Teach Me K-Pop
CHAPTER ONE
JASE
“ W hat about Mr. Kitson?”
I pause, mid-step, hesitating between the rows of books. I’m assuming they don’t realize I’m here or they wouldn’t be talking about me. Although, with that particular group of girls, I’m not sure it would matter. They’re library regulars and we have a good rapport, so now I’m all kinds of curious about the current topic of discussion and how I play into it.
“I mean, like, not no?” I can tell that’s Lizzie, but I have no idea what she’s saying means.
“He’s not Russian hockey player hot, but more like whatever comes between dad-bod and daddy .”
Thanks, Rae. At least, I think that was a compliment.
Deciding that’s more than enough eavesdropping on that conversation, I move on to shelve the American history books that were the whole reason I came out here. Normally, I’d let my assistant put the books back and make sure everything was in order, but sometimes I feel like I need to spend more time in the stacks to remember what’s here and where it’s at so I can help the students better. Or at least that’s what I’d tell someone if they asked—not that I’m just trying desperately to stay awake and thought I’d do some shelving to get moving in hopes of perking up. There’s also a little part of me that just doesn’t want to leave a full cart for Brenda when she comes back tomorrow, because even though it’s literally part of her job, I can picture the hostile stare she’d toss my way, and truthfully, she kind of scares me sometimes.
Slipping everything back into its rightful spot is always soothing in that oddly satisfying kind of way, like watching those videos on YouTube. Squishing all the volumes together and aligning them equidistant from the edge of the shelves might well be one of the most underrated facets of librarianship. Sure, helping the students is great and promoting reading is vital to creating well-rounded adults and all, but the organization and aesthetics just can’t be beat sometimes.
The final bell of the day rings as I head back to the circulation desk, and I pass by the girls again, just in time to hear Jenny telling the rest of them, “You know who’s really hot? Senorita Gonzalez. Like, whoa.”
I wonder, for just a second, where the rest of the staff falls on their list, but decide it’s probably better for all of us that I missed the rest of that ranking. Hopping up on the desk, I sit and survey the library. Aside from a few chairs attempting to escape from the makerspace and someone having changed one of the computer’s screensavers to a rather explicit meme, the room looks pretty good.
These few minutes of quiet before the afterschool chaos begins are always a welcome respite between the regular hours of the school day and whatever the space will hold next. The one thing that everyone gets wrong about the library—at least a high school library—is thinking that it’s quiet. It’s literally never quiet, except for times like this, when it’s just me. The noise and activity are actually some of my favorite things about this place, this job. Working with high schoolers is kind of the epitome of never a dull moment and I love that. No day is the same and I’ve learned to thrive on the drama and energy that these walls hold.
Thankfully it’s a Friday, and there’s nothing scheduled in here over the weekend, so I can run out sooner rather than later. I’m just about to slide off my seat when a yawn takes over. I’m stretching it out when Tyler strolls in, the picture of athleticism and awakeness in his varsity coach’s tracksuit. “Home or away tonight?”
“Away, unfortunately, which means I will absolutely not be getting any when I get home after we roll back in at midnight or whenever,” he grumbles, dropping into a chair at the table closest to me and propping his feet up on the tabletop.
I chuckle. “Guess the honeymoon phase is really over, huh?”
Tyler groans. “I just don’t understand what happened. For months she couldn’t keep her hands off me, and now it’s just me and internet porn most of the time.”
“That is indeed tragic,” I agree. “Maybe you just need a date night? Take her out, be romantic, set the mood and all that?”
“Oh, what would you know? You don’t even like girls,” he says, using his default excuse for when I’m right and he doesn’t want to acknowledge that fact.
“Please. Gay men are the world’s leading experts on women. Everyone knows that,” I tell him, sliding off the desk so I can go remove the dick-based humor from the computer before I forget.
“How is that even fair?” Even as he complains, he gets up and puts the misplaced chairs back where they belong, which I appreciate.
“What? That we can get all the women you can’t?” I laugh when he flips me off as if he’s 17, like most of his players. “You should be thrilled I’m not bi. You’d really have had no chance then.”
“I hate how true that is,” Tyler tells me as he ambles toward the door. “Why do I come in here to talk to you again?”
I shrug. “Because no one else listens to your shit like I do?”
“Yeah, that’s probably it.” Leaning up against the doorframe, he asks, “So what are you doing this weekend?”
“I plan to spend the better part of the next 48 hours in bed. Sleeping. Alone. Well, as alone as I can be with a small dog who takes up 85% of the available real estate.” I smile. I can’t help it. I love my dog, okay?
“Wow. You know how to have a wild time, man. You should really consider slowing down some,” Tyler jokes. His watch beeps and he startles. “Gotta go. Have a good weekend, Jase.”
I give him a wave before he steps out the door. “Good luck tonight.”
With a few clicks of the mouse, I’ve restored a school-appropriate screensaver. I doubt it’ll stay until mid-day on Monday, because… teenagers. Taking one more look around the media center, I decide all is well enough for now and go to gather my things. I shove my water bottle and a truly shameful number of coffee mugs into my messenger bag to take home and run through the dishwasher. I don’t even really like coffee, but I have come to accept that I cannot survive the hours I keep without it.
Yawning again, I am extremely cognizant of the fact that here at 3 pm, I’ve been up for nearing 12 hours already, which is obviously insane. But it’s pretty normal at this point—one of the hazards of having a side hustle on the other side of the world. The time difference between here and South Korea is not insignificant, and if I want to be accommodating to my students (kind of a necessity if I want to get paid) I work with them during the hours they’re available. And the afternoon or evening for them is the wee hours of morning for me.
Locking the doors and walking to the parking lot, the mugs clink and clatter against each other in a way that should probably concern me more if I don’t want broken pieces of ceramic all over the inside of my bag. They were all freebies from various conferences and vendors trying to talk me into exclusivity agreements with their book companies, so I’m not exactly attached to any of them. I know better than to take the things I really care about to school with me after losing a few too many sentimental objects to bizarre student-related circumstances.
Even though I worked with grade-school students while I was teaching in Seoul, I never had anything get broken or go missing. But American high school students? They seem to be able to break and/or lose literally anything in an impressively short amount of time.
Which reminds me, I have to pick up treats and a new stuffie for Noel. Despite her small size, she can disassemble those “impossible to destroy” toys like some kind of tiny chaos demon fueled by aggression and rage at being forced to live this life as a miniature poodle-chihuahua mix. The most recent victim—an octopus that was supposed to be able to survive the wrath of large dogs with outrageous bite strength—had lasted about two days before I found it tentacle-less in a heap of cotton fluff behind the couch. Two of the eight arms were never recovered, and I can only imagine what kind of fate they met.
A quick trip through the pet store somehow manages to ring up at nearly $75 of impulse purchases, but she’s got turkey tendons and pork rolls, and possibly the most abstract looking butterfly I’ve ever seen, as well as a very sparkly, fuzzy bottle-shaped squeaker that reads “pup the champagne,” because she deserves it. My mother accuses me of spoiling her and she’s not wrong, but she has kind of come around as well, even having a sticker on the back of her car proclaiming her love for her grand-dog-ter.
There’s nothing quite like coming home to Noel and seeing her waiting at the door, tail wagging and paws tippy-tapping on the floor. I realize that it’s just as likely she’s excited about the bags I’m carrying and less so that I have returned, but I’m still going to assume that I am the source of her joy.
??
I toss Noel a chew bone as I glance at the clock. Knowing how extremely punctual Kija always is, the phone should be ringing right about… now. I can’t help but grin at the sound. It’s nice to know there are some things that will never change. I tap the screen to answer. “Hello, Kija.”
“What’s up, brother?” he asks, chuckling because American greetings still amuse him.
I can picture his annoyingly handsome face, smiling. Sometimes we video chat and I am never not a little bit jealous of just how incredibly attractive he is, maybe even more so now than he was when we met years ago. I’d thought for the briefest of moments that maybe we could have been something more than friends that first night at the bar, before realizing how unfortunately straight he was.
Kija had been a stressed out university student trying to drink himself into relaxation, while I was homesick and frustrated at the pressure my students were feeling to succeed even as seven-and-eight year olds. Bonding over bottles of our favorite brand of Korean beer, we’d become fast friends, meeting up regularly while I lived in Seoul and staying in touch even as I returned home to the States.
I helped him brush up on his English skills while he studied for his business degree, and he’d become my social director, introducing me to people, places and things I’d have never gone out to find on my own. I was grateful for him then and I still am. Despite the distance between us, I would absolutely call him my best friend.
“To what do I owe this Friday evening surprise?” I ask. We usually schedule calls for Saturday my time—which is Sunday for him—so this Friday/Saturday situation was a little out of the ordinary. But when he’d texted me earlier and requested to chat, I’d been more than happy to adjust and see what was going on.
“We have to keep the relationship interesting, yeah? Isn’t there some saying about that?”
I pause for a moment, wondering if he’s thinking of English or Korean, but I don’t come up with anything for either. “I have no idea. Probably.”
He laughs again. “No matter. We have a debut coming up, and it’s about to get even more hectic, so I wanted to talk to you now. Check in, get proof of life.”
“Ah, yes, debut time,” I remark, only vaguely understanding what that really means. I know his life gets chaotic and stressful, and he watches a lot of charts and frets about numbers of hits on videos, but that’s not the whole story.
I was barely aware of k-pop when I lived in Korea, and I can’t say I know anything else about it now, other than the fact that Kija works for Task Force Entertainment, one of the biggest labels in the industry. I’m not even entirely sure what his role is, but having sat through many a noraebang night with him, I am positive it has nothing to do with any of the artists or making music. He’s a spreadsheet kind of guy, so I assume he does business-y things while other more creatively inclined folks take care of the actual production of songs and such.
Kija groans a little. “You know how it is. Always trying to find the next big thing.”
“Oh, definitely. I’m sure the pressure I feel to predict the next book I need to buy multiple copies of to make sure no one has to wait too long to check it out is exactly the same as you trying to plan for global domination by a boyband,” I tell him, rolling my eyes hard enough he can probably hear it.
“Girl group,” he corrects.
“My apologies.”
It’s not that I don’t support what he does or take his job seriously, I just don’t understand most of it. From what I can tell, everything about k-pop is kind of the polar opposite of the way people seem to stumble into celebrity in the western world by posting a few covers on YouTube or however it works these days. We don’t talk much about what he does, and I think that’s because he realizes I don’t get it and probably because there are crazy strict rules about basically everything related to the company. I learned that a long time ago, when I had actually asked a few questions and was told, very seriously, that he literally could not tell me, thanks to the volumes of legal documents he’d signed upon being hired.
Sometimes, I think I’m jealous of the extremely divergent paths our lives have taken. Not that we were ever in the same place, other than both being physically in Seoul for a while. Kija graduated and got picked up by Task Force and has steadily risen through their ranks. I came back home and got promoted from working with the under-10 crowd to hanging out with 14-18 year olds. I love my job and my students, but comparatively it’s just, well, not as cool .
As we catch up on the past couple of weeks since our last call and he shares the latest news from our friend group, including an engagement, that feeling of discontent settles a little deeper. I always wonder what would have happened if I’d stayed in South Korea or if I’d found a way to go back. I always wanted to, but had never been able to make it work on a teacher’s salary.
I could never justify spending the kind of money that trip would take—maxing out a credit card for it—while I was still paying off student loans. Kija had offered me a place to stay numerous times, and even some of his frequent flier miles during an especially pitiful period of whining. But I could never bring myself to take advantage of his generosity, hoping I’d be able to pull it off on my own someday. The tutoring that I do with Korean students keeps the dream alive, allowing me to keep my language skills sharp and have some sort of connection with a place I love so much.
“Maybe you can make it for the wedding,” Kija suggests.
I huff a little, like I always seem to do when one of the other guys we used to hang out with comes up. We exchange messages sometimes, but none of them keep in contact like Kija. “I mean, Dae-Ho would have to invite me first, but yes, that would be a great reason to get back.”
“We already talked about you, so assume you’ll be making the trip,” he informs me.
I’m more than a little pleased to know that. “Guess it’s time to look into that strip club downtown and see if they’re hiring if I have to start saving for a plane ticket.” I laugh, only half joking. I’m pretty sure getting naked for cash would go against the school district’s personnel policies about public behavior, but I am definitely going to have to think about where that money is coming from.
Kija legitimately snorts at the suggestion. “I’m sure the locals would love to see that, but I may have a better offer.”
“I already told you, Kija, I am not going to volunteer to let people practice hapkido on me. I don’t think I can get paid to get tossed around like a ragdoll.”
“Which is unfortunate, because I assume there would be a fairly large audience willing to donate money to watch that,” he comments. “But I was wondering if you’d be willing to take on another student. He’s not really looking for lessons; he’s been studying on his own. I think he just wants to feel more confident in conversation.”
“Um. Maybe? I can probably find some time a couple of days a week,” I manage. The idea of taking on another client feels exhausting on top of my already crazy schedule.
I know he hears the hesitation in my voice, because the next thing he offers is an hourly rate that’s over quadruple what I normally make per session. I can only guess that this must be because the person is an absolute asshole and has already burned through all their other options. “That much… just to talk. This isn’t some sort of undercover video sex thing, right?”
The sound that comes from the other end of the line is something between a laugh and a shout. “You are probably the last person I’d try to convince to do virtual sex work. I just thought you could probably use the money. And the social interaction.”
I’m not sure which part of that I should be most offended by.
We talk a little bit longer—I ask him to describe in explicit detail the last meal he ate at my favorite restaurant in Seoul because I miss legit Korean food so badly I regularly dream about it, and he tells me about a member in one of the groups that he’s pretty sure has a crush on him. I share Rae’s assessment of my not-hockey-player- not-dad-bod, and he laughs so hard he may actually have teared up a little.
As we hang up, I’m feeling especially grateful for him—his friendship and presence in my life. For as long as I’ve known him, Kija has always been thoughtful and always looked out for me, and I appreciate that he continues to try to help me however he can. Even if this new client is a total douchebag, I’m going to trust that Kija knows what he’s doing by setting me up with him.