“Probably.”
“Interesting.” Not really, but it’s the only adjective I can articulate, at least out loud. “You’d think they didn’t know you lived there for more than half your life,” I muse.
The semipleasant expression on his face fades, and I realize that we’ve just had a complete exchange that didn’t involve a single insult.
Jason shuffles his foot across the dirty footrest. “It’s been a few years since I was in America.”
Confidence streaming through my veins at our newfound civility, I venture to ask, “Why did you guys move back to Korea?”
Coldness swallows his eyes and freezes any emotion in his face, so he looks again like the boy I met in the cafeteria. Like he’s completely cut off all feelings. “You can talk to Sophie about that,” he says.
A few minutes later, the bus crosses the bridge and we’re back on Ganghwa Island. But instead of continuing on through town and up the mountain toward school, we pull into a bus station, and the driver turns off the engine.
Passengers stand, collecting their things, and file off the bus. I look to Jason in confusion, but his blank expression reveals nothing.
We stand and shuffle toward the exit, and when we pass Sophie and Tae Hwa, she says something to Jason in Korean.
“What’s going on?” I ask, but the twins continue their conversation.
Right in front of me, Yoon Jae hangs up with a huff and stuffs the phone back into his pocket. He cranes his neck around.
“The bus doesn’t run all the way to the school this late,” he says to me.
“So how are we going to get back?”
He runs a hand through his hair, making it fluff up like a cockatoo. “We walk.”
A million protestations build in my throat, but I don’t let them out, afraid of being that girl, the whiny American who can’t cope with a new place and new culture. But as we trek through town and my shoes rub blisters on the backs of my heels, I seriously consider firing off complaints anyway.
To distract myself from the sweat rolling down my back— and how we’re not even at the base of the mountain yet—I turn to Yoon Jae, who walks beside me, and ask, “Who was that on the phone earlier?”
He scratches the back of his neck and smiles, but it doesn’t have the same brightness as it usually does. “My father.”
The hike up the mountain seems endless. We walk along the side of the road, but it might as well be a cliff face. I have to stare at my feet to keep from slipping over the loose gravel.
I think I’m safe when we turn off the road and pass beneath the arch at the entrance to the school campus, but the tip of my shoe catches on a rock, and I tip forward. But before my face can meet pavement, a hand shoots out and grabs my elbow.
Stumbling, I peer up at Yoon Jae.
“Are you all right?” he asks.
“Well, aren’t you just my knight in shining armor,” I say, exaggerating a Southern accent for dramatic effect.
Yoon Jae beams, but the sound of a snort travels from Jason’s general direction.
We’re almost back to the dorms when I spot a group of students congregating outside the dining hall, a dance song with a heavy bass riff sounding from the middle of the circle of bodies. As we get closer, I stand on my tiptoes and see two guys break dancing inside the circle, acrobatics and all. It’s like watching a dance show on TV.
“Hold on,” I toss over my shoulder, then push closer to see.
The boys inside the circle physically taunt each other, performing a dance move, then holding out their arms or getting in the other’s face. One of them has better footwork, the other better ground work, spinning on his head like a top, then walking on his hands. The song ends, and the crowd bursts into applause.
A second song begins, and another figure emerges into the circle, his movements jerky and in time with the beat. I figure out he’s dancing at the same time I realize his identity—Yoon Jae! He pops and locks like a pro, his body twisting and jerking into bizarre movements that he makes look effortless. The other two boys resume dancing, and the battle is on.
I sense Jason beside me, and I turn to him. “I didn’t know Yoon Jae could dance. Can all three of you move like that?”
“Just Yoon Jae,” he mumbles, his brow wrinkled in an uncharacteristic display of concern. “He wanted to be an idol.”
“A what?”
He clenches his fist and releases it, like he’s grasping for the right words. “A pop idol, uhh … a superstar.”
“How is that different from what you guys are now?”
“He didn’t want to be in a band. He wanted to be in a pop group that just sings and dances, doesn’t write music or play instruments.”
“Oh.” It finally clicks in my head. “A boy band.”
Jason shrugs one shoulder. “They make a lot of money here.”
We break free of the crowd, stepping a few yards away, and I can’t help marveling at the fact that he hasn’t shut down our conversation yet.
“So how did he end up in your band?” I ask. “It started with just you and Tae Hwa, right?”
“The record company chose him for us.” Jason’s gaze follows Yoon Jae, a sort of wistfulness in his eyes, like he’s … jealous? “Tae Hwa and I auditioned together, and the record label wanted another band member, so they assigned Yoon Jae to be our drummer.”
That explains Yoon Jae’s lack of passion in his performance the other night. Boy wants to be dancing up a storm, not keeping beats for a pop-rock band.
“He was mad we’re not dancing for the new video,” Jason mutters, and I almost don’t catch his voice over the cheering of the crowd.
I glance back at the dancers and see Yoon Jae mid–Michael Jackson moonwalk. Always a crowd-pleaser.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
Jason doesn’t answer for a long time, and I think our momentary truce has been severed. But then he surprises me by saying, “We have a music video shooting next month. He wanted to dance, but I said no.”