“Oh,” Umma says. “Well, those dishes won’t take too long. Why don’t you finish up and head over to the Cho house? Knowing their parents, they’ll have hired the best tutor in Seoul. I’ll pack some leftover chicken for you to take.”
“Really?” I feel guilty for lying, but it’s quickly replaced by a buzzing energy that spreads across my body. My first night at the trainee house! One step closer to my dream. “Thanks, Umma.”
She smiles and begins to clear her plate away, packing a few pieces of chicken into a small bright-green Tupperware container. When her back is turned, Leah gives me a big thumbs-up. I wink at her and mouth, Thank you.
As soon as I’m done with the dishes, I hurl myself into the shower and quickly twist my wet hair into tight Dutch braids. I slip into a pair of black leggings and a creamy, cozy oversize off-the-shoulder sweater top that is the perfect amount of slouch. I throw on my comfiest pair of pajamas—the cartoon Snoopy ones I bought at Dongdaemun last spring—over the whole ensemble so Umma won’t get suspicious seeing me all dressed up. With one last glance in the mirror, I grab my bag, quickly scooping up Umma’s Tupperware, and head out for my first night at the trainee house.
Three
Umma’s words are ringing in my ears as I walk to the bus stop. If things don’t work out… I just don’t want you to feel surprised. Of course I’ve always known that being a K-pop star is not a guarantee, but I’ve wanted this dream for so long, I’m not sure I even know what the alternative looks like.
It all started when I was six years old. There was one other Asian girl in my class, Eugenia Li. Even though she was Chinese, everyone was always asking us if we were cousins or twin sisters. I didn’t think much of it until one day when I got stung by a bee during recess. I was sitting in the nurse’s office, waiting for Umma to come and take me home, when Mrs. Li walked through the door. The nurse didn’t realize she had done anything wrong and instead was all smiles as she told me that my mom was there to get me. For the first time, I realized the world didn’t see me the way I saw me, or the way my family saw me. All they saw was my face; the shape of my eyes and my nose; my thick, straight black hair—and it made me interchangeable with girls like Eugenia, even though we looked nothing alike. When my mom finally picked me up at school, I couldn’t stop crying. The bee sting was still burning on my skin, but when Umma asked me what was wrong, all I could think about was Mrs. Li. “I wish I wasn’t Korean,” I remember sobbing into her shirt. So she scooped me up and carried me home, and when we got there, she tucked me into bed and grabbed her laptop. That was the first time I saw a K-pop music video. We watched them for hours, and I marveled at the singers—all so unique and beautiful and talented.
I was hooked. I watched K-pop music videos constantly, memorizing the lyrics to my favorite ones and putting on little shows for Leah on the weekends. The music made me feel proud to be Korean.
I wish I could say that time with Mrs. Li and the school nurse was the only time I ever felt rejected by the world, but it wasn’t. There were the kids who made fun of the kimchi Umma packed me for lunch; the woman who once came up to me in our corner bodega, screaming at me that I should “go home” (even though I lived around the block, I got the feeling that wasn’t what she meant); there was the time I dressed like Hermione Granger for Halloween and everyone insisted that I was Cho Chang. Through it all, there was K-pop. It made me feel understood, like there was a place in the world where I belonged, where people would see me for me.
I’m thinking about all this as I walk to the bus stop. The spring Seoul air is breezy and crisp, sidewalks littered with so many fallen cherry blossoms that they stick to the bottom of your shoes, turning the whole city into a haze of pearly pink petals. I walk to the corner, popping into the GS25 for a Pocari Sweat, and then hop on the bus to the trainee house, a few blocks down from DB headquarters. The seats are filled with young couples in matching sweatshirts sharing earbuds, businessmen and -women watching old episodes of Running Man on their phones as they head home from work, and halmonis clutching canvas granny carts stuffed to the brim with groceries and empty bottles. I plop down on a seat and tip the last of my drink into my mouth as the breeze from the open window whips back my braids. The old lady next to me pokes me in the side, gesturing to my empty can. “Dah mashussuh?”
“Neh, Halmoni,” I say, handing it over.
“Komawoh,” she replies, pinching my cheek. “Ahh ipuda!”
I bow my head. “Kamsahamnida.”
The bus careens down the street, barely skidding to a stop when people want to get on or off. In New York, I was never allowed on public transportation by myself, so getting used to it when we moved was a big learning curve. Luckily, just like the rest of Seoul, the buses and subway system are fast, super clean, and easy to use. But the best part of life in this city? There is free Wi-Fi literally everywhere you go.
I pull out my phone and send a quick text to Hyeri: If my mom asks, I was at your house tonight.
She immediately texts back: Sure. Juhyun says “Don’t have too much fun without us tonight!”
I laugh but shove my phone back in my pocket without replying. The less they know, the less likely it is that they’ll slip up if interrogated. I’m so buzzed from the adrenaline of lying to Umma and going to the trainee house that I get off one stop early and walk the rest of the way. I need to get some of this energy out before I face Mina and the others.
I’m about half a block away when I realize I still need to change out of my pajamas.
I duck behind a particularly large bush lining the sidewalk and unbutton my pajama top, stuffing it into my tote. I’m watching the street, making sure that no one is approaching as I wiggle out of my pajama pants. They catch on my ankles and my fingers fumble, but I can’t stop myself in time. I trip over the pajama’s pretzel twist around my legs, spinning and falling face-first in the dirt.
I groan, sitting up slowly and brushing the dirt off my sweater. Thank god no one saw that.
“Wow… that looked like it hurt.”
Everything in my body freezes. I turn my head and see two brand-new white-and-black Nike sneakers standing on the sidewalk. My gaze drifts upward, taking in a pair of perfectly tailored Ader Error track pants and a Burberry sweater that I’m sure cost more than my entire wardrobe, all worn by a boy with silvery highlights in his hair, sparkling brown eyes, and cheekbones that could probably cut glass.
Not just a boy. The boy. Jason Lee.
Holy shit.
“You okay?” he asks, a concerned smile on his face. “Here, let me help you.” He holds out his hand.
“You’re… Jason… Lee,” I stammer as I struggle to my feet. Even before shooting to stardom with DB, Jason was famous for his YouTube K-pop covers. After one of his videos went viral, Mr. Noh himself flew to Toronto and convinced Jason to move to Seoul, where he quickly became Korea’s most beloved pop star. Being half-white, half-Korean actually works for him here, with everyone from preteens to stalker fans to ahjummas praising him for his big, double-lidded eyes and olive complexion, as if he handpicked his genes himself. Somehow his foreigner status gets him voted “Korea’s Sexiest K-pop Star,” while mine gets me mandatory Korean culture lessons.