The final year of high school passed faster than Lam An had expected.
After regular classes, the ninth graders were no longer allowed to go straight home. Their extra prep classes for the entrance exam stretched from early afternoon until the sunlight outside faded to a thin streak of gold across the schoolyard.
The classroom was on the second floor of the old building, where the ceiling fan rattled every time it completed its third rotation.
An usually sat in the front row.
Khang sat right behind her.
Not because he liked sitting near An.
At least, that was what he always said.
“What are you doing sitting behind me?” An asked one afternoon as she set her practice test papers on the desk.
“There’s still room at this desk.”
“There’s room in the back too.”
“It’s hot in the back.”
“The fan isn’t even turning.”
Khang was silent for two seconds.
“...I just like sitting here.”
An turned around to look at him.
Khang lowered his head and opened his book, pretending that answer had been perfectly reasonable.
An didn’t ask anything else.
She turned back to the board, but the corners of her lips curved slightly.
The extra classes went on like that.
Some days it was math.
Some days literature.
Some days the whole class sat working through a practice exam until it was completely dark outside and they still hadn’t finished.
Khang wasn’t bad at school, but he especially hated math problems with too many words.
Whenever he came across a difficult geometry problem, he would prop his chin on his hand and stare at it as if it had just insulted him.
“How far have you gotten?” An asked.
“I’m thinking.”
“You’ve been staring at it for ten minutes.”
“Then I’ve been thinking for a long time.”
“Do you know the answer?”
“I do.”
“Where is it?”
“Haven’t found it yet.”
An burst out laughing.
She pulled Khang’s notebook over, picked up a pencil, and drew an auxiliary line.
“Try it this way.”
Khang leaned down to look.
“Oh.”
“Oh, you get it now?”
“No.”
“But it looks very professional.”
An lightly tapped his notebook with her pen.
“Don’t make fun of me.”
“I’m not.”
He grinned, then actually began working on the problem.
Outside the window, the first cicadas of the season buzzed among the flame trees.
It was a sound An had never paid attention to before.
But after the extra classes began, she realized that cicadas sounded different in all kinds of ways.
On a scorching afternoon, their cries sounded sharp and bright.
On a rainy afternoon, they were more scattered, as if the whole schoolyard were speaking in a whisper.
And on mild days, the cicadas called on and on, blending with the rustle of turning pages and the scratch of pens across paper.
Khang began bringing his camera to class more often. At first, An didn’t care.
Until one day, she noticed a picture of the whole class studying on the camera’s screen.
“When did you take that?”
“When the teacher turned toward the board.”
“What did you take it for?”
“To save it.”
“Save what?”
Khang stared at the screen for a moment.
“The things we’ll forget later.”
An didn’t answer.
She knew he was talking about these study sessions.
The ceiling fan rattling.
Practice papers covered in red ink.
A carton of milk someone had left on a desk.
The teacher reminding the class not to talk.
The late-afternoon sunlight slanting across the tiled floor.
Things that were perfectly ordinary.
But maybe it was precisely because they were ordinary that people only realized they missed them after they were gone.
“Delete it if you make me look bad.”
An said.
“You always look bad.”
An whipped around.
“Khang!”
He laughed and quickly raised the camera to hide his face.
“I’m kidding.”
“If you take another picture, I’m taking your camera.”
“You don’t even know how to use it.”
“Then I’ll learn.”
“Then I definitely won’t let you.”
The two of them looked at each other.
Then they both burst out laughing.
At the next desk, Mai Chi, who was working on her assignment, had to look up.
“Are you two planning to get into tenth grade or not?”
An immediately turned back around.
“Yes.” Khang replied calmly:
“We’re studying very seriously.”
Mai Chi looked at them without saying anything.
She only shook her head.
But from that day on, she started paying attention.
Khang often saved An a seat near the window.
An usually brought two pencils because she knew Khang would somehow forget one.
Some days, when An was tired, he would silently slide his water bottle over to her. Some days, when Khang forgot a formula, An would write a small note in the corner of his notebook:
“Study. Stop looking at me.”
Below it, Khang wrote back:
“I am studying.”
“Studying what?”
“How not to look at you.”
After reading it, An was silent for a few seconds before drawing a hard line through the words with her hand.
“Childish.”
Khang laughed.
But there were days when An didn’t laugh.
One afternoon at the end of May, their teacher handed the class registration forms for the entrance exam.
An held the paper for a long time.
Full name. Date of birth. School preferences. Address.
She filled in each line one by one.
Only the last box remained blank.
Khang saw it from behind her.
“You haven’t chosen a school yet?”
“Yeah.”
“Didn’t you want to go to the district school?”
An paused.
“That was before.”
“Then what about now?”
An lowered her head.
“I don’t know yet.”
Khang didn’t ask anything else.
Maybe he realized that An’s voice sounded different that day.
He only pulled his own form over and circled one of his choices with his pen.
“This school.”
An looked over.
“You’re really choosing that one?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“It’s close to home.”
“That’s all?”
Khang looked at her.
“There’s another reason.”
“What is it?”
He was silent.
After a while, he said:
“Haven’t thought of it yet.”
An didn’t know why that answer made her heart sink a little.
Outside the window, a flame blossom fell onto the sill.
It was so red it was almost dazzling.
She lowered her head to the form.
“I’ll fill it out tomorrow.”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t ask me again.”
“Yeah.”
Khang really didn’t ask again.
But from that day on, he began taking more pictures of An.
Once, while she had fallen asleep over her literature book.
Once, when she was standing in the hallway reviewing her notes before a test.
Once, when she bent down to pick up her eraser, her hair falling over nearly all of her face.
And once, when An was standing beneath the flame tree in front of Building C. The yellow ribbon was still there.
The wind had twisted it, but the words were still visible. A place I can never forget.
Khang raised his camera.
But this time, he didn’t press the shutter.
An turned around.
“Not taking a picture?”
“No.”
“That’s unusual.”
Khang lowered the camera.
“Some things are enough just to see with your own eyes.”
An stood still.
The wind stirred the ribbons on the branches.
Red, blue, white, purple, yellow.
Hundreds of unspoken things knocked against one another in the wind, making the softest sounds.
Neither of them said anything else.
Because they both knew the exam was drawing near.
After it, each of them would have a path of their own.
But that afternoon, they were still sitting in the same classroom.
Still listening to the cicadas.
Still surrounded by math problems they hadn’t finished solving.
And still carrying so many things left unsaid.
At the far end of the schoolyard, the drum rang out.
Khang slung his camera over his shoulder.
“Come on. Time for class.”
An nodded.
“Yeah.”
The two of them walked up the stairs.
Neither of them looked back.
Only the yellow ribbon remained on the branch, trembling lightly in the afternoon wind.
As if it were trying to hold on to a summer that had not yet come to an end.