Chapter Twelve

Hanamura jumped out of bed, feeling exceptionally eager for the day.

She took her time getting dressed that morning, running a comb through her snarled hair. She tied it back and pinched her cheeks until they were rosy. The shadow of fatigue still marred her face, but she thought it made her look smoky, mysterious. Like a grainy black-and-white photograph. But as she put on her blazer and studied her reflection in the mirror behind the door, her smile quickly faded into a frown.

Had she always looked this awkward in her uniform? She turned from side to side, her frown deepening. The fabric boxed her in, making her look childish.

I wonder if Reiko could take in the seams a bit. She pursed her lips. The skirt too.

She was so concentrated on her reflection, she neglected to see the pair of eyes watching her in the background.

"Preening, are we?"

"Ack!" Hanamura spun around, blind-sided. Her roommate was awake.

"Rumi! How long have you been standing there?" She asked, startled. She hadn't heard her roll out of bed with the usual grumbling.

Her roommate grinned. "Long enough to know something's up. You're usually outside scavenging by now. Special day today?"

Hanamura had been caught red-handed.

"Oh, uh...you know." She laughed nervously. "Five seconds of vanity."

Rumi curled around the bedpost, her black hair buns lopsided from sleep. Her grin was equally lopsided.

"There's a boy, isn't there?" She crooned. "He's taken notice of you, and now you're all self-aware!"

Hanamura's pulse was loud at her temples. Her throat dry. Visions of Tendou filled her mind like a montage: a lit dance-floor, energetic music pumping from the speakers, synchronized moves until her side was stitching from laughter. She was a terrible dancer, but Tendou wasn't much better – too entertained by her sorry attempt to focus properly on the game. After several rounds, they hopped off the platform to shoot zombies and aliens, wiling away the night until they boarded a bus back to school.

"Maybe," she said, fidgeting with her cuff. "Rumi, can I ask you something? Am…am I attractive?"

As soon as the words left her mouth, she was mortified. Who in their right mind would dare ask such a question? They would have to be either extremely vain or lack a single shred of self-respect. Hanamura turned away from her roommate, shaking her head. "Never mind. You don't have to answer that. I'm being silly."

She abandoned the mirror to grab her backpack.

"Whoever he is, he's a good one," said Rumi, surprising her.

"What makes you say that?"

"Because he likes you."

Hanamura stopped, turning around to face her roommate fully. The first-year botanist was short and built like her sister, Mei, who was slender as a sapling. Though they lived together these past few weeks, it never occurred to Hanamura how close they had grown. She was overcome with gratitude.

"Thank you," she said, "that's the kindest thing anyone has ever said."

Rumi was right. It wasn't about looks, it was about what was on the inside. And what Hanamura felt inside was a bastion of endless possibility. Her luck at Shiratorizawa was starting to turn around and the day was full of potential. And somewhere, Tendou was on campus. She was excited to see him again.

"If anything goes wrong, I know where to find nightshade," Rumi said with a wink. "I got your back."

Hanamura retracted from her roommate.

"Oh…uh, thanks."

She frowned, watching as Rumi retrieved the jar of dead flies from underneath her bed. What else had Ms. Oshiro taught her students in the science club? Rumi had gone from an eccentric plant lover to a dangerous assassin in mere weeks. She cooed to the flytrap, clapping her hands in encouragement as its green mouths began to move hungrily.

Hanamura vacated the room and headed downstairs for breakfast. As she entered the kitchen, a buzz filled her pocket.

Hey, Suzume! Just a heads up. I won't be in class today. I'm sick.

Sad emojis trailed Asano's text message, making Hanamura smile.

Oh no! What happened?

Migraine.

Ah. Feel better, Reiko. No worries, I'll check on you after club tonight.

Sorry to leave you hanging in homeroom. If Osakabe asks, I'm out with the stomach bug.

Hanamura finished her breakfast, gulping her orange juice all in one go. As she crossed the courtyard from the girls' dormitory, she braced herself for another day of class. The weather had cooled in the night. The lawns were covered in dew, still freshly clipped and sweet. She inhaled the aroma, filling her lungs to bursting. As her gaze spanned across the greens, she spotted a familiar head of red hair.

Hanamura quailed.

Tendou was underneath a shade tree, crouching over the orange marmalade that lived in the bushes outside her dorm. The feline stretched wide, bearing its flank of golden fur. Tendou was kneading him gently.

Despite her excitement at seeing him so soon, she was also completely nervous. It was strange – a powerful physiological trill of the heart, lungs, and knees. It assailed her all at once, making her stumble. Tendou looked up from his perch.

"Mornin' champ," he said. "How're your feet?"

Hanamura clutched her backpack.

"Sore," she said. "And you?"

There was a resounding smirk.

Tendou pounced into the air, jostling his sweater, and startling the cat in the process. It flashed across the grass, back into the safety of the bushes. "Sorry, Cosmo." He brushed himself of fur. Turning to her, he said, "Volleyball players lose all the nerve-endings in their feet – much like our humanity. It's what makes us so good."

Hanamura was on to him. "Right," she drawled, "too bad it didn't serve you in last night's dance-off."

Tendou raised his brows, making a grand show of looking provoked.

"That's rich coming from you," he said as he approached her. "They teach you some pretty funny moves in the country!"

"Says the person who back-flipped off the rail!"

They had a staring match until Hanamura realized he was alone.

"Where is everyone?" She asked him. "Reiko woke up sick. I hope the others are okay."

"They over-slept. Wakatoshi is making the rounds now."

"And you're not helping him?"

"I was waiting for you."

Hanamura stepped back, surprised. He was being so direct, she wasn't sure how to interpret his meaning. Was Tendou waiting for her so that they could walk together to school? Did he have something he wished to discuss? Or was this how he was with all his friends? Casually meeting up outside the dorms? Before Hanamura could formulate a response, he spoke again.

"Would it be alright if I came by the studio from time to time?" He asked her. "The painting you gave me is nice, but I missed out on the best part." His eyes were serious, not a single touch of irony in his voice as he said, "I want to see your process."

Her heart raced.

"S-sure," she forced through her lips.

Tendou grinned.

He stood in rim light, his hair, neck, and shoulders outlined in pink. His voice was scratchy and low, and his eyes were hooded with exhaustion. He retrieved his book bag from the grass with a deep yawn.

"You didn't sleep at all last night," she said, frowning. "What kept you up?"

After the arcade, they had returned to campus just before curfew, but they had to sprint from the bus stop to the dorms before the disciplinary committee could cite them for misconduct. Izakaya took a nasty spill on the concrete outside the boys' dormitory but was hoisted up by Ushijima and Reon as they bounded for home base. Hanamura barely remembered saying goodnight to Asano. She had fallen asleep the moment her head hit the pillow.

Tendou rolled his jaw, considering her. "Writing. I had a few ideas to jot down."

She eyed him carefully, intrigued. "What are you writing? A story?"

That strange amusement filtered through his gaze again, but Tendou was once more straight-faced.

"Just a little something for class." He shrugged nonchalantly. "Nothing serious."

Hanamura sighed. He was doing it again, evading her questions. He was as transparent as a puddle of motor oil, dazzling color on the surface but an impenetrable blackness underneath. As they walked together to school, she wondered if this was how he was such good friends with Ushijima. They were both difficult to read.

"Well, in any case," she said, "you should let me read it when you're finished."

Tendou flashed her a strange smile. "Yeah…maybe."

. . . . . . . .

Hanamura let her mind drift as she waited for the start of class. Asano's seat remained empty behind her, but she was determined not to let it worry her too much. She was capable of handling homeroom on her own. With the right attitude, she could handle just about anything right now. What concerned her the most was the nebulous nature of her friendship with the school's Guess Monster.

Hanamura pressed a hand to her chest. Her heart was still racing.

She liked him. A lot. The feelings she was developing were far from innocent, and her conversation with Rumi only confirmed that she was no longer content with just friendship. The problem she faced now was Tendou. Did he feel the same way? It was hard to tell, he was so outgoing. His request to visit the studio could have been a simple desire to see her at work, but it had caused such a stir in her.

I want to see your process.

His voice carried a tone that made her skin prickle with gooseflesh. He could have said, I want to see you naked, and she would have reacted the same exact way. It was unfair that he could breach her walls when she was still figuring out how to scale his. Tendou kept his cards so close to his chest, she didn't know where to begin.

Hanamura dropped her head in her hands, sighing deeply.

"Turn to page 264," said Mrs. Osakabe as she entered the classroom. Her face was severe, the grim color of her lipstick already bleeding into the frown lines around her mouth. "Your final essays on the economic inflation following the Meiji Restoration will be read aloud in class today, but first we will go over our chapter objectives for the week."

Her classmates retrieve their materials dutifully, and yet Hanamura froze. Her math homework was due today, but she had no recollection of a sociology paper. Had Mrs. Osakabe assigned it when she wasn't paying attention? Surely not. She had made exhaustive efforts to maintain constant vigilance in her homeroom. Hanamura checked her sketchbook, hoping she would find a misunderstanding, but there was nothing. No notes, no reminder, absolutely nothing.

As she rummaged through her backpack, she realized with a growing alarm that she had also forgotten her textbook.

Oh no!

Asano was out sick which left her with no recourse. Hanamura had the wild impulse to fake illness herself and bolt from the classroom, but Mrs. Osakabe had already locked the door. She was trapped.

"What seems to be the issue today, Miss Hanamura?"

She winced.

"I forgot my textbook."

Mrs. Osakabe leaned against her desk, arms crossed over her gray suit. "And I suppose you failed to bring your essay as well?"

Hanamura nodded. By now, the classroom reeked of anxiety – her anxiety. The weighted stares of her classmates knocked her down, and she was drowning in the loud hum of the fluorescents, the bitter taste of pencil shavings in her mouth.

"This is a violation of classroom policy. You do realize you will take a zero on this assignment?"

"Yes ma'am," she said in a small voice. She was paper-thin, ready to tear.

"Very well," Mrs. Osakabe glanced around the room, taking her time as she settled on her nearest seatmate. "Mr. Sugiyama, will you kindly share your book?"

Hanamura moved to share the desk with the boy sitting to her left, but she could tell he was annoyed with the situation. He was unwilling to angle the text, forcing her to make sense of it from a distance. If that wasn't bad enough, she had to endure nearly forty presentations on economic inflation with the knowledge that she had made a terrible mistake.

Time slowed to a crawl. Her breakfast soured in her stomach. And by the time the bell rang for lunch, she was crushed by the weight of her carelessness. She thanked Sugiyama for sharing his book, but he shrugged it off, eager to join his friends on their way to the cafeteria. Hanamura gathered her things, wondering how her day had taken such a drastic turn. She was still disoriented when Mrs. Osakabe caught her at the door.

"One moment, Hanamura."

Her homeroom teacher curled a finger, indicating that she approach the front desk.

"I would be remiss if I let you leave this classroom thinking that such an oversight is tolerated at this school," she said, flipping through the stack of papers with a blood-red pen. "Receiving a zero on any assignment is a critical offense." She scratched grades over the names of her students, working through the pile as if she had already determined their value. "And deeply concerning."

"I'm sorry, I must have had the dates confused," Hanamura tried to explain. "I wasn't aware we had another essay due this week."

"I'm not interested in hearing excuses. You're responsible for managing your affairs. If you're unable to keep up, then I suggest you consider suspending extracurriculars in favor of tutoring."

Hanamura peered at her, bleak. "Quit club?"

Surely, Mrs. Osakabe knew that it was the sole reason she was there in the first place. If she gave up the art club, she would be giving up everything she loved most about school. The look on her teacher's face; however, suggested she was entirely unsympathetic.

"Students who fall behind are ineligible to participate in school activities," said Mrs. Osakabe, cutting her gaze over the rim of her glasses, almost as if in a threat. "So I suggest you do everything in your power not to let that happen. Do I make myself clear?"

It was cold. Ice cold and sharp as a knife. The words leaving her teacher's mouth made Hanamura feel dangerously small. She shrank back, chastened.

"Yes ma'am," she said, but Mrs. Osakabe had already turned her attention elsewhere, dismissing her with a wave.

Hanamura fled the classroom.

. . . . . . . . . .

The day dragged on with deteriorating conditions.

Hanamura took her lunch in private in the small niche by the janitorial closet on the third floor. There, she pondered what she was going to do about her grades. She was scheduled to work with Tashima on the volleyball poster, but her mind was fixated so strongly on the prospect of quitting club, she didn't know where to begin to salvage the problem she had caused for herself, let alone the poster.

Homesickness swooped in. The halls were teeming with chatter, but she was trapped inside a vacuum. There was no sunlight, no fresh air. Only the ice-cold grip of fear. More than ever, she yearned for her family. But at the same time, she was repulsed by the idea of bearing their disappointment. Mrs. Osakabe was cruel, but her parents' distress was infinitely more painful. She had made a promise to never let them down again. She had to keep that promise. No matter the cost.

Hanamura carried a heavy heart for the rest of the day. When it was time for club, she made the slow trek up the stairs onto the fourth floor only to discover that another disaster was at work.

"Everyone, get back!" Fukuhara shouted.

The fire alarm set off in the studio, sending everyone into a panic. The room was alive with commotion. Tashima was dragging her easel toward the windows, terrified that her painting would catch on fire. Yamada was close behind with her palette and paintbrushes. Plastic sheets were thrown haphazardly over projects in case the sprinkler system went off at any moment. Hanamura jumped in, securing several workspaces before drawing the curtains shut on her closet.

It was the third turtle to blow up that month. Plumes of hot, dusty smoke curled from the open mouth of the kiln as Izakaya fanned urgently with his oven mittens. His glasses were coated in dust, and there was ash settling in his already pale hair. President Fukuhara pried the fire extinguisher off the wall and put out the flaming sheets of newsprint still floating in the air.

"Stand back, Takashi!" She ordered, spraying fire retardant into the kiln. It sizzled and hissed until it gradually grew silent.

At last, the studio was brought back to order.

"How about we take a break this afternoon," Fukuhara suggested weakly. "Independent study. Takashi let's get the mop bucket from next door. We'll need to file an incident report for the building management."

Coughing, Izakaya shuffled out of the room.

Hanamura meant to follow him but was intercepted by a stern-looking Tashima.

"Come on, I know a place where we can work on the poster," she said, agitated that the explosion happened so close to her painting. She was obviously displeased that the room was in shambles. Her nostrils were flaring like a racehorse just off the track. "Coach Washijo expects a proposal by tomorrow morning."

Hanamura spared another glance at Izakaya before following her down the hall. They took the stairs to the second floor where she was ushered into the classroom at the far left.

"This is my homeroom," said Tashima as she removed her jacket and placed it on the back of a chair.

Hanamura took a moment to acquaint herself with the room, noticing that it had the same layout as every other classroom in the academy. It had neat rows of desks facing the chalkboard, a teacher's podium, and a billboard stapled with diagrams. At the back, there were cupboards filled with measuring instruments and a colorful planetarium model. The thing she fixated on the most was the human skeleton hanging from a wooden pedestal in the corner. It greeted her with a toothy grin.

"Well? Shall we begin?" Tashima asked, already seated at a desk with her portfolio open. She was tapping her silver pen against the pages, impatient.

Hanamura took a seat in the nearest chair. She removed her backpack and jacket in one go. The motion was clumsy. Her mind was still reeling from the chaos in the studio only moments ago.

"Do you think Takashi's okay?" She asked the second year. "He wanted to have something for critique tomorrow. Maybe there's something wrong with the kiln."

Tashima scoffed. "Maybe if he wedged his clay better, there wouldn't be an issue in the first place! Now can we focus? I'd like to have something put together this afternoon," she said. "I did some sketching this week and came up with a few ideas that have merit. But if we're going to combine our styles, I need to see what you envision for the poster."

Hanamura fell silent, offended by Tashima's complete disregard for Izakaya. After harboring such heavy emotions all day, she was now furious. "Cut him some slack, Tashima! He hasn't been a ceramist long. He's still learning how everything works!"

The second year glared.

"Are you kidding me? He nearly cost me my painting! Two months of work down the drain," she snapped. "Now where are your thumbnails?"

Hanamura ground her feet into the floor. "I don't have any."

Tashima took on a nasty look. Her lips curled into a snarl. "Okay, what ideas do you have then?"

"I don't know."

"You're an artist, aren't you? Can't you just sketch them out really quick?"

"I'm not like you. I don't work that way."

Tashima dropped her pen on the desk, rubbing her face in anger. Something snapped.

"This is what I don't understand about you, Hanamura. You claim to be a painter, you go to great lengths to conduct these 'experiments,' but you have total disrespect for the elements of art! Do you even know what they are?"

The insult stung, and Hanamura found it difficult to breathe. She stared at Tashima, shocked.

"That's...that's not fair. You're comparing apples to oranges."

Tashima's eyes flickered.

"Am I? What are all these experiments for then? What great discovery are you trying to unearth?"

Hanamura boiled. Her mouth opened and closed, her mind working tirelessly to conjure an answer worthy of her question. "I like–"

"Experimenting," Tashima cut in viciously, "Yes, I'm well aware of that fact. What I'm asking you is why? What are you trying to say? What's the meaning of it all? That's the purpose of art," she said, slapping a hand on her portfolio, "It's supposed to mean something! It communicates an idea that your audience can understand! What are we to understand from a canvas that has been sandwiched in paint?"

Hanamura sat dazed. Their argument had escalated out of control. Tashima had taken off her kid gloves now that they were removed from President Fukuhara and the others. What should have been a productive art session quickly backfired into a minefield. This was no longer about Izakaya or his turtle bombs. This was personal.

At that moment, Hanamura resented Tashima for taking control of the project, for making her feel inferior on top of it. But even worse, she was upset at herself for not having the answers to silence her growing insecurity.

Tashima fixed her with a cold eye.

"Are you really an artist or is this just an elaborate attempt at grabbing attention for yourself?"

Hanamura pushed away from the desk, grabbing her things.

"The poster's yours," she said. "I don't want to do this anymore."

A/N: Don't you hate it when you start the day strong but things get progressively worse? :C

"Friday I'm In Love" - Cinematic Pop

"You're The Only Thing In Your Way" - Cloud Cult

Diane, my beautiful guest reader, your reviews make me smile from ear to ear. Thank you so much! You're catching onto all the little things happening in the background.

I also wanted to mention that the course of this story does turn 'spicy,' so to anyone feeling restless at this point, hang in there! There's a method to this madness, I promise. :D

Thank you so much for reading - and for all the favorites and follows! You are the absolute best!

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