Famous last words.

“INYOUNG!” I shriek, staring at my reflection in horror. “My face!” It feels like someone has dumped itching powder all over my skin. And I look even worse than that. Two words come to mind: chicken pox.

“What time is it?” Inyoung mumbles, rolling over in her bed and pulling the blankets tighter.

“It’s five a.m.,” I tell her. “And I just woke up into hell.”

“Oh, okay,” she says, still half asleep. “That’s cool.”

This is so not cool. I’m two steps away from dunking my head into a bucket of ice. In fact, if I knew where the Parks keep their bucket—or if they even have one, for that matter—I’d go ahead and do it. I’m in that much pain.

“Help me,” I plead. “You’re the one who got me into this mess in the first place.” Okay, so that’s not entirely true. It isn’t like she held a gun to my head and forced me to rub stinky European cheese-smelling goop on my face. But still. She’s the one who very strongly encouraged me to do it. And that has to count for something.

“INYOUNG!” I say again, louder this time. “I’m dying over here. Do you have some Benadryl or something?”

For some reason, this makes Inyoung spring out of bed. “Benadryl?” she repeats. “Why?”

“BECAUSE MY FACES ITCHES LIKE MAD!”

She rubs the sleep out of her eyes and looks over at me. “Oh, crap!” she says, as the image registers. “What happened to you?”

“What happened to me?” I sputter. “Louise Bartholomew-Braddock’s Pore-Minimizing Cream! That’s what.”

“You must be allergic,” she says, shaking her head in surprise.

“Duh.”

“Okay, hang on, I’ll go track some down.” She’s gone for what feels like hours. In the meantime, I wash every last trace of the stuff off my face. Then I figure out a pretty clever way to scratch my face without risking major scarring. I begin rubbing my T-shirt against my face, trying to massage out of some of the itch. When that proves too tough, I dig my satin bra out of my bag. It’s smooth and cool to the touch, so that helps. There’s just one problem. I’m a measly 32A, so there’s not a whole heck of a lot of material to scratch with.

I sigh pitifully. This is just one more example of how being flat chested is destroying my life.

Thankfully, Inyoung resurfaces with a pill and a bottle of calamine lotion. “What the heck are you doing?” she asks, catching me mid-scratch. She eyes my purple bra, which I’m holding up against my cheeks.

“Don’t ask,” I say, and continue scratching.

“We don’t have any Benadryl,” she apologizes. “So I bought you one of Mom’s Claritins.”

I gratefully swallow it and then grab the calamine lotion.

“Now, I don’t know much about the stuff, but the label says it stops itching.”

“I’ll try anything,” I say, pouring it into the palm of my hands. I rub it into my face and, thankfully, it’s fairly soothing. It doesn’t really take the itch away, but it deadens it.

“The price of beauty,” Inyoung says, giving me a lopsided grin. She crawls back into her bed and snuggles down to go to sleep. Within minutes, she’s snoring. I’m still way uncomfortable, so I know there’s zero chance of me drifting back off to sleep. I read magazines for a while, until it’s not such an ungodly hour, and then I tiptoe in and beg Mrs. Park to drive me home.

“I’m sorry to wake you,” I say, even though I can see she’s already up and reading a paperback romance novel.

“Heejoon!” she exclaims when she sees me. “What happened to your face?”

“I don’t know,” I moan. I don’t want to tell her I’m having an allergic reaction to her pore-minimizer. Then I’ll have to admit I used it in the first place.

“It looks like you’ve broken out in hives,” she says, her face marred with concern. “Get dressed and we’ll go down to the twenty-four-hour Walgreens. Maybe the pharmacist can recommend something.”

“No, that’s okay,” I tell her. “”I just wanna go home.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” I nod. “We’ve got a bazillion ointments and creams in our medicine cabinet. I’m sure Mom can find something to help me out.”

Mrs. Park doesn’t seem convinced, but agrees to take me home anyway. We pull up in the driveway at a quarter past eight. I can’t believe I’m fully awake so early on a Saturday. I thank Mrs. Park and climb out of the car.

“You sure you don’t want me to come in with you?” she asks.

“No, no, I’m fine,” I assure her. “Tell Inyoung I’m sorry for bailing on her so early.”

“Don’t stress about it, Inyoung,” she says. “Go inside and take a bath in baking soda. That’ll help you feel better.”

I’m not exactly sure a baking soda bath would do me any good, considering the problem is on my face, not my body. But I smile and thank her anyway. I’m just grateful to be home, where I can be miserable and hideous-looking in private.

I really do look awful. There’s no getting around it. Every inch of my face is covered in these enormous, gross red bumps. I look like I’ve broken out with a terrible case of measles! Making matters worse, my hair is a total disaster. Because I rolled over onto my side while I was asleep, the pore-minimizing cream got all over my hair. I’m in desperate need of a shower—and possibly a brown paper bag to shove over my head.

I fumble around with my keys and then let myself into the house. I can hear the sound of the TV blaring in the living room, so I drop my overnight bag and head toward the noise. Mom must be having trouble sleeping. Maybe it’s a side effect of being pregnant. Don’t pregnant women have to pee every five seconds? And throw up all the time? She’s probably been living in the bathroom all night!

I sit down in front of the television. It’s strange, because Mom left the channel on MTV, which she almost never watches. Obviously she’s studying up on teenagers for her Marks the Spot piece next week. They’re playing a Super Junior video, so I crank up the volume and start humming along. As soon as Mom comes back, I’m going to confront her. I being practicing my speech in a low voice. “I know about the pregnancy, and I’m okay with it,” I say. “This is a big chance for all of us, but I think I’m mature enough to handle it,” I mumble to myself. “I’m ready, willing, and able to help out in whatever way necessary.”

Wow! This is so good, I should be writing it down. After all, parents love stuff about maturity and responsibility. If I play my cards right, maybe I can swing a car out of the deal. Mom will probably want me to have reliable transportation. You know, because of the baby and all. Once she starts showing, she probably won’t be able to maneuver a car very well.

I practice a few more lines. “I want to be here for you and Dad,” I say. “I know how much stress you’re under. I know that you need for me too—“

“Ahem.”

I jump off the couch. What’s Mom doing sneaking up on me like this?

“I know about the baby!” I blurt, whirling around.

“Excuse me?”

I’m face to face with a total stranger. Standing in front of me is one of the cutest guys I’ve seen in a long, long while. He’s thin, with jet black hair and dark, piercing eyes. He kind of resembles 2PM’s Nichkhun.

“Hey, you’re not Mom!” I exclaim.

He looks down at himself and smiles. “Nope, not the last time I checked.”

I feel a major blush coming on. At least my allergic reaction is probably hiding it.

He takes a step closer. “They told me about you. Heejoon, right?”

How does he know my name? And who is this they? I slowly inch back backward, putting some distance between us.

“This is kind of an odd way to meet, isn’t it?” the guy continues. I notice for the first time that he’s got a faint Southern drawl. That’s not so unusual, considering Missouri borders Arkansas, Kentucky, and Tennessee.

“What are you doing in my house?” I ask, suddenly realizing the gravity of the situation. What if he’s a burglar? Oh my God. It just figures. I come home face to face with a fine guy and he’s here to rob me! Then I think of Mom. A pregnant woman, and he’s probably got her tied up down in the basement!

Unsure of what to do, I jump onto the reclining chair. Thank God Mom left it locked up in the upright position, or I’d have toppled right off of it and landed on my . I’m not sure why I got up here, but being taller than him makes me feel more powerful.

“Hey, are you okay?” the stranger asks. He’s so soft=spoken that I can barely make out what he’s saying. I hear something about “I’m sorry if...,” then his voice trails off. The next word out of his mouth—or I think I heard—is “byungtae.”

HOLY ! He’s ert! He starts walking toward me, and I inch farther back on the chair. I wish more than anything that I hadn’t dropped my overnight bag in the hall. I could have swung it around and used it as a makeshift weapon.

“Are you all right?’ he asks.

“I’m f-fine,” I stutter. My body tenses up as I try to recall any karate moves I might have seen. Should I leap off the chair and attempt to wrestle him to the ground? Should I make a run for it? Should I try to execute a quick one-two punch? Should I strike him first in the stomach, then in the head? My mind goes blank. I make a mental note to watch Jackie Chan movies more often.

ert-guy continues to creep closer. Just as I’m about to launch my attack, a familiar voice calls out. “Heejoon! What in the world’s going on in here?”

I jump in surprise. “Dad!” I’m tremendously relieved. Everything will be all right now. Surely Dad can bust a move and take out the hottie intruder.

“I see you’ve met Lee Chanhee,” he says.

“What?” I ask, startled.

ert-guy waves. “I’m Chanhee,” he says and I realize, a few moments too late, that he’d been giving me his name, not saying he’s a ert. I feel like a royal jerk. How on Earth can I misheard him saying “Byungtae”?

“Heejoon, I think we need to talk. Say hello and meet me upstairs, please,” Dad says, gesturing for me to follow him.

I’m too stunned to move. Slowly, I climb down off my perch and onto the ground. Chanhee’s looking at me with a curious expression. The corners of his mouth are twitching like he wants to laugh but isn’t sure whether it’s polite.

“Nice to meet you,” he says. He extends his hand. Reluctantly, I offer him my sweaty palm and we shake.

“I’m Kim Heejoon,” I mutter.

“I already know that, remember?” His eyes are positively twinkling now. “Why’d you jump up on that chair like that?” he asks, looking perplexed. “Practicing your best Tom Cruise impression?”

“I, uh, was, uh, feeling a bit panicked.”

“It was kinda cute. Reminded me of those parts in the movies when someone jumps on a chair because they’ve just seen a mouse.”

“Oh, uh, yeah,” I mumble.

“Though I guess I’m a little bigger than your average rodent.” He smiles.

I want to come up with some witty comment, something to make him think I have a funny, bright personality. But my mind goes utterly blank. All I can think about is that Chanhee—this gorgeous Nichkhun of a guy—has called me cute. Me! Kim Heejoon! It almost seems too good to be true.

Then I realize it is. After all, he didn’t actually I was cute. He said my reaction was cute. Big difference. My hand flies up to my face, and I feel like bursting into tears. For a moment, I’d forgotten how incredibly bad I look right now. I’m going on less than four hours of sleep and I look like I’ve broken out in a horrendous rash.

Duh! Of course Chanhee wasn’t flirting with me. He probably thinks I’m this big, pimple-faced, green haired, sweaty-palmed freak. Just my luck that I look my absolute worst on the day the cutest guy I’ve ever seen appears right on my doorstep.

- - -

Update because of Byunghun's birthday. :3

She met him! Hehe. :D

Anyway, I decided to use the Chanhee instead of Chunji. It'll probably changed later, but I'm not sure about it yet. :)

Enjoy reading and don't forget to leave a comment! ^^

Updated on: 11:04 pm, 23.11.2011