XOXO

by Axie Oh

  After an hour, I’m sweating from all my pores and ready to pull every single strand of hair off my head. “I suck at this.”

  “Stop being so hard on yourself,” she says, raising her water bottle to her mouth. “Your body has to memorize the steps before it will actually look good to others. You’re trying too hard to learn it all at once. Isolate the movements. Don’t tell me you were a master at cello when you first started.”

  “I wasn’t awful,” I mumble to myself.

  “No one is judging you here,” she says, ignoring me. “Just remember that I heard you play the cello. I acknowledge you’re amazing at it. But this is my specialty, and I’m trying to help you.”

  I stare at her. Like really look at her. “You’re good at this.”

  Now it’s her turn to blush. “I like . . . helping people. I had this dream, when I first started high school. . . . I wanted to be called ‘seonbae.’” She must see that I don’t know the term because she explains, “‘Seonbae’ is what underclassmen use to address upperclassmen. I wanted one of the younger students to call out to me Sori-seonbae and ask for my help.” She curls her hair around her finger. “Embarrassing, right?”

  I have this sudden urge to hug her. She’s adorable. Of course Nathaniel couldn’t help falling for her.

  “That’s so . . . pure,” I gush.

  She laughs, and then says, seriously, “From the top?”

  By the time midnight rolls around, I’m actually kind of getting the hang of the choreography. It’s like my body has gone through the movements so many times that I don’t have to think about what comes next. After I finally nail a tricky bit of footwork, Sori calls for another break and we bust out the snacks. Vitamin water and crunchy rice bars for Sori, shrimp crackers and Gatorade for me.

  After eating, we lay down on our backs in the middle of the studio, look up at the ceiling, and just talk. I tell her about my life growing up in LA with my mom and dad, about how they both worked food service jobs while my mom went through law school. Then how a few years after the karaoke bar opened, he got the diagnosis. I skip over the hard years, when he was in the hospital, and fast forward to my plans for the future—college in New York City, complete independence.

  Sori tells me about her life growing up in the affluential neighborhood of Apgujeong, how she’s an only child too. That besides her mother being the CEO of Joah, her father is a politician, which meant that a lot of her friends were either children of chaebol families or kids from school whose parents forced them to befriend her.

  How a couple of years back her father had had a highly publicized affair, which resulted in her so-called friends turning their backs on her. It was an awful, exhausting time, and the person who was there for her, who was her rock through it all, was Nathaniel.

  She smiles as she recounts her impression of him at their first meeting, both thirteen years old. She thought he was a punk and a troublemaker. For years they teased and tried to one-up each other.

  “You know,” she says, “how sometimes in middle school a boy will be mean to the person he likes?”

  “Wow, Nathaniel,” I drawl. “Totally not cool.”

  “I know, right?” She laughs though her voice has a sad quality to it.

  “Do you want to get back together again?”

  She’s quiet for a long time, I’m not sure if she’ll answer. Finally, she says, “I want to be an idol. It’s my dream, Jenny.”

  “O-kay, but you can still be an idol and date Nathaniel, can’t you? Or is it your mom?”

  “It’s not just my mother or the company. It’s more than that.”

  “What reasons are there besides that?”

  She turns on her side to look at me. “You really don’t know?”

  “No,” I say, “but I want to.”

  For her. For Nathaniel. For Gi Taek and Angela, who share the same dream.

  For Jaewoo.

  “It’s a great honor to be an idol. You’ve achieved a dream that so many people want as well. But that’s only the beginning. You have to work hard to release good music, maintain your image and brand, perform well, win awards, top charts, hold fan signings, go on variety shows, support your group members’ solo activities, have your own solo activities . . .” She stops, catching her breath. “When you add another person into the mix, some people think it takes away from all of that. Like you have a person who is more important than all those other things, a part of your life you’re not sharing, when, as an idol, you agreed to share your whole life with your fans, so that they can love you without fear that you’ll disappoint or hurt them.”

  She sighs. “At least, that’s how I’ve always thought of it, and it’s the reason I can most understand. I want to make people smile. I want to warm their hearts. And if dating makes people worry or feel like I’m not trying hard enough, then I . . . won’t.”

  I try to understand what she’s saying; it’s so out of the realm of anything I’ve ever had to worry about. “I don’t think being in a relationship takes away from all your hard work. You can’t aim to please everyone, you can only aim to please yourself.”

  She offers me a bemused smile. “That’s very American of you to think that way. Nathaniel’s like that too. Screw everyone else. Live your best life.”

  “I mean . . . not exactly that. More like, you need to be strong for yourself first, be healthy and happy for yourself first, before you can be strong and give happiness to others. The healthier and happier you are, the more you can give to your fans, right? They should want that for you.”

  She rests her head on her hands, nodding slowly.

  “Plus, come on, don’t you think after falling in love, you’ll just have that many more love songs to write?”

  She laughs. “We’re jumping ahead of ourselves. I don’t have any fans, Jenny!”

  “That’s not true. You have me.”

  “I know we just recently went from roommates to friends,” she says shyly, “but can I hug you?

  “Um, yes!” I reach out and take her into an Uncle Jay–like hug, slightly suffocating.

  “You’re sweaty!” She giggles.

  “You are too!” I push her away and she laughs, placing her hands over her face.

  It’s one o’clock in the morning. We sprawl on our backs again. Neither of us speaks for a while, and I think Sori’s half asleep when she rolls to her side and murmurs, “If cellists have fan clubs, Jenny, I want to join yours.”

  Twenty-Two

  On Sunday, I visit Halmeoni in the clinic and we watch a weekend drama with her roommates on the TV in the room. It’s already on episode seventy-eight of what my halmeoni tells me is a one-hundred-episode drama.

  From what I gather from the other halmeoni and the drama itself, the story follows a young woman who, as a child, was lost at sea during a boating accident, only to be adopted by a fisherman. Turns out, she’s the actual daughter of a billionaire and heiress of a huge conglomerate in Seoul. But her identity was stolen by a woman who witnessed the accident and instated her own daughter in the young woman’s place, so she grew up the heiress. Meanwhile, the young woman is torn between the love of two men, a boy from her village who raised himself from nothing to become a fishing tycoon and the son of another chaebol family who was betrothed to her from birth. Also possibly her mother was murdered, and she might have a terminal illness?

  After the episode is over, I pull out the food I’d bought from the bakery, a loaf of sourdough bread, thick, creamy butter, and blackberry jam.

  “You’re so lucky, Eonni,” Halmeoni’s neighbor in the bed to her right says, “to have such a caring granddaughter.”

  Her neighbor in the bed across the room shakes her head, clicking her tongue disapprovingly. “If only your daughter showed you as much affection.”

  “No bad words about my Soojung,” Halmeoni chides her friend. “I’m proud of her and how hard she works.”

  Mom was supposed to join Halmeoni and me today, but she’s been busy with a new
case that her colleague back in the States forwarded to her, an immigration dispute concerning North Korea. Mom couldn’t resist, and I can’t exactly be upset she’s not here. She’s doing important work and I’m proud of her.

  But it does suck not spending more time with her, like I thought I would. Still, she’ll come to the showcase at the end of the semester, where, hopefully, I’ll have a solo.

  “You remind me so much of Soojung,” Halmeoni says. “She was always so independent. So sure of what she wanted in life. She knew as the daughter of a fish stall worker, the odds were stacked against her success, so she studied hard, worked part-time to earn money to pay for English classes, and finally got a scholarship to attend college in America, where she met your father and had you.” Halmeoni smiles, but there’s a sadness to her eyes. She’s always so cheerful that it catches me by surprise.

  “I know she’s always been resentful that I sent her away . . .”

  This must be the reason for Halmeoni and Mom’s strained relationship. But I think Halmeoni’s being too hard on herself. It’s Mom’s fault if she can’t see that her mother was only trying to give her the best life, by not holding her back.

  “She’s like that heroine in the drama,” I say to make Halmeoni laugh. “At least the fish part.”

  When she does laugh, I feel warm and fuzzy inside. I spend several more hours with her, though after seeing that flash of sadness, I can’t unsee it.

  I know she loves me and is happy to spend time with me. But I can tell with her longing glances at the door, that she wishes her daughter were here.

  And the thing is, I don’t blame her, because I do too.

  It’s late afternoon by the time I leave, feeling emotionally exhausted. Out in the quad, I stand in the middle of the lawn, lifting my face to the sun as if I can absorb its energy.

  As I turn around I see a man wearing a bucket hat and sunglasses is loitering beneath the trees. I wouldn’t normally take notice except that he’s carrying a large camera bag.

  After the broom closet incident, when Youngmin came to find Jaewoo because there was a man who was stalking him, I’d looked up the photographer credited on the photos of Nathaniel and Sori. I’m not positive this is the man who took the pictures, but just in case, I need to warn Jaewoo. It’s later than the time I ran into him last week when he was here for therapy, but I want to make certain.

  I watch the man out of the corner of my eye until he passes, then whirl around. I quickly pull up a map of the Camellia Health Village on my phone, finding a building nearby that sounds promising: Camellia Counseling. I make my way over, keeping a brisk but even walk. Should the man look over and catch sight of me, there’s no reason for him to take notice. I’m not wearing my Seoul Arts uniform, just my favorite faux leather jacket and my Dodgers cap.

  I reach the building of Camellia Counseling and the doors slide open soundlessly at my approach.

  Inside, the setup for the building mirrors my grandmother’s clinic, with a waiting area and a receptionist desk. The interior walls are painted in calm, light-blue colors, and there’s a small indoor waterfall.

  The woman at the desk smiles serenely at me, which is at odds with the adrenaline coursing through my body. What do I even say to her? Is Bae Jaewoo a patient here? She’ll think I’m a stalker and have me booted from the premises, which will only draw unnecessary attention.

  “Jenny?”

  “Jaewoo!” I grab his arm and drag him behind a wall, away from the windows.

  I’m momentarily distracted because he’s wearing a black sweater cut low around his neckline, showing his collarbones.

  “What are you doing here?” he asks.

  Focus, Jenny. I look up at his face. “I’m here to warn you.”

  He raises a single eyebrow.

  “Okay, that was a little dramatic. But in my defense, I just spent the morning watching this wild makjang K-drama with my grandma.” I take a deep breath. “There’s a man with a camera outside. I think he’s that paparazzi ajeossi you were telling me about before.”

  A scowl descends across his handsome features. “Wait here.” Pressing his back to the wall, he glances around the corner. He only looks for a brief second before he returns, grabbing my hand. “It’s him, all right,” he says. “We’ll avoid him by going out the emergency exit.”

  Jaewoo’s grip on my hand is tight as he leads me down one hall, then another. Technically there’s no reason for me to go with him—the paparazzi ajeossi isn’t after me—but Jaewoo doesn’t let go. And after the day I had, I don’t want to let go either.

  A black van is waiting across the street from the back exit, idling by the curb. Jaewoo releases my hand only to slide the van door open, gesturing for me to climb in first. I take the seat by the far window and Jaewoo jumps in after, sliding the door closed. He hits the roof of the car. “Let’s go, Hyeong.”

  That’s when I notice that XOXO’s manager is in the driver’s seat. I recognize him from the uniform store. He doesn’t question Jaewoo—a quick getaway must be a common enough occurrence—switching the gear shift and accelerating from zero to sixty kilometers in a matter of seconds.

  He slows down after driving a couple of blocks, checking his side mirrors to ensure no one is following us. He then looks up, studying me through the rearview mirror. “Who . . . ?”

  “She’s a classmate of Nathaniel’s and mine,” Jaewoo explains. “We were being trailed by that reporter who works for Bulletin.”

  He must not have seen Jaewoo holding my hand because he doesn’t comment on it. Either that or he’s used to keeping the boys of XOXO’s secrets.

  “Where are you going, Jenny?” Jaewoo asks me. “Can we drop you off somewhere?”

  “We’re running late as it is,” XOXO’s manager says.

  “It’s fine,” I say. “I can take a cab from wherever you’re going.”

  Jaewoo doesn’t press the issue.

  XOXO’s manager, Nam Ji Seok, whose name I remember now from when Jaewoo told me, flicks on the turn signal, maneuvering the van onto a ramp that’ll take us over a bridge across the Han River. I know from Gi Taek that a good manager is someone who fulfills many roles in an idol’s life besides organizing their activities—bodyguard, driver, confidante, friend.

  I wonder if Jaewoo has even told him about us. Though, what is there to tell?

  Last time I saw him, he defended my character in front of Sori and Nathaniel and an entire lunchroom. But before that, he’d walked out on me as I gave one of the best performances of my life, without an explanation.

  I want to be his friend. Ever since that night in LA, there’s been a connection between us. A spark. But I feel like my heart is constantly being pushed and pulled. I’m only here in Korea for five months—four now—do I really want to wait for him to make up his mind about me?

  I’m tired of waiting.

  “Jenny?” I must have been staring into space because when I focus on Jaewoo, he’s studying me. “Is everything all right?”

  “Yeah, I was just . . . making my mind up about something.”

  He frowns.

  The navigation on the GPS pings and a woman politely tell us in Korean that we’ll be arriving at our destination shortly.

  XOXO’s manager turns from a main road. Up ahead is a large building, the letters EBC, for Entertainment Broadcasting Center, in blue at the top.

  As we approach, Nam Ji Seok slows the car. Outside the station, a huge crowd of people is gathered, even more than were in front of the uniform store. Most of the people are young, middle- and high-school students, wearing masks over their mouths, presumably to conceal their faces in case they’re caught on television skipping cram school to follow idols around.

  “We’ll have to go around back,” Jaewoo says.

  “There’s not enough time,” Ji Seok responds.

  A van pulls ahead of us, parking in front of the building, and the crowd immediately swarms it.

  “This is our chance!” XOXO’s mana
ger jerks the van forward. “You’ll have to come inside with us,” he tells me. “I can’t risk leaving you alone in the van. Here, wear this.” He throws me a cloth face mask. I put it on, hooking the straps around my ears. I’m already wearing my Dodgers cap, so I lower it over my eyes. “You can pass for a backup dancer or a stylist. Just keep your head down. Ready?”

  Everything happens so fast. He pulls up in front of the building, behind the other van. The doors must have an automatic open feature because they open on both sides. Jaewoo hops out of one side, Ji Seok and I hop out of the other.

  “Jaewoo-oppa!” someone screams.

  The ground beneath our feet begins to rumble. I look over to see a rush of people coming at us, like an oncoming tidal wave.

  Then Ji Seok grabs my arm and we sprint past the crowd and through the doors of the broadcasting station, the security guards quickly closing them behind us.

  I put my hands on my knees to catch my breath, then take a look at my surroundings.

  It’s markedly quiet after the tumult of the crowd.

  The group that entered before us lingers, talking among themselves. They must be another boy group, like XOXO. Unlike Jaewoo, they’re already dressed in their stage outfits, lots of red and black leather and tight pants.

  “Hurry up,” Ji Seok says, calling us over to an unmarked door in the lobby.

  “I should go,” I say when Jaewoo starts to follow. At my voice, he turns to look at me. “I can just slip out the back.”

  “There are too many people outside,” Jaewoo says, a frown edging his lips.

  “It’s fine,” I say. “I’m used to disappearing into crowds.” Wow, that sounds dramatic. “I mean, I’m used to crowds. Like in general.” I take a step back. “I’ll just . . . see myself out.”

  As I turn, Jaewoo grabs my wrist.

  Across the lobby, the boys in the other group have all quieted, staring.

  “What are you doing?” I hiss.

  “I’ll worry if you go out there,” he says.

  I gape at him. There’s a reckless, stubborn look in his eye.

  “Jenny, Jaewoo!” Ji Seok barks and I jump, eyes wide. He points a finger at me. “You can leave once the show starts and the crowd’s dispersed. Now, come on!”