August 27, 1999. 12:23 pm.
In the courtyard, alone again because it is so hot today that I think my glasses are going to melt off my face.
This morning was weird. Really weird. Weirder than the green-spandex-bowl-cut-man that I'm sure I'll see again today.
The first part of my day was relatively normal. I woke up a bit late (the cannons had just started), took a quick shower, threw my damp hair into a ponytail, cleaned my glasses, hastily drank a cup of tea, and ran off to catch the bus. Or at least tried to. My landlady kind of caught me along the way.
That's when things started to get weird.
"Yamamoto!"
I kept running.
"YAMAMOTO, YOU BRAT! STOP RIGHT THERE!"
I froze.
My landlady, big chest and all, marched up to me with hands on her hips. Her lips were drawn in an irritated scowl.
"Rent. Leave it at the desk tonight."
"Well, uh, about that, can I talk to you later? I gotta go now so..."
"What do you mean talk?"
I twiddle my thumbs. "You see, my dad," I swallow, "says he'll be sending the money a bit late this time, but he said it'll definitely be here by," I mentally count the days until my paycheck in my head, "next Thursday. So if you could just wait until then..."
My landlady narrows her eyes.
I cringe and brace myself. She's known for her temper, you know. One time, I remember she sent a tenant flying ten feet through the air because he came back to his apartment drunk and smashed a wall.
But thankfully, before anything could happen (and anything could happen with my landlady, trust me), her assistant, who for some reason was soaking wet and carrying a pig, comes running towards us.
"Tsunade-sama!" The pig squeals in unison. "A pipe burst on the fourth floor!"
My landlady sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose, muttering curse words under her breath. She turns to me. "We'll discuss this later when you come back from school. Five in my office. Don't be late." Then she leaves to catch up to her assistant who has left a trail of wet footprints on the floor.
Needless to say, my encounter with the landlady resulted in my tardiness. I walked into class as Genma-sensei was lecturing on sine or cosine or arcsine or whatever.
"Ah, Sweet Potato Girl has appeared." A few kids laugh quietly at the name. "You're late."
Unfortunately, I have nothing in my hands that I can immediately use as a projectile to his face, so I just march on to my seat as if I never heard him.
And then, as if I didn't already have enough weirdness with Tsunade and her wet pig-wielding assistant, the kid next to me speaks.
Mr. Dark Hair And Stress Marks speaks. To me.
Mr. Dark Hair And Stress Marks speaks to me.
He looks at me with this combination of bemusement, curiosity, and a tad superiority. And then he says:
"Good morning, Sweet Potato Girl."
I blink. And then I say the first thing that pops into my head.
"Good morning, Mr. Dark Hair And Stress Marks."
(Seriously, what the hell? Did I really say that? Oh God, I'm stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.)
He blinks. I blink.
"...dark hair and stress marks?"
He says it so quietly I barely catch it.
It's just too awkward, and I hate explaining myself because everything just comes out wrong, so I decide ignore him and pretend I didn't hear. But by the way he glanced over, I'm pretty sure he knew I heard.
I spend the rest of the time before lunch drifting in and out of attention, sometimes taking notes and other times doodling in the margins of my paper. It trailed off to become doodles of cats.
It's confirmed. I am Schumann reborn.
7:13 pm.
At work, eating a pastry, trying to erase all traces of Icha Icha from my mind.
I met with my landlady after school. She clearly wasn't in a good mood, since apparently the pipe that burst on the fourth floor was right above her own room, so now her place is all damp and soggy. Sucks.
I walk into her office at 5:05.
"You're late."
"Oh, uh, the bus was stuck in traffic."
She pinches her nose and sighs. "Right. Anyways, sit down."
I sit.
"So," she starts, "you said your rent will be paid by next Thursday? When your father sends the money?"
"Uh, yeah," I say. I have such eloquent vocabulary. "But I'm sure it'll be here by then," I hastily add.
"Right." You know, every time she says "right," I get the feeling that she doesn't actually believe me. "Yamamoto, how long have you stayed here? Four years? Five?"
"Five years?" I count in my head. "Yeah, I think."
"I haven't seen your dad since he first came around to sign the contract for this place." She gets a cup and a bottle from under her desk. Sake. "How is he?"
You know, I don't actually know how he is, since I haven't heard from him in a good three years. He used to send letters along with the allowance, and then just the allowance, and then nothing. I used to be upset about it - who wouldn't be? But you know, time heals all wounds, and now I barely think about it.
But, for the sake of legality and all things sans-child-protection-services, I don't say that.
"He's good. He just has to stay in, where was it? Kirigakure, I think. Yeah, for business."
It's a half-truth, at least. I say this all without looking at her eyes. Instead, I concentrate on the bottle of sake on her desk.
Ooh, it's the expensive kind. And strong. No wonder she looks hungover half the time.
"Yamamoto?"
I look up. "Yes?"
She looks at me, and she looks a bit weary and tired and sad like she's seen something from the past that she didn't want to see. And then I blink and she just looks stressed and hungover and ridiculously big-chested again.
"Just make sure he money's here by Thursday, or I'm kicking you out. Got it?"
I nod.
"Good. Now scram."
I scrammed. In fact, I scrammed so hard and so fast I made it to work early.
Although, I kind of wish I didn't, because I walked in to see Kakashi - grey hair, mask and all - reading a notoriously lewd pornographic novel.
"What the - Icha Icha Paradise?"
As soon as I say it, Kakashi looks up with a flash of panic that only lasts for a mere second. Then it passes and he smoothly shuts the book and puts it in his pocket.
"It's a delightful piece of literature, if I say so myself. Just because you're young and inexperienced in those areas doesn't mean you can judge. It is merely a mature piece of work with the slight sexual innuendo."
I feel myself twitch. Did he just call me inexperienced in those areas?
Like, yeah, it's true, but I think he just called me a prude. Which isn't very nice. Even if I am underage.
So now I'm here, eating my 1000000th pastry (not an exaggeration, they're damn good), trying to wrap my mind around the fact that my boss (who has grey hair in his twenties and a mask and wears tight black muscle tees) reads Icha Icha Paradise.
August 28, 1999. 10:21 pm.
Another day, another dollar. Still trying to wrap my mind around the whole Icha Icha thing.
Saturday passed without incident, thankfully. I really need more calm days like these.
I restocked my groceries (most of the stuff I bought were on sale or promotion or bought with coupons) so now I can actually have breakfast and lunch instead of tea and air. I ended up eating dinner at SBnG (Shinobi Bar 'n' Grill) a little before my shift started, since it's really convenient. I think I'm going to do that more often. Plus, I can stuff myself with pastries afterward.
The only downside is that Kakashi openly reads his disgusting book right in front of me while I eat at the bar. Sometimes he reads the passages out loud just to irritate me, so I throw peanuts at him.
As per usual, the hoard of drunk to-bes came in around eight. I ran around and served and bussed and cleaned. And then restrained the green-jumpsuit-guy from jumping Kakashi. Normal.
...gosh, when did my "normal" become so weird?
August 29, 1999.
Free day.
Today's summary: I spent my free day sprawled on the floor listening to recordings. And then I made tomorrow's lunch (rice balls). And then I made dinner (soup). And then I took a shower but then the hot water turned off. And then I was cranky.
August 30, 1999. 9:03 am.
The start of my second week at KAPPA! And I'm eaaaaaaarly!
I've made it my mission to be on time to school, since being called out as "Sweet Potato Girl" in front of the class is not fun.
So today, I set my alarm extra loud to La Forza del Destino because it starts out with really loud trumpets that are only enhanced by the extra loud setting of my alarm. And also because "The Power of Destiny" is such an epic name.
The Italians really know how to do it.
After I woke up though, I decided to change it back to my cannons. I'm too sentimental and mushy to let go of my cannons. So in the end, the Russians win over the Italians.
(Sorry, Italians. I still love your food though.)
I made it to class early. Yes, you read that correctly. I, Yamamoto Suzume, was the third person to enter the classroom, after the one over eager student in the first row and Genma-sensei himself. (Genma-sensei was so shocked he forgot to call me Sweet Potato Girl and just looked at me.)
Mr. Dark Hair And Stress Marks was pretty surprised too - he raised his eyebrows a good centimeter when he saw me at my seat before him (that's his shocked face, I think).
"...you're early."
"Why, yes. Yes I am."
"Why?"
I beam. He blinks.
"The power of destiny, that's why."
I don't think he understood, I mean, I barely understood myself, but he accepted my answer (or at least, I assumed he did) and turned to unpack his books.
You know, I'm starting to get used to Mr. Dark Hair And Stress Marks. He's not too bad, even if his range of expressions only go from nose wrinkling to eyebrow raising.
10:29 pm.
Pooped.
Work was exhausting. Had to clean up barf today. Must take shower.
August 31, 1999. 3:33 pm.
In biology, listening to Jiraya-sensei discuss the many virtues of the female anatomy.
I'm really glad I don't sit in the front of this class. The moment the word "breast" came out of our sensei's mouth, you could see the entire first row shuffle their desks back uncomfortably. Even my lab partner, who sleeps ninety-nine percent of the time, looked put-out.
But, as usual, Jiraya-sensei was too busy basking in the "frail yet subtly powerful essence of femininity" to really notice.
You know, with his type of frivolous vocabulary, I'd expect Jiraya-sensei to be a writer of some sort. Not that I'd read anything he'd write, of course, since it'd probably be some sort of lewd or cheesy romance.
I really hope we finish this anatomy unit soon. Or at least get past the reproductive system so he can stop saying "breast."
Anyways, pervy biology teachers aside, I am happy to report that I have found inspiration in my composition. Well, sort of. It's not ingenious or anything, and so far it's kind of mechanical, but hopefully I get paired with decent players. More specifically, a good pianist, because according to Anko-sensei that part is "a bit hard." She said this as she cackled maniacally and threw her dango stick at a dart board.
It hit the bullseye.
Remind me to never ever piss of Anko-sensei.
A/N Hello all! I'm supposed to be packing and getting ready to go home but Suzume was shouting in my head so I had to write. Honestly, this chapter was a bit harder for me (I don't really know why), but oh well. I hope you enjoyed it!
Thank you all who reviewed/favorited/followed! Juliedoo, SixPastMidnight, Kale, KillerSmiley90, and guest, you are all wonderful bubs.
See you all soon (hopefully)!
- morninggrey