Sooyoung's note asked if I had finished. I had.
At my high school in Busan, South Korea, we ate dinner at our desks and opened our books again when we were done. Outside the windows, the last of the light had gone; inside, every desk was occupied. Evening study was optional, though I didn't know anyone who went home. At ten, the vans would take us to the academy (aka, hagwon).
I'd spent most of the hour on one problem. My first answer was right, but I couldn't have explained why. I began again and found the step I'd taken without understanding it. This time the solution held from the first line to the last. I liked the moment when I could see the whole thing clearly. Finishing early did nothing to bring the bell nearer.
I could have written yes on Sooyoung's note. She might have put it away. Instead I wrote almost and slid it back to her.
She was sitting just ahead of me. I watched her read my answer, then tuck her hair behind one ear and write something underneath it.
Hair up tomorrow?
I looked at the hair spilling over the back of her chair. Down, I wrote. She gathered it in one hand and held it on top of her head for me to see. I crossed out my answer, wrote Up, and passed the note back. She turned halfway around and narrowed her eyes. I covered my mouth with my workbook before I laughed. We were supposed to be quiet; a few girls looked up, then bent over their pages again.
For the rest of study, I worked on another problem. Now and then Sooyoung tried her hair both ways, though she had stopped asking me. I would look up and find her looking back.
At ten, we packed our books. On the van, she sat beside me with her hair down. The note was still folded inside my workbook. I opened it once more under the reading light. Beside Have you finished? my answer was still Almost.