Chapter 3 — Elections and Hearts

On the first Tuesday morning of the campaign week, Ngoc showed up at booth number 3 very early, fifteen minutes before recess. She carried a homemade wooden board filled with illustrations of the Companion Scholarship Fund — a diagram of how it worked, estimates of the number of students who could be supported each year, and a small box of paper for people to write their stories or comments.

She was rearranging the stack of leaflets when Khang appeared, carrying a rather heavy cardboard box.

"Good morning," he said, placing the carton on the table next to Ngoc's area. "Sorry for being a bit early, but I think it's better to be fully prepared before the students flood the field."

"It's okay," Ngoc replied, glancing at the carton with curiosity. "What are you bringing?"

Khang opened the box, inside was a stack of ballpoint pens printed with his campaign logo, a few dozen small star-shaped keychains, and a large sign with the slogan "LISTEN — ACTION — CHANGE" printed prominently.

"My team thought small gifts would help people remember the campaign more," Khang explained, a bit embarrassed when he saw Ngoc staring at the pile of gifts.

"Are you planning to bribe voters with ballpoint pens and key chains?" Ngoc raised her eyebrows, her voice half joking and half serious.

"It's not bribery," Khang retorted, but the corner of his mouth curled up. "It's more accurate to call it a marketing strategy."

Ngoc burst out laughing, unable to hold back. This was the first time she saw Khang react so flustered, completely different from his usual calm demeanor.

Recess began, students rushed to the school yard and gathered around the movement booths. Booth No. 3, located right in front of the library, quickly became the most popular attraction — partly because of its prime location, partly because of students' curiosity at the sight of two top candidates standing side by side.

"Mrs. Ngoc, how does this Companion Scholarship Fund specifically work?" a 10th grade female student asked timidly, holding Ngoc's flyer.

Ngoc smiled and knelt down to the student's eye level to explain more clearly. "The idea is that every semester, the fund will publicly call for contributions from students, parents, and alumni of their school. The amount of money raised will be approved by a student council - not adults - and given to those who really need it, according to transparency criteria, publicly announced on the school bulletin board."

"So how is it different from the school's current study promotion fund?" An 11th grade male student standing nearby interjected and asked, his voice somewhat challenging.

Ngoc turned around without hesitation. "Very good question. The current study promotion fund is managed by the school, the approval criteria are not completely public, and students do not have a voice in the decision. The Companion Scholarship Fund I propose will be operated by the students themselves, with supervision from teacher advisors to ensure transparency, but the decision-making power belongs to the students themselves on the review board."

The crowd whispered, seemingly impressed by Ngoc's clear answer.

On the other side of the booth, Khang was equally busy, handing out ballpoint pens and keychains to students who stopped by, chatting amicably about school issues — from the overpriced cafeteria food to the school's slow wifi during rush hour.

"Mr. Khang, what do you plan to do to improve the school's wifi?" asked one student.

“To be honest,” Khang laughed, “I haven't There is a specific technical solution, but he promised to form a working group with the school's information technology department to find a feasible solution within the allowable budget. I don't want to make empty promises that I'm not sure I can keep."

That straightforward answer, although not flashy, received agreement from some surrounding students — sincerity sometimes carries more weight than flowery promises.

Fifteen minutes at the end of recess, in accordance with Ms. Ha's regulations, the two stopped moving individually and stood together in front of the booth to answer questions from the growing crowd.

"I have a question for both of you," a 12th grader from another class raised his hand. "If one of you wins the election, will the other person be willing to support and cooperate, or will they see each other as opponents throughout the year?"

The question suddenly calmed the atmosphere. Ngoc glanced at Khang, not sure how he would answer.

"I'll answer first," Khang spoke up, his voice suddenly serious. "Honestly, I think the ultimate goal of an election is not who wins or loses, but what's best for our school. If Ngoc wins, I am willing to do anything in my power to support her good projects, including the Companion Scholarship Fund."

The crowd roared in surprise at that frankness. Ngoc felt a strange warmth spreading in her heart, but she quickly regained composure to answer her part.

"I agree with Khang," she said. "If she wins, I will also support her good ideas, like the project to improve wifi or the student listening activities she proposes. This race should not make us enemies."

Applause rang out from the crowd, and in that moment, Ngoc felt a strange connection with Khang — not romantic feelings, but a respect for a rival who knows how to put common interests above personal ambitions.

Recess ended, students gradually dispersed to class. Ngoc started cleaning up the booth, re-arranging the pile of leftover leaflets.

"You answered well," she said to Khang as they both tidied up.

"You too," Khang replied, a sincere smile on his face. "Actually, listening to you explain about the scholarship fund, I realized... maybe this is what I'm missing. A real goal, not just a title to decorate your resume."

Ngoc stopped and looked at him with curious eyes. "What do you mean?"

Khang sat down on the library steps, his eyes looking far away at the gradually empty schoolyard. "From a young age, I was always taught to be good, to be successful, to continue what my father did. But no one ever asked me what I really wanted. Listening to you talk about why you ran for office, I suddenly felt... jealous. You have a clear purpose, a reason why you are willing to stand in front of thousands of people without fear."

Ngoc sat down next to him, just enough distance to be polite but close enough to have a sincere conversation. “Well then, maybe it's time you ask yourself that question. Not because of your father, not because of family honor. It's simply — if you had full power to decide, with no one putting pressure on you, what would you like to change about this school?"

Khang was silent for a long moment, as if he was actually considering the question for the first time in his life most serious.

"I think..." he said slowly, "I want my school to have more space for students who are not good at mainstream subjects - those who are good at drawing, good at filmmaking, good at architecture, but are always considered 'poor' because their Math and Physics scores are not high. I... I like architecture, to be honest. But I never dared to say it out loud because my dad always thought it was just a temporary hobby."

Ngoc smiled, feeling a sincere warmth at that unexpected confession. "So that's what you should fight for. Not for your father, but for yourself, and for other students who feel lost like you did."

The two of them sat there for a long time, the afternoon sunlight filtering through the canopy of the phoenix tree, casting shimmering streaks of light on the empty schoolyard. That was the first time, since the race began, that both of them felt an understanding that went beyond the boundaries of their two election opponents — even though neither of them dared to name that strange feeling that was gradually rekindling.

"Are you going to tell your dad about architecture?" Ngoc asked, breaking the silence.

Khang laughed softly and shook his head. "Not yet. It's easy to say it, but facing him is another matter. My father has a very clear view of what is called 'success', and architecture, to him, is just a side hustle, not solid enough compared to business or politics."

"But if you never say it," Ngoc replied gently, "then you will always live in his shadow, right?"

Khang looked at her, his eyes slightly surprised by that straightforwardness, then nodded slowly. "You're right. Maybe I need time to mentally prepare, but I'll think about it more seriously."

From afar, the bell signaling the end of lunch break rang, interrupting the conversation. They both stood up and tidied up what was left on the booth table.

"Thank you for today's conversation," Khang said, his voice rarely sincere. "I think this is the first time I've actually looked forward to the next rally, instead of looking at it as an obligation to fulfill."

"Then see you on Thursday," Ngoc smiled, slinging her bag over her shoulder and preparing to leave. "But don't think because I'm being nice today that I'll hold back on the debate stage."

"Don't dare to dream of that," Khang laughed, his eyes shining with genuine excitement for the first time since the election's launch.

Ngoc walked towards the classroom, her mind filled with new thoughts. She came here determined to win for her own goals, but did not expect to find such unexpected sympathy in her opponent. She wondered if this was the beginning of something bigger than a simple election.