Page 39 of Idol Prize
“Oh, yeah?” Min Jae snorted. “Do you really think it’s that easy to get something into my mouth?”
Andy grinned, narrow-eyed and devilish. “Challenge accepted.”
“Now, now, boys,” Min Jae’s grandmother cut in. “Let’s finish rolling these up before we worry about who’s putting what into someone’s mouth.”
Min Jae and Andy’s jaws dropped open in unison. Min Jae’s grandmother just chuckled and returned to her work. Andy kept laughing every time he finished a new one, which made Min Jaelaugh and his grandmother tut. Eventually they filled the steamer basket, which Min Jae’s grandmother brought to the stove. Andy leaned back in his chair, sharing a satisfied smile with Min Jae, rivals, no longer.
The steamer basket soon hissed on the stove, filling the small house with the warm, sweet scent of rice and the clean, sharp fragrance of pine needles. “That will take a few minutes,” Min Jae’s grandmother said, wiping her hands on her apron. “Min Jae, while we wait, you should prepare the table.”
Min Jae nodded, his playful smile melting away. “Yes, of course.” He rose from the table and went for the door leading from the kitchen, pausing in the doorway. “You should come, too.”
Andy didn’t hear his name, but knew the request was meant for him. He got up and followed Min Jae into the living room. Well, maybe more of a sitting room, although it did have a small TV sitting atop an older, sort of shabby-looking cabinet on the wall opposite the front window. A newish, yellow-upholstered recliner sat facing the TV beside a small floral-print couch with ornately carved wooden arms and legs. Probably not a couch, then, but one of those fancier words Andy could never remember. The woven, oval rug on the floor was a little threadbare on the edges, and the pale yellow wallpaper with little white flowers was peeling in a couple of places.
Min Jae went to the cabinet, his quiet, solemn focus sharpening the edges of his eyes. He opened a door on the front to retrieve a small, lacquered folding table. He set it carefully in the center of the room, its dark wood faintly gleaming in the diffused light filtering through the curtains. From the same cabinet, he retrieved a simple, elegant picture frame.
Andy walked closer as Min Jae placed the frame on the table, watching over his shoulder. In the frame, a photo of a lovely woman in her thirties, maybe, with a kind, gentle smile that was so much like Min Jae’s own. He had her sharp eyes, too.
“Is that your mom?” Andy asked before he could stop himself.
Min Jae’s shoulders tensed for a beat. He took a slow, deliberate breath, steeling himself, before he finally spoke. “Yes.” His voice was tight, carefully controlled, but with an unmistakable tremor just beneath the surface. “That’s my mother.” He cleared his throat, the sound rough in the quiet room. “She died a few years ago. Cancer.”
Direct and unadorned, Min Jae’s words landed with a heavy finality, instantly dampening the atmosphere in the room. Andy accepted the shift for what it was. There was no way to carry the easy, lighthearted fun of making songpyeon into such a somber moment.
“I’m sorry.” Andy never knew what he was supposed to say in moments like that. Sorry felt so inadequate.
Min Jae nodded. “Thanks.” He let out a small sigh. “It happened fast, which was sort of a blessing. But it’s been just me and my grandmother since then.”
Andy fought to keep from reaching for Min Jae. If they’d been closer, or if so much of their relationship hadn’t been competing with one another, Andy would’ve hugged him without question. He knew that much, at least. But Min Jae’s stiff, awkward posture pretty clearly said hands off. So Andy settled for stepping back to give Min Jae his space, looking at the echoes of his face in his mother’s photo.
Min Jae’s grandmother eventually joined them, carrying a small tray with the best-looking of the glistening, freshly steamed songpyeon, a pear, a small bunch of grapes, and a small bottle of rice wine with two ceramic cups. She arranged them neatly on the table in front of the photo, pausing to quietly sigh as she looked at it. “This is a much smaller offering than tradition calls for,” she explained with a small, sad smile. “As I said, Min Jae and I like to keep it simple.”
Min Jae and his grandmother each knelt before their makeshift altar. They each poured a tiny cup of the rice wine,then lowered themselves into a deep, slow, reverent bow, their foreheads nearly touching the floor. They held the position for a long moment of silence, then rose and bowed again.
Andy could hardly imagine what it felt like to lose a parent, let alone a daughter. The last funeral he’d gone to was his grandmother’s. His mother had haunted their house for weeks afterward, a hollowed-out look in her eyes, the immense weight of a loss so profound a physical part of her had been carved away.
The same weight sat on Min Jae’s shoulders at that moment. The icy walls, the ruthless drive, the relentless focus, the quiet desperation was more than simple ambition. It was a fortress, built brick by icy brick to protect the one precious person he had left in the world. It was the crushing responsibility of being the only one left to remember, the only one left to provide.
When the quiet ritual ended, Min Jae’s grandmother picked up a piece of songpyeon from the offering plate and held it out to Andy. A simple, profound gesture of inclusion. He offered a small, grateful bow and took it, his fingers brushing against hers. The sweet filling was delicious, and he felt awful for enjoying it.
Min Jae stood a moment later, his eyes red-rimmed, glistening like the songpyeon from fresh tears. He sniffled as he grabbed one for himself, took a bite, and gently smiled, relieving some of Andy’s guilt. “Delicious. Now, let’s go get dinner ready.”
Andy’s comfortable nostalgia returned once he joined the dinner preparations in the warm, fragrant kitchen. His family had definitely left a lot of the old traditions behind. He’d only ever eaten store-bought songpyeon, and had never performed even an informal charye. But his family, like many, Korean or otherwise, often gathered around food. Just like when he was a young boy visiting his grandparents, he gladly went to work chopping vegetables, stirring pots, and whatever else he was asked to do. Min Jae and his grandmother practically danced around him while he worked–a different kind of choreography,built through the years of sharing the small space for thousands of meals.
Slowly but surely, they assembled their humble feast on the tiny kitchen table. A steaming platter of sweet and savory bulgogi sat at the center, surrounded by a mound of glistening japchae, golden-brown hobak-jeon, a small bowl of seasoned spinach, and, of course, a generous helping of homemade kimchi. Min Jae cracked the seal on a bottle of soju–Sabi, according to the label–and poured three glasses.
“This all looks so good,” Andy announced for probably the hundredth time as he plucked some of the beef from the serving dish.
Min Jae’s grandmother practically beamed. “Thank you. I’m so glad you were able to join us for this. So, tell me. How did you two become such good friends?”
Andy nearly choked on the food in his mouth. He glanced at Min Jae, who smirked as he focused on his rice bowl. Of course. “Well, we only recently started being friendly. We actually started out as rivals. He was number one in the first ranking, and I was number two.”
She nodded, as if this made perfect sense. “Ah, yes. I remember watching your first ranking performance. You’re very talented. I thought you might’ve ended up with the number one rank that day.”
Min Jae’s open-mouthed shock was totally worth being put on the spot like that. He quickly recovered, but his smirk was nowhere to be seen. “My grandmother has long been my biggest fan,” he deadpanned. “But even the biggest fans can be fickle.”
His grandmother chuckled. “I’ll be sure to remember that the next time I vote for you.” She turned her heart-shaped smile back to Andy. “You must miss your family. I’d love to hear more about them.”
Andy smiled as he eagerly described what life was like in the Kim household, ignoring the swelling sadness underneath hiseasy smile, especially when he thought about his younger brother, Noah. “Not a day goes by that I don’t think about them.”
