Page 39 of Teach Me K-Pop
It’s that thought that stays on my mind for the better part of the drive. All the way into the city, sitting in traffic outside the arena, and looking for a parking spot in the massive lot. It seems so obvious to me, the weight of what I’m about to do. That I’m going to get out of my car and take deliberate steps toward something—someone—that could change my life.
Maybe he already has.
??
The pep talk that I give myself all the way to the will-call ticket window does not help. I pass fans with painted faces and giant signs proclaiming their love for their biases, many with very incorrect grammar, but I suppose it’s the thought that counts. It hits me then, though, that I’m not just meeting Nikko tonight—I’m also seeing a show from a group I’ve come to legitimately enjoy with a bunch of other people who love them, too. This really does feel like a once-in-a-lifetime kind of night.
As soon as I approach the window, tell the bored-looking employee my name, and she hands over a bulky white envelope with both English and Hangul on it, I can feel myself breaking out in a sweat. Somehow, this one thing just made everything so much more real. It’s happening. Right now.
On the outside of the envelope is my name, but also “seonsaengnim.” Teacher. The first way Nikko ever addressed me. I wonder if he wrote this. If I’m seeing his handwriting for the first time.
I step aside to let the next person up in line take their turn. My hands are actually shaking as I try to carefully slip open the envelope and keep as much of it intact as possible. I can’t decide if my desire to preserve it is more of my middle-school-crush side or the grandma-at-Christmas-with-the-wrapping-paper. Either way, I’m handling it gingerly because I am nothing if not sentimental.
Once I can see inside the envelope, I find a ticket, an all-access pass on a RYSING lanyard that I am immediately aware any of the fans nearby would probably murder me for, and a torn off piece of yellow legal pad paper with a local number and a note that says, “Call when you see this.”
I move a little farther away from the crowd, unsure of what to expect as I dial the number. It’s picked up on the first ring.
“Hello?”
“Hi, this is Jase Kitson. I was told to call this number? It was on a note at…”
The other person cuts me off. “Yeah. Okay. Where are you? I’ll come get you.”
I look around for the nearest marked door. “I’m by the A5 North entrance.”
“Great.”
The call ends and I have no idea who I’ve spoken to or should be trying to find. I scan the crowds again as I hover as inconspicuously as possible by the door. I’ve always loved people watching, and this is fascinating. There’s a wider range of ages than I might have expected, a mix of outfits ranging from head-to-toe merch and looking like they just stepped away from a magazine cover shoot, and while the majority of attendees definitely are women, there are still a fair number of guys milling around.
“Jase?”
I actually jump at the sound of my name being called and whirl around to see a man in a very bright green shirt leaning out of the A5 door, waving me toward him.
He shoves his hand into mine as soon as I’m close enough and shakes it like he’s trying to prove something. “I’m Trevor. Venue management team. I was given very specific instructions on where to deliver you.”
“Oh. Thanks.” I try to wiggle some circulation back through my fingers as I follow his rapid strides through the empty arena. The doors aren’t supposed to open for about another hour, I think, which seems crazy given all the people outside already.
“You must be important or something?” Trevor asks, giving me a once over as we pause in front of an elevator and wait for the doors to open.
“I don’t know about that,” I tell him, unsure of how anyone is supposed to answer that question. I can already tell I wouldn’t like Trevor if I had to spend any more time with him.
He seems very unimpressed as he pokes at a button and we begin to descend. “You work for the company?”
“Nah.” I shrug. “I’m a librarian.”
I enjoy the absolute confusion on his face as we exit the elevator and wind further into the depths of the concrete halls.
Finally, he stops and points toward a set of black double doors. “Green room is through there. Make sure you’re wearing your pass from here on out.”
“Thanks.” I slip the lanyard over my head as he turns and jogs away. I stare at the doors, my heart rate kicking up to a speed that seems like it should be hazardous to my health. I know he’s on the other side. All I have to do is grab the handle, open the door, and he’ll just… be there.
I can’t quite seem to make myself reach for it, though, because it’s suddenly panic o’clock at Kitson HQ. What am I even doing here? I mean, I know why I’m here. I want to see him. Want to see if that spark I feel will actually burst into flames.
But then what? How do I go back to my life—back to what I know—after I’ve been around him? Near him.Withhim. What am I thinking? How can I do this?
I can’t seriously expect to walk away from this and just go be me again. No matter what happens between us, things are different after I open this door. This nondescript black metal door that someone stuck a local radio station sticker to at some point is the dividing line between now and…then.
Later.
