Authors: Katie M. Stout
Hesitantly, I cradle the chopsticks with my thumb and middle finger. I pick up a piece of egg, which almost instantly slips back onto my plate. This process continues for a solid thirty seconds before I’m able to successfully transfer food into my mouth. I finally elect to hold the plate close to my lips and rake the salty omelette into my mouth. Other people are doing it, so it can’t be bad manners.
Sophie checks her phone with a frown. “I don’t know where he is,” she mutters.
She scans the cafeteria, and I follow her gaze, searching faces for one that looks anything like hers. But I can’t pick out anyone specifically in the sea of people I’m currently drowning in.
A wide smile breaks out on Sophie’s face, and she waves her arm frantically above her head. I turn and spot a guy in a blue-and-white striped sweater left unbuttoned, with sleeves bunched at the elbows over a V-neck T-shirt. He strides toward us, hands stuffed into the pockets of his skinny jeans. He’s taller than most of the other guys I’ve seen here, with inky black hair that sweeps across his forehead and full lips that look a lot like Sophie’s.
He’s the hottest boy I’ve ever seen.
And I’ve seen a lot of cute boys. I struggle to keep my mouth closed and eyes inside my head as he comes to our table.
And I’m not the only one staring. He leaves a wake of girls behind him who stare and point, and a few even snap pictures with their phones, their heads swiveling around, making sure nobody saw them.
Surprise zips through me. Maybe girls are just more open here about guys they think are cute. I’m pretty sure taking pictures of the guy and pointing at him behind his back in a crowded lunchroom wouldn’t fly in the States.
But I’m pulled out of my cultural comparisons when he says something in Korean to Sophie, his voice clear and deep, and my heart sputters a little, which probably makes me just as bad as those other girls.
When was the last time my mouth went dry at the sight of a boy? Not since Isaac, my ex, when we met at that teen club where he was the DJ. When you grow up around cowboy hats and giant belt buckles worn by boys trying to get into your pants so your dad will give them a record deal, it’s hard not to be attracted to slouchy hats, Converse, and flannel.
“Don’t be rude, Jason,” Sophie scolds playfully, tilting her head toward me. “This is Grace,
who speaks English
.”
I flash him my brightest smile, but he answers with a stony expression, his eyes running a quick scan across me. My enthusiasm flickers.
But I ford through the blow to my confidence. “It’s nice to meet you.”
He doesn’t say anything, just keeps staring until my cheeks ache from holding my smile. I fight the instinct to glance down at my white lace blouse and black jean shorts to make sure neither sport a food spill.
“She’s my roommate,” Sophie says, coming to my rescue and diverting Jason’s attention. “She’s from America!” Her voice rises to a squeal on the last word. “Sit with us.”
He sweeps the room with his gaze, a determinedly bored air about him and a glazed look in his eye, even though he has to see all the girls pointedly
not
looking at him. I’m starting to wonder if Sophie got all the people skills while they were incubating in the womb.
“I already ate,” he says, thankfully in English—for my benefit? “I have to meet Tae Hwa in the music room. Are you going to The Vortex tonight?”
Her grin falls, and I’m irrationally tempted to punch Jason for causing it to disappear. “Of course,” she says with forced levity.
He nods, then glances at me again, before turning and walking back through the cafeteria toward the exit. I stare after him, smarting at his obvious lack of both friendliness and regard for me as a human being.
“Is he always that cheerful?” I ask, unable to bite back my sarcasm.
Sophie waves away the question. “He’s just quiet.” But the disappointment that’s swallowed her eyes says something different.
After breakfast, Sophie volunteers to show me around campus; she arrived a few days before me and already knows where everything is. The school is gigantic, the size of a small college rather than a high school—multiple classroom buildings and everything. She figures out where all my classes will be—all in the same room, like in elementary school—and points out the building, which is on the opposite side of campus as our dorm and on top of a hill so high it might as well be Everest.
Sweat beading on the small of my back, I ask Sophie if we can sit and rest for a minute. We settle on a bench beneath a gnarled tree inside a small pavilion between two buildings.
I wipe moisture off the back of my neck. It’s not as hot here as in Tennessee, but the humidity sticks to my skin and sucks sweat out of my pores until I feel wrung dry.
“I’m going to have to walk this every day,” I say, the horrible realization slamming into me like a Mack Truck.
“You should buy a bicycle,” Sophie says. “It will help with getting around campus and the island.”
A sigh escapes my lips. “I already miss my car.”
She laughs. “Korean people don’t drive as much as Americans. It’s time for you to become Korean. Or, at least like someone living in Korea. Isn’t that why you came here in the first place?”
No, it’s not, and I could tell her exactly why I came, but I’m not ready to talk about it. Not to anyone.
South Korea is my escape, my R
ESTART
button, where no one asks for my autograph when I go shopping or knows the rumored balance of my savings account. This is where I get to start over.
As we head to the dorms, I think back to meeting Sophie’s brother this morning. He said something about a band room. Does that mean people play music here? I mean, normal music, like rock or hip-hop or folk. Or is it only traditional Korean stuff?
“Does your brother play an instrument?” I venture.
An ironic smile curls Sophie’s lips, and she chuckles under her breath. “You could say that.”
“What does he play?”
“Guitar.”
So people do play Western music. “Is there a music program here at all?”
I didn’t bother to check when I applied. Dad wants me to follow in his footsteps and take up the mantle of the company when he finally decides to retire, but business isn’t my thing. Never has been. I may have music in my blood, but I have no head for the market—I wouldn’t know which artists should be invested in. And I doubt he wants me to run his multimillion-dollar corporation into the ground.
So I’m thinking about studying chemistry in college—basically, the furthest thing from music you can get. Of course, it helps that balancing chemical equations and performing experiments that could potentially blow up the lab rings my bell.
“I think there’s a symphony-esque band,” Sophie says. “Like violins, cellos, that sort of thing.”
“I take it he’s not in that one.”
Now she laughs for real. “Definitely not. He’s in
a
band, but I don’t think it’s one the school would sponsor.”
“What kind of music is it?”
Sophie stops in the middle of the walkway, and it takes me a good fifteen seconds before I realize she’s no longer walking beside me. I backtrack until we’re even again.
“You should probably know this now,” she says, hesitance creeping into her voice. She stares at me carefully, as if gauging my reaction. “Jason is … famous.”
“What?”
“He’s a famous singer. Here in Korea.”
My eyebrows shoot up, waiting for her to either cry, “
Just kidding!
” or, “
How crazy that we both have famous families!
” But she says nothing, just waits for my response, and I realize she must know nothing about
my
family.
This can’t be a coincidence. Either fate or the director of residency—or maybe both—must have thought we’d have a lot in common.
And the way the girls in the cafeteria acted—it makes more sense now, explains why they took the pictures. All things considered, they were pretty calm about a celebrity in their midst. I might have expected a mob. Or at least a few asking for autographs.
“That’s cool. What’s the name of his band?” I ask, keeping my tone as blas
é
as possible.
Her entire body seems to sigh, like she’s been holding on to this dark secret since we met. “Eden.”
I snort. “Why—because they’re perfect?”
“Exactly!”
Oh.
“They debuted at the end of last year, and they’ve sold a lot of albums. Have you heard of them?”
“Can’t say I have.”
She nods, picking up our walk again. “That makes sense. No one listens to KPOP in America.”
My eyebrows rise. “KPOP?”
“Korean pop music.”
“Right. KPOP.”
Didn’t Jane listen to that stuff in middle school? Or maybe it was Japanese pop music, which would be … JPOP? I can’t remember. She went through an Asian obsession phase about two years ago, when she owned enough Hello Kitty paraphernalia to stock a toy store. Even when we tried to tell her there’s more to Japan than Hello Kitty and sushi.
“The band is sort of taking a break right now,” she says. “That’s why they’re here, to sort of get away from everything. But they’re playing a small show at a club tonight, that lets in underage people, to try out a few new songs. It’s called The Vortex. You should come! It will be fun.”
I swore not to hang out at clubs anymore after Isaac, but it’s not like I have anything better to do. And I highly doubt my ex-boyfriend would be a DJ at a KPOP concert. In Korea.
A snicker escapes my lips. KPOP. Heh.
“Sure,” I say. “I’d like to hear them.”
“Great!” She links her arm through mine and giggles.
My instincts scream for me to free my arm, but her enthusiasm is contagious and I find myself laughing along with her. Even though the familiar pain that’s haunted me since the beginning of the summer still lingers in the back of my brain, I’m able to keep it quiet for now. I know it’ll resurface—it always does—but right now, I let myself consider the possibility that maybe I really am getting a fresh start. And if I am, it’s time for me to grab on to it with both hands.
I peel the scarf off my neck and check my outfit for the millionth time. Really, the ensemble needs the scarf to be complete, but I think I’ll suffocate in today’s ultrahigh humidity if I have to walk outside for more than five minutes with it wrapped around my throat.
Sophie pokes her head into the bathroom, her black bangs pulled back with a headband and a mascara wand in her hand.
“Are you almost ready?” she asks. “The show starts in two hours, and it’ll take a while to get off the island.”
One more quick glance in the mirror: high-waisted jean shorts with a thin white button-up tucked in and a pair of wedges Jane bought me for my birthday last year. The scarf would have made it look so much better, but whatever. With a growl, I throw on a long beaded necklace instead.
“Ready,” I announce.
Sophie combs her bangs back down on her forehead and slings a neon-colored purse onto her shoulder. “Then let’s go!”
We climb down the two flights of stairs and head out into the early evening air. It’s cooled a few degrees, but the mugginess still threatens to crush my lungs.
Sophie leads me to the side of the building, where a long row of bicycles and Vespa-like motorbikes stand in a line. She fishes out a set of keys from her pocket and unlocks a baby-blue motorbike from the rest, taking out a helmet from a compartment under the seat. My pulse spikes as she backs it out of the line, the tires crunching stray bits of broken pavement.
“Umm … I hope you’re just checking to make sure the tires aren’t flat before we catch a bus or a taxi,” I say, a nervous quiver in my voice.
She laughs and shoves up the kickstand with her heel. “Unfortunately not. It’ll be faster if we just drive. We would be waiting at the bus stop for at least ten minutes, then it would make a zillion stops before we even get to the bridge.
Then
we’d get on the train to Incheon. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to go through that kind of hassle.”
“But I don’t have a helmet.”
“Don’t worry. Nobody will say anything. And, if they do, just play up being a dumb foreigner.” She winks.
I run my eyes over the metal frame. “Where am I supposed to sit?”
She pats the raised seat behind hers.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea…”
“Don’t worry about it. We ride like this all the time.” She sits on the bike and throws another wink back at me over her shoulder. “Just channel your inner Asian.”
“Inner Asian. Sure.”
I raise my leg to swing it over the side and slip on the black leather. The bike tilts in response, but Sophie keeps us upright.
“Put your feet on the silver pipes, there.” She points. “Just don’t let your skin touch them because they get hot.”
Chewing on the inside of my cheek, I obey her instructions, and she cranks the motor, then launches us into motion. I instinctively latch onto her as if my life depends on it. Which it probably does.
The death contraption wiggles, tipping to the side for a terrifying moment, before she rights it and propels us onto the street. We zip down the hill much faster than seems safe and rocket into town, where we speed past people walking; they don’t even give us a second look. Like this isn’t the first time they’ve seen a crazy American putting her life in the hands of the roommate she just met.
Wind stings my eyes, and every muscle in my body tenses as she weaves around pedestrians and dodges the cars that whiz past us. My dinner of sesame noodle soup threatens to come back up, and I close my eyes.
I always dreamed my first motorcycle ride would be behind a cute boy—preferably of the trendy, leather-wearing variety. Cozied up to my new roommate isn’t exactly what I had in mind.
What seems like a lifetime later, after we pass through the mostly wooded and mountainous interior of the island, we zip by the beaches, which are probably crawling with tourists during peak season, then cut through a small beach town. Sophie turns us onto a bridge that stretches across the channel. A crisp breeze cuts through my thin layer of clothes, and I shiver as we drive onto the mainland and make our way toward Incheon.