Abba laughs approvingly. “I am very surprise Candace is liking Korean music,” he says. “I am always thinking Candace is one hundred percent American girl.”
“Candace is becoming as big of a K-pop stan as I am,” says Imani, in bliss.
Umma swivels around in alarm. I look away quickly.
Imani shows us a bunch of videos of SLK members Joodah and ChangWoo cuddling each other playfully onstage. “Aww, Joowoo’s Skinship is really becoming a thing on this tour,” says Imani, combining their names.
“ ‘Skinship’?” asks Ethan.
“That’s going in the K-Dictionary!” says Imani, turning to the back pages of her World History notebook, where she’s writing up “Imani’s Advanced Placement K-Pop K-Dictionary,” full of all the jargon and terminology I should know now that I’ve decided to embrace K-pop.
I heave a sigh, remembering my audition, how quickly I was rushed off the stage. I want to forget about it and focus on my latest discovery: the MV for “Stun Me Stun You” by QueenGirl. Seeing those four girls slay that song while looking fierce beyond words—especially the lead singer, WooWee—never fails to give me life. I take my phone from my bag and turn it on.
“I have forty-seven missed calls from an unknown caller,” I say.
“Probably a creeper,” says Ethan. “Or a secret admirer!”
“Don’t answer,” says Umma from behind the counter. She adds in Korean, “You can’t just trust strange people these days.”
Two nights later, my total agony over my audition hasn’t gone away. I try to force it out of my head now that AP exams are coming up, but the memory of not having a dance prepared for a K-pop audition makes me want to slap myself.
Over a dinner of bulgogi and ssam, the conversation at the table is, of course, all about Tommy’s upcoming SAT and my AP exams. I sigh loudly at the predictability of it all as I roll up a loose, messy ssam.
“What’s that lifeless sigh about?” Umma asks in Korean.
“Nothing,” I say, sighing again.
After dinner, Umma gathers Tommy and me around her phone for our weekly Wednesday-night phone call. She has Harabuji, our grandfather in Korea, on KakaoTalk Video, Korea’s most popular messaging app. I get on my tippy toes and Tommy crouches down so we can both fit in the screen. Tommy still hasn’t showered after baseball practice, so he reeks of BO. Harabuji’s face is wobbly on-screen.
“Anyunghaseyo,” we say in unison.
“Uh,” says Harabuji in his gravelly voice. “Is it you, kids?”
“Yes,” we say in formal Korean.
I’m not sure if this is something just our Harabuji does, or if it’s something all old Korean people do, but it’s always struck me as weird that Harabuji always asks “Is it you?” while looking right at us. It might also be because we’re always talking through the phone and he can’t see us well. The phone is shaking in his hand. He doesn’t look like his usual self—the whites of his eyes are yellowish, and his skin has a grayish pallor.
Harabuji points to his chest. “Nah-neun nu-gu-jee?” he asks us. Who might I be?
“Harabuji,” Tommy and I say in unison.
A look of surprise and delight comes over Harabuji’s face. “Orlchi!” he bellows.
In Korean, orlchi means That’s right! or Atta boy/girl! It’s something you say to little kids when they do something precocious, like carry a heavy bag of laundry down the stairs by themselves.
This is about as deep as we go with our conversations with Harabuji, probably thanks to the language barrier. It’s sweet that Harabuji seems genuinely overjoyed when we’re able to correctly identify him as “Harabuji,” even though we’re way too old for this to be very impressive. I think he’ll always see Tommy as six and me as five, the ages we were the only time we met him in person, the one time he flew here from Seoul.
After saying goodbye to each other several times, we hang up. I give the phone back to Umma, who’s doing the dishes in the kitchen with Abba. “Is Harabuji okay?” I ask. “He seems a little … different.”
Umma sighs. “Harabuji is very sick,” she says, preoccupied.
I wait around for her to say something else. How sick is very sick? Isn’t anyone going to go visit him?
But that’s apparently the end of the matter. “Go study,” says Umma. “If you don’t get a five on your AP Biology exam, kun-il natta.” It’ll be a huge problem.
After flipping through my AP Biology practice book for a few minutes, I open up YouTube to get another K-pop fix. The little bell icon in the top right corner has a red dot next to it. I have an alert. Someone new has commented on my video.
I bring up my video, which now has twelve views—I’m sure all from Imani and Ethan and people related to them. The first two comments, I’ve seen before:
ImaniCharles2003: YAS KWEEEEEEEN
EthanEmery627: You’re my Korean Taylor Swift!!!!
Then there’s a third comment, one I haven’t seen yet. It’s from a user named S.A.Y. Entertainment. And it’s written in Korean.
I swallow a gallon of air. My heart is racing as I sound out the Korean letters (I can’t read Korean without moving my lips). After a minute, I work out that it says: We have been trying to call you, but you will not answer your phone. Do you have KakaoTalk?
I click on the S.A.Y. Entertainment username to make sure it’s the actual S.A.Y. Entertainment. Sure enough, it takes me to the official S.A.Y. channel—the channel where SLK’s music videos, all of which have over a billion views, get posted.
I go back to my video page, where I respond to the comment in English: “Sorry I’ve missed your calls! I don’t have KakaoTalk, but I’ll download it right now.”
I can’t believe what an idiot I’ve been—the unknown calls were from S.A.Y.! My fingers tremble as I grab my phone. I download KakaoTalk. Even though Umma and Abba use it all the time, I’ve never had a reason to download it myself.
The very second I activate KakaoTalk, I get a new message alert, which sounds like a baby saying “Peekaboo!”
It’s in English but from a Korean username, which I sound out as “Kong YeNa.”
No way. NO way. The lady from the auditions. The all-business lady in the suit who didn’t talk. I type out awkwardly using the English alphabet:
I’m screaming noiselessly and hopping around my room as Manager Kong types for a really long time.
Finally:
Oh my God. I really wish she hadn’t.
Am I? I lie down flat on my back on the floor and press my feet against my door. Since I don’t have a lock on my door, this is my bootleg way of getting some privacy.
I type:
Instantly, my phone is chiming a singsongy tune. It’s a KakaoTalk video call. I hold the phone above my face and answer, hoping Manager Kong doesn’t think it’s weird that I’m sprawled out on the carpet. Manager Kong appears on my screen, sitting in what looks like a brightly lit conference room. Unlike when I saw her in person, she’s barefaced and dressed casually in a black T-shirt and cap.