CHAPTER SEVEN.

“I mean, how is that even effective aerobic exercise?” Dasom said, chucking her empty coffee cup into the garbage can as she leaned back on to the bleachers.  She was referring to the guys who were running laps by the field.  

    Each time Myungsoo rounded the corner, passing by the bleachers with Dongwoo and Sungyeol trailing behind, the girls would give out appreciative whistles and squeals.   

    “I get P.E.’s , but at least you get to see some of the guys shirtless,” chortled Lee Mijoo, a senior who I got to know after we both ended up as student models on the Woollim High cover posters for the M-my showcase.  She was one of the very, very few people that could sport Nyx coral lipstick better than I could.  With a small sigh, she sipped her Perrier through a straw. 

    The girls in our class looked at our group from the back, probably eavesdropping; but most definitely jealous.  Like always.  Some of them waved to Mijoo, who courteously waved her fingers back with a knowing smile.  

    “Yeah, maybe in June, when Anna Sui recycles yet another spring collection for fashion week.” 

    I reached into Mijoo’s purse for another fresh stick of gum, and a hand mirror.  

    “Still, sophomores are so lucky.  Like, you get to have class outside on the courtyard.  Not to mention, you guys have a generous dosage of eye candy.” Mijoo crossed her arms in front of her B-cups.  

    “Hey, you guys have Taemin and Donghae,” Dasom offered.  

    “Please,” Mijoo snorted.  “They’re practically untouchable.  Sons of uber rich corporations spending their time doing paper work instead of throwing parties? No thank you.” 

    “Really no different than the pretty boys here, too,” Dasom quipped.  

    “What?”

    “Yeah, you know the really hot guy you were pointing out just minutes ago?”

    “Yeah…” Mijoo quirked a brow.  

    “His name’s Myungsoo, he supposedly taking over his dad’s spot as LHotel’s CEO when he graduates.”

    “No way!” 

    “Wait,” I turned my head around before leaning in with a whisper, “aren’t upperclassmen supposed to have study hall right now?” 

    Mijoo put a finger to her lips playfully, throwing us into giggles.  As if irony would have it, Ms. Arcenas blew her whistle, making the whole lot jump.  

    “Year 4, Class 2, Lee Mijoo, get to class!” She tucked her clipboard under her armpit, flicking the brim of her worn-out cap.  

    “Ugh, sell out,” Mijoo muttered before turning to the teacher with a faux smile.  “It’s a flex period, Mrs. A.”  

    “Nice try, Mijoo, don’t think you haven’t pulled that card on me yet!” 

    Mijoo let out a groan, collecting her things before playfully blowing a kiss in our directions, to which we crossed our fingers back, snickering.  She rolled her eyes, smiling.  “See you later guys.” 

    “Bye, unni!” we chirped.  

    “By the way, it’s miss,” Ms. Arcenas corrected.  

    “Old!” Mijoo barked back without turning around.  

    It was then that I noticed we hadn’t seen Hara this whole entire day.  And just yesterday, she had missed the last three periods.  On top of that, zero text messages, zero DMs.  

    “D, did you hear from Hara today?” 

    “No, I thought she texted you.” Dasom said, her eyes wide with confusion.  

    “Oh? What?” I turned away, flicking my hair.  “She did, obvi, she just wouldn’t tell me why she was missing school today.” Okay.  So I fibbed.  But if I admitted to being totally clueless to Hara’s frequent MIAs, it would look like I was slipping.  My eyes drifted to Myungsoo, who was glittering in the sunlight — sweaty, like all of the guys, but looking heaven-sent, regardless.  I, Son Naeun, was definitely not slipping.  

    Later, the class was lined up by the outdoor fountain and sinks, a-titter.  Not to miss out, I engaged in a couple of conversation with the other girls, with Dasom close by.  A feeling of relief washed over me as I saw the girls’ eyes glimmer with excitement when I approached them, when I told Elin that her Lacoste ecru tennis shirt looked cute, or when I told Hyeri her bone-straight caramel extensions were to die for.  The reminder of how L’s popularity was so different from the popularity I had or gradually build up in all my years of school was greatly amusing.  

    Dasom nudged my shoulder, letting me cut her in line.  I walked up to the fountain, placed conveniently next to the one Chorong was, combing her nimble fingers through her see-through fringe.  I chose to ignore her this time around.  Why? I had a good intuition— the girl, as inferior or weak as she was, hated me.  And from there, that was inevitable.  Being popular, hate was inevitable.  What put me on edge even more was her sense of self-righteousness, very reminiscent to Myungsoo’s.  She tried so hard to seem like the victim, like she was the only one with real problems.  Also, this morning during broadcast, I had found out she quit segment volunteer work when Yoon Bomi had given me mic, coffee, and wardrobe on set in her stead.  Maybe it was a stretch of statistics, but I was almost 95% sure she had joined the photography club affiliated with the yearbook club, that was trying to rip Woollim in a Minute apart for the sake of old fashioned newspapers.  

    But the had spoken up first.  “Naeun,” she said.  Her voice was laced with timidity, like always, but there was a hint of something else.  Like, more defiant.  

    I straightened, standing up taller.  Borrowing a compact from one of the girls, I clicked it open, willing to focus more of my attention on my reflection, not Chorong.  “Yeah, what’s up?” 

    “About Ahyoung… in our art class…” she started, moving to the side when the people behind her were prodding her for holding up the line.  The girls on my line didn’t say anything as I stood there in front of the fountain, raising my brows at Chorong as if to challenge her to go on.  

    “Were you even there?” I was genuinely curious.  The girl was bringing up this matter like it was her personal problem, and when no one else was talking about it anymore.  

    She looked annoyed this time.  “Yes.  I’ve been in the same art class as you for an entire year.” 

    “Sorry, must be because you looked so washed out underneath the lights with all the… neutral tones in your closet,” I smiled coquettishly, cocking my head to the side.  Naturally, Dasom let out a laugh.  

    Chorong’s stance stiffened considerably.  “Thanks, Son Naeun.” 

    “No problem, girlie; all’s fair in love and war, after all.” I winked coyly at Dasom after I handed her the compact I was holding.  

    “Precisely why you should apologize to Ahyoung.  You know that she’s be in the office, right?” This time, she was deliberately raising her voice— loud enough for the other people in our class to hear.  

    I felt like punching a down pillow to vent.  “What did you just say.” My tone was starkly intimidating, making it sound more like a statement than a question.  “I’m sorry, how is this any of your business?” What has gotten into this girl? 

    “You’re already mad? Then I probably shouldn’t continue,” Chorong lead me on.  I guess she was only kidding, because guess what? She continued.  “As much as I envy you for having everyone back you up unconditionally, all the time, even when the circumstances are so ridiculous, I feel sorry for you.” 

    I heard a couple of people scoffing, gasping at her audacity to be so… brazen.  Who was she and what did she do to Park Chorong, the innocent, little forgetta girl? I tried to fire back another comeback, but it never came.  Because I couldn’t stress this enough, I hated being pitied.  I never was pitied.  I wasn’t meant to be pitied.  Pitying Son Naeun meant I was on the brink of dying.  It was like a Kate Moss - Johnny Depp parallel connection.  

    The worst part? Myungsoo was there, overlooking everything.  

    “Did someone call in a bitc