Vietnam, 1996.
Back in high school, I had a friend named Nguyen Phong Khuyet. A mischievous soul, wild as a ghost freshly released during the Hungry Ghost Festival, yet of all the people I knew save a few tight-knit girlfriends he was the one I was closest to.
In class, he spoke to no one but me. His companions hailed from other classes, or from outside the school gates altogether. I often caught glimpses of him roaming the streets or meandering through crowded markets, a kite in one hand, a blade or two of reed grass in the other, as if he belonged to the wind more than to any place.
Phong Khuyet was strikingly handsome. His thick hair fell like drifting clouds, one rebellious strand often veiling an eye. On rainy days, he'd trail after his band of "foreign" friends around the courtyard, and by the time he stepped into class, his hair would be drenched, slicked back like a tragic hero from some old film.
I was always the one to comb his hair. I'd part his bangs while he held up a notebook to blot the rain. And just like that, his familiar, handsome face would reappear. Because of him–and only him–a comb lived permanently in my school bag.
If I had to define his beauty, I'd call it untamed–the kind that made you think of a lion with a glorious mane. Except this lion walked alone, never part of a pack.
He was brilliant at math and physics, utterly lost in literature and English. For essay questions, he'd write anything just to be done with it. And as for English–let's just say the alphabet feared him. He once told me he'd never won a single award in school, thanks to those two subjects alone.
We were opposites. I excelled in literature, and though I wasn't fluent in English, I at least didn't slaughter it the way he did. In contrast, math and physics felt like foreign beasts to me–every formula a cryptic spell.
Oh, those quadratic equations. That wretched Ohm's Law. Every time I walked into those classes, my head spun and my soul begged to pack up and flee. Yet the teacher droned on like a never-ending broadcast.
To survive, Phong Khuyet and I had a silent pact. On social studies exam days, I studied for the both of us. On science exam days, the duty was his.
I stayed up writing two essays–one for me, one for him–chanting moral education answers as if reciting prayers. I thought he'd match my devotion. But on math exam day, I walked into the room to find him casually perched, one leg draped over the other, twirling a green star fruit in his hand. Relaxed to the point of infuriating.
Panicked, I asked: "Did you study? I'll carry you later if not."
He didn't even flinch: "Math doesn't require studying," he replied coolly: "Just requires your brain to click into the right formula."
I very nearly launched that star fruit straight at his smug face.
During the test, we sat shoulder to shoulder–no space between us. He scribbled like the wind, formulas pouring out of him. When he flipped to the next page, I nudged his hand and whispered, "Let me copy."
He paused. Then simply sat still, watching me as I copied.
His handwriting, I swear, could shake the heavens. A chaotic tangle of lines and loops–I could only decipher the underlined fractions. Everything else was ancient Sanskrit.
The poor teacher must've unlocked their third eye every time they graded his papers.
So I had to ask–again and again–"What's this? Are we translating hieroglyphs now? Your handwriting is trash, and you're no better."
He'd glare but still point out every number, reading them aloud with the patience of a math tutor in hell.
Thanks to that unholy teamwork, I got awards every year. He, on the other hand, hovered at "advanced" level, forever trapped in mediocrity.
It wasn't my fault. He copied without heart. Skipped key ideas to spare his wrist, not realizing those were the main points. His half-effort brought him half-scores.
I once even pre-wrote an essay just for him, begged him to memorize it. But he didn't. On test day, he peeked at my paper and tried to recreate it from scratch.
Still, he never complained. He said he'd rather preserve his energy to "enlighten Newton."
His brain was a marvel, but his friends? Rude, careless boys who fancied themselves heartbreakers and saw girls as conquests. At least three times a week, over ten upperclassmen would swagger into our class, surround his desk, shout like banshees, some even sitting on desks as if they were thrones.
It was chaos. I couldn't stand it. I would gather my girls–Thao, Dam, and Nhung–and flee. I refused to be mocked or ogled by his rowdy circle.
I spent most of my time with them. Only in class did I talk to Phong Khuyet. My friends didn't understand why I bothered. "How can you be close to someone that useless?" they asked.
And I couldn't explain it either. I was tired of him, yes–but never ready to lose him.
One day, the bell rang. I walked in and saw him bidding farewell to his boisterous crew. I waited until they disappeared, then quietly took my seat, arms crossed in silent protest.
Still laughing, he turned to me: "What's first period, Nga?"
"History." I replied frostily.
I ignored him all class. The teacher called on him–I didn't even help. Let him be scolded.
Of course, he sensed the fire I was radiating. The more he brought his gang around, the colder I grew.
He could withstand the chill for a day or two, but by the third, restlessness won. After school, he always found me. Always say: "I'm sorry", he'd say, blunt but honest: "If you don't like it, I won't do it again."
I'd heard it so many times the words lost meaning. He always said it. Never meant it. The next day, they'd be back, loud and alive, and I'd blame him. He'd say rejecting them would hurt their feelings.
I didn't believe him anymore. I walked past.
But Phong Khuyet chased after me. Grabbed my wrist. That one hidden eye glowing with something raw, something real: "Really, Tuyet Nga... I'm sorry."
There was such unguarded truth in his face, I couldn't stay mad. He was never this earnest. So again–I forgave him.
Again.
I told him which of his friends I could tolerate, which ones I couldn't. He nodded, face serious, though I never knew if he truly listened.
My father once said: If a man is stubborn, if he's headstrong–then good luck trying to change the pack he runs with.