Page 1

One

My phone buzzes as the cab lets me off at the corner of West 32nd Street and Broadway, where light snow drifts over bright signs in both Hangeul and English. I read the text from Secretary Park:A limousine service will pick you up from your hotel at 11:00 and take you to the airport tomorrow. I’ll be waiting when you arrive in Seoul. See you soon.

Okay, thank you,I send back, and sigh at the irony that I communicate more with my mother’s secretary than I do her.

Pocketing my phone and pressing my shopping bag to my chest, I look both ways before crossing the street. There’s a party arriving at the restaurant door before me, and I wait for them to pass—three guys wearing peacoats and puffy jackets over their NYU hoodies. The last, a dark-skinned boy with glasses, catches sight of me and holds the door open. I hurry forward, smiling at him and bowing out of habit. The boy’s ears redden, and when he moves to join his friends, they poke him with their elbows, throwing glances at me over their shoulders.

As I slip off my coat, a few people seated by a bar area turn to stare. Along with my booted heels and custom handbag, I’m wearing a bodysuit with high-waisted jeans. I would have changed after the show—the last of the events I was invited to for New York Fashion Week—but that would have taken time, and I didn’t want to waste any more. Not tonight.

I scan the restaurant, searching for a familiar face. The place is packed with foreigners,Americans, speaking English so fast it makes my head spin. The hostess, who’d been seating the group of university students, returns to the podium. “Eoseo oseyo,” she says. She must have picked up on my nerves, because she’s switched from English to Korean. I’m immediately put at ease. “How many?”

“I’m meeting someone,” I tell her. “She’s around my age and height, probably wearing a baseball cap.” She’s hardly ever without it.

“Ah.” The hostess nods. “Your friend arrived a few minutes ago. Follow me. I’ll bring you to the table.”

She leads me through a side door and up a stairwell strung with Christmas lights, though it’s February. We move aside to let a group of girls and boys walk down the stairs. They’re dressed as if going to a concert, in stylish clothes and heavy makeup, which is similar to how I’m dressed having come from a runway show. A few hold signs with messages printed in English.

XOXO’s #1 Fan

Sun-oppa, marry me!

Bae Jaewoo, I love you!

“It’s always more crowded when an idol group is in the city,” the hostess explains to me. “I think some fans not-so-secretly hope to run into one of their favorite idols at one of the restaurants in Koreatown.” I glance at her face, but she doesn’t appear to be speaking in judgment, just stating a fact. “It’s good for business.”

“Have you had many idols in the restaurant?” I ask.

“The owner keeps celebrity autographs above the checkout counter. I’ve never seated an idol, but my boss said last month Jun from 95D was here with a few friends.”

Jun-oppa!She catches sight of my expression and smiles knowingly. “A fan?”

“I have a poster of him on my bedroom wall.”

“Then you should be pleased to know that he’s a good tipper.”

We proceed up the steps to the second floor. The room here is narrower but just as crowded. Designed to replicate a pojangmacha, the circular metal tables are surrounded by seats that look like upside-down trash cans. Servers wind through the tables carrying trays of Korean street foods served on bright green plastic plates. Several large screen monitors around the room play the same music video; currently it’s BTS’s catchy “Anpanman.”

Spotting my friend at a table at the back of the restaurant, I tap the hostess on the shoulder. “I see her,” I say, and the hostess nods, leaving me to make the rest of the way alone.

My best friend, Jenny Go, leans with her back against the wall, scrolling through her phone, her Dodgers ball cap—a gift from her father—pulled low over her eyes.

“Jenny!” I yell when I’m practically standing over her.

She looks up, startled. “Sori!” Jenny leaps from her seated position and flings herself so hard into my arms that we almost topple over.

The last time we saw each other was this past summer, when she came to visit her boyfriend in Seoul. We text every day, but it’s not the same. The few months she spent as my roommate, during my final year of high school at Seoul Arts Academy, were possiblythe best of my life. I’d always dreamed of hanging out with friends between classes and after school, of having a best friend I could bare my soul to. That all came true when I met her. I’m horrified to find tears pricking the corners of my eyes.

“Oh no, Sori!” Jenny cries. “Your makeup!”

She grabs a menu and fans me as I blink upward until the tears dry.

When I’ve recovered, she takes my hands in hers, squeezing.

“You’re gorgeous!” she exclaims. At the same time, I say, “You look healthy.”

She laughs.

I love how I make her laugh. Everything I do seems to amuse her. When we first met, I thought she was laughingatme, but I soon realized it’s that she truly adores me.