Page 42 of XOXO

And then we proceed to completely ignore her, continuingour chat. At one point, I think Sori might get up and flee, her spoon hovering in the air. But then she resumes eating.

We stay—eating and gossiping and joking and laughing—until she’s finished her meal.

Eighteen

I think I have a handle on my classes and schedule by the end of the week. After the ten minutes of homeroom, I have math or computer in the mornings, followed by study hall where I take my LACHSA courses online, then either PE or dance—which I’ve decided to stick with for now, since besides homeroom, it’s the only class I have with Jaewoo. Then after lunch follows orchestra, individual practice, and more study hall.

Though I’m wondering if it was a mistake to stay in dance for that reason, when it’s not like Jaewoo and I ever speak to each other, both of us adhering to the whole “secret friends” policy.

I just wish it was easy for me as it clearly is for him. Maybe having secret friendships is part of an idol’s training, like that whole list Angela went over: dancing, singing, and learning how to ignore a specific girl all day long only to pull her into a broom closet and almost kiss her.

It seems effortless for him to pretend I don’t exist while myeyes are pulled in his direction constantly. Even my thoughts won’t give me a break. What did that moment in the closet mean, if it meant anything at all? I’m just so confused.

It’s honestly a relief when the weekend finally comes around.

I spend Friday emailing back and forth with my world English teacher, who assigns me excerpts from theNorton Anthology of World Masterpieces, which I purchase online as an e-book. When I notice that there aren’t any Korean authors or poets listed in the syllabus, I email to ask if I can supplement a few for extra credit, and he emails back with an enthusiastic “go for it.” Riding that high, I text Eunbi about my portfolio for music schools.

Sunday morning, I grab my dad’s ratty old Dodgers cap and my cello already packed in its travel case, then hop onto the subway, transferring once to the orange line and taking that all the way to my grandma’s clinic located in the northern part of Seoul.

Outside the station, I breathe in the crisp mountain air. Ice from the night before still lingers on the streets, and I’m careful as I make my way past a small neighborhood market putting up its produce stand for the day and a bakery with freshly baked loaves of bread in the window. Backtracking, I purchase one. The friendly shopgirl wraps the loaf in brown paper, slipping a wildflower beneath the twine.

My grandmother’s clinic is tucked right off the main road in a place called Camellia Health Village, which is comprised of several small health-care facilities with different specializations.The village surrounds a beautiful private park full of gardens and walking paths. Before heading to Halmeoni’s clinic, I stop and watch a young boy and his grandfather fly a kite on the lawn.

This place is so peaceful. The path to the clinic is lined with cherry trees that even now have small buds upon their branches. In less than a month’s time they’ll be in full bloom.

Up ahead, I notice a guy has stepped off the path, standing beneath one of the trees. He’s tall, wearing a camo jacket and dark jeans. I’m instantly reminded of Jaewoo, which seems to be my subconscious’s evil way of toying with me.

I sigh, passing by the tree.

“Jenny?”

I almost fall over.

Jaewoo jogs across the grass. “What are you doing here?”

He looks great. I mean, he always looks great. But this is the first time I’ve seen him in casual clothing that isn’t workout clothes, and he’s giving off extreme “boyfriend” vibes. When I realize I’m staring, I answer, “I’m here to visit my halmeoni. She’s in the clinic. What about you? What are you doing here?”

His smile falters.

“You don’t have to tell me,” I say quickly. I don’t want him to share anything he’s not comfortable with, especially if it’s about his health.

“No, it’s okay. I was seeing my therapist.”

“Oh,” I say. “Cool.” I went to a few sessions with a therapist when my dad passed away. It helped me a lot, and my mom too,though she hasn’t gone in a few years.

I know mental health is stigmatized in Korea in a way that it’s not in the US. It makes sense that Jaewoo has a therapist, with all the pressures and stress that comes with being an idol.

“Yeah,” he watches me oddly. His gaze travels to my shoulder. “Is that your cello?” He nods to indicate my travel case. “It looks heavy.”

I adjust the strap. “I’m used to it. I’ve been playing since I was eight.”

“I’d say I was singing since I was four.” He grins. “But probably so have you.”

“Not as beautifully, believe me.”

He raises a single eyebrow.

I wave my hand in the air, as if brushing off what I said. “You know you have a beautiful voice, come on.”

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