Somewhere Only We Know
Maurene Goo
In memory of my grandmother Swan Hee Goo, who introduced me to all the great black-and-white romances.
And for Christopher, who introduced me to the real thing.
She went, ever singing,
In murmurs as soft as sleep;
The Earth seemed to love her,
And Heaven smiled above her,
As she lingered towards the deep.
—by JOHN KEATS PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY, “Arethusa”
FRIDAY
CHAPTER ONE
LUCKY
When you have a face that’s recognizable by an entire continent, you have zero room to make mistakes.
Especially onstage.
I gazed into the screaming crowd, lights blinding me and the sound of my voice faint through the headset. The nonstop roar made it impossible for me to hear my own voice.
Once during a performance, when I threw my body into the outstretched arms of my backup dancer, the tiny microphone had shifted under my curtain of hair, and my voice cracked during the most dramatic moment of my hit single “Heartbeat.”
It was the crack heard around Asia. Endless video loops of that moment were played on the Internet—some superimposed with cartoon rabbits and added screechy sound effects. My favorite one showed an animated pane of glass shattering at the exact moment of the voice crack. It was so masterfully done, I laughed every time I watched it.
My management label didn’t find it funny, though. They saw it as a lapse, an imperfection on an otherwise perfect K-pop star.
That lapse was what I was thinking about as I stood on a stage in Hong Kong. The final stop on my Asian tour.
There was something about the vibration in the air, though—the currents of excitement filling in the spaces between me and the crowd. It was why I did this. Whatever I had been feeling days or seconds before I stepped onstage—like worrying about messing up again—all of that disappeared when the crowd’s energy slipped under my skin and into my bloodstream.
Ferocious adoration by way of osmosis.
My silver stiletto boots were planted firmly in a wide stance, and my feet were killing me as per usual. I had this recurring nightmare of my boots chasing me around a parking lot. They were human-sized and ran after me in never-ending circles. My managers insisted on me wearing the same boots when I performed—my “signature look.” Over-the-knee boots that stretched up the long expanse of my legs.
I was tall. Five foot ten—a veritable giant in Seoul. But there was no such thing as “too tall.”
As I went through the familiar steps of the choreography for “Heartbeat,” I managed to ignore the pain shooting up from the balls of my feet, the perpetual wedgie from my booty shorts, and the long strands of my pink wig sticking to the sweaty sides of my face.
Because I could do this choreography blindfolded, with two broken legs. I’d done this performance hundreds of times. At a certain point, my body moved on its own, as if on autopilot. Sometimes when I finished performing “Heartbeat,” my head hanging at an odd angle because of how the dance ended, I would blink and wonder where I had been for the last three minutes and twenty-four seconds.
When my body took over like that, I knew I got the job done. I was rewarded for the absolute precision with which I executed my performances.
And today was no different. I finished the song and looked out into the crowd, the screams of the fans piercing through me as I returned to my body with a whoosh.
I was finally done with this tour.
Backstage, I was immediately surrounded by people: my makeup artist, stylist, and head of security. I plopped down into a chair while my wig was adjusted and teased and my face dabbed with oil papers.
“Don’t get rid of that dewy glow, though,” I cracked to Lonni, my makeup artist.
Lonni pursed her lips. “You’re seventeen, you don’t need to be dewier. Also? Oil slick is not ‘dewy.’”
Hmph. I let her continue mopping up my grease-face.
The back-up dancers stumbled backstage, a group of men and women in nondescript, sexy black outfits. I jumped up from my chair—making Lonni tsk in exasperation—and bent at the waist.
“Sugohaess-eoyo!” I said as I bowed. “Thank you so much.” I always made sure to thank them in both Korean and English because the dancers came from all over.
They had suffered with me during every single practice and stop and never got any of the glory. My appreciation was genuine, but it was also expected. K-pop stars always had to be gracious.
They bowed and thanked me in return, sweaty and exhausted. “You killed it, Lucky,” one of the dancers, Jin, said with a wink. “You were almost able to keep up with me.”
I flushed. Jin was cute. He was also off-limits, as were most boys in my life. “I’ll land that turn one of these days,” I said with nervous laughter. They all shuffled off, going to their hotel together. I watched them with envy. Would they be hanging out in someone’s room, eating cup ramen together?
No matter. My feet were going to crumble into dust. I plopped back into the chair.
A hand patted my back. “Hey. You too. Sugohaess-eo,” my manager’s assistant, Ji-Yeon, said. Ji-Yeon always told me I did a good job after performances, like a proud but stern older sister. She was a tiny rabbit of a young woman, her full-cheeked face obscured by edgy blunt-cut bangs and giant glasses. But she was a powerhouse who got things done.