantly forgave her for the guidance counselor thing.

  “It’s fine with me if you want to include a popular music element in your project, as long as it ties in to the overall concept of international citizenship. How has K-pop changed South Korea’s relationship with the rest of the world, its place in global commerce, its influence on culture?”

  “What about its effect on fashion? See, I could combine both things
that way!”

  “You could, you definitely could, although don’t bite off more than you can chew. In the meantime …” Ms. Lee looked at her watch. “… you still have time to talk with Mrs. Fenwick and eat your lunch.”

  I sighed. “Yeah, okay. Can I …”

  “Check in with me after you talk to Mrs. Fenwick?” Ms. Lee said with a smile. “Of course.”

  “Thanks.”

  I left Ms. Lee’s classroom and headed for Mrs. Fenwick’s office, aka The Least Fun Office in School.

  I stopped at my locker to visit my awesome violin, then hurried over to Mrs. Fenwick’s office. I’d been there once before, just to keep Shelley company when her dad was sick and her grades went down a little.

  Mrs. Fenwick’s door was open, but I knocked on it anyway. She was at her desk with the contents of a manila folder spread open in front of her.

  “Come in, please,” she said, sweeping the papers together and tucking them back into the folder like she was doing a magic trick. “You’re Chloe, right?”

  “Yes,” I said. I was used to teachers knowing who I am.

  “Have a seat, please,” Mrs. Fenwick said, waving at the chair across the desk from her with one hand, and putting the file into her desk drawer with the other. As I sat down she folded her hands on the desk in front of her, looked at my hanbok, and surprised me by not saying anything about it. “What can I help you with, Chloe?”

  Awkward. How do you tell a teacher that your mom and dad won’t help you with your homework? Especially when the teacher’s a guidance counselor and you’re pretty sure she won’t be able to do anything about it since she has no idea how good your parents are at dodging conversations?

  “Um …”

  Mrs. Fenwick just looked at me, all patient and friendly in a total look-at-me-being-patient-and-friendly way.

  “It’s my parents,” I said. After telling Ms. Lee it actually felt easier to tell someone else, even the guidance counselor. Still not any fun, but easier.

  “It often is,” Mrs. Fenwick said. “Can you tell me more?”

  I told her about the assignment and my problem with getting Mom and Dad to help. She nodded a few times, but mostly she just listened with a very calm expression. I didn’t get all mad like when I told Ms. Lee, but I said just about all the same stuff. Maybe telling teachers about your parent problems is like playing the violin — it gets easier with practice. My brain still felt tired when I was done, though.

  “Thanks for sharing all of that with me,” Mrs. Fenwick said. “I’m sorry you have to contend with this situation. It sounds very difficult.”

  “Yeah, it is,” I said. “How do I get them to help me?”

  “Does your grade depend on getting their help?”

  Aw, just when she was starting to get on my good side.

  “Yes.”

  Mrs. Fenwick nodded.

  “I respect your scholarly ambition, of course,” she said. “We can certainly use as many students like you as we can find. However, it sounds like you and your parents are facing bigger issues than one assignment, and I think that’s the priority here. I can talk to Ms. Lee about the assignment.”

  Oh, sure. Apparently “guidance counselor” didn’t just mean Least Fun Office in the Entire School, but also Most Useless Office in the Entire School.

  “I don’t use loopholes,” I said, pretending my eyes had been turned into laser beams and I was using them to burn a hole through her forehead and into her brain.

  “That’s admirable, but I’m sure there’s another option.”

  “There isn’t,” I said. There probably was, of course, but you don’t lower your standards just because the guidance counselor says you can.

  “Chloe, just give it some consideration.”

  “Um … okay.” What do you say when a teacher (or a guidance counselor) just doesn’t get it? “I bet your grades in school weren’t as good as mine” isn’t really an option … “Why don’t I draw you a map” probably wouldn’t fly either …

  “Can I ask you a question?” Mrs. Fenwick said. I tensed up, because usually when people say that it means they’re about to ask donkey-brained questions about where I’m “really” from or is it true Korean people eat dogs and stuff like that.

  “How do you feel about being the only Korean student at George Matthew?”

  Whoa, that came out of nowhere — a question that I could actually give a real answer to! I was so surprised that I forgot to be tense.

  “Lonely, I guess.”

  Mrs. Fenwick leaned her elbows on the desk, made one of those bridges between her upright forearms by laying one hand flat on top of the other, and rested her chin on the bridge of hands.

  “Makes sense,” she said.

  “I mean, my best friend is really into all the Korean stuff, and that’s great, but she’s the only one. And she can’t help me with the assignment.”

  Mrs. Fenwick smiled. “Always back to the assignment, eh? Chloe, I think it’s very good that Ms. Lee is encouraging you to explore your heritage. Try to put your frustrations aside and concentrate on that — you can continue doing this on your own. You don’t need their permission.”

  Well, geez, that was no help at all. I already knew that.

  “Do your parents ever say why they don’t want to talk about Korea?”

  “Not really.”

  “What do you mean, not really?”

  “I mean they literally say things like ‘It’s too hard to talk about Korea,’ or ‘The past is the past.’ Once they just said, ‘We’re Americans now,’ and that was it.”

  “Okay, let’s think about that,” Mrs. Fenwick said. “Why do you think it’s too hard for them to talk about Korea?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe they miss it too much or something.”

  “There are likely to be multiple ‘somethings’ —keep thinking about that. In the meantime, your family is obviously your best resource for exploring your ancestry, but there are other options. There’s a book club at the public library for kids to talk about multicultural books, for example; that might be helpful.”

  Or not. I like books, but come on.

  “There’s also a teen support group that meets every weekend at the town cultural center.”

  Yeah, THAT sounded like a fun way to use my Saturdays. I bet there’d be TONS of Korean kids there! Me and all zero of my new Korean friends could listen to Tiger Rabbit’s Double Bubble Boy Trouble album and dance, dance, dance!

  I opened the door to walk out of Mrs. Fenwick’s office, no wiser than when I walked in, and collided with Amanda Kittredge. I had to take one hard step backward to keep from falling down. She’d obviously been listening in at the door, the big sneak. Amanda looked kind of like a squirrel — beady eyes, big bushy ponytail, clutching her purse to her chest.

  “Aagh!”

  “Oh, hey, Chloe,” Amanda said, like we were passing in the hall instead of practically hugging.

  “Hey, Amanda, how about NOT falling all over me like a wet blanket?”

  “I heard what you said to Mrs. Fenwick,” she said, stepping backward into the hall as I closed the door behind me. Amanda’s voice was a wild contrast to how she looked. It was low, raspy, and very confident-sounding. She could totally do her own podcast or something.

  “Oh, well, that’s just peachy,” I said, crossing my arms, standing over her. “Eavesdrop much?”

  “Have you ever tried one of those DNA genealogy tests?” Amanda said, as if I hadn’t said anything at all.

  I blinked.

  “No. What are they?”

  “They’re not free, but there are companies that’ll take a DNA sample from you and give you information about where your ancestors may have lived over time, and sometimes even the names of specific family members, at least if they’ve used the same service.”

  “Huh. No kidding.”

  “Yeah. It’s pretty cool — I found out people in my family lived in Scotland AND Ireland.”

  I couldn’t t
ell if Amanda was being sarcastic — she’s super deadpan. I could tell I was totally jealous that she knew about “people in her family,” which obviously meant “people in my family who aren’t currently living in the same house with me,” or maybe just “people in my family who are dead.”

  “They got around, huh?”

  “Big time,” Amanda said, putting a little snark into it. It made me like her a little bit, which annoyed me because it was totally uncool of her to listen in like that.

  “You were eavesdropping, you know,” I said.

  “Yeah, sorry about that,” Amanda said, not sounding sorry at all. “I gotta go, I’m Fenwick’s next victim. See you.”

  “Right. Come back alive.”

  Amanda gave me a deeply ironic thumbs-up, went into Fenwick’s office, and shut the door with a click. I stood there for a second, thinking about what she’d said. DNA tests, huh? Talking to Mrs. Fenwick had been a waste of time, but maybe going to her office hadn’t been, thanks to sneakypuss Amanda.

  On our way to Dad’s store we walked past the Hedge Diner, where every kid in school hangs out every weekend since there’s nowhere else to hang out, then we passed the florist, and the Primrose Café, where every adult in town hangs out every weekend since there’s nowhere else for them to hang out.

  The first time I went to the Hedge Diner was in third grade. Shelley and I were old enough to sit at a table by ourselves as one of our parents was in the diner with us, but we had no money of our own. Dad took us on a Sunday, which was the one day a week when Aquariums Unlimited was closed. After ordering our grilled sandwiches and milk shakes we banished him to the counter seats, which is where all the parents who weren’t actually sitting with their kids went, while we looked for a booth.

  “Hi, Eliza!” I said to Eliza Barkley, who was sitting in a booth with Emily Neilson. Shelley gave me a wide-eyed look as we approached the booth, but I ignored her — there were two empty seats in that booth, and Eliza and I had gone to each other’s birthday parties every year since preschool. “Look, we have the same watch!”

  I took a step back and pointed at my ankle, which had the exact same stripey sock/glittery plastic watch combination on it as Eliza’s ankle. They were even the same color, and I grinned happily at Eliza, expecting her to say something about how mutually awesome our taste in fashion was.