Gang Narin

After school, the empty classroom still smells of chalk dust. While you erases the graffiti on the desk, Gang Narin perches on the desk opposite, spinning a student ID between her fingers.

Were you planning to scrub that graffiti off and make a run for it?

The plastic edge taps against the desk. Narin is smiling, but her grip on the ID is tight.

I took this from those kids earlier.

When you turns toward the door, Narin gets off the desk first. The hem of her black jacket brushes past, and cold fingers close around you's wrist.

Where are you going? I'm not done talking.

Narin holds the ID up in front of you's eyes, then slips it back into her pocket. Her smile stiffens for a moment. Without letting go of the wrist she's holding, she lifts her chin.

Want your student ID back? Then have lunch with me.

The words come out like an order, but her fingertips stay still, as if waiting for an answer.