ELEVEN

I’ve always found it ironic that my last name is Park, even though I was constantly on the move for most of my life. My father was, for lack of better words, a bit of a worldly man in his youth, and his wanderlust carried over into his career as a regional branch manager for Samsung. Sometimes it felt like he was never satisfied being in one place. We moved from Seattle, to Austin, to New York City, to San Jose, even across the world to Tokyo. Hell, at one point in my life, I’d accumulated more cities in my geological footprint than number of years being alive.

For the most part, we always stayed in a city for a year or two; other times even less. You’d think that I would’ve been upset by the instability, but actually, I never cared. Moving was all I ever knew, so the moment I walked into those classrooms to introduce myself, I was already prepared to forget the names and faces of every single kid before me.

All except one.

I never forgot her name. And I definitely didn’t forget her face.

When I was 11, Dad brought us all the way back to the motherland for 3 whole years, and for the first time in my life, I prayed that we didn’t have to leave.

And even though my prayers were never answered and I ended up finishing middle school in Singapore, a part of me had never left Seoul. My heart remained in Yongsan—with my first best friend, my first crush, and for the first time ever, someone who was able to teach me what home felt like.

Someone named Jang Wonyoung.

“Open,” she demanded.

I did exactly as told, and she carefully poured the wine from her glass into my mouth—not because she was worried I would choke, but because she absolutely hated when things were messy.

She stared at me impatiently, waiting for something.

I swallowed.

“How does it taste?” she asked, irritated.

“It’s good.”

“Open the next one,” she said, putting the glass down.

It was the forth bottle of the night, and she wasn’t satisfied with any of them, even though she herself had not tasted a single drop yet. I was her wine tasting guinea pig, and I was collectively a full glass in at this point. My body felt loose, but I tried my best to continue sitting upright, since she hated it when my posture wasn’t perfect like hers.

I pulled the cork out, and the soft pop caused her to look up from her phone.

“Remember to drink all of it before you pour the new one in,” she said, looking down at me.

Her ridiculously long legs were all I could see in my peripherals as I began pouring yet another glass from the floor, making use sure not to spill anything. It wasn’t a comfortable position, and even though the rug stopped hurting my knees after the third drink, it was definitely going to leave a mark or bruise the next day. It always did.

“What on Earth is always so funny to you two?”

Ms. Heathers barked from behind us, as we bit down to control our laughters.

Our knees were sore from kneeling for the past 30 minutes, but for some reason, the dirty old chalkboard gave us so many things to joke about.

Was it even the chalkboard, or was it just the fact that two eleven-year-olds could find just about anything to laugh about if they wanted to?

“Jang Wonyoung,” she said.

“Yes, teacher,” Wonyoung answered, biting her upper lip.

“What’s the word for ‘quiet’ in Korean?”

“Quiet, teacher,” she replied, in Korean.

“So you do know what it means.”

“Yes, I do.”

“And Wonbin, how do you say ‘no talking’ in Korean?”

“No talking, teacher,” I answered.

“Great, so it’s not a matter of understanding,” Ms. Heathers said. “The problem is you two just don’t want to obey orders.”

“We’re sorry,” I said, looking over at Wonyoung, whose eyes were closed at this point from silent laughter. “We won’t talk anymore during quiet time.”

“And stop talking back to me,” she said.

“Yes, I won’t talk back anymore,” I said.

“Good boy,” she said, stroking my face with her long, delicate fingers. “I only love you when you’re obedient, you know that, right?”

“Yes.”

“You want me to love you, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I said, more honest than I should’ve been.

“Do you love me?” she asked, lifting my chin up.

“Yes,” I said again, pathetically.

“Even though I treat you so badly, you still love me?”

“You don’t treat me badly,” I said. “You treat me so well.”

“I do?” she said, seemingly amused. “How do I treat you well? Give me an example.”

“You care about me,” I said, looking at her glimmering round eyes.

“That’s right, I care about you so much,” she nodded. “You’re my favorite slave, you know that, right?”

I nodded.

“No matter what, we’ll always be together,” she said, sipping on her glass of cabernet. “Just continue to obey me and I’ll keep treating you like the perfect little slave that you are.”

I nodded again, my vision a little hazy, but the goddess before me made me more drunk than the alcohol ever could.

“Are you still thirsty?” she asked, taking another sip. “Come here.”

I immediately opened my mouth, and she leaned over, letting the wine fall from her mouth into mine. Some of it dripped down the side of my lips, and she carefully wiped it with her thumb.