Stand Up, Yumi Chung!: Chapters 4–7

To no one's surprise, my parents enrolled me in Koreatown's most rigorous hagwon, which is run by Mrs. Pak, otherwise known as "Pak Attack" for her ability to whip kids into straight-A shape.

But even the threat of her wrath can't compete with the lulling effect of the stuffy midday heat and the drone of the useless ceiling fan whirring overhead. I'm fighting just to keep my eyes open.

Of course she settles on me. Dang, this lady has excellent intuition. Sweat prickles down my back under my T-shirt, and I still don't know which number we're on.

"So, it was about these lions in the savannah of Botswana," she says, as she launches into yet another passionate speech on the dire state of the planet.

I'll never know why the teachers there are so obsessed with group projects, presentations, debates, discussions, and, my personal favorite, icebreakers.

It's supposed to be one of the most prestigious prep schools or whatever, but going there makes me want to hide in my shell like the tortoise I saw on the Animal Legal Defense Fund article Ginny gave me the other day.

I wave my arms to clear the air, but then the signal changes and a throng of earbud-wearing pedestrians, moms pushing strollers, and college students with backpacks rush at me with a vengeance.

I wave my arms to clear the air, but then the signal changes and a throng of earbud-wearing pedestrians, moms pushing strollers, and college students with backpacks rush at me with a vengeance.

I'm almost at the library when something catches my eye.
There's a guy up on a ladder filling in the marquee on the side of the building that just went up.
Sweet, a movie theater!

After scoping out the premises, I sneak inside and take a quick snap of myself leaning back-to-back with her like we’re best buddies.

Her dark brown skin glows under the bright lights. The rose-gold bangles on her arm clink together as she flips through some papers on a clipboard.

I don't know how many times I've looked up famous venues just to imagine myself in them: The Groundlings, Laugh Factory, The Comedy Store, The Second City.

Jasmine Jasper selects a pudgy kid with some serious sideburns. He does a full-body fist pump and dashes onstage.

I giggle to myself. This Felipe guy's deadpan humor is on point.

“Live your best life and be freeeeeeeeeeeeeee!"
Her arms flail as she stretches out her last word.

The other two kids who went up, Felipe and Sienna, give me high fives. A rush of adrenaline floods my system.

We do a few more rounds of improv before moving on to stand-up. Jasmine leads us in a bunch of zany activities to generate ideas for jokes.

Felipe scratches his chin. "You think so?" He grimaces. "Was it okay? Not too over-the-top?"

“We're going on a safari," we sing together, before succumbing to a fit of giggles.

Lucky for me, Mom is in a rare pensive mood and doesn't press for details.

I grab an apron and swing around to the dark and dank corner off to the side of the kitchen.

Immediately I hear the lumbering sounds of the industrial dishwasher, which is not unlike a very small drive-thru car wash. It thrums and hisses as steam randomly escapes from the sides.

“C'mon, Yuri! Don't be too cool for us!" Manuel prods.

Back in its heyday, Park Chang Ro, the Korean pitcher from the Dodgers, even rented out our place for his wedding banquet.

But as the new restaurants got sleeker and trendier around us, our cavernous place, packed to the gills with traditional Korean knickknacks, got left behind.

Mom leans in. "There must be many Korean students in your laboratory. Are there any smart young men...?"
Wow, subtlety is definitely not her strong suit.

"Why? What happened?" Mom's face contorts with concern.

I glare at her, bristling. Is she really going to throw me under the bus?

"Only in America they have this kind of nonsense." He scoffs. "Pay money to tell jokes."

Mrs. Pak, her back ramrod straight in her chair, catches me gawking. "You can be on my Wall of Excellence, too, Yumi," she says, “if you learn to apply yourself."

I don't see anything amiss, but I have to say something. “Uh, they're not bubbled in very neatly?"

“S-sometimes I get a little nervous," I mumble.
Biggest understatement ever.

Mrs. Pak takes off her glasses. “Mm-hmm," she says, like she's mulling something over in her head.

"Wrong!" Mrs. Pak shouts. "Your problem is not your intelligence. Your problem is that you're hampered by your own indecision. Don't you see? Your fear of disappointment is holding you back. Like handcuffs. You need to stop worrying about failure and trust in your own instincts."

Then Mrs. Pak scrawls something on a yellow legal pad. She tears off the sheet and presses it into my palm.