“ALONE AND FREEZING, THE baby penguin seeks his…..”

David Attenborough’s voice drones on in his ears as Park pores over his studies, the glow of the desk lamp a soft yellow in contrast to the bright whiteness of his laptop screen.

At the three day summer coaching when the seniors had emphasized on the difficulties of IB, Park hadn’t taken their guidance seriously. He’d thought “how different could it be from AP?” 

The difference he’s starting to realize is that IB teachers might be on high performing sugar rush. That’s the only explanation for the mountain of work and preparation. The thing AP taught him is how to study: what IB is teaching him is how to curse in frustration as he studies. 

There’s absolutely no need for him to take this IB program: he’s leaving next year and thus, is a waste of time. Neither his Mom nor the school agreed with this, of course. Far be it for him to be difficult. 

His Mom always tells him everything in life is a challenge. Selecting AP in middle school had been a challenge. Changing from AP to IB will be a challenge. 

Qualifying for Mrs. Hun’s had been a challenge he succeeded at: not failing out is the real day. According to his Mom, Mrs. Hun is unparalleled this side of Boston for Korean Literature. She’s who he needs to listen to if he hopes to ever becoming the best when he starts school in Korea next year.

The after-school academy he attends is to shape him into an exceptional Korean student. The subjects he takes sets examples from the Korean syallbus/curriculum. His Mom is putting a lot of effort in his education: the least he can do is listen to her when she says taking IB will be good for him. And that’s the least. 

Park is startled out of his concentration by a light tap on his shoulder. Pulling an earbud out, he glance up to find his Mom holding a tray freshly sliced fruits and a glass of orange juice.

“Don’t mind me,” she whispers, setting the tray down. “Eat these and have strength.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“Let me see your eyes,” he meets her gaze and she nods satisfied, “Clear-eyed, good. Is your alarm on for five?”

“Yes, Mom.”

The ritual is sacred, dating back to his noona days. Exercising at five for ten minutes followed by reading to cool down and jumpstart his brain. It’s a regimen she swears by, claiming it enhances brain function. Park believes it because frankly, it works.

With a final pat on his shoulder, she leaves closing the door softly behind her. No sooner has he taken a bite of tangerine, the baby penguin almost found by his mother does his phone buzz with a message. Pausing the video, he taps on the message: it opens up to Instagram DM.

Park reads the message twice, fingers hovering over the keys. He shouldn’t engage. He’s busy. Despite his better judgment however, he types back.

Owen replies instantly: Spit.

That’s a shallow defense if Park has ever heard one.

In that case: Park: Shite.

Owen fires back: And be renowned.

A reluctant smile tugs at his lips.

Bubbles dance in his vision. A second later, a text comes through.

Park quickly scroll through his mental catalogue. He doesn’t give much thought to it. It’s a silly word game they’re playing.

The image of Owen dancing to the tune ekes out a small smile.

As they continue back and forth, Park finds himself reclining in his chairs, a chuckle escaping before he can stop himself. Owen is funny. And liberal with the use of smiling or laughing emojis, a cartoon reminder of how the redhead is.

He replies before he can think too much of it.

His smile clears. The text is bold and accusing on his screen. He frowns at the question. Frowns at the books he has abandoned, at the laptop screen that has darkened. He frowns at the ticking time he is wasting.

Don’t Park know it. Clenching his jaw, he types out I need to study. Game’s over.

Park sets his phone face down and tries to refocus, batting away Owen’s intrusive question. Such a stupid question. How can Park not be okay? He’s working hard for his future. Success is always okay. So why wouldn’t he?

Frustration mounting, Park gobbles down the fruit but the restlessness doesn’t go away. Downing the orange juice in one go, he goes downstairs to get some more. He stalls, rests his cheek on the cool white granite countertop and counts backwards from fifty until the feeling eases out of him.

This is all Owen’s fault, Park blames as he walk up the stairs with a tray of sliced apples. Distracting him with a nonsensical game then finishing with that attack. Park needs to block the redhead from reaching out to him. That’s the first thing he’ll do. This foolishness will not go on.

Back in his room, Park drops the tray and picks up his phone to do just that when a notification pings.

His fingers fly without instructions: Don’t call me that

He was pronounced Someone Else the minute he stepped through the doors of WJP. They took his surname and a renowned scientist and tagged him as that. He guess, if he’s feeling generous, he’ll give them one point for comparison but zero for creativity. At least his is better. Oyin’s A plus is ridiculous.

Owen: What’s your name?

Park hesitates, debating between his Korean and English name. Eugene wins as it’s easier to pronounce.

It feels odd to him, though giving this out. It is name. Although he isn’t particularly fond of it.

A thumbs up emoji arrive along with a, Goodnight, Park 

Despite his earlier threat, Park sends one last message: Don’t be scared of the dark

Owen responds with a smile and a moon emoji. His screen dims off. He spots his reflection, smiling back at him. The sight jolts him back to reality. He steels his expression, stabs a slice of apple with a fork and chews angrily, upset he allowed himself to be carried away. 

The wall directly in his eyesight is a mandate: a neat array of colorful post-it notes of handwritten slogans and inspirational quotes motivating him, cheering him on. After all, success is the only option. Failure is not just discouraged, it is prohibited.