Hello, I Love You by Katie M. Stout
For Macrae,
whose love for stories reminds me why I started writing in the first place
Acknowledgments
Many heartfelt thanks and much love to …
The always lovely Emily Keyes, agent extraordinaire, who took the chance on me and my little book about KPOP.
My fabulous editor, Kat Brzozowski, and all the amazing people at Thomas Dunne. Y’all pushed me to write a better book, gave it a stunning cover, sold it to other countries, and gracefully dealt with all of my writer’s angst. I’m incredibly blessed to have such an amazing team behind me.
Critique partner, friend, and soul sister, Kristin Rae, for the edits, squees, and chats that got me through querying, marketing my debut, and everything in between. Su su!
The many writer and blogging friends who read early versions of the book, helped with my query, or just spread happy vibes about me and my book through the interwebs. I’m so grateful to know Kristi Chestnutt, Kim Franklin, Lori at Pure Imagination, Christina at Reader of Fictions, Jen at Pop! Goes the Reader, Katie at Mundie Moms, Steph at Cuddlebuggery, Gillian at Writer of Wrongs, and many more amazing people. Book blogging opened my eyes to the wonderful world of YA, and I’ll always be thankful for that.
The best book club ever, who celebrated with me, even when there was an ocean separating us—especially Alli, Liz, Tiffani, Vania, and Sarah. I’m so glad I decided to read Shadow and Bone and check out my local book club!
Mom and Dad, who fostered my love of reading and never told me to stop dreaming about getting published one day; Brenna, for being the older sister who I looked up to and who inspired me to always be creative; and my entire family, who never thinks I’m weird for loving books as much as I do. There’s no way I’d be here without each and every one of you.
My Lord and Savior, the Living Word, without whom I wouldn’t have written words to share. Thank You, Jesus!
Chapter One
Big Brother,
I want you to know something: It wasn’t your fault, not any of it. And I’m so sorry. Sorry for ditching the family and for shipping off to the other side of the world.
But, mostly, I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you when it mattered. I should have told someone before it got bad. It’s just that you’re my big brother; you’ve always been the strong one. And I miss that.
You’re probably laughing hysterically right now, imagining me—the foreign language–challenged child—bumbling my way through the airport, a lonesome little white girl with a Southern accent and too much hair spray. Just know that with every step I take farther from home, the more I miss you.
Maybe this trip will give me time to figure things out. I certainly hope it does, anyway.
I could end this letter with “from Korea, with love” like that James Bond movie in Russia, but the plane hasn’t landed yet, so I’ll just leave you with …
Almost in Korea, with love,
Grace
The subway doors open, and a flood of boarding passengers sweeps me and my two giant suitcases onto the train. Elbows jab into my sides, and the wheels on my bags run over toes as a thousand of my closest Korean friends pack into the tiny metro car. Half an hour inside the Republic of Korea, and I’ve already been thrown into the life of a national.
All the seats are full, so I park my bags in front of an elderly woman, her eyes half-obscured by folds of wrinkled skin, holding a plastic sack full of something gray and … slithering. Octopus, maybe? I straddle one of my suitcases and sit, letting myself sway with the rocking of the train and giving my jet-lagged body a rest. Like I haven’t just been sitting on a plane for fourteen hours.
The man beside me plays the music on his MP3 player so loud I can hear the singer wailing through the headphones, and he stares at me like I’m an alien. I avert my gaze, letting it roam the rest of the car. I’m one of two Westerners leaving the airport station, and basically everyone besides me is on their phone. Except for that couple a few feet away, who manage to canoodle in the microscopic-size standing room, whispering to each other in Korean.
South Korea. It still hasn’t registered yet—that I left everything, everyone back in Nashville and set up camp in the “Far East.” I’m standing on a Korean train rattling through Korean tunnels toward my new Korean school.
I am insane.
For possibly the millionth time since my plane took off from Atlanta, I ask myself what I’m doing. Sweat moistens my palms, and I have to close my eyes, my breathing bordering on hyperventilation.
Hydrogen. Helium. Lithium. Beryllium. Boron. Carbon.
I go through the entire periodic table of elements three times, the repetition numbing my brain and slowing my pulse, emptying my mind of any anxiety. My AP chemistry teacher taught me the trick, told me it helped him calm down. I discovered this summer that it works for me, too.
The train stops at the next station, and we lose a few passengers but gain even more. The crowd shifts, pushing and pulling me against the tide of bodies, and I curse myself for not being willing to wait twenty minutes for the express train, which has assigned seating. Waiting longer would beat getting assaulted every time a new passenger boards the commuter train.
I glance down at the scrap of notebook paper I stashed inside the pocket of my jean shorts earlier, double-checking the name of my stop a dozen times.