Hold On

"Let's move people! Guests are arriving in two hours!"

Sohee pushes through a slit in the backdrop curtain and onto the stage of the National Theater, her clipboard in hand. She's dressed for work in slacks and a white, short-sleeved blouse.

The theater itself is alive with sounds: the rattle of wheels as Subin and Kangjoon cart in their dragon drums, the clop of shoes as my dancers whirl in their flirty gem-color dresses, emerald, sapphire, topaz—every last stitch in place.

A fresh coat of wax on stage covers the scruffs and scars of prior acts and from my spot in the center, the left and right wings feel miles away. Six spotlights blend double halos over me as, from the technician's box at the back, a stage manager dressed all in black yells instructions. Sohee's arranged for the theater to film the entire thing.

I'm standing before three tiers with 1,500 seats, where the Broadway shows and big name performers have performed and Henry Lau played his violin. This should inspire cartwheels. It's the greatest night of my dancing career—and yet all of me aches as if I've been crushed under a collapsed bridge.

Sohee grips my arm on her way to a mic check. "He'll be here." She runs her hand through her hair and sighs. "I feel so terrible I never knew. None of us ..."

Joohyuk left Heaven Lake with Rosie yesterday afternoon, afraid to leave her to make the trip back to Busan alone. He called her grandparents in Busan and is waiting for them to arrive.

The selfish part of me wanted to hang on as tightly as she did: Don't go. I need you, too. To demand that Joohyuk draw hard lines, the way Wendy's always pushed me to draw hard lines with my parents. But I shouldn't. Not with Rosie where she is.

What did they talk about in those long hours on the ride to Busan? They stayed last night at the Grand Hotel. He would have carried her bag into the plush lobby of red carpet and columns. Did their years together come slamming back? Did he find there's no letting go of someone for whom you are breath and life?

And if she can't let go, will his lifetime of subverting what he wants to his roles as the eldest son of the eldest son of the eldest son, as a big brother and a boyfriend, allow him to let go himself?

I have to believe there's an order to this universe, even if we can't see it, and that its fundamental design is good. One human was never intended to carry another. Joohyuk and this summer gave me the courage to take charge of my own future.

I can only hope that I've done the same for him.

And if he decided it's her, then this summer was about their destiny, not ours.

"Is Joohyuk coming?" Sulli asks, when I execute the solo instead of the stick fight for our dress rehearsal.

"He'll be here," I say.

The girls exchange glances. Maybe Sulli was right, and I shouldn't have asked Joohyuk to dance with us to begin with, or built our performance around the stick fight.

But I love it. Love dancing it with Joohyuk. And if we don't go after what love, then what's the point?

"He'll be here," I repeat. "And if not, I'll do the solo. Come on. We have the blocking down. Let's see if the auction people need help."

ʕु-̫͡-ʔुྉ*ᴸᵒᵛᵉᵇᵒᵃᵗ✲ﾟⁱⁿ*。⋆ 서울。⋆ *

In the sunlit atrium of the theater, girls from Min's Bible study are draping white cloths over rectangular tables and unfolding two dozen easels dropped off my Sohee's aunt. Other kids are setting out saran-wrapped platters of mochi, cheesecake, and other offerings from Yonsei's food electives on a dessert table.

Sohee snags three easels for Kang. She sets out his painting of pair dragon boats on the Han River, angling it to best catch the light.

"He's so talented." She chokes. "I was so stupid, Suzy."

A lump solidifies in my throat. "We all were."

"Hey, girls." Kang arrives in a silky black shirt, tucking a long roll of paper deeper under his arm. "I brought the mural." His hair is slicked back behind his ears. He spots his paintings and a muscle works in his jaw—I'm afraid he'll ask us to take it down. Or bolt.

Then he straightens the three old men in black hats, which Sohee's taken the liberty of labeling, simply, Three Old Men.

"When you put them like that, it almost looks like a real artist did them."

"A real artist did." I move beside him. "But you haven't signed them."

His eyes meet mine, unreadable. "If anyone actually buys them, I will."

ʕु-̫͡-ʔुྉ*ᴸᵒᵛᵉᵇᵒᵃᵗ✲ﾟⁱⁿ*。⋆ 서울。⋆ *

Kang and Sohee hoists his mural onto the stage's backdrop. A lean green dragon flies through a collage of Yonsei memories: the five interlocked gates to the National Palace. A golden urn smoking with incense sticks. Dancers under strobe lights. Heaven Lake, the Korean characters cleverly imbedded in its sun-and-moon-shaped body. A Y-shaped confluence of blue water flowing into gray water at the national park, the blue peopled by Asian American kids, the gray teeming with black-haired families of all ages.

"It's an analogy." Kang's elbow brushes mine. I've come to a stop beneath it. "It's us."

I tilt my head, reading without words. Us cutting our own path through the rock, until we merge with the larger river of life. The flow of water breaks my heart, but it also mends it again—everything art is supposed to do.

"It's brilliant." My throat is tight with gladness. "I love it."

He hands me a smaller roll of paper with a brown ribbon. "You told me not to sketch you, but I thought—you wouldn't mind these."

"Oh?" I unroll four sketches: Joohyuk and me with the glow of the night market behind us. Joohyuk and me stick fighting on the edge of the Bamboo Forest, my head flung back with laughter.

And one more. Sohee and me sitting by Heaven Lake, Sohee's head bent over her clipboard. My arms around my  legs. We'd been talking about this moment with Kang.

"You were right. About a lot of things." He touches the tiny bo staff in my painted hand. "That's what happiness looks like."

Sohee joins us. "I'm auctioning off your mural last of all."

"Anonymously," Kang says. "Say it's some student's."

"Sure," Sohee agrees, then gasps as she catch sight of our painting. "It's beautiful."

"The colors." My throat aches with the release of so much that's been buried deep away. "I've never seen such amazing colors."

ʕु-̫͡-ʔुྉ*ᴸᵒᵛᵉᵇᵒᵃᵗ✲ﾟⁱⁿ*。⋆ 서울。⋆ *

Backstage, in the mirror-lined dressing rooms, I change into my ruby dress. Cap sleeves show off my arms and a black slash tied at the side accents my waist. The skirt modestly skims my knees but the silk clings to my body. As I face myself in a mirror, I instinctively hunch my shoulders, hiding my curves. Then I force myself to straighten.

Still, my stomach is taut with nerves, imagining all the eyes of Yonsei on me, as I tuck my clothes into my bag. A glamour shot flutters down—the one Kang returned. I feel the usual jolt, but for the first time, I allow myself to study it.

And a crazy thing happens: It's so much better than I'd feared. The light highlights my cheekbones at a flattering angle, the ballerina curve of my neck, my good posture. I would still rather throw myself under a rickshaw than have had these passed around— but I'm no longer mortified by the sight of my own body.

Sohee comes in and opens her makeup bag before one of the mirrors.

"It's crazy outside," she says.

I peer out the window. A crowd jostles against the five-paneled gateway of the Gwanghwamun plaza, waiting for entry. It's so large that it spills onto the street. A barrier of policemen in uniforms is herding them out of traffic onto the opposite sidewalk. Cars, motorcycles, bicycles, all vehicles honk as they cut through like lawn mowers over a yard.

"It looks half of Seoul has come out," I say.

"They have," Sohee gloats. "Sulli said some government VIPs are coming. That's why they've beefed up security."

I know it's unlikely I'll spot him, but I still search for Joohyuk's bulky shoulders among the crowd, his bo staff in hand.

Instead, from among the crowd across the street, a familiar Phoenix cap jumps out at me.

Even among a hundred Korean, I recognize his slouchy posture. The way he lowers his cap and hunches down. The extra distance from his eyes that he holds his folded paper map. Like a character from one performance walking onto the stage of the wrong story.

Appa.

I pull out my phone—sure enough, he's texted me.

Appa: I'm here at Yonsei. Your classmate said you were at a picnic at Statue of King Sejong plaza.
Appa: I'm here at Gwanghwamun plaza but it's blocked. There's a fundraiser at the theater.
Appa: Are you still at the Statue? I'll try to get through.

He sent his last text twenty minutes ago. What was my classmate thinking, covering for me by sending him to the wrong tourist attraction in the right plaza? I text him:

Appa, I'm not there. Must be a mix-up. Meet you on campus tomorrow, k?

My text spins, spins, spins, then fails to send. No signal. Timing couldn't be worse. "Sohee, my dad's outside." I grab a black smock off a hanger and drape it around my dress. "He's looking for me. I need to run down for a few minutes."

"You can't." Sohee grips my arm. "He'll stop you. You said so yourself. This is your grand finale. Suzy Bae's last dance!"

I hug her. "He won't stop looking until he finds me and I can't let him look all night. I'll tell him to meet on campus tomorrow."

"What if you get stuck at security?"

"I'm a performer. They can't keep me out."

"But—"

"Here." I reach for her clipboard and unclip one of the backstage passes she's auctioning off tonight. "I'll get back in with this."

ʕु-̫͡-ʔुྉ*ᴸᵒᵛᵉᵇᵒᵃᵗ✲ﾟⁱⁿ*。⋆ 서울。⋆ *

There's an unexpected spring to my step as I run down the theater steps into the growing dusk. Appa's here. Doofy Appa who took me ice skating when Sihyeon was born so I wouldn't feel left out while Eomma focused on nursing her. Appa who taught me to drive in the school parking lot at peril to his own life and limb, who left the shores of Asia when he was few years older than I am now to live his life away from family and friends.

I wasn't entirely truthful when I told Sohee I wanted to spare him wandering all night. I understand why Appa cried in Mulan when the Huns invaded China.

He missed home.

And I've missed him.

The gates leading into the plaza are barred by blockades. Guests file through a narrow entrance, opening their bags and backpacks for inspection by security guards. Squeezing by, I flash my backstage pass at a moon-faced guard. "I'm coming back in. Geumbang dol-a olgeyo. Don't forget me!"

He waves me through and I sink into the crowd that towers over me like a field of corn. I can't see beyond the faces coming at me. Under my feet, the ground vibrates with the rumbling of cars zipping by ahead. A cavalcade of motorcycles speeds past, spewing fumes.

As I near the street, a white truck barrels through.

And when it passes, the Phoenix cap is opposite me, across the street.

He's hemmed in by a tall man on his left and a family on his right, and squashed behind a large woman in a floral skirt who keeps bumping into him as the police press the crowd back from the street. The blue-striped shirt he wore to my graduation is untucked over his jeans. He squints at his map, then cranes his neck several directions, maybe trying to find alternative routes into the plaza. He looks tired. In Arizona, dawn is breaking, and like me, he's never adjusted well to jet lag; he must have sat awake all night on his flight.

"Appa!"

A black car zooms by, leaving a vacuum that tugs at my skirt. Appa turns in several directions, seeking my voice.

"Appa, over here!" I wave.

His weary eyes meet mine, then light up like fireworks.

"Suzy!" Waving, he tries to maneuver around the woman between him and street. "Suzy!"

She shoves him back. "Wait your turn!" she snaps in Hangul.

I push eagerly toward him. He's still waving, grinning ear to ear. He sidles around the woman and rushed toward me, all of his attention focused on reaching me in that single-minded way of his.

Then everything happens at once.

Appa's face opens with surprise. He pitches forward, arms flailing for balance.

Into the street. Into the path of an oncoming car.

"Appa, look out!"

A horn blares without end. In the middle of the road, Appa freezes like a headlighted deer. He's never been quick on his fete.

In the space between heartbeats, the collison plas out in my mind and heart. That body that's pushed an orderly cart for twenty years. The unforgiving impact of steel, the weight of too many kilometers per hour.

It's a choice to leave the curb. A choice to risk not just tonight's performance, but all future ones. But it is a choice, not a forcing of my hand through a sacrifice, or threat of punishment, or even the weight of guilt and obligation.

And I make it with all my soul.

"Appa, move!"

"Suzy, no!" he shouts. "Stop!"

Then I'm sailing over the street at him. To my left, the glint of chrome, the glare of headlights barrels toward me. My hand closes on his arm as another blare of horns takes out my eardrum.