*
We wake up at the crack of dawn the next morning. Sophie tells me to wear comfortable clothes, so I opt for a pair of jeans, an Indian-inspired shirt that’s beaded but lightweight, and tan saddle shoes I bought at a vintage shop in Nashville.
We meet the boys in front of the hotel. As soon as I step outside, I’m hit by a wave of salty air that churns my already queasy stomach. I went to bed with a stomachache and woke up to an even more unruly belly. I blame the seaweed chips.
The driver pulls up the van, and we all climb in. I slide in beside Jason, and Yoon Jae sits next to me, pushing me up close to Jason. Every time our knees bump each other, my heart hammers against the inside of my chest.
We zip through town, maneuvering around women carrying their vegetables to market on rickety bicycles and kids on their way to school on a Saturday, dressed in uniforms with backpacks sporting cartoon characters.
The driver takes us out of town and onto a bumpy dirt road that weaves its way through mountains that loom over the turquoise water. We pass long stretches of harbor housing rows and rows of boats, from modern ferries to one-person dinghies.
We drive past beaches left empty in the cool air. Water laps at the shore, backlit with rolling mountains in the distance. I watch the sandy beaches whiz past and transform into shrubbery-covered rocks and cliff faces that slope down into the sea.
The farther we drive, the more I feel like I’ve stepped back in time. Without any power lines or billboards, and with the mountains and sea surrounding us, I can imagine myself back before industrialization. I reach around Jason and open the window so the salty air blows against our faces. He scowls and pushes hair out of his face, but I flash him a huge grin and he keeps quiet.
Up ahead, a village appears, nestled close to the water, zero other signs of civilization within sight. The pavement ends, and we bump along on sandy gravel as we pass buildings so wind and salt weathered, they look like they might fall over in a strong wind.
The driver parks at the edge of a long row of docks that stretches into the calm water. A number of tents have been set up on the shoreline, with crew members rushing around them. A group of people congregates around a camera that’s half assembled on the boardwalk.
I step out of the van and catch my breath, the beauty of the place really settling in. Spinning slowly, I take it all in, wishing I had a camera but knowing it could never capture everything—the wet scent on the air, the soft rustle of waves, and the emptiness of the village, whose inhabitants have mostly gone out to work on the boats that dot the harbor.
We don’t have anything like this in Tennessee. You can drive out into the country and listen to the cicadas on a summer night or hike into the Smokey Mountains, but you can’t find anywhere this untouched by modernity.
Sophie links her arm through mine, pulling me out of my thoughts. I realize that the boys have already disappeared, probably into a makeup or wardrobe tent. She leads me into the catering tent, but I decline the offer of dumplings and fruit that looks like it’s been sitting out since yesterday.
“They won’t be ready to shoot for at least an hour,” Sophie says. “Do you want to explore the village?”
“Yes!” I rush after her out of the tent.
We wander up and down the streets of the fishing village, neither of us talking. Sophie and I drift apart as she continues down the street and I fall back, taking my time soaking in the scenery. I pull out my phone and stick one earbud in, finding the only song that can capture this moment—the Verve’s “Bitter Sweet Symphony.” The slicing violins lull me further into the surreal feeling, and all I want to do is dance. Or run. Or throw my arms out and spin until I can’t see straight.
All the anxiety that’s been brewing inside me since I arrived—since Nathan’s incident, really—ebbs until I can no longer feel its presence in the back of my mind. For the first time since my brother called me that night, I can breathe. This feeling—this peace—will probably disappear as soon as I set foot back at school. But for now, I can relish not having to hold back emotions, to just be real.
As I walk through the village, a pack of children begins to follow a few paces behind me, their big, dark eyes watching me with curiosity. One of them, a girl who’s maybe seven, ventures closer. I pull the earbud out and wave.
“Ahn nyeong ha se yo,” I say, not sure if they speak Korean or a local dialect.
She giggles, and I realize I probably should have said hello in a less formal way.
She steps up close to me, and I bend down. She fingers a lock of my hair, which has curled into a ringlet since I haven’t washed it in two days.
“Yeppeun,” she says, and I’ve picked up enough Korean to know she just said I’m pretty, and I wish I knew enough vocabulary to tell her she is too.
An older woman calls out to the kids, and they disperse with adorable squeals. Guess Grandma had stuff for them to do.
I peer at one of the homes, where a little boy peeks around the doorframe, and it hits me—this is what I’ve been searching for, here in this little village, so far from the school I never would have known it existed. Why I came to Korea in the first place.
This is what freedom feels like—totally lost, totally out of place. But in a good way.
In a great way.
Chapter Eleven
I wipe sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand, and a shudder zips down my back at the same time. Fighting a whimper, I set my palm against my stomach. My nausea has only gotten worse, and I haven’t been able to eat or drink anything since I hauled myself out of bed.