Late Friday night, The Hall of Shame (aka, my room)

The banging on my door is getting louder and more insistent, so I pull the covers up tighter around my head in an effort to block it out. To be honest, it’s getting kind of hot and muggy in here, but I’m busy trying to wallow in self-pity, so for now I’m sticking with the plan.

There’s a break in the thumping. “C’mon, Jonghyun, open up!”

And...the banging recommences. Good thing mom’s on night shift and isn’t at home to hear all this.

That’s Taemin out there making a racket. He’s my best friend and a clueless loser. I know, that doesn’t sound very charitable of me. He really is a good guy, but I’m not kidding about the clueless part. The kid has no filter.

“It wasn’t that bad, Jonghyun! I’ll bet no one even remembers it!”

“Go home, Taemin!” I call out, although my head’s now under the pillow, so I guess there’s a good chance he heard only muffled grunts.

No one even remembers it. There’s no way. By Monday, I will be the joke of the school, just like last time. But this time’s my fault—last time it was Taemin’s. At least now he’s stuck out there in the hall instead of in here with me. You see, I have a bolt on my bedroom door. Unusual? Well, Taemin’s the reason for that too. Everything’s connected in one embarrassing heap.

Let me back up a little. A few months ago, I was in my room after school, minding my own business, when Taemin just sauntered right on in with no warning. At the time, I happened to be a little compromised—polishing the banister. You know, playing a flute solo. Anyway, as I said, Taemin waltzed in and found me on my bed, a pot of margarine by my side and me furiously abusing myself to “Barbie Girl.” I know, I know. It’s not that I like the song. It’s just, I don’t know, it works, OK? Maybe it’s the beat or something.

At any rate, after two or three seconds of standing before me frozen and stunned, Taemin dissolved into a puddle of tears on my floor, smacking his hand on the hardwood and struggling to breathe.

I’ll admit, I probably looked pretty funny. But a good friend would have had the sense to keep this between us, hopefully never to be spoken of again. But no, Taemin had to tell people. “Just a few,” he said in his defense the next day, when we arrived at school and literally everybody knew. And he was honestly surprised. See what I mean? A clueless loser. Meanwhile, I had to spend the next month listening to countless unoriginal comments about me “yanking on my Ken doll.” It was endless.

So now there’s a bolt on the door, and Taemin is stuck on the other side, which suits me much better.

Come to think of it, he’s gone kind of quiet. I guess his noodley arm got tired. He’s still there, though, I’m sure of that. He’s faithful, like a dog. I’ll probably find him curled up asleep in front of the door when I finally open it. Maybe I’ll toss a blanket and pillow out there for him.

Anyway, now that it’s silent again, I can get back to my self-pity, which is why I’m here in the first place. To think about how things always go wrong for me. To consider what I fool I am. To lie here and replay the events of the evening in horrifying detail.

But I’m getting ahead of myself again. I should start when this whole debacle began—it’s hard to believe it was just a few days ago.