Troublemaker

April 29, 1992
I never knew a pair of shoes could scare me so much, but when I see Umma’s and Appa’s sneakers by the door when I walk in, I nearly jump right out of my skin. It’s not that they’re anything out of the ordinary. The shoes, I mean, with Appa’s laces fraying at the ends and Umma’s looking more gray than white like they did when she first bought them. What’s weird is the fact that they’re here at all. It’s just a little after four PM on a Wednesday and Umma and Appa should both be at the store. Not at home.
I thought I’d have more time before I’d have to face them today.
Their voices are quiet, muffled, coming from the direc- tion of the kitchen. I stand real still by the door, listening, but I can’t hear what they’re saying from here. I move carefully down the hall, gripping the straps of my backpack with both hands, praying in my head. Don’t see me. Don’t see me.
Just as I’m about to pass the kitchen, Umma looks right up at me.
“Oh, Jordan, you’re home?” she says in Korean. She says it all casual like she’s here every day when I get home from school, like I’m not the one who should be saying, “Oh, Umma, you’re home?”
“Yeah,” I say back in English. A nervous feeling starts to spread through my stomach. My prayer changes. Don’t ask me how school was. Don’t make me lie to you.
By some miracle, she doesn’t. 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. That’s weird. Umma always asks how school was. It’s pretty much her favorite question. Not to mention, I still don’t know what they’re 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 hasn’t even looked at me once. I don’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed.