by Axie Oh
“I’m seventeen years old.”
“Eomma,” Mom says. “We still have luggage outside.”
“I will call my landlord. He lives downstairs. He’ll bring it up.” She adds to me. “He always helps me with my groceries.”
She looks young for a grandmother, but that makes sense because my mom was young when she had me. She has short permed hair, shot with streaks of gray and a warm, sunny disposition. When she smiles, her eyes crinkle at the corners, and it’s the most adorable thing.
This whole time we’ve been conversing in Korean and I’m thankful that Mom forced me to stick with Korean class instead of quitting like I wanted to in second grade.
“It’s fine, Eomma,” Mom says. “Jenny’s strong.”
Mom nods at me and I race out the door to bring up the luggage while she unpacks in the only other bedroom in the apartment. It takes me four trips, but I manage to bring them all up. By the time I’m finished, Halmeoni has laid out breakfast on the small table in the kitchen. Toast slathered with butter, sunny-side-up eggs, and grilled spam. The bread for the toast must be from a bakery because it’s thick and fluffy, the eggs are cooked to perfection, and the spam is salty and sweet. The last meal I had was on the plane, and I’m starving. I inhale the food while my grandmother peels an apple next to me, nodding encouragingly.
After Mom finishes unpacking, she heads over to the small table, and I stand so she can sit on one of the two chairs.
“Can I go out and explore the neighborhood?” I ask my mom in English.
Halmeoni looks up where she’s begun peeling another apple. “Doesn’t she want to unpack?” she asks my mom.
“Jenny’s not staying,” Mom explains. “The school she’s attending has dormitories. She’s moving in the day after tomorrow.”
“Ah.” Halmeoni nods knowingly, “Chelliseuteu.” Cellist. Still holding the apple and knife, she raises two thumbs. “Meosisseo.” Very cool.
Reaching behind her, she grabs a piece of paper and writes down 1103*—the code to the keypad of the apartment—slipping it into my hands along with several man-won, roughly the equivalent of ten-dollar bills.
While I search my suitcase for my ankle boots, my grandma expresses concern about me going out into the city alone. She’s never been to Seoul. She doesn’t know the area. What if she gets lost?
“Don’t worry, Eomma,” Mom reassures her, “Jenny is very smart, and she can read and converse in Korean. She also has her cell phone.”
“Are you sure?” She sounds relieved. “She must be independent, like you.”
My mother doesn’t answer for a few seconds. “Yes, Eomeoni,” she says, finally. “Jenny’s had to grow up fast, like me.”
A look passes between them, and I edge toward the door. Whatever they need to work through, it’s better if I’m not around.
My first stop is the café across the street to load up on some caffeine. A chime twinkles when I open the door. When no one comes out to greet me, I leisurely move around the small space, which is about half the size of the foyer in Jay’s Karaoke. Natural light comes through the eastern-facing window, gilding the plethora of fresh flowers on the sill, presumably from the flower shop next door. Small personal touches make the café seem homely and pleasant. Jazz plays from a speaker in the corner.
“Sorry, I didn’t know anyone came in.” A young athletic-looking guy in an apron steps through the curtain.
Then I notice what he’s wearing. “You go to the Manhattan School of Music?” I ask in English.
He looks down at his sweatshirt, then back up at me. “Yeah,” he answers, also in English. “I’m a sophomore, studying saxophone. Why?”
“I want to go there. It’s my top choice.” That and the Berklee College of Music in Boston. Except that Mom prefers I live in New York City, closer to my dad’s side of the family.
The guy gives me an appraising look, and I instinctively stand up straighter. “Oh yeah? For . . . dance?”
I blush. “Cello.”
“Right. So what brings you to Seoul?”
“I’m visiting my grandmother for a few months. I actually arrived here a few hours ago. From LA.”
“That makes sense. You look like an LA girl.”
I wasn’t exactly sure about the dancer comment, but there’s something about this one that gives me pause.
I think he’s flirting with me. This is the second time in so many months that a guy has flirted with me.
While not as absurdly handsome as Jaewoo, café boy is cute. And older.
The door opens behind me and a guy wearing a delivery outfit calls out, “I have a big order today, Ian-ssi.”
“My name,” the café boy says to me. “Ian.”
“I’m Jenny.”
“Wait one sec.”
When he returns, he hands me a to-go cup. “My number’s written on the side. I took a semester off from school to pay some bills, so I’ll be in Seoul. If you have any questions about MSM or just wanna hang out, give me a call.”
“I—I will, thank you.”
“See you around, Jenny.”
He starts readying the large order for the guy and I make my way to the door, glancing down at the side of the cup where he’s written in neat marker: Ian Nam, guide to all things MSM, plus his phone number.
I control my facial expression until I’m out the door, then sort of fast-walk down the street, my heart racing. Within only a few short hours of landing in Seoul, a cute Korean boy who works at a café and goes to my dream school, gave me his number and may or may not have asked me out on a date.
Maybe this is a sign of how I should spend these next few months in Seoul, going on dates, spending my time on activities other than cello practice or lessons.
I stumble a bit, as a memory rises up, of Jaewoo across the table from me in the small tent stall in LA, listening attentively as I opened up to him about my father. I feel a tightness in my chest, remembering how happy and hopeful I felt that night, which makes it all the worse that he never texted me back. But it’s my fault. I let my guard down. If I had just allowed that night to be what it was always meant to be—a distraction—then I would have never felt so disappointed.
Five months in Seoul, five months to have new experiences and make the most of each moment, and then I’ll return home, hopefully armed with the fiery determination to go after the future I’ve always wanted.
Bolstered by this resolve, I spend the next hour walking around the neighborhood—there’s a subway entrance only a few blocks from my grandmother’s house and a restaurant that specializes in juk, or Korean porridge, tucked into a quiet corner—before returning to the apartment.
The rest of the day is spent with my halmeoni. She and my mom must have at least come to a truce because my mom is cordial and Halmeoni is positively chipper. We take a taxi to the clinic where Halmeoni will spend most weekends after her treatments. This is actually where I’ll come to visit her, since when she’s at the apartment during the week I’ll be at the dorms.
Afterward, we grab lunch and walk around the area. Mom wants to avoid jet lag, so we attempt a little sightseeing but by six, I’m asleep on my feet. I manage to stay awake for another two hours but doze off on the cab ride back, waking only to stumble up the stairs to the apartment, where I hit the pillow and sleep for twelve hours straight.
Eight
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 b
efore 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.”
H
e 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.”
