I find Sori laid out on her bed in our dorm room, uniform still on. Her hair is covering her face, which I’m starting to suspect is her anxiety coping mechanism. Except with the rain, her hair’s a little wet and she looks like an Asian water ghost. I’m proud of myself for not pointing this out to her.
“Do you . . . want to talk about what just happened?” I ask, slipping off my shoes.
“Not really,” she mumbles.
I wonder if we’re going to go back to the way we were before. Strangers living together.
Then she abruptly sits up. She whips her hair back, and it’s like she’s instantly transformed from a ghost to a mermaid, her smeared mascara only enhancing the beautiful shape of her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she says.
“For . . . ?”
“You apologized, but I never did. I’m sorry for what I said about you, especially for what I said about your musical ability. As a musician myself, that was uncalled for.” Reaching out, she grabs her We Bare Bears cup from her nightstand and takes a sip.
“Is that cup for kids?”
“What do you mean?” She still has the cup to her mouth as she speaks.
“Like, was it made for little kids to use?”
“No. It’s for all ages.”
“Oh, sorry. I got distracted. I mean, it’s fine.”
“No, it’s not fine. We’re roommates and I have no idea, like, what you do even.”
“I could show you,” I say.
The dorms discourage playing instruments in our rooms since the walls aren’t soundproof, so I grab my phone.
Sori pats her bed, indicating for me to sit next to her. I scurry over and plop down.
“Oh my God, is this Egyptian cotton?”
“Focus, Jenny.”
I open up the last video saved on my phone, one my grandmother sent me. Apparently one of the nurses in the clinic recorded my performance of “Le Cygne”
I hold my breath as Sori watches, her expression giving nothing of her thoughts away. I didn’t think I could be so nervous watching her watch a video of me.
When it ends, she hands me back my phone. “Jaewoo was right. You’re incredible.”
I’m blushing.
“I’ve heard that piece before,” she says. “There’s a famous ballet choreographed to the music.”
“You know ballet?”
“I study it along with other dance forms, like contemporary and hip-hop.”
“So you want to be a dancer?”
She slides me a look, like I’ve said something foolish. “I want to be an idol. For that, I need to know how to dance, sing, and have a personality.”
“You definitely have two out of three.” She narrows her eyes, and I say, “Kidding, kidding.”
“Is this what I’ve been missing out on all this time?” But she says it with a curve to her lips, so that I know she’s okay with my teasing. “But let’s talk about your dancing. I don’t think you’re going to pass the class, at the rate you’re going.”
“I know,” I groan. “I’m a cellist. We’re a sedentary breed.”
“You just need a little practice.” She bites her lip, watching me. Then says, “Later tonight, do you want to get out of here?”
I frown. “Won’t the facilities be closed?”
“You’re talking to the daughter of the CEO of Joah Entertainment. My mother owns thirty percent of the shares for this school.”
“What are you saying? I’m just a peon. You need to speak my language.”
“I have a key.”
It’s less that she has a key and more that she knows the code to the electronic lock on the door. Entering the dance studio, we drop our bags to the floor. Before leaving the dorms around ten, we changed into workout clothes and packed two tote bags full of snacks because, as Sori ominously predicts, “we’re going to need fuel.”
She switches on only one of the lights. Luckily this studio faces the back of the school, not the quad, making it less likely a security guard might notice our presence.
“Is this where you go in the mornings?” I ask, taking a seat on the floor and spreading my legs out to stretch.
“Yeah, I practice here for an hour, then go to the gym before washing up before class.”
That all sounds awful to me, but impressive.
After stretching, she brings her phone over to the wall, hooking it up to the sound system. “Let’s go through the whole choreography.”
Sori’s clearly a skilled dancer because I only have to do the whole thing once for her to figure out the steps. She then proceeds to demonstrate how it’s supposed to be done, and it’s a wonder to watch her, especially during the more powerful parts, like when she’s krumping.
“Concentrate!” she yells, catching me gaping at her in the mirror.
After an hour, I’m sweating from all my pores and ready to pull every single strand of hair off my head. “I suck at this.”
“Stop being so hard on yourself,” she says, raising her water bottle to her mouth. “Your body has to memorize the steps before it will actually look good to others. You’re trying too hard to learn it all at once. Isolate the movements. Don’t tell me you were a master at cello when you first started.”
“I wasn’t awful,” I mumble to myself.
“No one is judging you here,” she says, ignoring me. “Just remember that I heard you play the cello. I acknowledge you’re amazing at it. But this is my specialty, and I’m trying to help you.”
I stare at her. Like really look at her. “You’re good at this.”
Now it’s her turn to blush. “I like . . . helping people. I had this dream, when I first started high school. . . . I wanted to be called ‘seonbae.’” She must see that I don’t know the term because she explains, “‘Seonbae’ is what underclassmen use to address upperclassmen. I wanted one of the younger students to call out to me Sori-seonbae and ask for my help.” She curls her hair around her finger. “Embarrassing, right?”
I have this sudden urge to hug her. She’s adorable. Of course Nathaniel couldn’t help falling for her.
“That’s so . . . pure,” I gush.
She laughs, and then says, seriously, “From the top?”
By the time midnight rolls around, I’m actually kind of getting the hang of the choreography. It’s like my body has gone through the movements so many times that I don’t have to think about what comes next. After I finally nail a tricky bit of footwork, Sori calls for another break and we bust out the snacks. Vitamin water and crunchy rice bars for Sori, shrimp crackers and Gatorade for me.
After eating, we lay down on our backs in the middle of the studio, look up at the ceiling, and just talk. I tell her about my life growing up in LA with my mom and dad, about how they both worked food service jobs while my mom went through law school. Then how a few years after the karaoke bar opened, he got the diagnosis. I skip over the hard years, when he was in the hospital, and fast forward to my plans for the future—college in New York City, complete independence.
Sori tells me about her life growing up in the affluential neighborhood of Apgujeong, how she’s an only child too. That besides her mother being the CEO of Joah, her father is a politician, which meant that a lot of her friends were either children of chaebol families or kids from school whose parents forced them to befriend her.
How a couple of years back her father had had a highly publicized affair, which resulted in her so-called friends turning their backs on her. It was an awful, exhausting time, and the person who was there for her, who was her rock through it all, was Nathaniel.
She smiles as she recounts her impression of him at their first meeting, both thirteen years old. She thought he was a punk and a troublemaker. For years they teased and tried to one-up each other.
“You know,” she says, “how sometimes in middle school a boy will be mean to the person he likes?”
“Wow, Nathaniel,” I drawl. “Totally not cool.”
“I know, right?” She laughs though her voice has a sad quality to it.
“Do you want to get back together again?”
She’s quiet for a long time, I’m not sure if she’ll answer. Finally, she says, “I want to be an idol. It’s my dream, Jenny.”
“O-kay, but you can still be an idol and date Nathaniel, can’t you? Or is it your mom?”
“It’s not just my mother or the company. It’s more than that.”
“What reasons are there besides that?”
She turns on her side to look at me. “You really don’t know?”
“No,” I say, “but I want to.”
For her. For Nathaniel. For Gi Taek and Angela, who share the same dream.
For Jaewoo.
“It’s a great honor to be an idol. You’ve achieved a dream that so many people want as well. But that’s only the beginning. You have to work hard to release good music, maintain your image and brand, perform well, win awards, top charts, hold fan signings, go on variety shows, support your group members’ solo activities, have your own solo activities . . .” She stops, catching her breath. “When you add another person into the mix, some people think it takes away from all of that. Like you have a person who is more important than all those other things, a part of your life you’re not sharing, when, as an idol, you agreed to share your whole life with your fans, so that they can love you without fear that you’ll disappoint or hurt them.”
She sighs. “At least, that’s how I’ve always thought of it, and it’s the reason I can most understand. I want to make people smile. I want to warm their hearts. And if dating makes people worry or feel like I’m not trying hard enough, then I . . . won’t.”
I try to understand what she’s saying; it’s so out of the realm of anything I’ve ever had to worry about. “I don’t think being in a relationship takes away from all your hard work. You can’t aim to please everyone, you can only aim to please yourself.”
She offers me a bemused smile. “That’s very American of you to think that way. Nathaniel’s like that too. Screw everyone else. Live your best life.”
“I mean . . . not exactly that. More like, you need to be strong for yourself first, be healthy and happy for yourself first, before you can be strong and give happiness to others. The healthier and happier you are, the more you can give to your fans, right? They should want that for you.”
She rests her head on her hands, nodding slowly.
“Plus, come on, don’t you think after falling in love, you’ll just have that many more love songs to write?”
She laughs. “We’re jumping ahead of ourselves. I don’t have any fans, Jenny!”
“That’s not true. You have me.”
“I know we just recently went from roommates to friends,” she says shyly, “but can I hug you?
“Um, yes!” I reach out and take her into an Uncle Jay–like hug, slightly suffocating.
“You’re sweaty!” She giggles.
“You are too!” I push her away and she laughs, placing her hands over her face.
It’s one o’clock in the morning. We sprawl on our backs again. Neither of us speaks for a while, and I think Sori’s half asleep when she rolls to her side and murmurs, “If cellists have fan clubs, Jenny, I want to join yours.”
