NYXIS

Yun POV.



An audition. Finally. Pulling the flier from the metal pole, I run home. An audition! My heart pounds from both the exercise and the excitement. As I round the corner to my tiny house, I smack into a man as firm as a wall.

“Ah! Sorry!” I scream, bowing quickly and running off. When I finally slide into my mother’s bedroom, I am so out of breath I can barely stand.

“Yun? Baby, what’s wrong?” she asks, straining herself to sit up. I catch my breath quickly and push her back down, not wanting her to pass out on me. Her delicate eyebrows clench in worry and her chapped lips look pale. In fact, all of her looks pale. “Yun?”

“Umma, look!” I shove the crumpled piece of paper into her hands and pant, resting my hands on my knees. She scans it and looks up at me. Her eyes are wide and happy, but her lips are taught. My stomach drops.

“Yun, do you really think this is a good idea? Those entertainment companies are really harsh, and if you do make it, you’ll fall behind in your studies,” she says, glancing at the paper again. I sigh and nod. Singing is what I want to do. Dancing is what I love to do. And getting paid for it would just be a bonus.

My mother reads the flier one last time before handing it back to me. “Well, I support you, Yun, but please, be careful.” I smile and lean down to hug her. She strains to hug me back and I tut.

“Umma, rest. Don’t hurt yourself,” I say, kissing her forehead and skipping out of the room. I skip into my room and fall onto my bed. Glancing at the calendar on my wall, I gasp. The fifth? The audition is on the fifth! Saturday is the fifth! Only two days to prepare! Do I need to have something to sing? Do I need a dance to perform? Do I need a speech to present? What do I need?

If I had a computer, I would look it up. In fact, if I had a computer, I might be able to choose a popular song instead of one I’ve got on CD. Will they not know the song I choose? Will they not like it? Will they think that I’m too old-fashioned? What about my dance? If I just make something up, will they think I’m mental? If I copy another group’s, will they think I’m unoriginal? What if I’m actually bad at dancing? Will they ask me to rap? I can hardly talk normally, let alone rap! Speaking of talking, what if I stutter? What if I freeze? Oh god. What if they just hate me?

I shove my face into my hands and force myself to stop. I will be fine. If they don’t like me, they don’t like me. There’s nothing to lose. I haven’t been counting on this for my future, after all. I can always keep doing well in school and get into a good university. Singing and dancing doesn’t have to be my life.

But I’d like it to be.

~*~

When I wake up, my head is pounding. I realize I fell asleep with my knuckles pressed into my right temple. Groaning, I run my fingers through my hair and fall back into soft fabric. Glancing at my clock, which reads nearly six, I gasp and jump out of bed.

Late! I can’t be late! After hastily kissing my mother’s sleeping forehead, I run out of my house. My uniform tie is loose and sloppy around my neck and my hair is a scrambled mess. As I rush towards my school, my bag collapses in upon itself, sending all my books and paper flying. I stop and let out a quick shout, turning and beginning to pick them all up. Suddenly, someone is standing above me.

“Well, well, well. What do we have here? Does little Yun have a problem?” I recognize the voice as Kim Young’s. I feel his foot meet my stomach and I topple over.

“Hey, look, the little girly’s notes! They’re so pretty! I think I’ll just keep these,” Young’s wingman and brother, Kyung, says, collecting my papers. Sneering, I stand.

“I’m not a girl! And give me those back!” I reach for my papers, but Kyung holds them over my head. There’s no way I can reach them. I could just let him keep my notes. I don’t really need them, but I spent forever on them. He’s got tons of my other notes, so it really shouldn’t be that much of an issue, but something feels different now. Now I’ve got a plan for my life. And if I’m going to be in a music group, I can’t let people walk all over me.

“Oh, look, little Yun’s given up!” Young jeers, punching his brother playfully in the shoulder. Kyung laughs and crumples my notes up before shoving them into his bag. I cringe. I’m a bit obsessive about keeping my things neat, but then again, they’re not mine anymore. Or are they?

“Kyung, Young, give them back to me. Now,” I demand, setting my hands on my hips in what I hope is a mildly intimidating stance. Kyung’s eyes widen for a moment before he doubles over in laughter. His brother soon follows, and I take advantage of the moment. I kick the back of Young’s knees, causing him to fall to the ground. Kyung, who hadn’t noticed, straightens up a bit. When he did, I send my toe into his stomach. He falls next to his brother. As quickly as I can, I root through his bag until I find my notes.

“Hey! You don’t get those back!” Young shouts as he begins to stand again. Sticking my tongue out at him and grabbing the rest of my things, I run away from them and closer to the school.

I’m out of breath when I finally make it to class, but happy, nonetheless. The smile on my face can’t be suppressed, and even with everyone asking ‘what’s wrong with girly boy?’, I can’t stop. Until my teacher, Seonsaeng Park, slams her ruler over my knuckles for being late.

“Mae-ssi,” she hisses. I feel my cheeks grow dark in embarrassment. “Late, are we? Well, I guess I’ll be seeing you in detention!” She pushes me towards my seat. I keep my head down until I hear the door open. Glancing up, I notice Kim Kyung walk into the room. Seonsaeng Park just smiles at him and continues with her lesson. I deflate. I shouldn’t expect anything different, though. The Kim brothers are popular, rich, handsome, and smart. There’s no reason teachers shouldn’t love them and give them every opportunity. It still hurts, though.

~*~

Detention feels like it takes forever, even if it’s only an hour. When it’s over, Seonsaeng Park dismisses me with a flick of her wrist. I drag my bags to the school library and sit at a desktop computer. I need to find a song to sing and a dance to perform.

When I next glance at the clock, my eyes widen. How had I been searching for the perfect song for two hours? I found it, though. Finally. Pulling my bag together, I stretch and walk through the empty hallways to the exit. I count myself lucky that I don’t run into either of the Kim brothers. I’m glad it’s Friday. I don’t have to see them for the next two days. I love weeks like this. Last week, I only had Sunday away from them.

When I make it home, I’m exhausted, but I know that I have to cook for mother. I stop by her room and say hello, but when I push aside the curtains that separate her from the hallway, my breath catches in my throat. She looks pale. Paler than normal. Her cheeks and eyes are sunken, and the movement in her chest I can count on isn’t there. My heart skips a beat and I fall to my knees. I don’t even need to be next to her to know what’s happened. I just know. I’ve been expecting and dreading this moment for ages, ever since she was diagnosed, but even still, it hits me like a sudden blow to the gut.

I don’t even feel the tears pouring down my cheeks. I don’t feel the burning in my chest as I continue to restrict breath. I don’t feel my nails digging into my palms, drawing blood. All I feel is my mother’s warmth on my shoulder, her hand rubbing down my back and tousling my hair. But she’s static on her bed, her big brown eyes closed and her lips turned slightly upwards. She was happy.

Maybe that should make me feel better. Maybe she wanted this. Maybe she was sick of staying in her bed all the time. Maybe she’s finally happy. But how could she be happy knowing I’m so sad?

I’m selfish. Selfish and jealous. Of my dead mother.

“Umma, I’ll prove to you,” I say through thick tears, “that I’m the best son you could’ve possibly had. I’ll go to that audition and I’ll do my best. And if I don’t get it, I’ll go back to school on Monday and be the best student I can. No matter what, Umma, I will make you proud.”

~*~

The Jangmi Ballroom is full of handsome boys. I feel very out of place. They all seem to have very light hair and big eyes, pale skin and muscular arms. I am not like them. I am short and boyish, while they are manly. My hair is dark and long, but not cut stylishly like theirs. My eyes are big like my mother’s, but light hazel like my father’s. That’s what my mother said, at least. I’d never seen the man; he left for America when I was born and never came back. I don’t care about him. He’s nothing to me and never will be.

I begin to hum the song I had chosen at school, but I cut myself off. I can’t sing this. I can’t sing someone else’s song. Slowly, I think of words that describe how I feel. Lost. Broken. Hopeful. Sad. Excited. Nervous. Stressed. A melody comes from nowhere and soon, I find myself humming my own song.

Boys disappear through large doors one at a time. They don’t come back. I wonder if they’ve made the cut. I wonder if they have beautiful voices and smooth dance moves. Soon, I am one of the last people in the room. The only other boys are a group about two years older than me in the corner. The massive doors open and a tall woman with a clipboard steps out again.

“Mae Yun?” she calls, confusion ringing in her voice. I stand and walk to her, pushing a smile onto my face. She cocks her head to the side for a moment. “Isn’t Yun a girl’s name?”

Nodding, I sigh. My mother wanted a daughter. My father did not. Mother told me that she was pregnant once before she had me. It was a girl, so Father forced her to abort it. She still talks about Sun sometimes.

I bite my tongue harshly. She doesn’t still talk about Sun. Mother is dead. She can’t mourn my never-sister anymore. Maybe they’re together now. Mother would love that. Maybe Sun is a beautiful girl. Maybe Mother is more proud of her daughter than she is of her son. Maybe she doesn’t care how well I do in this audition or in school or even in life because she has Sun to fawn over.

“Yun-ssi? Are you okay?” the woman asks, her gentle eyebrows pressed together. I blink rapidly and wipe away a stray tear.

“Yes, I’m fine, thank you,” I say, my voice quivering slightly. She smiles softly and leads me to a room. In the room are two older men and a mature woman at a table. The lady with the clipboard bows lightly and hands the judges my application form.

“This is Mae Yun. He is sixteen years old and from here,” she says before leaving. I stand in front of the three judges, my hands clenched at my sides. Gulping, I try to make myself look less nervous. I watch as they appraise me and I can’t help but think that I should’ve worn something more flattering. My grey jeans are loose, but fitted, and my t-shirt is a distressed green. My silvery cardigan looks cheap compared to the female judge’s beautiful blazer. I feel underdressed and embarrassed. I shouldn’t be here. There’s no way I could possibly be a singer!

“Yun? A pretty girly name, isn’t it?” the older man jokes, laugh lines appearing at his eyes and lips. The woman smiles tersely, her cherry red lipstick barely pulling at her lips. “Anyway, Mae Yun, is it? And you’re here to sing and dance, I see. Will you try a bit of modeling and speaking, as well? Maybe even rap a little?” the man continues. I gulp and nod numbly.

“So, Maeyun-ssi, care to tell us why you’ve decided to come this afternoon?” the other man asks, running a hand through his western red hair. I hesitate. Do I tell them about Mother? Is it too personal? After all, she’s still lying in her bed at home, a small smile still on her lips. I can’t move her. She looks so happy there. With Sun.

“Mae Yun?” the woman asks, her voice slightly kinder than I expected. I blink again, thankful none of my tears had fallen.

“I’m here because of my mother. She is—was a beautiful mother. She told me I could do anything. She loved me wholly. When she was diagnosed with Tuberculosis last year, she had to stop working and live in her bed. I worked hard to keep her well and still do well in school, but last night,” I pause. It’s a long pause as I try to collect myself. I can’t. Instead, tears pour freely from my eyes. “Last night, she, she,” I stutter. I can’t say it. Not aloud. But I have to. To start healing. To be the best son my mother could’ve wished for. “She passed away.” My voice is barely a whisper, but I know the judges heard me. The woman’s gasp was only a small indicator.

“Oh, my,” she murmurs, standing from her chair and coming up to me. She coos in my ear and pulls me to her chest, rubbing her hand up and down my back. Like Mother. I cry harder. “Shh, Yun, shh. It’s okay,” she continues. After a few moments, I compose myself and pull away from her.

“I’m so sorry, please forgive me,” I say, bowing deeply. The woman tuts and goes back to her seat.

“Don’t be sorry. But, if you can, would you still like to sing for us?” I nod and take a deep breath, remembering my lyrics and tune. Suddenly, I smell my mother’s warm hugs and see her laughing face.

“Time has been so cruel to us,
She twists my arm and breaks my bones,
She holds your breath and smiles.
She gives me pain and gives you love.
She makes it worse.

When I wake, my eyes drift to you.
I cry again because I know you’re finally happy.
I cry again because you’re forever and I’m mortal.
I cannot imagine how happy you must be.
Because I will never be.

Fear has no place anymore.
He cannot invade me anymore.
I am immune because of you.
You showed me what is real.
And it remains.

When I wake, my eyes drift to you.
I cry again because I know you’re finally there.
I cry again because you’re there and I am not.
I cannot imagine how it must appear.
Because I will never see it.

Pain isn’t what I feel for you.
Pain is far too weak a word for this.
Love might be adequate, only maybe.
Love is much harsher than pain.
Pain would be nice.

When I wake, my eyes drift to you.
I cry again because I know you’re holding her.
I cry again because you’re loving and I am not.
I cannot imagine how sad I must look.
Because I don’t know myself.”

The woman is crying. The older man is furiously scribbling at a piece of paper, and the middle judge just has his chin cupped in his palm, his lips in a small smile. “What song was that?” he asks, picking up his pen. I gulp and wipe away a fallen tear. I hadn’t named it. What do I say?

"Um, it doesn’t have a name.” I can’t lie, not to these people. The woman stares at me curiously.

“Yun-ssi, did you write that?” I nod, biting my lip. She stands and begins to clap quietly. The older man joins her, and soon, the middle judge is on his feet, too. I sink to my knees and begin to bow furiously. I feel my cheeks go pink as I slump into myself.

Looking up, I smile as wholly as I can. “Should I dance for you?” The older man nods. Standing, I shake out my muscles as I remember the dance I had crudely thrown together last night at school. It was an odd mash-up of many other groups’ dances; hardly brilliant. I sigh and let my mind start playing the upbeat pop song I’d chosen.

My legs and arms start moving first, my torso and head soon following. I don’t know if I’m actually doing what I had planned, but I don’t care. It feels right. My feet slide and my chest pops as I listen to the music in my head. When the song ends, I begin to slow. When I still, I open my eyes to look at the judges. They look intrigued, but maybe not in the best way.

“Okay, well. Maeyun-ssi, can you strike a pose or two?” the middle judge asks, weaving his fingers together. I freeze and try to recall all the magazines Mother read. Pictures of beautiful girls filled my head and I tried to imitate them as I pulled my body into unnatural positions.

“You pose like a girl! It’s so cute!” the woman exclaims, giggling lightly. I blush and brush a few strands of hair from my face. “Do another!” she says, and I obey. I don’t mean to look like a girl when I pose, but I feel awkward trying to contort myself to look masculine and muscular. All music groups have their weakling, right? Even though it may not be most preferable, I would rather be the little girly boy than be in my house, tending to a dead mother.

“And would you mind reading this speech,” the older man asks, handing me a piece of fresh paper. Glancing at it, I notice it’s an acceptance speech. For an award I’d probably never win.

Clearing my throat, I begin. “Thank you! On behalf of this group, I thank everyone—our fans, our listeners, our crew, everyone that’s ever helped us. We’ve come from nothing, and to be here on this stage, accepting this award, it’s amazing. Thank you all,” I finish, dipping into a bow. I didn’t mean to, but with the tone of the speech, it was natural. The panel of judges clap politely.

“Do you feel comfortable rapping?” the woman asks. I quickly shake my head.

“I’m sorry, but no. I can hardly speak,” I joke. They laugh lightly and continue to scribble on their papers. The older man finally stops and looks up to me.

“Do you have a phone number we can contact you at? You haven’t added one to your application.”

I gulp. “No, sorry. I don’t have a phone,” I attempt to explain. “But maybe you could call my school?” The woman nods and hands me a pen to jot down the number. I do, feeling ashamed of my spidery handwriting next to her pristine script.

“We’ll be in touch,” the middle judge says, calling for the woman that escorted me into the room. The young lady enters the room and leads me out.

“I heard you singing. You’ve got a beautiful voice and a brilliant mind,” she says. I blush and shake my head, but she tuts. “No. You really do. And don’t let anyone tell you any differently.” I smile and thank her quietly. She shows me the lobby of the hotel and bids me farewell.

I return home to tell Mother the news.