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Park Chanyeol knew everything about Kim Namjoo. He knew that her parents didn’t get along. A mother too young for pregnancy with too many aspirations rarely stopped in to check on her. Her young father worked in another city. Demanding hours that towed in hoops of a young city man’s brilliant future kept him away from home. Leaving Namjoo with an ailing grandmother who took her in with a big heart. Loving her in the stead of her parents. Providing her a roof, a warm bed, a net of security, ensuring food was always on the table and Namjoo wouldn’t need to lift a hand but focus on her education.

Park Chanyeol knew that the free girl Namjoo had been raised was no longer. The intentions her grandmother had wanted for her coming to naught. All because of the accident.

Down the road he walked with Namjoo home. Not to the complicated 14-floor complex but passing side alleys reeking of strays and also who knows what. Littered with tin trash cans, leaking bags of garbage lazy town people threw away in the middle of the night when they couldn’t be caught. Sometimes the homeless raided the garbage in hopes of scraps to eat. A half-eaten burger, cold fries, expired products, taking as little as a good toothbrush the owner riddled as useless.

Namjoo and her grandma had reverted to a run-down business building auctioned for the lowest price. A tan piece of a building that used to be a bakery with wooden side panels and erected sharply on the corner of the block. Namjoo’s neighborhood was literally a compilation of restaurants and local boutiques owned by city people who paid their own taxes, laboring daily to get by. Men and women who woke up at the break of dawn to begin their business just to catch the early businessmen and women in action as the day began.

Namjoo’s neighborhood was not the typical tree lined road flushed with houses, duplexes, or apartments. Little boys or girls in their yards playing tea time or ramming toy trucks into each other. Her house was above the old bakery now a side business ran by her grandmother. A place of rising hope where she set what little of her future.

“I’m not going to college,” she had told him when he wondered if they could attend the same place.

Park Chanyeol followed Namjoo everywhere. Their childhood started that way the moment Namjoo was dropped off at her grandma’s. The only two children on floor nine. At age six he remembered seeing her sitting alone in the sandbox at the central playground while the other children screamed and ran wildly around the monkey bars, the tunnel slide, the whirly funnels. If Namjoo wanted a rainbow popsicle he wanted one, too. When she wanted to dye her hair, he would do the same. When she bought her first t-shirt, he had to find one with a similar design. So, he had always been her friend. One mind. Together. In that aspect he was unrivaled.

No one could know Namjoo the way he did. That was what set him apart from everyone else.

“Hi grandma,” Namjoo called out pushing the door open.

Bright sunlight leaked into the building through the paneled windows that ran around the front of the building. Light landed atop the cutely wrapped cupcakes, sweet buns, butter bread, and delicacies Namjoo’s grandmother baked daily. Fresh from the oven guaranteed.

Wooden countertops traced the walls filled to the brim with handmade products. A rectangular table that used to be their dining table sat square in the center. It was where the sweets were. Glazed donuts all the way down to mini cupcakes. He had had the privilege to decorate a batch once. It had sold out.

The smell of bread and sugar permeated the air when he stepped inside with Namjoo. Her grandma, a pear-shaped woman, in a red apron was currently stocking a side table. A ray of light landed on her left creating an angelic glow but when she shifted, she looked like something out of a horror story. Grandma Kim’s right eye was glued shut. A quarter of her right side looked rubbery. When the sun bounced off her face, she looked strangely glassy. The skin appeared tight and pulled back in a thousand rippled layers.

Before here, Grandma Kim had been employed at the Oh estate as a kitchen lady. That was how they met Sehun and also why they unfriended him.

Grandma Kim had been abandoned in a fire started by a personnel’s careless mistake. Someone hadn’t put out their cigarette when smoking inside was prohibited. Starting from the garden in the sunroom the fire spread wildly. In the accident two housekeepers died from smoke inhalation. Namjoo’s grandmother, the only survivor, had been abandoned where she was working in the back stockroom. A place filled with six-foot metal shelves hot to the core when the fire hit full bloom.

The Oh family refused responsibility in court. Their reputable lawyer took the case and compensated the injured families one grand each, but that made no difference for Namjoo or her grandmother. The damage cost her their place at the 14-floor complex, her grandmother’s entire savings. Forced to fork out every penny to pay hospital bills and the after effects of trauma and injury and the gap in between that required the time off to properly heal. Namjoo had been too young to work; she didn’t know how to work or where to begin. With her grandmother sick and helpless Namjoo burned every meal she cooked. Back to point zero she had been as helpless as a baby deer left behind in the forest.

Neither Namjoo’s mother nor father showed up, so they lost everything, and because they had nothing the bank refused to give them loans. They had clawed their way out of the dark hole only to now be in debt with loan sharks who gave them lovely surprise visits.

“How was school?” Grandma Kim radiantly smiled. She could have looked just like anyone’s next door grandmother who loved baking goodies and offered one to every kid she saw. Babies screamed and flailed in fear when they saw her. Innocent, naïve kids pointed at her and asked why she looked like a freak. Teens mocked and called her names.

“Fun,” Chanyeol grinned and elbowed Namjoo who cupped her hands at her back. “Right?”

“We learned a lot,” Namjoo copied the silly grin. “I smell something in the oven. Are you making more?”

“Here,” she handed Namjoo the tray, “put those out.” Looking at Chanyeol, “You don’t have to help today, dear. It’s been quiet all day.”

“I’ll stay for a bit,” he offered.

“I’ll bring you some treats to take home,” she sweetly said and turned to disappear through the kitchen door.

Once gone, he asked, “You shouldn’t have gotten into another fight. How are you going to explain that? You know she’s going to see.”

“I fell,” Namjoo excused.

He adjusted the bread she’d just put down, “A nasty fall created that? I would have just skinned my knees.”

Namjoo sneered at him. Returning to the work at hand she mumbled, “Whatever, Loser.”

He playfully pushed her. She pushed back until they laughed.

⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂

“You’re home?” The voice of a middle-aged woman called out.

Skidding to a halt at the open front door Jongin groaned from deep inside his throat, rolled his eyes, and started backing out.

“Jongin!” the woman screeched when he made it five steps away, his back turned.

Clenching his eyes shut he muttered curses underneath his breath, trapped. Turning around he fought against all odds not to obviously roll his eyes.

Walking toward him she latched onto his arm, “If you’re home you should come in!”

He hated her high tone that reeked of pure excitement each time she saw him. He didn’t like the exaggerated makeup she painted on her face every day. It smelled. She smelled. He wasn’t fond of it nor was it eye opening. It just made him want to revolt.

And why was the door unlocked?!

Jongin let her lead him into the dining room, a mere space in front of the open kitchen. Everything in his home could be viewed from the doorstep, which opened up to the living room. Through that the thin dining room which led to the kitchen. Connected to the right of the dining room was a narrow hall that led to their isolated bedrooms and bath. A very simple styled house. Nothing fancy. In this neighborhood everything was affordable, because the district had been saved from being razed and regenerated into upper class colonial homes with brick walks and tall French paned windows that popped to life from out of a living style magazine.

“Oh no!” she cried. Still clutching onto his arm, she touched his face with the other. Skimming those daintily painted fingers over his wounds, her voice pitching higher and higher, “Who did this to you?!”

Jongin swung away from her touch. “Stop it. I’m fine.”

Tugging him she demanded, “You tell me right now! Are you being bullied?! How dare they put their hands on you?”

“I said I’m fine!” Jongin forcefully shook her off, annoyed.

She huffed, dissatisfied. “Well, fine. I’ll just see your principal tomorrow and reprimand the student who did this.”

Jongin swung back to her abruptly. “It’s not your business and don’t you go to my school!”

“Fine,” she spat. “Sit down. I made your favorite today.”

He didn’t want to sit and eat with her. She wasn’t his mother. Just because he didn’t have one gave her no right to replace her or try to be one. There was no place for her in this house.

“Come, sit down,” she patted his bottom grinning widely.

He immediately shifted from her uncomfortable. The woman giggled as she returned to the kitchen to dish his early dinner. Jongin made sure to let her see his irritable frown when she brought his food.

“Why are you here? Where’s my dad?” he questioned.

“He said he was running somewhere,” she explained without care. “That he’ll be late.”

“Then you shouldn’t be here if he already came home,” Jongin gruffly complained.

“Your father doesn’t mind.” She pulled at a loose hmstrand falling out from her topknot. Glancing at his food, she touched the back of his chair, “Sit down, Jongin. Food should be eaten while it’s warm.”

“I’m not hungry,” he crudely told and turned to walk off damning his father under his breath. Slamming the door to his bedroom he locked it and plopped down onto his bed.

The house was eerily quiet when he woke up minus the faint clattering of dishes. Noticing his room was laced in darkness Jongin pushed himself off the bed with a grunt. Massaging his nape, he stumbled toward the door. Bright light blinded him as he stepped out.

“Dad?” he called out. Walking out of the hallway he found his father going through the kitchen. The microwave was whirring. The scent of food assaulted his senses.

“Where have you been?” his father asked. “Your auntie said you disappeared on her.”

Trying not to roll his eyes, Jongin mumbled walking to the table, “She’s not even an aunt or grandma or cousin.” Swerving to eye his dad he scolded, “Why do you leave the door unlocked for her?”

“Why not?” his father shrugged. He wasn’t an aged man. Still young and capable. In fact, he thought his father was rather handsome for a forty-something year old. His hair was not yet gray but getting there. Among other family men his father could probably stand out like a dog among a flock of sheep.

“What if she steals?” Jongin theorized. His father scoffed. “I mean it! You wouldn’t know because you’re not even here!” Jongin couldn’t help let his voice escalate in volume. “Why do you trust her so much?”

“She just likes you, Jongin.” His father gave him a side-eye exchanging the bowl inside the microwave for another.

“Do you even know how old I am?” Wide eyed, Jongin pressed a hand to his chest baffled.

Looking at him without a sigh, his father explained, “She has no son or daughter and her old man gives her a hard time. Cut her some slack.”

He replayed all the moments of her constant touching and was mortified at what his father just said. “I can’t believe you!”

“What is with your face?” his father finally frowned. “Did you get into another fight at school?”

He had forgotten about that. Suddenly the bruises were pounding, spreading from his nose to the outer areas along his cheeks. Jongin could feel each blood cell pulsing through the thin blue veins and it hurt each time.

“My god,” his father mumbled passing him and disappeared into his room. Returning minutes later with a bottle. “Put this on your face. You’re going to scar. Who did this to you?”

“Nothing.” Jongin mumbled. He recalled Jihye, a pretty long-haired sophomore standing by the steel cart where everyone disposed their trays. Upon sighting him she’d dug inside her shirt pulling out a wad of five-dollar bills, waving it right under his nose.

“Want this?” she had asked. “If you go out with me, I’ll tell that busybody it was just a misunderstanding.”

Merely thinking about it made his blood boil.

“Jongin,” his father’s voice brought him back, “are you going to eat?”

Huffing a breath of irritation, he yanked the nearest chair out and sank into it.

He didn’t even want to get up the following morning. Mentally listing a bundle of curses, he pulled on his uniform and hooked his backpack over his shoulder. Expecting not more than yesterday’s fun events on the way to school.

The common crowd was flooding toward the rich red brick building. Some high on nerves and others chattery. Jongin was none among those. He despised school. Deeming what they learned everyday useless to real daily life. How was he going to apply 4x=6 to a real life situation? Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

A groan emanated inside his throat when he reached the third floor of their classroom. Already the hallway was full of thriving life, bustling activity, and boisterous laughter. A couple was bickering when he passed. Hurriedly treading past he turned into the classroom. Shuffling over to his desk he stared down at the carton of chocolate milk on Namjoo’s empty desk.

Who the hell put it there?

Jongin counted six students in the room. The most recognizable, Oh Sehun. Glancing to his right he noted shaggy haired Park Chanyeol’s desk was still unoccupied.

Whatever. Tossing his backpack to his feet he pulled his chair out and sunk down. Folding his arms atop his desk he buried his face into them. The familiar sound of the thumping footsteps and that deep laughing combusted throughout the room not five minutes later. Jongin clenched his eyes shut damning the day that hadn’t even begun.

The presence hovered over him without movement and the entire room became a standstill. Jongin only lifted his head up when he heard a light thud on the floor. Catching sight of light brown liquid sliding down Oh Sehun’s back like slime.

Then it started.

Today he wasn’t going to be the star of the party.

⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂

It had been a nice thought. Was all that transgressed through Sehun’s mind that early morning. He usually asked to be dropped off early in order to avoid the school rush. Tiring of the ogling eyes, the students freezing where they stood to watch him climb out of a shiny black car like he was some wild show animal. All that attention was needless.

The cafeteria ladies were busy preparing a load of food for lunch behind the open kitchen. Often there would be a cart lady selling cheap snacks like sweet bread or milk. Namjoo loved sugary foods. When she used to come over without that big kid, he’d walk with her down to the nearest convenience store and buy a basket full of junk food to share with her. His treat. Sometimes they’d break a double popsicle apart, because the saying goes the person who got the bigger end liked the other more. Theirs always broke off evenly.

That had been really special times for him. Perhaps if they tried it again would he end up breaking off with a bigger piece?

These days he rarely visited the convenience store anymore. The clerk who always rang them up asked him once, “Where’s your friend?”

It was nobody’s business. Their nosiness just made him irritable. And the things he used to eat with Namjoo no longer tasted the same. He hardly ever finished even a bag of chips anymore. Namjoo’s presence was a ghost in his house. They used to play hide-and-seek limiting the game to one floor because the manor was too big. Sehun had introduced her to his gaming system, which was now buried in dust beneath the television set on the first floor. Once in a while he could still hear her manic screaming in the room because she’d been bumped to third place in Mario Party.

The previous employees in the house had been wiped out after the fire. New kitchen ladies were hired all the way down to the bottom chain of gardeners. Sehun befriended no one else’s child. More like no one else brought over their child to associate with him. Who cared about the child who could buy anything with the money his parents dished out to keep everyone’s mouths shut whatever occurred in the house?

That morning he’d adjusted the chocolate milk twenty times. Smiling proudly when he finally finalized his decision to just leave the opening end facing Namjoo’s chair. He knew she didn’t bother with breakfast. Rather letting her grandmother prep for their business and not burden her.

His desk was at the front, so couldn’t always know what she did at the back of the room. Being class president forced him into a leadership role he wasn’t fond of. The teachers relied on him to report bad behavior, incidents, collect overdue homeworks, pass around leaflets of school activities. Namjoo was included in the worst of those.

Pulling out his folder of yesterday’s math assignment he stared at the other copy he’d made, aware Namjoo wouldn’t have done her homework whether it be on purpose or not. He hated getting her in trouble. He hated pestering her about homework she never cared about. If she failed a grade, she couldn’t graduate with him. Maybe she might drop out.

Sehun didn’t want that kind of life for her. The least she could do was try to be well off, but Namjoo no longer cared. She was just a ball of rage.

What he hated most next was being outed by her.

Sehun’s eyes flitted up when he heard Namjoo enter the classroom with that soccer kid. Shaggy haired loser. Once they had shared his gaming console. In his entire life that was the first he had pretended to be kind.

A moment of still silence shrouded the classroom. Namjoo had seen the carton of milk. She would sit. She would drink it. Then it slammed into his back so hard the box jabbed into his back. The strike like an iron hammer swung down with one’s entire strength. The carton exploded. The specks of liquid flying everywhere. Into his hair, the warmth seeping through his jacket until he heard the carton land on the floor by his branded tennis shoes, the rest of the milk leaking like a faucet.

A look over his shoulder revealed Namjoo standing in the center at the end of the aisle glaring, her eyes laser beams about to shoot holes through him.

Those who’d made it early held their breaths as he slid his chair back and stood turning to face her.

“Don’t give me something you’ve touched,” Namjoo hissed.

“You don’t eat breakfast,” he said.

“Are we playing the pity game now?” Namjoo’s eyes turned stern. Her face stretched back as she sneered, “The most pitiful one here is you! You’re not even your parents’ real son!”

Sehun’s fingers twitched threatening to curl into a fist. Don’t be injured. Don’t be angry. Namjoo was just blowing off long overdue steam. He owed it to her.

Someone deeply inhaled when he took a step forward. Another and then another. Namjoo never moved as he closed in on her. Until he loomed over her like a dark lord, she took a half step back.

Once they had been the same size. Now it was different. He was kind of glad.

A palm landed on his chest and Chanyeol pushed him back, “Get away from her.”

He hotly glared at Chanyeol. The detestation for the loser roared from deep within. That Namjoo had replaced him with a neighborhood .

“It’s between us, so back off,” Sehun spat at him. He shot the same unwavering stare at Namjoo. Grabbing her arm, he pulled her after him.