Chapter Eight
Hanamura straightened her blazer as she paced the fourth-floor hall. The sun was beginning to crest over the trees, yellow bands of sunlight streaking across the grounds. The light was a warm brandy against the windows, casting the hallway in rich sepia. As she made another pass by the teacher's lounge, she caught the unmistakable smell of baked bread and her stomach began to growl with a vengeance. She regretted skipping breakfast that morning. She had climbed out of bed and headed straight for the school with her sketchbook.
"Break a leg," said Rumi, spritzing her plants with a deep yawn. "Bring home the rose!"
"Thanks, Rumi!"
She was excited. This was her first major break at Shiratorizawa, and her efforts were starting to gain traction at last. The volleyball coach had picked up her drawing with a look of complete ardor and it made her split like a geode two. She could hardly sleep that night. Her mind spun with all the possibilities that awaited her in the meeting with Coach Washijo.
Flipping through her sketchbook for the hundredth time, she made sure everything was in order. But as she glanced down, she discovered she was wearing two different colored socks.
"Oh, come on." She sighed.
"Morning, Hanamura," said Tashima, looking equally pensive. The sun was shining in earnest now, casting her silhouette in deep shadow. The second year had combed her hair into a neat bun and held a portfolio under her arm. She looked elegant, her voice soft.
Hanamura ducked her head politely. "Tashima."
"Faculty still in their meeting?"
"Mm-hmm."
They stood in front of the teacher's lounge, awkward.
Hanamura rocked on the balls of her feet. She hadn't spoken to Tashima after the incident with the milk cartons. The second-year had kept to herself, working away at the massive tidal wave of her latest painting. President Fukuhara had kept things cordial during club, making sure that everyone was getting along – always with a flash of silver braces and a menacing chisel in hand. But besides the devastation of Izakaya's clay turtle exploding in the kiln and the volleyball match, the past few days had been relatively quiet.
Tashima cleared her throat.
"Listen, Hanamura…," she said, attempting to alleviate some of the tension, "it was good of you to suggest switching gears last week. We usually just force someone to pose in the studio for figure practice. The scrimmage was…," she sculpted the air with her hands, trying to conjure the right word and settling on, "beneficial."
Hanamura was moved by her effort.
Kindness is mindfulness.
Maybe Tashima struggled with making friends too.
She smiled. "We ended up with some great drawings, huh?"
"Hn." Tashima glanced down. "Your socks don't match, just so you know."
"I know."
They returned to their awkward silence, the tension abated slightly.
Voices rose behind the doors to the teacher's lounge, accompanied by the sounds of chairs and papers shuffling. The morning faculty meeting had drawn to a close, and the doors were quickly pried open, emitting an overpowering aroma of coffee.
"Well, good morning ladies," smiled a sunny Ms. Oshiro. She was holding a giant mug, her hair tamed into a bird's nest at her neck. The hem of her sundress nearly dragged on the floor it was so long. "Do you need something?"
"They're here to see Washijo," said Nurse Hino, stepping out from behind the younger instructor. She adjusted her silk scarf over the lapels of her lab coat. "Ah, Miss Hanamura." She greeted. "Was the isopropyl alcohol a success?"
Hanamura paused, her mind quickly reversing to that pivotal afternoon in the infirmary. So much had happened since then, she was ashamed she had not thought to thank Nurse Hino until now.
"Yes, thank you," she said graciously. "The painting reacted just as I hoped."
"Eh? An experiment?" Ms. Oshiro brightened. "What year are you, Hanamura?"
"First year," said Tashima, sounding at little resentful.
"She has a special talent for odd requests," said the nurse. "She reminds me of you, Sanyu."
Ms. Oshiro smiled, honored.
"Is that so? Well then, I look forward to having you in my class next year," she said to Hanamura, "Perhaps your experiments can crossover into science. I have a gravity demonstration that's quite popular among my students – if I do say so myself." She nudged Tashima playfully who in turn subtly shook her head at Hanamura in warning.
"Was Satori of any help to you?" Nurse Hino asked, her eyes glittering with interest.
Hanamura blinked. The force of her shock was akin to paint peeling in the sun. She tightened the grip on her sketchbook, her mind filling with predatory grace and the unhurried look he gave her at the end of practice. Eyes bright as garnet. For a moment, the confident mask had come off and the Guess Monster had stared at her, awestruck.
She had thrown her gauntlet on the stage, watching with satisfaction as her drawings caught him off guard. But in doing so, she found herself at the receiving end of his intense scrutiny. The kind of scrutiny that made her feel as if she were the only other person standing in the gym. It left her breathless. Only when Coach Washijo intervened did Tendou release her from his penetrating gaze.
Hanamura swallowed. "Yes…yes, he was," she said.
The nurse nodded, pleased.
"Coach Washijo is expecting you." She shook her bangled wrist at the lounge. "If you'll excuse me, one of the theater students smashed his thumb with a hammer. I better go see if it needs amputating."
Her humor was so dry, for a moment, Hanamura and Tashima looked squeamish. Ms. Oshiro grinned.
"I'm off too. We're doing a lava experiment in class today. I'll need to rearrange the desks so we can set the floor on fire." She winked at them, raising her mug in a toast. "Have a good day, girls."
Hanamura stared at Tashima who was now looking quite ill.
"She...she won't really set the floor on fire, right?"
Tashima smoothed the blond hair at her temple with a sigh. "She's the only teacher to require a flame-retardant suit as part of our course materials. Best to be on your guard with that one, Hanamura. She's incredibly dangerous."
They watched as the science instructor sashayed down the hall in her yellow sundress, oblivious.
"Well, shall we?"
The doors to the teacher's lounge stood wide open, and Hanamura followed Tashima as they maneuvered through the tight grid of desks over gray carpet. Hanamura tensed, seeing Mrs. Osakabe in deep conversation with the creative writing instructor, a middle-aged man with a faded brown suit and a square jaw. The sight of the two teachers reminded her vaguely of a vulture discussing the weather with a woodchuck. They made an odd pairing. Fortunately, neither glanced up from their conversation, allowing her to go unseen.
Coach Washijo stood waiting by his office.
"Have a seat," he said as he left the door ajar. Hanamura and Tashima took the chairs facing his desk, both too nervous to recline against the backrests. It was oddly formal. A business meeting.
He cut straight to the chase.
"Right, let's talk shop," he began, crossing his arms and leaning heavily against his chair. "If memory serves me, the art club used to collaborate with the athletic department in the past. It's been so long, I'd nearly forgotten." He reached into his desk drawer, leafing through several frayed manila folders before grabbing the fattest one. He plopped it onto the desk, causing brochures to slide out like fish from a net. Hanamura and Tashima leaned forward with interest.
"These are some of the posters we commissioned from the art club a few years ago. Due to the increase in our budget, we started outsourcing our marketing material to a print shop in downtown, but this year I want to do something different." He retrieved the drawings from the top of his filing cabinet and laid them side-by-side on his desk. Tashima's Great Ace next to Hanamura's Guess Monster.
"The boys' volleyball team will be competing at Nationals again this year – of that, I have no doubt. The game you watched is but a precursor to our tournament season that will be ramping up this summer. As you can imagine, this is an opportune time to advertise for sponsorship."
Hanamura glanced at Tashima warily, but the second-year had an astute look on her face as she listened to the coach. She seemed to understand where the discussion was headed and was eager.
"I want you to design this year's poster," he said, at last, looking at them both with his sharp gray eyes. "I want you to combine your styles and come up with a proposal by the end of next week. Something intense. This poster will decorate campus, the neighborhood, downtown – you name it. In exchange for your work, I will grant the art club occasional access to the gym for figure drawing. What say you?"
"Will we be put in charge of printing?" Tashima asked, flipping open her portfolio and clicking her fancy silver pen. She began taking notes. Anxious, Hanamura did the same, patting her pockets for the ballpoint pen she usually carried for such an occasion.
"We'll submit your design to our print shop and reimburse you for any materials you require," he said without batting an eye. "We'll need to submit our order as early as next week, so your deadline is tight. But surely, between the two of you, this shouldn't pose a problem."
Hanamura cringed at the fast turnaround. She figured he would ask them for help in some artistic capacity but designing an advertisement was a little more involved than she had anticipated. Her mind touched on the small mountain of homework that awaited her back in the dorms. The essay she wrote for Mrs. Osakabe had come back with alarming red marks, forcing her to rethink her study efforts. She hesitated, wondering if it was wise to add yet another project to her plate. She was stretched too thin already.
"Shouldn't we speak to Fukuhara about this first? She might want the final say," Hanamura said quietly to Tashima, but the second-year had made up her mind.
"Think, Hanamura," she said as she gripped her arm, "hundreds of people will see our poster. Maybe thousands – who knows? Noriko would sooner banish us from the art club than let us miss out on a golden opportunity such as this. We'll have exposure. And this is just the beginning!"
Tashima was aglow, her eyes keen. Hanamura found herself unable to argue. The second year was right, it was a huge opportunity. One she'd probably regret if she turned it down.
Another project won't hurt, she decided. I'll just double up on homework once this is all finished.
Coach Washijo placed his arms on the desk, pressing his fingers together.
"Do we have ourselves a deal?"
Hanamura and Tashima shared one final nod before the second year grinned.
"Consider it done, sir."
. . . . . . . . . .
"It's an interesting premise," said Satsuki as she moved about the shelves with a feather duster. She stirred the motes drifting in the early morning sun, the coffee machine behind the cash register gurgling with a fresh pot. "But your villain is a little flat."
Tendou, who had been trailing the store owner like an elongated shadow, paused in the chewing of his protein bar. He had taken a large bite, forcing his cheek to protrude like a chipmunk. The potency of his scowl was undermined by his inability to respond without spraying her in chocolate.
"The villain refuses to use a paintbrush because – why? What's her backstory? It seems a little underdeveloped to me," she continued.
"First of all," said Tendou, swallowing thickly, "she's not the villain – she's the main character. Second of all, this is a rough draft. Hence, a work in progress. I'm still figuring this stuff out!"
The store owner paused, offering him a dull look.
"You're telling me this 'Magpie Girl' isn't an alias for some evil mastermind? I've seen the comic books you read, Satori. You like the dark stuff," she brushed him with the duster, making him sneeze. "And it doesn't help with the way you describe her. 'Arms covered in soot,' 'an unsettling smile,' 'creative rapture forcing her into a feverish daze'…sounds an awful lot like a villain to me."
Tendou frowned. He hadn't told her that the character in his story was based on his observations of the real deal, or that the real deal had left him utterly dumbstruck. Clearly, Suzume Hanamura was more than what met the eye, her smirk seared into his mind like a brand. Of all the interesting people who had layers as thick as books, her book was filled with gibberish.
He couldn't read her.
His lack of understanding showed in his writing. Mr. Harada had handed back his draft earlier that week with similar feedback. Character motivation? Why does she do these things? What is the goal of this story? Needs more depth and a working theme.
Tendou chafed whenever his powers of observation were stymied. That was precisely his talent – reading people, understanding their wants and desires, and using that knowledge to his benefit. It allowed him to be the incredible marksman that he was, in total control of any given situation. He thought he had Hanamura all figured out in the nurse's office. A scrub flower, simple and strange. But that changed the moment he saw the elusive Guest Monster rendered through her eyes.
She had guessed his guess block.
This first year – this art aficionado – had flipped the script, forcing the observer to be the observed.
Tendou didn't like it.
"Magpies are notoriously smart birds," said Satsuki, pulling him from his train of thought. "Did you know they collect objects to use as tools? Or that they can organize complex social networks among other birds? They can even learn to mimic sound and behavior. Very tricky birds, indeed."
Tendou stopped cold, his mind alive with vertigo. He was having an epiphany.
"That's…that's exactly what she's like!" He said, pressing palms to his temples. "Satsuki, you're brilliant!"
She had just described Hanamura better in a few seconds than he had in an entire week. His subsequent writer's block had cowed him into a corner, frustrated. But now, he was free.
"You're the one who created her," said Satsuki, hand on hip. "This villainous Magpie Girl."
"Again, she's not a villain. Not anymore," he said, feeling smug. He had the upper hand again.
The jingle played at the door. A broad figure filled the glass as it moved aside, revealing a handsome boy dressed in white and maroon athletic gear.
"Tendou," Ushijima greeted in his deep voice, entering the shop with a polite nod to Satsuki. "The bus will be arriving soon. We should get to the park early for setup."
There was a delighted gasp.
"Good morning, Ushiwaka!" Satsuki sang as she hastily moved to greet him. "Can I get you anything for breakfast? Cup of coffee? A scone perhaps?"
"Thank you, I already ate," he said, holding up a hand.
"Hey! You didn't offer me coffee," said Tendou.
Satsuki pinned him with a sharp look.
"You don't need any caffeine. And besides, I read your story," she said. "I do you a lot of favors, boy."
To Ushijima, she said, "Sure I can't get you anything, handsome?"
She twirled the feather duster between her fingers, eyes crinkled.
Ushijima offered her a blank look in return.
"Thanks for the feedback, Satsuki," said Tendou sullenly as he laid hands on the ace's shoulders, steering him away from the flirtatious old woman. He smiled, but it was as thin as the veneer of her wooden shelves. "We're off to make an appearance in the park. Wish us luck!"
Together, they exited the convenience store, strolling out into the crisp morning air.
A/N: I suppose now is a great time to mention the faculty in this story are all inspired by instructors I had in school. Somewhere in the world, there's a real Ms. Oshiro setting things on fire in the classroom, and my heart goes out to her...and all her students. I can only imagine the mischief she's getting into now with distance learning. XD
"The Lad with the Silver Button" - Mark Mothersbaugh
"Lucky Girl" - Fazerdaze
"Up" - Sing Street
Thank you for reading and for such kind reviews. I try to respond to everyone who writes, but to my guest readers - thank you for taking the time to leave a thoughtful review. You all brighten my day just as Ushiwaka brightens Satsuki's day. Thank you!
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