As the noise of students leaving school rose from the playground, I was suddenly reminded of the first time I met Samantha in my sophomore year of high school. It, too, was because of a fight.
I had punched my deskmate for calling me a bastard. She had beaten up the PE rep for calling her a jinx.
Two stubborn people who refused to admit fault—and had no parents to call—were made to stand together beneath the flagpole, on display before the entire school.
Amid the principal's scolding, she noticed the cotton stuffed into my bleeding nose and the cut on my index finger from shattered glass.
Her dark eyes narrowed. "You lost the fight?"
I raised a brow. "I skipped breakfast this morning. Next time, I'll beat him until he begs."
She paused, then said lightly, "Next time you fight, come find me. I'll make sure you win."
Thomas lifted his hand.
"Hold on. You fought because your deskmate ran his mouth. Why did she fight?"
I rubbed the scar on my finger, my gaze sliding down past the word Mother—
—Grandmother.
"She lost her father when she was little. Her grandparents died in elementary school. In middle school, her mother fell ill. Her tuition was scraped together by relatives and neighbors. Her classmates all say she's a jinx."
Thomas stared, stunned, then sighed after a long moment.
"Two unlucky kids, finding each other."
I pressed my lips together.
In truth, after we got into a top university, the two of us became three.
A good friend I hadn't seen in years turned out to be at the same university. He ran toward me excitedly and accidentally knocked over Samantha's cup. The milk tea she had made for me splashed all over both of them.
Afraid their first impressions of each other would be ruined, I hurried to introduce them.
"This is my girlfriend, Samantha.
"Samantha, this is my best friend from the orphanage—Zane."
…
My relationship with Samantha was never what you'd call romantic.
In high school, we went to class during the day and skipped evening study sessions at night to hand out flyers, earning money for the next day's meals.
When the flyers were gone, we curled up together in the corridor outside her mother's hospital ward, using the hospital lights to tutor each other.
I was bad at math and good at French. She was the opposite.
So as not to disturb the other patients, we could only write what we wanted to say on scraps of paper.
Over three years of high school, we filled five whole notebooks with notes. Our SAT scores were exactly the same.
On the day we checked the results, her mother couldn't eat a thing. I fed her spoonfuls of porridge, and she gripped my fingers, her eyes reddening.
"Adam… if you and Samantha can't get into the same university, will you still come see me?
"It's fine if you fall in love with another girl in the future. Just come back and be my son, all right?
"Adam… I really can't bear to let you go."
When Samantha came in with sun-dried clothes in her arms and saw us crying together, she sighed helplessly.
"Worst case, we do long distance. Once we graduate, we'll get married right away. Anyway, we're meant to stay together for life."
Later, when we entered university, I moved out of the orphanage, and her mother was discharged from the hospital.
She could no longer bring herself to accept help from relatives and neighbors, so the two of us applied for student loans together.
University gave us more time to work. I took two jobs. She took three.
We were in different departments, so most days we only saw each other late at night, walking back to the dorms after work, leaning close and talking about our hopes for the future.
We made a pact: in our junior year, we'd compete for funded exchange-student spots; in senior year, we'd go to Abrerica together. Then, after graduation, we would get married.
For that future full of promise, we studied harder, worked harder, and saved every cent we could.
