Chapter Seven: Where I Like to Complain

I flipped though my old yearbook, scrutinizing each photo carefully. I bit my lip, sighing as I turned to the next page.

“No one new is in there,” Nana called out from her spot on my bed. “You’ve looked through it a dozen times. A new guy isn’t going to pop out.”

“But this is my pool of choices. It’s all I have to pick from,” I muttered, obstinate on getting over my crush on Jungkook. I’d learned the hard way all he would give me was heart break. He’d even waved to me at history like nothing was wrong.

I paused, brushing against Jeon Jungkook’s photo. He didn’t look like he normally did. The leather jacket was absent and in its place a crisp polo shirt. The smirk was diminished to a smile that did not quite reach his eyes.

I shook myself, going to the next picture. Jung Hoseok. He was smiling brilliantly, a stark contract to Jungkook.

“What do you think about Hoseok?” I probed.

“He seems like a sweet guy?”

I traced the edges of the picture, tilting my head. “Do you think I have a chance with him?”

He was part of the popular crowd along with Jungkook. I didn’t really think the fact that they were friends would matter to Jungkook, considering he seemed to kiss everyone like it wasn’t a big deal.

No, I wasn’t bitter at all.

“Don’t talk like that,” Nana sighed. “I hate when you do this to yourself. Don’t let Jungkook mess with your head.”

“I’ve never heard anything bad about Hoseok,” I mumbled, ignoring her comment.

“Neither have I.”

Now if only I could work up the courage to go up to him… and face Jungkook in the process. Yeah, maybe dating Hoseok was hopeless too. On top of us barely ever interacting, Hoseok didn’t seem like the type of guy to date people his friends had kissed.

The door alarm dinged as my mom made her way inside. I hurried out my room, leaning against the railing. “My car is broken again!” I shouted at her.

Mom dropped her purse in a chair, opening the fridge. “What did you do to it?”

“What do you mean, ‘what did I do to it?’ It’s practically from the junk yard,” I complained.

My mother glanced around the fridge, straight faced and unamused. “Be happy you have a car, Ara. There are starving kids in Africa.”

“I don’t mean it like that,” I whined. “I just want to trade it in for something better.” I leaned against the counter, watching as she pulled out a bunch of stuff from the fridge. Ham and cheese. Some bread she h