Warning: OOC, a couple of F words (Not that I try hard to sound discrete but some readers do get offended at times, like Rokawa...so I'm trying hard to sound nice for the nice people out there because it's really nice to be nice to the nice '--' kill me) and a few names that I don't own (check out the s.)
Disclaimer: I don't own SD boys, Inoue does. The events that follow are not included in the original plot but enjoy anyway.
I let the phone ring. 1 ring, 2 rings, 3 rings...Something in its wrenched, tiresome redundancy reminds me of the regular nothing to do days that I've spent alone in this room. Yeah, those are the days when I'm stumped for what to do, waiting for someone to give me a call. And now here's one,
5 rings, 6 rings, 7 rings, 8 rings and up,
'H-hello?' I splutter. A single feeling of dismay floats inside me; from Jin's warning, I can hardly suspect it's another person besides Rukawa.
'Kaede Rukawa here.' True enough, his voice springs out from the receiver. The same monotonous haughtiness, which can outmatch all the boasting and trash talk I can muster when I can shout aloud the phrase "I'm Kiyota Nobunaga, the best rookie in Kanagawa!", mingles with the voice from the other end. If there's someone who brags about his hoops harsher than I do, it's not Hanamichi Sakuragi; it's Kaede Rukawa. The mere smug look on his face is a telltale of superfluous pride raging behind those eyes, dying to free itself to hurl out the words, 'You can't stop me, you can only HOPE to contain me!'
'Yeah, I know. What d'you want?' I snap.
'An interview.'
Great. Kaede Rukawa, the cocky prince of I've-got-what-you-don't snobbery, is calling for a one on one interview with Kiyota Nobunaga, the best rookie of Kanagawa and second ace of Kainandai high school basketball team.
What kind of questions might he be asking me?
'Is this a joke?' I ask. It's unlikely that he'd pull the sort of trick on anyone considering the nature of his mood, but Rukawa doing stuff for academic purposes is 50,000 times more odd. Not that it intrigues me to find out how well he does in school but it's unthinkable that he gets good grades or even cares about it.
'No.'
'Then what's this for?'
'Personal needs.' He answers. And what kind of information concerning me is intertwined with his interests? Surely, we're both in love with the same thing; BASKETBALL. The best invention of humankind serving as the coercive plexus that brings together the multitude of talents hitherto hidden among the youth, like me and him. How I love this game. But what do I know about the sport that Rukawa does not?
'Yeah, right.'
'Shall we start then?' He asks. I can feel the absence of any clutter around him; he's probably holing up in his room too with the receiver between his ear and shoulder. Having no one to bug on a sultry, gray afternoon he decides to call me instead.
'Hold your horses. You think I'll just prowl around with you with that kind of explanation you just gave me? What the hell d'you mean by personal needs? If you're trying to spy on Kainan B-ball team, go after Shinichi Maki because he's the one who knows all about the game.'
'Not about basketball. About YOU.' He says.
'About Me? Heck, why me?'
'Because you got IT in you.' He answers in the same lifeless tone.
'Of course I do. Why the fuck would I be the best rook in Kanagawa if I don't have IT in me?' I shoot back.
'Why aren't you speaking? Can't deny it, can you?' I ask, my temper rising to the summit of its scale.
And there's an unbearable silence until Rukawa speaks up.
'What color do you prefer?'
'Orange. What's-'
'Favorite perfume?'
'Hugo Boss, for men, for women, whatever,'
'Aftershave?'
'I don't shave,'
'Fave kicks' brand?'
'And1, are you-'
'Favorite dish?'
'Any, but no sea foods,'
'You watch NBA?'
'Natch,'
'Fave team?'
'New York Knicks,'
'Your idol?'
'Allan Houston,'
'You like flowers?'
'No. What's this all about?' I ask, finally able to catch up.
'Interview's over.' He says.
'Hey, no fair. You haven't answered my question. What was THAT all about? Is that the interview?' I ask, still groping in the dark.
'Yeah. You'll see.'
'Have you been hanging around our street lately and stalking me in the dead of night? Because it looks like you've been, really, the way you speak...makes you seem like a great freak to me...Anyway, just say it, say you're stalking me and I won't squeak a word to anyone,' I say. This time I summon up all courage to accuse the only suspect.
'I'm not. Bye.' And there's the busy tone.
I curl up beside my pillow thinking how stupid questions like that could be of help to anyone. I've been hard up all morning and this is what I get as a consolation. Gracious God. I can't make out whether Rukawa's telling the truth or not. I don't know if he has another quality aside from the drift wood behavior he's got; if he's another liar equipped with the usual cock and bull story for an excuse. I feel more restless as the ticking of the clock goes round the curve, time drifts unnoticeably like an unforeseen aging of a generation. I look at the room's aperture. It's completely dark outside and a lingering presence sweeps me breathless as it hovers with the mist beyond my walls. I never dare look at my window, I just know it is THERE again.
So Rukawa is probably saying the truth after all.
TBC