OWEN ACKNOWLEDGES the greeting with a nod, most of his attention on Parkinson walking fast ahead of him, the crowds of students bustling in the hallway barely an obstacle.

He replies to a few greetings, hastily returns a fist bump, a down high five and curses his luck when he jostles a Freshman and she goes landing on her bum.

Remembering his manners, Owen helps her up, gives her an apologetic smile and gentlemanly ignores her blush of embarrassment. Tapping her on the shoulder, he vocally apologies and jogs up to Parkinson before he loses him.

“Give me your number,” Owen blurts as he falls in step with Parkinson. 

Parkinson’s eyebrow shoots up. “What?”

A sheepish smile on his face, he fumbles for his phone and holds it up. “I don’t have it.”

“So?”

“I’ll give you mine and—”

“We don’t need to exchange numbers.”

Owen’s smile falters. “But what if we need to discuss, you know, tutoring things? We need numbers for that.”

“If we can’t discuss ‘tutoring things’ face-to-face, there’s no point of—”

Owen cuts him off. “How do you communicate with your friends?”

“We’re not friends.” Parkinson flatly objects.

“Ouch,” Owen winces, his smile completely gone. 

“I’m your tutor. I don’t give out my number to the students I tutor.”

“Why?” That doesn’t sound right, does it? What if his question is dire or something.

“If you need something, I’m sure it can wait.”

“But I—” Owen starts but Parkinson speed-walks, leaving him alone in the hallway. 

He stands there flabbergasted. In hindsight, he realize he must’ve come across as demanding. Pouting, he makes his way to the classroom, seeing his desk mate Jane, a basketball cheerleader with perfectly styled black hair, hair pinned to the side with a sort of fancy cloth pin.

She waves him over. “Hey, Red. We have a new kid.”

“Really? Where?” 

“Three o’clock. The boy with the dandruff blonde hair.”

He slouches in his seat, legs spread apart. “Hey, now. That’s not nice.”

Jane shrugs. “What? Everyone should know how to take care of themselves past a certain age. Look at mine. Even yours."

“Thanks, Jane,” he mumbles, self-consciously patting down his wild locks.

“You’re welcome,” she chirps, oblivious to his discomfort. “His uniform is rumpled too. My God, he’s an easy target.”

Owen shrugs, uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. “Maybe he’s too busy to iron,” Or the lights are off in his house, he thinks to himself.

“It’s so obvious he’s a scholarship kid.”

Owen shifts in his seat, upset that the school’s alphabetical seating arrangement is the only reason he sits next to Jane in all the classes they have together. 

“You’re a scholarship kid too,” he points out.

Tossing her hair, Jane smacks her lips. “I’m different. He’s poor. I’m talented. He probably has a part-time job. You know part-time jobs are strictly forbidden, right?”

Owen knows all too well. It’s a dumb rule he finds particularly frustrating. Scholarship kid or not, no one’s allowed. If he could, he’ll be helping out at home. 

The PA system crackles, the Principal’s voice fills the room as she announces the participants for the upcoming Math and Science Winter Marathon.

Jane scoffs. “If A Plus and Parkinson aren’t going, the school will fail and hell will freeze. Not that they’ll ever pass the opportunity. I can’t wait to be televised again. I look good on TV.”

Owen thinks she’ll look better with her mouth shut but he swallows down that ill-mannered thought.

“They don’t accept money, do you know that?” 

Owen is too polite for his own good. “Who?”

“Parkinson and A-plus,” Jane confirms. “I offered them money but they wouldn’t accept,” she turns to him, her eyes gleaming with gossip. “It’s for their integrity, out of the ‘goodness of their hearts’,” she air-quotes with an eye roll. “Please. You mean to rack up points for college applications. And I hear…”

The teacher walks in and Jane leans in closer, lowering her voice. “I hear that next year, their slots will turn premium.”

Owen is hella confused. “What do you mean?”

She elaborates. “Individually, they have three main slots right now. They had five freshman year but it reduced last year. And next year, it’ll be just one.”

This is the first time he’s hearing such a thing. He does recall Ms. Sterling and Parkinson talk about slots but not like this.

“Oh, really?”

“Do you know how many students will kill to be tutored by the two smartest punks in the whole school?

“Not only that, but supposedly, they have someone at Duke and Harvard that’ll write them recommendation letters.”

Owen scoffs in disbelief. “Isn’t that far-fetched?”

“They're connected. Trust me. They don’t let anyone in their charmed circle.”

“You talk as if they're royalty.”

Jane nods. “I hear Miss A-plus is. You know, in Africa.”

“Ah,” Owen exclaims, unsure of how to respond.

“Do you know who Killian is?” Jane asks suddenly.

“Who?”

“Exactly. Killian did something that upset Parkinson and he transferred out two days after a visit from Parkinson’s parents. Royalty, I tell you.”

Owen hesitates then decided to try his luck once more, “Do you have their number?”

Jane eyes him as if he’d grown a second head. “Do you have the President’s number?”

“Noted.”

“You don’t—”

“Red. Ms. Rolland,” the tea her calls out from the front of the class, “Anything you want to share with the class?”

Several heads swivel their way. He and Jane peel away from each other and straightens. “No, Mrs. Thompson.”

Disappointed by the lack of drama, the heads face the board. As the teacher continues the lesson, Owen dutifully listens, some part of his mind puzzling over the mystery of Parkinson and by extension, his friend. 

More so than ever. If Jane’s gossip about the coveted slots is true, he’s extremely grateful Ms. Sterling persuaded Parkinson to tutor him. Chocolates isn’t enough. A gift basket will do the trick.