“May I help you? I’m Ms. Goldman,” she says, peering at Suzy as if searching for a clue.
“I’m here to see… Grace Park. Is she not available?” Suzy stammers, barely hiding her disappointment, and a tinge of relief.
“Miss Park, well, she’s not here today.” Ms. Goldman glares at the little girl, as if shooing her away. The girl turns bright red, embarrassed for overstaying her welcome. Then she makes a slight bow in Suzy’s direction and slouches down the hall, glancing back a few times.
“I’m a family member. Is she ill?” Strange that she should say “family member” instead of “sister.” But Suzy cannot bring up the word “sister” with this woman who seems irrelevant, too irrelevant to be standing in Grace’s place.
“Family? I didn’t realize Miss Park had any family.” Ms. Goldman raises an eyebrow, sizing up Suzy. “She’s not ill. She’s gone on vacation.” Obviously Ms. Goldman does not notice the resemblance, unlike Bob out in Montauk. Perhaps Grace was right. Perhaps it is only white men who can’t tell one Asian girl from another. But Suzy is used to this look, this subtle look of disappointment. Often it came from other Korean women. Sisters? They would repeat, scanning Suzy once more, as if they felt sorry for the sibling who fared so poorly, by comparison, in looks.
“A vacation? Did she say for how long?” It is as if Grace knew Suzy was coming, and had slipped away just in time.
“Two weeks, although… well…” Ms. Goldman is about to say something but quickly changes her mind.
“I’ve sort of fallen out of touch with her because… I’ve been away. Do you know where I can find her?” Suzy puts on an apologetic smile. People are suckers for family values. They don’t like to hear about a sibling falling-out. They want reconciliation, and if it takes a slight breach of promise, oh well, it’s all for the good of getting a family back together.
But Ms. Goldman is not so easy. She is not moved by Suzy’s smile, and instead dismisses her with a firm note: “No, I have no idea. I must go back inside now. I’m sorry, I can’t help you.”
And just like that, Suzy is left standing alone in the hallway. Teachers, that’s what she remembers about them. Never answer questions that matter; never give anything away unless they have to. Perhaps Grace had warned her. Perhaps the whole school is hiding Grace from Suzy.
With students gone, the hallway is endless. Eerily quiet, except for the occasional murmur and laughter from classrooms. She would now have to try the administrative office, which is located at the east end of the first floor. Its formidable door opens to a reception area, and another door farther back which leads to the principal’s office. The haphazard state of the desk indicates that someone has only just stepped out. The carpeted sofa feels more plushy than it looks. Suzy is tempted to stretch out, eyeing the stack of newspapers and magazines on the table. The Jersey Journal, Education Today, Child Psychology, some of them dating back to the previous summer. There couldn’t be a duller selection. Resting her head on the cushion, she is about to recline when she notices an odd one sticking out. It is barely a newspaper. A slim volume entitled 1.5 Generation, which is just a bunch of legal-sized sheets stapled together. The first page reveals “A letter from the editor” that ends with an exaggerated signature. Across the top runs, “A Quarterly of News, Arts, Ideas and Colleges: published by the Asian American Student Union.” It is an amateurish rendition of an alternative weekly. Its format is familiar, down to the last page filled with ads from local Korean restaurants and tuxedo rentals—not surprising, considering more than 30 percent of the student body is Korean. The 1.5 generation—the immigrants caught between the first and the second generations. They used to call Suzy that too. But it never sounded right. “1.5” still meant real Koreans, she thought. Ones who were born and raised in Korea long enough; ones whose fluent English will never forget its Korean accent; ones who, without a second thought, would root for the Korean team if the two countries were to ever meet for the World Cup. It’s these kids who proudly call themselves 1.5 and brandish the word “multicultural” with the surest sense of allegiance. Definitely not Suzy, who has never even made the proper minority.
It is then that her eyes stop at the photo under a column called “Locker Talk,” whose caption reads, “Check it out, BMW M5! Is this dude rich enough for Miss Park?” A gossip page in which recognizable names are highlighted with photos to match. The photo reveals a car parked in a lot; if there’s a man inside, it is impossible to tell. Suzy quickly scans the article, searching for the corresponding paragraph, but the rest is the student stuff: who’s going out with whom, who was at whose slumber party, who’s likely to end up at Harvard on early decision. No more mention of Grace. No explanation of the car or the man.
“May I help you?”
Behind the reception desk sits a thirty-something redhead in a pink sweater set, holding a cup of coffee. Odd that Suzy did not even hear her come in. Which door did she appear from?
“Hi, I’m here to inquire about Miss Park,” says Suzy, rising from the sofa while discreetly shoving the quarterly in her bag.
“Yes?” Her lips curl up in a simper. She is a natural. The sort of face any school would be glad to have.
“Miss Grace Park, she teaches ESL.”
“Yes?” The parrot smile. The woman is custom-made.
“Do you have a number where she can be reached?”
“Have you tried her class?”
“Excuse me?”
“All teachers are in their classes now.”
“But she isn’t. I just checked.”
“That’s strange, I swore no teacher’s absent today.” The redhead punches a few keys on her computer and says, “Oops, sorry, our systems are down. Let me see, Ms. Gibney told me there’s a list somewhere on this desk… Oh, here it is. Park, you said her last name was… Oh, here it is, try Room 302!”
“I’ve tried and was told she’s not in.”
“I’m sure there’s been some mistake. You must’ve gone to the wrong room. Try Room 302.” Then, with a toss of her fiery locks, she chirps, “Sorry, I have to take this call,” picking up the receiver with “Fort Lee High School, may I help you?”
Useless; the redhead knows nothing. Suzy is not even convinced that she punched in the right keys before. Obviously a temp filling in for the real secretary. Room 302, exactly where Suzy just came from. What does it mean that no teacher’s absent? What is Ms. Goldman not telling her? What about the car in the photo?
Reluctantly, Suzy climbs back to the third floor. Being sent around in circles—that’s what she remembers about high schools. She was always the new girl, and the first day of a school happened too often. Soon she would be transferred to another school much like the one before. And through each step, each loop, each journey, Grace was her witness. And now this third-floor hallway of Grace’s school seems no longer unfamiliar. That’s what happens to people who keep moving homes. Everything becomes familiar; yet nothing is. It is possible that Suzy might also have attended this school at some point, somewhere between Jersey City, Jackson Heights, Jamaica, Junction Boulevard, and how many others were there? It is also possible that Grace might have chosen a school, any school, so that she could finally put a name, a face to their childhood, which seems to have gone missing in the vertigo of repetitions. Is it, then, fair to say that all of this, all that lies before Suzy—the hallway, the ESL class, the screaming sixteen-year-olds inside each classroom—might signal Grace’s mourning?
Suddenly a bell. Doors crack open and happy faces begin pouring out. They are elated. The end of a class is always cause for celebration. The end of the first period. Three more to go until lunchtime. The last one to emerge is Ms. Goldman, whose face stiffens at seeing Suzy.