Sitting on the corner of Mission Street, Egotistic Toys, or ET as eomma jokingly refers to it - until my dad gives her his not funny, Younghee ultradry look - is a boutique shop that markets itself toward women. It's well lit and clean. Not skuzzy and filled with creepers, like Sarang Sarang across town, which has painted-over windows and is open 24 hours. You know, just in case you need fuzzy handcuffs at 3 a.m.

It also has a themed display window that the owners change every month. This month it's an Alice in Wonderland, a small dining table with the Mad Hatter , tiny mouse , White Rabbit , also a collection shapes of . . . food on the table. This might be funny, except for the fact that plenty of people I know see this window regularly, and I have to endure lurid, snickering commentary about it from certain people at school.

Our dueling business - and nearby homes - sit together at the tail end of shopping center with boutiques, organic restaurants, and art studios. Most of our cal-de-sac contains old style houses like ours that have been sectioned up and converted into apartment units. Not exactly the place you'd expect to find for sale.

My dad says a place that sells "martial aids" is "no place for a young girl." The two men who own the shop darken his dazzling smile on a regular basis. They are the Enemy, and we do not fraternize with the Jeons. Oh no, we do not.

Eomma used to be on friendly terms with the Jeons, so she only half agrees with my dad on this. And me? I'm caught in the middle. The whole situation just stresses me out. It's complicated. Very, very complicated.

Pink walls and the synthetic scent of silicone envelop me as I duck inside the shop. It's not quite noon, and only a couple of customers are browsing - a relief. I divert my eyes from a display of leather riding crops as I make a beeline toward a counter in the middle of the store, behind which two men in their early thirties are talking. I'm behind empty lines now. Let's hope I don't get shot.

"It wasn't Anh Hyunhee," a male with blonde hair says as he lifts a small cardboard package on the counter. "It was the guy married to the the brunette talk show host.  What's-her-name. Oska."

The male standing next to her, pink hair and fair-skinned, leans against the counter and scratches his nose. "Oska?" he says in a voice so soft and gentle. "I don't think so."

"I'll bet you a cupcake." Blonde's eyes dart over the counter to meet mine. His face lifts into a dimple smile. "Suzy! Long time no see!"

"Hello, Namjoon," I say, and then greet his pink hair husband. "Seokjin."

"Sweet glasses," Namjoon says, giving a thumbs-up to the rims I'm wearing.

I have a dozen other pairs, all different styles and colors. I buy them cheap from an online store, and I match them to my outfits. Along with lipstick and a love for all things plaid, cool glasses are my thing. I may be a geek, but I am chic.

"Thanks," I tell her, meaning it. not for the first time, I regret that my dad is fighting with these males. It wasn't that long ago that they felt like my second family.

The entire time I've known Namjoon and Seokjin, who have lived directly across the cul-de-sac since we moved into the neighborhood, they've insisted they call them as Namjoon and Seokjin. Period. Not Mister, or any other titles. They don't like formalities, not in names or clothes. They are both Koreans. You know, just your average gay -shop owners.

"Help us out. We're playing Superstar Legend Game," Seokjin says to me, pushing pink hair away from his face. "Which star bit the head off a bat onstage? Back in the eighties."

"The seventies," Namjoon corrects.

Seokjin rolls his eyes humorously. "Whatever. Listen, Suzy. We think it's either Oska or Anh Hyunghee. Which one?"

"Um, I really don't know," I answer, hoping they'll give this up so I can get what I came for and leave. They're both acting like nothing has changed, that I still come over for Sunday dinner every week. Like my dad didn't threaten to bust up their shop with a baseball bat for driving away his clients and they didn't tell him to go screw himself while dozens of people looked on from across the street with cell phones recording. The footage was uploaded on YouTube within the hour.

Yeah. Fun times. Dad has always disliked the Jeons, when they were just the "weirdo" neighbors across the street. But after their shop opened last fall and our clinic started tanking, that dislike turned into something stronger.

But okay, if Namjoon and Seokjin want to pretend as though everything is still normal, fine. I'll play that game, as long as it gets me out of here faster. "Anh Hyunghee, maybe?" I answer.

"No way. It was Oska," Namjoon says confidently, slicing open the package on the counter with a box cutter. "Look it up, Jin."

"My phone's dead."

Namjoon makes a chuckling sound with his tongue. "Likely story. You just don't want to lose the bet."

"Jungkook will know."

My stomach tightens. There are plenty of reasons for me not to want to come over here. The wonderland. The fear of being seen by someone I know. My dad's ongoing feud with the two men bantering behind the counter. But it's the eighteen-year-old boy casually walking out of the stock room who makes me wish I turn invisible.

Jeon Jungkook.

Black T-shirt. Ripped jeans. Timberlakes. Black, fringed hair that's covering his forehead, somehow messy and perfect.

If an evil anime character sprang to life with a mission to lurk in dark corners while plotting wold destruction, he would look a lot like Jungkook. He's a poster boy for all things weird and morbid. He's also the main reason I don't want to eat lunch in the school cafeteria with the rest of the students.

Carrying a graphic novel in one hand and something small and unidentifiable tucked under his other arm, he looks at my  jean skirt, then his gaze skims upward to settle on my face. Any looseness in his posture immediately becomes tight and ridged. And when his dark eyes meet mine, they clearly reinforce what I already know: We are not friends.

Thing is, we used to be. Good friends. Okay, best friends. We had a lot of classes together, and because we live across the street from each other, we hung out after school. When we were younger, we'd ride bikes to a city park. In high school, that daily bike ride morphed into a daily walk down Mission Street to our local coffee shop - Sooji's Cafe - with my white puppy, Damon, in tow. And that turned into late-night walks around the neighborhood. We were always together. Inseparable friends.

Until everything changed last year.

Gathering my courage, I adjust my glasses, paste on a civil smile, and say, "Hi."

He tugs his chin upward in response. That's all I get. I used to be trusted with his secrets, and now I'm not even worthy of a spoken greeting. I thought at some point this would stop hurting me, but the pain is as sharp as it's ever been.

New plan: Don't say another word to him. Don't acknowledge his presence.

"Kookie," Namjoon says to Jungkook, unpacking what appears to be some sort of lube. "Which star bit the head off a bat? You other, less-hip dad thinks it's Anh Hyunghee."

Seokjin pretends to be affronted and points to me. "Hey, Suzy thinks so too!"

"She's wrong," Jungkook says in a dismissive voice that's so scratchy and deep, it sounds as though he's speaking from inside a deep, dark well. That's the other thing about Jungkook that drives me crazy. He doesn't have a good voice; he has an attractive voice. It's a big and confident and rich, and entirely too y for comfort. He sounds like villainous voice-over actor or some kind of announcer. It makes goosebumps race over my skin, and I resent that he still has that effect on me.

"It's Oska," he informs us.

"Ha! Told you," Namjoon says victoriously to Seokjin.

"I just picked one," I tell Jungkook, a little angrier than I intend. 

"Well, you picked wrong," he says, sounding bored.

I'm insulted. "Since when am I supposed to be an expert on the abuse of bats in rock music?"

That's more his speed.

"It's not a secret knowledge," he says, sweeping his hair out of his eyes. "It's pop culture."

"Right. Vital information I'll need to know in order to get into the university of my choice. I think I remember that question on the exams."

"Life is more than exams."

"At least I have friends," I say.

"If you think Seolhyun and the rest of her clique are real friends, you're sadly mistaken."

"Gosh, you two," Namjoon mumbles. "Get a room."

Heat washes over my face.

Um, no. This is not an I secretly like you fight. This is I secretly hate you. Sure, he's all lips and hair and voice, and I'm not blind: He's attractive. But the only time our former friendship dared to risk one pinky toe over the line - a period of time we referred to as the The Great Experiment - I ended up crying my eyes out at homecoming, wondering what went wrong.

I never found out. But I have a pretty good guess.

He gives his dad a long-suffering look, as if to say, You done now? and then turns to address Seokjin. "Oska's bat story was exaggerated. Someone in the audience threw a dead bat onstage, and Oska thought it was fake. When he bit the head off, he was completely shocked. Had to be taken to the hospital for rabies shot after the show."

Namjoon bumps his shoulder against Seokjin. "Doesn't matter. I'm still right, and you still owe me an cupcake. Chocolate. Since we skipped breakfast this morning, I'll take it now. Brunch."

"That actually sounds good," Seokjin smiles. "Suzy, you want one?"

I shake my head.

Seokjin turns to Jungkook. "Kookie, my baby," he says in a coaxing, jovial voice. "Can you make a bakery run? Pretty please?"

"Jinnie, my dad. I have to  be at work in 30 minutes," he argues, and I hate how he can be so cold to me one second and warm to his parents the next. When he sets the book he's carrying on the counter, I see what he's cradling in the crook of his elbow: a lizard around the length of my forearm. It's on a leash connected to a black leather harness that wraps around its tiny front arms. "Got to put Yeontan back in his habitat before I go."

Jungkook is obsessed with reptiles, because of course. He has an entire wall of them in his room - snakes, lizards, and his only nonreptile pet, a tarantula. He works part-time at a reptile store, where he can be creepy with other likeminded snake lovers.

Seokjin reaches over the counter to scratch the lizard on top of its scaly head and coos in a childlike voice. "Fine. Guess you win, Yeontan. Omo, you're coming out of your harness."

Jungkook sets the dragon atop his manga book. Yeontan tries to get away, nearly falling off the counter. "That's an inefficient way to go," Jungkook informs the lizard. "If you're going to off yourself, better to dose on reptile vitamins than jump."

"Jungkook," Namjoon scolds lightly.

A dark smile barely curls the corners of his lips. "Sorry, Dad," he says.

When we were younger, people used to taunt him mercilessly at school - how do you know which mom is which? To him, Namjoon is Dad, Seokjin is Dada. Even though he was adopted, they were both his fathers.

Namjoon twists his mouth and then smiles back. He's forgiven. His parents forgive him for everything. He doesn't deserve them.

"So, Suzy. What brings you here, sweetie?" Seokjin says to me as Jungkook adjust his lizard's tiny harness.

I'm forced to step to the side of Jungkook in order to have a conversation that doesn't involve me speaking at his back. When did he get so tall? "Eomma's looking for a package."

Seokjin's eyes shift toward Namjoon's. A subtle but sharp reaction is communicated between the two men.

"Something's wrong?" I ask, suspicious.

Namjoon clears his throat. "Nothing, sweetie." He hesitates, indecisive for a moment. "We did get something, yes," he says, reaching under the counter to pull out a mailing envelope, which he hands to me, apologetic. "I may have accidentally opened it by mistake. I didn't read your mom's mail, though. I notice the address after I slit it open."

"That's fine," I say. It's happened before, which sends my dad's blood pressure through the roof, but Eomma won't care. It's just that Seokjin is now looking extremely uncomfortable. Even Jungkook feels more distant than usual, his energy shifting mildly chilly to arctic. Warning bells ding inside my head.

"Okay, well, got to get back," I say, pretending I didn't notice anything.

"Give Younghee our best," Seokjin says. "If your mom ever wants to get coffee . . ." He trails off and give me a tight smile. "Well, she knows where to find us."

Namjoon nods. "You too. Don't be a stranger."

Now I'm uncomfortable. I mean, more than usual, having to endure the humiliation that is this shop.

"Sure. Thanks for this." I hold up the package in acknowledgment as I'm turning to leave and nearly knock over a display model of a giant blue sitting next to the register. I instinctively reach out to steady the wobbling piece of plastic before I'm fully aware of what I'm touching. Oh goodness.

Under lashes, Jungkook's eyes shift to the floor, and he doesn't lift his face.

Must get out. Now.

Nearly tripping over my own feet, I walk out of the shop and exhale a long breath when I'm back in the sunshine. I can't get back into the clinic fast enough.

But when I'm settled behind the shield of the front desk, my eyes fix on the envelope the Jeons gave me. It's from a PO Box in San Francisco and is, indeed, clearly address to Bae Younghee. Not sure how they missed that, but whatever.

After checking the back hallway and finding it clear, I peek into the envelope.

It's a piece of paper with a handwritten note and a small book of personal photos. I recognize the photobook's brand from online ads: upload your photos, and they send you a printed book a few days later. This one says Our Bahamas Trip on the front with a frilly front.

I open the book to find a million sunny vacation photos. The ocean. The beach. My dad snorkeling. My dad with his arm around some woman in a bikini.

Wait.

What?

Flipping faster, I stare at glossy pages printed with more of the same. Dinner and tropical drinks. My dad smiling that dazzling smile of his. Only he's not smiling at eomma but some stranger. A stranger with a gold ankle bracelet and long lash extensions. He's got his arm wrapped around here, and - in one photo - is even kissing her neck.

What is all this? Some fling after my mother died? Someone before Younghee? I pull out the letter.

Younghee,

You don't know me, but I thought you'd want to see this, woman to woman. Photos from our vacation last summer.

Good luck,

One of many.

My fingers go numb. Last summer? He was here, working at the clinic, last summer. No, wait. There was a week he went to LA for a massage therapy conference. And came back with shocking dark tan . . . that he said he'd gotten after lying out by the hotel pool every afternoon.

"Oh, ," I whisper to myself.

My dad is having an affair.