“So what’s the song you want to work on?”
He lets out an almost imperceptible sigh, like he’s relieved we’re back on goodish terms, and hands me a piece of sheet music that’s been scribbled on and has lines totally crossed out and rewritten. It’s a complete mess, but amidst the sloppy revisions, I can see a clear melody that takes me by surprise.
“This is … different,” I say.
“Do you want me to play it for you?” he offers.
“No, I think I’ve got it.”
“Without hearing it?”
“I hear it in my head.”
He hesitates to agree with me but stays silent anyway.
I hum a few bars, tracing my finger along with each subsequent note. “What is this song for? It doesn’t really go with all the other songs I’ve heard you guys play.”
“It’s for a TV show. They want me to write the theme song.”
“What TV show?”
“A Korean one.”
“Obviously.”
His eyebrows shoot up, but he says nothing, just lets me think.
“Is this all you have?” I hand back the page.
“Right now. I’ve been trying to finish the chorus before I write any of the verses.” He looks at me expectantly, a gleam of insecurity in his eyes that strikes me as not only out of character but also incredibly adorable. “What do you think?” he asks.
“It’s not bad. I … kind of like it, actually.” Surprise, surprise. “But it’s still a little too clean-cut, you know? Everything is just so even. Where’s the syncopation? Where’s the jazz? It’s like you’re trying to write something a little more bluesy but you’re stuck in a pop mind-set. You need to step out of the box. Right now, you’re the Beatles, but you want to be the Rolling Stones. Does that make sense?”
I search my brain for the correct terminology, but without a background in classical music, I come up short. Why didn’t I listen to Dad when he told me to take those music theory classes? Two years of piano in middle school gave me enough info to sight-read, but I have no idea how to explain what I’m hearing in my head.
“I don’t really know how to describe it,” I say, “but it’s like you’re trying to fit a rock ‘n’ roll song into the conventions of pop music, and you’re coming up with this, which isn’t really either.”
“So you’re saying it’s bad?”
“No, that’s not what I meant.” A growl rumbles in the back of my throat, my irritation swelling, not at Jason but at my own inability to articulate what I want to say. “There just needs to be more blues influences. I’m telling you. It needs to be grungier, groovier, more down-home.”
“You do realize that I’m not trying to write a country song, right?”
“Yes,” I snap. “But you asked for my opinion, so I’m giving it. You also said that you think your music is bad. Maybe if you listened to my suggestions, you’d like it better.”
I’m ready for him to throw back a quip, but he just stares down at the sheet music. He mutters something under his breath that I don’t catch, but when I’m about to ask him to speak up—preferably, in English—he says, “I think that’s enough for today. We can come back tomorrow.”
The way he avoids my gaze, a pinprick of guilt shoots through me. Could he be insecure about his music, if he feels it’s not as good as it should be?
“I didn’t … hurt your feelings, did I?” I ask.
His back goes rigid. “What?”
“I just want to make sure I wasn’t too harsh or anything.”
He levels a condescending glare at me. “There’s nothing you could say that would make me feel bad about myself, Grace.”
And just like that, any feelings of companionship that had blossomed between us die. But I can’t help noticing that this is the first time he’s used my name. And coming from his lips, it sounds good.
Chapter Seven
I lie in bed on Saturday morning, staring up at Sophie’s bunk as pale morning light filters through the cracks in the closed blinds. My phone’s heavy in my hands, Jane’s message reverberating inside my head. We’ve sent at least a dozen messages back and forth over the course of the almost five weeks I’ve been in Korea. But not until her last one did I feel the least bit guilty.
Mom’s pissed at you, she wrote. Why haven’t you talked to her yet? EMAIL HER!
I pull up email on my phone, skipping over another message from the same reporter, and begin a message to Momma. But my fingers freeze over the keypad. What should I write? I finally manage to type out:
Momma,
School’s going well. I like my physics class a lot. My roommate is really nice, and I’m helping out her brother with a song he’s writing. I’m getting tired of eating rice every day, and I miss you guys.
Grace
The last bit is an exaggeration—I do not miss everyone, her included. But I don’t think saying so will help our relationship any. The letter should most likely be longer, but I can’t think of anything else to say, so it’ll have to do. And, if I let my thoughts linger on Momma and the rest of the family for much longer, memories will surface. And I can’t face those. Not yet.
I also fire off a message to Dad, which is just as brief, but I know he won’t answer.
Sophie shifts on top of her mattress and pokes her head down at my bunk. Sans glasses, she squints at me like I’m tiny print.
“What are your plans for tonight?” she asks.
“Well, considering I really have no other friends besides you, I would say doing whatever it is you’re doing.”
She beams. “Today’s my birthday.”
“What?” I sit up so quickly, I bump my head against the slats above me. “Ow!”
She only giggles. “Tae Hwa texted me and said to be ready at six. What do you think we’re doing?”
I rub the sore spot on the crown of my head. “I don’t know. A party, maybe?”
“I don’t think so. Jason doesn’t like being around a lot of people, and it’s his birthday, too, so Tae Hwa and Yoon Jae would have taken that into consideration.”