"Yawn."
As Julian closed his mouth, a dull silence followed.
Thanks to that, I could drift into my thoughts alone for a long time.
I came to the Royal Academy to escape from my grandfather.
I thought I'd just pass the time and graduate, but now that I'm here, I feel a strange sensation.
A second chance at life, like a miracle.
And I'm going to waste three years of it just killing time?
Seventeen years old… such a golden period of life.
"Does that make any sense?"
I want to live this life properly.
Not a life where I'm so busy working part-time that I don't even have time to make a single friend.
I want to experience everything that others take for granted.
You know, the usual stuff.
Kicking a ball around with friends during lunch break.
Losing a bet and buying ice cream.
Running off to the arcade after school with a crowd.
And when we're hungry, stopping by the snack bar to eat tteokbokki and sundae.
I want to live that cliché school life until I'm sick of it.
But first, I need to make friends.
"Hmm."
I looked around at the classmates filling the circular lecture hall.
Perhaps it's because they come from wealthy families, most of them had decent looks and seemed to have been raised with strict family discipline, maintaining a composed demeanor.
There were occasional exceptions, though.
Wasn't she Ralph Warren's daughter?
Unlike the others who sat with their backs straight, her posture was quite free-spirited.
And her outfit was tough, to say the least…
She gave off the vibe of a rebellious teenager.
But she wasn't the type to make you frown.
"Hmm."
Maybe it was because I remembered her curious eyes in front of the Bugatti.
At that moment, she turned to look at me.
Was it because I was staring too blatantly?
Olivia asked, "What?"
"Just."
"Just what?"
"That's all."
She pouted her lips, as if finding my response dull.
I guess she was as bored as I was.
Who wouldn't be?
It'd be strange if you found these one-sided debates by the seniors interesting.
She seemed to be doodling in her notebook to pass the time.
She was doing it even now.
Scratch, scratch.
A bike was sketched on the paper, slightly bigger than her palm.
"That's a Yamaha."
Her eyes widened in surprise at my words.
"How did you know?"
Though it looked roughly drawn, the key features of the machine were well captured in the sketch, making it easy to recognize.
Olivia seemed quite pleased by this fact.
"Want to see more?"
"Sure."
We whispered to each other so as not to disturb others.
Naturally, we had to sit a little closer to continue the conversation.
"Can you guess what this is?"
"Kawasaki."
"And this?"
"Triumph."
The last one she showed me, no need to ask, was my Bugatti.
She must've only seen it for a few minutes, yet she had recreated every detail with precision, from the curves of the body to the shape of the wheels, as if she'd taken a photograph.
"You've got talent."
"Really?"
She's Ralph Warren's daughter, a renowned American designer.
It's no exaggeration to say she inherited her father's talent.
But Olivia's ambitions seemed to lie elsewhere.
"I mostly draw vehicles. My dream is to become a professional driver."
Oh-ho.
"What's your dream?"
"Well."
I pondered for a moment before speaking.
"I haven't decided yet. But I do have quite a few hobbies."
"Like what?"
"I like writing."
She didn't seem too interested.
"I enjoy drinking coffee."
Her expression showed a bit more interest than with the writing.
"I'm also quite fascinated by cars."
At last, her eyes sparkled.
"I prefer eight cylinders or more, naturally aspirated engines, and of course, manual transmissions."
"Bugatti, huh."
I grinned.
"What do you think of that car?"
"Haven't driven it yet."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't have a license."
"Hasn't your dad ever taken you for a ride?"
Instead of answering, I gave a small smile.
She sighed, sounding disappointed.
"Do you have any other cars?"
"A few more."
"Can I ask what they are?"
Just then, I looked up, sensing a cold gaze from across the room. The moderator was glaring at us.
If we had been chatting as loudly as we were with Julian earlier, we would have been warned immediately.
"..."
But since we'd been whispering quietly, we only received a subtle warning glance.
I thought our conversation would end there.
But then.
Scribble, scribble.
Olivia started writing something in her notebook.
I took the pen from her.
Our written conversation continued for quite a while after that.
In my past life, I didn't even have any female friends, barely had any women's numbers in my phone.
That's why I'd always felt awkward around girls, but strangely, I didn't feel that way today.
I was able to talk to her as comfortably as if she were a close male friend.
Maybe she could feel that, too.
Toward the end of the notebook, Olivia began to write something that seemed deeply personal.
Understand it?
I understand it all too well.
Olivia and I were in similar situations.
Both of us had prominent parents, and both of us had our futures half decided because of it.
We even shared the same fate of running away, seeking refuge in a foreign country.
She shook her head, as if the thought alone was unbearable.
Hmm.
Olivia's point seemed valid.
To a 17-year-old girl, her father's classic designs probably looked old-fashioned.
But to those who appreciate American classics, Ralph Warren was the top choice.
In fact, it's a brand I really like, too!
Her written words were more like a complaint.
I'm not the type to meddle in other people's business.
But her situation was so similar to mine, and being the daughter of a famous designer might even benefit her in these design-focused lectures.
That's why I decided to give her some advice.
People who reach the pinnacle of their field tend to have absolute confidence in their judgment.
My grandfather is a prime example.
I smiled.
Olivia, deep in thought, picked up the pen again.
You're the first person I've met who's serious about becoming a racer at seventeen.
At that moment.
Up until now, her handwriting had been neat and clear.
But this time, she hurriedly scribbled it down, as if in excitement.
I was about to write my reply in the notebook when—
"Next group, please come forward."
***
It felt like we were suddenly called up after spending the whole debate passing notes.
I calmly made my way to the front.
"Excuse me, moderator, I have a question," Julian asked loudly, as if to draw everyone's attention.
"The contributions to the debate must differ among participants… Surely, we won't receive the same score just because we're in the same group, right?"
He spoke with a smug confidence, as if debating was his strong suit.
He's the kind of guy who never deviates from what you expect.
The moderator likely saw through his shallow tactics but maintained a fair expression as he responded.
"Even though this is a group debate, the scores are adjusted individually. So, you don't need to worry about unfair grading…"
"Thank you!" Julian replied, clearly aiming for the top tier of the rankings.
It seemed irritating at first glance, but if class placement impacts college admissions, it's understandable why he was so tense.
Sigh.
Once the moderator confirmed that all our group members were on stage, he took hold of the microphone.
"The topic for this debate is art."
Murmurs spread across the room.
"Can we separate the artist from their work? Let's start with the student on the far left."
The student on the far left was none other than Olivia.
"The relationship between the artist and their work…"
"I don't care."
"Sorry?"
"Whenever I think of words like 'artist' or 'work,' I get a headache."
The moderator looked confused, as if he couldn't comprehend what Olivia was talking about.
Naturally so.
If I hadn't had that written conversation with her.
If I hadn't heard about her dream and her father's opposition.
I would've been just as puzzled as the moderator.
But Olivia wasn't bothered at all.
At that moment, she glanced in my direction.
As if to ask, 'You get what I mean, right?'
Then, she gave me a small wink.
Ha!
She acted like a fool in front of the seniors and told Julian to get lost, always spewing fire when she spoke.
And now, out of nowhere, she winks at me?
The gap between those sides of her was dizzying.
Anyway.
As I was lost in thought, the debate continued.
The moderator turned back to Olivia.
"Can I take that to mean you have nothing more to say?"
"Yes."
With Olivia now out of the discussion, the moderator moved on.
"Next student."
His name was Peter, I think.
Since he was second, he probably had some time to organize his thoughts, but suddenly, he found himself having to speak just ten seconds later.
Peter, visibly nervous, opened his mouth.
"Well, I think the artist and their work are separate… at least, that's my opinion."
He barely got one sentence out before one of the senior students jumped in with a rebuttal.
"There are all kinds of artists in the world. Some have even committed crimes. If the artistic world of a notorious criminal is exceptionally beautiful, should we separate the two? Even though the person is undeniably a criminal?"
"Well, I guess…"
Peter hesitated before speaking.
"Your point is valid, and I don't want to deny that. But when I think back on my own experiences…"
"…?"
"My dream is to be a game developer…"
"Do you believe your personal experience can serve as a universal argument?" the senior interrupted.
Just then, the moderator stepped in.
"At least let him finish."
Thanks to the moderator, Peter was able to continue.
"Well, um… I'm working on a game concept that's very violent and aggressive. For example, the player might casually beat up people crossing the street… or steal cars waiting at traffic lights…"
Peter must have sensed the growing unease in the room, so he quickly tried to change the topic.