Authors: Katie M. Stout
I turn to look away a little too fast, and a chill rushes all the way from my hairline to my toes, followed by a wave of lightheadedness. Okay, weird. I sway, lights exploding and clouding my vision. I stumble into Sophie, who grabs my arm, and I shake my head to get rid of the dizziness.
“Are you okay?” Sophie asks.
“Fine,” I mumble, though I’m starting to wonder if maybe I should get some water.
My legs quiver. I think the nausea is getting the best of me …
A breeze brushes against my sweaty skin, and I shiver. How long has it been since I drank anything? My knees buckle, and I slump against Sophie. She attempts to grab me, but I feel my body crashing onto the boardwalk as I black out.
* * *
“Grace?”
I blink my eyes until the blurry image in front of me clears into Jason’s face, eyebrows pulled together and jaw tight. He leans so close, I can imagine his warm breath against my face.
“Grace, are you all right?” he asks.
“What?” I croak.
I push up on my hands and close my eyes against the swimminess in my head. Jason supports my back and passes me a bottle of water, his body shading me from the afternoon sun.
“Drink something,” he says, our heads still bent close. “Do you feel okay?”
“I’ve been feeling sick to my stomach all day.” I press my face into my palms.
“Is she okay?” Sophie shoves Jason out of the way to inspect me herself, eyes wide behind her glasses. “Grace, don’t you
ever
do something like that again! You scared me!”
I chug half the bottle of water, my stomach flipping like it’s on a roller coaster. “I’ll try to keep that in mind.”
“You should probably go sit for a while,” she says. “If you’re feeling sick.”
I glance down and notice I’m still sprawled out on the boardwalk, the crew busy around us. Embarrassment heating my cheeks, I attempt to stand. But dizziness immobilizes me again, and I stumble. A hand grabs onto my elbow and steadies me, adding enough support to keep me on my feet.
“Be careful.” Jason wraps his arm around me and hooks his hand on my waist, helping balance me as we slowly make our way toward the path to the village.
“Thanks,” I mutter, all the blood that drained out of my head now zinging through me so fast it feels like I’m sprinting.
Heat flares where his body touches mine—our hips bumping each other, his fingers curled around my side—despite my already flushed skin. I peer over my shoulder to see most of the crew members, along with Sophie and the boys, watching us, and I’m struck with the desire for the ground to swallow me.
We inch our way down the dock. I search my thoughts for anything intelligible to say but come up with nothing. He doesn’t say anything, either, and I have to wonder if his body is buzzing like mine. Does he catch his breath each time I stumble into him or my hair brushes his cheek? By the time we make it to the camp of tents, I’m near hyperventilation. My body screeched to a halt before I fainted, and now it’s running on overdrive.
Jason deposits me in a plastic chair underneath one of the sideless tents and brings me another water bottle and a pack of cookies, along with the backpack he brought with him from the hotel this morning. And I’m struck with the realization that he’s being … helpful.
Helpful Jason.
Huh.
“You should rest for a while,” he says. “Are you sure you’re fine?”
“Yeah.” I wave away his concern. “I’m sure it’s just a virus or something. It’ll pass.”
He hesitates a moment, his eyes searching out mine. “I’m serious—just take it easy for a little while, all right?”
I force a smile, but my stomach somersaults. “Will do.”
He rifles through the backpack and pulls out his iPod. “Here, you can listen to this if you want to. I uploaded the songs you told me to research.”
I take it from him, making sure our fingers don’t touch. “Is any of your music on here?”
He frowns. “Yes.”
“The song this video is for?”
He nods. “In English, the title is ‘Love Story.’”
“Like the Taylor Swift song?”
One of his rare smiles cracks his reserved exterior, and I catch a glimpse of real emotion. Our gazes meet, and my chest tightens.
Jason backs out of the tent and turns back toward the docks. I watch him retreat, marveling at the amount of concern he showed me. Very un-Jason-like.
Or maybe it is Jason-like, and I just haven’t seen this side of him before.
Filming continues for another few hours. Sophie comes to sit with me, and we chat about school, the fishy smell that makes us wrinkle our noses, and how long it will take for the crew to finish. After a few crackers and some medicine from the crew’s medic, my stomach’s settling.
Shooting ends with Eden setting up their instruments in the middle of the village and playing the chorus a few times.
As we all head back to the van, Yoon Jae falls into step beside me. “Are you feeling better?” he asks.
“A little, yeah. Thanks.”
“We were all worried.”
I scratch the back of my neck. “Yeah, sorry. My blood sugar was really low, I think, and whatever I’ve got was making me light-headed. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“No, don’t worry about it. I wasn’t trying to make you feel guilty.”
We drop into silence as he slides open the van door. Yoon Jae holds onto my elbow and helps me in while I crawl into the back row, and he sits beside me. Sophie and Tae Hwa follow us, sitting in the middle row. Jason enters last. He looks back at me and Yoon Jae, his expression darkening a moment, then slides in next to Sophie.
I reach into my bag and pull out Jason’s iPod and offer it to him, my arm resting on the back of his seat. “Here. Thanks for letting me listen to it.”
He glances at my outstretched hand, then away. “Keep it for now,” he says, studiously not looking at me. “I don’t need it.”
“It’s fine, really. I’d rather talk than listen to it in the car anyway.”
His gaze slips to Yoon Jae for a moment, then snaps back forward again. “I think you already have someone to talk to.”
I lean back, stung. “I…”
He folds his arms across his chest and slides lower in his seat, closing his eyes. Like he could sleep in here with Sophie jabbering on at so high a decibel. I stuff the iPod back into my bag with unnecessary force and throw myself back against my seat, staring out the window at the red sun setting behind the mountains. He helps me to the tent, he
smiles
at me, and now he insults me? What is he, bipolar? I should really reevaluate my friendship with this boy.
We head back into town and make our way to the hotel. By the time we arrive, it’s dark, and I feel disgusting. Sand and dried sweat make up a thick film on my skin, and all I want is to take a shower and scrub it all off.
But Sophie pipes up with, “How long do we have before we need to leave?”
“We go eight thirty,” the driver says through his rolled-down car window.
“Wait, what?” I say.
Sophie glances down at the phone that’s permanently glued to her hand. “The band has a meeting with their manager tomorrow afternoon in Incheon, so we need to leave tonight.”
I check my watch. If we’re leaving at eight thirty, that gives me thirty minutes. Just enough time to throw my things together and take a quick shower. I sprint upstairs and into our room, peeling off filthy clothes before I even have the water in the shower running.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m pulling on a pair of leggings, an oversize T-shirt, and some sandals. Not my best look, but it’ll have to do for an eight-hour road trip. I tie my hair into a loose bun and meet the others down in the lobby, where the boys are posing for pictures with the hotel staff.
After the band manages to gracefully escape their fans, we all get back into the van. But this time, I share the back row with Jason. As he settles into his seat after I’m already in, I notice I’m not the only one who showered—he sweeps wet hair out of his eyes with his fingers.
I take out his iPod again and replace his headphones with my earbuds, then stick them in my ears. After searching through a myriad of songs whose names I can’t read, I find a playlist called
Grace’s Music
. As I scroll through the list of bands that includes some of my favorites, all I can think about is the fact that my name is on his music player and how stupid I am for reading anything into that.
I sneak a sideways glance at him, but he’s just staring out the window, shoulders rigid and jaw clenched. Sophie and the other two boys carry on a conversation in front of us, leaving Jason isolated. Because he thinks no one’s looking, he’s let down his guard, and in the pale light of the streetlamps we pass, I make out melancholy etched deep in his expression. And I’m reminded of my brother.
Again, I remember that there’s something deeper here, something he doesn’t want anyone to see. I suppress the jolt of dread that rockets through me, fear that he has some dark secret like Nathan. I don’t know Jason well enough to leap to such conclusions. But I
can
surmise that his isolating himself and keeping his feelings away from everyone else isn’t helping.
Shoving the memory of him snapping at me earlier to the back of my mind, I pull out one of the earbuds and reach across the darkness between us, offering it to him. He stares at it a second, then takes it from my fingers and places it in his ear. The cord pulls taut between our heads, and he has to scoot closer, our shoulders brushing. I smile and close my eyes, leaning my head back against the seat and getting lost in the relaxed melodies and soft, plucking guitar of Bon Iver.
Drowsiness settles on me as the subtle rocking of the van and the long day breaks down any fight in me to stay conscious. As I hover between sleep and wakefulness, I feel a soft touch on my fingers that rest on the seat between me and Jason.
“Grace?” Jason whispers.
But I don’t answer, eyes heavy and lips parted in half sleep.
Another brush against my hand. A solid, warm pressure. My brain jolts awake when Jason threads his fingers through mine. I swallow hard, and my breathing accelerates.
I risk a quick peek at Jason, my eyes squinted so I can shut them again at a moment’s notice. He peers out his window still, but instead of tension making the lines of his body sharp, he angles himself toward me, muscles relaxed. A soft smile plays at the edges of his lips, and his fingers twitch against mine, our palms pressed together.
Does he think I’m asleep? Should I tell him I’m awake? My mind races through possible motivations for him grabbing my hand, followed by what might happen if I revealed my not being asleep. He would probably say something mean, and we wouldn’t talk for the rest of the trip. So I just keep my mouth shut and let him hold my hand.
And enjoy it entirely too much.
Big Brother,
Do you remember that conversation we had before you left for the Grammys two years ago? I confronted you about how much you were drinking, and you told me that I should “just let it go.” Well, I did. I even ignored all the “signs” of depression you exhibited that they write about in those little pamphlets they give away in the school counselor’s office. You probably didn’t even know I was paying that much attention to you.
But when you got back from Los Angeles, I thought we could talk about everything. I knew Dad wasn’t going to help; he was in denial about the whole thing, the way he is about all our family issues. (Either that or he thought I couldn’t handle knowing the truth.) But when I saw you, you seemed better. Happier. You wrote some new songs.
I realize now that you were faking it. That’s what life was for you back then, faking—don’t deny it! I get it now. I just wish I’d understood then.
Sometimes I think I was the one who was supposed to save you from it all. Momma sees what she wants to see, Dad checked out of our lives ten years ago, and Jane is too busy with her own life to notice something messed up in ours. So that left me to help you, and let’s be honest, I totally failed. I know that’s why Momma refused to look me in the eye after she discovered I had known about the depression and did nothing. Maybe that’s why Dad pretends like it never happened, because he can’t face his oldest daughter and how she screwed up his family.
Maybe that’s why I feel better here, in Korea. Because nobody knows about my past. Nobody knows about our family. I can pretend Momma doesn’t hate me and that God isn’t trying to get back at me for being stupid. And I can just be me. You understand that, right?
I still miss you, and I’d love more than anything to hear back from you. I want to hear you tell me you don’t think I caused this. I want you to say it’s not my fault.
From Korea, with love,
Grace
October flies by with me studying like crazy for midsemester exams in November, which all seem to hit at the same time. Sophie and I don’t go out on music video shenanigans with the boys anymore. We hole ourselves up in our room and hide away from the fact that we’re going insane with all the homework and tests teachers like to give.
I thought senior year was supposed to be easy. Lies. The school doesn’t have the same literature requirements as an American high school, so I don’t have to read Tennyson or Walt Whitman or Fitzgerald, but instead I’m stuck with a multitude of essays on Buddhism, classical Korean poetry, and an entire unit on literature about the Japanese occupation of Korea. Talk about tough.
Sophie goes to tutoring after school, like a lot of the other students, so that leaves me a lot of alone time. I try distracting myself by hanging out with Yoon Jae, but I still worry about what I left back home.
Doesn’t help that I’m getting
calls
from reporters now, wanting to know if I’m available for interview. The same one keeps leaving messages on my voice mail, really pitching a “
front page feature and maybe even a photo shoot.
” He wants to hear “
your story, told in your words.
”
Uh-huh.