Christina Farley - Gilded

During the Koguryo period, the three-legged bird was considered more powerful than the dragon or phoenix. This amulet was believed to be the key to the Spirit World.

The sun-patterned amulet gleams as if it’s beckoning me under its spotlight. The samjoko meets the edge of the circle at eight points, and the crow looks alive, as if it could spring from its hold and fly away. I splay my fingertips against the cool glass, overwhelmed by a sudden need to touch the amulet.

“Quite the exhibit,” a male voice says from behind me.

When I swing around, I nearly choke. It’s Marc Grayson from my art class. He’s standing behind me, and I can’t help but notice how hot he looks in his white shirt and dark jeans. The thing about Marc is that his brown hair is always slightly disheveled, like tonight, and every time I see him I’m half tempted to reach up and run my fingers through it.

But I can’t think those thoughts. Guys and I have never clicked. Maybe it’s the black belt that intimidates them. Or maybe it’s that I’m completely socially incompetent in the dating department. Like when Nick Casablanca tried to kiss me, and I used a pressure-point defense on his hand. It wasn’t my fault he moved in before I was ready.

I find everything less awkward if I purposely avoid any boy who makes my pulse race.

And Marc definitely does.

“Hey,” I say, trying to maintain an aura of calm and coolness. I peer through the crowds to make sure Dad doesn’t see me talking to a non-Korean boy. He tends to freak out, as if I’m halfway down the wedding aisle. “What are you doing here?”

“Enjoying the culture, of course,” Marc says with a mischievous grin that accentuates his right dimple. “Actually, I helped with the setup. I pick up hours whenever they have their big events. It’s a pretty sweet gig. I get spending money; they get cheap labor. You?”

“My dad’s company, Netlife, is sponsoring the exhibit. I told him I’d help with the show.”

“Nice.” He shoves his hands in his jeans pockets. “Free tickets.”

“I’m surprised you’re not at some SAT prep today, or writing a college essay,” I tease.

“I’d rather see Miss Black Belt in a dress. SATs can wait.”

Oh God. The Dress. I forgot I was even wearing it, with Marc standing so close, studying me with those green eyes. Or maybe it’s the way he never buttons his top shirt button. Still, the last thing I need right now is for word to get around school that I wore a pink dress. I’ve a reputation to keep.

I decide to change tactics and move the topic off my getup. “You’re one to talk. You do know it’s black tie tonight, right? A button-down shirt doesn’t qualify.”

“Yeah.” He shrugs and rakes his hand through his brown hair. “Ties and I don’t get along. Although that didn’t go over well with my parents since they helped organize the exhibit.”

“They organized it? I wonder if my dad knows them.”

“Well, if he didn’t before”—he jerks his head to where my dad and grandfather are standing in the lobby not far away—“he does now.”

Dad is shaking hands with a couple. The woman, who I assume is Marc’s mom, has sandy-blond hair twisted in a loose bun and a tight dark dress that trails to the floor. She is pure elegance. The man next to her looks the spitting image of Marc except he’s heavier, with gray hair. Marc’s dad leans toward Grandfather, whispers in his ear, and passes him an envelope. Grandfather nods and slips it into his suit jacket, glancing around the room. Odd.

I realize Marc hasn’t noticed the exchange. He’s still talking to me, though I haven’t the faintest clue why other than the fact that we’re the only teens at the event. Something about my grandfather and his parents’ common interest in Korean mythology. I nod, pretending I understand exactly what he’s talking about, but he loses me when he starts talking about some Namu Doreong myth.

“Well, you’re here tonight, so they must be thrilled,” I say.

“Actually, when I heard you were performing, I couldn’t say no.”

I feel a ridiculous smile start to spread across my face. Oh no, this is bad.

Very bad.

I can’t get involved with a guy. It was hard enough leaving all my friends back in L.A. If my grand scheme to get Dad to send me back to the States works, I can’t handle a bunch of good-byes again.

He glances at his watch. “This gig starts at eight, right?”

I nod, noticing his attention drawn to the crowds milling around us. He probably wishes he was hanging out with his buddies rather than some boring girl like me. I knew it was ridiculous to think that he’d want to have anything to do with me.

Right on cue, a gong rings through the lobby, vibrating over the clamor of voices.

Dad and two other men move to stand under a Korean gate painted in greens, browns, and reds built in front of the auditorium’s doorway. The Illumination banner stretches above their heads in the gate’s archway. Together, the three of them hold a huge pair of scissors and pose in front of the gold ribbon, symbolizing the opening of the Korean cultural exhibit.

Marc leans closer to me. He smells like soap and leather.

“Good luck tonight,” he says, his breath tickling my skin. My heart skitters. “I’ll be watching your show, Miss Black Belt.”

Cameras flash. Polite applause erupts. My stomach churns. I’ve been so distracted, I nearly forgot about needing luck for my performance. And knowing he’ll be watching sure doesn’t help. Thanks, Marc.

“Tonight marks a momentous occasion,” Dad says into a microphone. “ Illumination displays ninety cultural artifacts uncovered from the Old Stone and Bronze Ages. Netlife is a proud sponsor of Illumination , which we hope will bridge the gap between the Korea of the past and the Korea of the future. I’d encourage you…”

Dad continues to speak, but it’s time for me to head to the stage. My stomach is like a spinning washing machine.

“Got to go,” I tell Marc.

I pick up my case and take off before he gets the chance to say anything else. Halfway across the lobby, I glance back—I can’t help it. He’s still standing by the pillar, watching me with his hands in his pockets and a slight smirk on his face. I lift my chin higher and toss my long hair just to show him that he can laugh at my dress. I don’t care.

But I do. I care far too much. Which makes me all squirmy inside.

I shortcut through the child-sized folk village to the backstage area. Once I pass through the first room, the noise dwindles to only the light twang of music from the house speakers and the swish of my skirt across the marble floor. Circular beams of light shoot down from the ceiling, illuminating different exhibits. I have the sudden weird realization that I actually know more about the American Civil War than about these displays from my own Korean culture.

A shimmer of blue catches my eye as I reach the back door. There, encased in glass at the other end of the room, is a hanbok . I’m not one for dresses, but I find myself padding over to the glass case. The gold plate says it is a wedding dress, supposedly worn by Princess Yuhwa. The beads on the hanbok wink at me under the lights, and the material, though aged, still has a sheen to it. There’s something about it that’s almost magical.

“There you are!” Dad huffs, his shirt untucked. “I wanted to see you before you performed. You need to stop disappearing like that. I know your grandfather can be gruff, but running off isn’t the solution. I need your help, Jae. I can’t do this on my own.”

I shake my head to clear my thoughts. Slosh , slosh spins my stomach. It’s as if he inserted a quarter and started up my washing machine again. “Way to calm the nerves, Dad.”