Page 40 of Wish Upon a K-Star

“Huh?” I frown, still confused by Minseok’s last words to me.

“Wow, you seriously don’t remember Miss Ha?” He slaps me on the shoulder hard enough to sting. “She practically kept us fed five years ago and you don’t remember?”

“Of course I remember her,” I say indignantly, rubbing at my shoulder. “She always gave me a can of cider for free and told me to practice hard for debut. I wonder if she’s still running it.”

“She is,” Minseok says. “I visit whenever I’m here.”

“Really?” I stare up at him in genuine surprise. When does he have the time to do that?

“I would have starved some days without her soup.”

At his words, I remember the early days. When Bright Star was a struggling agency. It didn’t have the giant organic cafeteria it does now, famous for bringing in celebrity chefs to cook for its artists. Back then it could barely afford to give us food tickets to the restaurants close to the dorm. But Miss Ha always made us meals on credit even if we’d run out of tickets.

I suddenly need to see the woman who made me home-cooked food when my own mother never did.

“Let’s go see her.” I pull on Minseok’s arm.

He laughs and lets me tug him toward the shop. It looks exactly the same. With only four scuffed tables all along one side of the room. The other side is taken up entirely by a cramped kitchen space separated from the dining area by an old metal counter. On it sits the same banged-up register where she’d carefully tuck away our meal vouchers from Bright Star. Two large fans work valiantly to cool the small cramped space.

A woman in her late sixties is stirring the contents of a giant metal vat, the steam filling the room with a familiar scent. And despite the heat and humidity, I immediately have an intense craving for the warm soup.

“Ajjuma,” I call out, and she turns around. The moment she sees us, her smile spreads wide.

“Woori saekki-ya.” Miss Ha comes over and pats us both on the hips. The universal Korean halmeoni gesture of affection and approval. “You’ve come back to let me feed you.”

“Yes, please. I miss your kookbap so much.” I wrap her in a hug. Has she always been so small? She barely comes to my shoulders now. When I first met her, I was a head shorter than her. But I’ve skyrocketed now to 170 centimeters.

She ushers us to a back table, the one I always sat at when I came here. Above it now sits framed photos of us. Minseok with his group, and Sohee and me in a shot at a concert with Helloglow. I remember the day she asked me to sign it. I’d cried and she’d hugged me gruffly before shoving a bowl of kookbap in front of me and telling me to eat.

Now, as Minseok and I sit, a wave of nostalgia hits me. This place was my comfort after hard practice days when I thought I’d never debut. Or moments after I’d had a fight with Mom. Or when Hyejun ignored me or left me behind again.

There’s no telling how stained this old table is with my own tears and snot.

I remember suddenly that I came here after Minseok broke my heart when I was fifteen. I eye him, but he’s happily looking around the space, lost in his own memories.

Minseok grins as he looks up at the walls with handwritten messages and doodles from the many patrons. He points at one. “I drew this my first month as a trainee.”

I lean in to stare at it. Anything to stop thinking about all my awkward memories. It’s a cartoon sketch that looks like a smushed llama with a date scribbled underneath. “What’s this lump?”

Minseok’s smile fades a bit. “It’s Moonie.”

Moonie is the cartoon werewolf that’s his representative character in WDB. All the boys have one (personally my favorite is Robbie’s little droid named Robi-bot). But this thing looks nothing like the cute chibi werewolf.

I angle my head closer. “I don’t see it.”

His smile drops fully now. “These are the ears and this is the snout.”

He points to the lumpy face. I tilt my head, squinting in exaggeration at the drawing. “Maybe it could be a pancaked goat. A wombat at best.”

“Wombat?!”

“The ears are curved,” I point out.

“It’s faded,” he says defensively.

“They’re round,” I insist, holding back a smile at his distress.

He opens his mouth, clearly about to argue and then gives in. “You’re right, they’re round.”

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