title: class with józef chłopicki
pairings: none
rating: G
word count: 1237
genre: general
frequency: one-shot
disclaimer: i have nothing.
prompt: english assignment. persona exercise from jhu writing tutorials, section 7

-----x)(x-----

Now I understood why, while the rest of the girls in civitas took turns baking me cakes, she had always stood resolutely at the back of the room. Why two days after she found me kissing Sakura, she was crying in the bathroom. Why all those times I thought she gave me a withering look,

I wasn't imagining it.

The first thing is momentum, no matter what anyone tells you. If you're quick, you'll set the pace. If you're ingenious, the pace will set you.

Forty-three minutes had passed after his demand for us to sit. I keep time like a cesium watch now, can you believe it? It's always one yuck move and my tight-rope walking trick flops over the net, or two wrong seconds and then the ball cuts off my ear. My opponents make me crazy about perfection, elegance – beauty. Having two pairs of eyes stare at me while I work is like trying to dance ballet drunk. Sometimes, I do play drunk. Getting hopped up on a little vodka is nothing before an easy school; it makes me practice hitting corner shots under the worst conditions so I'm ready to face any psychological pressure against harder teams.

"Forty-love!"

Jackal shot me a dirty look. "Bunta! Where's your game?"

I snapped my gum in response and started to bounce lightly on the spot. This was getting annoying. We should have killed them seven minutes ago.

For some reason, I'm always so spacey in this class. Part of it is 'cause my seat has a stunning view, and I can choose to sleep or look at the courts. The other part is our professor. He recently got a haircut that enticed a bunch of staring from the other faculty members. It's quite gross, really: the barber did some cheap, rough shredding, then applied liberal amounts of overzealous gel over it to hide the fact that his cutting skills were completely nonexistent. I keep my grades up alright, but at the cost of frequent jolting. Whenever he yells Marui! in the middle of class, I flinch and try to cover my ass by winking at the cutest girl in my direction.

How!

How did I misread that ball? Jackal's switching sides with me already, muttering darkly about their feigning techniques. If it's fooling me, then it's time to play seriously, before we lose any more points to their combination.

I poked my partner as he passed. "Ne, Jackal. Double back, okay? I need more time to read them."

We were doing Soviet Russia, chapter 18. I liked all of their dictators. I know I shouldn't be admitting to that, but they seemed as tough and haughty as Sanada, which makes me wonder if our fukubuchou used them as templates for his own behavior. Outside, the weather seemed to agree with my thoughts. Each time my prof mentioned "the influence of Józef Chłopicki," the trees would double over as if paying a respectful salute, bowing their leafy heads to the girl in front of me. I don't know her very well – she likes to study and take notes, and she seems distant with her friends. But she smiles at me like she does with everyone else, that Kaeda. It's no big deal.

Left, I thought. I skipped to the right, forcing Jackal to run for the return. I knew he'd curve the ball up unintentionally, a flaw that would tempt them to throw a finishing shot. But I had been watching them. I put half an eye to their footwork. Their finishing shots were useless against someone already positioned at the ball's destination.

I made my way toward the far right doubles line, one foot stepped in red.

In 1931, during the great purges of the Bolshevik party, I copied, Stalin made secret arrangements for the assassination of his close political associate, Sergei Kirov.

For the first time, I noticed Kaeda wasn't taking notes at all. She had her diary propped open against a stack of "referential reading," which hid the flowery cover from our teacher. How strange. It wasn't like her character, to be goofing off in the middle of something relatively interesting. I wiggled in my seat to see what she was writing.

June 4th

How is it possible for that redhead to get away with everything? My best friend left me to join his posse because she had crushed over him for years, probably as early as primary school, thinking that she'd have greater access to his personal secrets and attention. If this wasn't ridiculous enough, he goes around trashing the campus like he's a big donor who contributes ten million yen a year. What's with his sickening habit of snapping gum to announce his arrival – what's so wonderful about him, really?

Suddenly, I saw the form of the back player.

"Fuck!" I yelled.

Jackal saw it too, diving forward just as I reached the front. We had fallen prey to the oldest trick in the book – the biggest enemy of overanalyzation. Even a first-year on our team could have predicted that drop shot, a drop shot perfectly executed to hug the net.

I stopped there, feeling the bottom of my stomach drop. Never, had I ever, been faced with direct disapproval. When Mother thinks I take tennis practice too far, she intervenes with a simple note, but she never criticizes me for "having my priorities reversed." When Sanada finds my gum in unwarranted places (like the shower nozzle), he puts me on a sugar ban and forces me to run laps against the wind, but he never tells me I'm setting a "bad example" for my kouhai

"Game and match! Seven games to five!"

I looked in disbelief at the back of her head. This is what gets me in trouble, I thought. This was why I lost my last doubles match.

I underestimate my opponents just for being soft-spoken.

I criticize their flaws and never guard against their talents.

I list all the times I relied on my hyperactive analysis instead of the basic, basic rules we drilled by (but I had disregarded since I 'played too well' for that crap).

They shook our hands, surprised to see us still wearing our training weights. I looked down at my own wrist, also surprised.

"We never took them off?" I asked Jackal.

"The only time we succumbed was in the Kantou regionals."

"Oh."

Then I looked straight into the two pairs of eyes that had stared at me during my work, finding only bemusement and understanding – no astonishment or anger. They knew we didn't expect it. There were always things you couldn't expect. Our failure to comply was not a personal insult, it was their free win.

But the fact that they understood was chilling.

It was one of those gentle understandings, something a seasoned hotshot would have no chance against because what is 'conquering hatred with love' but a silly, foolproof cliché? It worked. It worked flawlessly for Fuji Syuusuke, arguably the best player that I know, despite his intentional losses against Echizen and Tezuka. It worked for Jiroh Akutagawa, whose sleepy impromptu never missed a shot. Who admits to this? Never me; I am tensai no Rikkai Daigaku Fuzoku, defense specialist known for his impeccable volley kills and impeccable volley hair. Lalala, pass me the gum.

Now, I understood.

When was the last time I tried?

-----x)(x-----