Chapter 5 Monroe #2
The man who enters is older—maybe around fifties or early sixties—with silver-gray hair cropped short and neat. He’s compact and sturdy, not tall but carrying himself with a calm and quiet authority that immediately commands attention.
His face is weathered but kind, with warm brown eyes that crinkle slightly at the corners. He wears a modest cardigan over a button-down shirt, the picture of an unassuming academic.
This must be the Mr. Noh Kelly was just telling me about.
He steps to the front of the room and clears his throat. Any remaining chatter dies off.
“Good morning,” he says with a small bow of his head.
“For those I haven’t met yet, I’m Noh Myeong-su, the new gyogam.
I won’t take up too much of your time with introductions—I’m sure you’re all eager to prepare for your students.
I have been an educator for over ten years, and have worked previously in Incheon and Daegu, but have most recently been transferred to Busan.
Suffice it to say I’m happy to be here, and I look forward to working with all of you this year. ”
Brief and sensible. To the point.
I’m relieved he isn’t prattling on and on about himself like some people in higher positions in academia.
“Now, onto business,” he goes on, clasping his hands behind his back.
“First, we will be conducting an evacuation drill this Thursday at ten a.m. I expect all faculty to review the updated procedures and ensure your students are prepared.
There will be no exceptions for tardiness or confusion—safety is not optional.
“Second, as some of you may have noticed, renovations to the cafeteria have been completed over the break. The new layout will affect lunch schedules for the first- and second-grade levels. Revised times have been posted in the main office and sent to your school email accounts. Please review them before the end of the day.”
His gaze sweeps the room, calm but assessing. I listen attentively, trying to get a read on him.
Kelly was right that he’s not particularly cheery. But it seems to be his natural demeanor to be business-like and matter of fact. Qualities I don’t necessarily have issues with from a boss.
“Last, a reminder that the Ministry of Education has issued updated curriculum standards for English and Mathematics instruction,” he explains. “Department heads will be distributing materials later this week—”
I’m in the middle of jotting down notes about the drill procedures when it hits me.
The nausea comes on suddenly, a wave of queasiness that rolls through my stomach and makes me break out in an instant cold sweat.
I press a hand to my stomach, willing it to pass, but it only intensifies.
Oh no. Not here. Not now.
Not in the middle of a faculty meeting!
I push back from the table, my chair scraping against the floor. Heads turn in my direction—including Mr. Noh’s, his speech faltering mid-sentence.
“Excuse me,” I sputter, already beelining for the door. “I’m sorry, I just—excuse me.”
I don’t wait for a response. I hurry out of the lounge and down the hall, making it to the women’s restroom just in time to empty my stomach into the nearest toilet.
The retching is violent and miserable, leaving me trembling and sweaty by the time it finally subsides.
More morning sickness.
Dr. Gong warned me it might get worse before it gets better.
I stay in the bathroom longer than necessary, partly because I’m not sure my stomach’s truly settled and partly because I’m dreading the walk of shame back to the faculty lounge.
Everyone saw me bolt out of there like the building was on fire. They’re probably all whispering about it right now.
When I finally gather myself and make my way back, the meeting has ended. Some teachers are filing out while others remain at their tables, laptops open, preparing their lesson plans.
Kelly spots me immediately and waves me over, her expression pinched with concern.
“Monroe! Are you okay? You looked like you were about to pass out.”
“I’m fine,” I mumble, sinking into the chair beside her. “Just... probably something I ate. I did have yogurt, and it’s been in our fridge for a while.”
Kelly studies me with narrowed eyes. “You do look kind of green.”
I blink at her. “Kelly, I’m Black.”
“So! You can still look green. I can totally tell. Are you sure you’re not coming down with something?”
Before I can respond, someone approaches our table from my periphery.
I look up to find Mr. Noh standing beside us, a steaming mug cradled in his hands. His expression is difficult to read at first, his dark eyes even more crinkled at the corners than they naturally are.
My stomach clenches with a different kind of anxiety. I interrupted his meeting. He’s probably here to reprimand me. Remind me that professional conduct means not fleeing the room in the middle of important announcements.
But instead, he extends the steaming mug toward me.
“Monroe Ross, is that correct? One of my second-year English teachers. I noticed you weren’t feeling well,” he says. “I thought this might help. It’s Saenggang-cha—ginger tea with some honey added. It’s very good for settling an anxious stomach.”
“Oh…” I stammer, caught off guard by the kind gesture. “That’s... thank you, Mr. Noh. You didn’t have to do that.”
“It’s no trouble. It helped my wife through her pregnancy many years ago.” He offers a small, warm smile. “If you’re still unwell, we have a substitute teacher on standby. There’s no shame in taking a day to recover.”
“I’m okay. Really. It’s nothing serious.”
He nods and takes a step back. “Well, the offer stands. As educators, we must remember to take care of ourselves.”
“I’d love some tea too, Mr. Noh. If you’re offering,” Kelly interjects.
“Actually, I’m afraid I’ve run out, Kristy. Perhaps next time.” His gaze drops to the papers spread in front of her. “Have you finished your lesson plan yet? I believe those were due this morning.”
Kelly’s mouth opens then closes. He walks away before she can formulate a response.
“Kristy?” she hisses once he’s out of earshot. “My name is Kelly. We’ve met three times now! See what I mean? He’s so... ugh.”
But I’m only half listening.
I wrap my hands around the warm mug, the heat seeping into my palms, and I take a tentative sip. The tea is good—hot and soothing, with just enough sweetness to take the edge off the ginger.
My stomach still feels unsettled, and the morning’s nausea has left me drained.
Eleven weeks down. Twenty-eight more to go.
I swallow another sip and hope for my sake—and the baby’s—the rest of this pregnancy gets easier.