Page 8 of XOXO

“Jooyoung.” He pronounces the syllables slowly. “Joo. Young. Jooyoung-ah.”

“Okay, but no one ever calls me that.” I’m feeling a littlewarm, so I accept a plastic fan someone’s handing out and start fanning myself.

This festival seems to be comprised of booths advertising different kinds of businesses; that and a ton of food carts. We pass one selling dakkochi. A man wearing giant gloves flips skewers over a grill with one hand while alternatively coating the chicken with a thick sauce using a basting brush. He then blowtorches them to get the charred crispiness. I watch as two girls approach the stand.

In an impressive display of ambidexterity, the man takes a twenty-dollar bill from one of the girls and gives her change with one hand, while transferring a skewer onto a plate and passing it over to her friend with the other.

“I feel like I’m back in Seoul,” Jaewoo says deadpan.

I laugh, then add thoughtfully, “I’ve actually never been to Korea.”

“Really?” He glances at me. “You don’t have family there?”

“My grandmother on my mom’s side, but I’ve never met her. She and my mom have a strained relationship.” Honestly, I never really thought about their relationship or that I don’t have one with her. My grandparents on my dad’s side are like super grandparents, always sending me presents on holidays, money at New Year’s. One of the reasons my mom thinks I should apply to schools in New York City is to be closer to where they live in New Jersey.

If Jaewoo thinks it odd that I’ve never met my grandmother in Korea, he doesn’t say anything.

“So you live in Korea?” I ask.

“Yeah, I’m originally from Busan, but I go to school in Seoul.” He pauses. “A performing arts school.”

“I knew it!” I shout, and he grins. “Decentat singing. Please.”

As we’ve been walking I’ve noticed that Jaewoo keeps eyeing the food carts. Catching his attention, I point to a small tented area where an older woman is serving traditional Korean street food to a few customers seated on low stools. “How does second dinner sound to you?”

His eyes light up and dimples appear in his cheeks. “Like you’ve read my mind.”

We head over and he holds back the tarp of the tent so that I can step inside.

“Eoseo oseyo!” The tent cart owner welcomes us in a loud voice, gesturing for us to take stools side by side across the counter from her. “What would you like?”

Jaewoo looks at me, seeing as I’m the one with the money. “Get whatever you want,” I tell him. “I like everything.”

As he places the order, I unknot Mrs. Kim’s plastic bag of side dishes. Inside are five small plastic containers. I put them on the counter between us and take the cover off each one.

“You’ve got quite the haul,” Jaewoo says, studying my movements.

I finish taking off the last lid to reveal garlic chives kimchi. “Never underestimate a friendly neighborhood ajumma.”

“Ah, I can relate. My mom’s a single mom, so while I was growing up, the neighborhood women were always pesteringher and giving her unsolicited advice, but that didn’t stop them from dropping off food almost every day.”

I laugh. “Koreans truly are the same everywhere.”

And he and I are the same, at least in that we were both raised by single mothers. It’s not so uncommon, but it makes me feel closer to him for some reason.

I reach for the wooden chopsticks in a cupholder filled with them. I snap a pair apart and hand it over to Jaewoo. “You’re lucky you broke your left arm and not your right. If youareright-handed, that is.”

“I am. Though I’m not sure if I’d call myself lucky.”

Ugh, yeah, that was insensitive of me. “Sorry—” I start to apologize.

“If I’d broken my right arm, you’d have to feed me.” He reaches out with his chopsticks to pick up a slice of braised beef from the container of jangjorim.

I eye him. Did he justsaythat? I glance around at the other tent cart patrons, but the only one paying us any attention is a girl sitting with a friend to the left of him, out of his line of sight. She’s been watching him since we entered the tent, presumably because of how good-looking he is.

“Your food is here!” The tent cart owner hands three dishes over the counter. Jaewoo’s ordered a few classic pojang staples: tteok-bokki, eomuk, and kimchi pajeon—kimchi pancakes with green onions. With all the plates and containers of banchan, there’s zero space on the table. We have to play Tetris with the dishes in order to make things fit.

As we eat, our chopsticks reach for food and crisscross one another. At one point, the owner offers Jaewoo a small cup of broth and he reaches across me to accept it. As he stands, his shoulder bumps mine.

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