Chapter 10: Lights

—CKKEEERRRR.

I'm going to kill him.

None of this would happen if it wasn't for Roxas. How does he do it? Does his stupidity know no bounds? Now I'm neck-deep in the worst possible situation. I know I planned to walk out of the shadows this year, but not like this. I never asked for the spotlight, especially a high-grade super-powered one in the form a television crew of the most popular show in the world. How many more grievances will be stacked upon me before the day's end?

With Riku jacked up on testosterone and unwilling to let imagined offenses slide, I've unwittingly fallen into a proxy duel for Kairi's heart. I'll just let him win. I couldn't care less about the competition. Why should I help Roxas, the idiot who got me into this mess in the first place, win over Kairi? The punk deserves nothing.

It's the attention that scares the crap out of me. Any move Riku makes, the whole school knows. The boys can imitate and the girls can salivate. Having my face broadcasted all over the globe will destroy what little chance I have of leading a normal uneventful life. Every one of the stars who've graduated from Destiny High Times has either soared to great heights or plummeted to the deepest depths of despair. There is no middle ground, no slipping out of the spotlight into a nice quiet existence. A role on the show is a promise of everlasting scrutiny, with no hope of escape from the lights, the camera, the action, the rumors, and worst of all, the girls.

One week.

I don't know if I can last that long. Although Riku will keep his promise, rumors will churn, and the gears of gossip shall spin for a relentless seven days. God forbid we have a single day without drama. I'm seriously gonna kill him.

"Sora," a voice calls. It's Hayner. He scampers up to me with a grin. What's got him smiling like that?

"Come to laugh at my predicament?"

"Huh?" It looks like it hasn't spread... yet. If it's Riku, I expect complete social saturation by tomorrow morning. It'll be a whirlwind of curious stares, probing questions, pointed denials, and no comments. The rumor mill is efficient like that here. All it takes is one vague status update on Moogle+ to spin a tale of treachery, love, and deceit. How many relationships have gone sour because of a few lines of text on the web? That's why I don't do social networking.

Moogle+ is the world's biggest social network, backed by the online giant Moogle. The word Moogle has already replaced the phrase "to search online" in everyday vernacular. Few things disappear from the internet. If a record is made, it is immortalized in the annals of digital history. That's why the first thing I did upon meeting Roxas and Kairi was Moogle their names.

I turned up some pretty interesting results. On Moogle+, searching for Roxas McCartney only got me a "User Profile No Longer Exists." Even the search engine cache was empty. Typing "McCartney Twilight Town" only got me a bunch of unrelated fools with the same surname. It was a dead end. He must really be trying to start life anew if he nuked all traces from the internet. Not a lot of friends back home I presume, considering how neatly he severed his ties. As for Kairi, opening her profile page was the equivalent of opening a screamer. I even fell off my chair from the sight of her photo. I closed the browser window (which took awhile since I was trying to avoid looking at the screen) and changed my settings to display no images.

She had 3000 friends. That's basically an entire school. Her profile wall was filled with farewell messages and love confessions from both sides of the gender divide. She was super popular. You wouldn't be able to tell from the way she acts. She's either oblivious or calculating beyond all measure. What stood out to me was that she never replied to any of the comments posted. No response because of conceit or apathy?

They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but what if those thousand words happen to be the word "puke" repeated ad nauseum? Until I can look at her picture without feeling sick, a rather large mine of information will remain inaccessible. I will continue practicing until I can stomach her visage for more than a minute.

"Uh... Sora. You there, man?" Hayner waves his hand in front of me.

I gather myself. "What is it?" His eyes are stuck on the dented locker in front of me. "It was like that when I got here. Actually, this isn't even my locker." His face scrunches in confusion. "Let's just take a walk," I suggest.

He follows me as we move in the general direction of my next class. The scene outside the cafeteria is hectic. The freshmen are still pooling around the building, desperate for a bite. I weave through the crowd effortlessly. The same can't be said for Hayner. His steps are irregular, as if they can't decide on the proper path. He slows down as he grazes incoming traffic and leaves me with a comfortable lead—not that we're racing or anything. I stop outside the hall that contains my next class. It's a two-story building with a glassy exterior that reflects the sun harshly, blinding any students standing at bad angles. Some call it an architectural flaw, others call it cinematic. If it looks good on film, keep it that way.

He catches up to me and takes a deep breath. "I thought about what you said and... it made a lot of sense. But things are easier said than done." That's true for everything. "I know I have to do it, but the question is… how?"

"What are we talking about again?"

His face falls. A lot has happened since we last talked; forgive me if my mind isn't up to speed. "Olette, remember?"

Right. Childhood friends and all that jazz. "And you want me to tell you how?" I ask, picking up on his intention.

He nods. "I've never confessed to anyone before. I wouldn't know where to start."

You and me both. But there's an exercise for situations like these, where you prepare yourself by running simulations over and over until you have it down to a T. They call it, "Practice."

"What?"

"I said practice."

"I know."

"Then what's the problem?" Is it that hard to understand? Do I have to repeat it like Iverson before he gets it?

"How do I practice?" I know this. It's like that character that keeps asking "why?" No answer will satisfy. It'll be an endless chain of "how" and "how" and "how" until I have to do everything for him. It's practice! Set up conditions similar to the actual event and say what you need to say.

"Do I have to spell out everything for you? Can't you think on your own? I feel like I have to write a step-by-step guide just so you could have something to study," I joke.

"Can't you?"

I look at his face. That hard gaze tinged with desperation; he's actually serious. "Look, come back to me later. I'm not feeling good at the moment." Before he can say anything, I give him the "get the hell away from me" look that I use to repel girls.

"O-okay. I'll see you around... I guess." He smiles nervously and slinks away with low shoulders. Poor guy.

"Hey." He turns around. "Just because you have to do it doesn't mean you have to do it right away. Just give it some time." Damn my guilty conscience. I should've just let him go, but I gave him hope instead. It's as bad as making a false promise.

He nods gratefully. "Alright, thanks."

Finally, some time alone. The bell rings, signaling the end of lunch. So much for that free time. Using my mental map, I easily find my next class. I walk in and take a moment to look around. Seems like I'm a little early. Half the seats are filled, but the front row is suspiciously empty. I sit down in somewhere in the front. Why fight fate? I might as well accept my destiny as a permanent foreground object for all my classes.

"Are you Sora?" the teacher asks.

I look up and she gives me a lopsided grin that dimples one cheek. She is Ms. Heartily, my Health teacher, but by virtue of being an attractive woman, she is anything but healthy for me. She's dressed in a sleeveless blue sweater that falls down to her calves. Black underclothes hug her form tightly. It's a classy and conservative (by island metrics) outfit.

"Yes."

She wags her finger. "Sorry, but you're sitting in the wrong seat." I am? My luck's finally starting to— "You're in the one next to it." —not change at all.

I grudgingly get up and move one seat over. I should've expected that. With the way things are going, I'd be sitting in the teacher's lap by next period. Don't worry, I'm not jinxing it. Next period is PE. There's no way something like that can happen... I hope.

She nods in approval, her dark hair bouncing against her shoulders, and gives a double thumbs up. "Perfect."

I dig into my backpack and pull out my notebook. I've recorded most of the names in my previous classes even though I missed a couple, but that's to be expected. I'm not a professional stenographer. I'll catch the missing ones another day. I recognize some of the names because I've heard them on roll call from last year. I have some old classmates—not that they'd know me, so barring a few exceptions (like Rikku), I'm in the same boat as Roxas. Nobody knows who I am. I scroll through my records until a familiar name catches my eye: Olette. Why does that sound familiar? Oh, that's right. She's the girl Hayner's fawning over. She's in my second period. Hm. I should vet her tomorrow.

I continue looking over the names and—Riku. Freakin' Riku. He's actually in one of my classes? He shares math with me. Between a crazy whipper and a love rival (at least that what he thinks) armed with a television crew, I can already tell that math is going to be my least favorite class, as if I didn't already hate the subject.

Ms. Heartily calls roll, which is my cue to start writing down new names. This time, I make sure to attach them to faces. I don't recognize any of the names yet.

"Yuna?" the teacher calls.

"Here!" a soft voice replies from behind.

Three for three. I was wondering when the last of the trio would pop up. Thankfully, she doesn't seem to know I'm sitting in front of her.

"Sora Hika—oh that's right, he's here, silly me," Ms. Heartily mutters quietly. There goes that. Unless she's deaf and blind, Yuna definitely knows it's me now.

"Sora?" she whispers.

"In the flesh."

"Cool, we're in the same class, huh?"

I nod. I prefer gestural acknowledgments. Words tend to beget words. She doesn't say anything after that. Out of all the Gullwings, I think she's the one least interested in me. Maybe I should make friends with her?

"Who else is here?" the teacher muses out loud. She puts her nose against the roll sheet. "Oh, is Ge—oops, I'm not supposed to call that name… I guess everybody's here then!"

My time with Kairi has paid off. If it wasn't for her, my hearing wouldn't have been able to pick up that last sentence. There has to be another gag-enrolled student in here. So the name starts with "Ge." I check my notebook again. No names starting with "Ge." It was worth a shot. I look over my shoulder and search the blind spots. Nothing there, not over here—where is this person?

"You up front, eyes on me!" Ms. Heartily shouts.

I jerk my head around to meet her face. I cringe back as delirium assaults me. My vision is filtered through vignette borders, with darkness closing in my periphery. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" I chant in an effort to ward off her looming face.

She draws back and gives a dainty smile. "Good! Remember class, all eyes on me!"

Ms. Rinoa Heartily, the fun-loving quirky health teacher, is held in high esteem. She is a buoyant force who raises the spirits of all who lay eyes on her. Perky, endlessly effervescent, and glowing, she's the type whose very presence induces smiles. Unfortunately, she does possess one minor character flaw. She's an attention whore. To which our students have lovingly dubbed her, "Eyes on Me" Heartily. She can't stand it when people aren't paying attention.

"Eyes on me!" she shouts again. "As long as you pay attention, you'll get a good grade! That means you, Sora! There's no need to write notes in this class, just listen!" She takes my notebook.

"But—"

"No buts! I'll give this back to you at the end of class." She winks at me like it's supposed to make it all okay. Seriously? You'd actually prevent a student from taking notes? That's when you know the school's priorities are out of whack. Every time I avert my gaze in the slightest, she locks on to me like a stinger and "gently" reminds me to pay attention. I've settled on staring at the space behind her.

What a great start for the school year. Nothing has gone the way I expected. My plan has officially gone to shit. I've lived with this sickness for a decade now. I know that I won't be cured overnight. That's why I developed a plan that spanned the entirety of high school. My freshman year, I practiced a low profile. This year, I was supposed to ease myself into the social fabric by making a few male friends—preferably ones with girlfriends. That way, I could cultivate the "friend of a friend" situation. It's win-win for me. I'll have female friends without worrying about them since they'll already have boyfriends. You can say my goal for this year is to get a girl friend. A friend who's a girl. That was the plan, but now… I have no idea.

Fifth period ends. As everybody shuffles out, I turn around, hoping for a glimpse of "Ge." Nothing. I approach Ms. Heartily to get my notebook back. She wears a toothy grin as she hands it over. Another addition to my stable of unstable teachers. Is it too much to ask for a normal instructor? I'm out of here. The sun hits me as I exit the hall. The rush of warmth is welcome. Since it's in the afternoon, the sun isn't too hot. With the slight breeze, weather conditions couldn't be more perfect. Too bad I hate PE.

I trudge my way to the locker rooms. With the school's generous dress code, the girls always wind up wearing something provocative and skimpy. They somehow interpret "workout clothes" as bikini tops, short shorts, and tight tights. Whatever happened to good old-fashioned shorts and t-shirts? My only saving grace is the anti-shirtless policy, which goes for both genders. Still, too many students tow the line between "within guidelines" and "laughably inappropriate but still legal." What the hell, school? Can't I get a little consistency in the enforcement of dress code here?

My personal PE outfit is plain but functional. I wear a ventilated sports shirt with long sweat pants. Unlike the other guys, I don't have an obsession with showing off my body. No tank tops or wife beaters for me. I'm not super-juiced, but I'm not scrawny either. A lifetime of compulsory physical education will leave anybody reasonably fit.

The sound of a whistle catches everybody's attention. All eyes trace the source to the teacher, Ms. Claire Farron. She's a tough woman whose physical talents are many. Though she possesses the agility of an acrobatic, capable of somersaults and other feats of aerial gymnastics, she also wields immense brute strength. A real modern super human being. The crimson-colored cape on one shoulder makes her all the more super. She's dressed for maximum mobility, with a combination of tight shorts and a grey tank top. Her muscles are impressively toned and sickeningly sexy. She's pressing all the wrong buttons for me. It must be her strawberry pink hair; it's too similar to Kairi's.

"I am your PE teacher for the year. You will refer to me as Lightning and Lightning only. If you call me by anything else, you'll be running laps. If you disobey my orders, you'll be running laps. If you are unable to perform an exercise, you'll be running laps. If you give me attitude, you'll be running laps. Does everybody understand?" Everybody nods. Unbelievable, I actually jinxed myself. When I was talking about a teacher's lap, I didn't mean this kind of lap. "For today, we'll start by running laps. Get to it." The students haul their butts to the track. "Double time!"

Everybody quickens their pace until we're all gathered at the starting line. I shiver. It feels like people are staring at me. I glance around and catch a few observers. Some of them are guys and some of them are girls. They're whispering amongst themselves. Damn rumors. How fast do they spread The whistle blows and everybody explodes into a run.

I don't consider myself sporty, but there's something liberating about a run, especially when you break that "wall." It feels like you can go on forever. If you stop for just one second though, the fatigue hits you like a shovel to the leg. I have low endurance so I can't jog for long. I prefer sprints, since I do that more often than I run. It's all about the fast-twitch muscles. They have served me well in my numerous escapes over the years. Ow! My leg is cramping. I think I just hit my limit. I slow down to recover.

"Keep moving!"How did Lightning get behind me so fast? She leans close, almost as if to kiss me, "What are you waiting for?" I dash off, channeling my inner Bolt, to put distance between me and certain death. What a shock! I almost flash vomited there. I can already tell that Lightning's the type to get in people's faces. I don't want to get struck twice, but the odds are against me.

After who knows how many laps (I lost count after eleven), the final bell rings. Even though I call it a bell, it's more of a digitized jingle, but to me, its the sweet sound of release, like a choir of angels heralding my ascension. Their voices are a little creaky though. Actually, that's just the sound of my weary bones. I wipe the sweat off my forehead and baptize my face with a water fountain. I get dressed and pack my bags; it's time to leave.

I drag myself to the front gate and debate if I should wait for Roxas, and by extension, Kairi too. I don't want to see either of them; Roxas because he's an idiot; Kairi because she makes me sick. But I can't abandon them; I'm responsible for their safe return. Who knows what kind of mess they'll get themselves in? I've never seen a couple with such a high affinity for trouble before, even worse, I'm the one who usually suffers for it.

Then again, they might not need me to lead them home. I need to make sure. I pull out my cell phone and type a text message.

Sora: Do you need me to take you home?

Send. I wait. If I don't get a reply in two minutes, they're on their own. My phone vibrates and I check the screen.

Roxas: yeah, where are you?

Kairi: only if you don't mind

Kairi must be wondering why I ditched her at lunch; that much is obvious from her text, or perhaps I'm reading too much into it? I reply to both messages.

Sora: I'm waiting by the entrance.

I slip the phone back into my pocket and lean against the gate. I hate the waiting game, but I suppose there are far worse games to play. Like the "what if" game.

It used to be my favorite thing to do when I was younger. I'd always ask myself, "what if I wasn't cursed with love sickness?", "what if my parents were normal?", "what if I had grown up the same way as any other island boy?" It was a pointless and unproductive exercise, one that led me into logical circles of anguish and agony. I decided to make up some new rules for the game. I would no longer ask "what if" about the past, but "what if" about the future. I discarded the notion of destiny, of that prescient being who tugs on the strings of our puppet lives, and in it's place, I put my faith in human will. To put an end to my past, I made one single hypothesis about "what if" to satisfy my unending curiosity about the person that I could've been.

If I wasn't love sick... I'd be a much happier person. I'd be able to enjoy the simple things in life, like an episode of Chain of Memories or sea-salt ice cream by the beach. I'd have a lot more friends and we'd talk about random subjects and play around all day. It won't be forced or calculated. It'd be natural, as a result of a happy-go-lucky attitude towards life. I'd always have smile on my face and act a little goofy. I'd cheer up those who are down and make them laugh with my charming naivety. I can imagine it so clearly; I feel him bubbling underneath my surface, trying desperately to break out. But he can't. He is stuck underneath the plexiglass of love sickness, drowning in a sea of rationalizations. If I could just break that barrier...

I'd be a good guy. A fun guy. A normal guy. In short, I'd be...

Roxas.

Son of a bitch. No wonder why I find him so irritating. He's my own fucked up reflection. Now I have no choice but to help him win.

I hate myself sometimes.