Christina Farley - Gilded

Min of the Long Legs clears her throat and leans closer to Marc. “So, do you want to meet for study group tonight?”

She’s got this sultry voice that makes most boys gape and drool. I peer through my eyelashes to see if it works on him, too. He whispers something to her, and I look away. I wonder if I’d look cute, too, if I chopped my hair short like Min’s.

No, I decide. I’d probably take on the image of something freak-worthy like a porcupine.

I focus on Mrs. Freeman’s agenda for the ski trip instead. Do they really think that taking a ski trip is going to bond us as eleventh graders? I push the agenda aside and unroll the foil around my kimbap . The smell of dried seaweed and sesame oil fills my nostrils, and my stomach growls. The one benefit to living in Korea: the food.

But as I pop a slice of kimbap into my mouth, I notice how everyone is reading the agenda as if it’s written in gold ink. Why does everyone take everything so seriously? What is with these people?

Fine. I’ll skim the list.

Michelle and I are supposed to distribute flyers promoting the trip. Farther down, Mrs. Freeman has us making and handing out the hot chocolate on the Saturday night of the ski trip.

Michelle clears her throat. “Mrs. Freeman,” she says solemnly while folding her manicured hands in front of her. “I’m sorry, but I can’t hand out the hot chocolate. I’m in charge of making sure everyone’s in from the slopes.”

“Is that so?” Mrs. Freeman checks her list. “Yes, I see that.”

“But it looks like Marc is free at that time,” Michelle says with a sly grin. “He’d be a perfect candidate.”

I’m going to kill Little Miss Matchmaker.

“Yes,” Mrs. Freeman says. “Good point. How does that sound to you, Marc?”

He agrees and glances my way with that melt-worthy grin. I can’t look at him. I can’t even be near him without practically becoming a puddle on the floor. This is ridiculous.

Without being told, the whole group makes the change on the handout. Michelle has this thing about neatness, so she takes her ruler and carefully crosses out her name with a clean, straight line. You’d think we worked for some high-end ad business or something. But that’s not what’s got me all squirming in my seat like a slippery octopus. It’s having to work with Marc.

I shoot my hand up as Mrs. Freeman reads the list out loud (the one that takes three seconds to glance over). Mrs. Freeman finally lifts her eyes over her reading glasses. “Yes?” she says.

“You’ve got me making hot chocolate,” I say. “I’m not much of a cook.”

“Miss Lee.” You know Mrs. Freeman’s annoyed with you if she uses your last name. “The cooking consists of mixing hot water with powder. I’m confident you can handle that.”

Good point. My excuses need refining. I drum my fingers on the table as Mrs. Freeman returns to her reading, but no other options cross my mind. All I can focus on is how green his eyes felt when they slid over me.

I’m stuck. With a boy my dad would forbid, but I can’t resist.

I’ve been home for five minutes, barely had the chance to celebrate the fact that I’ve got a long weekend due to the Lunar holiday—the Korean New Year—when I get a call from Dad. It’s official. We’re going to Grandfather’s house. Tomorrow.

“Dad,” I say. “Haraboji hates me. Why can’t we stay home? Think of the traffic.”

“He doesn’t hate you,” Dad says. There’s a pause as he barks something to one of his colleagues in Korean. “He’s upset with me, not you. But I think we worked things out. And it is Lunar. We must go. He is still family. Despite our differences.”

Guilt pulls at my chest. I’ve been so busy thinking about how awful my new life is that I hadn’t considered how hard the move was on Dad. This new job has turned him into a complete workaholic. He isn’t home much.

“Life didn’t seem so complicated in L.A.” I’m thinking of Mom and how it used to be with the three of us. Together. Before the cancer. Before the good-byes. And again I can’t help but think that if she was still with us, we never would have moved.

“It’s complicated anywhere you go. Just different complications.” Dad is silent then, and I worry I’ve said too much. But before hanging up he says, “You might even enjoy yourself. He lives near the beach.”

The thought of a beach perks me up for like two seconds. It will be freezing outside. Definitely not bikini weather. My muscles tighten. I’ve been home only ten minutes and already I’m stressing. Maybe it’s the fact that we live in a cramped, two-bedroom apartment. Back in L.A. we had a four-bedroom house and even a sunroom. And that home was full of her . Mom’s favorite chair where she drank her tea. The stain on the carpet where I knocked over the paints from her latest project. Her bookshelf, stuffed with volumes passed down from her own mother.

This apartment never knew Mom. And it feels as if I’ve lost her for good.

I sit on the floor and stare at my phone. Michelle’s going to be ticked when I tell her I can’t come to the concert at the Coffee Bean this weekend.

I text her. Can’t come Sat. Have to visit fam.

Bummer! I already invited Marc!

Tell me u r joking.

She doesn’t reply. I roll my eyes, groaning.

Any news from Charlie?I ask.

Not yet. Will keep you posted.

I’m getting ready to wallow in misery when I realize I’m going to be late for Tae Kwon Do class. I rummage through my dresser for my dobok , stuff the uniform into my duffle bag, and hurry out of the apartment. Once in the hallway, I skip the elevator. We live on the ninth floor, and often I take the stairs just to hear the pounding of my sneakers echo through the stairwell. When I reach the last landing, I leap over the remaining stairs down to the main level, staggering and nearly colliding with the wall. The thrill of not knowing whether I’ll land or fall invigorates me. I’ve never fallen.

I steal across the building lobby, nod at the security guard, and push the glass doors open into the cold early evening. The air bites the back of my throat as I stroll down the uneven sidewalk.

There’s an odd assortment of shops along our busy road. The herbal store with the big jars of fermenting ginseng roots. I’ve always thought those roots look like cut-off fingers floating in vinegar.

There are the hagwons , or as Michelle calls them, “cram-schools,” with their advertisements promising all their students will go to Harvard. Yeah, right.

But my favorite is the doggie boutique where you can watch miniature dogs run around inside a glassed-in room, dolled up in polka-dot and striped outfits with bows.

Usually the dogs cheer me up if I’m feeling off; but, at the corner, I have this odd sense that someone is following me. I glance over my shoulder, but all I can see is the seafood restaurant’s tank packed full of squid.

I shake my head to clear my wild imagination and cross the street to where the vendors set up their carts. The fruit-and-veggie guy has plastic containers filled with strawberries stacked in the back of his weathered pickup. I’d stop for my usual steamed sweet potato fix from the wrinkled ajumma at her cart, but today there’s no time. Pale orange streaks the sky as the sun sets over the jagged mountains that ring Seoul. I clip it the rest of the way to my dojang and take the stairs, running up the three stories to get my heart pumping. As I pass the dental office on the second floor, I can already hear the class counting in Korean: hana , tul , set , net ….