Page 31 of XOXO

Thirteen

As expected, everyone turns when I enter the classroom five minutes after the bell rings. The teacher looks at a loss for words, probably unable to comprehend how a student would be late on the first day of school.

“She’s a transfer student,” Jaewoo says, entering the class behind me. “She was lost.” I look at him, surprised that he’s come inside with me.

“And you found her,” the teacher says warmly. “We wouldn’t expect anything less from our class president.”

Jaewoo approaches the podium, passing by me. Reaching into his school bag, he pulls out a folder and hands it to the teacher. “These are the papers you asked me to pick up from the office.”

He bows, and instead of walking back out the door, heads down the aisle of seats, taking one in the back row, farthest to the right.

It’s the seat directly behind mine.

Which meanshe’s in my class. He doesn’t look at me, restinghis chin on his hand as he looks out the window. Even from the front of the classroom, I can see the smirk on his face.

“Jenny,” the teacher says, “why don’t you introduce yourself to the class?”

Oh my God, forced public speaking is the absolute worst.

I take a deep breath. “My name is Jenny Go,” I begin. “I’m seventeen years old...” A few of the students in the front row frown, and I remember that in Korea, you’re considered one year old the day you’re born, and depending on your birthday, could be one to two years older than your American age. I’m not quick enough to figure out my Korean age so I say the year I was born instead. Everyone nods in understanding. “I’m originally from Los Angeles, California. And I’m a cellist.”

Finished, I look at the teacher, who seems to be waiting for something. I bow.

“Perfect!” The teacher says, “Baksu!” She claps her hands and the rest of the students half-heartedly join her. “You can take your seat now.”

Well, I guess after that introduction everyone now knows that I’m an international transfer student, and they’ll be more forgiving of any cultural faux pas on my part.

Or not. I remember that girl who’d lied about the uniform violation. She was sitting in the front row during my introduction, and the whole time she and her seatmate had been looking me up and down and rolling their eyes.

As I take my seat, I glance at Jaewoo, but he’s still looking out the window.

In front of him, Sori mimics his pose exactly, not acknowledgingme as I pull the seat out beside her.

The rest of homeroom is spent going over class expectations for the year and assigning chores. Apparently the students take turns cleaning the classroom. The teacher also mentions the senior showcase, which happens in June. Each program head will share further details when we meet with our respective departments after lunch. I make a point to ask mine the steps to audition for a cello solo.

A little after an hour, the bell rings, signaling the end of Period 1. Most of the students remain seated; the next class is apparently advanced Korean, a literature class. Me and a few other students pack up our things to move rooms.

“Jaewoo-yah.” Sori shifts her legs so that they’re facing the window.

Theydoknow each other, and not just know each other. If she’s using his name in that familiar way, then they’re close.

He glances up from where he was reading his schedule. “Min Sori.”

“Why didn’t you text me back?” Why issheon his list of approved numbers?

“Sorry, I left my phone at the studio,” Jaewoo says. “What’s up?”

“I congratulated you on your performance last night.” I glance in her direction, but her face is turned away. It’s subtle, but there’s a hitched quality to her voice. “OnMusic Net.”

“Oh, thanks.”

“You’ll find your phone, won’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t ignore my texts,” she says softly.

I quickly finish my packing and practically flee from my seat. Nathaniel catches my arm as I’m walking out the door.

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