Chapter One
Big Brother,
I want you to know something: It wasn’t your fault, not any of it. And I’m so sorry. Sorry for ditching the family and for shipping off to the other side of the world.
But, mostly, I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you when it mattered. I should have told someone before it got bad. It’s just that you’re my big brother; you’ve always been the strong one. And I miss that.
You’re probably laughing hysterically right now, imagining me—the foreign language–challenged child—bumbling my way through the airport, a lonesome little white girl with a Southern accent and too much hair spray. Just know that with every step I take farther from home, the more I miss you.
Maybe this trip will give me time to figure things out. I certainly hope it does, anyway.
I could end this letter with “from Korea, with love” like that James Bond movie in Russia, but the plane hasn’t landed yet, so I’ll just leave you with …
Almost in Korea, with love,
Grace
The subway doors open, and a flood of boarding passengers sweeps me and my two giant suitcases onto the train. Elbows jab into my sides, and the wheels on my bags run over toes as a thousand of my closest Korean friends pack into the tiny metro car. Half an hour inside the Republic of Korea, and I’ve already been thrown into the life of a national.
All the seats are full, so I park my bags in front of an elderly woman, her eyes half-obscured by folds of wrinkled skin, holding a plastic sack full of something gray and … slithering. Octopus, maybe? I straddle one of my suitcases and sit, letting myself sway with the rocking of the train and giving my jet-lagged body a rest. Like I haven’t just been sitting on a plane for fourteen hours.
The man beside me plays the music on his MP3 player so loud I can hear the singer wailing through the headphones, and he stares at me like I’m an alien. I avert my gaze, letting it roam the rest of the car. I’m one of two Westerners leaving the airport station, and basically everyone besides me is on their phone. Except for that couple a few feet away, who manage to canoodle in the microscopic-size standing room, whispering to each other in Korean.
South Korea. It still hasn’t registered yet—that I left everything, everyone back in Nashville and set up camp in the “Far East.” I’m standing on a Korean train rattling through Korean tunnels toward my new Korean school.
I am insane.
For possibly the millionth time since my plane took off from Atlanta, I ask myself what I’m doing. Sweat moistens my palms, and I have to close my eyes, my breathing bordering on hyperventilation.
Hydrogen. Helium. Lithium. Beryllium. Boron. Carbon.
I go through the entire periodic table of elements three times, the repetition numbing my brain and slowing my pulse, emptying my mind of any anxiety. My AP chemistry teacher taught me the trick, told me it helped him calm down. I discovered this summer that it works for me, too.
The train stops at the next station, and we lose a few passengers but gain even more. The crowd shifts, pushing and pulling me against the tide of bodies, and I curse myself for not being willing to wait twenty minutes for the express train, which has assigned seating. Waiting longer would beat getting assaulted every time a new passenger boards the commuter train.
I glance down at the scrap of notebook paper I stashed inside the pocket of my jean shorts earlier, double-checking the name of my stop a dozen times.
The automated female voice announces the name of the next station, which thankfully sounds a lot like what I’ve written phonetically on my paper—Gimpo. The train lurches to a stop, and I grab the handles of my bags, forcing my way through a mass of humanity thicker than Momma’s grits.
I stagger onto the platform just as the doors close, and, mustering as much gumption as I have, pancake any stray Koreans as I force my way through the crowd fighting to board the train. Once I climb the escalator and maneuver through the automated gate, I emerge into the surprisingly thick humidity of a Korean summer.
My grip on my suitcases tightens as I make my way to the line of taxis on the street. I ford through the throng of tourists with their own luggage.
The metro can’t take me all the way to the Korean School of Foreign Studies from Incheon International Airport. Normally, I could take the subway to this stop, then get on a public bus—as the representative from the school suggested to me via video chat last week—but when I planned this trip, I knew I wouldn’t want to venture that with my luggage and zero knowledge of the area.
I stand by the curb and scan the line of taxis until I spot one of the drivers holding a sign that reads GRACE WILDE. I throw him a frantic wave, and he meets me halfway to the van. He helps me lift my bags into the back, and I collapse into a seat in the middle row.
He peers at me in the rearview mirror, obviously waiting for some kind of direction. I guess his superiors didn’t inform him of our destination. Biting my lip, I flip through my Korean phrase book searching for the right words.
“Ahn nyeong ha se yo!” Hello. “Umm…” I stare at the Romanized translations, the multitude of consonants and letter combinations I’ve never seen—let alone pronounced—mixing inside my travel-weary brain like a blender on HIGH.
“Where you go?” the man asks.
“High school!” I sigh, thanking God this man speaks at least a little English. “Korean School of Foreign Studies. On Ganghwa Island.”
“Oh, I know, I know.” He shifts out of PARK, and we merge into traffic.