[SReq; JongChelle] The Check Out Counter #1
“Wah,” Kibum half whispers, half smiles. It’s the kind of smile I’m pretty much accustomed to. And hate. “Look at that.” He picks out a few strands of my newly cut hair, not going too far before I swat his hand away with an annoyed pout. “Ow-I didn’t say anything yet.”
“You don’t have to. I know you hate it and you know what, freak? I could care less coz I like it and-“
“I never said I didn’t like it!” Kibum retorts, stirring back in his cashier counter next to mine. “It’s just not what I expected. You kind of look like that one guy from that one boy band which name I’m spacing out on.”
“I’m gonna take that as a compliment.”
“By all means.” He tends to the customer placing items on his station, leaving me to self consciously pat on my head of black hair.
When I’m sure Kibum isn’t looking I take out the mirror from my back pocket, fumbling with it a bit as it gets temporarily stuck beneath the lace of my uniform.
I needed a change. That’s all my haircut was. Change. Something drastic and completely not me. Because he said I was predictable. That I was plain. That I was everything she was not. And now I kind of hate myself for letting him move around my decisions for me even after he left me for that two faced, fugly skank who doesn’t even know that the color orange and the fruit orange are spelled the same way. Fucktard.
I think it looks fine. Yeah. I mean, sure. It was different. But my haircut doesn’t define who I am. It does, however define my impulsive decisions. Which is exactly what I was people to think when they first lay their eyes on me. The jagged edges of the layers will exude a care free aura, the uneven cut and shoulder length will show fearlessness…I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore.
“Michelle,” My supervisor’s voice comes into hearing, a woman of thirty, standing right beside my check out station. “Can you handle the prestige counter for a bit? Susan’s on break.”
“Yeah, sure.” I walk out of my station instantly and walk past the remaining row, Kibum’s included. The prestige lane was at the very end of the row of counters, left for the special customers whose money is of great amounts to the super market I work in, therefore allowing them a prestige member card in which they add points and, as mentioned, get their own special lane.
Once at the prestige lane I see a few customers in line as suggested by my supervisor. I open up the register and welcome them all with a smile as if to say please. Help me help you. Checking out groceries is what I was made for.
Of course as tedious as this job is it helps me get by. Much to my dismay this is the partial money that I hand into my parents for when tuition at my college is needed. And tuition. Oh, god. Tuition. It’s like death, those words. They come at me like a gun or the most unsolvable math problem in the whole history of mathematics.
Things are slower tonight though. Probably because it was a Wednesday. But everyone needs groceries. As I slide one individual item from one part of the counter to the tail over the censor I steal a glance at my best friend Kibum who was now tending to another customer. And of course that customer happened to be a guy. And he had to be cute. He just had to be. Because this was my life. Where my lane picks up old ladies and men who pick their noses whereas the beautiful people stack up in Kibum’s lane.
One of the items that I swipe over the censor creates an error so I have to manually punch in the number code. Silly, how everything just comes so easy for me now. Unlike a year ago when I started working here with Kibum, going to college at the same time. Actually, I take that back. I wouldn’t call it easy. It’s just like…you know how when you’re in prison long enough that the bars start to feel like home? No. Of course you don’t. In any case, that’s kind of what I feel like now. Only a little more sympathetic of my life ever since my boyfriend..well, ex boyfriend left me for th-Oh my god! I shake my head, staring into the canned tomato sauce I was currently swiping over the censor. There he fucking is again. Entering my mind and just fucking with me at all sides.
And the worst part is that he goes to my school. Can you fucking believe that? He leaves me and I’m left with the view of his hands intertwined with that whore he’s with. Everyday. For the rest of my college life.
A plastic jar of peanutbutter manages to slip from my fingers, rolling over the censor without placing a price in. I catch it with my other hand in the nick of time, the woman whose items I’m checking out eyes me peculiarly, making me want to pick at my hair again.
I go through the rest of the items with less mishap and by the time I bag the last of the groceries for the last prestige customer in the lane. That’s when it happens. When he happens.
In the form of chocolate brown hair with blonde streaks at the tips of his fringe. As if he dipped his fringe and only his fringe in gold paint. In the form of not too olive, but not too fair skin, matting over his face, neck, clavicles, hands and whatever else I could see from the clothes he was wearing. In the form of a five foot six stance, walking over to the prestige counter, a can of mixed fruit cocktail in his hands. In the form of his voice going, “Excuse me? Can you ring this up for me?”
“I’m sorry, sir.” I shake my head politely, already placing the “closed” sign over the counter. “This lane is only for prestige customers. You can check that out in the next counter.”
“It’s just one item.” He doesn’t even spare me a smile. Like, what the fuck? Was it being a half a blonde that made him so impolite?
“I understand, sir. But I can’t serve you in this counter. It’s only for prestige customers. You’re going to have to pay for that in the next counter.”
I leave him there without any other explanation, knowing for certain that the other counters in progress will get my point across for me. What an ass. When I make it back to my counter and open up my station I am graced with the presence of my usual lane. I check out their grocery items almost robotically, my head tilting to one side, teeth digging into my upper lip as I force out a smile.
About fifteen customers go through my lane and it’s the fifteenth where I decide to close up my station.
“Miss?” Why is that voice so familiar? I look up from placing the closed sign on my station and oh my fucking god. It’s the half blonde and his can of mixed fruit cocktails.
“Sir.” I address him again, hands on my plane. “My station is closed. You can check that out in the next counter.” I avoid eye contact at all costs, thinking that if I ignore him long enough he’ll just leave. But he stays there for a good five minutes. Then he goes, “Who’s your supervisor?”
I shake my fringe away from my eyes as a give him another look. “She is.” I nod towards the direction of my supervisor, busying herself in another counter.
He doesn’t thank me, doesn’t say anything else. Just proceeds to Kibum’s counter and now I’m breathing out heavily, stretching out the knots in my neck.
“Michelle.” My supervisor comes up from the other side of my station, a stern look on her face. And the boy. He’s right behind her, his can of mixed fruit cocktails now in a white grocery bag. “This gentleman over here informed me that you refuse to serve him.”
My eyes go animatedly round. “I-What?”
“I apologize, Mr. Kim.” My supervisor doesn’t let me fill in the blank spaces of my sentence before turning to the boy. “I’ll make sure that this never happens again.”
He looks back at me, eyeing me from head to toe, the counter in between us seeming invisible. “You’re customer service is terrible.” He says flatly. I spare a brief glance at Kibum’s O shaped mouth from behind him, his stare bouncing from the back of the boy’s head to my face. “My maids make more money than you, you know.”
And he just leaves. Like that was the most appropriate thing to say at the moment. Like that was the only thing he could say or should say. And I can’t really seem to get my breathing right. I just want to hide away from the stares piling up on my form, boring holes into my uniform.
~o~
Sometimes when I get really worked up my frustrations like to roll down my cheeks in salty streaks and Kibum’s nice enough to listen to me in the backroom as my sorrows flood the spaces.
“What the fuggh?” I mumble into my hands, nose turning red as I feel Kibum’s heavy hand on my shoulder.
“There, there.”
“Fugghyou!”
“What did I do?”
“How can someone live without a heart like that? It’s inzane! What an azzole!”
“Just don’t.” Kibum exhales, his patience slim as it is. Kibum wasn’t the best consoler in the world. But he tries. And that’s kind of why we’re friends, I guess. The fact that we know that by trying we’re not really losing much. “Don’t let it get to you so much. We deal with irate customers all the time…”
“It just had to habben taday, right?” My sentence is followed by a distasteful sniff, the kind that Kibum distorts his face towards without letting me know of his displeasure. “This day is a fugghing hell hole. My boyvrend runs ofv wid’a tramp. I’m making less than this guy’s household workers-“
“Oh, God!” Kibum whines. “Seriously, Michelle. Do you honestly believe that? We make a shitload more than those bitches who wipe after his ass-“
“And my h-hair. Looks like I slid it through a razor during break time.”
“What? No.” This is when Kibum steps out of his limit, a phenomenon occurring once in a blue moon, similar to me crying, but that just goes hand in hand. “Your hair is. I mean. You’re still pretty, okay.” He turns me towards him, steadying my shaking shoulder with both his hands sliding up to cup my dampened cheeks. “And can we please just permanently wipe out your ex’s from our future conversations?”
He pulls me in for a hug, muscles flexing a bit when his gestures just encourages more healthy whales from me. “Michelle.” He whispers, his breath making the hairs covering my ears vibrate a bit. “You can cry about him now. But for fuck’s sake. If I hear one more word out of you about him and his dumbass girlfriend-“
“-I won’t.” I protest, arms automatically wrapping around his waist. “I ju-just need. To let this out.”
“I know.” Kibum leans the side of his cheek on mine. “Just for tonight, okay. Tomorrow we’re wiping his existence the fuck out.”
This is why I never question being friends with Kibum for so long. Because he allows me raw moments like these where judgment is completely torn down next to the walls around me that he breaks. And it’s fine to be vulnerable every once in a while. I don’t care if it takes me minutes or years, as long as I’m secured anew. Frankly, I don’t think I’m asking for too much.
~o~
If there’s one thing in this world that is better than food or books it’s sleeping. And I don’t appreciate the fact that I have to work and study at the same time, both activities only granting me my bittersweet 4 hours of slumber as opposed to my regular 7 which I only get during Saturdays to Sundays, but I guess that just goes without saying.
I like my college, though. I like being a literary major because it gives me the freedom to express myself creatively. And the thought that I can someday turn that into a career and leave the dreary lights of the check out counter is enough to keep me going. But just like every other class it’s still held in school. And school can be so fucking tedious with its schedules and professors with bad breath and no respect for their student’s personal space. It tightens knots in my joints, in the back of my neck and classes are not supposed to make me feel as tired as when I’m working.
One thing I do hate is P.E. 2. For P.E. this semester the board of education chose to make me a laughing stock and placed aquatics as my Monday 8:00 am schedule. The bastards. They probably knew I was an instant drown victim; just add water.
Alas, locker room discussions surrounded me as I made my way towards my own red locker, eyeing the uniformed swimsuit in my hands wondering how I was going to keep the back from riding up.
“…and her shoes are totally fake, Steph.”
“I know! I saw her sort through the discount pile that one time. Like she could ever pull that off..” Whispers from behind me resonate.
Okay, I’m not going to be typical and say that I don’t fit in with these girls because I read and am a bit more educated in comparison and that my tastes vary because I’m eclectic and all colors of the rainbow and, Goddamnit, I’m proud! But I would never be able to carry that conversation naturally. I couldn’t care less which shoes are fake. Or which discount bin that girl they were talking about was sorting through. For all I know I could’ve sorted through the same pile and bought the same pair of shoes.
I wrap a towel around my waist after having donned the skimpy swimsuit, hair cap in place, goggles situated loosely around my neck. This kid Taemin and this one really tall guy Minho are already by the other side of the pool, observing the depth of the water from where they were standing. Taemin leans in a bit closer over the ledge and Minho mock pushes him forward, but grabs him back up quickly before folding over himself and laughing, Taemin scowling at him from beneath his auburn, mushroom bob cut.
Before entering this college I had to give school a break for a year after highschool. It’s nothing serious. I didn’t develop mono or anything like that. I just. Well. To simply put it. I didn’t know what I wanted to be. When you’re young you dream about the impossible because no one would ever dare to shake a kid’s dreams with the claws of reality. When you grow older and you announce your ambitions people judge you as old enough to know that not all dreams are worth chasing. I remember wanting to be a scientist when I was in 3rd grade, then later decided that archeology would be the best branch of science to focus on. Then I wanted to become a rockstar in a band. Then a movie director. Then a writer. An artist. I got lost somewhere along the way and even after my finality on literary arts I still feel like my purpose is hidden beneath the folds of my subconscious.
Whether I find this purpose at school remains to be seen. All I am trying to accomplish at the moment is living my life day by day. And it’s been working well for me. For the most part. I met some really cool people along the way, Minho, Taemin and Kibum included and so far, even if there are times that I question the decisions I’ve made in my life, I kind of feel optimistic about tomorrow.
“Loocktachu~” Minho chimes the moment I’m close enough to where they are. Taemin mirrors Minho’s expression of appraisal when he turns in my direction. “You look like you’re ready to swim all the way to France.”
I grant him a lazy smirk, moving my weight to one leg, arms crossed over my chest. “Bonjour.”
“Ooh la la.” Taemin is suddenly behind me, digging his stringy fingers into my hair. I fall forward, avoiding his touch. “I was planning on getting the same cut next year. After I grow my hair out.”
We engage in our usual banter and it kind of helps keep my eyes off the pool. Whenever I do, though, my knees get weak and the scent of chlorine starts knocking my teeth in. The gym coach enters and we all quiet down as he heads towards us, a typical middle aged man with a whistle and knee high white socks.
“Settle down, everyone.” He places his hands on either side of his hips, my eyes suddenly lingering on his bubble belly and how it was practically glowing underneath the yellow of his polo. “I am Mr. Kwon and I am here to guarantee that by the end of this semester you will be able to execute the four strokes.”
I hear Minho snort out a laugh from beside me and as I toss a glare his way I am greeted with his very clipped smile. I couldn’t help but smile a little back but not without telling him to shut up with my eyes. And it was enough to get Mr. Kwon-yellow-belly-ball to stop in front of me.
“What’s your name?” He asks me and there’s a slight dot of hope in my chest wishing that it was not me he was referring to. So even if he was standing right in front of me with his eyes practically poking my forehead, I take a glance at both sides and confirm. Then I look back at him and answer, “Michelle.”
“Michelle.” He repeats then spins on is heel going on to the front of the class. I see the rest of the girls emerging from the locker room, discarding their towels by the benches before positioning themselves. “Could you come over here, Michelle?”
I keep my towel at my waist as I take a few steps forward by his side, a little closer to the pool this time. I try not to look at the water because it kind of had the same effect on me like heights with aerophobes.
“Get rid of your towel and show me your best freestyle.”
He’s kidding, right? I give him my best smile instead. “Mr. Kwon, I, uhh-“ I break into a nervous laugh, the scene sounding and looking more ridiculous by the second. “-see, the thing is. I don’t. I mean. I can’t swim.”
“….You can’t. swim.” Mr. Kwon deadpans.
I nod twice. “That’s kind of the whole point of swimming class, right? To learn.” I don’t know if that came out rude or whatever, but seriously I was just stating a fact. And maybe it was rude because it became seriously quiet after that. I want to plead for help to Taemin and Minho but it’s kind of impossible with this coach’s melon head right in my face.
“You could’ve at least learned the basics.”
I shrug for lack of a better response. Also because I’m trying to get this whole class started. Three hours and I haven’t even gotten through twenty minutes and already I feel like dying.
“Well, there is no better teacher than experience, right?” Mr. Kwon says finally and I breathe out even though I’m really sure how I should take his statement. I nod again.
“I’m glad you agree, Michelle.” I really thought he was qualified. Until he pushed me in the pool with one meaty hand.
~o~
I’m flopping in the pool, ironically like a fish on dry land. My arms are trying to fall onto something solid, but they sink back in the water with a slap, the ruined splashes falling on my face, not helping my breathing.
“No!” The coach shouts when I catch a blurry glimpse of Minho trying to jump in the pool. “You save her, you fail my class.”
“But, sir-“
“Let her learn.”
Oh fuck. The water makes its way in my nostrils and I literally sniff that shit in and it hurts my sinuses when I try to blow it out. I open my mouth then the water seers in there too, making me cough. This was fucking hopeless. My heart starts beating at a rapid pace and I’m trying to scream, but everytime I do my voice comes out all garbled by the water. I’m paddling my feet on literally nothing and I can see Minho and Taemin staring holes into Mr. Kwon’s forehead.
A splash cuts through from the other side of the pool and I’m pretty sure that wasn’t made by me.
“HEY! HEY! What do you think you’re doing?” Mr. Kwon objects, rounding the pool. But he stops by the first corner the same time I feel a tug on my right arm and it’s not a moment too soon because I can feel my legs losing strength from kicking.
I relax into the student’s grip, resting my weight on his side when he places my right arm over his shoulder. The student drags me to the ledge, makes sure both my hands are on the surface before hoisting himself up and helping me pull half of myself out of the pool. Minho and Taemin fall to my side the second I come up, coughing out clear water, and my tongue burning in chlorine.
“What the hell was that?!” My eyes lift up heavily and I see Mr. Kwon coming in from the left, his glare beady with frustration. “Boy! I said, BOY! Look at me when I’m talking to you!”
There’s a sound of ruffling clothes to my right and I’m assuming it’s the student who was Mr. Kwon’s target of the moment. And it’s as if the whole world just stops when our eyes meet as he’s gathering his jeans and his shirt from the floor.
Mixed. Fruit. Cocktails.
He doesn’t look at me for very long before returning his attention to his dampened clothes. He hugs them to his stomach when he stands up straight, not even flinching when the coach stomps by us and faces him with just an inch in between their noses.
“What did I say? I told you not to go after her! I didn’t ask for a hero!”
I don’t know whether he was trying to look cool. Not that he did look cool. Or didn’t. Or. I dunno. I drank a fuckload of water from the pool so I guess it’s alright to say that when he didn’t even so much as give Mr. Kwon a glance and just wiped his face of the numerous amounts of spit that Mr. Kwon rained him with…he looked. Cool. I guess. I mean not really. Just. It was funny, okay. Especially since his efforts were useless, considering that he was already wet from the pool. Just saying.
Mr. Kwon didn’t find it amusing, though. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
He stares back at the coach for a good few seconds before he says, “Kim Jonghyun.”
It was one of those moments in movies and dramas where the crowd gathered (after having known who the boy was) gives off the slightest of whimpers, ooh’s and aahh’s followed by hushed whispers. And the person who dared to defy whoever this Kim Jonghyun person was (who, in this scenario was Mr. Kwon) suddenly rounds up his eyes, but only for a millisecond before they go back to normal. It’s not enough to deny that this Kim Jonghyun guy was a big deal or something. Because the class was still whispering. And he looked like he was used to it.
He gets into his pants, pulling up one leg then the next. Then he slings his shirt over his shoulders after he walks past Mr. Kwon towards the exit of the pool. “You don’t have to fail me.” Kim Jonghyun announces without looking back. And just as he was about to disappear from behind the entrance he explains, “I was gonna drop this class anyway.”
God. What a blonde prick. Always trying to make the end count just as much as the beginning.
~o~
“Kim Jonghyun is basically royalty.” Taemin reads it off a print out of a research he made last night caused by my curiosity of yesterday’s events. We’re seated together at a fast food chain a few blocks away from school because I believe cafeteria food to be the devil. Taemin is waving a hand with a half eaten fry clipped between his forefinger and thumb for emphasis on his words while the other hand holds the seven pages containing Kim Jonghyun’s profile.
I lean over the table to peak around the paper. “It says that?”
“No.” Taemin shakes his head. “I’m assuming coz he’s filthy wealthy.”
“It says that he’s wealthy?”
“No.” Taemin repeats. “That’s just another assumption since his mother is crazy famous.”
“Okay,” I sit back and take a sip of my coke. “Will you just read what’s on the page?”
Taemin takes another bite of his fry and uses the remnants to poke at the paper from the line that he starts reading. “Kim Jonghyun, eighteen years old, step son of new rising drama actress Park Yinsoo-woah!”
“Woah!” Taemin and I say at the same time. “Park Yinsoo? Holy shit!”
“Holy shit, I know!” Taemin yelps, the papers shaking in his hands. “Forget royalty. This Jonghyun guy is famous. Or destined for fame or-“
“Taemin!” I almost spill my coke when I place it back on the table. “Park Yinsoo is-that means he’s Jinki’s-Oh my GOD!”
Taemin purses his lips together distastefully. “Noona. I know you miss Jinki hyung and all, but it’s kind of pathetic trying to sneak his name into every conversation we’re having.”
My eyelids drop in frustration. “Oh, my dear, sweet, innocent dongsaeng. Remember how I never told any of you who Oppa’s mother was?”
He stuffs his mouth with three fries and blinks. I take that as a yes.
“Well, noona hasn’t been completely honest about oppa. His mom was just making it into the media scene and he didn’t want to feel discriminated against or whatever just because Park Yinsoo was his mom.”
Taemin spits out the mashed up fry bits to the next empty table just as a waitress was passing by. Her shoulder sag at the sight, but she takes out a wet rag and starts wiping anyway. “You dated Park Yinsoo’s son?”
“Park Yinsoo’s son left me.” I peel off the wrapper of my burger. “That’s how I see it.”
“How long were you guys dating?”
“Eight months. Give or take a few petty break ups.”
“And you never knew about Kim Jonghyun?”
“He mentioned a step brother, but Kim Jonghyun was in London at the time and apparently. Well, at least from what oppa told me. His mom wasn’t very favorable of her step son.”
One of Taemin’s brows rise to his hairline. “I guess that makes sense.”
“What do you mean?”
“He is kind of. You know. Hardass-looking.”
I smirk in response, grabbing a few of the papers in the back and skimming through them myself. “He was doing gigs in London. He’s a singer. In a band. Oh, they broke up.” I say in clipped notes from my quick scan. “I can’t believe Google has this much stuff on him.”
“I can’t believe that Google gives as shit.” Taemin adds.
“Of course they’d give a shit. He’s Park Yinsoo’s son.” I say as if I’m defending him.
When Taemin sits up and plasters a smile on his face, stare directed somewhere past my left shoulder I’m assured that Minho has just entered the restaurant. I swear to God, Taemin would lick Minho’s shoes if he asked. That’s kind of what I get from his stares. But, then again, I could just be so used to Kibum’s gayness that everything comes off that way to me.
A backpack is being thrown over the table next to my food, the seat being dragged back before Minho’s lean form comes in, slumping over the wooden surface of the table.
“You alright?” I ask, hands still in the air as I tried to block the straps of Minho’s bag from hitting me.
“Yeah,” He mumbles into his arms then sits up, bags under his eyes the size of Russia. “Jesus, Minho yah. When was the last time you slept?”
Taemin nudges his carton of fries with two hands nearer Minho and the older boy can only give out a weak smile of appreciation before reaching for one and tossing it in his mouth. His chewing is interrupted by a lazy yawn. “I hate tutoring.”
And it’s like an alarm just went off in my head.
“Which reminds me, Michelle. Why weren’t you--?”
Minho’s question is replaced by a look of shock when I gather my things with the speed of light and rush out of the restaurant like a bullet, people staring after me as a cut through them and glass double doors.
~o~
“Shit. Shit. Shit.” I haven’t been late for anything since the Jung sisters’ joint 9th birthday party. So, yeah. It’s been a while. And I don’t see the point in being late if I can be there early. I just forgot. Like, seriously forgot that I got myself this job last week. It seems like a blur to me now after this weekend and having to face Jinki’s back as he walked away from me…
Aww, fuck. I should really learn how to stop torturing myself like that. Especially at moments like these when I’m climbing up the stairs two at a time, tearing through the sea of students just so I can make it to the library in time.
I open the door, the harsh creak sending heads flying in my direction. I give an awkward bow of apology before walking to the front desk where Mrs. Choi is giving me a stern look. She stands up from her seat, glancing at her wrist watch before looking up at me.
“You’re late.”
“I know. I’m so so-“
“This way, please.”
I shut my mouth and fix my hair as I walk after her at a measurable pace. I guess one of the perks at getting into a university that doesn’t let just anyone in is that when a student needs a tutor they make it a big deal. So whenever a student admits to requiring one they make the said student pay extra cash, most of which will go to the tutor selected and extra credit also follows. Being late on the first day won’t make much of an impression, though.
I see his blonde head through the spaces between the books and the shelves even before we make it to the clearing and Mrs. Choi tells me that, yes. Kim Jonghyun is the student I am assigned to tutor. And almost instantly she leaves like a bubble bursting in mid air. Okay, maybe not that quickly, but you get what I mean. And now I’m standing here like an idiot, one hand on the strap of my book bag, the other by my side, my eyes round and my the tips of my hair tickling my collarbone. Should I move? Should I reach up and scratch my collarbone where it itches? Or will that make me seem weak in front of him. Does that even make any sense?
He’s making me feel small already with the way he’s just looking up at me, his hands still on the table, one of which is twirling a pen in his fingers, his book spread open in front of him.
God, why? No, really. WHY?
“You gonna teach me math from all the way over there?”
The ring of his voice just brings me back to that night at the check out counter. And it kind of makes my blood boil a bit. I should punch his teeth in or knee him in the crotch so hard that his children are going to be retarded. But I choose the civilized path. I take the seat across from him, lay my book bag on the table, lick my lips, tuck one side of my hair behind my ear and ignore the way I can feel his eyes burning on me.
I program a smile on my face, the most natural one I can muster before looking up at him. “Hi. My name is Michelle and I’m going to be your math tutor for-“ I swallow hard, realizing the gravity of the situation at hand. And how that gravity is going to weigh me down for-“-the whole semester.”
He passes a knowing look by me. He doesn’t look too bothered by the idea, but I can never real tell when he just stays quiet like that. If he’s going to just lose it again or try to make things work. But then again, in the two times I’ve seen him he’s never really stayed. Or tried.
I tug my book bag closer, unzipping the middle and taking out my college algebra book, my notes, my calculator and my pencil case. And I know he’s just sitting there looking at me and I know what I look like right now. But, hey. I’m the tutor. He’s the student. This bodes well for the part I’m about to play. He should be enthusiastic that I at least look competent if not for my terrible memory.
“Kim Jonghyun, right?” I try again after spreading my book open in front of me.
He hasn’t moved from his position since I came in, just staring at me with this unreadable expression on his face. He briefly hums out a yes, allowing me to look back down again and stare at the equations of my book. He was just as difficult to solve as these problems. Not that I was ever good with figuring people out. I just thought that was a skill that would come to me over time and experience. It never did. Until Kibum told me he was gay I always thought he was dreadfully in love with me because of the seventy million ways he would complement my outfit and my shoes and… that was a tell tale sign on its own.
I take a pen in between my fingers and start fiddling with it with both hands. I keep my eyes on the book as I speak again. “So, what was your last lesson? We can just start with that and you can tell me which parts you’re having trouble with-“
“It must be difficult.” He slices my sentence by the tail, leaving me unsure if I just imagined him speak. So, yeah. I look up, only to make sure that I heard him. Just a peak from beneath my fringe. He shifted his position and I didn’t even notice, his one arm now casually slung over the empty seat next to him as he leaned in on his chair, away from the table. Away from me.
“Excuse me?”
“Working at the grocery store and studying. Then working as a part time tutor.” His one hand is on the table, spinning the pen around his thumb and catching it with his forefinger, the kind of trick I never got to learn growing up so I stuck to wiggling it in between my fingers whenever I felt the urge to just touch something and calm down. Like right now.
I keep my smile on because people say that when I don’t smile I look like a prick. “I have a lot of stuff to pay.”
“I bet. This college alone must be a bitch on your wallet.” This is when he takes his arm from the chair, drops the pen in the other and links his hands together as he leans over the table, over his books, over the edge of my book. Closer to me. “I just meant. It must be difficult since you’re so insufficient.”
“Well, I-“ Wait. Waitwaitwaitwait. Did this asshole just insult me again? Did he? He just. He did, didn’t he? My jaw feels heavy as it hangs slack in disbelief, the pen I’d been fiddling with snapping down to the table. “Wow.” I breathe out. “I cannot. You are. I.”
And he just sits there, like the blonde piece of shit that he is! He even has the audacity to fucking smirk up at me with his fucking pearl ass teeth and fucking pointy eyes going all upturned crescents and shit. I lean down to level with him, a clear sign that I kind of lost it this time.
“Listen. I know all about you and your. Your. Your mom. And your stupid ass foot ball field of a house. And your royalty status. But just because you’re a step above me in the social chain doesn’t give you the right to talk to me like that, you insensitive hole!”
“Insensitive what?” The more he grins the more I feel he’s mocking me and it’s a miracle my hair isn’t falling out of rage yet.
“I’m trying to be professional here-“
“Showing up thirty minutes late, making me walk around the grocery store and wait in line for forty five. Is that your idea of professionalism?”
“I-“
“You know.” He cuts me off. “I’ve never used my mom’s status to get me out of things, but I’ve never been treated so poorly because of ignorance.”
I gasp a little louder than I intended. He flinches just a bit in shock. “Are you calling me ignorant.”
“Hmm,” His eyes direct upward for a second as he contemplated my question mockingly. “Well, you did jump into a seven foot pool without any knowledge of the basics in swimming. So you could be a little bit ignorant.”
“HE PUSH-“ My head cocks to the side as I stop myself and clear my throat, remembering that we were still in a library. “He pushed me!” I snare back.
“Yeah, well I saved you.” He leans back in his chair, leaving me to stare at him from my crouch over the table. “You should be grateful. Instead you’re calling me an insensitive hole. This makes you unprofessional and really meager on insult exchange.”
“I never asked for your help.”
“Coz so many of them were just fighting over who would get to rescue you.”
“If I’d known you would be the one to jump in that pool I would’ve chosen to drown instead.”
“Ouch.” He doesn’t look insulted at all. It’s like nothing I say or do will ever make a difference.
“Forget this.” I start packing my things back in my bag at a furious pace.
“You still owe me your life.”
I throw my bag back on the table, my books, pens ruffling inside from the impact. “I don’t owe you shit.”
“I dropped a class for you.” He objects, one hand over his heart.
“You were gonna drop it anyway!”
“Still counts.”
I really shouldn’t have done it but having long legs really helps when I want to kick someone from underneath the table. I hit his knee and instantly his hands fly to his kneecap, his face distorted. I zip my bag and try to stand up before I can start feeling guilty. But I wanted to have the last word so, “If you ever talk to me again I’m gonna make sure I don’t miss your balls next time.”
His groan/whimper is the most satisfactory response I’ve gotten from him in the days that I’ve known him. But just as I was about to walk out he says, “I know all about you too, Michelle.”
My head does a half turn, not all the way though. I don’t want to acknowledge that sentence too much because I don’t want him to…I don’t want him to think that he’s right. I’m pretty sure that has something to do with Jinki. Or it could be something else all together. Bottom line was I had to get out of here. So, I stomp forward without turning back, thinking that I might never get used to the feel of his eyes on me.
Next
“You don’t have to. I know you hate it and you know what, freak? I could care less coz I like it and-“
“I never said I didn’t like it!” Kibum retorts, stirring back in his cashier counter next to mine. “It’s just not what I expected. You kind of look like that one guy from that one boy band which name I’m spacing out on.”
“I’m gonna take that as a compliment.”
“By all means.” He tends to the customer placing items on his station, leaving me to self consciously pat on my head of black hair.
When I’m sure Kibum isn’t looking I take out the mirror from my back pocket, fumbling with it a bit as it gets temporarily stuck beneath the lace of my uniform.
I needed a change. That’s all my haircut was. Change. Something drastic and completely not me. Because he said I was predictable. That I was plain. That I was everything she was not. And now I kind of hate myself for letting him move around my decisions for me even after he left me for that two faced, fugly skank who doesn’t even know that the color orange and the fruit orange are spelled the same way. Fucktard.
I think it looks fine. Yeah. I mean, sure. It was different. But my haircut doesn’t define who I am. It does, however define my impulsive decisions. Which is exactly what I was people to think when they first lay their eyes on me. The jagged edges of the layers will exude a care free aura, the uneven cut and shoulder length will show fearlessness…I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore.
“Michelle,” My supervisor’s voice comes into hearing, a woman of thirty, standing right beside my check out station. “Can you handle the prestige counter for a bit? Susan’s on break.”
“Yeah, sure.” I walk out of my station instantly and walk past the remaining row, Kibum’s included. The prestige lane was at the very end of the row of counters, left for the special customers whose money is of great amounts to the super market I work in, therefore allowing them a prestige member card in which they add points and, as mentioned, get their own special lane.
Once at the prestige lane I see a few customers in line as suggested by my supervisor. I open up the register and welcome them all with a smile as if to say please. Help me help you. Checking out groceries is what I was made for.
Of course as tedious as this job is it helps me get by. Much to my dismay this is the partial money that I hand into my parents for when tuition at my college is needed. And tuition. Oh, god. Tuition. It’s like death, those words. They come at me like a gun or the most unsolvable math problem in the whole history of mathematics.
Things are slower tonight though. Probably because it was a Wednesday. But everyone needs groceries. As I slide one individual item from one part of the counter to the tail over the censor I steal a glance at my best friend Kibum who was now tending to another customer. And of course that customer happened to be a guy. And he had to be cute. He just had to be. Because this was my life. Where my lane picks up old ladies and men who pick their noses whereas the beautiful people stack up in Kibum’s lane.
One of the items that I swipe over the censor creates an error so I have to manually punch in the number code. Silly, how everything just comes so easy for me now. Unlike a year ago when I started working here with Kibum, going to college at the same time. Actually, I take that back. I wouldn’t call it easy. It’s just like…you know how when you’re in prison long enough that the bars start to feel like home? No. Of course you don’t. In any case, that’s kind of what I feel like now. Only a little more sympathetic of my life ever since my boyfriend..well, ex boyfriend left me for th-Oh my god! I shake my head, staring into the canned tomato sauce I was currently swiping over the censor. There he fucking is again. Entering my mind and just fucking with me at all sides.
And the worst part is that he goes to my school. Can you fucking believe that? He leaves me and I’m left with the view of his hands intertwined with that whore he’s with. Everyday. For the rest of my college life.
A plastic jar of peanutbutter manages to slip from my fingers, rolling over the censor without placing a price in. I catch it with my other hand in the nick of time, the woman whose items I’m checking out eyes me peculiarly, making me want to pick at my hair again.
I go through the rest of the items with less mishap and by the time I bag the last of the groceries for the last prestige customer in the lane. That’s when it happens. When he happens.
In the form of chocolate brown hair with blonde streaks at the tips of his fringe. As if he dipped his fringe and only his fringe in gold paint. In the form of not too olive, but not too fair skin, matting over his face, neck, clavicles, hands and whatever else I could see from the clothes he was wearing. In the form of a five foot six stance, walking over to the prestige counter, a can of mixed fruit cocktail in his hands. In the form of his voice going, “Excuse me? Can you ring this up for me?”
“I’m sorry, sir.” I shake my head politely, already placing the “closed” sign over the counter. “This lane is only for prestige customers. You can check that out in the next counter.”
“It’s just one item.” He doesn’t even spare me a smile. Like, what the fuck? Was it being a half a blonde that made him so impolite?
“I understand, sir. But I can’t serve you in this counter. It’s only for prestige customers. You’re going to have to pay for that in the next counter.”
I leave him there without any other explanation, knowing for certain that the other counters in progress will get my point across for me. What an ass. When I make it back to my counter and open up my station I am graced with the presence of my usual lane. I check out their grocery items almost robotically, my head tilting to one side, teeth digging into my upper lip as I force out a smile.
About fifteen customers go through my lane and it’s the fifteenth where I decide to close up my station.
“Miss?” Why is that voice so familiar? I look up from placing the closed sign on my station and oh my fucking god. It’s the half blonde and his can of mixed fruit cocktails.
“Sir.” I address him again, hands on my plane. “My station is closed. You can check that out in the next counter.” I avoid eye contact at all costs, thinking that if I ignore him long enough he’ll just leave. But he stays there for a good five minutes. Then he goes, “Who’s your supervisor?”
I shake my fringe away from my eyes as a give him another look. “She is.” I nod towards the direction of my supervisor, busying herself in another counter.
He doesn’t thank me, doesn’t say anything else. Just proceeds to Kibum’s counter and now I’m breathing out heavily, stretching out the knots in my neck.
“Michelle.” My supervisor comes up from the other side of my station, a stern look on her face. And the boy. He’s right behind her, his can of mixed fruit cocktails now in a white grocery bag. “This gentleman over here informed me that you refuse to serve him.”
My eyes go animatedly round. “I-What?”
“I apologize, Mr. Kim.” My supervisor doesn’t let me fill in the blank spaces of my sentence before turning to the boy. “I’ll make sure that this never happens again.”
He looks back at me, eyeing me from head to toe, the counter in between us seeming invisible. “You’re customer service is terrible.” He says flatly. I spare a brief glance at Kibum’s O shaped mouth from behind him, his stare bouncing from the back of the boy’s head to my face. “My maids make more money than you, you know.”
And he just leaves. Like that was the most appropriate thing to say at the moment. Like that was the only thing he could say or should say. And I can’t really seem to get my breathing right. I just want to hide away from the stares piling up on my form, boring holes into my uniform.
~o~
Sometimes when I get really worked up my frustrations like to roll down my cheeks in salty streaks and Kibum’s nice enough to listen to me in the backroom as my sorrows flood the spaces.
“What the fuggh?” I mumble into my hands, nose turning red as I feel Kibum’s heavy hand on my shoulder.
“There, there.”
“Fugghyou!”
“What did I do?”
“How can someone live without a heart like that? It’s inzane! What an azzole!”
“Just don’t.” Kibum exhales, his patience slim as it is. Kibum wasn’t the best consoler in the world. But he tries. And that’s kind of why we’re friends, I guess. The fact that we know that by trying we’re not really losing much. “Don’t let it get to you so much. We deal with irate customers all the time…”
“It just had to habben taday, right?” My sentence is followed by a distasteful sniff, the kind that Kibum distorts his face towards without letting me know of his displeasure. “This day is a fugghing hell hole. My boyvrend runs ofv wid’a tramp. I’m making less than this guy’s household workers-“
“Oh, God!” Kibum whines. “Seriously, Michelle. Do you honestly believe that? We make a shitload more than those bitches who wipe after his ass-“
“And my h-hair. Looks like I slid it through a razor during break time.”
“What? No.” This is when Kibum steps out of his limit, a phenomenon occurring once in a blue moon, similar to me crying, but that just goes hand in hand. “Your hair is. I mean. You’re still pretty, okay.” He turns me towards him, steadying my shaking shoulder with both his hands sliding up to cup my dampened cheeks. “And can we please just permanently wipe out your ex’s from our future conversations?”
He pulls me in for a hug, muscles flexing a bit when his gestures just encourages more healthy whales from me. “Michelle.” He whispers, his breath making the hairs covering my ears vibrate a bit. “You can cry about him now. But for fuck’s sake. If I hear one more word out of you about him and his dumbass girlfriend-“
“-I won’t.” I protest, arms automatically wrapping around his waist. “I ju-just need. To let this out.”
“I know.” Kibum leans the side of his cheek on mine. “Just for tonight, okay. Tomorrow we’re wiping his existence the fuck out.”
This is why I never question being friends with Kibum for so long. Because he allows me raw moments like these where judgment is completely torn down next to the walls around me that he breaks. And it’s fine to be vulnerable every once in a while. I don’t care if it takes me minutes or years, as long as I’m secured anew. Frankly, I don’t think I’m asking for too much.
~o~
If there’s one thing in this world that is better than food or books it’s sleeping. And I don’t appreciate the fact that I have to work and study at the same time, both activities only granting me my bittersweet 4 hours of slumber as opposed to my regular 7 which I only get during Saturdays to Sundays, but I guess that just goes without saying.
I like my college, though. I like being a literary major because it gives me the freedom to express myself creatively. And the thought that I can someday turn that into a career and leave the dreary lights of the check out counter is enough to keep me going. But just like every other class it’s still held in school. And school can be so fucking tedious with its schedules and professors with bad breath and no respect for their student’s personal space. It tightens knots in my joints, in the back of my neck and classes are not supposed to make me feel as tired as when I’m working.
One thing I do hate is P.E. 2. For P.E. this semester the board of education chose to make me a laughing stock and placed aquatics as my Monday 8:00 am schedule. The bastards. They probably knew I was an instant drown victim; just add water.
Alas, locker room discussions surrounded me as I made my way towards my own red locker, eyeing the uniformed swimsuit in my hands wondering how I was going to keep the back from riding up.
“…and her shoes are totally fake, Steph.”
“I know! I saw her sort through the discount pile that one time. Like she could ever pull that off..” Whispers from behind me resonate.
Okay, I’m not going to be typical and say that I don’t fit in with these girls because I read and am a bit more educated in comparison and that my tastes vary because I’m eclectic and all colors of the rainbow and, Goddamnit, I’m proud! But I would never be able to carry that conversation naturally. I couldn’t care less which shoes are fake. Or which discount bin that girl they were talking about was sorting through. For all I know I could’ve sorted through the same pile and bought the same pair of shoes.
I wrap a towel around my waist after having donned the skimpy swimsuit, hair cap in place, goggles situated loosely around my neck. This kid Taemin and this one really tall guy Minho are already by the other side of the pool, observing the depth of the water from where they were standing. Taemin leans in a bit closer over the ledge and Minho mock pushes him forward, but grabs him back up quickly before folding over himself and laughing, Taemin scowling at him from beneath his auburn, mushroom bob cut.
Before entering this college I had to give school a break for a year after highschool. It’s nothing serious. I didn’t develop mono or anything like that. I just. Well. To simply put it. I didn’t know what I wanted to be. When you’re young you dream about the impossible because no one would ever dare to shake a kid’s dreams with the claws of reality. When you grow older and you announce your ambitions people judge you as old enough to know that not all dreams are worth chasing. I remember wanting to be a scientist when I was in 3rd grade, then later decided that archeology would be the best branch of science to focus on. Then I wanted to become a rockstar in a band. Then a movie director. Then a writer. An artist. I got lost somewhere along the way and even after my finality on literary arts I still feel like my purpose is hidden beneath the folds of my subconscious.
Whether I find this purpose at school remains to be seen. All I am trying to accomplish at the moment is living my life day by day. And it’s been working well for me. For the most part. I met some really cool people along the way, Minho, Taemin and Kibum included and so far, even if there are times that I question the decisions I’ve made in my life, I kind of feel optimistic about tomorrow.
“Loocktachu~” Minho chimes the moment I’m close enough to where they are. Taemin mirrors Minho’s expression of appraisal when he turns in my direction. “You look like you’re ready to swim all the way to France.”
I grant him a lazy smirk, moving my weight to one leg, arms crossed over my chest. “Bonjour.”
“Ooh la la.” Taemin is suddenly behind me, digging his stringy fingers into my hair. I fall forward, avoiding his touch. “I was planning on getting the same cut next year. After I grow my hair out.”
We engage in our usual banter and it kind of helps keep my eyes off the pool. Whenever I do, though, my knees get weak and the scent of chlorine starts knocking my teeth in. The gym coach enters and we all quiet down as he heads towards us, a typical middle aged man with a whistle and knee high white socks.
“Settle down, everyone.” He places his hands on either side of his hips, my eyes suddenly lingering on his bubble belly and how it was practically glowing underneath the yellow of his polo. “I am Mr. Kwon and I am here to guarantee that by the end of this semester you will be able to execute the four strokes.”
I hear Minho snort out a laugh from beside me and as I toss a glare his way I am greeted with his very clipped smile. I couldn’t help but smile a little back but not without telling him to shut up with my eyes. And it was enough to get Mr. Kwon-yellow-belly-ball to stop in front of me.
“What’s your name?” He asks me and there’s a slight dot of hope in my chest wishing that it was not me he was referring to. So even if he was standing right in front of me with his eyes practically poking my forehead, I take a glance at both sides and confirm. Then I look back at him and answer, “Michelle.”
“Michelle.” He repeats then spins on is heel going on to the front of the class. I see the rest of the girls emerging from the locker room, discarding their towels by the benches before positioning themselves. “Could you come over here, Michelle?”
I keep my towel at my waist as I take a few steps forward by his side, a little closer to the pool this time. I try not to look at the water because it kind of had the same effect on me like heights with aerophobes.
“Get rid of your towel and show me your best freestyle.”
He’s kidding, right? I give him my best smile instead. “Mr. Kwon, I, uhh-“ I break into a nervous laugh, the scene sounding and looking more ridiculous by the second. “-see, the thing is. I don’t. I mean. I can’t swim.”
“….You can’t. swim.” Mr. Kwon deadpans.
I nod twice. “That’s kind of the whole point of swimming class, right? To learn.” I don’t know if that came out rude or whatever, but seriously I was just stating a fact. And maybe it was rude because it became seriously quiet after that. I want to plead for help to Taemin and Minho but it’s kind of impossible with this coach’s melon head right in my face.
“You could’ve at least learned the basics.”
I shrug for lack of a better response. Also because I’m trying to get this whole class started. Three hours and I haven’t even gotten through twenty minutes and already I feel like dying.
“Well, there is no better teacher than experience, right?” Mr. Kwon says finally and I breathe out even though I’m really sure how I should take his statement. I nod again.
“I’m glad you agree, Michelle.” I really thought he was qualified. Until he pushed me in the pool with one meaty hand.
~o~
I’m flopping in the pool, ironically like a fish on dry land. My arms are trying to fall onto something solid, but they sink back in the water with a slap, the ruined splashes falling on my face, not helping my breathing.
“No!” The coach shouts when I catch a blurry glimpse of Minho trying to jump in the pool. “You save her, you fail my class.”
“But, sir-“
“Let her learn.”
Oh fuck. The water makes its way in my nostrils and I literally sniff that shit in and it hurts my sinuses when I try to blow it out. I open my mouth then the water seers in there too, making me cough. This was fucking hopeless. My heart starts beating at a rapid pace and I’m trying to scream, but everytime I do my voice comes out all garbled by the water. I’m paddling my feet on literally nothing and I can see Minho and Taemin staring holes into Mr. Kwon’s forehead.
A splash cuts through from the other side of the pool and I’m pretty sure that wasn’t made by me.
“HEY! HEY! What do you think you’re doing?” Mr. Kwon objects, rounding the pool. But he stops by the first corner the same time I feel a tug on my right arm and it’s not a moment too soon because I can feel my legs losing strength from kicking.
I relax into the student’s grip, resting my weight on his side when he places my right arm over his shoulder. The student drags me to the ledge, makes sure both my hands are on the surface before hoisting himself up and helping me pull half of myself out of the pool. Minho and Taemin fall to my side the second I come up, coughing out clear water, and my tongue burning in chlorine.
“What the hell was that?!” My eyes lift up heavily and I see Mr. Kwon coming in from the left, his glare beady with frustration. “Boy! I said, BOY! Look at me when I’m talking to you!”
There’s a sound of ruffling clothes to my right and I’m assuming it’s the student who was Mr. Kwon’s target of the moment. And it’s as if the whole world just stops when our eyes meet as he’s gathering his jeans and his shirt from the floor.
Mixed. Fruit. Cocktails.
He doesn’t look at me for very long before returning his attention to his dampened clothes. He hugs them to his stomach when he stands up straight, not even flinching when the coach stomps by us and faces him with just an inch in between their noses.
“What did I say? I told you not to go after her! I didn’t ask for a hero!”
I don’t know whether he was trying to look cool. Not that he did look cool. Or didn’t. Or. I dunno. I drank a fuckload of water from the pool so I guess it’s alright to say that when he didn’t even so much as give Mr. Kwon a glance and just wiped his face of the numerous amounts of spit that Mr. Kwon rained him with…he looked. Cool. I guess. I mean not really. Just. It was funny, okay. Especially since his efforts were useless, considering that he was already wet from the pool. Just saying.
Mr. Kwon didn’t find it amusing, though. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
He stares back at the coach for a good few seconds before he says, “Kim Jonghyun.”
It was one of those moments in movies and dramas where the crowd gathered (after having known who the boy was) gives off the slightest of whimpers, ooh’s and aahh’s followed by hushed whispers. And the person who dared to defy whoever this Kim Jonghyun person was (who, in this scenario was Mr. Kwon) suddenly rounds up his eyes, but only for a millisecond before they go back to normal. It’s not enough to deny that this Kim Jonghyun guy was a big deal or something. Because the class was still whispering. And he looked like he was used to it.
He gets into his pants, pulling up one leg then the next. Then he slings his shirt over his shoulders after he walks past Mr. Kwon towards the exit of the pool. “You don’t have to fail me.” Kim Jonghyun announces without looking back. And just as he was about to disappear from behind the entrance he explains, “I was gonna drop this class anyway.”
God. What a blonde prick. Always trying to make the end count just as much as the beginning.
~o~
“Kim Jonghyun is basically royalty.” Taemin reads it off a print out of a research he made last night caused by my curiosity of yesterday’s events. We’re seated together at a fast food chain a few blocks away from school because I believe cafeteria food to be the devil. Taemin is waving a hand with a half eaten fry clipped between his forefinger and thumb for emphasis on his words while the other hand holds the seven pages containing Kim Jonghyun’s profile.
I lean over the table to peak around the paper. “It says that?”
“No.” Taemin shakes his head. “I’m assuming coz he’s filthy wealthy.”
“It says that he’s wealthy?”
“No.” Taemin repeats. “That’s just another assumption since his mother is crazy famous.”
“Okay,” I sit back and take a sip of my coke. “Will you just read what’s on the page?”
Taemin takes another bite of his fry and uses the remnants to poke at the paper from the line that he starts reading. “Kim Jonghyun, eighteen years old, step son of new rising drama actress Park Yinsoo-woah!”
“Woah!” Taemin and I say at the same time. “Park Yinsoo? Holy shit!”
“Holy shit, I know!” Taemin yelps, the papers shaking in his hands. “Forget royalty. This Jonghyun guy is famous. Or destined for fame or-“
“Taemin!” I almost spill my coke when I place it back on the table. “Park Yinsoo is-that means he’s Jinki’s-Oh my GOD!”
Taemin purses his lips together distastefully. “Noona. I know you miss Jinki hyung and all, but it’s kind of pathetic trying to sneak his name into every conversation we’re having.”
My eyelids drop in frustration. “Oh, my dear, sweet, innocent dongsaeng. Remember how I never told any of you who Oppa’s mother was?”
He stuffs his mouth with three fries and blinks. I take that as a yes.
“Well, noona hasn’t been completely honest about oppa. His mom was just making it into the media scene and he didn’t want to feel discriminated against or whatever just because Park Yinsoo was his mom.”
Taemin spits out the mashed up fry bits to the next empty table just as a waitress was passing by. Her shoulder sag at the sight, but she takes out a wet rag and starts wiping anyway. “You dated Park Yinsoo’s son?”
“Park Yinsoo’s son left me.” I peel off the wrapper of my burger. “That’s how I see it.”
“How long were you guys dating?”
“Eight months. Give or take a few petty break ups.”
“And you never knew about Kim Jonghyun?”
“He mentioned a step brother, but Kim Jonghyun was in London at the time and apparently. Well, at least from what oppa told me. His mom wasn’t very favorable of her step son.”
One of Taemin’s brows rise to his hairline. “I guess that makes sense.”
“What do you mean?”
“He is kind of. You know. Hardass-looking.”
I smirk in response, grabbing a few of the papers in the back and skimming through them myself. “He was doing gigs in London. He’s a singer. In a band. Oh, they broke up.” I say in clipped notes from my quick scan. “I can’t believe Google has this much stuff on him.”
“I can’t believe that Google gives as shit.” Taemin adds.
“Of course they’d give a shit. He’s Park Yinsoo’s son.” I say as if I’m defending him.
When Taemin sits up and plasters a smile on his face, stare directed somewhere past my left shoulder I’m assured that Minho has just entered the restaurant. I swear to God, Taemin would lick Minho’s shoes if he asked. That’s kind of what I get from his stares. But, then again, I could just be so used to Kibum’s gayness that everything comes off that way to me.
A backpack is being thrown over the table next to my food, the seat being dragged back before Minho’s lean form comes in, slumping over the wooden surface of the table.
“You alright?” I ask, hands still in the air as I tried to block the straps of Minho’s bag from hitting me.
“Yeah,” He mumbles into his arms then sits up, bags under his eyes the size of Russia. “Jesus, Minho yah. When was the last time you slept?”
Taemin nudges his carton of fries with two hands nearer Minho and the older boy can only give out a weak smile of appreciation before reaching for one and tossing it in his mouth. His chewing is interrupted by a lazy yawn. “I hate tutoring.”
And it’s like an alarm just went off in my head.
“Which reminds me, Michelle. Why weren’t you--?”
Minho’s question is replaced by a look of shock when I gather my things with the speed of light and rush out of the restaurant like a bullet, people staring after me as a cut through them and glass double doors.
~o~
“Shit. Shit. Shit.” I haven’t been late for anything since the Jung sisters’ joint 9th birthday party. So, yeah. It’s been a while. And I don’t see the point in being late if I can be there early. I just forgot. Like, seriously forgot that I got myself this job last week. It seems like a blur to me now after this weekend and having to face Jinki’s back as he walked away from me…
Aww, fuck. I should really learn how to stop torturing myself like that. Especially at moments like these when I’m climbing up the stairs two at a time, tearing through the sea of students just so I can make it to the library in time.
I open the door, the harsh creak sending heads flying in my direction. I give an awkward bow of apology before walking to the front desk where Mrs. Choi is giving me a stern look. She stands up from her seat, glancing at her wrist watch before looking up at me.
“You’re late.”
“I know. I’m so so-“
“This way, please.”
I shut my mouth and fix my hair as I walk after her at a measurable pace. I guess one of the perks at getting into a university that doesn’t let just anyone in is that when a student needs a tutor they make it a big deal. So whenever a student admits to requiring one they make the said student pay extra cash, most of which will go to the tutor selected and extra credit also follows. Being late on the first day won’t make much of an impression, though.
I see his blonde head through the spaces between the books and the shelves even before we make it to the clearing and Mrs. Choi tells me that, yes. Kim Jonghyun is the student I am assigned to tutor. And almost instantly she leaves like a bubble bursting in mid air. Okay, maybe not that quickly, but you get what I mean. And now I’m standing here like an idiot, one hand on the strap of my book bag, the other by my side, my eyes round and my the tips of my hair tickling my collarbone. Should I move? Should I reach up and scratch my collarbone where it itches? Or will that make me seem weak in front of him. Does that even make any sense?
He’s making me feel small already with the way he’s just looking up at me, his hands still on the table, one of which is twirling a pen in his fingers, his book spread open in front of him.
God, why? No, really. WHY?
“You gonna teach me math from all the way over there?”
The ring of his voice just brings me back to that night at the check out counter. And it kind of makes my blood boil a bit. I should punch his teeth in or knee him in the crotch so hard that his children are going to be retarded. But I choose the civilized path. I take the seat across from him, lay my book bag on the table, lick my lips, tuck one side of my hair behind my ear and ignore the way I can feel his eyes burning on me.
I program a smile on my face, the most natural one I can muster before looking up at him. “Hi. My name is Michelle and I’m going to be your math tutor for-“ I swallow hard, realizing the gravity of the situation at hand. And how that gravity is going to weigh me down for-“-the whole semester.”
He passes a knowing look by me. He doesn’t look too bothered by the idea, but I can never real tell when he just stays quiet like that. If he’s going to just lose it again or try to make things work. But then again, in the two times I’ve seen him he’s never really stayed. Or tried.
I tug my book bag closer, unzipping the middle and taking out my college algebra book, my notes, my calculator and my pencil case. And I know he’s just sitting there looking at me and I know what I look like right now. But, hey. I’m the tutor. He’s the student. This bodes well for the part I’m about to play. He should be enthusiastic that I at least look competent if not for my terrible memory.
“Kim Jonghyun, right?” I try again after spreading my book open in front of me.
He hasn’t moved from his position since I came in, just staring at me with this unreadable expression on his face. He briefly hums out a yes, allowing me to look back down again and stare at the equations of my book. He was just as difficult to solve as these problems. Not that I was ever good with figuring people out. I just thought that was a skill that would come to me over time and experience. It never did. Until Kibum told me he was gay I always thought he was dreadfully in love with me because of the seventy million ways he would complement my outfit and my shoes and… that was a tell tale sign on its own.
I take a pen in between my fingers and start fiddling with it with both hands. I keep my eyes on the book as I speak again. “So, what was your last lesson? We can just start with that and you can tell me which parts you’re having trouble with-“
“It must be difficult.” He slices my sentence by the tail, leaving me unsure if I just imagined him speak. So, yeah. I look up, only to make sure that I heard him. Just a peak from beneath my fringe. He shifted his position and I didn’t even notice, his one arm now casually slung over the empty seat next to him as he leaned in on his chair, away from the table. Away from me.
“Excuse me?”
“Working at the grocery store and studying. Then working as a part time tutor.” His one hand is on the table, spinning the pen around his thumb and catching it with his forefinger, the kind of trick I never got to learn growing up so I stuck to wiggling it in between my fingers whenever I felt the urge to just touch something and calm down. Like right now.
I keep my smile on because people say that when I don’t smile I look like a prick. “I have a lot of stuff to pay.”
“I bet. This college alone must be a bitch on your wallet.” This is when he takes his arm from the chair, drops the pen in the other and links his hands together as he leans over the table, over his books, over the edge of my book. Closer to me. “I just meant. It must be difficult since you’re so insufficient.”
“Well, I-“ Wait. Waitwaitwaitwait. Did this asshole just insult me again? Did he? He just. He did, didn’t he? My jaw feels heavy as it hangs slack in disbelief, the pen I’d been fiddling with snapping down to the table. “Wow.” I breathe out. “I cannot. You are. I.”
And he just sits there, like the blonde piece of shit that he is! He even has the audacity to fucking smirk up at me with his fucking pearl ass teeth and fucking pointy eyes going all upturned crescents and shit. I lean down to level with him, a clear sign that I kind of lost it this time.
“Listen. I know all about you and your. Your. Your mom. And your stupid ass foot ball field of a house. And your royalty status. But just because you’re a step above me in the social chain doesn’t give you the right to talk to me like that, you insensitive hole!”
“Insensitive what?” The more he grins the more I feel he’s mocking me and it’s a miracle my hair isn’t falling out of rage yet.
“I’m trying to be professional here-“
“Showing up thirty minutes late, making me walk around the grocery store and wait in line for forty five. Is that your idea of professionalism?”
“I-“
“You know.” He cuts me off. “I’ve never used my mom’s status to get me out of things, but I’ve never been treated so poorly because of ignorance.”
I gasp a little louder than I intended. He flinches just a bit in shock. “Are you calling me ignorant.”
“Hmm,” His eyes direct upward for a second as he contemplated my question mockingly. “Well, you did jump into a seven foot pool without any knowledge of the basics in swimming. So you could be a little bit ignorant.”
“HE PUSH-“ My head cocks to the side as I stop myself and clear my throat, remembering that we were still in a library. “He pushed me!” I snare back.
“Yeah, well I saved you.” He leans back in his chair, leaving me to stare at him from my crouch over the table. “You should be grateful. Instead you’re calling me an insensitive hole. This makes you unprofessional and really meager on insult exchange.”
“I never asked for your help.”
“Coz so many of them were just fighting over who would get to rescue you.”
“If I’d known you would be the one to jump in that pool I would’ve chosen to drown instead.”
“Ouch.” He doesn’t look insulted at all. It’s like nothing I say or do will ever make a difference.
“Forget this.” I start packing my things back in my bag at a furious pace.
“You still owe me your life.”
I throw my bag back on the table, my books, pens ruffling inside from the impact. “I don’t owe you shit.”
“I dropped a class for you.” He objects, one hand over his heart.
“You were gonna drop it anyway!”
“Still counts.”
I really shouldn’t have done it but having long legs really helps when I want to kick someone from underneath the table. I hit his knee and instantly his hands fly to his kneecap, his face distorted. I zip my bag and try to stand up before I can start feeling guilty. But I wanted to have the last word so, “If you ever talk to me again I’m gonna make sure I don’t miss your balls next time.”
His groan/whimper is the most satisfactory response I’ve gotten from him in the days that I’ve known him. But just as I was about to walk out he says, “I know all about you too, Michelle.”
My head does a half turn, not all the way though. I don’t want to acknowledge that sentence too much because I don’t want him to…I don’t want him to think that he’s right. I’m pretty sure that has something to do with Jinki. Or it could be something else all together. Bottom line was I had to get out of here. So, I stomp forward without turning back, thinking that I might never get used to the feel of his eyes on me.
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