His eyebrows arch. “Fancy, expensive stuff?”

“You know what I mean,” I say, annoyed. I recall the lavish feast spread out before Chanel’s father and the young woman, the delicacies arranged in their clay bowls and tiny crystal plates. The food of emperors, of kings. “Like bird’s nest soup or sea cucumber or something.” As soon as the words come out of my mouth, I realize how ignorant I must sound. How painfully obvious it must be to Henry that we were raised in two separate worlds, that I’ve only witnessed but never experienced the casual luxuries he must take for granted in his life.

I wonder if he feels sorry for me, and anticipatory anger rattles in my stomach like a snake as I imagine him tiptoeing around the subject, trying to play down the obvious discrepancies between our childhoods: They weren’t that expensive, or We only had those once a week.

But in reality, he just shrugs one shoulder and says, “I never really liked sea cucumber, actually. They used to creep me out when I was a kid.”

“Yeah, well, they do look a bit like slugs,” I mutter, and he laughs.

I stare at him, taken aback by how his entire demeanour seems to change: the sharp, regal lines of his face softening, white teeth flashing, his shoulders slipping forward from their usual stiff posture. He’s so closed off all the time that I didn’t even think Henry was capable of laughing. For a moment I wonder what we might look like from an outsider’s perspective: just two teenagers joking around and sharing candy and chatting together after class. Friends, maybe. The thought startles me.

Then Henry catches me staring, registers the visible shock on my face, and sobers up at once, like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. The curve of his ears turn pink slightly.

“Well, anyway.” He slides his hands into his blazer pockets. “I should probably go. Study. Our midterms are soon.”

“Oh. Okay.”

But he makes no immediate move to leave. “Will you be all right? After...” He trails off, once again leaving it to me to fill out the rest of his sentence. “Either way, it’s not as if a bad grade would bring your average down so much, right? So long as you do well in the midterms, you could still be ranked second in the class.”

I bristle, the remnants of that brief, tender moment we shared earlier vanishing like smoke. We’re not friends, I remind myself. We’re competitors. Enemies. Only one of us can win in the end.

“I don’t want to be ranked second.” I surge forward until I’m standing right in front of him, hating that I have to crane my neck just so we’re at eye level. “If I’m not first, I’m nothing.”

He merely looks amused. “Is there really such a substantial difference? I doubt your report card—”

“It’s not just about how my report card looks,” I interrupt. “It’s about losing my winning streak with the Academic Award next year. It’s about what people will think of me.”