Hello, I Love You

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Table of Contents

About the Author

Copyright Page

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For Macrae,

whose love for stories reminds me why I started writing in the first place

Acknowledgments

Many heartfelt thanks and much love to …

The always lovely Emily Keyes, agent extraordinaire, who took the chance on me and my little book about KPOP.

My fabulous editor, Kat Brzozowski, and all the amazing people at Thomas Dunne. Y’all pushed me to write a better book, gave it a stunning cover, sold it to other countries, and gracefully dealt with all of my writer’s angst. I’m incredibly blessed to have such an amazing team behind me.

Critique partner, friend, and soul sister, Kristin Rae, for the edits, squees, and chats that got me through querying, marketing my debut, and everything in between.
Su su!

The many writer and blogging friends who read early versions of the book, helped with my query, or just spread happy vibes about me and my book through the interwebs. I’m so grateful to know Kristi Chestnutt, Kim Franklin, Lori at
Pure Imagination,
Christina at
Reader of Fictions,
Jen at
Pop! Goes the Reader,
Katie at
Mundie Moms,
Steph at
Cuddlebuggery,
Gillian at
Writer of Wrongs,
and many more amazing people. Book blogging opened my eyes to the wonderful world of YA, and I’ll always be thankful for that.

The best book club ever, who celebrated with me, even when there was an ocean separating us—especially Alli, Liz, Tiffani, Vania, and Sarah. I’m so glad I decided to read
Shadow and Bone
and check out my local book club!

Mom and Dad, who fostered my love of reading and never told me to stop dreaming about getting published one day; Brenna, for being the older sister who I looked up to and who inspired me to always be creative; and my entire family, who never thinks I’m weird for loving books as much as I do. There’s no way I’d be here without each and every one of you.

My Lord and Savior, the Living Word, without whom I wouldn’t have written words to share. Thank You, Jesus!

Chapter One

Big Brother,

I want you to know something: It wasn’t your fault, not any of it. And I’m so sorry. Sorry for ditching the family and for shipping off to the other side of the world.

But, mostly, I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you when it mattered. I should have told someone before it got bad. It’s just that you’re my big brother; you’ve always been the strong one. And I miss that.

You’re probably laughing hysterically right now, imagining me—the foreign language–challenged child—bumbling my way through the airport, a lonesome little white girl with a Southern accent and too much hair spray. Just know that with every step I take farther from home, the more I miss you.

Maybe this trip will give me time to figure things out. I certainly hope it does, anyway.

I could end this letter with “from Korea, with love” like that James Bond movie in Russia, but the plane hasn’t landed yet, so I’ll just leave you with …

Almost in Korea, with love,

Grace

The subway doors open, and a flood of boarding passengers sweeps me and my two giant suitcases onto the train. Elbows jab into my sides, and the wheels on my bags run over toes as a thousand of my closest Korean friends pack into the tiny metro car. Half an hour inside the Republic of Korea, and I’ve already been thrown into the life of a national.

All the seats are full, so I park my bags in front of an elderly woman, her eyes half-obscured by folds of wrinkled skin, holding a plastic sack full of something gray and … slithering. Octopus, maybe? I straddle one of my suitcases and sit, letting myself sway with the rocking of the train and giving my jet-lagged body a rest. Like I haven’t just been sitting on a plane for fourteen hours.

The man beside me plays the music on his MP3 player so loud I can hear the singer wailing through the headphones, and he stares at me like I’m an alien. I avert my gaze, letting it roam the rest of the car. I’m one of two Westerners leaving the airport station, and basically everyone besides me is on their phone. Except for that couple a few feet away, who manage to canoodle in the microscopic-size standing room, whispering to each other in Korean.

South Korea. It still hasn’t registered yet—that I left everything, every
one
back in Nashville and set up camp in the “Far East.” I’m standing on a Korean train rattling through Korean tunnels toward my new Korean school.

I am insane.

For possibly the millionth time since my plane took off from Atlanta, I ask myself what I’m doing. Sweat moistens my palms, and I have to close my eyes, my breathing bordering on hyperventilation.

Hydrogen. Helium. Lithium. Beryllium. Boron. Carbon.

I go through the entire periodic table of elements three times, the repetition numbing my brain and slowing my pulse, emptying my mind of any anxiety. My AP chemistry teacher taught me the trick, told me it helped him calm down. I discovered this summer that it works for me, too.

The train stops at the next station, and we lose a few passengers but gain even more. The crowd shifts, pushing and pulling me against the tide of bodies, and I curse myself for not being willing to wait twenty minutes for the express train, which has assigned seating. Waiting longer would beat getting assaulted every time a new passenger boards the commuter train.

I glance down at the scrap of notebook paper I stashed inside the pocket of my jean shorts earlier, double-checking the name of my stop a dozen times.

The automated female voice announces the name of the next station, which thankfully sounds a lot like what I’ve written phonetically on my paper—
Gimpo
. The train lurches to a stop, and I grab the handles of my bags, forcing my way through a mass of humanity thicker than Momma’s grits.

I stagger onto the platform just as the doors close, and, mustering as much gumption as I have, pancake any stray Koreans as I force my way through the crowd fighting to board the train. Once I climb the escalator and maneuver through the automated gate, I emerge into the surprisingly thick humidity of a Korean summer.

My grip on my suitcases tightens as I make my way to the line of taxis on the street. I ford through the throng of tourists with their own luggage.

The metro can’t take me all the way to the Korean School of Foreign Studies from Incheon International Airport. Normally, I could take the subway to this stop, then get on a public bus—as the representative from the school suggested to me via video chat last week—but when I planned this trip, I knew I wouldn’t want to venture that with my luggage and zero knowledge of the area.

I stand by the curb and scan the line of taxis until I spot one of the drivers holding a sign that reads G
RACE
W
ILDE
.
I throw him a frantic wave, and he meets me halfway to the van. He helps me lift my bags into the back, and I collapse into a seat in the middle row.

He peers at me in the rearview mirror, obviously waiting for some kind of direction. I guess his superiors didn’t inform him of our destination. Biting my lip, I flip through my Korean phrase book searching for the right words.

“Ahn nyeong ha se yo!”
Hello. “Umm…” I stare at the Romanized translations, the multitude of consonants and letter combinations I’ve never seen—let alone pronounced—mixing inside my travel-weary brain like a blender on
HIGH
.

“Where you go?” the man asks.

“High school!” I sigh, thanking God this man speaks at least a little English. “Korean School of Foreign Studies. On Ganghwa Island.”

“Oh, I know, I know.” He shifts out of
PARK
, and we merge into traffic.

I sink lower and let my head rest on the seatback. The long hours of traveling are beginning to catch up with me. I was so hyped on adrenaline when we landed in Seattle and again in Incheon that I didn’t think about the fact that I hadn’t slept even a minute on either of my flights. But now a dull ache pounds just behind my eyebrows, and sleep seductively whispers to lull me out of consciousness.

Sunlight glares off the cars in front of us. We drive farther away from the city, away from Incheon—and away from Seoul, South Korea’s capital, which sits only about an hour by train from the airport. Fast food restaurants and digital billboards are quickly replaced by a long bridge that shoots us across the narrow channel of water separating the island from the mainland.

As the van bumps down off the bridge and onto island soil, I watch buildings pop up around us. Not a city, really, but a town. It reminds me of a beach town I visited with my family back in middle school, one of those with hole-in-the-wall restaurants on every corner serving local fishermen’s latest catches, where the population doubles during tourist season and all the shops close at six in the evening. But instead of a diversity of people—white, black, Latino, Indian—I see only Asian. Dark hair. Dark eyes.

I finger my own blond curls, which flattened along the journey but still hang down to my elbows. Momma likes to call my hair my “crowning glory,” a gift from her side of the family. I’ve always loved it; it matches perfectly with what my sister, Jane, calls my “hipster look,” but I now realize it makes me stick out here like a goth at a country concert.

And trust me when I tell you, that’s pretty obvious. I’ve been to my fair share of concerts, both country and otherwise. When your dad is one of the biggest record producers in the country music business and your brother has topped the country charts five years in a row, you start to learn your way around the Mecca of the music lover.

I’m tempted to reach into my purse and pull out my iPod. I can think of at least ten songs that would fit this moment perfectly, my own background music to this new life I’ve started. But I resist the urge, wanting to make sure the cab driver has my full attention in case we need to communicate in broken English again.

It only takes us a few minutes to pass through the entirety of the town, and then the cab’s climbing up a hill into the mountains, which tower over the coastline. We drive up and up, until a thin layer of fog hovers over the road, and we emerge at the crest of the hill. To the right is an overlook of the town we just drove through, then the channel, and in the distance, Incheon, though I can’t see it. On the left side of the street, though, is a giant arch that stretches across the entrance to a plaza-like area, gold Korean characters glittering in the fading sunlight.