At the Edge of the Notebook

Yaaawn.

The moment Julian closed his mouth, the tedium stretched out again, and I was left with a long while to sit alone inside my own head. The Royal School was where I had come to hide from my grandfather. I had thought it would be enough to kill time until graduation and be done with it, but now that I was actually here, the feeling sat strangely.

A second life, come to me like a miracle—and I was going to idle away three years of it? Seventeen. This golden stretch of time?

Does that even make sense?

I wanted to live this life properly. Not another one ground down by part-time jobs, where I never managed to make a single friend—just an ordinary one. The things everyone else felt and went through, I only wanted to meet them, one by one. Kicking a ball around with friends at lunch, then buying ice cream if you lost the bet. Stampeding to the arcade on the way home, and if you were hungry, stopping at a snack shop for tteokbokki and sundae, spicy rice cakes and blood sausage. I wanted a school life so plain I could get sick of it.

For that, I would have to make friends first.

Hmm.

I looked around at my classmates filling the circular lecture hall. Children from rich houses, which perhaps explained it: most of them were good-looking, and so thoroughly brought up at home that every one of them kept a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠genteel bearing. There were exceptions.

Ralph Warren's daughter, hadn't someone said? Unlike the others, who sat with their backs held rigidly straight, her posture was quite free. Her clothes, for a start, ran to a very tough style—a teenage girl with more than a little rebel in her, if I had to name the feeling. Not the kind that made you frown, though.

Maybe it was those eyes, full of curiosity, that I still remembered from in front of the Bugatti.

That was when it happened. Had I been staring too openly? Olivia turned my way.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing, what?"

"That's all."

She pushed her lips out, as if the answer were too bland to be worth anything. She looked every bit as bored as I was. And why wouldn't she be? Seniors holding forth in a one-sided debate—if you found that interesting, that would be the stranger thing. She seemed to be enduring the tedium by doodling in a notebook. She was doing it even now.

Scratch, scratch.

On a sheet a little larger than her palm, a bike had been drawn.

"Yamaha."

Her eyes went round.

"How did you know?"

Rough as it looked, it was an excellent sketch, the character of the machine caught cleanly. Of course I recognized it. Olivia seemed quite pleased by that.

"Want to see the others?"

"Sure."

We spoke in whispers, so as not to disturb anyone, which meant we had to sit a little closer.

"Know what this is?"

"Kawasaki."

"And this?"

"Triumph."

The last thing she showed me needed no name. It was my Bugatti. She could have seen it for only a few minutes, and yet from the curve of the body to the shape of the wheels, she had reproduced it as precisely as a photograph.

"You've got talent."

"Really?"

She was the daughter of Ralph Warren, a designer who stood for America itself. To say she had inherited her father's gift would hardly be an exaggeration. Olivia's own wishes, though, seemed to run another way.

"I mostly draw things you can ride. Being a pro driver is the dream."

Well, now.

"What's yours?"

"Hard to say."

I thought a moment, then answered.

"Nothing's settled. I've got a fair number of hobbies, though."

"Such as?"

"I like writing."

Her face said she could not have cared less.

"I enjoy coffee."

Marginally better than writing, that look allowed.

"Cars are a field I follow with real interest."

Only then did her eyes catch light.

"Eight cylinders or more, naturally ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠aspirated, and of course I prefer a manual."

"So it's the Bugatti."

She grinned.

"Well? How is it?"

"I haven't driven it yet."

"Why not?"

"No license."

"Your father never took you out in it?"

I answered with a small laugh. She let out a sigh, plainly disappointed.

"Do you have other cars?"

"Just a few more."

"Can I ask what they are?"

Right about then, a cold gaze came flying from across the room. I looked up and found the moderator glaring in our direction. Had we been carrying on as loudly as during Julian's turn, he would have warned us on the spot. As it was, we had kept to a whisper, and he seemed content to caution us with a look alone.

I thought that would be the end of it.

It wasn't.

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

Olivia began to write something in the notebook.

I took the pen from her.

The written exchange went on for quite a while after that. In my previous life I had never had so much as a female friend—hardly even a woman's number saved in my phone—and I had ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠always been awkward in front of girls. Strangely, today I wasn't. I could talk with her as easily as with a friend of my own sex.

Perhaps that ease reached her. Near the very edge of the notebook, Olivia began to scratch out something she must have kept inside for a long time.

Wouldn't understand? I understood too well. That was the problem.

Olivia's situation was much like mine. A parent too accomplished, and because of that a fate already half decided. Even the fact that she had fled abroad to study, just to escape it, matched exactly.

She shook her head hard, as if the mere thought were horrifying.

Hm.

At a glance, Olivia had a point. To a girl of seventeen, it would seem hopelessly old-fashioned. But for people who pursued American classic, Ralph Warren was simply the finest choice there was. Truth be told, I liked the brand a great deal myself.

The words ran down the page like a complaint. I am not, by nature, a man who meddles. Even so, her situation was too much like my own—and the daughter of a famous designer might be of some use to Hyeon-gang, which set such store by design. That was precisely why I found myself offering her advice.

People who have reached the peak of a field place absolute trust in their own eye. My grandfather is the prime example.

A short laugh escaped me.

Olivia sank into thought, then soon took up the pen.

And you're the first person I've met who wants to ride a bike at seventeen and become a racer.

Right then—

Until a moment ago her letters had been neat and deliberate. This time, as if something were terribly urgent, she dashed it off in a scrawl.

I was just about to set my answer down on the notebook when a voice cut in.

"Next group, please come up."

It felt as if we had spent the entire debate passing notes, only to be called up all at once. I started calmly up onto the platform.

"Moderator. I have a question."

Julian, coming in behind me, asked it loudly, as if he meant to be seen asking.

"Our contributions to the debate will hardly be equal. Surely we don't receive the same score merely because we were placed in the same group?"

He spoke with open pride, like someone certain that debate, at least, was his. A type who never once slipped outside my expectations. The moderator had surely read that shallow little tactic through and through, but he answered with as fair a face as he could manage.

"Even in a group debate, scores are applied individually. So you needn't worry about unfair grading..."

"Thank you!"

Whatever anyone else might say, this debate had class placement in mind. Julian was no doubt straining for a place in the upper ranks. He looked a little irritating, at a glance. Still, if class placement affected university entrance, a reaction that frantic was not entirely unreasonable.

Tsk.

Once he had confirmed that every member of our group was up, the moderator took the microphone.

"Today's subject is art."

A murmur moved through the hall.

"Can we separate the artist from the work? We'll begin with the student on the far left."

The student on the far left was Olivia.

"The relationship between the artist and the work..."

"I'm not interested."

"Pardon?"

"Words like artist and work—just thinking of them gives me a headache."

The moderator wore the face of a man who could not begin to follow what Olivia meant. Of course he couldn't. If I hadn't traded notes with her, if I hadn't heard about her dream and her father's opposition, my face would have been just as puzzled.

Not that she cared. At precisely that moment, Olivia turned toward me, as if to ask—

You know what I mean, don't you?

A small wink, sent my way.

Ha!

To the seniors, a fool. To Julian, get lost. The girl who had thrown sparks every time she opened her mouth, winking out of nowhere. The gap was wide enough to make my head spin. In any case, while I was turning all of that over, the debate kept moving. Sure enough, the moderator looked at Olivia.

"Then may I take it that you have nothing to say?"

"Yes."

And so Olivia was eliminated, if that was the word for it.

"Next student."

His name was Peter, if I had it right. He was second, so he had probably been putting his thoughts in order—only to find himself opening his mouth after about ten seconds. Sure enough, he began with a face drawn tight by nerves.

"So... aren't the artist and the work separate? My view, for now... is that they are."

He had managed a single remark, and one of the graduates fired back at once.

"The world has every sort of artist in it. Some have even committed crimes. If the body of work of a hideous criminal is extremely beautiful, are we to look at those two things separately? He is plainly a criminal."

"W-well..."

Peter picked through his words, then went on.

"Your point, senior... is valid. I don't wish to deny that, either. But if I look back on my own case..."

The look he got in return was pure skepticism.

"Are you claiming that your own special experience can function as a universal argument?"

That was when the moderator stepped in. The gist of it was that they might at least hear the boy out, and thanks to that, Peter was able to go on. Perhaps he felt the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠eyes around him turning strange. He changed the subject at once.