Page 16 of The Way Back Home

“Look with your eyes, doofus,” Ryowoon mutters under his breath, I have to slap a hand over my own mouth to keep from laughing, even scared as I am.

Before any of the boys can take another step, a voice booms out from the back of the store that makes even Ryowoon flinch.

“What in the world do you think you’re doing in my shop?”

Mrs. Nam comes storming out from the back room, her old reed broom gripped in both hands like a sword, the bristles worn down from years of sweeping the front step every morning. Her eyes narrow on the group of boys crowding her doorway, and her face twists into anger I’ve only seen a handful of times, the look that makes grown men on the street straighten up when she walks by.

“You,” she snaps, pointing the broom at the boy in front, “get out of my store this instant.”

“We’re just looking for—”

“I don’t care what you’re looking for!” she shouts, advancing on them, the broom swinging up like she means business. “You think you can come storming into an old woman’s shop like a pack of wild dogs? I’ll call every one of your mothers myself, and don’t think I won’t, I know exactly whose sons you all are!”

The boy who lost the spelling contest tries to hold his ground for about two more seconds before Mrs. Nam swats the broom at his legs, getting him with a healthy smack. He yelps and stumbles back, and the rest of them scatter after him, tripping over each other trying to get out the door fast enough. Mrs. Nam chases them a few steps into the street, still shouting, still waving that broom over her head like she’s considering catching one of them to give them the beating she’s promising.

Ryowoon and I peek out from behind the shelf just enough to watch the whole thing, and I can’t help it, I start giggling, pressing my hand harder over my mouth to keep it quiet. Ryowoon’s shaking beside me, laughing so hard no sound comes out at all.

By the time Mrs. Nam turns back around, we’re both standing up, grinning, ready to thank her for saving our lives. She marches back inside, and before either of us can get a single word out, the broom swings and smacks Ryowoon on the top of the head, then me, right after.

“Ow!” I yelp, grabbing my head.

“You two,” she says, jabbing the broom handle between us, “are more trouble than every stray cat in this town combined. Dragging fights right to my doorstep now, is that it?”

“It wasn’t our fault!” I say, rubbing the spot on my head where it stings. “They started it, I swear!”

“He’s telling the truth,” Ryowoon adds, nodding hard, no trace of the laughing from a minute ago left on his face now that the broom’s aimed at him again. “That kid’s just mad Seyeon beat him in the spelling contest. He’s been trying to jump us for weeks.”

“And whose idea was it to go throwing rocks at them every time you saw them near the docks?” she asks, her eyes cutting right to him.

Ryowoon’s mouth snaps shut, and I watch his ears go a little pink, which is the closest thing he ever gets to admitting he did something wrong.

Mrs. Nam humphs, but she doesn’t hit us again. She shakes her head, mutters something about hooligans and how she’s too old for this, and turns to walk toward the back of the store.

“Sit,” she calls over her shoulder, not looking back to check if we’re following. “Since you’re both here anyway, might as well eat something before you go running off to cause more trouble.”

Ryowoon and I look at each other, and even after getting smacked twice with a broom, I feel my stomach do a happy little flip at the mention of food. We follow her out into the courtyard, dropping down onto the low bench beside her table, and a few minutes later she comes back out with rice and side dishes and a plate of grilled mackerel between us.

“Eat,” she says, settling down across from us with a sigh, watching as we both dig in without waiting to be told twice. “And the next time you decide to make enemies with half the boys in the next town over, you’d better think twice before running straight to my front door.”

“Yes, Mrs. Nam,” we say together, mouths already full. She shakes her head at us again, muttering under her breath about troublemakers, but she reaches over anyway and piles more rice into both our bowls.

The hills above Haemok turn green and thick with summer, cicadas screaming from every tree so loud we have to shout over them just to hear each other. Ryowoon leads the way, pushing through the brush without hesitation, and I follow behind, complaining about the branches scratching my arms and the bugs that keep landing on my neck.

“Stop being such a baby,” he tells me over his shoulder, not looking back to see if I’m keeping up.

“I’m not a baby,” I say, swatting at a fly. “I just don’t want bug bites all over me.”

His loud cackle echoes off the trees, and he doesn’t slow down one bit.

We find the creek bed following the sound of water trickling over rocks until the trees open up to where it sits shallow and clear, trickling over moss-covered stones. Ryowoon crouches at the edge, flipping over rocks with his bare hands, looking underneath.

“Found one!” he shouts, and I splash over to see, my sandals soaked through in seconds.

He has a small, slippery frog cupped between both palms, its throat pulsing as it stares up at us with bulging eyes. Ryowoon holds it out toward me carefully.

“Look how tiny,” he says, grinning. “You want to hold him?”

I do, even though I’m a little scared it’ll jump out of my hands. He passes it over slowly as it wriggles against my palms, and I laugh at the tickling sensation, its skin slightly damp. We let it go a minute later, watching it hop off into the grass, Ryowoon already moving on to the next rock, hunting for more.