THE FAMILIAR SCENT OF incense, wood polish lingers in the air as Park takes his usual spot at the Youth Narcotics Anonymous Program, a church the organizers converts to weekly counseling sessions.

When searching for volunteering programs to join and found this place, he’d been reluctant to: the only thing that convinced him at the time was thinking how basic and easy it’ll be coming here every Thursdays for an hour.

The more he attended, the quicker he realised that there’s absolutely nothing basic or simple about the program. The community and its problems grew on him, the teenagers who need helped and those giving it. The act of giving has never appealed to him before.

Park has never been close to a situation where he’ll be driven to be charitable. To think of someone else, to embody sympathy and understand their struggles. He’d thought he’ll be uncomfortable being around recovering teenage addicts: what he had been, what he is is frustrated. 

The supervisors created an outreach: a Teen Support Group whose primary job is to listen. That’s literally the scope of his volunteering, one of the major reason why he’d thought it’ll be simple and basic. Generic advice is appreciated, however they’ve been warned to refrain from giving ‘professional advice or aid as the adult supervisors or counselors are available for that.’

The purpose of the Teen Support Group is to equip the teenagers with peers of their own: to reclaim their sense of belonging their addiction and societal prejudices have taken from them.

One of the Youth Supervisors, a big, burly, black man named Benny greets him with a nod from where he is ushering a sniffing teen to his office. Park returns the nod, remembering to address him as the approved Big, Burly, Black Benny nickname the kids had given him. A nickname thankfully shortened to BB.

The spot Park chooses is not an office but a closed-off corner that gives the illusion of privacy. Some of the teenagers prefer an open space, others don’t. One of them that falls into the latter is Hannah, a regular who approach him with a friendly smile.

“Where’s my souvenir?”

“Your what?”

Sitting legs spread apart, she hides her hands in the pockets of her sweater.

“You traveled for the summer, didn’t you? Where’s my souvenir?”

“Was I supposed to? You never asked.”

Hannah tuts. “And here I thought I was your favorite.”

“I don’t have favorites.”

“Sure,” she smiles, patting down her hair.

The motion brings his eyes to her cropped hair.

“You changed your hairstyle.”

A shrug. “The summer’s heat. You like?”

“You look like a boy.”

“Is it that hard to say ‘why, yes Hannah, you look hot today’.”

He makes a face. “I’ll never say something like that.”

She laughs, nodding. “Yeah, that’s not your style.”

“Besides, you’re too old for me.”

A gasp. “Take that back.”

Joking with Hannah haven’t always been this effortless. He remembers the first day he met her: a girl who tried making herself smaller than she is. Nervous, twitchy and impatient.

Getting her to open up was tough but well worth it in the end. Her anxiety manifested from the crushing pressure of being the family’s only pride, a third-generation immigrant, first of her family to go to college.

Getting accepted to college had been the only time she was ever truly happy. Receiving that letter, reading the Congratulations out loud to the joy of her family. 

Unfortunately, college wasn’t what she’d thought. She couldn’t cope, found solace in drugs, had a nervous breakdown and was expelled. The brand of failure on her had pushed her to overdose, to be hospitalised. Shame and parental guidance brought her here, to the youth center.

Pressure, Park understands. Empathising with her came easy. Hearing how she’d insisted there wasn’t a point in trying anymore had saddened and annoyed him. He’d wanted to shake her. What he did was repeatedly telling her her life isn’t over. Until she believed it. Until she’s eager to try again. She’s confident, like his *noona.

Thought of his *noona flits through his mind. He should call her later, check on her. Subtly ask if she’s staying away from vices. He rarely sees her as it is: away in Berkeley studying music, she only comes homes during break and even then, they don’t see as often as his whirlwind schedule will allow. 

Hannah is a successful tale. Some aren’t as lucky. The hopelessness he sees and hears, the dangers they’ll put themselves through for the next fix is enough to put the fear of addiction in his heart.

Before joining this program, his Mom used to hammer it in their heads about addiction and being here, he understands her caution. Park never wants this for himself. He doesn’t want this for them either. 

Hannah is clean but she’ll always struggle. It’s a plight she’ll have to live with. 

“I’ll miss you, you know,” Hannah says, pulling him out of his thoughts. “When you leave. It won’t be the same around here.”

“Wouldn’t it? This place hasn’t changed in the five years it’s been here.”

She leans in and playfully shoves him. “Normal people say ‘thanks, Hannah. I’ll miss you too’.”

“Is that so? You know, I haven’t been around society for too long. It’s only been a year since I’ve been released from the Build-A-Human research lab.”

Hannah rolls her eyes at him. 

“I won’t miss you if you remain sober.”

Hannah smiles. “You have a weird way of telling me you’ll miss me.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know. I’ll remain sober. Promise.”

“You better keep it,” he cross his arms and feigns a stern look. “I’m more scary than an overdose.”

“You’ve gone rogue,” she kicks him under the table, “Build-A-Human should be cold and dismissive.”

He glares at her.

“Ah. That’s more like that. I’ve missed that look,” she pantomimes a camera shot, winking when the glare softens.

*******

Outside the building after the session ends, Park’s phone buzzes. It’s a message from Owen, a picture of Cotton Candy sleeping in his palm. 

Owen: CeeCee misses you, the text reads. 

Park zooms in on the kitten, perplexed as to how anyone can abandon something as innocent and cute as her. He is midly confused to receive the message from Instagram but surmised Owen must’ve looked him up.

As this can’t be classified as a breach in privacy, he refrains from blocking him but chooses not to reply. Instead, he pockets his phone, hops on his bicycle and heads towards Owen’s house.

The aroma wafting from the bakery is intoxicating as he disembarks, display of sweets in the window a temptation he won’t indulge in. Drugs and alcohol aren’t the only things he has been warned against. His parents have imposed strict limits on his sugar intake: too much of it is unhealthy.

Nevertheless, the bakery smells fantastic. He goes in and orders on a simple loaf of bread around the size of his hand. As Brooke, the cashier, is packaging his order, Owen’s Mom comes out from the back, the door swinging behind her. She pulls him into an unexpected hug, and tells Brooke to add an extra scone.

“It’s on the house,” she insists at his protests. “You’re helping Owen.”

Well, when she puts it like that, there’s no reason to say no, is there? Plus, he’s uncomfortable with how she’s staring into his soul with her round green eyes. 

“Want a cupan tae with that?” she asks, her accent thickening.

“A what?” Park blinks, confused.

“Cup of tea. Tell Owen to boil you one.”

“Okay. Thanks again.”

Park walks out the bakery, jogs up the stairs, knocks once, and enters the house. He sits, takes out his materials and waits, tapping his foot to a beat only he can hear.

His eyes wander to the photos on the wall, particularly intrigued by a black and white one. The couple are crouched on the pavement with identical grins. They must be Owen’s parents; his Mom looks younger here and Owen is more or less a teenage copy of his dad.

Owen comes out smelling recently showered, CeeCee nestled comfortably in the front of his jacket. 

“Who are those?” he ask as way of greeting

“Ma and Pa. Granda took the photo,” Owen explains, beelining to the kitchen. 

Soon enough, the unmistakable warmth of tea boils in the air, and before he can blink, there’s a steaming mug of tea in front of him. There’s a leaf in this one. Bringing it to his phone, he close his eyes and inhales: basil and ginger. Tastes remarkable, a hint bitter, part mildly sweet. 

Remembering why he’s here, he puts down the mug.

“The homework I gave you?”

Owen sits so close that Park can practically taste the soapy smell. Vinegar? Vanilla? 

“Do you mind?”

“Sorry. Wanted to see what I got wrong.”

Owen peels back, drumming his fingers on the table. “Why are you going to Korea?” Owen asks suddenly.

“For school.”

“You can’t be in school here?”

A question Park no longer asks. The answer stays the same.

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because of SKY.”

The drumming fingers stops. “Because of a girl?”

Park snorts. He can’t ever fathom that to be a reason. He pulls up his phone to show Owen a collage of universities. “Seoul National University, Korea University, Yonsei University. SKY. Top schools in Korea.”

Owen zooms in on each picture. 

“Basically, they’re the Harvard of Korea,” he explains.

“I see,” Owen says, not fully grasping the significance. “Which will you go to?”

“Possibly SNU. My grandfather’s alma mater.”

“That’s amazing,” Owen says, genuinely impressed.

He agrees. “Yes, it is.”

If Owen detects the lack of enthusiasm, he doesn’t pry. Not that he’ll be able to even if he tries. As the saying goes, that anxiety that builds in his chest anytime Park dwells on where he’ll be next year, is sleeping with the fishes.