if that was the perfect job for me, and how long it would take to become qualified. I would really enjoy that—slathering walls with deep colors, painting delicate, fantastical murals. I could see New Yorkers paying a lot of money for home murals.
Hearing voices at the end of the hall, I followed the sound until I came to a partially open door. I pushed it further open recklessly.
It was a study that looked like a movie set of a study, with a mahogany desk in front of the window and floor-to-ceiling shelves lined with books. In the center of the room, four or five people were sitting on two olive sofas that faced each other. They were talking and drinking while a toy poodle sniffed around on the carpet.
“Hey! Come over here.”
The boy I had been talking to downstairs waved from where he was sitting. The conversation paused as I walked toward them, trying not to look self-conscious as all eyes focused on me.
“Here, let me pull up a chair.” He walked to the desk and brought the chair over next to the sofas.
“This is Byung-joon, who lives here,” Jae said, nodding to one of the guys on the other sofa, who lifted his chin in a half nod. “This is— Sorry, what was your name again?” he said, turning to me.
“What the…,” the girl sitting to his right asked, her question turning into a laugh. She had shoulder-length bleached hair and cat-eye glasses. “You don’t even know her name? This is hilarious.”
“I was talking to her downstairs,” he said in a mock-aggrieved voice. “Ruby brought her, they’re best friends.”
With that, the mood shifted from mild to naked interest.
“How do you know Ruby?”
“Did you go to school with her?”
“What year are you at SVA?”
I smiled and said something I’d heard Ruby say once when asked a question she didn’t want to answer. “Don’t worry about it.” This made the others laugh and then they stopped asking questions, looking almost sheepish, before turning back to their previous conversation.
“What was your name again?” I asked the boy.
“Jae,” he said. “Your elder at SVA, so you need to be more respectful to me,” he joked.
I gave a mock deep bow. “Of course, sunbaenim,” I said. “I’m Miho. Are you in art school too?” I asked, turning to Byung-joon.
“Who, me?” asked Byung-joon in astonishment. “No, I’m at NYU.”
“I was just thinking how striking the colors are in this apartment,” I said, my heart beating fast. “So I was wondering if you were an art student, like us.”
“No, no,” he said, almost disdainfully. “My decorator did everything. She flew everything in from Portugal, including the painter. He was included with the paint.”
Byung-joon’s phone rang and he answered in English. “Okay, send him up.” Then, standing, he announced, “Pizza’s here! I ordered Papa John’s!”
Everyone whooped and hollered.
“Dude, I haven’t had Papa John’s since I was in Korea!” “Awesome!” “I’m starving!”
I was still learning the appropriate levels of reaction in this world. Things I should not express shock or delight at. Things I should be overjoyed about. I was not supposed to be amazed by the unusual beauty of the apartment, but thick-crust pizza called for riots.
I stayed sitting while most of the others got up and followed Byung-joon, the puppy yipping at his heels as it followed him out. I looked at Jae out of the corner of my eye. If he moved to leave, then I’d follow.
“You’re not hungry?” he asked, still sitting, and I shook my head. “Not really—we just came from dinner,” I said.
“Me too, but I’m sure I’ll get hungry again in a minute.”
“Should you go down then?”
“No, he usually orders tons—it won’t run out,” said Jae, rolling his eyes. “Then he complains about what it does to his low-carb diet. For dinner he made us get sashimi at his favorite sushi place, but then he gets hungry like, two hours later.”