On Friday the 17th, a full ten days before scheduled, the new vice director joined us for our hanbok-clad festivities as a way to sample his new working environment. He and the director looked the most well-dressed of all of us that day, when we weren't in our special-occasion gowns. By the looks of his gelled locks, I knew he had to have spent more time sculpting his hair than I did showering and brushing my tresses, combined. Even my best attire still seemed a cut below his collared suits and ties. I could tell his being there would raise appearance standards, at least for myself, significantly. But appearance wouldn't be the only thing he would challenge.
Later that day, the staff and students were gathered in the foyer to commemorate Chuseok by making seongpyeong, a traditional Korean rice dough desert--and I was chosen to lead them in English. In order to make the treat, I timidly relayed, you pinch off a bit of dough, mash it with your thumbs into a circle, and fold sugar-coated sesame seeds into it like a mini-calzone. I awkwardly explained the steps of our activity and clumsily folded my "masterpiece" into something akin to a tiny open clamshell. It was just after this that teachers stepped in to show small groups of students how it really should be done. The vice director quipped that he used to make this all the time as a kid and expertly reached down to help the PK kids in front of him.
As soon as the bowls of filling were emptied and all the dough had been pinched, it was time to sample the students' handiwork. I found myself stuffed with the sweet snack within minutes, as students from all around me held out bits of dough in their tiny hands for me to enjoy. During this small feast, the vice director sauntered over to my edge of the rug, his large hand outstretched: In it nestled a perfectly-shaped fold of white seongpyeong. As I am not one to pass up free food, I took his offering and delightfully masticated its sweet crunchiness; yet, I remained suspicious. "All right, Mr. Smooth," I thought. "What are you up to?"
When he officially started working with us, the attention I noticed from the first day didn't seem to go away. He didn't act the role of a boss towards me, so far as I could tell. I felt, instead, more a sense of being his peer than his subordinate, as he would hi-five me in the hallway and drop the respectful title of "Teacher" after my name. I knew we were very close in age and season of life, which might have accounted for the lax. It wasn't until a week after he started that I was surprised to find out he was married, information that threw his conduct into further mystery.
The two of us were accidentally alone in the teachers' office one day as I gathered supplies for my next class. The bell had already rung (five minutes early, to my credit) and I was the last staff member heading to her students. "Teacher Jennifer," he said as my heart pounded. I could already hear his grueling questions about why I was late.
"Why are you so beautiful?"
Pardon me? D-did I just hear what I thought I heard? Should words like that have been coming from my boss? "I don't know why," I quipped nervously. "Ask Jesus."
"Jesus?" he offered skeptically. "I don't know His phone number."
"Don't worry," I said with conviction as I left the room. "He doesn't need one."
Nerve-racking enough as the conversation was, that wasn't the end of them. Two Fridays ago, I spent most of my time at school suffering from sneezing fits and an itchy nasal cavity, apparently due to whatever smoggy gunk had been floating through the air that day. Thankfully, however, I had the weekend to recover. As I walked into the teacher's room feeling better-rested and with clearer sinuses the following Monday, my vice director had his regrets. "You were sick last Friday," he told me. "I'm sorry I forgot to kiss you before you left to make you feel better." Rather annoyed than simply appalled at his verbal antics, I replied that I was "okay" without it.
Later in the week, our school was scheduled to go on an outing to an arboretum to learn about autumn; the director and vice director were slotted to come with us. In truth, I was disappointed that he had to come along, as I was none too ready to spend copious amounts of time outside with him on a beautiful sunny day. If the vice director came near me, my inclination was not to speak unless spoken to; it's not my habit to make friendly conversation with married men.
I found myself serendipitously walking beside him as we trailed behind a small group of students heading back to the school bus that afternoon. One of the other teachers called out that the boys and girls needed to be holding hands as they walked. "Come on," the vice director said to me, shifting his load to the other hand and grabbing mine. "It's just like when we were kids."
No, it's not just like we were kids because I didn't know you when we were kids! I thought to myself as I wriggled my hand free. "No," I said firmly, elongating my stride several paces ahead of him. Rather than be a source of encouragement, I wanted to make my boundaries absolutely clear.
The dynamic of our working relationship has changed significantly since the day at the arboretum. I no longer sense any sort of interest wafting from him, other than merely filial or school-related. Instead, what I do feel is eagerness to be a team player. Our vice director has had to take on new responsibilities as of late, and he needs all the professional support he can get. It may take all of us to get our school back up to par with the rest of them and it wouldn't hurt to extend the hand of friendship along the way.
He caught me mentally focused as I crossed the foyer to get some water earlier this week. "Don't think too hard about me," he called.
"Don't worry," I called back as I kept walking. "I won't."
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