I have three simple wishes. They’re really not too much to ask.

The first is to attend the winter formal dressed like Cinderella. Dress so wide I’ll only be able to enter the dance through a set of double doors. But I’ll hold my skirts high as I arrive to reveal a pair of platform combat boots, so everyone can see that, underneath the frills, I’m punk-rock tough.

The second is for my parents to approve of my boyfriend. They hate him. They hate his bleached hair with its constant dark roots, and they hate his arms, which are tattooed. They say his smile is more of a smirk. And they’re sick of hearing his music blasting from my bedroom, and they’re tired of fighting about my curfew whenever I watch his band play in clubs.

And my third wish? To never ever ever see the Park twins ever again. Ever.

But I’d much rather discuss my boyfriend. I realize it’s not cool to desire parental approval, but honestly, my life would be so much easier if they accepted that Minseok is the one. It’d mean the end of embarrassing restrictions, the end of every-hour-on-the hour phone-call check-ins on dates, and—best of all—the end of Sunday brunch. The end of mornings like this.

“Another waffle, Minseok?” My father, Kris, pushes the golden stack across our antique farmhouse table and toward my boyfriend.

This is not a real question. It’s a command, so that my parents can continue their interrogation before we leave. Our reward for dealing with brunch? A more relaxed Sunday-afternoon date with fewer check-ins. Minseok takes two and helps himself to the homemade raspberry-peach syrup.

“Thanks, sir. Incredible, as always.” He pours the syrup carefully, a drop in each square.

Despite appearances, Minseok is careful by nature. This is why he never drinks or smokes pot on Saturday nights. He doesn’t want to come to brunch looking hungover, which is, of course, what my parents are watching for. Evidence of debauchery.

“Thank Suho.” Kris jerks his head toward my other dad, who runs a pie bakery out of our home.

“He made them.”

“Delicious. Thank you, sir.” Minseok never misses a beat.

“Miso, did you get enough?” I stretch, and the seven inches of Bakelite bracelets on my right arm knock against each other.

“Yeah, like, twenty minutes ago. Come on,” I turn and plead to Suho, the candidate most likely to let us leave early.

“Can’t we go now?”

“More orange juice?” He bats his eyes innocently.

“No.” I fight to keep from slumping. Slumping is unattractive.

“So. Minseok. How goes the world of meter reading?” Kris stabs another waffle.

When Minseok isn’t being an indie punk garage-rock god, he works for the City of San Francisco. It irks Kris that Minseok has no interest in college. But what my dad doesn’t grasp is that Minseok is actually brilliant. He reads complicated philosophy books written by people with names I can’t pronounce and watches tons of angry political documentaries. I certainly wouldn’t debate him.

“The same as last week.” Minseok smiles politely, and his dark eyebrows raise a titch.

“And the band?” Suho asks. “Wasn’t some record executive supposed to come on Friday?”

My boyfriend frowns. The guy from the label never showed. Minseok updates Suho about their new forthcoming album instead, while Kris and I exchange scowls. No doubt my father is disappointed that, once again, he hasn’t found anything to incriminate Minseok. Apart from the age thing, of course. Which is the real reason my parents hate my boyfriend. They hate that I’m seventeen, and Minseok is twenty-one. But I’m a firm believer in age-doesn’t-matter. Besides, it’s only four years, less than the difference between my parents. Though it’s no use pointing this out, or the fact that my boyfriend is the same age Kris was when my parents started dating. This only gets them worked up.

“I may have been his age, but Suho was twenty six,” Kris always says. “Not a teenager. And we’d both had several boyfriends before, plenty of life experience. You can’t jump into these things. You have to be careful.”

But they don’t remember what it’s like to be young and in love. Of course I can jump into these things. When it’s someone like Minseok, I’d be stupid not to. My best friend thinks it’s hilarious that my parents are so strict. After all, shouldn’t a couple of gay men sympathize with the temptation offered by a y, slightly dangerous boyfriend? This is so far from the truth it’s painful.

It doesn’t matter that I’m a perfect daughter. I don’t drink or do drugs, and I’ve never smoked a cigarette. I haven’t crashed their car—I can’t even drive, so they’re not paying high insurance rates— and I have a decent job. I make good grades. Well, apart from biology, but I refused to dissect that fetal pig on principle. And I only have one hole per ear and no ink Yet. I’m not even embarrassed to hug my parents in public. (Except when Kris wears a sweatband when he goes running.)

I clear my dishes from the table, hoping to speed things along. Today Minseok is taking me to one of my favorite places, the Tea Garden, and then he’s driving me to work for my evening shift. And hopefully, in between stops, we’ll spend some quality time together in his Car. I lean against the kitchen countertop, dreaming of Minseok’s car.

I snatch Su