He was doing it right there in the open!” I say. “I’m serious, Kim Jongin was admiring your derriere in chemistry.” Mirae brushes it off.

“Even if he was, which I sincerely doubt, you know my policy. No guys—”

“Until graduation. I just thought that since it was Jongin . . . and since his eyes did follow you across the room . . .”

“No.”

And she takes a ferocious bite of her almond-butterand-jelly sandwich to end the conversation. I hold up my hands in a gesture of peace. I know better than to keep arguing, even if she has had a silent crush on Kim Jongin ever since he won twice as many points as her in last year’s Quiz Bowl.

Our first week as juniors has been as expected. The same boring classes, the same nasty mean girls, and the same erted jerks. At least Mirae and I have lunch together. That helps.

“Hey, Wu Miso. Wanna take a ride down my Nile?” Speaking of jerks. Kim Jongdae bumps knuckles with a muscled friend.

“No,” I say flatly.

“ Ouch” he says, grabing his chest with both hands. And they swagger away, laughing.

“Just when I thought he couldn’t get any more disgusting.”

“And as if I needed another reason to wait,” Mirae says. “High school boys are morons.”

“Which is why I don’t date high school boys. I date men.”

Mirae rolls her eyes. Her main reason for waiting to date is that she believes it’ll get in the way of her agenda. Agenda is her term, not mine. She thinks guys are a distraction from her educational goals, so she doesn’t want to date until she’s firmly settled in post-high-school life.

I respect her decision, even though I’d rather wear sweatpants in public than give up my boyfriend. Or give up my first opportunity to attend the winter formal. It’s for upperclassmen only, and it’s still months away, but I’m thrilled about my dress, which I’ve already started collecting materials for. I’ve never attempted a project this complex, this huge, and it’ll take my entire autumn to create. I decide to begin when I get home.

It’s Friday, and for once I don’t have to work. Also, Exo is playing in a club tonight that doesn’t accept anyone under twenty-one. And won’t allow Minseok to sneak me in. From everything I’ve read online, I need to start with the undergarments. I’ve already bought a ton of fabric for the dress, but the costume still has to be built from the inside out. I search for hours for instructions on making historically accurate panniers and come up with zilch. Unless I want to make them with hula hoops, and I don’t, I’ll have to go to the library for more research.

Searching for stays brings more success. The diagrams and instructions are overwhelming, but I print out several pages and begin taking measurements and creating a pattern. I’ve been sewing for three years, and I’m pretty decent. I started with the small stuff, like everyone does—hemming, A-line skirts, pillowcases—but quickly moved on to bigger items, each more complex than the last. I’m not interested in making what’s easy. I’m interested in making what’s beautiful.

I lose myself in the process: tracing out patterns on tissue paper, fitting them together, retracing, and refitting. Nonsewers don’t realize how much problem solving goes into garment making, and beginners often quit in frustration. But I enjoy the puzzle. If I looked at this dress as one massive thing, it would be too overwhelming. No one could create such a gown. But by breaking it into tiny, individual steps, it becomes something I can achieve.

When my room finally grows too dark, I’m forced to rise from the floor and plug in my twinkle lights. I stretch my sore muscles and stare at my window. Will he come home this weekend? The idea fills me with unease. I don’t understand why he’s been asking Suho and Baekhyun questions about me.

There are only three possible solutions, each more improbable than the last.

Maybe he’s not making friends at school and, for some twisted reason, has decided I’d make a decent pal again. I mean, he’s come home for the last two weekends. Obviously no one is interesting enough to keep him in Incheon.

Or maybe he feels bad about how things ended between us, and he’s trying to make up for it. Clear his conscience.

Or . . . maybe . . . he likes me.

In that other way. I was fine before he came back, perfectly happy without this complication. It would’ve been better if he’d ignored me. Shin hye and I haven’t talked yet; there’s no reason why Chanyeol and I should have to either. I drift toward my window, and I’m surprised to discover striped curtains hanging in his room.

And then his light turns on. I yank my curtains closed. My heart pounds as I back against the wall. Through the gap between curtain fabrics, I watch a silhouette that is undeniably Park Chanyeol toss two bags to his floor—one shoulder bag and one laundry bag. He moves toward our windows, and dread lurches inside of me. What if he calls my name? There’s a sudden brightness as he pulls back his own curtains. His body changes from a dark shadow into a fully fleshed human.

I slink back farther. He pauses there, and then startles as another figure enters his room. I can barely hear the sound of a girl talking. Shin hye. I can’t hide forever. My curtains are thick, and I need to trust them. I take a deep breath and step away, but I trip backward over my project and tear a pattern. I curse. Laughter comes from next door, and for one panicked second, I think they’ve witnessed my clumsy maneuver.

But it’s paranoia talking. Whatever they’re laughing about has nothing to do with me. I hate that they can still get to me like that. I know what I need. I call him, and he picks up just before his voice mail.

“HEY,” M