Page 3 of Until We Burn
I roll my eyes and turn back to the paper. Coincidentally, the first story in the sports section is about Kai himself.
On a chilly Saturday morning, Kainoa “Kai” Mason-Maiau runs over shooting drills with a bright-eyed group of young hockey players at the Little Griffins Hockey Club. The club has been a part of DHU athletics for over a decade. It gives kids from low-income households a chance to play on the ice for free. With help from his teammates, Luke King and Rowan Kaneshiro, Mason-Maiau has been dedicated to the program since he was a freshman.
“Every kid deserves to play the game if that’s what they want,” Mason-Maiau said. “I wouldn’t be where I’m at if no one took a chance on me.”
Ever since his first year, Mason-Maiau has been a star forward on the DHU Griffins hockey team. He racked up 38 points from 16 goals and 21 assists, making him the first freshman forward in DHU history to score the most points in a single season. He garnered even more attention after he became the first biracial player of Tahitian, Native Hawaiian, and English descent to get drafted first overall by the Winnipeg Narwhals.
Despite Joseph Merritt’s solid reporting, his ulterior motives are clear. I smile to myself as I delete phrases about Kai’s“impressive 6 '3 build”and“vivid, moss green eyes that glisten like seawater in the morning sun.”
Then, I peruse the photos Joseph took of Kai and the Little Griffins. I shift in my seat, a blush rising onto my cheeks like it always does when I see pictures of him.
This means nothing. I’m simply making sure the quality is pristine.
And it is because Kai looks utterly gorgeous from every angle. Especially the one where he’s crouched down, fist-bumping a dimpled little girl in a neon pink helmet. Despite the Balfur Arena’s ghastly white light, Kai’s tan skin and moss green eyes radiate so much kindness and warmth. My cursor traces the dark curls peeking out from his black baseball cap, the strong jaw and full lips curling into a smile that’s so gentle against the powerful muscles and broad shoulders straining his windbreaker.
“Oh my god.” I brace my forehead between my hands. “Get it together, Diana.”
Mama’s words echo through my head again.
Remember, you might be one of the heirs to the Huang Media Group, but your siblings also have claim to it. They can take it from right under you.
After thirty years, bàba is resigning as CEO of the HMG. My siblings and I have spent years honing our abilities for this moment, and how competent we are comes down to June 2025 when the next CEO will be voted in. Until then, I have duties to fulfill at the Howler and the HMG. I have to stay focused and prove that I’m just as good of a news leader as I am a journalist.
That means no distractions. At the end of the day, Kai is a source I shouldn’t be thinking about.
Especially a source with a reputation like his.
The door to the lecture room suddenly swings open.
“Hush, hush, hushhh!”
Professor Mellonbaum saunters in with a colorful sphere in her hands. Her scarves dramatically billow in the air, bright as the butterfly clips fluttering in her gray hair.
Her eyes perk up at me.
“Well, well, well…” Mellonbaum drags her pink cat-eye glasses down her nose. “What are you doing in my class, Miss Huang? I thought the heiress of the HMG would be taking courses on journalism ethics, or how to crush your enemies in the media?”
I laugh. “I just thought your class would be far more interesting as an elective. Besides, I don’t need courses on how to crush enemies in the media. It comes quite naturally to me.”
Mellonbaum smirks and waggles her finger at me. “I like the way you think.”
She flicks the lights off, switches on her PowerPoint, and plugs in the colorful sphere. It glows to life. Projections burst from the multicolored holes, conjuring women with trumpets shooting from their ears and butterflies stuffed in the mouths of gawking men. The projections rove over a sea of confused faces.
Mellonbaum spreads out her arms. “Welcome to the history ofstrange art! If you are baffled by this menagerie of creations swirling around you, may it call on you to question and examine your reality!”
Her smile falls. “But if you’re truly baffled because you think you are in the wrong class. . .you may leave.”
Several students scurry out of their seats.
I cross my arms over my chest, nervously fumbling with my buttons as Mellonbaum goes over the syllabus. The phrases ‘slightly disturbed’ and ‘potentially high on shrooms’ litter every one of Ivy Mellonbaum’s reviews. I wasn’t bothered by it at first. I figured they were written by disgruntled STEM majors who hated that an arts course demanded actual effort. But now, as I watch the butterfly clips flutter in Mellonbaum’s hair, I’ve come to realize—with intrigue and concern—that the alarming reviews might be right.
“Now!” Mellonbaum claps her hands together. “In the spirit of the first day, I want you all to introduce yourselves to your desk-mate through the art of close examination. As the projections pass over their face, watch what it brings out in them, write those observations down, and discuss your thoughts. This will allow you to get to know one anotherandpractice the type of analysis I will be expecting you all to do for the semester.”
Students around me gather to work on the assignment. I glance side to side. For once, seeing an empty row makes me fidget.
I raise my hand. “Professor?”
She whirls around. “Yes, Diana?”
