Classroom fans ruffle Ming-Zhou’s bangs, normally parted down the middle like a Korean celebrity. Today, as he scratches the answer sheet with a No.2 pencil, his unruly hair sways like the banyan trees’ aerial roots outside the window. The motion distracts him. His pencil hovers a second too long. A glance at his watch, worn only for entrance exams, tells him: twelve minutes until the bell, a washroom break, then math, his strongest subject. But now, he must wrestle with history.
Ming-Zhou reads the next question, chest clenching, brain whirls to process each word. The ceiling fans don’t help, their outdated parts click like a rifle being cocked. He steadies his breath, adjusts his glasses.
In 1960, US presidential candidate Richard Nixon stated:
“The Chinese Communist Party declares that attacks on Taiwan’s offshore islands are a prelude to taking over. Once the CCP launches an attack, the US will stand by its allies, just as it would support a certain city in Europe.”
Which offshore island and European city was Nixon referring to?
1960. Not Now. Get it together. Ming-Zhou tightens his grip on the pencil, nails digging into palm. The pain there releases the tension in his chest, but something else lingers—the weight, the press of an air rifle at his school defense class. He remembers its heft, heavier than his friend’s PlayStation Sharp Shooter. The trigger, less sensitive, required a decisive pull—firm, final. When it recoiled, it left a coin-sized bruise.
“How were you holding the rifle?” his dad asked when he got home from the shooting range.
Ming-Zhou demonstrated reluctantly. He didn’t want to relive that moment.
“Too loose, here, watch,” his dad raised his hands, mimicking the grip of an invisible rifle. “No gap between the butt and your shoulder. Hold firm. Lean forward. Elbows slightly bent. Now—” he jerked his lips, imitating the sound of a shot.
Click—Pah!
“Five minutes,” the examiner barks from the podium, jolting Ming-Zhou back to the classroom. He speed-reads the last questions and blacks out the rest with Cs, a statistically sound trick that rarely fails him.
When the final bell clangs, signaling the end of his university entrance exam, he hands in his bubble sheet, slings on his backpack, and walks out feeling lighter than when he arrived that morning. In the hallway, his best friend stands, waiting, hands in his pockets, no doubt fumbling for a cigarette.
“Not here, Beardy Man,” Ming-Zhou says. “You know the rules.”
Beardy Man, real name Hong-Yu, earned his nickname from his unshaven winter months, trimming only when the Kaohsiung heat sends sweat trickling down. “Not even I want to kiss myself—let alone my girlfriend,” he once mused, scratching his goatee. So when Ming-Zhou pointed out a month before exams that it was already June, Beardy Man just stroked the scruff covering half his cheeks. “For luck.”
“So, did you get lucky?” Ming-Zhou asks, his thermos halfway to his lips. “That probability distribution question I taught you—on the test.”
“Was it? I knew it. Question sixteen looked familiar, but for the smoke of me, I couldn’t figure out, B or C.”
“And your pick?”
“No—first tell me the answer.”
“B.”
Beardy Man swears, loud enough to draw glances from passing students.
“You told me when in doubt, go with C.”
Ming-Zhou pats his shoulder as they stroll out of the building. “Looks like you’re gonna have to retake the exams.”
“Nah, bro, this was my third round. I’ve wasted enough of my gorgeous youth at that cram school—actually, not wasted,” he raises a finger. “I met Yi-Shin there. Best decision I ever made. Time well spent.”
Ming-Zhou peers at his friend, unsure if what he feels is admiration or envy. Beardy Man has delayed university for two years, splitting his time between cram school and a part-time job at an American steakhouse. That’s where they met—when Ming-Zhou’s family celebrated his mom’s CFO promotion. Beardy Man, a professional server, had eavesdropped on the occasion and slid a flourless chocolate cake onto their table, the plate scripted with Congratulations. Impressed, Ming-Zhou’s mother invited him into the conversation. Through much awkwardness on Ming-Zhou’s end, she paired them as tutors. Beardy Man would teach him to socialize, and in return, Ming-Zhou would help him with math.
They arranged to study at the McDonald’s downstairs before Beardy Man’s shifts. At first, Ming-Zhou resisted, downplaying the need for friends and resenting his mother for sticking him with a guy who reeked of cigarettes. Later, when Beardy Man opened up, whispering about his Down syndrome sister at the foundation, something shifted.
Behind that nonchalance, he is just as fragile.
“Shift today?” Ming-Zhou asks as they approach Beardy Man’s beaten-up scooter, its paint chipping from too many tight parking spots.
“Yeah, not till six though. Hop on. I’ll give you a lift home.” Beardy Man pops the trunk and tosses Ming-Zhou a helmet covered in Hello Kitty vinyl stickers.
Ming-Zhou turns the helmet in his hands. “Nice.”
“Don’t—Yi-Shin met my sister. She was happy to surrender her helmet’s artistic freedom.”
They ride along the shimmering Love River, from one city end to the cloudless horizon. With the wind, stifled heat diminishes, but Ming-Zhou feels it, the salt and moisture trapped between his scalp and the helmet’s lining. He parts his bangs for ventilation, just as Beardy Man shouts his name over traffic.
“Ming-Zhou, I think… I will join the military this year.”
“What?” Ming-Zhou shouts back, his voice a pitch too high.
“The military!”
“But that’s a whole year! What about your girlfriend?”
They stop at a red. Beardy Man watches the countdown.
“Yi-Shin understands. Well, she thinks it’s hot to have a boyfriend in military, and who can blame her?” He chuckles, then stops, sensing Ming-Zhou’s gone rigid. “Okay, I mean. We all have to do it sooner or later. Why not now? Maybe I’ll get a stroke of inspiration for what I wanna study at university.”
“I thought we’d do it together,” Ming-Zhou says, a hint of cold fury. He hates this about Beardy Man, always making plans without him. These decisions need careful planning. Not only that. They are best friends. Supposed to do things together. And here he is, making big decisions. So independent, so annoying.
“I know.” Beardy Man grips the handlebars, veins surfacing across his arms. He stares at the helmet ahead, a cartoonized Taiwan black bear. “You know question forty-five, the one on history, about CCP?”
Ming-Zhou’s breath catches.
“I… I can’t just sit here and—” Beardy Man swallows. “What’s the point of all this studying if I can’t protect the people I love? What was the point of all those stupid exams if—when the PLA comes, I’ll be holding a pencil, not a rifle? Look, your parents have money. They can prob get you out if shit hits the fan. I don’t have that option. I don’t wanna fight. I’m scared to—”
“I’ll join if you got the answer right,” Ming-Zhou blurts out, too fast, like hesitation would make him regret.
Light turns green. Beardy Man stays rooted, feet planted on the pavement. Around them, engines grumble, riders roar past.
“You serious?”
Ming-Zhou nods.
“Not Kinmen and Ukraine. That combo was too obvious. A trap. Ber—”
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP.
Car horns blare, a chain reaction sweeping the street.
Neither flinch. They both know the answer.
