note: I'm setting this fic in high school! Ages are in accordance. So it's kind of like an AU, but not really that drastic.

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.change of plans.

.chapter one.

The hallowed halls of Rikkai Dai Fuzoku are the color of sunlit puke.

This is my impression, anyway, of my first steps into the school: their over-padded education budget could fund one million staircases and twice as many students, but the only colors they could afford were bumblebee black and sunlit puke yellow. My real school in Cali was decidedly public and Not Rich, but we still managed to embellish ourselves in regality—crimson and gold, you know, the colors of decent people.

I pull on the back of my standard uniform skirt as I tread up my seventy-fourth set of stairs this morning, gripping the map of the school in my right hand and the strap of my backpack in my left. My white indoor shoes—indoor shoes, ha!—drag against the linoleum floor. It's the third time I've gone down this way, which means clearly the map was incorrectly drawn, since there's no way any of this is my fault. Logically. I haven't done anything to deserve this bullshit. I'm a good person. I feed stray cats. I volunteer.

I pull out the map again, tracing the halls with my finger as I locate, for the ninetieth time, the headmaster's office. If I'm reading this right, it must be the first door on my right. But it's not, goddammit, there's clearly no—

Oh.

And there they are. The gates of hell themselves, emblazoned with the signature seal and hidden expertly behind a gold-plated trophy case. I scowl as I approach, just making out the words on the lines and lines of four-foot-tall athletic trophies: a few for soccer, a couple for hockey, even a couple for ping-pong. I press my fingertips against the surface despite the marks I'm sure to leave on the spotless glass to get a closer look. The top row is clearly better-kempt and highly favored, polished to perfection for a single division:

Boys' U-17 Tennis, National Division Champions

I hold back a snort. The Rikkai brochures that Mom threw at me did have some nonsense about nationals and sports teams, but—let's calm down, shall we? You're in high school. You're not that good.

Shaking my head, I turn for the door of the headmaster's office.

—Which is exactly when a yelling, curly-haired freak demonstrates his mastery of the art of apparition, right on the stairs behind me.

I spin around, staring; he flies like a freight train, papers fluttering out of his half-unzipped backpack as he hurtles downward. He yelps at the sight of me, a manic, massive grin on his face, his eyebrows shooting into his hairline as he gestures wildly for me to—

"Get out of the way!"

Having the reflexes of a tortoise, however, I just wait. His body slams into mine. We fall to the ground.

"Oof," I hear from beneath me.

Fucking Japan.

"For the love of—" I snap in English, struggling to push myself off of the ground. I note dimly that, for some reason, I have ended up falling on top of him even though he slammed into me—which can only mean that, also for some reason, he maneuvered us so I wouldn't be crushed under his fat ass in the split second before we hit the floor. Which was nice of him, if you ignore the fact that, you know, he slammed into me. "What is this bullshit? I can't even walk into the gates of hell in peace? Isn't that, like, off-bounds, religiously speaking?"

"I don't speak English," the boy groans. There is a dull throbbing in my left knee, the budding signs of a bruise, but I cringe as I imagine how he must feel: like a potential lawsuit, maybe. Not that it's my fault. I scramble off of him and dust off my black blazer as he sits up, running a hand through his ridiculous mass of thick, corkscrew curls, somehow messing it up even further. "And—my bad. I was, um, running," he obviates, barely passing for an apology.

I huff the hair out of my face. "Well, are you okay?" I ask, trying to mix both apathy and concern in one question. Judging by the way he tilts his head, it doesn't quite work. "I need to decide if I should call 911 or to step on you as I leave."

He pauses, and then grins like we're friends. I frown, and then sneer, sweeping a lock of short red hair behind my ear. I dyed it for the first time in a show of rebellion, three days after the Parental Units broke the News, but it's grown on me ever since. My instructions to the hairdresser were clear: Red, you know, like R-E-D. The color of bloodthirsty Vikings. None of that Anne of Green Gables carrot orange kind of red. Red so people know I'm serious about doing damage if they touch me. That red.

Apparently, though, the red of bloodthirsty Vikingsisn't deterrent enough for this kid who is speaking to me now. My arms are crossed in the universal sign for Unhappy, but he grins at me with a lazy sort of smirk, the way you would if you had no regard for other people's happiness. Which, I guess, isn't too unrelatable at this moment.

"You know," he says now, "normal people would be the teensiest bit more sympathetic when they've just elbow-smashed an innocent second-year to the ground, but I guess you're not... that normal, huh?"

I stare at him. "Look, kid—do you want me to carry you, or what?" I glance at my watch. The second hand, Mickey Mouse's white glove, ticks around the face with a ridiculous tranquility. "You're blocking the door."

"Yes, please," the boy decides. I open my mouth to beat him down with a few carefully chosen words, but then he stands up, inspecting the damage done to his uniform. Dust mists across his back and waist, and all down the line of his well-defined butt. Jesus, Erica, my home in California says as I look back up at his face. He's younger than you, you damn pedophile. Calm down. "Just kidding. It'll be the apocalypse before I ever need to be carried by a girl."

"Hm," I say, and then nod thoughtfully. "Oh, I get it. You're just another sexist guy, intimidated by the superiority of women."

He nods back. "Yeah, that's what it is. My problems with women are all solved now, thanks to you. Have you ever considered a future in psychology?"

I scowl, but he grins again, picking up and dusting off his backpack with the speed and diligence of a sloth. Irritation seeps through the back of my throat like the breathing fire of a dragon. I snatch it from him before gliding irritably through the doors, half in annoyance for his self-assurance and half in aversion to being late to my first meeting with the headmaster. Not that I especially care, or anything, but it's also not like I don't care. I'm a good student now, and good students don't partake in tardiness.

Although I fully expect him to follow, a lazy call informs me he is doing no such thing.

"Hey," he drawls. "That's my bag, you know?"

I stop. Breathe in, breathe out. "You know what?" I say finally. "Just, whatever. Be late. Get detention. See if I care. I, on the other hand, would rather not, so enjoy your tardiness, kiddo." I huff. "I don't see why I've even waited for you this long anyhow."

He grins.

I toss his backpack at him, and although I miss by about a mile, he catches it easily and slings it over his shoulder. I spin around and pull at the handle of the glass door, slipping into the air-conditioned room.

Inside is a soft-carpeted room with plush and mahogany furniture and a buttery yellow couch, pushed against a wall adorned with some sort of Renaissance-style painting of a kind-faced Japanese man I assume to be the headmaster. A tall window overlooks the courtyard, displaying the fresh-cut grass rippling in the wind like a bright green lake. At the other side of the room is a heavy wooden door leading to the headmaster's inner sanctum.

I make a face at the luxury. Fucking Japan, I think for the second time, and this time, it's almost involuntary—like it's already becoming a habit to think the words. Great. Now I'm a potty mouth.

Realizing that the door hasn't shut behind me, I turn to face the curly-haired boy again, grinning down at me. Well, he wasn't that tall when he was on the ground. In fact, I prefer him on the ground. My foot itches with the desire to trip him backward.

A potty mouth and violent. Going strong, Erica.

"Hey," he says, cheeky.

"You were sent to the headmaster's office?" I ask, and then feel a strange sort of obvious familiarity when he crosses his eyes and grins, almost proudly: like I knew he would, like I already understand him. Which is nonsense, of course. I've just met him.

I notice now that he does have a nice face—messy black hair, bright green eyes, a subtle upward quirk on his lips. Annoying, but not infuriatingly so. His green eyes are startlingly sharp, but he has a nice smile, boyish and young and genuine. He seems harmless: mischievous, maybe, but not altogether bad.

"What can I say?" he's saying solemnly. "I'm a troublemaker."

He waltzes by me, dropping into the yellow leather couch and lifting his sneakered feet onto the arm of the chair. I follow suit, settling beside him in a blue armchair.

"So," he says solemnly. "What are you in for?"

"You make it sound like we're being incarcerated, inmate." It comes out before I can stop myself, the friendliness.

"Prison, the headmaster's office. Is there a difference?" He scoffs, balancing a pencil on his upper lip. "As if they could discipline me, the rebel."

A self-proclaimed rebel. I roll my eyes. "What are you in for, then?"

He blinks, and then rolls his eyes upward at the ceiling, sinking into his seat like he's reliving a world war. He raises his hands to the ceiling like Martin Luther King, Jr., preparing for a sermon. "Hear my woe, friends," he begins dramatically. "The tale of this tragedy begins in the early morn, shortly after the regal waking of the spring sun."

I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek. Thankfully, he's not looking at me to notice—it'd be a disaster if he thought I found him funny or something. It'd make me accessible.

Maybe you want friends, California whispers in my ear. I stab California out of the air with a ballpoint pen.

The boy locks his fingers behind his head and grins. "Basically, I put the tips of a Sharpie in the whiteboard eraser before class started. And then the teach did his thing, you know. So now the board has these really artistic black streaks—" He makes his fingers into talons and drags them across the air to help me envision: thick, permanent streaks on a glassy white surface. He raises his eyebrows, green eyes flashing toward me, as if to check my reaction for approval. "And—don't tell sensei, because he thinks I'm repenting or whatever, but it was hilarious. Teach gets this crazy, wide-eyed look on his face, and for a moment it was like you could read all his thoughts, all, holy shit, the eraser thing isn't doing the eraser thing—and then he's considering retiring for the third time this morning. Like, it was totally a good idea at the time."

This time, I can't hold back the laugh. He grins, eyes twinkling in gratification. I stop immediately and clear my throat. "That was idiotic of you," I state matter-of-factly. He sinks into his seat again.

He shrugs. "Technically speaking, it's not my fault. He's the one who used the eraser."

"So you're in for disciplinary action?"

"Niou-senpai said he'd buy me a curry bread today if I did it. But now that I think about it, they don't even sell curry bread at the convenience store anymore. They discontinued it after the Curry Bread Incident—which, come to think of it, he was also responsible for." He scowls, and stares at me as if waiting for something, but when it doesn't come, he frowns. "You know. Niou Masaharu? Silver hair, third year, the trickster?"

I blink back at him.

He cocks his head. "Talk about unimpressed," he laughs. "You're in his year, aren't you? Third year. A senpai." He points at the yellow ribbon on my Rikkai uniform. "Not a fangirl, then?"

"A fangirl?" I frown. "Of what?"

"Of what?" He drags out the beginning of the word from the back of his throat.

"Look, if it's any answer to your weird-ass question, I'm new here—from California."

He pauses, and then it's almost as if the sun dawns across his face. "You're—" He cocks his head. His jaw drops as he lifts a finger, pointing slackly at nothingness. "The English speaking. The headmaster's office. The startling disinterest at my miraculous presence. You're—" The finger drops into his lap. "It all makes sense."

"Eureka," I laugh, shaking my hands above my head like spirit fingers.

"You know, you're not terrible-looking when you laugh," he has to gall to tell me now. "It's almost—decent."

I scowl, but he remains unabashed. "Don't flirt, second-year, it's—"

At that moment, the wooden door to the principal's private room creaks open. The living incarnate of the painting above the boy's head appears, kind-faced and slightly balding and just over my dad's age.

"This is not a place for socializing," the man declares in a low, booming voice, like a sports announcer. He shakes a sausage-y finger at us, and then throws his head back and laughs at himself. "Well, then. Koichi Erica-kun, I presume?" he asks me.

"Yeah." I pause, remembering the words in the Japanese World Tour Guidebook that Mom threw at me, right after the Rikkaidai brochures: The Japanese emphasize respect toward their elders. "I mean, yes… sir."

He laughs his booming laugh again. "I'd heard you were from America," he says. "I see you've got a lot to learn about this country, Koichi-kun!"

And I laugh back, but make it so bitter, ugly, and ferociously fake that he trails off in discomfort, probably too polite to ask, Jesus, is that your real laugh? To which I would say, Yeah, fight me about it, bitch! And then punch him in the nose.

Which is totally unfair, I know. I'm being unfair. Old people can't fight.

"Um," he says, and then turns to the boy. "Kirihara Akaya-kun—how many times have I seen you this month?"

"Not enough to satisfy my desire to lay my eyes upon you, sir," Akaya declares. I clamp my teeth over my lower lip. Kirihara Akaya. I file away the information, even though I'll probably never see him again. Second years and third years don't really hang out, according to Mom's Japanese World Tour Guidebook. Still, he's crazy in a way I wasn't expecting Japan to be—in movies, Japan is all about samurai and ninja and crazy, war-loving three-piece-suited politicians. Not Kirihara Akaya.

"I have a lot to do today," the headmaster sighs, "so I'm letting you off the hook this one time—this one time, you hear me? Next time will see serious repercussions. That means detention, Kirihara-kun, which means cutting into your practice time, and neither of us want that. Rikkaidai doesn't want that, right?" He grins. "Yukimura-kun and the rest of the team will be taking us to nationals again, isn't that right?"

Akaya brightens beside me, kicking the bag at his feet and grinning triumphantly: A tennis bag. Huh. "Yes, sir."

He frowns. "But, of course, the whiteboard—"

"—Can be fixed," I interrupt. Both Akaya and the principal look up at me. Maybe you're not supposed to cut off your elders when they're talking in Japan. Whatever. "If you write over it in dry erase marker and erase it when the ink is still wet, the permanent marker will come off too." I shrug. "We did it a lot in school. Drew dicks disguised as cats on the board, and stuff."

The headmaster gapes at me. Akaya slaps a hand over his mouth, eyes twinkling at me in approval.

And, I don't know why I feel better at his delight—but I do.

"Um," I choke out. "Sorry. I meant daisies. We delicate girls drew daisies on the board."

The principal lifts a hand to his temple. His eyes are hard. "I do hope you'll behave yourself at this school, Koichi-kun," he says quietly. This time, I can tell he's not kidding: he is being very Serious, the way the Parental Units were when they found out what I did to the luggage bags, four days after they broke the News. "Rikkaidai can be a very accepting place, as long as you conform to the rules."

Well, gee, that doesn't sound ominous or anything.

"Yes, sir," I say instead, bowing. "I'll keep it in mind. I apologize."

He laughs his booming laugh. "Koichi-kun, your homeroom is classroom 3-B. I'll inform Sakaguchi-sensei about your arrival so she'll know to expect you." Turning back into his office, he waves us off. "Well, off you go. Do your best with everything."

And he disappears behind his shield of an office. When I look up, Kirihara Akaya grins down at me, smiling with those bright, bright green eyes.

"So. You play tennis?"

We file down the sunlit-puke hallways toward 3-B: me gripping my messenger bag, Akaya gripping his tennis bag, both of us parading like soldiers down the battle line. He marches on the side of the windows; I watch the morning sun rays illuminate and shadow his sharp, boyish features and the words light on light run through my head, but I can't figure out why since Akaya is like darkness, if anything.

"What tipped you off?" he exclaims now, pretending to be astonished. "I deeply regret not recognizing your superior mental capacity before. See, most people think I play soccer, but I should have expected your great deductive ability, considering how much more intelligent you are than the average—Fuck!"

My foot swings into his ankle with a satisfying thud. Akaya drops to the ground, hopping on one foot, holding back a howl. I cross my arms as I watch him struggle. "The average fuck, eh?" I ask innocently. "That's a new one. Is that Japanese slang?"

He scowls up at me, his lips pushed into a very uncute pout.

"Yes, I play tennis," he says shortly. "Are you happy now?"

"As a matter of fact, yeah."

"Wow," he mutters, glancing sideways at me as he gets to his feet, slinging his bag over one shoulder. "You do know that I'm doing you a favor right now? Like, I'm being nice here. I'm taking you to your class. Most people don't get to see this true angelic side of me, not in their average eighty-year human life span."

And then I suddenly do feel kind of sorry for this kid who has to deal with me, for my own personal problems and my own hatred of a situation that is clearly not his fault. He continues down the hallway, with me trailing along beside him. He's limping, and even though I know he's being overdramatic to make it another joke, I really did kick him. I can't imagine it not really hurting.

"I'm sorry," I blurt, and the truth of it must leak through because he straightens up again and grins.

"Jeez, pick a personality, senpai," he drawls, clocking my sudden reaction. He pauses, and then straightens his shoulders. "It's Kirihara. Kirihara Akaya, second year."

"What?"

He tilts his head at me, raising one eyebrow like he's talking to a toddler. "As in, my name?"

I regard him. Maybe it didn't really hurt all that much. I hope not. "Koichi Erica. Third year."

He check his watch. "Man, I'm gonna be so late to class. Hope the old man didn't tell my homeroom teacher that he let me off free. Kind of doubt it, though. It'd be too good to be true." He points out the window, past the square courtyard, filled with sakura trees and lofty benches, and at the upper stories of the building. "Anyway, the third-year classrooms are on the third floor, and then the second-year classrooms are on the second floor, and so on. The cafeteria and the convenience store are on the ground floor." He pauses, the most half-assed self-proclaimed tour guide in existence. "What homeroom did you say you were in again?"

"3-B."

"Really?" he grins with something that could be delight. "That's—my friends' homeroom."

"Damn. Maybe we can bond over how hard it is to put up with you." I catch myself smiling as Akaya flips his hair like a diva. "But still, to be friends with your senpais? I thought that was hard in Japan."

"Tennis team," he explains. He tilts his head at me as if he's trying to figure something out. "Has anyone ever told you you're extremely biased against the nation of Japan, by the way? Like, the entire nation? Because you are."

"Eh," I say.

"It's here." He stops in front of a classroom and reaches up to tap the swinging plaque above the sliding door. It sways at his touch like some kind of metallic mistletoe. Even from outside, I can hear the loud chatter of post-weekend socialization—at least that'sthe same.

"Thanks, Akaya." I pause. "Maybe I'll see you around." I don't mean to mean it, but it sure sounds like I do. I pinch myself: Be cool, Erica, you sound desperate. Don't need friends, remember?

He blinks. "So we're on first-name basis already, Koichi-senpai?" he asks. "Damn, you move fast."

His irritating reaction alone prevents me from taking it back. "Ha. Excuse me while I hold down the bile. Would you happen to be in possession of a spare bucket into which I could empty my disgusted innards at the prospect of courting you?"

He ignores me, peering into the small window in the door, holding his hand to his brow as if looking for something. He seems to find it, because he grins in a self-content way before turning.

I raise my eyebrows at him when he looks up, pretending not to be analyzing his every move.

"If you're going into that classroom with those people," Akaya drawls, "I'm sure I'll be seeing you around." He gives me a two-fingered salute before heading down the hall toward the staircase. "Bye-bye, Erica."

A/N:

"Wait, Honey, what the heckatron is going on? What happened to the original CoP? Why do you keep doing this switching business? And what's your favorite cereal? I want to send you forty family-sized boxes of it!"

Well, listen. I started hating the original Change of Plans, and I started writing a different story called simpler than fairy tales, and I love that story and I love that fandom, and it reminded me of how much I really did used to enjoy writing here, and it was just a downward spiral for this story even though I reaaaally wanted to finish it. So I changed a few things, and this time, I promise I will finish it—because the things I changed have changed my heart. (heart eyes emoji)

What's different: (1) Erica's name, and many parts of her character. Erica is more calm-collected-and-angry, while Emily was hyperactive and really annoying, LOL. (2) More prominently: the actors. The love triangle will be a liiiittle bit bigger of a deal (as opposed to, y'know, nonexistent in the OG. LOL. And after what I promised you!), and it will be between Kirihara, Yukimura, and OC.

My favorite cereal: Cheerios + Cocoa Puffs together. Ohhhhhh man.

Hope you're as psyched as I am. See y'all on the flip side—soon!