Some people said Junhyung had robbed a convenient store. Some said he was an undercover from North Korea. We were bored with our gentle lives, and dark, silent Junhyung was the subject of much speculation. As the new guy at school to sport a black leather jacket, he was asking for it.

    Junhyung rode a motorcycle, no helmet. In the sea of entry-level Chevy sedans and sober parent mobiles, the big Harley in student lot B commanded attention. It spoked of mangled limbs, decapitations, promising lives cut short. Conjugating verbs from my window seat in English class, I couldn’t take my eyes off it.

    I suppose, given that Harley, not to mention the rumors, that it didn’t surprise me when I happened, one Monday after school, to witness Yong Junhyung’s inevitable demise.

   I was sitting under a tree in the middle of an orange grove near my house. Snickers, my Arabian mare, was grazing nearby. The day, warm and clear, dazzled like a prism. I had my history textbook open on my lap, which I figured was almost the same thing as reading it.

   I went to the grove from time to time- sometimes to study, more often to daydream. The star of my reveries was Yoon Doojoon, the ever-gentle-man-black-haired-leader-team captain-football-striker I’d fantasized about for months, practicing pillow kisses on Saturday nights. Although Doojoon had no idea I existed, he was always kind enough to make an appearance in my daydreams at a moment’s notice.

But lately, Yong Junhyung had been making unscheduled appearances in them as well. I was not sure what to make of this development. Junhyung was not, after all, the kind of person I was attracted to.

 Although, to be fair, Junhyung did have very nice lips.

The hoarse whine of a motorcycle broke the stillness. I tossed my book aside. This was not a bike trail. Technically, it wasn’t even a horse trail. Yelling a few expletives, I dashed out to the narrow dirt road that bisected the grove. Then I saw the black jacket and I knew it was Junhyung.

It was one thing to ponder Junhyung’s dark history on a dateless Friday evening. It was quite another thing to be trapped in the middle of nowhere with him, armed only with my fist and a pepper spray.

“Yah!” I screamed. “Get off the trail!”

Suddenly, as if he’d reined it in at my command, the bike bucked and twisted. It careened off the trail, carving a clean arc in the still air. Junhyung clung to it like a bronco rider as the bike plummeted to the ground near an orange tree. It somersaulted once before coming to a stop.

The Harley silenced, the field came alive again with chirps, buzzes, whirs. I waited, hoping for a moan, some sign he survived.

Nothing.

As I ran to the wreck I steeled myself for the bloodied corpse and lifeless stare, the horror movie scenes from those driver ed movies. I conjured up pages from my first-aid book. A, B,C; A was airway, B was breathing, but what the heck was C?

The grass stirred.

Junhyung was wrapped around the twisted carcass of his bike. A tiny trickle of blood made its way down his left temple.

He opened his eyes. “This isn’t hell, is it?”

I shook my head, incredibly relieved that he was alive.

“Korea,” I said.

“Close enough.”

“I’m here to rescue you,” I said nervously. “Don’t move.”

I leaned close to check his eyes. If his pupils were dilated, that was a bad thing, although I can’t remember why. Close up, his face was all angles and planes, a geometry lesson. His eyes were nearly black, thick brows, thick lashes. I couldn’t be sure about the pupil situation. I caught the faint, acrid smell of tobacco. It figured he would smoke.

I examined a gash on his left hand. “You have death wish or something?” I muttered.

He touched his bloody temple and swore. “I blew a damn tire. I can’t believe it. I just changed that tire two weeks ago! Oh, man, this !”

“I mean, why don’t you wear a helmet, for God’s sake? It’s the law. Plus,” I added, “You smoke.”

Junhyung stared at me as if I weren’t quite in focus. “I’m lying here bleeding to death, and you’re nagging me?”

“I hope you realize how lucky it is you landed in a hunk of grass. It could have been a hunk of rock.”

“Lucky. Yeah.”

“Don’t move, I have to think. I took first aid, but that was seven years ago. “

Junhyung started to pull his leg free. He winced.

“Stop!” I cried. “Don’t move the victim.”

“I’m not the victim,” he said, a twisted fender.

I checked his head wound. It was bleeding, all right, although not very dramatically. I needed something to bind the cut. There was only one thing to do. I took off my t-shirt.

“Maybe I’m in heaven after all,” Junhyung said.

I tried to rip the t-shirt with my teeth. It always works in the movies.

The movies, it just so happens, are full of crap.

“I’m Yong Junhyung, by the way.”

“I know,” I said, and was instantly sorry. Strictly speaking, there was no reason I should know his name.

“And you’re Yang Yoseob.”

I blinked, my mouth full of t-shirt. Strictly speaking, there was no reason he should know my name.

I could feel my throat starting to blotch. It was tacky to flirt while binding a wound.

“I’m just going to tie this er around your head,” I said. Before he could fuss I crouched behind him, folded the shirt into a long strip, and tied it around his forehead.

“Ow.” He winced. “Just my luck I get the cutie paramedic.”

I stood brushed off my knees, and admired my handiwork. “You may go into shock at any moment,” I said. “I think I’m supposed to cover you with a blanket.”

“You could use your jeans,” he suggested helpfully.

“I’m going to go get my horse. I’ll put his blanket over you, then ride for help. But you have to promise me not to move-“

“Time out.” Before I could stop him, Junhyung pulled free of his bike and struggled to his feet.

“This is getting way too weird.”

“I told you not to stand. You’ve had a brush with death.”

“You did say horse?”

“Snickers. He’s over there, under a tree. This is a horse trail, no bikes allowed.”

“I was just passing through,” he said. “It’s a great shortcut to the highway.”

“Didn’t you see the sign?”

“Yeah, it said No Trespassing. What’s your excuse?”

“I trespassed on a horse, at least.”

“Can your horse do one twenty?”

“No.” I kicked his blown-out tire. “But neither can your bike anymore.”

Suddenly he looked infinitely sad, and I felt like a jerk.

“Look, if you’re not going to sit here and wait for an ambulance, let me at least give you a ride, “ I said.

“I don’t do horses. Look, thank you for saving my life. If you need someone to testify for your merit badge, give me a call. But I’m cool.” He yanked off the t-shirt. It was smeared with blood. “Sorry.” He said. “I’ll buy you another one. I’m a little short on cash right now, though.”

He stared at the bike forlornly. I wondered if I’d ever looked at anything with that much longing.

“I’m sure it can be fixed,” I said.

“Maybe.”

“You know someone who can tow it?”

“I’ll figure something out.” He took off his black jacket and slung it over his shoulder. I grinned. Somehow I’d expected something un-appropriate.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Well…Nice bleeding on you.”