Page 21 of Teach Me K-Pop

Chita drops his head into his hands, like he still somehow can’t believe this is his life. Like this kind of scene hasn’t happened in this very kitchen—or the green room of venues all over the world—a thousand times before. “Can we just finish dinner?” he asks, his voice muffled against his palms.

“Not until we talk about how Nikko can’tnotmention Jase all the time,” Lux insists.

“I don’t talk about him all the time.” Another lie. I know I do. I know I bring him up at every opportunity because he’s always on my mind. His presence in my thoughts continually surprises me. There has never been anyone like that for me before, not like this.

The time that I get to spend with him, even through the screen of my computer, has become something special to me. There’s a reason I lock the doors and hide away, protecting those calls from the other members. I’m not ready to share this—sharehim—with them.

But maybe I already have. Maybe I’ve given myself away more than I noticed. Or maybe these things I’ve been feeling are more obvious than I am willing to admit.

“Remember those wall sits Tang used to make us do when we screwed up the choreography? Where we put our backs against the wall and slid down like we were sitting on a chair, but we had to hold ourselves up on nothing but core strength that we didn’t have then?” Lux asks, everyone turning to look at him in confusion.

“God, yes, I have nightmares about that,” Ryo groans. “Don’t make me think about them again. I still have trauma.”

“Okay, but why?” Tang questions, as he gets up and walks to a wall, clearly wanting to see if he can still do it.

“I think we should bring them back,” Lux says, with a devious grin. “But just for Nikko, when he’s lying.”

I point a chopstick at him. “You are the worst. I am reconsidering our friendship, starting now.”

“Children,” Chita admonishes in his exasperated dad tone. “Tang, back to the table. Lux, stop picking on him. Nikko, your chopstick is not a weapon.”

Lux grumbles at his noodles while Tang takes his seat again and swipes a bite from Lalo’s plate, and I roll my eyes at everyone because they are ridiculous, but I love them.

Having a friend, getting to know someone outside of this life—this bubble that I live in—has been so refreshing and welcome for me. But that’s not all it is anymore. I don’t know if it ever was just that kind of connection. Especially now that we’ve looked at each other across all these miles and time zones and started talking about stuff that isreal. I’m not only practicing another language with him; I’m learning about myself.

I’m shocked every day at the things I think about him. I find myself daydreaming about his lips and what it might be like to kiss them. I’m fascinated by the way he moves his hands, gesturing when he speaks, and imagine how it would feel to hold them or to have them grip my hips as he pulls me closer. I try not to let my mind wander farther than that, for fear I’d never be able to face him on screen again.

But then, he told me—said the words I had been hoping for—guys, boyfriend. Put an end to the guessing game I’d been playing with myself and made me feel brave enough to admit the same.

I trusted him with that information, and I believe he will keep my secret safe. But I also want him to know who I am, in my heart—away from the bright lights and screaming fans. I want him to know, without telling him the whole story, that if our lives were different, I’d want him to give me a chance.

For a moment, when he had looked at me a little longer, a little more intensely, I let myself believe that he would.

CHAPTER SEVEN

JASE

There’s something that’s either extremely ironic or just plain sad about humming along to song lyrics about not shutting out the person you care about when life gets difficult while doing exactly that with the person who is actually singing them.

It’s been five days since I’ve spoken to Nikko. This is the longest period of time we’ve gone without talking since we started working together, and I hate it. I feel like someone turned off a light in my life, and everything is darker somehow. The worst part is that it’s completely my fault.

Like a coward, I canceled the last session we were supposed to have, a little terrified at the idea of facing him only hours after the biggest surprise reveal of my life. I’d spent the entire day at work essentially hiding in my office, appealing to Brenda and her Quest for Supremacy to take over the library for the day, while I attempted to process under the guise of doing some administrative work. I accomplished exactly nothing.

Now here it is, four days later, and I still don’t have a better grip on anything than I did then. I know this is all on me. I’m being ridiculous, and I’m aware of that on a cellular level, down to my core. I want to talk to him. I want to see him. I haven’t stopped thinking about him or seeking out more information, trying to learn everything I possibly can. I have spent every moment—when I’m not in the library or with one of my other tutoring students on the internet—watching hours and hours of videos and reading through pages of interviews and fan sites, because I want to know what the world knows about him. How his fans see him. It might be crazy, but I keep thinking I have to find a way to reconcilewhohe is withwhathe does.

When I’m not online, I’ve been listening to RYSING’s three albums on repeat, trying to pick out his voice among the harmonies. I’ve basically got the songs memorized now, in love with the mix of Korean and English, the beauty of the lyrics and their messages, and the music that makes it impossible to not want to dance. I thinkghostsis my favorite record, but only by a slim margin. There’s genius in all of them, and it’s impressive to know that all of the members of the group contribute to each song’s creation and production. I’m curious if the songs are actually the poetry Nikko mentioned liking to write.

I’ll ask him, eventually. Some time, when we talk again. I hate the ambiguity of it all right now, having this secret between us. The fact is, it’s always been there, and there’s always been something one of us didn’t know. I didn’t know he was famous. Now, he doesn’t know that I know. Nor that I’m not dealing particularly well with it.

“Hey, you need help?”

I look up from the stack of chairs I’m pushing across the presentation area of the library to see Tyler leaning against the door jamb, ever the picture of heterosexual athleticism. I can only imagine what it must be like for any of his players who are trying to figure themselves out, having a coach that looks like he belongs as the lead in a sports movie. “That’d be great, thanks. Just rows across, like always.”

Tyler ambles over—grabbing twice the amount of chairs I’m trying to move—then whips around, somehow effortlessly flinging said chairs into the places they are supposed to go. It’s annoyingly efficient, and also weirdly hot. “I don’t understand why we have to have these faculty meetings so often. Is there really that much going on around here?”

Blinking at him for a moment, I wonder what it must be like to be so blissfully unaware of one’s surroundings. Apparently he has missed every email that’s come out about the upcoming end of the school year events, changes that will be made to the building over the summer, and the fact that several teachers and a principal are retiring. “It’s once a month, Tyler. I don’t think that’s excessive.”

He shrugs. “It’s the one afternoon I have free this week. I just want to get home and smash a six-pack while I playCall of Dutybefore Jessi comes in and starts nagging me.”

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