A vein popping out of her forehead, my Japanese language arts teacher,

Shizuka Hiratsuka, read my essay aloud in a thunderous voice. Being forced

to listen to it like that made me realize I still wasn’t that great at composition.

That essay was a pretty transparent attempt to string together a bunch of long

words in an effort to sound smart. It was like something a novelist whose

books wouldn’t sell might do. So did that mean my poor writing skills were

the reason she’d called me there, then?

Of course not. I knew that wasn’t the reason.

Ms. Hiratsuka finished reading the essay, put a hand to her forehead, and

sighed deeply. “Listen, Hikigaya. What was the homework I assigned you in

class?”

“Uh, it was to write an essay on the theme of reflecting on my life in high

school.”

“That’s right. So why does this sound like the prelude to a school

massacre? Are you a terrorist? Or just an idiot?” Ms. Hiratsuka sighed again,

worriedly ruffling her hair.

You know, instead of calling her a teacher, wouldn’t it be a lot sexier to

call her a disciplinarian? Just as that thought crossed my mind, said

disciplinarian whacked me over the head with a stack of papers. “Listen up.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“That look in your eyes… You look like a rotten fish.”

“You mean loaded with omega-threes? I must look pretty smart.”

The corners of her mouth twitched upward. “Hikigaya. What exactly is

the point of this smart-*** essay? If you have an excuse, I’ll hear it now.” The

teacher glared at me so hard I could hear the sound of her gaze. She wasn’t

half bad looking, so her glare had an unusually powerful effect. I was

overwhelmed. She’s actually pretty damn scary.

“U-uh, well, I did reflect on my high school life, you know? High school

students these days are lasically bike this, right?! It’s basically all true!” I

fumbled with my words. Just talking to another human being was enough to

make me nervous, and this was an older woman, which was even worse.

“Usually for this kind of thing, you reflect on your own life.”

“And if you’d indicated that beforehand, that’s what I would have written!

It’s your fault for being vague when assigning the topic.”

“Don’t quibble with me, kid.”

“Kid? Well, I guess to someone your age, I am.”

A puff of wind went by.

It was a game of rock-paper-scissors, and her rock swung out with no

warning. A splendid fist that held back nothing grazed my cheek.

“The next one will hit its mark.” Her eyes were serious.

“I’m sorry. I’ll write it over.” The optimal choice of words to express

apology and repentance.

But it didn’t look like that was enough for her. Oh, crap. Was groveling

on the floor really my only remaining option? I slapped my pants to try and

get the wrinkles out, bent my right leg, and approached the linoleum. It was a

graceful, fluid movement.

“It’s not that I’m mad at you.”

Oh, here it comes. This is it. It’s so annoying when people say this. It’s

just like saying, I’m not mad, so tell me, okay? I’ve never met anyone whosaid that who wasn’t actually mad.

But surprisingly enough, Ms. Hiratsuka genuinely didn’t seem angry.

Aside from that age-related stuff, at least. Returning the knee that had been

on the floor to its former position, I looked at her.

Ms. Hiratsuka retrieved a Seven Star from a ****** pocket that looked like

it was about to burst and tapped the filter twice on her desk. It was something

a middle-aged man would do. When she was done packing the tobacco, she

flicked her cheap lighter and ignited the cigarette. She exhaled some smoke,

an extremely serious look on her face as she fixed her gaze upon me once

more.

“You haven’t tried joining any clubs, have you?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Do you have any friends?” she asked, knowing full well I don’t have

any.

“M-my motto is to treat everyone equally, so I have a policy of not

keeping anyone particularly closer than anyone else!”

“In other words, you have no friends?”

“I-if you want to be that blunt about it…,” I replied.

Ms. Hiratsuka beamed with motivation. “I see! So you don’t after all! Just

as I thought. I could tell the minute I saw those rotten, sordid eyes of yours.”

You saw it in my eyes? Then why ask?!

Ms. Hiratsuka nodded to herself, satisfied, before giving me a sheepish

look. “Do you…have a girlfriend or anything?”

“Or anything?” What was that supposed to mean? What would she say if I

said I had a boyfriend? “Not right now.” I tentatively included some hope for

the future in my emphasis on the words right now.

“I see…” This time when she looked at me, her eyes were somewhat

moist. I want to believe that it was just irritation from the cigarette smoke.

Hey, stop that. Don’t point that tepid, patronizing gaze at me.

But seriously, what’s with this line of questioning? Does she think she’s in

some kind of inspirational teacher movie? Next, are we gonna hear some line

or other from the rotten delinquent? Is the dropout going back to her old

school as a teacher? I sure wish she would go back.

After Ms. Hiratsuka finished pondering, she expelled a smoke-filled sigh.

“Okay, let’s say this. You do your report over.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Sure, this time I’ll just spew out some completely

inoffensive paper, like something a pinup idol or a professional voice actress

might write on her blog. Like Today I had…curry for dinner! What was the

point of that ellipsis? Nothing that followed it was surprising at all.

Everything she’d said up until that point was to be expected. What camenext was beyond my imagining.

“But still, you were callous, and your attitude toward me was hurtful.

Were you never taught not to bring up a woman’s age? So I’m ordering you

to do some community service. Wrongdoing must be punished after all,” Ms.

Hiratsuka announced gleefully, her manner so perky I couldn’t imagine she

was remotely hurt—actually, wasn’t she even perkier than usual?

Oh yeah…and the word perky just happened to remind me of another

word—breasts. Much like my train of thought, my eyes strayed from reality

and toward the teacher’s boobs, pushing up from underneath her blouse. How

depraved. But what kind of person gets so giddy about punishing someone,

seriously?

“Community service? What do you want me to do?” I asked timidly.

Based on her demeanor, I expected her to order me to clear ditches or stage a

kidnapping or something.

“Come with me.” She pressed her cigarette into an ashtray already filled

to capacity and stood. She’d offered no explanation or preface to her order, so

I paused. Noticing from the doorway that I wasn’t moving, she turned back to

me. “Come on, hurry up.”

Flustered by her glare and furrowed brows, I followed

The layout of the Chiba City Municipal Soubu High School building is fairly

convoluted. If you were to examine it from above, it would look a lot like the

distorted square of the Japanese character for mouth—or the Japanese letter

ro. If you add in the AV building poking out underneath, the bird’s-eye view

of our glorious school is complete. By the road stands the classroom building,

and opposite that, the special-use building. Each facility is connected by a

walkway on the second floor, and the whole thing forms the shape of a

square.

The space surrounded on all four sides is the normies’ holy ground: the

quad.

During lunch hour, boys and girls get together to have lunch and then play

badminton to help themselves digest. After school, with the buildings

growing slowly darker behind them, they talk of love and gaze at the stars,

caressed by the sea breeze.

It’s all such bullshit.

From the sidelines, they were as cold as actors playing roles in some teen

drama. And in that drama, I’d play a tree or something.

Ms. Hiratsuka was clicking briskly down the linoleum, apparently heading

for the special-use building.

I’ve got a bad feeling about this. I mean, community service is a worthless

activity, anyway. The word service isn’t something that should be popping up

in everyday conversation. I think it’s a term that should be reserved for very

specific situations—for example, a maid servicing her master. I’d welcome

that kind of service with open arms, like, Woo, let’s party! But that kind of

thing never actually happens in real life. Or rather, not unless you pay. And if

you do pony up the cash and get to do whatever it is you’ve got in mind, it’s

not exactly an activity bursting with hopes and dreams. Basically, service is

bad.

On top of that, we were on our way to the special-use building. I was

obviously going to be made to do something like move the piano in the music

room or clean up garbage in the compost room or organize the book

collection in the library. I had to take defensive measures before that

happened.

“I’ve got a bad back, like…um…her…her…herpes? That’s it…”

“I’m sure you wanted to say a ‘hernia,’ but don’t worry about that. I’m

not going to ask you to do physical labor.” Ms. Hiratsuka regarded me with

infuriating condescension.

Hmm. That meant that she wanted me to look something up or do desk

work. In a way, that sort of mindless busywork was even worse than manual

labor. It was closer to that method of torture where you have to fill up holes

in the ground and then dig them out again.

“I have this disease where I’ll die if I go into a classroom.”

“That’s some long-nosed sniper material. Are you one of the Straw Hat

Pirates or what?”

You read shonen manga?!

Well, I don’t hate doing repetitive tasks on my own. I just have to turn off

a switch inside me and say to myself, I’m a machine. Once I’m at that stage,

I’ll start looking for a mechanical body and then end up as a bolt.

“We’re here.”

The teacher stopped before a completely unremarkable classroom. There

was nothing written on the nameplate by the door. I paused at that, thinking it

odd, and the teacher slid the door open with a rattle.

Desks and chairs were stacked up casually in one corner of the classroom.

Maybe it was being used for storage? The stack was the only thing

differentiating this room from all the others. There was nothing special about

it. It was extremely normal.

What made it feel so different, though, was that there was a girl there,

reading a book in the slanting rays of the setting sun. The scene was so

picturesque that I imagined that even after the end of the world she would

still be sitting there, just like that.

The moment I saw her, my body and mind both froze. I was entranced.

When the girl noticed she had visitors, she bookmarked her paperback and

looked up. “Ms. Hiratsuka. I thought I asked you to knock before entering.”

Flawless visage. Flowing black hair. Even wearing the same uniform as

all the faceless girls in my class, she looked completely different.

“Even if I knock, you never reply.”

“You come in without giving me time to.” She cast the teacher a

dissatisfied glance. “And who’s this addled-looking boy?” Her chilly gaze

flicked toward me.

I knew this girl. Class 2-J, Yukino Yukinoshita.

Of course, all I knew was her name and face. I’d never spoken with her. I

can’t help it. It was a rare occasion for me to speak to anyone at this school.

Aside from the nine regular classes at Soubu High, there’s also another

class called the International Curriculum. The International Curriculum is two

or three points higher than the regular classes on the bell curve and is

composed mostly of kids who’ve spent time abroad or are looking to go on

exchange.

Among that class full of standouts—or rather, people who just naturally

drew the attention of others—Yukino Yukinoshita was particularly

distinctive.

She was a straight-A student, always enshrined in the top rank on both

regular and aptitude tests. And what’s more, she was always showered with

attention due to her uncommonly good looks. Basically, she was so pretty

you could even say she was the prettiest girl in school. She was famous here,

and everyone knew about her