Chopstick Jab

The bell rang.

Freedom. Kinda.

Time to bento it up for forty-five minutes.

Lunch was, as lunch tended to be, a small civilization.

We had arranged our usual table setup by the window — not because the view was particularly inspiring, it faced the courtyard wall — but because it was ours by unspoken territorial agreement and nobody had challenged this in approximately two years.

Tomoe was at her quietest when food was placed in front of her. If she was ever too much, throw a bar of Ghana chocolate at her.

Across from her, Miyoshi Machiko was peeling her orange with aggressive precision, which meant she had an opinion she hadn't voiced yet.

Harada Honomi was on her phone.

Her glasses were about to fall off the bridge of her nose which signalled peak sleep deprivation. It didn't even wanna know.

The argument had started, as most of our arguments did, from essentially nothing.

"I'm just saying," Tomoe spoke up with newfound conviction all of a sudden, "it looks good. On paper. For later. And someone has to do it."

"Someone has to clean the toilets too," Miyoshi said. "We don't celebrate that."

"That's not the same—"

"It's exactly the same. It's necessary function, horrible execution, performed by people who either drew the short straw or genuinely enjoy having authority over toilet scheduling."

Tomoe rose a finger to make a point.

She was not quick enough.

"The difference," Harada said, without looking up from her phone, "is that toilet cleaners don't make announcements about it over the PA system."

Tomoe closed her mouth.

Miyoshi pointed at Harada with half an orange segment. "Thank you."

"I'm not agreeing with you," Harada said. "I'm just noting the difference."

"There's genuine community benefit—" Tomoe tried again.

"Name five."

"Uh..." Tomoe froze.

"Name one."

"The culture festival—"

"That's organized by teachers."

"The budget proposals?"

"Rubber stamped by said teachers."

"The student representative on the—"

"Decorative," Miyoshi and Harada said, in unison.

Tomoe looked at me.

They all looked at me.

I had been eating my riceballs while twisting my neck to and fro like a spectator watching a long tennis rally.

"Azusa," Tomoe said.

"Fwuh?" I said gracefully in-between bites of onigiri.

"Weigh in."

I considered this with appropriate gravity.

"Student council," I said, "is theatre. But theatre with catering access and a stamp that makes teachers briefly pause before saying no." I tilted my head. "Tomoe's right that someone has to do it. Miyoshi's right that most of them know it's theater. The ones who don't know it's theater are the ones you should be worried about."

Silence.

"So," Harada said slowly, "apply or don't apply?"

"Depends entirely," I said, "on whether you want the stamp or the audience."

Tomoe looked quietly vindicated. Miyoshi looked like she was chewing on this along with her orange. Harada put her phone down, which was the highest possible indicator of engagement.

"That's—" Miyoshi started.

And then a shadow fell across the table.

"Very astute of you, Ishikura."

The voice arrived before the person did, which was, I suspected, intentional. I looked up.

Uchimura Jotaro.

Creep.

Third in command of the student council. I knew this because he had, at some point in the school year, made sure everyone knew this.

I pray to god he doesn't lead this country one day.

He’d turn the 'Land of the Rising Sun' into the 'Land of the Sun’s Demise.'

"That was quite the hot take," he continued, pleasantly. "You ever think about cluing the school paper in on that worldview of yours?"

I looked at him.

"Don't," he said, the smile not moving.

The table was very quiet.

I picked up my chopsticks.

He leaned just slightly too close to Harada, eyes sliding over her glasses, her phone, the way she held herself—like she was something to evaluate.
"Nice glasses," he said, smooth and wrong. "They make you… approachable."

Harada's fingers twitched on her phone. Tomoe coughed into her sleeve. Miyoshi stared at the courtyard wall trying not get involved.

He lingered. One step closer. “You’d be so convincing if you ran things your way,” he added, voice low, almost teasing. “I could help you… manage that. Right after school.”

Harada froze. The table froze. Even I felt it: the air thick with ugh, this is gross.

I set down my riceball and tilted my head to look at him.

"Why are you still here?" I asked, voice flat and sharp. Right into his smirk.

He blinked. Not quite expecting that.

"You got what you wanted," I said, pointing a chopstick at him, "don’t you have a meeting to weasel your way into, meathead?"

The tiniest curl touched my lips—not a smile. A warning. Calm, composed, but the storm simmering behind it.

He hesitated.

Then, after one long, careful beat, he sauntered off—grinning like it was a game, but aware he’d been called out.

The table exhaled collectively.

Honomi’s phone dropped onto the table with a soft thud. She muttered under her breath, voice low: "This guy… what a creep."

"Bleh," Miyoshi said, to no one in particular.

Tomoe looked at me with the expression she reserved for moments when she was equal parts fond and genuinely concerned.

I was already eating again.

"He's third in command," Harada said, after a moment.

"I know," I said.

"You just called him a meathead."

"I know!"

"To his face."

"He was hitting on you! Perversely at that!" I narrowed my eyes, glaring at Harada, and pointed a chopstick at her. "I don't care what anyone else thinks. That is unacceptable behavior for someone that high up."

"Oh." Harada glanced towards her feet, sheepish.

"Right. Okay." She looked back up. "But, uh, you kind of did call him a meathead."

I rolled my eyes so far back that I was convinced they'd roll right off my skull, and put down my chopsticks.

"Who cares if that was ego posturing, it's gross posturing. He can't go around acting like—" I paused.

"...Like what?"

"Forget it, it's not worth the energy." I declared folding my arms.

A beat.

I put down my chopsticks. “Alright. Now that the circus is over, what are we actually doing with lunch?”

Tomoe stretched a hand toward the window. “We could talk clubs. Student council is a hard pass for me. I don’t need another ego-driven warzone in my life.”

Miyoshi nodded, peeling the last segment of her orange. “Same. If anyone’s infatuated with titles and social status, I don’t want near me. I’d rather… actually join something useful. Art club, calligraphy, maybe the cooking club.”

"You put too much flour in the cupcakes we tried making at Harada's house last year 'member?"

"Hey! I've learned since that time!"

"And I started poking my muffins before I take a bite out of habit" I smirked.

We all shared a laugh together at our table.