[Vanilla]

"Hey um, is there a White in here?" Everyone stared. "I'm a student assistant from the, uh, administration office and someone's on the line, looking for Vanilla White. Apparently. It's about the campus accommodation he's applying for."

I wasn't necessarily a fan of my first name, well, no surprises there. And the fact that an incompetent fool named student-assistant-from-the-administration-office had announced it to the entire room without my consent honestly put me off. Yet, it wasn't quite enough to justify a lecture or filing a petty complaint; I was better than that.

The solution was simple: direct everyone's attention elsewhere and act perfectly confused. "White would be me. Unfortunately, you must be mistaken—I haven't applied for campus accommodation, so. You might want to give the name a check."

Already, I could tell that all eyes had turned to me. The least I could do to save myself from embarrassment was fixing my eyes on the student assistant, who proceeded to qualify Vanilla White as 'the nephew of Alfred Dempsey.'

By this point, I was clearing my throat in an all-too-obvious manner. "I appreciate your attempt to make things clear but, um. Could you, maybe, wait outside?"

"Sure," he piped, sounding perfectly clueless and unaware of the destruction he'd caused in a matter of seconds. Just how much he'd intended to reveal the private lives of anyone who had business with the office to not one, not two, but a room of journalists—I was both speechless and stunned.

The sound of gears turning in their heads moments before I'd left the room most certainly confirmed the piecing together of a headline story along the ridiculous lines of 'Boy Who Almost Bites Off His Tongue Gets Special Treatment By School's Rank No.3, Turns Out To Be Nephew of Alfred Dempsey.' Long, and terrifying.

Excusing myself and following the student assistant out into the hallway, I confronted him with crossed arms. "There are better ways of singling out someone you're looking for. You knew I was in that room."

"They said you'd be here after checking the system, so," the boy who had two badges pinned to the collar of his blazer shrugged it off. "As long as I find the right person."

He left me even more speechless than before, reduced to a nodding head that obliged to be taken to the administrative office without a clue as to why I was being called in the first place. Shown to the building which I proceeded to enter with tentative steps, I was told to wait at the reception counter, where a staff member was speaking to someone else on the phone.

Without warning, she slid a document attached to a clipboard across the counter and handed me a pen. 'Sign it,' she mouthed.

Obviously, I wasn't going to—a single glance at the thick paragraphs of extremely tedious wording made this out to some sort of contract. Naturally, I hadn't been doing or registering myself for anything that required such officiality and this was further confirmed by the heading of the document. 'Rules and Conditions of Exception Lodging Application & Testing.'

"Excuse me," I slid it back towards her. "I'm not quite sure why I need to sign this."

The staff behind the reception counter held up a hand before placing it over the receiver. "Your uncle called, dear. I'm already settling your online procedures. Would you like to speak to him?"

I nearly panicked. "Well—yes. Sure. I... okay." She smiled, handing over the receiver and returning to her computer of excel sheets and soft-copy documents.

There was nothing I could think of doing except shake my uncle by his shoulders. "Uncle Al! Please tell me you didn't do this without my permission."

"The person who almost had his tongue in pieces should not be speaking," was all I received in return, bracing myself for more. "I figured it was for the best. Either way, I hope you've read the terms and conditions. Fairly straightforward. Oh, and make sure you don't irritate that wound anytime near the date of the test. No spicy foods, is that clear?"

"But Uncle Al," I protested in a whisper, cupping my hand around the receiver. "I haven't agreed to—I never said anything about staying on campus. And, yes I've read the document but it doesn't change the fact that I know nothing about what this... this 'One Inch Cube Taste Test' thing is all about. Also, I'm completely fine on my own. It wasn't anything serious, really!"

On the other end were voices in the background and the sound of a fax machine cutting through conversations. It gave me the impression that I'd called at the wrong time; perhaps in the middle of my uncle's day of work or hours before his deadline. Behind the reception, the staff who had been preparing my application matters readied several other documents that had to be signed.

"Vanille," it was the tone of voice that his uncle used whenever he was against his nephew's decisions. "I can't even trust you to take care of yourself for a week! How do you expect me to feel at ease with what happened? Either way, I've already discussed this with your Aunt and godfather before making the call. They, too, are of the same opinion."

It wasn't so much that I couldn't believe both Miss Julie and Chip shared Uncle Al's opinion but more of the fact that so much had already escalated without my knowledge or consent. Fiddling with the papers, I scanned through paragraphs of incomprehensible rules (no additional eating during the test when taste-testing the food) before handing it back to the administrator, shaking my head.

"But Uncle Al... you could have called me. Or at least said something about wanting me to be, I don't know, extra-careful next time. We could have discussed this! I don't want to take some... test with an incredibly long name and fifty-six cubes to taste," I made up for an excuse, hoping he'd buy it. Naturally, he didn't.

"You are in no position to complain, Vanille," came his voice from the other end, now slightly lowered. "Have you ever considered my feelings? How do you expect me not to do anything when you've been reduced to... to such a state on your very first day of school! Besides, the test, well—it's not that hard and honestly a breeze to take."

I paused. "Please don't tell me you took it when you were my age."

"That would be correct," my uncle responded without a streak of hesitation, seemingly proud of this reveal. "And failed, to say the very least."

What! "But you said it was a breeze!" This, I'd accidentally let slip in the most embarrassing voice, causing the receptionist to look up from the screen of her computer and flash a reassuring smile. I returned this with one of my own, albeit a little wonky and possibly in pieces.

"I meant that it was a breeze to take, not a breeze to score, Vanille," was all Uncle Al had to say, as though he'd thought this fairly obvious. "Why would the school make it so easy for first-years to receive special treatment? Not a chance."

Given the circumstances and the sheer escalation of matters, I decided to take things into my own hands by giving my godfather a call. Having made up my mind in a matter of seconds, I handed the receiver back to the staff, giving her a nod of thanks before whipping out my phone and scrolling through my contacts. Not that I had many in the first place.

Oddly enough, it took him an unusually long time to pick up. When the call finally got through however, the first thing I seemed to hear was a suspicious ruffling of bedsheets.

Naturally, I was concerned. "Mr. Cho—I, um. Chip?" I could have possibly woken him up. The time difference, after all... and my godfather seemed like the kind of person to sleep at ten in the evening since his mornings at the bakery were exceptionally early.

"A—Vanilla!" I could hear his voice after a moment's pause, accompanied by the characteristic terrifying quality of overseas calls. "I've been waiting for you to call since forever. I was worried I'd—! I'd call you while you were in class since I didn't know when you were done either so I was thinking of calling you over the weekends but but I heard about your fall from Alfred a-and... Xan—"

Admittedly, the quality of the call seemed to diminish by the second. Before long, Chip sounded like he was a good distance away from the phone and there was nothing I could do that would make him a tad bit clearer.

"Oh no. Um, I don't think I can hear you very well. Would texting be better? I'm so sorry I haven't called you in a while, and, I mean, I must have interrupted your sleep too... I'm sorry for making you worry." I said after moments of waiting for the background noises to disappear, since they didn't.

"Yes, you interrupted our sleep. Talk another time," came another voice from the other side of the receiver which sounded, for some reason, unusually clear. As always, Chip's husband was harshly blunt and coming from someone like myself, that made the entire statement twice as heavy.

"No! Xan, stop that, I—a... wait Vanilla," my godfather somehow made it to the phone, which I assumed had been confiscated by Mr. Handso... um. Xander. "Please take care! I hope you've seen the doctor at least twice, have you? I can't imagine how painful it must have felt. We were really worried, and I do, sort of, think that having more people around you would make things easier. I-I mean! What if something went wrong and you had no one to rely on? Not that, um, I wish for that to happen. I just think that it's a good 'just-in-case', you know? We're all very worried about you."

Turning to the documents spread out over the counter (at least five that required my signature), I found it particularly hard to digest the magical phrase 'we were worried' that Chip had repeated twice in the span of several seconds. Well, of course they'd be. I mean, they were all I really had.

=================

Despite having agreed to take the test on Monday, I had in no way decided to prepare myself for it. With the first week of school coming to an end and a whole stack of assignments awaiting completion (assignments on the first week of school, yes), I hadn't expected my classmates to suggest meeting over the weekends at some non-compulsory freshman welcome tea in school. The entire thing sounded to me like the most boring social event I'd ever have to attend. Not that I was often invited to any in the first place.

Either way, it wasn't compulsory. That itself would have made several people forget about attending the event in the first place. Me, being the most unsociable social creature to ever exist, was one of them. Did I just say that? Better revise that book of Grammar rules in the third box on the second shelf.

I ended up rushing through every preliminary research paper and revision worksheets that very morning before heading to school and arriving at two in the afternoon—only because Si Yin had, every ten minutes since ten o'lock in the morning, sent me a text asking if I was in school just yet.

Admittedly, I couldn't quite understand the purpose of hosting a welcome tea for freshmen when a week later, we'd be attending a compulsory orientation camp either way. Not to mention, students were streamed at the end of every year into different classes, which meant that in every year of our study here (which was four, to be precise), we'd have to attend one camp each. Four in total.

I'd raised this to Si Yin at the school gate upon arrival, to which she casually responded by saying it was all very normal for schools back home.

"My middle school had one every year," she said. "And my friend studying in Singapore said her high school does all that too."

Stunned nevertheless, the prospect of familiarising myself with people I did not necessarily need to know was daunting. True enough, that category itself felt impossibly vague and only served to further my fear of expanding my non-existent social circle but it was part of me all the same.

"Class 1A, White," I'd told one of the receptionists at the makeshift registration counter set up outside the school's function hall. In a matter of seconds, I was handed a personalized name tag attached to a professional-looking lanyard.

"You're at table 12. It's where all your fellow critics are—both seniors and other first-years, so. Hang around and make some new friends," she said before directing to me an usher. Make new friends? I watched as Si Yin waved her name tag in the air and gestured to a table on the other side of the room. I paused, waving in return before following the usher.

"Get as many contacts as you can," he started advising all of sudden. "Having seniors who can advise you on the courses you might want to clear first or whatever's easy to score in is like, the best way to get around here. Always good to know who you should be looking out for too. Critics and journalists get crazy power when they're recognized."

I stared, nodding absentmindedly.

Without warning, I was thrown into table 12 with a brief introduction of 'White from 1A' before being left completely alone to fend for myself. I raised a hand to wave.

"Welcome," said a bespectacled senior who approached with a glass of fruit punch, handing it to me with a smile. "Lee Jungwoo, fourth year. Vice-captain of the equestrian club." He extended a hand. I shook it.

"Ah, the equestrian club," was all I managed to say. "I'm White. Um, well I haven't quite participated in school activities but for now, I'm part of the school's press."

Lee nodded. "I see. You look very familiar," he pointed out, eyes narrowing behind his glasses. "Aren't you that first year? During the showcase. Cox had you taken to the infirmary, didn't he?"

At once, I felt an embarrassing heat rise to the top of my head, spreading to the tips of my ears. "I... well. Yes, I am." How does everyone seem to know all this?

"Your hair is unbelievably pale. It's very pretty," he said as an offhanded remark, which didn't quite help the heat on my cheeks. I thanked him stiffly, not knowing what else to say. "Oh, and excuse me for the sudden curiosity, but I heard you're applying to stay on campus. Is that true?"

This had me reduced to a mush of panic peas. "I don't understand. How does everyone in school know about someone else's private matters within a matter of hours? This doesn't make any sense."

"Oh no no," Lee was quick to reassure, holding out a plate of choux creams in an attempt to calm me down. I refused to be bought over. "It's an important matter. Most first-years who apply for accommodation are either exceptionally good in their culinary skills or, you know, have connections to the industry. No one has ever dared to take the one inch cube taste test without facts to back them up. If they fail early on, it's not going to look good on them."

I tried for a laugh, wondering if it seemed a little too forced but doing it regardless. The edges of my lips were stiff and unnatural and yet, Lee seemed to buy into it completely.

"Also, it's not that everyone knows," he continued. "Just us. Words travel from top down, you see. So those at the top get to hear it first—the few of us on the board. We're ranked by our grades, I'm sure you know that by now, no doubt. I'm 7th on the ladder."

Holding my smile and trying my best not to look awfully intimidated, I pretended to sip on my fruit punch so that half of my face was covered. Fortunately, we were interrupted by a friend.

"Hey, check your phone," Si Yin popped up beside my shoulder, pinching my cheek. Startled, I almost dropped the glass in my hands. "Class chat's saying we should gather for a picture. Oh, hello," she raised a hand in greeting, smiling at Lee. The latter nodded in return.

While I was left completely clueless as to why people seemed to adore taking pictures with large groups of people and making themselves look absolutely meaningless when their faces were so far away from the camera that no single expression could be seen clearly at all, Lee had other plans. Also, I apologies for having horrendously long-winded thoughts.

"Wait, just a minute," he held on to my shoulder, eyes fixed on something in the distance. "I don't think you've formally met the school's number three yet, I believe? You were out cold back then, I remember." I froze, preparing to bolt.

"Oh! Oh no, not to worry. I've already relayed uh, my thanks. And apologized, as well. You don't have to introduce us—"

Good god he's already waving. Brilliant. Leroy's looked this way. Oh thank god he's with someone else no wait no don't leave your friend please just be nice and stay with them don't, don't! No oh no he's coming brace yourself Vanilla, you have this sEtTleD.

"Cox, you remember him? A critic! Didn't know that," said Lee, pointing at me as though I was some foreign specimen from outer space. Not uncommon. The only thing I could do was look at my shoes and cough. "White, this is Leroy Cox. He's the one who got you to the infirmary. Oh, and he's White. First name... I didn't quite...?" He turned to me, waiting for my cue.

Out jumped my expression of absolute bewilderment. "U-um. I, well."

"I know his name," Leroy cut in all of a sudden, technically saving me from embarrassment and somehow replacing it with another source of embarrassment that came in the form of his gaze. "Very well."

I was about to protest at the extremely odd phrasing of his response and deny this association entirely when Si Yin, again, dropped by to remind me of the group photo session we were supposed to turn up for and with that, I thanked the Wilde-ian skies for a ticket out of the conversation. And excused myself with a bow of my head.

==================

Fortunately enough, much of our class proceeded to disperse in a matter of seconds after the photo-taking session which I found oddly unnecessary if everyone remained so distant only to appear united in pictures for social media. Highly unnecessary; and perhaps the primes reason for my lack of participation and, um, enthusiasm in general.

Quite the pessimistic view I have, yes. Yet, it was something I could never rid of. Just how friendships weren't temporary bonds that could never be severed at any moment in time—there was no making it out to be more than a fairy tale. Something I would never understand.

And yet, as I boarded the train towards my station at about four in the afternoon, I spotted someone familiar in the same carriage. Something that only happened in terribly-directed soap operas and cheesy flicks. They'd spot the protagonist without them saying a word and then proceed to join them like it had all been planned.

He was plugged in, a pair of expensive-looking earphones attached to a neckband that hung around the collar of his uniform. There were at least ten to fifteen commuters packed in the space from him to me, leaving an odd distance between us that I found terribly hard to close.

Leroy didn't seem to notice my presence. He was holding onto a strap that dangled from above, gaze looking straight ahead and out of the glass. At least it confirmed that I was in no fairy tale, no cheesy romance. Should I wish to speak to an old friend, initiative was necessary if not the absolute step I needed to take, so.

He stays in school, there isn't quite a reason for him to leave, yet he's taking the train. The resulting conclusion was work. On a Saturday? I couldn't see why he needed the additional some of money in the first place. Students ranked above thirty-five and above were given a fully-sponsored scholarship and yearly allowance, topped with free and guaranteed campus accommodation.

Having made a (fairly accurate) deduction, I waited to see if he would be getting off at the next station, alighting myself. Lo and behold, he proved my conjecture true—emerging from the doors before turning in the opposite direction and heading to the stairs. Leroy, there is an escalator running on electricity. Use it, I groaned inside, increasing my pace so that I could catch him in time.

Doing just that was honestly a lot harder than it sounded. His strides were long and fast; he practically ran up the stairs and I was left in the dust, breathing heavily since I was obviously terrible at any form of exercise (including climbing the stairs, of course) and had also somehow inherited my godfather's fear of balls. Alright, I've just divulged some highly confidential information so please pretend you didn't hear that.

"Leroy," I tapped him on the shoulder, knowing that he wouldn't be able to hear me through his music. He turned, seemingly surprised.

"Hey," slowing down, he removed his ear phones and gave me the strangest look. "Didn't think you'd do that."

I coughed, changing the subject in the most skilful manner. "I didn't think you worked on weekends too."

Leroy shrugged, the hint of a smile on the edge of his lips. "Their rates are good. Heading home?"

Nodding, I'd somehow unconsciously started in the direction of the ice cream parlour. Still, I was a tad too poor at furthering conversations and my companion, though less of a talker than myself, seemed to keep up with ease.

"Dinner?"

I stared. "It's barely half-past four, Leroy."

He snorted, sparing me a sideway glance. "I meant if you have any plans for dinner."

"Um, no... not particularly," I began rather slowly, processing his statement twice. "Is that a question or a statement? Your tone of voice is vague."

Before I could anticipate, he reached over to flick my forehead and I, failing to dodge, resorted to rubbing the spot in quiet indignance. "What is it with my forehead? Mind you, just because I don't retaliate doesn't mean I'm a pushover. It's just me being nice."

I received a short laugh in return. "Then I'll make it up to you if you lend me your kitchen."

"I don't have a kitc—" Well, technically I do, but, "there's only one stove, Leroy."

"Better than none," he shrugged as we came to a crossroad between the ice cream parlour and my place. "Station's grocery at eight. Good enough?"

Apart from eight being late for dinner, I was simply floored by the escalation of matters—which somehow had begun to include grocery shopping with Leroy for ingredients. "Your shifts are terribly weird," was all I managed to say.

"They pay double on weekends," he smirked. "Think of what you want to eat before then."

*

I'd taken nearly an hour to decide if changing out of my school uniform was the socially appropriate thing to do or whether dressing casually would be the norm for someone who's already dropped by their apartment. The Internet was unfortunately useless in this aspect, stating a general consensus of personal preference judging by one's level of familiarity with said person they were going out with. Following this piece of advice would have led to another greater deliberation of Leroy's standing in um, my non-existent list of friends.

Half-an-hour before the time we arranged to meet, I finally settled on a changing out of my uniform, grabbing the brand-new pea coat that Giselle had picked out for me just before I'd left for culinary school. Admittedly, it wasn't the chilliest day but neither was it decently warm. Every gust of September wind was enough to make one shrink into their coats or tighten their scarfs around their necks.

I stood in front of the grocery store five minutes away from my apartment building, not quite having enough common sense to stand inside just in case my companion ended up waiting outside too. The simple arrangement was further complicated by the fact that neither of us had the other's number so texting was out of the question and there was no telling if Leroy was going to be late or early. Hence, as I deduced, standing outside and arriving at least fifteen minutes before the arranged timing was necessary. And cold. But necessary.

Easily, I could think of the added convenience of having Leroy's phone number in my contacts. Yet, it wasn't enough to beat my elevated levels of social ineptness, wondering just how other people got to the point of exchanging phone numbers. Since a huge chunk of my social gatherings involved an entire class or club, everything was usually arranged beforehand with details confirmed weeks before the date only to be turned down by, um, me. I don't turn up. So, actually, a huge chunk of my social gatherings involved myself not turning up. Yes.

"Hey."

Startled, I snapped out of my thoughts and turned to see Leroy slightly out of breath, rucksack over one shoulder. "O-oh. You didn't have to run."

"Yeah?" He seemed to laugh, reaching for my forehead. I stepped out of the way in time. "'Cuz I knew you would be standing outside in the cold without common sense and my phone number."

I froze up, coughing once. "Highly inaccurate. Let's go inside... would a basket do? Or do you need a..."

"Basket's fine," he picked one from the stack. "Have you thought of what you want to eat?"

It was decently warm inside without the September wind in our faces but for some reason, oddly warmer than I'd expect it to be. The heat around the base of my neck felt stubborn and insistent, spreading steadily to my ears and distracting me from having a proper conversation. I ended up attributing it to the crowded store, busy at peak with the evening Saturday sale and produce flying off the shelves at half-price.

"Um, no. Not really. I don't have a preference but for the sake of my... recovery, I wouldn't want to have something burning with spice. Additionally, I'll be paying for the ingredients. I wouldn't want to owe you a favour and also, I wouldn't mind getting those on sale or, should you prefer, those that aren't," I laid out in the straightest manner possible. "But I suppose someone like you wouldn't need the highest-grade ingredients to serve something of restaurant quality."

Leroy glanced at me sideways, seemingly hiding a laugh. He knew it was a challenge; and that I'd meant for it to turn out this way.

"Accepted," he said, heading for the shelves on sale. "You really never change." 

====================

A/N: Hello beans! It's been such a hectic week, my hands hurt from typing so much because I've been like 24/7 doing reports and essays and assignments on the computer plus editing stuff for my videography courses and uGh I am dead. I need a holiday :') Hope you liked the chapter. 

More in 2 weeks time.

-Cuppie.