In the class

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

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