Wednesday afternoon lab was loud, smelling heavily of isopropyl alcohol, burnt rubber, and the damp humidity radiating off thirty teenagers in uniform.
Mr. Sanan had given them twenty minutes to calculate the coefficient of static friction using a wooden block, a set of brass weights, and a inclined plane that looked like it had survived three military coups.
"If we tilt it to thirty degrees," Krit said, poking the wooden block with the tip of his ruler, "it slides. If we tilt it to twenty-eight degrees, it just sits there looking stupid. Therefore, the friction is twenty-nine degrees. Write it down."
"That's not how math works," Mali said from the stool next to him.
She wasn't looking at the incline plane. She was staring at her phone screen, which was resting flat on the wooden lab bench between two beaker stands.
The screen was lit up with an unread Line message from a contact saved simply as Dad.
Dad: I spoke with Professor Anan today. He reserved a seat for you in the Saturday tutorial class for the Chula Engineering entrance exam. I already paid the deposit.
Mali's thumb was hovering over the glass. She hadn't typed a response in six minutes.
Phuwin, who was supposed to be measuring the angle with a plastic protractor, leaned his shoulder against hers. Not hard, just enough to let her feel the weight of another person standing there.
"You don't have to answer it right now," Phuwin said softly, keeping his voice beneath the roar of the exhaust hood behind them.
"If I don't answer in ten minutes, he's going to call," Mali said. Her tone was completely flat, devoid of the sharp sarcasm she usually used as a shield. "And if he calls, I have to lie. And I'm bad at lying to him because he looks at me like he's reading a report card."
Krit stopped poking the wooden block. He looked at the phone, then at Mali's pale knuckles resting on the edge of the lab bench.
Without saying a word, Krit reached out, took the heavy brass fifty-gram weight from the balance scale, and set it directly on top of Mali's phone screen.
CLINK.
The black glass disappeared under the heavy cylinder of polished metal.
"There," Krit said, dusting his hands off on his trousers. "Now the phone is part of the friction experiment. If Mr. Sanan asks, it's a stabilizer."
Mali blinked at the brass weight sitting on her screen. "Krit, if my dad calls, it's going to vibrate and knock the weight into the sink."
"Then it dies a heroic death for science," Krit replied instantly, leaning his elbows on the bench and looking her right in the eyes. "Mali. Look at me."
Mali looked up.
Krit didn't have his usual stupid grin on his face. His eyes were dark, serious, and surprisingly sharp behind his messy fringe.
"You don't want to be an engineer," Krit said. It wasn't a question.
"It's a stable career," she whispered, her eyes darting toward the front of the room where Mr. Sanan was scribbling equations on the blackboard. "My brother tried to do graphic design and my dad didn't speak to him for six months. I can't... I don't want the house to be quiet like that again."
Phuwin felt a cold knot twist in his stomach. He remembered those nights—months ago—when Mali would stay at the tea shop until eight in the evening, claiming she was "studying," when really she just didn't want to go home to a dinner table where nobody spoke.
He had been too wrapped up in his own romantic nonsense to notice back then. He wasn't going to miss it now.
"If you go to Chiang Mai," Phuwin said, leaning closer so only the three of them could hear, "what happens to the house isn't your fault, Mali. You're seventeen. You're not the pillar holding up their roof."
Mali looked at Phuwin, her breath catching slightly in her throat.
"And besides," Krit added, taking the wooden block and slamming it down onto the inclined plane with a loud THACK that made two girls at the next table jump, "Chiang Mai has better food anyway. If you become an engineer, you're just going to build bridges that I'm going to draw graffiti on."
"I would design them so they collapse when you walk on them," Mali muttered, a tiny, fragile crack appearing in her defensive shell as her shoulders finally dropped an inch.
"See? That's the spirit," Krit grinned, though his eyes stayed fixed on her face. "You're mean. Engineers aren't mean enough. Architects are terrifying. You'll fit right in."
Underneath the heavy brass weight, the phone buzzed once—a short, dull vibration against the wood.
Nobody moved to take the weight off.
Mali looked at the brass cylinder for three long seconds. Then, very slowly, she reached out, took the plastic protractor from Phuwin's hand, and aligned it against the wooden ramp.
"Thirty-one degrees," Mali said, her voice steadying as she picked up her blue pen. "Write it down before Sanan comes over here."
Phuwin looked at Krit across the table. Krit gave him a quick, barely perceptible nod.
The phone under the weight stayed dark. Outside the high windows of the science wing, the clouds were still heavy and black over Bangkok, but inside the crowded, chemical-scented room, the three of them held the ramp steady together.