Eternal Love

"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.

"I do not talk too much." Seonho's moon-shaped face and Italian accent are both stiff with anger. With a meaty hand, he yanks savagely at the collar of his shirt. His other hand is clenched.

"I'm sorry, babe. You don't—I'm just in a bad mood, okay? I promise I'll make it up to you." Sohee tucks her hand under his elbow, but his knuckles remains white on his fist. They cuddle on the bus trips to the the Gyeonghuigung Palace and the zoo, and I heard they've secretly moved into the spare room. But Seonho's explosive temper ended with Park Minyoung leaving the program—surely, Joohyuk wouldn't approve. And he'd asked me to watch out for her.

Sohee catches sight of us. Her gaze flits from me to our group. Her flawless makeup—down to her perfect eyeliner—and her crisp sundress contrast starkly with my shorts, tank top, and bare face. Noticing no longer comes with its old twinge of insecurity, but I still brace myself as I say, "Jihyo dropped off your dry cleaning. I put it in your closet."

"I'll pick it up." Something like regret in her eyes gives me my own pang. I've seen her leave boxes of pineapple cakes in the lounge for others to enjoy, then slink off without taking credit. Typical Sohee generosity, but now her shoulders droop, her eyes are shadowed. We hit it off from day one. She's helped me break free of my straitjacket. I wish I could talk to Joohyuk about her.

She starts to pass, then turns back. "Suzy?"

"Yeah?"

"There's construction at the Metro. You might want to cross the river and grab cabs instead."

It's a good tip. It saves us fifteen minutes of retracing our steps, and cabs split four ways are cheap.

"Thanks," I say.

Sohee nods, then tucks her hand under Seonho's arm and moves on.

In my head, I add a bullet to the Suzy Bae Plan—

Sort things out with Sohee. Somehow.

ʕु-̫͡-ʔुྉ*ᴸᵒᵛᵉᵇᵒᵃᵗ✲ﾟⁱⁿ*。⋆ 서울。⋆ *

Our cabs drop us off at the Janggu area, a vast public plaza fronted by another gate of ivory arches accented by red roofs. It leads onto a wide avenue flanked by sculpted trees that runs toward the white building and blue-and-red roofs. 

On either side of the avenue, two traditional buildings face each other: The National Theater and National Concert Hall. They're works of art themselves: wide stone steps leading to a platform surrounding each building, and red columns holding up two-tiered, orange roofs with dragons, foxes, and other mythological Korean creatures marching down each swallow-tail corner.

A breeze gusts through the humid air. I guide the girls up steps to the deck of the National Theater. A wall of glass doors reflects us like the mirrors of a ballet studio. Posters advertise upcoming performances by a Seoul opera and Julliard string quartet.

"We couldn't have asked for a more perfect place to practice," I gloat. "This is like Carnegie Hall. Or the National Theater in D.C."

"I learned to ride my bike here." Min fingers her cross pendant, her gaze following a little boy pedaling his own bike under his parents' watchful gaze.

"Really?" I'd learned to ride in the park near my home, Appa hanging on to the back trying to keep up. "Were you visiting?"

"I was born here." In her Seoul dialect I now hear. "I moved with my family to the US when I was eleven."

"I can't imagine coming here like it's your own backyard." Did Eomma learn to ride her bike in aplaza like this one? Was Appa one of those boys playing cards in the corner? DId they listen to pop music and flirt, or were they always serious and focused?

"Suzy," Sulli calls. "You ready?"

I'd been staring out over the plaza watching ghosts.

"Yes," I say. "Let's do this."

"이등병의 편지" begins to play from Sulli's speakers. "Private's Letter," the old song Jihyo shared with me. I love the simplicity of its melody to open the dance. My girls spread out on the platform, their reflections dancing in the row of glass doors. As the music blends into the next song, I adjust the blocking to balance the long swirls of ribbon with the rosewood fans and propless jazz dancers. The music spills over to a yet-unchoreographed song, spontaneous free dancing breaks out, and we spend as much time laughing as practicing.

At last, soaked with sweat, we flop down on the steps and drink form out bottles.

"Min, you dance like you're made of water," I say, and the girls chime agreement. She has a body like Wendy's, supple and slender. I'd never seen her dance before our group came together; she's never come clubbing, and is really involved with the weekly Bible study she started on the fifth floor. I was surprised she agreed to join us. And grateful.

"My mom's a dancer." She smooths her black short hair back with a red headband. "She gave up her career to raise me. I considered dancing professionally, too, but I talked about it with my mom and the ballet world is too cutthroat. Worse than pro sports, where at least you win or lose the game. Ballet—it's so subjective."

"So what are you doing instead?"

"I'm applying to physical therapy school. I want to work with dancers. That way I'll get to stay in the dancing world and choose the hours I work, so I'll still have time to dance."

"You're so lucky you can talk to your mom about this." Why can she, but not I? It it because we grew up in different cultures? If Eomma and Appa were raised in America, or I in Asia, like Min ...

All the important questions in life, I ask my best friend or the librarian. I never talk to my parents about the books I read or the music I love or the dances in my head. I can't trust them not to take what bit of soul I offer them and hurl it into a dumpster.

"My mother told me to try to find another way to come at the dance, something to make myself more than a pretty body. But I'm not like you." She lays a hand on her heart, dimpling with an impish smile. "I'm just a dancer. Not like you—a choreographer—that's not something everyone can do."

I'm too shunned to give my usual, knee-jerk denial. Wendy often called me a choreographer. Am I one? If I am, what does that mean?

But the sun is beginning to set behind Seoul. We need to wrap up.

"Ready for our last runs?" I ask.

The girls groan, but climb good-naturedly to their feet and spread out.

Their movements are coming together, arms,legs, angles flowing closer to synchronization with each run-through. But something is off—that randomness I can't nail down. As I observe the final go, I understand what's missing.

"It needs a tent pole to bring it together," I say as Sulli and Krystal collide. With Wendy's and my interactive duet spread out among the girls, the dance is a canvas without shape, waving in the wind.

"It's awesome the way it is," Sulli says. "We just need to learn it."

"Seriously, it's great, Suzy," Krystal says.

"It's great because you are." I smile, appreciating their support.

But the choreographer in me—I try on the identity, which squeaks—wants more.