June 26th, 2024

For the girls in her class, their journeys along the path of makeup and skirts and frills and fashion were made because of once upon a times, of dreaming of just the right man at just the right time, of the perfect romance –mileage varied– kindling in their lives.

For Miyo Takano, her once-upon-a-time was a vow already made.

Her life was no longer hers to lead; every deed, every moment, every breath was to be dedicated towards etching her grandfather's legacy into the world. So she watched, and listened, and learned.

She was in middle school, which meant that the careful plan copied out onto her notepaper was merely the foundation, the ideas stage, the first steps to a plan proper.

Her first necessary step –she circled the kanji several times in glittery purple ink– was to be credible. Those men had thrown aside her grandfather's thesis like it was nothing because they did not take him seriously. She would have to make sure they took her so seriously that she was –metaphorically– bulletproof.

Her second necessary step was to be knowledgeable. Miyo circled that too. Grandpa was disregarded by those men because they thought his proof was flimsy and his theories weak. Miyo would grow up to be a scientist, a brilliant scientist, and help him find so much proof that they'd be buried under it.

And last, but certainly not least, respect. (Well-circled by glittery ink.) Even someone as smart as Grandpa could be thrown aside if he wasn't respected; even though he was knowledgable, and even though he was credible to the people that knew him!

Miyo bit down on the end of her pen, trying to contain her fury.

Credibility, knowledge, respect. She needed to find a way to create all of these for herself as a foundation, and then use it to launch her career.

Knowledge was the easiest. Miyo had been a high achiever in her class before –partly out of thanks to Grandpa for arranging it for her, partly because she was clever, and partly due to the lingering terror of punishment created by her time at the orphanage– but now she was eating up the distance between herself and the top student. She planned to have the best grades, the best scores, the best classes, so that later she could get into the best high school, the best university. Miyo would pass with 1000%, not just a mere 100.

Credibility would come with knowledge, but Miyo would also need to be social, to be known, to earn respect. Being an isolated genius like her grandfather was no good; she needed the whole scientific community to know her name.

Miyo pursed her lips and thought.

A proper scientist worked through hypothesis, observation, and testing.

Miyo looked at her classmates and observed that the boys paid attention to the prettiest girls, the ones who had the neatest makeup and the loveliest hair. The girls, likewise, looked to these social queens with both jealousy and longing. The end result, of course, was that the people most watched were those at the top of the social pyramid, but one of the easiest ways to climb it seemed to be beauty.

Huh.

Miyo had gone home the afternoon she'd discovered that deep in thought, and had spent some time staring at her reflection in the mirror after her bath. Should she cut her hair…?

No, the boys seemed to respond better when the girls could style it. Her hair would have to be grown out. Experimenting with what left it sleekest, smoothest, and shiniest would likewise have to wait until a break, when she could test routines without fear of her failures being seen at school.

Her face was a good face, with no real problems. But all the popular girls wore makeup, and Miyo had none; her mother was years dead, and Grandpa didn't have any in the house.

She solved that problem by talking to her friends, carefully asking about brands and shops and places. She visited a few, bought a single tube of the cheapest lipstick –a bland dusty rose– and spent a whole weekend and half the tube figuring out how to apply it.

She didn't come to school with it, though. Miyo studied the popular girls some more, made notes of who wore what shade, and returned to the makeup counter the next weekend with a chart and a mission. Blonde wasn't a common color in Japan, and Miyo's burgeoning social instincts told her to leverage her novelty as much as she could. Most of the school tried to copy the popular girls; she needed to make herself unique, noticeable. Copycatting wouldn't accomplish that.

Skin tone, hair color, eye color, and clothing all played a factor in what was the ideal shade of lipstick. Luckily for Miyo, she and her classmates all wore the same uniform, so she only needed to account for her own coloring as an individual.

With her dark amber eyes –a liquid brown that could turn orange or yellow depending on the light– and blonde hair, a bright scarlet would stand out like a shrieking firework –not bad, but it'd make her look like she was trying too hard. A darker rose or plum would be too somber, and the sparkly ones would be too childish for what she was trying to do. Miyo wanted to make an impression.

She ended on a delicate light pink, one that made her lips look almost but not quite shiny. She had a floral clip she planned to accent it with later, when she'd gotten everything she needed.

Wash, rinse, repeat.

Miyo looked and learned what the other girls wore, how they wore it, and noted what showed off to the best effect. Then, on the weekend, she very carefully went to the shops when no one her age was around and bought cheap test products, learning how to apply them for hours –until she could it perfectly, in fact– before seeking out what she planned to actually wear.

And then, she was ready.

Miyo Takano walked into class one day and made heads turn everywhere, because her lips were glossy and pink, her eyes had smoky eyeshadow worthy of a film star, and her shoulder-length ash blonde hair was tucked away behind one ear with a fetching clip made to look like an elegant pink passion flower. The girls clustered around her desk and asked how, when, who had done this, and Mito had looked surprised, before demurely replying that she'd wanted to try wearing makeup herself and this was her first time at it.

One of the popular girls invited –insisted– that Miyo take lunch with her and her friends and tell them all about herself.

Miyo entered high school as a solid member of the most popular clique. Her social position was both untouchable and oddly tenuous –she and the other girls were popular only if they were perpetually perfection incarnate, with no room for a single mistake. It was exhausting, but Miyo swore to bend the world around the shape of her desire, and if she let a thing like this get in her way, she'd never get anywhere.

High school popularity was different than middle school popularity, though, because now everyone was no longer placing an advanced form of dress-up; the knowledge of sex seeped into every stroke of makeup and every fastener she clipped.

Miyo's tendency to think before acting meant that she was less impulsive than her classmates, more reserved, which also meant she got to learn from their mistakes. As part of her effort to keep her social network broad, she was not just friends with the most popular girls: Miyo was friendly with all her fellow young women, and enough handing over tissues in the bathroom, patting of shoulders, and late-night calls allowed her to piece together a number of advanced theories.

Her working hypothesis –before she even finished her first year of high school– was that while sex is a potent attracting force, it was not an effective binding one. She'd seen a number of girls heartbroken when, after having sex with the boy they'd fancied, they were almost immediately abandoned and discarded. Offering further sexual favors out of desperation tarred them with the blackest of high school brushes, that of a slut.

Some of the more vicious girls in her circle used the word like a sword, a mighty thunderbolt to send the highest angel crashing down to the lowest firmament. To call a girl a slut was to destroy her social credibility beyond hope of recovery; paradoxically, the more sex boys had –confirmed or rumored– the more they were lauded as "real men."

Miyo noted the hypocrisy, but did not care. Her foundational goals remained the same as ever; credibility, knowledge, respect.

She needed to gather more scientific knowledge, take more classes on biology, physiology, anatomy, viral studies. She needed to deepen her social ties, broaden them, make sure she was known and regarded well by everyone in the school. She needed to join clubs, to show that she was an active member of her community; she needed to advocate for improvements in her town, to show her social responsibility; she needed to practice elocution and manners at home, against the day when she was raised to a higher social standard.

High school was her testing ground, her microcosm of the first real, big step to etching her grandfather's knowledge into the world. She could not make a mistake.

So Miyo spent her first year watching and learning, and began to adjust her attitude accordingly, little by little, in the next year.

By studying, hypothesizing, and testing, she began to see how sexual allure could be used to her benefit. Offering sex outright was unthinkable; while men were praised for such actions, women were reviled. Sex could not bind any allies to her, only attract them.

But there –attraction. Men were lured towards women who were attractive, but that did not necessarily mean she had, or even should, consummate their desire. By coy little flirtations, by teasing glances, by gorgeous makeup and flawless hair and perfectly-laundered uniforms, Miyo could dangle her beauty like a bait on a hook, and reel in whoever she chose to.

Learning how to do so carefully, how to judge and keep a certain distance between her and the man involved, how to avoid unpleasant scenes and even more unpleasant threats, was the product of much trial and error.

By the time she left high school, though –valedictorian, naturally– Miyo knew how to play men like a fiddle, and she set her sights on the future, her vow burning brightly in her heart and her strides firm, ready to use whatever tools she had to hand –yes, even her body– to achieve her victory.

12.11 PM, USA Central Time