Authors: Katie M. Stout
My heart keeps sprinting inside my chest until I become somewhat numb to the fear. But by that point, we’re entering the city. Sophie takes a sharp left down a side street, and we come to an abrupt halt in front of a line of shops and restaurants. She kills the motor and glances back at me with laughter in her eyes.
“You can let go now,” she says. “I think we’re safe.”
My fingers release the fabric of her shirt stiffly, and I force my cramped legs to hold me up. I hop down, stumbling on shaky legs.
Sophie parks the bike next to a line of others, locks it, then stores her helmet. She takes my elbow, leading me inside a whitewashed building with posters plastered across the front. We enter a dimly lit corridor with stairs that wind down probably two flights. We descend and meet a line of people that stretches into the room before us.
Shoving her way through the crowd, Sophie barks at everyone in Korean, and I stick close to her, following in her wake. We push to the front of the line, where a man is selling tickets behind a folding table. He gives Sophie a nod of recognition, then shoots me a suspicious glance.
Sophie places her hand on my shoulder and says something to the man. “
She’s with me,
” probably. I’ve seen this a million times. Heck, I’ve
done
it—drag your friends along with you to places you’re only allowed because of family connections.
The main room of the club looks a lot like the ones back home—dark, crowded, and full of people who smell like beer, though it’s not as packed as I’d thought it would be, considering Eden is supposed to be a big-time band.
A bar stands in the corner, the bartender serving up drinks like it’s Mardi Gras. The curtain on the stage is still closed. At least I didn’t make us late with my motorbike panic attack.
Sophie weaves her way through the mass of people like she’s done this before. Of course, I would bet she has. We camp out near the wall opposite the bar, in prime hovering position to snag chairs if any become available.
A pair of guys glance at us, one of them locking eyes with me. I flash a smile in hopes of him offering his seat, but he turns back to the stage. My game must be seriously off—spurned by two guys in one day.
The houselights dim, and the music pounding through the speakers fades into silence, replaced by applause and shouts. The curtain parts, and I see three figures onstage. Spotlights ignite, and the snare drum rumbles. A heavy guitar riff follows, splintering the damp, smoky air. Jason stands in front, a Fender Strat cradled in his hands. I have to give it to the guy—at least he has good taste. Jimi Hendrix played a Strat, though I’ve got to say I’m a Gibson girl myself—you just can’t argue with Duane Allman’s and Bob Dylan’s guitar of choice.
Beside Jason is a guy on bass, his pants so tight they must be cutting off the circulation to important extremities. He bounces to the tempo on the balls of his feet. Behind both of them, the drummer taps out standard rhythms that are clean and precise but lacking any real flair.
Jason steps up to the microphone, and his clear voice cuts through the music. I have no idea what he’s saying, but judging by the parent-friendly chords and painfully pop vibe of the entire performance, I’d guess it’s about first love or something equally nauseating.
They play well, I’ll give them that. The melody is clear and catchy, and the drummer harmonizes like an angel. But where’s the emotion? Where’s the rawness that claws its way from the performer into your mind, shredding your thoughts until all you can do is replay the notes inside your head like a track on repeat?
I glance at Sophie, who’s grinning and clapping offbeat. The girl has no rhythm. It’s painful to watch.
I’m not sure what I expected—that they would be good?
Pop
is in the name of the genre. That never bodes well for the quality of the music. But I guess I’d hoped that since they’re a big deal, they would be more than your average bubblegum band.
After ten songs, my brain is ready to explode. I can’t handle more than two Top 40 songs in a row in English, let alone sung in a foreign language. Everyone in the crowd screams and dances, especially the girls. A few hold up signs with words written in glitter and surrounded by lopsided, Sharpie-drawn hearts. Maybe it’s just dark in here, but it looks like one girl near the front is crying.
I lean over to Sophie and shout, “So, why is the band playing such a small show?”
“The label wanted them to test a few new songs on smaller audiences,” she yells back.
Memories of Dad giving his musicians similar advice surface in my brain, but he usually only said that if the band was having a rough time. My thoughts shift back to what Sophie said yesterday, about Jason running away from Seoul. I make a mental note to ask more questions about that later.
As the band continues to play, though, my brain wanders. The foreign words swirl around my head as meaningless background noise. I’ve never liked listening to music in a different language or watching movies with subtitles. Why would anyone listen to something they can’t understand?
I’m reminded of Jane and her Japanese phase. She would love this concert. She would love being here, period. How is it that the sister uninterested in anything international got the acceptance letter to an international boarding school?
The set mercifully ends, and I let out a slow exhale. The silence rings in my ears until high-pitched screams replace the music as the band members exit the stage. You’d think those boys were the freaking Beatles or something.
Sophie grabs onto my arm and pulls me around the perimeter of the club. “Let’s go backstage,” she says.
I stifle a sigh. Exactly what I need—another awkward run-in with a sexy Korean who hates me for no good reason.
Two muscled men stand at the entrance to a door on the side of the stage. A throng of girls stands in front of them, craning their necks for any glimpse into the greenroom, where the guys of Eden are most likely coming off their performance high.
Sophie flashes the bouncers a bright smile and waves, and they let her through, with me trailing on her coattails. I glance behind us long enough to see a lot of angry fangirls throwing daggers at us with their eyes.
The back of the club could use a good scrubbing and maybe a few more lights, but it looks a lot like those I’ve seen before. Nathan and I like to joke about backstage being a “holding tank” for the musicians who, like fish, swim and puff themselves up before getting thrown out into the “shark tank” onstage.
The memory of laughing with my brother sends a sharp pang through my chest, but I shove those thoughts to the back of my mind where I can forget about them until I’m lying in bed tonight and unable to dwell on anything else.
A group of people congregates in the corner around a giant lighted mirror. I spot the bassist with the tight pants among them, running his hands through his dark, sweaty hair until it stands on end. He turns toward us as we approach, and a grin breaks out on his face.
“Sae Yi-yah!” he cries, breaking free from the group and rushing to her side.
They babble in Korean as I stand beside Sophie, pretending not to eavesdrop. Not that I would know what they’re saying, anyway.
“Tae Hwa-oppa, this is my roommate, Grace.” She motions her hand toward me. “Grace, Tae Hwa.”
He bows his head, his eyes crinkling with his gigantic smile. “Is nice to meet you. Uhh … my English no good.”
“No, no!” I can’t help smiling back at this guy and the way he looks at you like he cares what you’re saying—maybe I don’t repel every Asian guy in a fifty-foot radius. “Your English is a lot better than my Korean.”
He chuckles, though if it’s to be polite or because I’m genuinely funny, I don’t know. Either way, I’ve already decided I like him a lot better than Jason.
“Tae Hwa has been friends with me and my brother since we were little,” Sophie explains. “Our fathers were friends, and he came to visit us in America a lot.” She turns to Tae Hwa to, I assume, translate what she just said.
“Yes!” he exclaims. “I visit New York. Is very cool. You live there?”
“Oh, no. I’m from Nashville.” I falter at the deep furrow of his eyebrows. “That’s in the South.”
“Ohhhh.” He nods as if I’ve offered some sage advice on the state of the world. “I from South Korea, so I Southern also.”
He grins, and we laugh together.
“Yoon Jae-yah!” Sophie motions for someone else to come over.
I look up to see the drummer heading toward us, a slight swagger in the way his long legs stretch. His hair is spiked, almost fluffy looking, and bleached white-blond. He’s bulkier than both Tae Hwa and Jason, with broad shoulders and long arms, but he’s got a total baby face, like his features never matured past the age of fourteen—totally adorable. Jane would love him. I’ll need to email her straightaway with his name so she can Google him.
“Yoon Jae, this is my roommate, Grace.” Sophie makes the introductions again.
He gives a half wave. “Hello.”
“Hi.” I attempt a bow like I read is customary, though I probably screw it up somehow.
“Where’s Jason?” Sophie asks.
“He’s talking to the owner,” Yoon Jae says, only a trace of an accent coloring his speech. “He had a question about our next show.”
What is with all these people speaking flawless English? I’m starting to feel uneducated.
“So why did you come to Korea?” Yoon Jae asks me as Sophie and Tae Hwa break off into a conversation in Korean.
“Just to go to school and, you know, get a new cultural experience.”
A knowing smile tilts up the edges of his lips, and I’m positive I need to get Jane to Google him—he really is adorable.
“There are many schools in America,” he says.
I shrug one shoulder. “I guess. But Ganghwa Island sounded like a lot more fun.”
He laughs, pulling at the hem of his gray T-shirt. “Well, I’m glad someone is happy to be in Ganghwa.”
“You sound like you’re not.”
A shadowed expression passes over his face, but it vanishes a moment later, like I imagined it. “Wherever Jason goes, we all follow.”
“Why? It’s not like the island is that far from Seoul. You could have stayed without him.”
He shakes his head. “Our manager told us to stay together.”
“Then you should have told Jason he wasn’t allowed to go away to school!”
Yoon Jae chuckles but shrugs. “He is the leader, and if we wanted the band to stay together, we needed to go with him. He said he wouldn’t stay in Seoul any longer.”
Another mark against Mr. Jerk-Sexy-Pants Jason: selfishness. How is it that someone like Sophie can have such an unfortunate sibling?
Speak of the devil. Jason emerges from the posse of people I can only imagine are makeup girls, handlers, and security, and I’m struck again by just how attractive he is. What a waste. Why is it the cute ones are always lacking in the character department, like you can’t have both?
He comes up to me and Yoon Jae, and says something to his band member in Korean. Which is just mean-spirited. We all speak English, but I’m conspicuously the only one who doesn’t speak Korean.
Yoon Jae looks to me, flashing a genuinely warm smile that might make my insides melt just a little. “It was good to meet you, Grace.”
He inclines his head in respect before turning to leave me and Jason alone. My stomach twists, and I scavenge for any sort of conversation starter, not that he deserves one. I half expect him to disappear without so much as a word or explanation for why he ran off the only person taking pity on the pathetic American who’s more out of place than she’s been in her entire life.
But, instead, he says, “What did you think of the show?”
I’m momentarily struck dumb at the sound of him addressing me, but I gather my wits in time to reply, “You sing well.”
It’s true, and though he may irritate me, I don’t have the nerve to tell him his music is heartless, mass-produced fluff.
“Have you ever been to a concert before?” he asks, more than a hint of sarcasm coloring his voice.
The lack of emotion or expression in both his eyes and voice makes me bristle. “Yes, actually.” I bite back the
probably more than you
that wants to scratch its way out of my mouth. “A lot.”
“How did this one compare?”
“It was small,” I blurt.
He blows out a deep sigh, a glimmer of condescension flickering in his eyes. “It wasn’t advertised. It was supposed to be small. We’re not actively working right now, like on a break.”
When I don’t respond, he prompts, “What did you think of the music?”
Is he fishing for a compliment, or what? “I … umm…”
“It’s a simple question,” he says, his tone now thick with the disdain I glimpsed earlier. “Did you like our music or not?”
And I snap.
“Well, if you really want to know, I think you guys have talent, but it’s wasted on empty songs. Your music is clean but conventional, nothing that can’t be produced by any wannabe with a guitar and GarageBand. I’m guessing that if you guys are famous like Sophie said, it’s mostly based on pretty faces instead of actual quality of music.”
He stares at me, the aforementioned pretty face not registering surprise or anger or anything that would reveal him as a sentient being. Then, just as I’m wondering if my harshness spurred a complete mental break in his head, the right side of his mouth tips up in a half smile.
And then he leaves.
I’m left staring after him, my heart racing and feeling as offended as he probably should be. Did he just
smile
at my tirade?
I just called him crap.
I said he didn’t deserve his fame.
And he
smiled
?
* * *
I blink into the bright morning sunlight as I tighten my grip on my backpack and head off to my first day of school. With each step, my muscles protest. Riding back to the dorms on the back of Sophie’s motorbike put enough stress on them that I feel like I did a full-body workout.
Thankfully, she wasn’t angry about what I said to Jason. I couldn’t look her in the eyes with any sort of confidence without fessing up, but she just laughed it off.