The idea for a final-year class trip came up one Monday morning.
It began with a sheet of paper taped right in the middle of the class bulletin board.
“LET’S AGREE ON A FINAL-YEAR TRIP.”
Below it was a long list of destinations written in every color of ink.
The beach.
An eco-tourism park.
A stream.
Somewhere with the word “resort” in its name, which Mai Chi insisted “sounded way fancier.”
The entire class crowded around the board from the start of homeroom.
“Let’s go to the beach!”
“No, the mountains are cooler!”
“Anywhere is fine, as long as we don’t have to study!”
“That one wins!”
Laughter rang through the hallway.
Lam An stood behind the crowd, hugging her notebook to her chest with both hands.
She didn’t join the debate.
Mai Chi squeezed her way out of nowhere and grabbed her hand.
“An! You pick.”
“Anywhere is fine.”
“No, it isn’t. This is our final-year trip.”
Mai Chi emphasized the last two words as if they were a major national event.
An laughed.
“Anywhere really is fine.”
“You always say ‘anywhere is fine.’ You have no opinions at all.”
“I do.”
“Like what?”
“As long as nobody makes me sing.”
Mai Chi stared at her for two seconds.
“Then it’s settled. You’re the photographer.”
“Huh?”
“Khang’s already taking pictures.”
As she spoke, Mai Chi pointed toward the far end of the hallway.
Khang was leaning against a window, an old camera hanging against his chest.
When he heard his name, he turned around.
“You called?”
Mai Chi planted her hands on her hips.
“The class is assigning you a job.”
“What?”
“Take pictures on the trip.”
Khang glanced at An.
“Then what’s An doing?”
“Being the person who avoids the camera.”
An immediately chimed in.
“Exactly.”
Khang laughed.
“No. You have to appear in them.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
Mai Chi watched the two of them argue, then sighed.
“The trip hasn’t even started, and I’m already tired.”
In the end, after nearly two periods of debate and a loud vote, the class agreed on a resort not too far from school.
A two-day, one-night trip.
Not too long.
But long enough for the whole class to spend an evening together before the entrance exams dragged everyone back to test papers and college applications.
They chose the weekend as their departure date.
From that day on, the classroom became a little marketplace.
Some people handled the lists.
Some divided up the rooms.
Some prepared food.
Some made a list of games.
Someone even suggested bringing a speaker.
After hearing that, their homeroom teacher only asked:
“Are you going on a trip or putting on a music festival?”
The entire class fell silent.
Then Mai Chi raised her hand.
“Both?”
The teacher looked at her for a moment.
“No.”
The whole class burst out laughing.
The final year of high school had always been full of pressure, but now there was something else to look forward to.
An felt the same way.
She started counting down the days.
Not because there was anything particularly special about the trip.
But because this might be the last time she got to go somewhere with these people as a class.
One afternoon, while the class was putting together a list of things to bring, Khang sat behind An and handed her a sheet of paper.
“Here.”
An looked down.
It was a very short list.
Camera.
Spare batteries.
Jacket.
Water.
Motion-sickness medicine.
An looked up.
“You think I get carsick?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then why write it down?”
“Just in case.”
An looked at him.
“Anything else?”
Khang thought about it.
“Don’t forget a hair tie.”
“What for?”
“Sea breeze.”
An smiled faintly.
“You really prepared everything.”
“Because I’m in charge of taking pictures.”
“Then why are you worried about me?”
Khang bent down and rummaged through his bag.
“I’m not.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yeah.”
He pulled out a piece of candy and set it on An’s desk.
“Here.”
An looked at the candy.
“You’re not worried about me?”
“I can’t finish it.”
An laughed.
“Thanks.”
Khang turned back around.
“Sure.”
He said nothing more.
But the candy stayed in the corner of An’s desk until the end of class.
The day of the trip arrived sooner than anyone expected.
By six in the morning, the schoolyard was already packed.
Colorful backpacks lay at the students’ feet.
People called out to one another across the yard.
“Is everyone here?”
“We’re missing Minh!”
“Did Minh oversleep?”
“No, he’s eating banh mi!”
An stood beside the bus, holding on to her hat so the wind wouldn’t blow it away.
Mai Chi ran over.
“An!”
“What?”
“Have you seen Khang?”
An looked around.
“No.”
“He left his camera here.”
Mai Chi held up the camera.
An stared blankly.
“Where is he?”
“No idea. He was standing here a minute ago.”
Just then, a voice called out from the school gate.
“Sorry! I’m late!”
Khang came running over, his hair sticking up in every direction and a bag of banh mi still in one hand.
Mai Chi checked the time.
“If you’d been three minutes later, you could’ve stayed home.”
Khang was out of breath.
“I thought it was six thirty.”
“It’s six thirty-two.”
“That’s still pretty close.”
An couldn’t hold back her laughter.
“You really do have a unique relationship with time.”
Khang looked at her.
“At least I made it.”
An didn’t answer.
She simply took the camera from Mai Chi and handed it back to him.
“Take it.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t lose it.”
“I won’t.”
He took the camera.
The two of them boarded the bus.
An sat beside the window.
Khang sat behind her.
A little later, their homeroom teacher called Mai Chi over, leaving the seat beside An empty.
Khang noticed.
He stood up.
“Can I sit here?”
An turned around.
“Don’t you like sitting in the back?”
“It’s too loud back there today.”
An glanced toward the back.
The entire class was singing at the top of their lungs.
“Yeah, okay. Sit down.”
Khang sat beside her.
The bus started moving.
Through the window, the school gate grew smaller.
An looked at the flame tree in front of Building C.
The ribbons were still there.
Her yellow ribbon was still there, too.
The wind lifted it slightly.
Then the flame tree disappeared behind the roadside trees.
An turned her face away.
Khang said nothing.
He only quietly raised his camera.
Click.
An turned toward him.
“Did you just take a picture of me?”
“Yeah.”
“Delete it.”
“No.”
“Khang.”
“Not this time.”
An tried to snatch the camera, but he had already turned toward the window.
“You’ll thank me someday.”
“For taking a picture while I’m half-asleep?”
“Yeah.”
An laughed.
“You’re hopeless.”
Outside the window, the familiar road stretched ahead.
No one knew how many photos this trip would leave behind.
No one knew whether, after the exams, the classroom would still be full of laughter like this.
Least of all did they know that some of them would eventually go to places very far away.
But that morning, they were still sitting on the same bus.
Still listening to an old song together.
Still fighting over bags of snacks.
Still laughing over things that were nothing special.
And maybe those ordinary things were what people remembered the longest.
Khang looked at the camera screen.
The picture he had just taken appeared on it.
An was resting her head against the window, morning sunlight laying a thin streak across her hair.
He looked at it for a few seconds, then saved it.
The file name had been generated automatically.
IMG_0427.
Khang renamed it.
“Final Year.”
Then he turned off the screen.
He didn’t let An see.