Chapter One "Lunchtime," Bujang-nim, my boss, announces with a clap of his hands. "If you work too hard, you won't be productive this afternoon. Go on. Go on." He gestures for us to move. Bujang-nim isn't his name. It's Park Hyunwoo, but everyone refers to him as Bujang-nim. It signifies his leadership role, and Koreans are about class, station, and seniority above all else. The three of us, the only women on Bujang-nim's international marketing team, stare at him for a long, silent moment. When I was installed in this department, I was relieved to see two women and had immediate fantasies that Chaeyoung, Soyou, and I would be great friends. Ovary solidarity or something like that. I was wrong. Chaeyoung is unwelcoming and Soyou is outright hostile. Soyou glares at me as if I made up the concept of lunch to annoy her, while Chaeyoung worries one of the three thin necklaces strung around her neck, the diamond-studded interlocking Cs catching in the bright fluorescents overhead. The men in the department went to eat an hour ago. It'll be another hour before they return. Chaeyoung and Soyou generally do not eat lunch. I'm not sure if it's because they're dieting or because their workload is so immense. Everyone here seems to be on a perpetual diet, probably because every social activity revolves around food. When I first started working in this department six weeks ago, I opted to work through lunch, too. I wanted to prove to everyone that I wasn't a worthless addition given a job because my mother is the CEO. I mean . . . yes, my mother is the CEO, but I'm a hard worker. Back home in Iowa, I never had any complaints about my work product or my work ethic. Here in Korea, at the IF Group, on the seventh floor, it's different. No one is more keenly aware of my position as the daughter of the CEO than ambitious Soyou. As the silence stretches from awkward to uncomfortable, she pastes on a polite smile and rises. Bowing slightly to Bujang-nim, she grabs her purse from the bottom drawer of her desk, surreptitiously kicks Chaeyoung's chair, and then starts toward the elevators. Eating lunch with me is not on her list of pleasant things to do, but she's smart and savvy, which means when the boss says to go to lunch, she's going to lunch, even if it means eating with the devil. "Come on, Chaeyoung-ie," she says, and after a pause, "and Choi Hara-nim." I don't think I'm as low as the devil in Soyou's mind, but who knows? Calmly, I get my purse and follow the two to the elevator. I could have declined. I can do anything here. Bujang-nim would shine my shoes if I asked it, which is precisely why Soyou hates me, and that's why I can't be mad. I can be hurt and frustrated and annoyed, but I can't be mad. I don't deserve this job, the deference Bujang-nim pays me, or the energy drinks the resident ass-kisser, Yoo Minkyu, places next to my monitor every couple of days. I should decline because a lunch with the three of us is bound to be miserable, like three women who meet after finding out they've all been dating the same man. I guess the situation is not all that dissimilar. We crave the approval of Choi Wansu, and the other two resent that I have the inside track, what with her being my mother. If I'm the demon, Choi Wansu is my opposite. To most of the women in this company, she's a savior. The IF Group is an anomaly among Korean companies. They don't always hire people from the three biggest universities, known as SKY-Seoul, Korea University, Yonsei. Hell, they don't always require a college education. All they care about is results. Can you do the work you're hired to do? If so, here's your badge and your desk. Go to work. In this achievement- and effort-based corporate environment, I stand out in an ugly way, given a job solely because of my connections, without proper qualifications or education or experience. In the elevator car, Soyou launches into some topic that I only partially understand because it's all in Korean and Soyou speaks very fast. Chaeyoung slips the double C pendant up to her mouth and listens intently. I catch a few words about drinking and a man and a bastard. The smaller woman nods, offering nothing but support. They're good friends and their strengths and weaknesses overlap. Chaeyoung sometimes struggles at work. She's clever and witty but often forgetful. Soyou keeps the other woman on track, leaving sticky-note reminders or collecting the woman's phone when she's left it in the bathroom or on a conference room table. Chaeyoung repays her by springing for lunch and snacks, footing the taxi bill, leaving small gifts, offloading things like designer jewelry in a nonchalant manner so as not to make Soyou feel small. She would not be able to afford even one of Chaeyoung's necklaces. It's their bond that draws me, but they're closed off, always standing to the side, sitting apart from me. Soyou often uses her taller frame as a shield for the smaller Chaeyoung, as if my laying eyes on Chaeyoung is inappropriate. Even now, Soyou is positioned between us discussing their weekend plans. Then her voice drops and I hear myself being referenced-or at least they're referencing Choi Wansu's daughter. I'm the only daughter she has. When will they stop fawning over Choi Wansu's daughter? I don't know. Her US college isn't a good one. Not Harvard or Stanford or Yale. She's a nakhasan. Chaeyoung shrugs as if that one word-that word meaning a product of nepotism-explains it all. I swallow a deep sigh and lean against the wall of the elevator. She's right. It does explain it all. I stare at the back of Soyou's worn black heels, where the scuffed spots are colored in with marker, and shift uncomfortably in the three-inch designer heels Choi Wansu bought for me. If I were in Soyou's knockoff pumps, I'd be mad at me, too. The doors open and Soyou marches out, her long strides making Chaeyoung have to practically jog to keep up. The taller woman doesn't stop to hail a taxi but makes straight for the convenience store across the street. The two of them will buy a prepackaged salad and a beverage. Soyou prefers iced Americano and Chaeyoung gets the Chilsung Cider lemon-lime flavor. They'll talk in fast Korean that I can't quite understand while eating the dry salads on a bench in the nearby Yongsan Park with the stay-at-home moms, day-care workers, and nannies. My stomach rumbles. I don't want to eat lettuce and I don't want to sit like an outcast with two coworkers who will spend the next thirty minutes icing me out as they've done for the past six weeks. I grab my phone and shoot a text to my group chat. Me: I'm eating at the fried pork ball food truck. Meet me if you're hungry. "I'm going to a food truck to get fried pork balls," I call out to the two women. Chaeyoung halts at the side of the road, and for a half second, I think she might respond. "There's a CU next to it. They sell the salads you like there," I add because I'm foolish and want to be liked. Chaeyoung half turns, but Soyou grabs the woman's arm. The crosswalk light turns green and they're off without either of them looking back. Embarrassment flames through me and I'm back in second grade listening to the schoolyard taunts of some dumb boy asking why my face is flat and if it's hard to see through my squinty eyes. I press the red silk cord of the necklace I wear at all times and tell myself I am not that kid anymore and my feelings are not hurt. The phone in my hand buzzes. It's Bomi. Bomi: I'll meet you there. Jules is with me. See, I have friends. I reread the message and frown. What is Jules, my former roommate, doing in Yongsan-gu? She doesn't live anywhere near here, nor does she work here. Jules is a flight attendant for a private flight service and lives a fairly exotic life, jetting off to Hong Kong and Singapore and Tokyo nearly every other day. She claims it's super boring and spends many in-air hours crafting fantasies about how she would murder her clients-most of whom are rich old men, or chaebols, as they are known in South Korea. Why couldn't I have clients like your Yujun? she lamented once. All the chaebols I've ever served have been old and wrinkly. You walk out of the airport and into the arms of the only young, decent chaebol in this entire country. I should hate you. She then scowled and shoved a beer into my hand. We're best friends now and we're going to have lunch together. I pocket my phone and make my way toward them and the food. Ten minutes later, I spot Jules and Bomi huddled together on the corner. They break apart as I approach. "You look like they're beating you up at IF Group," Jules observes. The private flight attendant is dressed in a pair of high-waisted flared jeans and a midriff long-sleeve top. Her blond hair is split into two braids that dangle over her shoulders. Big hoops complete the look. A little more makeup and maybe a few streaks of color and she might be mistaken for a K-pop idol. Next to her, Bomi, clad in a navy pantsuit and a white shirt, peers at me with concern, her brow wrinkling under her straight bangs. I wrinkle my nose. "Maybe." Jules steps close and presses the back of her hand to my forehead. "Are you sick? What kind of response is 'maybe'? You're supposed to say something mean back. That's how our relationship works." "I'm too tired to bicker with you." "Cripes. This is dire. Get some soju, Bomi." Bomi shakes her head because she's smart and wants to keep her job. I am not going back to the office smelling like liquor. "I can't have soju. It's lunchtime." The smell of fried food wafts over and my stomach rumbles again. "Talk about no fun. You know this food-truck food is going to kill you," Jules warns, but she follows me over to the truck. I wave a hello to Yang Ilhwa, the owner, an older woman of an indeterminate age. I say indeterminate because Korean women age differently than Western women. In the city, very few of the fifty- and even sixty-year-olds have wrinkles, but this woman does. Her cheeks sag and there are fine lines at the corners of her mouth and eyes, yet I've seen her carry giant buckets of oil and once even helped her lift a tub of pork cutlets, which I swear weighed fifty pounds or more. "Ah, it's jungyohan son-nim!" she cries out when she spots me. "Yes, your very important customer." I grin and dip my head. She started calling me jungyohan son-nim a couple of weeks ago when I ordered the yachae twigim, or the Korean version of tempura vegetables. She always has a huge pile left over at the end of the day, and on a whim, I ordered a bunch. They aren't very good. Her best dish is the fried pork balls stuffed with mozzarella. Second is the cheese-corn cups topped with grated Parmesan and gochujang, a sweet and spicy paste, but she's proud of her fried vegetables and so I order them each time I visit. I think I've developed a taste for the dried and fried. "I get you regular order," she announces. "Here." She pushes three containers of banana milk toward us and ducks out of view to prepare our lunches. "I'm always surprised at how much English she knows," Bomi murmurs, picking up the drinks and handing them out. "She used to serve the GIs here," I explain. Yongsan-gu is a district in the heart of Seoul on the banks of the Han River. It used to house a US military garrison, but slowly South Korea reclaimed this area for itself, and a couple of years ago, the American soldiers decamped for a base forty miles south of Seoul. It's prime real estate and easy to see why the Koreans wanted it back. "That explains it." Jules crumples her empty corn cup and tosses it in the trash can near the truck's front tire, one of the few around since public waste receptacles aren't a thing in Seoul. Yang Ilhwa reappears with three small paper boats of food. Nestled inside a lettuce leaf are four perfectly round, golden-fried pork balls along with battered and fried sweet potato sticks and bell pepper slices. My container has perilla leaves and deep-fried peppers along with a jaunty toothpick flag. "Thank you!" we chorus like schoolgirls and then gather up our food to go and sit on the curb across from the truck. "Why do you get the flag?" Jules complains. "I want a flag in my food." "Because I come here three times a week. I may single-handedly be keeping her in business." I bite into the pork ball and let the crispy fried coating with the gooey cheese and savory meat melt onto my tongue. It tastes perfect, like Iowa State Fair food on a hot August day. "This food really isn't that good," Jules says, but she gobbles down her portion as if she hasn't eaten in a day. "Ahn Sangki brought me here. He likes it," I remind them. "Just because Ahn Sangki is famous doesn't mean he has good taste," Jules fires back. "I like it. It reminds me of Iowa," Bomi says. "You aren't an impartial taste tester," Jules says. "Hara could have us eating dirt and you would say that it was the best dirt you've ever tasted." "I haven't eaten dirt before, so it wouldn't be a lie." But Bomi's cheeks are turning pink because Jules is spot-on. Bomi spent six months pretending to be my friend in America when she was really spying on me for my biological mother, Choi Wansu. Ever since the truth came out, Bomi has devoted herself to me. I could run a dog over and Bomi would either claim she was driving or bury the evidence. In her eyes, I can do no wrong. I can't say this attitude is all that much better than when she was spying on me, but at least she's open about things now. Maybe another person wouldn't have forgiven her, but I'm lonely. My boyfriend has been shipped overseas, ostensibly on business in Hong Kong and then Singapore, but mostly because he's my stepbrother and my mother finds the idea of the two of us together as repulsive as if we were blood siblings. Plus, it would be bad for business, and nothing in this world seems to be more important to Choi Wansu than IF Group. It's why I'm currently working in the International Marketing Department even though I don't speak much, if any, Korean and I have no marketing experience, but it was either take the job or put the entire company at risk. Excerpted from Seoulmates by Jen Frederick All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
