Warnings: None


Lucky Child

Chapter 21:

"Play it Cool, Keiko"


I learned three things on my first day at Meiou.

The first was I couldn't outrun my past forever.

The second was that my reputation preceded me.

The third was that I only had two classes with Kurama—and that he would not be the first familiar-faced friend I'd make at my new school.


Meiou eschewed traditional Japanese high school format (in which students were taught all subjects in their homeroom) in favor of an oddly American grade system. We all had homerooms based on our grade, but we travelled from class to class between periods and were taught different subjects in different rooms. This allowed students to pick and choose classes from different grade levels, based on their personal preferences and proficiencies.

Meiou insisted they place me in a 10th grade homeroom, but I was taking math class with mostly 9th graders. English I took with 11th graders. Science I took with 10th graders. And on, and on—you get the idea. Since Kurama was wicked smart, I was certain he took classes above his actual grade level, meaning we could have classes in common no matter what grades we were in.

Kurama was in the 9th grade, if my memory of the anime served. Sure enough, I showed up on my first day and didn't see him in my homeroom. Neither did I see him in math class, or English class, or my chosen elective. I kept an eye out throughout the day, forcing my best Keiko-at-school smile as students and teachers showed me the lay of the land—but try though I might, I couldn't focus on factoids about my new school.

What would I do when I saw Kurama?

I'd play it cool, obviously. Pretend like I didn't know his name. Let myself be introduced to him, not force an interaction like some rabid fangirl (OK, I am a fangirl, but I most certainly wouldn't act like a rabid one...not at first, anyway).

I could see it now. I'd see Kurama from across the room, but I'd avert my eyes so he wouldn't think I'd been expecting him. Then I'd surreptitiously observe him, of course, calmly comparing him to his anime counterpart without being obvious about it. And finally, I'd don my very best Keiko-at-school face when someone introduced us. Probably throw in a look of surprise when someone called my name in order to get my attention for that introduction, for good measure.

'Minamino, was it?' I imagined myself saying as Kurama and I exchanged bows. It goes without saying I'd keep my tone polite, yet friendly. I'd smile and say, 'It's nice to meet you. Thank you for looking out for me at this new school.'

And we'd walk away from the conversation like nothing of significance had taken place.

Smooth, Keiko. Very smooth.

I wouldn't stare at him, obviously. I wouldn't make any overt attempts to be near him (he'd pick up on that right away). I'd never make the mistake of calling him 'Kurama' if I could help it, nor would I ever let on that I knew things about his past. And I'd negotiate my way into his life with subtlety, of course.

'I'm new here,' I'd tell him. 'Think you could show me around?'

Or was that too forward? Maybe I should go with—

I'd scripted my first meeting with Kurama in my head a dozen different ways by the time lunch rolled around. Preoccupied by introduction tactics, I allowed my class rep to show me to the cafeteria, where we ate together with other girls from our class. They all seemed nice enough, though I listened to them talk about the school with only half an ear.

I was too busy scanning the crowd for a shock of brilliant red hair to really focus.

"So you used to go to Sarayashiki?" my class rep, Amagi-san, asked.

"Oh. Um." Her head blocked the door to the cafeteria; I shifted so I could see it. "That's right."

Another classmate asked, "What made you decide to transfer?"

I paused, eyes roving across the milling students. "My parents made the choice."

She exchanged a look with Amagi. I hardly noticed. I was too busy staring out the cafeteria windows, hoping for a glimpse of red amongst the trees lining the school yard.

"Well. I hope you like it here," Amagi said.

Her voice didn't hold much warmth, like she was reading from a script. It occurred to me I'd been less than congenial just now. I drew my focus back to her and smiled my sunniest Keiko-at-school smile.

"Me, too," I said. "Thank you so much for showing me around today. I appreciate it very much. If you don't mine me asking, are there any teachers I should look out for?"

They took the bait. Amagi and company happily took the reins of the conversation and addressed my question, allowing me to continue my scrutiny of the cafeteria. I piped in on occasion and tried to look interested as they described the school; luckily they seemed more than content to leave the conversation one-sided.

In retrospect, I fear I came across as aloof since I didn't answer their questions about myself very thoroughly, but that was something I'd worry about another day.

Frustratingly, I saw neither hide nor crimson hair of Kurama during lunch. Maybe he ate outdoors, communed with plants or something, whatever. Tempted to inquire about him (surely he had a reputation at this school, right?), I rationalized that there was no way for me to ask after Kurama when I hadn't even seem him yet. I didn't want to be obvious about this. Didn't want to look like I was stalking him or something. We hadn't met yet, after all.

Best be patient, Keiko. And at least try to breathe…

History class, which I took with mostly 10th graders, came after lunch. The room was just about full, all but a few desks occupied by the time I arrived. I sat in my newly-assigned seat (two rows back, near the middle) and resigned myself to yet another Kurama-free hour. Luckily my teacher wanted to chat, which distracted me from my burgeoning disappointment.

Where the fuck was the damn fox hiding, anyway?

No, don't think about it. Grades. Focus on your grades. Your grades haven't ceased to matter, Keiko. Concentrate. What was the teacher saying?

"Welcome to class, Yukimura-san," my teacher said. She set a folder on my desk and tapped it with a finger. "We only just started the term, but you'll need to make up a few assignments nonetheless. I've included them here."

"Thank you very much," I said.

"There is also a list of required reading," my teacher explained. "I expect you to complete it by—"

Somehow, despite my teacher's proximity and the chatter of my classmates, I heard the classroom door creak open.

A flash of red appeared in the corner of my vision.

The girls at my school all wore red uniforms. The boys wore a weird pink-purple shade.

Despite this assortment of warm colors, the second I saw this particular flash of red appear…I knew.

I knew.

I kept my eyes locked on my teacher's face. I didn't turn as the red smudge in my periphery walked behind me and out of sight. I carefully maintained a neutral expression, spine erect but relaxed, as I heard a chair rattled and slide across the floor. I did not react as, below the murmur of other students' conversations, a schoolbag hit the flat of a desk with a thump.

There's no describing how I knew, from nothing more distinct than a smudge, that Kurama had sat down somewhere behind me.

Certainty crackled across my awareness like electricity, biting and undeniable.

Kurama was here.

I could feel it.

"Yukimura—are you all right?"

My teacher's brows threatened to merge with her hairline. I blinked. "Hmm?"

"You're quite pale." Real concern darkened her expression. "Are you feeling well?"

I opened my mouth to tell her I was fine—but when I did, the world pulled back into focus.

What I felt, then, I did not like.

I did not like it at all.

It was as if, during the process of focusing so exclusively on Kurama, I'd gone out-of-body.

It was as if, when I'd gotten wrapped up in monitoring Kurama, I'd lost my connection to my physical form.

Now, though, my teacher's words yanked me back into my physical shell like a fish on the end of a line.

Sensation washed across my awareness in a heady tsunami rush.

Saliva flooded my mouth. When I tried to swallow, my throat tangled, breath catching and stopping midway down my neck. Pulse beat against my veins like moths in a jar. Spots danced in my periphery like inverted fireflies. My body warmed over, sweat misting across my face and back, but then my skin frosted as the sweat evaporated. My head threatened to detach from my neck and float away into the sky. When I tried to breathe, tried to breathe deep to calm my racing heart, my chest did nothing but hitch. My throat clenched around the breath fighting against my lungs, body wracking with chill I could not control, hands slick and cold and throat suddenly on fire—

Oh no.

It had been 14 years since the last time this happened, but I knew what was coming.

Good thing Amagi showed me the locations of the bathrooms before class.

I barely made it to a toilet before puking up every last crumb of my lunch.

So much for playing it cool.


I stayed at the nurse for the rest of history class, per my teacher's instructions. The nurse let me go when I explained the incident was merely a product of nerves about my first day. I threw up all the time when I got nervous, I said—and that was mostly true, if you were talking about my past life. I'd always thrown up in my past life when I got nervous. Seems that habit had finally caught up to me in this one.

I made it to my next class—foreign literature—just as the bell rang. The teacher placed me on the first row near the window after giving me a textbook, telling me which page to turn to, and briefly explaining the course syllabus. Would've preferred the back of the class, but whatever. At least I had a good view.

A good view to look at while I tuned out the lecture and thought about how fucking stupid I was.

Of course my nerves overtook me. How had I not seen that coming? Of course I threw up at the barest sight of Kurama. I'd been a fool to think I could evade all physical symptoms of my anxiety disorder in this life. Keiko possessed a certain serenity my old self had not, but even that serenity wasn't impervious to my nerves—especially when meeting one of the Yu Yu Hakusho characters mostly like to see me for what I was. Who I was? Whatever. The point was that—

"—participate, Yukimura?"

I jerked my chin off my hand. My teacher—a tall man with a thin face and oval glasses, surname Hamaguchi—regarded me with a cool expression over the top of a textbook.

"I'm sorry," I said, cheeks flushing in spite of myself. "It's my first day—"

"Stand up when you speak to me."

My classmates murmured. Cheeks on fire, I slid out from behind my desk.

"I apologize," I said. "As I was saying, it's my first day—"

"I'm afraid I'm not one for excuses," he said, neatly brushing my words aside. My mouth fell wide open. "Now tell me. Do you or do you not agree with the Marxist interpretation of Romeo and Juliet we've been discussing all class?" His lips curled. "Or did you not pay enough attention to form an opinion?"

I glanced at my syllabus, lying face up on the corner of my desk. My eyes narrowed. Apparently reading some sort of literary article about Marxism in Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet had been last night's homework—homework this teacher knew full well I probably hadn't completed, given I'd only just enrolled at this school.

Was he trying to embarrass me or something?

But why?

Oh, well. Too bad for him, two could play at this game.

"Actually, I prefer a sociological approach when analyzing this particular play," I said, in top Keiko-at-school-being-perfect form. "I believe this play functions as a cautionary tale, of sorts, applicable to—"

My teacher rolled his eyes. "Oh. So you're one of those girls."

I blinked at him, words dying on my tongue, because excuse me?

"I see it every year," he said in a simpering tone I really, really didn't like. "You think denying this play's romantic elements will make you seem…what's the word? Mature?" He pushed his glasses up his nose with a smirk. "Most young women find the play romantic. Not you, though. You're not like the others girls, or so you wish to seem. You'll write off our protagonists as idiotic children, as though you somehow know better than they do, but I'm afraid criticizing other teenagers does not make you an adult."

A few people gasped.

I couldn't move.

Why the hell was he coming after me like this?

And with such harebrained, dramatic accusations, to boot?

"Attempts to make yourself seem better than your peers will not work on me, I'm afraid," Hamaguchi said with mocking sympathy. "You insult your classmates, putting on airs like that."

My classmates tittered. I could do nothing more articulate than stare at him.

I'd only just gotten here. Why was this teacher laying into me like this—and with such unrestricted venom?

As if answering my unspoken question, Hamaguchi said, "I'm friends with certain teachers at your previous school. I know all about you, Yukimura. Don't think you can get away with slacking on my watch."

Oh, for fuck's sake—this guy must be friends with Iwamoto. Of all the goddamn luck!

"I do not intend to slack off, sir," I managed to grind out. "And your assessment of my thoughts on Romeo and Juliet is incorrect. My criticism of the text does not place fault on Romeo and Juliet themselves, but rather their parents."

Hamaguchi opened his mouth. I did not let him cut me off.

"If you'll reference the opening stanza of the play," I said. "Lines 4, 9, and 10 in particular."

Hamaguchi (not to mention the rest of the class) reached for their books.

I did not touch mine.

Instead, I rattled off the passage rote—first in English, then in Japanese.

Hamaguchi looked quite alarmed by this, I was pleased to note.

I said:

"Two households, both alike in dignity,

In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,

From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,

Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.

From forth the fatal loins of these two foes

A pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life;

Whose misadventured piteous overthrows

Do with their death bury their parents' strife.

The fearful passage of their death-mark'd love,

And the continuance of their parents' rage,

Which, but their children's end, naught could remove,

Is now the two hours' traffic of our stage;

The which if you with patient ears attend,

What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend."

By the time I finished, the room had gone quite silent.

"As is plain to see, this passage indicates that the rivalry between the Capulets and the Montagues was of such antiquity, their descendants did not know from whence their familial enmity sprang," I said. "If the origin of the grudge mattered, it would have been mentioned. Thus, the tension between families is nothing more noteworthy than a mere tradition of hatred, lacking any practical value whatsoever…aside from influencing their children to commit suicide, of course."

Hamaguchi's face had turned an alarming shade of puce. Around me, my classmates had begun to murmur. I paid no attention to what they said.

"All told, this means Romeo and Juliet can function as an allegorical critique of social prejudice," I continued. "Racism, sexism, homophobia—all of these prejudices are based on outdated and invalid assumptions. It is the role of parents, teachers, and other influencing members of society to critically examine tradition, not merely adhere to it blindly, and determine what traditions spring from harmful notions of outdated prejudice. Authority figures must excise what is no longer moral or ethical in favor of ethical social progress."

Hamaguchi's hands hung limp at his sides. His eye bulged so far I feared they'd touch the backs of his eyeglasses.

"Had the heads of the Montagues and the Capulets been more aware of their duty to place value on morals over outdated traditions, like grudges against other families," I said, "the deaths of Romeo and Juliet might have been avoided." I smiled, trying to look helpful rather than combative (and you better believe I was feeling combative just then). "So, no. I place no fault on Romeo and Juliet themselves. I place blame entirely on the shoulders of their elders."

I sat down.

A graveyard hush fell over the classroom. My teacher chewed on air. Good. Hopefully now he'd leave me alone, so I could lay low. Play it cool, Keiko.

Behind me, someone began to chuckle.

The chuckling brought Hamaguchi out of his trance. He shoved his glasses up his nose and sniffed.

"Do you find something amusing, Kaito?" my teacher said.

The chuckling ceased.

"Yes," said a dry, amused voice. "You. I find you amusing, Hamaguchi-sensei."

Hamaguchi said something in response.

I barely heard him. I was too busy staring at the wall, mouth abruptly dry.

That voice—

I knew that voice!

Three desks behind mine, at the very back of the class, sat a boy with curly black hair, freckles, and thin glasses limning his narrow eyes with cool silver—cool silver that seemed warm in comparison to his cold stare. He regarded Hamaguchi over the glasses' bridge, wearing a look of such imperious disdain even I shrank into myself.

"You tried so desperately to put words in her mouth," the boy said. He sat with arms and legs crossed, tapping his fingers on one bicep. A smirk curled his thin lips. "Too bad it didn't work."

Hamaguchi's cheeks colored. "Mind your manners, Kaito."

He shoved his glasses up his nose with a finger. "My apologies." Cold eyes slid my way—at which point they warmed a little. "While I have the floor, allow me to express my admiration for your analysis, Yukimura-san. It's unconventional. I find that refreshing."

"Thank you," I said.

He nodded. But then: "However—"

He promptly launched into a speech. A long, complicated speech dissecting every last hole and flaw in my interpretation of Shakespeare's play, picking apart every tiny detail of what I'd said with laser-like precision and unflinchingly critical aim. He talked for a good five minutes before falling silent. He sat back in his seat when he was through and stared at me, head cocking the barest bit to one side.

"Any response?" he said.

A tracery of mocking irony adorned his tone like an understated necklace.

Every face in the classroom swung in my direction, shocked and wondering and expectant.

Part of me knew I should probably just nod, thank him, and sit down.

But I think we all know by now that that's just not my style.

"I understand your points, and agree with some of them," I said. "However, I think you're neglecting to take certain contextual factors into consideration, especially regarding the time period in which—"

And with that, I delivered my own speech, picking apart his points with just as much ferocity as he'd picked apart my own, leaning on every last scrap of literary theory I recalled from my previous life's college education. I went on for nearly as long as he did, vaguely aware that the entire class stared at me with their mouths agape. Here I was, the new girl, challenging this school's resident literary genius.

Because that's what Kaito was, I recalled out of nowhere. He was a published author of literary criticism, whose Taboo territory ability would revolve around words and language—a psychic reflection of the focus of his superior intellect.

Well. Crap.

I'd just gotten into a pissing contest with a genius.

Just my fucking luck.

Deciding not to dwell on my poor decisions of the day, I pressed on until there was nothing left to pick apart. Eventually I fell quiet, took a deep breath, and blasted Kaito with the sunniest smile I could muster.

"Any response?" I said.

All the faces in the classroom swung in Kaito's direction, like this was some sort of godforsaken tennis match or something.

Kaito's lips curled.

"Of course," he said.

You'd better believe we were still going at it by the time the bell rang.


It came as a surprise when Hamaguchi let me go without lecturing me for disrupting class.

It came as an ever greater surprise when Kaito approached me in the hallway.

"In case you didn't catch it," he said, "the name's Kaito. Kaito Yuu."

He looked bored, but also maybe expectant, when he held out a hand. Hesitantly, I took it. He approached the American-style shake with ease. Up close, I couldn't help but notice his pale skin, the silky texture of his curling hair, the light tint to his narrow eyes. Was he half Japanese? I wasn't sure.

"I'm Yukimura Keiko," I said.

"I know," he said. His nasal voice, low and biting, held an edge of dark humor. "I don't know why you got kicked out of your last school, but I can't say I'm sorry about it."

His phrasing, 'kicked out,' gave me pause. How did he know that? My expulsion wasn't public knowledge…right?

He kept talking. I'd wonder about this later.

"You're the first person to match wits with me in the field of literature in quite some time," he said. "I look forward to debating you again, if you find the prospect agreeable."

"Sure," I said.

"Good." His teeth glinted between his lips. "Have you read anything by Hegel?"

"Uh…the philosopher?"

He rolled his eyes as though scolding me. "Yes."

"Oh. Well then. Yes, I have. Why?"

Kaito's eyes glittered, and he launched into an impassioned verbal dissertation about the role of the Hegelian dialectic method of interpretation in literature, right there in the crowded hallway.

And that's how Kaito and I became friends.

It was a good thing, too—because later that day I learned I'd need all the friends I could get at my new school.


NOTES:

There is a new Children of Misfortune scene up! It's fluffy Keiko/Kuwabara stuff. Enjoy!

As always, I'm bamboozled that you like this, and I'm heart stoppingly grateful for each of you: AkiNii, Leacar-Soutaichou, KaiyaAzure, DarkDust27, xenocaanan, Lady Hummingbird, Insanity's Haven, DiCuoreAllison, Marian, Sky65, Support, InkWinged, BrujaChess, Bibi, Yunrii, N*123, Reviewer, Sanguine Sky, leticiadelacruzarias, 2000kate, Miqila, Keto, Hikari Yamino, Jolly Loser, reebajee, and three anonymous guests!