There was one problem with being theatrical.

  You eventually have to follow through.

  On the first day I entered 5T, I had told Jason, with unnecessary flourish, that I hoped to benefit from his wisdom.

  Wisdom.

  Now I had to cash that cheque.

  One afternoon after school, I approached him with my most carefully constructed “confused but sincere” expression.

  “Jason,” I began solemnly, “may I request your academic guidance?”

  He blinked. “Huh?”

  “I wish to improve in Mathematics and Science. I heard you are formidable.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “You always get high marks.”

  “That is surface performance,” I replied gravely. “I seek deeper understanding.”

  He stared at me for a long second.

  “You okay or not?”

  “I am serious.”

  He scratched his head. “You want tuition from me?”

  “Yes.”

  He hesitated. “Why?”

  “Because I believe in learning from the strong.”

  He leaned back in his chair. “You sound like villain in anime.”

  “Please focus,” I said.

  “What I get?”

  I nodded. Fair negotiation.

  “After the session, I will purchase fried chicken from the canteen.”

  His eyes lit up instantly. “The big one?”

  “The big one.”

  “Add chili sauce?”

  “Within budget.”

  He extended his hand. “Deal.”

  Thus began the strangest academic experience of my existence.

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  We sat at a corner table with my exercise book open.

  He pointed at a math question.

  “Okay. This one easy. First you divide here.”

  He wrote confidently.

  Incorrectly.

  Every adult neuron in my brain screamed.

  That denominator does not go there.

  I almost corrected him.

  My mouth even opened slightly.

  But I remembered the mission.

  For once in my life, I wanted to experience being guided instead of guiding.

  So I acted.

  “Ah… so divide first?” I asked slowly.

  “Yes,” he said, doubling down. “Then minus this.”

  Wrong again.

  He frowned at the messy result.

  “Wait. Why answer weird?”

  I leaned forward, pretending to analyze. “Perhaps… another method?”

  He stiffened slightly.

  “No no, this correct. Just… small mistake.”

  He erased furiously.

  I felt a strange mix of amusement and sympathy.

  He was performing the role of mentor with full commitment.

  He moved on to Science.

  “Water cycle,” he declared. “Very important.”

  “Yes,” I nodded obediently.

  “So evaporation is when water become… smaller water.”

  I paused.

  “Smaller water?”

  He waved his hand. “Like disappear but not disappear.”

  “Vapor?” I suggested cautiously.

  “Yes! That one. Vapor.”

  He shot me a look that said do not expose me.

  I lowered my gaze respectfully.

  “Your explanation is enlightening,” I said.

  He squinted. “You mocking me?”

  “Never.”

  By the end of the session, he had sweat on his forehead.

  He closed the book.

  “Okay. You understand?”

  “Profoundly,” I replied.

  He nodded, satisfied.

  I bought the fried chicken as promised.

  He bit into it with visible pride.

  “See,” he said between chews, “my teaching effective.”

  “Indeed,” I said. “Transformational.”

  The irony nearly killed me.

  Despite these sessions, exam results unfolded predictably.

  I could not suppress my intellect during tests.

  When papers were distributed, I entered flow state. Clean logic. Efficient execution. Minimal careless mistakes.

  Throughout Year 5, I consistently ranked first in class.

  In my previous life, Jason had at least held first place once before I transferred in and disrupted his reign.

  In this timeline, he never tasted it.

  Not once.

  Each time results were announced, he clapped for me.

  “Wah, again ah,” he would say.

  I almost felt guilty.

  Almost.

  But I needed that top ranking to secure promotion to the smart class in Year 6.

  Survival of trajectory.

  When final results for Year 5 were announced, I stood at the front to receive the small first place trophy.

  Polite applause.

  I walked back to my seat.

  Then I did something unusual.

  I turned around and approached Jason.

  He looked confused. “What?”

  I held the trophy out toward him.

  “You deserved this.”

  He blinked. “Are you crazy?”

  “Without your guidance and your wisdom,” I began, feeling the drama rising, “I would not have improved so rapidly.”

  He stared at me.

  I continued, slightly more animated than necessary. “Without you, there is no me.”

  He choked. “Stop. What you talking.”

  I inhaled, nearly escalating into full monologue.

  But I applied brakes.

  “I mean,” I said more calmly, “your willingness to help matters.”

  He looked at the trophy, then back at me.

  “But you number one,” he said slowly. “I not.”

  “Rank is technicality,” I replied.

  “Technicality my foot.”

  He pushed the trophy back gently.

  “You earn it. I just eat chicken.”

  I laughed.

  “Then consider it shared victory.”

  He rolled his eyes. “You very dramatic.”

  “Occupational hazard.”

  When the list for Year 6 smart class was posted, both our names were there.

  Side by side.

  We would move up together.

  Leaving 5T behind.

  As we walked out on the last day, he nudged my shoulder lightly.

  This time not as challenge.

  “You better still let me teach you next year,” he said.

  “Of course,” I replied. “Your wisdom is indispensable.”

  He shook his head.

  And just like that, we advanced.