Allegro

I had been so caught up in everything that I completely neglected my progress check for guitar class, an elective I’d been forced into thanks to Mr. Moon — Minho’s famous, and far from “Father of the Year,” dad. His donated art department at KISS was the reason I was even in this situation. The school was already relentless about interdisciplinary studies, so it wasn’t a shock when another subject was added to the mix. That didn’t stop me from complaining, however. The test was supposed to be straightforward: a showcase of fingerpicking skills.

As I walked into the classroom, I was hit with a sinking feeling in my chest. A panel of three teachers sat at the front: Professor Sungha, our guitar instructor, Professor Finnerty, and, surprisingly, Professor Lee — the headmaster who also doubled as my advanced English teacher. His presence was something I never would’ve expected. After all, what did he know about guitar?

Scanning the queue on a paper, I realized with dread that I was third in line, thanks to my first name. It was a small class. The bell rang, signaling the start of the period, and Blake, one of Q’s friends, was the first to perform. Seeing my window of time, I grabbed my guitar and bolted to a practice room in the hallway.

Sitting in the cramped space, I tuned my guitar and tuned as I tried to settle on choosing a song. I’d practiced a few over the past month of class, but Wildflower felt like the safest option. I ran through the chords, humming softly to myself.

After a few minutes, Blake popped his head into the room to let me know it was my turn. With a groan, I grabbed my case and walked back to the classroom. The space was cluttered with cables from the amps of electric guitar players, making it annoying to navigate. I didn’t have a preference between acoustic and electric, but today I stuck with my acoustic.

I took a seat on the stool at the front, adjusting the microphone awkwardly. A static feedback sound echoed as I cleared my throat, causing me to wince. “Uh, would it be alright if I sang along? It helps me keep tempo,” I asked, my voice quieter than I intended.

Professor Sungha glanced at the others. Finnerty shrugged, and Sungha gave me a nod. I began strumming the acoustic arrangement, trying to steady my shaky hands. The melody came to me, but only a little bit in, I hit the wrong chord and cringed mentally. Forcing myself to push through it, I softly sang the lyrics, praying my voice wouldn’t betray me with a crack.

“She was crying on my shoulder, all I could do was hold her…”

The intense stares of the panel made it hard to focus, and I faltered again, plucking the wrong string. I shut my eyes tightly, playing from muscle memory, trying not to get too lost in my own head. “Only made us closer until July. Now I know that you love me, you don't need to remind me. I should put it all behind me, shouldn't I?”

I shifted into the chorus, letting my vocals project naturally. If I forced it, or tried my best, I likely would have strained my voice and made the performance even more awkward. “But I see her in the back of my mind all the time. Like a fever, like I'm burning alive, like a sign. Did I cross the line?”

I ended with a vocal run, plucking the last few notes as my fingers trembled slightly. Opening my eyes, I exhaled shakily. Sungha and Finnerty were busy focusing on jotting down notes, but Professor Lee’s gaze lingered on me, detached and distant, like he wasn’t fully there. His expression unsettled me, making me second-guess every mistake I had made in the minute of playtime.

Sungha cleared his throat, snapping me out of my thoughts. “Miss Huang, good work. I’ve included your notes — some criticism, some positive feedback. Your grade is on the paper. Well done.”

I nodded, taking the sheet of paper from him. As I walked past a few students gathered near the edge of the classroom, not taking notice of the person who was intently watching me. Back in the practice room, I unfolded the paper. An A-minus. I wasn’t sure how to feel about the grade. It was solid, but I had no benchmark from the class to compare it to. Sungha offered constructive criticism, but Finnerty’s comments were glowing — something I expected, as he rarely offered anything less than positive feedback and mild “suggestions” on how to fix things. I turned the page, curious about Lee’s notes.

A knock on the door startled me. Glancing up, I was surprised to see Minho leaning against the doorway, his hands in his pockets. I blinked at him, unsure of why he was here. We’d barely spoken since I confronted him about my struggles in our fake dating, and he’d been noticeably distant, though we did still keep up our public relationship. 

“What are you doing here?” I asked, keeping my tone neutral. I didn’t want to sound too sharp, or too soft.

“You’re good at guitar,” he said softly. His small smile caught me off guard. “I didn’t know you could sing.”

I looked away, focusing on the paper in my hands. My eyes scanned over the words, not actually reading them. “Technically, everyone can sing.”

He let out a short laugh. “Yeah, but not everyone can actually sing.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I muttered, embarrassed as I waved him off. “I do alright.”

Minho studied me for a moment, his expression unreadable, before motioning toward the hallway. “Come on, let’s get lunch.”

I sighed, tucking the paper into my guitar case and snapping it shut. With nothing better to do, I followed him out, putting my instrument in my storage locker before grabbing my backpack. Together, we left the building, walking in silence.

. . .

I’d never been a fan of English — maybe because of the heavy course load, or perhaps because the class was taught by none other than the headmaster himself. Why Professor Lee chose to juggle both roles when one had a significantly better title was beyond me. He made it quite aware of my recent drop in work. It felt like he took a special pleasure in emphasizing the consequences of failure whenever he looked in my direction. 

Today, though, he’d been unusually quiet, not sparing me his typical judgemental glares. The bell rang, signaling the end of class. Minho stood up beside me, waiting as I gathered my things. Just as we reached the doorway, Professor Lee’s voice cut through the air.

“Miss Huang, please stay behind for a moment,” he said, his tone as sharp as ever.

I grimaced, glancing at Minho, whose expression all but screamed, You’re screwed. He gave me a quick, amused look before heading out. “I’ll wait for you in the hall,” he said over his shoulder.

I turned to face my teacher with a forced smile. “Yes, Professor Lee?”

“Principal Lee,” he corrected, his face unreadable and stiff as always. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and crossed his arms. “I’ve submitted an inquiry to Mr. Moon to add your name to the list of participants in his… talent show.”

The distaste in his voice as he said the last couple words was impossible to miss. My stomach sank as the realization dawned on me. Mr. Moon’s talent show — a crazy publicity stunt, probably for Mr. Moon to be closer to his son, and a topic of great distaste for Minho — was now my problem. My jaw dropped slightly. “What? Why would you do that?”

Lee leaned against his desk, one leg planted firmly on the ground as he crossed his arms. “How much has Miss Covey told you about me?”

I blinked at the unexpected name drop. Kitty’s name had become a sore subject lately, and I hesitated before answering. “Uh… not much. Kitty and I aren’t really friends.”

He nodded slightly, adjusting his glasses again. “If you must know, when I was young, I dreamed of becoming some kind of idiotic rockstar.”

I blinked, caught completely off guard. “I… sorry, what?”

“I even went to America to pursue it,” he continued as if he hadn’t just shattered my perception of him. “But the career wasn’t feasible. I didn’t have what it took.”

The weight of his words hung in the air, and I struggled to piece together where this was going. “Excuse me, sir, but… if you don’t mind me asking, what does this have to do with me?”

His gaze bore into mine, steady and unflinching. “I didn’t have what it took,” he repeated, his voice unwavering as if his point was obvious. “But you do.”

I stared at him, trying to wrap my head around the situation. “Wait, so you’re saying you put me in the showcase because you think I have what it takes?” My words tumbled out in a rush. “Headmaster Lee, I messed up during the assessment — several times. I’m terrible in front of even a handful of people, let alone the rest of the school. And I seriously doubt I have the talent to prepare something as grandiose as the others.”

He straightened his posture slightly. “I believe minimalism could be a nice change of pace. And, I’d be open to assisting with any practice you might need.”

“I don’t know,” I muttered, shaking my head. “This is too much. You already know I’m behind in class.”

“Miss Huang,” he interrupted firmly. “You have what it takes. Don’t do what I did. Don’t take it for granted.”

I opened my mouth to object but paused when I met his eyes. Though his expression remained as cold and unmoving as ever, there was the faintest glimmer of something deeper in his eyes — a quiet confidence, a belief in me and my abilities. Sucking in a breath, the small look was enough for me to give in.

“Alright,” I said quietly. “I’ll do it.”

“Very good, Miss Huang. You’ll be joining the other contestants in training. You’re dismissed.” As I turned to leave, I could’ve sworn I saw the faintest trace of a smile on his face.

Walking into the hallway, my heart raced as I prepared to share the exciting yet potentially scary news with Minho. “Minho, I—”

My words caught in my throat as I spotted him a few yards away, deep in conversation with none other than Kitty Song-Covey. They stood less than a foot apart, and she looked annoyed while he smirked, clearly enjoying their banter.

“Why would I do that, Covey?” he drawled, one corner of his mouth quirking up.

Kitty muttered something, her voice too low to hear, though I caught the words “...finding out about Mom… time capsule.”

Minho crossed his arms, leaning casually against the wall as he mocked her. Seeing their interaction startled me, momentarily shaking off the excitement of the good news. My heart stung a bit as I cleared my throat, not wanting to witness anymore of the interaction. His head snapped in my direction, his eyes briefly guilty before he smoothed over his expression.

“Fine,” he said to Kitty, his tone dismissive. “Text me the details, Covey.”

With that, he left her and strode over to me, linking our arms as if nothing had happened. “Let’s go,” he said, already pulling me along hurriedly. 

“So,” I began, my voice calm but curious. “What was that all about?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly, his focus more on walking than on me.

I frowned, the unsettling tension building in my chest. I understood our relationship was fake, but I had always thought our friendship was real. At least, it used to be. I opened my mouth to press him further but couldn’t bring myself to say anything.

Instead, I dropped my gaze to the floor. “Okay,” I said quietly, defeated.

He didn’t respond, quickening his pace. Begrudgingly, I matched his stride, the silence between us heavy and strained. In the moment, I couldn’t help but wonder if we were even friends anymore — or if we’d ever truly been.

. . .

Minho seemed to have returned to a variation of his usual self — carefree, self-assured, and always ready to banter. But despite his outward demeanor, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something between us had remained shifted, possibly for good. Beneath his smirks, I couldn’t help but notice the raised guards in his eyes.

I knew we needed to talk, and I was sure he did too. Yet every time I tried, something seemed to get in the way. Like a clear afternoon a few days after my conversation with Professor Lee. Classes had just let out, and we were standing in front of the school. I cleared my throat. “Hey, we should—”

Before I could finish, Minho’s dad approached us. His gaze settled on me with mild skepticism. “Miss… Huang, isn’t it?” I gave him a small, slightly annoyed nod, and he continued. “I noticed your name on the showcase roster, but I was informed you missed the first rehearsal. Is there an issue with your schedule?”

“No,” I said quietly, feeling a lump rise in my throat. Minho had insisted we attend an event together the day rehearsals began, making it impossible for me to show up. “Just a temporary conflict. I’ll be there next time.”

Minho, standing stiffly beside me, suddenly spoke in a sharp tone. “Is that all, Dad?”

Mr. Moon seemed momentarily confused by the bluntness. “No. I also wanted to let you know that I’ve arranged for the chef you like to come to the mountains next weekend. I remember how much you love his lasagna.”

“That was Joonho, not me,” Minho muttered, looking away.

“Oh.” Mr. Moon chuckled awkwardly. “Well, I hope you reconsider coming. I’ll see you at rehearsal, Miss Huang.”

I nodded as he walked away, leaving us in tense silence. Minho remained rooted to the spot, his jaw tight. I frowned, reaching out to grab his arm. “Minho, that was… kind of thoughtful of him,” I said cautiously. “Don’t you want to go? He’s putting in effort, you know.”

“Effort that’s too late,” he snapped, still not looking at me. “I don’t want to talk about this with you.”

The harsh tone that was seemingly directed at me stung, and I flinched a bit in surprise. “Oh. I… alright.”

He turned to me then, his expression betrayed. “Why didn’t you tell me about the showcase? And missing rehearsal? We literally talked about not letting you fall behind. Let me guess — you missed it because of me, didn’t you?”

“Minho, slow down,” I said, grabbing his arm to ground him. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. Lee sprung it on me in class, and I was going to say something, but… well, when I tried, you were talking to Kitty, and I didn’t want to interrupt.”

He stared at me as I avoided his gaze, staring down at my shoes. The memory of him and Kitty still left a bitter taste in my mouth, though I hadn’t said as much. “Oh,” he finally said, his voice quiet.

I glanced up at him, forcing a small smile. “You don’t have to blame yourself for my missed rehearsal. It’s my responsibility, not yours.”

He nodded slightly, though it didn’t seem convincing. Instead of pushing further, I shifted the focus away from me. “You really should consider going to the cabin next weekend. It sounds nice — spending time with your dad, and all.”

He hesitated, finally looking at me tentatively. “I’ll… think about it, Michelle.”

I winced at the use of my full name. It was something he only called me when things weren’t right between us. “Minho,” I said, small. “We need to talk.”

“About what?” he asked, though we both knew the answer.

I gestured toward a bench nearby and sat down, waiting for him to join me. “Min, why have you been avoiding me? You’re my best friend, but lately, it feels like all we are is this… fake relationship.”

He shifted, caught off guard by my straightforwardness, his eyes dropping to the ground. “I’m sorry, Michelle. I just haven’t felt right since… since our argument.”

“Is it because of my grades?” I asked, frowning.

He hesitated, as though searching for the right words. Finally, he cleared his throat. “Yeah. I guess that’s it. I feel a little guilty about it.”

I placed a hand on his shoulder, trying to reassure him. “That’s not on you, Minho. I should be more responsible — I know better. Don’t worry, I’ll do better, maybe study up a bit”

He let out a small sigh, his expression softening. “As long as it’s for you and not just to make me feel better.”

I arched an eyebrow, teasing. “You think you’re that special, Minho?”

He snorted, a smirk tugging at his lips. “I know I’m that special.”

We both laughed, the familiar banter easing the tension that had held a heavy weight on my shoulders. But deep down, I felt conflicted. I hadn’t been entirely honest with him, and I knew it. I hadn’t told him that part of my rut was about how much it hurt to see him with someone else — to watch him with Kitty, to help him plan things and scheme to get them together.

What I didn’t know, however, was that Minho had withheld some secrets of his own.