I grin at him. He may not be a ballet dancer, but it seems like Fred might really get it. “So should we go get an application?”
I nod. Ten minutes later, I’m standing in front of the admissions office with paperwork in my hands.
“I hope you give it a thought, June,” Fred says.
He hands me a Post-it. “Call me if you need help,” he says, then walks away. Maybe NYU could be a place for me, I find myself thinking. Maybe it could be just what I need.
I sit on the bench, waiting for what seems like eternity. Broadway bustles around me, students, tourists, and cabs with horns blaring. Artsy types, all tattoos and pink hair, come out of the building, nodding in my direction like maybe I’m that girl from their art appreciation class, that small glimmer of recognition that doesn’t really exist at all. There are endless waves of people coming in and out of those doors, just in the span of a few minutes. The ballet world is so small, so intimate. Just this one building here is teeming with dancers.
When Jayhe finally shows up, he’s grinning from ear to ear. “I met one of my professors and showed him the drawings I did—the ones of you that I put up on my website. He said they were an excellent start, that they should definitely become part of my freshman portfolio. Isn’t that great?” He beams, then remembers to ask. “What did you think of the dance school? It looks pretty badass, right?”
“It was awesome.” Then I blurt out what’s been stressing me. “But maybe it’s too much—I mean, there are so many people. How would I fit in?” More important, how would I stand out?
“June, don’t you know by now?” He’s leaning down, looking at my face in that way that sends my heart spiraling with joy every time. “You’re not meant to fit in. You’re one of a kind.”
He bends lower to kiss me, taking my face in his hands, letting his fingers run through my hair. He leans back a bit, looking at me again. “And this was an amazing surprise.”
“Don’t get too excited. I’m still thinking about things. I’m looking at my options.” I can’t make any promises. “I do know one thing, though.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“It’s lunchtime.”
He smiles, and we head east. But even as we walk away, hand in hand, one thought repeats in my head: all we really have is now.
That night, I spend hours poring over the NYU catalog online. I’ve filled out the application already, but I still can’t decide if I want to hit the official submit button. They’ve got all different styles of dance—ballet, tap, jazz, modern, and different regional stuff like Fred said. They’ve got acting and musical theater and music. They’ve even got dance studies, where you can spend endless days analyzing the way other people move. It seems so broad, so overwhelming, like I’d never figure out how to make a decision about anything there. Like by the time I figured things out, I’d be too old to really do any of them well.
I have to dance. I need to dance. If it can’t be at ABC, it has to be somewhere else that takes ballet seriously. I open up the websites for other major ballet companies. I look up Miami, San Francisco, Los Angeles, Salt Lake City. Some have auditions right here in New York, but others are only in the company’s city, which means I’ve got to get moving if I want to audition. I spend the rest of the night filling out applications. I even book a ticket to San Francisco using the emergency credit card my mother gave me.
See, I tell myself. That casting wasn’t the end of the world.
In fact, it might be just the beginning.
“Sorry, there was traffic,” Jayhe says as I climb into his van. We’re heading to his little cousin’s first birthday at the main restaurant in Queens, and I know he’s nervous. Or maybe I’m nervous. I buckle my seat belt, settling in, so his lips land on my cheek. “Gimme a kiss.”
“Drive,” I say.
“Kiss!”
As he pulls to a stop at the next red, I lean over and give him a small peck, a teaser. I pull away as his hands reach for me. “The light,” I say, as horns blare behind us. I lift up the little red-wrapped box that sits in my lap. “I got her earrings. Are her ears pierced?”
He shrugs and leans heavily on the gas. We’re late, and the van smells like the pork and chive dumplings he probably had to deliver to the new restaurant branch in Brooklyn, which means we will, too. “So you applied?”
“Filled it out yesterday,” I say.
“You excited?”
I nod. I don’t tell him that I think it might be a mistake, that maybe it won’t work out after all.
“Oh, c’mon, June, you’re going to love it there. We’re gonna love it.”
“I hope so.”
“I know so.” Pausing at the next light, he takes my chin in his hand. “All right, say it. Boe heh joo seh yoh.”
“I don’t love you today.” My voice is playful, my mouth a pout. “Because you’re late.”
“Yes, you do. So say it.”
“Will that get you to just drive?”
He grins. I say the Korean phrase. It actually sounds the way it’s supposed to. I’m grinning as he kisses me, and he takes my hand, his other resting on the steering wheel.
“That’s better.” He starts to drive.
“I’m excited to see everyone. It’s been so long,” I say.
“Are you nervous? Don’t worry. You’ve met most of my family already.”
“I was little.”
“You’re still little.”
The restaurant is the first two floors of a three-story red brick building in Elmhurst—the oldest branch, the one his grandma still runs. The moment I step in, the nerves disappear. Even though I’ve only been here once or twice before, this feels like the place I belong, as if I’m just heading home. The celebration room is decked out in a deep burgundy and gold, sparkling streamers cascading from wall to wall, balloons floating up toward the high ceilings.
Baby Mi-Hee sits in a swing that’s been decorated like a throne, gurgling and giggling in a maroon hanbok dress. I remember seeing pictures of a tiny version of myself dressed up like that, in a little blue and gold hanbok.
Jayhe hands me a plate of dumplings as the ceremony starts, watching to make sure I’m eating. Has he talked to my mom?
Jayhe’s uncle makes a few announcements in rapid-fire Korean, then picks the baby up, holding her forward for all to see. I recognize the words: congratulations, family, fortune, and blessed.
“Introducing Mi-Hee.” The room erupts in cheers. “Time for her to pick her fortune.” It’s an old tradition, letting the baby choose her own fate. A bunch of objects—a pen, gold coins, a sewing kit, a thermometer—sit on the table, each predicting a different future for the lucky one. Everyone leans in to watch. Whispers and laughs burst through the room.
Jayhe’s uncle lets the baby hover over the table, her chubby hands landing on this object and that, until she reaches down and finally picks up the coins. “A banker, a banker,” the cheers go up.
I watch the baby playing with her goodies, trying to eat the coins, and I wonder what I picked. I smile at the thought that maybe, just maybe, my mother would have put a ballet slipper out for me to choose.