Almond(18)

“Can you just do it for me?” he said, shifting his weight to his other foot.

The kids burst into laughter. Some of them cheered, clapping and roaring. The teacher flapped her hands at her flushed face.

“This is Yun Leesu. Now, why don’t you say hi to your classmates.”

“Well . . .” Gon cracked his neck and pushed his tongue into one cheek, then the other. He smirked, turned his head sideways, and spat.

“Done.”

Everyone cheered louder. But some cursed, in which case the teacher would normally give a warning or take them to the teachers’ office. But for some reason, the teacher just turned her head, silent. Her face was even more flushed now, from trying to swallow the words she wanted to spit out. An hour after Gon’s introduction, he left school early.

Kids started tracking down Gon’s background, and in a mere thirty minutes, the whole class knew what kind of life Gon had been through.

One kid told us what he had heard from his cousin. Gon had attended the cousin’s school right before ours, after he’d served a term at a juvenile detention center. The kid made a call to his cousin. At everyone’s request, the call was put on speakerphone. Kids surrounded him with a sense of solidarity that hadn’t been seen in months. Some stood on the desk to hear better. I was sitting far away, but I heard this much clearly:

“That dude is a total gangster. He must’ve done everything except murder someone.”

Someone teased me, “Too bad for you, retard. Your days are gone now.”

When Gon slid open the classroom door the next day, everyone went dead silent. He swaggered along to his desk without a word. Kids either avoided his eyes or buried their heads in their textbooks. Gon broke the silence, flinging down his backpack.

“Who was it?” It seemed he somehow became aware of the gossip from yesterday. “Who the fuck ratted me out? Speak up before it’s too late.”

The very air quivered. Our primary source stood up, trembling.

“I, I just . . . m-my cousin said he knew you . . .” His voice dissolved.

Gon pushed out his cheek with his tongue as if it’s a habit of his. “Thanks. Now I don’t need to introduce myself. That’s who I am.” Gon plopped down in his chair.

The day I heard about Mrs. Yun’s death, Gon was absent from school. They said one of his family members passed away. Even then, it didn’t hit me. That Gon was the boy. That he was the real son of Mrs. Yun, who had mistaken me as her dream son.





31


Gon passed through the crowd to bow before the funeral portrait of his mom. Nothing in particular happened. He followed after his father to burn incense, place a glass full of soju on the counter, and bow again. All his gestures were so quick and he bowed only once before standing up with a curt nod. Professor Yun gently nudged Gon’s back, suggesting Gon was supposed to bow once more. But Gon shrugged him off and disappeared.

Professor Yun asked me to sit down and eat before I left. The food was similar to Mom’s holiday dishes—hot yukgaejang, jeon, kkultteok, and fruit. I hadn’t noticed I was starving until I found myself gobbling it all down.

People don’t realize how loud they can be when they gossip. Even when they try to whisper, the gossip always goes straight into others’ ears. Throughout the entire meal, stories about Gon floated in the air. That he’d come two days late because he refused to come, that he’d gotten into trouble the moment he was released from the center, that his school transfers cost however much, that another boy was pretending to be their son. All these stories gave me a headache. I just sat in the corner quietly, my back to them. I didn’t know why, but somehow, I felt I had to stay.

As night fell and most of the visitors left, Gon returned. He walked toward me, staring daggers at me as if he was singling me out with his eyes. He sat at my table, his eyes still fixed on me. He slurped two bowls of yukgaejang at once without a word before he wiped his face.

“You’re the son of a bitch that took my place as their son?”

I didn’t have to respond, because he continued, “Brace yourself for some trouble. Who knows, it should be fun.” He smirked and left. The next day, it was the real beginning.





32


Gon started to have two guys around him. There was this scrawny one that acted like his assistant, relaying whatever Gon had to say to the others, and the bulky one, whose job was clearly to show off their power. The three of them didn’t really seem close. It looked like they had teamed up out of an agreement or for some shared goal, rather than friendship.

Anyhow, it was quite obvious that Gon started his new hobby, which was bullying me. He would pop up in front of me out of nowhere, like a jack-in-the-box, wait in front of the cafeteria to punch me, or hide at the end of the hallway to trip me. Each time he executed one of his little schemes, he giggled out loud like he’d received some huge present, while his minions awkwardly laughed along with him like hitting an off beat.

Throughout all this, I didn’t react. More and more kids were scared of Gon and took pity on me. But no one told on him to the teacher. Maybe because they were worried they might be his next target, but probably because I showed no sign of needing help. The consensus seemed to be, Let’s just see how it goes for both these weirdos.

The reaction Gon wanted from me was obvious. There had been kids like him in my elementary school and middle school. Those who took joy in watching the weak suffer. Those who wanted to see the bullied cry and beg them to stop. They usually got what they wanted through their power. But one thing I knew for sure was that, if Gon wanted to see a change of expression from me, he would never win against me. The more he tried, he would only wear himself out.