Free Fox Girl by Nora Okja Keller

how long she should stay awake. Sookie leaned against me, and I leaned against the wall as we shuffled along.
    We passed the building where two missionary women had set up a school for the throwaway children of the neighborhood. We passed the open window and heard the children roaring their answers to each of the teacher’s questions:
    â€œWhat are you?”
    â€œAmerican!”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œOur fathers are American!”
    â€œWhich is better: Korea or America?”
    â€œAmerica!”
    â€œWhere do you want to go?”
    â€œAmerica!”
    I looked in at the group of chanting children and saw Lobetto staring out the window at us. Our Respected Teacher had suggested Lobetto change schools after Lobetto’s father left for the United States. When Lobetto saw us looking, he pointed to Sookie and, holding a hand like a cup, tilted his head back like he was drinking a beer.
    I shook my head and mouthed, No.
    Lobetto made a rude gesture by poking his index finger in and out of the cup of his other hand.
    As I gasped, he shuffled his fingers so only one finger stuck up.
    I pointed a finger back at him.
    â€œWrong finger,” Sookie commented. I thought her eyes had been closed while we walked, but she had been watching me.
    â€œWhat?” I grumbled, looking at my index finger.
    Sookie laughed, a quiet laugh. Through the window I could also see Lobetto holding his sides in laughter as well. “Doesn’t matter,” she mumbled. “Can we go home now? I’m tired and I want to eat.”
    Guiltily, I realized Sookie hadn’t eaten that morning, and I didn’t know if she had had dinner the night before either. Or, for that matter, when she had last eaten at all. I thought of the two eggs in my bag. “It’s your own fault for skipping breakfast,” I grumbled. Though I was hungry now too, I still planned to give her both eggs. She could eat them at her apartment, then rest. But if she looked like she would fall asleep, I would make her get up and walk again.
    We cut through the courtyard between two apartments, ducking under a line of sheets hanging to dry. On clinic day, lines of laundry zigzagged throughout America Town: large flags of men’s shorts, tiny butterfly wings of black and red lace, and diaphanous wraps and gowns—peach and pink ghosts—flapped and quivered in the wind.
    On the wall of the apartment next to Sookie’s someone had scrawled: “GOMSHI. SIR NIGGER, GO HOME.” And under that, as if in response, another someone had scribbled in English, “FOK YOU. I AM.” I thought that it could have been Lobetto; at his new school, he had learned to write English swear words better than anybody.
    At her place, Sookie fumbled for the key around her neck. Pulling the chain out of her shirt, she leaned over and stretched it to jiggle the key in the lock. “I’m stuck,” she croaked.
    With Sookie’s head bumping against the door, I twisted the key and the knob. The door opened with a quick jerk, yanking Sookie—still attached at the neck—over the threshold and onto her knees.
    â€œSookie!” I pulled on the key, trying not to jostle her further. “Are you all right?” The lock finally released the key with a scraping sigh while Sookie, kneeling on the ground with one hand cradling her head and the other her neck, groaned in short, hiccuppy bursts.
    When I ran to hold her, I saw that she was laughing, not crying. She dropped her hands, and I saw her lump was now accompanied by a long rash on her neck. “Let me take a look,” I scolded. Gingerly, I held her head in my hands and peered at her wounds while she tried not to laugh in my face. “You’re messed up,” I announced.
    We both started laughing.
    When we were exhausted, sides sore from struggling to draw a clear breath free of laughter, we clambered to our feet. “Come on,” I said, taking her elbow to lead her