٩(´Д` ;)۶:.*

٩(´Д` ;)۶:.*

The FOH catwalks hidden in the false ceiling of the school auditorium were strictly off-limits to students. Officially, only stagecraft kids whose parents had signed liability waivers and certain teachers covered by the school insurance were permitted into the backstage production areas.

This meant Tan Park didn’t belong squirrelled away in the rafters, out of sight, out of mind, like a sloth hiding in the canopy where no one would bother him. He wasn’t enrolled in any class that required anything as demanding as scaling the almost 3-storey ladder, and he had precisely zero faculty qualifications unless you counted watching the roadies assemble Static Shadow’s stage on tour. 

During his second week of high school, Tan found the hidden crosshatched catwalks that were tucked away, unused, and dark. It wasn’t an act of rebellion against the absurd rules, as the drama teacher had claimed when he was caught climbing down once. Most students didn’t even know the catwalks were there. Honestly, he’d grown tired of dealing with people and just wanted a quiet spot to nap. 

Right now, Tan was sprawled out, using an arm as a makeshift pillow. Not very comfortable, but workable. One leg was bent, foot flat on the floor, the other casually balanced on his knee, his black-and-red Vans tapping to the god-awful rendition of Good Morning Baltimore below him. The lead actress’s attempt at singing was a hammer to the head; even Kian, the stick-wackin’ Neanderthal he was, could have belted it better.

Tan massaged his temple with a thumb, yawning as he swept his dark bangs out of his eyes, silver studs in his earlobes glinting in the little light that snuck up between the slats of wood set in the ceiling for stage lights. 

Chord was always harping at him to get a haircut. His hair was getting shaggy, but they hadn’t played a show in months, and Chord would eventually wrangle him into a chair, insistent on styling his hair to make him more presentable. It was inevitable, though ridiculous, since no one ever cared about the bass player unless you were Fall Out Boy, which they weren’t.

Just beyond his fingertips was a half-eaten bag of saewookkang he’d been rationing since the morning. He closed his eyes, ready to go back to sleep, when his cell phone buzzed violently against the wooden catwalk, vibrating like it had a warning siren. Groaning, Tan stretched his arm out, blindly fishing for the phone, praying he didn’t knock it tumbling down. The ceiling raining Galaxys would be tough to explain, and he didn’t want to hunt through the orchestra pit for a broken phone, again. It had been hard enough to get a replacement the first time.

Tan’s mother didn’t believe in cell phones. His family still had a landline. An actual landline, like something from the days when dinosaurs roamed the earth. 

Tan had been allowed a cell phone only so she could keep tabs on him when he was on tour across Canada. An already rare occurrence, considering they only toured during school breaks, and ludicrous, really, given that he wasn’t living with them anymore. 

Her decision, not his.

And yet, she still didn’t trust their manager to keep three overly nerdy musicians in line. The fact that Chord’s dad was their manager seemed to mean nothing to her, either. 

Then again, Chord’s dad keeping Chord on any sort of leash had about the same effect as trying to leash a stray cat.

Finally, he caught the phone, squinting against the screen’s glow. HOME flashed on the display, the classic Psycho theme blaring ominously. 

If he let the call go to voicemail, there would be hell to pay. His mother knew his schedule down to the last second, even if she’d pretty much removed herself from taking an active role in his life, more like a silent partner that made absurd demands.

Every moment of his life had been mapped out since birth. A timeline he’d disrupted when he’d chosen to pursue music, or fallen into when his musical genius best friend roped him into a talent show in tenth grade. All contrary to the path his parents had envisioned. Then he really threw them a curveball their narrow minds couldn’t handle.

Breathing out, Tan finally answered. “Yeoboseyo.”

“Your grandmother is visiting,” his mother’s voice said, clipped and sharp in his ear. “You will be home by six. No later. We will have a nice dinner.”

Tan pulled the phone away from his ear, staring up at the tangle of pipes and support beams above him, mouth opening and closing in silent disbelief. Absurd. Was she even listening to herself?

“Eomeoni…” Tan began, clearing his throat. He rubbed at his temple, the narrow silver ring on his pointer finger warm against his skin. There was no scenario in which this conversation went well. 

“Dinner. Six o’clock. Home.”

Beyond absurd. “I have rehearsal at five, remember?” Tan said, knowing full well she was wholly aware. He’d written it down in her Google calendar with email reminders. No way she didn’t know. Nothing had changed in the last five months, long before life slid south into its current unfortunateness. 

“Irrelevant. You will come home. You will sit. You will eat. You will socialize. And you will wear a tie.”

“A tie?” he blurted, half a laugh escaping. Was she serious? He was tempted to ask her if his grandmother was even aware he didn’t live at home anymore, but before he could, the line clicked and went dead. Of course, she’d hung up. Not a surprise.

Groaning, Tan stared at the darkening screen of his phone, the wallpaper popping into view, a candid photo of him and Kian in Toronto during their winter holiday tour. Chord had sneaked a blurry shot of them grinning like fools in the cold, the fog of their breath visible. 

They’d given their manager the slip and snuck away from the crew to explore the city in a frenzy of exhilarated excitement, even meeting a few fans. They’d posed for a few photos and signed a couple of napkins, arms, and even a cheek until Tan collapsed on a bus bench, utterly spent. Kian had carried around on his back for the rest of the day.

Even though Kian half-froze his arms, that day was still one of Tan’s favourite memories. His first real moment of rebellion, immortalized in pixels.

Letting the phone slide from his fingers, thudding beside him, he threw an arm over his eyes and inhaled deeply through his nose. He’d been thrown out of the house months ago, a fresh wound he chose not to dwell on, but some days weighed heavier than others. For better or worse, he was comfortable where he was. 

Stretching, he reached for his snack. His fingertips barely brushed the bag, and he contemplated scooting closer without sitting up, but light footsteps echoed further down the catwalk.

A hoodie-clad figure loomed in the darkness. A dishevelled Chord materialized from the shadows. Earbuds dangled around his neck, and his hands were shoved deep into his hoodie pockets. He stopped a few feet from Tan, his gaze a little distant.

“So… did you get the extra credit?” Tan asked, raising an eyebrow. He made another lazy swipe at the glossy red package.

Chord shrugged, hand still sunk into his pockets. “You okay?”

“Mrs. Park, special move, ‘Swift Strike,’” Tan muttered, nodding towards his abandoned phone. “So, unless you can overcome the ethical implications of human cloning by five, I’m kinda boned.”

Chord gave him a small, sympathetic smile, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “That bad, huh?”

Tan grunted in response, giving up on the shrimp chips and flopping his arm across his eyes. Chord’s sneakers scuffed against the wood, and then, the bag of saewookkang slid into his hand. Tan lifted his arm just enough to peer up at Chord.

“How are you not fat?” Chord asked with a wry grin.

“Exceptional genes,” Tan deadpanned and crunched down on a chip, which looked more like a french fry, unless you were British. Tan was not. 

Tan inherited the increasingly popular mixed “exotic” look from a Korean mother and a European mutt-bred Canadian father. He hated that word. Exotic.

His phone buzzed again, lighting up with a new message. Wary, he picked it up and scanned the screen.

Kian: dude!! they have the mini spring rools

Kian: *rolls

Kian: im getting 20

Snorting, Tan typed back, the rest of the school’s gonna want some. His phone buzzed back almost immediately.

Kian: so… 

Kian: 10?

Typical Kian. A walking bottomless pit of a stomach. Tan pocketed his phone, settling back and ready to chill, but when he glanced up. Chord was inching away, talking into his own phone in a hushed tone. He didn’t catch what Chord was saying, but knew that urgent, distracted tone was never a good sign. Nothing good ever came from that tone.

Tan sat up, scattering his snack, but Chord had already hung up, steps from the ladder.

Chord cast a quick look back over his shoulder. “See you at practice.”

“You already missed first period,” Tan said, raising his eyebrow.

“Yeah, uh-huh,” Chord muttered, sliding down the ladder and vanishing from sight before Tan could get another word in. Typical. Tan wasn’t going to follow, this time. 

Knowing his best friend, the undisputed king of impulsivity and questionable choices, whatever he was planning would only land them in hot water, again. He’d rather avoid the inevitable lecture, though it would still be his fault for not stopping him. 

As if anyone could stop Chord’s mid-‘brilliant idea,’ except maybe his sister. Shaking his head, Tan slumped back down against the boards, resigned.

“Ugh…” And then, as an afterthought, “Better call Halmeoni.”