Page 16 of XOXO

I think of all the possible reasons that might keep him from responding. He has a bad connection (highly unlikely as South Korea has the fastest internet on the planet, according to Google). Heisgoing through customs (but then why didn’t he just send a text? It only takes a few seconds). Or there’s another reason that I can’t think of, but what could it possibly be?

I google why a boy might read your texts but not respond. All of the articles say the same thing:He’s just not that into you.

Wow, thanks internet.

Even so, it’s not like one text is a commitment. I throw myphone across the bed and head over to my cello to practice. If I can’t get a boy to answer me back, at least I can get a school to.

The following Monday, I talk to my guidance counselor about transferring for half the year and he gives me a list of required classes I need for graduation, most of which Seoul Arts Academy fulfills. The few that I won’t be able to take at the school I can take online from LACHSA. It’s almost as if I’ll be attending two schools at the same time, taking classes like AP Lit and AP History through Los Angeles County High School for the Arts, and my performing arts classes through Seoul Arts Academy.

Of course, I first have to get in, but I think, for once, nepotism will pull through for me. And I have the grades and awards to prove myself a strong candidate.

Luckily, my premonition turns out true because by December, I’m not only accepted into Seoul Arts Academy, but given full room and board. They also offer me a scholarship that covers half my tuition.

The only disappointment throughout this whole thing is that Jaewoo never responded to my texts. I feel like I spend more time wondering about the reasons why than planning my trip to Seoul.

I just need to accept what the internet was kind enough to tell me, he just wasn’t feeling it.

It’s true that I was the one who approached him in the karaoke bar. I was the one who got us into the scuffle that forced us to jump off the bus.

Still, it would have been nice to have a friend.

I don’t even know what school he goes to.

I decide to text him one last time, the day that I leave.Hey, so, I’m actually going to be in Korea for a couple of months to visit my grandmother. If you’re around, I’d love to see you.There. Straightforward. The truth is, I don’t like playing games. Life is too short. It’s better to speak your mind, otherwise you’ll only feel regret later.

He doesn’t respond, and honestly, I don’t expect him to.

Uncle Jay drives my mom and me to the airport. He’ll be looking after our apartment while we’re away.

Outside security, he hugs my mom and then turns to me, ruffling my hair. “Have fun, kiddo.”

“Thanks, Uncle Jay.”

Just a few months ago he said that I needed to try new things, live a little.

Well, I’m taking your advice, Uncle Jay. I’m about to live my very best life.

Seven

My mom and I arrive at Incheon International Airport at 4:55 a.m. After passing through customs, we pick up our luggage from baggage claim and head over to the money exchange kiosk to swap a few bills before leaving the terminal. In need of caffeine, we join a short line outside one of the few businesses open at five in the morning—Dunkin’ Donuts. But it’s different than in the States. Besides the fact that everything is written in Korean, the interior is brighter and the menu has more food options. Also the donuts are somehow... cuter.

“I think the cab driver is here,” Mom says.

I look over to where an older well-dressed gentleman in white gloves holds a signboard with the names Susie and Jenny written upon it in English.

After making our purchases—Mom gets an extra drink for the driver—we follow him outside to a taxi where he expertly fits our four bags of luggage in the trunk. I’m glad for my thick puffer jacket, which I zip up all the way before getting into thecar. Though it’s almost March, it’s about thirty degrees cooler here than in LA.

Mom makes conversation with the driver while I stare out the window at the foggy morning freeway.

According to the taxi driver’s GPS, it’ll take an hour and a half to drive from the airport—which is located in Incheon, a city right outside Seoul—to my grandmother’s house. At one point, we cross over a long bridge and the driver tells us that the body of water beneath us is the Yellow Sea.

I fall asleep halfway through the ride, startling awake when the driver honks at a scooter that cuts in front of the cab.

At some point, we must have crossed into Seoul. There are more cars on the road, and the streets we’re driving down are lined with tall buildings and signboards in Korean, with a few in English. We pass an entrance to a subway station. People dressed in business clothing enter and exit by escalators or by stairs, moving in a quick but orderly fashion. We left on a Wednesday in LA, but it’s a Friday morning in Seoul. At an intersection, I count at least six cafés, four beauty shops, and three cell phone stores.

After five hundred meters, according to the GPS, the driver turns off from the main road into a series of narrower streets of residential apartments, mostly walk-ups. The cab pulls up in front of an older building with a small convenience store on the first floor, across from a flower shop and a tiny café. Mom pays the driver and we leave most of our luggage on the street, bringing up only my cello and our carry-ons.

Mom is quiet, which is odd, as she was positively talkative with the driver. After ringing the buzzer, she grips her elbows with her hands, a sure sign that she’s nervous. This is the first time she’s seen her mother since she went to Seoul for a wedding almost seven years ago. And she’d been with Dad then.

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