Band Club Blues and the Miracle Transfer Student
A few hours after the after-school coffee time turned into the Rayon-ta incident. Unlike Moon Juhee, who stubbornly held her ground there, we were bound by class schedules and had to return to our respective homerooms. We had no choice but to withdraw, but issues like this don't just die. They fester without turning into nutrients, sucking in surrounding problems and ballooning bigger. Despite her bold words, Moon Juhee had no intention of expelling me, so she needed to find a way to secure my musical activities. But she didn't have to handle it herself. Even if our relationship was horizontal on the surface, she was the principal. For something this annoying, she could just dump it on the other teachers.
"……."
And the target was someone we knew well. With one phone call, Lee Junwoo—the 24-year-old teacher who'd taken on our funding issues—found himself uttering the same phrase as the boy seven years his junior. "I wanna quit this school crap."
It was around the time he was 21 in music industry years.
"Why don't you start a club?"
"A club?"
Lee Junwoo, who'd been stuck handling our issue half-heartedly, threw that out without time to think. Lara and I, who had zero interest in clubs, exchanged glances. He sighed at us and continued explaining.
"If you form a club, the school gets high school club funding. They dish out cash as long as you submit activity reports on time. And since it's music-related, they'll approve it no problem."
"Mm, yeah, just whip up some bullshit excuse and pocket the funds…"
"I didn't say it like that… Sigh, whatever. That's the gist."
Setting aside his shady attitude, the idea itself wasn't bad. It gave us a legitimate excuse to hang out together outside of school group activities, and above all, a club let us skip school legally. It was a surprisingly solid plan, and even Lara reacted positively. But every perk comes with strings attached. Lee Junwoo, eyes weary from exhaustion, lifted his gaze to lay it out.
"It's not like they hand it over just 'cause you made one… You need at least three interested students to establish it, plus four members and approval from a supervising teacher for the budget."
"Can't we fudge it with Jeongyeon?"
"Then why'd they give you the money in the first place? If we get caught faking it, we're all screwed—you, me, even Juhee noona."
"Don't care about the latter, but the former's kinda important."
"You little shit…!"
Once is hard, twice is easy. He'd already been kicked out for illegal gambling; getting booted from teaching wouldn't hit as hard the second time. He'd get over it. But losing one of my few connections and backers would sting, so we had to go the legal route and form a proper club.
"Thanks for the info, Mr. Lee Junwoo."
"Thanks for the idea, old man."
We thanked him for his trouble and slipped out quickly so he could catch a break from his fatigue. The sun had set, and with nowhere else to go, we headed to our usual spot. It had somehow turned into our hideout, but whatever. Our dilemma had a solution: a club. Now the issue was the add-ons.
"A club, huh…"
Lara seemed lost in thought about it. I was dead set against diplomas like they were the plague, so I knew squat about clubs, but Lara probably did. I asked her, but she crossed her arms, looking stumped too.
"Nah, I don't know much either… Friends tried to drag me into one, but I never saw the point."
"Why? Seems like it'd be fun with friends."
Moon Juhee, the pro-Japan otaku obsessed with anime culture, was straight-up romanticizing club activities. Of course, she was too old for high school life, and too knowledgeable to play adult learner, so no dice. I'd soaked up her brainwashing about school life, so I was kinda intrigued. I mentioned that and asked Lara—who'd had a normal high school experience—why not. Her answer was brutally realistic and dry.
"Eh, I doubt it'd actually be that great… If you wanna do something, just go to an academy for it. If you're just messing around, hang with friends instead of awkward seniors."
"Yeah… fair point."
Thinking about it, that nailed the reality of Korean high schoolers crushed by entrance exams and studies. If you can't even fit in with your class, what club? It's still people hanging out, so folks like me and Juhee don't mesh from the start. Of course, that wasn't the only reason Lara skipped clubs.
"Above all, no time. Not even for flute practice."
But wasn't that still true? Officially, she was a flute major—shouldn't she at least pretend? A twinge of doubt hit me, but I decided not to poke at her little secret. That was her business. Worry about problems when they arose.
"Anyway, we gotta make a club now. Better slap together a decent facade."
"Facade? What's that mean?"
"If we're making a club just to scam funds, we need a cover so we don't get busted. Easy terms: club name!"
Clubs don't form in a vacuum. They need a name and purpose to shine. Drama club does plays, volleyball club spikes balls. (Never mind if it's really about dating.) We needed a goal too. But no need to agonize—we'd set it from the start, since the goal was funding for Lara and my activities.
"Lara, the club we're making is a band club."
"Band club?"
"Yeah, band club. Classic, right?"
Band clubs have always symbolized youth—the unfinished masterpiece. They're popularity magnets, objects of envy, fireflies living a day's blaze. Most fizzle out after school, which fits perfectly.
"Plus, can't go wrong with one. Rock music needs solid session players beyond just vocals."
For inexperienced Lara, jamming irregular plays and syncing up would be great practice. Adds punch. Better than solo acapella with instruments backing you up—way cooler.
"Band… band, huh…"
"And don't you wanna try it? Bands are cool."
Lara nodded vigorously at my question. Yeah, knew you'd bite. Music folks always romanticize bands. They're cool. If she learned Moonlight's gritty insider secrets, the hype might fade, but trying it out wouldn't hurt.
"Alright, band club it is. Next up: recruiting members…"
"…But how do we recruit?"
Yeah, that's the crux. Great plan, but how? Not new semester—it's June. And we had a huge penalty: us.
"Um… Seonggwang, I swear I'm not trying to insult you or hurt your feelings…"
That opener already screamed shade. But I wasn't in a position to refuse, and I knew where she was going, so I nodded. Even with permission, Lara cautiously checked my mood before speaking.
"…Would other kids even join a club with you in it? With you there?"
"……."
Yeah, the elephant. This club has Seonggwang.
"N-no! Not saying you're bad! Well, not good either, but…"
"Why'd you backpedal?"
"No, I mean… I know you're fun and not that bad, but other kids…"
Lara scratched her cheek, trailing off. I picked up the baton.
"Yeah, others wouldn't know. 'Cause I never talk to them."
True. I'd never tried shattering my negative image. Embraced it, even. Back then, I didn't care, figured no need to mingle. Hindsight: should've networked more.
'No guarantee it'd go positive, though.'
In their minds, I'm the rude, scandal-plagued 17-year-old musician groping older sisters, wrecking a married woman's home. Stuck with this lump, we brainstormed solutions.
"Any genius fixes…?"
Lara, hating to ditch potential trash members, wracked her brain. To help, I pitched a hardline option.
"…One way. The only way to break this."
"There is? What?!"
One ship left for the dwarf— to meet the lord's hopes, I, the Yi Sun-sin of geniuses, braced for sacrifice with a Zhuge Liang-level ploy.
"First off, you know as well as I do: with me here, no members."
"Right? So what now?"
"But if I'm in without revealing I'm in?"
Reverse thinking: no catch, no crime. Hide my existence?
"If not Seonggwang, but a long-retired super-genius girl guitarist…"
"If that's crossdressing, they'll kick you before the club forms."
"Of course not, Lara."
Correction: no way out. I reburied the fictional legend, and Lara shot death glares like she wanted to bury me too. No matter how I racked my brain, nothing. Couldn't deceive, abandon, or drop our hard-won plan. We sat dazed, banking on luck and chance. May the non-gaming god roll the dice this once.
"Hoping for a transfer student… Ideally one who doesn't speak Korean and knows zilch about my scandals…"
"Yeah, right."
"Mm… too greedy?"
Lara eyed me pitifully and spat reality.
"Duh! Mid-semester transfers? And a foreigner?"
"Yeah, super convenient. That'd be a miracle. Lotto odds."
Scrap it, think realistic. Lara might believe, but I'm an atheist. God is dead; vultures pick the corpse. We headbutted ideas all day, texted at home—zero progress, wasted time. Best we could do, no complaints. If we'd known a real foreign transfer was coming days later, we could've slept easy.
Seoul Practical Music High School
The school where someone might trash it as a rootless dump. Its founding ties to politics and Moon Juhee's shady connections? Not important now. Five classes: E-A-D-G-B.
E gathers top performers in practical skills and music achievement. Elite class, sorta—but with me in it, it's purely talent-based.
A class, home to Shin Lara, aspiring performer. A handles miscellaneous instruments: drums, guitar, bass in D; vocals-only B. And the star: G for composers and producers.
Usually quiet, per Juhee's "shady" label. But today, even G buzzed with excitement. A transfer student was coming.
"Mid-semester transfer? What the…"
"Dunno, some scandal maybe?"
Timing was weird. One kid, knowing E's precedents, checked wiki trends. But their hype crashed—or got trolled. The transfer had zero drama.
The homeroom teacher entered amid the chatter, tapped the desk to quiet them, leaned on it, and called out—small but echoing.
"Attention! Transfer student today. You know already, so don't scare 'em."
Students hushed, curiosity killing them. Girl or boy? What tracks? They eyed the door. Teacher beckoned.
"Transfer student, come in."
Door opened. Long hair swishing, she entered demurely, rewarding their wait. Girls liked the ladylike vibe; boys more. Pretty face, half-turn intro.
"Hajimemashite… ja nakatta. Etto… nan darou?"
Sudden Japanese froze smiles and faces. Some honorary Japanese understood, but knowing and accepting differed.
"Um… She's from Japan, Korean's rough. Help her out."
Teacher explained awkwardly amid the shock. Aware of the effort, the student—fiddling her translator—beamed, hands clasped politely.
"Annyeonghaseyo! Je… neun, Minami Yoko! Tokyo… haeyo! Appuro… jal buhakhaeyo!"
Choppy Korean intro. G class ditched complaints. Japanese, Russian—who cares? Effort wins. Her cuteness sparked Japanese-learning fever. Seonggwang, denied looks bias, felt robbed.
Sensing the thaw, teacher spoke for her.
"Minami Yoko, composer in Japan. Uh… what was it? Voice?"
"VOCALOID! VOCALOID! Ne, Minami-san! VOCALOID joahaseyo?!"
Hype topic ignited, Yoko chattered excitedly. Class riffed wildly.
"VOCALOID? What's that?"
"Vocaloid, right? Mint hair girl…"
"Anime character? She into anime?"
"I'll kill you."
Some knew VOCALOID, some didn't. But composer = otaku king, so most got the culture. Reactions split: "VOCALOID fan?" or "Producer?" No info, suspicions grew. They awaited her word. Yoko, solo hyped by positives, barreled on.
"VOCALOID joahae yo! A, yeoreobun! Moshikashite Syobare! Algo gyesina yo? Syobare!"
Syobare—famous Japanese VOCALOID producer. Popular, loyal fans. Sporadic now, but ghosts haunt nets for her tunes. Some here knew the name, heard tracks, or were wandering souls. But why mention it? They parsed context: "Yoko's a Syobare fan?" Fits her VOCALOID love. If producer, she'd claim it. They listened—wrong assumption. Yoko's Korean sucked for nuance, and pros don't stan harder than fans.
"That's me. That thing."
She said it.
"I'm Syobare."
The famous producer you know is here. Bow, peasants.
"………"
No intent to grovel, but shock unified them. YouTube, Instastar: her tracks hit tens of millions. Age, nationality secret—now a 17-year-old Korean high schooler. Mild surprise? Nah. First greeting bombshell. Otakus, but they read rooms—unlike trash bandmen blurring anime/reality. No "Ehhh~ maji~?!" Overkill. Silence, awkward hush blanketed the room.
Most freeze here. Easy laugh turned coming-out ambush. Teacher, students iced. Only Minami Yoko, bomb-dropper, stayed chill.
'…Weaker reaction than expected. Thought they'd freak more.'
Attention-seeker Yoko, inwardly bummed by no drama, hid her disappointment well.