Chapter Five

Six weeks ago.

Hanamura studied the delicate lines spanning across a field of mint green. They reminded her of veins, the larger ones spreading out like arteries from the heart. Pink dots created a mesmerizing halftone pattern, but there were also triangles and squares no larger than seed beads. She found that if she squinted her eyes, the textures blurred into an interesting picture. She tilted her head this way and that way, analyzing it from different angles. Who drew this? She wondered. Did they measure out all the lines? Did they use different colors on purpose or was it by chance? How long did it take to render all the details?

"SUZUME HANAMURA!"

She started, jumping so strongly that her knees hit the bottom of her desk. Forty pairs of eyes were now trained on her, but it was the pair at the front of the classroom that had her petrified.

"Is there a problem with your textbook?"

"No, ma'am."

"I expect all my students to answer when called on, Miss Hanamura. I do not tolerate distractions."

"Yes, ma'am."

Her homeroom teacher, Mrs. Osakabe, had a mean reputation. Her voice was clipped and stringent, her brows tweezed into a perpetual scowl. The black suit she wore was as severe as her temperament. Hearing her name spoken so harshly made Hanamura flush with shame. Her classmates were watching, their expressions ranging from amusement to annoyance.

"I asked if you could give me the coordinates to the highest elevation in Sendai," Mrs. Osakabe repeated, impatient.

Hanamura dropped her gaze, staring at the topographic map with fresh panic. Instead of admiring the details, she should have been using the diagram for geographical placement. The map that had inspired her only moments ago became an overwhelming mess of information. The city stretched across the pages of her book, rich and complex, and just as unknown to her as any other city she had never visited. The teacher could have asked her to point out the school, and she would have been just as clueless.

Her body stiffened, the clock ticking loudly inside her ears. She began to swelter in her uniform. It smelled of plastic, still fresh from the garment bag it had been delivered in only a week ago. She had tried to eradicate the smell using lavender, but the odor persisted.

Mrs. Osakabe lowered her glasses with a sharp sigh.

"Mr. Nishioka, perhaps you can assist her?"

A student who sat closer to the chalkboard stood up.

"Mount Funagata is the highest point in Sendai," he said with little to no effort, his expression bored. "It's coordinates are 38.4551˚N, 140.6197˚E."

"Very good," Mrs. Osakabe nodded her approval, adjusting the glasses on her nose. To the room, she said, "your questions on the test will not be as easy, so I suggest you all pay attention."

Hanamura wilted, growing visibly small in her chair. Her heart had become a frantic beating thing inside her chest, her throat constricting as if she were about to cry. She willed herself to stay composed, keeping her eyes glued to the small crack in the tiles beneath her feet.

It was her third day of school and she was already messing up. Now everyone would assume she was nothing more than a simple country-bumpkin who couldn't read a map. The thought depressed her. New schools were about fresh starts and putting your best foot forward. Hanamura wanted nothing more than to fit in at Shiratorizawa. She wanted to prove that she belonged, even if a scholarship was the only thing that brought her there.

By the end of the lesson, her shame had cooled into disappointment. She was heavy with it.

"Hanamura?" A gentle voice called from behind.

She lifted her head, twisting in her chair to face a girl with soft red hair and a small mouth. She was leaning over her desk, hands clasped and tucked beneath her chin, her expression open.

"You're not from around here, are you?" She asked.

Hanamura offered her a faint look. "Whatever gave you that idea?"

The girl smiled.

"My sister says Mrs. Osakabe is the toughest teacher on staff. She likes to call on students who seem…preoccupied. You're not the first and you won't be the last, I promise," she said reassuringly, mindful that the teacher was still in the room. "You did well to get it out of the way so early in the year. It's only a matter of time before she catches me too. I'm hopeless when it comes to geography."

Hanamura relaxed, immensely grateful for her assurance.

"Thank you...?"

"Reiko," she introduced herself, "Reiko Asano. I'm in the art club too."

Hanamura was embarrassed that she had not remembered her name. They had all been introduced on their first day, but she was still learning the location of the girls' restroom let alone the names of her classmates. Until that moment, Asano was simply 'fox girl.'

"I really like your art," Hanamura said in earnest. "You work with fibers, right?"

Asano brightened.

"My dream is to be a textile designer someday," she said, gesturing to the boiled wool purse she used as a book bag, "but also to host an award-winning true crime podcast – whichever comes first, naturally."

"Naturally." Hanamura broke into a grin. She found herself liking this girl more and more by the second.

"What about you? I saw the portfolio you brought to club. Are you going to paint giant pieces here at the school too?" Asano asked as they stepped out of the classroom together. It was time for lunch. The smell of ginger wafted through the air, making their stomachs growl.

Hanamura nodded.

"President Fukuhara says I can have the utility closet as my workspace. I was planning on cleaning it out this afternoon," she said with an eager look. "She mentioned a box of costume fabrics someone left behind. Would you be interested in any of that for your art?"

They were swept up in the mad rush of students heading to the cafeteria. Asano pinched her sleeve, keeping her close.

"Yes! I'll help you," she volunteered. "We can get Takashi to help too. He was trying to find the stilts to the kiln yesterday. Apparently, some 'nitwit' misplaced them from last year. I'll bet you anything they're in that closet."

Something warm unspooled inside Hanamura's chest. It was the first time she felt at ease since her family settled her into the dorms at school. She could still feel the press of her little sister hugging her close, the bittersweet taste of a half-eaten muffin on her tongue as she watched her family leave campus.

She had never been on her own before.

Asano was her first lifeline in this new place, and Hanamura latched on immediately. She linked arms with her, helping her navigate the crowded hall.

"Is Takashi the boy with the blondish hair?" She asked, remembering that she had labeled him the 'Persian cat.' He was fancy and effeminate – what some might consider a pretty boy. Izakaya liked to puff up his sleeves and maintained a perpetual air of impertinence.

"Yep, that's Takashi Izakaya alright," Asano nodded, almost as if she were agreeing with her silent valuation. "We went to the same middle school. He's a prima donna, no doubt, but underneath all that flamboyance is a heart of gold," she said, laughing at some private memory. It was a pleasant sound. Like water rushing over stones. Hanamura shared in her amusement.

"Oh! Watch out." Asano pulled her out of harm's way from a group of third-year boys who were headed outside for recess. They moved as if they owned the school, making Hanamura feel small and insignificant.

She gripped her backpack, startled.

"Say, wanna have lunch together?" Asano asked her suddenly. "I know of a nice place we could sit. We should enjoy the cherry blossoms before they're all gone."

Hanamura looked to Asano and saw someone who was true and genuine and kind.

"I would love that, Asano," she said.

"Please, call me Reiko."

That warm feeling continued to unspool from deep within her, a feeling of lasting assurance.

Hanamura smiled.

She had made a friend.

. . . . . . .

"This should be plenty." Hanamura dropped the sticks she found on the stone path, the ends still green and sticky with sap. A storm had jostled the trees during the night, showering the sidewalk with fresh debris. She had skipped lunch, sprinting across campus to collect the windfall before it was spirited away by the ambitious groundskeeping department. It was a good decision on her part. The day was fresh and bright, the sun casting the grounds in buttery, yellow light.

Dabbing her brow, she fished for the shoelace inside her pocket and tied the sticks into a neat little bundle. She did it the same way her father had taught her whenever they went camping in the woods. As she tightened the knot, she felt content.

A little piece of home. She grinned, dusting her hands.

The second lunch period was almost finished. She hoisted the bundle over her shoulder and picked her way back to the school. As she walked, she studied the campus with its velvet green lawns, its courtyard – even the garbage bins made from stainless steel – and felt intense respect. Shiratorizawa was a fortress situated close to a neighboring university, its layout nearly identical to its prestigious cousin. A stone path circled around the campus, leading down into a park with a large water fountain. The houses that surrounded it were neatly stacked together like books on a shelf.

As beautiful as it all was, it still unnerved her to see everything so perfect, so pristine. Even the students milling about the grounds looked too sharp in their white blazers. It was hard to imagine that this was a high school and not some state-of-the-art research facility for the elite.

You will find that our curriculum is quite challenging at Shiratorizawa, said the principal during her admissions interview last winter. Our goal is to prepare all our students for university. As a scholarship recipient, you are expected to maintain a certain grade point average to remain a student in good standing with us. We offer only a handful of spots each year, so it's essential that funding goes to candidates who can fulfill our expectations. Do you understand, Miss Hanamura?

Yes, sir, she responded, sitting straight in her chair with hands wringing in her lap.

It was a thinly-veiled threat. Shiratorizawa would take her on as a student, but only if she could demonstrate exceptional academic prowess in addition to her club activities. Hanamura was no brainiac, but she was certainly willing to try her hardest. This opportunity meant a great deal to her family and she would not squander it on trepidation alone.

The principal had done her a kindness by warning her of the academic rigor. Within a few days, she was drowning in coursework, the early stages of Carpal Tunnel seizing her hand, and her mind whirling in a deluge of facts, dates, and equations. It was in the quiet moments throughout the day that she could finally catch her breath, bracing herself for another round.

"How are classes going, Suzu?" Her father called late one Saturday, his voice crackling over the receiver. The sound was familiar. Her family always had poor cell service, so much so, that she could decipher the broken words with ease. "Are you enjoying the dorm life?"

Hanamura glanced around her room, her feet dangling from the top bunk bed.

"Rumi keeps collecting plants. Our room is turning into a nursery." She smiled, counting the half-filled water glasses that lined their windowsill. Her roommate liked to propagate the plants she collected during her walks around the neighborhood. It was a peculiar pastime. At least, Hanamura thought so until Rumi proclaimed herself an acolyte of Ms. Oshiro, the science teacher, and joined her club in the hopes of learning more about botany.

Hanamura shared the little things that made her happy. She told her father about the orange marmalade that lived in the bushes of the girls' dormitory, Takashi's ridiculous wheezy laugh whenever they said the word 'luscious,' even the gruesome podcasts Asano would have them listen to whenever they worked late into the evening. On more than one occasion, Hanamura had gone to bed with her reading lamp on much to Rumi's detriment. Her father laughed.

"Sounds like you are adjusting just fine, honey. Keep working hard! We're so proud of you."

Maybe her father was right. Maybe she was starting to find her way at school. It had been such a stark transition in the beginning, but she was slowly adjusting to being on her own. She supposed the only thing that really bothered her now was the smell of her uniform. No matter what she tried, the plastic odor lingered, making her feel strangely artificial.

"The trick is sunlight," said Asano one afternoon, holding up a finger, "the fibers have to breathe in the sun, and the heat will relax the weave so air can pass through. Give it an hour in an open window and then your lavender should do the trick."

"How do you know so much about fabric, Reiko?"

The girl chewed her sweet bun, leaning back against the courtyard bench. The sun through the leaves of a nearby tree dappled her face.

"My grandma used to have a loom. This was before her arthritis got really bad," she said with a nostalgic grin. "When I was little, she taught me how to load the warp yarns. The first thing I ever made was a tea towel. You would've thought I spun solid gold the way I paraded it around the house!"

Hanamura looked to the person sitting next to her.

"What about you, Takashi. Why pottery?" Hanamura asked, perching her chin in her palm.

He rolled his eyes in such a way, anyone might think they had twisted his arm to join them for lunch. But the truth was he stuck to Asano like glue. Wherever she went, he followed. Whoever she befriended, he tolerated. It was touching.

"Pottery has the best retail landscape. Obviously." He was drinking tea from his own creation, an earthenware mug dipped in periwinkle glaze. It was severely misshapen, his command of the throwing wheel still a work in progress.

Asano leaned forward, kicking her legs under the park bench.

"You told me your mom wanted you to find a hobby, Takashi," she said, humbling the first year. "One of your favorite influencers does pottery, doesn't he? That's why you're so interested."

Izakaya choked, sputtering tea all over his sweater.

Grinning, Hanamura peeled her orange, rubbing the oil from the rind into her palms. Her mother once told her that the smell of orange produced the same chemical reaction in the brain as receiving a hug. She lifted her hands to her face and inhaled deeply. She needed all the help she could get before she returned to class with Asano.

She was still nervous when it came to her homeroom. Mrs. Osakabe never quite forgave her for her negligence during the first week which made it increasingly uncomfortable to sit through class. Hanamura was riddled with questions, but Mrs. Osakabe was the least approachable instructor, forcing her to rely on her notes instead. To cope with the stress, she used the time in-between classes to rummage for materials across campus. It gave her a much-needed break from the crowded halls and allowed her to investigate the school grounds.

By the end of April, she started scavenging in earnest. She was pleased to see that the items listed in her sketchbook were mostly crossed out. She was able to find the bulk of her material around the school, and no one was particularly upset that she brought it all back into the studio. There were the occasional odd looks here and there, but for the most part, she was left to her own devices.

The nice part about being new is that I have more autonomy.

She could operate behind the scenes, coasting under the radar of the student body as she slowly gathered material for her art experiments. Surely, no one cared if a few things went missing around the school. It wasn't like anyone was paying attention to the agenda of a single first year, right?

She was safe to do as she pleased.

. . . . . . . .

After lunch in the rhododendrons, Hanamura parted ways with Asano to freshen up in the bathroom before their history lesson. She ran fingers through her hair, pausing to scrub at the paint still caked to her thumbnail. The fluorescent light above the mirror cast her face in sharp contrast, illuminated dark circles underneath her eyes. She prodded the bruises, concerned that she might be coming down with something. She was a little sleep-deprived from all the homework she was doing in the evenings, but she otherwise felt perfectly fine.

Her face was a little drawn. She splashed it with some cold water.

Refreshed, she took the stairs up to the third floor where all the first-year classes were housed. But as she stepped from the stairwell, she could see students were blocking the corridor, creating gridlock.

"Takashi, what's going on?" She asked, finding him gawping with the first years.

"Traffic Jam," he said, clutching his trapper keeper. "Hope you didn't have somewhere to be."

"I do!" She said, agitated. "Mrs. Osakabe locks her door the minute the bell rings! I have to get through." She tried wedging herself between bodies, intent on reaching her classroom before the bell rang, but a girl elbowed her, shoving her rudely into Izakaya as she flourished a camera like a weapon. "Step aside, step aside! Photographer coming through!" She called out. "Yearbook business, step aside!"

"Cripes, it's a regular paparazzi stakeout," said Izakaya as he helped her back onto her feet. They shared a furious look before Hanamura craned her neck to see what was causing such a fuss. Lifting onto her toes, she spotted a group of boys standing at the windows. A powerful allure surrounded them. So powerful, in fact, it was making all the underclassmen clamor with excitement.

"Look, it's the entire team!"

"I can't believe they're all here. We only see this at their official games!"

"What are they all doing here?"

Hanamura recognized the players, but one, in particular, stood out from all the rest. He was the only person who could make the school uniform look criminal with his rolled cuffs and popped collar, a jackal grin spreading across his face. Tendou was cornering a first year, a rosy-haired boy who shared the same homeroom as Izakaya.

"Isn't that Shirabu?" Hanamura asked her friend. "The first year who's getting all the buzz recently?"

"Ah, he got placed on the sports roster as some 'drifter' or 'sitter' or something," Izakaya guessed unhelpfully. "I don't know, the one that looks like a ballerina."

"You mean 'setter'?" Hanamura corrected him, turning her attention back on the team.

Tendou was holding something to his mouth. He blew it, unfurling a long, green tongue that popped Shirabu right in the nose. The setter made a terrible face, his brows working furiously, but his other teammates accosted him with gifts and a crepe sash.

They were celebrating his birthday.

Hanamura paused, watching their public display of affection. No wonder the yearbook photographer was so eager to get a snapshot. These were the school favorites, the boys' volleyball team – beloved by students and teachers alike. And here they were, showering one of their youngest members with praise.

The sight of their camaraderie made her wistful.

Lowering onto her feet, she blended back into the crowd.

Aside from Asano and Izakaya – and her eccentric roommate, Rumi – her social circle had remained surprisingly small at Shiratorizawa. Her classmates were all exceptionally driven in their academics, making them twice as intimidating to approach. Hanamura couldn't quite measure up. She always felt like such a bother.

She missed the ease and comfort of her childhood friends. By virtue of having grown up together, they were all close. They knew each other's nuances from the very beginning, making friendship as natural as breathing. Hanamura had known her place and behaved with the confidence of a person who knew all the rules. Here, she was still learning where she belonged.

Her gaze fell on Tendou once more, and her stomach tightened in that peculiar way whenever she laid eyes on him. She recognized it as envy.

If you think about it, jealousy is not such a bad thing, her father once said, comforting her after the disappointment at losing a race to a classmate in elementary school. Feeling jealous of another person can often alert us of the qualities we might lack and therefore desire in ourselves.

Hanamura considered the volleyball player.

Tendou was the kind of person who was in total possession of himself. He exuded confidence that ran quite close to arrogance, but the students at the academy expected it of him. All their star athletes had a public persona that elevated their social standing among the students. She supposed it was why Shiratorizawa was such a prestigious school – many of its athletes were considered the best of their field, often going on to play professionally. Tendou was no exception.

But what really captured her interest was the way his friends treated him. It was evident that they respected him, tolerating his eccentric ways. She could see the affection in their quickfire banter, the back and forth jockeying in the halls as Tendou flitted from friend to friend with ease. There was no one he was afraid to approach, not even Coach Washijo.

If she were more like him, more outgoing, then maybe she would feel less insecure. Making friends took courage, and she was going to need all the courage she could muster to survive her first year unscathed.

Watching him now, she couldn't help but wonder. Could she be friends with someone like him? Would he find her interesting enough to get to know?

"He's a bit scary, don't you think?" Someone whispered behind her back.

Hanamura paused, listening to the gossip floating in the air among the first years.

"A little too intense," agreed a girl with curly hair. "I heard he gave the golf club a real scare the other night."

"It's amazing that he and Ushijima are such close friends. They're so different."

"Do you think he ever gets tired of him? The Guess Monster?"

Guess Monster. It was not the first time Hanamura had heard that nickname used in conversation, but she was still uncertain of what it meant. Was it some kind of volleyball term? The connotation was bold, eliciting a mental image of Tendou as a demon, something menacing with scales and horns and sharp claws. She couldn't reconcile the image with the boy she had rescued at the infirmary door. Or the one who zipped all over campus like a firecracker.

No, she didn't know what the nickname meant, and…maybe she didn't want to know.

Right now he appeared harmless, tickling Shirabu's ear with the party pipe.

The setter snatched it from him, throwing it to the floor and grinding it with his heel.

"Kenjiro, why?"

Hanamura grinned.

Having a monster for a friend would be nice...if it were someone like him.

A/N: Another Holy Grail of Shoujo Romance - the scene where the leading lady acquaints herself with the unattainable love interest. This scene is usually captured in slow-motion with gorgeous post-production sparkles and watercolor effects. In this version, Tendou is harassing Shirabu in a very schoolyard bully kind of way. XD

"Cool Kids (RAC remix)" - Echosmith

"Dance Monkey" - Tones and I

Thank you for reading!

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