OWEN TAKES A DEEP breath. Inhales bravery, exhales procrastination. 

“I’m doing it,” he blurts out, eyes fixed on Parkinson and Oyin across the yard.

“Doing what, farting? I swear, Red, if you—”

“No, no that.” He cuts Laurel off. Not bothering to explain, he marches over to their lunch table and without invitation, straddles their bench as he sits.

“Want to come to our table? Parkinson? Oyin?” he smiles at her. “I know your name now.”

“Still saying it wrong.” She points out.

Owen is undeterred. He’s unstoppable. He’s brave. “We have a shade. Isn’t the sun here too harsh? What do you say? Parkinson?”

“N—”

“Sure,” Oyin interjects, surprising both boys. Parkinson eyes her as if planning to suffocate her. 

“Why not? They have a shade.”

“That’s what convinced you?” in a tone that could’ve been this traitorous bitch or something along that line.

“Yes. Chocolates melt too.”

Parkinson mutters something Owen doesn’t understand. Oyin responds by flipping him the bird, packs up her lunch and in time they follow him over. 

Even as Kass makes room for them and Owen finds himself sitting next to Andy at the edge of the bench wishing he could switch places with Oyin so he can be closert to Parkinson, he thinks his success as surreal. He pinches himself, it hurts and he smiles like a loon.

Composing himself, he begins the introductions. “Guys, Parkinson and Oyin. You two, Kass, Jane, Andy, Noah and that bitch over there,” he points at Laurel who throws a carrot at him. He dives for it but miss.

Everyone murmurs their names, the atmosphere reeking of first meeting awkwardness.

“On your behalf,” Owen says to Oyin, “I think I hear it now.”

“Hear what?” Laurel asks.

“The flavorless name.” Owen answers with a grin.

Oyin laughs, while the others looks on confused.

“What does that mean?” Laurel questions.

“Nothing,” Owen shrugs. “That’s just something only terrorists and mass shooters will know.”

Oyin wags her spoon at him playfully with a smile on.

Andy’s attention is drawn to Parkinson’s lunch box. “What's that?”

The lunch box is a typical Japanese style, he believes the kind he sees in anime except with six square spaces, various type of food he can’t begin to guess half eaten. Except rice. That much is obvious. And maybe some kind of meat? It’s super red thus super spicy. And a kind of white soup. 

Owen doesn’t expect Parkinson to start labelling the food and he turns out to be right. Andy is pointing at something yellow and long to which Parkinson wordlessly place a piece on his outstretched palm. Andy takes a bite, nods appreciatively with a thumbs up.

“It’s really good. Egg?”

“Yes. Rolled omelette.”

Owen gestures at himself hoping to be fed but Parkinson miss the plot and starts to slide over the box, he clarified by bowing his head and points at his mouth but Parkinson simply eats the food. Owen chuckles in defeat.

Laurel turns her attention to Oyin. “I love your hair,” she admires, then quickly adds, “Am I allowed to say that?”

“Yes.”

“It’s so big and full…” Laurel continues, then hesitates. “Am I allowed to say that?”

“Yes,” Oyin repeats, amused.

Laurel goes silent. Owen catches a curious flash in her eyes. Oyin notices it too and cocks her head.

“You want to ask to touch it,” Oyin states matter-of-factly.

Caught off guard, Laurel blusters. “Can I? Ask?”

“Sure you can.”

“Can I touch it?” Laurel rushes in a breath, her voice small but confident.

Oyin considers. “Maybe if we become close. I might need a girl’s touch.”

“Finally. Another victim to your beatings.” Parkinson deadpans.

“You, hush,” Oyin retorts. “She’ll be gentle. She won't comb my hair as if trying to uproot a tree.”

“That’s because you’re a horrible teacher. A monster really.”

Oyin lunges for his throat playfully. He ducks nearly falling off the bench, but Owen’s leaps, catching him by the shoulders.

“Careful,” Owen says softly.

“Thanks.” Park says, their eyes meeting briefly.

Owen counts to three before reluctantly letting go of his shoulder. As Parkinson adjusts in his seat, Owen allows himself five seconds to stare, the loony smile painting up his face. He’s so full of happiness to be here with Parkinson, to gaze at the boy he has been crushing on for so long.

Kass breaks his solo moment “How long have the two of you been friends?”

“Nine years,” the duo answers in unison.

Andy whistles. “That’s long.”

He loops his hand around Owen’s shoulder. “Me and big guy for years and years and years.” Then Andy drops his head dramatically. “It’s only three years.”

Owen flings an arm over Andy’s shoulder. “There be many more, mate."

“Red and I, I think eight years,” Laurel chimes in. “I hate that I’m stuck with the fucker, but that’s friendship, I guess.”

“For a hag, you hold yourself in high regard,” Owen shoots back with a grin.

Throwing pieces of grapes in his mouth, Noah asks admits chewing. “How do you two manage to stay friends? With the whole competing thing?”

“A little bit of competition is good for everyone.” Oyin vaguely explains. 

“It’s more than a little though,” Jane, who has been quiet until now, pipes up from Noah’s end. “Every semester, every homework, projects, even P.E., you two compete in everything. I don’t think that’s healthy.”

Owen glance at a blank faced Parkinson focusing pretty focused on eating.

“Jane,” Noah chides gently. “Just because something won’t work for you doesn’t mean it’s wrong.”

“I didn’t say it’s wrong,” Jane defends, “I said it is unhealthy.”

Swallowing, Parkinson speaks up. “You’ve never wanted to do great? To be the best? Everyone here goes to WJP. The best is only accepted here.” He cocks an eyebrow at her. “I mean, more power to you if you want to play—”

“I never said that,” Jane cuts him off, ire in her voice. “Friendship should be friendship.”

“If we can be competitors without clawing each other’s throats out, that has made, will make, and makes our friendship stronger.” Oyin wins the closing argument. No one argues with her logic.

Kass waves her hand at them. “Who’ll be valedictorian then?”

“That’ll be me,” Oyin puffs her chest like a peacock.

“Just like that? You’ve decided amongst yourselves?”

“That's easy,” Parkinson interjects. “I won’t be here.”

Owen feels as if someone has dumped cold water on him. He removes his arm from around bracing himself for bad news. Parkinson’s face gives absolutely nothing away as if whatever reason is as irrelevant as a mop in a flood.

Oyin continues in a bored peacocking voice. “There’ll be no one good enough to beat me. Tragic really.”

Owen angles forward, cursing the table separating them. “What do you mean you won’t be here? Are you traveling?”

“He’s going back home,” Oyin explains, as Parkinson is otherwise occupied, chewing. “To Korea.”

One of his ears has to be deaf. Relief washes over him that Parkinson isn’t dying or terminally ill but a new worry takes its place. 

“To South Korea?” throat tight, voice pinched, he manages to ask, “When?” 

Oyin doesn’t take over this time. The table waits patiently for him to chew and swallow, Owen’s left leg bouncing in impatience.

Lifting dark eyes to his, Parkinson answers. “Next year. February’s end.”

Owen is sucker punched, kicked and thrown overboard. He sucks in a deep, harrowing breath, dazed, sad, mentally cursing like a sailor. He has about five months to get to know Parkinson better, to be his friend, to maybe even tell him how he feels.

Laurel pins him with a pitiful look, a scowl-pout on her face. He shakes his head slowly, hangs it and shuts his eyes. The table hears the revelation and moves on.

They don’t digest it, spin it around in their heads, wince as it pricks and inflames in their guts.The finality of his tone bears down on Owen like a sack of rocks. Parkinson is leaving. For good.