by Axie Oh
“You’ve got quite the haul,” Jaewoo says, studying my movements.
I finish taking off the last lid to reveal garlic chives kimchi. “Never underestimate a friendly neighborhood ajumma.”
“Ah, I can relate. My mom’s a single mom, so while I was growing up, the neighborhood women were always pestering her and giving her unsolicited advice, but that didn’t stop them from dropping off food almost every day.”
I laugh. “Koreans truly are the same everywhere.”
And he and I are the same, at least in that we were both raised by single mothers. It’s not so uncommon, but it makes me feel closer to him for some reason.
I reach for the wooden chopsticks in a cupholder filled with them. I snap a pair apart and hand it over to Jaewoo. “You’re lucky you broke your left arm and not your right. If you are right-handed, that is.”
“I am. Though I’m not sure if I’d call myself lucky.”
Ugh, yeah, that was insensitive of me. “Sorry—” I start to apologize.
“If I’d broken my right arm, you’d have to feed me.” He reaches out with his chopsticks to pick up a slice of braised beef from the container of jangjorim.
I eye him. Did he just say that? I glance around at the other tent cart patrons, but the only one paying us any attention is a girl sitting with a friend to the left of him, out of his line of sight. She’s been watching him since we entered the tent, presumably because of how good-looking he is.
“Your food is here!” The tent cart owner hands three dishes over the counter. Jaewoo’s ordered a few classic pojang staples: tteok-bokki, eomuk, and kimchi pajeon—kimchi pancakes with green onions. With all the plates and containers of banchan, there’s zero space on the table. We have to play Tetris with the dishes in order to make things fit.
As we eat, our chopsticks reach for food and crisscross one another. At one point, the owner offers Jaewoo a small cup of broth and he reaches across me to accept it. As he stands, his shoulder bumps mine.
“Sorry,” he says.
“It’s fine,” I say, though I feel a tingling sensation where he touched me. Like before, I look around at the other patrons, noticing that the majority of the people at the other tables are couples, flirting over food and drinks.
Jaewoo pushes the plate of tteok-bokki toward me, and I see that he’s left me the last piece. Anyone observing us might think we were on a date.
Behind Jaewoo, the girl who was staring earlier approaches, along with her friend.
I glance at Jaewoo, wondering if I should warn him. He probably gets hit on by people on a regular basis. Though I wonder who these girls think I am? What if this were an actual date? Are they really about to flirt with him in front of me? For some reason, I have this sudden urge to scowl.
“Hey,” the first girl says, “you look so familiar. Have I seen you somewhere?”
The cup Jaewoo is holding stops midway to his mouth.
For a moment, no one speaks. Then I look up and realize the girl’s eyes are on me.
“You were at the All-State competition last weekend, weren’t you?” she says. “I saw your performance. It was incredible.”
I stare at her. I don’t know what to say. I’ve been praised before, usually following performances, but no one has ever approached me out of the blue, as if I were a celebrity. Jaewoo slowly puts down his chopsticks. Propping his good elbow on the counter, he rests his cheek against his hand as he watches for my reaction.
I wave off her compliment. “Thank you.”
“Seriously, my mother, who was a cellist for the Los Angeles Philharmonic, said you’re very talented.”
“I don’t know what to say—” I start, then cut off when I meet the eyes of the second girl. “Eunice.”
Eunice Kim, Sookie’s daughter. She glances at the counter and I have this wild premonition that she’ll yell at me for sharing her mom’s cooking with a boy.
“Hey, Jenny. I’m surprised to see you out on a Friday night.” She smiles, and it’s subtle, but she looks a bit hurt. “You’re always so busy. I didn’t think you had time to hang out.”
“Oh,” I say, “yeah, it just turned out that way.” Could I be more awkward? It’s just that we haven’t really spoken much in the past five years, and before that, we were practically inseparable.
“Anyway, we gotta go,” Eunice’s friend tugs at her arm. “Enjoy your meal!”
Eunice throws me one last glance. “Bye, Jenny.” They leave the tent.
In the awkward silence that follows, I say hurriedly, “We used to be friends when we were younger. But then I started to become more serious about cello and . . .”
I don’t know why I’m telling him this. It’s like whiplash, one girl telling me how great I am in front of him, only for another to reveal I’m actually a terrible friend.
Jaewoo leans back from the table. “Something similar happened with me. When I moved to Seoul from Busan, some of my friends back home thought I was a sellout.”
“Wow.” I don’t really know much about cities outside Seoul, but I guess the equivalent would be someone moving from their hometown to New York City.
“So you’re a cellist,” he says.
“Yeah.”
“Was that always your dream? To be a cellist.”
“Sort of. My dad played the cello. He wasn’t a professional or anything, but when it came time to choose an instrument, a rite of passage for all Asian American kids—”
Jaewoo laughs.
“My dad’s cello was there and, yeah, I ended up really loving it. It’s also been nice having that connection to him.”
This is the most I’ve opened up about my dad to anyone. I wait for that sense of sadness, that familiar pain, but all I feel is comfort. Five years isn’t a long or short time, but it is time.
I look at Jaewoo. What is it about him that makes me want to open up to him? Is it because I know I won’t see him again after tonight or for another reason entirely; that with him, I can be myself?
“That’s really cool,” Jaewoo says. When he smiles, I feel my heart melt a little.
“What about you?” I ask, hoping the dim lighting beneath the tent will mask my blush. “Do you have any dreams?”
An indecipherable expression flits across his face, gone in a second. “I don’t sleep enough for dreaming.”
“Wow,” I drawl, “what an answer.”
He winks.
On the other side of the tent, a group of people enter. I glance at my phone to see that it’s a quarter to midnight already. Jaewoo hands over our empty plates to the tent cart owner as I start to cover and pack the leftover side dishes. As we stand, I lift my head and make eye contact with a guy directly across from me.
It’s the rude guy from the bus. He’s surrounded by his college friends, most of whom are jostling for a seat at the counter.
“What are the odds he recognizes us?” I say to Jaewoo, who’s noticed the direction of my gaze.
At that moment the college guy points at us, like we’re in some sort of action movie and Jaewoo and I are criminals.
“I’d say very likely.”
Five
I don’t know who moves first or why we both jump to the same conclusion, but we make a run for it.
Neither of us looks back as we sprint back the way we came, past the food carts, making a sharp right into an office building and down a flight of stairs.
Here we stop to catch our breaths. The basement level appears to be a shopping center. Most of the businesses are closed—a nail salon, several retail stores, and a lunch box shop—but a few are still open, including a twenty-four-hour spa and an arcade.
“There!” I point to a freestanding photo booth, one of those sticker booths where for a couple dollars you can take photos with cute backgrounds that are then printed on the spot.
Jaewoo pulls me inside and I close the curtain behind us. In the darkness, our faces illuminated by the neon fluorescent light given off by the touch screen, we stare at ea
ch other.
“Why did we run?” he asks.
“I—I don’t know.”
He blinks. I blink. Then we both start to laugh. Why did we run? There really was no reason to. It’s not as if those college kids would have actually beaten us up—we were in a public space, with adults. Still, it was exciting. My heart is still racing from the adrenaline. Or maybe because, shoved into this small space, I’m practically in his lap.
Were photo booths always this tiny? He’s pressed all the way up against the far wall, on the bench with his long legs diagonal across the entirety of the booth. One of my legs is propped beneath me, the other draped over his. I have one hand gripping the edge of the seat and the other pressed flat against the back wall.
“How tall are you?” I blurt out.
“One hundred eighty-two centimeters.”
Right. I forgot nearly all other countries besides the US use the metric system.
His brow furrows. “I think that’s five foot eleven?”
“You just calculated that in your head?”
He shrugs. “How tall are you?”
“Five six. I don’t know what that is in centimeters.”
He nods slightly. On the touchscreen, the ad for the photo booth plays on repeat, showing smiling faces of groups of people in twos and threes, and a few alone.
He adjusts the sling of his cast, tightening the strap.
“How did you break your arm?” I ask.
“An accident.”
“Had you ever broken a bone before?”
“Once, when I was a kid.” He stops fiddling with his sling and looks up. “Have you?”
“No.” It doesn’t escape me that, as a cellist, a broken arm would have felt like the end of the world. “Does it hurt?”
“Not as much as the first time.”
I have to bite my lip to keep from asking more questions. He hasn’t been exactly forthcoming about the details of his life. Still, I want to know—why? Why does it hurt less this time than the time before? Because it’s a different bone? Because he knew what to expect as he’d been hurt before?
I want to know more. What kind of accident was he in? Is that the reason he was running away?
Unlike in the karaoke room and at the festival, we’re close enough that I can see the details of his face. His skin that’s almost too flawless—is he wearing makeup?—his beautifully shaped eyes accentuated by dark shadow, his red, red lips.
Either that’s lip tint or he kissed someone who was wearing it, and I don’t know which I’d prefer.
That’s a lie, I don’t want him to have kissed anyone else.
I move closer, my fingers gripping his shoulder. He shifts to accommodate me, his good hand sliding against my back. His face is so close to mine, his breath on my lips.
There’s a loud bang as someone knocks on the outside of the photo booth.
“Hello-o! Are you done in there? We want to take a photo.”
I practically leap across the booth, which isn’t that impressive of a feat, considering it’s so tiny.
“Middle schoolers,” I say, breathless. Their voices are too high to belong to the college students. I reach for the curtain.
“Wait . . .”
I turn back.
Jaewoo’s looking at the touchscreen. “Should we take a photo?”
I slowly sit back down. “Sure.” I can’t really think clearly so I click on a few buttons and soon four snapshots go off in quick succession. For the first two I must look like a deer in the headlights, but I manage a smile for the last two. Afterward, there are options to add borders and designs to the photos, but I just click print.
Outside the booth, we’re met with the judgmental stares of a posse of sixth graders.
“You broke the machine,” one informs me, and when I check the printer, I see that she’s not wrong. Printing Error appears on the little readout display. It did print at least one of the two copies though.
The middle schoolers head toward the arcade and I bring my prize over to Jaewoo. “It only printed one.”
“I’ll take a photo of it,” he says, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a phone.
As it turns on it immediately starts to ping and vibrate with messages.
He looks troubled, his lips thinning slightly. Then he flips his phone over and the front-facing camera is smashed. “I forgot about this. It must have happened earlier, when I broke my arm.”
“Why don’t I take a photo of it and send it to you?” I offer.
“Yeah, maybe that’s better.” He pockets his phone and accepts mine from my hand, plugging in his number.
When I take it back, I see that he’s added +82 for the country calling code to South Korea.
We head up the escalator and out onto the main street.
He pats the pocket of his jacket where his phone is still vibrating. “They’ll be here soon, now that they can track my phone. They’re probably circling the area, waiting for me.”
That sounds . . . ominous. “Can’t you turn your phone off again?”
“I think it’s time I go back.”
“Are you really okay?” I ask.
He smiles, a sweet smile. “I am now.”
My heart stutters.
“What about you?” He peers down the street. It’s mostly deserted, the festival having ended. “It’s past midnight.”
“My uncle just texted,” I lie. “He’s coming to pick me up.” I can walk the few blocks back to the karaoke bar, which doesn’t close until three, or I can call a rideshare.
Down the street, a van with blackout windows approaches. Gripping my wrist gently, Jaewoo leads me to a shadowed area beneath the awning of a building. “Wait here. I don’t want them to see you.”
“Jaewoo, I’m worried.”
My voice catches and he looks at me. “It’s not what you’re thinking. I’ll text you as soon as I can.” Then he adds, with a smile I don’t think I’ll ever forget, “Thanks, Jenny. I had a great time with you tonight.”
Pivoting, he walks from beneath the shadows. The van, which had been slowly driving down the street speeds up, stopping right by the curb. The back door slides open, and I get a glimpse of another boy inside before it slams shut behind Jaewoo.
As the van pulls away from the curb, I step from the shadows. I watch until I can no longer make out the shape of it on the road, swallowed up by the lights of the city.
Six
The sticker picture is a series of four small photographs printed vertically in the order they were taken. In the top picture, I’m frowning at the camera while Jaewoo, his back against the corner of the booth, has his eyes closed, in the middle of a blink. In the second picture, they’re open and he has a small smile on his face. I’m still frowning.
The third picture came out well. We’re both smiling and looking at the camera. I remember how I’d held my expression in place, determined to keep my smile from wavering and my eyes open. I’m relieved to find I managed to do both—I look normal. Pretty, even.
As for Jaewoo, he’s no longer leaning against the back of the wall, but sitting slightly forward. His head is tilted, and his eyes aren’t on the camera anymore. He’s looking at me, his expression caught between a smile and a laugh.
I feel my heart give a literal flutter in my chest.
Pulling out my phone, I snap a photo of the photo, then take it again when it appears washed out against my kitchen table.
When I’m satisfied, I open up the number Jaewoo saved in my phone.
Here’s the photograph from tonight. I text. Btw, this is Jenny. I hit send.
There. That’s straightforward. Casual.
Immediately my texts are marked “read” and three dots appear. He’s typing! Was he waiting for my text? Also why does he have his read receipts on?
A message appears. Jumping on a plane. Text you when I land.
He’s flying out tonight? I knew he was from Seoul, but I didn’t think he was leaving so soon.
O
kay. Have a safe flight!
My message is marked “read,” then . . .
Thanks .
Oh my god, he sent an emoji. How cute!
Footsteps approach the front door of the apartment, keys jingling for the lock. I quickly pocket the photo as my mom walks through the door.
She glances at me sitting at the kitchen table before sliding off her shoes, “You’re still awake?” She hangs her coat in the closet, slipping on a pair of house slippers—mine, in fact. It’s an easy mistake; we’re the same size. Same shoe size, same height, same oval-shaped face. People always comment on how much we look alike.
“I thought you were working on a case tonight,” I say. Usually on the weekends she takes extra cases and sleeps overnight at the office. As an immigration lawyer in LA, she’s busy a lot.
“Change of plans.” She starts across the kitchen, then stops, doing a double take. I realize I’m still in the clothes I wore to school this morning. “Did you just get home?”
For a moment I blank, unsure whether or not to tell her how I spent my night.
“Bomi had a project due,” I say finally, “so I stayed late to help out Uncle Jay. He gave me a ride home.” The last part is true, if not the first.
I feel a bit guilty. I hardly ever lie to my mother; there’s no reason to. We literally have the same goal: for me to go to music school in New York City. And for the past five years, it’s just been us, and Uncle Jay.
But if I tell her, I know she’ll worry that I’m not focused enough or that I’ll be distracted; we haven’t had the “dating” talk, but it’s heavily implied that I should wait until college.
She heads over to the rice cooker and pops it open, sighing when she finds it empty.
“You didn’t eat at the office?” I ask.
“No time.”
I point to the counter where I left the H Mart grocery bag. “Mrs. Kim gave us some banchan, if you want to eat that. There’s jangjorim.” It’s her favorite.
Mom clicks her tongue. “Mrs. Kim should mind her own business. She can be so nosy.”
“Well, I think it’s nice of her.”
“Don’t tell me she didn’t slide in a snide comment about my parenting.”