"Still at it, huh," he comments. "Can I read it?"
"Of course not."
"Why not?"
"Well, obviously, because it's private."
"What's so private about poetry?"
"What's so private about basketball?" I shoot back.
I passed by the basketball court on my way to the library two days later, on Sunday. Michiko, on the assumption that I gave a toss, told me, with a certain amount of excitement in her voice, that it was where Rukawa Kaede practiced basketball every morning.
I had heard so much about him that I was a little intrigued. This guy supposedly scored a basket once by doing an under-hand toss, a feat I had never seen before, not even in NBA games.
I approached the open-aired court, and sure enough, somebody was there. His back was to me and I wondered what this 'super rookie' was doing, holding a basketball in his hands as if he'd never seen one in his life, until I took a closer look.
His long hair looked blue under the sunlight. I stopped walking, and simply stood and watched him. I knew Mitsui fought and beat up people and spent most of his schooling hours in detention, but I didn't know he played basketball. Judging by the way he seemed so awestruck by the orange sphere in his hands, I was pretty sure he didn't.
He was standing so still that I thought he was dead. I was tempted to call out just to check, but all of a sudden, he turned around. I tried to hide, but it was too late. He'd already seen me.
His face went from shell-shock to seething rage. He dropped the basketball as if it were on fire. The ball bounced once, twice, three times, rolling away from him.
"What are you doing here?" he shouted at me. "Why are you spying on me?"
Guilt was quickly replaced by indignation at that accusation. "Excuse me? Who's spying on you? I just happened to walk by and I saw you here."
"And then what, you thought you'd stop and chat?" His voice dripped heavily with venom and sarcasm. He stomped towards me, looking ready to hit me if necessary. At that moment, I had no doubt that he would.
"You know something, Mitsui?" I yelled. "I am not afraid of you. Nothing you say or do will ever terrify me. So you can drop the pretense and stop acting like a pregnant woman PMS-ing around just because I happen to catch you with a basketball in your hands! A basketball, for crying out loud! God forbid it be something absolutely lethal! What's so private about basketball?"
Mitsui was seething mad. I could tell by his tightly-clenched fists and the look of pure hatred he was directing at me.
"You," he hissed through gritted teeth, "don't understand anything. You don't know anything. So just shut up."
He picked up the basketball that had stopped at his feet, hurled it angrily against the backboard of the hoop and stomped off without a backward glance at me.
Behind him, the basketball flew through air and, finding its way home, entered the hoop with a comfortable swish. Nothing but net.
"Does Mitsui play basketball?"
Michiko looked up from her Mathematics notebook. "Not that I know of. Why?"
I twirled my pen and pursed my lips, contemplating whether or not to tell her about my encounter at the basketball court. I decided not to.
"Nothing. Just wondering."
There was a fight going on in school. Nobody told me, but I could tell by the way the students were whispering fiercely to each other, their eyes glowing as they went for the kill. A crowd had gathered outside the gym where basketball practice was being held. I heard angry shouts erupting from the gym, and I could swear I even heard the sound of someone being knocked against a wall. Hard.
I glanced around, and my lips curled in disgust. All these commotion, and nobody had bothered to call a teacher. Instead, they huddled in circles, their hands gesturing wildly, their mouths shooting off a thousand words a second.
I rolled my eyes. "Somebody should just call a frigging teacher, for crying out loud," I muttered to myself, "if they're so concerned. Morons."
I wondered where Michiko was. She was supposed to meet me outside the gym so that we could go home. It was fifteen minutes past the time we'd scheduled to meet, and she was still nowhere to be found.
Sighing, I sat down on a bench facing the entrance of the gym and waited. The fight raged on still, despite the fact that a teacher -- finally -- was pounding on the door, demanding the team to open up.
His demands were cheerfully greeted by a loud, passionate cry of, "You fucking scumbag!"
Then another crash. The impact sent wave shocks all the way to the ground beneath my feet, and I was a good ten metres away.
I lived by the philosophy that others' miseries were not for me to gawk at. Despite being disgusted by the students who were openly enjoying the fight, I couldn't help but wonder what was happening in there. The people who had started it were angry, and they didn't care who were there to witness it. It would've been scary if I wasn't trying so hard not to care.
Out of the corner of my eye I spotted an elderly man who looked suspiciously like Colonel Sanders walking briskly towards the gym. His glasses glinted under the sun and it hid his eyes behind its protective tinted shield.
To my absolute surprise, he made his way through the crowd and said something to the teacher. The teacher started to protest, but Colonel Sanders patted his arm and nodded, his lips forming words that I couldn't hear.
The teacher gave up on his cause and turned to face the students. "Get lost!" he seemed to be saying. "Leave! Or you'll all see me in detention!"
That last line worked. The crowd dispersed quickly but reluctantly. They took their murmurs with them and all that were left behind were the occasional shouts from the gym.
That was when I realised something. The fight had died down.
Colonel Sanders tapped gently on the metal door, and suddenly, the doors opened, but they were slammed shut just as abruptly. Colonel Sanders was in.
By then, I was dying to know what was happening. After what seemed like forever, the doors opened again...
...and out stepped
Mitsui Hisashi, tears running down his bloodied face, with Colonel Sanders
at his side. There was blood everywhere: on his white shirt, on his forehead,
trickling from the corner of his mouth. He followed Colonel Sanders to
what I guessed was the infirmary, and he cried all the way.
-------------------------
A/N: There's the third part. Re-uploaded because I spotted some embarrassing typos.
lambie: Singapore because I live here. :)
Thanks everyone for the reviews. Keep 'em comin'.
The Lakers won Dallas and I'm pissed. Who hates the Lakers? I do. Die Lakers, DIE! (No offence to LA fans.)