By Friday afternoon, the rain had completely cleared, leaving behind a sky the color of a bruised plum and air so thick with humidity you could practically chew it.
The bus stop outside the main gate was packed shoulder-to-shoulder with students from three different schools, all sweating through their uniforms while waiting for the #71 bus.
Mali was standing near the rusty bus sign, her arms crossed over her chest, holding her canvas bag tightly against her side. Her phone had been silent since third period. After leaving her father's message unanswered under the lab weight all Thursday, the silence felt heavier than a confrontation.
"If you stare at the pavement any harder, you're going to burn a hole through to the sewer," Krit said, stepping out of the crowd with two plastic bags from the convenience store.
He handed a wooden stick with three deep-fried fish balls to Mali and another to Phuwin.
"I didn't ask for fish balls," Mali said, looking down at the skewer. The sweet-and-spicy chili sauce was already pooling in the corner of the small plastic bag.
"I bought them with my own money," Krit said, taking a massive bite of his own skewer and chewing loudly. "Which means you have to eat them. It's a legal requirement. Phuwin, tell her."
"It's in the student handbook," Phuwin agreed immediately, leaning against the rusty light pole and blowing on his fish ball to cool it down. "Section four, clause two. Rejecting Krit's food is a felony."
Mali let out a small, tired breath, but she took a bite. The hot, chewy fish ball and the sticky sauce hit her tongue, and despite herself, her shoulders relaxed half an inch.
"My dad sent a driver to pick me up," she said softly, looking down at the grease paper in her hand. "He's waiting at the front gate right now."
Phuwin stopped chewing. Krit paused with his stick halfway to his mouth.
"The silver Toyota?" Phuwin asked.
Mali nodded. "He wants me to go straight to the tutorial center in Siam for the weekend engineering crash course. I'm supposed to meet the instructor at five."
The crowded street around them was loud—tuk-tuks revving their engines, motorbikes weaving through stalled traffic, vendors shouting about grilled pork—but in the tiny circle around the light pole, it felt dead silent.
Krit looked down at his wooden stick, then turned his head to look back toward the main school gate. Sitting double-parked by the curb was a pristine silver sedan, its engine idling quietly, the tinted windows rolled all the way up against the afternoon heat.
"You haven't signed the application for Chiang Mai yet, have you?" Krit asked. His tone was surprisingly quiet, stripped of its usual theatrical dramatic flair.
"The online portal closes at midnight on Sunday," Mali said. Her thumb stroked the smooth bamboo of the skewer. "My mom left the printout on my desk this morning. She wrote 'For your own good' on a yellow sticky note."
Phuwin looked at Mali's profile—her straight nose, the dark circles under her eyes from staying up late studying, the neat way her hair was pinned back behind her ears. She was seventeen, but sitting under the weight of her family's quiet expectations, she looked fifty.
"Mali," Phuwin said, stepping closer so his elbow brushed against hers. "Do you actually want to go to that tutorial class today?"
Mali looked up at him. Her mouth opened to say something automatic—something responsible about tuition fees and not wasting her parents' hard work—but the words died in her throat. Her eyes went slightly glossy before she quickly blinked it away.
"No," she whispered. "I really, really don't."
Krit didn't hesitate. He tossed his wooden skewer into a nearby wire trash can with a sharp, decisive motion.
"Phuwin, grab her bag," Krit ordered.
"What?" Mali blinked.
Before she could react, Krit reached into his pocket, pulled out his last five-baht coin, and sprinted straight into the middle of the crowded avenue. He didn't look for traffic; he just wove through two parked songthaews and stopped directly in front of an ancient, orange-vested motorbike taxi driver sitting on his idling Honda.
"Krit, what are you doing!" Mali gasped, taking two steps toward the curb.
Phuwin grabbed the strap of her canvas bag, taking the weight off her shoulder, and pulled her back onto the sidewalk. "Just let him work."
Across the street, Krit was gesticulating wildly at the driver, pointing at the silver Toyota by the gate, handing over the five-baht coin, and pointing down the narrow alleyway behind the fried chicken stall. The motorbike driver looked at the five-baht coin, looked at Krit's frantic face, let out a loud laugh, and nodded.
The driver revved his engine, pulled his bike forward, and deliberately stalled the vehicle right in front of the silver Toyota's bumper, blocking the driver's side door from opening into traffic.
Krit sprinted back across the street, grabbing Mali's wrist before his feet even hit the sidewalk curb.
"Phase one complete," Krit panted, his face flushed red from the heat. "The Toyota is trapped for at least four minutes while Uncle complains about his carburetor. Run!"
"Krit! That's insane!" Mali yelled, but her legs were already moving.
"Less talking, more running!" Phuwin shouted from behind them, clutching both his bag and Mali's heavy canvas bag against his chest as his sneakers slapped against the pavement.
They darted past the bus stop, ducked under the awning of the printing shop, and sprinted down the narrow, shaded alleyway behind the cram school. The air in the alley smelled like wet laundry and garlic, but as they ran—their heavy bags bouncing against their hips, their ties flying over their shoulders—the suffocating weight of the silver car and the yellow sticky notes vanished behind them.
They didn't stop until they reached the small, overgrown canal bridge three streets away.
panting heavily, Krit collapsed against the rusted metal railing, clutching his side and groaning dramatically. "My lungs... have collapsed. I am dying for art."
Phuwin bent over, his hands on his knees, laughing so hard he could barely catch his breath. "You paid a taxi driver five baht to block a car!"
"It was an investment in her future!" Krit wheezed, waving a hand in the air.
Mali was standing in the middle of the narrow bridge. Her uniform shirt was wrinkled, her hair was completely messily pulled out of its pins, and her knees were shaking from the sudden sprint.
She looked back down the alley toward the main road, where the faint sound of honking traffic echoed through the buildings.
Then she looked at Phuwin, who was handing her canvas bag back to her with a wide, ridiculous grin, and at Krit, who was currently trying to wipe sweat off his neck with his sleeve.
Slowly, her shoulders began to shake. A tiny, breathless laugh escaped her lips, followed by another, until she was standing on the bridge under the purple afternoon sky, laughing so loudly that a flock of pigeons scattered from the wooden power pole above them.
She reached into her skirt pocket, pulled out her phone, and tapped the screen. She didn't open her dad's message. Instead, she opened her browser, navigated to the university portal, and pulled up the Chiang Mai Architecture application page.
"Krit," Mali said, her voice clear and completely steady for the first time all week.
"What?" Krit groaned from the railing.
"Borrow me your blue pen," she said. "I'm filling this out right now."