Misao - carrotinthehole

One good thing.

That’s all I need—just one.

I don’t need good grades.

I don’t need friends.

I don’t need a future.

I just—

“Hanagawa Misao… would be my girlfriend?”

“Die,” I reply.

—want something to look forward to.

The boy before me blinks. I think. Someone “accidentally’ stepped on my glasses again. Until I save enough to buy a new pair, I’ll live in a cubist painting. (Again.) “I know it’s a prank,” I say. “You guys aren’t subtle.”

“Prank? I don’t know what you’re… hey!”

I walk past him. It’s getting cold. It’s getting dark. I hate both of those things.

“Wait!”

However, something I don’t hate awaits: the latest volume of my favorite rom-com.

“I said wait!”

He seizes my arm. Sheesh, this guy is pushy. “If I say yes, will you stop bothering me?” I ask.

“Bothering you…? Hanagawa, is it that hard to believe that I might just like you?”

“Better than the alternative,” I reply. “Just thinking about it makes me throw up in my mouth a little.”

That, thankfully, makes him step back. He’s a broad, towering figure, looming too far away to matter. I just want to go home and drink tea while reading. While I twirl one of my braids, he says something, but it’s probably an insult and I don’t care to hear it.

“...cold…”

It is.

Oh—he’s talking about me.

“...dark…”

My personality? Noo, I’m a ball of sunshine!

“...lonely.”

I look up.

“Stay lonely,” he says. “You deserve it.”

Instead of giving him a response, I walk past him. The sun is about to set. It’s a beautiful, crisp, late-autumn afternoon. I hope it snows soon this year.

Though I should be going to art club, I head to the bookstore instead. It’s the only decent one in town. All of the others refuse to ship my favorite rom-com. They literally judge a book by its cover.

The Cannibal Who Only Eats Eyeballs is a postmodern reimagining of the epic of Gilgamesh as told by a schizophrenic janitor, except this one is straight. The use of cross-hatching and watercolor effects is sublime, but alas; the author is so reclusive that fans speculate about the work hiding encrypted messages between intelligence agencies.

By the time I reach the bookstore, the sky has begun to wilt. Whatever. I’ll just tell my mom to pick me up once she gets out of work.

The clerk knows I won’t buy anything, but she doesn’t kick me out. I think she’s nice. Someday, once I’m rich and famous, I’ll recommend this bookstore. That’s what I tell myself as I finish reading the volume. As usual, I don’t understand any of it, but that’s what the internet is for.

‘Stay lonely.’

I’m not.

‘You deserve it.’

I do.

One can be alone without being lonely.

One can be lonely while surrounded by a crowd.

That’s what he doesn’t understand. That’s why he does as he’s told to. It’s easy to be cruel when those around you celebrate this.

My second-favorite manga is about a girl who turns into a dragonfly, the catch being that the story follows the law of conservation of mass. She’s in love with her childhood friend who is the hottest boy in school, and who has a split personality. His other self is the villain. I think. Sometimes the story implies that he’s aware of both selves.

‘You deserve it.’

No one deserves to be lonely.

Weird—how did I end up at the self-help aisle again?

‘Stay lonely.’

Why is there another student here? Here? In this aisle? I don’t mind older people, but anyone from thirteen to twenty within close vicinity makes my cortisol levels spike. Rather than browse as I yearn to, I end up picking whatever I can reach. The book’s title is as follows: Save Japan’s Declining Birth Rates by Giving Birth.

It seems interesting, at least. Unfortunately, the advice is vague at best, but it’s not like I’m looking for a partner. It’s just, wouldn’t it be funny if I wanted a book from the top shelf and the guy next to me reached for it in my stead? If our eyes met? If we were neighbors, but had never realized until now? Wouldn’t that be funny?

But first—a quick psychological check. “Why did this dumb shit get published?” I ask, but he doesn’t respond. Maybe he didn't hear me. Oh, well. It was just a fun little game anyway. Nothing serious.

‘Is it that hard to believe that I might just like you?’

…or so I tell myself, yet I end up attempting a second experiment. While I don’t know what lies at the top shelf, I reach for it anyway.

What if it hadn’t been a prank?

I jump.

What if it had been, but he’d still meant it?

I jump.

What if it had been and he hadn’t meant it, but I’d accepted the confession anyway?

I jump.

Where would I be right now?

What would tomorrow be like?

Would it be better than—

The guy reaches for the book, at last. He hands it to me. I take it, watching…

…her.

Oh, no.

Oh, the poor thing—I confused this girl for a dude because she’s tall and thin. Her hair is actually quite long, her forehead covered by a fringe. She looks like a doll. I could almost laugh.

And the thing is, I can tell that she’s mad, but the more I try to fix it, the worse it gets. I guess this is it. I’ve evaded swarms of angry girls at school only to get pummeled by one elsewhere. This is it.

As I ready myself for the first fistfight of my life, however, the clerk turns on the light.

…ah, right, it’s getting dark.

The girl freezes. I guess all of that was for show. It scared me, I’ll admit, but now that I see her, she’s a twerp in a middle school uniform. Not only that, but she probably gets bullied. There’s no other way to explain those bangs. None.

I take her wrist.

I take her outside.

Why? I don’t know. I just do.

I take her wrist and I take her outside and then I let her go. It’s dark. However, the moon hasn’t emerged yet; only the street lights illuminate us. Due to the weather, our breaths are little ghosts that die a second later.

“I thought,” I say, having to crane my neck to see her face, “that you were going to beat me up.”

She looks away, pouting. I had literally never seen someone do that before—not in real life. “And I thought that you were gonna show me how the pose goes.”

“Well, who goes first?”

“Me.” But then the girl doesn’t move. She toys with the ribbon of her sailor uniform. “Why do that? Why… save me? You could’ve told the clerk that I was about to kill you.”

“Ohh, scary.”

“Yeah.” She doesn’t seem to get the sarcasm. “Can I ask you a question?”

That question feels like an oxymoron and it pisses me off immensely, but I nod. This sucks. It was an experiment so I didn’t care that much, really, truly, but did this really have to happen with a middle school girl and not an older boy? I’m not talking college age or anything crazy like that, just—a second or a third year would’ve been great.

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

“...eh. Come again?”

“Never mind, you probably do. Who confessed to who?”

Was I this weird in middle school? “Uhh… he confessed to me.”

“Fuck,” is her reply, and I’m baffled and scared.

Most of all, however, I’m curious. “Why?”

She takes a hand to her chin, squinting at me. She doesn’t seem to be wearing makeup. Lucky. “Where did you meet him?”

It takes a second for me to remember that I’m pretending to have a boyfriend now. Why? Because it’s funny. “On the internet.”

“Where?”

“Cannibal forum.”

“Could you send me the link?”

“Did you hear what I just said?” I ask.

“Yeah. I’ll give you my number. Send me the link, please. I’ll buy you juice.”

Was I this needy in middle school? The answer is no, because I had a man-hating phase, but still. I’m beginning to understand why this twerp visited the self-help section. Somehow, she needs it more than me. We exchange contacts, which makes her… the first contact outside of my family on my phone! Yay! But the problem then becomes that I have to come up with a link for the non-existing cannibal forum where I met my non-existing boyfriend.

“I uh. No data,” I say.

“I’ll give you mine. Network name is carrotinthehole—”

“What—”

“—password is drowssap.”

She actually named her hotspot xXx_carrotinthehole_xXx. Children are scary these days, and shameless. Now I have to come up with another excuse. “You have to prove that you’re a cannibal to get access to the forum.”

“Oh. How do I do that?”

“...good question.”

“How did you do that?” The girl asks.

This would be as good a moment as any to end the charade, but it’s just… it’s just going too well. She sounds so obliviously earnest. It’s endearing. “Guess.”

“Um… by lying?”

“And what would I gain by doing that?”

“A boyfriend?”

This girl’s one-track mind amazes me. I can’t help it; I place a hand on her shoulder. “Listen… girl. There’s an ancient Chinese saying that goes: do not try to find a boyfriend through cannibal forums. Look it u—ow!”

To say she grips my hand would be to say that falling off an airplane probably hurts. It’s hard to see her face given the lighting and my poor vision, but I think that she’s glaring at me. “Help me get in or I beat you up.”

The worst part? I believe her. Under the twilight’s feeble moon, she’s a slim, towering figure, looming too close to be dismissed. “...uhh… fine?”

“F-fine what?”

“I’ll… help you get in?”

“When?”

“Somed—ow ow ow.”

“Tonight?” She asks. “Tomorrow is fine, too, but if you could do that tonight that’d be great. Please? I gave you that book earlier. Please?”

I’m beginning to see the tunnel at the end. Sheesh, this girl’s strength is monstrous. “Fine! Just… my hand…”

She lets go for a moment… only to take it again. To shake it. That, or she’s trying to rip my arm off. “Thank you so much! Thank you! Thank you thank you thank you thank you—”

“—I got I got it I got it—”

She lets go. “I’ll buy you juice.”

…of course she says that.