Page 38 of Teach Me K-Pop

“I think he stopped being your English tutor a while ago,” Ryo comments.

I try to protest. “His job is to talk to me and help me improve my English. Every time we have a conversation, I’m learning something.”

He’s nodding again. “Yes, it seems like you’re always finding out something new about him and how much you like him.”

“That is not—” I stop talking as another flight attendant appears, setting two drinks down between us. Watching as Ryo reaches into his pocket, I see him pull out two tiny umbrellas, one pink and one green, and drop one into each of the glasses. I can never really figure out where they come from or why he always has them, but it’s such a trademark move of his, I don’t question it anymore. He takes the pink one and sips slowly, gesturing for me to do the same. I have no idea what it is, but it tastes pretty good and I am grateful for the distraction of the alcohol as it burns down my throat. “I do. I like him. Everyone else had crushes in middle school, and I’m just ten years late.”

“You’re not late, Nikko,” Ryo tells me, more sincerely than I would have expected. “You didn’t miss anything not having crushes back then. I’d gladly go back andnotthink Hwang Byeol was the prettiest girl in the world. That rejection still stings.”

I laugh at his expression—the exaggerated frown and annoyed eyebrows. “I bet Hwang Byeol regrets turning you down now.”

Suddenly looking smug, he says, “I hope she does.” He tilts the glass back and empties it, the umbrella tumbling out onto his lap. “She has no idea what she missed out on.”

“You’re right about that.” I finish my drink as well, feeling a little better somehow. Maybe my timeline is not like anyone else’s, but nothing about my life has been typical, really. I have a chance now—to do something, to have someone—and I want to take it. I don’t know what will happen. I don’t know if anythingcanhappen. But I know I want to find out where to go from here.

Ryo puts his hand on my arm, giving it a squeeze. “We’re all happy for you. You know?”

“Of course.” I smile, because I do know that. I know that no matter what happens in the next few days with Jase—whether it’s everything or nothing—my brothers will be there for me.

Settling back into my chair, I am less anxious than I was before.

“You also know we all want to talk to him, too, right?”

And I’m nervous again.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

JASE

Ihave been standing in front of the mirror for at least 10 minutes. Probably longer. If I don’t move pretty soon, I’m going to be late. Well, maybe not late, since I wasn’t given an exact time to arrive, but it will be later than I want it to be. I like to be early to everything when I can, and for something like this, well, I want every second I can have. As if I’ve ever done anything like this before.

I’ve never been to a k-pop concert.

I’ve never been this nervous about meeting someone.

I’ve never had these butterflies or this kind of anticipation zipping through my veins, like I’ve taken a hit of something very potent. It feels like there’s so much riding on tonight. Maybe I’m getting ahead of myself, but this is…big.

We’ve been face-to-face for months now, but not like this. Not sharing a space. Not breathing the same air. Not close enough to touch.

The idea alone is enough to send another jolt of adrenaline shooting up my spine.

I take another look in the mirror and decide that this is as good as it gets. Since the day Nikko invited me to the show, I’ve tried on everything in my closet at least twice, in an attempt to decide what I should wear. I want to blend in and look like I belong there, but I also want to look kind of amazing. In the way that might make someone think I was hot. If they happened to be interested in me.

Once I had determined that I did not own a single thing that was acceptable, I did the only thing I could think of outside of asking the girls at school to dress me: I went to the internet. Turns out dressing for a k-pop concert is basically like getting ready for a fashion show, but also a marathon? So many suggestions about making the right kind of impression on fellow fans, but also preparing for the hours-long experience that seems to start early in the day for the truly dedicated.

I still don’t know what to expect, but I have an entirely new outfit—shirt, jeans, shoes, accessories—and I have to admit, the departure from my usual look has given me something of a confidence boost. The jeans are more form-fitting than I’d usually go for, the shirt more tailored, and the shoes not unlike a pair I’d seen one of the RYSING members wearing in a recent interview.

Noel is in absolutely no hurry when I take her outside, giving me more time to think about things. I actually haven’t talked to Nikko in several days, which is unusual for us. Now that the group is in the States, they’ve been so busy with their scheduled interviews and appearances that there hasn’t been time. It’s ironic that we’re geographically closer than we’ve ever been—even in the same time zone—and we haven’t managed to have much of a conversation.

There had been texts here and there—pictures of varying degrees of flirtatiousness and short messages relaying times when we’d crossed each other’s mind—but it wasn’t the same. I want to talk to him. Hear his voice. See his eyes light up in real time.

Nikko had popped up unexpectedly the other day, eager to tell me that the DJ at a satellite radio station had complimented his English and said he seemed more relaxed during their segment. It made me so happy to see how excited he was, clearly pleased that the work he was doing was noticeable.

His pride had felt contagious. As his teacher, I’m thrilled he’s being recognized for his success. As his friend and someone who cares about him, I’m glad he was able to be himself more and let new people see him and how amazing he is. He deserves that kind of attention.

As I set Noel up with her treats and toys for while I’m gone, I try to shake off the nerves and restlessness that keep creeping up on me. Nikko’s presence has become such a part of my life that our lack of conversations has thrown me off-kilter somehow. Walking out the door, it hits me. I miss him. It’s just that simple.

But here I am, literally on my way to see him. To meet him, for real. To see him do what he does best. To watch him, surrounded by people who love him. Idolize him. Fans who probably know more of the details of his life than I do—things like his shoe size and what kind of toothpaste he prefers. There’s a part of me that’s smug, though—and maybe unfairly so—because I know the cadence of his voice as he reads poetry that he wants me to hear, and the way his eyes go dark and soft as he confesses a secret that he holds close to his heart.

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