Chapter Eleven
It was a beautiful morning. The sun was shining and, as cliché as it seemed, the birds were singing in the trees. It was the morning when the door slammed open, and Genrou opened his eyes to see Miaka, slit-eyed and glaring, staring from something she held in her hand, to her twin brother's face, back to the cover of the magazine. Then, cursing and mumbling under her breath about lack of sleep or whatsoever, she whirled and left.
That same morning, Genrou got up before noon for the first time since he dropped out of school. He dragged himself into the shower, washed up, then dressed in his old black slacks and pulled on a rust-colored sweater. The day seemed inconceivably strange as he stepped out of the house, Miaka refusing to look at him as she muttered and stabbed incoherently at her magazine.
Walking to the bus stop, Genrou fumbled in his pocket for his wallet. At the back of his mind, he wondered privately what he was doing, getting up so early, and where he actually planned to go. Only when bus number 62 pulled up at the stop, and he looked up, did he see the terrible, laughable irony of unusual Saturday mornings.
Because, there, poised and sultry in an obsidian halter-top dress, plastered neatly and smoothly to the bus's exterior décor, was a picture.
Of him.
It occurred too late, to Genrou, that he was famous. Famous, in a bad, unrecognizable way. But still famous nevertheless.
He boarded the bus, just as the cell phone jumped to life in his pocket, ringing shrilly, causing an old man seated up front to look at him with an expression of annoyance and suspicion on his wrinkled face.
"Hello?" Genrou croaked into the phone, belatedly realizing that his morning voice had not been practiced for a notable period of time. The bus jerked to a stop at the traffic light, and he clawed for the bar just in time to prevent himself from flying towards the windscreen.
"Good morning! Is this Miss Tasu Leika?"
His eyes flew wide open, and he only just managed to stop his jaw from hitting the ground. "Yes," he answered slowly, his brain racing to figure out who the woman on the other end was, as well as what anyone would want with his distinct female personality early Saturday morning.
"I'm so glad I caught you!" the voice gushed. "My name is Yui, and I work for Shantez International. I understand you're the model featured in this month's special edition of photography focus in G?"
He made an unintelligible sound in the back of his throat.
"Well, of course you are! Silly question, I beg your pardon. But the reason I called was to tell you that you are on the list of those specially selected to be auditioned for this year's National Photographic Modeling competition."
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He toyed with the plastic buttons of his mobile, and then determinedly tossed it to the side, burying it under a pile of blankets.
Houjun Ri made it a personal rule never to cross his professional life with his personal one. It kept things simple. Neat. Easy.
One thing was threatening to break every rule he set for himself, and it came in the form of red hair, bronze legs, amber eyes and a smile that was by now probably gracing billboards, advertisements and magazines.
"Maybe I'll just call her and ask her out for a drink, see how she's coping," he muttered to himself, brushing a lock of his hair out of his eyes as he propped himself up against the wall.
Way to go. That was convincing.
Frustrated at the sudden indecision that seemed to be plaguing his peace, he spontaneously dug the phone out from under its camouflage and dialed.
@@@
Genrou blinked stupidly at the phone in his hand, then sighed inwardly and made a decision.
"I don't think I can accept that privilege, Miss Yui."
I'm tired of this, damn it.
A gasp rang shrilly from the other end of the line. "You can't? Why not?!"
"I—I need a rest, actually—I—"
"But you can do that after this competition! You're a new face on the modeling scene, and if I do say so myself, you do have something that the other girls don't seem to have…"
Yea, he thought bitterly, as an image of Houjun flashed into his mind. I have a Y chromosome.
"No, I really don't think so," he started again, but she cut him off.
"I'll see you in person, Leika-chan. I simply must convince you! This is not an opportunity to be passed up! When will you be free?"
Genrou contemplated disconnecting the line.
"Perhaps this afternoon? I'll be meeting one of my friends for lunch, but I'm sure he wouldn't mind if you joined us."
Tag along and play gooseberry on a date with people like you who can't keep their mouths shut for more than five seconds?
"No, thank you." He hoped it didn't sound like the flatly clipped, outright rejection it was.
"Just meet me. I'm sure I can show you the benefits of joining this competition! Houjun would tell you the same, I'm sure—"
"Houjun?" The name slipped out. Genrou cursed himself.
"Oh yes, you would be familiar with him, wouldn't you? He's all over the place, that one, taking pictures."
All over the place? What does she mean by that? Genrou suddenly felt strangely jealous, and sickened, at the thought that Houjun was the sort who went around sleeping with his models. No. I will –not– let my imagination run wild like that! Houjun's not the sort!
But god knows I understand why any sane woman would throw herself into his arms, he added silently to himself.
"This afternoon?" Yui persisted.
"Fine."
There was an incoming call beeping in the background.