When Hakju called him in, he headed to the faculty room during lunch. Hakju raised a hand and beckoned him over. He hadn’t done anything wrong, so he had no idea why he’d been summoned — and that uncertainty made him a little uneasy.
“How’s student council life treating you, temporary class rep?”
“I hate it.”
Saying something that blunt to Hakju — someone most students went out of their way to avoid — was something the others couldn’t even imagine. It was only possible because Yeon Juwoo’s track record wasn’t one of bad behavior.
The last time he’d been late, Hakju had given him an earful — but underneath it, he could tell Hakju had a soft spot for Yeon Juwoo. From what Yang Inho had told him, and from looking through the texts Yeon Juwoo and Hakju had exchanged, they were close enough to trade petty little jokes back and forth. That closeness was what let him speak so candidly.
“Why?”
“You’re asking like it’s news. You knew from the start that I didn’t want to do it.”
“Of course I did. That’s exactly why I gave it to you. Who told you to be late?”
“Getting made class rep over one late arrival is a bit much, don’t you think?”
“A bit much? A disciplinary committee member — someone who’s supposed to be a model for the other students — showed up late. That warrants at least this much of a consequence.”
“But appointing a late disciplinary committee member as class rep, when the class rep is supposed to be a model for others — isn’t that a contradiction, teacher?”
“This kid never lets me have the last word. Not once.”
“Ow!”
Hakju grabbed his arm and gave it a hard pinch and twist — it hurt so much he couldn’t hold back a yelp. He watched in alarm as the skin turned red in real time, bad enough that he half-wondered if it would bruise. Hakju watched him rub his arm and smiled with insufferable satisfaction.
“The class president election — are you going to run?”
“Sorry?”
“You should be actual class president too, not just the temporary one.”
The words were so unexpected that his mind went blank. He’d planned to wash his hands of any student council business the moment the temporary position was over — but the sudden question left him momentarily at a loss for what to say.
“Why aren’t you answering? You’re not going to run?”
“Oh, I… haven’t thought about it.”
“……Why?”
Hakju asked with what looked like genuine curiosity, but if anyone should be asking questions, it was him. Whether or not he ran in the class president election was his own business — it was strange that his homeroom teacher had gone out of his way to call him to the faculty room just to ask about it.
“Why are you asking about the class president election, though?”
“Weren’t you planning on applying to university through early admissions?”
“Hmm…… I’m not sure, actually.”
“Good grief. You think you can just waltz into any university you want? Must be nice being an elite. Back in my day, that kind of attitude would’ve kept you out of college entirely.”
Hakju slapped his knee and launched into a grumbling lecture about thinking more seriously about the future. The conversation was pure stream of consciousness, and he let it go in one ear and out the other.
“So what I’m saying is, if you want to get into a good university, you need to start preparing early.”
“Yes, understood.”
“You need to manage your student record too.”
“Yes, I should.”
“Run in the class president election.”
“……Sorry?”
The stream of consciousness had found its way back around — but the conclusion was still baffling. He wasn’t even asking whether he was going to run; he’d just gone ahead and decided for him. He had no desire to even put his name on a ballot in an election where Choi Woosu was obviously going to run, and he shook his head.
“I’m not going to run.”
“Why? You said you’d manage your student record.”
“Managing my student record doesn’t necessarily mean I have to run for class president.”
“You weren’t listening to me, were you?”
“No, I was listening. I took your advice very much to heart — wisdom that will build my bones and flesh. I’m deeply grateful.”
He had a slight urge to needle him, so he bent forward and gave a very polite bow of thanks — which made Hakju grab the back of his neck and let out a strangled noise, and he hid a smirk. Well, that’s what you get for making someone do something they don’t want to do.
He had no interest in stepping into a fight he couldn’t win. In the class president election, both Choi Woosu and Lee Yura would run, and the two of them would neatly take class president and vice president. It was already the set story — an outcome that wouldn’t change no matter whether he ran or not — so when Hakju pushed him on why he wasn’t going to do it, he made up a vague excuse.
“I can pretty much see who’s going to run, and I don’t think I can beat them.”
“That attitude will keep you out of university.”
“Even with this attitude, I’ll get into a good university fine. My grades are good.”
“Well, look at this kid.”
Hakju raised his fist like he was about to give him a flick on the forehead. Getting hit by that rock of a hand would definitely leave a bruise — he instinctively threw his arm up — but fortunately Hakju lowered his hand, so he was spared.
Hakju waved him off, muttering that kids these days never listened. Pretty sure it’s you who doesn’t listen, not me — but I wonder why you can’t see that.
“Juwoo.”
“Yes?”
“Think it over. The class president election.”
The fact that he brought it up right until the very end — Yeon Juwoo must really be something special to him. He could tell he cared enough to call him in separately, but that somehow made him even less inclined to do it.
“Sir.”
“What.”
“I appreciate the words, but you really shouldn’t play favorites with your students. Especially as a homeroom teacher. We’re on the disciplinary committee, after all. Models for the student body. The disciplinary committee.”
He said it with a grin, and Hakju burst out laughing as though he’d been thoroughly outmaneuvered — enough to startle the other teachers in the room, and even himself.
“I’m saying this because I’m worried about you, you idiot. Don’t come crying to me later because you’ve got nothing to put on your student record.”
“That won’t happen, so don’t worry.”
Crying about it — he wasn’t even sure a moment would ever come when he’d seriously have to sit down and think about which university to apply to. The time he’d been given here wasn’t all that long.
On his way back to the classroom, he heard another burst of cheering. Just from the sound, he could tell Choi Woosu had scored — so he glanced briefly out the window.
He’d tuned it out before and hadn’t paid much attention, but it really did seem true that this year’s soccer club was a historically exceptional lineup. Every member’s skill level was considerable — it would’ve been a waste to have them active for just three years of high school and then disband. And even among them, the one who stood out without question was Choi Woosu.
“No wonder they couldn’t not make him captain.”
The semester had barely started and new members hadn’t even been recruited yet, but the soccer club was out practicing nearly every lunch break. And of all of them, Choi Woosu ran the most and his defense was flawless. Above all, when a goal went in, it was almost always Choi Woosu’s — that said everything about how good he was. Just the fact that he’d been made captain as a first-year, beating out upperclassmen, was proof enough of his skill.
“Waaah!!”
“Kyaaah!!”
When Choi Woosu scored, the students erupted as if it were a real match. Most of the girls cheering were members of Choi Woosu’s fan club. Good at studying, great build, athletic, and on top of all that — good-looking too. If a character like this appeared in a novel, he was certain readers would cry foul — it was practically cheating — so naturally the girls had gone and formed an entire fan club for him.
“Han Bohyeon’s pretty good too.”
Another goal went in and the students cheered, but since it wasn’t Choi Woosu’s, the noise was comparatively subdued. When Han Bohyeon scored, the teammates wearing the same color vest celebrated — but Han Bohyeon himself just gave a light high-five and kept a straight face.
Then Han Bohyeon glanced over at the bench, and — making sure no one else noticed — let a small smile cross his face before taking off running again. The others were too busy watching Choi Woosu to notice, but since he’d been watching only Han Bohyeon, he caught immediately where that smile had been directed. The one person on the bench with a thumb raised toward Han Bohyeon — Lee Yura.
Just then, a whistle blew and the game ended. The students wearing the same color vest as Choi Woosu were cheering, so their side had apparently won. Han Bohyeon’s team, in the opposite mood, were trying their best to applaud Choi Woosu’s team despite the bitter taste of losing, even if it was only practice. And then, the world froze for everyone except him and the main leads.
