Flying thirty-thousand feet off the ground...
What an awesome way to discover that you have a massive case of motion sickness and a developing acrophobia.
Suddenly, I didn't want to be tall anymore (though I would retract that statement the second I was back on motionless land). Even inside the car, I still felt like vomiting. I had been holding it in through sheer will.
I turned to the window, watching the sceneries fade too fast—which only reminded me that I got a maniac driver behind the wheel—and it didn't help ease my nausea at all. The buildings and trees turned to quick blurs as we passed them.
I envied the still trees, rooted to their spots, no annoying mother sending them off from one continent to another, transferring them (without them knowing initially) in the middle of the school year to a different school in a country whose language they could barely read, much less write, and when spoken by them was only a smidge past conversational. And said mother didn't even come with them, choosing instead to shack up with Boyfriend No.20 in the home which they had lived in their whole life and was impulsively uprooted from to move in with a relative that they didn't even know existed!
Though that spiel had only been in my mind, I found myself out of breath.
It was fortunate that I hadn't spoken it aloud. What a word vomit that would have been.
The churning in my stomach meant that I shouldn't speak anyway.
If I did, bile instead of words would come out, and Joey would not like Mom's leftover casserole all over the car floor. She had always been a bad cook, and my stomach was grumbling its delayed complaints. If I spew Mom's cooking, it would be even more unappealing than it already had been going in. Though I was tempted to do just that for the chance that it would stop the death ride I was in and for a few minutes of rest.
"Yug', if ya puke in here, I'll deck ya."
Joey glared from the rearview mirror. I glared back.
"And I'll make ya pay for the cleanin'," he added.
I was more threatened by the cleaning bill than the promise of physical harm. I strengthened my will, covering my mouth for good measure. I'd sooner choke on my bile than spend my money frivolously. I redirect my glare to the blurred colors on the window ('cause Joey was immune to stink eyes).
I bet trees didn't have supposed best friends who knew their weakness and wouldn't hesitate using it against them. Plus, trees were generally tall.
As I sat in the car, vision swimming and bile clogging my throat, I wished I were a tree instead.
We arrived at Domino City without incident. When the car stopped in front of Kame Games, I ran off to the first bush in sight. I was dry heaving when my long lost grandfather greeted me.
I finally knew where I got my epic hair from.
Before I could even speak, he enclosed me in a hug. His strength belied his age, and the tight grip made my stomach want to do a repeat performance.
"Yubi, my child, you haven't aged a day!"
And just my luck, the old man was delusional.
"He thought ya were yer mom!" Joey exclaims.
I regret bringing him here now.
He's my adoptive brother, and it's my first time away from home. It's sweet that he offered to stay here with me till I settle in, but he loves poking fun at me and reporting to Seto the minute details of my life, and it doesn't help that I spill everything to him either.
Maybe I should have risked getting lost. There might be pros in becoming a hermit: I'd be away from Mother Impulsive, Brother Nosy, Mr. Blackmailer, and Old Man Delusional, and pretend I was a tree...
Okay. Weird thoughts. There's something wrong with that medicine Grandpa gave me.
"The man's senile, I tell you."
I'm a boy. I do not look like my mom—do I?
I stop and stare at my reflection on the window—okay, I have her eyes, bits of her blonde hair, and our faces are generally the same shape—and belatedly realize that it belongs to a dress shop. It might have looked like I was ogling over that gaudy pink dress. And judging by Joey's raised brow and amused smile, he thinks it is exactly what I'm doing.
"So... yer a girl now?"
I kick him on the shins for that comment. He buckles on his knees. It doesn't wipe his grin, though. He easily stands back up, brushing the dirt off his pants. He grins wider. "Wait till Seto hears about this. New blackmail material!"
"And you're supposed to be my friend?" I feel the betrayal that shouldn't have been there. Really, the medicine, what has it done?
"The best!"
I thought Asians were generally shorter than Americans.
I've always blamed my Asian blood for my disappointing height. But this guy, Ushio, is a behemoth! (Also, he has killed my dream of at least being average.) Two of my former bullies stacked up is nothing on him. Now I kinda wish Joey were here; he could sacrifice himself—fight this guy while I run off to class. I'd bruised my wrists if I fought this hard mass, and I won't win without underhanded tricks. Joey, on the other hand, might survive—win a clean fight.
"You have to pay for protection." Did he just say I had to pay for condoms?
"I don't want it. Won't spend money."
Seriously? Bullying people to buy condoms? Aren't condoms free? They were in my previous school, yet I didn't even take one; there's no way I'll pay for one now.
"You—pay—hurt—."
He's talking too fast for me to fully comprehend, but from the bits that I caught, I'm guessing he's demanding that I pay. Not happening.
"Again. Won't spend money."
If I were better in Japanese I'd sass him. For now, I'll just settle with redundancy—I hear it can be quite vexing.
Damn, he's not backing off. He's threatening me with his fist now: I'm in for some pummeling. I know from experience not to expect help from the crowd, but I still wish that a brave soul or a teacher would come and interfere. Guess not. I'm gonna have to save myself then.
A kick to the nuts it is.
The guy falls on his knees, and I scram. I run without looking back, dearly hoping that giants aren't fast healers. Then, at least, I'll have time to prepare before the next attack; bullies are often the vengeful types after all. Hopefully, I'll get away with another dick-kick next time. But before anything like that happens, it's best to avoid the guy. (The hallways are littering with red lockers. Duly noted.)
I'll try to weasel my way out of detention later; I'm late for English.
Just when I think the worst of the day is over, I see her.
Mai Kujaku, my half-sister, who hates me.
Here.
Now.
Glaring from across the cafeteria.
Great, she recognizes me. Here I was hoping she wouldn't.
She excuses herself from her friends, pointing at the phone in her hand. She walks the distance between us and leans on the wall next to me, the phone against her ear.
"What are you doing here?" She's pretending it's a call. Clever.
"I'm enrolled here," I say to my lunch. I pretend it's her.
"You're supposed to be in America," she accuses. She says it as if I were exiled there and had committed a crime by leaving. I didn't come here by choice, and I didn't expect—nor did I want—to meet her either, so she can shove her resentment up her ass (if there's still room, with the stick already there) because I'm equally vexed.
"Not anymore, obviously." I poke my food with the spoon. She's making me lose my appetite.
"The whore with you?"
My grip tightens.
I'd hit her if she weren't a girl.
I stab the food instead.
"No."
"We don't know each other."
"Of course."
"Don't freeload on my house," she says last, sneaking in a glare before walking off.
"Wouldn't dream of it." I glare at her retreating back.
Our conversations are concise, and she always manages to insert insults in between.
This one isn't any different.
I wonder if she even knows the words hello and goodbye. I've never heard her say them. Her words are either a demand or an insult—at times, a mixture of both. When she talks to me, she's never pleasant, so I don't like hearing her voice. The fact that it sounds a lot like Mom's, only with venom and hate instead of affection in her tone, makes me hate hearing it even more.
I don't think we'll ever have a decent conversation.
I don't look forward to seeing her again, though it's inevitable because apparently we're schoolmates now. At least I won't have classes with her—she's in higher year—and the places we'll likely meet are only the hallways and the cafeteria.
I turn my attention back to my forgotten lunch.
The tater tots have turned to mashed potatoes. I stabbed it too much. Still, it's the only thing edible in my tray.
The food here is the same as my old school's: the meat surprise can't be trusted.
How did it turn purple? It kinda reminds me of Mom's cooking. Probably tastes as bad or worse. Not gonna test it, though. I know my mother won't poison me, but I can't be sure about the lunch lady. Better safe than sorry.
Definitely avoiding the cafeteria next time.
I spend the rest of the day memorizing the school interior, just in case. When I come home, I find Grandpa and Joey in the kitchen. Grandpa is cooking dinner, Joey is stuffing his face with what's left in the fridge, and I have to go buy groceries tomorrow.
I watch my brother help himself to another giant sandwich (it's as big as my head). I suspect that half of each condiment is in there; the glass jars are on the table, all half-empty. I wonder why Grandpa isn't reprimanding him.
"How was yer first day?" Joey asks.
"The worst one yet."
He moves to ruffle my hair. I swat his hand away 'cause it's smeared with mustard.
"I'm sure, it'll get better," he assures.
I doubt his words.
It's been two weeks.
Ushio is still hunting me.
Mai is a bitter bitch.
Kanji is being difficult.
And someone stole my glasses.
I grumble, bumping to another person as I blindly search for Enemy No.4. (Enemy No.3 is the Japanese teacher who keeps glaring at me.)
It's only the second week, yet my enemies have doubled. At this rate, by the end of the month, I'll have either eight or sixteen enemies (depends if two is a factor or an exponent). It'll be arduous trying to avoid that many people.
"Ow." Another wall. Damn. Where the hell are my glasses?
Why am I so intent on finding them?
Glasses are expensive.
And I don't think I'll be able to cross the streets safely without them. My sides still hurt from bumping into tables; imagine how worse it would be if it were cars and getting run over. How am I supposed to get home?
Calling Joey to pick me up is a hazard in itself, not to mention a waste of gas (which is also expensive), so that option's for the desperate.
Have these stairs always been here—shit!
"Ugh..." I hear a voice under me. I must have fallen on someone. I try to lift myself up, but there's an arm restraining my waist.
That face looks familiar.
"Y-Yami?"
"Ah... yeah."
His eyes are a natural shade of red. Huh, I've often thought they were contacts—I can actually see? That means—eek, too close!
"S-sorry." I quickly untangle myself from him.
My face feels warm. I hope it's not red.
I fumble for an excuse. "Can't see without my glasses."
"Actually, I have it. The glasses I mean... Sorry."
Wait... "What?"
"I'll give it back to you," he quickly adds.
The school bell rings.
"We'll be late for class. Let's go," he says and grabs my hand, pulling me along with him. My legs work on auto.
My mind is still processing this... He stole my glasses, he apologized, and now he's returning it to me? Is this supposed to be bullying? I don't think it's working right.
We arrive at the classroom.
"I'm really sorry. Here," he says, handing me my glasses.
Not broken. No cracks. Doesn't smell like it's been dipped in urine or anything. He really didn't do anything to it (other than steal it of course.) He stands in front of me, waiting for my verdict. I wonder...
"Why did you steal it?"
"Um... I was curious?"
I raise my brow at him because that was not a justified explanation. (I'm curious if old people could get amnesia from falling down stairs, but you don't see me pushing Grandpa down a set.)
"I'm sorry. I didn't know they were prescription glasses," he adds, looking bashful, with a hand rubbing the back of his neck. His motive is dubious, but his apology seems genuine enough, and I find it hard not to forgive. If I had narcissism, he'd be appealing to it right now—he vaguely looks like me if I were a head taller, and I've been stuck below five feet for sixteen years, so the extra ten inches are enviable.
"I forgive you. But if you do this again, I'm gonna kick you," I tell him.
He looks stunned for a moment, then he chuckles. He must think I was joking. How foolish of him.
"How did you know my name by the way?" he asks.
"We're classmates."
"You know all of your classmates' names already?"
"No, just yours."
"Really?"
"Not really. I'm joking." There's also Miho, Anzu, Ami, and Honda. All your names are only two syllables so it's easy to remember.
The teacher enters the room. The students move to their respective desks, and I find Yami sitting next to mine.
"Today we'll be doing pair work exercises. Choose your partners, and turn to page 206 of your textbook," the teacher announces.
Three girls approach Yami's desk. "Do you have a partner yet, Sennen-kun?" the brunette, Anzu, asks. She has spoken for the other two with her. Miho is blushing, partially hiding behind Anzu and avoiding Yami's eyes. The third girl—don't know her name—is glaring furtively at Anzu.
Yami must be popular.
"I have one in mind."
He turns to me. "Partners?"
"Sure."
I can feel the third girl's glare.
The real Enemy No.4 has shown herself.