Chapter Three: These days
I walk in with the all-age class of Whitney Prep School's younger years. Apparently, they do both middle school and high school. Yeah, still that seems odd to me. I don't speak to anyone around me as the principal continues to go over the school's newest list of stupid rules, and boy, is there a lot of them. Well, at least I'm being forewarned about them.
My life can be summed up in one sentence- My name is Gou, I'm fifteen-years-old, and I'm about to enter the ninth grade.
I peer around at Makoto, who's to my left, only to see him take Lin's hand. Why don't those two just go out already? Save me the anguish. I turn away, pretending not to notice the redness of their faces.
Orientation drags on for another hour, only ending when we're all given our class schedules and maps of the school. As I glance over it, my schedule in the other hand, something hits me.
"Makoto, you're fucked!" I scream to him as he jogs up to me, Lin not too far behind. I'm smiling more than I normally would, and I can tell that it's creeping them out. Why, eh, Makoto messing up is funny to me.
"Shut up, Gou. I bet you a hundred yen I'll have my schedule memorized by Monday." He yells over the crowd, clearly angry.
"In a day? You're on. I'll double your wager."
"Lin, help me." Makoto begs the girl to my right, me being in the middle as always.
Lin smiles, my heart melting into goo. "No way, this is between you two. I'm out."
We wave her off as she heads toward the gymnasium doors, her parents waiting for her.
Lin is a spirited young girl around my age, and I've liked her since kindergarten. She has dark pink hair like her mother's but it's styled like her father's. She wears it down and tied back, but unlike her old man, she dons two braids that go straight down to her waist. I think she's aiming for her dad's length. Honestly, I don't think Mr. Kon has seen a pair of scissors in his entire life. His hair drags the floor. Her clothing is pink like her mother's attire, though thanks to us her clothing is more modern. Usually it consists of miniskirts and showy mid-drift tops, but today she's wearing a formal, floor length dress worn by many of the women in her culture. According to Lin, they argue all the time about her 'inappropriate dress.' She's obviously not interested in the culture, but mommy dearest still forces it on her. Mr. Kon is only worried she'll get hurt one day because all someone may see her as is a peace of meat, and I half agree, but Lin can take care of herself. He's taught her well.
"Hello, anyone in there?"
I blink at the hand waving in front of my face and then turn to Makoto who, oddly enough, looks concerned.
"You okay, bro?"
"Yeah, I'm fine." I indifferently say, eyes telling him to lower his hand or I'll bite it.
With that we walk out of the gymnasium, taking a route opposite to Lin. I can't let Makoto know that I like her. It'd just cause more issues than there already are.
Makoto walks in front of me, his tennis shoes squeaking on the freshly waxed floor. As I sit on the school's back steps, I can hear the loose change he often carries around rattling in the pockets of his baggy, grey cargo pants.
Before he sits down, Makoto pulls down on his yellow teeshirt, trying to keep it from riding up and exposing his midsection. We sit in comfortable silence.
Like his father, Makoto is scrawny everywhere but his stomach. That's because he loves to eat and doesn't keep an exercise routine. But I won't say anything until I see a reason to. He's not fat by any means but he does have a gut, and I may not show it but I do worry about him. Both of them really. Where Lin is smothered by rules and the roles she should play in life, this mostly being enforced by her mother, Makoto is barely tied to any, his parents are easygoing and lenient most of the time.
Mine on the other hand...
"Gouuuuu!"
He's just embarrassing.
At the repeated honks of a car horn I'm forced to acknowledge his presence.
"Hey, dad." I hesitantly call out, politely waving to the blond man in the topless, green car.
Makoto laughs as I get up to leave, clearly enjoying my torment.
"Don't forget our bet." I say as I step down.
"I won't." He groans out, a laugh escaping. Yeah, he's good company. Not that I'd ever tell him that.
Walking into the Mizuhara Hobby shop we call home, I'm poked in the arm by the animated goofball.
"What?" I say, placing my packets of school stuff on the chipped end table by the counter.
My old man gives me a cheeky grin, and then says, "Tag, you're it."
"You've got to be kidding me." I say, poking him back and then folding my arms over my chest in defiance.
The man cracks his knuckles, smirking. Okay, I do not like that gleam in his eyes.
"Nope." Then he charges at me.
"I'm not playing." I say frankly, dodging his fingers as they poke at me in every direction. "I'm too old for this."
Before he can literally corner me I turn around and book it. He chases me throughout the store and the adjoining house. Oh thank God we're closed today!
"Are you sure you're in your forties?" I say, laughing loudly as we bound noisily up the steps.
"Are you sure you're not in your eighties? Come on, live a little, Porcupine!"
I laugh more at hearing my lifelong nickname, my eyes closing as we round the corner toward the top of the abode.
But then I lose my footing on the last step. As I'm about to fall face-first into the splintery hardwood, I feel a familiar forearm wrap around my average abdomen and pull me back upright, to safety.
I turn to him, giving hm a thankful smile. He just smiles and pokes my left cheek, making me smile wider, which in turn makes my one and only dimple appear. He removes his finger from it and kisses my cheek sweetly, something grandma Judy used to always do when I smiled really big. But before I can completely get away, he proceeds to blow a raspberry tart on my cheek, making me laugh like an idiot.
"No, no, no- Stop stop stop, it tickles! Your whiskers tickle! Ahhhh!" I bellow joyfully as I feel him lifting me up and over the remaining stairs, only letting me go when I'm on the actual floor of the hallway. He stops, wiping his mouth of the spit while I wipe my still dimply face, my laughter subsiding.
"Get washed up, dinner's in an hour." He tells me, lightly slapping my arm, still wanting to play.
"Yes, papa." I say, giving him a light punch back.
I turn toward my room at the end of the hall while I hear papa head downstairs and into the kitchen. I can't wipe the smile from my face as I open and close my bedroom door. He may be embarrassing at times, but God do I feel like the luckiest boy alive.