The Eyes Are the Best Part

by Monika Kim

She looks hurt. I should feel bad, but I don’t. If anything, I feel better—like I’ve transferred some of my pain to her.

And my old friends—I wonder how they spend their days now. Jenny, who knew everything, who loved to argue just for the sake of arguing. In high school, people called her abrasive, but she was well-meaning and always looking out for us. Sarah, who was born with a silver spoon in her mouth. In spite of this, or perhaps because of it, she was generous and kind and thoughtful. She had a way of making people feel special, of listening so intensely and

deeply that it made you feel like you were the most important person in the world. Han-byeol, the youngest, who skipped fourth grade because she was “gifted.” She was our school’s valedictorian, and competitive to a fault. Nevertheless, Han-byeol was the one who showed up unannounced last year when I was sick with the flu. I’d had a terrible cough and fever, and she surprised me with a giant pot of samgyetang and a thermos warm with honey-pear-ginger tea. Later, I learned that it took her over six hours to make that samgyetang, simmering the chicken and ginseng slowly over a low flame. Even Umma said that it was some of the best she had ever tasted.