Loveboat in 서울

𝟚𝟟

"Krystal, step forward so we can see you. Min, that's perfect."

All day Saturday and Sunday, I throw myself into preparing for the talent show as if my sanity depends on it. Maybe it does. We work out-of-sight in the back courtyard by the carp fountain, and I've adjusted Wendy's and my dance to incorporate fifteen girls—instead of a flag duet, I block them into groups of five girls with fans, ribbons, and snappy jazz moves, then braid them together as the song builds.

"Keep your circles the same size for those three measures, then break into the interweaving lines."

Sliding into instructions comes so naturally to me—and the girls are good. With five hundred kids to recruit from, we've gathered an all-star squad. But by the end of the weekend, the dance hasn't take shaped yet. Honestly, it's a random mix of ribbons and fans.

Still, as I work with them, I feel an internal calm, a sense of groundedness deep in my core. My parents sent me to discover my heritage, but in the process, I'm also finding parts of myself, even if that self isn't who they want me to be.

Between classes and dancing, I place a lifeline call to Sihyeon from the lobby phone, asking her tips I can pass to Kang.

"He needs to find a reading teacher for dyslexia when you guys come home," Sihyeon says. "But you can still read with him. Appa did that with me when I was little, remember? HOurs a night. Also clay letters. That was fun."

When did my sister grow up?

"I remember." Appa on the couch with Sihyeon in his lap, a book spread over her skinny legs. They used to read long past her bedtime, until Eomma chased her angrily to bed and scolded Appa. Appa's an absent-minded teddy bear when he gets into something. But I don't want to think of him that way. It makes it harder to hang on to my anger.

In the evening, as storms batter the windows, Kang and I work in the fifth-floor lounge. I bring our readers. He brings a box of candy.

"Maeun gochu hana mwodaga hodoge ueoleossa." I read the Hangul snippet of the poem assigned for homework. "I have no idea what I just said. Something one pepper something something crying hard."

"Maeun gochu hana meogdaga hodoege ul-eossda." he corrects my pronunciation. "I'm pretty sure you said, 'Eating a spicy pepper and I cried hard.' Most kids learn that poem in grade school.

"Why doesn't the Dragon give us the translation?" I grumble. "At least you and I make a good team. I don't understand half of what I'm saying, but you—"

"—understand what you're saying but can't read half of it." He grins. His front tooth is slightly crooked; I hadn't noticed before. "This is kind of fun."

He's fun. Self-deprecating in that wry way. I hope this is helping him, showing him those things he's believed about himself are lies. I want to give him something good this summer, even if I don't know if I can give him what he wants.

He's not pressing me beyond the reading.

Maybe we're moving back toward friendship. I hope so.

ʕु-̫͡-ʔुྉ*ᴸᵒᵛᵉᵇᵒᵃᵗ✲ﾟⁱⁿ*。⋆ 서울。⋆ *

The following Monday afternoon, the fifth week of Yonsei and a full week since Joohyuk left, my eroding demerits list permits me to renew outings—as long as I clear it with the office. When I meet the girls in the courtyard, I say, "Want to hold practice outside the National Theater today? Could be inspiring."

They're game. Arm in arm, singing "Private Letter," we move in a herd pass the pond and up the driveway. As we round the bend, I catch sight of Sohee coming toward us in a yellow sundress, dwarfed by Seonho's rugby frame.