I

    “Okay, let’s start with why you want to come to Collingwood. What attracts you to our school?” When I hear the question, my head is filled with words I’ve memorized. I try to combine them into coherent phrases.
    “Uhh…” I take a breath, “I want to enroll at Collingwood because it has such a great…” my mind goes blank and my confused face betrays me. “I forgot what to say.”

    “Community” mouths my tutor. I snap back to my speech right away.

    “Community. I definitely would enjoy my new life, meeting great friends and teachers.” My tutor taps her pen on the table for a while, then bobs her head forward.

    “Instead of ‘enjoy my new life’ let’s try ‘enjoy my new school life.’” She suggests. I nod.   
“I definitely would enjoy my new school life, meeting great friends and teachers.” I finish the sentence, my head still filled with the other keywords we’ve been practicing -- camaraderie, culture, traditions, cohesive, diversity.
“We’ll keep working on that one. For now, let’s move onto the next question.” I know it’s going to be about my future interests, but I still grit my teeth, and recall the phrases. “What would you like to be, when you grow up?”

Even at that very moment, I am mouthing the word: prosecutor.

“I would like to be a persecutor…” the tutor cuts me off there and vigorously shakes her head.

“Now. As I’ve told you before, it’s pronounced prosecutor. Let’s try pronouncing only that word. This is extremely important. Prah not Per.”
“Prosecutor. Prosecutor.” I try to etch the sound into my memory, but fretting that my tongue won’t do the job properly, I consider other options like doctor or businessman. If only “lawyer” were easier to say.
“Okay. Let’s try that again. What would you like to be when you grow up?”
“I would like to be a PRAH-secutor.” I pause to ensure that I’ve delivered the correct term before I continue. “...since I have a great interest in debating, and convincing people of ideas. Also, the work they do simply inspires me, to one day grow up, and be in their position.”
“Okay, but vague. We’ll keep working on that one, too.”
---
Remembering the previous evening’s interview prep, I turn to the plane window and whisper, “Prah-secutor, Prah-secutor.” Next to me, my mother is snoring slightly. I remind myself of the questions that would be asked, this time in the Collingwood admissions building, not at my kitchen table. I picture myself facing those questions with confidence and, what’s the word my tutor used? Pause? Poise? Speaking out the answers quietly to myself, I imagine the city of Vancouver. Yet, I can’t picture it without my hometown of Seoul flashing across my closed eyelids. I rest my head on the cushion seat and repeat once more, “community, prah-secutor.”

II

    Vancouver greets me, and I notice that the air is tinted with the smell of fresh rain. The streets are full of rectangular cars, their tires sliding across the rainy road. The hotel I’m staying in has a classical colonnade, with international flags flapping above the pediment. I scan for the flag of Korea, but give up. A day that is supposed to be full of exhilaration is rather filled with anxiety. The bright lights of the skyscrapers look dim that night. Gazing aimlessly out the window, I mouth the answers to the possible questions.

    ‘What if I murmur? What if my voice is too small? What if the words don’t come out?’  the worries choke me.
    “Honey, go to sleep early tonight. A big day awaits you tomorrow.” Hearing her gentle reminder, I rest my head on the pillow. But sleep doesn’t find me.
---
    I wake up with immense tension the next morning. The cold wind blows harshly through the slant of the opened window. I grab my notebook scribbled with the answers my tutor gave me. Through my half closed eyes, I read my notes over and over.

    “Honey, the car’s waiting outside, change quickly!” My mother yells from the doorway of our adjoining rooms. Still grasping my notebook, I snatch my khaki slacks and button down. Changed, I exit the hotel and spot the black SUV my parents booked waiting to transport me to campus.

    My stomach fiercely growls on the thirty-minute drive. Though the pain is urgent, I try hard to put focus on the spotted words in the notebook. My eyes are so busy scanning through the answers, that they miss the magnificent sight of Stanley Park’s trees looming over the car. One word catches my attention.

    “Prah-secutor.” I whisper. This will be fine, I half-heartedly assure myself.

    “We’re here,” my mom announces as she surveys the tree-lined driveway leading onto the sprawling, red-brick campus. Taking a deep breath, I glance up at the entrance building. I lightly step out of the car. A panorama of the sapphire blue ocean glinting with the sunlight is spread in front of the school.

    “What a view!” My father, who had otherwise been silent on the drive, grasps my shoulders. But even the view didn’t alleviate my nervousness.

    I enter the school. The blue and yellow flag is proudly hung on the tall wall. We wait on the wooden bench for someone to come. Soon enough, a stout, bald man with a leather notebook enters the lobby.

    “Good morning sir!” He offers me a wide smile. Next to me, my mother responds with her own toothy grin, but my facial muscles are frozen.

    “I assume you are here for the interview, and the test...?” The man questions, his eyes darting between my parents and me.
    “Yes,” I answer.
    “A teacher is going to fetch you soon, fella. Don’t forget your smile though!” He smiles again, and leaves. I feel a little relaxed. 

    A slim blonde woman holding a sheet of paper then walks slowly toward us. Looking at me, she asks for my name. As I reply, she smiles like the man did moments earlier, introduces herself as Ms. Bell, the 3rd grade life science teacher, and gestures for me to follow her. Doing as she asks me to, I take a good last look at my excited parents waving their hands. As I follow her through the colourful corridor, I study the student artwork proudly framed and displayed on the walls. 

    “This is not my classroom. But, eh, I guess we’ll borrow it for the interview since mine has been commandeered by the crafts committee for the upcoming carnival. Take a seat.” I sit upright in the chair, not using the back. The classroom is distractingly colorful, covered floor to ceiling with student projects and posters. There is a blown-up picture of Shakespeare hanging next to the cloudy chalkboard.

‘Think before you speak!’ A cartoonish-looking donkey is yelling in another poster by the door. The phrase makes me feel a little more at home. 

    “So. Let’s start with some questions. Where are you from?” The query is unexpected, though easy.
    “Korea.” The answer is brief.

    “I’m supposing it’s not the north.” She smiles, as if it were a joke. I nod.

    “Ok. Why do you want to come to Collingwood?” The words hit me like deja vu.

    “I want to enroll at Collingwood because it has such a great community. I definitely would enjoy my new life, meeting great friends and teachers.” Yikes. I said ‘life’ instead of ‘school life.’ A little improvisation would be fine. I assure myself.

    “Sounds great! Next question. What do you like to do in your leisure time?” As I’m about to speak the words I’ve practiced, kids wearing blue sweaters file into the classroom like a swarm of bees. Some stop in the doorway, and blankly stare at me.

    “Kids! Kids! The English teacher will be here shortly, okay? Meanwhile, please sit quietly and prepare for your lesson!” Then Ms. Bell turns to me with a chuckle. “Let’s get out of here. Didn’t keep track of recess time.” Still clinging onto the words that were about to spill, I nod, and get up from my seat. One kid’s eyes linger on me. He seems to scan me with certain curiosity. I glance down to see if my shirt is untucked or shoelaces are untied. My clothes are definitely not worthy of such staring. I wonder if I have something on my face. Soon, I am motioned by Ms. Bell to follow. Even as I exit the classroom, the boy looks at me, now with his head slanted and mouth open. I try to force a smile.

    I follow Ms. Bell up the stairs. The second floor is a little different. The walls are a light, airy beige. Framed photos of students doing volunteer work on what appears to be a school-sponsored field trip make me picture myself beside them, holding a shovel to plant a tree. As I walk deeper into the corridor, I notice the golden trophies and medals behind the smooth panes of glass. I visualize a debate trophy that has my name etched onto it, somewhere within the collection. I slightly smirk at my invisible victory. When I look forward, Ms. Bell carefully opens a wooden door and peeks her head in. I tiptoe behind, and try to look over her shoulders. A white-haired teacher in a pink cardigan and a young student leaning over an opened Spanish textbook, glance up at us. The student seems to be curious about me, as he looks up, and tilts his head slightly.

    “Oh! Mrs. Martin, I’m sorry, didn’t know you were having a tutoring session.” Ms. Bell whispers and cautiously closes the door. We peek into several other doorways, but they’re either locked or occupied. Sweat pools in my palms and I worry I might have to shake another administrator’s hand. I vigorously try to focus on the answers, but the unique layout of the school mesmerizes me. Clenching my fists, all I can do is hope that Ms. Bell finds an empty room. Finally, she makes a small ‘aha’ and enter a closely packed room.

    “I must apologize. Normally we set up shop in the admissions building, but the interview rooms are under construction this month. Please, take a seat.” She smiles. I forget to smile back because I am rehearsing my response.

“Okay. So what did I ask? Oh yes, your leisure activities,” Ms. Bell comments while glancing through her notes. She looks up and her piercing blue eyes settle on mine. “Why don’t you start with your answer?”

“I like to play the cello and read books, especially fantasy books, because they allow me to explore a completely different world than the one I’m living in.” I’m satisfied with my answer there and study her face for a reaction. She waits for a second then gives me a closed-mouth grin and a nod I cannot read.

“Great. Great. What is your dream profession?” Boom. In a split second, I try to recall the pronunciation: ‘prah-secutor.” I open my mouth, and deliver the daily-practiced speech.

“I would like to be a PRAH-secutor.” Internally, I sigh with relief. The pronunciation is well done. I realize I shouldn’t have paused. The rest of the answer does not come out my hanging jaws. Panicking, I try to recall the words. I tug on the cuff of my pant leg.

“Because I love debate, and talking to other persons.” I know ‘persons’ is grammatically awkward as soon as the question is finished. Days of practice seemed to collapse on me just at that moment. My focus loosens, and I’m slumped back in my chair. Ms. Bell is still running her pen on the paper.
    “Oh! I’m sorry. Are you finished?” She stares at me.
    “Yes” is all I say.

III

    “Good morning Ms. Bell.” As I clatter my polished shoes down the hallway, I pass by my favorite teacher. She warmly returns my smile. It’s been one year since the interview, but the image of my bitten nails is still vivid and makes me cringe.

    “Hey Simon!” I turn back to face the source of the voice. My friend Anderson is panting. His P.E. shirt from morning cross country practice is covered with sweat.

    “Whoah. Calm down,” I tease as I slowly retreat from him. The pungent smell permeates the air. He is holding a stack of stapled papers in his hands and his moist thumb is already leaving a smudge on the top sheet.
    “So for our group project on the dangers of nuclear power plants...” he begins. I nod, as I c*** my head slightly to take a decent look at the title page.

    “I brought the data on the amount of toxic waste the power plants in Japan created over the past five years, like you asked me to.” Excited to see the information, I take the sheet. “Just wanted to get it to you before I hit the showers so you could look it over first thing.”

    “Great! I will make the final touches. Henry and Will are aware that the due date got moved to tomorrow, right?” Anderson frantically nods, and motions that he has to run off. Slowly scanning through the graphs, I am awed by the pollutant spread through Japan after the explosion on Fukushima’s power plant. Deeply absorbed in the dumbfounding statistics offered by the universities in Japan, I take careful steps upstairs. In a moment, I’m thrown off balance. Stumbling, my feet landing on a lower step, I snag the railing and face Mr. Wright, the headmaster, quickly rummaging through all the papers he dropped.

    “I’m so sorry!” I exclaim and rush over and help him collect his things.

    “No problem Simon, it was my fault for burying my head in my work. Good day!” With a genuine smile, the headmaster runs off, his coffee sloshing from his mug while he runs his fingers through his messy hair with the papers still tucked under his arm.

The golden rays of light reflecting off the polished hallway trophies are perhaps too bright on that sunny September morning. Squinting, I  pause and study, as I do every day, the names etched onto the golden plaques.

I cannot hide my elation when I stop to read, “Vancouver Private Schools Debate Competition Winner: Simon Y.”
---
    “Kids, settle down, into your seats! Settle down! Put your books away!” Twenty minutes later, finishing up my chat with Anderson about organizing the graphs in chronological order, I sit upright in my chair and wait for Ms. Bell to call roll for our first period life science class. I notice a weary looking Asian boy in our school uniform standing next to Ms. Bell with his back hunched a little. Grabbing my textbook out of my navy backpack, I steal repeated glances at him. The class is aroused with whispers.

    “All right. All right. Calm down. Before we start class, I would like to introduce a new fella that’s going to join our crew for the rest of the semester.” The boy reddens a bit, perhaps embarrassed by the twenty sets of eyes darting towards him.

    “Ryan, why don’t you give a brief introduction of yourself to the class?” Ms. Bell steps aside and makes room for the new kid.

    “Uhh…” Everyone in the class is waiting as if they are children watching their mothers slowly extract a cookie from the jar. Ryan’s fingers are restlessly fidgeting with each other, and his eyes are rapidly spinning.

    “I’m, Ryan, and I uhh… my country is Korea. I want to.. want to..” He looks up to the ceiling, as if trying to recall the introduction speech he memorized with his tutor. His behaviours perfectly match mine during the first year at Collingwood. I remember myself radiating with embarrassment as I mumbled my own introduction.

    “...have a great school year with all of you.” An awkward silence follows his last remarks. Ms. Bell is the first one to break it, by clapping. Soon the entire class claps.

    “Since Ryan is new to the school, I’m going to have somebody guide him for the first few days. How about…” As everybody starts to look away from Ms. Bell, my eyes eagerly meet hers, “Aha! Ryan, take a seat next to Simon. Simon, I want you to answer Ryan’s questions about the school, and give a tour when you have a second.”

    “Sure.” As Ryan sits next to me, I open my mouth, “Don’t worry. This place is fantastic.”

---

    “Bye! See you tomorrow!” I wave to Will as he jumps into his parents’ car. My vision stretches beyond the stream of the carpool line to see a beautifully spread sea glimmering with the orange evening sunlight. I never took the view to be priceless when I first saw it. Now, it definitely is a masterpiece to me, unique to my new school, and home. The sun is setting, creating a beautiful collage of diverse hues.