Flawless Attraction

Chapter 32 - My LIFE

POV - TAEHYUNG

 "It looks like some of you don't think my class is important," Mrs. Epperson says. She starts handing out the test from yesterday.

As Mrs. Epperson heads toward my and Jimin's shared table, I sink down in my chair. The last thing I need is Mrs. Epperson's wrath.

"Nice job," the woman says as she places my paper facedown in front of me. Then the woman turns to Jimin. "For someone who aspires to be a attraction teacher, you're off to a very poor start, Mr. Park. Maybe I'll think twice about sticking up for you if you don't come prepared to my class."

She drops Jimin's test in front of him with her index finger and thumb, as if the paper is too disgusting to touch with the rest of her fingers. "See me after class," she tells him before passing out the rest of the tests.

I can't understand why Mrs. Epperson didn't rip me a new one. I turn my paper over to find an A on the top of it. I rub my palms over my eyes and readjust them. There must be some mistake. It takes me less than a second to realize who was responsible for my grade. The truth hits me like a hammer to my gut. I look over at Jimin, tucking his flunked test into his book.

"Why did you do it?" I wait until Mrs. Epperson finishes her after-class discussion with Jimin before approaching him. I'm standing beside his locker, where he's paying little, if any, attention to me. I'm ignoring the stares burning into the back of my head.

"I don't know what you're talkin' about," he says.

Duh! "You switched our tests."

Jimin slams his locker shut. "Listen, it was no big deal."

Yes, it is. He walks away, as if expecting me to leave it at that. I'd watched him work diligently on his test, but when I glanced at the big red F on the front of his paper, I recognized my own test.

After school, I hurry out the front doors to catch him. He's on his motorcycle, getting ready to leave.

"Jimin, wait!"

Feeling fidgety, I curl my hair behind my ears.

"Hop on," he orders.

"What?"

"Hop on. If you want to thank me for savin' your ass in Mrs. E.'s class, come home with me. I wasn't kiddin' yesterday. You showed me a glimpse into your life, I'm gonna show you a glimpse of mine. It's only fair, right?"

I scan the parking lot. Some people are looking our way, probably ready to spread the gossip that I'm talking to Jimin. If I actually leave with him, rumors will fly.

The sound of Jimin revving his motorcycle brings my attention back to him. "Don't be afraid of what they think."

I take in the sight of him, from his ripped jeans and leather jacket to the red and black bandanna he just tied on top of his head. His gang colors.

I should be terrified. Then I remember how he was with Mark yesterday.

To hell with it.

I shift my book bag around to my back and straddle his motorcycle.

"Hold on tight," he says, pulling my hands around his waist. The simple feel of his strong hands resting on top of mine is intensely intimate. I wonder if he's feeling these emotions, too, but dismiss the thought. Park LaJimin is a hard guy. Experienced. The mere touch of hands isn't going to make his stomach flutter.

He deliberately brushes the tips of his fingers over mine before reaching for the handlebars. Oh. My. God. What am I getting myself into?

As we speed away from the school parking lot, I grab Jimin's rock-hard abs tighter. The speed of the motorcycle scares me. I feel light-headed, like I'm riding a roller coaster with no lap bar.

The motorcycle stops at a red light. I lean back.

I hear him chuckle when he guns the engine once more as the light turns green. I clutch his waist and bury my face in his back.

When he finally stops and puts the kickstand down, I survey my surroundings. I've never been on his street. The homes are so . . . small. Most are one level. A cat can't fit in the space between them. As hard as I try to fight it, sorrow settles in the pit of my stomach.

My house is at least seven, maybe even eight or nine times Jimin's home's size. I know this side of town is poor, but . . .

"This was a mistake," Jimin says. "I'll take you home."

"Why?"

"Among other things, the look of disgust on your face."

"I'm not disgusted. I guess I feel sorry--"

"Don't ever pity me," he warns. "I'm poor, not homeless."

"Then are you going to invite me in? The guys across the street are gawking at the queer right here.."

"Actually, around here you're a 'snow valley boy.'"

"I hate snow," I say.

His lips quirk up into a grin. "Not for the weather, stupid. For your rich winter style. Just follow me and don't stare at the neighbors, even if they stare at you."

I sense his wariness as he leads me inside. "Well, this is it," he says, motioning inside.

The living room might be smaller than any room in my house, but it feels warm and cozy. There are two afghans lying on the sofa I'd love to have on top of me on cold nights. We don't have any afghans at my house. We have comforters . . . custom-designed ones to match the decor.

I walk around Jimin's house, gliding my fingers over the furniture. A shelf with half-melted candles sits below a picture of a handsome man. I feel Jimin's warmth as he stands behind me. "Your dad?" I ask.

He nods.

"I can't begin to imagine what it would be like to lose my dad." Even though he's not around much, I know he's a permanent fixture in my life. I always want more out of my parents. Should I feel lucky just having them around?