I scrambled after Ha-neul, dragging my guitar case. The thing had been my security blanket for the 16-hour journey; now it just felt like a 10-kilo anchor advertising my weirdness.
"Hey, jam-kkan... wait!" I called out in Korean.
Ha-neul didn't slow down, but she didn't exactly run away, either. She just moved with a practiced, brisk walk, forcing me to half-jog to keep up.
We pushed through the giant glass-and-steel doors, and I stopped dead.
If the outside was an 18th-century manor, the inside was a 21st-century art museum. The ceilings were two stories high, with massive skylights that flooded the hall with bright, morning light. The floor was a gleaming, polished light-wood that reflected the sky. Instead of a "Beauty and the Beast" staircase, a grand, sweeping set of white marble stairs curved up to the second floor, looking more like a modern sculpture.
The walls were white and vast, displaying huge, impressive pieces of student art—a massive abstract canvas here, a complex wire sculpture there. It was clean, bright, and incredibly expensive-looking.
And then there were the students.
Hundreds of them. All in the most beautiful, terrifyingly chic uniform I had ever seen. The boys wore dark blazers with the school's crescent-moon-and-willow-tree crest, crisp white shirts, and tailored trousers. The girls, like Ha-neul, wore the same blazer over a plaid skirt and a neat ribbon tie. They moved in sleek, confident packs, their hair perfect, their expensive-looking backpacks all matching.
It was 2015, but this was a different species of teenager.
And then there was me. A guy in a plain white t-shirt (slightly wrinkled from my suitcase), baggy jeans, and scuffed sneakers. I was holding a guitar case. I had a plastic name tag pinned to my chest that just said "Mountain." I had never, in my entire life, felt more like I was in the wrong place.
The noise in the grand hall, a low, civilized murmur, died as we entered. It was like I'd hit the "mute" button on a remote. Every. Single. Head. Turned.
I could feel the stares—a physical weight. I didn't need to be fluent to understand the whispers. "...waegukin?..." (Foreigner?) "...gyobog-i eobs-eo..." (He has no uniform...) "...seolma, jyeon-ib-saeng...?" (No way, a transfer student...?) "...scholarship student..."
My face felt like it was on fire. I suddenly wished my guitar case was big enough to climb into.
Ha-neul's pace quickened. Oh, she was definitely embarrassed. Her "perfect" image was being tarnished by the international baggage her parents had saddled her with.
"We're going to the main auditorium," she said, her voice tight, speaking to the air in front of her. "The opening ceremony. You... you can wait in the back. I have to go sit with my class."
"Wait, where do I...?"
She pointed to a set of tall, brushed-aluminum doors at the end of the hall. "Just... go there. Wait by the entrance. Someone will find you."
And with that, she veered off, disappearing into a group of girls who all looked exactly like her. She was gone. Just like that.
I was alone. In a sea of designer blazers. Okay, Motuzenko. Global ambassador. Don't mess it up. I took a deep breath, gripped my guitar case, and began the walk of shame across the polished wood floor. My sneakers made an embarrassing squeak-squeak-squeak sound that seemed to echo in the giant space.
I reached the double doors of the auditorium and tucked myself into an alcove, trying to become one with the wall. I could see inside—it was a massive, theater-style hall, and it was packed.
This is fine. I thought, my heart hammering. This is the dream. You're in a K-drama. This is just the awkward introduction. Any minute now...
"Oleksandr Motuzenko-ssi?"
I jumped, nearly dropping my guitar. A woman in her thirties, with a sharp, stylish bob cut and intelligent eyes behind fashionable glasses, was smiling at me. She wasn't in uniform; she wore a blouse and trousers.
"Ah, ye. Yes. But... 'San,' please. San-ibnida."
"Ah, San-ssi," she said, her Korean warm and clear. "I am Choi Eun-ji. The international student coordinator. Welcome to Kirin." She gave a short, professional bow, which I awkwardly returned.
"It's nice to meet you, seonsaengnim (teacher)."
Her eyes drifted to my t-shirt and jeans, then back to my face. Her smile remained polite and kind. "I see your uniform isn't ready yet."
"Ah, no. I just... I just landed," I said, feeling the need to explain.
"I know," she said, her smile becoming genuine. "Don't worry. We'll get you measured after the ceremony. For today, you're our 'special guest.' Now, you can't bring this into the hall." She gently tapped my guitar case. "My office is just around the corner. You can leave it there. It will be safe."
I've never been more relieved to part with my guitar.
When I returned, she gestured for me to follow her.
"We'll sit in the back, with the staff. You'll be less... conspicuous."
"Thank you," I breathed, full of gratitude.
"The principal's speech is very long, San-ssi," she whispered, leaning in as we slipped through the doors. "It's about 'tradition' and 'artistic spirit.' It's the same speech as last year. Try not to fall asleep."
I immediately liked her.
We sat in the shadows of the back row, where all the teachers sat. The lights dimmed. A spotlight hit the stage. A man in an expensive suit began to speak. My Korean was decent, but his was fast, formal, and... boring. Ms. Choi was right. My eyes drifted over the students. A thousand identical dark-haired heads, all facing forward.
For some reason, I started rhyming his speech with curse words of Ukrainian and English, it not only helped me to not fall asleep after exhausting flight but also cheered me up.(?)
Then the principal said, "...and now, a word from our student body president, a model for us all, Park Jun-seo!"
Polite, but massive, applause. A boy stood up from the front row and walked onto the stage. And, oh. Oh, no.
He was, without a doubt, the most handsome guy I had ever seen. He looked like a statue. He had perfect hair, a charismatic smile that hit the back row, and an aura of confidence that was practically blinding. He was the K-drama lead. The whole school was in love with him; you could feel it.
He took the microphone, and the auditorium went completely silent. "Good morning, everyone," he said, and his voice was like honey.
I, "Mountain" in the white t-shirt, just slumped down in my seat. I wasn't the main character. I wasn't even the quirky sidekick. I was the weird foreign exchange student, and that guy... that guy was the star.