The curtain isn't really a curtain.
It's a thick blue cloth someone's mom donated, hung crooked on a metal bar that squeaks when the janitor moves it.
I can see the bottom of people's shoes under it. Sneakers. Black dress shoes. One pair with a loose lace that keeps tapping the floor.
I press my palms flat against my shorts to keep them still. They're shaking a little. Not because I'm scared. Because I'm ready.
The room smells like dust, floor cleaner, and the sweet bread we had for lunch. The lights above the stage are brighter than the classroom lights. They make the air feel warm on my face even though I'm still behind the cloth.
I tilt my head and test my shoulders, rolling them back the way Mom showed me so I don't look small.
"Han Seojun." The teacher says into the microphone. It squeals a little. Everyone laughs. I smile even though no one can see me yet. Smiling helps my cheeks remember what to do. My name sounds bigger when it comes out of the speaker.
I step forward.
The cloth pulls to the side, slow and rough, and suddenly there are faces. A lot of them.
Rows of heads. Parents are sitting on folding chairs. Teachers standing along the walls. My classmates on the floor in front, legs crossed, some leaning on their hands, some whispering.
I can feel all of their eyes land on me at once. It's like stepping into a warm bath. The wood under my shoes is smooth and a little slippery. I know where the tape marks are because I helped put them down earlier, even though I wasn't supposed to touch them.
I walk to the center one. I stop exactly there.
The noise fades. It always does.
I don't rush. The teacher told us to bow, so I bowed. Not too fast. Not too slow. I keep my hands straight at my sides.
When I come back up, I look at the back wall, just over everyone's heads, like I practiced in the mirror at home.
I hear my mom clap once. Just once. Then she stops. That's good. I like that she knows when to stop.
My skit is short. It's about a boy who wants to be a superhero but only has a broom. I wrote it myself because the teacher said we could. I liked the broom because it's tall and easy to hold and makes a good sound when you tap it on the floor.
I lift the broom now.
It's heavier than the plastic one at home.
The bristles scrape the stage and make a soft shhh sound. I angle it so the light catches the handle. I don't know why I do that. It just feels right.
I take a breath.
I let my shoulders drop.
And then I'm not on the stage anymore. I'm in the alley I imagined, with the trash cans and the bad guys that don't really have faces. My feet spread a little wider. My knees bend. I tilt my chin down so my eyes look up.
I make my voice lower.
"Even if I don't have powers, I still have to try." I say, slow, like the words are heavy.
I pause. I learned pauses from watching TV. The pause is where people lean forward without knowing they are.
A few kids giggle. One of them says my name. I don't look at them. I look past them. The alley is there. The bad guys are there. The broom feels like it could really be something else if I hold it right.
I swing.
Not too big. Big swings are messy. I keep it tight, controlled, like the action heroes do when the camera is close. I twist my wrist at the end so the broom makes a sharp sound.
I imagine where the camera would be.
Front. Slightly low. That makes me taller.
I step into the light when I say the next line. I let my face change before my voice. Eyes first. Mouth second.
"You don't have to believe in me. I already do." I say.
That line makes the room go very quiet. Quiet is better than loud. I can feel the quiet settle on my skin, like a blanket. I don't move right away. I hold the broom upright and stand very still. My heart is beating fast, but my hands aren't shaking anymore.
Then I relax.
Just a little.
Enough.
Applause breaks out, clapping and cheers, and someone whistles. My classmates shout. Someone yells, "That was cool!" I grin without meaning to. I bow again, deeper this time, because that's what you do when people clap.
When I look up, I see my dad standing with his arms crossed, smiling but also not smiling. His eyes are careful.
My mom is clapping now, soft and steady. My little brother is half-asleep on her shoulder.
I wave once. Just once. Too much waving looks silly. I walk off the stage. Behind the curtain, the air feels cooler. The noise is muffled, like I've gone underwater. My chest feels light, like I could jump and not come back down right away.
"Good job." The teacher says as I pass her. She squeezes my shoulder.
I nod. I don't say anything because my mouth feels full of sparks.
I sit on the floor with the other kids who already performed. My knees bounce. My friend Minseo leans over and pokes my arm.
"You looked like someone on TV." He says. "I am on TV." I say, without thinking. He laughs. "No, you're not."
I think about it.
Not yet.
But my skin still feels like the light is on me, even back here.
I watch the rest of the performances. A girl plays the violin. A boy does magic with cards and drops half of them. Someone sings and forgets the words and starts over. I clap when everyone else claps. I watch their faces when they mess up and how they fix it.
I like watching almost as much as I like being watched.
When it's over, the chairs scrape, and people stand up and talk all at once. The room fills with voices and the smell of perfume and jackets. Parents come to find their kids. Someone pats my head. Someone else says my name wrong.
"Seojin." A woman says. "It's Seojun." I tell her, politely.
She laughs and says sorry.
My mom takes my hand. Her palm is warm. My dad puts his hand on my shoulder again, heavier this time.
"You did well." He says. I look up at him. "Did you like it?" He thinks for a second. He always does. "I liked that you took it seriously." He says. That makes me happy in a different way.
We walk toward the exit, past the stage. I glance back at it. The lights are off now. The blue cloth hangs loose again, not special at all.
That's okay.
In the hallway, someone I don't know is standing near the trophy case. He's tall and wears a dark coat even though it's not that cold. He's talking to the teacher in a low voice. He turns his head when I pass.
Our eyes meet.
It's like the quiet again.
Not loud. Not heavy. Just focused.
He looks at me the way I look at the screen when something interesting happens. Not smiling. Not frowning. Just…watching. I straighten without thinking. I adjust my grip on my mom's hand so my fingers aren't curled. I lift my chin a little.
The man keeps looking.
Then he nods, very small, like he's saying something to himself.
My mom notices. She slows down. "Do you know him?" She asks me quietly. I shake my head. The teacher waves us over. "Seojun's parents?" She asks. "That's us." My dad says.
The man steps forward. Up close, he smells like coffee. His eyes are sharp but not mean. He crouches down so he's closer to my height, but not all the way. He doesn't touch me.
"Hello, Seojun. You did a good job up there." He says. His voice is calm. "Thank you." I say. I remember to bow a little. He smiles at that. "I'm Han Soojin." His name feels important, even though I don't know why.
"I'm a director." He adds, looking at my parents now. "I make movies and television shows."
My heart starts beating fast again. He looks back at me. "Did you have fun?"
"Yes." I say. I don't have to think. He watches my face when I answer, like he's checking if I'm telling the truth. I am. "That's good. It showed." He says. My dad clears his throat. "Is there something we can help you with?"
The director nods. "I'd like to talk. Not here. If that's okay." He gestures down the hallway. My mom hesitates. I feel it in her hand. She squeezes my fingers once.
"We can listen." She says carefully.
We move to the side, near the windows, where the afternoon light slants in. Dust floats in it, tiny and bright. The director leans against the wall, arms crossed loosely.
"I saw many children perform today. Seojun stood out." He says.
I stand very still. I don't know if I'm supposed to say something, so I don't. "He understands timing. And stillness. That's rare." The director continues. My mom nods slowly. My dad's face is unreadable.
"I'm not offering anything right now. I don't do that without proper steps. But I would like to invite Seojun to audition for a small role. Just to see how he does in front of a camera." The director says.
A camera.
I imagine the black lens, the red light. I imagine standing very still and very alive at the same time.
"I like cameras." I say.
My mom looks down at me, surprised. The director smiles again. "I thought you might." My dad asks questions. About time. About school. About safety. The director answers all of them without rushing. He doesn't promise anything. He doesn't push.
I watch his hands when he talks. They move when he explains something important and stay still when he listens. I like that.
Finally, my parents say they'll think about it. The director gives them a card. He looks at me one more time.
"Keep performing. However, you like." He says. "I will." I say. He leaves. His footsteps fade down the hallway. We stand there for a moment. "That was unexpected." My mom says. My dad exhales. "Yes."
They look at me.
"How do you feel?" My mom asks.
I think about the stage. The light. The quiet. "I want to do it again." I say. She smiles, but her eyes are serious. "We'll talk about it."
On the way home, I sit in the back seat and watch the buildings pass. My brother sleeps. The car hums. My costume—the t-shirt and shorts I wore on stage—feels different now, like it remembers something.
I replay the skit in my head. The pause. The swing. The quiet.
I think about the man's eyes. I don't know what a career is. But I know what it feels like when the light turns on. And I want to step into it again.