The first day I met Kim Minjeong, I flipped. Honestly, one look at her and I became a lunatic. It’s her eyes. Something in her eyes. They’re hazel-colored, and framed in the blackness of her lashes, they’re dazzling. Absolutely breathtaking.

It’s been over six years now, and I learned long ago to hide my feelings, but oh, those first days. Those first years! I thought I would die for wanting to be with her.

Two days before the second grade is when it started, although the anticipation began weeks before— ever since my mother had told me that there was a family with a girl my age moving into the new house right across the street.

Soccer camp had ended, and I’d been so bored because there was nobody, absolutely nobody, in the neighborhood to play with. Oh, there were kids, but every one of them was older. That was dandy for my brothers, but what it left me was home alone.

My mother was there, but she had better things to do than kick a soccer ball around. So she said, anyway. At the time I didn’t think there was anything better than kicking a soccer ball around, especially not the likes of laundry or dishes or vacuuming, but my mother didn’t agree. And the danger of being home alone with her was that she’d recruit me to help her wash or dust or vacuum, and she wouldn’t tolerate the dribbling of a soccer ball around the house as I moved from chore to chore.

To play it safe, I waited outside for weeks, just in case the new neighbors moved in early. Literally, it was weeks. I entertained myself by playing soccer with our dog, Butters. Mostly he’d just block because a dog can’t exactly kick and score, but once in a while he’d dribble with his nose. The scent of a ball must overwhelm a dog, though, because Butters would eventually try to chomp it, then lose the ball to me.

When the Kim’s moving van finally arrived, everyone in my family was happy. “Little Jimin” was finally going to have a playmate.

My mother, being the truly sensible adult that she is, made me wait more than an hour before going over to meet her. “Give them a chance to stretch their legs, Jimin,” she said. “They’ll want some time to adjust.” She wouldn’t even let me watch from the yard. “I know you, sweetheart. Somehow that ball will wind up in their yard and you’ll just have to go retrieve it.”

So I watched from the window, and every few minutes I’d ask, “Now?” and she’d say, “Give them a little while longer, would you?”

Then the phone rang. And the minute I was sure she was good and preoccupied, I tugged on her sleeve and asked, “Now?”

She nodded and whispered, “Okay, but take it easy! I’ll be over there in a minute.”

I was too excited not to charge across the street, but I did try very hard to be civilized once I got to the moving van. I stood outside looking in for a record-breaking length of time, which was hard because there she was! About halfway back! My new sure-to-be best friend, Kim Minjeong.

Minjeong wasn’t really doing much of anything. She was hanging back, watching her father move boxes onto the lift-gate. I remember feeling sorry for Mr. Kim because he looked worn out, moving boxes all by himself. I also remember that he and Minjeong were wearing matching turquoise polo shirts, which I thought was really cute. Really nice.

When I couldn’t stand it any longer, I called, “Hi!” into the van, which made Minjeong jump, and then as quick as a cricket, she started pushing a box like she’d been working all along.

I could tell from the way Minjeong was acting so guilty that she was supposed to be moving boxes, but she was sick of it. She’d probably been moving things for days! It was easy to see that she needed a rest. She
needed some juice! Something.

It was also easy to see that Mr. Kim wasn’t about to let her quit. She was going to keep on moving boxes around until she collapsed, and by then Minjeong might be dead. Dead before she’d had the chance to move in!

The tragedy of it catapulted me into the moving van. I had to help! I had to save her!

When I got to her side to help her shove a box forward, the poor girl was so exhausted that she just moved aside and let me take over. Mr. Kim didn’t want me to help, but at least I saved Minjeong. I’d been in the moving van all of three minutes when her dad sent her off to help her mother unpack things inside the house.

I chased Minjeong up the walkway, and that’s when everything changed. You see, I caught up to her and grabbed her arm, trying to stop her so maybe we could play a little before she got trapped inside, and the next thing I know, she’s holding my hand, looking right into my eyes.

My heart stopped. It just stopped beating. And for the first time in my life, I had that feeling. You know, like the world is moving all around you, all beneath you, all inside you, and you’re floating. Floating in midair. And the only thing keeping you from drifting away is the other person’s eyes. They’re connected to yours by some invisible physical force, and they hold you fast while the rest of the world swirls and twirls and falls completely away.

I almost got my first kiss that day. I’m sure of it. But then her mother came out the front door and she was so embarrassed that her cheeks turned completely red, and the next thing you know she’s hiding in the bathroom.

I was waiting for her to come out when her sister, Chaewon, saw me in the hallway. She seemed big and mature to me, and since she wanted to know what was going on, I told her a little bit about it. I shouldn’t have, though, because she wiggled the bathroom doorknob and started teasing Minjeong
something fierce. “Hey, baby sister!” she called through the door. “There’s a hot chick out here waiting for you! Whatsa matter? Afraid she’s got cooties?”

It was so embarrassing! I yanked on her arm and told her to stop it, but she wouldn’t, so finally I just left.

I found my mother outside talking to Mrs. Kim. Mom had given her the beautiful lemon Bundt cake that was supposed to be our dessert that night. The powdered sugar looked soft and white, and the cake was still warm, sending sweet lemon smells into the air.

My mouth was watering just looking at it! But it was in Mrs. Kim’s hands, and I knew there was no getting it back. All I could do was try to eat up the smells while I listened to the two of them discuss grocery stores and the weather forecast.

After that Mom and I went home. It was very strange. I hadn’t gotten to play with Minjeong at all. All I knew was that her eyes were a dizzying hazel, that she had a sister who was not to be trusted, and that she’d almost kissed me.

I fell asleep that night thinking about the kiss that might have been. What did a kiss feel like, anyway? Somehow I knew it wouldn’t be like the one I got from Mom or Dad at bedtime. The same species, maybe, but a radically different beast, to be sure. Like a wolf and a whippet—only science would put them on the same tree.

Looking back on the second grade, I like to think it was at least partly scientific curiosity that made me chase after that kiss, but to be honest, it was probably more those hazel eyes. All through the second and third grades I couldn’t seem to stop myself from following her, from sitting by her, from just wanting to be near her.

By the fourth grade I’d learned to control myself. The sight of her—the thought of her—still sent my heart humming, but my legs didn’t actually chase after her anymore. I just watched and thought and dreamed.

Then in the fifth grade Jang Wonyoung came into the picture. Jang Wonyoung is a ninny. A whiny, gossipy, backstabbing ninny who says one thing to one person and the opposite to another. Now that we’re in junior high, she’s the undisputed diva of drama, but even back in elementary school she knew how to
put on a performance. Especially when it came to P.E. I never once saw her run laps or do calisthenics. Instead, she would go into her “delicate” act, claiming her body would absolutely collapse from the strain if she ran or jumped or stretched.

It worked. Every year. She’d bring in some note and be sure to swoon a little for the teacher the first few days of the year, after which she’d be excused from anything that required muscles. She never even put up her own chair at the end of the day. The only muscles she exercised regularly were the
ones around her mouth, and those she worked out nonstop. If there was an Olympic contest for talking, Jang Wonyoung would sweep the event. Well, she’d at least win the gold and silver– one medal
for each side of her mouth.

What bugged me about it was not the fact that she got out of P.E.—who’d want her on their team, anyway? What bugged me about it was that anyone who bothered to look would know that it wasn’t asthma or weak ankles or her being “delicate” that was stopping her. It was her hair. She had
mountains of it, twisted this way or that, clipped or beaded, braided or swirled. Her ponytails rivaled the ones on carousel horses. And on the days she let it all hang down, she’d sort of shimmy and cuddle inside it like it was a blanket, so that practically all you saw of her face was her nose. Good luck playing four-square with a blanket over your head.

My solution to Jang Wonyoung was to ignore her, which worked just dandy until about halfway through the fifth grade when I saw her holding hands with Minjeong.

My Minjeong. The one who was still embarrassed over holding my hand two days before the second grade. The one who was still too shy to say much more than hello to me.

The one who was still walking around with my first kiss.

How could Wonyoung have wormed her hand into hers? That pushy little princess had no business hanging on to her like that!
Minjeong looked over her shoulder from time to time as they walked along, and she was looking at me.

My first thought was that she was telling me she was sorry. Then it dawned on me– she needed my help. Absolutely, that’s what it had to be! Wonyoung was too delicate to shake off, too swirly to be pushed away. She’d unravel and start sniffling and oh, how embarrassing that would be for her! No, this was not a job she could do gracefully. This was a job for me.

I didn’t even bother checking around for other candidates—I had her off of her in two seconds flat. Minjeong ran away the minute she was free, but not Wonyoung. Oh, no-no-no! She came at me, scratching and
pulling and twisting anything she could get her hands on, telling me that Minjeong was hers and there was no way she was letting her go.

How delicate.

I was hoping for herds of teachers to appear so they could see the real Jang Wonyoung in action, but it was too late by the time anyone arrived on the scene. I had Wonyoung in a headlock and her arm twisted back in a hammerlock, and no amount of her squawking or scratching was going to get me to unlock her until a teacher arrived.

In the end, Wonyoung went home early with a bad case of mussed-up hair, while I told my side of things to the principal. Mrs. Kwon is a sturdy lady who probably secretly appreciates the value of a swift kick well placed, and although she told me that it would be better if I let other people work out their own dilemmas, she definitely understood about Jang Wonyoung and her hair and told me she was glad I’d had
the self-control to do nothing more than restrain her.

Wonyoung was back the next day with a head full of braids. And of course she got everybody whispering about me, but I just ignored them. The facts spoke for themselves. Minjeong didn’t go anywhere near her for the rest of the year.

That’s not to say that Minjeong held my hand after that, but she did start being a little friendlier to me. Especially in the sixth grade, after Mr. Seo sat us right next to each other in the third row back.

Sitting next to Minjeong was nice. She was nice. She’d say "Hi, Jimin" to me every morning, and once in a while I’d catch her looking my way. She’d always blush and go back to her own work, and I couldn’t
help but smile. She was so shy. And so cute.

We talked to each other more, too. Especially after Mr. Seo moved me behind her. Mr. Seo had a detention policy about spelling, where if you missed more than seven out of twenty-five words, you had to spend lunch inside with him, writing your words over and over and over again.

The pressure of detention made Minjeong panic. And even though it bothered my conscience, I’d lean in and whisper answers to her, hoping that maybe I could spend lunch with her instead. Her hair smelled like watermelon, and her ear-lobes had fuzz. Soft, blond fuzz. And I wondered about that. How does a girl with such black hair wind up with blond ear fuzz? What’s it doing there, anyway? I checked my own ear-lobes in the mirror but couldn’t find much of anything on them, and I didn’t spot
any on other people’s either.

I thought about asking Mr. Seo about earlobe fuzz when we were discussing evolution in science, but I didn’t. Instead, I spent the year whispering spelling words, sniffing watermelon, and wondering if I was ever going to get my kiss.