Come to My House on Saturday

"So let me get this straight. Some punk who does nothing but sleep through class said sorry and offered to buy you tteokbokki… and you just went with them?"

Jiyoon nodded and held up his memo pad. Looking at that bright, untroubled face, Jina splayed his hand wide open.

"Have you lost your mind?! This boy—!"

SMACK!

Jina's palm cracked down across Jiyoon's back.

"Ugh…!"

"What if that kid really was a thug? Why would you follow someone like that?! You're terrified of girls—so why?!"

"Uuu…"

His father was a hundred percent right. Jiyoon's back stung so badly tears pricked at his eyes, but he couldn't manage a single word of protest. It was exactly as Jina said. If Seonghyeon had truly been a bad person and used "let's grab a bite" as an excuse to do something awful, there would have been no way to stop it.

I don't even know why I followed Seonghyeon myself…

Honestly, Jiyoon had no idea. Looking back on it after getting chewed out like this, it had been completely insane. And yet… for some reason…

Seonghyeon felt safe.

How to put it? Seonghyeon was definitely a girl. The way she talked, the way she moved—all of it looked exactly like any ordinary girl. But every so often, something from the seat beside him would flash a little… boyish. Like roughly undoing the button at her collar, then shyly fastening it again the second she noticed someone watching. Seonghyeon did things like that from time to time.

Was that why? Even though she was a girl, he barely felt any resistance toward her—just a faint, easy sense of familiarity. On the surface she was a good-looking delinquent who slept through class. Anyone who tried to get close, boy or girl, got driven off with a look alone, and just the day before she'd even yelled at a guy. His dad always said a girl raising her voice at a boy was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the worst thing imaginable—but Seonghyeon didn't seem like the kind of bad person you'd call "the worst."

…It absolutely was not because she'd bought extra fried snacks for him to take home to his dad. And it definitely, definitely wasn't because she was pretty.

Watching Jiyoon smile faintly at the thought of Seonghyeon, Jina looked on with worried eyes.

What on earth did that kid do to get him looking like this in just a few days?

They were high schoolers. Young. He understood love taking root—they were at that age. But this was too fast. Barely four days since starting high school. What could possibly have happened in that short a span for Jiyoon to be wearing that fresh, almost-falling-in-love look boys get?

Especially Jiyoon—after what that bitch had done to him, he'd become terrified of girls. For a kid like that to look this way meant either Seonghyeon was so good that the memory of that monster never even came up… or someone with an even greater talent for garbage was silver-tonguing him into a trap.

As far as Jina could tell, it was looking a lot like the latter. He was glad Jiyoon was smiling. He wanted his son to have the same age-appropriate little romance as everyone else. But if this Seonghyeon kid was some bad girl trying to use that smile and that budding affection?

That, as a father, he would not allow.

I protect my own son.

Jina clenched a fist where Jiyoon couldn't see and made up his mind. Face set hard, he looked at his son.

"Bring them home."

"…?"

"That Seonghyeon kid. I want to see for myself whether they're any good."

"…???"

Jiyoon fidgeted and tried to say no—but Jina's resolve did not budge.

Screeeech—

Okay. What. Why.

The day after the tteokbokki, I got to school and found my seatmate staring holes straight through my face. He kept looking at me like he had something to say, scribbling something down, then shaking his head and tearing the page out of his memo pad.

What is his deal?

I finally couldn't take the curiosity and turned to him.

"You got something to say?"

He flinched.

Crumple…

He mashed the torn scrap into a ball, pressed it to his chest so I couldn't see it, and face-planted onto the desk.

…Did he write a curse word on that thing or what?

Come on. I'm not usually like this, but now I really want to know.

"Hey, buddy. I don't know what it is, but just show me and get it over with."

He shook his head hard, still face-down, peeking up at me from the desk.

Hmm. So that's how you're playing it.

"Huh? Teacher's here."

He shot upright.

That was the opening I'd been waiting for.

Snatch!

With overwhelming hand speed, I ripped the paper right out of his grip. My seatmate just sat there blankly for a second, staring at one empty hand, then the other—

"…!?!?"

—and the second he realized the paper was gone, his whole face went scarlet. He flailed his hands and lunged at me, trying to snatch it back.

Flail flail!

He stretched desperately toward the hand holding the paper. Not a chance. Once something entered my possession, it was mine. Returning it only became an option after I was done with whatever I wanted to do.

Press—!

I grabbed his head with one hand and shoved him straight back.

"Uuu…"

Leaving my seatmate to wilt under the push, I smoothed out the crumpled paper and read it.

Come over to my house…? Huh?

Come over?

I crumpled the paper back up and looked at him.

"…"

The moment he realized I'd read it, he went limp like a marathon runner after a full sprint and collapsed onto the desk again—head turned the other way, nothing showing but an ear so red it looked ready to cook.

We ate tteokbokki together, sure, but we're not even that close. And he's inviting me to his house? Did I misread this kid? He didn't seem like the type…

Normally you don't invite someone you've known less than a week over to your place. Even less so if it's someone of the opposite sex you barely know. In my original world, this would be like a girl inviting a guy who'd only just started talking to her over to her house.

Is this even his idea?

I almost snapped that this was ridiculous—but no matter how I turned it over, the seatmate I'd been watching these past few days was not the kind of person who'd float a suggestion like this on his own.

Asking out loud feels a little risky…

If I asked why he'd invited me home and the other kids overheard, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠they'd start spreading weird rumors again. In a situation like this, it'd be something like "that slut who invites girls over" or "that guy who keeps wagging his tail at girls." I didn't want to get tangled up in that kind of garbage, and I didn't want to hear them whispering either. I was a student now—and looking back, I hadn't noticed it when I actually was one, but school was the kind of place where a rumor that buried somebody could pop up out of nowhere like it was nothing.

Riiip!

I tore a blank corner off my textbook and wrote my question there. It wasn't like I had a memo pad or a notebook the way he did, so this was the only option.

Done.

Hmm… feels a little incomplete.

Scritch scritch…

Oh. Better. My seatmate was always drawing little faces for every emotion, so without one it felt kind of bare—but adding that made it look decent.

Tap. Tap.

I poked his shoulder.

"…"

This little—

He flinched every time I pressed, but he absolutely refused to turn his head. Should I just pick him up and flip him around? I considered it, then decided it'd draw way too much attention. If I was going to do that, I might as well have just asked out loud why he'd invited me.

Hmm…

Fine. I'll just shove it under his arm.

I forced my hand under the arm pressed against the desk and slipped the note in.

Slide.

"Hik?!"

He shot up with a startled noise and stared at me like I'd lost my mind. I pointed at the note I'd just stuffed under his arm.

"…"

With a sulky face, he unfolded it. His eyes gave a little tremble as he read.

"Pfft."

Then he let out a soft laugh, wrote something on the blank side of my scrap, and handed it back.

Excuse me?

Insulting my artistic ability was a capital offense punishable by death. However, taking into account my status as a student and the fact that I was still a minor below the age of criminal liability, I would commute the sentence to a side-jabbing.

I raised a finger and started jabbing his side without mercy.

Poke!

Poke!

Poke!

Poke!

"Haugh! Hak! Hnn…"

He made some extremely weird noises while deploying every means available—clawing at my hand with his nails, swatting it away—but to me, the Saintess of Unarmed Combat, every last one of them was riddled with openings. I ignored them all and kept jabbing.

"Seonghyeon~ Why are you bullying the quiet kid?"

The delinquent sitting diagonally behind us must have gotten tired of the noise, because he called over. I'd told him not to act all buddy-buddy, but he kept calling me Seonghyeon anyway.

"It's not bullying, it's a punishment. More importantly—didn't I tell you not to call me that?"

"Then what am I supposed to call you?"

Don't call me anything!

Please.

That was what I was about to say. But right then, the guy from the diagonal seat stood up and pinched both sides of his skirt.

"Well? I switched to a long skirt…"

At that, I looked him over. The skirt hung all the way past his knees. A plain, unaltered school skirt. I had no choice but to concede the point.

"…Now you actually look like a student."

"I stopped wearing makeup, too…"

"…Yeah. You did."

The brutal color difference that used to cut across his face and neck was completely gone. What showed now was his natural bronze skin. He scratched his cheek like showing bare skin embarrassed him.

Much better. What ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was there to be shy about? He still wasn't on Jia or Jihu's level, but at least now he looked like a person—like a student.

"Way better. Keep doing it like that from now on."

"Mm…"

He dropped his gaze to the floor and gave a slow nod. Whatever I'd said to him before must have actually gotten through. As expected, this Saintess's powers of repentance were far too outstanding. Even I found myself a little afraid. The ability to turn a delinquent ordinary in a single stroke? I really was built different.

If I could just do something about the cigarette smell on his breath, the radius of people I could stand to look at might expand all the way to the diagonal seat.

"I made you mad before, and tomorrow's the weekend, so…"

"Yeah."

"So I was wondering if maybe… you and I could…"

The delinquent guy twisted a finger through his hair, about to say something—

BANG!

"Aigh! You scared me."

My seatmate shot up from his chair with a huge noise. Whether he'd meant to or not, the desk shoved forward as he stood, and he ended up planted right between me and the delinquent like it was on purpose.

Glare!

His brow was furrowed tight with some kind of complaint. In that state, he thrust his memo pad at me hard enough that I could practically feel the wind off it.

Why does your father want to meet me?

I had a lot of questions. But faced with a version of my seatmate radiating enough raw nerve that I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠almost wondered if this was even the same kid, I couldn't even think about refusing—I just nodded.