The ‘noisiness’ of the new semester gradually turned into ‘busyness’ after a few days and became ‘chaos’ as a month passed.

Essentially, nothing had changed.

For Kim Hee-yeon, a third-year elementary school teacher, taking charge of a first-grade class was a daunting task. However, due to circumstances best described as ‘adult complexities’, she found herself reluctantly assigned to this role. With limited experience, managing a nearly chaotic class of first graders was no easy feat. As a result, experienced teachers from neighboring classes often had to step in to help manage her classroom. Thankfully, or perhaps due to a month’s adjustment to school life, the students’ behavior improved enough to conduct classes once the lessons began. Hee-yeon had to content herself with this level of improvement. Yet, the noise level during breaks was akin to airplane engines, and stationed by the classroom window, Hee-yeon could only clutch her head in frustration.

‘If only it were gym time all morning…’

She thought this would keep the children busy in the playground, possibly getting hurt and requiring more of her attention, yet it seemed a preferable alternative to the current pandemonium.

Glancing briefly around the classroom, she felt compelled to shout.

“Ji-hoon, don’t climb on the desk. You might get hurt. Hee-jin, come down from the window, please. And in the back! No running! You might fall!”

Amidst this chaos, one child caught her eye. Known among the parents for his handsome features, he sat quietly at his desk by the window, an outlier in the noisy classroom. He was always reading—mostly textbooks, though sometimes he delved into fairy tales of unclear origins. During lessons, his bright eyes made contact with hers, attentively listening to her voice, which was somewhat overwhelming for Hee-yeon, but also brought a sense of pride and satisfaction that at least one student was engaged in learning.

Unperturbed by the teacher’s gaze, the child remained focused on his book, enjoying a relatively content life lately. The lessons, rich with new information, satisfied his intellectual curiosity, and he found particular joy in learning from the textbooks. Regardless of the curriculum pace, understanding the content brought him a pleasure close to euphoria, especially in mathematics during after-school lessons. Each problem solved was a victory, deepening his satisfaction and helping order the chaos around him.

While he was immersed in his studies, someone tapped his shoulder; it was Ji-hoon. A month into the new term, Ji-hoon had already made a name for himself in the class. While lively in a positive sense, his behavior better suited the label of ‘mischief-maker.’ He could hardly sit still during lessons, often dashing out claiming a bathroom break, then turning it into a game of tag, gleefully eluding the pursuing teacher. During breaks, he would jump from desk to desk, reveling in the thrill, showing a flair for creativity that often ended up distressing a classmate.

Such was Ji-hoon, approaching the child with a mischievous grin, his followers in tow.

“You look like a plaster statue,” Ji-hoon declared.

The child, puzzled, listened as Ji-hoon continued.

“My sister said you look like a plaster statue from her drawing class. You’re like one of those statues. You’re Plaster.”

The context of the statement was lost on the child, who stood confused. In fact, this was a piece of gossip from a parents’ SNS chat, initially sparked during the entrance ceremony when a parent compared his refined features to ‘sculpted marble,’ leading to another parent mentioning the ‘Julian’ plaster used in drawing classes. Although the online conversation had spiraled into various other comparisons, the essence about his sculptural beauty reached Ji-hoon’s ears.

“I’m Plaster,” the child muttered to himself as other children clapped and laughed, finding humor in Ji-hoon’s labeling.

This incident branded him with the nickname “Plaster,” which soon spread beyond his classmates. Even Myung-soo from the next class started calling him by this new moniker at the orphanage. While the childcare teacher found the nickname endearing, she worried it might hurt the child, aware that such tags could sometimes deeply affect children.

However, the child didn’t seem bothered. He didn’t grasp why ‘Plaster’ should upset him, partly because it seemed a better alias compared to nicknames from his past. In his previous life in the slums, he had been called “Scrofa,” or “wild boar,” for always running through the forest, often coming home covered in mud.

As summer approached, people began wearing short sleeves, indicating the warmth of the season. Volunteers continued to visit the orphanage regularly, and the grass in the yard grew fiercely, threatening to scratch the ankles of playing children, though it was quickly tended to by the volunteers. The childcare teachers had to keep an eye to ensure the kids didn’t venture into the overgrown areas.

“See you later!” the children shouted as they disembarked from the childcare teacher’s minivan at the elementary school. Along with Myung-soo and the child, other students from various grades walked toward the school gate. While older students displayed maturity, the younger ones, especially Myung-soo, energetically dragged the child into the school, too excited to slow down. Unconcerned, the older students walked with noticeably heavier steps.

Despite appearing forced, the child enjoyed these lively morning dashes, especially since discovering the school library housed an impressive collection of books, a delightful haven he could access due to their early arrival. Dropping his bag off in the classroom, he dashed to the library.

“First again today,” greeted the librarian, unlocking the door.

With a shy smile, the child nodded, “Yes.”

“Go on in,” the librarian motioned as he headed to the desk. The child bowed slightly in thanks and hurried to the shelves. The musty scent of aged books filled his nostrils—a sweet aroma to him—and he quickly selected three books to immerse himself in for the day. While he wasn’t yet capable of digesting thicker volumes, the variety and content of the books catered sufficiently to his budding intellectual curiosity. He was blissfully unaware of how these structured learning opportunities were swiftly bridging the gap in his knowledge, shaped by years without such educational foundations.

Moreover, diving into books allowed him an escape from lingering memories of past hardships, offering solace and a semblance of control over his new life.

Hee-yeon entered the classroom after a morning meeting. The children, like uncooked popcorn kernels heating in oil, seemed ready to burst at any moment. While they appeared slightly more restrained with the teacher present, the buzz of their collective whispers soon escalated into a noisy hum.

Among them, the child known as “Julian” but nicknamed “Plaster,” was absorbed in reading, unaffected by the surrounding tumult. As the semester progressed, his focus and academic performance had begun to stand out significantly. Hee-yeon found it hard to believe he was from the orphanage, given his profound engagement with his studies.

The bell for class rang.

“Alright, let’s start class. What’s our first subject today?”

“Family!” the children chorused.

Hee-yeon managed a private chuckle at their chirpy response, though her heart sank a bit whenever she caught the child’s sorrow-filled eyes during these lessons. Despite being a relatively new teacher, she couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt looking at him, a reminder of the complex emotional landscapes these children navigated daily.