Her Secret Lucky Charm

The hum of the overhead projector was the only thing filling the silence of Mr. Henderson’s classroom after the final bell. I sat at my desk, staring at the mid-term paper in front of me. The red ink of the ‘D-’ looked like a wound. History had always been a blur of dates and dead people to me, a puzzle where the pieces refused to fit.

"You’re a good kid," Mr. Henderson said, leaning against his desk. "But you’re drowning. If you don't pass the final, you’re looking at summer school. I’ve already spoken to a tutor for you. She’s the best student in the grade."

I looked up, expecting some senior I’d never met. Instead, standing in the doorway was Park Minju.

She looked exactly the same as she did when we were ten, just taller and more poised. Her dark hair was tucked neatly behind her ears, and she held her books to her chest like a shield. We had grown up three houses apart, spent our summers catching cicadas and our winters sharing heat packs. But then she became a trainee for a K-pop label, and I became... well, just a guy trying to get through high school. We hadn’t spoken more than a "hello" in three years.

"Hey," she said, that soft, melodic voice of hers cutting right through my internal crisis.

I looked up, feeling the heat climb my neck faster than a fever. "Hey, Minju. I assume you're here to witness the crime scene?" I gestured weakly at the bloody 'D-' on my desk. "I guess Henderson told you I’m officially a lost cause."

She didn't look horrified. Instead, she pulled out the chair next to mine, spinning it around to sit backward with a grace that definitely wasn't in the student handbook.

"A lost cause? No," she said, leaning her chin on her crossed arms, looking at me with a smirk that was way too confident. "I just think you’re allergic to 18th-century politics. It happens to the best of us."

She reached out, flicking the corner of my failing paper with a perfectly manicured nail. "I told Mr. Henderson I’d take on the 'charity case,'" she said, her eyes tracing the disastrous red marks on my paper. "I mean, if you think your ego can handle being rescued by a girl who doesn't have to Google the difference between a treaty and a teapot, that is."

I let out a dry laugh, leaning back. "I think my ego is already dead, Minju. I’d be an idiot to say no to the smartest girl in school."

"Good," she chirped, her eyes dancing with a mischief I hadn't seen in years. "Because I already bought a new pack of highlighters for your messy notes. We start tomorrow. Don't be late, History Boy."

Our first session was at her house that Friday. Walking into her room felt like stepping back in time, yet everything was different. It still smelled like the vanilla candles she loved, but now there were dance shoes in the corner and a calendar filled with grueling practice schedules for her group, ILLIT.

"Okay, let's start with the Industrial Revolution," she said, patting the spot on her bed next to her.

As she talked, explaining the complex shifts in society as if she were telling a piece of gossip, I found it hard to focus on the text. I was too busy noticing the way she chewed her lip when she was thinking, and how she still used the same sparkly pens she liked in middle school.

"Are you even listening?" she asked, poking my arm with her highlighter.

"Yeah! Steam engines. Coal. Shift to urban centers," I rattled off.

She giggled, a sound that made my heart do a weird, fluttering dance. "Good. You’re smarter than you let people think."

What I didn't know—what I couldn't have possibly guessed—was that Minju wasn't just being a good classmate. Every time I looked down at my notes, she was stealing glances at me. She had kept every birthday card I’d ever given her, tucked away in a box under her bed. To her, this wasn't a chore; it was the chance she’d been waiting for since we stopped walking to school together.

By the second week, I noticed how tired she looked. She had practice until 11 PM and then stayed up to finish her own schoolwork before meeting me. I wanted to do something to thank her, something that wasn't just a "thanks" over a textbook.

Before our next session at my house, I stopped at the corner shop. I bought a bar of dark chocolate with sea salt—the only one she ever really liked—and a small bouquet of white tulips from the florist next door.

When she walked into my room, she looked exhausted, her shoulders slumped. I handed her the flowers and the chocolate before she could even take off her backpack.

"What's this?" she asked, her eyes widening.

"A thank-you gift," I said, rubbing the back of my head. "I know you're busy with training and everything. I just wanted you to know I appreciate you helping me. You don't have to do this, but you are."

Minju stared at the tulips, her fingers trembling slightly as she touched the petals. For a long moment, she didn't say anything. When she finally looked up, her eyes were glassy. "You remembered the tulips? I haven't mentioned those since we were kids."

"I remember a lot of things, Minju," I said softly.

The atmosphere in the room shifted. It wasn't just two classmates anymore. She sat down on my floor, leaning against my bed, and for the first time, we didn't open the history book for twenty minutes. We talked about her members in ILLIT, how she missed her mom’s cooking, and how she felt like she was constantly living in a whirlwind.

"Sometimes I feel like I'm disappearing," she whispered, looking at the chocolate bar in her lap. "But when I'm here, tutoring you... I feel like just Minju again."

I sat down next to her, our shoulders brushing. "You'll always be just Minju to me. Even when you're famous."

She leaned her head on my shoulder, and I froze, my heart hammering against my ribs. She didn't pull away. We stayed like that for a long time, the history of the world forgotten in favor of our own.

The following Tuesday, she was over again. This time, her phone started buzzing incessantly. It was a FaceTime call from her group members.

"Oh no," she muttered, looking panicked. "If I don't answer, they'll come looking for me."

She answered, and immediately the screen was full of bright faces. "Minju-unnie!" Yunah’s voice boomed through the speakers. "Are you with him? The boy you're always talking about?"

Minju’s face turned a shade of red I didn't think was humanly possible. "Yunah! Be quiet! I'm studying!"

"Is that him in the background?" Moka chimed in, squinting at the screen. "He's cute! No wonder you have those old photos of him in your locker!"

"Goodbye!" Minju squeaked, hanging up so fast she almost threw the phone across the room.

The silence that followed was heavy. I looked at her, my brain trying to process what I’d just heard. "You talk about me to the girls?"

Minju covered her face with her hands. "They’re teasing. They’re just mean."

"And the photos in your locker?" I prompted, a slow smile spreading across my face.

Minju’s eyes darted toward the window, her hands suddenly very busy straightening the edges of my history textbook. "They’re just... memories. From when we were neighbors. It’s for good luck, I guess."

She didn't look back at me, but I could see the tips of her ears turning a bright, unmistakable pink. I didn't push it. There was something fragile and nice about the way we were right now—suspended in this space where we weren't just the 'smart girl' and the 'failing student' anymore.

"Well," I said, leaning back on my elbows, "I’m glad I can be your lucky charm. Even if I’m currently failing the subject you’re trying to teach me."

She finally looked at me, a small, playful glint in her eyes. "Then you should work harder so I don't lose my luck."

The weeks that followed turned into a rhythm I didn't want to break. Tutoring wasn't a chore anymore; it was the anchor of my week.

One evening, we were at her house. The air was thick with the scent of the white tulips I’d brought her two days ago—she’d placed them right in the center of her desk in a glass vase. We were sitting on the floor, surrounded by maps of the Pacific Theater, when a heavy rain started to lash against her window.

"The light is getting bad," Minju murmured, leaning over to turn on her desk lamp.

As she moved, she lost her balance slightly, her hand reaching out to steady herself on my shoulder. She didn't pull away immediately. For a few seconds, the only sound was the rain and the soft tick of the clock on her wall. I looked at her, noticing the way the golden lamplight caught the dark brown of her eyes.

"You have a smudge of ink on your cheek," I whispered.

She blinked, looking startled. "Where?"

"Here." I reached out, my thumb grazing the soft skin of her cheekbone.

She froze, her breath hitching just enough for me to hear it. I wiped the small mark away, but I let my hand linger for a second longer than necessary. Minju didn't move away. Instead, she leaned into the touch almost imperceptibly, her gaze dropping to my lips before she quickly looked back at the map.