John Cho - Troublemaker

I never knew a pair of shoes could scare me so much, but when I see Ummas and Appas sneakers by the door when I walk in, I nearly jump right out of my skin. Its not that theyre anything out of the ordinary. The shoes, I mean, with Appas laces fraying at the ends and Ummas looking more gray than white like they did when she first bought them. Whats weird is the fact that theyre here at all. Its just a little after four PM on a Wednesday and Umma and Appa should both be at the store. Not at home.

I thought Id have more time before Id have to face them today.

Their voices are quiet, muffled, coming from the direction of the kitchen. I stand real still by the door, listening, but I cant hear what theyre saying from here. I move carefully down the hall, gripping the straps of my backpack with both hands, praying in my head. Dont see me. Dont see me.

Just as Im about to pass the kitchen, Umma looks right up at me.

Oh, Jordan, youre home? she says in Korean. She says it all casual like shes here every day when I get home from school, like Im not the one who should be saying, Oh, Umma, youre home?

Yeah, I say back in English. A nervous feeling starts to spread through my stomach. My prayer changes. Dont ask me how school was. Dont make me lie to you.

By some miracle, she doesnt. She just smiles and nods, turning back to Appa to carry on talking about whatever they were talking about, the air kind of tense and tight between them.

Huh. Thats weird. Umma always asks how school was. Its pretty much her favorite question. Not to mention, I still dont know what theyre both doing home so early. I linger by the door, wondering whether I should ask or not. But the more questions I ask them, the more questions they might ask me. And I want to avoid that for as long as possible.

Not that Appa would ask me anything, though. This whole time, he hasnt even looked at me once. I dont know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

Its been this way between us for weeks, ever since our Big Fight. Things havent been the same since then. Its like time split into a Before and After. Before: when I was just Jordan and he was just Appa, and I didnt think twice about being in the same room together. After: when were not just Jordan and Appa anymore. Were Jordan Who Doesnt Know What to Say Around Appa, and Appa Who Basically Completely Ignores Jordan. Hes been so cold to me lately. Ice cold.

Maybe hes waiting for me to say sorry first, but theres no way Im going to do that.

Maybe this means well never talk again until the end of time. Maybe not even then.

I stare at the back of his head for a second longer and then I walk away.

Harabeojis in the living room, watching TV and eating ojingeo off a plate. At least grandparents are dependable. Always where you think theyll be, sitting on the couch wearing a fishing vest with a hundred pockets even though you cant remember the last time youve ever actually seen them go fishing, a piece of dried squid between their teeth. At least, thats my grandpa. I dont really know about anyone elses grandparents.

Hi, Harabeoji, Im home, I say, dropping my backpack on the floor and sitting down next to it.

He grunts, not looking up from the TV. Hes watching some sitcom I dont recognizehis favorites are usually Full House and Home Improvementthe light reflecting off his huge rectangular glasses. Harabeojis not much of a talker, except when it comes to yelling at fictional characters on the screen. I dont even know if he knows whats going on. Its been nine years since we immigrated to Los Angeles from Korea all together and Im still not sure how much English he understands.

He didnt want to come with us at first. To America, that is. He wanted to stay in Korea in the same house where he and my grandma had lived together for years, saying he wanted to die in the same room she did. But Appa said it would be the best thing for all of us, and that he wasnt going to leave his own father behind. He eventually convinced Harabeoji to pack up his life and get on the plane with us, though I remember Harabeoji being unhappy about it. At least hes found some joy in these American shows. I think he finds them funny.

I glance toward the kitchen and then back at Harabeoji, lowering my voice. Can I tell you something?

He grunts again without turning down the volume.

Heres the thing about my grandpa. Were not close exactly, but hes the one person in this family that I feel like I can really talk to, even if he doesnt totally get what Im saying since I speak to him in English. Maybe thats the reason why I feel okay. Or maybe its because hes too busy judging made-up people on television to judge me, and I know that whatever I tell him, he wont tell anyone else.

I got suspended from school today.

At this, his eyebrows lift. I cant be sure if its from what I said or from something on TV, but I keep going.

I got sent to the principals office again. For cheating on a Spanish quiz. Or I guess, getting caught cheating. Again. Mr. Martins was so mad. I make a face, hearing his voice in my head. He always talks real slow like hes speaking through a mouth full of chewing gum. He kept saying how hes seen me in his office more than any other sixth grader in the school and how he cant even count how many times Ive been caught cheating now. And then you know what he says? He says I should try to be more like Sarah. Says that when