But even scarier, what if I actually get picked? Will I have to enroll in a Korean international school in September? Will this be the last time I see these people in a long, long time?
After Umma’s two massive suitcases are checked—one is entirely full of random things that are better and cheaper in America that our Korean relatives and friends want, like Starbucks coffee beans, multivitamins, and batteries—it’s time to say goodbye. Tommy leans over to hug me, draping his long arms around me. As always, he smells like deodorant and BO. “Are you going to come back some evil K-pop nightmare?” he asks.
“Probably,” I say.
Imani and Ethan have gifts for me. Imani gives me a handmade book, titled Imani’s Advanced Placement K-Pop K-Dictionary, decorated in glitter and stickers. “Since you’re not going to have internet in there, this is your K-pop Google, with the Imani touch.”
Ethan gives me a cute pencil case covered in photos of SLK, Blackpink, QueenGirl, Twice, 2NE1, and Girls’ Generation. “To help you visualize and actualize who you’re going to be someday,” he says.
“How am I going to survive over there without you guys?” I say, blinking a lot.
“That’s easy,” says Imani. “When you’re really going through it, think to yourself: What would Imani do?”
“That, and remember to silence that inner saboteur,” says Ethan.
Imani beams at me proudly. “Shall we do one last Diversity Hug?”
We huddle up and press our foreheads against each other. I’m really gonna miss these two weirdos.
Now it’s time to say goodbye to Abba. “Do well over there, but not too well,” he jokes, pinching my nose; everyone says we have the same nose. “Have fun and learn a lot, okay?”
“Okay, Abba.”
I strap my pink guitar onto my back. Umma and I each take one handle of my overstuffed duffel—half of it is just MulKogi—as we step onto the escalator. I look back at the people I’m leaving behind, and my heart swells. Imani and Ethan are jumping up and down and cheering and holding up V fingers like K-pop fangirls. Tommy has his arm around Abba’s shoulder. Abba’s wiping his eyes on his sleeve.
Umma grasps my arm suddenly, looking as unsure as I’m feeling inside.
“Candace,” she says, short of breath, “you said this experience will make a good college essay, right? I’m doing the right thing by letting you go?”
“Of course,” I say, forcing myself to smile confidently. “I can handle this.”
My first few hours in Seoul, I think my brain might explode from sensory overload. Umma seems just as overwhelmed—her eyes turn buggy over every little thing, from the miles-long bridge we have to cross in our cab to leave Incheon Airport, to the grand, sprawling skyline in the distance. She repeats over and over, “This is so different from the last time I saw it.”
As for me, the thing I can’t get over is how Korean everything is. Koreans, Koreans, everywhere. My part of New Jersey is one of the most Korean parts of the United States, but it’s such a weird feeling to know wherever I go, there’s absolutely zero chance I’ll be in the minority. We drive through what Umma tells me is Gangnam—from the PSY song!—and everywhere we look, there are billboards of flawless, smiling women advertising makeup, fashion brands, soju, and plastic surgery.
And then I see him.
“Umma, look!” I exclaim, pointing up at the sky.
There’s a massive video ad of One.J in LED lights holding a sports drink called Elektro Hydrate blasting from the side of a skyscaper. One.J’s face must be a hundred feet tall. One.J winks and flashes a bright white smile, which fries my retinas. My insides feel like they’ve turned into the creamiest, most refreshing frozen yogurt. Could One.J be any more perfect?!
“Nah-lee ga nasseo,” Umma says wearily. Everyone’s gone nuts for him.
I see flocks of kids in school uniforms, most of whom have the classic Korean schoolkid bowl-cut hairstyle, laughing and gossiping. I wish I knew what they’re talking about. Perhaps their favorite idols, or how mean their teachers are—just like me and my friends. I think how they look like me but seem so foreign—how if things had gone a little differently, I could easily have been one of them.
When we finally get to the corporate housing where Umma will be living, I notice that the neighborhood isn’t nearly as swanky as Gangnam. I expected the S.A.Y. corporate apartments to be a little nicer, but they’re short gray buildings that are blackened with smog. Inside, the apartment turns out to be a tiny one-bedroom with a peeling fake-tiled floor with no space for a dining table. Still, it’s cozy enough.
As soon as we put down our bags, Umma grins and claps her hands. “So! We’re here! What should we do first? We can go to a cool café—Korea has the best cafés in the world. Or we can go shopping in Myeong-dong, or see Gyeongbokgung Palace. We can even go to Lotte World!”
I tell her I don’t really feel like doing anything. I just want to learn the fifty S.A.Y.-approved songs and stay close to her—if we go anywhere, I just want to see Harabuji, who’s been moved from his apartment to a hospital. We have less than twenty-four hours before I have to report to the S.A.Y. headquarters; Manager Kong’s been blowing up both our KakaoTalks, saying I’m losing precious training time the longer we delay.
Umma seems relieved and surprised. “There’s such a fun city out there and you want to see your harabuji first? What a good granddaughter.”
Before we leave for the hospital, Umma fixes her hair and puts on lipstick and makes sure I’m wearing an unwrinkled shirt—it’s our first time seeing Harabuji in person in a long, long time. We take the bright and clean subway to get to Harabuji’s hospital, which is full of friendly nurses and stressed-out doctors. As stupid as this sounds, I still can’t believe how everyone I’ve seen on the way here is Korean.
When we get to Harabuji’s room, he immediately shouts, “It’s you!”
Umma runs to his side and hugs him gently, avoiding the tubes in his nose. “Abba!” she shouts, wiping her tears.
Harabuji laughs and says in his deep, scratchy voice, “Why are you crying? Seeing you two makes me very happy.”
He turns to me. The parts of his eyes that should be white are a bright, shocking yellow, but his smile is still cheery and energetic. We go through our whole “Nahn noogoo-jee?”—Who might I be?—routine, the same one we’ve done every week for as long as I remember.
“You’re Harabuji!” I say. “I’m Candace!”
Umma gives him updates on Tommy and Abba, and tells him I’m here to become a gasu—a singer—which apparently is news to him. He looks at me in wonder. “Wah!” he says. “Just like your mom. Your mom is the best singer, you know that?”
“Ah, Abba, that was so long ago,” says Umma, embarrassed.
“Candace! Sing something for your harabuji,” he says, clapping his hands.
I laugh awkwardly. I hate being put on the spot like this, but I figure I better get used to this if I’m going to be an idol trainee. And how can I say no to my sick harabuji? I close my eyes and sing a few lines of “Into the New World.”