Cleanly Sending Off the Second-Period Math Exam
I breezed through the second-period math exam—or rather, I sent it packing without a fight. During the first-period Korean exam, I put up a decent struggle to defend my national pride, but when the Western barbarians of numbers and symbols came charging in armed with the latest weaponry, there was no holding them back. Aside from problems 1 through 4, which even my middling middle-school math skills could handle, the second half felt like kicking off with no goalkeeper and the goal wide open.
The subjective answer sheet left my hands without so much as wasting ink on a signature-pen test scribble—nothing but my student ID and name.
"I'm starving."
From the moment I turned it in, any mindset about fulfilling my student duties had long vanished. See? I'm not even muttering "I'm screwed" anymore—it's all "I'm hungry" spilling out of my mouth.
*Gurgle.*
My biological clock reacted first, sending hunger signals from my body.
"Mophead Instructor, what's on the menu today?"
"I'm gonna kill you for real."
According to the almighty Mophead Instructor, it's side dishes so good you'll die. Slurp.
But here's the sad truth: Bulsago High School, where Ban Do-young is enrolled, might have a relatively free campus vibe, but it's still undeniably a liberal arts high school aimed at getting students into college. Naturally, every welfare policy prioritizes the third-years on the cusp of university entrance.
On the small scale, that's snack support or free supplementary classes—visible perks. On the larger scale, it's things like assigning classrooms on the convenient second floor with less foot traffic, or installing bidets only in the third-year bathrooms up there alongside the staff ones.
Even now, some kids sneaking out during class under the pretense of using the bathroom head not to the first-year ones, but down to the second floor where the third-year classrooms are. With spring in full bloom, mornings and evenings are still chilly, and that faint icy draft hits you every time you sit on the toilet—most days it's enough to make you flinch. But imagining plopping down on a toilet seat without even a basic heated bidet in the dead of winter? My legs are already shaking.
But it doesn't end there. The student council hands out snacks first to them, all four third-year bathrooms have bidets with wash functions, and so on. These are just material handouts, though.
True welfare and perks are the kind that apply so naturally, like breathing, you don't even realize they're benefits. So obviously, so pervasively. The gap in perception means those enjoying these precious gifts have no idea how huge they are. Probably never will.
To them, it's not "priority welfare" or "special consideration"—it's their right, plain and simple common sense.
Why the sudden rant? Huh?
"Hey, why's that senior cutting in when we lined up first?!"
"Hey now, third-years need to eat fast and get back to studying! And don't you know the cafeteria order's always third-years, second-years, first-years?"
"Then fuck, hurry up! What've you been doing all this time, slinking in right at first-year lunch to cut ahead?!"
"You punk—third-years eating before first-years is common sense at this school, got it?"
Bulsago High's cafeteria couldn't accommodate the entire student body at once. Like most schools, space constraints meant they had to cycle students through quickly rather than seat everyone. Lunch starts at 12:30, but first-years can't enter until 12:50—20 minutes in. Anyone lining up before that gets booted from the raid party.
"Ugh... I'm so hungry. I barely grabbed breakfast."
First-years had to sit in the classroom clutching their empty stomachs for over 20 minutes after the lunch bell, unable even to approach the cafeteria.
Even the vending machine alternative wasn't easy. The school store's on the first floor of the new building. Third-years on the second floor naturally snag priority over first-years climbing down four flights from the fourth-floor classrooms. Hot new menu items or popular stuff often vanish by the fourth-period bell.
So what happens? What else—starving stomachs guzzling mango cola instead of the Zero Lime Do Ha-min forgot to buy, then choking down cold rice before fifth period.
First-years get no priority!
"Whoa, that math was brutal. Had stuff we haven't even learned yet, right?"
"Class rep, can you help with math problem 12?"
"Again?"
"Sorry, I seriously mixed up 2 and 4 this time."
"Fine... whatever. Bring your exam sheet."
The lunch bell rang, but not everyone bolted for the cafeteria—especially those without afternoon plans. Like after Korean, a few gathered around class president An Seong-gyeong to compare answers.
The subject changed, but in Class 1, her marked exam sheet was still the most reliable answer key.
"Class rep! What about the last one, number 30? You get that?"
"...Uh, no. I couldn't solve it either."
"No way, even you?"
An Seong-gyeong, who'd been smoothly explaining problems for the kids, sighed briefly before flatly showing the back page of her exam sheet.
Amid the subjective problems—the final boss of the math exam—the gray paper was filled to the brim with desperate scribbles of numbers and equations, but the box for the answer remained blank.
"If I'd had five more minutes... Tsk. Next time."
"This mock exam was seriously tough if even our class topper couldn't get it."
"...Ah, Do Ha-min."
An Seong-gyeong, staring blankly at her answer sheet in the air, suddenly mentioned Do Ha-min's name.
Whether intentional or just stream-of-consciousness, who knows.
"Do Ha-jin...? That kid Ban Do-young always picks on?"
"Not Ha-jin, Ha-min. Do Ha-min."
"Oh, right. Never talked to him, so."
Do Ha-min's presence in the class was apparently still pretty faint. Even a month into the semester, kids were mixing up his name.
With major incidents in class and the world's most beautiful girl as his desk mate, and still this level of invisibility? Classic Do Ha-min.
"Maybe Do Ha-min could've solved it..."
An Seong-gyeong's sudden shout-out to Do Ha-min. She grabbed her exam sheet and headed toward his desk with the kids in tow.
"Do Ha-min."
"...H-Huh? W-What's up?"
Do Ha-min stammered in his usual flustered way, clearly not expecting the class rep and kids to swarm him.
"Did you get math number 30 by any chance?"
"30...? Oh..."
"If you did, mind telling me the answer? I'm second-guessing mine."
Do Ha-min pondered for a moment, hesitating, then said, "S-Sorry. I couldn't get it either."
He showed the last page with problem 30. The sheet was pitch-black with thick, messy scrawls—no white space left—making the kids around him grimace on sight.
"Whoa, look at that blacked-out exam. You doodle on it?"
"Do Ha-jin, your handwriting's awful."
"Haha... yeah, I think so too. Sorry, I scribbled randomly since I couldn't solve it anyway."
"...Got it. Too bad. Guess no one in our class did."
An Seong-gyeong nodded quietly and returned to her seat without another word.
"Lame."
"W-What? When'd you get here?"
"Just now."
After An Seong-gyeong left, I plopped down at Do Ha-min's empty desk. Looking down, I saw his messy exam workings. Computer sign-pen notes and formulas in crooked, crude strokes. Could even he read that handwriting?
But having watched his scrawl up close all along, my eyes spotted it clearly: amid the black ink clouds, a single number he'd confidently marked as the answer.
"Why didn't you tell them?"
"W-What...?"
"You solved the whole back page. That's the answer, right?"
I pointed to the character inside the final black swirl in the box—looked like he'd frantically erased and rewritten at the last second, smearing ink over the number.
"Isn't today perfect for a kid like you to shine? Half the class still mixes up your name."
"Just... if I told them and it was wrong, it'd be embarrassing. So I played dumb. Wasn't totally sure anyway."
"Hmm..."
"You told me not to go teaching others casually..."
"What'd you say?"
"N-Nothing..."
Shifty eyes, blushing as he turned away. And that uncertain pronunciation. From his reaction, Do Ha-min was definitely hiding something from me.
'Ah, but this guy's always been like this.'
Still, Do Ha-min had always been the shaky-eyed, quick-to-blush, stammering nerd type, so this was par for the course.
"Anyway, that's why. What about you? Exam go okay?"
"Heroines don't study."
"Always with that... Master and Mom are worried sick. About you not caring about school at all."
"But what can I do? If I suddenly unlock study genius, top the whole school like it's breakfast, and max out my IQ, that'd be a disaster."
"W-Why's that bad? Sounds great."
"Teacher Mi-so said if you study hard, your future husband's face changes."
"...Huh?"
Do Ha-min, nose buried in his finished exam sheet, lifted his head toward me.
"If he gets even handsomer than now, it'll just get annoying down the line."
"..."
Attention: Due to today's mock exams for first- and second-years, lunch order is changed to second-years, first-years, third-years. All first-year students on campus, please gather at the cafeteria entrance 40 minutes early.
"Whoa, we eat fast today! Hey, model student—I'm hungry, let's grab food!"
"Uh, o-okay..."
Lunch was followed by English and social studies, which also sailed off to distant shores just like math. All because of Do Ha-min.