Apache as in the Arracncer, one of Tai Harribel's three Fraccion. She does not have a last name, so I gave her one. Torres-the meaning seemed apropiate.
After a relatively subdued start of the school week—the complete opposite of Monday morning's chaos in the schoolyard—my classes drag on. Basically, a yawn-fest.
However, Friday resurrects the drama with a vengeance. In more ways than one.
Apparently, Nniotora returned to school today after one day in jail and a three day suspension. He celebrated his first ever punctual arrival to Karakura High by accosting Nelliel in the hallway on her way to Calculus.
By the end of first period, everyone in school is aware of the incident—Mashiro Kuna broke into the administration office and made an unauthorized but colorful announcement. According to her, the confrontation between the feuding seniors teetered precariously on edge of violence.
By the end of second period, the story has evolved: Nniotora had come at her, yelling about 'women in a man's world;' Nelliel had called him a 'child,' stepping around him carelessly.
By the end of third period, the story reaches epic proportions: Nniotora had come at her with a switchblade, demanding that she lose her "goody-two-shoes mask;" Nelliel had called him 'pitiful' and then knocked him unconscious so she wouldn't have to waste him in front of everyone.
Speculation spreads like flu—though people are speaking behind their hands, not sneezing into them.
Who saw that? Were you there? Did you hear?
Then, the unthinkable occurs.
Halfway through fourth period Geometry, I'm staring opaquely at a trapezoid when Mashiro's voice shatters the trance-like stupor only Mr. Cifer can inspire.
"Breaking news! Mashiro here, coming straight to you from the scene of the incident," she tells us—the entire school—brightly, "Only moments ago, Mr. Hisagi was seen following Ms. Kurotsuchi out of the mail room. While on their way out of the office—together—Mr. Hisagi was reading a letter of some sort when he bumped into Ms. Kurotsuchi, causing her to overbalance. Directly following this physical contact, Ms. Kurotsuchi dropped her box of dead frogs on Mr. Hisagi's foot. After ki—"
Mashiro's news reporter voice is abruptly cut off, only to be replaced by Uncle Kisuke's loosely disapproving tones, "Mashiro, you're in the office because you used the PA without permission, and now you use the damn thing again?"
The ensuing verbal spar exists only in our imaginations because the PA goes suddenly silent halfway through, "But Headmaster—"
This news in conjunction with Nniotora's idiocy—because, face it, challenging Nelliel is super stupid—spawns a frenzy the likes of which I've never experienced. The rumor mill spins at double-time, each conversation running into the next, all of them revolving in a figure eight around the antagonistic pair and the lovey-dovey one.
The ludicrous state of things reminds me of a social experiment gone awry. A testament to the old adage, 'Give them cake.'
Walking awkwardly to the Commons, destabilized carrying my soccer duffel bag, schoolbag, and lunchbox, I overhear a tiny, blond upperclassman cheer, "Alright! The school year's finally started!"
From this jolly pronouncement, I deduce that, while this mayhem is totally alien to me, it's a common—fun—occurrence to most of the other students.
I blame the fish bowl-ish standard of living in this two bit town. In loo of anything truly stimulating, Karakurains manufacture news. It's a thriving industry, perpetuated by a lack of amusement parks.
Lunch is louder than usual—the compounded buzzing not quite reaching sonic boom level, but it's a near thing.
Everyone at my table sits around, replaying for the umpteenth time the car-accident-freak-show-rescue-damsel event in front of school on Monday.
I yawn, bored with this conversation, trying vainly to block out the "awe's" and "ah's" arising from Yuzu's suggestion that Mr. Hisagi ask Nerdy Nemu to marry him on Christmas Eve.
How lovely. Gag.
Deciding that I could survive without knowing the ending of Yuzu's imagined blockbuster romance, I rise from my seat to throw away the trash from my lunchbox.
Standing at the far end of the Commons, I examine the recycling bins, annoyed by my candy bar wrapper.
It looks like paper but feels like plastic. So, which is it?
I'm just standing here stupidly, glaring at a piece of trash like it has insulted me in some way, when Toushirou informs me, "It doesn't matter which one you throw it in. Candy wrappers are non-recyclable." He begins to separate the contents of his tray with practiced ease, giving the impression that it's completely normal to talk to me.
Wait. What? I whip my head toward him, shock flagrant on my face.
Quickly looking away and back down at my candy wrapper, something super intelligent like "Oh" falls out of my gaping mouth.
I peek over, quite pinkish, I imagine.
He sort of nods with one brow raised—he probably thinks I'm weird but knows it's impolite to say so aloud—turning back to his half-cleared tray.
I chuck my non-recyclable wrapper into the purely-trash-can with more force than I intended.
And, of course, Toushirou notices, gaze flickering from the trashcan to me, bewilderment plain.
"Sorry," I mutter sullenly, "I'm just… annoyed." With myself.
Then, Toushirou says something super intelligent too. "Oh."
Somehow it sounds better when he says it.
Deciding that I've already blown any cool points that may—or may not—have been on the table, I continue (read: sort of lie) animatedly, "Yeah, people are so easily amused, you know? I mean recycling stuff is good and all that. But recycling gossip should be a crime. It's gonna pollute the planet," using my hands to illustrate.
Toushirou stares at me like I'm a rare species of bird. Then, he nods again, though this time with more conviction. "Same over there," he tells me, pointing over his shoulder toward his table.
Trying to ignore how much this unexpected interaction pleases me, I ask with fake indifference, "What are they doing? Picking baby names for the happy couple?"
Toushirou shakes his head, commiserating with me, replying, "No, they're placing bets on how long Nniotora will last in a fight with Nelliel. It's infantile, but they seem entertained."
"Oh, I don't know," I argue lightly, "I'd bet my life that Nel destroys his ass."
I glance around Toushirou, catching Rukia slap Renji upside the head with her water bottle. "Are they always so… intense?" I wonder, wincing.
Toushirou's answer is quick and decisive. "Yes."
He stacks his tray on the million other trays on the sideboard. "Right, well," he says unnecessarily, "I'll be going now."
I laugh.
Who would have thought Toushirou Hitsugaya capable of an awkward exit?
I call after him, "Put me down for five bucks on Nel beating the crap out of Nniotora in three minutes flat!"
And then, Toushirou does the most extraordinary thing, turning over his shoulder. He smirks ruefully, objecting, "Three minutes? I'm putting my money on under two."
After returning to my seat, I do the habitual thing, pretending to listen to Lilynette ramble on and on about soccer tryouts after school—apparently, she managed to move the conversation away from inane drama mongering.
As soccer-ranting has become a habit of hers, I'm of the opinion that Lilynette thinks talking about the trails will somehow force time to speed up.
I'm impatient too. But I push the impending climax of my athletic career—my entire life—into a compartment of my brain marked Pandora's Box.
If I really start thinking about what's ahead of me, I'll hurl, losing the super-special-energizing lunch Yuzu packed for me this morning. Then, I'll have no carbs which means no fuel. Then, I'll mess up everything…
Stop!
However—as is the fate of all Pandora's Boxes—the damn thing will only stay shut for so long.
All school related thoughts fade into nonexistence as the day draws to a close.
I'm pretty sure my teachers taught us some stuff. I'm also sure that that 'stuff' will eventually matter.
But for now, it's just a buzz in the background, playing second fiddle to the sound of my heart beating loud in my ears. I simmer in this feeling, a frenetic mixture of excitement, alarm, and desire.
A potent drive to prove I belong because my family is an extravaganza of wicked cool. They've all achieved feats of awesomeness.
In the immortal words of my godmother, "We own them."
This is my chance to stake a claim, and if I'm very lucky, I'll carve out my own place. A top spot that's mine and no one else's.
And I have everything I need to succeed. Hence, fuck doubt! I'm not going to start doubting my abilities. Not now; not ever.
Last period in P.E, I basically 'phone it in,' thinking in shades in gold. When the final bell rings, the sound reminds me of coach's whistle. And I grin hard.
I have forty-five minutes to kill before tryouts, but I'm too jacked up to sit around picking daisies. So, I grab my stuff and swing the gym door wide, rushing out of the building before anyone else has picked up their bags to leave. I see a few faces I recognize—Rukia tries flagging me down—but I don't have the wherewithal to chit-chat. I can't handle other people right now. I don't think other people can handle me right now.
Because I'm already in my gym clothes, I don't have to change. The only things missing are my cleats, shin guards, and tube socks. So, I plop down on one of the more secluded concrete benches doting the campus, intent to complete 'my look.' I tug my gear out from the blackhole-bottom of my duffel ball, shucking my loafers at the same time.
I pull my much abused shin guards up both legs. Too hell with my footie-socks—I just slip my tube socks right over them. Then, I shove my feet into my cleats furiously, tying and retying the laces until they feel just right.
As this fit of industry only lasts two minutes, I start meandering to the grassy, all-purpose fields at the very back of school behind the Commons. All the while, I'm thanking all of the in-between-summer-and-fall gods that the sky is clear and the sun has decided to take its time setting.
On this winding journey to my destiny, I find other students gathering in two loosely connected groups at the edge of the soccer field directly across from the equipment shed.
Dropping my bags and lunch box on the ground, I join the others, smirking rueful. I scan my competition, counting them, noting their grade levels, and applying names to faces.
As of now, we're just an impressive group of wannabes. I'm not going to sugarcoat the situation. I have to earn my pride before I start stroking it.
There are twelve of us at this point. And of the twelve wannabes—eleven excluding myself—I've only played with four of them: Kamin Saito, Ren Tanaka, Mami Itou, and Yua Kimura. All of them, like me, are freshmen.
The five of us played little league at Karakura-Seireitei Recreational Park; so evaluating four of my longtime teammates as opponents is jarring. But I don't have a choice.
Kamin Saito is still wearing the standard black KSRP jersey. She's is a goalie—an excellent one—constantly throwing out these little one-liners guaranteed to crack your game face.
She and Ren Tanaka are standing together, shuffling their feet in unusual silence.
Well, Ren's silence isn't all that unusual. She's a broody defender, a marginal sweeper with the glowing exception of her uncanny ability to get under the ball. If soccer was about spiking with your head instead of your feet, Ren would kick all our asses.
But the game isn't about spiking with your head, and Ren's no match for me.
Mami Itou is pussyfooting off to the side, yawning. I have nothing to worry about on her account. She's in over her head.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Yua Kimura biting her nails, forehead creased. Yua is good; a smart midfield anchor. Her game is über-cerebral, probabilities and brackets—x number of balls times four dribbles equals one goal.
Sighing in a discombobulated sort of way, I turn to the other seven wannabes—the proud alums of Hueco Mundo Park and Fields.
Or the "white team" as I refer to them.
I don't feel the same level of confidence when looking at these seven wannabes.
Save one—a short, black-haired girl with a pink tattoo of three stars stamped across her forehead—I recognize all of them.
My eternal rivals. Ugh.
The only real surprise is Apache Torres, a sophomore-ic bitch standing next to a girl with royal blue hair—I'm ninety-nine point thee percent sure her name is La Cienega something-or-other.
At the moment, I don't care what her last name is because I'm having a mental dysfunction.
Apache Torres is not supposed to be here, damnit! She hasn't played soccer in four years. Last I heard, she was playing softball.
Why, god, why?
Unable to stomach the sight of Apache's mismatched-creepy-eye makeup any longer, I consider the other HMFP creepers.
Immediately, my eyes fall on two laughing freshman girls wearing matching white flanged headbands.
It's hard miss to Ximena Mendez and Nevada Jimenez because of their absurdly colorful hair. Ximena keeps it cool with a peppermint green bob, and Nevada's hair calls to mind the song "Rainbow Connection."
Ximena's the most overly curious person in the world. If she wasn't so busy lodging the ball down my throat, she'd probably ask my favorite color or try to guess my birthday. In direct opposition, Nevada won't ask me a damn thing, but she'll tell me everything she's noticed, right down to a thread that's come loose on the hem of my shorts.
I've always found them freakishly well paired. Maybe they should merge into one being—thereby creating a single well-adjusted person.
On the other hand, it's quite lucky for me that they are not one person. I can take either of them and win every time, but when they work as a striker team… not so much.
Turning away from the gruesome twosome, I find another familiar face—this one belonging to sophomore Yesenia Soto. She's staring straight at me with her protuberant cyan eyes wide and weird. Just like always.
"Kurosaki," she says softly, like someone might identify a canned good at the supermarket. Her otherworldly personality suits her position; as a goalie, Yesenia needn't interact with other humans often.
My four comrades—'the black team' as we are known to the Hueco Mundo crowd—shuffle nervously. Yesenia might as well be an alien from another planet—which is a real possibility—judging by the forbidding glower Kamin is sending her way. Even Yua finds enough interest in this odd meet-and-great to emerge from her daydreams.
I clear my throat, replying guardedly, "Yo."
Yesenia barely nods her head, a brief but undeniable sign that I exist in her alternative universe.
The moment shatters the instant Lilynette Starrk sidle up beside Yesenia, giving her a look of deep disappointment. "I don't care if you talk to the rest of them," Lilynette asserts, "But talking to her? God, Soto, I thought you had taste."
Yesenia Soto turns away, looking off into the melancholic distance and murmuring, "She's rather interesting, is she not? There is darkness in Karin Kurosaki."
If I wasn't descending—regressing—into the blind adolescent hatred I have felt toward Lilynette from the moment we met, I might tell Yesenia to seek profession help.
Instead, I go to toe to toe with Lilynette, just close enough to be mildly threatening, and whisper, "That's funny, Lilynette. Real cute. Did you know I asked Ururu the same question using almost the exact same words? Only, when I asked her why she'd want to be around such a first-rate creeper, I meant you."
Revised edition.
Dedication: Moon of Jupiter. (I owe you in a major way for lending me a hand on these names. Now that I have a little distance from the nightmare these two chapters were to write, I'm all the more thankful for your expertise. I imagine that these chapters would have been un-writable if I hadn't been trying so hard to make them worthy of your effort.)
A/N: These are first four of nine OCs I have written for this story. They were inspired by nine readers who have affected this story in a "game changing" way. However, the character corresponding to each reader is stylized to fit what I needed to round out this and following chapter. Because of this, I had to merge my ideas of you, nine, as people to the characters Karin needs to compete against. So, it can't be roses and sunshine all the time.
That said, this is not their last appearances. They will reappear now and then in the interest of a legitimate sized grade level.