Page 44 of XOXO

Jaewoo and I pull up chairs beside Halmeoni’s bed, and she asks us how the first week of school has gone—great!—and then asks me if I’ve made any friends. She pats Jaewoo’s hand. “Besides Jaewoo-ssi, that is.”

I tell her about Gi Taek and Angela. I almost tell her about Nathaniel, but it seems a little awkward with Jaewoo sitting right beside me. Ihavebeen putting distance between Nathaniel and me, but it’s hard without telling himwhy, though I think he’s starting to notice.

“What about your roommate?” she asks.

“She’s...” I hesitate. “She’s considerate of my space.” I feel like that’s a diplomatic way of saying we’re not friends.

Halmeoni clicks her tongue. “You should try to be friends with her, if she’ll let you. A good roommate can be a friend for life.”

All the other grandmothers in their beds concur loudly.

After chatting, Halmeoni asks Jaewoo to turn on the TV. He obeys, picking up the remote and switching to the channel she requests. It’s a taping ofCooky’s Cooking Showwith a few special guests, including Oh Sun from XOXO. The show playsa clip of “Don’t Look Back” during Sun’s introduction, but Halmeoni and her friends don’t seem to make any connections between the boy in the room and the one on the screen, nor do they care. They’re more interested in the veteran actress who’s also a guest.

After the show, Halmeoni gives Jaewoo and me a tour of the clinic’s facilities, including the cafeteria and exercise room. As we walk, she holds onto my arm for support, her small bird-like bones so weak and fragile. I feel such a rush of love for her. Which is odd, since I don’t think we’ve spent more than twenty-four hours together in my whole life.

The final stop on the tour is the recreation room. I realize Halmeoni must have notified the staff of my intention to play for her because chairs have been set up facing a small platform against the far wall. Most of the seats are occupied by patients, including Halmeoni’s three roommates.

“I’ll get your cello from the room,” Jaewoo says. By the time he returns, all the seats have been filled. Even some of the staff have decided to take a break from work to listen.

I feelnervous, which is out of character for me. I’ve played for much bigger crowds than this; I’ve played for much moreprestigiouscrowds than this, for people whose judgment would determine if I would receive a ribbon or a medal.

But I’ve rarely played for anyone whoIcare about, whose opinion matters tome. “You’ll do great,” Jaewoo says confidently as he hands my cello over, and my heart warms in response. In the front row, Halmeoni is bragging loudly thatI’m her sonnyeo, her granddaughter, and I feel her pride in me wash away the last of my nerves.

I glance toward the door, imagining my mom walking through. I’d brought my cello today not only to play for Halmeoni, but because I thought she might be here too. I’m a little disappointed that she isn’t, but that’s a small thing compared to the excitement I feel to perform for Halmeoni and all her friends. And Jaewoo.

I remove my cello from its traveling case. Slowly, I go through my normal routine, placing my cello between my knees, stretching my hands and tuning the strings. I bow the G note, letting out its full sound, and a few of the halmeoni and harabeoji clap excitedly.

There’s no music stand, which means I’ll have to play something by memory. I take out my folder and flip through the sheet music, looking for inspiration. I’d play the piece I’m working on for my solo performance class, except I’ve only memorized the first movement. A few of the other pieces could work, but something about them doesn’t feelright.

I don’t want to play anything too long. A few patients in the back row are already falling asleep. And I also don’t want to play anything that might bore them. Classical music isn’t for everyone.

My fingers brush against the last piece in my folder. Slowly I pull it out. It’s the sheet music for Saint-Saëns’s “Le Cygne,” or “The Swan,” a beautiful piece composed as a cello solo. It was originally included in my portfolio for music schools, but I’d taken it out after the results from the competition in November.

While Jenny is a talented cellist, proficient in all the technical elements of music, she lacks the spark that would take her from perfectly trained to extraordinary.

It seems so long ago that I’d complained to Uncle Jay about my results and he’d told me to “live a little,” the night I’d met Jaewoo. I look up across the sea of expectant faces to where he stands at the back of the room. I wonder if part of the reason I’m so drawn to him is because of the way he made me feel that night, like I was chasing the spark that lit between us.

It seems almost like a challenge, to the judges, and to myself, to play the piecenow, for no other reason than because I want to.

I pick up the sheet music and read over it quickly. I haven’t played “Le Cygne” since that day, but I have confidence that I’ll remember the notes. It’s a short piece, and I’d played it over and over again for months leading up to the competition. Just in case, I lay the pages out on the ground at my feet.

“Do you want me to hold it up for you?” a harabeoji asks, sitting in the front row.

“No, but thank you,” I say politely.

I take a deep breath, centering myself. I try not to concentrate on the sounds in the audience, the creak of chairs as people get comfortable, a cough.

I look to my grandmother, whose hands are clasped together, and then at Jaewoo, who gives me a single nod.

I close my eyes and begin the song.

The music is beautiful, elegant, slow, and powerful. As I play, my breathing seems to follow the melody, rising and falling,and rising again. It’s as if I replay the emotions of the week in the ebb and flow of the song, the excitement of being in Seoul, of making new friends, of getting to know my grandmother, the distance between my mother and me, the what-ifs about my future and music school, everything that Jaewoo makes me feel: anticipation, frustration, joy, and something else, something more.

I’ve never felt more connected to a song than in this moment.

When I finish, holding out the final note, the whole room is silent. Then it bursts into enthusiastic applause. A few of the patients give a standing ovation. I feel triumphant. That was undoubtedly my best performance of “Le Cygne,” perhaps my best performance ever.

My grandmother is clapping in the front row, tears in her eyes. I bow, smiling widely at the crowd, and then my eyes eagerly search for Jaewoo at the back of the room.

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