~~~~

Bian

~~~~

Windows down.

Wind whistling.

Where I was didn’t matter anymore.

Because I was flying.

I hollered into the void of midnight and whipped around another corner without care.  My car screeched and the distinct blare of a horn echoed from one of the other sparse vehicles on the road.

I laughed and pressed the pedal down further, pushing my car into eighty miles-per-hour.  It felt so good and the rush pulled my hair into so many tornados that I almost couldn’t see from behind my wild tresses.  But that didn’t matter.

Only the road did, and how much of it I could speed past in a second.

In a millisecond.

A moment.

And it felt so liberating, that I screamed again to the moon, barely hanging by a thread in the expanse of air we called a sky.  The stars had died and the city lights dimmed to nothing, but the moon responded to me in the only way it knew how.

And as its glow brightened and shone a path for me to follow through the cars and the interstates, I threw an arm out the window to catch the wind in my fist, hoping that I could detain it long enough to share the animosity of freedom with my friends and family, who all seemed to have forgotten what liberty felt like anymore.

---

“Ready for day one of senior year?” Jisoo asked, and I barely managed to nod with my head so heavy and my eyes so tired.  Staying up the entire night before had sure taken its toll, but never would it be something to regret.

“Sure,” I mumbled, and my friend didn’t have the energy to pull anything more from me.

“Yah,” she said, and our period one teacher waltzed into the room, sporting a bright yellow sun dress, reminding us that not only the seniors were somehow already done with the academic year.

“Well, hello everybody!” she greeted us, and I realized that it wasn’t a lack of professionalism that lead to her overly cheerful attire, but her attitude.

“Dear god; it’s another one of those ones,” Jisoo hissed, and I almost laughed, had our teacher not scanned her eyes across the entire class and smiled at each and every one, somehow daring us to judge her merriment.  I didn’t have the heart to do anything else but smile back.

And so the class passed, proving to show promise in a lack of homework, but not much else.  Then second period flew by, as did third.  Then fourth.  And fifth.  Sixth.  Then seventh.

By the time eighth rolled in, I was about to fall asleep.  So far only gym hadn’t put me to sleep, and I held no expectations of English either.  Just because the foreign language was easy enough to learn and I happened to excel in it, didn’t mean that the class was bound to be interesting.  The wrong teacher and my captivation in the subject could crumble away.

But the moment Mr. Kim stepped into that room, I knew something was different.  I could feel it in the air; in the whiplash I received from sitting at the front of the room as his tall form sped through the door, past me, and to his desk.

He dropped a sloppy mug on the table and took a moment to straighten his tie out before confronting us, giving the audience a chance to take in his look.  (Bright) Yellow socks, long (black) dress pants (which weren’t too bad), and an obnoxiously loud camo button-down, the likes of which I would’ve doubted existed, had I not seen them in the flesh (or in the fabric).

“Good morning students; I’m Mr. Kim,” he introduced himself in English, and the majority of the class understood his speedy, beginners’ language, the other quarter trying to keep up in order to avoid looking like fools.  I almost fell into the second category, finding that it was surprisingly effortless to get caught up in Mr. Kim’s face, which could easily have passed as a weapon of mass female destruction.

Big lips.  Rounded and yet sloping cheeks and cheekbones.  Deep eyes.  Strong eyebrows.  Subtle nose.  Artificially blonde hair, swept up into a do I couldn’t tear my eyes away from.  Judging from the other stares he was getting, other students couldn’t look away either, for different reasons.

While I gazed on in interest (and slight attraction), I could tell from the whispers and judging finger taps that a large quantity of the population had taken a disinterest in both his presence and chosen apparel.

I oddly liked it, but probably only because he’d been the first teacher all day to make an interesting impression.  Once he started to talk, I’d probably find myself falling into another lethargic state, wanting the already ending day to end faster.

I rested a chin in my palm and watched as he wrote his name on the board in English, the foreign characters almost as familiar as Korean.

“By this point in your English careers,” he began in Korean, sparing us the mental translation, “you’ve willingly chosen to enter the honors system, which means that you’re all here in my class because either you want to be...”  He turned around, set down the chalk and crossed his arms in such an ‘adult’ fashion that I almost managed to ignore his youthful appearance.  “…or you want the extra language credits for college, which is fine by me, seeing as how both groups of students strain for passing grades.”

He was getting better-looking the more I looked, and I was pretty sure I must’ve leaned closer in my observation, because I couldn’t remember sitting on the edge of my seat before.  He caught my eyes and spared me a professional second before continuing onto the rest of the class, reminding me that I had just been ogling a teacher probably twice my age.

Botox could really do a number on anyone, and he was probably a prime example of one of its more fruitful successes.

“I hope we all get along, and you spare me of a disastrous first-year teaching.”  Maybe he was young.  “Seeing as how this is my first time teaching a high school class, or any class for that matter, how about we play a game to get to know each other a little more.”

Such a statement was met with snickers and blatant giggles, some wisps of ‘how old is he, ten?’ coming to the entire room’s attention.  But Mr. Kim either didn’t hear them, or didn’t bother himself with them, because he pointed to a girl sitting front row, left corner.  I was directly on her right.

“You can start by introducing yourself to the class and telling us one fact,” he said, leaning on the whiteboard behind him and staring expectantly at the student he’d chosen.  She reddened in the face for having being called first, then proceeded to answer in the shyest manner attainable.

“My name is-”

“-In English,” Mr. Kim interrupted, and the class quieted, having just grasped the situation and begun to hastily put together their answer.  The poor girl flushed even more and stuttered through her introduction, despite her adequate pronunciation.  “I am K-Kim Hyewon, and…  I…  I like, to, surf.”  Her mumbles barely made their way to even my ears, but our new teacher heard her loud and clear and ‘ahh-ed.’

“Who doesn’t like surfing around here,” he casually mentioned amiably, and no one could really argue with him, seeing as how we all lived in a sea-side province, known for waves taller than trucks.  “Next?”

“I’m-”

“We’re going back and forth,” Mr. Kim interrupted again, dismissing the boy behind Hyewon and focusing on me, arms still crossed and brilliantly camo print still staring into my very soul.

“Oh,” I mumbled in surprise, quickly shuffling through my head of vocabulary for a good answer.  “My name is Lee Bi An, and I am going to college to be a reporter,” I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt under his scrutinizing gaze.

“Ahh,” he replied, nodding his head, and as I waited for him to say something else, his coffee irises caught me in a chokehold, pinching out my breath and squeezing my lungs shut, and I couldn’t breathe right.

I almost went blue-in-the-face waiting for him to look away, his eyes only glancing elsewhere when he turned to the next boy.  I let out a (hopefully) silent sigh and in as much air as the companionship of my fellow students (my pride) would allow me to.

I completely tuned out the rest of the class until I was positive I could control myself; what the hell was all of that?  Since when did looking at someone make my lungs deflate?  I could be coming down with something, but I couldn’t afford to get sick so early in the year.  Not senior year.

“Well, I’m Mr. Kim…”  Our teacher’s voice startled me and I found that it was deeper than I’d originally thought, tickling my ears.  “…but my first name is Namjoon, and I am the youngest teacher in this school.”  He smiled and I swooned, as did the shy girl beside me.  But who wouldn’t swoon at those dimples?  “I’m only twenty-two.”

Several ladies coughed in the back of the room, choking on whatever they’d been drinking and suddenly finding him that more interesting.  It was always that way, though, with most high schools.  Find a good-looking teacher in his early thirties or younger, and you’re bound to find at least a few girls stringing along behind him in adoration.  Nothing permanent, no crush too significant, but enough to bring blushes and unnecessary questions.  Not to mention that after-school extra-credit classes were always bound to be a hit.

I myself was shocked into silence, knowing that most prestigious schools like ours only allowed applicants with six or more years of college to apply, and seeing as how he was only twenty-two, he would’ve had to be sixteen when he started to college to get those requirements in.  And that was just ludicrous.

Four years of college and a bachelor’s degree was more like it, but he must’ve really rocked his grades to get hired straight off the bat.  Like really rocked them.  God bless Kim Namjoon; I prayed for whatever academic deity that blessed him to bless me too, what with my last year of high school coming to its beginning.

“If you’d all walk to the front of the room, you can pick up your reference booklet, which will have all crucial vocabulary necessary for the year.”

With that, we did as told and began the final chapter of our adolescent English lives, which I didn’t regret in the least having to share with Mr. Kim Namjoon.

~~~~~~~

Namjoon

~~~~~~~

God, why do they all look so old?

I held a hand over my mouth as I tried to contemplate the idea that I was only four years older than most of my classes, the majority of them being seniors.

Did I look that old four years ago?

I practically grew up with them, and with a student uniform I could most definitely pass as being just one more senior in the masses.  It made me feel insignificant, almost tiny to stand before them and preach about something, even if I was much more knowledgeable than any mind in their midst.  I didn’t graduate from high school at sixteen for nothing.

I didn’t complete six years of college with the supreme grades to prove it for nothing.

I didn’t throw away my adolescent life in return for a career, for nothing.

As the days slowly turned into weeks, and the names in my head began to connect to faces, I prayed that this all wasn’t nothing.

Sighing, I stood from my chair and looked over the student-written sentences on the board, calling on raised hands to read out the ones that were correct and fix the wrong ones.  This couldn’t be nothing; not with how much they learned and how many smiles passed through the student body with every class I taught.  I was making a difference and it felt good, but something was missing, something was gone, and it was as difficult for me to remember what it was as it would’ve been to recover it.

Lee Bi An raised her hand and I called on her, knowing that the answer was going to be correct without even having to listen to it, finding it surprising when she even managed to correct me on a simple mistake, blushing lightly and sinking lower in her chair as she did it as if she felt bad.  I blinked for a few seconds before fixing myself, biting my bottom lip in embarrassment that I couldn’t show in front of so many people, smiling and thanking her, making her eyes brighten with just my grin.

It was weird how good that felt in the base of my stomach; it startled me how much I liked smiling at her, how easy it was.

Before I let my thoughts carry me away, I looked away and called on someone in the very back, distracting myself from the conflicting emotions I’d just experienced, knowing that the thought of it would return later that day, as it always did.

Saying that it had been the first time I felt something oddly out-of-place for Lee Bi An would’ve been saying a lie, seeing as how I’d had to deal with similar emotions several times before, all when I least expected it.

Passing her in the hall and seeing her dark hair swiftly flow around her shoulders stirred something in my chest; witnessing the rarely long but common spark of shadow in her eyes made my heart thud mysteriously; catching wind of her name flickered my curiosity even during the deadest of days.

She was pretty, sure, but there were girls ten times as attractive in my classes, and they did nothing to me in the same degree as she did.  It was quite the mystery, I would admit, but nothing a little relaxation could allow time to sort through.

Three months of teaching had really worked a number over me, and I felt more tired with every step I took, every blink I blinked.  I needed a little more sleep, a little more coffee, and a little less Lee Bi An in my head.

Such an equation would surely bring desirable results, and I planned on fulfilling them later that night, after I graded papers and prepared some more packets for an upcoming test.  Oh, and I also needed to send in the reports of several students for their sports requirements.  Not to mention the…

I grumbled and sighed as I realized that this was just one of the many reasons for my mental disintegration.  But then Miss Lee raised her hand I got to hear her voice and despite the completely off-limits satisfaction I got from it, I enjoyed the tonalities and waves and melodic textures of her words, and nodded in her correctness, knowing I had a helluva a lot to do later on and hoping that enjoying the voice of one girl wouldn’t kill me.

---

~~~~

Bian

~~~~

“I’ll see you guys later,” I called to my parents, slipping outta the house and into the driveway, unlocking the car and hopping in.  The early night air sung with warmth and I smiled as I rolled the window down, casually letting my arm hang out as I leisurely pulled into the street.

Whistling as I began to drive, the radio quietly hummed, singing me songs of broken hearts and wild nights.  The forty-minute ride gave me plenty of time to think about what I was doing, and plenty of time to turn around and stop risking my future.  But the idea was too tempting and I was already too far into the plan to do anything else but what I’d strategized.

There was no going back, and I didn’t mind, taking in stride what it all meant and what I was doing, knowing I’d look back one day and laugh.  Or curse my decisions.

But hey, how would I know until it was all over?

Parking in a spot so blatantly out in the open I almost cringed on first inspection, I looked up at the sign and smiled at the name, already familiar with it from the countless days spent researching for my campaign.

The Crabapple, grill and bar, known for having spectacular lemon tequila shots.

I guessed I’d find out firsthand.

I sat down, taking a seat at the bar with my ID in hand.  The bartender looked up and frowned, taking in the sight of my youthful appearance and bright eyes.  He must've doubted the guard’s ability to check for age, because he leaned against the counter and spoke to me.

“Honey, I need to see your ID.”

“Of course,” I replied, sliding it across the polished wood surface.  “It's understandable.  You've no idea how many times I've been pulled aside and told to leave adult parties.”

He looked at the card and stared for a few moments, taking in the idea that someone as juvenile as I could possibly be twenty-one.  But I wasn't that youthful-looking, and he gave me back the card as I rose an eyebrow and a corner of my mouth teasingly.  “Am I good?”

“Sorry for the inconvenience,” he said, suddenly smiling.  “What could I get you?”

“It's fine,” I responded, referring to his apology.  “I get it all the time.  I was mistaken for a high-schooler once.”  His eyebrows rose.  “Can you believe that?”

“Really?” a voice to my left inquired, and I fatefully turned to slowly lock eyes with none other than Mr. Kim.  As in, Kim Namjoon.  As in, my teacher.  “I guess I can see it…”  He leaned in slightly and I hadn’t the courage to lean away, too caught up in his heavy lashes and surprised face.  “I wonder why anyone would ever think that.”

His eyes glinted with something akin to trouble, hiding behind the orderly professionalism he radiated even just while sitting at a bar.

“Unless she doesn't mind, sir,” the other man began, evidently noticing the discomfort that had begun to fester and rot my mood, “I'm going to have to ask you to leave the lady alone.”

“She doesn't mind,” I interjected, facing the bartender once more in an effort to redirect myself onto the path I had set long before seeing Mr. Kim.  “I just want a drink, and he’s not going to stop me, so it's alright.”  I hoped he got the message.  “I'll take a lemon tequila twist.”  My teacher was messing with the untouchable determination of a senior looking to screw around for the last time in her high-school career.

Try and hold back fire, and 3^rd degree burns were only to be expected.

“Coming right up,” the nameless uniform whistled half-heartedly, shooting cautious glances over to my neighbor.  Aforementioned neighbor scooted farther away and leaned an elbow next to mine, swishing a shot glass back and forth with his right hand.

“You know,” he started, and I could practically sense the hell about to follow, “I’d usually make a cheesy remark about not seeing you around here before, but for some reason, I think I know why I've never run into you here.”  With that last word, he tapped the counter as if by that he meant any place with alcohol.

I tried to ignore him.

Him and his unnaturally talkative boldness.

“Come on,” he continued, and when I risked a peek at him, I noticed how nice he looked in simple slacks and a loose tee, none of the usual ‘odd’ business wear he sported day to day.  “What is a straight A student doing here?”  He ducked down low, matching my eye-height and meeting my tentative gaze with one that unintentionally (or perhaps purposefully) kept mine tethered.  “Give me an answer; I didn't say a word when you ordered that shot.  That's gotta count for something.”

He sat straight and raised an eyebrow, looking not intimidating nor seductive nor dangerous, as all the other men in the joint had seemed as I walked in, just interested.  Interested in me.

And seeing as how few people had ever stared at me like that, it felt good.

And I gave him something.

I gave him a smile, and turned away to accept my drink from the handsome bartender, no longer as captivating as he had been before I noticed Mr. Kim.  My teacher laughed, and I almost grinned again as the amused chuckles blessed burdened my ears.

Until that moment, I’d never heard him laugh.

He did have a certain charm about him, though, if I thought about it, and meeting him outside school reminded me that he was a regular human being, night life and all.

But he knew how old I really was, and what grade I was in, and what school I went to, and what class I was in eighth period.  He held the power to halt my bucket list in its tracks, and if all I had to do to stop him from doing so was talk to him, then by God, our conversation was going to be the best one he would ever have.

“Anything else, or would that be student harassment?” he asked, and I kicked his chair as he said the word ‘student,’ warning him of the complications of screwing with my night, utterly uncaring of the consequences of the action.

“What else do you want?” I sighed as I faced him completely, searching his face for something that would lead me to an answer.  He leaned away, the corner of his beautiful lips stretching into a gravitational grin.

“What I don't want is to lose my job for harassing a student,” he said, suddenly looking oddly sincere.  “So I'll forget about you ever being here if you forget about my talking to you in such an inappropriate environment.”

“It's fine,” I replied, tearing myself away from his deep, chestnut gaze to focus on my untouched drink.  “And we can talk,” I murmured, finding that the words were gone before I could stop them, “if you want to.”

By the time I looked back up to glance at him, he was beaming into his glass, facing away as if to hide the expression.  He downed the rest of his shot and set it down, raising a hand for another, before leaning his cheek on the heel of his hand and staring at the counter, unable to meet my eyes as he replied.

“Why not?”  My heart thumped just a little harder, for reasons unbeknownst to me.

And I liked the feeling.

A lot.

~~~~~~~

Namjoon

~~~~~~~

“It's your turn,” she said, and I chuckled as she twirled around in her small hand the remnants of a third shot.

“Okay,” I started, biting my lip as I came up with three questions.  “Favorite color.”

“Purple.”

“Subject?”

“History.”

“Future plans?”

“College for six years, graduate, immediately into the reporting business, and the rest of life will just happen.”

I stared at her and when she happened to catch my surprised gaze, she stopped and stared back, confused.

“What?”

“Every answer you just gave leads me to think you're a good girl,” I said, blinking the exhaustion from my eyes in an effort to continue our ‘get-to-know-you’ game.  I hadn’t drunk enough to get drunk, but she was well on her way already.

“I am a good girl,” Bian then responded, smiling, and her youthful manner shone in a way that scuffed out the rest of the club’s partygoers, dusting their bustling forms in shadow compared to her lively face.

And Bian half-giggled, half-sighed as she threw back another shot.

And I felt something along the lines of a butterfly flit around my stomach.

And I liked it.

A lot.

“Then what’s this?”  I gestured to our atmosphere and leaned closer, subtly testing the limits of what I could do, keeping in mind of what we were to each other.  Who she was.  How old she was.

It was so tempting to forget who I was, use my youth as a crutch, and pretend I was just some interested college student, which I could’ve totally passed for.

Unfortunately, unfairly for me, Bian only leaned a little closer, letting her arm fall on the counter near mine, so near mine that the hairs on our arms brushed each other.  God, she was making it hard not to fall deeper into her eyes, into her nearly drunken smile; her soft words.

Damn, that alcohol was really doing a job on my head.

“This is a bit of rebellion before college,” she replied, turning away and leaving me wanting more of her eyes, her gaze.  “This is just one thing on a list of either illegal or irresponsible things that I want to do before leaving.”  I blinked as I took in what she said.  “It’s actually the second thing.”

“The first?” I asked, finding that I actually cared less about the fact that she was breaking the law for the second time, and more about just what else was she was planning.  Bian took a while to answer, but did so, slowly, cautiously, and just loud enough for me to hear.

“I always wondered what it’d be like to speed through the highways at night.”  Her fingertips found the thinnest of skin on my hand and I shivered, looking down as her nails grazed my knuckles gentler than I thought anyone could.  I didn’t think she was even conscious of what she was doing.  “Without getting caught, of course.”

A chill trickled down my spine and across my back, splaying along my shoulders and shoulder blades.

“What else is on the list?” I asked quietly, curiously indebted to this young woman’s plans.  Curiously indebted in her.  Despite all logic and all reason.

“Can’t tell you.”  Lee Bian grinned to herself, only one side of curling up and the other remaining more or less indifferent.  I couldn’t help but think that she was being a lot less liberal with her personality outside the classroom than I would’ve thought.  But I supposed that was what happened when a ‘good girl’ loosened her reigns just a bit.  “You’d have to be there to find out, and you have too many teacher-related jobs to do to spare time for me.”  She was looking a lot less amused at this point.  “Not many people have enough time for me anyways.  Even my friends are busy getting ready for college, and my family’s forcing me to focus on scholarships until it’s all solidified.”

“Then who are you hanging out with on your time off?” I asked, and Bian looked up into my face so intently that I backed away the tiniest of inches.

“You’re the first person I’ve had fun with in months.”  I stared back.  “It’s kind of sad, you know?  I’m supposed to be enjoying school before college, hanging out with friends and family and celebrating the last bit of dependency on my parents’ bank account that I’ll be allowed for the rest of my life.  Instead I have to focus on grades and interviews and people that I don’t want to have to deal with right now, and that don’t even matter at this point in my academic career.  I’m supposed to be-”

“-Relax,” I murmured, gripping her arm and stopping the ascent of another drink, deciding for her that enough was enough and she didn’t need another.  I honestly should’ve stopped a few ago too.  “Stop drinking and breathe.”

“I am breathing,” she snapped back, doing nothing to wrench her arm free but not looking at me with the same warmth she had been just moment before.  “And as long as I do, I’ll continue to be berated for things I should’ve done, even if I’m already set for a full-ride to basically any university of my choice.”  She tilted her head back, a smooth and pale neck exposed and taunting me.  I almost leaned down to kiss it, almost ran my lips up her pulse, before snapping out of the alcoholic daze and shaking the reverie from my mind.

For ’s sake; I was her teacher.

“How dangerous are the things you’ll be doing?” I asked to both distract myself from the current issue of wrongful attraction and to gauge what trouble she could be getting herself into.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t the tiniest bit interested.

“Depends; depends on the situation, depends the people, how close the cops are to begin with.”

“Are you going to be breaking the law?”

“Not really…”  She scrunched up her face and noticed my hand on her elbow, eyeing it with a careful eye before letting it slide.  “Kinda.  Nothing big.”

“Like what?”

“Top secret.”

“Come on.”

“You’d have to be there, like you’re here now.  ‘Cause you’re here, I can allow you to know that another thing I’ve wanted to do is drink underage, just to try it,” Bian explained, despite my being able to figure that out on my own.  “This is my first time drinking.”  She set the glass down and pushed it away tentatively with the tip of her pointer finger.

“Mine too,” I said, and her head lolled over to face me.

“What?”

“I’m twenty-two, a young teacher (too young in many people’s opinion); I’ve spent the entirety of my life doing what my parents said and getting into the top 1% of the country, grade-wise.  College was over and done with just last year, during which I never drank once (coffee was the only thing I needed to get through the exams and papers).  I’m now an aspiring teacher, caught up in work and schedules, and for the first time in a long while I decided that I deserved a break.”

I tossed her a careless smile and turned to my drink, its contents now looking dull.  “And so I came here.”

“You didn’t have any friends to take you for your twenty-first birthday?”

“Didn’t you have friends to keep you from coming here?”

“They’re all sticklers, and even more ‘good girl’ than I am.”

“Exactly.  I had friends like that too.  And when college rolled around, they left and I left and we left each other, and the only person I ever had more than a few conversations with asides from professors was the librarian.”  She furrowed her eyebrows.  “Sad, right?”

“So this is a first drink for the both of us?” Bian asked, and I chuckled, ruffling my now messy head of hair with a big hand.

“Yah; just look at what it tells about the two of us.  An eighteen-year-old and a twenty-two-year-old, both drinking together, for the first time ever.  Really gives you an idea of our inner workings, doesn’t it?”

“I’m actually a spectacular student,” she interjected, turning away from me and tapping the counter lightly, the alcohol obviously dulling her senses enough for her not to notice the bartender’s worried gaze, his ears unable to pick up our conversation, but his eyes clearly aware of her sour mood.  “Straight-A’s; straight-laced.  Soon enough I’ll be in a straight-jacket from the stress I get.  I guess that’s why I made my list; so that I can break away from the pressure a little…”

Her eyes got dreamy and I found myself leaning in, anticipating every word.

“Five things and the end of the school year, and I’m outta here.  I’m free.”

I wanted to tell her that it never stops, but I hadn’t the heart.  So instead, I laid a rather irresponsible palm on her back and stood her up, pulling her in the direction of the exit after paying in cash.

“Where are we going?”

“Why are you just letting me lead you away?” I criticized half-mindedly, searching for keys all while trying to lead her on the path to the door.  “I could be piling you in the back of my van, and you’re just letting me.”

“I’m not a kid, and on top of that, I don’t even care anymore,” she muttered, the earlier energy and excitement burned out.  “Take me wherever you want.”

“You’re so lucky I was here to watch you,” I grumbled to myself, imagining the eager erts and pimps that would’ve found the jackpot with such a willing participant.  “You’ll thank me for that later.”

“I drove here,” Bian said, and when we broke out into the warm night, she pointed to a small car just down the way.  “Thanks, but I’ll take it from here.”

“I can’t let you drive drunk,” I argued, finding that when she was unwilling, trying to pull her elbow proved to be quite more difficult.

“I’m not drunk.”

“What’s your name.”

“You should know; you call it every day during roll call.”

“My name?”

“God; it’s Mr. Kim,” she mocked, saying my name in an obnoxiously childish tone and swishing her head back and forth as if she had a little girl’s swinging braids.  “I gotta get home.”

“Let me drive you.”

“Don’t you have a car too?”

“Yah, but…”  I desperately tried to think of a reason, unable to leave her alone but needing to get home as well.  “I’ll-I’ll just call my friend.  He and his brother will pick me up and drive me back to my truck.”  She looked skeptical, but couldn’t say anything against it.  “Sound like a plan?”

“How do I know you won’t actually kidnap me?  And in my own car?  They’ll say it was my fault, and when they never find me again, my parents will secretly blame me for letting a creepy guy into my vehicle.  I’ll be an example of what not to do: like, ‘kids, don’t pull a Bian and let a ert into your car; be smarter than that.’  What then, mister genius teacher?  What then?”

Her little rant ended and she stood nervously glancing every few seconds down to my guiding hand around her arm.  She looked about ready to pepper-spray me in the face and get the hell outta there, but I let go and stepped back, palms up in surrender and eyes rolling in exasperation.

“I’m not some ert.”

“How do I-”

“-Look, if you don’t want my help, I’ll just leave you to it then, okay?  You’ll crash into a tree, die, and your parents will still use you as an example.  Like, ‘kids, don’t pull a Bian and drink underage and drive drunk and die.’  Die, Bian, you realize you could die, right?  Does the word ‘die,’ compute?”

I didn’t know why I was getting so worked up over something so silly and someone so trivial, but something in my gut told me not to let her go.  It told me to drive her home.  I was obviously soberer than she.

“It does,” she said, suddenly quiet and docile, looking around the dark neighborhood fearfully, appearing a helluva lot more breakable than she had moments before.  “I-I don’t…”

Trailing off, Bian silenced and wrapped arms around herself, actually taking a single step towards me.

“Would you please drive me, Mr. Kim?” she whispered, and in such a weakened, vulnerable state, I was reminded of how young she actually was, and how I was supposed to be the responsible one.  The old one.  The parent.

I shivered at the mention of such a word, admitting that I’d been eyeing her up the entire night and just dying to hold her hand or lay an arm around her waist.  Was I actually a ert?  A e?  No, she was eighteen; she was legal.

Oh my god.

Did I really just say that?

Oh my ing god.

I pinched my eyes shut and ground the heel of my hand into my temple, washing away the thoughts I’d unfortunately had the displeasure of thinking.

“Of course I’d drive you home,” I said, shaking my head clear of it all and accepting the keys she eagerly shoved into my grasp at the mention of dying.  She clearly wasn’t so rebellious as to risk her life, which was supposed to be reassuring.  Perhaps if I knew what the dangerous and otherwise illegal things she planned on doing were, perhaps then I could be at ease.

But with her future in jeopardy, I sat at the edge of my seat the entire way back to her house (after ringing up my tired and aggravated friends), feeling the dregs of nervous worry eating my ease.  When I at last pulled into her driveway and thankfully saw the headlights of a familiar jeep, my friend and his brother already tailing us, I managed to slide a slip of paper into her purse as I helped her from the car, her lagging and yet nimble fingers already straightening out her appearance and masking the effects of her night out.

“Thanks for everything, Mr. Kim.”

“Call me Namjoon,” I said without thinking, snapping my mouth shut immediately and praying she hadn’t heard me.

“Can I call you Joon?” she suddenly asked, and I felt the breath in my throat die, and the beat in my heart pick up its pace.

“I-I mean, sure, if you want to, but-”

“Never in the classroom, right?”

Once again, I couldn’t breathe, my demeanor and adult façade disappearing faster than I could piece it back together.  I tried to continue talking, only digging a deeper hole into which I was falling farther by the second.  “Right; I mean, when-how are we gonna-I mean…  Will we be seeing each other outside the classroom often enough for that kind of nickname?”  I had already walked her to the door and we stood together, voices hushed and faces thankfully shadowed by the house’s inky splash on the porch.

“Well, not at a bar.  I didn’t really like drinking all that much,” she said, and I could just see the crinkle of her nose as she grimaced.  “Probably somewhere else.  Probably a couple someplaces else.  I liked tonight.”

Goddammit.

“Goodnight Miss Lee.”

“Call me Bian.”  Her smiled shone without light, and I felt the chills traverse every inch of skin they could reach.  “In and out of the classroom.”  I gulped.

“Okay.”  It was a mere whisper of a word, and I cleared my throat to say it again when she half-hugged me, one arm thrown haphazardly around my shoulders, her hair smelling of alcohol and blueberry bath salts.

I wanted to breathe it in as much as my dysfunctional lungs wouldn’t let me.

“Goodnight Joon,” called her drunken voice, and I waved a tiny goodbye before turning on my heels and escaping to my friends’ waiting truck, the delusional heart in my chest thumping just as wildly, if wilder in my ears.

“Who was that?” Seokjin asked as I got in the back, and his brother, Jungkook, eyed the disappearing figure of my student.

Student.  Student.  Student.  She was a student.  She was my student.  I was her teacher.  That’s all that needed to be said in the matter.  No more thought of her.  After the alcohol quit acting up, I’d be good again.  No issues.

“She’s one of my students; just a student.  I’m four years older; there’s obviously nothing going on between us, so just drive, Seokjin.”

“Seokjin hyung,” he corrected, and Jungkook giggled in the passenger seat.

“Four years isn’t that much of an , hyung.  And besides, from here, her looked fiiiiiiiiiiiiiine~” Seokjin smacked him upside the head.

“Shut it kid; you’re nineteen.  You’re just learning what is,” his brother hissed, and Jungkook turned away to look out the window, used to the verbal tirade.  But I wasn’t really paying attention to them.  I was thinking about what Jungkook’d said, taking note of its validity.

Lee Bian really did have a fine .

But being her teacher, I hadn’t noticed.

~~~~

Bian

~~~~

I snuck into my room, my parents expecting me to be home late and likely noticing my return but thinking nothing of it.  I clicked the door shut behind me and breathed out a shaky breath, reigning in the rebellious attitude that’d captured me during the night spent at the bar with Mr. Kim.

Namjoon.

Joon.

I shook my head and dismissed him from my mind, thinking of the next thing to plan for as I tossed my bag on the bed and fell beside it.  I’d almost closed my eyes before the sight of a tiny, crinkled slip of something caught my attention.  Seeing as how I only had a wallet and my keys in the purse, I knew whatever it was, wasn’t supposed to be there.

I reached a tired finger towards it, poking it until it fell out and landed nearer, forcing me to acknowledge its existence.  As I spread it out over the duvet, blurry words worked to clear and make themselves readable, blowing my mind when they did.

~Call me next time you decide to rebel~

(716)-638-7926

And all of my exhaustion dissipated, leaving me to wallow in both confusion, and an undeniably enticing excitement.

 

---

I hope you enjoyed the first chapter.  Please keep reading!  It would make my day!  Oh, and that number was completely made up by me, so I beg you, don't call.  Don't make a fool of yourselves.