I walk toward the kitchen so Chanyeol can feel less awkward putting himself back into his pants. I feel like I am more embarrassed than he is, and he’s the one that was just caught trying to rub one out.

“Don’t tell Minseok,” Park pleads.

“I won’t,” I promise.

Through the doorway, I see Xiumin walking around in the bedroom with a towel around his waist, getting clothes from his suitcase.

“Minnie,” I call.

“What’s up?

“Guess what Chanyeol was just doing?” I ask.

Park jumps up from the couch. “We had a deal!”

I giggle. It’s fun to tease Park.

Minseok drops his towel to put on his underwear. I turn away and try not to blush.

“Was he using binoculars to spy on girls again?” Xiu asks as he dresses.

I almost forgot about the time Channy spent an hour with his binocs by the window. We all kept asking him what was so interesting. He told us he was looking at precious birds, but it turned out he was just a peeping tom.

“I was looking at birds,” Chanyeol mumbles.

By now Xiumin should at least have his intimate bits covered, so I walk over to the bedroom and jump onto the bed. I find Min searingly attractive, but I don’t want to gawk at his manhood like a caveman. I mean, actually, I do. But I also don’t. It’s complicated. I mostly do, but the small part of me that doesn’t want to makes me feel guilty for wanting to, so I always wait until he’s covered up.

Park walks over and rests his back on the door frame. At five feet and eleven inches, he is really tall. In interviews he claims to be taller, but we all do. I claim to be five feet and ten inches but I’m really only five feet and eight inches tall. And poor Xiumin. He is actually only five feet and five inches tall. I think his shortness is adorable, though.

“Can we just go to the car lot?” Channy asks, demoralized.

“We can go as soon as Min gets dressed,” I say and catch a glimpse of Xiu’s smooth, skinny body. “And as soon as I tell him you were in the living room.” I cover my mouth in mock regret. “Oops, guess I just did.” I grin smugly.

Chanyeol exhales a depressed sigh and Xiu just laughs softly.

“I have a statistic that may make you feel better, Park,” Min says as he slips on a black tee over his head. I can see the boy’s underarm hair as he does this. I am glad I don’t find it repulsive. I’m hoping that since I don’t think Min’s hair is gross, that maybe people won’t think mine is either. I worry about those kinds of things too much, but I can’t help it.

Xiumin continues, “Ninety-eight percent of all boys do that.” He pauses to not only let that sink in, but also to put on black and purple high-top Adidas sneakers. And then, “The remaining two percent don’t have a .”

All three of us giggle. Our laughter is laced with more than a bit of nervousness, as we all basically just admitted we did what Channy was doing by not disagreeing with Min’s fun fact.

“Let’s get going,” Park says, and we do.

During the elevator ride I think about how I want to allow myself to try and get to know Minseok in a more romantic manner, if he’ll let me. I mean, Sehun had his chance and didn’t take it, so I shouldn’t feel guilty moving on. But it’s going to be difficult spending time with Min since Chanyeol is always around. Park is a cool guy; he’s almost always accidentally funny. But he is also the kind of person that basically never needs alone time, so he won’t ever try to not hang out and do something with me or Xiu. I think I may have the solution, though. Judging by the fact that Channy was willing to risk getting caught in the living room doing what he was doing, I’m going to wager that he is fairly lustful. Maybe I can find him a nice American girl to occupy his hands—literally and metaphorically. Then Min and I will be able to really talk.

The three of us stand in line at a busy Dunkin Donuts. I’ll bring up the notion of going to a club tonight to meet some girls once we get our coffees and food and get a table. I look around; the place is packed with people of all ethnicities.

“What are you going to order?” Xiumin asks me.

But Park assumes all questions are always geared towards him.

“I wanna get a bagel, fo’sho,” he says. “Wit some strawberry cream cheese.”

The crew members, Choi and Yin, enter the store, cameras in hand. The red light that lets us know they are recording is on, which flusters me a bit. They couldn’t at least come in and tell us they were going to start filming?

I suddenly feel subconscious about everything: Whether or not my hair is styled properly, if my pants make me look short, and if this shirt makes me look too tan. SM doesn’t like it when we look dark, so we always have to put on buckets of white BB crème. Today I feel fine because I put on my own make up and I try to stay natural-looking, but the professionals that work for SM go way too far. Often times I feel like my face is ghost white and the rest of my skin doesn’t match. That always makes me feel like a clown.

It’s our turn to order at the counter. I’m not that bad at understanding English, but my pronunciation isn’t great. Add to that the pressure of cameras filming for a reality TV show, and I don’t know what to say. I panic so I try to choose anything. The menu has numbers that I easily recognize so I say, “Numba frour, prease.” The worker asks me something and I don’t understand, so I just slowly nod a yes. I pay her and step aside to wait for my order to be fulfilled. What a headache.

Choi sticks his camera in my face and, “How do you feel about ordering in English?”

I