Chapter 3: Mitarashi Dango (Part 2)

Shonan High School grounds wasn't the exception of 'normal' too. I came earlier than everyone else.

No—I’m not trying to appear as a model student, if you’re going to ask me. Greeting my classmates in the morning was an energy expenditure I simply couldn't afford. Besides, I hardly knew most of them anyway. Memorizing faces was easier than memorizing formulas, but interacting with them was infinitely harder. I’d rather use my little social battery for what truly mattered: dealing with the afternoon rush at the dango stall.

That was the extent of my ambitions.

I went to my seat like a compass finding north. It welcomed me with its familiar creak, and I sat down, burying my face in my arms to avoid eye contact with the handful of diligent students trickling in. In no time, the classroom was filled with voices of idle chatter.

Like every day, I could feel the stares of some people boring into my back, and I shrugged off their attention. Technically, I was still a stranger to my classmates except for one. Aside from what I told them on the day we introduced ourselves to class, they have yet to get to know me, which is a little troubling considering I've spent the last two years observing them from afar.

"He's still not speaking to us, as usual."

"Hahaha. You don't need to mind. Shimizu's always like that, just like Kousaka. They're famous for it."

"You’re saying they're popular, huh?"

"In a bad way..."

"Fufufu, really. Even if it's true, they should be a little nicer to their classmates."

"Maybe he isn't comfortable with strangers around him?"

"Strangers? It's already the second semester..."

The hushed murmurs from the two boys next to me turned into chuckles and melted away soon enough. My head stayed buried in my arms for another moment longer before I lifted them to face the classroom, feeling a bit awkward after being the subject of a conversation.

Why would I need to speak to anyone? It's a question most of them probably might find audacious. Communication is essential for survival—at least that’s what every teacher since kindergarten has preached like gospel. Humans are social creatures. They need others. They thrive in conversation, in connection, in the vast and messy web of “being known.”

But that’s only half the truth. I’ve proven, quite thoroughly, that a person can live without it. Almost two years of school without talking to anyone? I did it.

Talking feels…unnecessary. Like adding decorative buttons to a coat that already works perfectly fine. Sure, it looks nicer, but does it keep you any warmer? Does it make the walk home any shorter? Does it cure hunger, or pay rent, or stop the decline of competency in the country?

If not, then what’s the point? What would I even say to them?

I tried to sigh to relax. If the universe sees isolation as a bad practice, then I hope that something happens that will change it once and for all.

And in the event I closed my eyes, heavy footsteps closed in from the front.

BANG!

Something slammed onto my desk with enough force to kick my soul out of my body for a full second. The classroom itself hushed, too.

When I opened my eyes, there was a figure towering over my desk: Yuuya Shoichi, glaring at me with those piercing eyes of his. He's our resident punk along with some of his lackeys. Ironically enough, even though he's most known for starting school-wide brawls and suspension, most of the girls actually find him as a heartthrob.

I can't blame them though, he actually possessed that sharp jawline, defining aquamarine eyes and a carefully bleached hair. For those who know his antics will call him out as a delinquent and problem child, and for those who don't, he might get mistaken for a classroom representative. He also excels in athletics, especially after his performance last year, where his gang of four nearly blew up the gymnasium during the PE competition.

“Oi, Shimizu,” he started.

He leaned forward, hand still pressed on my desk like he owned the wood it was made from. His foot tapped impatiently, his earrings jingling, mouth piercing glinting.

“What?”

His eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“That’s my line. Heard that you were selling dango at Yuenchi where Kousaka sits to draw."

Suddenly, all of the classroom’s eyes were on me.

Ah, yes. The big bully plays with his favorite victim again. For so long that we lived in that kind of routine, he picked the worst time to start questioning my life.

I sighed.

“We're just existing in the same place, nothing more, nothing less.”

Yuuya scoffed, incredulous. “Don’t play dumb, man. How could you restrain yourself from taking advances to a beauty of that level?” He waved his hand as if to dismiss my reasoning, before talking again with that venomous voice of his. “Especially now that you're someone who has the honor of standing right beside her.”

“…We have yet to exchange sentences, actually.”

“Enough crap!” he barked, slamming the desk again. “I’m serious, Shimizu. Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

He leaned closer—his tall shadow swallowing my figure whole. “You, standing next to her? Sharing umbrellas in the rain? That’s practically dating, even if you asked these maggots around us.”

With such a loud declaration, the classroom started murmuring amongst themselves.

I'm already busted, I guess, and the rumors will start spreading like wildfire sooner or later. I wonder how I can defend myself though...

“I shared the umbrella,” I corrected, “because Kousaka-san would’ve frozen to death. And I didn’t want a corpse near my stall. Bad for business.”

His eyes twitched. “You think this is funny?”

“Not really. I’m just telling the truth. Besides, I’m sick of getting interrogated for breathing in public.”

For a moment, he seemed thrown off. My honesty had short-circuited his aggression.

“You piece of crap!” He grabbed my collar, yanking me forward. “You talkin’ back to me or what?!”

Wonderful. The classic delinquent approach. A timeless tradition passed down through generations of idiots. And now, I'm face to face with the leader of the said idiots.

“Listen here, you redhead.” he growled, lifting me slightly from my seat, “I’ve been trying to get close to Kousaka for months. And then you—you, the guy who hasn’t spoken five sentences to anyone since middle school—just wander into the picture?”

“Wrong,” I wheezed, “you’re wandering into my picture.”

His grip tightened. “You’re gonna tell me exactly what’s going on or I’ll beat you again to a pulp.”

“I already did. Nothing’s going on between us. If you’re that curious, why don’t you try talking to her yourself? Might work, might not. Gambling is healthy in small amounts.”

His face twisted like I’d insulted his intelligence—which, to be fair, didn’t take much.

“Don’t screw with me!”

“I’m not. I’m inviting you to try your luck, as a public service.”

“You—!” he began, cocking a fist slightly as if preparing to escalate.

Before he could decide whether to punch me or use me as a mop, a gust of cold silence swept across the room. It wasn't of some heroic teacher appearance, but because a golden trail appeared in the entrance.

Kousaka Akari.

Well, as usual, she walked into class fifteen minutes later than intended, headphones in, passing through our classmates with the same practiced indifference she wore like armor.

In the thawed atmosphere that settled, Yuuya froze. A bead of sweat slid from his temple.

“O—Oh! Kousaka-san!” he smiled, suddenly civilized. “Good morning!”

She didn’t respond. She also walked past us, slumped to her seat next to the window, and spun her chair around like a bored office worker—detached, uninterested and unreachable. She untied her golden hair with flair, and started scratching her sketchpad and put the walls on her domain.

But Yuuya didn’t get the hint. The man was biologically engineered to not understand that once she started sketching, she's already untouchable.

“H-Hey, uh…” He stepped toward her, puffing his chest. “About yesterday—at the park—I-I mean, you know, that thing—well, not a thing, but like, something happened that could have been a problematic matter, if, y’know, the timing wasn’t weird, because that loser over there didn’t decide to show up with his stupid dango sticks—”

The scratches stopped. And just by looking at Kousaka-san's sharpened eyebrows, I know that this won't go well for Yuuya.

She slowly turned her head just enough to look at him with an expression that could’ve frozen magma.

"Would you spare me some courtesy and shut up instead, mophead?"

"Uh...well...I'm just curious, you know?"

“…What about it? I didn’t give you the right to be curious about me.”

Yuuya flashed a forced smile. “I know…but you were so close to Shimizu. That’s not like you. You belong in the circle of bright and popular guys like me so...he, uh…he said it wasn’t anything, so I just wanted to confirm with you—”

“No,” she cut sharply.

He blinked. “No…?”

“Je ne veux pas d’insectes comme toi autour de moi.”

“Eh? And it means?”

“I don’t explain myself to strangers.”

A collective 'ooooh' resonated in the classroom, but as both of us turned to them, most of my classmates were already pretending to study. They wouldn't want to be caught in Yuuya's crosshairs.

“S-Strangers? We’re classmates!”

“Are you even my classmate? To me, you're nothing better than a cockroach.”

He opened his mouth, ready to fire back, but she didn’t give permission.

“In fact, talking to you right now is already more interaction than I’m willing to spare.”

Yuuya stood frozen like a statue carved out of embarrassment. But Kousaka-san wasn’t done. She stood up, took two steps forward, and delivered the finishing blow:

“And stop assuming you understand anything by watching from the sidelines. You'd misinterpret, of course. That's how the head works when someone doesn't have the brain cells to process raw information.”

Aw, that sucks. I felt that one from my desk even though I wasn't the target.

She huffed one last time, returned to her seat, pulled her sketchbook and drew again, perfectly composed throughout the process. Yuuya, on the other hand, was struggling to hold onto what remained of his pride.

He tried again. Because apparently humiliation hadn’t hit his daily quota.

“K-Kousaka-san…I just—I mean—I wasn’t trying to accuse you or anything. I just thought maybe we could—uh—hang out? Walk home or something?”

“Do I look unemployed enough to spend time on morons like you? Get a grip of yourself.”

That was it. Kousaka-san already verbally cremated a man twice her size.

He backed away, face burning red.

“Tch—Whatever. I wasn’t serious anyway, enjoy your little wallflower life.”

His frustration flared up as he kicked the leg of my desk hard enough to make my pens jump. “And I’m not done with you, Shimizu.”

Our eyes met for a brief moment before he stomped out of the classroom.

I finally let out the breath I’d been holding. It's not like I would be taunted inside school premises anyway. Even so, I wouldn’t let myself emotionally invest in his pointless tantrums.

I had better things to do.