Democracy

The club president severed our handshake and placed her hands on her hips. She was clad in elaborate cosplay—my mouth ajar, I ran my eyes over the styled blonde hair that ran down her shoulders, the puffy red bow that sat at her chest, the frilly skirt that fluttered as she moved, and the red boots that went clack-clack-clack along the classroom floor—but everything shrunk in significance to her face, which hoarded attention like a particularly awful car accident.

What was it? Was it real? It was with a certain relief that I observed her pasty, clean-shaven legs jutting out beneath her skirt. At least they seemed normal. Mostly. Compared to the face.

The president cocked her head slightly. “Relax, comrade. It’s just a mask.”

“…Is it?”

“Of course. You may test that yourself, if you like.”

“Test it? How could I—”

“Touch it. Smell it. Taste it if you dare. See for yourself what this image really is, divorced from the machinations of mass media, of propaganda, of simulacra.” She spread her arms in a wide, beckoning embrace. “See who I, Asako Asanuma, truly am.”

Instantly, I was overcome with perverse curiosity. I extended a finger and placed it on one of those doughy orange cheeks. What I felt was… soft and vaguely gooey, kind of like a rice ball. And it was warm, pumped full of blood. A mask, she said? How could that be?

I kept touching, pushing and pulling, muttering to myself.

“I’m grateful, comrade,” Asako said suddenly, and I reclaimed my finger. This caused an alien snapping sound as I detached from the doughy flesh. “We have been requiring new soldiers for our revolutionary army, but it is difficult, in this situation, where the proletariat are so resigned, so deluded, so apolitical. And we cannot exactly advertise our plight, lest the teachers clue into our existence. It has been a difficult period.”

“Wait!” I took a step back. “You’ve got the wrong idea, Asanuma-senpai—”

“No!” She took a step forward, hounding me, allowing no retreat. “Honorifics are problematic. We are all of equal status here. No added formality. You may use my first name.”

“I don’t want to do that—”

“Makes you embarrassed, does it? Calling a girl by her first name? Fu fu fu. Silly, lovestruck boy. Then ‘comrade’ is fine.”

I gulped, trying to gather myself. Relax, Shinzo. The voice was coming from behind the face, meaning it was a mask after all. 

“You’ve misunderstood,” I said eventually, finding it easier to look out the window as I spoke. “I just walked in here, thinking this was the anime club… I didn’t know you were… What did you say? A communist club? I’m not into that. I’ll just… leave. That would be for the best.”

“He’s telling the truth, Asako.” We turned our heads to where Hitomi stood by her protest poster, peering hawkishly through her glasses. “Watanabe is not one of us. We should let him leave if he wants to. I know how he can be. A boy like him.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked, offended that my own classmate (who, really, I had always been quite cordial to) would sully my name (even if it was towards some foreign sociopolitical entity that I wanted nothing to do with in the past, present, or future).

“What I mean, Watanabe, is that you’re not a good fit. It would be better if you made an actual anime club with your bougie friends.”

“What did you just call my friends?”

“Fu fu fu.” Our exchange seemed to amuse the president. She placed a lithe hand on her chin. With that strange, husky voice of hers, she commanded attention, silencing us immediately. “We have reached an impasse. So his reputation is the issue? Watanabe … Yes, even I’ve heard your name. What to do?”

“Obviously just let me leave,” I muttered.

“No, we will vote! It has been said democracy is the road to socialism.” She clasped her hands in a flash, leaving her fatty chin to jiggle unattended. “But, comrades, there has never been a democracy. You think you will be able to change the world when you reach voting age? If only. We live in a capitalist dictatorship. Never be so naïve as to think the rich will give up their wealth simply because we want them to. You think you can vote away your inequality? That your elected representatives can change the status quo? No. The rich control the system; it colludes against you. All this world fosters is the illusion of choice: a lone flower destined shrivel and wilt beneath ceaseless acid rain.”

She cleared her throat. Her chin, abruptly, stopped jiggling.

“…All this to say, within this very room, at precisely 4:04 in the afternoon, we will have a taste of true democracy. Hitomi, do you want our new boy to stay or leave?”

Hitomi rolled her eyes. “I vote he leaves. Watanabe is untrustworthy. What if he’s been sent here to screw us over, like how every capitalist empire in the world set out to crush the Bolsheviks after a nearly bloodless revolution? That’s a possibility, right?”

“Allegations, allegations,” Asako murmured, laughing softly. “Etsu?”

We all turned to observe the first-year who had given me the pamphlet. She froze in place, coiling one of her blue pigtails around her finger. “U-Um… Well, I think… he should stay. Because he seems like a nice person, even with all the rumours… Don’t hate me for this, Hitomi! I don’t want to push anyone out of our group. I think… anyone should be welcome here, because even people like Watanabe are oppressed somehow…”

“One to one,” Asako noted. “That is true. The revolution is in his favour, whether he knows it or not. We now turn to Yachi.”

The girl called Yachi had her finger up her nose when we turned to her. She was the one carrying the books from before—with the bell choker and cat ears—and I felt like I’d seen her around from time to time, hanging out in the library. Her hair was short and brown, her face meek and squarish. I never would have expected her to be part of something like this.

“I think we should let him in,” she said, extremely quietly. “We need more people. That is all.”

Asako nodded. “Yes, true. Your argument is so very based. It seems we have reached an outcome.”

“Hold on,” I interrupted. “I vote no! My vote counts too, yeah?”

“But of course,” Asako said warmly. “It counts just as much as ours. Just as much, incidentally, as my own, and I’m voting for you to stay, which means we’re three-to-two, not in your favour.” The president picked a wooden crate up off the ground and dumped it into my arms. “From each according to his ability.”

“…What is this?”

“A box.”

“I can see that, but…” I frowned. Inside the box was a weighty megaphone sitting atop a collection of seemingly miscellaneous items. “It’s heavy,” I said, confused and slightly annoyed.

“Indeed! With your unique physiology, you seem to be the most well-equipped for this sort of thing. And because you’re still uneducated, there’s nothing else you can do for us, no?”

“Well… I guess. But, hey, I didn’t agree to join yet—”

“Pick it up, new boy, and follow my lead.” Asako thrust a fist into the air, turning to the window. Her wrinkled, sneering face caught the light, bathed in a bran-new shade of bronze brilliance. “Moritomo High Communist Club! AT LAST, THE TIME HAS COME TO MAKE A CHANGE! TO JUMP-START THE REVOLUTIONARY HEARTS OF OUR STUDENT POPULUS! We march for the school library, now!”