Loveboat in 서울

𝟛𝟟

The opening notes of "Private's Letter" play and my girls flow forward to form three identical bundles: a girl pirouetting, arms upraised, and four revolving around her like the petal of a black flower. Three stage lights halo over them. Their faces are neutral—for now. With languid motions, hips and arms, they form changing shapes to the soft beats of the drums.

One of my favorite aspects of choreography is that there is always a story. At least with me. The story of this dance has evolved each time we practiced, each time we added new elements.

As the music accelerates, the girls strip off their back robes and explode into sapphire, emerald, and orange. Silk ribbons erupt, blue fans snap open, jazz-hands wrist-flick. Their skirts and hair fan out like petals as they whirl: blues, greens, and oranges mixing across the stage.

Then Subin's drums beat out a counter rhythm. Blues, green, and oranges coalesce like a flower arrangement as I emerge in red, bo staff twirling. My heart pounds with stage fright. It comes with the territory, but this is different—Appa's in the audience.

And he's about to watch me dance. With a boy.

Keeping my focus on my dancers, I weave figure eights through them. Their silk ribbons whip against my arms and my feet stamp the floor to Subin's counter-beat as I search for a home—do I belong to the ribbon dancers without ribbons? the fan dancers without a fan? the jazz dancers who clasp hands and knock me aside?

My dancers line up in an undulating wave, alternating blue-green-orange. They wall me out. My bo staff flies spinning in the air while I whirl in red beneath it, catch it, cast about for a place in line.

But I don't belong anywhere.

Then a fanfare of drums and vocalization herald a newcomer: Joohyuk steps onstage, bo staff revolving to match mine. Stage lights glitter off his coal-black hair.

A murmur ripples through the audience.

Feigning outrage at this intruder, I leap at him. My staff whistles through the air as I bring it down on his with a crack that echoes. Bo in both hands, I fly into barrel turns across the stage then back around to him.

But at a sharp pain in my ankle, I cut the turns short. Epel a breath—hang in there. My dancers form a phalanx behind me, and we're sixteen advancing on one as I swing at Joohyuk's head. He blocks. Counterattacks. Swings at my head, my feet, my waist as I dodge, give him ground.

Crack, crack, crack! Joohyuk smiles as he drives us all back. The cracks reverberate into my hands as he beats out our fight down the stage. My dancers, defeated at last, drop back to form a rustling choral line.

I forget the audience, my ankle, as I take center stage with Joohyuk. With every swing of my staff, he mirrors me, every crack augmented by the drums. Neither of us get the better of the other as we feint and dodge, swing and cry out.

Crossing staffs, we spin a circle together, faster, faster, faster, then Joohyuk yanks my stick from my hand. Not to be outdone, I wrestle his staff free, tossing it aside with a clatter. His hands go around me, my hand glides down the side of his face, and my dancers loop a double circle around us, flowing in opposite directions in rainbow rings.

Then my ankle gives way.

I bite back a cry as I pitch forward. My foot slips on the waxed floor and I'm falling toward Joohyuk, about to land at his feet in an undignified heap.

But smooth as silk, Joohyuk seizes my waist. He lifts me into the air as if I were as light as a feather, spinning, spinning circles we didn't practice, blurring the lights into colors. I'm flying and I go with it—arch backwards nearly double, hair whipping the air, arms and legs pliant, surrendered and free.