The boy is still sitting in the corner when I enter the room. And maybe I should be ticked off that he clearly didn’t listen to me, but it doesn’t matter.
“Here’s the deal,” I say. “I added an extra twenty minutes to your room.”
He arches a brow. “How generous.”
“It’s not a gift. I challenge you to a karaoke battle.”
He stares at me blankly.
“Let me show you.” I scoot into the seat opposite him, pick up the device that controls the karaoke machine, and press the Score button. “Now the machine will score our performance once the song is over,” I explain. “If you win, I’ll give you another hour in this room. No charge. If I win, you have to leave.”
I’m a little surprised that I’m doing this. I would never in a million years think that I would challenge a stranger—a boy my own age who’s probably the most attractive person I’ve ever seen in real life—to a karaoke battle. But after getting the feedback from the judges, I’m determined to do something about it.
Maybe Uncle Jay was right. Maybe getting out of my comfort zone and putting myself out there will make a difference.
I bite my lip and wait as the boy mulls over my offer. Honestly, it’s a win-win situation for him. Without paying, he would have to leave eventually. So either he has to do what he was always going to do, or he gets a free hour in relatively safe comfort.
Finally he taps the songbook with his good hand. “All right. I’ll play your game. But you’re about to be disappointed. I’m actually decent at singing.”
From the smirk on his face, I can tell he’s already planning his hour of squatter-living. Little does he know that though I might not have the best voice, karaoke machines score on pitch, and mine is perfect.
He starts to push the songbook across the table.
“I won’t be needing that.” I pick up the controller and look up the artist by name, plugging in my selection. The instrumentals for Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive” begin to play.
I stand, microphone in hand, then proceed to belt out the song. I mostly chose this one because of the fast pace. I have no time to think or doubt myself when I’m trying to breathe. It doesn’t hurt that it also has lyrics like “Walk out the door” and “You’re not welcome anymore.”
When it’s over, I collapse onto the couch. My score appears on the screen: 95.
The boy taps his good hand on the table in a slow clap. “That was . . . something else.”
I’m breathless; my cheeks are flushed. “We only have eight minutes on the clock. Hurry, pick a song.”
I look up to find his eyes on me. “You choose for me.”
“Are you sure?” I pick up the book and turn to the back where all the recent songs have been added. “You’re going to regret this.” There aren’t many choices for American songs, but the Korean songs fill up two pages. I read the artist names aloud.
“XOXO? What kind of name is that?” I laugh.
He scowls. “Seven minutes.”
There are so many possibilities. I’m almost gleeful with power. “Do you prefer a song in English or Korean?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“I mean, we’re at a noraebang, you might as well sing a Korean song. I just don’t know many.”
“Really? Not even, like, the anthem?”
I’m about to answer with a snarky comeback, when I hesitate, remembering. “I know one . . .”
“What’s it called?”
“I don’t know the title.” I hum the melody by memory, but it’s been so long since I last heard it. “Sorry.” I shake my head, feeling silly for having brought it up.
“Gohae.”
I blink, startled. “What?”
“‘Confession.’ That’s the title of the song. It’s famous.”
I stare at him. I can’t believe he knows it, and just from a few bars of melody. “It was one of my dad’s favorites.”
“It was mine too,” he says.
I frown. “It was your favorite song?”
“My father’s.”
There’s a beat of silence between us as we both recognize we’re speaking of our fathers as if they’re no longer here.
Reaching out, he takes the controller, and with one hand, switches the language from English to Hangeul and plugs in the numbers, his fingers quick and sure.
When the instrumentals begin to play, I feel everything inside me go still. This is the song. I recognize the melody and the distinctive sound of a keyboard, then the boy starts to sing, and I forget to breathe.
I never paid attention to the lyrics before, but now they wrap around me like silk.
He sings about daring to love someone though the world would stand against them.
His voice is far from perfect, rough and not always on pitch, and yet there’s a rawness and vulnerability to every phrase, every word.
A memory washes over me, from five years ago, sitting cross-legged at the foot of my father’s hospital bed. We were playing cards on the blanket, and this song was playing in the background. And we were laughing. So hard that there were tears in our eyes, and I remembered thinking, I’m so happy. I never want this feeling to end. I want it to last forever.
But nothing ever does.
On the screen, a score appears: 86.
The time runs out on the machine. The boy gets to his feet, adjusting his cast. I instinctively stand to face him.
“Thank you,” he says, hesitantly. He then bows, and I bow back, which should be weird but for some reason isn’t.
I want to tell him that he should have won, that any judge would have scored his singing above mine. After all, a true musician doesn’t just perform a song but makes you feel something. And it’s clear with how my heart aches from the memory and the music, he has the spark. I want to ask him where it comes from, and how can I find it for myself.
But I say nothing and he quietly leaves the room, the door clicking shut behind him.
