Rehearsal (6)
I read the newspaper I'd brought back from France and cracked a slight smile. Things had gone pretty well this time. 'The prime minister knows when to strike and retreat. Looks like I won't even need to touch this.' At least this economic downturn wouldn't go down in history as a failure of neoliberalism.
"Alright, class dismissed. Don't forget to study for finals, got it?"
"Yes!"
'Already over?' I glanced at the kids filing out in a herd. It was tough to head to France right now, even if the US wasn't an issue, so I was still in Korea, going to school. A few kids peeked over, eyes wide with curiosity at the foreign paper in my hands.
"Whoa… the chaebol miss reads stuff like that too? In English?"
A boy with round eyes asked. His voice was still thin and high—puberty hadn't hit yet, maybe.
"Haha, it's a French newspaper. Wanna see?"
"Eh, nah. Hey, Ha-yeon, mind if I ask something?"
"Sure, go ahead."
I nodded leisurely. I loved showing off my knowledge, after all.
"Five bucks is about 5,000 won, right? If one dollar's a grand."
"Yeah."
"So in America, what's one dollar worth?"
"…?"
What the hell was this kid saying? I answered, a bit flustered.
"One dollar is one dollar."
"No, not that. Like, in Korean won."
"Then it's a thousand won, duh?"
"That's our rate. Americans use dollars like we use won."
"…."
I went silent. Not because it was ridiculous, but because I couldn't even process it.
'Ah…'
Didn't they teach exchange rates in social studies? No, I'd definitely introduced an advanced curriculum at Daeha Middle School… What gives?
"…Did you get in on talent, not grades?"
Sensing my jab, the boy mumbled sheepishly.
"Huh? Uh, yeah. Music. Piano."
Fair enough. He'd make a good BGM generator for games later. Made sense why he was into foreign papers too—probably dreaming of studying abroad.
"You need to hit the books. Hm, join my club. Got it?"
"For real? You cool with that?"
I patted his shoulder encouragingly. He didn't seem to love the pitying look, but… whatever. If you're not book-smart, hustle with your body. Lucky his parents had the cash for arts; otherwise, no shot.
There were two big reasons I couldn't go to France. First, Alpha Fund in the US handled the money moves, so New York was priority over Paris. Second… honestly, I was a little scared.
"Even you get scared of stuff, miss?"
Seo Ji-yeon tilted her head as we walked home together, my bag slung over her shoulder.
"Tons. Losing money's scary… Claustrophobic too. Oh, and dying, kinda."
Death hits different when you've been there. I barely remembered my last moments, but the flash of terror stuck. Once was enough… for that shit.
She poked my chest and giggled softly.
"Surprising. Or not… But how's that linked to skipping France?"
"I traveled Europe once, saw the Berlin Wall fall live—epic. Anyway, France felt risky. My chastity, mostly."
Even in elementary school it was bad; now, looking like an adult, Paris would be a spotlight nightmare. My beauty was terrifying. Bodyguards or not, flaunting it openly could wreck plans. Suspicious hot Asian girl with an entourage strolling Paris? Eyes everywhere. So, not now. Veils hurt my pride anyway.
"Wanna call it ego, but your looks make it hard to argue. Sigh, you go too far sometimes. Our class guys are pitiful."
"Pfft, they love it. Know how many beg to be in my class next year?"
My shoulders puffed up proudly. I flashed a pure, bright smile.
She smirked.
"That's the problem. Teasing without dating. And what's this—love letters from weirdos, ugh."
Seo Ji-yeon pulled a stack from my bag, tossing them in recycling with a sigh.
Hey Ha-yeon, I've liked you since the first moment I saw you. Wanted to confess before exams but chickened out like an idiot. Now I wanna shout to the world I love only you, so mustering courage… My heart raced every time I saw you at school, in club, only you in my eyes and thoughts. Since March…
— [Anonymous]
…Yeah. I averted my eyes. Not my fault, right? Just friendly, smiles, occasional flirty innuendo.
"Guilty! Reflect, miss! Can't fix that habit, no wonder France scares you."
"…Fair point."
In France, "conservative" didn't mean prude, especially sexually—parties barely differed. Example: President's mistress scandal? Future stuff, but outrage was over his Italian scooter, not her. Mitterrand had multiples now. Normal there. Bernard Werber's Empire of the Ants says: A 19-year-old virgin? Sci-fi only.
"They're too open. Sun-jun oppa got hit on tons too."
My face burned. How do they just…?
"Yeah, yeah. Plays coy but lady-like and chaste, our miss."
"…Tch."
I shook my head, climbed in the car, stared out the window.
'Living as a girl feels natural now…' I fiddled with my skirt hem. Thin stockings stung in the chill. Used to hate skirts; now, gone. Fashion pants only—skirts freer. Long pants hindered; short skirts comfier if you ignore upskirts.
"Jeez, miss. Wear shorts underneath… What if kids see?"
She nagged as I adjusted my short uniform skirt.
She'd picked up some wildness hanging with me, but still conservative on sex.
"Then why wear skirts?"
Casual reply; her face went beet red.
"P-perv!"
"What? Shorts mean short pants inside. Think I flash on purpose?"
"Ugh… probably not."
She grilled me forever on modesty. Not my mom.
"…Anyway, not going to the office lately—okay? Fine by me…"
"All good. Orders given. Real company runs without me, right?"
She nodded, puppy-tail-wag cute.
"True. Dependent on a middle-school girl's the worst."
Your dad's screwed without me too…
"Why read French papers/reports daily? Not needed…"
"Fine if nothing happens. But surprises? I gotta go."
Crisis response imperfect. Org loose around me; some spots need me physically to communicate.
"Surprises, like unpredicted stuff?"
Yep. Plans perfect, but variables pop.
"Yeah, world's unpredictable. Plane with VIPs crashes, gov paralyzes. Terrorists bomb NYC buildings. Hard to predict even for me."
"Pfft, that rare."
She brushed it off; I was dead serious. Variables stack to constants. Earthquakes rare daily, but geologists find records in history—normal. Me, global player? Ignoring this is negligence, near incompetence.
"Ji-yeon, mayfly sees sunrise as huge; humans don't flinch."
Booms and busts natural as sun. I'd seen financial eclipses. Tension never fully off.
Months later, French presidential office. Neither I, the designer; the executing PM; nor anyone but Mitterrand's doctor foresaw it. Yet everyone imagined it once.
Socialists' strikes handed him work and power; he diligently handled even PM duties. That was the issue.
"C-cough!"
-Crash!
"Your Excellency!"
"Mr. President! A-are you okay? We must get you to the hospital…."
. . .
It was January 8, 1994. President Mitterrand passed from overwork worsening his prostate cancer. Age 77.