I burst through the cafeteria doors, my heart hammering against my ribs. The thump of my shoulder against Myung-Dae's had been surprisingly solid. He hadn't budged, but he hadn't expected it, either. The look of blank surprise on his face was the only victory I'd had all day.
What was I doing? I'd been in the country for less than six hours. I'd already assaulted the school queen with kimchi, called her "filthy," and now I'd just shoulder-checked the class rebel. I wasn't a "global ambassador." I was an international incident.
I forced myself to slow down, my sneakers squeaking in the now-empty grand hall. Calm down, Motuzenko. I needed to escape. I needed my guitar.
I found the faculty office. The door was slightly ajar. I tapped lightly. "Sillyehamnida..." (Excuse me...)
Ms. Choi was at her desk, quietly eating gimbap from a container. She looked up, and her expression wasn't angry. It was a complex mix of sympathy and... was she trying not to smile?
"Ah, San-ssi. You're back," she said, putting down her chopsticks. "I trust you're not here to report another... international incident?"
My face burned. "You... you already know?"
"About the Myung-dae incident? Or the Yoo Chae-rin incident?" She sighed, and then gave me a small, conspiratorial smile. She tapped her smartphone, which was sitting on her desk.
"About the Myung-dae incident? Do they gossip about everything? I just bumped on his shoulder to show my irritation, am I finally getting on lead character path?" I inwardly lampooned.
"'Kirin's Secrets' is faster than the school's official wifi, San-ssi. Even the teachers... well, we have to keep up with current events, don't we?"
A tiny, hysterical laugh escaped me. Even the teachers read the gossip feed.
"I... I came for my guitar," I said, feeling about five years old. "And... I wanted to apologize. About Chae-rin. I didn't mean... the word... 'deoreowo'... I meant the stew was messy, not her!"
Ms. Choi's expression softened completely. She let out a kind, airy laugh.
"Oh, San-ssi. I know. Your Korean is excellent. Your nuance in a crisis... that needs practice." She leaned forward, lowering her voice. "Listen. Don't take it to heart. Yoo Chae-rin... she is known for being 'over the top.' A 'drama queen,' as you might say. She enjoys making a scene."
"But... her blouse. Jun-seo said it was Prada..." Ms. Choi waved her hand dismissively.
"It probably was. And her father will probably buy her three more tonight. Don't worry about it. Jun-seo is already handling it. She just likes the attention."
A massive weight lifted off my shoulders. Ms. Choi continued, "She's not in your class. You're in the music wing, she's in Visual Arts. This will all blow over when someone else does something scandalous."
"Like... shoulder-checking Lee Myung-Dae?"
" Shoulder-checking Lee Myung-Dae? What are you...?" she said, her smile returning,sighing. "Though I'd advise against making that a habit. Now, your guitar is safe here. You have another class, don't you?"
"Yes, seonsaengnim. PE. Ha-neul-ssi... she yelled at me that I needed a uniform."
"Right!" Ms. Choi seemed relieved to be back on a normal, procedural topic. She scribbled on a blue pass. "Take this. Go to the sports wing—it's the large building past the garden. Give this to Coach Hong. He'll get you a loaner." She smiled. "It... might not be the newest. But it's clean."
I bowed, my mind spinning. "Thank you, Ms. Choi. For everything."
"Go on," she said. "And San-ssi? Try to make it to the end of the day without any more... international relations."
I left my guitar (it was safer here) and hurried to the sports wing.
It was a huge, modern building that smelled of floor wax and clean sweat. I found the PE Office, a room plastered with trophies. A man built like a bulldog, with a whistle around his neck, was yelling at a tablet.
"Coach Hong?" I ventured. He looked up.
"What?" I bowed, remembering Ha-neul's joke, and handed him the pass.
"Annyeong haseyo, seonsaengnim. I am the new student, San. Ms. Choi sent me for a cheyugbog."
His gruff expression vanished. He barked a laugh:
"Ah! The Ukrainian! 'Mountain'!" He knew, too. The gossip feed was truly terrifying. "Saw you made a splash at the ceremony!" he boomed.
He turned to a massive metal locker and rummaged for a second. "Right, a loaner... new kid... here!"
He threw a bundle of cloth at my chest. I fumbled and caught it. "Locker rooms are down the hall. Class starts in five! Chop chop!"
I bowed again and hurried to the boys' locker room. It was empty, lunch just ending. I unfolded the tracksuit. It was not the sleek, dark blue Kirin uniform. It was old. It was polyester. And it was bright, safety orange.
"This was part of a set of clothes designed ten years ago, don't worry, school tailor will take care of your new tracksuit."