XOXO (An XOXO Novel)

I think I have a handle on my classes and schedule by the end of the week. After the ten minutes of homeroom, I have math or computer in the mornings, followed by study hall where I take my LACHSA courses online, then either PE or dance—which I’ve decided to stick with for now, since besides homeroom, it’s the only class I have with Jaewoo. Then after lunch follows orchestra, individual practice, and more study hall.

Though I’m wondering if it was a mistake to stay in dance for that reason, when it’s not like Jaewoo and I ever speak to each other, both of us adhering to the whole “secret friends” policy.

I just wish it was easy for me as it clearly is for him. Maybe having secret friendships is part of an idol’s training, like that whole list Angela went over: dancing, singing, and learning how to ignore a specific girl all day long only to pull her into a broom closet and almost kiss her.

It seems effortless for him to pretend I don’t exist while my eyes are pulled in his direction constantly. Even my thoughts won’t give me a break. What did that moment in the closet mean, if it meant anything at all? I’m just so confused.

It’s honestly a relief when the weekend finally comes around.

I spend Friday emailing back and forth with my world English teacher, who assigns me excerpts from the Norton Anthology of World Masterpieces, which I purchase online as an e-book. When I notice that there aren’t any Korean authors or poets listed in the syllabus, I email to ask if I can supplement a few for extra credit, and he emails back with an enthusiastic “go for it.” Riding that high, I text Eunbi about my portfolio for music schools.

Sunday morning, I grab my dad’s ratty old Dodgers cap and my cello already packed in its travel case, then hop onto the subway, transferring once to the orange line and taking that all the way to my grandma’s clinic located in the northern part of Seoul.

Outside the station, I breathe in the crisp mountain air. Ice from the night before still lingers on the streets, and I’m careful as I make my way past a small neighborhood market putting up its produce stand for the day and a bakery with freshly baked loaves of bread in the window. Backtracking, I purchase one. The friendly shopgirl wraps the loaf in brown paper, slipping a wildflower beneath the twine.

My grandmother’s clinic is tucked right off the main road in a place called Camellia Health Village, which is comprised of several small health-care facilities with different specializations. The village surrounds a beautiful private park full of gardens and walking paths. Before heading to Halmeoni’s clinic, I stop and watch a young boy and his grandfather fly a kite on the lawn.

This place is so peaceful. The path to the clinic is lined with cherry trees that even now have small buds upon their branches. In less than a month’s time they’ll be in full bloom.

Up ahead, I notice a guy has stepped off the path, standing beneath one of the trees. He’s tall, wearing a camo jacket and dark jeans. I’m instantly reminded of Jaewoo, which seems to be my subconscious’s evil way of toying with me.

I sigh, passing by the tree.

“Jenny?”

I almost fall over.

Jaewoo jogs across the grass. “What are you doing here?”

He looks great. I mean, he always looks great. But this is the first time I’ve seen him in casual clothing that isn’t workout clothes, and he’s giving off extreme “boyfriend” vibes. When I realize I’m staring, I answer, “I’m here to visit my halmeoni. She’s in the clinic. What about you? What are you doing here?”

His smile falters.

“You don’t have to tell me,” I say quickly. I don’t want him to share anything he’s not comfortable with, especially if it’s about his health.

“No, it’s okay. I was seeing my therapist.”

“Oh,” I say. “Cool.” I went to a few sessions with a therapist when my dad passed away. It helped me a lot, and my mom too, though she hasn’t gone in a few years.

I know mental health is stigmatized in Korea in a way that it’s not in the US. It makes sense that Jaewoo has a therapist, with all the pressures and stress that comes with being an idol.

“Yeah,” he watches me oddly. His gaze travels to my shoulder. “Is that your cello?” He nods to indicate my travel case. “It looks heavy.”

I adjust the strap. “I’m used to it. I’ve been playing since I was eight.”

“I’d say I was singing since I was four.” He grins. “But probably so have you.”

“Not as beautifully, believe me.”

He raises a single eyebrow.

I wave my hand in the air, as if brushing off what I said. “You know you have a beautiful voice, come on.”

He shakes his head, a small smile on his lips. “So did you bring your cello to play for your halmeoni?”

“Yeah, she’s actually never heard me play. Is that weird?”

“My father has never heard me sing.”

He says it without any inflection in his voice, as if he were discussing the weather. I recall from that night in LA that he was raised by a single mother.

“Is he completely out of the picture?” I ask softly.

“Since I was four. Now that I think about it, for as long as I could sing.” He grins, clearly teasing me, and himself, and yet the subject is sad, no matter what. But I also know why someone might use humor to mask pain. I’ve done it myself.

“Are you heading out?” I ask, for a lighter change of subject.

“I was . . .” he says. “I have no other plans for the day . . .” He bites his lip, waiting expectantly.

“Do you . . .”—he concentrates on my mouth, as if willing the words from my lips—“want to visit my halmeoni with me?”

He grins widely. “Are you asking?”

I roll my eyes. “Come on.”

We start to walk side-by-side down the tree-lined path.

I don’t know what compelled me to invite him, especially with how uncertain I am of what we even are to each other. Secret friends. Secret friends who almost kiss. And if I’m okay with that. Then I realize it doesn’t matter. I’m just happy he’s here with me, and it’s a beautiful day.

“Do you usually come here alone?” I ask. “When I met Nathaniel and Youngmin in the uniform shop, there was this guy with them . . .”

“You must mean Nam Ji Seok, our manager. He actually does come with me, when I have my weekly sessions, but today both Sun-hyeong and Youngmin had activities on their schedules that required more of his attention. Youngmin’s shooting a commercial and Sun is filming a cooking-themed reality TV show.”

It doesn’t escape my notice that he hasn’t mentioned Nathaniel. I hope that the reason he doesn’t have a solo activity is because, like Jaewoo, he had a prior commitment, and not that he wasn’t asked.

The path opens back up to a small lawn. In the distance, I catch sight of the grandfather and boy with the kite.

Jaewoo offers to carry a few of my things. I won’t give him my cello, but he insists on holding the loaf of bread.

When we reach the door to the clinic, Jaewoo holds it open for me. I head over to the desk to check myself in, writing down Jenny Go + 1 in the visitor logbook.

When I turn around, Jaewoo’s gone. I’m still looking around the waiting area when he emerges from a small gift shop bearing a bouquet of pink carnations.

My heart does a little flip flop in my chest.

He’s also wearing a face mask, one that covers his nose and mouth, presumably to hide his identity. This is a health clinic, where extra precautions are appreciated.

The receptionist buzzes us into the ward. We approach the nursing station and I introduce myself, while Jaewoo hands over the loaf from the bakery. The nurses behind the desk “eomeona” and “ah” over the baked goods, but mostly over Jaewoo, who even with his face covered, charms them easily. Then the head nurse leads us to my grandmother’s room, which she shares with three other patients.

She’s in the bed closest to the door, and when she catches sight of me, her whole face lights up. “Jenny-yah!”

I walk over and take her hands. Earlier, Mom called and said she wasn’t coming until later today, but that I should go ahead and visit by myself. I’ve never been alone with my grandmother, and at first I think it’ll be awkward, but her warm smile melts my worries away.

She leans in and says, not quietly, “Is he your boyfriend?”

“Halmeoni!” I gasp. “I’ve only been in Korea for a week.”

She giggles. “When I was your age, boys were constantly bringing me presents and telling me they liked me.”

Jaewoo laughs. “It’s still happening, Halmeoni.” He leans over to hand her the flowers.

“Eomeona!” she shouts. The other elderly patients, who’ve obviously been eavesdropping, all chuckle appreciatively.

Jaewoo and I pull up chairs beside Halmeoni’s bed, and she asks us how the first week of school has gone—great!—and then asks me if I’ve made any friends. She pats Jaewoo’s hand. “Besides Jaewoo-ssi, that is.”

I tell her about Gi Taek and Angela. I almost tell her about Nathaniel, but it seems a little awkward with Jaewoo sitting right beside me. I have been putting distance between Nathaniel and me, but it’s hard without telling him why, though I think he’s starting to notice.

“What about your roommate?” she asks.

“She’s . . .” I hesitate. “She’s considerate of my space.” I feel like that’s a diplomatic way of saying we’re not friends.

Halmeoni clicks her tongue. “You should try to be friends with her, if she’ll let you. A good roommate can be a friend for life.”

All the other grandmothers in their beds concur loudly.

After chatting, Halmeoni asks Jaewoo to turn on the TV. He obeys, picking up the remote and switching to the channel she requests. It’s a taping of Cooky’s Cooking Show with a few special guests, including Oh Sun from XOXO. The show plays a clip of “Don’t Look Back” during Sun’s introduction, but Halmeoni and her friends don’t seem to make any connections between the boy in the room and the one on the screen, nor do they care. They’re more interested in the veteran actress who’s also a guest.

After the show, Halmeoni gives Jaewoo and me a tour of the clinic’s facilities, including the cafeteria and exercise room. As we walk, she holds onto my arm for support, her small bird-like bones so weak and fragile. I feel such a rush of love for her. Which is odd, since I don’t think we’ve spent more than twenty-four hours together in my whole life.

The final stop on the tour is the recreation room. I realize Halmeoni must have notified the staff of my intention to play for her because chairs have been set up facing a small platform against the far wall. Most of the seats are occupied by patients, including Halmeoni’s three roommates.

“I’ll get your cello from the room,” Jaewoo says. By the time he returns, all the seats have been filled. Even some of the staff have decided to take a break from work to listen.

I feel nervous, which is out of character for me. I’ve played for much bigger crowds than this; I’ve played for much more prestigious crowds than this, for people whose judgment would determine if I would receive a ribbon or a medal.

But I’ve rarely played for anyone who I care about, whose opinion matters to me. “You’ll do great,” Jaewoo says confidently as he hands my cello over, and my heart warms in response. In the front row, Halmeoni is bragging loudly that I’m her sonnyeo, her granddaughter, and I feel her pride in me wash away the last of my nerves.

I glance toward the door, imagining my mom walking through. I’d brought my cello today not only to play for Halmeoni, but because I thought she might be here too. I’m a little disappointed that she isn’t, but that’s a small thing compared to the excitement I feel to perform for Halmeoni and all her friends. And Jaewoo.

I remove my cello from its traveling case. Slowly, I go through my normal routine, placing my cello between my knees, stretching my hands and tuning the strings. I bow the G note, letting out its full sound, and a few of the halmeoni and harabeoji clap excitedly.

There’s no music stand, which means I’ll have to play something by memory. I take out my folder and flip through the sheet music, looking for inspiration. I’d play the piece I’m working on for my solo performance class, except I’ve only memorized the first movement. A few of the other pieces could work, but something about them doesn’t feel right.

I don’t want to play anything too long. A few patients in the back row are already falling asleep. And I also don’t want to play anything that might bore them. Classical music isn’t for everyone.

My fingers brush against the last piece in my folder. Slowly I pull it out. It’s the sheet music for Saint-Saëns’s “Le Cygne,” or “The Swan,” a beautiful piece composed as a cello solo. It was originally included in my portfolio for music schools, but I’d taken it out after the results from the competition in November.

While Jenny is a talented cellist, proficient in all the technical elements of music, she lacks the spark that would take her from perfectly trained to extraordinary.

It seems so long ago that I’d complained to Uncle Jay about my results and he’d told me to “live a little,” the night I’d met Jaewoo. I look up across the sea of expectant faces to where he stands at the back of the room. I wonder if part of the reason I’m so drawn to him is because of the way he made me feel that night, like I was chasing the spark that lit between us.

It seems almost like a challenge, to the judges, and to myself, to play the piece now, for no other reason than because I want to.

I pick up the sheet music and read over it quickly. I haven’t played “Le Cygne” since that day, but I have confidence that I’ll remember the notes. It’s a short piece, and I’d played it over and over again for months leading up to the competition. Just in case, I lay the pages out on the ground at my feet.

“Do you want me to hold it up for you?” a harabeoji asks, sitting in the front row.

“No, but thank you,” I say politely.

I take a deep breath, centering myself. I try not to concentrate on the sounds in the audience, the creak of chairs as people get comfortable, a cough.

I look to my grandmother, whose hands are clasped together, and then at Jaewoo, who gives me a single nod.

I close my eyes and begin the song.

The music is beautiful, elegant, slow, and powerful. As I play, my breathing seems to follow the melody, rising and falling, and rising again. It’s as if I replay the emotions of the week in the ebb and flow of the song, the excitement of being in Seoul, of making new friends, of getting to know my grandmother, the distance between my mother and me, the what-ifs about my future and music school, everything that Jaewoo makes me feel: anticipation, frustration, joy, and something else, something more.

I’ve never felt more connected to a song than in this moment.

When I finish, holding out the final note, the whole room is silent. Then it bursts into enthusiastic applause. A few of the patients give a standing ovation. I feel triumphant. That was undoubtedly my best performance of “Le Cygne,” perhaps my best performance ever.

My grandmother is clapping in the front row, tears in her eyes. I bow, smiling widely at the crowd, and then my eyes eagerly search for Jaewoo at the back of the room.

When he’s not in the spot where I last saw him, against the wall, I start looking for him in the audience. But none of the beaming, happy faces belong to him.

The joy inside me begins to dissipate, until I feel an awful tightening in my chest.

He’s gone.