The woods.
The stars . . .
And the boy who broke her heart.
Ever since last year's homecoming dance, best friends-turned-best enemies Suzy and Jungkook have made an art of avoiding each other. It doesn't hurt that their families are modern-day Korea...
Sitting on the corner of Mission Street, Egotistic Toys, or ET as eomma jokingly refers to it - until my dad gives her his not funny, Younghee ultradry look - is a boutique sex shop that markets itself toward women. It's well lit and clean. Not skuzzy and filled with creepers, like Sarang Sarang across town, which has painted-over windows and is open 24 hours. You know, just in case you need fuzzy handcuffs at 3 a.m.
It also has a themed display window that the owners change every month. This month it's an Alice in Wonderland, a small dining table with the Mad Hatter dildo, tiny mouse dildo, White Rabbit dildo, also a collection shapes of . . . food on the table. This might be funny, except for the fact that plenty of people I know see this window regularly, and I have to endure lurid, snickering commentary about it from certain people at school.
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Our dueling business - and nearby homes - sit together at the tail end of shopping center with boutiques, organic restaurants, and art studios. Most of our cal-de-sac contains old style houses like ours that have been sectioned up and converted into apartment units. Not exactly the place you'd expect to find sex for sale.
My dad says a place that sells "martial aids" is "no place for a young girl." The two men who own the sex shop darken his dazzling smile on a regular basis. They are the Enemy, and we do not fraternize with the Jeons. Oh no, we do not.
Eomma used to be on friendly terms with the Jeons, so she only half agrees with my dad on this. And me? I'm caught in the middle. The whole situation just stresses me out. It's complicated. Very, very complicated.
Pink walls and the synthetic scent of silicone envelop me as I duck inside the sex shop. It's not quite noon, and only a couple of customers are browsing - a relief. I divert my eyes from a display of leather riding crops as I make a beeline toward a counter in the middle of the store, behind which two men in their early thirties are talking. I'm behind empty lines now. Let's hope I don't get shot.
"It wasn't Anh Hyunhee," a male with blonde hair says as he lifts a small cardboard package on the counter. "It was the guy married to the the brunette talk show host. What's-her-name. Oska."
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The male standing next to her, pink hair and fair-skinned, leans against the counter and scratches his nose. "Oska?" he says in a voice so soft and gentle. "I don't think so."
