The next morning Halmeoni takes Mom and me to the juk restaurant down the street. It’s a chilly morning and the porridge, made of boiled rice, warms me right up. Afterward, we walk over to the area around Gyeongbokgung Palace. It’s walled off and requires an entrance fee so we don’t go inside, but Halmeoni and I have a fun time walking around arm-in-arm and exclaiming over the tourists and locals dressed in brightly colored hanbok, presumably rented from the traditional Korean clothing stores located on every street. Mom spends the majority of the time on her phone, already getting calls from her work back home, though I don’t mind; it gives me more one-on-one time with Halmeoni before school starts.
Around noon, Halmeoni is showing signs of fatigue so we head back to her apartment. Then at four I go back out again, this time on my own. Since I’m moving into my dorm at Seoul Arts Academy tomorrow, I have to pick up my school uniform at a store in Sinsa-dong.
Mapping out a route on my phone, I head over to the subway, where I’m surprised to find it connects to a huge underground shopping mall.
I’m immediately overwhelmed by a hundred sights, sounds, and smells. Different aisles branch off in seemingly endless directions, filled with shops selling everything from Korean brand clothing to cell phone accessories to cosmetics to adorable socks for ₩1000 a piece, which equals to less than a dollar. There are dozens of food and drink stands, restaurants, bakeries, and cafés. I spot a few familiar chains, like Dunkin’ Donuts and 7-Eleven, and a few unique to Korea and Asia, like Hollys Coffee and A Twosome Place.
I could spend hours down here and still not see everything. A group of schoolgirls pass in front of me, heading toward a shop selling corn dogs topped with cheese mustard and sweet chili sauce. I’m tempted to stop for a pre-dinner snack, but a glance at my phone reminds me that I don’t have long before the uniform store closes.
Down on the platform, the train is preparing to leave, so I sprint to the doors, managing to slip through before they close.
A few passengers look up at my abrupt arrival, but then go back to peering at their respective devices. I take a seat next to two small boys playing video games on their handheld consoles. They don’t seem to be accompanied by an adult, but I’m realizing now that’s probably just how it is in Seoul, safe enough that kids can travel about freely.
Honestly, I’m a bit envious. My mom wouldn’t let me take public transit on my own up until six months ago. And compared to LA’s system, this subway car seems like it’s from the future with a pleasant automated voice overhead explaining what station we’re leaving, and air so well-circulated I feel like I’m in a department store. There’s even a split-screen monitor attached to the ceiling. On one side is a depiction of the subway car as it leaves the station, moving onto the next stop on the line. The other screen shows the end of a music video. Four boys walk away from the camera, fire and destruction in their wake. On the bottom right side Joah Entertainment appears on the screen, as well as the artists’ name, XOXO, and the song, “Don’t Look Back.”
The music video shifts to a commercial for an instant coffee brand.
I get off the subway at the right stop and follow my mapping app to the address the school had provided for the uniform shop.
I almost miss the building because of the crowd gathered outside it.
Girls, mostly middle schoolers in thick coats, huddle next to a black van parked near the entrance.
I shuffle my way through the crowd. At the front, a harried looking man in his thirties blocks the door.
“You can’t enter,” he says to me.
“I’m here to pick up my uniform.” I pull up the email from my contact at Seoul Arts Academy and show him the screen.
The email is in English, but that doesn’t seem to be an issue because he sighs, pushing the door open behind him. “Don’t take any pictures.”
I nod, though it’s a weird policy to have. What if I want to show my mom my uniform? As I walk through, a few of the girls scream, and I stumble over the threshold. What the hell?
The door shuts, cutting off all noise.
With all the commotion on the street, I expect it to be chaos inside, but it’s quiet. Other than myself, there aren’t any customers. Uniforms hang on racks throughout the store. One of the two assistants behind the checkout desk approaches me. Like with the man outside, I show her the email. She quickly gets to work, taking down items in a few sizes for me to try—button-down shirts, skirts, pants, a sweater, and a blazer. She also adds PE clothing to the pile and a few accessories—a tie and a headband.
“Do you need assistance?” she asks after showing me the way to the changing rooms.
“No, I should be okay.”
She hands me the clothing. “If you need help, ring the call button inside the changing room.”
“Thank you,” I say and she bows before walking back to the desk. I almost ask her why there’s a crowd of girls outside the store. Is there a sale on the uniforms? That would actually be great.
I step through a drawn curtain that separates the main area of the store from the changing rooms. On the other side, there’s a small room with a large three-sided mirror.
A guy stands against the wall, looking down at his phone. I’m momentarily surprised, only because I hadn’t thought there was anyone else in the store.
He’s around my age, lean but strong-looking, and wearing all black. I must have been staring because he glances up. I quickly look away and enter one of the three changing rooms.
I’ve never worn a uniform, but I quickly figure out the logistics of it, tucking the white shirt into the waistband of the skirt—I don’t know how to tie a tie, so I leave that—and slipping the sweater over my head. I put the blazer over the whole thing, sticking my cell phone in the pocket. I turn to the mirror inside the dressing room, but it’s pretty small, which explains why there’s a full-body trifold in the main room.
I hesitate, remembering the guy on his phone. Am I really going to check myself out with him standing right there?
Oh, whatever. This is what I’m here for. I press back the curtain and walk out, careful not to look at the guy. Instead I approach the mirror and step up onto the little platform, offering me several angles to view how the uniform fits.
I must admit, I look good. The skirt hits an inch above my knees, which I’m not sure is standard, but makes my legs look great. I have wide shoulders, which I’m a bit self-conscious about, but they fill out the blazer nicely. Slipping my hands into my pockets, I do several poses to see how it looks from different angles.
A loud jingle starts to play. I reach into the pocket of my blazer and pull out my phone.
“Did you make it to the store all right?” Mom asks when I pick up. After hearing Korean all day, it’s a relief to switch to English.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m just trying on my uniform now.”
“Will you be home in time for dinner? Your halmeoni wants to treat you before you move into your dorm tomorrow.”
“Yeah, I should be home in an hour.”
“Okay, see you then.”
I hang up.
“You go to Seoul Arts Academy?”
The guy from earlier has moved away from the wall and is now standing to the side of the mirrors. It takes me a moment to realize he’s speaking to me. In English. Without an accent.
“Yeah,” I say, “I’m transferring there, from Los Angeles.”
“Los Angeles . . .” There’s a strange expression on his face, like there’s something about me that he can’t make out. Maybe it’s that I’m ethnically Korean, but I’m speaking in English. But I could say the same about him. “You live there?” he asks.
“Yeah. Why?” Staring directly at him like this, I can’t help but notice how attractive he is. He has deep dimples, even unsmiling, and soft hair that hooks rakishly over his eyes.
He shrugs. “Nothing. You just look familiar. I’m from the US too. New York.” That explains his English-speaking skills. And why he’s talking to me.
“How did you end up in Seoul?” I ask.
He stares at me, and I wonder if I’ve somehow asked an insensitive question. “So you don’t know who I am.”
It’s a statement, but it seems like a question.
“Should I?”
“Not particularly.”
O-kay then. I feel like I’m missing a piece of this conversation.
He, however, seems to get more comfortable, leaning against the mirror. “An opportunity came up and I moved here. My family lives in Flushing.”
“Wow,” I deadpan, “you can’t get more Korean American than that.”
He laughs.
“Hyeong, are you speaking English?” A boy barrels out of the leftmost dressing room. If I had to guess, he’s probably around fifteen, his most noticeable feature a shock of bright-blue hair. “What are you saying?”
Before answering, the guy in black asks me in Korean, “How are your conversation skills?”
“They’re all right,” I respond, also in Korean. “I can’t discuss politics or anything.” I don’t know the word for politics in Korean so I just say it in English.
“Honestly, me neither.” He turns to the blue-haired boy and pats him on the head. “Sorry, Youngmin-ah. When foreigners meet abroad, we can’t help ourselves.”
Youngmin glances at me, his eyes lighting up. “You go to Seoul Arts Academy?” I realize he’s wearing the same uniform as me, though with pants instead of a skirt. “We go there too. I’m Choi Youngmin, a first year. Nathaniel-hyeong is in Year Three.”
“Nice to meet you both. I’m Jenny, I’m in . . .”—the academic years in Korea are different than the States, with high school structured in three years—“my junior year back at home, but I guess Year Three, here?”
“Jenny’s from LA,” Nathaniel explains, looking down at his nails.
“Really?” Youngmin shouts. “We’ve been there!”
“Oh, yeah?” I smile. “What for?” Also, are they actual brothers? Youngmin had been calling Nathaniel “hyeong,” which means “older brother” in Korean, but they look nothing alike.
Youngmin glances at Nathaniel before speaking, “To shoot our music video for ‘Don’t Look Back.’”
Music video? Something clicks into place. The schoolgirls waiting outside. The man standing at the door. Even Youngmin’s hair, the bright color reminding me of the ads I’ve seen everywhere since touching down in Seoul.
“Are you . . .” Do K-pop stars call themselves K-pop stars? It’s not like Ariana Grande calls herself an American pop star.
“Idols,” Youngmin fills in. “We’re two of the members of the group XOXO. I’m the maknae, the youngest in the group, and also the rapper. Nathaniel’s a vocalist and main dancer. We also have our leader who’s a rapper like me, as well as our main vocalist.”
They must be pretty famous, if they already have fans following them around. I feel like a bad Korean for not knowing who they are . . .
“Wait, I’ve seen your music video!” I say. “In the subway on the way here.”
Youngmin grins. “Maybe you’ll become a fan?”
I wink at him. “Oh, for sure.”
Nathaniel looks at me oddly. “You watched the whole thing?”
I guess it would be strange if I had seen the music video and not recognized them. “No, just the ending.”
“It came out a week ago,” Youngmin explains. “It’s the main track off our first full-length album.”
“Congratulations,” I say and Youngmin beams. “So you filmed the music video in Los Angeles? Did you like the city?”
“I loved it! We had such a great time. Well . . .” His face falls. “Until the last day. There was an accident . . .”
“Youngmin! Nathaniel.” The man who was standing outside the door pokes his head into the dressing area. “Oh,” he says, when he catches sight of me. He looks suspicious for a second, like he thinks I might have snuck in here to accost Youngmin and Nathaniel, but then he notices that I’m wearing the uniform for Seoul Arts Academy. He turns back to the boys. “More fans are gathering outside the store. Are you finished?”
“Yeah! This one fits.” Youngmin rushes back into the dressing room. The man, who must be their manager, doesn’t leave, engaging Nathaniel in small talk, probably so that he doesn’t speak to me.
I’m heading back to my dressing room when Youngmin dashes out, dressed head-to-toe in Nike and wearing a huge puffer jacket that almost hits the floor.
He waves at me and runs off, hooking arms with the manager. Nathaniel is slower to leave, glancing at me. “See you when school starts.”
After they’re gone, I quickly change and pay for my clothing so that I can get back to Mom and Halmeoni. Although the crowd outside the store has dispersed there are more people on the streets. I join the tide heading toward the subway, in a bit of a daze from this afternoon’s events.
I just met two K-pop stars. Celebrities. Students at Seoul Arts Academy. I know a few kids back at school who would kill to be in my position.
Then again, it’s not like I’ll interact with them much. I’m sure they have their own friends, and fans. Though it would have been nice, to walk into school that first day and already have someone I know.
An image of Jaewoo flashes through my mind.
The last text message I sent him is still marked “unread.” I’d checked it this morning, as I have every morning.
Stepping onto the escalator that leads down into the subway, I take out my phone and pull up Jaewoo’s contact. I press the edit button and scroll down. I should delete his number once and for all. Maybe then I’ll stop thinking about him.
A bright light shines up ahead as the escalator approaches the bottom. A massive poster takes up a huge portion of the subway wall, from floor to ceiling.
I stare in shock because it’s them. XOXO.
There are four of them, just as Youngmin had said. On the far right, I recognize him. He has the same bright hair and smile. The boy on the far left must be the eldest member, the other rapper. Beside him is Nathaniel, looking absurdly sexy as he smolders at the camera. Not my type, but he must drive girls wild. And beside him is . . .
No.
No way.
Oh.
My.
God.
With shaking hands, I look down at my phone. I close out the edit screen and scroll up in the messages. To the photo taken in the sticker booth. I stare at the boy beside me in the photo, and then at the poster on the wall, where the main vocalist of XOXO is air-brushed, but just as gorgeous.
They’re the same person.
He’s the same person.
Jaewoo.
