Chapter Text
The second-floor music room at Saint Elizabeth High School for Girls was supposed to be a quiet space for the school choir to practice.
Instead, it was currently the site of a total freak-out.
"Oh my god, look at her!" a junior singer squeaked, practically smashing her face against the window.
"Is she about to toss it? Look at her arms!" another whispered, clutching her music sheet. "How does she make a basic school uniform look like a runway outfit?"
At the front of the room, standing on the conductor's stand with her wooden baton stuck in mid-air, Orm Kornnaphat felt a vein in her temple start to throb.
She stood frozen, waiting for her choir to sing the four-part harmony they had been practicing for three weeks. Instead, more than half of her singers had abandoned their spots to crowd around the window like a flock of excited pigeons.
Orm lowered her arms slowly. She tapped her wooden baton twice against the music stand.
Clack. Clack.
The sharp sound echoed off the high ceiling, but the girls at the window didn't even flinch.
"Ladies," Orm said. Her voice was calm, but filled with the kind of quiet authority that usually made younger students instantly behave. "We are on page four. Unless page four is sitting on the football field below, please get back to your positions."
The girl closest to the glass didn't move. She just pointed outside. "But President Orm... Drum Major Kwong is out there."
Orm closed her eyes and took a long, deep breath.
Lingling Kwong.
Of course it was Lingling Kwong. It was always Lingling Kwong.
If there was one person who could ruin Orm’s afternoon without even stepping inside the building, it was the leader of the Saint Elizabeth High Marching Band.
Orm opened her eyes, smoothed down her navy skirt, and adjusted the white ribbon in her hair.
"Excuse me," Orm said politely, stepping down from her stand.
The choir members quickly parted as Orm walked over to the open window. She squeezed through the crowd of sighing underclassmen, leaned her hands on the windowsill, and looked down at the sunny courtyard below.
Out on the green grass, surrounded by fifty band members standing in neat lines, stood Lingling Kwong.
Lingling looked effortlessly sharp—white trousers without a single wrinkle, a navy blazer tailored perfectly to her shoulders, and clean white gloves. She carried herself with a cool, calm posture that radiated confidence across the whole yard.
In her right hand, she held the band's heavy silver mace staff.
With a quick, smooth flick of her wrist, Lingling sent the silver staff launching straight up into the air. It spun high against the bright blue sky, catching the light as it turned over and over. Lingling didn't even look up to watch it. She just turned on her heel, kept her left hand on her hip, and blindly reached her right hand behind her back.
Clack.
The heavy metal staff landed right in her palm. Lingling didn't trip or wobble. She caught it behind her back like it was nothing, bringing it back to her side and raising her whistle to her lips.
Down on the bleachers, a few students who were supposed to be studying actually cheered.
"See?!" the junior next to Orm gasped. "She’s so cool..."
Orm tightened her jaw. Cool? Lingling was an insufferable show-off. An overly organized, incredibly arrogant peacock who spent way too many hours practicing fancy stick spins just to steal the attention from everyone else.
"She's throwing a heavy stick into the air while wearing a hat with a feather," Orm said dryly, crossing her arms. "It’s not cool. It’s just dramatic walking."
Standing nearby, leaning against the wall with a clipboard, was Rebecca Armstrong. As the choir vice president—and Orm’s best friend—Becky looked out the window, then back at Orm with a small, subtle smile.
"To be fair, Orm," Becky said softly, her tone calm and steady, "catching that behind her back was actually pretty impressive. You have to admit that."
Orm turned her head slowly to glare at her best friend. "I admit nothing. Whose side are you on?"
"Yours, obviously," Becky replied smoothly, flipping a page on her clipboard. "I'm just giving an honest opinion."
"She doesn't have talent. She just likes being dramatic," Orm huffed, turning her attention back to the field.
Down below, Lingling seemed to notice the growing crowd. She flashed a quick, charming smirk toward the bleachers, raising her whistle to start the next routine. She lifted the silver mace again, getting ready for an even higher toss.
Orm watched the way Lingling stood, the absolute confidence in her posture, and that lingering, victorious smirk.
It was annoying. It was distracting. And worst of all, it was totally ruining Orm's choir practice.
Not today, Orm thought.
A petty idea popped into Orm’s mind.
She turned back to her choir and clapped her hands. "Girls! Change of plans. We need to test how loud we can sing with the windows open. Everyone, take a deep breath!"
The girls blinked at her, confused. "Right now?"
"Right now," Orm said, a bright, dangerously sweet smile on her face. She stepped up to the open window, took a huge breath, and let out a loud, operatic opera scale at full volume.
“Aaaaaa-aaaaa-AAAAAH!”
It was dramatic, perfectly in pitch, and completely ridiculous. It cut right through the warm afternoon air like an alarm ringing down into the courtyard.
Down on the field, Lingling had just thrown the staff.
The silver mace was halfway through its second spin in the air when the sudden opera screech hit the field.
The unexpected noise completely threw the band off. The trumpet player hit a screechy wrong note. The drummer dropped one of his sticks onto the grass.
And Lingling Kwong—for the first time all year—completely lost her timing.
Her eyes darted up toward the second-floor window in shock. Her count vanished from her head.
The heavy silver mace came falling down three inches off course. Lingling panicked, losing her cool posture as she lunged sideways to catch the falling metal staff before it landed on her foot.
She managed to grab it, but the heavy pole slammed awkwardly against her ribs with a dull clack.
Lingling stumbled half a step, her hat shifting slightly, her perfect image ruined in front of the whole marching band and the students on the bleachers.
Total silence fell over the field.
Up in the window, Orm let out a satisfied laugh, leaning her elbows on the sill. She pulled a shiny red apple out of nowhere and took a slow, deliberate bite.
Down on the grass, Lingling slowly stood up straight. She adjusted her hat with two gloved fingers and took a deep breath. Then, she turned her head and looked straight up at the second-floor window.
Her cool smirk was gone, replaced by pure, fiery irritation.
Orm didn't back down. She leaned a little further out the frame, fanning herself lazily with her papers, giving Lingling a smile that was way too sweet to be genuine.
"So sorry, Drum Major Kwong!" Orm called down, her voice carrying across the yard easily. "We’re doing vocal drills! I didn’t realize your little drum circle was using the entire outdoor space today!"
Standing right next to the stand with a stack of papers was Freen Sarocha, the Lead clarinetist, band's logistics manager and Lingling’s best friend.
Freen winced slightly, adjusting her glasses as she leaned closer to Lingling. "She called us a drum circle," Freen whispered, looking up at the window. "Should I go get the school rulebook?"
"No, Freen. We are professionals," Lingling said through gritted teeth. Her knuckles were white on the handle of her mace, though her voice stayed artificially polite. "It's fine, Kornnaphat! We could barely hear you over the instruments anyway. We thought it was just a bird caught in the vents!"
Up at the window, Orm’s sweet smile cracked.
Beside Orm, Becky hid a quiet laugh behind her clipboard. As she did, her eyes drifted down toward the track—not at Lingling, but toward the bottom of the stand where Freen was struggling with a dropped stack of papers.
Down on the field, Freen looked up to see what Orm would do next. Her eyes passed Orm and landed briefly on Becky, who was standing quietly in the background.
Becky gave a small, barely noticeable nod—a quick acknowledgment between two people who were constantly handling their best friends' dramatic behavior.
Freen’s hands paused for a second on her clipboard. A loose paper slipped out, falling onto the grass. She quickly bent down to pick it up, staying calm and composed, keeping her eyes fixed on the paper until she stood back up.
"Freen," Lingling said quietly from above, her eyes still locked on Orm’s window. "Focus."
"Always focused," Freen replied calmly, tucking the paper back under her arm. "Everything is under control."
Up on the second floor, Orm rested her chin in her hand with dramatic pity. "You know, Kwong, if you spent as much time practicing your routines as you do trying to impress my choir members, your band might actually win a trophy this year!"
Lingling blew her whistle once—a short, sharp tweet—and pointed the tip of her heavy mace directly at Orm’s window.
"Kornnaphat," Lingling called out, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. "If you don't close that window in three seconds, I will order the whole brass section to play their loudest drills right toward your room."
Orm gasped dramatically, holding a hand to her chest. "Are you threatening me, Drum Major Kwong?"
"I'm giving you a fair warning, Choir President Kornnaphat."
For three tense seconds, nobody moved.
Down on the grass, Lingling stood her ground, tall and strict. Up in the window, Orm stayed right where she was, head held high, flipping her hair over her shoulder.
They locked eyes across the yard, staring each other down so intensely that a bird flying by literally changed direction to avoid them.
Finally, Orm let out a loud sigh and rolled her eyes. "Fine. Some of us actually care about music practice, which clearly can't happen around loud brass instruments."
With a dramatic flourish, Orm grabbed the window handle and pulled it shut.
But right before the glass closed, she slapped a bright pink A4 size sticky note against the window facing out.
Written on it in big, neat handwriting was a single word:
LOSER.
Down on the field, Lingling stared at the pink note for a long moment. Slowly, her grip on the mace relaxed. She turned back to her band, feeling a strange surge of competitive energy that felt a little too much like excitement.
God, I can't stand her, Lingling thought, fighting off a sudden urge to smile as she put her whistle back to her lips. I am going to completely destroy her at the Showcase.
The rivalry between Lingling Kwong and Orm Kornnaphat wasn't new. It was a well-known fact at Saint Elizabeth High, as regular as the morning bell or the terrible canteen food.
It started four years ago in ninth grade, when both girls accidentally sat in the exact same desk during music class. Neither was willing to move to the empty desk behind them. They spent the entire school year competing for the top grade on every test and assignment, eventually finishing the class with the exact same final score.
From that moment on, the school became their personal competition.
If Orm became Choir President, Lingling became Drum Major. If Lingling’s band won a regional trophy, Orm’s choir took home a grand prize two weeks later. They fought over club budgets, teacher praise, canteen seats, and the unwritten title of top student in their grade.
They were complete opposites.
Orm was all about schedules, discipline, and doing things by the book. She believed any problem could be fixed with a clear plan and good timing.
Lingling was all about passion, creativity, and dramatic energy. She believed life should be fun, expressive, and full of personality.
And yet, despite how much they claimed to dislike each other, they had one big problem: neither of them could stop paying attention to the other.
An hour later, the final bell rang, sending a rush of students running toward the front gates.
While the hallways cleared out, the main office corridor remained quiet.
Freen walked down the hallway holding a folder under her arm. As the band’s appointed student logistics manager, it was her job to submit their weekly practice room requests to the main office every Tuesday afternoon.
She turned a corner near the faculty room and almost walked straight into someone coming the other way.
Freen stopped quickly, taking a step back. "Sorry about that—"
Becky stood in front of her, holding a neat stack of choir folders. She paused, looking at Freen with a calm, polite expression.
"It's fine, Freen," Becky said smoothly. "No worries."
"Right," Freen said politely, keeping her voice completely neutral. "Are you going to the activities desk?"
"Submitting the choir's room requests for next month," Becky said, gesturing with her folders. "Orm wants to book the main auditorium for our rehearsals."
Freen’s face didn't change, but she held her folder a little tighter. "I see. Lingling is setting up our practice schedule for the same time."
Becky raised an eyebrow, a small, amused smile appearing at the corner of her lips. "Then I guess our leaders are about to run into each other again."
"Probably," Freen agreed dryly.
They stood in the quiet hallway for a second. Neither rushed off, but neither made a big deal out of staying either.
"The catch today," Becky mentioned casually, looking down as she straightened her folders. "Lingling didn't actually hurt herself, did she? It looked pretty hard from upstairs."
Freen paused for a second before answering. "Just a small bump. She's too stubborn to admit it, though."
"Of course she is," Becky said softly, looking up to meet Freen’s eyes. "Orm spent fifteen minutes complaining that her voice sounded flat because of the open window."
"A huge tragedy," Freen said, her voice completely flat, though her mouth twitched slightly like she was hiding a smile.
Becky let out a quiet breath of amusement. She stepped to the side to give Freen room. "After you."
"Thanks," Freen said politely, walking past her without stopping.
As Freen walked toward the office, she kept her head up and stayed focused. She didn't turn back, and Becky didn't either. It was a simple, quick interaction—easy, polite, and completely normal.
Still, as Freen reached the office door, she reached into her pocket, took out a small wooden pencil, and slipped it into her folder. She had found it on the floor near the choir room earlier after Becky dropped it.
She hadn't brought attention to it. She just kept it neatly tucked beside her own pens.
Ten minutes later, the quiet hallway was full of noise again.
Orm stood in front of the master schedule board outside the office, her arms crossed tight, staring at the new schedule in disbelief.
"This is a mistake," Orm announced loudly, pointing at the board. "It has to be."
Standing right next to her, leaning against the wall with her hands in her pockets, was Lingling.
"It's not a mistake, Kornnaphat," Lingling said calmly. "We booked it first. The band needs the auditorium stage to practice for our upcoming performance."
"You practice outside!" Orm turned to her, her eyes flashing. "You have the whole football field! You have the track! We are a choir, Lingling! We need a room with good sound! We can't sing in the middle of a windy field!"
"And we can't practice footwork in the mud when it rains," Lingling replied coolly, stepping closer to the board. "The performance is in three weeks. The auditorium is the only place with enough space."
"We turned our papers in at four o'clock!" Orm insisted, stepping right into Lingling's space. "Becky gave them directly to the secretary!"
"And Freen turned ours in at three-fifty-five," Lingling answered, flashing a confident smirk that made Orm want to pull her hair out. "Five minutes earlier. Rules are rules, Orm."
Orm took a sharp breath, looking Lingling up and down. Up close, Lingling smelled faintly of mint and rain—something Orm found incredibly annoying.
"You did that on purpose," Orm said, dropping her voice. "You had Freen rush down here while Becky and I were still packing up."
"I just like being on time," Lingling said smoothly, leaning down slightly so they were eye-to-eye. Her dark eyes sparkled with a competitive grin. "A good leader always stays ahead. Don't you know that, President Orm?"
Orm narrowed her eyes. She held her ground, refusing to step back even an inch, even though Lingling was a few inches taller.
"This isn't over, Kwong," Orm warned quietly. "You might have the room for Tuesday, but I will make sure every single practice you have in there is a total disaster."
"Is that a threat?"
"It's a promise."
They stood there in the hallway, stuck in another intense stare-down, neither one willing to back off.
Standing a few feet away, Freen and Becky watched them with calm, tired expressions.
"Should we stop them?" Becky asked quietly.
"No point," Freen replied, adjusting her glasses. "Once they start glaring like that, trying to stop them just makes it take longer."
Becky let out a soft sigh. "They're going to do this all year, aren't they?"
"Yep," Freen said simply. "Definitely."
Down the hall, Lingling finally laughed quietly, stepping back and adjusting her blazer. "Good luck trying, Orm. Try to stay on key this time."
Orm gasped in shock, but before she could throw back an insult, Lingling had already turned around and started walking toward the doors.
"Freen, let's go," Lingling called over her shoulder. "We have work to do."
"Right behind you," Freen said. She gave Becky a quick nod. "See you, Rebecca."
"See you, Freen," Becky replied softly.
Freen walked briskly down the hall to catch up with Lingling.
Orm watched Lingling leave until she disappeared around the corner, her hands clenched into fists at her sides.
"I hate her," Orm muttered under her breath, even though her heart was beating fast in a way that had very little to do with anger. "I completely hate her."
Becky walked up beside her, placing a gentle hand on Orm's shoulder. "Sure you do, Orm. Come on, let me help you check the rulebook. There has to be a way to share the room."
Orm turned to her friend, her eyes lighting up. "Becky, you're a genius. Let's go check."
As they walked back toward the music wing, the sun began to set over Saint Elizabeth High School. The school day was over, but for Lingling Kwong and Orm Kornnaphat, the real battle was just getting started.