First Meeting Doesn't Go as Planned
I've never worn a school uniform before. Elementary school didn't have them to begin with, and middle school? I just skipped it. Stiff fabric that doesn't drape, and buttons you have to fasten just to cover your stomach. Even though this is our first time meeting, I had a feeling uniforms and I would never get along.
"They actually walk around in this shit? For real?"
While I was having this awkward first encounter with the uniform, the bus pulled up to the stop before I knew it. Three minutes on foot from the bus stop. Seoul Arts High School, nestled in Jongno-gu, Seoul.
"…Seoul Arts High School."
Sounds of students singing their dreams drifted from nearby, and there they were—kids in bright yellow uniforms, bathed in that radiant glow. I stood there, staring right at the school. In the classical world, it's a powerhouse prestige high school. The kind pure arts majors dream of. Tuition steeper than most universities. A private academy laser-focused on pure arts, ignoring practical music entirely. Every kid there is blessed. Backed by endless funds and support, most are golden spoons who've walked elite paths since childhood. Probably some faces I crossed paths with in contests as a kid go there too.
If I'd managed my grades better, I could've gone there with that level of skill. No sweat.
"Haa…."
Regretting it now is pointless. I swallow a sigh over my bad choices and force my feet to turn away. I only stopped by because it's close, but if I'd known it'd make me feel even more pathetic by comparison, I would've kept walking. I trudge onward with heavy steps.
A bit farther from the elite prestige school, I arrive at my school. Right in front of that ridiculously flashy gate, the name blazes proudly.
I squint with rotten eyes and mutter the name of the school I'll be attending, full of dread.
"Seoul Practical Music High School…… The name alone is trash."
For the record, they added "Practical" because someone else snagged the plain name first. A quick search showed it's an alternative school, just like the others—not a specialized one. The more I think about it, the less I like it. Worst of all? I'm enrolled there.
Whining about a choice I made myself feels lame, but faking smiles to hide my disgust? Even lamer.
"In the end, I'm staining my perfect record with an indelible blemish."
Mark my words: For musicians, dropping out of middle school is the pinnacle of academic perfection. Tell it to Kurt Cobain and George Harrison if you disagree.
"Ugh, I hate going to school."
On day one, I show my refusal to commute and step inside. It's April, after the entrance ceremony. Cherry blossoms swirling in full spring bloom. Fresh green shoots tinged red—I figured my youth wouldn't be all that green either.
Seoul Practical Music High School is a private school founded by Moon Juhee, leader and vocalist of the rock band Moonlight. With her as principal, naturally the teachers are all connected to her. Meaning, high chance they're from the same industry. Since I used to be in the biz too, like it or not, the teachers probably know me.
"……."
"……."
I ran into an old connection there. Once a famous baritone in the vocal world, now retired. His name: singer Lee Junwoo.
"Dude, you were killing it as a singer, right?"
As I recalled, he even had a solid spot on major TV shows.
"Why's a guy like you here…."
"Got caught with private toto."
"Ah."
When times were tough, I'd mooch meals off him and keep him company with drinks. No wonder I hadn't heard mentions lately.
They say when musicians die, they end up at practical music high schools. I love that saying.
"I watch the news sometimes… Nah, better not."
He rubbed his neck with an awkward look, his dry lips twitching briefly.
"Now I teach for pay. Thought I'd scrape by as a nightclub guest singer, but Juhee picked me up."
She has a hobby of scooping up her fallen connections. Guess getting older made her into a cat lady.
"Anyway, you're my student now, so call me teacher from here on."
"Yes, sir."
"Good. But why're you late today?"
"Had to handle stuff at the principal's office. Picked up the uniform too."
It's been almost a month since entrance ceremony. Being a little late is no big deal. Break was ending anyway, and next period was Junwoo's class, so we headed to our rooms together.
"Damn it, you should've come on entrance ceremony day. You just piled on extra paperwork."
"Sorry, teacher. I'll try to stir up controversy a month earlier next time."
"…Sorry."
I drop the rock-bottom drip, and we reach the classroom. Farther down, each door labels its class. Normal schools use numbers: Class 1, Class 2. But mine? E.
Alphabet E.
"What the hell? Not even Japanese, and they use letters?"
I furrow my brows and ask the guy next to me.
"How should I know? Ask the founder."
"Then while you're at it, make it A. What's this E shit?"
E-Class sounds bad for morale. In English, it's bottom-tier. Hell, even I prefer Mercedes A-Class over whatever.
"Quit whining when you're late. It's not random—they sort by skill and level."
"That makes it worse."
Even if I bombed in composing, in classical everyone knew Seonggwang. How'd I end up in E?
I'll ask Juhee myself. As I gripe about my unfair placement, Junwoo stiffens and says:
"… E's the top one."
"What?"
That can't be. Alphabets start at A. E's at least fifth. Even in major keys, it's third. What logic puts E first…
"… Guitar tuning order? From the first string?"
My wild guess leaves him speechless. Bingo.
I couldn't believe this bullshit and snapped.
"Are you insane? Who the fuck sets class order by guitar tuning…!"
"Don't yell at me. I didn't decide it."
Guess they did it that way since founding. Fine, tuning starts and ends with E.
"Hipster disease at terminal stage…."
Signs were there before, but in the time I was away, Juhee's crazy hipster soul must've taken over. I chuckle bitterly at this rootless school and reach the door. True to musicians, they chatter with clear enunciation and booming voices. So loud it carries over the walls.
"Wait here. It'll be awkward if you go first. I'll calm 'em down."
"Hah… Feels like the vibe'll tank when I walk in."
"Relax. They won't care about a transfer. Too busy with their own shit to notice you."
He pats my shoulder and enters first. I peek from behind the door.
Junwoo slams the podium.
"Alright, listen up! You heard about the transfer today?"
"Girl?"
"Boy."
Guys groan. Girls don't react much—expected excitement fizzles. Not that teen girls hate guys; they just don't expect a looker.
Deflated mood catches Junwoo off-guard; he scrambles.
"Vibe's killed, you brats… Don't worry, personality's shit but he's decent-looking."
Girls' eyes light up. If I were a girl, guys would've cheered. Some openly thirsty dudes, but they play cool, side-eyeing each other.
"Why a transfer now?"
"Yeah, right after entrance? Rare."
I spot Junwoo's subtle flinch.
"Enough—time to introduce the transfer…."
"Some circumstance? Moved?"
"Dude, if moving gets you in, why bother with exams? Just game."
"True. What's the deal?"
Junwoo deflects, but suspicion spreads.
"Connections? Principal scoops randos."
"Like Junwoo-teacher from the gutter. But students?"
Tightening noose. Me and him both praying her name stays out. Then a guy jokes:
"Wait… Transfer's Seonggwang, right?"
That name drops—we both wince. Class erupts.
"For real? Recent scandal! That's why!"
"Why's Seonggwang at music school? Can he even play?"
"Classical background. Slap a excuse on, they'll handle it."
"Is he good?"
"Nah, tanked sales. Sounds okay, but whatever. Famous, so they grab him."
These fucking punks. My second album flopped sales-wise, but critics loved the artistry. In classical, they'd shut up around me.
"Music? Who cares. Seonggwang's hot. We'd suck him off."
"Wiki controversy king with 14 pages… For real? Sign my panties here."
Remember you said that. Try it, and you'll get axed for breach too.
"Haa……."
Far from calming, the mood heats up wrong. Zero interest? Bullshit. I'm the hot topic.
Junwoo senses doom, glances my way. I meet his eyes quietly.
"Hey! Quiet down!!"
His baritone roar shuts them up. He leans on the podium, pained.
"Okay… Transfer's coming today."
"Seonggwang for real?"
"Shut it. First day, he'll be awkward. Be nice."
He beckons me. Situation's fucked anyway—might as well rip the band-aid. But the scandal-starter yells at the door:
"Seonggwang! Drop the mask! Reveal yourself!!"
Don't. Just shut up. Why are these kids hyped? Real industry folks glare dead-eyed with "fuck." Untainted brats, all high energy. Staring drains me already.
"Why no enter? Fake?"
"Nah, Juhee ain't dumb enough."
Spot on. Juhee is dumb. You nailed it.
Mood's off. Class waits for Seonggwang. Wrong guy? Booted. But I know it's banter.
Real expectation? They'd hush. They know it's impossible. Famous TV face mid-scandal? Not here. No way.
They don't know one thing: My tie to Juhee. She's why she looks out for me.
"Haa…"
I'm a TV guy too, entertainer trash. Betraying expectations? Yeah, big time. But not twice.
I vow that and step forward.
"Transfer~! Sorry! Not Seonggwang's fine, just come in!"
Thanks for the consideration, but can't meet that hype. Sigh, enter.
Under the name they chant, the man himself steps in. Each step, faces harden. Heat ices over.
Heads drop, mouths agape in silence. Awkward hush spreads.
"…Sorry."
Junwoo whispers apology behind me. Facing their stone faces, I introduce myself.
"…I'm Seonggwang. Circumstances brought me here."
Indescribable expressions stare. Most look down; the hyped ones pale hardest.
"Please take care of me for the next three years…."
The loach who muddied the waters grins at them.
"Anyone want a signed pair? Drop 'em now."
No reaction to the tone-deaf joke. No cheers, no claps. Just nods to Junwoo.
It was April spring.