The lump in my throat keeps me from arguing over the differences between a professional and high school competitor.
After I check in with the show coordinator, I peer around the curtain to catch a glimpse of the auditorium. The lights are dimming, and huge spotlights roam the audience, casting long slants of reds and yellows over the crowd. I set my case on the wood floor and unsnap it. In the erratic light, I take out my horn bow and slip off its silk goong dae, notch my lucky white-feathered arrow into place, and draw back the strings to test its tension. It pulls strong and steady in my grip.
Really, I could shoot an arrow in my sleep, and tonight my target will be larger than a Chuseok moon. I close my eyes and rub my hand up and down the bow as I try to block out all memory of my earlier mishap.
The thump of a drum, followed by a succession of quicker thumps, resounds through the auditorium. The audience hushes. I slide on my thumb ring, tie my goong dae to my waist, and tuck five arrows into its sack. Then, with my bow under my arm, I ease out to the wings to watch the show.
A pan flute cuts through the pounding.
And then silence.
A flash of crimson illuminates the stage, showing two drums and two gongs lined up as straight as arrows. At practice yesterday, one of the guys told me they were called samulnori instruments. They represent thunder, wind, rain, and clouds. Now, hearing them in full action, I understand why. The sound of the drums and gongs echoes through the room, alive, energetic, and creating a beat that sends my pulse racing.
It draws me in, as if I’ve been missing out on a piece of who I am all these years. I almost forget how nervous I am.
Two banners fall from behind the stage: one a tiger, one a dragon. They face each other, and I wonder if they’re in battle or are friends. The drummers’ beat calms to a steady rhythm as dancers run out, wearing vibrant hanboks that billow like peonies as they twirl.
The program continues as the shaman, dressed in her rags, struts onto the stage next. She dances in wild abandon to the cries of the drums as if caught in the wind and thunder. My muscles tighten and my vision sharpens. During practice yesterday, the dances and music hadn’t affected me like this. Maybe it’s only the added mix of lights and costumes. And the audience.
The drums’ rhythm strengthens, as if calling to me. The drummers’ arms swing in full motion. Their heads shake to the beat.
This is my cue.
I stride out onto the stage. The spotlight catches and follows me as I step onto the dais, my back to the audience. A massive sun lowers over the back wall of the stage. My job is to shoot my arrow into the heart of the sun. The technicians will work their magic to make it seem as if I’ve burst it open so streams of “sunlight” illuminate the auditorium for the grand finale.
Simple. A no-brainer.
I don’t even have to hit a particular mark. All I need to do is get the arrow to cut through the thin canvas.
I lift my bow and set it against my body. The drums boom beneath me. The shaman wails. I notch the arrow in, tight and snug, and take my aim. A gust of wind kicks up around me. I frown. They hadn’t created wind yesterday. What are the producers thinking? Someone needs to turn off those fans.
The drummers barrel away, oblivious of my concern. My hair whips around me. Now I wish I’d listened to the show coordinator and pulled it into a traditional topknot.
Focus!
I lift the bow slightly upward and bite the inside of my lip. The wind intensifies, and my skirts snap against my ankles. It’s so strong now, I can barely stand, but there’s no way I’m going to make a fool of myself and not do this.
I draw back, determined to give the special effects people a piece of my mind afterward.
And release.
The sun swirls in a rainbow before me as the arrow sinks into its center. Light scatters across the stage and spills toward the audience. But I don’t move. Because inside the heart of the sun is a man. He’s dressed in the traditional Korean style, with a black pointed beard and a topknot. His skin seems to blaze, or maybe that’s because he’s dressed in a silver hanbok.
He stands there, staring at me with russet-colored eyes. He’s got my arrow in his hand and a crooked smile on his lips. He bows slightly to me before disappearing into the golden blaze of the sun.
Who was that man? He looked so real. So alive.
Maybe he was. Maybe the special effects people assigned him to grab my arrow and didn’t tell me about it.
Behind me, I realize the audience is clapping. I squeeze my bow tight and swivel as the drummers and dancers bow below. The audience leaps to their feet, clapping vigorously in the glittery golden light. I take my bow.
Marc is to my right in the second row, clapping. I wish that smile of his didn’t make my heart soar. I spot Dad in the front row, a proud look in his eyes, and Grandfather next to him. But he isn’t standing. His arms are crossed, and his frown is even deeper than earlier. What a grouch.
The curtains close. My knees wobble as I take the steps back down. The drummers slap me high fives and shake my hand. One of the backstage guys I hung out with yesterday runs up to me.
“That was awesome,” he says.
“Thanks, but what was up with the fans? You could have told me about them beforehand. I was lucky the arrow hit at all.”
“Fans?” He stares at me like I’m crazy. “What fans?”
One of the drummers overhears us and says, “Great work on the winds, Chung So. Really cooled the stage off.”
The backstage guy rubs his forehead.
I lift my hands in the air to shrug it off. “Forget about it,” I say. “It worked out in the end.”
I leave the crew to search for the guy who took my lucky arrow. But as I scour the backstage area, I can’t find anyone even resembling him. I lightly tap my bow against my leg, trying to imagine what he’d look like without his costume.
“Where might he have gone?” I wonder out loud.
“Mine,” a voice whispers from behind me.
I spin around. No one is there. The hairs on my arms prick against my silk sleeves.
Forget the stupid arrow. I can always get another.
“Mine.” The whisper comes again from everywhere around me.
No question now. I’m overtired. I need sleep.
But as I zip my bow case closed, I see him—the man from inside the sun. He’s perched on one of the backstage stools, holding my arrow. I march over to ask for it back.
“I knew you would come back, my princess,” he says.
I stop midstride at his words. There’s something about his dark-pooled eyes that causes my breath to catch and my heart to ice over.
“Just give me back my arrow,” I say.
But I never get it back.
Because he vanishes in a trick of the light.
“Jae!” Michelle calls as I make my way to the school deli. She steps in stride, her long black hair pinned away from her face and her tight jeans tucked into her boots. “How did it go last night?”
“Nightmarish.” I pick up a tray and load it with kimbap.
Michelle Myong and I were fast friends when we both transferred to the international school here in January. She’s Korean American like me and would probably fit in with Grandfather’s expectation of what a perfect granddaughter should be. Not only is she a straight-A student who takes violin lessons religiously, but she has that smooth, olive complexion with a round face, small nose, and willowy figure. We’re complete opposites.
At my last school I was at the top of my class and hardly had to study.
Not here.
Here I’m drowning. My IB courses, which are like the international version of my Advanced Placement courses in the States, are sending me into caffeine addiction. I never thought I’d actually admit to missing AP classes. Going to the museum instead of doing my usual three hours of homework last night only made things worse.
“So spill about the nightmare,” Michelle says.
“Nightmares,
” I correct her, and press my finger on the scanner to deduct money from my account. “One: I had to wear a hanbok that made me look like a pink flamingo. Two: my grandfather proclaimed his abhorrence for me. Well, his face did, at least. Three: Marc was there. And four: I lost my lucky arrow.”
“Abhorrence! Great SAT word.” Michelle stops to add it into her cell phone.
I roll my eyes. This is the kind of obsession I deal with every day at this school. Where it’s cool to have a vocab app on your phone. Most of the students here have been attending night school, called hagwon, since they were in elementary school, all in preparation for the dreaded SAT. I’m convinced I’ve landed on a different planet.
I head to our usual table by the windows.
“Where are you going?” Michelle pokes me with her chopsticks. “Remember? NHS lunch meeting today?”
I groan. Why did she have to be so responsible? I can’t believe she even roped me into National Honor Society. Not only do I so not belong there, but I don’t have time for it. I can barely keep up with my studies since we moved to Seoul. Dad said it would all even out as I acclimated. Right. He isn’t enrolled at an international school, where every student is Harvard-bound. Everyone except me.
Besides, eating in the Biology room always makes me feel a little queasy.
“We’d better hurry or we’ll be late.”
She’s right. Mrs. Freeman’s classroom is on the other side of the campus on the third floor.
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll go.”
We breeze out of the deli through the automatic glass doors and into the crowded hallway. Seoul Foreign School isn’t much different from my high school back in L.A. except it’s four stories tall and the designers of the school must have been obsessed with glass and chrome. We’re crossing one of the catwalks where either side is walled in with glass when Michelle freezes.
“Wait. Did you say Marc was there?”
I decide to skirt the topic of Marc. Just thinking of him makes my hands sweat.
“Which reminds me”—I continue walking—“I’m dropping out of NHS.”
Her eyes pop out. You’d think I was about to commit a crime or something.
“Let’s face it,” I continue. “I’d never have qualified here. I was lucky to be nominated back in L.A. Don’t flip; I’m staying in until after the ski trip.”
“Give it one more month,” Michelle says as we enter Mrs. Freeman’s room. I nearly gag as I breathe in the shock-awful smell. “You’ve got to give yourself more time to get used to things here. NHS is our ticket to do something meaningful with our lives. Besides, it gets you service hours for IB.”
I shift the pile of food in my hands, thinking about her words. Michelle is into believing we all have a purpose. She’s already spearheaded two food drives for the tsunami victims and personally delivered a truckload of school supplies to an orphanage in the Philippines. I’m just not sure how I fit into all that. I’m not sure how I fit into anything right now.
My thoughts scatter as I spot Marc laughing with Kumar at one of the tables. With his rumpled brown hair and tight black T-shirt, Marc looks even hotter than last night. Yep. I need to quit. Too much time with this boy will only make me want to be with him more. Besides, Dad is dealing with too much to have another ulcer over me dating a non-Korean.
“What’s Marc doing here?” I whisper to Michelle.
“Apparently Mrs. Freeman has been recruiting.”
That explains why the room is so packed. Marc’s gaze finds me. A lazy grin passes across his face, and I know, I just know he’s remembering me in that dress. Somehow I break eye contact.
“Right.” I take a deep breath and move to leave. “This sounds like the perfect day to quit.”
“Please don’t.” Michelle latches on to me. Then, noticing Marc, she whispers, “I could arrange a private tutor for you. As in Marc. He’s off-the-charts smart.”
I give her my cringe look. “Don’t even think about it. He’s cute, but dating isn’t an option for me. Speaking of which, how did your call with Charlie go this morning? You need to tell me all about it.”
Her face drops, and I bite my lip, instantly regretting my words. They had promised to stay together no matter what, but since she moved to Seoul, he hasn’t been good about keeping in touch.
“He must have forgotten or fallen asleep.” She checks her Skype account on her phone and shrugs. “The time difference is tricky.”
“Yeah.” I nod, trying to be upbeat, but deep down I decide Charlie has just entered my black list. “That has to be it. Michigan is like fourteen hours difference. I bet he’ll call tonight.”
She presses her lips together and stares at her phone.
“Listen,” I say, feeling awful for her. “I’ll stay today and cheer you up.”
Meanwhile, Min breezes past us, her Calvin Kleins showing off long, perfect legs—the complete opposite of mine. She slides onto the stool next to Marc and passes him a juice, batting her eyelashes at him. I think I actually hate her.
“Perfect.” Michelle beams and blows me a two-finger kiss. “Ciao!”
She clips away to the far table next to Lily and all the gross science experiment stuff. She knows I can’t stand eating near that formaldehyde smell. But once she sits, I realize there’s only one stool left in the entire room. And it’s directly across from Marc.
The little devil.
If I had opened a fortune cookie this morning, it would have said: “You are destined for eternal punishment.” Or something awful like that.
“Jae Hwa!” Mrs. Freeman says, brightening as I edge to the table. “I was worried you wouldn’t come. I had you on my list to help hand out flyers for the ski trip. Has your dad given you permission to go?”
I don’t bother telling her he’s too busy even to notice when I’m home or not. “Yes.”
“Great,” Mrs. Freeman says, and passes me the agenda. “Then we’ll start planning.”
Marc tilts his stool so far back, I’m actually worried for his safety. “Hey, Fighter Girl. Good job last night. And that dress. Wow. It was very—pink.”
“Pink?” Min pipes in. “I can’t even imagine you in such a color. You seem more inclined to dark, drab shades.”
I glare at her, thinking thoughts that would get me a first-class ticket to the principal’s office.
“Actually, it wasn’t that bad,” Marc says. “You really nailed that performance.”
Did Marc just give me a compliment? My face feels as if it’s turning as red as kimchi. I can slice through a stack of boards, but when it comes to compliments, I’m useless. I duck my head and pretend I’m searching through my backpack.
“Ignoring me now?” Marc grins, showing off that adorable dimple. “Hey, did you notice anything odd going on during the performance last night?”
I think about the wind and that weird guy who called me his princess and took my arrow. But there’s no way I’m going to let Marc think I’m crazy.
“No.” I flip my hair over my shoulder and try to channel a composed, mature me. “Why?”
“Just wondering.” It looks as if he’s about to say something more but instead he rubs his chin, apparently in deep thought. I notice he’s wearing a gold ring. Why is it that even a gold ring looks sexy on him?
Min of the Long Legs clears her throat and leans closer to Marc. “So, do you want to meet for study group tonight?”
She’s got this sultry voice that makes most boys gape and drool. I peer through my eyelashes to see if it works on him, too. He whispers something to her, and I look away. I wonder if I’d look cute, too, if I chopped my hair short like Min’s.
No, I decide. I’d probably take on the image of something freak-worthy like a porcupine.
I focus on Mrs. Freeman’s agenda for the ski trip instead. Do they really think that taking a ski trip is going to bond us as eleventh graders? I push the agenda aside and unroll the foil around my kimbap. The smell of dried seaweed and sesame oil fills my nostrils, and
my stomach growls. The one benefit to living in Korea: the food.
But as I pop a slice of kimbap into my mouth, I notice how everyone is reading the agenda as if it’s written in gold ink. Why does everyone take everything so seriously? What is with these people?
Fine. I’ll skim the list.
Michelle and I are supposed to distribute flyers promoting the trip. Farther down, Mrs. Freeman has us making and handing out the hot chocolate on the Saturday night of the ski trip.
Michelle clears her throat. “Mrs. Freeman,” she says solemnly while folding her manicured hands in front of her. “I’m sorry, but I can’t hand out the hot chocolate. I’m in charge of making sure everyone’s in from the slopes.”
“Is that so?” Mrs. Freeman checks her list. “Yes, I see that.”
“But it looks like Marc is free at that time,” Michelle says with a sly grin. “He’d be a perfect candidate.”
I’m going to kill Little Miss Matchmaker.
“Yes,” Mrs. Freeman says. “Good point. How does that sound to you, Marc?”
He agrees and glances my way with that melt-worthy grin. I can’t look at him. I can’t even be near him without practically becoming a puddle on the floor. This is ridiculous.
Without being told, the whole group makes the change on the handout. Michelle has this thing about neatness, so she takes her ruler and carefully crosses out her name with a clean, straight line. You’d think we worked for some high-end ad business or something. But that’s not what’s got me all squirming in my seat like a slippery octopus. It’s having to work with Marc.
I shoot my hand up as Mrs. Freeman reads the list out loud (the one that takes three seconds to glance over). Mrs. Freeman finally lifts her eyes over her reading glasses. “Yes?” she says.
“You’ve got me making hot chocolate,” I say. “I’m not much of a cook.”
“Miss Lee.” You know Mrs. Freeman’s annoyed with you if she uses your last name. “The cooking consists of mixing hot water with powder. I’m confident you can handle that.”
Good point. My excuses need refining. I drum my fingers on the table as Mrs. Freeman returns to her reading, but no other options cross my mind. All I can focus on is how green his eyes felt when they slid over me.
Gilded (The Gilded Series, Book One) Page 2