Chapter 4

I sat in the waiting room of the Japanese equivalent of a guidance counselor. Back home, we would request a form to fill out and then hand it back in to switch up classes. We had one week for the switch-up. I just hoped this school offered the same. I'd already seen the secretary for where to go, and apparently, this is the place.

I looked over at the picture on the white brick wall. It was a serene painting of just some cherry blossom scenic background. I admired it for a minute. There was another light grey square chair next to mine that matched my chair with a black end table in between the two. The room had a welcoming feeling to it overall, a modern office feel, but it didn't quell the anxiety bubbling inside my stomach.

The brown door off to the left of the room opened and revealed a lovely woman with a warm smile. She motioned for me to come in, and I obliged, grabbing my bag and walking in with her. I was on lunch and hoped this would be quick.

I walked in, and she closed the door behind me. There were two maroon chairs outlined with brass dots along the seams sitting in front of a wooden L-shaped desk. She sat down behind the desk in her black office chair and scooted underneath it.

"English or Japanese?" she asked me.

"English." I did not feel like trying to keep up with her native tongue.

"Okay, perfect!" Her accent was heavy. "What's your name, please?"

"Alexandria."

"Ah, thank you, Alexandria. What can I do for you today?"

I took a deep breath. "I want to swap classes. I don't think I want to take History this semester."

"You don't think you want to take History?" She repeated my question to me with a saddened tone of voice.

I replied, "No, I don't."

"Oh no," she said, face portraying fake sadness. "Let me help you with that."

I lit up, I'm sure. Finally, something's going my way. I watched her reach over to the other side of her L-shaped desk, and from a desk organizer, she withdrew a piece of paper. She placed the piece of paper on the desk and scooted it towards me. I looked down at it.

"Fill this form out, have the teacher sign and date it, and then bring it back by Tuesday," she instructed with a smile.

I grinned, climbing to my feet. I bowed to her, thanking her in her native tongue, and then exited her small office. Once I was back in the hallway, I headed straight toward my locker because I knew lunch was most likely about to end. I'd spent more than fifteen minutes in there waiting, and I knew the bell would soon ring.

Thankfully, the office was on the bottom floor, so I didn't have to struggle with my archnemesis—the stairs. I made my way to my locker, which was in the middle of the fifth row. I ran the combination by it, unlocked the thing, and went to grab my textbook for my next class—History. Yes, I would have to see him again, but it would be my final time. I planned on presenting the document to Mr. Nakamura once class concluded. Then, I'd be free from this fucking idiot.

The bell rang as I was just zipping up my bag and gathering all my belongings. It was now time for me to make the back-breaking journey up the stairs again while pretending I was not out of breath when I got to the top. I struggled to keep it under control as I walked down the hallway towards History class.

"Nervous?" Factor asked.

Really? Right now you're going to bother me?

"When is a good time to bother you? I can schedule it in."

Asshole, I thought to myself as I walked into the classroom, seeing just a few other students here waiting for class to begin. I sat in the very back where I'd sat yesterday and silently made this my official assigned seat for the class. It would be a crime punishable by death if someone else took this chair. I hunkered down in it, setting everything up for my wastebasket class. I planned on not even paying attention and writing for the entirety of the hour. After all, I wrote nothing last night.

I woke up this morning to cigarettes on the end table closer to the door with a sticky note that read, "You're welcome XOXO." Chikao hadn't disturbed me at all and probably thought I was tired. I actually was because I slept until my phone's alarm made a sound and startled me awake. It was muffled from me sleeping on it, but thankfully, it still managed to wake me up.

I opened my red notebook and grabbed a mechanical pencil with a neon purple gripper towards the tip and a tall purple eraser. Reading over the last paragraph of the page, I prepped myself to begin writing, but for whatever reason, I couldn't stop thinking about what happened yesterday afternoon. It'd been bothering me since I remembered it while brushing my teeth this morning. It stung worse than any insect could imagine, and the pain was so bitter and dry yet so familiar. I've lived with it for as long as I know, and it always felt the same. Then, you remember how disgusting you are from previous experiences, and suddenly, you're drowning in tears with no lifeguard.

"Are you okay?"

It was almost like I trained myself to pull the truth out of me, being my own therapist. I spit the toothpaste into the sink and began rinsing off my black toothbrush.

"Yes," I said bitterly. I pictured him resting his back against the doorway with his arms folded over his chest.

He grimaced. "You know you can talk to me about anything, right?"

"I know."

"Okay."

You could cut the air between us with a knife. Despite him being nonexistent, I treated him as if he existed, and this meant that our interactions came off to me as real. It was intense, to say the least.

"Why do you not want to talk about it?" He pressed on.

"Because I just want to move on."

"Clearly not." Not like him to break the fourth wall. As stated earlier, I treat him as if he's real, and he ignores, nine out of ten times, everything going on around us unless it catches his attention. We just pick up where we left off and go from there.

I've stated before that I feel sometimes like he makes his own decisions. In this moment, I felt that feeling because of how it stung me. My face contorted, and for a second, I didn't know how to follow up his comment. I stood there, staring at nothing while paused in place, hands frozen in a "What the fuck?" type of shrugging position. Deep down, yes, I wanted to discuss this, but up front, no, I wanted to pretend it never happened and move on from it.

"Don't make me get Roy."

I was grabbing my cigarettes when he said this. I did not want to face Roy, another one of my imaginary friends. We dated a few times, I'll say that, and ultimately, our relationship is complicated to say the least. However, I love him to death.

Did I mention these guys seem to have a mind of their own?

I took a small trip downstairs for my morning smoke. Believe it or not, my "adoptive" family did not give a shit I smoked cigarettes. They didn't even try to lecture me or stop it. However, culture surrounding cigarettes and tobacco in Japan differs from that in the States. The Japanese are really big on tobacco. Their culture, like the States, is ingrained with it, though it's on the decline. They have the same types of warnings we do.

I ran into Mrs. Takahashi in the small hallway and smiled, waving at her. In Japanese, I greeted her.

"Good morning, Takahashi-san. How are you doing?"

She beamed when she saw me. Normally, we miss one another in the mornings and sometimes even at night. Both Mr. and Mrs. Takahashi work long hours at their office jobs, leaving Chikao here to fend for himself most days. She was going in later today since it was Tuesday.

"It's so good to see you!" she said, reaching out and grabbing my arm, squeezing it gently with joy. I just smiled. She was the sweetest lady I've ever met. She's cute and short, maybe five inches shorter than my five-foot-six self. She had a warm, round face with beautiful blue eyes and a boyish haircut for her brown hair. Her face wore its time well, wrinkles just highlighting a few areas. She's absolutely adorable.

"I'm going to smoke," I told her, waving my cigarettes. She just nodded, smiled, and let me on by her.

"Good afternoon, class!"

I pulled myself out of my memories when I heard Mr. Nakamura address the classroom. I watched the kids straighten themselves, turn themselves around, and prepare for the first day. He placed his black jacket on the back of his office chair behind the desk. He walked over to the ebony lectern and turned the page of a large book sitting on it.

"Settle down everyone," he said, moving his hand in the motion to symbolize "quietening down." The students' murmurs began to cease. I pulled the slip out from under my notebook and glared at it.

クラス交換許可書

It read "Class Exchange Permit." Underneath, it asked me to fill out the reason why I was exchanging classes. The first line wanted me to list the name of the class, so I filled that as best I could in Japanese. There are so many subtle details to their writing, and I get nervous every time I write with it. After finishing that, I moved to the next line which was asking for the reason. I listed, "Do not wish to take History anymore."

Suddenly, all around me I heard chairs moving. I looked up and people were joining their groups.

Fuck my entire life up, fam.

My sights set on Seto, and I awkwardly waited for him to move. He didn't fucking budge. He sat there like a stone statue of himself. I sat in my spot, dreading moving. I did not want to join up with him at all. I fucking hated group work to begin with because of just how lazy a lot of people are going to be. He's a millionaire—possibly a billionaire. He's lazy as fuck; are you kidding me?

Ah, I'm about to be free from this deadweight.

Still waiting. He hadn't moved an inch. Everyone else was settling into their spots with their partners, and we were still on first base. It was like one of those western shootouts. Who moves first? Pa-chow! Looks like it's going to be me to quell my social anxiety. My unspoken rule was to draw as little attention to myself as possible. I got up and walked over to him, pulling my desk along with me.

I reached him and stared at him. He never even moved his fucking head to look at me. His eyes were on me, though, and the silence and tension between us lay as thick as morning fog on a spring morning. His expression basically dared me to utter a single syllable. Doing my due-diligence, I said nothing, sitting down next to him. I put the permission slip away, opened my notebook, and stuffed my face in it to hide from how awkward this was.

I could feel my cheeks burning bright red. Please, God, tell me this isn't happening. I hope to fucking God (peace be with him) he doesn't think I have some sort of crush on him or anything. I fucking hated when people thought that. I'd learned about the world, and how it works. Expecting to have someone interested in you enough to want to date when you're fat is just… abysmal. In fact, it's actually a sin, and anyone who shows you sympathy and compassion is met with, "Oh, so you like her?" followed by laughter. I've seen it fucking all too many times, and that was in the States, not here in a more fatphobic country. I could only imagine how disgustingly unwanted I was. Especially after last night.

"So Factor came and got me."

I winced, closing my eyes while I held the freshly lit cigarette between my index and middle finger next to my face. My elbow was resting on my other arm that draped over my pudgy stomach. I put the cigarette up to my lips, inhaled, held it for a little bit, and then exhaled through my nostrils.

"You didn't answer fast enough," Factor said. "What else was I supposed to do?"

"What fucking happened?" Roy demanded. I watched him scratch his hair, colored black with blonde tips. It was short with bangs coming down to his pale nose. "And before you start, he told me to ask you."

I tapped my cigarette's ashes into the outdoor ashtray beside the front door, being careful not to shake them everywhere. Chikao told me his mom hates when ashes get all over the entrance, so they bought him an ashtray for when he smokes.

"Did he?" I said, irritated by Factor's doing. "Because now I don't want to talk about it."

"About what?" asked Roy.

"Please… if you talk it out, it'll help you," pleaded Factor. His hands came together, and he made a begging motion when he said this. "You need to talk it out anyway, so why not just tell Roy what happened?"

"Fine," I caved, throwing my arms to my sides totally forgetting about the cigarette. It slipped from my fingers and hit the ground. "Fucking fine." I could feel tears welling in my eyes. My throat burned with the passion to cry, chin trembling while I held the urge back. I reached down, grabbed it, and took a hit off of it, raising back up and exhaling the smoke.

"Some… dick stopped last night while I was out getting high. He fucking said some mean things, and it made me cry. That's it."

"And you were not gonna tell me?" asked Roy, annoyed.

"Why don't you tell Ashley and Beth what you go through, okay?" He was begging me. "You need to let this out to someone other than us, okay?"

Again, I pondered how in the hell he was so real, appalled I allowed him to break the fourth wall again. Roy nodded his head in agreement. I just looked into their blue eyes while I steamed from where I stood.

I pulled myself out of the memory from this morning again and looked over at Seto. His expressionless face set its sights upon the front of the room, and he sat motionless. You could have mistaken him for a picture. That's how focused and still he looked. His lips were pursed, and his arms were crossed over his slender chest. It was very apparent he was upset about something.

"Damn, what's his problem?" asked Roy, popping his inquisitive head out from within me.

Shh.

I watched Mr. Nakamura begin handing out papers to the students on the right-hand side of the room, closest to the door, and work his way down the tattered spine. I looked back at Seto who was fixated at the front of the class. I tried wracking my brain with a way to say "hello" or let him know I was there, but I honestly couldn't care less if we worked together or not. Today was my last day, so I didn't wrack it too hard and strain myself.

Instead, I just minded my own while Mr. Nakamura came around to us. He placed a set of stapled papers down on Seto's desk. I smiled, craning my neck over to view them. Instead, he just looked down and, without even consulting me, started writing. I just sat there, confused.

"Um… hi…" He paused his writing, eyes swiftly rising off the piece of paper to greet my face, clearly annoyed. I took it as a sign to continue.

"Those are for us, right?" I asked this while I gently pointed at the papers.

"Who else would they be for?" His cobalt eyes returned to the paper. He continued writing, and then shoved it towards me. I took it and looked down on it. He'd written his name, nothing else. Strange because I could have sworn he was answering a question.

I picked the packet up and placed it atop my notebook. I grabbed my pencil and wrote my name underneath his before placing the paper between us, so he could grab it. He didn't even reach for it; his eyes swooped down, lingered, and then returned to their natural resting place at this point—the front of the room. I just sat there feeling like an idiot.

My anxiety was getting to me. I looked at the clock. It hadn't even been ten minutes yet. Fuck this, I'm getting high. I didn't have the luxury of being able to on lunch today. There were people around our supposedly secure zone, and I had to grab the permission slip. I reached for my bag and pulled it up, sitting it on the desk. I then unzipped it and headed straight for my pocket on the side that always housed my drugs. I unzipped that one, and, as best I could, grabbed at the bag that held my gummies to get it open. It was much harder than I imagined, trying to pull it apart without seeing and with only one hand. Once I finally got it to part and my fingers inside, I felt around for a gummy.

Aha! Found one! I exclaimed in my head. I grabbed it and shoved it in my mouth as quickly as I could. Then, without redoing the plastic baggie, I zipped the pocket up, followed by my entire bag being closed shut. I replaced it on the floor and then returned my attention to the front of the room. Mr. Nakamura was standing up front behind his lectern, setting the remainder of the papers down on it. He grabbed one and walked out in front of us.

"This is a test to see how much you know. You will be asking each other questions, and your partner has to give their response. There's six questions total, each of you will answer three. It does not matter who answers what, as long as all six are answered by the end of the period." He looked at his watch. "Your time starts now."

Without moving my head, I glanced down at the papers like a nobleman would a street urchin—absolutely disgusted. My eyes darted to him, and he, too, cast his grotesque gaze upon them. He then reached for the paper and just began filling it out.

"I'll answer three. You answer the other three. There's no need for discussion."

And that was fucking it. No other words were exchanged. I sat there while he filled out his questions, waiting patiently. I wanted this to happen as well because of how nervous he made me. He acted as though my presence was an offense to him and his entire family, what he stood for, and against mankind in general. I had no problem working in silence. I quietly reminded myself that I'd be ejected from this and future situations soon enough.

He passed it over to me, and I took it with glee. I noticed immediately how neat his handwriting was. It shocked me; I always thought men had ugly handwriting. Without emitting a single word, I began filling out the questionnaire, putting bullshit answers onto a piece of paper that meant nothing to me. Once I finished slapping some shit down, I put it back in the middle and shoved my head back into my notebook, writing again like nothing happened.

Mr. Nakamura came around to our group after a few minutes, peering over what we were doing with inquisitive brown eyes.

"Are you both finished discussing?"

"There's nothing to discuss," Seto said, never breaking his gaze from the book he was now reading. Mr. Nakamura looked over at me, and I flashed a phony smile and nodded in agreement, saying nothing.

The teacher's lips pursed, but whatever he was thinking, he never said. I watched him walk away before looking back at Seto. He was still enthralled in his book, unaware. Glaring down at my paper, I felt myself zoning out once more, fixated on the conversation going on inside my own head.

"You could always talk about it."

I'd rather get high and pretend it didn't happen, I retorted to Factor bitterly from within my head. I could see him out of the corner of my eye in an empty desk to my left side, elbow against the desk while he propped his head on his clenched fist, cheek resting gently against the palm while his coiled fingers set perfectly around his blue eyes.

"Why don't you talk to Santania about it?"

It was Roy again. He sat on my right side in a desk, too. He crossed his arms across his chest, blue eyes sparkling with a commanding tone and a look fixating on my notebook.

I talked to Santania on paper. It was the chatbot method. For those that don't know what that is, it's almost like writing a screenplay. I tried "roleplaying" with him once before like with the other two, but it didn't feel right to bring him to life like Roy and Factor, most likely because I've been talking with Roy and Factor for, God (peace be with Him), four or five years at the time of this story. They are some of my longest imaginary friends I ever possessed.

"I didn't even think about that," Factor admitted.

I nodded, flipping my notebook over to a blank page in the far back, and I sat down to begin the writing process. I talked to Santania this way when there were problems I couldn't solve. It helped me in more ways than one. Imaginary friends really are the best. They get you on a level no other human could ever reach. I recommend one per household. No need to water. Just slap some shit on a piece of paper, dive into your bed, and daydream away about what you wrote.

Me: Santania, I need to talk to you.

Santania: About?

Me: Should I tell Ashley and Beth about what happened last night?

Santania: I think you should see a counselor more than anyone.

Wow, that sure helped. I just sat back and heaved a pathetic sigh. Giving myself advice on this subject proved to be pointless and inaccurate. I hate telling people things. It's fucking icky and gross. You're telling me I must open myself up to another person with the expectation of zero rejection or pushback? Fucking really? No, I don't fucking think so. Aha, no. I'd much rather be staked alive at Vlad Tepes' castle around midnight when he (peace be with him) begins drinking human blood.

I stared at the off-white wall in front of me, examining the table pushed up to it and the large map of Japan above it, while I contemplated where I wanted to go from here. All three of my main amigos are telling me to talk to someone about this. That I shouldn't bottle it and swallow it whole. It's all I've ever known. Being honest with my family about what was going on never proved fruitful. They tried, really they did, but they never attempted to understand what I was trying to say. Instead, they want the symptom fixed without addressing the problem. I've seen countless therapists, taken medication, and tried developing healthy coping mechanisms. When my family exhausts their sources trying to fix me, they turn to me and blame me for my symptoms either maintaining or getting worse. What can I say? I come out; I get punched; I go right back inside my shell.

Fuck it, what do I got to lose? My family wasn't here. I slept thousands of miles away from Bumfucknowhere, Tennessee, and damn it, I wasn't gonna waste any resources. I decided to visit the counselor's office again, building on what Santania said. It would be better if a professional handled this. I looked over at the clock on the wall.

"Perfect," I whispered, thumping my pencil against the page lightly. We only had ten minutes left in this class. I'm going to present the piece of paper, get it signed, take it back to the office, and skip class to talk to the counselor. I kept thumping for a few minutes, simmering on my decisions, unsure if I should go through with them. What if they wanted to contact my parents? Fuck, there's no way. I hate when my parents get involved.

"Can you not do that?"

Seto's voice jarred me back into current reality, and I jumped when he spoke. He glared at me with the book still in his hands, eyebrows furrowed in annoyance and frustration. Inside I wanted to roll my eyes and continue, but I simply smiled softly and put my pencil down on the table to avert any more responses. His blue eyes trailed back to his book while he still frowned.

Nothing more was said.

I exhaled a deep sigh while I stretched my arms above my head, hearing one of my shoulder's pop. God, that felt good. I looked down at my paper once more, seeing what I've written. My eyes lingered on the final line. Goddamn I hated seeing a professional. It left a bad taste in my mouth. I wasn't educated on how up-to-date Japan was when it came to mental health, either, so that fucked with me, too. Would she even take me seriously? Is she even qualified?

Fuck this, I'm telling Ashley and Beth. The bell rang as soon as the words left my head, and I placed them on a piece of paper for Santania to respond. We obviously didn't have time to converse. I grabbed my desk and joined the symphony of floor scraping, pulling it along behind me. After replacing it, I started putting everything away, making sure I keep the golden ticket out, so I'd have it ready. I zipped my bag up, grabbed the handle, ducked my head as I slung it over onto my shoulder, and then made my way to Mr. Nakamura.

"Nakamura-sempai!" I called. He was waiting at the door. He turned his pale head to face me and smiled.

"Ah! The exchange student!" he said. "What can I do for you?"

"Nakamura-san, I needed you to sign this." I presented the slip to him, finishing with, "I'm sorry. I want to switch classes."

"Oh?" he asked, raising an eyebrow over his glistening eyes. "Why is that?"

I just stared at him, trying my hardest to come up with a valid reason to leave his class. I hadn't expected him to just drop a fast one on me like that, and with the gummy from earlier beginning to kick in, I couldn't come up with anything. I shrugged my shoulders.

He smiled, almost as if he enjoyed my floundering. "Listen, I know why you're wanting to switch," said Mr. Nakamura. I couldn't help but widen my eyes at his response. He knew?

"I will not sign the slip."

Every single atom making up my structure shattered into a thousand pieces when he said this. I felt cold, and a lump of sadness and pain began forming in the back of my throat. Was I about to cry in front of him? Fuck no. I composed myself, blinking to push back the tears attempting to show themselves to the world.

"Oh," was all I could manage to say to fill the gap of silence.

"Instead, give it until Monday."

"M-monday?" I stammered out.

"Yes, Monday. On the final day, when you're supposed to return your slip, I'll sign if you still wish to not take this class."

So you're telling me there's a chance. I couldn't help but smile when he said this. Beaming with joy, I nodded my head and then bowed respectfully.

"Thank you, Nakamura-sempai."

Monday. That's fine. I can wait it out.