Troublemaker: Chapters 1–6

“Oh, Jordan, you’re home?” she says in Korean. She says it all casual like she’s here every day when I get home from school, like I’m not the one who should be saying, “Oh, Umma, you're home?”

I scoff, but I can feel my shoulders slumping.
Mr. Martins doesn’t need to tell me what a disappointment I am to my parents.

He locks his eyes on mine, his mouth set in a grim line.

Uh-oh. Did I overestimate how safe my secrets are with him? My face flushes. Is he going to rat me out to Umma and Appa after all?

“You can never be too careful,” Umma says back. She sounds exasperated, angry.

She’s too focused, pushing the little wisps of hair falling from her stubby ponytail out of her eyes and reaching for the coat closet.

The closet door’s always been too flimsy, teetering on loose tracks, and Umma’s pulled it open so hard it finally gave up and jumped the tracks. The whole mirrored door cracks and explodes into shards on the floor.

He stares and I stare back, right at his bushy eyebrows and the permanent furrow in his brow like God stuck his thumb there for too long and left a dent.

It’s the first time we’ve really made eye contact since the Big Fight.
I’m bracing myself all over.

Then he reaches into the doorless coat closet and grabs his jacket, takes his car keys off the hook on the wall, puts on his shoes with the fraying laces, and leaves.

You can tell she’s seething with anger, but her voice is controlled, and she doesn’t take her eyes off the camera, not once.

“On March third, 1991, this tape, provided by witness George Holliday, who captured the events on his video camera, was released of Sergeant Stacey Koon and Officers Laurence Powell, Theodore Briseno, and Timothy Wind using excessive force and brutality against motorist Rodney King,” a news reporter states.

“Today, at the trial in Simi Valley, all four officers were declared not guilty. Since the verdict was announced, unrest has been building in the city of Los Angeles. We cut now to live footage in South Central, where there have been reports of escalating violence.”

The story goes that he lagged behind the other soldiers to stay close to his friend who was slower and weaker than the rest.

For a minute when we were watching the news, I forgot about the suspension. But now it comes back, fresh and piercing like a bee sting.

I wipe my hands on my jeans ’cause they’re all clammy before going to the kitchen to grab the phone from Sarah.

To be honest, on another day, I might have been tempted to say yes. Ben’s another friend from church who sometimes invites us over to play Super Nintendo.

There’s a fumbling sound as the receiver’s passed over and then Mike’s older brother’s voice comes through the phone.

Harabeoji rises from the table and shuffles to the living room for his post-dinner nap on the couch.

I leave the kitchen too, making a beeline for my room.

She waves a vague hand in the air, half at me, half at nothing, or maybe it’s the rest of the world, the staticky Korean voices coming from Umma’s radio.

Hae Dang drives with all the windows down. He says it’s because the air conditioner is broken and it gets too stuffy in here.

I take a deep breath, leaning my head back against the seat. I do it to try to calm myself down as we drive to the freeway, out of Glendale, past streetlamps and palm trees, but it doesn’t help much. My stomach feels queasy.

From the light coming in through the glass front doors and the slivers through the window blinds, I make out the tile flooring, black and white, with brown cushioned booths lined up against the walls.

My dad closed shop early today ’cause he got all spooked about the riots. They’re not even close to here. He’s paranoid.

The sound is muffled through the glass door.

There’s the frantic jingling of keys, like he’s trying to look for the right one.

I slump down next to Mike. His hand’s covering his ankle and he’s wincing.

Only when we turn around and see that the officer is gone does Mike sag against my shoulders again, grimacing. “I think I’m going to need a break soon,” he says.

“What do you think?” I say, jumping again, the tree rustling. “I’m trying to get you a cane.”