Logan Wright thought that finally someone with a conscience had come, and hurriedly cried out, “Ethan Bro, save me!”

Ethan Young pushed up his sleeves and said to Henry Howard, “You broke it into too many pieces, let me do it myself.”

“” Logan Wright looked utterly shocked, “You two, bandit deskmates??”

Henry Howard, who was supposed to go to the office, didn’t go, but Wanda was running around busily.

Whenever there was any sign of trouble, in order to get information, Mr. Know-it-All would even knock on the door with a test paper, pretending to ask questions.

As a result, every time Old Warren and the others saw him coming over with a test paper, they would joke, “Are you really here to ask about the questions?”

“There’s going to be a talent show soon,” Logan Wright’s crispy noodles had just been snatched away, and Wanda came back from the office, speaking as he reached into the noodle packaging, “Every class has to put on a performance. Our class’s arts committee member can start preparing early. Let’s try to win from the starting line.”

The arts committee member of Class 3 was a girl who had learned dance since elementary school. She was quite excited to hear the news: “Really?”

Wanda: “The school anniversary is in half a month, so it’s for real.”

As soon as the topic of the talent show came up, the class became lively again, leaving only Logan Wright staring sadly at the crumbs left in his noodle bag.

Usually for this kind of event, each class would pick a dozen or so people to dance, sing, or perform skits. The more people, the stronger the presence—no matter what, you can’t lose in momentum.

The arts committee member had already started picking people. Henry Howard turned his head and asked, “Going, Old Young?”

Ethan Young replied without even thinking, “No way.”

“Why not,” Henry Howard thought of the black nail polish incident, and those days when Ethan Young made waves with his black nails, “You have experience, back in your neighborhood—”

Ethan Young: “I advise you not to bring it up, or I’ll beat you.”

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68. Chapter Sixty-Eight

“What’s wrong with the middle-aged and elderly dance competition,” Henry Howard said, “That’s pretty awesome, most people don’t even get that chance.”

Ethan Young looked at him, slowly pushed up his cuffs, and flexed his wrists a bit: “Are you sure you want to keep talking about this?”

The hint was very obvious—keep going and you’ll die on the spot.

Henry Howard kept asking, “Was it super sensational when you guys went on stage?”

“Did you win any awards?”

“”

Luke Carter and the others were signing up and discussing which song to pick. Before they finished, there was a loud “bang” from the back row.

That sound of kicking desks and chairs was all too familiar.

“Oh,” Luke Carter glanced back and said calmly, “Ignore them, let’s keep going.”

Logan Wright scratched his head and muttered, “Is it just me, or have those two been fighting less lately?”

And whenever those two were together, it was as if an invisible barrier separated them from all the surrounding noise.

It was a subtle feeling, but hard to say exactly what was off.

Ethan Young was always direct—he went for it without hesitation. Henry Howard only managed to grab his wrist after taking a few hits, and almost stepped on a chair as he backed away: “You’re really hitting me.”

Then he added in a low voice, “You’d even hit your boyfriend?”

Ethan Young bent down to pick up the fallen chair and pushed it aside so it wouldn’t get in the way: “You’re asking for it.”

At noon during the lunch break, Old Thompson came by to hand out homework and also brought news about preparing for the performance.

“Let me say something, next month is the school anniversary, I’m sure Wanda already told you,” Old Thompson said, and the class burst out laughing. He looked helpless, paused, and continued, “Each class has to put on a performance, so everyone sign up enthusiastically. Let’s see if we’ll do a skit or something else—Emily Shaw, you’re in charge.”

The arts committee member was called by name and raised her hand, “Okay, teacher.”

Ethan Young had no interest in the talent show, and going on stage to dance was one of the most embarrassing moments of his life—definitely top three.

While Old Thompson was talking, he was lying on the desk sleeping, not noticing that the arts committee member had been staring at him and Henry Howard for a long time.

Emily Shaw secretly wanted these two to take the lead.

After all, they were the faces of Class 3—if they went up, the effect would be absolutely stunning.

Plus, the school leaders would be scoring each class’s performance. Since they were participating, of course they wanted to win first place.

“Would Henry Howard be willing to join?”

After Old Thompson left, six or seven of them gathered in a small circle. After Emily Shaw asked, Luke Carter slapped the table and said, “Of course, no need to ask. Look at Bro Henry, he’s dazzling, stirs up waves wherever he goes—everywhere is his stage.”

Emily Shaw asked again, “What about Ethan Young?”

Luke Carter fell silent.

Logan Wright considered, “That’s a bit tough. Maybe pick someone else. How about me? I’m pretty coordinated.”

Wanda: “Tough? It’s more than tough. You’d better start thinking about which cemetery you want to be buried in.”

They discussed for a long time, but as class was about to start and they went downstairs to line up on the field, they still hadn’t reached a decision.

P.E. was still free activity. The basketball team didn’t welcome Henry Howard—no matter what, they wouldn’t let him play, so he went to Quinn Shaw and snatched two badminton rackets: “Old Young, want to play?”

Ethan Young reached out and took a racket, thinking, it’s just badminton, straightforward enough—even if Henry Howard acts up, there shouldn’t be any tricks: “Gymnasium?”

“Let’s see if there’s space,” Henry Howard said, “If not, we can play outside.”

The gym was crowded, with shuttlecocks flying everywhere, and the rest areas on both sides were full. Ethan Young carried his racket all the way to the back before finding an open spot.

The two stood on opposite sides.

Henry Howard unzipped his jacket and started boasting about his skills.

As soon as he finished bragging, Ethan Young sent a vicious smash flying diagonally at him: “Cut the crap.”

Quinn Shaw couldn’t find a spot to play, so she sat on the side, being pulled by the arts committee member to pick songs.

All three songs were high-energy, the kind that could blow up the whole school as soon as they started.

“Listen and see which one you like,” Emily Shaw said, “Wanda and the others all think the second one is best. I want to decide on the song today. Ah, I really want to get Ethan Young in the group, but I don’t dare ask.”

Quinn Shaw couldn’t decide, muttering, “I think they’re all good, any is fine,” when she vaguely heard people around her talking. She took off her earphones and looked up, just in time to see the two big shots playing in the corner.

Even though they were a bit off to the side, they were still the most eye-catching.

Last time during the autumn outing, they joked that anyone could get lost, but their class’s Bro Henry and Ethan Bro would never get lost—you could recognize them just by their backs.

Quite a few people around were also looking over, covering their mouths and whispering, “So handsome.”

After a few shouts of ‘handsome’, someone else said, “But they’re playing so fiercely.”

Ethan Young played badminton like he was fighting, especially when he jumped up for a smash—the force of it seemed to come with the wind.

Henry Howard was caught off guard at first and almost got hit by that smash. Luckily, he reacted quickly, judged the landing spot, and instinctively stepped back a few paces to return the shot.

The two of them went back and forth, their movements getting bigger and bigger.

Especially Ethan Young, who was playing like he meant to kill.

“Damn,” Henry Howard was fired up by Ethan Young’s attitude, so he took off his jacket and threw it on the ground, “Pretty fierce, kid.”

“Not bad.”

The air inside wasn’t circulating well, and Ethan Young felt a bit stuffy. He pulled down the zipper of his school uniform and said, “Just a bit better than you.”

Back then, Big Ray and the others weren’t used to playing with him either. Every time they’d shout, “Are you playing ball or fighting? Do you even know what teamwork is? Boss Young, if I ever ask you to play again, I’m a dog.”

But after a nap, they’d forget the pain and show up the next day with a ball: “Come on, let’s play, I’ve arranged a match with Little Tigers Squad from the next street. Today’s the final battle.”

All the kids in this neighborhood had their own teams. Maybe they watched too many movies—they liked to give themselves really embarrassing names.

Like Little Tigers Squad, Black Bull Squad.

Halfway through the game, Ethan Young was sweating a bit, so he took off his jacket. While Henry Howard was picking up the shuttlecock, he bent over, grabbed his collar, and fanned himself.

The thin sweater Ethan Young wore underneath was loose-fitting, and when he raised his hand to catch the shuttlecock, the fabric dipped with the movement, faintly outlining his waist.