Chapter Thirteen
As spring gave way to summer, the school lawns turned a deep emerald green, rippling with the same shimmering luster as silk charmeuse. Low-hanging branches cast pools of shade across the sidewalks, and in the afternoons, the air carried the dizzying aroma of honeysuckle. June had arrived, but for the students of Shiratorizawa, it signaled one thing and one thing only: their first brush with danger.
Midterms.
For the exceptionally rare few, it was a matter of formality. But for the rest of the student body, it was a race for survival. Echoes of "Morte Vacabimus" traveled the halls in a cultish hum as everyone prepared for war. It was the time of year when the faculty came together in a fatal symposium, plotting how to destroy their students' social lives: homework doubled, study guides tripled, and just when things couldn't seem any bleaker, the teachers started using the word 'cumulative' in reference to their exams –a student's worst nightmare.
But just as in nature, it was all about improvisation. And the students at Shiratorizawa were flexible if not foolhardy.
A black-market operation immediately sprang up near the water fountains on the first floor where students could purchase notes, charms, and writing implements that belonged to fabled alumni who passed their entrance exams into university. The operation ran for a solid 48 hours before it was shut down by the disciplinary committee for being in violation of Article II, Clause 47, Subtext B which prohibited the transfer of test goods for money.
"I managed to snag a sock before they raided the whole thing," said Tendou triumphantly to his team in the hallway. "Apparently, it belonged to the president of the archeology club who discovered the cannonball in the soccer field last year. You know it's brimming with good luck!"
"Yeah, but," Semi pinched his nose, "why does it smell so bad?"
Tendou held the sock aloft.
"He had athlete's foot."
The team pulled away, repulsed.
During lunch, the cafeteria became an arena where students could duke it out over trivia questions for the chance at winning extra credit points. A girl in the astronomy club won the golden ticket with her sweeping recital of Saturn's moons. Her chances of survival were far more promising, but for the rest, it all boiled down to good old-fashioned studying.
"What's composed of particles that cannot absorb, reflect, or emit light?" Reon asked as he punted the volleyball to Semi.
"Dark matter," he answered. "What month is the Earth closest to the sun?"
"January," said Jin, catching the ball next. "Who came up with the three laws of motion?"
"Newton." Ushijima received. "What joins two clauses together?"
"Conjunctive adverb," answered Tendou dully. "What was banned in 1602 as a public health crisis?"
He passed the ball to Yamagata who was frowning in thought.
"Health crisis? I dunno," He said, surrendering the ball to Reon who was equally stumped. The wing spiker stared up at the gym rafters, his lips moving silently.
"Oh, come on. It's easy!" Tendou drew a finger across his neck. "Tsujigiri. Samurai used to cut down travelers at crossroads for sword practice."
"And why," said Reon, looking disturbed, "would that be on the test?"
"For social context," said Tendou as if his question was stupid. "Think about it – a swordsman's honor was in his ability to kill in one stroke. If he couldn't do it cleanly, he was thought of as a fraud – thus, the need for practice. One could argue that this ban led to the eventual dissolution of the warrior class, uprooting the medieval caste system during the Japanese Revolution, which precipitated the eventual fall of the Tokugawa Regime and the final days of the samurai, as – well – none of them could legitimize their honor."
The second years stood in shocked silence. Jin opened his mouth to say something, but Semi held up his hand. "Don't. It only feeds his hubris."
"1602," said Tendou, clicking his tongue. "You'll thank me later."
They had been at this insanity for nearly two hours now, but it was the eve of their week-long testing, and every second passed with the same dire urgency as a ticking time-bomb. The volleyball club assembled at the gym (the library was completely booked), wolfing down the pork buns Yamagata snuck from the kitchens so they could all power through their subjects one last time.
Across the court, the first years were engaging in their own emergency study session. Kawanishi was lying on his back as he recited the periodic table from memory, stumbling on Darmstadtium. Beside him, Yunohama was eating peppermints like popcorn, claiming they helped 'stimulate the mind,' as he crammed seven weeks of sociology notes into his brain. Shirabu – not to be outdone, and certainly willing to take advantage of this opportunity to show off his academic talent – induced further panic in the other two by pulling out his color-coordinated flashcards.
"It's all in the coding," he bragged. "I've nearly a thousand flashcards for history, alone. Those there?" He pointed to the tall stack of white cardstock. "Those are organized according to the major events that occurred in the last eight centuries. The pink tabs indicate important people. The yellow tabs are government policy. The orange tabs – major cultural contributions."
"Wow, I had no idea you were such a nerd," Kawanishi deadpanned from the floor.
Up in the mezzanine, their captain and the rest of the third years were all debating the implications of free will on human morality, shouting philosophical quotations with observable grace. In a way, they had self-actualized long ago, making peace with the inevitable trauma of exams. Their captain, shining with a manic gleam in his dark eyes, even brought practice tests for them to complete in the waning hours of the night. The third years whooped with excitement.
Tendou and the others watched them forlornly.
"You know, I'm really going to miss them when they're gone," he said.
. . . . . . . . .
By Friday afternoon, the school was littered with the dried husks of students. They cluttered the halls, the stairwells – any flat surface that could hold a body or two. It was why Nurse Hino was fast on the scene, handing out electrolyte packets like candy.
"Remember to hydrate!" She sang, her golden bangles ringing. "It's been 32 days since our last hospital admission. That's a breaking record for the school!"
Her voice carried through the air as she maneuvered through the sluggish crowd in the hallway.
Tendou was among them, shuffling like the undead when he was handed a packet.
"Nurse Hino, this is stool softener," he said tersely.
"What?" She stopped, dropping her gaze and inspecting her basket with a small frown. As she reached in and pulled out several more packets, her face went white.
"Oh dear. Oh dear, dear, dear," she tutted under her breath. "This was the basket I was saving for the nursing home down the road!" She covered her mouth, looking stricken for a moment as she peered at the hallway of lethargic students. The expression 'What have I done?' flashed across her face in abject horror for three seconds before she relaxed again.
"Ah well," she shrugged. "Nothing like a good bowel movement to lift your spirits. Eh, young man?"
Tendou was horrified, but she paid him no mind, traipsing down the hall with her basket of purgatives. Her sharp perfume lingered in the air long after she disappeared. Tendou rubbed his nose. Come to think of it, the school nurse always came alive during exams. Something about the visible suffering of students made her unusually cheerful. She was not so unlike Coach Washijo with his penchant for torture.
Grumbling, Tendou stuffed the laxative through the slats of a nearby locker and plodded up the stairwell. As he seated himself in Mr. Harada's classroom, he placed his book bag on the desk, fluffing it into a pillow. There were five minutes left until the warning bell. Plenty of time for a nap.
He dropped his head, sighing miserably.
If I see another exam, it will be too soon.
The report on his tiger tulips had been turned in on Monday. As part of their assignment, Ms. Oshiro had everyone harvest their tulips and press them into a large botanical book she kept in her office in the science lab. When it was his turn, Tendou handed over his flowers reluctantly, still believing they were worth a small fortune.
Can't I keep at least one as a personal investment?
Ms. Oshiro pried them out of his fingers with a sad smile.
You're better off playing the lottery, kid.
On Tuesday, he calculated the linear motion of a train traveling on a set of tracks designed by an engineer who lost their sanity. Tendou took one look at the serpentine diagram and wanted nothing more than to crawl under his desk. Physics was his least favorite subject.
On Wednesday, he recounted the Boshin War, paying special attention to the warship fleets of coastal Japan. He recalled Mr. Harada's visceral reading of a doomed sea voyage and felt inspired to fill his essay with gruesome detail. He only hoped his sweet, elderly history teacher, Mrs. Miyoshi, would be able to stomach it. There was an entire page dedicated to cannibalism.
On Thursday, which was the most exciting exam of the week in his opinion, Tendou stood in front of the classroom and recited a rap song in English much to the chagrin of his teacher.
Satori, the assignment called for a poem.
But rap is poetry of the soul! Yo yo yo!
Please sit down. And stop doing that with your hands.
Respect, said Tendou as he gave the floor to Ushijima.
Somehow or another, he had made it to Friday. All that was left now was creative writing.
Tendou draped an arm over his eyes.
In typical fashion, he had been caught up in the inertia of coursework and volleyball. He was quickly relegated to sleeping, eating, and drinking – and yes – crying, as Yunohama had so rightly deemed a luxury. Tendou wept over his sleepless, Crimson Warrior-less nights, the temporary loss of his general sense of well-being. But most importantly, his new friends in the art club.
I hope they're doing okay. I haven't seen them since my birthday.
His thoughts strayed to Hanamura in particular. What crazy shenanigans was she up to in the midst of this chaos? Had she found a way to transform composition books into a Martian landscape? Sprinkle her canvases with scantron sheets and pencil nubs?
He saw her occasionally in passing. She tended to slip through the halls just as he was leaving class, or disappear during breaks, as well as before and after school. It was becoming increasingly difficult to catch her. Recently, she was carting more books out of the library than any five people combined, and he was curious to know how she was handling midterms. There was a tiredness to her that concerned him. The pep in her step had turned into a trudge like the rest of the students.
His mind wandered back to his birthday.
Inspiration had struck all throughout the night at the arcade. He had borne witness to a side of Magpie Girl that lent itself to witchcraft and glamour. Hanamura danced with the grace of a one-legged duck, but her laughter – full and unapologetic – had become his favorite sound since the ice cream truck song.
How good are you at dancing?
Hanamura knew how to weaponize her smile, brandishing it like a torch.
You're about to find out.
She had been determined not to let him win. That stubbornness was quickly becoming endearing as well. He had a habit of pushing people until they caved under the pressure, but Hanamura rose to the occasion, matching him step for step. After their first round, she force-fed the machine tokens, peeling off her jacket and slicking back hair doused in magenta light. Best three out of five! She challenged him, pointing a finger at his face.
Tendou leaned over the railing, pressing the start button with a smirk. You're on.
When he returned to the dorms later that evening, he was too riddled with ideas to fall asleep. He had stumbled on the heart of his story, the characters flooding the plot with unexpected twists, tricks, and humor. He immediately set pen to paper and, several hours later, arrived at an entirely new story.
You should let me read it when you're finished.
He mulled over the idea for the hundredth time. This short story was his best chance at revenge for her startling drawings of the Guess Monster – a chance to flip the script, reorient his world as the observer. But what had started as a mere curiosity had grown into a close affiliation, and Magpie Girl was no longer a one-dimensional character, but someone with depth and mystery.
It was clear his opinion mattered to her. As he fleshed out the story, he began to wonder if her opinion mattered to him as well. What would she think if she saw Magpie Girl through his eyes?
Tendou uttered a sigh.
Stop thinking, he ordered his brain. You're getting in the way of my nap!
He buried his face into the book bag.
"I just don't see why she's such a big deal. Her work is all flash and no substance," said Tashima with a sharp edge to her voice. "Anyone can dip a shoe in paint and throw it at a canvas. It doesn't require skill to do what she does."
"Tsubomi, that's a bit harsh," warned another student.
Tendou remained perfectly still, listening intently to the hushed conversation happening in the corner of the room. It was difficult. His ears strained against the tortured moaning from the hall, the heated discussion on the upcoming Wimbledon tournament among the tennis players, as well as the obnoxious snoring coming from the chess captain.
"Is it? Tell me you don't feel the same way, Sui. You spend days on your perspective drawings," Tashima said exasperatedly. "A painting that took five minutes shouldn't be able to compete with something that took days."
Yamada sighed. "I understand where you're coming from, but we shouldn't be comparing ourselves."
"I thought that was the whole point of critique? How else are we supposed to gauge our work?"
These were Hanamura's peers. It shocked Tendou to hear them speak of her so dismissively; though, he was no stranger to passive aggression. Any school that collected high caliber students and forced them to compete for accolades in the classroom was ripe for discord. Shiratorizawa was no exception.
Even so, he had no idea that there was trouble in the art club. They were always so amiable towards each other, and Hanamura never let on that anything contentious was going on. He didn't know Tashima very well, only that she was incredibly serious. Maybe it was a bit of pent-up frustration of having to share the stage with an underclassman.
"Hanamura's just a kid playing in a sandbox," said Tashima, "where the rest of us are actually trying to create something meaningful."
No, that wasn't harmless rivalry. That comment was mean-spirited.
Tendou lifted his chin to peer at the two students, but his gaze was intercepted by honey-brown hair.
"Isami," he said, straightening.
The cheerleader was clutching her manuscript, her face marginally violet today. Perhaps it was the powder dusting her face, or the slight rouge to her cheeks. She smelled sweet like cherry chapstick.
"D-d-do you w-want to switch drafts today?" She asked.
"For peer review?" He perked up. "Sure! But…are you sure you want to read mine?"
Isami nodded. "Akiko s-says it's really imaginative! A s-story about a villain who m-meets a demon."
Tendou flattened his gaze, his smile dry.
"Can a villain be the main character? Aren't there rules against that sort of thing in the writing world?"
His eyes drifted to Tashima once more, his expression cooling into a frown. For every villain, there was a hero. He wondered where Tashima fell on that paradigm. It had not escaped him that she was supposed to be working on the new volleyball poster with Hanamura.
"I like to t-think so," said Isami, sounding flustered. "Some rules are meant to be b-b-broken."
"Spoken like a true dare-devil," he said approvingly. He pulled out his rough draft and passed it to her. "Don't hold back now. I want your honest opinion."
Isami smiled, handing over her draft as well.
"Please do the same for m-mine."
Mr. Harada entered the classroom, trailed by a tired-looking Akiko and several other students who were in desperate need of a power-nap. Isami returned to her desk, leaving Tendou to sort out what he had just overheard between the two art students in the room. Fishing for his mechanical pencil, he decided he would ask Hanamura about it later that day.
He had a surprise for her after all.
. . . . . . . . .
"Bonjour mes amis!" He announced in a grand fashion, bursting through the studio doors. Only a few students remained this late in the evening, but he was pleased to see his favorite art geeks still hard at work.
Practice ran longer than expected, but he still managed to trade his shirt for a fresh one, keeping his gym shorts and jacket. A bundled mess of nylon rope was tucked underneath his arm. He wasn't alone this time either. Ushijima and Shirabu trailed in behind him.
"More volleyball players!" Izakaya squawked in surprise. He had his fingers tangled in pink yarn, a bulbous knot taking shape between his hands. Asano, who up until that point had been darning a blue tunic, jerked her chin up and grinned at the athletes. "Well, what brings you to our neck of the woods?"
"We're on a little field trip," said Tendou as he searched for Hanamura.
She was there, but not in her usual spot in the closet. There was no new canvas that evening, and the curtains had been drawn shut on her workspace. Instead, she was sitting at the opposite end of the table with a picture book. There was a perceptible melancholy in the way she held herself. Almost as if her edges had been dulled, her brightness extinguished. Turning to face him, she smiled, but there was a somberness to it that worried him.
Tendou strolled to her side of the table, looking over her shoulder to see what she was reading.
"You're not painting," he said casually.
"Hn. Artist block," she said, leaning her chin into her palm. "I needed some inspiration."
Her gaze fell on the book once more. Tendou couldn't help but notice it was a treatise on traditional painting methods – not her usual antics. He thought of the conversation he had overheard between Tashima and Yamada. Did that have something to do with the new attention to technique?
He would have none of that.
"Ah, then you're in luck," he said, deepening his voice into that of a salesman's pitch. "Behold the latest gallery-grade non-paintbrush 8000! Made from 100% nylon infused with the blood, sweat, and tears of at least six generations of Shiratorizawa volleyball players. That's right, Ladies and Gentlemen, six generations of heartache and abuse! Each of these fine nets is produced in our warehouse completely manned by petrified first years at their first tournament. Guaranteed to haunt anything it encounters, but you must act now on this amazing offer! No money-back guarantee!"
It worked. Hanamura was laughing. He spread the old volleyball net wide and modeled it like a fine bolt of fabric. She took it from him and inspected the frayed edges and holes.
"You destroyed it," she remarked. "Hmm…but dipped in some gold paint and starch, I think it would make a beautiful sculpture. What if I could fashion it into the wings of a bird? What do you think?"
Tendou was no longer joking. His eyes looked deeply into hers.
"There you are," he murmured to her shock.
Hanamura sobered, returning his gaze with the same intensity.
"Suzume," he addressed her, lowering his voice, "is everything alright with you and the club?"
She hugged the net close, her eyes downcast. She looked ready to confess something but changed her mind at the last moment. She shook her head. "No, everything's fine. I'm just tired from studying. That's all."
"No one giving you any trouble?" He fished.
Hanamura pushed away from the table, intent on placing the net inside her closet. Tendou followed, maneuvering past the giant painting of a tidal wave. Even in the fading light, he could see that the surface was glossy, the paint still fresh in the foreground. The strokes were dainty wisps against a thick, saturated gray sea. He thought of the man who ate his foot during the Boshin War. He thought of Mrs. Miyoshi.
"No more than usual," she said, breaking him from his train of thought.
She placed the net inside the closet before shutting the curtains again.
"Well, that's good. With midterms out of the way, you can finally focus on the poster."
He watched her closely, waiting to see what kind of reaction his statement would cause.
Hanamura went still, her fingers clutching the drapes.
"I imagine you'll be coming to practice sometime soon," he continued, leaning against a nearby drafting table. He picked up an interesting paperweight. A beetle encased in resin. It fit his palm perfectly and he tossed it up and down, catching it like a baseball. He was feeling anxious. He needed to do something with his hands. "You and Tsubomi must have loads of ideas for the design."
Hanamura's grip tightened.
"That's…no longer happening," she said very quietly. "It conflicted too much with my schedule."
"Oh?"
Tendou cocked his chin, startled by the news. Coach Washijo had failed to mention anything since his announcement a few weeks ago. All of his time was spent brutalizing the team in preparation for their next scrimmage match. "That's a shame. You seemed really excited about the project."
Hanamura refused to turn around. Instead, she ran fingers through her hair with a soft sigh. She was hiding from him, that much was certain, but he could see that there was clearly something very wrong. She was behaving strangely. What else had transpired since he last saw her that morning in the courtyard?
He opened his mouth, but Hanamura was the first to speak.
"Thank you for the volleyball net," she said, her voice sounding brusque, "I'm sure I'll be able to do something with it eventually, but right now I need to focus on homework."
Tendou froze, a peculiar feeling running through him as if she were shutting a door in his face.
He was being dismissed.
With just a few words, Hanamura had drawn her bridge back up, fortifying her walls as if under siege. The delicate tether that kept them in balance had all but severed, displacing him on the other side. He felt a familiar pain creep into his chest.
She didn't trust him.
Old memories suddenly rose to the surface, reminding him of the dangers of caring too much. He had almost forgotten how it could break someone, whittle them down into dust. Getting too close wreaked havoc in the past. Why would it be any different now? That kind of vulnerability came at a high price - one he wasn't so sure he could afford.
Placing the paperweight back on the desk, Tendou stood.
"Right, I'll leave you to it then," he said.
Hanamura turned to face him, but he was already rejoining the others, pretending that nothing was amiss. His heart was heavy with rejection, but he ignored it, maintaining his cool composure as he entered a peculiar conversation happening on the other side of the room.
"Asano," said Ushijima intently, "if Argus were to eat dessert, what would be his favorite kind?"
Both Shirabu and Izakaya glanced sharply to the Great Ace. There was a note of familiarity in his voice that was odd. Shirabu narrowed his eyes, almost as if he were sizing up a rival.
"Frozen yogurt," said Asano. "The kind from Swan Mart is the best!"
"Ah."
Asano cut the thread with her teeth, sticking her sewing needle into the strawberry cushion on her wrist. "Argus prefers it served with gummy worms," she added, "but only the red ones."
"My God, what are you feeding your dog?" Izakaya chastised her. "Is that why I'm knitting another harness? He outgrew his first one?"
"I'd hardly call that knitting," Asano said in retort, eyeing his tangled mess of pink yarn.
"Dogs like treats," said Ushijima, equally reproving.
Shirabu feigned exhaustion, stretching languidly as he leaned against the table. The maneuver was just smooth enough to put himself between Ushijima and Asano. Almost too smooth. He was posing like a model in a fashion magazine, hoping to catch her interest.
"What are you working on?" He asked her.
"My new mage outfit," said Izakaya proudly.
Shirabu offered his classmate a flat look. "Come again?"
"Takashi's temporarily suspended from using the kiln," Asano explained to the setter, "so we talked him into doing some performance art in the interim."
"I'll be performing my soliloquy from the Crystal Lotus Campaign!"
Shirabu blinked, pretending he understood the gravity of such a declaration. "Do you still draw, Asano?" He pressed on, much to Izakaya's offense at being ignored. Shirabu angled his jaw in a popstar kind of way. "You're really good at sketching people, you know."
Asano tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, peering at the setter shrewdly.
"I thought I insulted you," she said, "so I tore up that drawing."
"What?"
"Come on, Kenjiro," said Tendou, grabbing a fistful of his shirt and dragging him away, "we don't want to overstay our welcome." He cut his gaze to Hanamura who was watching him with a sad look on her face.
He waved, keeping the facade of cheer.
"Until next time."
A/N: Ah, we're approaching the Dark Night of the Soul - the moment in the story where things start to fall apart. Suzume, girl, what are you doing?!
"Christmas Dinner at the Weston's" - Isobel Waller-Bridge and David Schweitzer
"Go with the Flow" - Samineh
To my guest readers, Diane and QT3.1415926, thank you so much for your thoughtful feedback. Truly, I am quite beside myself and grateful to you both. It is such a delight knowing you are as invested in this story as I am. This fanfic has been so much fun to work on, and I am relieved that Suzume and the gang are coming across genuine and heartfelt - that the writing is transporting you into a world full of color and emotion. I think one of the greatest challenges in writing OC-centric stories is developing characters that can hold their own against the canon cast without coming across too self-serving. Haruichi Furudate is a master at characterization. It has been extremely humbling to try and replicate his style. I hope you'll stick with me all the way to the end. :D
Thank you so much for reading!
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