One

one

[ Taemin ]

When Taemin signed up for choir class during scheduling last year, he signed up for a free period with no homework and no expectations. He sure as hell did not sign up for a full period of listening to the sob stories of every kid who’s ever had the slightest problem. Because that’s what choir class turns out to be: ten minutes of rehearsing some kind of bull song and half an hour of talking about feelings. Because apparently the kind of people that take choir class are the same kind that bring reusable bags to the supermarket and donate money to saving endangered species in Africa. They think that life’s problems can be solved by talking about it, and petitioning. Which is the worst kind of bull Taemin’s ever heard of. Problems don’t go away that easily, otherwise they would be called tasks, not problems.

It’s annoying because these people might have problems (which Taemin doubts), but at least they have people to talk to. Everyone has some kind of problem, Taemin reasons, but the people that are worst off, are the people who keep those problems locked inside. Those people shut up all their feelings, until even the slightest provocation can set them into angry retorts and turned shoulders. At least these people are letting their problems out. Those people have nowhere to put their problems, and it hurts.

So it’s the most goddamn annoying thing ever listening to people complain about the state of their nail beds and the fate of Tracy’s GSA club in Arizona. Who the cares about nail beds, and who the cares about Arizona?

The one who’s talking is named Key. He’s so plastic it physically pains Taemin to look at him, with his perfect skin and perfect face and perfect outfits. Except now he’s crying and his eyeliner is smudging around his perfectly double-lidded eyes, which Taemin has to admit actually looks artistic, somewhat like kohl. The story--at least the one that Taemin has been paying attention to--is that he failed his audition for some prestigious theater company. Taemin doesn’t see what the problem is. Key has starred in every school production since kindergarten, and his family is so filthy rich that he’ll never have to lift a finger for the rest of his life.

“It’s okay, baby,” his best friend, Jonghyun, coos.

Now, Taemin could write a synthesis essay on Key, taking into account point of view of various sources and arguing his own point that After examining the sources, it is apparent that avoiding Kim Kibum, otherwise referred to as Key, is worth the workload of two Advanced Placement classes, even taking into consideration the free brownies of choir class.

But he could write a thesis on Jong-ing-hyun. He would start by analyzing the fact that the guy is so flamboyantly gay Taemin wouldn’t be surprised to see him hosting his own TV show ten years from now, flashing a mouthful of those perfect teeth to a studio full of middle-aged women. Jonghyun has an accessory for every occasion, from the lunar new year to Madonna’s birthday and back. But that’s not enough, not even combined with the edgy sort of fashion he’s popularized in their school. No. On top of his matching belt and hat combos and layered jacket confections, he can sing.

And damn, can he sing. It doesn’t seem accurate to say that he can sing, actually. It’d be more correct to say that when he opens his mouth, the word of God pours out. God is the only one that could possibly lend such richness and range to a pair of vocal chords trapped in a body so short, and in his thesis Taemin would make sure to emphasize this fact.

Jonghyun serenades his friends on their birthdays over the loudspeaker (he’s also best friends with one half of the morning announcement team, Minho, who, Taemin suspects, only got the job because of his insanely deep voice, and not because of his actual announcing skills). He breaks into perfectly original renditions of classic rock in the hallways. He strums the guitar and croons ballads on the quad after lunch. Without effort, it seems, he oozes music.

Unlike Key, though, his musical efforts are unmarred by the occasional bursts of drama. He was accepted into the all-state choir on his first audition, and later the national choir after a personal request from one of the directors, who heard him sing an entirely falsetto cover of “This Woman’s Work.” Jonghyun is going to be a star, but not one of those burnouts that gains a worldwide following of fangirls and then fizzles out within the year. Taemin is convinced that Kim Jonghyun will become another link in the same chain as Michael Jackson, Celine Dion, Lady Gaga. It’s only a matter of time, in his opinion.

After considering Jonghyun’s musical accomplishments, Taemin would move onto his academic accomplishments. Jonghyun scored a 2200 on his first try at the SAT in seventh grade, then stepped up to the plate in freshman year with a perfect score on the PSAT and a perfect score on the SAT in junior year. He’s currently shooting for the AP Scholar award, and everyone knows that he’ll get it. Taemin’s pretty sure he already has a space on his wall for the plaque, or whatever other crap the College Board will give him.

In his thesis, Taemin would have to somehow wrap his head around the fact that, on top of all that, Jonghyun is hands-down the most popular guy in school. He puts the jocks and pretty boys to shame, not to mention the fact that he could impeach the student body president at any time he wants to just take the position for himself. The teachers love him, the parents love him, the administration loves him, the other students love him, and he’s attracted a cult following among the underclassmen. The only thing more surprising about how popular he is, is how nice he is about it, always pulling himself out of the limelight and pushing someone else in.

Because Jonghyun trails flowers and happiness and sunshine and everything that is right with the world. When he smiles, angels fall from heaven, and when he laughs, diplomats sit down to negotiate world peace. Nobody could possibly feel sad when he’s around because that’s unacceptable to him. He would just say something in that soft voice and smile one of those small, perfect smiles, and nothing else would matter anymore. Everything that Jonghyun touches becomes perfect, and everyone that he looks at becomes happy.

It’s what’s happening now, Jonghyun dabbing at Key’s face with a tissue and showering him with all kinds of baby it’s okay and you’ll get it next time. Taemin doesn’t know why it makes him so mad, but it does. Seeing Jonghyun’s perfect features all contorted into sympathy for Key, seeing those stupid long fingers curled around Key’s, it all makes Taemin sick.

Because the only problem with Jonghyun is that no matter how flamboyantly gay he seems, he surprises most people into silence when he informs them that he is indeed straight as a rod--he likes girls, and he’s never considered anything else. People believe him too, because there’s something about the casual way he says it, as if it’s a fact unchangeable, that just leaves no room for arguing.

But the only problem with that is that Jonghyun is the one that made Taemin realize that he’s in a closet--the proverbial closet. Taemin is in love with Jonghyun, and whenever he walks into class to see that familiar head of dyed brown hair his heart gives a little jump to remind him. Taemin sometimes can’t sleep at night because his heart is aching with happiness at the same time his brain is telling it that it’s not possible--Jonghyun will never look back at him that way. Taemin is keeping all of his problems, his feelings, stuffed inside his chest with no outlet. It’s only a matter of time before they force their way out, clawing out his throat and choking him as he tries to force them back inside.

And after reaching this conclusion in his thesis, Taemin would have to go back and revise his synthesis essay, because there is no way in hell that Avoiding Key is worth missing Jonghyun. Nothing is worth that. Jonghyun is the real reason that Taemin hasn’t dropped this class, so he can catch an extra forty minutes of watching that stupid smile and listening to that stupidly perfect voice.