Chapter 4 — The Thirteenth Desk Drawer

The achievement wall is located at the end of the administrative building, where students usually only pass when called up to receive their certificates of merit. Photo frames hang close together, recording the names of teams, excellent students and competitions that ended many years ago. An Khe carried an old photo in a notebook, Khoi walked next to him with a screwdriver in his pocket. Hao and Minh Thu followed, arguing as they walked about whether or not they should inform Mr. Quang first.

“If reported, people will take pictures,” Thu said.

“If you don't report, we'll form a group to arbitrarily search the files,” Hao replied.

“Both of those things are true,” An Khe said. “So we just look, don't take.”

The photo with the number 13 is not hung with other photos. It is placed behind an old plaque, the glass frame is frosted. Khoi removed two screws and raised the frame just enough. Mai stood in the last row, next to the window, one hand holding the handle of her bag. Next to her is a young teacher that An Khe recognizes: the current homeroom teacher of 11A7, but in the photo she doesn't have any gray hair yet.

Minh Thu breathed softly. “You know Mai.”

“I used to teach this class,” An Khe said.

There is no text on the back of the photo, only an arrow-shaped pencil mark pointing to the person in the middle: Mr. Phuc, then a trainee teacher. The person standing in the middle is not because the teacher is the highest, but because everyone is arranged around the teacher. The piece of paper says don't trust the person in the middle.

Khoi wanted to take a photo of the back, but An Khe stopped him. “We promised not to make it public.” She took white paper and placed it on the photo, tracing the arrow and the number 13. Hao suddenly discovered that under the frame was a thin envelope. There is no name written on the outside, just the date: September 12, twelve years ago.

Empty envelope. But the inside edge has a faint line of ink: **Recipient signed, sender has never heard.**

A shoe sound rang out. The homeroom teacher is coming. The group quickly put the frame back in place, Khoi tightened the screws by hand. She stopped in front of the wall, looking at everyone.

“What are you guys doing here?”

“We're looking for the medical room,” Hao said immediately.

“The medical room is in the opposite direction.”

Hao looked at An Khe for help. She said: "We want to see a picture of our old class. It's named Mai."

The teacher was silent. Her face wasn't angry, just tired. “Don't reopen that.”

“Why?”

“Because you don't know what others have endured.”

“But you know.”

The homeroom teacher looked straight at An Khe. “Knowing does not mean being told.”

Khoi took a step forward. “What if the person being told never had a chance to tell it themselves?”

The teacher looked at him, then at the photo. Her eyes were red but she wasn't crying. The prediction on the paper appeared in An Khe's mind again. The first person to cry is not the one who has been wronged. The teacher turned away quickly, but a drop of water fell on the edge of the glass frame.

“You guys go back to class,” she said. “And don't touch the photo.”

That afternoon, Hao lost his wallet in class. He was panicked because in his wallet he had tuition money and a bus pass. Everyone immediately looked towards table number 13, where Tuong Vy had previously stood taking stock. She returned with Mr. Phuc and suggested checking the class's bags to "avoid misunderstandings".

An Khe objected. “No one is allowed to arbitrarily open another person's briefcase.”

Teacher Phuc smiled: "It's just an internal check."

“Then please invite the homeroom teacher and parents to witness.”

The air stiffens. Khoi looked down at the floor, then pointed to the leg of table number 13. A small wheel had a red thread on it. He bent down to pick it up and pulled gently. The thread was wrapped around Hao's star-shaped keychain, which was stuck under the table. Hao's face turned pale. He rummaged through his bag and found his wallet in the outermost compartment.

“I… I misplaced it,” Hao said.

Teacher Phuc was a bit disappointed. Tuong Vy looked at An Khe, her eyes no longer looked disdainful. She said: “Table number 13 is not always at fault.”

An Khe replied: "I never said he was at fault."

After class, the homeroom teacher called An Khe alone. She said Mai used to be a good Literature student and was in charge of the class scholarship fund. One day, money was lacking. The book records Mai's name as the person receiving the key. Mai said she was just keeping it for her, but no one believed it because she herself asked to put the box in desk drawer number 13. The teacher was still young at that time, and signed the temporary suspension because she was afraid of losing her job.

“Do you know where Mai went?”

“I just know she left school.”

“No. I don't know everything yet.”

The teacher took a crumpled piece of paper from the drawer. That is an old inventory, signed by three people: she, teacher Phuc and a person named Lam Quang Vinh. The missing cash flow is recorded as 18 million VND, but below there is another stroke of the pen that corrects it to 28 million. The teacher said the original had an appendix page, but that page disappeared after the meeting.

“You stand between two sides,” An Khe said.

"I think if I stay quiet, the students will be left alone. But staying silent only gives the stronger person more time."

“Why don't you say it now?”

The teacher looked out into the yard. “Because the person in the middle is often thought by both sides to have chosen sides.”

An Khe left the teacher's room with the copy she allowed to keep. At the stairs, Khoi was waiting. He didn't ask what the teacher said, just gave him a tissue. An Khe looked at her hand and realized she was shaking.

“She didn't cry,” Khoi said.

“I know.”

“But you can cry if you want.”

“You often say annoying things.”

“I'm trying to be nice.”

An Khe burst out laughing. On the wall of achievements, Mai's face is still covered by frosted glass. She understood that table number 13 not only kept a secret, but also kept people who chose to stay still for fear of making things worse.

That night, a new piece of paper appeared in desk drawer number 13.

**Tomorrow, look for the person who signed Vinh's name. He or she is no longer at school, but still has the key.**

On the way home, An Khe asked Khoi how he knew Vinh. Khoi said his father used to work on the same repair team, and the two of them often debated whether a table should be replaced or kept. Vinh always keeps old pieces of wood, while Khoi's father likes to start from scratch.

“Maybe that's why I like this table,” Khoi said. “It's not perfect, but it still remembers its shape.”

An Khe doesn't know if a table can remember or not. She just knew that when they locked the classroom, she turned her head to look at it longer than necessary. At the edge of the drawer, the words Mai are still there, faded but not yet gone. She wrote in her notebook: "Day 4: the key cannot open the old door, but it can open a new question."

Vinh is the school's former maintenance worker. Khoi knew he was working at a carpentry workshop near the bus station, two streets away from the school. After school, the two of them walked there. The factory has a low corrugated iron roof, and the smell of new wood overwhelms the smell of gasoline. Vinh was planing a board. When he saw Khoi, he put down his tools.

“Is there another broken table?” he asked.

“We want to ask about block C,” Khoi replied.

Vinh did not chase them away. He poured tea and placed a dark set of keys on the table. One had a plastic piece with the number 13 written on it. An Khe recognized it as the key in the piece of paper.

“I kept it because the school said if the warehouse needed to be repaired, it had to be there,” Vinh said. “But no one called me for twelve years.”

He said Block C used to have a small filing room. After the fundraiser, Mr. Phuc asked him to change the locks. Mai came to ask for her personal belongings but was told she needed a certificate. Vinh saw her standing outside the door for a long time, then returned empty-handed.

“Did you see anyone enter the room afterward?” An Khe asked.

"I saw Hoang Lam. He was carrying a box of paper. Teacher Phuc was with him."

Khoi asked why Vinh signed the repair book but did not report it. He looked at his hands full of sawdust.

"I think the school's problems should be handled by the school. I was wrong to think adults would know what to do."

Vinh gave them a copy of the lock repair slip. The ticket was dated September 19, the day after the fundraiser. The person who suggested the correction was Mr. Phuc, and the person who confirmed it was Hoang Lam. The reason reads: "Protection of confidential documents".

An Khe asked what the secret document was. Vinh said he didn't know. But a week later, he received orders to move three boxes of documents to another warehouse. Two boxes have scholarship fund labels, the other box has no label. He remembered the third box was lighter, containing many opened envelopes.

Khoi asked to take a photo of the ballot. Vinh agreed, but did not allow him to bring the original. Before the two of them left, he pointed to key number 13.

"This key doesn't open the current warehouse. The lock has been changed. But it opens the lower drawer of the desk."

An Khe and Khoi looked at each other. They returned to school just as it was dark. The classroom was locked, but Ms. Hanh allowed them to work in her presence. Khoi put the key into the small lock behind the table leg. The secret compartment does not open completely, only a wooden lid pops up. Inside was a thin, cloth-covered notebook and a bus ticket.

The book is not an accounting book. It recorded the date Mai arrived at school, the name of the person who met her and the response received. The last line read: “September 19. No one answered.”

An Khe closed the book. She saw Khoi's hand shaking very slightly. He said if they wanted, they could stop. An Khe replied that it was Mai's right to stop, but they needed to continue until they knew what they were holding.