Anyway, Hachiman Hikigaya is rotten.

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.

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