Nine Group Photos

Three months after joining the neighborhood badminton club, Haein volunteered to take a group photo for the gym noticeboard. After practice, nine people gathered beside the court. A shuttlecock rolled behind them.

They were inviting new members. A single photo would go beneath the meeting time and contact details. Haein fixed her phone to a tripod. Their usual photographer, the club secretary, wanted to join them.

Myeongseok, the chairman, arranged everyone by height. Juhui moved because the lights reflected in her glasses. Daeho picked up his racket, then lowered it. “Should we hold these? It is a sports club.” Myeongseok nodded. “Pick mine up as well, then.”

Haein set a ten-second timer and ran into place. All nine were there. Only Juhui had her eyes closed. “They were open a moment before,” she said immediately. Nobody doubted her.

In the second, Haein stepped on Daeho’s foot while finding a space. His mouth opened, and two people laughed. In the third, Myeongseok reached out to bring Haein closer. Half her face disappeared behind his arm.

After nine attempts, everyone was sweating again. They could return difficult shots, but not stand still. The caretaker switched off a distant light. They needed to clear the court for the next group.

They crowded around a bench to change their shoes. Fingers reached toward Haein’s screen. “This one.” “I prefer the last.” Myeongseok took the phone. “Look at the whole group.” Then he enlarged his own face.

Daeho chose the second photo, where Haein stepped on him. His hair was clear of his forehead. Only the fourth had no glare on Juhui’s glasses. Myeongseok preferred the tidy first picture. From a distance, he said, her closed eyes barely showed.

“From a distance, nobody’s eyes show,” Juhui said. Myeongseok moved the phone closer, then farther away. The secretary numbered the pictures and posted them in the group chat. One person voted twice; the replies exceeded nine.

Someone suggested cutting out the best faces and combining them. Haein compared Myeongseok’s shoulder with Juhui’s tilted head. “Their necks might look strange if I do it.” Daeho tucked his chin in. “Make mine shorter, please.”

To compare the nine pictures, Haein arranged them in a small grid on her screen. She still wanted one. From the end of the bench, Juhui leaned toward the phone. “Wait. Show it like that again.”

It had been harder to see one frame at a time. Myeongseok’s hand rose and fell. Daeho opened his mouth, then laughed. Haein squeezed through a slightly different gap each time. The middle stayed almost still; both ends were busy.

Juhui pointed at Daeho in the second square. “That’s when you shouted?” He nodded. “Luckily, photos don’t record sound.” In the last square, the secretary discovered he was the only person holding his racket upside down.

Haein widened the spaces between the pictures. Instead of assembled faces, there were the same people moving nine times. “Weren’t we choosing one photo?” Myeongseok asked. She turned the screen toward him. “It’s still one file.”

He did not laugh. He studied the grid. “Won’t our faces be too small on the noticeboard?” Haein suggested a larger print. The bottom of the board was still empty. The time and contact details could sit outside the pictures.

The secretary outlined a sheet of paper with his hands. “Anyone interested in faces can come closer,” Juhui said. “From far away, we’ll look like a club that exercises nine times.” Daeho corrected her. He stood still eight times and suffered once.

Before saving it, Haein asked, “There’ll be pictures you dislike in here. Is that all right?” Juhui enlarged the first square. Beside her, Myeongseok looked exceptionally solemn. “Not that one on its own. All nine together are fine.”

Daeho agreed, provided she left his neck alone. The others passed the phone around, checking where they had been looking. Myeongseok noticed his arm reaching across Haein in the third photo. “People might think I was keeping you out.”

She pointed to the next square. His arm had lowered; her face appeared. Myeongseok looked between them. Then he asked her to keep the heading short. If they wanted room for the pictures, they had to leave some words out.

On Monday evening, Haein brought the print to the gym. Nine squares sat under Saturday Morning Badminton, with clear contact details and times below. The secretary held the sheet while she pressed pins into its four corners.

One edge looked crooked. As he reached to straighten it, she suggested looking from farther back first. They took three steps away. The paper was straight; the noticeboard’s frame was not. He left the pins alone and went to change his shoes.

On Saturday, a stranger opened the court door, smiling. He had seen their notice. Haein expected a question about where she stood in the pictures. Instead, he asked who had stepped on whose foot in the second one.

Daeho approached with his racket. “We’re still waiting for a confession.” Haein raised her hand and pointed to the empty court. “Come in. We aren’t taking photos today.” The new member put on his sports shoes and joined them.

After practice, Juhui photographed the noticeboard with her own phone. Her picture included all nine images and the pins holding them up. Haein offered to send the original file. Juhui shook her head. “I’ll use this one.”