PARKINSON IS LATE. IT'S twenty minutes past closing hours and he hasn’t arrived with his grumpy cute face, his bicycle and his overall Parkinson-ness. Owen reaches for his phone to call him only to remember he doesn’t have it. Swallowing a groan, Owen steps down from the parking lot and heads for the double doors. 

He begins a systematic search: checks the science labs, music room, even the workshop. He peeks into random classrooms, came upon ‘the Kitchen’(culinary workshop), got distracted by the delicious food smells before his brain clicks and tells him to check the one place Parkinson must surely be in: the library.

As he enters, sneakers scuffing the linoleum floors in a hurry, someone calls out, “Red,” but is admonished by several shushing. The someone turns out to be Shirley, vice club president of the game club Owen frequents. He waves to her and she returns it heartily before dropping on her chair, his sneakers quiet as he jogs upstairs.

From this vantage point, Owen sees the expanse of the library. The numerous bookshelves like giants compared to the students sitting by desks reading, doing homework (or pretending to), typing away on the computer, having urgent hushed arguments —none of whom are Parkinson.

He walks the length of the upstairs area, a copy of downstairs except there are more stern-faced, focused students hunched over partitioned desks, the ambiance like that of an exam hall.

Coming across a room where a door should’ve been, Owen steps in carefully, registering how small and cozy it is. Two comfortable looking egg shaped armchairs, a low triangular coffee table at the center, away from the eight single chairs, four by two large desks, three imposing bookshelves stacked to the brim behind.

In one of these single chairs close to the entrance is A Plus, Parkinson’s friend.

“Hey,” Owen says, “Fancy seeing you here.”

Oyin looks up from her array of books, “The same could be said about you.”

He walks towards her. “I thought you’ll be building an airplane or a bomb.”

“A bomb is easy to make.”

“Says the terrorist.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “I don't think you're allowed to say that to me.”

“Why?” he slides into the seat across from her, “Because you’re Black?”

“Yes.”

Owen considers this. “You can call me a mass shooter if it’ll balance it out.”    

Her serious expression smoothens into a smile. “I’m glad we’re alone.”

“Yeah,” Owen agrees in relief, “The judgemental glances…”

“Icy glares…”

“Stony silence…”

A Plus chuckles. “You’re alright.”

Owen does a mental air pump. He has been accepted by the friend. His elation is short-lived when she adds, “Even though you don’t know my name.”

This is a good time as any to learn her name. “What is it?”

“Oyin,” she says. He repeats it but she makes a face.

“Oyin,’’ he says again and she grimaces. “We’re saying the exact same thing.”

“No,” she shakes her head. “Try saying it as owing but remove the G and replace the W. Oyin. Easy.”

He attempts it again but she’s dissatisfied. 

“You’re saying yin like the Chinese yin. Add flavour.”

“What?” Oyin laughs at his confusion. “What does it mean?”

“Honey.”

“Really?” Intrigued, Owen props his elbows on the table. “What language?”

“Yoruba.”

“From where?”

Oyin cocks a brow. “You don't know your geography, do you?”

“Currently failing social studies.” Owen admits. “Speaking of, where’s Parkinson?”

“Hopefully not at home,” she replies flippantly. Noting his befuddlement, she questions. “You’re supposed to have a lesson today?”

“Yeah.”

“He didn’t cancel?”

Owen shakes his head. “He didn’t tell me. I don’t have his number, you see.”

Oyin frowns. “Still. He could’ve taken you aside. I swear, that boy has the worst bedside manner.”

“Right. Do you know how I can contact him?”

The suggestion flies over her head. Or maybe it didn’t. He recalls Jane’s judgement of their ‘valuable’ phone numbers.

Oyin flicks her wrist at her watch. “He’ll be busy right now. He’s taking an exam.”

“An exam? What for?”

“Placement test. He has changed academies.”

Owen’s eyes widens. “He’s transferring?”

“No. He changed his after-school academy. He’s writing a placement test for his courses.” She explains.

“Oh.” He nods in understanding, his loud heart calming

Conversation lulls. Oyin returns to her studying and Owen decides to do the same in companionable silence. About an hour or so, their concentration is broken when Oyin stretches and stands.

“Want something?”

Thinking she’s going to the vending machine downstairs, he reaches for his pockets but she stops him.

“It’s from the fridge over there.”

Twisting around as she leaves for the fridge, he stares in surprise at how stocked it is. He spots a sink, a coffeepot and an open cupboard of beverage cans.

Owen wouldn’t attribute this room as luxurious but it does have privileges the rest of the library doesn’t have. He idly wonders if this is an exclusive only club Oyin and Parkinson belong to. 

Jane will probably commit murder if she knows this room exists although there’s no inscription to indicate if this assumption is true. The ringing of a phone distracts him from his thoughts. It’s Oyin’s phone from someone named Min-Min.

It stops just as she comes around with a bottle of water for him, a cab of soda and a bag of salty crackers for her. Settling in her seat, she picks up the phone and calls back.

“What?” a pause. “You’ve finished? Just come to the school. Grab a taxi,” at the dramatic eyeroll, Owen recognizes it must be Parkinson at the other end of the line. “Just come to school. Yeah. To the library.”

Ending the call, she digs in. Giddy, Owen combs his hair back (it flops haphazardly anyways), straightens his clothes and adopts several poses that might make him appealing before deciding on a boring ankles crossed and his hands cupping his chin. 

When Parkinson arrives, he looks haggard — clothes rumpled, tie askew, hair ruffled with a sluggish gait. Owen raise a hand in greeting but Parkinson barely reacts, slumping beside him with an exhausted sigh. 

“You look like the undead,” Oyin jests. “A typical look for you.”

“Not in the mood for you.”

“How was it?” Oyin asks seriously. Parkinson answers with an unintelligible wave of his hand.

Oyin checks her watch. “The placement test was four hours, yeah?”

“Four hours straight?” Owen exclaims. No wonder Parkinson looks about to fall. 

Parkinson finally slides his eyes to him. Owen smiles. “What are you doing here?”

“Today’s Tuesday,” Owen reminds him.

Realisation dawns on him. “Sorry.”

“How will you make it up to me?” The question sounds like a proposition Parkinson frowns at.

“We’ll move it to Wednesday.”

“I can’t. Practice.”

 “What time do you finish?”

“Four-ish. We’ll start by six.”

Parkinson hums in agreement, then unzips his bag and passes a binder to Oyin. “Copies of the test. They’re announcing the results on their website tonight.”

Oyin flips through it. “Class A is the advanced one?”

“Hmm. That’s Mrs. Hun class.”

“I recorded today’s lessons for you. Except your German SL. You’ll have to get that yourself,” she informs, giving him back the binder.

“Thanks.” 

Observing Parkinson’s wan face, Owen goes to fetch him water and from his pocket, a chocolate bar.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, uncapping the bottle and only taking a sip from it.

“Food is what you need. Didn’t they say they provide after exam meal?” 

Tearing the chocolate open, Parkinson shrugs. “Wasn’t interested.”

It’s impolite to watch someone eating. Which is why Owen gives himself twenty seconds. It must’ve been twenty seconds too long because Parkinson misunderstands, snaps the bar in two and offers him one. Owen shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. He’s interested in the person not the chocolate but his resistance is weak, he bites into the chocolate and winks.

 Parkinson frowns. Owen grins.

“Why are you Min-Min?”

 Parkinson groans with a massive eyeroll. Oyin snickers. “I’ll tell you another time.”

Owen holds out his pinky, and they swear on it.

As their studying comes to a close, Parkinson doze off, schoolbag for a pillow. Packing up, Owen stops Oyin when she tries to wake him up.

“I’ll carry him.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. I carry Laurel all the time.”

Kneeling in from of Parkinson, Owen gently hoists him ontonhis back noting how light he is. Not surprising given his slender figure. 

“He weighs lighter than Laurel,” at Oyin’s confusion, he clarified, “My friend. Don’t tell her I said that.”

She mimes zipping her lips, picks up Parkinson’s bag and together they walk out of the school into a taxi Oyin had apparently booked twenty minutes before.

As she cheerily waves goodbye, Owen beams. He doesn’t think he’s getting ahead of himself by feeling like he has won brownie points with her. He’ll like to believe the encounter has turned into something tangible, into something he can look forward to to his next interaction with the both of them.

As the taxi fades from view, a warm feeling akin to a hot hearty meal forms in his guts, the chocolate on his tongue a swear aftertaste to a memorable afternoon.