Hiding Pandora Read online

  “I like your skirts,” he says.

  “Well, I don’t dislike your jeans. I just think they’re uncomfortable.”

  He shrugs. “They’re not.”

  “Huh,” I say, then grab my purse. “So what are we doing today?”

  Just because I feel safe here doesn’t mean I’m going to leave my gun in my dorm room. Agent Kim told me to keep it with me at all times, and I plan on doing that, for sure. I will do whatever it takes to protect myself, if needed.

  “Do you want to go off campus?” he asks.

  I hesitate. “Don’t you have to have your parent’s permission to go off campus?”

  “Yeah,” he answers. “My parents set it up so I can leave campus anytime as long as I’m back by curfew. I can get special permission to stay out over night or over weekend.”

  “The thing is... my appa didn’t approve it for me. The CIA doesn’t want to me to leave here,” I say. “Because, you know, it’s safe here.”

  “Well, I guess we can hang out here.”

  “No,” I say. “I can just sneak off campus.”

  He considers what I’m saying. “We’d better not. I don’t want you to be unsafe.”

  “I’ll be safe,” I insist. “The terrorist group has no idea that I’m here. Last time they saw me, I was in Seoul, pretending to be Lee Suel Ri. They are looking for Lee Suel Ri and Layla Scott. They’re not looking for Pandora Hart. And they’re definitely not going to be looking in Massachusetts.”

  “Layla Scott?” he asks.

  “Oh,” I say. “I don’t think I should’ve told you that. But that’s my real name, or my birth name, whatever.”

  “I like it,” he says. “Layla fits you.”

  “My mom named me Layla,” I tell him. “I like it, even though it doesn’t feel like my real name. I’ve always known it’s Layla, even when I lived in Korea. But Layla seems more like a fantasy, like, who I would’ve been if things were different. Nobody in Korea knew Layla, the American. They knew Lee Suel Ri, the girl with a white appa and a Korean eomma.”

  “Did you stay with your real family there?” he asks.

  “No, I couldn’t.” I shake my head. “My fake parents were from Australia. They were hired by the CIA to play the role of my parents. I have family in Korea, but I haven’t seen them since I was five. They probably think I’m dead.”

  “Was that weird? Living with strangers, pretending they’re your family.”

  “Not really. It felt normal,” I say. “I only get to see my real appa a few times a year because of safety reasons. In a weird way, my fake parents felt like family. I mean, they were never really eomma and appa, but I miss them.”

  “Will you ever see them again?”

  I shake my head. “No. Unfortunately, they were killed.”

  “So this terrorist group—”

  I cut him off. “No.”

  “No?”

  “I’m not talking about them. Period,” I say, then walk towards my door. “Can we go now? I really, really want to leave campus.”

  “Sure,” he says, not pushing the subject any further.

  Thirty minutes later, we are off campus. I hid in the back of his car, and thankfully, the guard didn’t noticed me back there. Winston pulls into a gas station not too far from campus and I get into the front seat with him.

  “Your car is nice,” I tell him, looking around. It looks really expensive. He did tell me his family was rich, so the car probably is expensive.

  If Winston was Korean, he wouldn’t have given me a second glance. For one, I’m not rich like him. I don’t know how much money my appa has, but I highly doubt he’s nearly as rich as Winston’s family. Also, I am half-white. Marrying somebody who is a different race is considered taboo. While some would overlook the fact that I’m mixed, many wouldn’t.

  Not that I plan on getting married anytime soon. I want to get an education first. I want to go to a good school in Korea, and hopefully get a good job. Unless I’m stuck in America long term. In that case, I’m not sure what I’m going to do.

  “What are you thinking about?” Winston asks me.

  “Just that if you were Korean, you wouldn’t be friends with me,” I answer.

  “Why not?”

  “Well, social status,” I answer. “Also, I’m not fully Korean, but I’m also not fully American. I’m a mix. So, finding a guy whose family would accept me would be next to impossible.”

  “I don’t care about social status,” Winston says. “And in case you didn’t notice, America is this big blend of races. Most people aren’t going to care that you’re Asian.”

  “What about your family?” I ask, looking directly at him.

  Winston’s face turns white, and his lips press into a hard line.

  Really, that is all the answer I need.

  “See, even American’s don’t like their children dating somebody who is not the same race,” I say.

  He frowns. “Layla, I don’t care what my family thinks.”

  Layla.

  I love hearing my name on his lips.

  It’s a shock to hear somebody call me by my real name. Nobody has since I was five years old, except my appa.

  “You can’t call me Layla,” I say, but it comes out softer than I intended. A big part of me really likes that he called me Layla, and I doubt I would protest much if he did it again. “And you should care what your family thinks. They’re your family. Besides, it’s not like it matters. I already know that you and I won’t get married.”

  He nods, but doesn’t look happy.

  “Did I say something wrong?” I ask.

  “No,” he says, but I can tell he’s lying. “You’re right. We hardly know each other. We probably won’t end up married.”

  My marriage comment bothered him?

  “It’s not that I don’t think you’d be a good husband. You seem nice, and we are obviously attracted to each other,” I say. “But you said it yourself—your parents wouldn’t approve of me. There is no way that you would go against your parents’ wishes. And you shouldn’t. I understand that. Someday, I will find a guy of the same social standing and his family will accept me.”

  “My mom would like you,” he says. “My dad would be the one with the problem, but I don’t think I will ever please him. He expects me to marry some upstanding girl from Massachusetts. Of course, she will have to have rich parents, maybe even a dad that’s in politics. Basically, he wants me to become him.”

  “What is so bad about him wanting that for you?” I ask. “That sounds nice.”

  “It’s not what I want,” he says. “I mean, yeah, maybe I want to go into politics, but the rest seems hazy to me. I want a choice. Maybe I want to marry a half-Korean girl from South Korea.”

  My face grows warm.

  “What does your father expect from you?” he asks.

  “My appa doesn’t seem to care, as long as I’m happy,” I answer. “Earlier today he told me I should find a nice Korean guy, but that was after I told him how promiscuous American boys are. I’m pretty sure he was joking. My dad would be happy with any guy I choose as long as he treats me well, race doesn’t matter.”

  Winston laughs. “You’re lucky your dad loves you.”

  “If he loved me, I’d be with him, not at some boarding school in Massachusetts.”

  “It could be worse,” he says.

  “True. At least I met you.”

  Winston smiles big at my comment.

  And for just one second, I wonder what life would be like if I did marry Winston. Which is just crazy, because I just met him.

  4 p.m.

  You’re short.

  Winston and I spent the whole day hanging out off campus, and just recently came back to campus so we could get ready for the dance. I look through my closet, wondering what I’m supposed to wear.

  What does one wear to a school dance?

  I decide to call Agent Alice. She will know.

  I call her on the emergency line, becau
se that is the only way to get hold of her. This definitely counts as an emergency.

  “Did you blow your cover already?” she asks.

  “No, no,” I answer quickly. Even though, technically, I have. She doesn’t need to know that. Winston is trustworthy.

  She sighs in relief. “Good. What’s the emergency?”

  “Not an emergency exactly,” I say. “There is just this welcome back to school dance thingy, and this guy asked me to go with him, but I have no idea what Americans wear to a dance.”

  “Is it formal or casual?” she asks.

  “I have no idea.”

  “Kid, you have to ask these things.” I hear her type something on the computer. “It’s dressy-casual. Just wear a pretty dress.”

  “Okay, thanks,” I say.

  “You should wear heels too,” she says. “You’re short.”

  “Whatever, you’re just tall,” I say.

  She laughs. “We miss you at the academy.”

  “I miss you, too.”

  “But not enough that you should blow your cover to come back,” she says. “And it’s awesome that you have a date already.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “The guy speaks Korean. Sort of. He’s not very fluent, but he seems nice.”

  “You told them you speak Korean?”

  “It was an accident. I was nervous. Apparently I speak Korean when I get nervous,” I say. “I even bowed to this one kid, and had to pretend that I had a cramp in my back. He had the nerve to ask if I am Chinese.”

  I can practically hear her rolling her eyes through the phone. “The nerve of him,” she says, with humor in her voice.

  “I know, right?” I say.

  “You sound very American right now.” I can hear her grinning through the phone.

  “Gamsahabnida,” I say, thanking her in Korean.

  “And you just ruined it.”

  “Sorry, doll,” I say.

  When I was learning how to do an American accent, I literally watched every season of the Kardashians. I was devastated when I learned that normal people don’t call each other doll.

  “Oh, my God, we are getting off the phone right now. And stop talking like a Kardashian,” she says. “Also, don’t call this number unless it’s a real emergency.”

  “How do I get hold of you if I have a question?” I ask.

  “You don’t,” she answer. “Use Google, like a normal American.”

  “Ugh, I hate Google. Naver is way better,” I say.

  “Whatever,” she says.

  “Are you sure it’s okay to show my shoulders?” I ask, eyeing a couple of dresses in my closet.

  “Yes. Goodbye, Pandora.”

  “Goodbye, Agent Alice.”

  The line goes dead, and I pick out something to wear.

  I miss Korean fashion. Always changing and evolving. Americans are boring. I was going to order clothes online, but Agent Alice told me that it wouldn’t be good to have stuff delivered here from Korea, because it might draw too much attention. Which means, I am stuck wearing American clothes. I end up putting on a yellow, strapless dress. I feel so scandalous showing off my shoulders and chest, but since Agent Alice assured me that it’s okay to do it in America, I will wear it. I hope she’s right. The dress is short, cutting off about four inches below my bottom. I have no problems wearing a short dress, because mini-skirts were very popular in South Korea.

  I have got to stop comparing America to South Korea. This is my new home and this is where I belong right now.

  I pull a pair of four-inch yellow pumps out of my closet. I love wearing heels. I’m short by American standards. So maybe by adding ten centimeters to my height, I won’t stand out so badly tonight. I hope.

  Back home, I always thought it was exciting to see a foreigner. I would always watch them, because it was exciting. I learned recently that it’s considered rude in America to watch people, or stare, as Agent Alice put it. But tonight, I will be that foreign kid. Though, from what Alice told me, there are lots of foreigners in America, so maybe nobody will notice me. At least, I hope not. They didn’t seem to notice me too much at the mixer or the party last night.

  6 p.m.

  I am the best.

  Winston shows up right at six o’clock.

  I smile when I notice that he’s still taller than I by 5 centimeters, even in my heels. I hadn’t paid much attention to his height, other than he’s taller. I’d hate to dance with a guy shorter than me.

  “Those shoes look painful,” he says.

  I just shrug. “They’re not so bad. Ask me again in an hour.”

  “Okay,” he says. “You look really beautiful tonight.”

  “Thanks,” I say, grinning. I’m getting better at this whole American thing.

  “You ready to go?” he asks.

  I nod, and he leads me out of my room. He grabs my hand, and this time I don’t pull away. It’s still weird to hold hands with a guy, but Winston doesn’t seem affected at all. I know it’s normal for Americans. I’ve seen plenty of guys and girls holding hands in public. I just need to get used to the way they do things here.

  As we walk outside, Winston looks over at me.

  “I bet you stood out in South Korea,” he says.

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “I mean, you look Korean. But you also look white,” he clarifies.

  “It’s the double eyelid thing,” I say, shrugging my shoulders. “I guess I stood out a little, but most everybody loved my eyes. People in Korea get plastic surgery all the time so they can have a double eyelid. I don’t see what the big deal is. I think Koreans are beautiful just the way they are.”

  “I think your eyes are pretty,” he says.

  “Thanks,” I say, ducking my head so he won’t see the blush on my face. “I’m still getting used to accepting compliments. It’s weird.”

  “Why don’t you thank somebody in Korea if they say you’re pretty?”

  “Because, accepting the compliment means that you believe what they’re saying, and that makes you vain.”

  “That’s so weird,” he says. “There is nothing wrong with thinking you’re beautiful.”

  “No, but you should never admit it out loud. It a humility thing,” I explain.

  “I guess I can see it your way, but I still think it’s weird.”

  “Well, I feel the same way in reverse.”

  He stops right before we reach the doors. “I’ve never thought about it from the perspective of somebody else, but I get your point. Our ideas of normal are completely backwards. I’m only seeing it from my point of view, which seems rather selfish.”

  “Maybe now you can see things differently,” I say.

  He smiles, like, a real, genuine smile. “I like you a lot, Layla.”

  My breath catches in my throat as he says my name.

  “You’ve got to stop calling me that,” I scold him.

  “Sorry. Pandora,” he corrects, shaking his head. “You just don’t look like a Pandora to me.”

  “That’s because I’m not.”

  Winston reaches for the door and holds it open.

  “Ready?” he asks.

  I nod and wait for him to walk in the door.

  “You first,” he says.

  “Why are you holding the door open for me?”

  “To be polite.”

  “Americans consider it polite to hold open the door for somebody else?” I ask.

  “Yes,” he answers.

  “Americans are so weird,” I say, then walk through the open door.

  “So, you’re saying that nobody has ever held the door open for you before,” he says, walking up beside me.

  “Not that I can remember,” I answer. “Maybe my appa as a kid, but I don’t really remember what life was like when I lived in America the first time.”

  Inside the music is playing. It’s loud, but not so loud that we can’t still talk.

  “So, you want to dance?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” h
e answers, and we walk out onto the dance floor.

  They’re playing an American pop song. I recognize it. American music is popular in Korea too, but I prefer Korean music.

  “I thought Korean girls were very shy and laid back,” he says.

  “I am.”

  “Not really,” he says, laughing. “Most girls don’t usually ask a guy to dance.”

  “I thought that was what we came here for,” I say. “I always say what I think. I guess maybe Americans take that the wrong way.”

  “Maybe,” he says.

  “When I first came back here, I called somebody fat, which apparently is a big no-no,” I say. “She was fat, so I don’t know why it was such a big deal. The girl cried. But I wasn’t saying it to be hateful.”

  He shakes his head. “You have a lot to learn.”

  “Oh, I know. It seems like four months of a cram course in American culture would be enough,” I say.

  Winston laughs.

  “You’re too stiff,” I tell him, noticing his hip movement.

  “I’m a bad dancer,” he says, looking a bit embarrassed.

  He is very bad, but anybody can learn if they’re willing to try.

  “I can teach you,” I say.

  “I’d like that. How about I watch?” he suggests. “Then you can teach me what you did.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  I first show him an easy one. It’s known as the Arrogant Dance. A lot of K-Pop artists have used this in their videos. It’s really, really simple. I literally learned it in less than a minute.

  “How do you move your hips like that?” he asks.

  “It’s easy,” I say. “Do you think we can get them to play a K-Pop song. Because I know basically every dance to every song.”

  “What? Why?” he asks. “How?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. Why do American pop singers not dance?”

  “You have a point. My older sister still knows the moves to Bye, Bye, Bye by N’Sync,” he says.

  “Who is N’Sync?” I ask.

  “Never mind,” he says. “I’ll go ask the DJ to play something so I can see your badass moves.”