Mall Bratz

Boys will be boys, or so the saying goes. Now what that expression means can be incredibly subjective. To some it’s an excuse to roughhouse. For others, it’s the go to excuse for inexcusable behavior.

Song, Emer and Emmanuel were sitting at the bus stop, waiting to make their last transfer before a lazy summer day at the local mall. Song checked his watch, impatiently tapping his foot as the afternoon sun beat down on the trio who were all eager to sit in the air conditioning of the public transport while they finished the last leg of their journey.

Emer leaned back on the uncomfortable bench with the same peaceful expression as if he was home watching television. “Chill out, Song. It’ll get here when it gets here. There’s nothing you can do about it.” Emer said with an easy smile offered to his friend. Song was just a little shorter than his own five foot six short self, but he figured that was more typical for people of Asian descent, not that it really bothered him much. The world was full of stress and there wasn’t any benefit worrying about things he couldn’t control. Today Song was dressed in khaki beige pants, a blue short sleeve button up shirt with his long hair falling just below the collar. The Asian-American teen looked suitable for a school picture day, but that was just how he often dressed.

“How many times do we have to go over this, Emer? I told you to call me Jae.” Song snapped as he glanced over at the blue-eyed blonde teen next to him on the bench. He wondered how freeing it would be to be as dimwitted as Emer was. The least he could bring himself to acknowledge was that Emer had style, and the charm to match. Song wasn’t sure if that was his own doing or from the influence of his parents. Today the laid back man-child was wearing green cargo pants, an untucked orange polo, and a black and gray hoodie. Like some of the beach bums the boy kept his blond hair long enough to fall just below his chin, but unlike their unwashed supposed peers at school, Emer kept himself and his hair clean.

“Right, Jae. My bad, dude. You oughta calm down though, man. It’s not like we gotta be anywhere else. Ain’t that right, Manny?” The blonde looked over to his other friend, sitting on the back of the bench with his feet up on the seat, before resting his hands behind his head, and closing his eyes. His mostly silent friend was more than a few inches taller than himself, standing around five foot ten with a wiry build. Emer would describe him as mostly plain with large brown eyes, and a brown faded crew cut that had grown a month’s worth of shag. The thing that stood out most about him though, was the notch in his right eyebrow and the state of the clothes he wore. Like most days Emanuel’s outfit was beat up, though his blue jeans weren’t ripped for fashion, nor was his brown shirt. The wear and tear on his friend’s clothes were come-by honestly much like his well worn work boots.

The quiet boy snapped out of his thousand yard stare when he heard his name. “Huh?”

The three wouldn’t have normally been friends, but being the only students at their school past their eighteenth birthday, not having yet started their senior year, they were bound to group together by being generally othered by the rest of the students..

Song Jae Rim could best be described as entitled. The first generation in his family born in the US, one might think his was a triumphant immigrant story. That couldn’t be further from the truth. His father, a chemist and inventor, was much better described that way. He was responsible for creating some of the most revolutionary cosmetic surgery equipment in the world. There was plenty of money to be made in South Korea, the country having an atypical fondness for plastic surgeries as a whole, but he knew the best place to make the big bucks would be in the vicinity of Hollywood, Malibu, and Beverly Hills. If anyone was willing to pay top dollar for cutting edge procedures, it was the notoriously decadent rich of southern California.

It wasn’t long after the Rim family arrived in America that they were with child. The day he was born, his father decided that the little six pound, seven ounce baby was never going to go without. He worked hard, long after he’d already amassed a decent enough fortune, and now the family owned several boutique spas, frequented by the west coast elites who populated the area. Unfortunately, in his endeavor to give his son a life where he would never go without, he overshot the mark, and spoiled his child.

Song was the quintessential trust fund kid. It’s been said that a crime where the penalty is a fine means it’s only a crime for the poor. He believed this to be a good thing. One might think he knew that no matter what he did in the short term, at the end of the rainbow there’d be a giant pot of gold, and he’d be set for life. The truth was he didn’t need to find the end of the rainbow, the young man already had his pot of gold.

One day, when a bottle of xanax went missing, his father chalked it up to forgetting where he left them, since it wasn’t uncommon for him to be absent minded after a particularly stressful week at work. When his wife’s adderall disappeared as well, they had an idea of what was happening, but neither knew how to broach the subject with the increasingly delinquent youth. Perhaps if they’d dealt with the issue sooner, Song might still be welcome at that exclusive preparatory school his parents spent so much money on. It was no wonder that almost as soon as he’d received a BMW for his sixteenth birthday, it was taken away until he could learn some responsibility.

Kicked out for selling pills just before the end of his junior year, Song had to repeat the grade at a public high school. One glance across the commons that first day told him everything he needed to know about kids in the valley. Give him a week and he’d be ruling over the dumb hillbillies.The one thing he didn’t take into consideration was that no one in the school cared an ounce about how much money his parents had.

When the teacher called Song’s name in homeroom that morning, and he stood up to introduce himself, two jocks sitting in the back of class were doing nothing to hide their amusement.

“What a pretty name, for such a pretty girl.” one snickered, the other following with, “Too bad she’s dressed like a boy. You might want to wear a skirt tomorrow, or everyone is gonna think you’re a lesbian.

“Why don’t you just shut the fuck up, oaf!?” he shot back, unable to believe the disrespect and ignorance of the larger boys. Names had a meaning, a legacy to them. His name, Song Jae Rim, meant success, talent, and beauty.

“Detention! All three of you!” Not even eight in the morning on the first day, and the teacher’s face was already bright red..

The boys marched out into the hallway. Once out of earshot, the jocks seized the opportunity for a quick punch to Song’s gut, leaving him crumpled over on the floor behind them as they walked away. He knew then and there that if he was going to survive a public education, let alone take over the school, he was going to need some muscle. It was that day in detention when he met Emmanuel, and Emer.

Emmanuel Brooks wasn’t a typical hooligan. He had a reputation as a tough guy, having been in a fight with someone almost every week for the past few years. His typically stoic expression played its part in keeping people afraid as well. Song was quite intimidated with the boy, but he’d never in a million years let anyone know that. Plans already forming in his mind, he channeled his inner sense of superiority and when it was finally time to go home for the day, Song introduced himself to the intimidating youth.

“Hi. I’m Jae Rim.” he said, offering his hand for the taller boy to examine with suspicion before shaking it with a look of skepticism.

“Emmanuel.” the boy said quietly.

Undaunted, Song continued, “Today’s my first day here, and I already spent the whole day in detention. Bullshit, right?”

“Sure.” Emmanuel said with two slow nods of his head.

“You seem like a guy who knows what’s up. I’m thinking we should check out the mall. You busy?”

A voice from behind Song called out boisterously like they were part of the conversation. “Oh, hell yeah, bro! I can get a blizzard.” This was how Song met Emer, a boy with a knack for wandering into conversation, seemingly unsure of how he got there.

“Sorry, I was asking Emmanuel.” Song said through gritted teeth.

Emer caught sight of a dot on the ceiling, and while staring at it intently said, “That’s cool. Manny’s a good guy. He’s in here all the time with me. We talk a lot. I don’t care if he comes with us.” In reality they’d maybe spoken three times, one of which was Emer trying to cheat off of Emmanuel’s homework when he wasn’t even doing the same assignment.

Somehow, through a comedy of errors, the youths found themselves sitting in a food court together. Song never managed to get rid of Emer. He tried. The hints he dropped became less and less subtle, but to no avail. To Emer, Song was just another guy with a mean sense of humor. Every time he was insulted and told to buzz off, he thought it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard.

Later that afternoon, when the sun was low in the sky, when Song was almost to the point of giving up and storming off, he finally took notice of something that had been happening the entirety of the day. Almost every single person who walked by stopped to have a chat with the carefree boy. Emer Jean Ottensen smoked, and played frisbee with the stoners, he posed for the art class, he played basketball with the jocks, and he even gossipped with the cheerleaders. Song knew that kind of charm couldn’t be taught. The boy was a social savante. Emer was everybody’s best friend, and that was useful to Song, so he decided to let young burnout into the new clique he’d created, though Emer was probably going to keep hanging around regardless.

The entirety of their junior year, the three boys became inseparable, though not in a Little Rascals kind of way. They’d return to the mall nearly every day where Song and Emer committed various petty crimes, both drunk on the feelings of immortality that come with a person’s teenage years. Emmanuel followed along, quiet as usual, but still always there.

Emer heard Emmanuel’s stomach growl one afternoon, it ringing like a dinner bell in the blonde kid’s ears. He declared it was lunch time, but the taller boy shook his head and tapped his wallet knowing there was no money in it. The quiet teen insisted he was fine despite his stomach letting its protests be heard.

Teasing the bigger boy, Song said, “Don’t worry. Look at all those free samples over there. You won't have to pay a thing.” That was when Emer’s eyes got large as he looked around the food court at the four different people giving out free samples on that busy day.

“Okay, okay.” Emer held his hands out to his sides. “I got this. Just listen to my plan and follow me.” Explaining nothing, he started walking deeper into the food court until he reached the guy giving out samples of bbq pulled pork.

“Would you like to try a sample?” the pimply-faced teen asked, holding up a toothpick skewering a little chunk of meat.

“Yeah man.” Emer said with his easy smile, before taking the tray in his hands. “Let me get this real quick.” There was no good reason for the worker to let go, but before he could think to tighten his grip, Emer was already passing it to Emmanuel. “Manny, you got it man, run. Yeah RUN!”

The worker watched in astonishment while the two boys that walked up with the blonde bolted with his stolen tray, while the blonde that was about his age just stood there in front of him. “Sorry man, they were hungry.” Emer gave a small shrug. “Gotta eat, ya know?”

It wasn’t long before Song and Emmanuel saw Emer rushing up to them with a different tray of food in hand, also full of samples from a different restaurant. The two shorter boys were laughing, very amused by their miniature crime spree, while Emmanuel checked over his shoulder for security guards that could’ve possibly followed them.

It didn’t take too long for him to relax though, and the smell of the food was quite inviting. The boys dined on a feast of little egg rolls, and a chicken dish the restaurant vaguely described as “Cajun”.

“This shit is gross.” Song said with a chuckle, continuing to stuff his face. “Next time I get to pick the food.

Somehow, through nonsense like this, the trio managed to finish junior year, and headed off to vacation, where they now found themselves sitting at this particular bus stop, ready to waste away their summer.