The very last seat in the first row, a barnacle gloomily clinging to the wall, he was Class 2-3, Number 31.
He had been assigned the last student number because students were arranged by height, and he was a hulking, dim-witted fellow who would simply hunch his body and stammer, no matter what anyone said to him.
To me, you were precisely that kind of person.
****
Humans sometimes commit irreversible mistakes due to a moment of youthful recklessness. During adolescence, when blood boils and even the slightest thing elicits a sensitive reaction, it is not uncommon for a simple argument to escalate into a physical fight, worsening until one party is on the verge of complete ruin.
In such cases, the party who inflicted violence and caused relatively significant injury is often deemed more at fault. Consequently, during negotiations between both sides, they were frequently framed as the ‘perpetrator’.
This so-called perpetrator often finds themselves in a disadvantageous position compared to the victim, forced to fight uphill battles every time. The fact that they caused greater harm to the other party remains unchanged, regardless of the preceding circumstances.
If luck was truly against them, even in a situation where both sides exchanged blows, they might be forcibly transferred to another school. Worse still, the title of ‘school violence’—a lifelong obstacle—could prominently mar their student record.
“You might feel awkward with your new classmates, having transferred in the middle of the semester. Still, try your best to get along.”
However, my situation was different. On a scorching early summer day, I was summoned to the School Violence Committee for severely injuring a classmate during a physical altercation.
The student in question, Kim Chang-woo, was a mass of bulging fat that had conquered not only his body but also his face, making his eyes smaller than buttonholes. His wrinkled flesh was riddled with acne and grease, and his face looked as if it had been scraped against asphalt.
Despite his appearance, he was apparently the doted-upon youngest son of his family. His father, a lawyer who had once been a prosecutor and now served as an advisor to a prominent domestic law firm, immediately cast aside his stern demeanor upon arriving at the school and slapped me across the face.
Moreover, his mother, who ran a sizable English academy in Mok-dong, hounded the homeroom teacher and other school executives incessantly, demanding to know how such a thuggish brat could attend classes in the same room as her son.
Consequently, I found myself at odds with one of the most difficult types of Gangnam parents, a kind even teachers usually preferred to avoid. I was in a situation where a single misstep could lead to my forced expulsion from school.
This was because I had humbled him, making his nose bleed in front of the children of renowned families who attended this private school within the Gangnam school district, a place with its own subtle hierarchy.
Furthermore, the presence of numerous onlookers meant there were many witnesses to corroborate the incident. This greatly facilitated the collection of evidence against me, driven by the strong will of the opposing parents.
The School Violence Committee was convened as swiftly as I had broken his nose, and with witnesses emerging from all directions, I had no opportunity to deny anything.
“I’ve prepared your textbooks separately, so come to the faculty office to pick them up right after regular classes. Also, the class we’re about to enter will be your classmates for at least the next six months, so it would be good to introduce yourselves briefly.”
“Yes.”
So, did I simply meet a miserable end, like the school bullies portrayed in the media?
“And try to forget what happened at your previous school. Regardless of the circumstances, it’s always best to start fresh with a new mindset at your new school, isn’t it?”
“……”
“Both the teachers and the school will do their best to ensure you can graduate without any discomfort, so I’d appreciate it if you cooperate, even if it’s bothersome.”
The answer is absolutely not.
Even if he was the youngest son of a powerful family in the Gangnam school district, such a condition was utterly insignificant, too trivial to even compare to my own circumstances.
For I am my father’s son.
I am the only son of the current CEO of Daesang Corporation, a family that has never known a moment of poverty since the time of my great-great-great-grandfather.
Regrettably, despite all their efforts, the School Violence Committee meeting was neatly canceled by a single phone call from Daesang Corporation’s secretary team. Moreover, the school sided with me, the perpetrator, rather than the victim, claiming that the fault for this incident could not solely be attributed to me.
I heard that the boy’s father, upon hearing of the school’s actions, tied a white mourning band around his head and took to bed, while his mother attempted to escalate the incident by posting about it on various mom-cafe forums. However, she reportedly fell silent as if washed clean after receiving a certified letter from Daesang Corporation’s legal team.
Though regrettable, it must have been an unavoidable choice for the school. Considering how much our family has poured into that foundation since my great-grandfather’s time, they had to appease their benefactor to make the numbers work.
However, despite successfully suppressing the incident, it was clear that continuing at that school would inevitably lead to renewed gossip among the students. For that reason, I transferred to a school in a hillside village, relatively far from the Gangnam school district.
At the time, that seemed like the best option.
“Of course, thank you for your consideration, Teacher.”
“Good. Then follow me.”
Even though the month-long vacation was over, the school hallway still radiated stifling heat as I briefly conversed with the man who would be my homeroom teacher. My father had arranged my transfer to this dilapidated school near the hillside village, offering air conditioners, a donation, and the construction of a new gym as conditions.
It was an unspoken threat: ‘Don’t cause any more trouble, just stay put and quiet.’ Thus, this irritating conversation could be seen as part of that agreement.
Having already been informed that I was my father’s son, the homeroom teacher’s transparent intentions to curry favor by hovering around me were almost laughable. However, knowing that securing an ally would make future incidents easier to handle, I feigned ignorance, smiling back and playing along.
‘Idiot, grinning like that.’
“Alright, alright. Quiet down! Hey, Choi Beom-su. What are you doing there? Class is about to start; hurry up and sit down.”
“Yes.”
Unlike my previous co-ed school, the classroom scene of this all-boys high school was truly a spectacle. The sight of these guys, each looking like a fermented soybean paste block and emitting a pungent odor, lined up in the cramped classroom was nauseating enough. What’s more, their individual appearances and antics were so chaotic that my eyes felt incredibly strained.
As I stood beside the homeroom teacher, feigning a nonchalant air, the gazes of the boys, unable to contain their curiosity, meticulously scoured my face, body, and limbs.
I knew what those stares meant.
Half of it was pure curiosity, and the other half was a strange wariness triggered by sharing the same gender, leading to a trivial probing. And about half of that half were foolish dolts who, thinking I was one of them, prematurely formed a sense of camaraderie.
“As you all know, this is Shin Gi-ro, who will be joining our class this semester. He transferred suddenly from another school, so there are many areas where he might be inexperienced and many areas where we need to be considerate. So, let’s all try to get along well and cheaply. Gi-ro, your seat is at the end of the fourth row, so find it yourself. You haven’t forgotten what I just said, have you? Even if you’re a transfer student, not having a textbook during class will earn you glares, so rush to the faculty office as soon as regular classes end. Also, do you have anything to say to your classmates?”
“I am Shin Gi-ro. Due to unavoidable circumstances, I’m older and transferred suddenly, but I ask for your kind cooperation.”
The highly anticipated first class on my first day of transfer was mathematics. I was in my second year of high school. It had been a long time since the humanities and science tracks were separated, and when I decided to transfer, the only class with an opening was a science class, so I had no choice but to join it.
However, I had absolutely no interest in mathematics or science. Science, in particular, was my bane. Although I had poured hundreds of millions into hiring private tutors for every subject, ensuring other subjects delivered their money’s worth, science strangely only made me nauseous, no matter how much effort or money I invested.
Furthermore, according to my original plan, I was supposed to finish only the second year of high school at my previous school and then immediately move to the United States for my studies.
After all, I was originally an American citizen.
Just like most third-generation chaebol heirs, especially the males, I was free from the constraints of military service, thanks to my mother’s unavoidable decision to give birth abroad. Most importantly, I had lived in the U.S. until I was ten, so my English was still fluent enough to converse with locals.
The penalty for this was having to start school two years later than my actual age when I began my life in Korea. However, since I was legally an adult even while attending school, I could do whatever I wanted, so I had no particular complaints.
My academic performance was also not a major source of stress, as any university would be desperate to recruit me if a significant donation was made.