Page 7 of XOXO

I feel a sense of satisfaction when he smiles.

“From...” His smile fades marginally. “Chaegim-kam. What’s the word in English?”

“Responsibility.” A word that could mean so many things, at least in the Korean community, from taking out the trash to behaving in a way that won’t bring shame to your family. Studying his reflection in the window, I wonder what responsibility he’s referring to.

I think back to earlier tonight, when I first entered the room in the karaoke bar. At that point, he’d been alone in there for an hour, maybe two. And now he’s on a bus without a destination in mind. A part of me—a large part—is curious about what he’s running away from, about why he felt like had to. But the other part remembers what it’s like, when the only way to escape the enormous feelings inside you is... to run.

“For what it’s worth,” I say, “I think it’s important to take time for yourself, even with responsibilities. You can’t be therefor other people if you’re not first there for yourself.”

It feels weird giving advice to someone my age, but these are words I need to hear too. Luckily he doesn’t seem put off, mulling them over; his mouth has a contemplative edge to it. His eyes search mine and there’s an intensity to his gaze that does strange things to my heart.

“It’s not easy for me to believe something like that,” he says. Standing this close to each other I can see the color of his eyes, a rich, warm brown. “But I want to.”

Someone bumps into him from behind and he winces, letting out a soft curse. Moving slightly closer to me, he adjusts his cast. The guy who bumped into him—one of the university students—is joking around with his friends.

“Hey,” I say, annoyed at both this incident and earlier with the grandmother, “Can’t you see his arm is broken? Give him more space.”

Outside, the bus approaches the Olympic stop. The doors open behind us and a few passengers exit. The university student, clearly inebriated, looks confused why I’ve spoken to him. Then he sneers. “It’s a free country.”

“That’s right,” I shoot back. “You’re free to be a considerate human being or you’re free to be an asshole.”

Shocked silence follows this statement. The university student’s face starts to turn a peculiar shade of red. Oh, shit.

The boy and I make eye contact. He reaches for my hand. I don’t have to think twice. I grab it, and together we jump through the closing doors.

Four

We’ve landed in the middle of the festival. A banner hanging above the street reads LA Korean Festival, and in smaller print across the bottom: Celebrating the Cultural Diversity of Los Angeles for over Fifty Years. Lining the sides of the street are food carts serving traditional Korean food, tteok-bokki simmering in vats of gochujang and eomuk skewered and collected in hot anchovy broth, and more fusion-style food, scallops grilled with mozzarella and cheddar and hot dogs coated in batter, then deep fried.

I look down to find the boy from the karaoke bar and I are still holding hands so I quickly let go.

“Sorry,” I say, turning away from him to hide my flushed cheeks. “About getting us kicked off the bus.” Well, technically we jumped off. But the results are the same.

I feel bad, though. He might not have had a destination in mind, but I’m sure it wasn’t here, a few blocks from Jay’s Karaoke.

“This place seems as good as any to wind up,” he says glancing up at the banner.

“Do you... want to take a look around?” I gesture vaguely at the festival. “We’re already here.”

His eyes return to me, and again I feel that odd feeling in my chest.

“I’d like that.”

We start to walk down the street lined with food carts. It doesn’t escape me that I could just go home. Earlier in the karaoke bar, with the competition results churning in my pocket, I’d felt this urge to dosomething, and I sort of acted on impulse. But challenging him to a karaoke battle wasn’t exactly practical experience. Realistically, I should go home and practice tonight to prepare for my lesson tomorrow morning.

The only thing is... I don’twantto go home.

I’m having more fun than I’ve had in a long time, and it can’t hurt to indulge these feelings, at least for one night.

“My name’s Jenny, by the way.”

“Mine is...” He hesitates. “Jaewoo.”

I’m about to tease him for having apparently forgotten his name when I catch sight of someone I vaguely recognize down the street, but then she enters a tent, disappearing from view.

“Is Jenny also your Korean name?” Jaewoo asks.

“My Korean name is Jooyoung.”

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