If you feel like you can handle her

Ever got a second first impression of someone?

Because as soon as the dust settles on our little moment of realisation, I feel like I’m standing before someone – well, not new, just very different. An unassuming, almost diminutive girl that only gets smaller as her eyes grow wider with disbelief. Slightly concerning, given how instead of speaking, she just stammers like an old car engine that hasn’t been cranked enough.

I ask, “Are you alright?”

To which she answers by blinking back to reality and pinching both of our arms, rending two equally high-pitched yelps.

“The hell was that for?” I shriek like a squeaky toy.

“To see if I’m dreaming!”

“Then why pinch me too?”

“Hallucination check, I don’t know, shut up! No way this is happening,” she groans, dashing to the safety of the classroom. I go in right after, finding her sat in the front row, head buried in her arms as she mumbles some sort of eldritch incantation. Kind of understandable; I’d do the same if I found out that the guy I blunt-force castrated then left for dead is my new classmate.

Okay, obviously that’s not the problem here. But I’m not sure if I should talk to her now and risk a curse on my entire bloodline or just, well, let it slide. It’s not like I don’t wanna know what’s bothering her, I do – but with all that happened the other day, this doesn’t feel like something a five-minute talk could fix. And I’d hate to sign up for a tomorrow I can’t exactly promise.

I purse my lips. It’s tough but, (un)fortunately, it’s not my call this time. Because as soon as I take a step towards her, a pointed cough behind me roots me to the spot. And, with a smile so acidic it could melt steel beams, my homeroom teacher greets me and condemns me to the last available seat – all the way at the back, next to the supply closets.

Now, gather round folks for the start-of-the-year spiels. Welcome! Congrats! You’ve done well to come this far, but the worst is yet to come! The talk about entrance exams and university comes right after which, for someone with a future as certain as the due date on a gas station hot dog, is just noise. I zone out, only for a dreadfully poisonous word to snap me right back in.

Introductions.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t hate talking about myself. If anything, rambly inner monologues are my forte. But, after a while, it just gets tiring to say –

“Hi, I’m Luca, don’t bother with a last name.” You won’t remember it anyway. Start neutral, “I came here with my sister,” then end with half a mouth, “and my father.” Then it’s just a redacted cliff-notes version of my travel log. Combat and survival training become football and boy scouts, yet they’re still met with that all-too-familiar blend of wonder and sympathy, which I’ve affectionately dubbed the ‘endangered bird look.’

But, as I awkwardly preen through my hair, I realise that she has been frowning and squinting at me this whole time, trying (and failing) to peer all the way through me. And now, after the three Cheeto-tan gyaru between us said their piece, it’s time for the turn of the tables.

“I’m,” she begins, only continuing after a long, conspicuous pause, “Tachibana Hinata.” She scans the classroom next, only to stop on me with a glare that half-begs, half-demands that I don’t listen to what comes next. And, I guess I could’ve done that, given our extensive history of 2 hours spent together. But then, I would’ve missed out on a textbook example of cognitive dissonance.

Because Hinata – is normal. She’s a mousy bookworm – her words, not mine – who speaks quietly, yet proudly about her eclectic tastes featuring Western media, ballet dancing and organic chemistry – which is why she wants to become a pharmaceutical scientist. And even if she’s the polar opposite of the wild vixen from last night, I can’t help staring at her all the same.

And before you say anything, no. She’s not hot. Not that I’m saying she’s ugly, rather she’s just – sweet. There’s this cute, adorkable energy floating around her as she sneakily types a novel’s worth of anxious texts under her desk, and it’s fascinating; the contrast between her two halves.

“So,” the guy beside me whispers, sliding ever-so-menacingly into my personal space, “Tachibana caught your fancy?”

His name is Daisuke, if I recall from his introduction where he dubbed himself ‘Chiba’s golden bachelor’. Surprisingly enough, nobody scoffed. Still, with those muscles bulging under that wrinkled shirt and the lazily-combed frosted tips, I’m guessing he’s just your average jock trying to gauge his competition.

“Maybe,” I leer back. “What’s it to you?”

“Woah there, chill,” he chuckles, half-nervous, half-amused. “Not trying to step on your toes here or anything.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t act like you’re defending territory.”

“Nah, don’t worry. My tastes are a little more,” he sizes me up and down, searching for the right word, “exotic.”

“Interesting way of calling her dull.”

“Already getting a little protective, aren’t you, buddy?” he leans closer and I lean further away.

“What do you want, buddy?”

Our gazes collide midair, and Daisuke’s bounces off to the floor first.

“Look,” he says, slipping on a warm, disarming smile, “no offence, but you look and sound like a sad sack of shit. And Tachibana’s more of a on-display girl, you feel me?”

“Speaking from experience?”

“Ahem,” he shifts in his seat, “the point is – be advised. I don’t think you wanna add heartache to that already long list of things that make you feel like shit. But…”

“But?”

“But, if you feel like you can handle her,” he sighs, trailing away as the bell rings. And maybe it’s the soothing quality of the Westminster chimes, or maybe it’s just the candid quality of his voice, but I don’t feel mad about being left hanging. He seems like a nice enough guy, despite the way his brain seems to be lagging.

Still, for all his foreboding warnings, all this talk of Hinata makes my eyes wander to the front of the class. She’s still at her seat and three other girls have spawned around her, helplessly trying to drag her into a conversation about something I don’t care enough to decipher. For a long time, she seems frozen, lost in her own mind until she must’ve sensed that I’m watching and glances towards me.

And I feel like there’s a line cast between us, a connection and a separation from the world that slowly seems to fade into a black, muted background. I sketch a smirk, a gesture towards something unclear, yet unambiguously amical. In return, her face blanches and she shuts her eyes tight. When they open again, there’s a flickering intensity in them, a hesitant determination that feels – out of place. On her and Yui alike.

She gets up, fists weakly balled, and trudges towards me with the clumsy stiffness of a rusted Terminator. But, when she reaches my desk, she’s wearing a painfully affable grin.

“Hey. Luca, right?” she chirps, with an innocence that could even fool me into thinking this is the first time we’ve spoken. “Say, did anyone show you around school yet?”

“N-no. Why?”

“I was just wondering,” a maidenly fluster possesses her tone, “if you’d like a quick tour? You know, just so you don’t get lost on your way back from the bathroom.”

“Erm…”

I peek at Daisuke only for him to wink back at me. Precisely not the reaction I was looking for, considering that he was just trying to prepare me for a completely different scenario. But, to his credit, I think I get what he couldn’t say earlier.

If you think you can handle her, go for it.

And, you know what? I did it once – not sure I can do it again, though.

Because, “Okay,” I mutter, following her out of the classroom, only to instantly get harried down the corridor. We’re almost jogging, slowing down to play the role of my guide whenever we pass a student or a teacher. She reads aloud door signs I can very well read myself, a clever, if not a bit forced way of keeping up appearances. Especially when we both know this whole thing is just a pretext for a private conversation.

Ever so slightly out of breath, we arrive at the desolate wasteland that is the library early in the morning. She leads me past the cobwebbed maze of bookshelves, all the way to a door in the back, held together with the combined power of three rolls of duct tape and good luck charms. “Committee Members Only” is scribbled in red marker next to the handle, but that doesn’t stop Hinata. She has a key.

“In,” she orders, the coldness of her command sending a chill through my wounded nutsack.

I gulp, “Am I ever gonna get out?”

“Depends.”

“On?”

“Good behaviour. And compliance goes a long way with that.”

Still wishing to see the light of day, I nod and go in. There’s not much of that in here, though. It’s a small, stuffy storage room with sun only coming through a window that’s almost entirely obscured by sealed and unlabelled boxes. Despite being filled close-to-bursting, the ceiling-high cabinets lining the walls look reasonably sturdy; perfect to lean on for support.

Clearing my head, I turn to Hinata and ask, “So, what’s up –”

Only for my bruised bladder to almost empty as her foot barrels towards my face.