Chapter 2 / Liar's Mask

Faces are deceptive. While important as a primitive method of identification, they stand among the very cornerstones of inequality.

Every morning, billions of people wake up in the morning to look themselves in the mirror, and I guarantee you that a solid 50% would absolutely despise what they see staring back into their bagged eyes. The other 50% are an unsightly amalgam of the flawlessly gorgeous and the ones who have already consigned themselves to be damned so many times that they've seriously stopped giving it thought.

Let's assume for a brief moment that you have an terrible face or, perhaps, an average one that would otherwise look decent but is tragically marred by a disproportionate nose or a horrendously misplaced mouth. Your life choices are thus presented as follows:

a) You quietly accept the works of "fate" or "bad luck" and live the rest of your life as an unmarried wage-slave, marrying some equally unlucky and likely overweight soul in the same social position as you (if anyone at all).

b) You try to coerce yourself into believing your mother's fallacious "reassurance" comments: "Hey! It's the inside that counts!" or "They are just empty vases!" Last time I checked, all vases are inherently empty and ugly ones get no sales. Who wants an ugly vase?

c) You get plastic surgery immediately by forgoing your life savings to artificially correct that one regrettably dominant gene. Consequently, you marry a stunning supermodel who would otherwise never look you in the eye - only for her to file for divorce and therapy sessions the instant she uncovers your "old" college Facebook photos.

I actually think that the last one would make a hilarious story.

Just saying. Where was I?

Right.

Looks and faces - absolutely despicable inventions - only divide our twisted society further. As if financial distinctions weren't enough, people also separate themselves into social hierarchies based on appearances. Cute girls only converse and aim for cute guys. Ugly guys either meet ugly girls or hire for a "good time." Average guys like me stay alone forever. Not that I would mind.

Because of one unfavorable roll in the random number generator or one dastardly twist of chance's crooked hands, heads either turn towards you or away from you. People either flock your way in the hallways, fighting to make trivial conversation, or ignore you completely as they would their shadows. Job interviewers either become infatuated with you - asking for your number as you rise from the chair - or put on a "business face" as they discreetly shred your resume after your much desired exit lets their eyes rest in peace. They say that a pretty face can only get you so far, but I disagree. You'd have to be incredibly stupid not to abuse your looks to move ahead of the crowd, and given that you do, you would get quite damn far. Far enough at least to marry another hot person or land a six-figure job, unlike the rest of us pathetic miscreants.

Even in mythology, the deception of faces has proven time and time again to be a facet of reality, not fantasy. Helen of Troy supposedly had a face so irresistible that she started the Ancient Greek equivalent of World War I. The gorgon Medusa possessed a face of snakes so terrifying that all who gazed her way would be instantly reduced to lifeless stone statues.

How quaint.

My Modern Japanese teacher, a fascinating hybrid of the above two, is wearing a face so beautifully deadly that it would probably skip the "stone" part altogether and send me directly to an unmarked grave twenty thousands leagues under the sea - perhaps with a few chocolate truffles in my casket and a handwritten note on the side: "Send my regards to Captain Nemo! XOXO"

I haven't even gotten the chance to write my eulogy.

Hiratsuka-sensei sits before me at her desk while I scratch the crumpled fabric of my school uniform, awaiting certain damnation. The air around us, long since bereft of the shrill afternoon bell, takes on the tense silence before a looming war. In her left hand, she pinches a fuming cigarette so tightly that it is bent at a viciously acute angle; in her right, she clenches my Modern Japanese assignment from last week.

In her mouth, she holds the judgement of God.

Is it too late to believe in prayers?

"...Hiki...gaya...kun..."

My now mangled assignment is thrust in my face as I vigorously study my indoor shoes.

Some context is probably in order. Hiratsuka-sensei told me to write, and I quote, "an honest mock application letter to the head of admissions at a university of your choice." I did exactly as I was told with no compromises or straw-grasping. It's not my fault that I took the liberty to follow her instructions accurately. Seriously, just think about the irrationality! What sentient entity under the heavens tells a guy to do something and gets pissed off at him for doing so?

Oh wait. Girls do.

Women are synonymous with girls.

Sensei is a woman.

Kill me.

"...do you know what this... this is?" My teacher is on the brink of either foaming at the mouth or releasing a punch with a force rivaling the magnitude of the Tsar Bomb detonation.

Either way, not a good situation.

"...yeah," I mumble offhandedly.

She continues to seethe, her voice wavering.

"...I asked you to write a mock application letter to a university, and you turn in another one of your nihilistic hit pieces... Do you think this is at all acceptable?!"

The last few syllables come out as a half-shriek.

Time to counterattack!

"Hey, I-"

Unfortunately, my would-be superior logic is completely cut off with another verbal uppercut.

"Don't... Don't even give me any of your wisecracks or roundabout logic... I want this assignment redone... by next week..." The cigarette has shriveled in her grasp, precipitating to her desk in a smoldering disarray of fuming ashes.

I have nothing else to say. No more humorous rebuttals. No more thin arguments. No ammo. No energy. E-Tank! Maximum Tomato! Full Restore! Reload! Reload!

Nothing? Fine then.

I, Hikigaya Hachiman, bequeath to my younger sister Komachi all my earthly possessions: My outdated smartphone, retro video game collection, and a most valuable album of Totsuka photos.

On second thought, bury the Totsuka album with me. I need something to pass the time in hell.

Sensei rams her clenched first, my paper in hand, into the mess of hot ashes on her desk. The sonic boom created from the impact could make most fighter jets gape in admiration, and I jump back and hit my head on the wall in surprise and raw terror at the destructive marvel that is my Modern Japanese teacher. This isn't a woman. This is no Helen of Troy. She sends legions of men in the opposite direction! She burns a thousand flammable male souls with that incinerating gaze! She buries young boys alive with her linguistic hammer of judgement! "Taking on Sheamus! The Undertaker! CM Punk and even Triple H and The Big Show in a spit-swapping makeout match... WWE Suuuuuuuppperrrrr Slllaaaaammmm!"

Seeing it favorable to escape before Hiratsuka-sensei starts offering me $60 pay-per-view packages in a booming voice as trumpets blare in the background, I mash the nonexistent "Run" button again and again. No dice. There is a deathly numbness in my body.

Note to self: Petition for a paralysis nerf in the next patch.

My cheeks tingle violently. Sensei has suddenly pulled her face close enough to whisper in my ear. Although I'm 108% sure that such a flagrant disregard of personal space is a violation of multiple school sanctioned teacher-student regulations, I'm too immobilized to care. The heavy tobacco in her moist breath floods my senses and I half-deliriously brace for impact.

"...Do it, or else I'll make you repeat all of high school. Twice." Hiratsuka-sensei gives me a smile that would make God cry.

And as if on cue, the assignment in her hand bursts into small, wicked flames that ruthlessly lick up the printed kanji.

Do you know how liquefaction occurs? Water-saturated granular material temporarily loses its strength as it shakes and transforms from a solid to a liquid. The resulting instability is capable of sinking rigid skyscrapers into the ground and causing them to eventually implode.

Liquefaction is an excellent way to describe my current physical state.

I mutter an "I'm on it, Sensei" before weakly limping for the door and then breaking into a full sprint down the hallway, almost tripping on some moron's haphazardly positioned books. Outbound students give me a few quizzical stares before going back to their business.

Women. Are. Scary.

In light of today's experiences, I have established a fundamentally solid reason as to why Hiratsuka-sensei is still unmarried. That pretty face belies a world of what she calls "tough love." Personally, I think that "love" tough enough to land craters in cinder block walls is best left alone. Who knows? Maybe one day Sensei will meet a hapless young gentleman with a dominatrix fetish.

Nope. Don't think like that. Bad things. Dirty, stupid, adolescent thoughts.

I break seven school records in track-and-field, still panting in full sprint down the crowded hall. Turning a random corner, a familiar length of black hair comes within my vision two seconds too late, and the inevitable happens.

We collide.

There is a muffled thud as we hit the tiled floor.

"Ngh..." The halls and doors swirl around me like water around a drain as I dizzily attempt to regain my bearings. Greeting my ears is a voice cold enough to freeze sunshine into snow.

"Watch where you are going, you careles-"

The voice suddenly stops. I'm not complaining; my eardrums need to thaw. I blink my eyes.

It's her.

Her.

She Who Must Not Be Named.

"Oh," my victim stammers stiffly. "Sorry."

"No, I was careless. I'll watch where I'm going." Our voices are out of breath. I'm telling myself to get a grip, but for some reason it's slipping fast. She sits herself up as I help her recover her books, and our eyes meet by dumb chance.

For a fleeting moment less than time can count, the plodding of feet, the disjointed conversation, the swinging of doors, the banging of lockers, the afternoon breeze- everything, everything, appears to slow down and then stop altogether. The moment hangs suspended in the air, and she is dangerously close - the "I-now-know-the-brand-of-shampoo-you-use" kind of close. Still cornered by time, my eyes trace the contours of her delicate expression and reach a startlingly paradoxical conclusion:

There are no lies in that face.

None.

A chill runs down my body.

She lets out a barely audible gasp, and I scramble to reclaim my rationality.

...What is this again?

Words finally force their way out of my mouth. "Yo... Are you heading to the club room?" It's my last resort: Empty conversation. Though I hate to use it, it always seems to work - 100% success rate or your money back.

Her cheeks quickly redden - definitely because of the heaters. They've turned them on too early this year, which constitutes a significant waste of taxpayer money. You have too many things you can do with money instead of burning it on air conditioning.

Burning money? Heaters? Financial dynamics? Get it?

I crack myself up.

What am I trying to hide from?

"...Yes." Her reply catches me slightly off guard with its soft, muffled, and - almost, ALMOST, warm - tone. My head is still foggy; a loss of a few IQ points wouldn't be out of the question.

"Then let's go."

"Alright."

We stand, and the ground tilts beneath our feet.

It is another chilly day in spring with fair weather and scattered tufts of clouds. As I turn the usual corner to the usual room, I have already suffered emotional trauma from meeting my overripe Modern Japanese teacher and bodily damage from running into one Yukino Yukinoshita. Max Repel has proven ineffective, and fleeing equally so. The gods of rom-com have toyed with me again.

Well done. I'll clap and play along.

However, let me tell you one thing. I know that nothing so far has been genuine - that this life, like faces, is ultimately a charade. Day by day, the people around me allow themselves to be suspended by falsehoods, smiling as their limbs dance and sway above the reality that awaits below. They have chosen to dangle safely beyond the dreaded truth.

I, on the other hand, fall. From when that first rejection cut me loose until now, every second of my existence has been a second spent falling. I wouldn't say that I mind.

For as a wise wooden boy once observed, "There are no strings on me."

But if that is so...

"Say, Hikigaya-kun..."

.

.

.

...just what exactly is pulling at my heart?