“Suho said that?” Mirae asks. “Kiss of death.”
“I know. As if I’d ever go for him now that my dad wants me to date him.”
“As if you’d ever go for him again, period.
” “Right . . . right.” There’s a weighty pause on the other end of the line.
“Wu Miso, please tell me you are not thinking about Park Chanyeol in that way.”
“Of course I’m not!” And I’m not. I’m definitely not.
“Because he broke your heart. We’ve spent two good years hating him. Remember that sixteen-page letter you buried in my backyard? And the ceremonial tossing of the pink bottle cap into the surf at Ocean Beach?” Yeah. I remember.
“And your boyfriend? You do remember your boyfriend? Minseok?” I frown at his picture beside my bed. His picture frowns back.
“Who’s leaving me to go on tour.”
“He’s not leaving you. Stop being such a drama queen.” Except he is. Minseok announced at brunch this morning that Sehun had already secured a show. The miracle is that it’s for next Saturday night, so he couldn’t have made it to our next brunch anyway. So there was no need to invent an excuse for canceling it.
“I don’t wanna talk about guys anymore,” I say. “Can’t we just rehash Alias instead?”
There’s only one type of television show that Mirae and I agree on: shows that involve solving crimes while wearing cool disguises. Alias, Pushing Daisies, Dollhouse, Charlie’s Angels, and The Avengers are our favorites. My best friend is happy to comply, so we don’t talk about ANY guy for the rest of the week.
But they’re on my mind. My boyfriend. Chanyeol. My boyfriend. Chanyeol.
How could Suho put me in this position? How could he make up a dumb family outing on the spot like that? And I’m frustrated because since the Parks moved back, every important event seems to happen on weekends. School has always dragged, but it’s nothing compared to now. Endless. And work? Forget it.
I lose count of how many wrong tickets I print, wrong soft drinks I pour, wrong theaters I sweep. Even Anna—my most good-natured supervisor, someone I’ve begun to consider one of my few friends—finally loses it on Saturday when I come back from my dinner break twenty minutes late.
“Where have you been? I’m dying out here.” She gestures with her head toward the packed boxoffice lobby as she hands someone their change and takes the ticket order of the person behind them.
“I’m sorry, I lost track of time.There’s this thing tomorrow—”
“You did it yesterday, too. You left me hanging. There were, like, sixty people in the lobby with these screaming children and bad hair, and this one lady projectile sneezed all over my window,