[Mild Cursing]

Someone slams a locker from the end of the hallway, and I can tell that’s the signal for me to get out of the school’s second wing before it’s too late. There’s only two more periods until school’s out for this Thursday, and the only mantra I can keep in my mind is ‘one more day till Friday’. I desperately need a two day break.

“Oh look who it is! It’s pathetic little Jeong-Mi. You weeping again today?” A chorus of laughter echoes through the nearly empty halls, and I check my watch. There’s no point in trying to escape anyway; my warning time is up, and that too, I’ll probably get detention.

 “Can you just cut the crap for once, Jungkook? I’m so sick of mom comparing me with your filthy self, so just get the *ffing h*ll out of my way, okay?”

Some ‘ooh’s’ come from his friends, and inhaling as I summon up the nerve to look them in the eyes, I can feel a hand snaking onto my shoulder.

“Get your hands off of me.” I hiss. Some more laughter comes from him, and I mutter a few curse words before turning around.

If anybody asked me who I hated most in the world, my answer would most likely be Jeon Jungkook. To anybody else, whether it be inside or outside of school, he’d be considered the definition of perfection. He’s the only person blocking my way from the highest class rank. He’s an amazing dancer. His face is cute to everyone else, call me crazy if I say to me he looks like an arsonary. And the worst part? My mom adores him. Maybe more than she adores me, and I can’t stand it.

“I thought you liked me touching you?”

I flinch at the reminder that I had once liked him. He actually was a decent person, back in the seventh grade, but ever since I had confessed to him, he had treated me like a piece of sh*t.

“No. I don’t.”

My eyes may have fooled me, because he looked sympathetic for a minute. I remember his rejection vividly.

My mom and his mom were college friends, and since my mom was a divorcee, Jungkook’s mom had been more than a normal friend; she was so much more like family. It was one of those kinds of friendships, ours, but it was natural. Jungkook and I had known eachother since the days we had been born; and we grew up together. The day I had confessed was out on mom’s college reunion picnic. It had been bright and humid, and the sun was hot against my neck. I had been in seventh grade when I had gotten the nerve to abruptly pull Jungkook aside and blurt out everything I had wanted to say back then.

"I like you."

            ...

"How long?"

"12 years."

"That means you were one. Isn't that too young?"

"Can you answer? I'm kind of freaked out."

"..."

"...?"

"No."

It was as simple as that, and since then, he had never treated me the same again.

Some of his goon-friends -- as I like to call them -- cleared off as they headed to free period, but Jungkook was still there. Just the idea of breathing the same air as him both disgusted me, and frightened me. Over the past three years, he had made me suffer enough humiliation to last a lifetime. Then there were times where he spoke normally, like we still were two people who knew each other. Those times scared me even more.

This was one of those times.

I finally inhaled, gathering enough courage to speak to him.

“I heard you joined some community service.”

“Did your mom tell you?”

“Well yeah.” I snapped at him. “What else does she talk about?”

“I am a pretty worthy topic of conversation.” He looks at me as if he’s shocked that I didn’t take that as a fact. His ego bothers me to death. “What, is she forcing you to follow my lead again?”

He smirks, and I scowl at his cocky vibe. Sometimes he loves to humiliate me, sometimes he loves to tease me about how much better he is, and then there are these times when he knows just what to say to make my day even worse than it already is. Thanks, Jungkook. You know me well. 

“More like digging into everything so she can find the exact service you’re in, and the exact number of colleges that want it, and the exact reason you’d want to do it. Speaking of which, even I’m confused on why a psychopath like you would want to actually help people.”

Jungkook scoffs. “I’m a nice person, you know.”

I mutter a few curse words under my breath, and Jungkook’s face looks triumphant, as if he’s won some major battle or something.

“Sure you are.”

“She sounds stalkerish to me.”

“Like you’re not a stalker.” I say, adjusting my hand so I can bear the weight of my binders. I’ve been holding onto them too long; my arms feel sore. “Can you just … tell me?”

It’s rare of me to ask him for a favor, and the chances of him actually giving me a decent -- not even right -- answer, are 0.00001%.

“Can’t say.”

Change that to 0.00000000001%.

My phone vibrates with a text message from mom.

 I found that place he goes to. I’ll text you the address, go sign up after school.

I wave my phone in front of Jungkook’s face. This time, it is my turn to be triumphant; but instead of the losing glare from Jungkook I had wanted, instead I received a cold look. It almosts looks like he’s trying to tell me something.

“Don’t do it.”

I nearly bite my tongue bloody from keeping away the urge to yell at him. He sounds so desperate that I feel like puking; it’s been three years and he hasn’t spoken to me in such a manner. At least now I know that when he speaks sweetly, it's usually fake. 

I begin walking away -- my real friends are waiting for me in the school's major science lab -- but turn my head to face his tall figure one last time.

“Too bad, Jungkook.”

As I walk away, I can hear his muffled curses and his foot hitting a locker.

Mom sends me out with nothing but a plastic rain pouch. She tells me to greet Jungkook for her if I meet him, and I sigh at the reminder that he’s my constant comparison. Maybe all parents do it; it just seems like my mom does it more than normal parents would.

Jungkook’s family is the kind of family that everyone would dream of having. His parents are hopelessly in love, and you can tell by the way they look at each other. His sister is annoying, but in a typical sister way that reminds me of a comedy-tv show. And him? He’s the son that every mom would dream of having. Including my mom.

Sometimes I think she’d rather have him over me. Almost as if that would help her make up for my brother.

My own family is a topic I’m not too sensitive about, but not extremely willing to share about. My dad and brother live in America. Dad is a Chief Cardiologist, and he’s probably found some new woman he loves in America. My brother just graduated, and is planning on going to Stanford in California to follow in my dad’s footsteps. He probably has someone he’s fond of too.

Not that I know anything else about them. I haven’t seen or heard from them for the past thirteen years; all of this information is from Jungkook’s mom or the internet.

The building that I’m standing in front of is unlike any building I’ve ever seen. The directions were also hard to follow, and I had to take several into weird alleyways that I had never even noticed before. How does Jungkook stand coming to this place everyday?

There’s a long outdoor walkway that connects a front gate to the rest of the building, a five story tower that’s made of white marble and glass. A fountain and zen-ish looking garden are to the right of the walkway, and some tables are on the other side. It looks like more of a mansion than a community service building, but when I check the address, it’s correct. I'm not even sure how I never saw this building, anyway. 

A few of the kids are doing something that’s hidden behind a curtain that covers whatever is supposed to be visible to the people outside. I walk into the building, happy that I’m disobeying Jungkook.

“Excuse me?” I say, looking around the building. There’s sleek white tile that has obviously been polished under my feet, and a chandelier the size of our apartment’s bathroom hangs above me. There’s a large wooden desk with a secretary looking person sitting at it, and above her hangs the name of the service.

‘T.O.P. Services.’

What a cheesy name.

There’s a box that says ‘submit your application here’, and I walk towards it. In my hands are the papers from the website mom sent me.

I am about the slip the papers in through the thin cut on the top of the box, when someone shoves me into a closet.