August 23, 1999. 9:14 am.
In homeroom/mathematics, slightly embarrassed and very wet, recounting this morning's events. I have decided that I officially hate sweet potatoes.
BANG BANG BANG. "YAMAMOTO! GET UP, YOU LITTLE SHIT! YOUR ALARM IS WAKING EVERYONE BUT YOU!"
Ah yes. That would be the sound of my landlady - a big breasted woman with big temper to match - accompanied by cannons booming in Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture. It's one of my favorite records (so much drama, so much Russian flair!) and one of my neighbors' least. Probably because of the cannons. And the fact that it always plays on full volume.
I don't realize that I'm running late and continue to revel in the glory of Mother Russia and Napoleon's defeat (like, seriously, who decides to invade Russia in the winter?). Peter Ilyich really knew what he was doing with those cannons. And that melody! It really makes me want to march and skewer some French soldiers triumphantly, if you know what I mean.
"YAMAMOTO! THAT ALARM HAS BEEN GOING FOR OVER TWENTY MINUTES NOW! WAKE UP NOW OR I'M DOUBLING YOUR RENT!"
Not my rent! I can barely pay it now as it is!
So, with the sufficient motivation (money is always sufficient motivation), I check the time, scream, and smash my hand on the CD player/alarm/clock. The disk flies out and hits me in the face, resulting in a angry red line across the bridge of my nose. I don't bother picking it up from the ground since I'm too angry at it and pat the table next to my bed to find my glasses.
You know, today was really the worst day to wake up late. Not only is it the first day of the first term of the new school year, but it's also my first day at a new school. Before, I was just some ordinary, no-name kid at one of the outer no-name secondary schools (the ones you don't need to test into because no one notable goes there), but now I'm an official scholarship student at the Konohagakure Academy Private School for the Performing Arts. KAPPA for short.
Just to clear things up though, I'm not particularly talented or anything. I just happen to really like music and my scores are pretty decent (I'm a pretty clever cookie, if I may say so myself), so I applied. I'm pretty sure I got in on the basis of "student body diversity" since, you know, I don't have any real arts background (besides two short years of piano lessons) and every school's got to have a few bad kiwis thrown in here and there. Good thing though is that I don't have to pay since I'm on scholarship, so even if I'm not exactly a super stellar spectacular student, it doesn't matter because it's freeeeee.
Well, they could always revoke that or kick me out, but I'd rather not think of that right now.
I get ready in half the normal time (that means skipping morning tea, sloppily pulling on my new uniform, and hastily tying up my unwashed hair into a lopsided ponytail), grab a baked sweet potato lying on the counter, and run off to catch the last bus and avoid the raging landlady who's out for my money and my blood (mostly my blood, I'll worry about rent later). I only accomplish the latter, since she can't exactly run with her huge boobs flopping up and down.
I really feel bad for people with big boobs. I really do. It's a tough life.
I end up missing the bus, which really isn't a surprise, but then I get sprayed by water by some guy watering his lawn as I'm running down the street like a maniac, which really is a surprise. So surprising, in fact, that I trip and fall on my half-eaten (and now soggy) sweet potato.
Why do all bad things happen on the most important of days?
So, yeah, I run the rest of the way to KAPPA late, hungry, wet, and with a big orange blob in the middle of my white uniform shirt.
The entrance ceremony had already ended by the time I made it there (I was now a grand total of forty minutes late), and I don't know what room to go to for my timetable, so I wander around the school (which is really, really big, mind you) until I run into an old man smoking a pipe. Like, literally, run into. I got some orange stain on him as well.
I'm too startled to apologize, much less form coherent speech. "U-uh..."
The old man looks down at me with what seems like amusement as he takes another puff from his pipe and wipes off the front of his shirt. "Do you need any help there, child?"
At this point my vocal chords still aren't working properly, so I just nod.
"Grade eight?"
I frown. I'm short, but does that really make me look like a grade eight student?
He seemed to get the message from my face. "Nine?"
I shake my head.
"Ten?"
I nod.
His mouth opens slightly in a silent "ah" and beckons me to follow. I follow obediently and try to pick off the drying pieces of potato from my shirt.
We end up going back the way I came in. He takes me to a wall at the front with big lists of names lined up by grade level. I mentally hit myself for not checking it in the first place.
Like, it was right there. Right there. Smack dab in the front of the school, right across the entrance.
I don't know how I managed to miss it.
With a smile, the old man hands me a map of the school, pats my back, gives a "have a nice day at school," and walks off.
Somehow, I feel like he knew who I was the whole time. Something about him feels so...omniscient. Like God, but super old and spotty and with a pipe and a goatee.
I find my name on the list under class 10-B in room A312. The class isn't far and it's not hard to find on the map (which is actually HUGE because they have to fit all five buildings - A, B, C, D, and E - and the floor plans for each of the four floors), but I have to climb three flights of stairs to get to it. It's a miracle that I didn't slip and fall considering that I was still sopping wet and tracking water and bits of sweet potato everywhere.
I find the class with relative ease (meaning it took less than fifteen minutes and only a small amount of panicking) but stop before I walk in. I take the time to compose myself and pick the remaining bits of orange from my shirt (the stain still remained, though).
Dear God/old man I ran into earlier today, please let the teacher be chill and and/or forgiving of latecomers.
Fortunately, the new sensei is totally chill and forgiving of latecomers. Unfortunately, I'm as clumsy as a snake using chopsticks.
"Okay class. Now that we've gone over rollcall and seats -"
BANG. (That would be me entering the room and tripping over a backpack that was at the entrance.)
Twenty-five pairs of eyes turn in my direction (many down to the orange stain on my shirt) and I can feel the heat rushing to my head. There's silence. And it's awkward. Oh so very awkward.
I feel so out of place. Everyone here looks like they have their life together (even the kid in the back, who's sleeping) and I'm here all soggy and stained and totally late.
The teacher - Genma-sensei, it says on his tag - looks a bit put out. I feel like he's embarrassed for me. After flipping through some pages in his notebook, he asks, "Uh, Yamamoto Suzume?"
I blink. "U-uhuh."
"Hm, I see. You're the scholarship student, aren't you?"
The class shifts. Some look at me in interest, and others look at me like I'm roadkill. Which I probably am, if I keep tripping at this rate.
"Uh, yes."
"Right. Glad you made it to class today despite your, ah," he looks over, "circumstances. You're in the back row, by the window."
I walk over and ignore the squishing sounds my wet sneakers make on the tile floor. On my right is a window that gives me a nice view of the courtyard underneath, and on the left is a boy with pitch-black hair and...were those stress lines? He gives me a once-over and wrinkles his nose before turning back to the teacher.
Well, that was rude.
Nothing else eventful happened from there. Genma-sensei outlined some rules ("treat teachers and peers respectfully, don't go on the roof, pay attention, don't eat during class, yadayadayada") but I feel like half of them will be broken by the end of the day. But from our teacher's enthusiasm - or rather, lack thereof - I don't think he'll really care.
Even now, as I write this, I'm pretty sure he knows that students don't normally draw graphs with bright green pen on lined paper, much less write. And he doesn't seem to mind either, even though he's looking straight at my desk. I think I'm oka -
12:14 pm.
In the courtyard, eating lunch.
Sorry for stopping earlier (why am I apologizing to a journal?). Genma-sensei was coming my way and I panicked and shoved everything but my pen into my desk. He was only there to close the window next to me though, and he gave me a weird look when he saw that I didn't have any paper on my desk but didn't question it.
Anyways, I get that the student body of KAPPA is ninety-nine percent rich and talented, but does lunch have to be so expensive? Like, does one measly piece of curry bread really have to cost 300 yen? I don't have that kind of money, dammit!
It's official. I'm bringing my lunch from now on.
The courtyard is pretty empty since it's really hot outside, but it was either here or the really really crowded dining hall. It seems that all the higher grades - nine through twelve - all have lunch at the same time. There's so many people. I'm not used to it.
And they all know each other! They've been in this school since they were wee little six-years (even though some of the six-years I saw are taller than me, gosh) and I'm just this no-name outsider from some no-name school. With a large, orange, sweet potato stain down my front. Lovely.
Urgh. Self-pity does not become me.
On a brighter note, my timetable says I have music theory and composition as my IPAE (intensive performing arts elective), so I'll be doing music-y stuff every Tuesday and Thursday for two hours. That's pretty nice.
TCHAIKOVSKY, SIBELIUS, RAVEL, MY LOVES, HERE I COME!
3:21 pm.
In biology, not doing biology things, waiting for the bell.
It appears that our bio teacher is a burly, white-haired man-wall with an obsession with frogs. I'm not kidding. There's frog memorabilia everywhere.
We got lab partners today, and I got paired with this kid named Nara Shikano. He doesn't seem so bad. He just sleeps a lot.
Other than that, we haven't been doing anything. The teacher said that since it's the first day, we can just "hang around" and "get used to each other." Now he's at his desk writing furiously into this huge notebook, looking up occasionally with this "EURIKA" expression on his face (which has a strange lewd quality to it sometimes, not gonna lie).
I wonder if I look like that when I write.
Also, there's a hoard of theatre kids in my class (very loud, very dramatic, extremely narcissistic at times). It appears that they're putting on a musical in a few weeks and they've taken it upon themselves to start singing and dancing on the tables. The teacher doesn't seem to care.
"How do you document real life, when real life is getting more like fiction each day? Headlines - bread-lines, blow my mind, and now this deadline: 'Eviction - or pay!' Rent!"
...oh shit. That reminds me.
(Note to self: ask Danzo about paycheck.)
A/N Hellooo all! Welcome to Rent (not the musical)! I got this idea in the shower (like 99.4% of all my other ideas) and I decided to give it a shot. It's been a while since I've actually written anything, so this chappie is sort of a trial-run...ish. (I had to write the second half of this thing three times over since I kept accidentally exiting without saving. Woe is me.)
Anyways, I hope you enjoyed the first chapter! Please review, I love reviews and reviews are love. Thanks a bundle!
- morninggrey