The man the teacher introduced stepped up, straightened his posture, cleared his throat with theatrical energy, and began his introduction.
"Hello, dear students of Class 12A! My name is Tri. I graduated from the Theater and Film University X. I'm here as your choreographer. As your homeroom teacher said, I've coordinated with your parents — costs and support are all settled. I hope we'll work hard together and make that investment worth it."
A ripple of murmurs spread across the room.
"Oh my god, that sounds serious…"
"Are they making the whole class dance? I can't even remember the morning exercise routine!"
"I'll faint. If I go up there I'll be a "career hazard".
"Shut up, he's looking this way!"
Mr. Tri cleared his throat and continued.
"As for this year's piece, we'll perform a theme about Homeland. I've chosen the music and arranged the choreography. Today we'll just pick the representative performers. Any objections?"
The class answered in one voice, flat and synchronized as a chant:
"No… sir."
Silence fell like a storm cloud. Some students dug their faces into their desks, praying the choreographer wouldn't spot them. Others stared pleadingly as if telegraphing, "Please spare me." A few pretended to faint, collapsing like wilted banana leaves. Those seated nearby turned pale in sympathy.
Uy Phong watched, puzzled. It was just selecting dancers — why was everyone acting like it was a death sentence?
Mr. Tri scanned the seating chart and read names with a calm, teacherly cadence.
"First… Khanh Linh."
A girl with a ponytail jumped so hard she looked offended.
"Me?!" Her face scrunched; her friends clapped mockingly on her shoulder. "You're doomed, Linh!"
"Next, Nhat Duy."
A lanky boy clutched his stomach dramatically. "Teacher, my stomach—maybe I should go to the restroom—" Before he could move, his classmates yanked him back. "Quit lying, sit down!"
Name after name, the choreographer ticked people off the list. Then, unexpectedly, the call reached the row where Uy Phong sat. The upper desks were called first, and then — An Phong's name.
An Phong flinched slightly; his elbow brushed Uy Phong's hand. Uy Phong shot a look, eyes wide. Since when did this rock refuse to react? But on closer look, An Phong's face stayed chilled and expressionless — only a paler tone than usual. It was small, but it made Uy Phong snort a little.
Before that smile could fully form, Mr. Tri called another name — Vy, An Phong's close friend at the back — and then closed the roster.
"All set. That's our lineup."
Uy Phong froze.
Wait — what? Where's my name? Not chosen? An Phong got picked and I didn't? For what reason??
His face drained of color with shock, then flared red with wounded pride. The humiliation burned. He slammed his hand on the desk and bolted upright.
"Hey—why didn't you pick me!?"
The class gasped, a collective, elongated "Ooooooh!" Everyone's eyes popped like they'd just watched a public confession.
"This guy's bold!"
"Peak confidence. Who taught you that, Uy Phong!?"
"You think this is The Voice or something?"
Mr. Tri froze for a beat on the podium. The homeroom teacher blinked, unbelieving.
Silence snapped around him. Uy Phong blinked back at himself. What did I just do? He'd basically staged a tantrum. Embarrassment shot heat up his neck; he turned sharply to look at An Phong — who returned the stare with an equally incredulous, Are you crazy? expression. Realizing how stupid he'd been, Uy Phong stammered to recover when —
"Aaah!"
A dramatic shout came from the corner. Heads swivelled. One boy clutched his chest, face contorted in overacted agony, leaning on a friend and whispering:
"Sir… I—I have congenital heart disease… Alas, I won't be able to perform with you… I'm so sorry… please pick someone else…"
Two seconds of stunned silence, then the room recoiled in disdain. Come on. Everyone knew this kid was fit as a horse, playing soccer every day. The "heart condition" smelled fake.
Before the class could launch into a tirade, Uy Phong's voice chimed in cheerfully from his seat.
"Yeah, he's really not fit! Pick me instead!"
The classroom froze. Mortification spread like a contagious fever — some wanted to bang their heads on the desks to spare him further shame. The nerve, mansplaining his way into a spot while someone faked illness — did he have no shame?
Shockingly, the choreographer believed it. He looked genuinely moved, clapped once, eyes soft.
"You guys… what a wonderful friendship. All right, I'll pick you in place of him!"
The class: "?????" Utter mouths-agape. Uy Phong beamed like he'd found treasure.
And just like that, the team was set: Uy Phong, An Phong, Vy, and a handful of other resigned faces.
That evening, nearly twenty students were added to a Messenger group christened with all the pomp of high school hopes: Team 12A Dancers — For a Glorious November 20. The first message came from Mr. Tri:
"Tomorrow, 7 PM. Meet at the studio by the school. Absentees: consider yourselves prepared to suffer."
Silence. Only Uy Phong slapped a "haha" reaction on the message — which made everyone else want to shove a shoe in his mouth.