“What would you call me,” I ask, “if I was Korean?”

His eyes widen. “But you are Korean.”

“No. I look Korean,” I correct him. I want to tell him I feel foreign and strange here even though everyone around me is some version of myself, but this is a club and you don’t do that kind of thing at a club. Clubs are for the Fs: flirting, fun, frolicking . . . fucking. My eyes sweep downward to Yujun’s lap before I realize what I’m doing and jerk my gaze toward a twirling disco ball suspended over his left shoulder. On the list of things that I should not be doing, speculating about Yujun’s package is up near the top—somewhere under getting arrested but above pissing Jules off. That said, thinking about Yujun’s body is better than bemoaning my ignorance.

When I stepped off the plane and saw a sea of black hair and faces that were shaped like mine with eyes like mine and skin color like mine, I thought this was home. But now I’m not so sure, and it’s not because I don’t know the language or the customs. I can’t tell what the gold characters pinned to the wall mean, although I assume it’s “exit” or “bathroom,” or maybe it means “secret hideaway.” Who knows. It could say “organ transplant” for all I know. I came here without doing any homework and I know nothing.

Yujun doesn’t agree. He shakes his head emphatically. “You’re Korean. You don’t know all about your background yet. That’s an easy remedy. There just happens to be a very charming English-speaking Korean who is available for tours and language lessons.”

A slow warmth spreads through my bones. “Maybe I can’t afford this tour guide.”

“He is in great demand,” Yujun allows, “but perhaps he can be convinced to lower his prices.”

“What would it take?”

“I think meals. Definitely several meals together. Lunch and dinner.”

I’m slow, but not that slow. A heady rush of endorphins sweeps through my system and it’s hard to hold back a smile. “You’re very good at this—making it seem like I’m doing you the favor.”

“I’m very good because it’s fate. We never want to fight fate. As for what I would call you? I suppose you would be my charming dongsaeng, which means my young friend who I promise to look out for.”

His answer is vague and evasive, but in the most charming way possible. I cock my head. “Oppa doesn’t mean older brother, does it?”

“Oh, but it does.” His dimple winks into view. “But your friend is right. You mustn’t use it for anyone else.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

I sleep badly. Halfway through the night, I have this lovely dream with Yujun. We are walking down a tree-lined street, holding hands. He is teaching me Korean, pointing out the words for “tree” and “street” and “flower.” Then we stop walking and I look up to see the funeral home in front of me. Boyoung is waving me inside. Yujun keeps up his instruction. The funeral is called a sangrye. The money given in the white envelopes is bujo. I put my hands on my ears and tell him to stop, except I call him oppa. Boyoung morphs into Jules, who shakes her finger in my face and reminds me that I’m not supposed to use that word. Since I’ve violated a rule, the landlady and my father’s girlfriend drag me away—one on each arm—until we arrive in the mourning room. They all push me onto the floor, dress me in white clothes, and start lighting incense sticks around my body. I tell them I’m not dead, but no one seems to hear me. Sleep paralysis seizes me and I can’t move. The covers get heavier and heavier. I try to kick my legs. I try to cry for help. Nothing works. I moan and moan and struggle, and when finally I wake, I am sweating and panting.