Bourgeoisie

Ducking under the mighty gates of Moritomo High, I always felt uneasy. My stomach churned, my hands trembled—even now, years on, these things still happened, if only for a few seconds before I banished them with a deep breath. Unpleasant stuff to deal with early in the morning. If I had to diagnose myself, I guess I’d say I was dealing with some type of imposter syndrome; but then that implied I was not an imposter here. I think, by any definition, I was.

But there’s no use dwelling on these things. Imposter or not, I wore the same uniform as the students streaming past me on both sides, breathing sleepless hellos or good-mornings or get-out-of-my-ways. That was one place where we would always be equal, I thought: our intrinsic lack of sleep. We’d all been up late working. Or reading about communism (as always, I’d procrastinated terribly). Either way, now we were at school, stuffed into the same caffeinated bodies. We spoke the same phrases. We went to the same places. As we walked, we all found ourselves squinting up at the Japanese flag, which flapped softly in the morning breeze.

It was at half-mast today.

I arrived at my classroom at 8:59 AM. Then I groaned. My lovely assigned seat—third row by the window, in that prime protagonist position—was taken. Not just taken, actually. It was overrun by girls, most of which weren’t even in my class.

At the centre of this female maelstrom was none other than Ryota Honda: head of the student council. Due to his good looks or big smile or nonchalant demeanour that attracted everyone and anyone like some aromatic social pollen, Ryota was indisputably the most popular guy in the school, constantly followed around by a brigade of onlookers swooning over his words and running their hands through his soft, wavy hair. I was his best friend. Not sure why that afforded him the privilege of nabbing my seat, but who knows.

Not your seat, actually, a small voice said. That’s private property. It’s not actually yours—

“Shut up,” I said back, silencing my inner monologue.

Ryota looked up. He grinned, then turned to his army of girls (and, as I was now observing, some boys—he really struck a chord with everyone). “You can run along now,” he said.

They all moaned and complained and batted their eyelashes. It took approximately a minute for them to file out of the classroom, and even then many of them stuck by the door, pricking me with glares of envy.

I sighed. “You’re as popular as ever.”

He grinned wider, speaking petulantly. “What can I do? They just follow me around, moths to a flame! It’s a real pain in the ass…”

“I know you like the attention. What are you doing in my seat, anyway?”

“I wanted to see you, of course. You look sleepy, Shin.” He cocked his head. “Late night?”

“I guess.”

"There's a special assembly today. Commemorating you-know-who. What a surprise, right?"

"For real." I imagined I would be repeating this exchange throughout the day.

"I wanted to let you know, because you tend to skip these types of things."

“Oh.” I nodded. “Thanks, then. I’ll make sure to skip this one too.”

“It’s weird, I’ve always thought… You’re such a good student for the most part, and I’m not sure if you’ve ever missed class. Whenever an assembly rolls around, though…” His eyes flashed. “I know, I know. You don’t like to talk about it.” He stood up, scooped his bag off the ground, and moved away. “See you at lunchtime. Teachers'll be monitoring the South Block, so look out.”

“Thanks again,” I sighed, taking my seat. I began flicking through my textbooks, jotting down notes when I discovered something I needed to revise. After a night of time wastage, I had a lot of catching up to do. Math, Physics, Biology, History…

A bony hand whipped, snakelike, around my head, pressing a plastic ruler into the soft flesh of my neck. “Don’t make a sound.”

“Uh.” I stiffened, more confused than anything. “What’s up?”

“Don’t play dumb. I know what you just did. No, no—you’re not allowed to look at me. Keep your head down, pretending to write.”

“Okay.” I scribbled down a note. “On second thought…” I smacked down the ruler and looked over my shoulder. Hitomi was seated behind me, seemingly bristling with anger. Her eyes blazed through her thick spectacles.

“Watanabe,” she muttered, “you’ve betrayed us already. I shouldn’t be surprised to see you sharing our secrets to him of all people. First rule of Communist Club: you do not talk about Communist Club."

I scratched my head. “I didn’t tell him anything, though. We weren’t talking about the club.”

“And why should I believe you?”

“Because… I don’t know! I didn’t do it, okay?”

“Hmph. Despite my better judgement, I’ll choose to believe you.” She gestured forward. “Turn back around and lower your voice. We don’t want anyone listening in on our conversation.”

“Fine…” I did as she ordered, not terribly enthusiastic. “Aren’t you being a bit hypocritical, though? I mean, you guys did a whole rally. Seems like you want everyone to know about your club.”

“Of course we’re allowed to. You, however… you lack the knowledge.”

"I don't, actually! Just last night, I did a bunch of research, and—"

"Your voice is rising."

"Oh, sorry."

"Listen, no matter what you know, there are some people you simply can't share it with. Some people, inevitably, are the enemy." She leaned forward and whispered into my ear. "Our president is a chronic idealist. She has this idea that everyone is our ally, but that's far too utopian for me. Many people in this school are haute bourgeoisie: the very people we should be fighting against.”

“Haute what now?”

“It’s French. You’d do well to learn if you’re serious about joining us.”

“I’m not learning French, Hitomi.”

“Well, know they’re the enemy, and they’ll stop at nothing to stifle our socialist revolution. I’ll give you three names. Look, but don’t stare.” She sent her stabby pointer finger over my shoulder, prodding stealthily at our first foe. “Karen Mizuho, who sits in the front row. This bitch is the second cousin of the current CEO of Mizuho Financial Group, AKA one of the biggest banks in the country. She lives a life of sickening wealth and nepotism.”

“...I see.”

“Second!" Hitomi rotated her finger until it was pointing across the room. "Ryota Honda. Your best friend." She paused for a moment, as if she expected me to object to the claim. When I didn't, she huffed. "Head of the Student Council. In real life, he is one of four Honda brothers who all have loose ties to Soichiro Honda, founder of one of the world’s largest car companies. He is also, disgustingly, a man. Actually, that's too nice for someone like him—he is a manwhore. A calculating, manipulative, chauvinistic mastermind. The patriarchy in a person.”

I observed Ryota, who was busy flirting with someone on the phone. It was true he was well-off—I'd been to his ‘residence’ before, and it was basically a mansion. I was petrified to even use the bathroom, so sure that I would scratch or chip his esteemed black marble toilet. 

"Still, though," I said, "you've got the wrong idea about him. He's not manipulative at all. When I transferred here, he was the first person to introduce himself and show me around. I have a hard time believing he’s the most evil guy ever.”

“You’re falling for his tricks. But it is true he's not the evilest student in this school. That title belongs to the one who just entered the room.”

I looked. The boy who entered was one of the less talkative members of our class. He was short, gloomy, and effeminate. His dark, uncut hair shielded his eyes like a visor. I couldn't even remember his name.

"That's the worst one?" I asked, watching as he took his place in the back row. "He looks harmless."

"Looks can be deceiving. That 'harmless’ boy is none other than Otoya Moritomo."

I flinched. "Moritomo?"

"That's right. He is the only son of the headmaster of this school."

"...Oh."

"This means he is the inheritor of the Moritomo line, which has ties to the Royal Family. Their assets far exceed this school. They own a number of school and university campuses, as well as countless heritage-listed shrines. Otoya’s father—the headmaster—has gone out drinking with the Prime Minister, and rumour has it he’s grooming his child to be the next big LDP leader. Can you believe that!? Make no mistake: if Otoya finds out about us, he’ll notify the headmaster and snuff us out.”

“Okay, okay, enough about him,” I muttered. “I get it. I won’t spill the beans to any of them. Not even Ryota.”

“I’m having a hard time believing you, Watanabe.”

“I’m being honest. I don’t even want to be in this club, remember? If it wasn’t for my mom, I’d be resigning.”

“You told your mom?”

“That it was an anime club. She doesn’t know that we’re actually…”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, make sure she doesn’t find out.” Hitomi leaned back in her chair and began unpacking her own stationery. “Keep your lips zipped, new boy. I’m watching you.”