Chapter One – Street Fighter

St. Rudolph? Another crappy school. Just great. I slouched into the--in my eyes--crumbling building, wanting to rip up the disgusting brown uniform.

What am I doing here anyway? Just another set of pathetic giggling girls, another bunch of perverted boys. New people to fight with. Just another school to get expelled from.

Students drew away from me as I passed, as if they were afraid that their billowing silky curls would be contaminated by my lank, tangled hair, or that their hatefully happy eyes would mirror my icy, diamond-hard ones. The usual drill, I'd gotten used to it. I was the loner. I was the freak. I liked it that way.

Banging my bag onto my desk, I slumped into my seat, totally ignoring the stares, the whispers. Let them giggle, let them sneer. I could always slam my fist into their stomaches, watch them writhe in pain on the ground before I was kicked out again.

"Hey. Uh, excuse me?" I turned my eagle's gaze on the boy who had just come up to me. Brown hair, black eyes, the usual. A scar like a cross on a his forehead.

"You're in my seat. It's Isugi Sanna, right? You're in the seat next to me. So, er, could you move?" the guy said uncertainly. No surprise there. I was intimidating. I needed to be.

Contemplating him, I kicked out the chair next to me and dropped into it, dragging my bag along with me. He had asked nicely enough. No reason to beat him up too soon.

I could sense his wary eyes on the side of my head. "What?" I obligingly snapped.

He cocked an eyebrow at me. "Nice to meet you too. Fuji Yuuta. Welcome to St. Rudolph."

"Welcome? Yeah, right," I snorted. Like you don't want me to get out right this moment.

"Fine," he grumbled. "You want to be like that? Suit yourself."

Fine. Get all annoyed. See if I care.

See if I care. My life motto.

Couldn't care less if this Fuji hated me. Didn't matter if I got the teacher pissed.

"Isugi, question 18?"

"1974," I drawled in a bored voice.

"Speak prpperly and stand up when answering."

I didn't raise myself off my seat. I remained sitting for a long while after that. In the principal's office. See if I care.

Lunch. Does that even need elaboration? Disgusting rice, yellowing vegetables, stale fruit juice, the usual.

A particularly bold member of my wonderful class decided to be friendly and hit my arm with a piece of carrot. Being the naturally playful person I was, I threw my whole tray back at him. Another visit to the principal's hell of an office. Fantastic.

I literally breathed a sigh of relief when the classes ended. But still there was no escaping the terrible walls of my new torture chamber, otherwise known as school. Why? I lived there, of course. Isn't it obvious that my own horrendous family didn't want me?

Still, my life wasn't a total waste of time. I still had tennis. Over my own dead body was I joining the tennis club, but smashing a ball against a wall, or any other idiot who happened to be passing by? I could still do that. It was a violent, vigorous, and most importantly, solitary activity. I loved it.

Bam! Bam! Bam! Most would think I was trying to punch a hole into the building. They were dead wrong. I wanted to reduce it to a fine powder.

"Hey, sexy. Want to come play with me?" Some wannabe cool guy swaggered up to me, dramatically sweeping back his greasy black hair. I stopped in my attempt in pulverizing school property. Slowly and deliberately, I looked him over from head to toe, taking long enough to make his smirk falter.

I scorned nervousness. Back to my relentless smashing of the wall. I had decided to be nice and let him go without a scene. Not getting the message, the guy brought over a few of his pathetic friends.

"Babe, stop playing hard to get. Come and hang with us," they told me.

Giving the ball a final wallop, I lowered my racket, relishing the crack that followed as the battered yellow ball made contact with someone's nose.

The piercing scream was very satisfying.

"Holy--she broke his nose--"

"Get her!"

You want to fight? Glad to help you out.

Tall, lanky guys with their flailing arms and sad, slow motion punches. It almost seemed wrong to hit back. Almost. A jab to the teeth here, a kick to the stomach there, it took nothing at all to beat the cockiness out of them. They stumbled off to nurse their wounds, I threw my racket into my bag and walked off without a scratch on me.

Preppy school for losers. Can't even get into a decent fight. Anyone could've seen that little fiasco. Anyone could've gone and blabbed to a teacher.

See if I care.

"You should have 'street fighter' written accross your forehead."

Another guy who needed a lesson. What's his name? Fu...some weird...oh yeah, Fuji Yuuta. I tossed him a cold glance. More than he deserved.

"Though next time when you need to work off nervous energy, challenge me to a tennis match."

Challenge you? Some nobody who probably can't even hold the racket right? Please.