Chapter 5: A Physical Education (Part 1)

Today, the second years had a small athletic contest where as usual, I always championed being in last place. Oh, before you say that I’m a darn loser at every sport I tried to participate in, well, half-wrong. I had some sports where I ended up in 5th or 6th place, but mostly, spots where an average person won’t be proud of.

Besides, it’s barely a competition—my classmates were just keen on peeping and comparing sizes of girls instead of measuring their skills. At some point, some frail students were laid victims to the delinquents powering through them mercilessly, clearly enjoying their violence in the guise of competition.

When the dust finally settled, I slipped past everyone like water between stones.

I can say that Shonan High School was, well, elite in a sense. It had that polished, brochure-ready sight of modern buildings, freshly waxed hallways, spotless windows, fountains that looked way too expensive for teenagers who still fail basic math quizzes, and an education system people bragged about at reunions.

But no matter how clean and orderly the place was…it was nothing against the force of nature—sweaty P.E students after grueling sports activities.

Our changing rooms—usually pristine in the mornings you could probably eat off the floor (not that I ever would) were now wet with sweat and steam. The air conditioning is barely functioning against my hot skin. I tried wiping myself down, but the stickiness just won’t come off.

I usually take my time—wait until most of the guys have left before doing anything. I don’t want them to see me trying to scrub myself off and label me as a clean freak.

Besides, without them, there’s less noise and less chances of anyone remembering I exist.

Knowing that I'm the only person left in the lockers, I peeled my shirt off slowly, my body aching from too little sleep and too many jobs. I can't say that I am slim. I remembered playing tennis in primary school with the guidance of my mother. But heck, I nearly got hospitalized after severe palpitations. I never touched the racket after that.

I wasn't built for sports, that's the summary.

But I'm no slouch either, I had worked out before. That being said, I just don't belong in things that require severe muscle endurance.

“Yo, did you see that runt from Class 2-2? Guy kept talking smack until he got swatted and he flew like a recycled plastic bag.”

The phrase echoed in the lockers as I was about to head to the exit. Looks like I wasn't alone all of this time.

“Was that guy still alive? He was sent to the infirmary, right?” another one chimed in.

"See, he deserved it. He wanted competition, so I gave him the dose.”

A burst of laughter followed, loud and obnoxious. I can recognize their voices, but not their faces yet. One thing is for sure though, they were my classmates.

Yuuya’s lackeys, specifically.

“How about the monkey from Class 1-6 that you tackled, Hirose?”

Someone with a nasty low-pitch voice chuckled. “He was standing in the middle and I was running full speed. You either get jacked to absorb the hit, or you get hurt. Survival of the fittest."

I wanted to point out their irony—they were guys who lived off chewing gums from vending machines, now mocking someone else’s nutritional deficiencies. I kept them to myself though—I valued my bones too much.

Someone slammed a locker shut and cackled.

“Look, those guys signed up knowing they’d get crushed. Natural selection, baby.”

“That’s messed up.”

“Oh, shut up, you enjoyed it too.”

“I mean yeah, watching them crumble was kinda satisfying.”

The snide remarks turned into a full blown laughter. It was loud, unrestrained, and shameless.

“Let’s leave ‘em for a while. They’ll probably notice our antics and report us to the teachers. Besides, they’re just filler characters.”

That one stung, even for me. Maybe because I fit somewhere in the “filler” category, too.

I mentioned earlier that there were people who used physical competition to satisfy their desire for power. I can prove it clearly now.

However, I felt nothing from hearing this exchange take place next to me, presumably because I am a witness to this kind of scene almost every day at Shonan High. Violence—whether physical or verbal—was just another piece of classroom background noise.

Even though some decent teachers and counselors did their best to deal with it, it’s still unexplainable why such acts continue on a daily basis.

That's why I realized, it's probably part of the rules that were quietly allowed.

The strong roar. The weak crumble. The spectators pretend not to see. One would think that growing used to something was the same as accepting it.

It’s not.

It just means I’ve learned where I stand.

Look at what this school, or most schools, does. From the moment we step inside, the entire structure is built on comparison and competition.

We have rankings for grades. The same goes for sports and test scores. We're sorted into classes based on ability. Even the cultural festival projects are turned into ruthless competitions. The teachers praise and present the top and dominant performers, and the rest are simply told to try harder next year, or to climb the ladder higher.

This atmosphere doesn't just breed striving; it breeds contempt for weakness. The system demands winners, and by extension, it necessitates losers. The boys behind these lockers aren't just being mean; they are simply playing the roles assigned to them and applying the school’s core philosophy to social dynamics. If you fail to be dominant, in grades or on the gym court, it only means that you are less than the others.

Morally wrong but systematically right, if I were to put it into simple words.

Before I could spiral into that thought, their topic shifted.

“Anyway—forget those twigs. Did you see Kousaka during the relay?”

I was actually planning on leaving already, but that one left my feet planted on the floor.

“Of course. That chick is too damn cute to peel my eyes away.”

“I thought the bitch was banned because of what she did at the last sports festival?”

“Nope, same as always. Though she keeps acting like she’s too good to join in. The girl just sat on the bleachers sketching.”

“Oh, fufufu. Probably drawing voodoo crap.”

My hands tightened around my towel.

"Chick's got a real attitude, huh? Does she even talk to anyone?"

“Nah. But I heard that she's gone nuts with Shimizu at Yuenchi. I would've dismissed it but it came straight from Yuuya-san’s mouth.”

“Oh, that bankrupt moron. How would he stand against a Tokyo girl?”

“She came from Tokyo?”

“Yup, rumors say she got expelled from her old school in Tokyo and moved to Kobe.”

“Rumors aside—she’s hot, though. Like, that's something out of a magazine. Did you see her cleavage on her unbuttoned uniform? I think that's an E-cup.”

“Dude, she's half-French. That alone explains the size.”

A cacophony of laughter in unison echoed at that lascivious remark.

“Think she’d let me 'model' for her sketchbook?”

“Only if you come with a leash, man.”

"Can't even touch her. Did you see what happened to Yuuya-san? Dude almost died at the hospital. If not only Kousaka's father shouldered the expenses. The girl's a real freak and a violent bitch."

I wanted to ignore their off-hand remarks and their excruciatingly loud chuckles that awakened the attitude enveloped in me.

The established status quo—people avoiding confrontation while they wait for someone to step in. I played such a role every day, because I never wanted to be caught in their crosshairs. That if I misstep, if I open my mouth or flare the slightest bit of indignation, I know exactly how quickly their attention could swivel.

I can't help but think of the sports festival last month. If I stepped in, would I end up the same as her?

But hearing Kousaka-san's name, again and again, like it was some free-to-use joke, did twist something to me. An antagonistic force, if I would describe it—started to bubble up in my gut.

Yes, caring too loudly is dangerous. Seeking justice sometimes demands blood. And I…don’t have the luxury of injuries, or hospital bills, or becoming another entertaining punching bag in their daily routine.

But before I could think better of it, my rationality disappeared in the face of anger.

I followed their voices and stepped in.

“You guys always talk this much when she’s not around?”