My Summer in Seoul

“Sorry.” I gulped. “I just— I’m really out of my element, and I’m still trying to figure out why I need to babysit fellow interns. Can’t we get an adult for that?”

It was a joke.

She didn’t laugh.

In fact, her skin turned a shade of white I’d never before seen on another human being and probably never would.

She grabbed my free arm, nearly knocking all of the water bottles out of them, and dragged me to the kitchen. I clumsily placed the bottles on the countertop while she braced her hands against the stark white granite. “They aren’t interns. You’re the intern.”

“Right.” I nodded, on the verge of stressed-out tears. “Okay, then who are they, and why are they here?”

“Did nobody brief you? On anything? At all?”

“Not really. It happened fast. Siu—”

“No, no, you call him Owner Siu. He’s the owner of the record company. Or in Korean, Soyuja Siu. You always address the person with their job title before their name. Otherwise, you’re being rude. Did your family never teach you about honorifics? Are you even half Korean?” Each word felt like another blow to my gut.

Because not fitting in had always been a big insecurity until college and now I felt like I was back in middle school with all the blond-haired, blue-eyed girls.

And other than Uncle Siu, who I’d only met briefly when I was younger, I didn’t have any family on my dad’s side, unless you count super distant relatives. It was like Solia knew every single insecurity I already had and decided to just bang me over the head until I had a breakdown.

Another rough exhale from my favorite person. “I’m Assistant Solia to you, by the way, not just Solia.” Did she have to make it sound like I said her name while dealing with a sinus infection on top of everything else? “I help Soyuja Siu manage the band; you’re just the…” She shrugged. “You’re the person who makes sure that they want for nothing. You’re not even really an intern, at least not according to me. Look, we have someone starting from another label in three months, but until then, and because the scandal was leaked to the press, it’s…” She hesitated then. “You, that he trusts, probably because you don’t even know who they are and don’t care. Your job is to be silent, not seen, not heard. Your job is to do what we tell you and do it well.”

“Sorry,” I whispered yet again, feeling both agitated and embarrassed. What else was I supposed to say? At this point, the entire apartment building had probably heard our conversation, seen my shame.

“You didn’t know. Of course, you don’t know a lot of anything—this is so typical of Soyuja! He likes helping people. And he was probably so desperate for someone who didn’t know the whole situation since the last few interns quit—” Her head shot up. “Don’t repeat that, by the way.”

“Wouldn’t dare.” I held up my hands while my brain did the calculations. Every other intern had quit. I was from America; I knew nothing about the record industry in Korea other than it was a booming multi-billion-dollar industry.

K-pop was huge, at least according to the five articles I had read before falling asleep on the plane.

“Your only job as an intern is to make sure the guys are happy, that they don’t escape the talent apartments, and that they don’t accidentally create another scandal before their comeback.”

“So those guys in there?” I was almost afraid to hear her answer but asked it anyway.

She straightened her spine with pride and announced. “One of the biggest K-pop groups in the world, SWT.” She gulped. “Those are the idols.”

I… was afraid of that.

“Perfect,” I croaked, ready to pass out on the spot. “Good thing we really seemed to hit it off.”

She let out a snort. “I expected them to throw you out the window and take bets on how many seconds it would take for you to hit the trees.”

“Ah, sarcasm.” I crossed my arms.

“I was being serious.” She scowled. “You don’t make it to this level without hard work. You’re lucky because of who you know, but I’ve been working this job since I was fourteen and became a trainee for an idol group at the same age. I had exactly three hours of sleep every night for four years, still couldn’t make the cut. I finally decided to join the other side and work for the groups.”

“Trainee?” I repeated. “What’s a trainee?”

Again with the death glare. “You need to do yourself a favor and start YouTubing, or even Soyuja isn’t going to be able to save you.” She looked behind me. “The chef should be here soon to cook dinner for everyone. Let’s get you settled in next door, and I’ll try to help as much as I can. I don’t want to be fired because you’re incompetent. Their diet is essential this close to the comeback stage.”