XOXO (An XOXO Novel)

The rest of the day is a blur. After lunch, I attend orchestra ensemble and meet with my cello instructor for solo performance class. She has me play a few scales and my competition piece from last fall. I’m a little rusty from not practicing for over a week. Then she gives me a schedule to sign up for hours in the academy’s practice rooms. When I bring up the showcase, she tells me we won’t start preparing our pieces until late April.

After class, Gi Taek and I decide to grab a quick dinner down the street at Subway, since Angela’s still at rehearsal.

Back in the dorms, I take a long, hot shower, then wrapped in only a towel, I sprint down to the hall to my room. I can tell Sori’s back because the lights are on when I open the door. As per usual, she doesn’t look up from a dance video she’s watching on YouTube.

Putting on my pj’s, I pick out a sheet mask from the set of ten Halmeoni bought me, slipping out the dewy mask from the package and placing it carefully onto my face. I then plop down onto the bed, phone in hand, laying a towel over the pillow to protect it from my wet hair. Honestly, there’s nothing better than self-care after a long day.

Putting in my earbuds, I pick up my phone. The browser opens to the last thing I googled, right after lunch before I had to rush over to orchestra.

Nathaniel. XOXO. Scandal.

I glance through the bookshelf divider to where Sori’s still watching videos. Is it weird that I’m googling my roommate? It’s none of my business.

Except, it is kind of my business, since I live with her. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself.

I click on the first link. Back in November—around the time XOXO was in LA shooting the music video for “Don’t Look Back”—Bulletin had released photos of XOXO’s Nathaniel with a “mysterious trainee” from Joah Entertainment. Photos of them walking down a dark street holding hands. Photos of them leaving Nathaniel’s dorm, where he lives with the other XOXO members. Photos of them in Nathaniel’s car. The face of the girl in the photo is blurred out, but now that I know her identity, it’s clear the mysterious trainee is Sori—same body, same hair. Same clothes. I can see the pink bomber jacket in one photo hanging on the clothing rack in our room.

I wonder if Joah Entertainment paid Bulletin not to reveal Sori’s identity. She is the daughter of the CEO. Either that or they weren’t legally able to, Sori being a minor and, as a trainee, not yet a public figure.

“Jenny?”

I almost tumble out of bed in alarm. Sori stands by her desk, one hand on her now-closed laptop, as she looks over in my direction.

“Yes?” Thank God my voice sounds like I haven’t just been stalking her on the internet.

“Never mind.” She moves toward the doorway to turn off the light.

I almost call out for her to wait. Does she want to ask me about Nathaniel? I could ease her mind, that I’m not interested in him, that the person I am interested in is spending more time with her than me. Oh, and that he thinks I’m a shameful secret.

Instead, I say nothing as she shuts off the light and climbs into bed. I take off my sheet mask and place it on my nightstand to throw away in the morning.

She’s not a snorer so it’s silent in the room. I can’t tell if she’s asleep or if—like me—she’s looking at the ceiling, dizzy with thoughts.

I want to ask Sori about herself. What’s it like to be a trainee at Joah Entertainment? Did she always want to be a K-pop star or was it something she had to do, because of who her mother is?

Why is she always alone at school? I haven’t seen her speak to anyone besides Jaewoo. Why did she even opt for having a roommate when she could have had a single? Was she hoping that I, said roommate, could have been a friend? An ally? A confidante?

Had I ruined that when I read that postcard? At this moment, I don’t think I’ve regretted anything more in my life.

Most of all I want to ask her what it’s like, to love someone whom you can never have. Not to say she was in love. . . .

Or that I am.

I wonder if she would have ever started, if she knew how it would all end. . . .

This is the last thought I have as I drift into oblivion.

Sori’s alarm goes off at five the next morning. I lie in bed, listening to her get ready, changing into workout clothes and slipping out the door, duffel bag in hand.

Unlike yesterday, the cafeteria is open for breakfast and I join a bleary-eyed Gi Taek and Angela at our same table from yesterday. They’re sharing a package of morning rolls from the convenience store. Gi Taek passes me one and I nibble on it as my eyes scan the room.

“The members of XOXO won’t be here today,” Gi Taek says, as if reading my mind. “They have rehearsals from nine to eleven, then a taping from two to four.”

“How do you know that?” I ask. That information seemed very specific.

“It’s on their fan café.”

I don’t even want to ask what that is.

Still, I can’t help feeling disappointed that I won’t see either Jaewoo or Nathaniel at school today. I can feel my shoulders drooping as I walk into class and spot their empty desks. Sori’s already seated, so I head on over, glad that I’m neither late nor incorrectly dressed—Angela let me borrow her elastic tie—on the second day of school.

The first class is math, which is an “experience,” as it’s taught in Korean. Luckily, the unit is one I’d already covered at LACHSA and I manage to solve the problem when the teacher calls me to the board.

Afterward, I have study hall/history. As I’m packing up my things, Jina walks over, followed by a boy. They make a point of having a loud conversation in front of my desk.

They’re speaking in slang again, but I recognize a few words, namely bitch and slut.

This girl is the literal worst. It’s like she’s never seen a movie or watched reality TV. Doesn’t she know: the meaner you are, the uglier you get?

Sori abruptly stands up, her chair falling backward behind her. Gathering up her books, she flees from the classroom.

I realize, belatedly, that I wasn’t the target of their torment this time around.

Hurrying out of the classroom, I catch sight of Sori already halfway down the hall. She’s pushing open the door to the girls’ bathroom.

I follow, stepping aside to let two girls exit. They glance over their shoulders, whispering to each other. Inside, the area between the stalls and the sink is empty. The sound of sniffles comes from the last stall, the only one with a closed door.

I approach and knock on the stall door. “Sori? Are you okay?” The sniffles become muffled, as if she’s holding a hand to her mouth. “I heard what Jina said. That wasn’t nice, nor is it true.”

The door opens and I step back. She must be wearing waterproof mascara because her makeup looks immaculate, though the corners of her eyes are red. “How do you know if it’s not true?”

Damn. She doesn’t make this easy. There’s an answer I could give her, that’s easier said in English. That words like “bitch” and “slut” have been used systemically to belittle women and entrench misogyny in all cultures around the world, that I wouldn’t want people to judge me or boil all my decisions down to a single word, without nuance or context or compassion.

We’re just . . . girls. No more, no less. But before I can figure out how to say any of this she says, “I don’t need your pity.” Sori shoulders past me and exits the bathroom with a slam of the door.