My first real shift at the Palace begins the next day at noon, and when I see the crowded parking lot, I nearly run the Vespa around and head back to Appa's house. But Anna spots me before I can. She's waiting at the employee door, waving her arms, and now there's nothing I can do but march off to my doom. We clock in, putting our stuff  in our assigned lockers, and wear our green vests.

This just got real.

Mr. Lopez and his pointy vampire hairline greet us i the break room, clipboard in hand. "You are . . . ?"

"Suzy Bae," I reply. It's been one day; he's already forgotten.

"Anna Nguyen."

"What's that?" he says, leaning closer to her.

The irritation in her eyes is supreme. "Nguyen. Pronounced as WIN."

"Yes, yes," he mumbles, like he knew it all along. He hands us plastic name tags. The sticker printed with my first name is stuck on crooked. It feels like a bad omen. "All right, ladies. Your supervisor on duty is Nathalie. She's tied up with a problem in the cafe right now. The morning shift at ticketing is ending in three minutes, so we need to hurry. Are you ready to get out there and make some magic happen?"

Anna and I both stare at him.

"Terrific," he says with no feeling, and the urges us out the door and into the employee hallway. "First thing you usually do is go to security" - he points down the hall toward the opposite direction - "to count out a fresh cash drawer, like we showed you in training. But today there's no time. You' just have to trust that the supervisor on duty didn't steal anything or foul up the drawer counter, because it comes out of your paycheck if they did . . ."

I freeze in place. Anna speaks first. "Wait, what was that?"

"Come on, now," Mr. Lopez says, pushing me forward. "Two minutes. Break a leg. Security will meet you at the ticketing booth to get you set up and answer any questions. If you last a week, we'll consider assigning you a key to the booth. Otherwise, you'll have to knock to get inside, because it lock automatically. Good luck and don't forget to smile."

And with that, he guides us into the lobby and promptly abandons us.

The museum was empty during orientation. It's not now. Hundreds of voices bounce around the place, heading into the two wings. The cafe upstairs is packed. People are eating sandwiches on the slate stairs, talking on cell phones beneath the floating pirate ship. So. Many. People.

But the only person I really see is standing against the ticket booths.

Kim Taehyung. Beautiful body. Head full of hair. Box-like smile.

My archnemesis.

His eyes meet mine. Then his gaze drops to my feet. He's checking to see if my shoes match. Even though I know they do, I check them again, and then want to take them off and throw them at his big, fat head.

But he doesn't say a word about it. He only says, "Ladies," and nods when we approach. Maybe this won't be as bad as last time. Balancing two covered cash registers in one hand, he knocked on the ticketing booth's door four times before turning toward us. "Ready for the thrill of hot cash in your hands?"

The door to the booth swings open. For what seems like forever, Anna and I stand waiting while Taehyung enters the booth, swapping out the cash drawers, and two wide-eyed new hires spill out of the booth, wiping away sweat like they've just been inside the devil's own room and seen unspeakable, depraved acts that have scarred them for life.

Now I'm getting really nervous.

Taehyung's pissed. He saying something vile into the radio on his sleeve, and for a second, I wonder if he's telling off Mr. Lopez, but then a shock of hair hair comes through the lobby and the other security guard - Mr. Yoongi - appears. He looks worn out. And way too tired to be doing this job. "Sorry, sorry," he says, completely breathless.

Taehyung let out a long sigh and shakes his head, less angry now, more worried. "Just esort them back to the cash-out and watch them count their register until Nathalie gets down from the cafe." He turns back toward us and whistles, pointing his thumb toward the booth. "You two, inside."

"Darn," Anna mumbles. "I don't remember how to run the ticketing program!"

"You'll do it in your sleep, Anna," he assures her. For a second, he almost seems nice, and not the same boy who humiliated me in front of the entire staff. An illusion, I tell myself.

The booth was small. Really small. The booth smells. Really bad. There are two stools, a counter that holds the computer screen, and a shelf under, on which the tickets prints from ancient printers. The back door is centered behind us, and there's barely room for a third person - much less Taehyung - to stand behind us and give directions. In front of us, it's just glass covered in smudged fingerprints separating us from a line of people. So many people. They are not happy with the delay.

The dude standing at window is mouthing, Four, and he's holding up four fingers, saying someting nasty about me being an idiot female. That churro cart is looking better and better.

"Green means on, red means off," Taehyung's voice says near my face, a little too close. And unwanted shiver went down my neck where his hair brushes my ear. It smells like the ocean; I wonder if he's been surfing today. I wonder why I care. His arm reaches around my body and taps the counter, startling me.

"Right, yes," I say.

"Dumbly, I look down at the two-way intercom controls, marked OUTSIDE (to hear the customers) and INSIDE (so they can hear me). Green. Red. Got it.

"You'll pretty much want to keep the outside mic on all the time, but if you want to hang on to your sanity, you'll only engage in the inside microphone on a need-to basis. Finger on the trigger," he advises.

They told us that in training. It's coming back to me now. Anna is freaking the heck out, so Taehyung has shifted over to her area. The jerk in front of my window is pressing four impatient fingers against the glass. I can't hold on any longer. I hit both green buttons and smile.

"Welcome to the Vogue Palace. Four adult tickets?"

The computer does all the work. I take the man's credit card, the tickets print, Mr. Jerkface goes through the turnstile with his jerky family. Next. This one's cash. I fumble a little with the change, but it's not too bad.

And so on.

At some point, Taehyung slips out and we're on our own, but it's okay. We can handle it.

I remembered how cold the Vogue lobby was during orientation, so I wore an cardigan. Ten customers into the line, and I now realized why they nickname the ticket booth the Hotbox. No A/C inside. We're trapped in a box made of glass from the waist up, with the sun beaming down on us, lighting us up like we're flowers in a freaking greenhouse.

I strip off the cardigan through my vest's gaping sleeve holes, but every few minutes, I have to turn around to let someone inside the door - Nathalie, the shift supervisor, the guy from the information booth telling us to retake a season pass photo because the customer "hates" it, sweet old Mr. Yoongi delivering change for all the big spenders who want to pay with 100,000 wons. Every time I turn around to around the ticket booth door, (1) I bust my kneecaps on the metal till, and (2) a blast of freezing palace air races over my clammy skin.

Then the door shuts, and the Hotbox reheats all over again.

It's torture. Like, this is how the military must break enemy combatants when they want to get information out of them. 

It gets worse when we have to start juggling other things like pointing where the restrooms are, and handling complaints about ticket prices going up every year. Is this museum scary? How come we don't give senior discounts to fifty-year-olds anymore? The wind just my ticket away; give me a replacement.

It's a circus. I'm barely exaggerating. No wonder people quit the first day.

Not us. Anna and I have this. We're champs, fist-bumping each other under the counter. I handle the job the best way I know how. Avoid eye contact. Play dumb. Shrug. Evade the hard questions. Point them toward the information desk or the gift shop.

If we don't sweat away all out bodily fluids, things slow down considerably - as in no one in line.

"Did we scare them all away?" Anna asks,wiping sweat from the back her neck.

"Is it over?" I say, looking over the intercom to see around the stanchions. "Can we go home now?"

"I'm asking someone to bring us water. They said we could. It's too hot. Screw this." Anna uses the phone to page Nathalie, and she says she'll send someone. We wait.

A couple of minutes later, I hear four knocks on the door and open it to find Taehyung. It's the first time we've seen him since the beginning of our jail sentence. He hands us a plastic bottles of water from the cafe and gives me that slow, lazy smile of his that's entirely too y for a boy our age, and that makes me nervous all over again.

"You've both got that sweet Hotbox shine. Looks better on the two of you than the last pair. By the way, one of them is . . ." He swipes his thumb across his throat, indicating that the kid quit, and not that he actually offed himself. I hope.

"Another one?" Anna mumbles.

He leans back against the door, one foot propped up, scrolling through his phone. The propped leg puts his knee in my space, mere centimeters from mine. It's like he's purposely trying to crowed me. "This job weeds out the weak, Anna. They should flash their photos over the teepees in the fake starry sky in Jaehyun's Wings."

"What time is it?"

He checks his watch with a funny digital screen and tells us the time. When I stare too long, he catches me looking and explains, "Surf watch. Swell direction, wave height, water temperature. Completely waterproof, unlike this phone, which I've had to replace twice already."

I was actually staring at his scars, thinking about how Anna had started to tell me something tragic about his family yesterday on the boardwalk, but I'm relieved he thought I was looking at the watch.

"How did you get to be a security guard, anyway?" I ask, opening my water bottle.

He spare's a moment glance from the screen and winks a me. Actually winks. Who does that? "Eighteen opens all sort of doors. You can vote, legally engage in any and all imaginative ual activities with the consenting person of your choice, and - best of all - you can work full-time as a security guard at the Vogue Palace."

"Only one of those things I want to do and don't need any law to give mer permission," Anna says sweetly from the other side of the booth.

I don't look at him. If he's trying to make me uncomfortable with all that "imaginative ual activities" talk, he can give himself a pat on the back, because it's working. But he's not going to see me sweat. Except for the fact I've been sweating for the last two hours in the Hotbox.

"Jungkook's gone overseas for one week and you're already turning to me to satisfy your woman;y needs?" he says.

"You wish," she retorts.

"Every day. What about you, Bae?"

"No thanks," I say.

He puffs out a breath, acting hurt. "You leave a boyfriend crying for you back in Korea?"

I grunt. Anna's stool creaks. I can feel the both of them looking in my direction, and when I don't answer, Taehyung says, "I know what will fix this. Quiz time."

Anna groans. "Oh, no."

"O-oh, yes."

I risk a glance at his face, he's smiling to himself, scrolling madly on his phone. "A quiz is the best way to get to know yourself and others," he says, like he's reading a copy from a magazine.

"He's obsessed with stupid quizzes," Anna explains. "He force them on everyone at school. Cosmopolitan quizzes are the worst."

"I think you mean the best," he corrects. "Here's a good one. 'Why Don't You Have a Boyfriend, Girlfriend? Take this quiz to find our why a super girl like you is still sitting home alone on Saturday night instead of pairing up with the boy of your dreams.' "

"Nope," Anna says.

"I'll take this back, then," Taehyung says, attempting to snatch the water from Anna's hand. They wrestle for a second, laughing and when she screams, spilling cold water on her green Palace vest, I almost get Taehyung's elbow in my face. He holds the water over her head, out of reach.

"All right, you win," Anna says. "Do your damn quiz, already. Better than just sitting here, I suppose."

Taehyung hands her water back, settles against the door, and reads from the quiz. "Your older sister takes you to a campus party while you're visiting her at college. Do you: (A) dance with her and her friends; (B) skinny-dip in the backyard pool; (C) grab a hottie and go make out in an empty bedroom upstairs; (D) sit alone on the couch, people-watching?' "

I don't bother answering. A young couple comes to my window, so I flip on the mics long enough to greet them and sell two tickets. When I'm done, Anna had chosen answer A.

"What about you, Bae?" Taehyung asks. "I thinking you're answer B - secret exhibitionist. If you don't quit today, who knows. I might just look on the monitors tomorrow and find you stripping by the Nefertiti pool in Hyesun's Wing."

I laugh. "Is that what you've been imagining back in the security booth?"

"All afternoon."

"You're an ."

He holds my gaze. "Scratch that. I think you actually answer C. You'd grab a 'hottie' " - he makes one-handed air quotes - "and go make out in an empty bedroom. Am I right?"

I don't answer.

He's continued, "Next question." He swipes the screen of his phone, but he's not looking at it; he's staring at me. Trying to intimidate me. Trying to see who'll blink first. "Did you leave Seoul because (A) you couldn't find any hotties to make out with? Or (B) your Korean boyfriend is ankle buster and you'd heard about legendary Californian surfer, so you had to find out for yourself if the rumors were true?" he says with a smirk.

"Idiot," Anna mumbles, shaking her head.

I may not understand some of his phrasing, but I quickly get the gist. I feel myself blushing. But I manage to recover quickly and get a comment in. "Why are you so interested in my love life?"

"I'm not. Why are you evading the question? You do that a lot, by the way."

"Do what?"

"Evade questions."

"What business is that of yours?" I say, secretly irritated that he's figured me out. And who is he anyway, my therapist? Well, I got news for him, I've been to two of the best therapists money can buy in Seoul, once with Eomma and once on my way, and neither one of those so-called experts were able to keep me in the chair for longer than two sessions. They said I bottled up my feelings, and I was uncommunicative, and that evasion was a way to avoid dealing with a stressor, and that it was an unhealthy way to avoid panic attacks.

Says the man who wanted to charge my parents more than a college education. I'm coping just fine, thankyouverymuch. If people like this will just leave me alone. . .

Taehyung scoffs. "Seeing how this is your first day on the job, and may very well be your last, considering  the turnover rate for this position? And seeing how I have seniority over you? I'd say, yeah, it's pretty much my business."

"Are you threatening me?" I ask.

He turns off his phone and raise a brow. "Huh?"

"That sounded like a threat," I say.

"Whoa, you need to chill. That was not . . ." He can't even say it. he's flustered now, tucking his hair. "Anna . . ."

Anna holds up a hand. "Leave me out of this mess. I have no idea what I'm even witnessing here. Both of you have lost me."

He makes a soft growling noise and turns back to me. "Look, I was just giving you a hard time - lighten up. But the fact is, I've been working here forever. You've been working here a few hours."

"But don't you already have me pegged? You know all about me, Mr. Famous Surfer Boy?"

He mockingly his chin. "Hmm . . . well, Little Miss Vogue," he says in that low deep voice of his. The one I thought was all y and charming when he was giving us the tour. "Let me hazard a guess. You're some stuck-up Korean sophisticate whose daddy got her this job where she's forced to have a normal conservations with a surf trash like me." He crosses his arms and smiles boldly at me. "how'd I do?"

My mouth falls open. I'm so stunned, I feel as though I've had the wind knocked out of my chest. I try to untangle his words, but there's just so much there. If he's really just giving me a hard time,then why do I sense . . . so much bitterness?

How did he know appa helped me get this job? Did someone in the office tell him? I mean, it's not like I'm some spoiled, incompetent rich kid with zero work experience and mega connections. Appa's just a CPA! But I'm not going to bother explaining that or anything else. Because right now, I'm halfway convinced a hole in my skull has blown off and my brain is flowing out like lava. I think I might well and truly hate Taehyung.

"You know nothing about me or my family. And you're a god-damn , you know that?" I say, so angry that I don't even care that a family of four is walking up to my window. I should have. And I should have noticed that I left the green switch from the last pair of tickets I sold. But the family's wide-eyed faces clue me in now.

They've heard every nasty word.

For one terrible moment, the booth spins around me. I apologize quickly, but the parents aren't happy. At all. Why should they be? Omo, is the wife wearing a crucifix pendant? What if these people are fundamentalists? Are these kids homeschooled? Did I just ruin them for life? Holy fu - I mean, nugget. Are they going to ask to speak to Mr. Lopez?A m I going to be fired? On my first day? What is appa going to say?

If I was hot before, I'm not now. Icy dread sends an army of goosebumps over my skin. I pointe the scarred family to Anna's window and bolt out of my stool, pushing past Taehyung as I exit the booth.

I don't even know where I'm going. I end up in the break room and then outside in the employee parking lot. For a second, I consider driving away on Eggie, until I remember that I don't even have my purse; it's back in my locker.

I sit on the sidewalk. Cool down, get myself together. I have a thirty-minute break, after all, don't I? Thirty whole minutes to wallow in embarrassment over saying what I said in front of that family . . . thirty minutes to wonder how in the world I allowed Taehyung to provoke me into yet another argument. Thirty minutes to freak out over being fired on my first day. Me! How did this happen?

This is all Taehyung's fault. He provoked me. Something about him just brings out the worst in me and makes me want to . . .punch things. He thinks I'm a snob? He's not the first. Just because I'm quiet doesn't mean I'm not friendly. Maybe I just want to be alone. Maybe I'm not good at conversation. We all can't be cool and sociable and Hey, what's up? like he is. Some of us aren't wired for that. That doesn't make me snotty. And why does he keep talking about the way I dress? I'm more casual today than I was at orientation. So sue me if I have style. I'm not changing myself to please him.

I'm not sure how much time passes, but I eventually head back into the break room. A few employees are moving around. I wait a few minutes, but no one comes to get me. I expect to be called into Mr. Lopez's office, or at least for the shift supervisor to want to speak to me. When no one comes, I don't know what to do. I've still got several hours left on my shift, so I head back to the lobby, scanning for signs. I bump into someone. I look up to see Mr. Lopez, clipboard smashed against his chest, and my pulse triples.

"So sorry," I apologize for what must be a record-breaking number of times in the last hour. This is it. I'm done for. He's come to fire me.

"Please watch where you're going Miss . . ." He pauses while his dart toward my name tag. "Bae."

"I . . ." Can't apologize again. I just can't. "yes, sir."

"How's ticketing working out for you? Are you on break?" His nose wrinkles. "You aren't quitting, are you?"

"No, sir."

He relaxes. Straightens his Vogue Palace tie. "Terrific. Back to your post," he says absently, focus returned to the clipboard as he walks away. "Don't forget to smile."

Like I could do that right now. I head to the ticketing booth in a daze, still unsure what I'll find there. I take a deep breath and knock on the door. It swings open. Taehyung is gone. A small line is forming on the other side of the glass, and Anna is handling it alone. Her shoulders relax when she sees me. She quickly switches off her mic.

"Hey," she whispers. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah. I'm not going to be fired?"

She stares at me like I've gone crazy then shakes her head. "Taehyung just apologized and let them in free of charge. People will forgive anything if you give them free stuff. Don't quit! It's all good. And I need your help now."

"Okay."

I close the door behind me and sit on my stool, waving the next person in line over to my window. I'm not sure how I fee. Relieved? Wiped out? Still humiliated at angry at Taehyung? I don't even know anymore.

Before I click on my mic, I look down and see a fresh bottle of water and three cookies sitting on a printed Vogue Palace napkin. One chocolate chip, one sugar, one oatmeal. A note in a boyish handwriting is inked on the napkin's corner, along with a drawing of a sad face. It says: Sorry. :(