WRONG NUMBER | NIKI

8 - Borrowed Opinions

The final bell scatters students across school like leaves caught in a sudden gust of wind. Classroom doors swing open one after another, conversations bloom instantly in every corridor, and within minutes the orderly rhythm of lessons dissolves into the noisy freedom of the afternoon. 

I linger just long enough to rearrange the notebooks in my bag for no reason whatsoever except delaying the inevitable. Festival preparations. East courtyard. Nishimura Riki. The three thoughts line themselves up with remarkable efficiency, each one somehow making the next feel significantly less appealing than the last. By the time I finally step into the hallway, I've convinced myself that perhaps if I walk slowly enough, someone else will have already finished all the work before I arrive.

The fantasy survives exactly until I reach the central courtyard.

They're impossible to miss. A loose circle of boys occupies the stone steps leading toward the gymnasium, their laughter carrying easily across the open space, unconcerned with who might hear it. Even from a distance, they possess the effortless confidence of people who've never once worried whether they belonged somewhere. One of them is balanced on the railing despite the fact that every teacher in the building has probably told him not to a hundred different times. Another is absently spinning a motorcycle key around one finger. 

They look like the kind of group mothers instinctively distrust and teachers permanently keep an eye on, their blazers untucked, ties hanging loose, expressions carrying that familiar brand of trouble that somehow always seems more amused than malicious. 

And standing among them, leaning against the low brick wall with both hands buried comfortably inside his pockets, is Niki. He's listening to something one of them is saying, head tilted back just enough that sunlight catches the curve of his smile, and for a moment he looks so completely at ease that it's difficult to reconcile him with the same boy who spent half of yesterday arguing with me over a phone number.

Then one of the boys claps him hard across the shoulder, another says something that makes the entire group laugh, and whatever hesitation I'd been carrying quietly evaporates. I don't know them. I don't want to know them. I especially don't want anyone deciding I've suddenly become associated with the group half the school whispers about whenever they pass through the hallways. 

Without thinking twice, I lower my gaze, turn before anyone has the opportunity to notice me, and take the longer path toward the east courtyard instead. Let him finish whatever conversation he's having. We are partners for the festival. Nothing more. We don't need to arrive together.

The recreational courtyard is almost peaceful without the festival crowds it will soon have to contain. Stacks of folded tables wait beneath a temporary canopy, cardboard boxes labeled with booth numbers are piled beside the storage room, and brightly colored banners still rolled into long cylinders lean against the wall like sleeping giants waiting to be unfurled. Someone has already delivered crates filled with extension cables, folding chairs, plastic signs, and enough tape to repair every broken object in the school twice over. 

I set my backpack beside the nearest table, pull the inventory sheet from my folder, and immediately lose myself in the familiar comfort of organization. Count the tables. Check the labels. Match the numbers. Make a list. There is something wonderfully uncomplicated about paperwork. Paper doesn't tease you. Paper doesn't ask uncomfortable questions. Paper certainly doesn't spend the previous evening dissecting your personality over the phone.

Nearly twenty minutes pass before I realize I've managed to carry almost half the inventory by myself. I crouch beside one of the larger boxes, reading the label printed across the side. PHOTO WALL MATERIALS. Perfect.