Loveboat in 서울

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At last, we step into an outdoor market crammed with vendor carts, small shops, and tiny restaurants with only a few benches for customers. A man miss a mountain of kimchis. A stout woman, hair bound in a purple scarf, pulls dough into foot-long sticks and drops them into her copper vat of oil; another shakes out a bolt of red silk. Jewelry shimmers like colored fireflies.

On Sohee's heels, I wander deeper through stalls. Vendors call, "Sonyeo, iliwa!" and motion to their fruit stands or dress racks. Their energy draws me in. I'm stepping into a tradition that must date back hundreds, even thousands of years. Sohee pulls out her wallet at every other stall—she buys a Hello Kitty shirt, a cloth pencil case printed with Line characters, bottled water for us.

"Don't you want anything?" she asks.

My stomach knots a bit. My family counts every penny, and I've never felt free to just buy whatever strikes my fancy, unlike Sohee, clearly. Our goal is outfits, and I need to save all my firepower for that.

"Um, yea, sure," I answer. "Still looking."

Sohee flips through a stack of Guess jeans, tries on a yellow K2 jacket, hefts Dior purses in her hands. "Everyone knows these are knockoffs, but they're such a steal," she gloats. She dangles a striped Elle-labeled dress before my body. "What about this one? Cut's perfect for your body type. You're slim, but sturdy."

"Thanks, but not this one." I push it aside. "I want an outfit my mom would kill me in."

She laughs. "I like how you think."

"Hey, Sohee." To my dismay, Wonder Boy is coming toward us, head cocked to make room for the hundred-pound burlap sack balanced like a baby whale on his shoulder. So he's skipped the opening ceremony, too. The 100 percent humidity clings to my skin, but somehow, Wonder Boy with his forest-green shirt stretched across his broad shoulders looks as cool as the shady underside of an oak tree. I grimace.

"Rice?" Sohee beats a fist on his sack, scandalized. "Are you transferring into my cooking elective?"

"I tried to sign up, but it was full." Wonder Boy hefts his sack higher. "This is for weights. Turns out real weights cost fifty bucks a kilo here, so I bought this instead. Ten cents a kilo." He grins, obviously pleased with himself.

My brow rises. Creative. And surprisingly unpretentious.

But Sohee sighs. "We've been here less than three hours and you're already working out."

"I sat on the plane for fifteen hours with my knees to my ears. Enough downtown to last me the rest of the summer."

I agree—instead of jet-lagged, I feel charged enough to dance a loop around the entire city. Wonder Boy levers the sack to his other shoulder. His T-shirt rucks up, offering a glimpse of tanned, flat muscles, from which I swiftly remove my eyes—but not before he catches me. Damn bad timing.

"At least you're in a better mood," Sohee says. "Good call?"

"Yeah, I got my SIM card working. I have a landline in my room, too."

"No fair, really? We don't."

My roommate's some VIP kid. Kang. Haven't met him yet."

"Of course they'd give the VIP kid to you." Sohee catches my eye and quirks her brow. Kang.

"Whatever. Rosie says hi. I found her this." He touches the head of a carved bird tied with a red ribbon, jutting from his pocket—so Wonder Boy's the Wonder Boyfriend, too. Of course, I still can't believe Sohee suggested he date me—no way would I bring down a house of parental blessings on myself like that. Why can't Mr. Perfect SATs at least have the modesty to look the part: scrawny with thick glasses and acne, for starters. And Sohee's right—his mood's done a complete 180.