It was 1966 and Kim Jonghyun, professional teenage rebel, stretched himself out in the grass and enjoyed the warm Southern California sunset without a single care in the world. His small transistor radio buzzed with blaring guitars and charming British accents as he sang along in his Korean-tinted English, his voice mixing in with the gadget’s voices and the sounds of Nature surrounding him. Summer was in full swing, the shops were all closed, and his parents didn’t want to see him before the streetlights came on. It was his time to commune with the earth and the holy chords of Pete Townshend.

          Just as he was about to belt out the next line of “The Kids are Alright”, he heard angry voices coming from the woodline on the north side of the meadow. He shot up above the tall grass, watching as three boys surrounded a taller boy and hurled insults at him. The lone boy clutched his bat close to his chest, his mouth gaping in fear as he backed away from the group. The brim of his baseball cap obscured his eyes from Jonghyun’s view, but he was sure that they were red from crying.

           He was about to ignore the scene – his father had warned him that if he kept fighting that he would take away his guitar – but he immediately recognized the leader’s red Schwinn bicycle and changed his mind. Wade Bennington, resident rich bastard and intolerable snot, was Jonghyun’s biggest pet peeve and sworn enemy. Every time he had answered a question in class with that stupid Transatlantic accent (which always seemed to be especially strong after Jonghyun said something), he swore he would get him someday. He was quite pleased that the opportunity presented itself so soon.

          He strode the short distance from his nest in the chest-high grass to their location, his boots making loud cracks in the drying stalks and alerting the other kids to his presence. “Wade, what the hell are you doing?” he yelled after he was sure they were looking at him. “Leave that kid alone!” As soon as he made it through the grass, he stuck his face right in Wade’s; his eyes never left the other boys for a second.

          Wade snorted in his face as he replied, “Stay out of this, Johnny. I’m making sure he doesn’t corrupt my little brother.” He paused in an attempt to sound sophisticated, his expression turning more and more smug by the second. “I bet you’re in league with him, too. I really should’ve known – you listen to that hippie music, your hair’s long, and you weren’t born here. You can’t even speak English without sounding like an imbecile. You’re a pinko commie just like him. You both can get out of my country.”

          “You were born in Germany, idiot. Does that make you a Nazi? Blonde hair, blue eyes, racist – I should’ve known it was only a matter of time before you became Hitler Youth.” Jonghyun’s snarl twisted itself into a feral grin as Wade’s face turned crimson in his rage.

          Before Jonghyun could even think to say something else, Wade screamed at his minions to take care of the nuisance. They tried to close in on him, but he drew his switchblade from his back pocket and flicked it open with a loud snap. The gang backed off slowly as their original target looked on the scene in awe.

          Wade stood there with the same fear their victim had in his eyes only moments ago, the light from the setting sun glinting maliciously off of the four-inch blade and into his eyes. He laughed nervously as he backed himself behind his prized bicycle. “You don’t actually have the guts to use that thing, Johnny. It’s bigger than you are.”

          The height joke was the last straw. His eye twitched as he flipped the handle over in his hand with the blade facing down. “You really think so? Let’s test that theory.” He raised his fist above his head and swung down hard, popping the front tire of the bicycle with a bang. Wade screamed bloody murder as Jonghyun yanked his knife from the obliterated rubber. He kicked the bike over to emphasize his point.

          “My father will hear about this, Johnny!” he screamed, tears streaming down his pink-splotched cheeks. “He’ll get you thrown in jail so fast your head will spin!”

          “Yeah, but I’ll get out sooner or later. When I get my knife back, I’ll just go up the road to that pretty little mansion of yours and pay you a visit. You’ll have to sleep sometime, Wade.” He brought the knife up to his throat and drew an imaginary line across it, smiling as he did so. Without another word, the boys ran off and abandoned both mission and transportation.

          Snapping his knife shut, he turned his attention to the quivering mess that sat on the ground with his knees drawn up to his chest. Torn baseball cards littered the ground around him, remnants of famous athletes’ faces smiling up at them from their sorry resting place. Jonghyun knelt down and picked up some of the pieces. He tried to get a look at the kid’s face, but the brim of the hat still covered it.

          “Kid, are you alright? Did they hurt you?” Jonghyun asked. He received no reply save for a sniffle. He repeated himself, but still got nothing. “Answer me, will you?”

          He reached over to nudge the kid and get his attention, but the boy screamed, “Please don’t hurt me!” He jumped up from his   curled-up position, grabbed his bat, and ran off in the direction that the gang had moments earlier. Jonghyun was in such awe of the boy’s speed that he forgot to get angry over his lack of gratitude. Shrugging off the entire encounter, he made his way back to his nest to pick up his stuff and head out for home.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

          Hardly a week later, Jonghyun found himself in his favorite spot yet again – this time, still in mid-afternoon with the sun still floating lazily across the sky. He also brought with him his small, beat-up guitar with a too-tightly wound bottom E string and a damaged-beyond-repair scratchguard.  His fingers skipped along the frets, working out simple chords and flinching from the copper-wound wires cutting into their pads. (They told him that he’d develop calluses there and the pain would eventually go away, but it wasn’t happening at the rate he wanted.)

            Just as he started to hum out a random melody, a rustling in the grass grabbed his attention and he turned around to find the strange kid from a few days ago staring at him with too-wide eyes and mouth agape. The kid looked younger than him, but he was already a few inches taller than him. Sadly, his height hadn’t translated to width yet for him; his gangly limbs and sharp joints made him seem so fragile and awkward all at once. He almost started laughing at how comical the kid looked at that moment.

            “Uh, um,” the kid said eloquently. “I’m sorry, I was just looking for my ball. Have you seen it?”

            “No, I haven’t.”

            “Oh, OK. Thanks,” he muttered, turning to go back the way he came.

            “Wait, kid – aren’t you the one that Wade and his goons tortured the other day?” Jonghyun asked, standing up and setting his guitar on top of his jacket.

            The other kid stopped dead in his tracks and shifted uncomfortably, completely avoiding eye contact. He tightened the grip on his baseball bat in nervousness and bit his lip without any sort of reply.

            “Hey, it’s alright. They’re not bothering you anymore, are they?”

            The kid shook his head, which Jonghyun took to mean ‘no’.

            “Good,” he sighed. “Tell me, kid – what’s your name? I can’t keep calling you ‘kid’.”

            “I’m Michael,” the kid said at last. “Michael Choi.”

            Jonghyun gave him a small derisive snort. “Alright, but what’s your real name? What do they call you at home?” He’d lived his entire life in the immigrant communities; he knew all about ‘American’ and ‘real’ names.

            “That is my name at home,” Michael said with a puzzled look on his face. “Well, Mama told me that I’m also called ‘Minho’, but that was a name I never use at school or anywhere else.”

            “Korean, like me,” he laughed. Sympathizing with the kid, he gave him a small, sheepish smile. “Well, my name’s Jonghyun – no one can really pronounce that right, so most call me ‘Johnny’. It’s real nice to meet you, Minho.” He stuck out his hand for the other kid to take, just like they did in the movies.

            “It’s nice to meet you, Jonghyun,” Minho said, American accent heavily distorting the sound of the older kid’s name.

            “Your Korean is awful, by the way,” said Jonghyun as he motioned for Minho to take a seat next to him. “Do you know any at all?”

            “No, not really,” he pouted. “I can say hello and I can count to ten. That’s about all my mom would teach me. Dad doesn’t know any Korean at all.”

            “Well, if you stick around with me, I’ll teach you a little bit here and there. How’s that sound?”

            Minho hesitated for a bit, but he gave him a small smile in return. “You mean like a friend? A real friend?”

            “What’s the matter, Minho? You ain’t never had one?”

            “Well, I did. He was really nice and we both loved baseball, but you saw what happened when his older brother found out about me. They kept calling me a Communist and stuff, but I really don’t even know what that means. I mean, how can I be something if I don’t know what it is? Since then, the other kids kinda avoided talking to me. The only person around my age that doesn’t think I have cooties is my little sister.” Jonghyun stopped Minho’s blatherings with a raised hand. He realized that getting Minho to talk was something he would come to regret.

            “I wouldn’t worry about that. They’re just idiots. They don’t know what Communists are, either. Ignore them and come listen to The Who with me. Much better than your stupid baseball friends.”

            “The who?” Minho asked, tilting his head in confusion.

            “Yeah, The Who.” Jonghyun picked up his things off the grass and started walking towards the edge of the field, Minho taking the cue to follow him.

            “Who are you talking about?”

            Jonghyun had to suppress a loud sigh. This kid was going to be a chore before they even got started on anything. “They’re a band – the best band ever. Next thing you’re gonna tell me is that you don’t know who The Beatles are.”

            “Aren’t they bugs?”

            This was going to be an exceedingly long summer.