Gilded (4 page)

“Dad,” I say. “Haraboji hates me. Why can’t we stay home? Think of the traffic.”

“He doesn’t hate you,” Dad says. There’s a pause as he barks something to one of his colleagues in Korean. “He’s upset with me, not you. But I think we worked things out. And it is Lunar. We must go. He is still family. Despite our differences.”

Guilt pulls at my chest. I’ve been so busy thinking about how awful my new life is that I hadn’t considered how hard the move was on Dad. This new job has turned him into a complete workaholic. He isn’t home much.

“Life didn’t seem so complicated in L.A.” I’m thinking of Mom and how it used to be with the three of us. Together. Before the cancer. Before the good-byes. And again I can’t help but think that if she was still with us, we never would have moved.

“It’s complicated anywhere you go. Just different complications.” Dad is silent then, and I worry I’ve said too much. But before hanging up he says, “You might even enjoy yourself. He lives near the beach.”

The thought of a beach perks me up for like two seconds. It will be freezing outside. Definitely not bikini weather. My muscles tighten. I’ve been home only ten minutes and already I’m stressing. Maybe it’s the fact that we live in a cramped, two-bedroom apartment. Back in L.A. we had a four-bedroom house and even a sunroom. And that home was full of
her
. Mom’s favorite chair where she drank her tea. The stain on the carpet where I knocked over the paints from her latest project. Her bookshelf, stuffed with volumes passed down from her own mother.

This apartment never knew Mom. And it feels as if I’ve lost her for good.

I sit on the floor and stare at my phone. Michelle’s going to be ticked when I tell her I can’t come to the concert at the Coffee Bean this weekend.

I text her.
Can’t come Sat. Have to visit fam.

Bummer! I already invited Marc!

Tell me u r joking.

She doesn’t reply. I roll my eyes, groaning.

Any news from Charlie?
I ask.

Not yet. Will keep you posted.

I’m getting ready to wallow in misery when I realize I’m going to be late for Tae Kwon Do class. I rummage through my dresser for my
dobok
, stuff the uniform into my duffle bag, and hurry out of the apartment. Once in the hallway, I skip the elevator. We live on the ninth floor, and often I take the stairs just
to hear the pounding of my sneakers echo through the stairwell. When I reach the last landing, I leap over the remaining stairs down to the main level, staggering and nearly colliding with the wall. The thrill of not knowing whether I’ll land or fall invigorates me. I’ve never fallen.

I steal across the building lobby, nod at the security guard, and push the glass doors open into the cold early evening. The air bites the back of my throat as I stroll down the uneven sidewalk.

There’s an odd assortment of shops along our busy road. The herbal store with the big jars of fermenting ginseng roots. I’ve always thought those roots look like cut-off fingers floating in vinegar.

There are the
hagwons
, or as Michelle calls them, “cram-schools,” with their advertisements promising all their students will go to Harvard. Yeah, right.

But my favorite is the doggie boutique where you can watch miniature dogs run around inside a glassed-in room, dolled up in polka-dot and striped outfits with bows.

Usually the dogs cheer me up if I’m feeling off; but, at the corner, I have this odd sense that someone is following me. I glance over my shoulder, but all I can see is the seafood restaurant’s tank packed full of squid.

I shake my head to clear my wild imagination and cross the street to where the vendors set up their carts. The fruit-and-veggie guy has plastic containers filled with strawberries stacked in the back of his weathered pickup. I’d stop for my usual steamed sweet potato fix from the wrinkled
ajumma
at her cart, but today there’s no time. Pale orange streaks the sky as the sun sets over the jagged mountains that ring Seoul. I clip it the rest
of the way to my
dojang
and take the stairs, running up the three stories to get my heart pumping. As I pass the dental office on the second floor, I can already hear the class counting in Korean:
hana
,
tul
,
set
,
net
….

Crap. I’m late.

In the entryway, I slip off my sneakers and socks and try to open the door without being noticed. Of course, that’s practically impossible since two of the four walls are lined with mirrors. When I open the door, the smell of sweat and old rubber mats washes over me; and there, reflected in every mirror, is me strolling in late.

Master Park frowns. I slink into the back row and join in with the jumping jacks, wondering how many push-ups he’ll make me do this time.

“You have no respect for Tae Kwon Do,” Sung-joo tells me in Korean. “Not only do you speak like a
waygookin
, but you act like one, too.”

There are about twenty of us in this class, with a mix of belt colors. The only person even close to being as good as me is Sung-joo, a college student at Yonsei University. He’s got a thick torso and is about five foot eight, and he’s the only one who sends my blood pressure through the roof.

I shoot him a withering glare. I know I have an accent, but him calling me a foreigner kind of stung. “You’re just intimidated because I’m a younger girl who can whip your butt,” I whisper back in Korean. “Just like I’m going to do today.”

Master Park rarely pairs us up, though. He says I have to learn to control my power. I suppose he’s right. Sung-joo tends to bring out my aggression.

Sometimes I do like being paired with the new belts. There’s something fun about teaching them the
poomsae
and breaking down each move until it’s perfect. But today is different. I’m thinking about my annoyance with Dad, seeing Marc with Min, remembering how Grandfather wanted to ship me off, and wishing Mom was here right now; and I need to let those emotions out.

Now.

So when Master Park divides us up to spar, I point my helmet at spike-headed Sung-joo, saying, “We’re on!”

Sung-joo scowls as he wiggles into his protective gear. I don’t blame him. I’m sure he doesn’t want to be disgraced when I beat the crap out of him in front of everyone. Serves him right for messing with the wrong girl on the wrong day.

“
Charyot
,” Master Park calls. “
Kyung ye
.”

Hearing the command, Sung-joo and I bow to Master Park and then to each other. When the master says “
Chunbee,
” I spring into a ready stance, bouncing lightly on my toes. I always attack first, rushing in close and fast, so the moment the master says “
seijak
!” I fake a right jab and then land a straight punch to his chest. He bounces backward as I expected he would. Next, I push-kick, which backs him up farther. Now he’s right where I want him. That’s when I unload a back kick that sends him stumbling.

Recovering, he attacks me with an ax kick. But I’m expecting his counterattack and block him as I sidestep away. Then I throw a mean kick to his chest. He grunts, which doesn’t surprise me. I have a fast, powerful kick.

Sung-joo moves to grab my leg, but I’m quicker. Seeing he’s open, I break out a back-leg roundhouse and strike at his head. He staggers sideways. Taking advantage of his confusion, I hit a spinning roundhouse, almost flying now. He tries a push-kick to stop me, but I step to the side and knock him to the ground with a front kick.

Master calls the match over. My pulse drums in my head and disappointment fills me. I was just getting started. With the adrenaline pumping through my veins, it takes everything in me to lower my fists and stop moving. Sung-joo groans from the floor. I try not to gloat.

Master Park starts yelling at me, his Korean so fast I can only catch snippets of phrases, like, “Too aggressive! Must control yourself!”

And “Leave and come back when you are able to master your emotions.”

The elation of winning sinks into the pit of my stomach. What did I do? I didn’t mean to actually hurt Sung-joo. So maybe I did get too caught up in the moment. I glance around the room. Everyone is staring at me. Finally, Sung-joo stands with help from two other classmates, but his breathing is short and his eyes look dazed.

It hits me then that he really is hurt. How is that possible? I’m not that strong, am I?

My chest tightens. I should’ve been easier on him.

Somehow I manage to bow to Sung-joo and then to Master Park. Everyone moves out of my way, creating a path to the door. My face burns as I slip on my socks and shoes, and rush back
down the stairway and out into the street. Usually I don’t want to leave the gym, but now I don’t even feel as if I belong there anymore.

The last time I felt like this was when I stared into Mom’s open casket and touched her cold skin. That feeling of cold aloneness races through my veins.

I jaywalk through the traffic-clogged street, barely missing a weaving scooter loaded with car parts. The streetlights flicker on, and restaurant signs flash neon as I take the first alley on the right as a shortcut home.

It’s darker here, and the smell of trash overtake my senses. A gust of wintry wind cuts through the alley, stealing my breath away. I lower my head and draw my scarf over my face.

A growl rumbles. I look up and freeze. A massive, lionlike creature, eyes glowing yellow, stands in my path.

I scream, staggering backward, falling against a crate of rotting cabbage leaves. I snatch up a handful and toss them at the creature’s face. The thing is so close I could touch its scales. The face reminds me more of a dragon than a cat. A horn rests in the center of its head, and fangs jut out from its frothing mouth.

The thing roars with the strength of a dragon. I jerk out of my stupor and snap out a kick at the dragon-lion’s nose. That kick should’ve stunned or knocked it back. Instead my own leg throbs as if I’d kicked a stone statue. Maybe I did. Maybe this is all a figment of my imagination.

A chill prickles my toes as if I’ve stepped into freezing water. Golden tendrils of smoke curl around my feet, then wind their way around my knees. I try to move. I can’t. It’s as if I’m a block of ice.

The creature before me rears on its hind legs. The eyes blaze.
A snarl curls its lips, showing off those sharp fangs. Cold fear streaks through me until I realize it’s not looking at me but at something behind me.

I twist my body to see what the dragon-lion creature is looking at.

It’s the shadow I saw behind the sweet potato lady earlier.

Emerging from the murkiness, the shadow solidifies into a glittery figure of a man.

The glittery man blocks my escape. Golden ooze drips from his fingers as if he’s clawing for me. The ooze trails up my body until not only my legs are frozen, but my stomach, my chest, my arms.

It circles me, faster and faster, as if I’m captured in the center of a typhoon. The ooze forms shimmering walls that trap me inside. I squirm, trying to free myself from these transparent barriers. But then my body goes rigid as the wall appears to fade away. Instead of the grungy alleyway, emerald-green meadows roll before me while waves crash against pearly white beaches. I blink rapidly and try to make sense of what I’m seeing.

The dragon-lion leaps over my head and dives into the glittery man, sending them both tumbling into a trash heap. The golden typhoon dissipates, as does the strange mirage. I can feel my body parts again, tingling as if they were asleep.

I don’t wait.

I scramble on top of the Dumpster and jump over their wrestling bodies, roll across the slimy alley, and take off in a sprint, splashing through muddy puddles and skirting broken beer bottles.
What were those creatures back there?

I run to the main street. Where it’s safe. Hot breath blows
on my back. I’m being pursued. The creature chases at my heels, teasing, taunting me.

I careen out onto the main road, amazed I am still alive. Silence rules the street. The cars have disappeared. The vendors have vanished as if they never existed. A piece of newspaper drifts across the empty street, spiraling in the wind. I stumble to a halt.

Chills ricochet down my body.

Clenching my fists, I spin to challenge the creature. His face tells me I’m his captive. I take the fighting stance. It’s not over yet.

It pounces. I tumble backward, crushed against the cold rough sidewalk. Its weight and the fall knock the air out of me. Then it’s off me, as if I’m some cat toy to be tossed around for fun before finally being eaten. I gasp and push my body up. I’m on my hands and knees when the creature appears again, looming over me, smelling of wild animal and ginseng. I tense, prepping for its next attack.

“Beware,” it says in a voice that rumbles like thunder.

I scramble to stand and gaze up. It must be three times the size of a lion.

“He wants you.”

The creature talks. This is not happening. I close and open my eyes. Still there.

“Who—who are you?” I finally ask.

“I am the Guardian of Seoul. Some call me Haechi. I have been sent by Palk to warn you and offer my protection.”

“But—but you attacked me,” I sputter. “And how do you know English?”

A rumble emits from its mouth. “An impetuous one, you are.”

“I don’t need protecting. I was doing just fine before you pounced on me.”

“You have been sought out by a dangerous immortal. He nearly took you moments ago.”

I shake my head. “Who?”

“Time is fading. You must flee,” he says, and, in a breath, he disappears.

It’s as if a switch has been flicked. Honking cars, the pound of construction, the roar of the buses replace the creature’s breathing. I swivel in a circle. Everything is back in place as if nothing happened. I press my cold hands to my cheeks.

Blood trickles from a cut on my palm. Probably from when I fell. That was all. I fell, hit my head, and had some crazy dream. How long was I out?