My shirt wasn't ruined, but that didn't make me feel much better. I liked this shirt, a momento from the Seoul concert of Fall Out Boy that I'd sneaked out with Jungwoo my ex-boyfriend last year. My mom had almost blown a gasket about that one and it wasn't simply because Jungwoo had tattoo of spiderweb on his neck and more piercings in his ears than Jisoo did; it was because I'd lied about where are we going and I didn't made it home until the following afternoon, since we'd ended up crashing at Jungwoo's brother's place. My mom forbade me from seeing or even speaking to Jungwoo ever again, a rule that I broke the very next day. 

It wasn't that I loves Jungwoo; frankly, I didn't even like him that much. But I was angry at my mom and it felt right at the time. But when I got to Jungwoo's place, he was already stoned and drunk again, just as he'd been at the concert, and I realized that if I continued to see him, he'd continue to pressure me to try whatever it was he was taking, just as he'd done the night before. I spent only a few minutes at his place before heading somewhere for the rest of the afternoon, knowing it was over between us.

I wasn't naive about drugs. Some of my friends smoked pot, a few did of ecstasy and one even had a nasty meth habit. Everyone but her drank on weekends. Every club and party I went to offered easy access to all of it. Still, it seemed that whenever my friends smoked or drank or popped the pills they swore made the evening worthwhile, they'd spend the rest of the night slurring their words or staggering or vomiting or losing control completely and doing something really stupid. Something usually involving a guy.

When I reached the pier, I set down my half-empty drink cup and dabbed furiously at my shirt with my wet napkin. It seemed to be working but the napkin was disintegrating into tiny white flakes that resembled dandruff. Great.

I wished the guy had rammed into someone else. I was only there for what, ten minutes? What were the odds that I'd turn away at the same instant ball came flying my way? And that I'd be holding a soda in a crowd at volleyball game I didn't even want to watch, in a place I didn't want to be? In million years, the same thing could probably never happen again. With odds like that, I should have bought a lottery ticket.

And then there was the guy who did it. Black-haired, milky skin cute guy. Up close, I realized he was way better looking than cute, especially when he got that expression of . . . concern. He might have been part of popular crowd, but in the nanosecond our eyes had met, I'd had the strangest sense that he was real as they came.

I shook my head to clear my mind of such crazy thoughts. Clearly the sun was affecting my brain. Satisfied that I'd done the best I could with the napkin, I picked up the cup of the soda. I planned to throw the rest away, but as I spun around, I felt the cup get jammed between me and someone else. This time, nothing happened in slow motion: the soda instantly covered the front of my shirt.

I froze, staring down at her shirt in disbelief. You've got to be kidding.

Standing before me was a girl at my age holding a slurpee, seemingly as surprised as she was. She was dressed in black and her stringy dark hair hung in unruly curls framing her face. Eventhough she dressed like goth in the middle of summer, I couldn't lie that she was very beautiful.

As the remains of my soda soaked through my shirt, Goth-looking chick motioned with her Slurpee towards me.

" being you," she said.

"Ya think?"

"At least the other side matches now."

"Oh I get it. You're trying to be funny."

" 'Witty' is more like it."

"Then you might have said something like 'Maybe you should stick with sippy-cups.' "

The Goth-chick laughed, a surprisingly girlish sound. "You're not from around here, are you?"

"No, Im from Seoul. Im here visiting my dad."

"For the weekend?"

"No. For the summer."

"It does being you."

This time, it was my turn to laugh. "I'm Jiae. Yoo Jiae."

"Call me Joo. Short for Mijoo."

With a tilt of her head, she motioned over her shoulder. "If you want something dry, there are some Nemo shirt in the booth over there."

"Nemo?"

"Yeah, Nemo. From the movie? Orange-and-white fish, gimpy flipper? Gets stuck in a fish tank and his dad goes to find him?"

"I don't want a Nemo shirt okay?"

"Nemo's cool."

"Maybe if you were six." I retorted.

"Suit yourself."

Before I could respond, I spied three guys pushing their way through a parting mob. They stood up from the beach crowd with their torn shorts and tattoos, bare chests showing beneath heavy leather jackets. I turn instinctively to Mijoo, only to realize that Mijoo was gone. In her place stood Bomin.

"What did you spill on your shirt?" He asked. "You're all wet and sticky."

I searched for Mijoo, wondering where she gone. And why. "Just go away, okay?"

"I can't. Dad's looking for you. I think he wants you to come home."

"Where is he?"

"He stopped to go to the bathroom, but he should be here any minute."

"Tell him you didn't see me."

Bomin thought about it. "Five thousand won."

"What?"

"Gimme five thousand won and I'll forget you were here."

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