9

The principal sat at his desk, the look on his face saying he was sick of doing paperwork. But to Ki-jeong’s surprise, there was no Do-jun posing contritely, his head hanging low in pretend shame, nor even one of his parents rushing into the office to plead with them to go easy on him or simply to make her life hell. How strange—for those who’d given her so much trouble to be so quiet now.

The principal was short but solidly built, his movements somehow heavy-looking, as if he were carrying a stack of bricks on each shoulder. He sighed frequently. It was the same no matter what he was doing—whether delivering a formal address or scolding teachers or bestowing certificates of merit on students up on stage. Ki-jeong wondered if he knew this about himself.

“Still busy with grading?” the principal asked abruptly, without inviting Ki-jeong to sit down first. He didn’t look like he was expecting an actual response.

Ki-jeong shifted from foot to foot and said no.

“That’s good.”

The principal stood up from his desk and walked over to the sofa, gesturing for Ki-jeong to sit with him. The sofa was large and plush; if you weren’t careful, you could end up looking too comfortable sitting on it. Ki-jeong perched right on the edge and wondered what could possibly be good about not being busy.

The principal stared at her for a moment without saying anything. Ki-jeong kept quiet, too. She was always at a loss for what to say whenever she found herself alone with the principal. He was always so silent and would merely stare at her, as if waiting for her to say something first. Then he’d let out another sigh. When she finally did manage to drag something out of her mouth, he never paid attention, forcing her to repeat the same words over and over. Then he’d point out the mistakes in what she’d said or respond as if she hadn’t told him anything he didn’t already know. Talking to him always left her feeling deflated.

A chorus of laughter arose from a group of children cleaning up the flowerbed outside the window. One of them said something loudly, and a volley of noise followed. The principal’s office grew chillier and more uncomfortable. He started to get up from the couch. Ki-jeong assumed he was going to close the window, so she jumped up first and closed it for him. He let out a small sigh.

When she sat back down, the principal slid an envelope toward her. He said nothing, but his demeanor demanded that she take a good look at it.

Inside were two sheets of paper. One contained a list of items that could be purchased at a stationery store or grocery store. Ki-jeong immediately guessed what it was and confirmed her guess when she saw the word “slippers” included there. The other was a doctor’s certificate showing that Do-jun had been hospitalized. Ki-jeong had to hold back her nausea when she saw it.

The principal muttered something that Ki-jeong couldn’t quite make out. But despite his slurring of the words “bribery” and “assault,” she got the gist of it.

He pointed to her slippers and said, “I presume those are the offending objects?” He followed with another sigh. She wasn’t sure if the offense referred to the fact that the slippers were stolen goods or that she’d hit a child with them. The principal said nothing more but simply gazed at Ki-jeong for a moment longer and returned to his desk.

Ki-jeong stayed put on the sofa. It wasn’t fair. She wished she could get her thoughts in order and argue with him. He kept on sighing and sniffing through what sounded like a congested nose. He didn’t tell her to leave, and she made no move to do so.

The minutes ticked by. The principal picked up his phone. After a moment, he said, “Yes, it’s me. Could you come here? It’s regarding the substitute homeroom teacher for Room 6.” Finally, Ki-jeong stood and slowly shuffled out of the office, letting the stolen slippers that Do-jun had given her drag across the floor.

As soon as she stepped into the teachers’ lounge, a group of teachers who’d been huddled together and talking went silent all at once and hurried back to their seats. Clearly, word had gotten out. Ki-jeong’s hands shook; she tried to pull her bag out from under her desk but dropped it instead. Trig picked up the items strewn across the floor. Ki-jeong tried to smile at him.

Failure. Her face was too frozen in place to smile. Any thought she’d had of playing it cool flew out the window, along with her determination to show that she could handle anything, even an injustice like this.

Trig stared at her as he handed her things back. If the guidance counselor and the closed-circuit camera that recorded everything were what had revealed that she’d mercilessly beat a student, then was Trig the one who had told everyone she’d been taking bribes from Do-jun? Hadn’t she wanted to show off to her fellow teachers, to brag about how popular she was among the students while sharing with them the gifts Do-jun had given her? Maybe Trig had caught on to her vanity.

Didn’t they see how unfair it was? Ki-jeong muttered inwardly at her fellow teachers as they pretended to be busily absorbed in their work. Wasn’t it too steep a price to pay, even for vanity? And yet, at the same time, she realized that the true source of her anger was not Do-jun. Her anger arose from a much deeper place. Mixed up with it was the repugnance she felt toward the principal and vice principal who were under the thumb of the chairman of the board, the alienation she felt at being among fellow teachers who would only socialize with those who’d graduated from the same college as them, and something else, something bordering on contempt for Do-jun’s parents.

Her face stony, she slowly shouldered her bag and walked out of the building. The students working on the grounds outside opened a path for her, stealing glances as she passed and regrouping to chatter in her wake. She ignored the ever-friendly security guard as he chirped, “Clocking out early today!”

On the bus ride home, her phone rang. It was the police. Only then did she realize she’d boarded the bus on the wrong side of the street and was headed away from home. The phone stopped ringing. She got off at the next stop. As she thought about what the cops might tell her, her anger subsided.

The officer gave her the name and address of the person who’d made the last call to her sister’s phone. As usual, they’d been unable to get in contact with that person. Ki-jeong put up with the officer’s incompetence; she lacked the energy today to get angry with him. She didn’t recognize the name. Just as she hadn’t recognized anything else having to do with her sister’s case. Ki-jeong said nothing. The officer added a few more details. The person was around the same age as her sister.

Ki-jeong instantly committed the name to memory. She’d never heard that name before, and yet it now seemed as familiar as that of an old friend.