Youngmin stands outside the door, his eyes trailing from me to Jaewoo. “Why are you in the broom closet with Jenny-nuna?”
I’m frozen in place, wondering how I must appear with my face flushed. I quickly let go of Jaewoo’s hoodie. Luckily Youngmin doesn’t seem to notice the movement, his eyes on Jaewoo.
“Why do you think we’re in here?” Jaewoo says.
Oh boy. He’s stalling.
“Were you looking for something? I saw the light was on. Though . . .” He frowns. “That doesn’t explain why the door was clo—”
“You dyed your hair!” I interrupt, pointing to Youngmin’s head. His hair, which was blue yesterday, is now fire-truck red. “It looks good!”
My distraction seems to work because Youngmin beams. “Thank you! Our manager says I’m the only one in the band who can really pull it off. He sent me to get you, Jaewoo-hyeong. We were supposed to have left for EBC fifteen minutes ago.”
“Oh, right,” Jaewoo says. “We shouldn’t keep him waiting.”
I wonder if Jaewoo and I will ever acknowledge what almost took place in the broom closet, or if, like before, we’re going to pretend it never happened.
“Hyeong,” Youngmin says, hesitating, “that ajeossi is outside again.”
It’s like these words flip a switch inside Jaewoo because his whole demeanor changes.
With jerky movements, he takes out his phone, quickly tapping against the screen, then holding it to his ear. Catching my eye, he explains, “I’m calling campus security. Hello?” Someone must have picked up on the other line. “There’s a suspicious adult, male, mid-forties, hanging around the arts department.” He holds his hand to the receiver. “Which side?” he asks Youngmin.
“East side,” Youngmin tells him, and Jaewoo repeats it to the operator.
“Thank you.” He hangs up. “Don’t worry, Youngmin-ah. They’ll get rid of him.”
We start walking, Jaewoo at the front, flanked by Youngmin and me. Tension radiates from Jaewoo in waves. Something about the appearance of this man has really ticked him off.
“Who is he?” I ask Youngmin.
“A paparazzi ajeossi,” Youngmin explains. “He’s the one who sold the story of Nathaniel and Sori to Bulletin.”
Jaewoo’s anger suddenly makes a lot more sense. This is the man who hurt his group member, his label-mate and friend. With him, it’s personal.
“Do you get followed by paparazzi a lot?” I ask.
Youngmin wrinkles his nose. “Not really. Though sometimes they wait for us outside the company . . .”
“That’s different,” Jaewoo says, and his usually even-toned voice has an edge to it. “At concerts, at fan events, even in places where there isn’t a designated media zone like outside Joah’s building or the broadcasting stations, media are expected, even invited. But at our school? Outside our dorm? At the homes of our families? That’s not right.
“When our fans take photos of us it’s because they want to feel close to us, they support us and have our best interests at heart. Paparazzi just want money; they want to expose our private lives for profit.”
“People have even gotten hurt,” Youngmin says. “There have been cases where idols have gotten into car crashes trying to get away from paparazzi.”
“Wow, that’s awful.”
We reach a hallway that splits in two directions. Jaewoo finally stops and turns to me. “Youngmin and I will go out the east side. If you follow this hall it’ll take you out the north exit. Follow the garden path to the cafeteria.”
I feel like we’re in a war film and he’s drawing the fire. It’s a similar feeling to how I felt that night in LA, when an unmarked van had pulled up to the curb to take him away.
“The paparazzi ajeossi should be gone by now,” Jaewoo says, and I know he says it to reassure me.
They both wait for me to leave first. “Good luck on your live show,” I say. “I’ll be sure to watch.”
Youngmin holds up his thumb and pointer finger, pressing the pads together and crossing them slightly until they form the shape of a tiny heart.
“If you see me making this sign to the camera, know that it’s for you!”
Later that night, Angela, Gi Taek, and I watch XOXO’s performance on Top Ten Live in a small restaurant right off campus that sells Korean food at cheap prices. We split a plate of tteok-bokki between us as we wait for our other dishes to arrive.
Gi Taek spears a cylinder of the spicy rice cake with a toothpick. “Don’t let me eat more than three. I’m on a diet.”
“How can you stop at three?” Angela exclaims. “I could eat a whole mountain of tteok-bokki.” She’s foregone the toothpicks in favor of chopsticks for easier access.
I rest my chin on my hand and watch the entirety of XOXO’s performance, noticing details I hadn’t picked out the first time around. Like how even the choreography tells a story. As the camera pans closer to the performers, Youngmin flashes the heart sign to the camera.
“That’s not usually part of the routine,” Angela says. “How cute!”
A jingle above the door signals the entrance of another customer. I’m surprised to see though that it’s Sori who steps through the door. Without so much as a glance in our direction, she walks over to the counter, places her order, and takes a seat at a table a little way down from us.
Angela leans across the table and whispers, “Should we invite her to join us?”
Gi Taek shakes his head. “She’d never say yes.”
The restaurant owner calls out our order and Angela dashes from the table, coming back with a plate of kimchi fried rice. We dig in with our spoons.
“What are your plans for the weekend?” Gi Taek asks us. He’s far surpassed three tteok-bokki by now.
“I’m going to visit my halmeoni on Sunday morning,” I say.
“Where does your halmeoni live?” Gi Taek asks.
“She lives near Gyeongbokgung Palace, but I’m actually visiting her at the health clinic where she stays on the weekends. It’s also around there, though a few stops away on line three.”
“That’s not far from Ikseon-dong,” Gi Taek says. “My sister lives in the neighborhood. There are a lot of cool cafés nearby. We should hang out.”
“I’m in!” Angela says.
“I’d love that,” I say.
We make plans to meet on Sunday in the late afternoon after I visit my grandma.
The bells above the door chime again. This time Jina enters, accompanied by a few of her friends.
She glances over at our table, then says something to the boy behind her, who laughs.
“She’s in your class, isn’t she?” Gi Taek asks. “Kim Jina?”
“She is. She’s also in our PE class,” I say, nodding at Angela. “Do you know her?”
“I went to middle school with her. She doesn’t exactly have a great reputation, like there were rumors of school bullying.”
Angela and I exchange a look. Why am I not surprised?
After ordering at the counter, her group completely ignores our table; they have a more vulnerable target in mind.
They take seats at the table directly next to Sori’s, talking loudly to one another. Their voices carry throughout the small restaurant:
“She’s sitting alone.”
“Doesn’t she have any friends?”
“What a loser.”
Sori, who’d ordered a hot noodle dish, bends slightly forward, her hair falling over her face.
The restaurant owner calls out that the last food items we ordered are ready. Gi Taek, Angela, and I all stand at once. There are three plates of food on trays and we each take one.
We form a line, with me in the front, and head through the restaurant, bypassing our table, where we’d already cleaned up the food on our dishes.
We set our trays down at Sori’s table. I sit opposite her, while Gi Taek and Angela sit beside us.
And then we proceed to completely ignore her, continuing our chat. At one point, I think Sori might get up and flee, her spoon hovering in the air. But then she resumes eating.
We stay—eating and gossiping and joking and laughing—until she’s finished her meal.
