Loveboat in 서울

𝟙𝟜

"I shouldn't have done it." Regret haunts me as I walked the moped-lined sidewalks with Sohee toward the bus, to Yonsei for her, the More Than Youth Ballet Studio for me. "That last pose—"

My cheeks burn with the memory. When I close my eyes, I can still see Nana's flashing lights, still feel them on my naked skin. The worst is that, left to my own devices, I'd have worn the jumpsuit and returned to the States happy as cream cheese. Why? Why did everything eomma say make me want to do crazy things?

"Calm down." Sohee twists her hair into a knot and secures it with a clip. She frowns, impatient. "Not like anyone's going to see your photo. Unless you were planning to hand them out.

"If my parents find out, they'll disown me."

"Well, they won't find out. You're so paranoid about them. Honestly, Suzy. All this insecurity is getting annoying."

She's trying to stop me from worrying, but I can only imagine Wendy's wide-eyed horror. Sihyeon's, too.

This isn't like you, Suzy! they'd say.

And would they be right?

The fact that I'm not sure scares me.

Sohee and I separate at the bus, and I walk another few blocks to the next stop, still trying to shake my worries.

It's done. No one has to know.

More Than Youth studio is forty-five minutes from campus, on the outskirts of Seoul. I cross a few quiet streets to a modest, two-story building, swing open a glass door—

And step into heaven.

Faded pink walls enclose a reception room of dated but well-loved furniture. The air smells of lilacs. Past a desk, I come upon a mirror-lined studio and a dozen girls my age, black ponytails whipping as they bend and stretch along a polished double bar. Tchaikovsky's "Waltz of the Flowers" plays. A red-haired woman calls in time, an unbelievable mix of Hangul and French, "Ye, ge rond de jambe, deobul rond de jambe, arabesque—heumpong, Eunbi! Jeongmal johda, Yurim."

My own heart lifts with the familiar liturgy. Then an elegant Korean woman, black hair pulled into a tidy French braid, glides toward me. She's in her forties. Her graceful carriage tells me he was once a dancer herself.

"May I help you?" American-accented English—I guess she could tell from my clothes. She seems surprised.

"Um, I'm here with Yonsei and saw your Coppélia album at a photography studio. I'm, um, a dancer"—I stumble over the word—"and wondered if you have space in your classes or summer ballet."

"Yonsei, of course! I'm Madame Yoo. You're welcome to join us." She walks me back to the reception desk and hands me an amateur playbill. "We're performing excerpts from Swan Lake in August. At the community theater."

"Oh, Swan Lake! One of my favorites!" The Princess Odette cursed into a swan, her dress of white feathers, her evil double, the love story that makes me cry. "How—how much are lessons?"

My hunch was right—she must not have raised prices in ten years.

The cost for the summer, week by week, will still wipe out the rest of my savings.

But it's a chance to dance.

"Are there auditions?"

"No need. Only the solos require auditions." She opens her ledger.

"Which solos?" I blurt.

Her brow rises. "All but the prince. Odette—"

"Odette!"