Chapter Three

In Between Fandom and Korean Drama

Walking home with a limp is a feat in itself. I should be awarded a knighthood. Even if I am sixteen, I’m not one of the lucky ones who gets to drive home. There are two main reasons for that.

One, I don’t have a car. With the bad economy and my sister and her kid crashing at our house, the chances of me getting a car are as low as Rob Ford is high on crack.

And two, I don’t have a license. It’s not because I don’t want one, or because I’m too lazy to go take the test, or because I’m scared of driving or because I failed the test. It’s because my parents are noobs. Sure, I love my parents, they’re great people, I owe them my life and all that, but they’re also overbearingly protective of me. The simple thought of seeing me driving a motorized vehicle gives them premature grey hair. So, instead, they rather have me walk home with a much bigger prospect of getting kidnapped and raped in the bushes.

Parents are seriously confusing sometimes.

Also, because of the lovely talk I had with Austin von Thalberg earlier today, I feel extremely self conscious as I walk in the streets I also run in, in the morning. I have no idea where he lives. I don’t know if one of the streets I walk from school in is the same one as one of the ones I run in the morning, where he lives. And I really don’t like it.

He might have nice shoulders but knowing that someone looks at you running in the morning makes you question every decision you’ve taken so far in life. At least, it does for me. I’m not exactly the picture of sexy when I run. Okay, I’m never the picture of sexy, but at least, normally, I’m not sweaty with crazy haystack hair and skin tight clothes. I’m not above being self conscious about my love handles. I’m not fat but I’m not top model skinny either. Sure, I run so that usually takes care of most of my excess fat, but I can’t exactly help having this little fat above my waistline that just doesn’t want to disappear. My sister London says it’s because I haven’t lost my baby fat yet. I say it’s because it loves me and doesn’t ever ever want to leave me. Either way, it’s there and it’s not going anywhere. And I don’t understand how someone could find me interesting enough to be an incentive to wake up in the morning.

I hate my life right now.

When I finally arrive home, still paranoiac about having been watched as I walked, I make a beeline for my room, ignoring my mother’s greeting. I say hi but I don’t proceed to give her a play by play of my day. I don’t want to have to tell her that a popular guy at school watches me run. That would be a recipe for disaster, as in, we’d move away and I’d never be allowed to run again. And I would be put into a tower without stairs to get out, at the top of a volcano with a dragon guarding me.

When I get into my room, I change into sweat pants and an old t-shirt of mine that I cut the sleeves off, so it kind of looks like an odd tank top. I love it because it’s comfortable and the periodic table of element is printed on it, so it’s comfortable and useful.

The next step is easy. I sit at my study desk and turn on my lap top. This lap top was a present from my grandparents last Christmas. Before that, I had to use the commune desktop that sits in between the kitchen and the living room. My parents put it there because you can’t hide what you’re doing when you use that computer. Everyone can see when they walk by. It’s my parents way of making sure we never started to send nudes to strangers. But the problem is, with how much time I spend on the internet, my parents finally caved in and allowed me to have my own computer. But I have to leave my door open when I’m on my computer.

Seriously, it feels like my computer is a boy I brought home, and I need to let the door open so my parents can make sure I’m not making out with him on my bed.

I never brought a boy home (Kurtis doesn’t count). I’ve never gone on a date. I’ve never had a boyfriend. I’ve never kissed anyone. For a sixteen year old, I feel pretty inept. I’m not the kind of girl who wishes she’d lost her virginity before she started High School, that’s totally not the point. I’m not even that interested in boys in general. Actually, up until like last summer, the simple thought of making babies absolutely repulsed me. The idea of being naked with someone is still quite unsettling for me. I can appreciate a good looking boy. And I can see the appeal in kissing him, but I haven’t. Maybe there’s something wrong with me. Maybe I’m not normal.

My sister says it’s because I got my period so late, so my hormones kicked in later. She got hers when she was nine years old, so apparently that doomed her from the start. I started when I was fifteen, which actually had me worried for a while. I thought I’d never get it. And it was the strangest thing, because for some reason, I really wanted to start my periods so I’d be like everyone else, but when I finally got it, like what the heck is wrong with actually wanting this crap to happen?

Either way, I don’t really care. I have a great family, as overprotective as my parents are, and as intrusive as my sister is, and I have an amazing best friend, and that’s pretty much all I need for now.

And it’s not like boys are lining up to take me out on dates. Even if they did, I’m not allowed to date anyone, so that settles the whole thing.

Anyway, point of all of this is, I have a nice computer and it’s probably the closest thing to a boyfriend I have for now. My after-school computer routine is fairly simple. I check my emails, Tumblr and Twitter and then I get up to date with my Youtube channels. It’s Thursday, so that means, no VlogBrother videos, which is the most important channel in all of the ones I’m subscribed to, but then I do have other stuff to watch.

Today, I try to get up to date with everything quickly because I’ve been binge watching a Korean series, My Love from the Star again and I absolutely want to watch the next episode, because I know what happens in that one. I absolutely loved Jun Ji-hyun and Kim Soo-hyun in the movie The Thieves so when I found out about this series, I kind of went crazy. And it’s amaaaaazing.

Korean drama is another of my weakness. I actually cancelled my Netflix account, so I could have DramaFever (my parents said I could only have one). And that worked out well because Kurtis gave me the password for his Netflix account so all is good.

Either way, for the next hour or so, I swoon over Do Min-joon and Cheon Song-yi love story.

And then, it’s already time for dinner.

When I come downstairs, dad is already sitting at the table and London is fighting with Ned to get it to sit on its chair, while my mom is putting the food on the table.

“You need help with that?” I ask my mom.

She smiles at me. “No, I’m good. Go sit… wait. Have you washed your hands?”

I roll my eyes. “Yes mom.” I’m a germaphobe. Of course I’ve washed my hands.

My parents are good people. They had me and my sister in their twenties, so they’re still young-ish for parents. And they love use. There is absolutely no doubt in my mind about this. I’m pretty sure they’re happy London is back home, even if it’s because the douche that fathered her child wants a divorce and kicked her out of their apartment.

My dad says grace before we start eating. I’m not exactly sold on the whole organised religion thing even though I’m dragged to Church every Sundays, but I’ll never state that up-front at the dinner table. I want to be able to leave this house at one point.

We all start eating while my father talks about his job, (he’s a mechanical engineer at HGA) which I find rather boring but I let him rant. I rant a lot so I’m lenient. My mom stays at home, so the only stories she has are about Ned’s antic. And London works as a dentist assistant, but she’s been laid off—which could hardly been a worse timing with Keith kicking her out, so she can’t really fuel the conversation either since mom and her share the same.

Instead I focus on my nephew. It’s eating all wrong and making a mess, throwing mashed potatoes everywhere and London and mom aren’t doing anything about it, just laughing about something dad said.

“No Ned,” I say, grabbing the spoon from its tiny hands, trying to have it hold it correctly, “you need to bring the food to your mouth with it, not hit the food.”

Ned is such a lame name, even if it’s just a nickname. If I had a kid, I’d name it Hank, or John, or Nelson or Gandhi, or Benjamin (both for Benjamin Franklin and for River Song’s ‘Hello Benjamin’).

“What are you doing?” London asks me, frowning.

I sigh, annoyed. “Trying to teach it how to eat.”

French the llama, that was probably the wrong thing to say, because my sister suddenly glares at me the way I imagine Aeron Greyjoy from A Song of Ice and Fire would—the kind of glare that could render a woman infertile. “My son is not an it. He’s a he.”

Oh.

My parents are watching now, listening. I’m still standing my ground though. “As long as it hasn’t reached puberty, I’m allowing it to be whatever it wants to be, whether it be a man, a woman or a dolphin.”

“That’s not how it works,” London keeps glaring. I wonder if I look like her when I glare. My sister is taller and slimmer than me, but we have similar facial features. People can’t deny we’re sisters when they see us. We have the same nose. We also have the same auburn hair and sudden outburst of freckles on our cheeks under too much sun exposure. But her eyes are blue while mine are hazelnut. I don’t complain about my eyes. I actually like them because they sort of change color depending on what I wear.

I fake a more dramatic gasp then I would do. “Who are you to decide how your child works?”

“MOM! Dallas is going at it again,” London freaks.

Normally I would shove her, but she’s not sitting beside me, Ned is, and I certainly can’t shove it.

“Dallas, apologize to your sister. And stop calling your nephew an it,” my father chastise me.

I pout, crossing my arms over my chest. “You guys are no fun.”

“Dallas Margaret Franklin,” my mom says.

When she uses my middle name, I know shnit is getting reaaaal because I’m second named after my grandmother, her mother-in-law, and she doesn’t like grandma.

“Whatever. Sorry for calling Ned an it. I’ll use a gender specific pronoun from now on,” I answer and add in my head only when you’re here to hear it.

After cleaning up the table after dinner and making sure I didn’t mention the whole Austin von Thalberg incident, I go back to my room to study this time.

I did most of my homework at school already, but it’s never bad in my mind to go over my notes again. I don’t go to a fancy private Ivy League school, so if I want to get into a good college I need to have the best grades I can possibly have.

I throw myself on my bed and sort throw the pile of sheets that consist of my class notes.

After about half an hour of revising Calculus and reading about Integrals I let my notes drop on the ground.

I’m tired, my foot hurts and I don’t want to study anymore.

I turn my head to look at my library. It’s filled with Young Adult novels. Of course, there are a few classics here and there, like The Great Gatsby and Jane Eyre and To Kill a Mockingbird and well, basically any book or play that was featured in CrashCourse and John talked extensively about, I have. I basically have all of the books he ever recommended, and if I don’t have it, it’s in my ‘to-buy’ list on Goodreads. But in general, I read YA. I don’t know what it is, but I get obsessed about YA stories. It’s probably because I’m a teen though. I love YA novels. I should be above it. I should be reading The Second Sex or The Bell Jar. I shouldn’t be wasting good time on cheesy love stories but I can’t help myself. I love them. I love John’s books. And I love Stephanie Perkin’s books, and Susan Ee’s books and Jennifer E Smith’s books. I love the cute teen love story, even when it’s predictable. I love how engrossed I get into it. I have many sleepless nights under my belt because of these books. Heck, I even like Stephenie Meyer’s book. Of course, I prefer The Host over the Twilight series, but I can’t deny that when each new novel in the series got out, I bought and read it. I just love reading, it’s simple.

I’m an AP student. I’m an above the average student. YA novels are my guilty pleasures.  

I get up, grab Fangirl by Rainbow Rowell, a personal all time favourite, go back on my bed and completely forget about Calculus.