Misao - psychological warfare

“Who was she?” Is mom’s first question the moment she starts the car.

“Friend,” I reply. The word alone makes bile rise in my throat. ‘Delinquent who threatened to beat me up if I didn’t invite her to a cannibal forum’ won’t do, though. “We meet at the bookstore sometimes.”

“What school is that? I couldn’t recognize the uniform.”

“No idea.”

We leave. Tsukishima stays there. The last I see of her is her… ordering another meat juice. Well—I guess I don’t feel that bad for leaving her behind anymore. “It’s very nice of you to help others out,” mom says, “But don’t forget about your own studies.”

“I won’t.”

“Still in fourth place, after all.”

“I mean. Yeah. The other three places are impossible. You know that.”

“I don’t,” she says. “Nothing is impossible.”

Since it’s dark, I can roll my eyes without her noticing. The three students with better grades than me are apparently one-in-a-generation geniuses. Not even kidding. I could’ve probably been the top student had I gone to study literally anywhere else, but nooo!

I hate rich people. I hate kids who make grades their personality. I hate cannibals. I hate systemic burnout. I hate collectivism. I hate Watsonian determinism. I hate that I can’t become a schizophrenic janitor without disappointing someone.

“How about that competition?” Mom asks. “Any results yet?”

She knows that the answer is no, so why ask? I wanted to enter a less competitive… well, competition, but she signed me up for this circlejerk where literally everyone but me picked up a paintbrush at six months old and were drawing 1:1 Caravaggio compositions at three. Of course I’ll lose. “...no.”

“Hmm, that’s too bad. Don’t feel discouraged, though! We just have to keep trying.”

“Yeah.”

“Eventually, something great will happen.”

“Yeah.”

I’d forgotten that Tsukishima threatened me into giving her my number. Needless to say, when someone sends me a video of a paper ball catching fire while dubstep plays in the background, my fight or flight activates.

Her next message is a time and place. Saturday, three PM.

Minutes later, she adds: Can we meet earlier so you can do my makeup?

Girl…

There are plenty of free tutorials, I reply.

She sends an obscene sticker. Oops, wrong one, she says, then sends a slightly better one. As in, without men copulating. I tried, but one of my friends asked me if it was Jester (2019) cosplay last time… please… help…

We’ve talked for maybe three hours. Three. At best. Why on Earth does she think that I’d waste even more time than I already have doing her makeup? I’ll think about it if you have the decency to use kanji. She has been using kana this whole time. How? Shouldn’t her phone automatically switch to… whatever. The more I try to make sense of this girl, the more nonsensical she becomes.

She spams kanji.

I.

Inside.

Flower.

I don’t know that one, but it’s probably something obscene.

River.

Stop, I say, but she goes on.

Fish.

Heaven.

Stop.

So let’s meet at 2 PM? Is her response?

Oh, I get it—that just now was psychological warfare.

I’m getting distracted. I was getting distracted already, studying instead of drawing, and now this harbinger of doom is making everything worse. Whatever, I reply. You’re paying for my food, then.

That’s fine. By the way, can you draw AkiAngel? In this pose? She sends the obscene sticker again.

I send her a picture of my hand flipping the bird.

Can you also do my nails please?

I don’t reply until roughly half an hour later. Why? Because I’ve actually drawn the couple she asked for, in the same pose she asked for. While playing Glin Ositet IgureS in the background, I crunch the drawing into a ball, then set it on fire. I send her a video of that. She doesn’t reply.

***

Sometimes I wish that real life could be as gentle as fiction. I’d have trash in my locker over this any day.

‘This’?

What is ‘this’?

I won’t elaborate.

If I do, I’ll have to acknowledge it.

If I acknowledge it, I’ll throw up.

Later, in order to reach my classroom, I have to walk past the boy I rejected yesterday. This wouldn’t be that bad on its own, but he’s surrounded by his cronies.

They’re laughing and joking around, and then they notice me. Immediately, almost, they fall silent. They stare. I pretend not to notice. I’m so focused on trying not to hunch or stare at the ground that I don’t see the foot until it’s too late.

“Amahara” the boy I rejected reprimands, but it sounds half-hearted at best. I, of course, fall on my knees; books fly out of my backpack.

“What? Not my fault she walked into it.”

“Your panties are showing,” says another crony. This isn’t true because I wear stockings, but it makes me jank my skirt against my legs anyway. Of course, they laugh.

I pick up my books while they stare.

I pick myself up while they stare.

My hands sting. I have to wash them. My stockings didn’t rip at the knees, thankfully.

I don’t go to the bathroom because there might be people there. My skirt will do. I dust my hands on it. One of them is bleeding, but that’s fine. It’ll stop soon.

All of that could’ve been avoided had I said yes.

Had I said yes and I would have a boyfriend, albeit a fake one. No matter—I’d have a shield.

But what I said yesterday was true. Just the thought of it makes me throw up in my mouth a little.

While our school doesn’t have a designated heartthrob—I’ll be damned if that actually exists in real life—Izawa, the boy I rejected, is apparently highly coveted among my peers. He’s tall and broad, with pierced ears and… I don’t know, whatever girls like. Tall men scare me.

Months ago, we met at the same cram school. I’d seen him around, of course, which was exactly why I avoided him. Unfortunately, he ended up talking to me anyway.

Again.

And again.

And again.

And each time, I replied.

I’m pretty sure he talked to me because I was alone. He must’ve thought that he was doing me a favor. He might’ve. Had he kept showing up, saying good morning and goodbye, and I might’ve…

…I wish I could have…

…but I didn’t.

I couldn’t like him. I can’t like him.

I think there’s something wrong with me.