The morning sun hung low in the eastern sky, casting a golden glow over the entire school. Sparrows chirped riotously on the branches of the angsana trees, creating a harmony that stood in stark contrast to the anxiety tightening in Thomas's chest.
The students of Class 7-B lined up in the corridor, preparing to head to Fighter Field—a public soccer field with a red dirt running track, located about 500 meters from the school. Today was the assessment for middle-distance running. For some students, this was a chance to showcase their stamina. For Thomas, it was a threat.
His self-image was currently at its peak. After the events in Math and Science class, Thomas was no longer a ghost. He was "Thomas the Genius," "Thomas the Smart Kid." The label felt delicious, yet burdensome. He realized that to maintain this spotlight, he could have no flaws. A red mark in sports would stain the "perfect" report card he was currently designing.
Thomas scanned the area, looking for a partner. He needed someone who wouldn't ask too many questions and was reasonably trustworthy. His eyes landed on Dustin, a stocky student who was currently fixing his shoelaces. Dustin had been asking Thomas for help with homework lately, making their relationship friendly enough, though they couldn't quite be called best friends yet.
"Hey, Tin," Thomas greeted him, putting on his friendly smile—one that was now well-practiced.
Dustin looked up. "Eh, hello Thom."
"Mr. Michael said the test is in pairs later. One runs, one records the time. How about we pair up?" Thomas offered.
Dustin's face brightened. "That'd be great, Thom! I haven't found a partner yet anyway. Besides, I feel calmer with you. Who knows, maybe your skill at strategizing will rub off on my running," he joked.
Thomas chuckled softly, a polite laugh. "Running uses legs, Tin, not math formulas."
Mr. Michael, the PE teacher with an athletic build, blew a long whistle. "Attention everyone! We are walking to Fighter Field now. Stay in line, and be careful crossing the street!"
The 500-meter journey felt short. Upon arrival, the scent of wet earth and grass welcomed them.
"Okay, listen up!" Mr. Michael's voice boomed without a megaphone. "One full lap of this field is approximately 400 meters. The fastest record for this grade is held by Class 7-A with a time of 1 minute 18 seconds. I'm not asking you to break the record, but don't let me catch you taking a leisurely stroll!"
Thomas swallowed hard. 1 minute 18 seconds? Crazy.
"First session, six pairs, step forward!"
Thomas and Dustin agreed to wait. They watched the first session. The fastest runner clocked in at 1 minute 54 seconds, while the slowest—a kid with asthma—finished in 5 minutes 45 seconds.
"Which session are we, Thom?" Dustin asked anxiously.
"Session four," Thomas decided. He needed time to observe the average time of his classmates. The average for boys who weren't track athletes hovered between 2 to 3 minutes.
When the second session finished, Dustin nudged Thomas's arm. "I'll go first, Thom. Just to get it over with."
Dustin stepped up to the starting line. Thomas stood on the sidelines holding the stopwatch and the scoring sheet.
"On your mark... Get set... Go!"
Dustin ran with spirit at the start, but his body weight became an enemy of gravity. By the second curve, his breathing started to sound like an old steam locomotive. Thomas watched him with pity, but also a hint of relief. At least, there was someone worse than him.
Dustin touched the finish line with a face as red as a tomato, nearly collapsing onto the grass.
"Hah... hah... crazy..." Dustin gasped, clutching his knees. "How much... Thom? How much?"
Thomas looked at the stopwatch screen: 06:31.
"Ouch, Tin," Thomas winced sympathetically. "Six minutes thirty-one. But it's okay, the important thing is you finished."
"Yeah..." Dustin's shoulders slumped. "Really bad, huh."
Thomas wrote the number in Dustin's score column. "You can make up for it in the theory exam, Tin. Just relax."
Now, it was Thomas's turn.
He stood at the starting line with five other students. His heart pounded not from athletic adrenaline, but from the fear of failure. He had to be fast. He had to prove that "Thomas the Genius" was physically reliable too.
"Start!"
Thomas shot forward. His feet struck the hard ground. In the first hundred meters, he felt great. The wind hit his face. I can do this, he thought.
However, physical reality could not be manipulated as easily as algebraic formulas. Entering the 200-meter mark, his lungs felt like they were burning. His legs, rarely trained for heavy exercise, began to feel like lead. One by one, the friends beside him overtook him. Thomas forced his body, dragging step after step, nausea rising in his throat. His "perfect" image was being tested by his own physical limitations.
He finished fourth out of the six runners in his session. His breath came in ragged gasps, his vision swimming.
"How much... Tin?" he asked between broken breaths.
Dustin looked at the stopwatch with a concerned gaze. "Four minutes forty-six, Thom."
04:46.
Thomas's world felt like it was crumbling. That number was far below the average for a normal boy, which hovered around 3 minutes. That was a C grade, or maybe a D.
If this grade went onto his report card, the "perfect" image would crack. His friends would see that Thomas had weaknesses. That Thomas was lame.
His cunning brain, used to surviving amidst poverty all this time, worked fast. His manipulative instincts took over. He looked at Dustin, who was still catching his breath.
"Tin," Thomas grabbed his calf, putting on a pained expression. "Ouch, my leg is cramping bad. Can you please get my water bottle from my bag? It's over on the edge there."
"Eh? Does it hurt that much?" The innocent Dustin was immediately worried. "Okay, hang on, Thom!"
Dustin moved to put the paper and pen on the ground.
"Eh, just leave the paper and pen here," Thomas interjected quickly, though his tone remained calm. "Let me write my own score while I straighten out my leg."
"Oh, okay. Here." Without the slightest suspicion, Dustin handed Thomas's fate into the hands of its owner.
As soon as Dustin's back turned, Thomas stared at the paper. His hands trembled, not from fatigue, but from the adrenaline of the cheat.
Four minutes was too slow. If I write one minute, it's too suspicious and I could be accused of challenging the record.
He had to find a safe number. A good number, but a reasonable one. A "smart" number.
The black pen danced across the paper. Thomas wrote: 02:46.
Two minutes forty-six seconds. Fast enough to get an A or B+, but not fast enough to make people suspect he was an athlete. A perfectly measured lie.
Thomas folded the paper and immediately jogged—forgetting his leg cramp act for a moment—toward the class captain who was collecting the data.
"Here, mine and Dustin's," Thomas said casually. The paper slid into the pile, buried alongside the honest scores.
By the time Dustin returned with the water bottle, the traces of the crime were clean.
"Thanks, Tin. You're a lifesaver," Thomas said, gulping down the water to wash away the guilt that had only briefly visited his conscience. "I already turned in the paper."
"Cool, Thom."
Thomas was just about to sit back and relax when his eyes caught something at the entrance of the field. Something that made his blood run colder than when he looked at a difficult math problem.
There, walking with a limp and a burlap sack over his shoulder, was Eben.
His older brother was wearing an oversized political campaign t-shirt, his face was smudged with dirt, and he was walking straight toward the large trash bin on the edge of Fighter Field. The distance was only about 50 meters from where the kids of Class 7-B were gathered.
Thomas's heart stopped for a second. An overwhelming panic seized him.
If Eben saw him... If Eben called out to him... If his friends saw Eben and then looked at Thomas...
The nightmare scenario played out in Thomas's head. The reputation of the "smart and cool kid" he had just secured with grade manipulation could be shattered in seconds if they knew he was the younger brother of a mentally disabled scavenger.
Thomas had to leave. Now.
"Ouch!" Thomas groaned, louder this time, clutching his stomach.
Dustin was startled. "What is it now, Thom? The leg?"
"No... stomach," Thomas hissed, his face pale (which was actually pale from fear, not pain). "My gastritis is acting up, Tin. I'm so dizzy, I feel like throwing up."
Thomas stood up, grabbing his bag. He jogged over to Mr. Michael who was busy supervising the fifth running session.
"Sir! Mr. Michael!"
"Yes? What is it, Thomas?"
"I... I'm asking permission to go back to school early, Sir. My head is spinning, my stomach hurts, I think I have wind trapped in my stomach because I haven't had breakfast," Thomas reported with a convincingly pitiful face.
Mr. Michael saw Thomas's pale face and cold sweat. "Oh dear, alright. You go rest in the school infirmary. But don't go alone. It's dangerous if you faint on the road."
"I'll ask Dustin to accompany me, Sir. Is that okay?"
"Yes, go quickly."
Thomas rushed back to Dustin. "Tin, come on, accompany me back to school. Mr. Michael ordered it. Hurry, I can't take it anymore."
"Eh? Okay, let's go!" Dustin, a loyal friend, immediately packed up his things.
Eben was getting closer. Thomas could see his brother starting to rummage through the first trash bin. Some of Thomas's classmates who were resting seemed to be watching Eben.
"Come on, Tin! Just leave whatever isn't important!" Thomas urged, pulling Dustin's sleeve.
"Wait, Thom, my change of shoes..."
"Just put them on at school later! Come on!"
They walked quickly out of the field area. Thomas deliberately took a detour, moving away from Eben's position. As they neared the exit gate, Thomas glanced back briefly.
He saw a sight that was both heart-wrenching and relieving. Eben was smiling broadly at a group of girls from Class 7-B. One of the students—Glory—was seen putting her empty water bottle directly into Eben's sack while smiling kindly. They interacted without disgust.
Eben looked happy. But Thomas? Thomas felt like a coward fleeing the battlefield. But he didn't care. The important thing was that his secret was safe.
That afternoon, after school.
Thomas sat on the terrace of his cramped rented house, waiting for Eben to come home. His heart was still resentful, mixed with a fear that hadn't quite dissipated. The incident earlier was too close. Too risky.
Not long after, Eben's figure appeared at the end of the alley. His face was cheerful, his sack full.
"Hi, Eben," Thomas greeted flatly.
"Ooh! Thomas is already home!" Eben grinned, showing his uneven teeth.
"You didn't go to school?" Thomas asked, pretending not to know anything.
"School's off, Thom. Teachers meeting," Eben answered innocently. He placed his sack down proudly. "Big harvest today!"
Thomas looked at the sack with a gaze of dislike. He wanted to scream, to forbid Eben from scavenging. But he knew their rice money came partly from there.
"Oh, you were scavenging for bottles, huh?" Thomas baited cautiously.
"Yeah! Eben went to Fighter Field earlier," Eben recounted enthusiastically, his eyes twinkling. "There were lots of Thomas's school friends there, right? Their uniforms were the same as Thomas's!"
Thomas's chest tightened. "Then... what did you say to them?"
"Not much. They were nice! Someone gave Eben a bottle directly. Some smiled at Eben. Thomas's friends are all nice!"
Thomas let out a harsh breath. His friends' kindness was actually a knife for Thomas. The more they "knew" Eben, the greater the risk of Thomas being found out.
He had to strategize. He couldn't let Eben roam around his territory.
"Ben," Thomas said, his tone turning serious, like an advisor. "You know, right, that I want you to get more results?"
"Want to! Want to!" Eben nodded quickly.
"Around Fighter Field and my school... actually, there's a lot of competition. Other scavengers go there early in the morning," Thomas lied. "The results end up being small, right?"
Eben seemed to think, then nodded hesitantly. "It was actually pretty decent earlier..."
"That was just luck," Thomas cut in quickly. "Listen, I know a better place. You know Jalan Abadi? Near the old elementary school?"
"Know it, know it!"
"Well," Thomas leaned forward, staring intently into his brother's eyes. "Over there is a 'gold mine.' There are lots of plastic bottles, and rarely do any scavengers know about it. Starting tomorrow, you'd better just go there. Don't go to my school area anymore, otherwise you'll be competing with other scavengers—pity them."
The excuse sounded logical to Eben's simple ears. He didn't catch the cunning manipulation behind his brother's advice. He only heard an opportunity to help Mother more.
"Wow, Thomas is smart!" Eben exclaimed in admiration. "Okay, tomorrow Eben goes to Jalan Abadi!"
Thomas leaned back against the rickety wooden chair. He stared at the moldy ceiling of the terrace.
"Yeah, Ben. It's safer there," Thomas mumbled softly, more to himself.
Safer for me, he added in his heart.
Today Thomas learned one more thing: Being smart alone isn't enough. To stay at the top, he had to be the director of the lives of the people around him. Even if it meant throwing his own brother onto distant streets, just to keep his stage clean.