Hesitantly, I cradle the chopsticks with my thumb and middle finger. I pick up a piece of egg, which almost instantly slips back onto my plate. This process continues for a solid thirty seconds before I’m able to successfully transfer food into my mouth. I finally elect to hold the plate close to my lips and rake the salty omelette into my mouth. Other people are doing it, so it can’t be bad manners.
Sophie checks her phone with a frown. “I don’t know where he is,” she mutters.
She scans the cafeteria, and I follow her gaze, searching faces for one that looks anything like hers. But I can’t pick out anyone specifically in the sea of people I’m currently drowning in.
A wide smile breaks out on Sophie’s face, and she waves her arm frantically above her head. I turn and spot a guy in a blue-and-white striped sweater left unbuttoned, with sleeves bunched at the elbows over a V-neck T-shirt. He strides toward us, hands stuffed into the pockets of his skinny jeans. He’s taller than most of the other guys I’ve seen here, with inky black hair that sweeps across his forehead and full lips that look a lot like Sophie’s.
He’s the hottest boy I’ve ever seen.
And I’ve seen a lot of cute boys. I struggle to keep my mouth closed and eyes inside my head as he comes to our table.
And I’m not the only one staring. He leaves a wake of girls behind him who stare and point, and a few even snap pictures with their phones, their heads swiveling around, making sure nobody saw them.
Surprise zips through me. Maybe girls are just more open here about guys they think are cute. I’m pretty sure taking pictures of the guy and pointing at him behind his back in a crowded lunchroom wouldn’t fly in the States.
But I’m pulled out of my cultural comparisons when he says something in Korean to Sophie, his voice clear and deep, and my heart sputters a little, which probably makes me just as bad as those other girls.
When was the last time my mouth went dry at the sight of a boy? Not since Isaac, my ex, when we met at that teen club where he was the DJ. When you grow up around cowboy hats and giant belt buckles worn by boys trying to get into your pants so your dad will give them a record deal, it’s hard not to be attracted to slouchy hats, Converse, and flannel.
“Don’t be rude, Jason,” Sophie scolds playfully, tilting her head toward me. “This is Grace, who speaks English.”
I flash him my brightest smile, but he answers with a stony expression, his eyes running a quick scan across me. My enthusiasm flickers.
But I ford through the blow to my confidence. “It’s nice to meet you.”
He doesn’t say anything, just keeps staring until my cheeks ache from holding my smile. I fight the instinct to glance down at my white lace blouse and black jean shorts to make sure neither sport a food spill.
“She’s my roommate,” Sophie says, coming to my rescue and diverting Jason’s attention. “She’s from America!” Her voice rises to a squeal on the last word. “Sit with us.”
He sweeps the room with his gaze, a determinedly bored air about him and a glazed look in his eye, even though he has to see all the girls pointedly not looking at him. I’m starting to wonder if Sophie got all the people skills while they were incubating in the womb.
“I already ate,” he says, thankfully in English—for my benefit? “I have to meet Tae Hwa in the music room. Are you going to The Vortex tonight?”
Her grin falls, and I’m irrationally tempted to punch Jason for causing it to disappear. “Of course,” she says with forced levity.
He nods, then glances at me again, before turning and walking back through the cafeteria toward the exit. I stare after him, smarting at his obvious lack of both friendliness and regard for me as a human being.
“Is he always that cheerful?” I ask, unable to bite back my sarcasm.
Sophie waves away the question. “He’s just quiet.” But the disappointment that’s swallowed her eyes says something different.
After breakfast, Sophie volunteers to show me around campus; she arrived a few days before me and already knows where everything is. The school is gigantic, the size of a small college rather than a high school—multiple classroom buildings and everything. She figures out where all my classes will be—all in the same room, like in elementary school—and points out the building, which is on the opposite side of campus as our dorm and on top of a hill so high it might as well be Everest.
Sweat beading on the small of my back, I ask Sophie if we can sit and rest for a minute. We settle on a bench beneath a gnarled tree inside a small pavilion between two buildings.
I wipe moisture off the back of my neck. It’s not as hot here as in Tennessee, but the humidity sticks to my skin and sucks sweat out of my pores until I feel wrung dry.
“I’m going to have to walk this every day,” I say, the horrible realization slamming into me like a Mack Truck.
“You should buy a bicycle,” Sophie says. “It will help with getting around campus and the island.”
A sigh escapes my lips. “I already miss my car.”
She laughs. “Korean people don’t drive as much as Americans. It’s time for you to become Korean. Or, at least like someone living in Korea. Isn’t that why you came here in the first place?”
No, it’s not, and I could tell her exactly why I came, but I’m not ready to talk about it. Not to anyone.
South Korea is my escape, my RESTART button, where no one asks for my autograph when I go shopping or knows the rumored balance of my savings account. This is where I get to start over.