I wasn't joking

I don’t understand girls.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m no incel. Despite my peculiar circumstances I’ve actually had as many girlfriends as my super extroverted sister – one of which we both ended up dating. At separate times. With no hard feelings because of sibling camaraderie, healthy discussions and –

Okay, she was a lesbian. Hard to get mad at that, especially when it was kinda obvious. She dressed like a Mediterranean twink, adored crochet and was enamoured by my hairless arms, soft jawline, and especially, by my bubble butt. All to say orientational incompatibility was the least of our issues – further proven by her rebounding to the female version of me, a weird, but not unwelcome confidence boost.

See, from meal plans and workout routines to the exact time, date and manner she’ll be proposed to, she had her entire life planned out in a series of colour-coded binders, sorted by esoteric criteria I couldn’t remember as hard as I tried. During our three-week stint together, she organised our every date, initiated every kiss and responded to every “No, you hang up,” with a short and chipper, “Okay.”

And I liked that. I liked her, I liked the structure she brought in my life and I thought following it to a T would make her happy. Especially after she all but broke into tears when we had to cancel our park date due to a rain shower that wasn’t on the forecast.

Right before we left Italy, she and Anna celebrated their six-month anniversary. They climbed the Vesuvius, took a picture of the two of them kissing on the crater’s lip and she captioned it, “Thank you for showing me life’s full of beautiful surprises.” Girls have been a mystery to me ever since.

Whereas Hinata remains more of a paradox.

Hinata (00:36): So… new colleagues, huh?

This text greets me as I wake up from my second coma today and I’m pretty sure it’s the sole reason why my head is spinning. Naturally, I ignore it at first. Priorities, you know? I dust myself off, carefully unlock our creaky front door, tiptoe upstairs to my room, change into pyjamas that don’t reek of shit, then crawl into bed. And I can’t fall asleep. Not that I’m not tired, even after five or so hours of power blackouts, I just keep asking myself – what the fuck did she mean by that?

Was she being nice? Taunting me? Trying to do a Seinfeld stand-up? Even after scrolling through my entire meme feed and exhausting every last Twitter drama thread and Reddit story time post, I’m still thinking about all of that. And since staring at my ceiling won’t get me an answer, I guess al I have left is to boot LINE again – thanks for installing it, Anna – and reply:

Luca (02:47): Is this a joke?

Granted, not my brightest moment. I blame the morphine. But in my defence, I wasn’t expecting her to come online right away. Nor for the ‘…’ to appear and disappear four separate times, before calling it quits for the night, leaving me with only more doubts to toil over until –

Sunrise comes in like a lion, and stings like a UTI. I rub my eyes, check my phone, heave a sigh at the lack of notifications, then start my usual morning routine.

10-minute plank, 5-minute shower. Comb hair, wash face, ice eyebags. Cook breakfast – French omelette for two – plate and serve. Wake up sister. One more time after she tells me to leave so she can get dressed, only to doze off after, thankfully, putting on underwear. Eat. Banter. Fling egg at Anna. Dodge egg flung back. Laugh. Clean up. Load dishwasher. Put on shoes. Leave. Make it one block, before realising someone’s following us. New record.

With the aviators, slicked back hair and suit-without-tie combo, at first I think it’s one of father’s friends keeping the regular not-so-subtle watch on us. But when I spot the tattoos creeping from under his unbuttoned collar, I’m reminded of the deal I made last night. Looks like Hinata’s dad wasn’t fucking with me after all. Yay.

To Anna’s dismay, I pick up the pace, rush through our goodbye hug, then tail her until I’m sure this guy only cares about me. Not very much, mind you, given how easy it is to elude him. Walk in a coffee shop from the front, leave through the bathroom window in the back. Flawless execution – bar one small detail.

See, I grossly underestimated how many resources Hinata’s dad has and is willing to waste on this little game of his. Because as soon as I turn the corner and return to the main road, another pair of sunglasses slots in behind me. Rimless and round. Pulling out all the stops here, old man. Fair enough, I’ll play ball.

Head hung low – half feigning exhaustion, half masking discontent – I trudge on to school. Where, surprisingly, he leaves me be. Guessing the Red Mountains can’t actually afford the ‘suspicious man spotted near Chiba East High’ rumours, which is a blessing and a curse. Because the quiet minutes I spend shuffling to class are also spent dreading the moment I run into Hinata. For reasons I, somewhat characteristically, can’t explain right now.

And it’s perfect! Because as soon as I slide the door open, I’m greeted by none other than Kisaki. Poised at the front of the class like a staff sergeant, wearing the exact same thing as yesterday, yet managing to look infinitely more – well, safe.

“What the hell is going on?” I whisper to myself. In English, just to be sure he doesn’t hear me. Not that he has to, with how I’m gawking at him.

“Blakeley-san?” he says drably. “Good morning. Take your seat.”

I open my mouth to object, only to be stopped by a poignant clear of the throat. From the front row, Hinata drills me with a stare, pleading with me to not make a scene. Confused more than angry, I frown, then fear I give her the wrong impression. Because when I brush by her desk on my way to the back, I hear a soft whimper.

Homeroom begins with a baffling announcement. Kinoshita-sensei, our teacher, was returning home last night after having one too many drinks at a friend’s birthday and, in her inebriated stupor, got run over by a car. She survived with minor injuries, yet was so appalled at her carelessness – but mostly at her immorality – that she drafted a resignation letter from the hospital bed and emailed it at sunrise. And conveniently – yes, conveniently! – at the same time, Minato Kisaki, a man who was meant to begin teaching Monday, but got delayed by bureaucratic idiosyncrasies, had all his paperwork come through today, spawned at the front gate right as the principal was about to leave for an emergency meeting with the prefectural board of education and –

Can you believe he’s our new homeroom teacher? Because I can’t. I – I can’t.

And I don’t know what’s worse, the tall tale, how everyone believes it with no questions asked – or how Hinata keeps sneaking troubled peeks at me as Kisaki drones on. Or how as soon as the bell rings, she gets up. Fists balled, she pads over, plants herself before me and, with the voice of a kicked puppy, whimpers.

“I wasn’t joking.”

Then, she turns around and runs off. And when Daisuke leans in and elbows me in the side, “You sly dog,” I just – I –who the hell answers a text in person, while still managing to leave you on read! I don’t get it! I don’t get it and, as I watch her scampering away like a wounded deer, I realise that – I really want to get it. That I need to understand her or else I don’t think I’ll be happy again for as long as I stay in this country. And that I can’t waste any second, because that time is depressingly short.