WRONG NUMBER | NIKI

13 - Until Someone Tells You Otherwise

It's Thursday. By the time the first bell finishes echoing through the place, the entire school has transformed into something that no longer resembles a school at all. Hallways that usually smell faintly of whiteboard markers and old textbooks now carry the scent of fresh paint, cardboard, coffee beans from the temporary café booth, and the unmistakable panic of several hundred students realizing the festival opens tomorrow and absolutely nothing is finished. 

Ladders occupy every corridor. Rolls of colored fabric disappear from classrooms only to reappear hanging from ceilings three buildings away. Teachers have surrendered any illusion of maintaining order, choosing instead to navigate around students carrying oversized signs, potted plants, stage lights, and enough extension cords to power a small city.

Everywhere I look, someone is running. 

The auditorium doors remain propped open while the drama club argues passionately over lighting angles. The music club can already be heard rehearsing from two floors away, somehow managing to play three different songs simultaneously. Outside, volunteers are finishing the last rows of food stalls beneath white canopies that flutter lazily in the morning breeze, while committee members dart between booths clutching clipboards and radios with expressions usually reserved for emergency response teams.

It's chaos. Organized chaos. Somehow, against every law of probability, it's beginning to look beautiful.

"...Hana." I glance up from the inventory sheet balanced against my clipboard. 

Niki is standing several steps away beside a mountain of unopened supply boxes, one sleeve rolled carelessly to his elbow, his tie hanging considerably loose. Three days of festival preparation have left visible evidence on both of us. His hair refuses to stay neatly styled anymore, constantly falling across his forehead no matter how many times he pushes it back. There is still a faint scrape visible across the edge of his bandaged hand despite my best efforts several afternoons ago. My own blazer bears small streaks of paint that no amount of scrubbing managed to remove last night.

We're both exhausted. Oddly enough, we're also working together remarkably well.

"I counted sixty-three lanterns," He says, glancing toward the stack beside him. "Inventory sheet says sixty-four."

I frown immediately. "That's impossible."

"That's what I thought."

I walk over, kneeling beside the boxes before beginning another count myself. He waits without saying anything, arms folded loosely across his chest while I carefully separate each lantern one by one. Thirty-two. Forty-eight. Sixty...

"...Sixty-three."

The final number leaves my mouth with quiet certainty as I finish counting for the second time, lowering the last paper lantern back into the cardboard box with considerably less satisfaction than I would've liked. My eyes sweep across the stack once more as though an extra lantern might suddenly materialize out of guilt for inconveniencing me. It doesn't. The inventory sheet clipped beneath my hand insists there should be sixty-four. The boxes insist otherwise.

Niki, who has been watching my increasingly personal battle against mathematics and decorative paper lanterns from a respectful distance, hums thoughtfully beneath his breath. "Hm."

I look up slowly, narrowing my eyes at him with growing suspicion. "You already checked behind the boxes?"

His answer arrives without the slightest hesitation. "I did."

I fold my arms. "You hid one."

One dark eyebrow lifts ever so slightly. "I beg your pardon?"

"You hid one lantern just to watch me recount everything."