Harabuji’s yellow eyes are glistening when I finish. “Wah, how amazing. And you even sang in Korean. Yes, this talent of yours runs in our family. Yes, you’re going to be a famous, beloved gasu. I know it.”
He nods to himself, totally certain about this fact, and I bow my thanks. I hope the people at S.A.Y. are this easy to impress.
After a sleepless night—me in the bed, Umma on the couch—the day arrives. Over breakfast, Umma is already asking me what I want for lunch. She offers to cook me a massive feast of my favorite foods or take me to a jokbal restaurant. But I don’t want anything fancy. My stomach is rumbly with nerves anyway. “How about black bean noodles?” I say.
I start stuffing all my clothes into my giant duffel, but Umma takes everything back out to refold it. “Do it nicely,” she says. I start to complain, but I stop myself—I know that soon enough, I’m going to miss these Umma touches.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” Umma says. She goes to the kitchen and brings a stack of yakgwas, wrapped prettily in blue plastic and tied with a ribbon. “I couldn’t sleep last night, so I made these. Your favorite.” She buries them in my duffel, deep under all my clothes.
“I don’t think I can take those in there,” I say, remembering Imani’s warning about how strict K-pop diets can get.
Umma waves away my worries. “Just tell them they’re a reminder of home. I’m sure they’ll understand.”
I take the yakgwas out of my duffel and put them inside my guitar instead—actually inside the sound hole, behind the strings, where hopefully no one will be able to find them.
When we leave the apartment, I have my guitar strapped to my back and Umma lugs my duffel for me. The whole subway ride, which takes us across the Han River, Umma squeezes my hand silently.
When we get off at the Hongik station, I can tell it’s a hip neighborhood. There are young people bustling everywhere: lovey-dovey couples in matching outfits zipping by on mopeds, board game cafés, karaoke rooms, PC rooms, tons of adorable coffee shops—including a poop-themed café with mugs shaped like toilets!—and skincare boutiques and street performers and vintage record stores, all stacked up on top of each other everywhere you turn.
We find a black bean noodle shop instantly—there are, like, seven on each block. We can’t look each other in the eye because we know we might start crying.
I look at my phone instead. All the way from Paraguay, Imani has KakaoTalked me a link to a story on the blog Koreaboo. Apparently, QueenGirl, my favorite girl group, is having a huge scandal that all of K-pop fandom is freaking out about: “QUEENGIRL MEMBER ISEUL ADMITS TO DATING HYUNTAEK OF RUBIKON!!”
I type back:
In all my time following K-pop, one thing I’ve never understood is fans’ obsession with idols dating, and why dating is always equated with scandal, no matter how innocent. I scroll through the Koreaboo article, which speculates that the future of QueenGirl and RubiKon, a lesser known boy band, is in jeopardy. Even WooWee, the Main Vocal and Center of QueenGirl, and probably the hottest female idol in K-pop right now, may lose her contract—all because her bandmate Iseul and HyunTaek got caught holding hands in public. They’re two ridiculously attractive, consenting adults, and QueenGirl is killing it right now. What’s the big deal?
Umma brings me back to reality. “Even though they won’t let me see you for the first month,” Umma says, “remember that I’ll just be a subway ride away. The first month will fly by anyway. You’ll learn so much and meet so many new friends. You won’t miss me at all.”
Umma nods her head firmly. I know she’s convincing herself more than me.
We walk to Sangam-dong. The S.A.Y. headquarters isn’t hard to find. I was expecting a cool building, but I wasn’t expecting a massive, gleaming glass skyscraper jutting into the atmosphere in the middle of an expansive plaza of other glass skyscrapers.
The lump that’s been growing in my throat all day is practically choking me by the time we walk into the lobby, which is swarming with men in expensive-looking suits and women in black business outfits, all walking fast and typing on their phones. Dozens of screens flash news shows, stock market numbers, K-dramas, and SLK MVs. There’s a long line in front of a futuristic coffee bar called Café Tomorrow.
A woman breaks off from the swarm and struts right up to us. “Candace?” she says.
I don’t recognize her at first. Umma lets out a surprised yelp, and we both bow. Manager Kong is not wearing any makeup, but her skin is spotless and shiny. She’s dressed in a casual (but still chic) black tracksuit and a baseball cap, both emblazoned with the S.A.Y. logo.
“Welcome, Candace. Welcome, Mrs. Park,” she says with a big smile. “So glad you made it okay. Are you ready, Candace?”
I’m so not. It all feels so sudden.
“Manager Kong, can we have a moment?” asks Umma, gesturing to me.
“Of course,” says Manager Kong, her smile disappearing as she steps away to tap furiously at her phone.
Umma holds my face in her hands.
“Candace.” She bites her lip to keep from crying. I do, too. “I need to say one last thing to you, okay?” She looks into my eyes intently, her face on the verge of crumpling. “If anyone in there bothers you or hurts you, please find a way to tell me.” I try to pull away from her; I don’t want to lose it right here in the lobby, but she squeezes my hands tighter. “I hope they know that your abba and I are leaving our hearts behind in this building.” She gestures to the soaring lobby ceiling. “Make sure they treat you like you’re someone’s dearest. That’s what you are.”
“All right, Umma.” I break away and pick up my bag again. If I don’t run inside now, I’ll grab on to Umma’s leg and hold on for dear life, like I did on my first day of preschool. “I’ll be okay. I love you.”
Umma runs her fingers through my hair one last time. “You are worth so much,” she says. “No one in there can decide your value.” I nod and rush to join Manager Kong, who scans me through the turnstiles with her security card, which she’s wearing around her neck. She explains to a guard that I’m the new idol trainee, that I’m here to surrender my phone. Surrender my freedom.
I hand over my phone like I’m handing over my heart. I’m going to miss all those Friends and Queer Eye episodes that got me through the fourteen-hour flight. As the guard inspects my duffel and my guitar case closely, riffling through all my underwear and T-shirts, I hold my breath—but to my relief, he doesn’t look inside the guitar itself. He disappears into a room with my phone. I turn back one last time and see Umma standing alone. She looks like the only real person in this lobby, which is sterile as a space station with all its monitors, flashing lights, and important people rushing around. Her eyes are full; she has a hand on her chest.
I step into the mirror-walled elevator. Manager Kong pushes the button for the ninety-eighth floor. I lean against the corner, picturing Umma going back to that dark little apartment alone. I scrunch all my facial muscles to keep from crying.
“Don’t look so sad,” says Manager Kong. She sounds almost bored. Her reflection looks at mine. “The best thing anyone can do for their family is to become someone. That’s what you’re here to do.”