Authors: Katie M. Stout
With a sigh, I opt for some sort of beef dish.
I scan the lunchroom and find an empty table in the corner. Even after all these weeks, I’ve yet to find friends outside Sophie’s social circle. Call me antisocial, but in my defense, it’s hard to make friends with people who refuse to speak your language outside the classroom.
I feel again for the book I stashed in my purse. Normally, I hide in the library with my latest snack from the 7-Eleven down the street, but I couldn’t wait until dinner for a real meal today. Korean class took a lot out of me. Who knew forcibly holding on to any shred of patience I have while Jason studiously ignores me would take so much effort?
After wrestling with my chopsticks, I get into a rhythm and manage to prop up my book and stuff rice into my mouth at the same time. But I’m only sitting here a few minutes before another plate clangs against the table in front of mine.
I look up with a start and see Yoon Jae sliding onto the bench across from me.
“Hey!” I cry, and relief floods me.
He grins. “You looked lonely.”
“Well, you know, it’s hard to strike up a conversation with someone when everybody speaks a different language.” I laugh, but my heart pricks all the same. “I didn’t know you had lunch at this time.”
Sophie doesn’t—she added an extra study period—and both Jason and Tae Hwa work on their music. I assumed Yoon Jae was always with them.
“Usually, I eat outside. I’ve never seen you in here, either, or I would have sat with you.” He points to my book. “What are you reading?”
I hold up the novel I brought from home. “My sister gave it to me before I left. Romance novel.” I roll my eyes. “Stupid, right?”
“Why is it stupid if you like it?”
I have nothing to say to this.
He takes a bite of cabbage with red sauce. “What’s your sister’s name? Is she very much like you?”
“Her name’s Jane and, no, we’re not alike at all. She’s two years younger than me. She’s a lot sportier and better at foreign languages.” Pain swells in my chest, thinking about her. “She would love you.”
“Me?”
A laugh escapes my lips. “Yeah, you. She would think you’re hot.”
His forehead crinkles in confusion. “‘Hot’?”
“It means good-looking.”
“Oh.” He laughs, but not in an arrogant way. Like he knows he’s attractive but doesn’t put too much stock in it. And I can’t help finding that confidence kind of hot in its own way.
We eat in silence a moment before he says, “Do you want to go to the music room with me after classes are over? I’m working on a song Jason wrote, and I want someone else’s opinion.”
“You’re working alone?”
“He already finished everything, but he wants me to practice my part. There’s something wrong about the way I’m playing it, but I’m not sure what. It just doesn’t sound right.”
“And what do you want me to do?”
He shrugs. “Any suggestions would help.”
We finish lunch, put away our dishes, then part ways outside to go to our classes. After school, we meet up in front of the dining hall, and he shows me to the music and performing arts building, which I haven’t ventured into yet. I’ve kept a big distance from it because it reminds me too much of my past, too much of what I left behind.
But when we enter, a sense of rightness, of wholeness, washes over me, so strong that it nearly steals my breath. Snippets of music drift down the halls—a splice of a melody on the piano, a girl practicing vocal scales. A smile appears unbidden on my face, and I can’t squelch it, no matter how hard I try. It’s been a long time since I surrounded myself with creativity.
Yoon Jae takes me into a practice room with full band equipment already set up. This must be where Jason and Tae Hwa hang out during lunch. Their manager probably negotiated the private room—that’s what Nathan’s would have done.
“Can you read music?” Yoon Jae holds up a few pages of sheet music.
I take them from him, skimming the bars with a critical eye. It’s a pretty traditional pop song, nothing special, except for the chord progression in the chorus. The sounds reverberate inside my head, and I’ve got to admit it’s pretty outstanding.
“Jason wrote this?” I ask, and Yoon Jae nods.
Maybe Jason has some talent, after all.
“This is my part here.” He points to his measures. “I don’t know what it is, but this part sounds wrong.”
He sits down at his drum set and taps out the rhythm. Like at The Vortex, he plays with no emotion—clean, but without passion. It’s not the notes that sound wrong—it’s him.
I bite my lip, unsure how I should explain. He’s the professional, after all. Everything I know, I learned through a couple years of piano lessons but mostly through osmosis, listening to Dad or sitting in on Nathan’s recording sessions. No matter how many times Dad tried to force me to take lessons, I wasn’t into it.
“Well, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with the music,” I say. “And you’re playing it well, but you’re not portraying the right feeling.”
He tilts his head to the side. “What do you mean?”
“Let me show you.” I come up behind him, reach around his body, and take the drumsticks. “You’re playing it like this.” I mimic his beats. “But it should really sound like this.” I tweak it a bit, reading more into the sheet music than Jason actually wrote. “See? It’s just a little different, but it completely changes the sound. Plus, you’re not emphasizing beats one and three enough.”
He cranes his neck to peer at me over his shoulder, eyes wide. “That sounds so much better!”
I repeat the rhythms in my head, reworking a few sections. Glancing back at the complete sheet music again, I refine the drum section so that it matches the bass better, creating a clearer, more streamlined sound.
“Here, try this.” I make the changes on the sheet music with a pencil from my purse, then hand him back the drumsticks. “See what you think.”
He plays the new beats, and it sounds exactly like what I imagined. Perfect.
Yoon Jae smiles up at me. “You’re amazing!”
I laugh, coming back around to the front of the drum set. “You just needed to change a few little things.”
“How do you know so much about music? Do you play an instrument?”
“Not really—I just played around with them growing up. I didn’t have the patience for real practice.”
“Then where did you learn about music?”
I pause, not sure if I want to get into that story or not—I’ll never forgive myself if the truth makes Yoon Jae and the others treat me differently. This is why I left the States.
“Umm…” I hedge. “My dad uhh … he works in the music industry.”
“Is he in a band?”
I shake my head. Bite my lip. “No.”
When I don’t continue, Yoon Jae prompts, “What does he do?”
I sigh. “He’s a record producer.”
Yoon Jae’s eyes get even wider. “What label?”
Might as well tell him now. “He owns Wilde Entertainment.”
He gapes at me, and I squirm under his attention. “Your father is
Stephen Wilde
?”
“Yeah…”
A grin spreads across his face. “
Jinja?
Really? Wilde Entertainment is the most successful country music label there’s ever been!”
He pulls his phone out lightning fast, and before I can protest, he’s shoving the screen in my face. And showing me a picture of myself in the Atlanta Airport that he just found.
“This is you!” He stares at me with new admiration. “You’re famous!”
A nervous chuckle claws its way up my esophagus. “No, I’m not. My dad is. That only makes me famous by association.”
He wrinkles his nose at this but keeps scrolling through pictures until I cover the screen with my hand.
“That’s enough,” I say, laughing when he tries to pull the phone out of my fingers.
“I want to see a picture of you in America.”
I make a grab for the phone, but he dances away. And then I’m chasing him around the practice room.
“Let me look—” His gaze diverts over my shoulder.
“Hyung!”
I turn and see Jason in the doorway, his backpack slung over one shoulder. “What are you doing?” he asks, though I’m not sure to whom he’s directing the question.
“
Noona
was helping me with the song,” Yoon Jae answers, taking a few steps back from me.
“
Noona?
” I ask, in hopes of diverting the awkward tension that suddenly springs up in the room.
Jason shakes his head in dismissal. “He’s being respectful. It means ‘older sister.’”
“Korean thing?” I venture, but neither responds.
“Why did you need help with your part?” Jason asks, ignoring what might have been misconstrued between me and Yoon Jae. “I showed it to you yesterday.”
“I know, but it didn’t sound right. And she fixed it! Did you know her father is Stephen Wilde?”
Jason cuts his eyes to me, and I fight the instinct to shrink back from his scrutiny. Instead, I take the moment to look him up and down. He’s got on another pair of brightly colored sneakers and jeans that hug his thin legs. Heat stretches up my neck, and I force my eyes up to his face, though my mind doesn’t find solace there, either.
“I’ve met Stephen Wilde,” he finally says, “and you don’t look like him.”
I scoff. What, he doesn’t believe it? “You’re right. I look like my mom,” I say.
Praise God. Dad has a terribly unfortunate nose that poor Nathan inherited.
“Why didn’t you say anything about this earlier?” he asks.
“Because it didn’t come up. I’m not in the habit of talking about my parents wherever I go.”
I’ve had enough hangers-on that I’m sick of the attention. Though I feel sure Jason would never stoop to using his connection to me to get ahead. That would require him to admit he needs me.
“Would you like a complete family tree?” I add.
I hope not. Neither of them has put it together that Nathan’s my brother. Most people don’t know Dad’s best client is actually his son, since Nathan adopted his stage name from Momma’s maiden name—Nathan Cross. Dad decided it wasn’t good business for everyone to know he produced his own kid’s music.
“She could help with the new song,” Yoon Jae cuts in. “You said you were having a difficult time with it.”
The edges of Jason’s eyes tighten. “I don’t need any help.”
I hold up my hands in surrender. “Look, I didn’t mean to cut into anything. If you don’t want me here, I can leave.”
Breezing past him, I catch a whiff of fresh-smelling cologne that sends my head reeling. I reach for the doorknob to make a quick exit before I have to face my conflicting emotions, when Jason stops me with, “Let me hear what you did to the drum section.”
I point to the sheet music in Yoon Jae’s hands. “I wrote it down.”
He takes it from the drummer and studies the changes. “Do you play drums?”
“She doesn’t play any instrument,” Yoon Jae provides. “She just knows everything about music.”
“That’s not true,” I say. But I can’t help smiling at his blind confidence in me. “I only know a few things.”
“Would you be interested in helping me with a new song?” Jason asks, a grudging calmness sharpening his voice, like it physically hurts him to ask for help. “I need it finished and sent to the producers to approve before November, so a little less than two months.”
I shrug, but my pulse accelerates at the idea—piecing together music like I used to do with Nathan when Dad wasn’t around. “Maybe.”
“I would tutor you in Korean,” he offers. “I don’t take anything for free.”
“
Hyung
knows a lot of Korean,” Yoon Jae speaks up for him. “He just can’t read it, which is why he’s in the class.”
Jason shoots the other boy a sharp look but quickly shifts his attention back to me. We face off, and I find myself seriously considering the offer. It could be fun, even though it would mean spending a lot of time with him. But maybe Yoon Jae and Tae Hwa would stop by to break the tension. Or, I would sit alone with him, maybe in his room.
My pulse spikes again.
I suppress a cringe. I really need to rethink my priorities. Being alone with Jason anywhere means bad news. We already argue, no matter if we’ve had a few civil conversations. We are
not
friends. Period.
Still …
“Fine,” I say, “but only because I need a tutor.”
Yoon Jae shoots me a thumbs-up behind Jason’s back, and I smile. Maybe working with Eden will be fun after all.
* * *
Later in the week, I meet up with Jason in the practice room. As I’m pushing through the door with one hand, I use the other to scroll through celebrity blogs on my phone. The conversation with Yoon Jae about my dad reminded me I hadn’t checked up on the family in a while and typically, it’s easier to find info online than getting an actual email from one of my parents.
There’s nothing of note, though I did get a weird email this morning from someone claiming to be a reporter asking about an interview. I deleted it without even reading the entire thing.
When I enter the practice room, I find Jason picking at a battered acoustic guitar.
“That sounds like Bob Dylan. ‘Masters of War,’ right?” I slump into a nearby chair, putting away my phone—and my connection to everything back home.
He grunts in assent.
“It sort of surprises me that you like him,” I say.
His fingers pause over the strings, and he looks up at me over the guitar balanced on his knees. “Am I not supposed to like American music?”
“No, I just meant that your band isn’t anything like him, and people usually play the kind of music they like to listen to. But, then again, I’m getting the impression you don’t like your own music.”
He scowls, and even though he’s mentally impaling me with his eyes, it’s nice to see some human emotion in them. He’s usually so devoid of any outward feeling that I question if he’s sentient.
“There are a lot of great Korean rock bands, but I grew up listening to English music because that’s where I lived,” he says.
“Fair enough. So, are you going to tell me what you meant the first week of school about not thinking your band is any good?” I ask, perfectly aware of the rigidness of his shoulders.