On Sunday, I visit Halmeoni in the clinic and we watch a weekend drama with her roommates on the TV in the room. It’s already on episode seventy-eight of what my halmeoni tells me is a one-hundred-episode drama.
From what I gather from the other halmeoni and the drama itself, the story follows a young woman who, as a child, was lost at sea during a boating accident, only to be adopted by a fisherman. Turns out, she’s the actual daughter of a billionaire and heiress of a huge conglomerate in Seoul. But her identity was stolen by a woman who witnessed the accident and instated her own daughter in the young woman’s place, so she grew up the heiress. Meanwhile, the young woman is torn between the love of two men, a boy from her village who raised himself from nothing to become a fishing tycoon and the son of another chaebol family who was betrothed to her from birth. Also possibly her mother was murdered, and she might have a terminal illness?
After the episode is over, I pull out the food I’d bought from the bakery, a loaf of sourdough bread, thick, creamy butter, and blackberry jam.
“You’re so lucky, Eonni,” Halmeoni’s neighbor in the bed to her right says, “to have such a caring granddaughter.”
Her neighbor in the bed across the room shakes her head, clicking her tongue disapprovingly. “If only your daughter showed you as much affection.”
“No bad words about my Soojung,” Halmeoni chides her friend. “I’m proud of her and how hard she works.”
Mom was supposed to join Halmeoni and me today, but she’s been busy with a new case that her colleague back in the States forwarded to her, an immigration dispute concerning North Korea. Mom couldn’t resist, and I can’t exactly be upset she’s not here. She’s doing important work and I’m proud of her.
But it does suck not spending more time with her, like I thought I would. Still, she’ll come to the showcase at the end of the semester, where, hopefully, I’ll have a solo.
“You remind me so much of Soojung,” Halmeoni says. “She was always so independent. So sure of what she wanted in life. She knew as the daughter of a fish stall worker, the odds were stacked against her success, so she studied hard, worked part-time to earn money to pay for English classes, and finally got a scholarship to attend college in America, where she met your father and had you.” Halmeoni smiles, but there’s a sadness to her eyes. She’s always so cheerful that it catches me by surprise.
“I know she’s always been resentful that I sent her away . . .”
This must be the reason for Halmeoni and Mom’s strained relationship. But I think Halmeoni’s being too hard on herself. It’s Mom’s fault if she can’t see that her mother was only trying to give her the best life, by not holding her back.
“She’s like that heroine in the drama,” I say to make Halmeoni laugh. “At least the fish part.”
When she does laugh, I feel warm and fuzzy inside. I spend several more hours with her, though after seeing that flash of sadness, I can’t unsee it.
I know she loves me and is happy to spend time with me. But I can tell with her longing glances at the door, that she wishes her daughter were here.
And the thing is, I don’t blame her, because I do too.
It’s late afternoon by the time I leave, feeling emotionally exhausted. Out in the quad, I stand in the middle of the lawn, lifting my face to the sun as if I can absorb its energy.
As I turn around I see a man wearing a bucket hat and sunglasses is loitering beneath the trees. I wouldn’t normally take notice except that he’s carrying a large camera bag.
After the broom closet incident, when Youngmin came to find Jaewoo because there was a man who was stalking him, I’d looked up the photographer credited on the photos of Nathaniel and Sori. I’m not positive this is the man who took the pictures, but just in case, I need to warn Jaewoo. It’s later than the time I ran into him last week when he was here for therapy, but I want to make certain.
I watch the man out of the corner of my eye until he passes, then whirl around. I quickly pull up a map of the Camellia Health Village on my phone, finding a building nearby that sounds promising: Camellia Counseling. I make my way over, keeping a brisk but even walk. Should the man look over and catch sight of me, there’s no reason for him to take notice. I’m not wearing my Seoul Arts uniform, just my favorite faux leather jacket and my Dodgers cap.
I reach the building of Camellia Counseling and the doors slide open soundlessly at my approach.
Inside, the setup for the building mirrors my grandmother’s clinic, with a waiting area and a receptionist desk. The interior walls are painted in calm, light-blue colors, and there’s a small indoor waterfall.
The woman at the desk smiles serenely at me, which is at odds with the adrenaline coursing through my body. What do I even say to her? Is Bae Jaewoo a patient here? She’ll think I’m a stalker and have me booted from the premises, which will only draw unnecessary attention.
“Jenny?”
“Jaewoo!” I grab his arm and drag him behind a wall, away from the windows.
I’m momentarily distracted because he’s wearing a black sweater cut low around his neckline, showing his collarbones.
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
Focus, Jenny. I look up at his face. “I’m here to warn you.”
He raises a single eyebrow.
“Okay, that was a little dramatic. But in my defense, I just spent the morning watching this wild makjang K-drama with my grandma.” I take a deep breath. “There’s a man with a camera outside. I think he’s that paparazzi ajeossi you were telling me about before.”
A scowl descends across his handsome features. “Wait here.” Pressing his back to the wall, he glances around the corner. He only looks for a brief second before he returns, grabbing my hand. “It’s him, all right,” he says. “We’ll avoid him by going out the emergency exit.”
Jaewoo’s grip on my hand is tight as he leads me down one hall, then another. Technically there’s no reason for me to go with him—the paparazzi ajeossi isn’t after me—but Jaewoo doesn’t let go. And after the day I had, I don’t want to let go either.
A black van is waiting across the street from the back exit, idling by the curb. Jaewoo releases my hand only to slide the van door open, gesturing for me to climb in first. I take the seat by the far window and Jaewoo jumps in after, sliding the door closed. He hits the roof of the car. “Let’s go, Hyeong.”
That’s when I notice that XOXO’s manager is in the driver’s seat. I recognize him from the uniform store. He doesn’t question Jaewoo—a quick getaway must be a common enough occurrence—switching the gear shift and accelerating from zero to sixty kilometers in a matter of seconds.
He slows down after driving a couple of blocks, checking his side mirrors to ensure no one is following us. He then looks up, studying me through the rearview mirror. “Who . . . ?”
“She’s a classmate of Nathaniel’s and mine,” Jaewoo explains. “We were being trailed by that reporter who works for Bulletin.”
He must not have seen Jaewoo holding my hand because he doesn’t comment on it. Either that or he’s used to keeping the boys of XOXO’s secrets.
“Where are you going, Jenny?” Jaewoo asks me. “Can we drop you off somewhere?”
“We’re running late as it is,” XOXO’s manager says.
“It’s fine,” I say. “I can take a cab from wherever you’re going.”
Jaewoo doesn’t press the issue.
XOXO’s manager, Nam Ji Seok, whose name I remember now from when Jaewoo told me, flicks on the turn signal, maneuvering the van onto a ramp that’ll take us over a bridge across the Han River. I know from Gi Taek that a good manager is someone who fulfills many roles in an idol’s life besides organizing their activities—bodyguard, driver, confidante, friend.
I wonder if Jaewoo has even told him about us. Though, what is there to tell?
Last time I saw him, he defended my character in front of Sori and Nathaniel and an entire lunchroom. But before that, he’d walked out on me as I gave one of the best performances of my life, without an explanation.
I want to be his friend. Ever since that night in LA, there’s been a connection between us. A spark. But I feel like my heart is constantly being pushed and pulled. I’m only here in Korea for five months—four now—do I really want to wait for him to make up his mind about me?
I’m tired of waiting.
“Jenny?” I must have been staring into space because when I focus on Jaewoo, he’s studying me. “Is everything all right?”
“Yeah, I was just . . . making my mind up about something.”
He frowns.
The navigation on the GPS pings and a woman politely tell us in Korean that we’ll be arriving at our destination shortly.
XOXO’s manager turns from a main road. Up ahead is a large building, the letters EBC, for Entertainment Broadcasting Center, in blue at the top.
As we approach, Nam Ji Seok slows the car. Outside the station, a huge crowd of people is gathered, even more than were in front of the uniform store. Most of the people are young, middle- and high-school students, wearing masks over their mouths, presumably to conceal their faces in case they’re caught on television skipping cram school to follow idols around.
“We’ll have to go around back,” Jaewoo says.
“There’s not enough time,” Ji Seok responds.
A van pulls ahead of us, parking in front of the building, and the crowd immediately swarms it.
“This is our chance!” XOXO’s manager jerks the van forward. “You’ll have to come inside with us,” he tells me. “I can’t risk leaving you alone in the van. Here, wear this.” He throws me a cloth face mask. I put it on, hooking the straps around my ears. I’m already wearing my Dodgers cap, so I lower it over my eyes. “You can pass for a backup dancer or a stylist. Just keep your head down. Ready?”
Everything happens so fast. He pulls up in front of the building, behind the other van. The doors must have an automatic open feature because they open on both sides. Jaewoo hops out of one side, Ji Seok and I hop out of the other.
“Jaewoo-oppa!” someone screams.
The ground beneath our feet begins to rumble. I look over to see a rush of people coming at us, like an oncoming tidal wave.
Then Ji Seok grabs my arm and we sprint past the crowd and through the doors of the broadcasting station, the security guards quickly closing them behind us.
I put my hands on my knees to catch my breath, then take a look at my surroundings.
It’s markedly quiet after the tumult of the crowd.
The group that entered before us lingers, talking among themselves. They must be another boy group, like XOXO. Unlike Jaewoo, they’re already dressed in their stage outfits, lots of red and black leather and tight pants.
“Hurry up,” Ji Seok says, calling us over to an unmarked door in the lobby.
“I should go,” I say when Jaewoo starts to follow. At my voice, he turns to look at me. “I can just slip out the back.”
“There are too many people outside,” Jaewoo says, a frown edging his lips.
“It’s fine,” I say. “I’m used to disappearing into crowds.” Wow, that sounds dramatic. “I mean, I’m used to crowds. Like in general.” I take a step back. “I’ll just . . . see myself out.”
As I turn, Jaewoo grabs my wrist.
Across the lobby, the boys in the other group have all quieted, staring.
“What are you doing?” I hiss.
“I’ll worry if you go out there,” he says.
I gape at him. There’s a reckless, stubborn look in his eye.
“Jenny, Jaewoo!” Ji Seok barks and I jump, eyes wide. He points a finger at me. “You can leave once the show starts and the crowd’s dispersed. Now, come on!”
We hurry forward, Jaewoo dropping my wrist.
Past the unmarked door is a hallway crowded with idols, backup dancers, stylists, makeup artists, managers, production assistants, and a ton of other people whose purpose I’m unclear on, but who look stressed out enough to belong here. As we pass by different idol groups, they either bow to Jaewoo or vice versa. I know from Gi Taek’s K-pop lesson 101 that there’s a hierarchy between idols depending on who debuted first, and I follow Jaewoo’s lead, bowing like I’m part of his entourage.
Ji Seok leads us to a dressing room with a sign on the door that reads: XOXO. He opens the door without knocking. Inside, Youngmin swivels on a chair in front of a mounted wall TV, while Nathaniel is playing with a baseball, throwing it in the air and catching it, and Sun is reading a book. All three look up at our entrance.
“Jenny-nuna!” Youngmin says, jumping out of his chair. “What are you doing here? Have you come to watch us perform?”
Nathaniel grins, standing. “Oh, who’s this? Have you brought us a new backup dancer?”
“Har, har, very funny,” I say.
Sun closes his book with a snap.
“Why are none of you dressed?” Ji Seok groans, exacerbated. “Or at least in makeup?”
“We were waiting for—” Nathaniel begins. Behind us the door bursts open and men and women carrying piles of clothing, accessories, and makeup kits rush in. Suddenly it’s chaos, Youngmin getting cornered by a stylist, a makeup artist chasing Nathaniel down, and Sun consulting calmly with a hairstylist. As for Jaewoo . . . our gazes meet. He makes a move toward me, but suddenly Ji Seok’s between us, pushing me out of the room.
“The boys need to get ready,” he tells me. “You can wait over here.” He starts shuffling me down the hall to a door that opens backstage. Loud music fills my ears, the floor seeming to thrum with it. “You can watch the performance from the wings. It’s the best seat in the house.” His phone then lights up and he scurries away, leaving me alone backstage during the middle of a full-blown K-pop show.
I watch through a monitor as an idol girl group dances in perfect synchronization, their voices smooth and dulcet. The camera pans to the audience. Someone must have let in the crowd that was waiting outside because the studio is packed. Dozens of boys, mostly, shout-sing along with the lyrics, holding up signs and soaking in the excitement of the performance.
After the girl group’s performance ends, the show goes to a commercial break. Several security guards rush into the crowd, ushering out the people standing in the front and letting in new people. As I observe, I realize what’s happening. Though the main audience seated in the stadium remains the same, the people standing in front of the stage changes depending on the idol group they support. The group entering the roped off area now have with them a banner with the words Kiss and Hug Club written across. All of them are gripping lightsticks shaped like either an X or an O, and a few hold signs with the members’ names written on the front. Jaewoo. Sun. Youngmin. And Jihyuk, which I know is Nathaniel’s Korean name.
There’s a shift in the noise backstage and I look over to see the members of XOXO, Sun leading, and then Nathaniel and Youngmin.
They look incredible. Their stage outfits can only be described as post-apocalyptic chic, artfully ripped designer wear, their hair seemingly wind-tossed—well, not Sun. Sun’s long hair is impeccably straight.
And then I see Jaewoo.
Somehow, in the span of a few minutes, he’s transformed from a handsome high-school boy to an alarmingly attractive K-pop star.
He’s in all black, a silky, ripped top and tight-fitting pants. His hairstylist has managed to give his dark tresses a sort of wet appearance, as if he’s stepped in from the rain. His eyes, as they meet mine, seem darker than usual—or is it the makeup?
Sun walks by without acknowledging me, but Youngmin grins and waves, doing the heart sign with his fingers.
Nathaniel pauses to say, “Wish me luck.”
And I answer, “Break a leg.”
Then Jaewoo’s in front of me.
“Will you stay?” he asks. “Until after the performance. There’s something I want to talk to you about.”
Before I can answer, he’s being called onstage. I watch as he moves to the front of the formation.
Then the stage lights go on and the music begins.
