The drive home was mercifully short. Ha-neul sat in the backseat, radiating a silent "do not speak to me" energy, likely still recovering from the trauma of holding my hand. Mr. Lee, oblivious to the fake-dating drama, hummed along to a trot radio station, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.
"Good day at the fair?" he asked as we pulled into the driveway.
"Productive," I said.
"Traumatic," Ha-neul muttered.
We went inside. The house was quiet again, the brief calm before the dinner storm. Mrs. Lee was in the living room, arranging flowers (again) while watching a drama on the massive TV.
"We're back," I announced.
"Welcome home!" she called out without looking away from the screen. "Dinner in an hour. Galbi-jjim!"
"I'm going to go exercise for a bit, Eomeonim," I said, heading for the stairs to change. "Just at the neighborhood park."
"Go ahead, San-gun! Don't be late!"
I threw on a t-shirt and shorts—thankfully, I had retired the neon orange tracksuit for public use—and grabbed my gloves.
I jogged to the park. Unlike my midnight escapades, the place was alive. The setting sun cast long, golden shadows over the manicured equipment.
It wasn't just teenagers. The park was the domain of the neighborhood elders.
Two elderly ladies in visors were vigorously using the waist-twisting machines, chatting at high volume. A group of grandfathers sat on a bench, playing Janggi (Korean chess).
And on the basketball court, the sound of sneakers squeaking and balls thumping was constant. I looked over. It was Myung-Dae.
He was playing a half-court game with a few guys I recognized from the "Rebel" corner of the cafeteria—his crew. He was shirtless, sweating, driving to the hoop with an aggression that looked like he was fighting the ball rather than playing with it. He didn't see me, or if he did, he ignored me.
I went to the pull-up bars. They were unoccupied, save for an older man stretching his hamstrings nearby.
I jumped up and started my set. The familiar burn in my muscles felt grounding after the chaos of the Club Fair. One. Two. Three.
"Your form is good," a voice said.
I dropped down, breathing hard. The man stretching his hamstrings was looking at me. He was wearing a tracksuit that probably cost more than my tuition, and he had a kind, wrinkled face.
"Thank you, sir," I said, bowing slightly.
"You're not from this neighborhood," he observed, though it wasn't an accusation. "Foreigner?"
"Yes, sir. I'm from Ukraine. I live... over there. At the Lee house."
The man's eyes lit up. He turned to the ladies on the waist machines.
"Yeobo! Look! It's him! The one Eun-sook talks about!"
The ladies stopped twisting and hurried over, their visors bobbing.
"Aigoo!" one of them exclaimed, looking me up and down. "You are the yuhaksaeng (international student)? The one staying with dentist Lee?"
"Yes, Halmeoni," I said, smiling. "I am... well, I am like their foster son for the year."
I used the term yang-adeul (foster son), hoping it was the right nuance.
"Foster son! Aigoo, how nice," the grandmother beamed. She reached out and patted my arm. "So tall! And fit! Look at these muscles, dear. He is a mom-zzang (best body)!"
I blushed. "Ah, thank you."
"Eun-sook said you play guitar," the grandfather said, nodding. "What do you want to be? A diplomat? A businessman?"
I wiped the sweat from my forehead. I thought about the stage in the club. I thought about the "Youthful Memoirs" poster. I thought about the studio.
"Actually," I said, surprising myself with the honesty. "I think... I want to be a singer. In a band."
The grandfather raised his eyebrows. "A singer? Ho! That is a hard road, young man."
"He has the face for it!" the grandmother argued, slapping her husband's arm. "Look at him! He looks like a movie star!"
I didn't know if they were just joking or trying to be nice, but that was the first compliment in Korea I got, so I blushed.
She turned back to me. "Don't listen to him. You work hard. You have the 'spirit.' I can see it. Good luck, son."
"Thank you, Halmeoni. I'll do my best."
They shuffled off to continue their exercise, murmuring about how "handsome" the new foreigner neighbor was. It warmed my chest more than the workout.
I turned back to the court. It was quiet.
Myung-Dae and his crew were gone. They must have left while I was being interrogated by the fan club.
The court was empty, the ball left sitting on the rack. The sun had dipped below the horizon, and the park lights flickered on, buzzing softly.
I walked over and picked up the ball. It felt grainy and cool under my fingers.
I stood at the three-point line. I shot.
Swish.
I grabbed the rebound. I drove to the hoop, jumping, imagining the roar of a crowd, imagining the lights of a stage. I slammed the ball through the net—a solid, satisfying dunk.
I hung on the rim for a second, swinging in the cool evening air.
Being a singer... a band. It wasn't just a cover story for the club anymore. I realized, hanging there in the silence, that I wanted it. I wanted to fix the band not just for Chae-rin's grade, but because I wanted to be on that stage again.
I dropped to the ground.
It was getting dark. The streetlights of the "Golden Triangle" were humming to life.
"Dinner," I whispered.
I tucked the ball back onto the rack and started the walk home, my mind buzzing with melodies.