First Grade, Class One
My parents believed their business had begun to flourish the moment I was born purely because of the extraordinary luck I carried with me. To them—the kind of people who swallowed superstition whole—the shaman’s declaration that their child was a “bundle of fortune” sounded like a message from the heavens.
From my mother I inherited eyes as round and glossy as glass beads; from my father, pale skin and brown hair. In my earliest years, even I could see that I had been almost painfully lovable. As I grew older my father’s genes emerged and the babyish cuteness vanished, yet when my parents reminisced, calling me fairy-like or bunny-like, they weren’t entirely exaggerating.
“Princess Eun-dam! Look over here!”
My father’s theatrics were famous throughout the neighborhood. The story of why they stretched their budget to send me to the single private kindergarten in Bongjang-dong could fill an entire evening. On recital day he rented a professional camera and filmed me so obsessively that he became a living legend among the other parents. Anyone hearing this much would probably say I was drowning in blessings and didn’t even know it. How many children, after all, are lucky enough to have parents who pour their entire hearts into them? But every coin has two sides.
“Eun-dam! Make a V!”
On the morning I entered elementary school, my parents arrived draped in enough gold to blind the sun, insisting it was crucial not to dampen my spirit. They began snapping photos the instant we reached the school gate. By then I had already been diagnosed with two distinct conditions upon graduating kindergarten. One was princess complex. The other was protagonist syndrome.
“Mom, am I pretty?”
“Of course. Our Eun-dam is the prettiest girl in the world.”
Looking at those entrance photos now as an adult, I can only blink in mute horror. A giant white ribbon splitting my hair into pigtails, a fluffy pink scarf, and a coat of an even louder crimson—together they looked like something out of a cartoon. The day I saw that old picture taken in front of the gate, I finally understood: my once-boring but radiant life as the princess of Bongjang-dong had, from that exact moment, begun filming its own cruel fairy tale.
“Sorry we’re a little late, Su-yeong. We were taking pictures of our Eun-dam.”
“It’s fine, Yeong-ju. We just got here too. Oh, this is my son.”
Before the entrance ceremony properly began, my mother called us over, saying there was someone she wanted us to meet. Her friend had lived in the States because of her husband but had been her closest confidante in middle and high school. After my mother’s relentless persuasion, Su-yeong had moved to Bongjang-dong. At the time she still carried the aura of a wealthy housewife, the kind who played the villain in weekend dramas. Her speech was gentle and refined, yet the way her eyes slid over my entire body at our first meeting felt icy. I had been bouncing along, clutching my father’s hand, when Su-yeong’s intense gaze made me flinch—once for her, and once more for the boy standing beside her.
I was the only grandchild on both sides of the family, and I had never encountered an adult who disliked me. Any child who failed to adore someone as precious and lovely as me was simply ill-mannered. At that age I still believed, just as my parents said, that my wonderful personality was a gift I graciously bestowed on others.
“There she is. This is my daughter, Eun-dam. Even prettier in person than in the photos, right?”
My ridiculous appearance—looking as if I would taste like strawberry milk if licked—must have startled Su-yeong. The moment she heard the word “daughter,” her sharp eyes softened and she smiled.
“She really is. Just like you said, Yeong-ju—she looks like a little princess.”
I still don’t understand how a person’s gaze can shift from cold to warm in an instant. But I liked being called a princess, so I placed a hand on my stomach and gave a coy little curtsy.
“Hello. You look like a princess too, ma’am.”
When princess complex and protagonist syndrome combine, they create a new affliction best called your-majesty syndrome. It means bestowing kindness upon others with the magnanimous heart of a ruler. Adults would then praise me for being remarkably mature and sweet for my age. I thought I was quite clever, but in their eyes it must have been transparently calculating. My parents were proud of me, of course, yet if I could go back I would scold that little girl first—the one who became addicted to praise and did things she never needed to do.
“Eun-dam speaks so beautifully. Our Jun-jae has always been rather quiet.”
I had never been particularly shy. I enjoyed meeting children my own age. In kindergarten most of the kids treated me like an older sister and made me their leader. Teachers would hint that I should take the biggest role in the recital because I solved difficult problems easily and always chose the prettiest words.
“Jun-jae, say hello to Mommy’s friend.”
Cha Jun-jae was the first person to hand me humiliation in a life that had been painted with praise and affection. Back then “foreign” meant “American” to me, and the appearance of a boy from that imagined land of wealth stirred something new. He held his head high with a face even fairer than mine after I’d stolen my mother’s sunscreen. His eyes showed no interest; his lips offered no admiration. Facing that expression—completely untouched by the excitement of the entrance ceremony—felt like swallowing a fish bone. A sharp, stinging pain I had never experienced before pierced straight through my small chest.
“You said Eun-dam and Jun-jae are in the same class?”
“It really is fate. I’m so glad you two decided to move here.”
The son of my mother’s friend who had lived in America because of her husband. Who could have imagined that this dramatic meeting upon their return to Korea would last more than twenty years?
“Before we begin the entrance ceremony, parents, please move to the area behind the playground…”
As the announcement echoed, our parents and Su-yeong sent us off with smiling faces. The new students were told to follow the guides and gather beneath their class flags. I was hurrying toward the blue flag of Class 1—determined to be first—when sharp heels suddenly clicked behind me and a hand grabbed my shoulder.
“Eun-dam.”
“Yes?”
Su-yeong’s face was flushed and desperate, strands of hair flying loose from her run. I bit my lip, growing impatient; I still wanted to reach the flag before anyone else.
“I’m sorry to ask, but could you look after our Jun-jae? You’re in the same class.”
While she spoke, Su-yeong waved urgently behind her. The boy who had been standing indifferently, as if the ceremony had nothing to do with him, suddenly snapped to attention. Looking tense, she made her request with obvious difficulty.
“Please.”
Why did I feel the urge to refuse? Requests like this had come often since I was small. Adults who believed that being close to sociable me would benefit their own children would offer snacks and beg me to befriend their sons or daughters. Thanks to all that bowing and scraping, I had grown confident and proud; I thought of it as a mutually beneficial transaction.
But the feeling I had then was different at its root.
“Yes, I’ll take good care of him.”
“Thank you. After the ceremony let’s go eat something delicious. I’ll wait with your parents over there.”
“Okay!”
Cha Jun-jae still seemed distracted, focused on whatever his mother was saying. Even in the lower grades of elementary school he always gave that impression—blank yet cold, possessing a sharpness that felt too keen for a boy his age.
Under Su-yeong’s watchful eye I took Jun-jae’s hand. He flinched, squeezing then releasing my fingers, and stared at me with surprisingly sharp eyes.
“I’m Eun-dam. Song Eun-dam. We’re in the same class, so let’s go together.”
He simply gazed at me without answering. But whether he replied or not, I still wanted to be first under the class flag, so I grabbed his hand and ran.
At first Cha Jun-jae hesitated, but after nearly being left behind several times he began to keep up. From Class 1 to Class 10, the black-haired heads of new students crowded together like bean sprouts in a tray. I shoved, ran, and pushed through the dense throng with a single goal: reaching the very front row.
The Class 1 flag was blue. I cut past the children clustered in neat lines and claimed the spot I had longed for at the head of the formation. First objective achieved. I stood at attention beneath the fluttering banner, then suddenly remembered the extra family member now attached to me.
“Oh, right.”
Poor-stamina elementary student Cha Jun-jae was still panting. Victorious, I released his hand with a smug little flick.
“Jun-jae.”
“…”
“You can stand right here.”
I pulled him by the shoulder and placed him in the back row. He followed obediently, his face blank. His docile compliance made me clap silently with satisfaction.
He wasn’t much after all.
The painful thorn that had been stabbing at my insides shrank to almost nothing. A harmless fool could never be my rival.
If only I hadn’t let my guard down that day. It was much later before I realized the name of the thorn I had swallowed at first sight of Cha Jun-jae was jealousy.
Because I had always been the one who inspired jealousy, never the one who felt it.
Still… the memory of the smile I wore beneath that blue Class 1 flag stings even now. Maybe I never quite managed to cough that thorn back up.