Powder And Polish

Pushing a thin stream of air between the shining veneer puddy against my natural teeth, I locked my focus on holding a still, neutral expression. From this point onward, even a wrinkle of an exposing smile could crack my face. Emotion had to be drawn internally into a thin digestible wafer; a bite-sized morsel dissolvable in a passing thought. A furrowed brow could warp my shining image; the moistened corner of an eye was a liability. My heart had to match a perfect powdered face held together by glue.

My eyes radiated glowing circles in the mirror. I offered myself a single robotic wink, a rehearsed, flirtatious signature. My jawline was pulled tight with perfectly placed tape, morphing a round face into a smooth oval, chin to a perfect, delicate point. My nose was unusable for breathing, stuffed internally to pull the nostrils in and emphasize a narrow, sloped bridge. Under thick feathered lashes, my eyes were bulging behind swollen blue contacts, swallowing any hint of the natural ebony iris.

Nighttime was falling across Seoul, awakening the sizzles of neon lights along the cobbled alleyways of Insadong. The single fluorescent light of my room flickered as power surged. The cramped apartment flat was high above the main walking street, stacked upon dozens of other housing cubicles. I spun toward the window and peered out between the iron railing, enlarged eyes scanning the boiling hustle on the street below. Speakers were being wheeled to the edge of the curbs, and shops owners lit long strands of smoking incense at their store fronts. Ballooned characters of pink cats and cheerful pandas wobbled into place, preparing for an evening of pop-up dances and selfies.    

I swallowed, holding an internal smile against the walls of my chest, smothering the rise of excitement trudging through me. The boys of BTS were arriving on the street at any moment, and it was my chance to cast a shining impression and swoon my way into the artists’ hearts. All seven members of the band would be signing autographs at Samcheong Bingsu, and I had to ensure that I would be first in line. BTS were finally in my backyard-and it was a law of my destiny to make the night perfect. 

A pair of familiar eyes flickered up from the apartment building directly across the street, catching my attention away from my flashing fantasy. Our two faces locked, mirrored in polished, pale beauty. I didn’t know the girl, but I knew her features-powered, wide-eyed, and tightly pulled into the staples of perfection. The girl’s face was wiped from emotion, but her eyes flashed with the same eagerness that brewed in myself.  Curtains from other room windows tore open, exposing more copies of the painted girls, stacked on top of each other like game show contestants. Dozens of pairs of glazed rosy lips puckered at each other; a mutant army of living, hybridized K-Pop dolls.           

A rift tore through me, and my eager heart went hollow. I recognized the shame those other girls hid behind. BTS couldn’t see us for who we were. We weren’t gifted with a perfect beauty that gleamed under stage lights. To be ordinary would be a disgrace, so we wore a uniform well. We glossed over our tan, porous skin with bleach and crushed shell powder. Plump cheeks were vacuumed into necks and bulbous noses were carved into petite berry blossoms. Drooped, hooded eyelids were folded and taped, and a soft, doe blink was perfected. That was the beauty to be portrayed. Mediocrities would crumble the image and damper the chance of a BTS salvation.

The downstair buzzer broke the trance and I pulled away from the display window. The sun had officially tucked below the skyline, and Ha-Joon had perfectly timed her arrival. I let out a careful, narrow sigh. This was going to be the right night; I was going to be the right girl. I was the epitome of perfection. I strapped on my platform sneakers, offered another manicured wink in the mirror, and locked the room behind. With elbows clasped, Ha-Joon and I marched onto the street, heading briskly in the name of the passioned pilgrimage.  

Behind us, hordes of laced girls avalanched from apartments above, cascading to the street in a swelling symphony of giggles. An aura of rosy perfume engulfed each group of babbles, a wave of sweet fragrance overtaking the meaty smoke rising from BBQ flattops. Posters of BTS lyrics were hoisted above swooning fans, a sparkling gospel to the mob. Girls were draped with silk blankets across their shoulders, the chiseled faces of the Boys printed across their backs with the marks of holy patronage. The fall of night had swatted the hive from the branch, and the wasps were funneling from the combs. The street was blistering with the smacking burn of clacking heels, moving faster toward the center. I looked sideways at Ha-Joon, and we pursed lips at each other; the only expression that wouldn’t defile our perfect, pruned pout. 

“As we practiced; we will be first in line. J-Hope will notice my necklace, his name in jewels. It will sparkle in the light, and it will hit him-he will understand that my devotion is real.” Ha-Joon’s voice came in gasps as our pace quickened to stay ahead of the crowd. “Once they invite us to their studio, your romance with Jimin will blossom, as you are naturally the most beautiful girl and perfect for him.”

Ha-Joon almost slipped a smile. She pushed her lips away from her teeth to prevent a crack, but the glint in her eyes could not be persuaded away. She was tall and slender- she didn’t need the platforms to stand above a crowd. Her hair was velvet without any mouse, and it swayed in her gait with a trained elegance. Her style and persona were bold; she flashed colorful scarves and vests that cast my wardrobes into shadows. Ha-Joon’s whole existence beamed. I was beige and she was hot magenta.

The crowd behind pitched into a howl as pale blue lights beamed in the sky overhead, circling a table that seated seven golden thrones. The street was divided by rows of red velvet barriers, funneling the masses into a lined procession before the table. 

“This is it, Binna! BTS in our own neighborhood, in our spot. This is the night made for us!” Ha-Joon let out a whistle that swirled above and apart from the chants of the crowd, excitement bubbled and boiled in her tune.

“First in line, just like we planned!” I bit my lip to curtail the imposing threat of a smile. 

The doors of Samcheong Bingsu opened to clouds of smoke rolling along the ground. Flashes of silver lights beamed across the dark entryway, and speakers quivered with the beat of “Boy with Luv”. J-Hope was the first to enter the street, and a raise of his eyebrows sent a vibrato through the pitched cheers. The crowd pulsed.

My heart combusted; the night was perfect. Ha-Joon and I grabbed hands and screamed with the crowd as the BTS members posed with shining eyes pointed up toward the sky. 

“Do I look perfect, Binna?” Ha-Joon broke the code and pulled a beaming smile across her face.

A static pop cut the music suddenly, replaced with screams candy-coated in fear. The lights were pulled swiftly from the sky, casting the crowd in a sudden blind panic. Florals of perfume that wafted around each girl wilted into an acrid, metallic stench.

The crowd hiccupped and gulped. The wave of noise and electric excitement fell into itself. A wave of heat pressed and crawled along our backs, like a grassland fire absorbing brittle Mesquite trees in gnarled silence. I felt pressure, before pain.

Ha-Joon grabbed my hand, and we both went down.

The rips and rustles of fabric sounded like a fault line bursting wide in violent waves of magma. Slaps and slams of rubber on concrete vibrated against my cheek as the whole world lay on its side, blurring by in a stampede of sandals and sneakers. Tuffs of pulled hair, bloodied at the roots, floated down beside my face and a waft of lavender shampoo shot a cold sizzle across my skin. A crack numbed my legs as pressure weighed down suddenly on my neck, releasing and jostling my skull like a dashboard ornament. A plastic spur punctured into my side, sliding between my ribs, and snipping my breath away. The heel ripped through, taking flesh and a chunk of my blouse with it. 

“Get Up! Get up! You will be crushed!” Ha-Joon’s hand was pasty with sweat, but her knuckles stayed fused between mine. Her eyes were sharpened with the same wild, primal intensity of an Antelope locked in the pursuit of a wolf. She yanked me close with a desperate yelp, pain surging through my nerve endings as my body heaved.  

Ha-Joon’s breath was at the tip of my nose, our faces pressed side by side against the pavement. Her eyes locked into mine, and my reflection burned back at me through her pupils, wrapped like python in the neon lime of her contact lens. Fear flickered past her lashes, across my image and vanished, transcending into an inky mirror. I couldn’t see Ha-Joon, only the white powder bubbling and rolling off my own face with each sweat and blood drip.

           A thick, heavy quilt of silence fell suddenly, the world’s spin halted, and I lost sight of Ha-Joon.

Pressure was lifted from above, and glints of flashing red woke my senses back to color. Only one eye worked, and my blurred vision was filled with beams from a flashlight. 

           “Can you hear me?”, “Can you move yourself up?” A gloved hand clasped against my shoulder.

           I snapped up, my heart thundering through my chest and overcoming any injury. My hands and feet suddenly burned, tingling with desire to run as far from the massacre as I could. BTS was still in the neighborhood, the night had just begun, and it was meant to be perfect. Ha-Joon and I were to be first in line, and we had to move faster now to make up for lost time after our fall. The gloved, uniformed man caught me in his arms as my legs crumbled back into the pile of wrecked girls.

           Ripped sequined posters decorated the bodies in the street. Moans and cries replaced the music that had blared from curbside speakers, and the lights of ambulances cut through the fog that still rolled from the entrance of Samcheong Bingsu. A storefront window cradled my reflection, sitting amongst the hollow hearts of the still, white mounds.

           I knew the covered sheet was Ha-Joon. It was the tallest, most slender silhouette in the rows of bloodied white blankets. I sat down beside her and lifted her wilted hand. Her grip was gone, lost between my fingers when the stampede overtook us. She had held onto me, strong and bold, until the crowd had rolled and ripped us away.   

           I pulled the sheet away from her face. Her lips had burst open, exposing fatty pink tissue fused with dirt. Scrapes tore flesh away from her cheeks, and chunks of her long, black hair were missing from her scalp. The tape holding her jawline had been snagged away, and her round face was youthful and full. Powder and polish had faded, and her true textures glowed in the haze of the night. She lay in peace, torn to her true self.  She was perfect. 

           Ha-Joon was buried on a Friday, a week from the night that was made for us. Her casket was lined in beige silk, her long hair flowing by her sides. She rested with the practiced pout on her lips, her face wiped clean of any powder, tape, or fluffed lashes. There was a peace that surrounded her, embracing the grace of her natural beauty that she had spent her life trying to morph and alter.

J-Hope and the BTS members attended every funeral of the lost, trampled girls. They bowed in honor at Ha-Joon’s side, each placing a single Mugunghwa blossom beside her.

“I know that her devotion was real.” J-Hope addressed the crowd, his voice drawn low. “She was a perfect fan, a perfect girl.” His eyes scanned to lock mine, and he tipped his head. “And she was a perfect friend.”