The argument about the giraffe had... not ended. It had just been paused. The giant, wooden creature loomed in the foyer like a judgment, and as we moved to the dining room, I could see Mrs. Lee shooting it dark looks.
The dinner, however, was a feast.
After a day of running on plane-food fumes and adrenaline, the table was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. There was bulgogi, japchae (glass noodles), a soft gyeranjjim (steamed egg), and a dozen different banchan (side dishes).
"Eat, eat," Mr. Lee said, gesturing for me to start. "You must be hungry."
I was starving. I grabbed my chopsticks and dug in. It was incredible. The bulgogi was sweet and smoky, the japchae was savory... it was a thousand times better than any Korean food I'd ever imagined.
I was eating so fast I barely noticed the little side dishes.
I saw a small, crimson-red paste in a dish.
It looked like the gochujang from the plane. I thought back to that moment, the mild, flavorful fire.
I can handle this, I thought, with a flash of stupid, misplaced pride. I need to show them I'm not some weak foreigner.
I took a tiny, tiny pinch with my chopsticks and mixed it into my rice. I took a big bite.
My brain did not have time to register "flavor." It only registered "pain."
It was not gochujang.
It was, I would later learn, a special sauce made from pure, raw, minced Cheongyang peppers—the nuclear weapon of the Korean pantry.
It was a quiet, personal, five-alarm fire.
My entire skull felt like it was instantly shrinking. My ears popped. My eyes—I could feel them—filled with tears. My throat, my tongue, my very soul, was on fire.
I could not react.
I was not going to spit out my food, cry, and run screaming from the dinner table.
I just... chewed.
Slowly.
My face was rigid, my neck muscles tight. I swallowed.
It was like swallowing a lit match.
My hand, acting of its own accord, reached for my water glass.
It was shaking. I took a sip. It was like pouring gasoline on the fire.
"Is everything okay, San-gun?" Mrs. Lee asked, her eyes sharp. I nodded, my vision blurring from the tears. I tried to speak. A small, strangled hiccup came out. I cleared my throat.
"Yes... Eomeonim," I croaked, my voice about two octaves higher than normal. "It's delicious. Very... flavorful."
Across the table, Ha-neul was watching me.
Her face was perfectly neutral, but her eyes... her eyes were dancing.
She had seen my hand shake. She knew.
She knew exactly what I'd just happened. A tiny, almost invisible smirk played on her lips. She took a sip of her own water, in a silent, mocking toast.
Then scoffed spilling the water all around.
"Aish! Ha-neul!"
Mr. Lee sitting next to her cursed out loud.
We laughed all together.
It was a precious moment.
Dinner ended. My mouth was a warzone, but I had survived.
"San-gun," Mrs. Lee said, standing up.
"Yes, Eomeonim."
"The kitchen."
"Yes, Eomeonim."
I stood up and began stacking the plates.
Ha-neul gave me a tiny, insincere "hwaiting" wave as she disappeared up the stairs.
The kitchen was a state-of-the-art marvel of steel and white marble. I felt like I was about to scrub dishes on the Starship Enterprise.
I found the soap, a sponge, and just started.
I was almost finished, my hands deep in the hot, soapy water, when Mr. Lee came in.
"Ah, San-gun," he said, looking awkward but grateful. "Thank you again. For the... you know. The giraffe incident."
"It was nothing, Abeonim," I said, scrubbing a bulgogi plate.
Though it was just a call from grandpa of Yoo Chae-rin, looks like it saved Mr. Lee somehow.
"Your room is ready," he said, smiling kindly. "It's on the second floor. Second door on the left, right next to Ha-neul's."
Of course it is, I thought. "Thank you, Abeonim."
I rinsed the last bowl and was drying my hands when Mrs. Lee came in. Her "angry mom" energy had faded, replaced by a kind of fussy, efficient warmth.
"All done? Good." She looked at me, her head tilted. "San-gun, did you call your parents?"
I froze. My hands stopped moving. My parents. The airport. My mom crying. My dad's hug.
"Call your mother." I had been in Seoul for nearly twelve hours. I had been in a social war, a food-based chemical incident, a basketball game, and a rock concert. I had completely, totally, unforgivably forgotten.
A word, a sharp, ugly Ukrainian curse, was on the very tip of my tongue. "Yobana..." I bit it back, hard. "Aish... jinjja," I hissed, my eyes squeezing shut. The guilt hit me harder than the chili paste.
Mrs. Lee's expression softened instantly. "You forgot, didn't you?" I just nodded, my face burning for a whole new reason.
"I... yes. The day... it was so..."
"Aigoo, this child," she said, and it wasn't an insult. She actually sounded... caring. She took the dishtowel from my limp hands.
"They must be dying of nervousness. Your mother... she must be worried sick." She was right. My mom was probably pacing the apartment, staring at the phone, imagining I'd been kidnapped at Incheon.
"Go," she said, her voice firm, but kind.
"Go to your room. Your things are already there. Call your parents. Now."
"Yes, Eomeonim."
"Go. Ppalli." I bowed, low, to both of them.
"Thank you. For... for everything. Good night." I walked out of the kitchen, past the demonic wooden giraffe, and headed for the stairs.