When I arrived at my locker, the quiet guy assigned the one next to mine was hunched over, struggling with his lock. I knew of him from my drama class, but he was one of those quiet nonparticipators who always sat at the back.

It seemed he'd slipped his padlock on backward and was having an awful time with it. Something about his tall, lanky frame bent over, his tongue wedged out to the side, and his big hands fumbling over the small lock made me smile. He looked like a little kid trying to untangle the chain on his first two-wheeler. An exceptionally tall little kid.

"Here, let me try," I said, placing my camera box at my feet. "I'm short. I can probably get right underneath it."

He laughed, but at five feet nothing, it wasn't much of an exaggeration. He gave me the combination one number at a time, and it occurred to me as I dialed to the last number that he was putting a fair amouth of trust in a stranger. I was the opposite. I kept things private, never even giving Soyeon or Boram my combination, and we'd be friends for years. I popped off the lock and passed it to him.

"Thanks." He took it and met my eyes, but only for a second.

"No problem." When he slung the lock through the open latch, I saw the 1492 stamped above it. I sang the little Columbus rhyme I'd learned in elementary school in my head.

"You must be.. Minjae." I said playfully.

He hesitated, looking lost. "Uh, no, Myungsoo. Kim Myungsoo."

"Mmm. I think I'll call you Minjae."

Myungsoo studied my poker face, furrowing his brow slightly, then nodded.

"I'm Park Jiyeon." I slid the camera into the bottom of my locker and reached for my books for next class.

I didn't expect a reply, so his voice surprised me. "Yeah, I think I'll call you.... Skinny Girl."

I suppressed a cringe. My skinny body was the most noticeable thing about me. Soyeon avoided talking about my body but she often glanced at it like there was something really wrong with it. Myungsoo's blunt recognition of the state of my body- I didn't quite know what to do with that. But I shot him a grin anyway. He seemed nice, and I wondered why I'd never talked to him before. Well, besides the fact that I rarely talked to boys.

"So, is that yours?" He motioned to the pink tank top draped over the camera box.

"Um, it was a gift." Even though it was folded and he couldn't see the Kleenex size of the thing, my face flushed. 

He scrunched up his face, looking between me and the tank. "Hmmm. Pink. Really?"

A small part of me loved the face that this total stranger could figure out this one thing about me: No, pastel pink is not my color- thanks, Mom. And Soyeon. Maybe you should take lessons from Myungsoo here.

He finished with his things and shut his locker. "See ya, Skinny."

As he fed his lock through its hole in the proper direction, I replied, "Going anywhere, Minjae?" 

I tapped his locer number, and suddenly the 1492 registered. He coughed out a laugh, nodded and walked away. Art class was next, and since I didn't want to run into Soyeon quite yet, I cut through the cafeteria to the electives wing. I hoped to ask Teacher Ahn if he'd marked my portfolio before class started.

Eagerness to check my grade may give the impression that I'm Artiste Extraordinaire. I'm not. I mean, I try. I've always loved the way the slightest change in shadow and light can give drastically different effects, but I only seem to recognize this in other people's project. I can't accomplish it myself. Besides, a few of Mr Ahn's tightly structured projects this year have killed my creativity.

Still, I worked really hard on the portfolio. It wasn't like I expected a college scholarship from it, but maybe an A.

When I rounded the corner into his room, Teacher Ahn emerged from a supply closet at the back.

"I was wondering if you've marked any of the portfolios," I said, breathless.

He waltzed toward his desk at the front, his eyebrows knit together. "Yes, I've marked a few, but I haven't seen yours. Are you sure you handed it in?"

Am I sure I handed it in? No, I just spent five hundred hours making it perfect and then left it at home. I cleared my throat and held back the sarcastic comment that was practically nose-diving off of my tongue about how mine was the very first portfolio handed in, well ahead of the due date.

"Positive," I told him, keeping my face straight.

He flipped through a pile of portfolios on the table behind him. When he uncovered my bright-red foler, I yelled "That's it!" as if he had just found my missing arm. He flipped throught it, and as he did, I could see sticky notes throughout with red-pen scratchings. His comments.

Finally, he shut it. "Um, no. I haven't had a chance to give it a final grade yet, I'm afraid." He glanced up to the clock. "I'm working my way through the pile and will have to go back over some of them again." The way he motioned toward the pile, you'd swear it reached the ceiling.

I swallowed, and walked to my seat, suddenly noticing the room was full. I was too stunned to say "Thanks for checking," or anything at all to anyone.

It's not like I needed to be a natural performer or good with boys, like Soyeon. Or multi-talented and popular like my sister. All I've ever wanted was to be kind of good at thing. Worth a second look. Maybe a compliment.

But not only was my work not good enough for an A, it wasn't good enough to remember.