According to the directions on my map, this is 9A—my homeroom.

Room 4 of the Mathematics and Sciences Building.

Taking a deep breath in preparation and resenting my godfather, I push the door open.

Ignoring the announcements hung on the notice board, I peruse the room. Twenty or so students are standing around in little cliques, catching up with grammar school classmates and meeting friends of friends.

It's the same scene every year with only the slightest variation.

Today, the uniforms are different, and the desks are bigger. Some of the students are bigger too.

Noting the familiar faces, I find Ururu, her ever-present pigtails bobbing as she answers a question posed by a girl with a skull and bones barrette. I recognize the questioner instantly.

Oh, joy.

Seeing me, Ururu says in her feather light voice, "Oh, Lilynette, this is Karin Kurosaki. We grew up together." She smiles at me affably, her bangs obscuring her cobalt eyes. "Karin, this is Lilynette Starrk," Ururu tells me, "She plays soccer—"

"—for Hueco Mundo Park and Fields. Your jersey number's 1, isn't it? I remember you," I interject, not liking this girl at all. She totally fucked my perfect season two years ago.

Lilynette smirks, the spark of competition glittering in her magenta eyes, "Well, if it isn't Don Kanonji's little superstar. You must hate me."

Ururu begins wringing her hands, uncomfortable in the sudden atmosphere of barely restrained homicide. She hedges, "Soccer? You guys have something in common." Her tone is faintly hysterical.

"Doubt it," I quip, rolling me eyes. Still, I hold out my hand, wondering why I'm a sucker for sweet ladies in distress.

Her head tilted, Lilynette considers my hand for several mortifying seconds. Then, she shakes it or, rather, tries unsuccessfully to crush it.

I clench my teeth, saying only, "Nice strong grip. Very… manly."

Ururu, clearly desperate, engages my soccer nemesis in unrelated conversation, angling her back to me. She's giving me an out.

Silently, I promise to thank Uncle Kisuke for having such a cool kid. I knew there was a reason I tolerate his existence.

I scrutinize the rows of desks critically. Which desk I choose my freshman year could define the rest of my high school life. Sitting next to someone like Lilynette Starrk would surely label me a nut-job because I would probably kill her.

Still, I'm not stupid. I know I'm going to be seeing quite a lot of little Miss I'm-so-badass-because-my-hair-is-unnaturally-green on the soccer field if we make the team.

I shake my head feeling sorry for myself, when I spot a white haired boy leaning—ever so nonchalantly—against the windowsill. Little Fucker is playing with his cell phone, seemingly unaware of the speculative looks ninety percent of the other students in the room are sending his way.

I glare at my school bag, betrayed. The one shoulder androgynous thing with lots of zippers has decided to represent evil.

Not caring where I sit anymore because my life is fucked anyway, I stomp to the first available seat and collapse into it. Who knew first days could be so traumatizing?

Apparently, someone else thinks sitting down is a good idea. A smooth baritone orders the class to, "Sit."

I look to the door, truest horror dawning as I see Uliquiorra Cifer, in all his emo glory, static in the doorway. His emerald green eyes stoic and expression blank, he surveys the room.

Everyone immediately obeys, the scrape of chairs somehow muted in his austere presence.

Still standing in the doorway, hands in the pockets of his slacks, he introduces himself, "I am Mr. Uliquiorra Cifer. I teach mathematics to all honors and AP students. As this class is comprised of students who scored highest on the entrance exam, I will be teaching the majority of you."

I know Mr. Cifer the Math Wiz. He began teaching at Karakura Ichigo's senior year, Their relationship was... tense.

Mr. Cifer had a problem with Ichigo's Calculus test scores—or, rather, my brother's uncharacteristically pathetic Calculus test scores. Ichigo had a problem with Mr. Cifer's scoring—or, rather, my brother's assertion that his Calculus teacher was trying to score with Orihime Inoue. The sorry business ended with Mr. Cifer calling Ichigo 'trash,' and Ichigo threatening to skewer Mr. Cifer.

Yes, it was very tense.

And I am Ichigo's sister. And I am Ichigo's sister. And I am Ichigo's…

The horrid realization plays over and over in my mind.

Pressurized quiet chokes the room, and no one moves for fear of metaphorical dismemberment.

Mr. Ciefer walks to the podium in front of the blackboards. His protuberant eyes hone in on Little Fucker, who is sitting one column over and two rows up from me.

"Mr. Hitsugaya, I presume." Not a question. "I believe you were texting when I entered the room." In no way does Mr. Ciefer's tone indicate 'belief.' More like divine judgment.

Mr. Ciefer raises a hand in the universal gesture of whatever-you-have-now-belongs-to-me.

My eyes and the eyes of every other person in the room do the tennis swivel.

Little Fucker hesitates for a fraction of a second. Then, he opens his mouth to object.

'Little Fucker' has been amended to 'Crazy Little Fucker.' Maybe even 'Suicidal Little Fucker.'

Toushirou informs our teacher, "The bell—" And god be damned if the bell does not ring at that exact instant. "—had not rung. I am allowed to be on my phone before homeroom starts."

Mr. Ciefer's eyes narrow imperceptibly. "You are laboring under the delusion that I care. As the heading 'Please Read Before Sitting' was lost on you, you evidently missed rule number 1," Mr. Cifer intones, pointing to the notice board we all ignored.

The class turns to this list written in the straightest print I have ever seen—with a loopy cursive addendum at the bottom—pinned to the corkboard.

A very brave soul complains, "I can't read that from all the way over here."

Mr. Ciefer, clearly not a fan of public speaking, glares at the boy, expanding in a monotone, "'Rule 1: No cell phones for any reason at any time. Rule 2: No gum. Ever. Rule 3: Raise your hand to speak…'"

Rin Tsubokura, the boy who had spoken out of turn—his black bangs in a pony tail, shooting out from the top of his head like palm fronds—quivers.

"'Rule 5: If you are late, go home. Rule 6: Clean your workstation. Rule 7: Asinine questions will be ignored. Rule 8: If your dog or any other domesticated animal ate your homework, you will receive a zero on the assignment and a detention for unoriginality. Rule 9: If you ask a question using the words 'can I' instead of 'may I,' you will join Special Ed for the day. Rule 10: Arguing the validity of these rules will get you nowhere.'"

A girl I recognize as Midori Tono points to the addendum, a puzzled expression on her round face.

Mr. Cifer stiffens, remarkably uncomfortable, adding in an undertone, "'Rule 11: Be sure to smile at least once everyday.'"

I can't help it; I laugh.

Everyone stares at me agog, but I can't stop because I know who wrote Rule 11. Orihime is an oddball, and Uliquiorra Cifer can deny her nothing.

They started dating 'officially' over the summer. The town went wild with speculation, but still… to let her besmirch his precious rules, I hear wedding bells.

"And whom might you be?" asks Mr. Cifer.

I have to pause to wipe a tear from my eye, replying, "Karin. Karin Kurosaki." He's bound to find out sooner or later.

Mr. Cifer closes his eyes from a moment, no doubt, to master his ire. Opening them slowly, he asks, "Another one?"

I consider the advisability of all possible answers, settling on, "Yes."

Shaken, I think, Mr. Cifer turns to his pristine desk, telling us, "Because this is the first week of the new semester, you will spend the next five days acclimating. Homeroom activities and announcements will resume next week.

"You have ten minutes before moving to your first period classes. I suggest you familiarize yourself with your schedules and plan accordingly. Please sign the attendance sheet on your way out.

"And, Mr. Hitsugaya, I expect your cell phone to be on my desk before you leave. You may retrieve it after the final bell."

He adds stiffly, "You may converse quietly with your neighbors."

Frozen by incredulity, it takes several second for us to comply.

With a sigh, I study my schedule, trying to block out an anonymous fawning voice asking Crazy Little Fucker, "Can I see your schedule, Hitsugaya?"

My paper reads:

Schedule 2

1st Period - English II Honors. English Building, Room 1. Mr. Sasakibe Chōjirō.

"Chōjirō! He lives next door to my aunt. She swears he's gay," the fawning voice informs him.

2nd Period - Journalism. English Building, Room 9. Mr. Shuhei Hisagi.

"Journalism with Hisagi. You train at his father's gym, right?"

3rd Period - Biology I Honors. Mathematics & Sciences Building, Room 12. Ms. Nemu Karotsuchi.

"Aha! I have Bio with Nemu Karosuchi, too. Did you know she's that crackpot's daughter? I'm terrified."

4th Period - Geometry Honors. Mathematics & Sciences Building, Room 4. Mr. Ulquiorra Cifer.

"Cifer for Geometry. He's so mean. I cannot believe he's taking your phone!"

5th Period - World History Honors. Humanities Building, Room 1. Mr. Tessai Tsukabishi.

"Tsukabishi! Personally, I think he's a burnout. My mom says he shops at that herbal remedy shop on Kidou Avenue…"

6th Period - Spanish I Honors. Humanities Building, Room 3. Mrs. Tai Starrk.

"Latin with Hachi. He's really nice."

7th Period – Physical Education I, Gymnasium. Coach Ikkaku Madarame.

"PE seventh! Me too!" coos the infatuated blond girl.

I am unhappiness personified. I am enraged and glowering at the stupid, stupid, stupid piece of paper in my hand, trying to incinerate it with my mind.

God surely hates me.

I look up to find gushy-blond returning Crazy Little Fucker's schedule to him. "Oh, no," she frets, "we only have biology and PE together," so desperate to be close to him, she is practically sitting on top of her desk.

I take vindictive pleasure in the guy's obvious annoyance, his faint scowl indicating acute awareness of the girl's motives. Yet, he sits there, listening to her prattle, offering monosyllabic responses.

As if feeling my stare, he looks backward directly at me. Then, Crazy Little Fucker lifts a brow, no doubt, confused by my mocking expression.

He glances away a second later, answering one of the blond's infantile questions without missing a beat, rereading his schedule and comparing it to his campus map. The blond babbles on.

Just then, Ururu—with my soccer nemesis in tow—blocks my view. "May I see your schedule, Karin? We might have some classes together," she asks softly.

I hand it to her mutely, not really caring what becomes of me at this point.

Ururu and Lilynette assess my schedule with concentrated expressions. Eventually, Ururu sighs, relieved. Lilynette's mouth thins into a hard line.

"We have English, math, and Spanish together," Ururu tells me happily. When she grins, I can almost see a resemblance to her mother. Everything else about her, from her floppy bangs to willowy figure, screams 'I'm Kisuke Urahara's daughter.'

Ururu hands the sheet of paper back to me.

Meanwhile, Lilynette struggles with herself, unable to decide which is cooler—ridiculing me or ignoring me. The former desire wins just as I knew it would. "Interesting. We have quite a few classes together," she snickers, "Including Spanish with my mom. Good luck with that."

If it's even possible, my black mood grows darker.

Directly following her doom-and-gloom pronouncement, the bell rings. Saved by the fucking bell—my life is turning into a cheesy sitcom drowning in teenage angst.

Grabbing my papers and stuffing them unceremoniously in my bag, I practically run for the door.

Right outside, I find Rukia Kuchiki and a gabble of her junior friends leaning against the far wall. She waves me over, her expression becoming increasingly wary with every step I take.

"I heard you got Cifer for homeroom," she frowns, "Totally blows, I'll admit, but no reason to wear that scary frown. What's eating you?"

I sigh, glad to have a sympathetic listener. My complaints spill out in a great torrent of despair, "Remember when I told you some random guy beat me on the entrance exam? Well, the little fucker is in all of my classes except one—Spanish with Starrk. Would you believe me if I told you Lilynette's in my homeroom too? And to add shock to the horror, she and Ururu are walking around like Siamese twins, all sickeningly in platonic love with each other."

Rukia places a conciliatory hand on my shoulder, "I can't come over tonight because I have a start-of-the-semester-snooze-fest with my dad. But how 'bout I come over Friday, and we can talk about it?" As an afterthought, she adds, "Do want to hold on to my Chappy keychain. It always makes me feel better." Rummaging in her bag for a moment, she holds the godforsaken bunny keychain out to me like it's a sacrificial offering.

"If I didn't already know you're nuts, I'd ask if you were mocking me," I deadpan, "and you're only coming over because you're having withdrawals. 'Making me feel better' is just an excuse to hang out because I'm the next best thing to hanging with Ichigo's lame ass."

Rukia's eyes fly wide with feigned hurt, her mouth pouting. "You know that isn't true, Karin. I'm only using you as an excuse to eat Friday Feast."

Yuzu's Friday Feast is always the most scrumptious meal of the week.

We share wicked grins. Then, I nod, "Fine, fine. Whatever."

I glance at Rukia's friends dubiously. Renji, a redhead dude covered in tattoos, is talking animatedly with a miniature version of himself who could only be his little brother Jinta. Beside Renji, a vaguely familiar blond—sporting an unusually angular haircut and an über dour expression—is conversing quieting with none other than Crazy Little Fucker.

Once again employing his superhuman power of perception, he turns to me, slow and deliberate. It's almost dramatic.

The first words Toushirou Hitsugaya speaks to me are dripping with acid.

"What is your problem?" he asks, scowling.

Ugh.

Later, on my way home from school, it start to rain, drenching my school bag which has decided to represent evil.

Revised edition.

Dedication: Etiena (Your legitimate criticism of the misdirection of "Hitsugaya-mania" inspired me to rewrite most of those scenes and corresponding dialog. Although my original intention was to highlight the fishbowl atmosphere of small town living, much of that was lost in my microscopic attention to the female instances of the problem, thereby undermining the point I was trying to make. I hope I've managed to convey this element of the story better in the revised edition.)

Mare