Loveboat in 서울

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Ten minutes later, I jog onto the field behind high school. Puffy storm clouds close over the sky, the remnants of a typhoon kicked up in Asia, according to the weatherman. The grass is moist underfoot. A guys' soccer match run full tilt, a mad dash of Vail orange jerseys versus blue from Secret, a rival high school. Normally, I'd stop and look, as in look, but today, all I want is to talk to Wendy, my Korean best friend since kindergarten, when we both joined Dance Mom's Ballet Studio. We've danced together all the way through high school, along with our twelve number flag corp and dance squad.

She's by her car, hauling our black-and-gold flags from her trunk, already dressed in our outfit: black leotard with sheer lace sleeves that catch the light, the matching skirt rippling over her long, lean legs. She has a dancer's body. As I veer toward her, I feel a familiar twinge of envy. I'd rather take remedial biology all summer than have my thighs so exposed, but this is the price of dancing, and I'm willing to pay it.

"Wendy!"

"Suzy, you got out!" She waves, than grabs the periwinkle tote bag slipping from her narrow shoulder. Her mid-length black hair tumbles over her fingers.

"Hey. Wendy." I gasp.

"Hurry up and change." She shoves my tote bag at me, which I'd left in her car last practice for safekeeping from Eomma. She glances worriedly over her shoulder. "Sanders needs this field for some staff thing. We only have one hour."

"Wendy." I clutch my bag like a life preserver. "I got into Tisch."

The poles clatter to the asphalt and Wendy shrieks loud enough to be heard in New York. I'm enveloped in a storm of curls and the scent of rosemary.

"How? When?"

"Just now." My body shakes as if I haven't eaten in days. I've tucked the letter under my pillow, but those black lines of type are seared into my mind: We are pleased to admit you to the Dance Department . . . "They emailed too, apparently, but I've been on hiatus since graduation. Now I have to answer by next Friday. I don't know what to do."

"You didn't tell your parents, did you?"

"I climbed down my pipe before they could talk to me."

"Suzy." Wendy grips my arm and walks me toward the school. "You've got to stop doing that. If you break a leg, how will you dance? What if you hurt yourself permanently?"

"I'm not going to break a leg."

She frowns. "So Tisch. You want to go-of course you do, right?"

"Well, even considering it feels ridiculous, right? I've got almost a full ride to med school. You know how eomma feels about dancing-all body, no brain. Practically prostitution. Anyways, we can't afford Tisch. If they knew I'd applied, that I got in-I really think they'd consider disowning me."

"What about financial aid?"

"It's not enough. The letter mentioned a scholarship."

"From Tisch?"

"No, an arts association. I'd have to audition in Main right after we dance in the parade next Saturday. At one thirty."

"Ballet? Jazz?" Wendy grip is starting to hurt.

"Open-ended."

"How about this routine? You made it up-that'll count for something, right? Okay to do a duo?"

"I don't have anything else!"

She frowns, thinking hard. "We'll have to Uber from Public Square. Shit." She shoves me toward the bathroom. "Now we really need to practice. Go change!" Five minutes later, I am seated back-to-back with Wendy on the grass. I lift the bottom of my fiberglass flagpole to form a roof peak with Wendy in the opening pose. A familiar warmth spreads like honey inside me: the anticipation of rhythm and beat.