In history class, they move onto a new unit: the Second War. It is the only change that has manifested itself; the class still reads aloud to the slow slide of the clock hand and she guiltily wishes she were anywhere but here. Even the training yard, with the sweat and dust, was almost preferable. Time, here in this chamber of sticky surfaces, is slow like molasses. Sweet and sticky, viscous and gooey, clumping together and dripping drop by drop down in globular motion.
The girl in front of her taps her pen to the beat of the Princess Kaneko! theme. Da da, da duh duh. Da, daah, da, duh duh. Sakura can hear the rest of the instruments in her mind: the vocals, the strings, the woodwinds, the brass, all playing along to the tap of the pen. Happy upbeat seven o'clock programming on the television they just got in her living room.
Her glossy new textbook-updated, abridged it says on the cover-is open to the page her neighbours are all at. New, yet already scarred, wooden desk tops are what Sakura does not doodle on like some of her classmates. She does not drum her fingers on them ("Girls don't do that Sakura") and she does not twitch or shake her leg.
"-and Tsunade of the Sannin would swing the war around for Konoha. Haruno-san," Sakura swings her head up so fast it almost gives her whiplash, "Why don't you read the next page for us?"
Heart pounding panic overcomes her. She's at least five chapters ahead, easily pacing ahead of the glacial pace the class was going at. Ino nudges her side, sliding her own textbook at just the right textbook for her to see the page number.
Sakura can't help it. It's so boring reading at the pace of the class, why can't they just read any faster?
She flips back frantically, scrambling to find the page. There's barely any text, Sakura realizes, and relaxes in relief. The majority of the page is taken up by a large photograph of Senju Tsunade standing in front of the once new Konoha Hospital with several other unnamed medical personnel smiling beside her.
If this were one of the boys in the back, Saito-sensei would have already said something. She's lucky.
"Haruno-san, are you ready?" Saito-sensei asks.
"Yes sensei." She replies, stomach churning as the stiff cover slips in her sweaty grip.
"Senju Tsunade single-handedly changed the course of the war by developing a series of antidotes and antivenoms against Chiyo of Sunagakure, saving hundreds of lives for Konoha." The words feel like a tumble, not the good kind, but the out-of-control tumble in the sparring ring where all of her planned actions: the counters, the counter-counters, each scenario she runs in her head goes astray, and she ends up on the dirt.
"Her invaluable contributions to Konoha's knowledge of medical ninjutsu placed Konoha at the forefront of the medical field where it continues to be today. Senju Tsunade also is responsible for noo-mer-use? Nuh-mer-us?"
"Numerous," Saito-sensei interrupts, "Thank you for reading Haruno-san, you did a good job. Ito-san, why don't you continue?"
The boy two rows down starts reading from the very next word. Despite being relieved at no longer having to read out loud for the entire class, she feels the burn of shame as blood rushes to her head and pounds in her cheeks. Ami was probably already laughing at her inside her head, preparing all the ammunition she could for the afterschool kunoichi lessons, where she would be free to unload them all at Sakura.
In the photo within the glossy textbook page, Tsunade-hime looks proud, confident, strong. A kunoichi, who has a perfectly normal forehead, someone who doesn't mispronounce words, someone who was the best medic in the world, maybe next-in-line to be Hokage.
She wants with the dregs of her mediocre heart to be like her. Maybe then Sasuke-kun would look at her, Ino wouldn't leave her behind, her classmates wouldn't laugh at her, she wouldn't just be Haruno Sakura.
The rest of the class flows over her like the current of the Naka River, treacherously calm at first glance, its turbulence dragging its victims down to the depths below. Her thoughts keep her occupied and still in her own shell. Ino's nudge shakes her out of the stillness.
"Did you do Suzume-sensei's homework?" Ino chirps.
Sakura nods her head slowly, still not making any moves to put her books into her book bag or her pens away into the red and white fabric case she had carefully chosen out in the beginning of the year.
"Great! Do you mind if I copy yours, Sakura? I completely forgot about the sheet she gave us."
Reaching within her book bag, she finds the purple paper folder she saves for the kunoichi class assignments, and hands it over. Yes I do mind a little, she wants to say, but she can't say it. The small wiggles of doubt in her head squirm in wrongness; it isn't explainable, but it pokes and prods at her all the same, she doesn't say it.
Ino snatches the worksheet of flower names and meanings from her hand.
"Just hand it in for me please." She says belatedly.
"No worries." Is Ino's flippant response as she starts scribbling down her answers with one of the dark blue-purple ink pens she always uses. 'They match my bag and my notebooks!' Ino had bragged, the envy of the other girls.
Indeed, they did. Ino was the type who had colour-coordinated her stationary all into cascading shades of pink, purple, and blue; her erasers the fancy ones, not the everyday practical little square white ones, but colourful and shaped into little sushi rolls or onigiri. They were gifted to her by a cousin who bought them in Tanzaku-gai on a mission, and Ino never lent them out, rarely using them. Ino's cousins were always bringing her things from her missions: the purple pencils from Kusa, the bead bracelet from Suna, small knick-knacks.
Kunoichi class is another one of those classes where Ino is better than her, just like taijutsu katas and throwing shuriken or kunai.
Ino's purple-nailed hands rap against Sakura's desk, wrenching her out of her thoughts. "Let's go!"
It's not too far a walk, just down the hall, around the corner into another classroom. A bigger one, one they had been inside in their first year at the Academy. Some of their classmates are already inside, waiting. Sakura does a quick scan, breath held. It is let go once she doesn't see the familiar, dread-inducing purple of Ami's hair or the rest of her gang.
Ino sits down in one of the middle rows: not too close to the front, and not too close to the back. Sakura takes her seat beside Ino and waits. The familiar figure of Suzume-sensei enters, but with her is another woman. Dark hair cut below the chin, dressed in a black top and pants, she looks younger than Sakura's parents, but not that young either. Much older than the upper years in the Academy, older than the genin teams that they sometimes see doing busywork around the village.
"This is Shizune-sensei." Suzume-sensei introduces.
"Today's lesson will be the start of a series of sessions where different specialties will introduce and cover a broad overview of what they do. Please hand-in your homework into the basket if you haven't already, and quickly return to your seats. I hope you will all," She shoots one of those looks, one that the upper-year girls liked to imitate, only to look like they were experiencing severe bowel issues, "Be on your best behaviour for Shizune-sensei."
In truth, Sakura, much older, not much wiser, can barely recall this moment. She will remember her sweaty palms, how she had passed notes with Ino under the table, the cadence of Shizune's voice.
She walks home with a form in her hand. It says: "Hospital Volunteering Program Form". Shizune-sensei had handed them out after her presentation with a smile, saying she hoped to see them there. All Sakura needs is a signature from one of her parents, and to turn the form into her classroom teacher the next school day, Monday. Easy.
Sakura hums the peppy beats of the Princess Kaneko! theme walking that last stretch home by herself. It's a beginning, something better than being just Haruno Sakura. Maybe she'll be like Tsunade-hime, or even just Shizune-sensei, and in ten years it'll be Sakura standing in front of a class just like hers.