Chanel’s American Dream

Chapter 3: The New Girl

English class is nothing like I expected.

In Korea, literature meant rigid interpretations and rehearsed analyses, like we were reading textbooks instead of stories. Here, it’s as if the subject has been flipped upside down and injected with caffeine. The teacher—Mr. Rodriguez—bursts into the room with an energy that feels contagious. He’s wearing a vintage Rolling Stones t-shirt, ripped jeans, and a messenger bag covered in random pins and patches.

The classroom matches his vibe. Posters of literary icons—Shakespeare, Maya Angelou, and even Stephen King—hang alongside memes and pop-culture quotes. A mural covers the back wall: graffiti-like artwork of books, swirling colors, and a massive quote reading, *"Live your story."*

“New face,” Mr. Rodriguez says, pointing directly at me. His smile is wide and inviting, but the attention sends a jolt through me.

“You must be Chanel Kim.”

Every head turns. *Here we go.* I feel the weight of their stares, their curiosity sharp and intrusive.

“Welcome to American Literature,” he continues, setting his bag down on the desk. “Where we don’t just read stories—we *live* them.”

The class chuckles. I try to sink lower in my chair, but my bucket list burns in my pocket. I remind myself why I’m here. This is part of my journey. Part of my rebellion.

From two rows over, Lori waves dramatically. Her grin is as exaggerated as the wink she throws my way. The dried splash of blue paint on her cheek is still there, an unapologetic smudge of defiance.

“Introduce yourself,” Mr. Rodriguez prompts.

I clear my throat. Public speaking isn’t my thing, but blending in isn’t my goal anymore.

“I’m Chanel,” I say, my voice wavering slightly. “I just moved here from Korea.”

Before I can say more, a lanky boy in the back raises his hand. His hoodie—emblazoned with the Star Wars logo—looks like it hasn’t left his body in weeks.

“Do you know BTS?” he asks, deadpan.

Laughter ripples through the room. My face burns. This is the kind of attention I don’t want.

Before I can respond, someone else speaks up. “Seriously, Josh? That’s the dumbest question ever.”

The voice belongs to a boy sitting a few desks away. He’s quiet, almost shrinking into himself, but there’s a sharpness to his tone that cuts through the teasing. His shaggy brown hair hangs over his forehead, and his soft, downcast eyes seem to hold secrets.

“Thanks,” I murmur, unsure what else to say.

“I’m Stephen,” he replies quietly, barely audible over the class’s chatter. He looks back down at his desk, scribbling something in his notebook.

Mr. Rodriguez claps his hands, commanding attention. “All right, class! Today, we’re shaking things up. Personal narrative writing. Your task: Write about a moment that changed everything.”

The room groans in unison, but my stomach twists. A moment that changed everything? My mind flashes to my bucket list. To leaving Korea. To the desperate need to carve out my own identity.

“And,” Mr. Rodriguez adds, “you’ll be working in pairs. You’ll share your drafts and give each other feedback.”

*Of course.*

He starts assigning pairs. When he gets to Stephen, he gestures toward me. “Stephen, you’re with our new student.”

Stephen looks up, startled, and then back at his desk. If he’s nervous, it matches the unease spreading through me.

We relocate to the corner of the room, dragging our desks together. Stephen’s notebook is already open, and I can see scribbles of what look like song lyrics alongside intricate doodles of guitars and constellations.

“You first,” he says softly, not looking up.

I hesitate, staring at the blank page in my notebook. Sharing something so personal with someone I barely know feels risky. But wasn’t that why I came here? To take risks?

“I left everything behind,” I begin, my voice shaky but steadying with each word, “because I wanted to find myself.”

Stephen looks up, meeting my eyes for the first time. His expression softens, like he’s seeing me for who I really am.

“What do you mean?” he asks. His voice is quiet but full of curiosity, as if he genuinely wants to understand.

I glance down at my notebook, my fingers tracing the edges of the paper. “Back home, I was... perfect. The perfect student. The perfect daughter. I followed every rule. But it felt like I wasn’t living my own life. So when we moved here, I promised myself I’d be different.”

He nods slowly, his gaze never leaving mine. “That sounds... brave.”

I let out a nervous laugh. “I don’t feel brave. Just... scared. But maybe that’s the same thing.”

Stephen doesn’t reply right away. Instead, he flips to a fresh page in his notebook, his pencil moving in quick strokes.

“What about you?” I ask, tilting my head toward him.

His pencil pauses. “I—” He exhales sharply, then shrugs. “It’s nothing as big as leaving a whole country. Just... stuff.”

“Stuff?”

“Family. Friends. Things that didn’t work out.” His voice is barely above a whisper, and his posture tightens, as if he’s guarding something fragile.

I want to ask more, but something tells me not to push. Instead, I focus on the moment. On the connection forming between us, quiet but undeniable.

We sit in silence for a while, the sounds of the classroom fading into the background. Stephen starts writing, his pencil moving steadily, and I do the same.

By the time Mr. Rodriguez calls time, I’ve written half a page about the day I decided to create my bucket list. About how that single act felt like reclaiming a piece of myself I didn’t know I’d lost.

Stephen glances at my notebook, his eyes scanning the words. “That’s... really good,” he says, a hint of awe in his voice.

“Thanks.” I smile, feeling a warmth I haven’t felt all day.

As the bell rings and we pack up, Stephen hesitates. “Hey, um...” He pauses, his voice faltering. “If you ever want to talk more... about, you know, stuff... I’m around.”

“Thanks, Stephen.”

Walking out of the classroom, I can’t shake the feeling that this day has been more than just a step into a new life. It’s been a c***k in the walls I’ve built around myself. And Stephen, with his quiet demeanor and kind eyes, might just be the first person to slip through.