A/N: Hello Beans! It's another update /.\ but I'm a little ill and all so I'm not sure if I can be making it next week for another update here. I'd planned on a double update for FS and Vanilla but I guess not ;-; I'll be keeping you guys updated on Instagram (hisangelchip) though, so if I dooo somehow manage to get it up (the next lovely chapter will be Vanilla's canon birthday) I will let you guys know hehe. 

Cheers! (omG CUPPIE HAVE U THE BRITISH U R HUH)

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[Vanilla]

It was no easy task, responding to something so inherently foreign and nearly impossible to conceive. After all, the day I'd come to be on the receiving end of a teacher's wrath was simply an occasion left unmarked on every monthly calendar, unchecked in every list, unplanned in every new years' resolution. Startled, I'd very naturally remained quite still amidst her words that stung, struggling to find my grounding and alleviate the extent of this entire misunderstanding.

"Any other excuses? Or should I be reporting this to your instructor-in-charge?"

"It wasn't an excuse," I attempted to say. "And I really wasn't lying, which, I believe," a correction was necessary upon the raise of her brow, "you weren't either, ma'am. I have no doubt that all the switches were as you say they were but, w-well, it could be that one of them had so coincidentally tripped and I promise. I have no reason to lie or, or to go outside and spend the time somewhere else without purpose—"

"Well, then why would your hands be trembling if you weren't out in the cold ignoring your duties? Or is this a biological reaction to lying?" The instructor snapped at once, pointing with her pen. She then paused, seemingly tired. "Forget it. It's not like I have time going around babysitting Kirov's kids. Give me your name."

"This isn't... I've been running trays under freezing water for the past thirty minutes, ma'am," I tried again, ears heated. Bit by bit, I could feel the muscle in my chest sink. "I promise. There's someone who can attest to that! A classmate of mine had been coming to me with requests—"

"Your name."

The weight on my shoulders doubled at her tone. It wouldn't have taken a genius to figure out the immunity she'd somehow developed; an immunity to words. Calculating the odds I had stacked up against me and weighing that against the evidence I could gather precipitated the conclusion that continuing to argue my case was not going to do me any good since, well, I couldn't prove the pivotable point of the switch. Defeated and unwilling to contest further ground and perhaps land myself in dangerous waters, I gave it to her.

"Huh," she snorted. "The one who nearly cleared the taste test?"

Unable to tell if it was a genuine response she'd been expecting or if it had been some sort of rhetoric she'd posed, I resorted to silence, to which she soon dismissed upon getting back to work. Upset, I started back to my station after conjuring positive thoughts of having heated water for the next hour or so.

I was, unfortunately, very wrong.

Not only were there now a ton of trays and utensils stacked up to the left of the sink, I was once again sent into arctic shocks upon turning the tap on. Recovering moments after leaving it running, I checked the handle and confirmed that I'd had it pointed towards the red dot, which therefore necessarily pointed towards two conclusive statements.

One, the switch had been turned off precisely because the electric heater hadn't been working in the first place. Two, it might have been the wrong switch. Yet, a simple evaluation of both supporting claims found problematic loopholes in either possibilities. The instructor from before would have raised the problem of a faulty switch, especially since I'd pointed out its exact location and purpose. And as for the switch being of the wrong function, I had been so certain that it was the only one turned off.

Regardless, all this overthinking wasn't going to magically turn icy waters into something out of an onsen so I bit my tongue and forced every complaint out of the way, focusing on the task at hand and doing my best to prepare my hands for winter's embrace. Absolutely nothing had turned out the way I had hoped it would.

And as though to prove the legitimacy of such a point, the bane of my existence walked into the dishwashing room in his whites—the most livid expression on his face dissipating upon resting his gaze on, um, the general wash counter. Having looked up with the expectations of more trays and mixing bowls to clean, me, the dishwasher, found the perfect example of another physical entity that required some good scrubbing. Washing. Cleaning.

"Leroy?"

"Hey," he seemed just as surprised as I was, drawing closer to the sink. "You're on dishwashing?" His tone of disbelief was slightly disturbing.

"Yes. As a matter of fact, I am quite good at washing dishes," I quipped in return. "An expert, really. Which means you have no right to be questioning my legitimacy. Just because I'm not the best chef doesn't mean I am incapable of washing the dishes."

He laughed. "I didn't say that."

"W-well, I'd assumed you were implying it," I paused, feeling my ears grow heated at having jumped to conclusions. "Is there something you need? Are these for your team?"

Leroy's expression promptly soured and hardened all at once. "What team?"

"Oh um," I blinked, returning my gaze to the washed up trays and utensils on the counter. "I just thought you were here to collect something for the salads or the protein. Whatever it is you might be heading."

"A bunch of idiots, that's what," he muttered under his breath, giving the stack of mixing bowls a glance. "They got me the wrong wine for coq au vin so," elaborated, a thumb over his shoulder pointed at the ingredient pantry.

"I can imagine how frustrated you must feel," I told him, genuinely feeling upset myself. "Dishwashing's all I've done so far and already, it's been disastrous. Oh—since you're here, could I trouble you to take these two small baking trays to the entrée team on protein?"

Leroy nodded at my words, continuing to scan the mountain of things I'd yet to clean and lingering especially long on the bunch of kitchen knives laid out on a dirty tray. "I'll pick them up on the way back," he said, reaching out to put them aside but frowning and turning them over the moment he picked them up. "It's freezing."

"Ah," I was about to explain but he was leaning over to run a finger under the open tap before I knew it, glancing at the handle that had already been pointed towards the red end. All at once, he appeared, if possible, more furious than before.

"Someone turned off the heater."

"It's probably just a faulty switch," I reasoned lightly, concerned for the wellbeing of kitchen staff who seemed apparently more prone to the emotion of anger. "Or I'm starting to think it might have tripped again or, well... these things happen. I've already tried flipping the switch at the operating panel two rooms down but it's still cold. If you see the lady with short curly hair dressed in her whites along the way could you tell her that?"

I was starting to see how this could work out; the water seemed to be flowing right out of the north pole, yes, but with forty minutes left on the clock, it wasn't exactly unbearable. And on the bright side, this meant that the instructor who'd reprimanded me before would have to admit I hadn't been lying after all.

"Why?" His frown deepened. "She told you off?"

I wasn't going to whine and complain about some petty feelings of mine, so I'd shrugged it off and told him it was nothing. Yet, the nerve of him to doubt my words!

"Really," was all he said in response, seemingly deep in thought before making his way towards the ingredient pantry. "I'll check on it for you."

It was strange how the running water seemed nearly bearable with conversation or, well, any sort of distraction from its shiver-inducing temperature, and I was about to decline his kind offer and remind him of the supposedly additional tasks he had to be doing what with his incompetent team when the swinging double doors to the loading bay burst open once more. It was Li.

"Oh! You're back, um. The salad team's request is almost done so—"

"Where the fuck were you?"

Leroy had startled us both by directing this to my classmate, having yet to have left the dishwashing room and head down the stairs to the ingredient pantry. Taken aback by his tone, one that felt foreign and yet so oddly imaginable coming from someone like him, I'd nearly dropped the knife in my hands.

"Uh, I was helping the salad team get the stuff that they need from the dishwashing and then Meyers said you wanted him to get the knives washed so I brought them here," Li's face was blank as a sheet and I couldn't help but feel nearly as confused as he was. Moreover, I'd seen him pass into the ingredient pantry after leaving more trays at my station earlier on when I'd requested he check the operating panel.

"You're making yourself sound stupid," Leroy was not satisfied with an explanation of that calibre despite having listened to it all. "Just—just," he dismissed Li with a finger. "Go."

Aside from the fact that I'd never witnessed my childhood friend this livid or frustratingly vexed with another member of the human species, Li himself appeared as perplexed and disconnected from reality as a creature that wasn't a human being.

Moments after both had left the dishwashing room to continue on their respective duties, I felt the increasing warmth of water blessed with heat and found myself unable to conceive the earlier notion of bearing with whatever it was that had been running in those pipes. The logical conclusion was that Leroy had somehow managed to get the switch to work or fixed the issue with the heater, but he was in the ingredient pantry getting red wine which most probably meant that he couldn't have—

"Better?" Speak of the devil. Leroy had emerged from the double doors to the loading bay, dropping by my station to pick up the baking trays from earlier.

I stared. "H-how... how did you do that? And you fixed the switch?"

"I turned it on," he told me.

"But how did you go down there and come up..." I vaguely gestured from the ingredient pantry to the door he came through. "Oh. Does it—so it's not a dead end, then? That must have been how Li got from the pantry back here, too."

Leroy didn't seem very responsive to whatever I was saying, meeting my gaze with a difficult one of his own. He appeared troubled. "Your classmates. Are they... are you, okay...?" I couldn't quite get what he meant.

"Not your first vague question, but I suppose I could get used to it. I'm quite alright with dishwashing, if that's what you meant."

He snorted, smiling all the same and reaching over. For a moment, I was so sure he was going to give my forehead the usual treatment when I felt fingers running through my hair, across the top of my head. The appropriate term was not a pat. Still, I'd found this oddly pleasant and as my observations have told me in the past, Leroy's hands had always been warmer than an average human being's.

"Promise you'll never hide anything from me."

"Alright then, let's start. I don't think you should be spending time with me in the dishwashing room when you're needed somewhere else more important. Unless you're actually intending to serve my classmates for lunch instead of whatever it is we have on the menu."

He grimaced. "They wouldn't even taste nice."

*

Peering into the production kitchen after signing out from dishwashing duties, I singled out the person I'd intended to spend at least five minutes or so with almost at once. He was speaking to my classmates, Li and Meyers, arms crossed and back faced towards the doorway I was in. The three of them appeared deep in conversation, and though I was unable to catch a glimpse of the expression on Leroy's face, the first-year assistants on his team did not look extremely pleased with whatever it was he had to say.

Either way, I understood at once that he was occupied and left the kitchen with my tail between my legs, having hoped to discuss matters about Layla and the upcoming release of the team reports. And to inform him that I'd arranged to meet Chen at the ice cream parlour tomorrow right after school. The primary issue I had with all this was how and if Leroy would be participating in the discussion over a possible petition; after all, he was going to have customers to serve and duties to attend to unless he'd somehow not be included in the shift that day but then why would he be there in the first place?

"Heeey, I got you the boxed soba noodles like you said," Si Yin drew my attention away from wandering thoughts as soon as I found her by the deli, seated on a bench. We'd arranged to meet at this exact location earlier today and she'd had it all keyed down on her phone, screenshotted, and set as her wallpaper. Including my order. "Dishwashing must've been really stupid, huh. You're making that face again. The 'oh no more stupidity' face."

"Thanks for your help," I told her, receiving the box of chilled soba noodles and separating a pair of wooden chopsticks attached to the side. "And sorry for the wait. Leroy was on duty as well and I'd intended to invite him to join us. He's... busy. As usual."

My companion nearly jumped at his name, eyes wide. "Oh. Wait, what? So, he was on kitchen duty? I should have swapped with our classmates too and spied on him to, you know, get info and learn and uh, threaten his existence as number three."

"I'm sure you could threaten anyone's existence without spying on them, Si Yin. You're pretty good at what you do," I said without much thought, sending a couple of noodle strands into my mouth after dipping them in soy sauce. I didn't see a point in lying. "You're definitely better than most of our year. At least Leroy didn't raise his voice or glare at you or anything. He told Li to get back to his station and called them incompetent. And mind you, his tone wasn't exactly kind and gentle—I wouldn't know how to feel if I were at the receiving end of all that."

Si Yin did not look very surprised. "Li, whose julienne carrots were nearly inches wide and Meyers who couldn't even cut up an onion? I mean... okay but like so you mean they were his assistants or something and he told them to get their shit together? I'd do that too. Did you know that Meyers was from the middle school division? Also, onions aren't his only problem so either the finals back then were lenient as hell or he... bought his way through it." She shrugged.

Blinking at the sudden introduction of new information, I sat through the next ten minutes of her blow-by-blow account of lunch and how she'd somehow ended up seated at Rosi and Raul's table with a bunch of other sophomores. The scent of toasted almonds and cinnamon wafted out of the deli every now and then, which confused my taste buds that registered soba noodles in my mouth.

And after grabbing a heavenly danish each from the deli, Si Yin and I decided to drop by the bookstore next to it with fifteen minutes left to spare till the end of lunch period. While it certainly served as a convenient place for textbook purchases every first week of school, it functioned as an ordinary bookstore every other day of the year and allowed school visitors to make exclusive purchases too, albeit undiscounted.

"Ooh, Yamazaki Shin's got a new book," Si Yin was drawn to an elaborate promotional display of hardback copies, minimalistic in design and in a soothing shade of cream. "My mom likes him a lot. I keep forgetting why she does." She picked up the book and turned it over to scan the back.

"This must be one of their exclusive issues," I told her. "I was so sure it wouldn't be out until next week." Over by the counter was a short queue of five to six people—mostly visitors dropping by for a bite at the deli or to look at the store's collection of culinary books and magazines featuring alumni. They sometimes even sold exclusive issues by past and current instructors, or even that of outstanding students.

I didn't mean to busy myself over the purchases of visitors, but I couldn't help but notice the huge hardback biography-looking book that one of them had in their basket. From afar, the man on the cover appeared oddly familiar enough to warrant a search for it in the store. A single glance at the 'store picks' section made him out to be a seemingly well-known chef by the name of Siegfried Cox. His eyes, smiling, bore an uncanny resemblance to someone I knew. It was odd.

"You getting that?" Si Yin had appeared by my shoulder and peered over it to follow my gaze. I returned the book to its place on the shelf.

"Not really. Biographies don't really interest me."

We moved on to the part of the store that tended to burn a larger hole in my pocket and that was the stationary section—the terrifying manifestation of heaven on earth. The first thing that stole my attention was a fountain pen of compelling finish, capped by a sterling silver guilloché over a gold trim Optima and, of course, retailing at an outrageous triple digit. To think the idea of displaying it in a high school even crossed their minds!

"They think our wallets are made of gold," Si Yin had concluded upon glancing at the marked price, presented by the tiny set of number blocks in the well-lit display box. Her interest in it had vanished the moment she'd set her eyes on it. "It's a pen, sure but... who'd use that in exams?"

"My uncle never saw a point in me getting one either," I told her as we walked away. "Which, I mean, is sort of understandable since, yes, back to your point, it's more of a luxury than a need and I can most definitely get a pen that costs a hundred times less than that one...a-and no one really writes letters by hand anymore while examinations require speed-writing which would most certainly not be the function of a fountain pen but it really is quite exquisite and I would have liked to, well, experience writing with one someday..."

And as though I'd somehow let slip a keyword upon which Si Yin's attention found particularly interesting to jump back onboard, she whipped around to stare. "Y-you mean you would like to have that?"

"Uh, well, I... yes...?" I couldn't quite see what she meant apart from the literal question.

Her attention seemed to renew itself and instead of walking away from the display case, we were soon making our way back towards it; or rather, she was. And I merely followed. "Oh! Okay, so—this pen. You really like this one? This?"

She had her arms around the display box, as though the triple digits included lights and a glass casing. I laughed.

"Well I mean... visually, it's stunning and all but," as it was necessary to qualify my desires or so Uncle Al often said, "ultimately, it's just a writing instrument that has many alternatives. This one... I wouldn't consider owning it unless it's going at a good rate. Oh! But I've always liked the idea of pen-shopping at stationary stores. Perhaps one day, we could...?"

I'd left the question hanging in hopes of hinting at the prospect of an excursion; my first-ever, outside-of-school, friendship-validating experience—pen-shopping. Going out with the company of a friend was a concept I'd perceived non-existent beyond the realm of fiction novels until boarding school. And now, two years later, as a first-year student in a culinary school, I was eager to experience it for myself. Aside from hearing or seeing others get invited before my eyes, th-that is.

Unfortunately, Si Yin remained strangely occupied with typing something on her phone.

"Wait wait wait I need to be sure. It's this one?" She patted the top of the display case as though it was some loot crate of goodies. "Will you really like it? If I bought that for you, would you kiss me? Okay that came out wrong."

My companion dismissed her final statement with a wave of her hand and opted for a snap of the fountain pen from a top-down angle. Meanwhile, I was left a flustered mess struggling to regain my ability to words.

"You cannot simply! That does not! You cannot be suggesting! I will not be bought over by mere triple digits! Five, maybe. O-or four, even, realistically speaking, that is, but three! Absolutely not," I declared. Not before stealing another glimpse at the handsome instrument in its glass case.

___________________

"Nice timing."

Chen and I were seated at a corner table on the first floor of the ice cream parlour I frequented, having made our way here right after the bell and settled down to wait for Leroy. He'd texted about the compulsory club session Jungwoo had arranged in place of last week's cancelled activities due to SOY, and had only just arrived nearly forty-five minutes later than what we'd agreed upon in the first place. Needless to say, this had all been rather last-minute.

Clearly, Chen was not too happy. "We were only just beginning to think about our orders." His smile was décor for his sarcasm and provided the sting he'd intended to convey.

A stiff laugh was necessary to dispel the tension. "It's true though, isn't it? I mean, um, we were busying ourselves with conversation, right?" My first instinct had been to lighten the mood and provide the reassurance that arriving late to a casual meeting wasn't the most offensive thing to occur on the planet. Leroy did not look very reassured.

"Sorry."

His eyes were telling me that he'd meant what he said, and from the pace and depth of his breathing, I was able to conclude that he'd rushed over upon dismissal. He had on a winter polo jersey, rolled up to his elbows, and a rucksack dangling over one shoulder, as though he hadn't even stopped to consider slipping the other strap on.

"You ran here?" Chen seemed as observant as I was, pointing out the very deduction I'd made seconds before. Leroy dropped his bag onto the empty seat beside me, nodding briefly.

Frankly speaking, the image I had of an ordinary, functioning human being running late was perspiration, heavy breathing, loud panting and at the very least, collapsing upon arrival—which was why I'd made it a point never to be late. As ridiculous as this would sound, I had, by some miracle, inherited Uncle Al's poor stamina and my godfather's extreme lack of athleticism. And as such, I therefore concluded that Leroy was very much not a part of the human species.

"You look pretty beat up," Chen seemed to muse and all at once, I was thrown off by the way he'd said it. "I could get you some water?"

The non-human beside me appeared far from 'beat up', if that was even a legitimate word to describe his current state; by which I was beginning to think that Chen would be categorized under something similar should be think this was the definition of 'beat up'.

I decided to direct the conversation elsewhere. "How was the session? I wasn't aware that clubs required replacement hours since Keith never did say anything. Well, I mean, we were technically doing extra work over SOY for interviews and articles, so. But yours seemed pretty sudden."

Leroy unclasped the front pocket of his bag and produced a sports drink. "We didn't even ride. It was just a workout."

"Ooh, was it tough?" Chen seemed to invest in it at once. "It's three times a week for rowing."

"Manageable." Leroy's response was unbelievably short and my gaze alternated between them both, unable to find my footing on lands I've yet to venture into. Sports. "Just five miles and boxes."

"I-in the cold? I'm sorry, but just the five-mile-run doesn't sound very manageable at all. You must be insane," was I could say, paling at the thought of mere five minutes of jogging. Leroy had turned to me with a laugh, reaching down to give my forehead the usual.

Thankfully, Chen seemed to have had enough of sport-talk, promptly turning our attention back to the matter at hand. Ordering. "You guys make a decent latte?"

Leroy nodded, rummaging in his bag for a change of clothes. More specifically, his work apron. "Anything else?"

He seemed to be taking orders from the table since, well, it was convenient and the store was currently off-peak and practically deserted except for the other staff behind the counter. I was about to ask if they happened to have anything savoury on the menu after briefly consulting my noisy tummy, but having received no further response from Chen, the absolute idiot made for the kitchen with the staff uniform bunched up in his hands.

Naturally, I panicked.

"Excuse me, you didn't ask for my—"

"I know what you like," he had the nerve to say over his shoulder, the hint of a smirk on his lips before acknowledging the rest of his co-workers and disappearing through the kitchen door.

I stared after him; left completely bewildered and gobsmacked by his... this... bad... behaviour... thing—I had no words. Clearly, Chen seemed equally amused by my reaction and because his eyes were fixed on me, I struggled to form an explanation amidst the heavy heat on my cheeks and furtive glances around an empty store.

"He doesn't!" Beautiful attempt at an explanation, Vanilla. Absolutely divine. "H-he doesn't."

Chen had only laughed, which wasn't exactly the most atypical reaction of his since, well, all he had been doing for the past hour or so since we left the school gates was laugh at my understandably disturbing reactions and attempts at conversation. "That's a relief. You've been talking about Layla and SOY all the while, so I'd be disappointed if you'd told Leroy what you liked and left me out of it."

"Oh," I was quick to correct him, grateful for the opportunity. "Oh no, I've—I've never really declared my, um, food preferences aloud before. I mean, it's my job to be objective, you know? And of course, that would mean keeping my likes and dislikes private in the case of, you know, writing articles or reviews and tasting, whichever. Objectively speaking, Leroy is well-versed in culinary techniques, and has an amazing palate to support his experience in flavour profiles. He's been doing this for a long time, much more than any other child who attended ordinary elementary schools and spent their time playing instead of, um. I'd... I'd like to take back what I said because it's rather private. Back to Layla's case—"

"So... sweet or savoury? Which do you prefer?"

I blinked, disarmed by the sudden question. This had not been planned; nor was it part of the list of simulated conversations I'd run through. "Um, sorry, I... what do you... sorry, I didn't anticipate that, um, give me a moment."

To stare at Leroy's bottle of sports drink for the next stretch of silence was my solution to the problem. What a question of complete subjectivity! Was he genuinely asking for my preferences, or merely testing my answer as a culinary senior?

I opted for a stiff laugh, resting my gaze on his yellow-striped tie, worn by students of the pâtisserie major. "I don't have any... sorry, I don't quite understand what you're asking. I can't simply pick 'sweet' or 'savoury' since, well, every meal requires both, do you not agree? Should the savoury exist without the sweet, it becomes almost pungent in the sense that our tongue feels heavy and dry—I shall not go into the science of it, which, would require an entire lecture—thus triggering our mind to start craving for something sweet. On the other hand, if we rely too much on the latter, then... oh. Is this boring you? I'm sorry, it's just. I don't quite think I can choose between the two options. Both are necessary. I would think."

This made Chen laugh and for some reason, reach over to ruffle my hair. I nearly pulled back; startled.

"You're so serious about these things. And you're always giving some objective answer, but what I want to know is if you... maybe like having strawberry shortcake over some braised chicken or... a crème brûlée instead of beef wellington."

His examples helped, but only served to further my point that he didn't seem to understand.

"Ah, which was exactly what I meant by both being necessary. I wouldn't wish to have the shortcake without the braised chicken. Unless I am to review a certain restaurant, café or bakery that only one of the options and even then, I might ask for, perhaps, some cheese bread soon after so that I could review that as well. Sorry if I, um, sound rather pretentious."

Chen nodded, smiling. "Okay. Guess I'll have to win you over to my side then."

This made me freeze in the height of awkward conversation, taking a second to decide that I should be reassuring him that there would be no winning to non-existent sides because, well, they were actually all part of the same side when Leroy thankfully showed up with our (or rather, Chen's) order.

"That was quick," the third-year remarked with one of his usual smiles, although his eyes remained opaque with something else. Leroy had placed the beautifully crafted cup of latte before Chen, complete with a complimentary cookie (the usual) and some elaborate latte art which I could not quite make out.

To me, he'd presented what I instantly recognized as the strawberry and honey-infused iced chamomile tea he'd made me just yesterday and lo and behold, an oven dish packed full of mac and cheese. Speechless, I stared at it and then up at him, who then slid into the seat beside mine and drank from his bottle of Pocari sweat.

"How did you know I was hungry?" I resorted to whispering, certain that they hadn't anything like 'mac and cheese' on the menu of an ice cream parlour. "This is very sinful."

Leroy said nothing. Only keeping his gaze on me (sideways, mind you) and continuing to drink from his bottle.

"Ah, microwaved stuff. Loved that when I was a kid," Chen had said after taking a sip of his latte, nodding at the oven dish in front of me. "Took me less than three minutes for a good one."

But the first thing I'd tasted was the truffle oil and by god, if any child would have thought of using truffle oil in something as heavy as mac and cheese, it was Leroy. One would have avoided the heavy depth of a fragrance like truffle since the weight of the cheese on the palate would, already, be immense but I could tell that he's swapped the ideal seven cheese for something else, and in the dish had put together tiny florets of broccoli, probably popped into a microwave with garlic butter and lemon olive oil for thirty seconds and then added to the cooked pasta and then, there was the hit of paprika and—

"Sour cream?" I'd muttered to myself after finishing the first forkful of cheesy goodness and without even looking at him, I knew Leroy was smiling.

"Vanilla. You were saying about contacting Layla. I could give you access to the scholars lounge," Chen didn't seem to notice my fascination with the dish before me, continuing with what we had been discussing earlier on. "I could let you in if she doesn't turn up to class the next couple of days and you can, you know, tactfully ask your questions to the people around. I also know where her parents' place is, if we ever get to that. I doubt the instructors will tell us what's going on, anyway."

"You sure that's okay?" Number three was referring to the access thing and frankly, I was concerned about it as well. It might have been the reason he didn't raise the idea to me in the first place.

Chen shrugged. "Jean brought Violet in three times already and she practically hangs out every day after school. So... what do you say to Monday next week?"

Initially, I'd jumped at it. But then, after checking the date of that particular Monday, I quickly paused.

"It's his birthday," said Leroy, to which the both of us turned to him stunned. "He's got other people to spend it with."