Jay’s Karaoke sits at the center of a Koreatown strip mall between a Boba Land 2 and Sookie’s Hair Emporium.
The door to the latter bursts open as I pass. “Yah, Jenny-yah!” Sookie Kim, owner and hairdresser, stands in the doorway holding a plastic bag and a flat iron. “Aren’t you going to say hello?”
“Hello, Mrs. Kim,” I say, then stretch my neck to look over her shoulder where three middle-aged women are seated in a row beneath hair dryers watching a K-drama on a wall-mounted TV. “Hi, Mrs. Lim, Mrs. Chang, Mrs. Sutjiawan.”
“Hi, Jenny,” they chorus back, waving at me briefly before returning their attention to the couple on screen who appear to be heading toward a K-drama kiss. The man leans his head one way, the woman the other, their lips touch and hold as the camera pans out with dramatic music soaring in the background.
As the credits start to roll, the ladies collapse back in their chairs with dreamy sighs. Well, two of them do.
“That’s it?” Mrs. Sutjiawan throws her house slipper at the TV.
“Here.” Ignoring the women, Mrs. Kim hands over the plastic bag she’s holding, which on closer inspection appears to be food wrapped up in a H Mart grocery bag and knotted tight. “This is for you to share with your mother.”
“Thank you.” I adjust my tote on my shoulder and bow slightly as I take the offering.
Mrs. Kim clicks her tongue. “Your mother works too much! She should be at home more, looking after her daughter.”
I’m almost certain my mother works the same amount of hours at the office as Mrs. Kim does at her own business, but I have a strong enough sense of self-preservation not to point this out. Instead, I continue to give off respectable-young-person-vibes and smile politely. It seems to be working because Mrs. Kim’s face softens. “Your mother must be so proud of you, Jenny. A good student. And so gifted in cello! I tell my Eunice that good music schools only take the best, but does she listen?”
“Sookie-ssi!” one of the ladies calls from inside.
“Coming,” she yells back. As she heads into her shop, I make my way next door.
Ever since Eunice and I started entering the same classical music competitions in seventh grade, Mrs. Kim has been comparing the two of us. With the compliments she’s always giving me, I shudder to think what Eunice is receiving on the opposite end. Lately, I haven’t seen her at any of the competitions. She wasn’t at last Saturday’s, the results of which are currently burning a hole through my jacket pocket. If Mrs. Kim were to read what the judges said about me, she wouldn’t be so quick with her praise.
The bells above the door at Jay’s Karaoke chime my arrival.
“Be right there!” Uncle Jay’s voice travels from behind the curtain that separates the bar from the kitchen.
Edging around the counter, I drop my tote and open the mini fridge to stuff Mrs. Kim’s Tupperware between bottles of soju.
Seven years ago, Dad and Uncle Jay bought this place in order to fulfill a dream they’d had since they were kids, to own and manage a karaoke business together.
Uncle Jay isn’t related to me by blood, but he and my dad were like brothers. After my dad passed, it was Uncle Jay who asked my mom if I could come work for him after school. At first Mom was against it, worried a part-time job wouldn’t leave enough time for school and orchestra practice, but she came around when Uncle Jay said I could do my homework during off hours. Plus I practically grew up here. I have memories of Dad behind the bar, laughing with Uncle Jay as he whipped up his latest concoction, not forgetting a special non-alcoholic drink just for me.
For years, I wasn’t allowed in the bar—Mom was afraid it’d bring back memories—but so far it’s been fun, and the memories, only good ones.
I spray the counter with cleaning solution and wipe it down, then move onto the tall bar tables. There aren’t any customers in the main room, though a glimpse down the hall shows a few of the private karaoke rooms are occupied.
“Hey, Jenny, thought that was you.” Uncle Jay emerges, holding two paper plates of steaming food. “Today’s special is bulgogi tacos. Hungry?”
“Starving.” I hop onto a barstool and Uncle Jay places the plate in front of me, two tacos with bulgogi marinated in his own special sauce, lettuce, tomatoes, cheese, and kimchi.
While I inhale my food, Uncle Jay turns on Netflix above the bar, scrolling through available movies.
This is our ritual. The bar doesn’t get busy until later in the night, so we spend early evenings eating and watching movies, specifically Asian gangster films.
“Here we are,” Uncle Jay says, landing on a classic. The Man from Nowhere also known as Ajeossi. An action thriller about an embittered ex-cop whose young neighbor is kidnapped and goes on a journey to bring her back home. It’s like the Korean Taken, but better. Because it has Won Bin. Won Bin makes everything better.
Uncle Jay puts on the subtitles and we eat and watch the film, commenting on the believability that somehow Won Bin is an ajeossi, a middle-aged man, at thirty-three. When customers come in, he turns the volume down and leads them to their rooms. I keep an eye on the monitor that shows whether someone has pushed a call button, so that I can take the customers’ orders and bring them their food while Uncle Jay handles their drink orders.
By the time nine o’clock rolls around, half the rooms are filled and the movie is finished; instead, K-pop blares over the speakers. Every month, Uncle Jay streams YouTube compilations of the top music videos of the month on the TV in the bar. I watch as a group of girls in color-coordinated outfits performs a complicated and synchronized dance to a catchy electro-pop song.
Unlike some of the kids at my school, I never could get into K-pop, or any pop, really. A playlist of my life would include Bach, Haydn, and Yo-Yo Ma.
“Didn’t you have an important competition this week?” Uncle Jay inspects a glass behind the counter, drying it with a rag.
My stomach sinks. “Saturday.” I give him a bitter smile. “I got the results back this morning.”
“Yeah?” He frowns. “How’d you do?”
“I won.”
“What? Really? Congrats, girl!” He pumps his fist in the air. “My niece is a champ,” he adds to the couple sitting at the bar, startling them from their tacos.
“Yeah . . .” I trace the letters of two sets of initials carved on the surface of the counter and linked by a heart.
“What’s up?” He puts the glass and rag down on the counter. “Something’s bothering you, I can tell.”
“The judges left me feedback.” I take out the paper from my pocket, which has been noticeably crumpled, then smoothed out, then folded into a square, and hand it over. “It’s supposed to help me improve before the next competition.”
As Uncle Jay reads the note, I replay the words I’ve already memorized.
While Jenny is a talented cellist, proficient in all the technical elements of music, she lacks the spark that would take her from perfectly trained to extraordinary.
Next year, hundreds of cellists just like me will be applying to the best music schools in the country. In order to get into one of the top schools, I can’t just be perfect. I have to be extraordinary.
Uncle Jay hands the paper back. “Talented and technically skilled. Sounds about right.”
I stuff the note deep into my pocket. “You missed the part where they called me a soulless robot.”
He laughs. “I definitely missed that part.” Though he must feel a tad sympathetic because he adds, “I can see that you’re disappointed. But it’s just critique. You get them all the time.”
“It’s not just that it’s critique,” I say, trying to put my frustration into words. “It’s that there’s nothing to improve upon. Emotion in music is expressed through pitch and dynamics. I’m great at both of those things.”
Uncle Jay gives me a sidelong glance.
“They said I lack spark!”
He sighs, leaning against the bar. “I think it’s more that you haven’t found your spark yet, something that lights that fire within you to go after what you want. For example, your dad and me deciding to open up this karaoke bar, even though so many people told us it was a waste of money. Even your mom, though seeing as how she didn’t grow up with much, I don’t blame her. We knew it’d be hard and that we might not succeed but we still tried because it was our dream.”
“But . . .” I say slowly, “what does any of that have to do with impressing music schools?”
“Here, let me explain it to you in Jenny-speak. You know that movie we watched earlier tonight? Ajeossi. There’s a quote Won Bin’s character says that roughly translates to, ‘People who live for tomorrow should fear the people who live for today.’ Do you know why that is?”
“No,” I drawl, “but you’re going to tell me.”
“Because the people who live for tomorrow don’t take risks. They’re afraid of the consequences. While the people who live for today have nothing to lose, so they fight tooth and nail. I’m saying that maybe you should stop caring so much about your future, about getting into music school, about what’ll come after, and . . . live a little. Have new experiences, make new friends. I promise you can get the life you want now, if you just live in it.” The door chime jingles as customers walk into the bar.
“Welcome!” Uncle Jay calls out, leaving me to stew in my thoughts as he rounds the counter to greet them.
I think about texting Mom, except that I know what she’d say; I should practice more and maybe schedule additional lessons with Eunbi. Also not to listen to Uncle Jay. If Uncle Jay is all about living in the moment and following your dreams, my mom is much more practical. I can have a successful career as a cellist but only if I work hard and focus completely.
Anything outside of that is a distraction.
Though, it’s not like I haven’t been working hard—Mrs. Kim, and presumably Eunice, would know—and still I got that critique.
Maybe Uncle Jay has a point.
“Don’t worry about it, kiddo,” he says returning from helping out the customers. “You’ll figure it out. Why don’t you go home early, rest up? Bomi should be here soon.” Bomi is the surly UCLA student who usually works the night shift. “Just check in on room eight before you do. The time ran out on their machine but they haven’t left yet.”
I sigh. “Okay.” Slipping off the barstool, I trudge down the hall. Confronting customers is one of my least favorite tasks at Jay’s. Why can’t they just read the rules?
In most karaoke joints in the States, customers are charged at the end of the night, usually by the hour, and the customers are the ones who keep track of the time and how much they’re spending. Uncle Jay runs his karaoke business like they do in Korea, charging in advance for a set amount of time that appears as a countdown clock on the screen inside the room. That way, people aren’t overcharged. If they want to sing for longer, they can add more time to their room. Mom always says Uncle Jay doesn’t really have a head for business.
The door to room eight is closed with no sound coming from inside, but that makes sense if their time has run out. I knock once, then open the door.
This is the VIP room, the largest in the bar that can hold up to twenty people.
I’m surprised to find a single person in the room. He’s a guy around my age, seated in the corner with his back against the wall and his eyes closed.
I look for evidence of another person, but the long table is empty of food or drinks. If he’s renting the room by himself, he must be wealthy. His clothes look expensive. A silky shirt clings to his shoulders, and his long legs are clad in smooth black pants. His left arm is in a cast, but a Rolex glints from his right wrist—and are those sleeve tattoos?
What teenager has sleeve tattoos?
I look back to his face, startled to see that his eyes are open. I wait for him to speak, but he remains silent. I cough to clear my throat. “Your time expired. If you would like to use the room longer, it’s fifty dollars an hour. Otherwise, you need to leave.”
That came out ruder than I intended. I blame the judges for putting me in a bad mood.
The silence that follows seems heightened with the strobe lights issuing from the disco ball on the ceiling.
Maybe he can’t speak English? He might be from Korea. No American kid is this stylish.
I try again, this time in Korean. “Sigan Jinasseoyo. Nagaseyo.” Literally, “Time’s up. Get out.” Though with honorifics, so technically I’m being polite.
“I heard you the first time,” he says in English. His speaking voice is low and smooth. He has a slight accent, a sort of warm curl around his words.
I feel an inexplicable blush rise in my cheeks. “Then why didn’t you say something?”
“I was trying to decide whether I should be offended.”
I point to the large laminated book at the center of the table that lists all the available karaoke songs by title. “The rules are written on the cover of the songbook. They stipulate that if you haven’t purchased more time after fifteen minutes, you have to leave immediately.”
He shrugs. “I’m out of money.”
I eye his Gucci loafers. “I highly doubt that.”
“They’re not mine.”
I frown. “You stole them?”
He pauses, then says slowly, “You could say that.”
Is he lying? Somehow I don’t think so. I hadn’t seen him come into the bar. How long has he been in this room? Alone. Who does that, unless they’re hiding from something? And maybe it’s because I just watched Ajeossi, but my mind jumps to one conclusion.
I step closer. He seems to mirror my movements, leaning away from the wall.
“Do you—” I drop my voice low. “Do you need help?” In crime dramas, the people my age aren’t ever in the gang because they want to be.
He shrugs. “Right now, fifty dollars would be great.”
I shake my head. “I’m asking if you’re in trouble? Like . . . with a gang.”
For a moment, he looks taken aback, his eyes widening slightly. Then my words seem to click into place and he drops his gaze. “Ah, so you’ve guessed it.”
I nod fervently. “You must be sixteen, seventeen . . .” I press. “There are laws to protect minors in the United States.” Maybe they’re holding something over him, like the safety of a sibling or a friend. “If you need help, you only have to ask.”
There’s a short pause, then he says softly, “If I asked you to save me, would you?”
My heart breaks a little. “I can try.”
He lifts his eyes to mine, and my breath catches. It’s almost unfair that someone could be so . . . beautiful. His skin is flawless. He has dark eyes and soft hair, and a full, cherry-red mouth.
He drops his head and his shoulders start to shake. Is he . . . crying? I move closer, only to see that he’s . . .
Laughing. He even slaps his knee with his good hand.
What a jerk! I was concerned for him.
I stomp out the door.
In the foyer, Uncle Jay glances up from where he’s adding hours to one of the rooms. He takes one look at my expression and sighs. “Kid’s not leaving, huh? Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.”
He starts to come out from behind the bar, but I hold up a hand. “Wait.” His words from earlier echo back to me. Live a little. “I’ve got this.”
