Sophie pokes her head into the bathroom, her black bangs pulled back with a headband and a mascara wand in her hand.
“Are you almost ready?” she asks. “The show starts in two hours, and it’ll take a while to get off the island.”
One more quick glance in the mirror: high-waisted jean shorts with a thin white button-up tucked in and a pair of wedges Jane bought me for my birthday last year. The scarf would have made it look so much better, but whatever. With a growl, I throw on a long beaded necklace instead.
“Ready,” I announce.
Sophie combs her bangs back down on her forehead and slings a neon-colored purse onto her shoulder. “Then let’s go!”
We climb down the two flights of stairs and head out into the early evening air. It’s cooled a few degrees, but the mugginess still threatens to crush my lungs.
Sophie leads me to the side of the building, where a long row of bicycles and Vespa-like motorbikes stand in a line. She fishes out a set of keys from her pocket and unlocks a baby-blue motorbike from the rest, taking out a helmet from a compartment under the seat. My pulse spikes as she backs it out of the line, the tires crunching stray bits of broken pavement.
“Umm … I hope you’re just checking to make sure the tires aren’t flat before we catch a bus or a taxi,” I say, a nervous quiver in my voice.
She laughs and shoves up the kickstand with her heel. “Unfortunately not. It’ll be faster if we just drive. We would be waiting at the bus stop for at least ten minutes, then it would make a zillion stops before we even get to the bridge. Then we’d get on the train to Incheon. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to go through that kind of hassle.”
“But I don’t have a helmet.”
“Don’t worry. Nobody will say anything. And, if they do, just play up being a dumb foreigner.” She winks.
I run my eyes over the metal frame. “Where am I supposed to sit?”
She pats the raised seat behind hers.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea…”
“Don’t worry about it. We ride like this all the time.” She sits on the bike and throws another wink back at me over her shoulder. “Just channel your inner Asian.”
“Inner Asian. Sure.”
I raise my leg to swing it over the side and slip on the black leather. The bike tilts in response, but Sophie keeps us upright.
“Put your feet on the silver pipes, there.” She points. “Just don’t let your skin touch them because they get hot.”
Chewing on the inside of my cheek, I obey her instructions, and she cranks the motor, then launches us into motion. I instinctively latch onto her as if my life depends on it. Which it probably does.
The death contraption wiggles, tipping to the side for a terrifying moment, before she rights it and propels us onto the street. We zip down the hill much faster than seems safe and rocket into town, where we speed past people walking; they don’t even give us a second look. Like this isn’t the first time they’ve seen a crazy American putting her life in the hands of the roommate she just met.
Wind stings my eyes, and every muscle in my body tenses as she weaves around pedestrians and dodges the cars that whiz past us. My dinner of sesame noodle soup threatens to come back up, and I close my eyes.
I always dreamed my first motorcycle ride would be behind a cute boy—preferably of the trendy, leather-wearing variety. Cozied up to my new roommate isn’t exactly what I had in mind.
What seems like a lifetime later, after we pass through the mostly wooded and mountainous interior of the island, we zip by the beaches, which are probably crawling with tourists during peak season, then cut through a small beach town. Sophie turns us onto a bridge that stretches across the channel. A crisp breeze cuts through my thin layer of clothes, and I shiver as we drive onto the mainland and make our way toward Incheon.
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.