by Leigh Ban
The first lesson for Creative Music Projects was held on a Monday, four days after the end of the spring semester. As the monsoon season had just begun, I was used to lugging around an umbrella in my tote bag. When there was a sudden shower on my walk to class, I swiftly took out my bright yellow umbrella and opened it. While I hurried toward the College of Music, I felt raindrops falling onto the left side of my head. There was a tear in my umbrella. A couple of seconds after I attempted to cover it with my spare hand, I lost my footing and yanked at the waterproof fabric, tripling the size of the hole. When I noticed that a bit of fabric had gotten stuck on one of my rings, I jiggled my hand to remove it. Now the hole was massive. Since I couldn’t spot any garbage cans to toss out my umbrella, I held it like a shield and ran frantically. I was so engrossed in the situation I didn’t even look around to check who was watching. Once I entered the classroom with limp curls and my baggy jeans clinging to my thighs, I hastily shook my umbrella and threw it into my bag without a second thought. I sat at the very back because I planned to whip out my phone and check the deadline for course withdrawal. After I found out that I had five hours left, I heard a heavy stomp and looked up.
A short, stout, middle-aged man in a purple polo shirt clapped his hand. “Hello, students. I’m Professor Kwon, your professor for Creative Music Projects. If you’re not supposed to be here or you’ve signed up for the wrong class, now is your chance to leave.”
Although Professor Kwon seemed to be alarmingly loud by nature, his appearance was far from menacing. Grinning from ear to ear, he resembled a jolly snowman.
“Everybody’s in the right place? Fabulous. You see, after the first class for Creative Music Projects last summer, some students informed me that they accidentally signed up for the wrong class. They got the course code mixed up with Comparative Management. I’m not sure what went wrong there, since I’d said the name of the class a hundred times, but it was hilarious. Anyway, I’m going off-track. My apologies.”
Everyone in the room was totally still while he guffawed at his own story. No students so much as looked out the window or checked their phone. My legs felt clammy against the chair, but I didn’t dare adjust my jeans.
Professor Kwon cleared his throat. “Seeing as we only have three weeks, we will get started immediately. Could everybody please come and stand here?”
Once I got up and made my way across the room, I realized there were more people in the class than I’d initially thought. Some of the girls started tittering and whispering coyly. I glanced around to check what was going on but didn’t spot anything unusual. While Professor Kwon skimmed through his papers, I studied his face to see if he was bothered by the shift in atmosphere.
“Around two-thirds of our class seems to be from the Department of Music, mostly vocal performance and composition majors, including one student who’s even had music industry experience. The rest of you are a mixed bag: communications, education, economics, chemical engineering, and so on. I think this is fabulous. College is a time to experience new things and discover your passions after all. I hope all of you learn from one another.”
I furrowed my brow, wondering when the professor was going to explain exactly what we would be working on.
He declared, “To delve deeper into a creative pursuit and develop new opportunities, it is crucial to introduce yourself, discuss your interests, and exchange ideas effectively.”
Two guys standing next to me watched the professor with bemused expressions. Evidently, I wasn’t the only person who’d enrolled in the course despite being totally unaware of what would take place.
After a prolonged pause, Professor Kwon added, “Because you never know who you might end up collaborating with, which is why I would like you all to mingle among yourselves before everyone partners up tomorrow. Now is your chance to share why you decided to take Creative Music Projects. Feel free to show off about any special skills you have, whether it’s the ability to play an instrument or edit videos.”
“Excuse me,” one of the guys beside me called out. “Professor, I’m confused. What exactly are we supposed to collaborate on? Do we perform a song or something?”
“There is nothing you’re supposed to do. You and your partner can do whatever you want, although I’d prefer something more creative than just singing a song. Perhaps you could write and record a song together. Or why not create a music video? You could even produce a documentary, as long as it’s to do with music.”
Professor Kwon popped his lips together, then gestured at us to interact with one another. I didn’t know what I was supposed to tell people, seeing as I had no special skills related to music or any other creative pursuits.
“Wow. You were right. We meet again.”
When I turned around, I saw the guy I’d bumped into at the university festival. He looked livelier than I remembered. My stomach fluttered as I gazed into his mesmerizing eyes. Since it was summer, he wore a big black T-shirt instead of his black hoodies.
“You’re the Champagne guy, right? How have you been?” I blurted out and extended my hand as if we were business partners.
As we stiffly shook hands, he studied the rings on my fingers. “I’m alright. Speaking of Champagne, did you bathe in a tub of Champagne this morning? Or did you just get caught in the rain on the way to class?”
I chuckled. “Touché. I think it was rainwater, unless you schemed a revenge with the sky.”
“You caught me,” he said dryly. “Jokes aside, we’re good, aren’t we? I’m Gusun, by the way. What’s your name?”
“Of course.” I grinned. “My name’s Dana. Are you from the Department of Music? What do you major in?”
He bit his lower lip and stared at me hesitantly. I didn’t understand why he was being so guarded all of a sudden, seeing as he was the one who approached me today.
“Composition. I took a couple of semesters off, so I’m still stuck in my first year.”
“Oh, that sucks. Or is it a good thing?” I asked.
He stretched his shoulders. “There are pros and cons.”
Although I was curious to know more about him, I decided to change the subject.
“I have a confession to make,” I said, smiling sheepishly. “I don’t have any special skills or even any useful insight for this class. My partner’s one unlucky person. I hope I’m not asked to drop out of the course.”
“Relax. I doubt the professor expects you to perform at the Seo Woo Center for Performing Arts in three weeks. I’m sure we’ll figure out a role for you and create an interesting project.”
“We?” I repeated. I couldn’t stop the corners of my mouth from curving up.
“As in our class.”
“Oh, I see,” I mumbled.
“I’m kidding. I meant you and me. You see, I’d like to keep hearing your thoughts about music.”
“Well, I don’t like hip-hop as much as I used to,” I said, reminded of Joon’s cocky smirk as he threw his shirt off onstage. He hadn’t contacted me since, but I honestly felt like I wouldn’t have replied to him if he had tried calling or messaging me. Although I’d worried about not being able to get over him prior to meeting him at Café Crazy Cozy, I couldn’t stand how he’d behaved that night, especially after claiming to be a busy aspiring musician. He was even more of an attention-seeking player than Yumi had predicted.
My train of thoughts was interrupted by another booming clap. Professor Kwon called out, “Okay, everyone. I hope you’ve met a classmate you’d like to work with, but don’t fret if you haven’t. I’ll help you out tomorrow. Try to prepare some rough ideas for your project before our next lesson. Class dismissed.”
In the end, I decided not to withdraw from Creative Music Projects. Perhaps I was making a big mistake. I had no idea what I could do for my project and didn’t expect to get a good grade since there was a relative grading policy and a lot of the other students were from the Department of Music. Yet a voice inside me urged me to give Professor Kwon’s c
lass a chance. I guess I was intrigued. Though I usually knew what to expect from a class the moment I selected it during course registration, I wondered if that might’ve been why I found my classes so boring. Knowing Gusun wanted to be my partner was also a relief because I wouldn’t have to apologetically ask anyone to pair up with me.
When I arrived for the second class, I noticed there were more empty seats than previously. This time, I sat in one of the middle rows. After I put my bag on the ground and took out my pencil case and notebook, I looked around to see if Gusun had arrived.
“Hi, Dana,” he said as he put his black canvas backpack on the desk beside mine.
“Hey!” I smiled. He didn’t smile back.
A few minutes later, Professor Kwon flung the door open and plodded in wearing a pink polo shirt. He began by checking the attendance; at least fifteen students were absent. Although he seemed smiley and easygoing, I wondered if those students had been intimidated by his loud demeanor. Maybe they’d opted to take a class with more structure.
“I’m glad to see you all today,” Professor Kwon said. “Now, I’d like you all to go and sit with your potential partner, if you’re not already next to them, and talk about what you’d like to create together. Could the students who would like me to help them pair up come to the front?”
Once he finished speaking, the other students slowly got up from their seats.
“Hi there!” A girl was grinning at Gusun while holding an open backpack with one arm. “I didn’t want to bother you, but I’m such a big fan of yours. I think you’re a genius. You wrote the lyrics for ‘Frankly,’ didn’t you? That’s my favorite song of all time. I’m a singer too. I’d love to work with you for this class, if you don’t have a partner.”
She anxiously peered over at me. I stared at her, puzzled. I thought of how Gusun had been all covered up in a black hoodie with a black mask during the first two times we met. Although she’d indicated that he was a songwriter, I’d never seen someone recognize and approach their favorite songwriter out of the blue.
After an awkward moment of silence, she reverted her gaze to him. “I’m sorry. Am I bothering you, Sun? Have you two already decided to pair up?”
Gusun smiled, flashing his teeth. “Not at all. Thank you for your support. It means the world to me. Unfortunately, I’m collaborating with my friend next to me.”
I had to hold back my laughter. His voice sounded entirely different from when he was talking to me; he was acting like he was auditioning for the role of a television show host.
The girl fanned her face with her hand. “Oh my goodness, Sun, you’re an angel. Could we at least take a selfie? Maybe, like, after class?”
He nodded.
After the girl turned around to walk away, she jumped up and down. Her ponytail bounced against her back. I’d never seen anyone get so excited inside a classroom.
“So you’re a songwriter. Is that why you took a few semesters off?” I asked Gusun.
“Well, I’m a singer, but I also take part in writing songs and producing music for my group. We’re called Undone.”
I gasped. “Undone? Wait, is Sun your stage name?”
Suddenly, everything made sense. He wore masks to lie low and was approached by a fan because he sang the lyrics he wrote—he was a star. Since Christy was always fawning over his group, I had been overwhelmed by the amount of trivia she shared, which put me off trying to find out more. However, I did remember how she’d mentioned a couple of times that one of the group members used to attend West Seoul University before his debut. Although I’d listened to plenty of gossip about the famous students at our university, from Olympians to former child actors, I’d never expected to meet any of them. I didn’t think celebrities casually turned up to class in a T-shirt and a pair of jeans. Admittedly, Gusun was strikingly handsome in the plainest clothes.
Gusun chuckled. “You know who we are? I assumed you didn’t know any boy bands. My agency wanted all the guys in my group to have catchy, international-fan-friendly names, so they suggested Sun.”
“Christy, my suitemate, is a big fan of yours,” I said, gazing into his dark eyes and wondering how she might react when she found out about the situation I was in.
“Oh, really? She doesn’t think boy bands are too formulaic?”
As I recalled our conversation from the second night of the festival, my face twisted into a grimace. Back then, I couldn’t understand why he’d laughed upon hearing my assumptions.
“I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have told you that if I’d known you were in one,” I replied.
He shrugged. “Our group has been taking a break since May. I probably needed a reality check after months of being surrounded by interviewers who suck up to me and hardcore fans who shower me with praise all the time.”
“Sure, everyone’s entitled to their own opinion, but I was kind of judgmental, wasn’t I? Especially considering I presumed K-pop stars know nothing about the lyrics they sing.”
“Yeah, you were wrong.”
I couldn’t tell whether he was trying to get me to apologize again.
“So what do you want to do for our class project?” I asked.
“Why don’t we try to find common ground? I’ve been interested in a variety of genres lately. Dana, what kind of music do you like listening to?”
“I used to like hip-hop. Now I prefer R&B. I’ll listen to anything when I go out though. Obviously, I’m not a music expert. I just value the way the right soundtrack sets the atmosphere, whether it’s a peppy show tune or a romantic ballad. Even if I wouldn’t listen to the songs again when I’m on my own, I appreciate how different types of music fill me with energy and enhance my memories.”
When I looked at him, his eyes shone brightly.
“Oh, I love what you said at the end. For me, music evokes nostalgia better than anything else. Recently I’ve been thinking about the way songs age with our memories and whether they’re remembered over time. A lot of people consider the popularity of pop stars, particularly boy bands, ephemeral, but some pop songs stay popular for decades. It’s pretty intriguing to find out the way songs and performers are remembered. You know, we could explore this topic for our project.”
I nodded. “Hmm, I like the idea, but what would we do exactly? Interview one-hit wonders and review songs which used to be popular?”
“That sounds like a plan. I can try and contact some performers once we decide on who would be an appropriate match for our project.”
“What would we do with the interviews afterward? Create a short film? Do you know how to film and edit videos? Because I don’t have a clue.”
Gusun ran his fingers through his hair. “No, I’ve never had any experience with making videos.”
As we both stared into blank space, I began wondering what I might do after the end of summer sessions. I would still have over a month left before the fall semester. Maybe I could take part in another campus community service program. I thought of the middle school kids I mentored during winter break. Although I adored them and even took part in creating a website for past mentors and mentees of the program, we hadn’t kept in touch. There was something bittersweet about meeting new people during school break. I grew close to my favorite mentees in a matter of days, but just weeks later, our lives no longer intersected. They were busy with middle school and I went back to taking college classes. The website was all that remained.
I tapped on Gusun’s arm. “Oh, I could create a website, if we needed one. Last winter, I had to make a website for a volunteer program I participated in.”
“Are you suggesting we make a blog? Or would you be able to create an online magazine?”
Just as I was about to reply, Professor Kwon plodded over toward us.
“How are you doing? Have you decided on what you’d like to do for your project?” he called out.
“Yes, we’d like to create a website,” Gusun said.
I added, “An online magazine dedicated to hit songs
from the past. We want to explore how they’ve aged.”
The professor stood over our desks and flipped through the papers on his clipboard.
“Interesting. I’m keen to find out more, but first, let me write your names down. Gusun, I know who you are. And what’s your name, dear?”
“Dana Day.”
Professor Kwon smiled. “Fabulous. For the rest of today’s lesson, could the two of you write a rough schedule? Take a photo of it on your phone and hand it in before you go. I just want you to make sure you’ll be able to submit or present your final project on the last day of summer sessions. You don’t want to be too overambitious and overwhelm yourselves since there’s only thirteen classes left after today.”
“Are we required to stay here during class hours? Can we leave the College of Music to use the campus facilities elsewhere?” I asked.
“Dana, you’re free to go to any of the libraries or computer labs or rehearsal rooms on campus after you’ve come here for attendance check at eleven. But remember to notify me before you head out and check in again by two o’clock. Bear in mind, you will be penalized for unexplained absences. However, if you wish to go off campus to work on your project, you must do that outside of class hours.”
“Sounds great,” I replied. Since it would be impossible for Professor Kwon to keep an eye on us once we left the classroom, it seemed like Gusun and I were essentially free to spend our time however we wanted.