Crossover Fan Fiction ❯ Bitter And Murky ❯ Perceptual Filter ( Chapter 3 )

[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]

Perceptual Filter

 

There is much to be said for ignoring things that exist merely to trouble you. Things which distract you. Today’s distraction is the orange haired girl that yesterday was cradling her dead dog and weeping over its body. She was in my class, in the middle back, near the gyaru. I suppose she would also be called a gyaru, though her makeup and nails were far less overt. And the weeping wasn’t doing her face any favors. The entire class was trying to ignore her, except for the drill haired gyaru next to her, who’d opted to slide their desks together and comfort her through lessons. I didn’t expect a blonde gyaru to actually have empathy for another girl. They were famous for their competitive and overtly sexual behaviors, after all. But sisterly support? Not so much.

Today we got a lecture on world history, which related to current events, such as relations with North Korea, which had again threatened to nuke the cities of Japan with its arsenal of weapons that it had gained because a former American president had given them the type of nuclear reactor they needed to make weapons-grade plutonium, rather than the non-weapons-grade uranium they’d been experimenting with. For this, the Nobel committee had given him the Peace Prize, which is seriously ironic since it had created a nuclear armed terrorist state. One that was good enough at missile technology, given to them by another American President, so they would actually be able to follow through their threats to kill most of Japan’s population. And the Americans still considered themselves allies to Japan. This charming lesson in failed diplomacy and bad faith bargaining eventually ended.

The lunch bell finally rang after the interminable wait. I went to lunch elsewhere, rather than suffer the miserable atmosphere. Most of the rest of the class raced to escape, as well. The sakura tree was dropping petals already. Youth was coming to an end, metaphorically speaking. To honor my newfound bitterness I had black coffee in my thermos. I sipped the dark drink as I ate my leftover pork cutlets and rice from the bento I’d assembled this morning. It was okay, but not excellent. It was better last evening. The breading was mushy today, and the meat not as delicious with its fat cold. My home-made pickles were excellent, though. Something good to report to Komachi, I think.

Sometimes I think a weaker me, disillusioned by Orimoto, might have fallen into a life of indulgence and lassitude, enjoying fantasy and distractions, reveling in the idea of nice girls who actually like men, completely opposite of the reality. Of course, I understand that women being cruel IS reality, and fantasy stories where women are nice sell precisely because they would not sell if they were remotely realistic. Fantasy: it says what it is on the label. Nice girls are not real. And that’s one of those things that men take a long time to learn because we were brainwashed by our elders to believe the lie. Women want us weak, gullible, mislead, and thinking that how we look has no bearing on our appeal to women.  That we should work, work hard, to gain the affection of a good woman, and unicorns and rainbows have pots of gold their ends. Because hard work will gain a woman, not your looks, something you’re mostly born with. Right. Because if men knew that only the good looking men were reproducing and the ugly ones weren’t, proven by genetic tests in some hypothetical future, all the ugly men, over 80%, would stop working and take up minimal employment, or even more likely, subsistence farming the rural areas which are the overwhelming majority of the country of Japan. Places where you can ignore women entirely, and live a peaceful life. If my plans for a good job don’t work out, that’s my backup. And realistically, shouldn’t that be my first option? Am I wasting time being the best student? Am I just feeding the machine with all my hard efforts? Isn’t this just making me attractive to women? Or will my ugly face protect me from their parasitic nature? Actually, it is the last one. Yeah. Too ugly to date. That’s me.

This is good coffee. I can already feel my brain waking up from the late morning nap it was drifting into. Now I’m all peppy I can write essays like the one sensei assigned for us, on first impressions of our new school. We were to use metaphors and similies and try and maintain a descriptive fabric through the entire essay, at least three pages. I think I can do this well.

I’d had a week of classes to absorb, many homework assignments, and afternoons with Komachi, upping our game with cooking meals together and some homework tutoring I’d offered her to help with math. She was taking geometry and it required writing out proofs longhand, in the preferred format to suit the sensei’s tastes. I spent the next two evenings writing my essay, getting the tone just right, then turned it in on Friday morning. The expressions of the other students were varied, many of them bored, a few anxious, and a couple looking hesitant to actually turn their essays in, including the orange haired girl. It is possible that seeing her dog killed in front of her was emotionally traumatic. Everyone has to get over things like that.

The following week we got our essays back. My essay had a yellow sticky note on it: see me after class. I looked at sensei, baffled by this requirement but did so when classes were over.

“So, I noticed something about your essay, Hikigaya-san,” commented sensei, lighting a cigarette dramatically. I have noticed that sensei likes drama. I am unsure if she’s a Narcissist or this was some other psychological ploy or neurotic behavior. She likes the drama though. I suspect she was probably dropping Shounen Manga quotes, however I’d given up manga a few years ago, thanks to Orimoto. I have put away childish things.

“You have written a technically perfect essay,” she said, taking a long draw from her cigarette. This was so. I had a 100/100 score.

“Thank you, Hiratsuka sensei,” I offered with a mild smile, indicating just the right amount of sincere interest.

“I wasn’t finished. It is technically perfect. However I noticed in your description of the grounds, the lectures, lunch under the sakura tree which has leafed out, that you mention no conversations or friendships with any students.”

“I have a friend from my middle school, whom I converse with at lunch every day,” I mentioned politely.

“Ah yes… him. I spoke with his homeroom teacher and he informed me that Mr. Zaimokusa had some difficulties at your school and transferred out. Would you care to enlighten me on the details?” she asked. I sat up slightly.

“I’m not terribly interested in the past, sensei. Perhaps you might ask him yourself for such trivial concerns. Was there something else?” I asked her, deflecting. Because why should I throw my pal under the bus?

“I have a student from the International Class. She started a club, but it is rather undermanned and she will lose access to the room unless I can get her three more students to qualify as a proper club, rather than merely an association. I’m going to assign one of your classmates and your friend to it. I would like it if you would join them, as a mature guiding voice of reason, and help reduce their individual eccentricities?” she ordered, not actually asking. I looked her in the eye and saw only demanding glare returned. This is not something I’ve earned.

“Is there some particular value I would gain, academically speaking? I would be giving up time I currently spend with my sister, tutoring her in math and attending to family circumstances. I suspect my inattention would be harmful to her development.” Offer something significant or I’ll family circumstance myself out of here.

“I would be willing to enter a recommendation to your student jacket if you can perform to my expectations.” She waited, not offering more.

“And my sister? If she fails her class because I stop tutoring her it will harm her future. What can you offer me?”

“I can speak to the vice principal and get a prospective student pass which allows her onto the campus during club hours and for special events. I believe that would be legal and consistent with school policy. You could take this opportunity to meet your potential club-mates and decide if you can complete this special task which I suspect you are uniquely suited for.” That was uncalled for praise. I narrowed my eyes. She is trying to manipulate me. I am slightly curious, however.

“Lead the way to this clubroom,” I answered, standing up. She smiled faintly, hiding how much she believes she has conned me into something that is likely an impossible task.

We trekked downstairs and outside, then across to the special building, where the clubs were. Then upstairs and down the hallway. I heard the laughter and sound of cymbals from the very end, the light music club I suspect. They probably drink tea and talk like old ladies half the time. We turned right at a sliding door and the sensei knocked twice, then slid it open crudely.

“I asked you to knock,” complained a small voice petulantly. I peered around sensei who moved to the side. A sakura petal blew in past the classic beauty looks of the girl in question. She was high class, obviously, but where did the blossom come from? The tree outside is covered in leaves. There are no blossoms left to fall anywhere. Sakura season is over. I blinked.

“I did knock!” exclaimed sensei.

“You are supposed to wait until I allow you to come in,” complained the girl. “What if I was indisposed?”

Ah, one of those girls. An Oujou. Thinks she’s a lady, and puts on airs. But she’s attending this public institution, even if it’s the highest ranked public school. She could have gone to Ouran. Or Lobellia’s Academy for Ladies. Or even Osai Academy. But she was here, with us. Why? I looked to sensei, seeking an explanation.

“This is Yukinoshita Yukino. You already know Zaimokuza-san, and this is Yuigahama Yui,” sensei said, stepping clear so I could see the rest of the table where the three sat. Yoshi looked up and grinned to me, taking a deep breath for one of his blaring greetings.

“Inside voice, Yoshi. We ate lunch earlier,” I reminded him. He deflated again and gave a small wave instead. I noticed he had his laptop there, fiddling with his novel, probably. The orange haired girl was clutching a semi-used tissue in one hand and her eyes were red, with bags beneath them. I recognized her from our classroom.

“Good afternoon, Yuigahama-san. Are you feeling any better today?” I asked her. She shook her head no and said nothing, sniffling. Even with the comforts of the drill haired Miura, Yuigahama seemed quite upset by the death of her dog. I finally turned to regard the Oujou. I bowed slightly.

“Greetings, Miss Yukinoshita-san. How do you do?” I asked her with maximum politeness. She regarded me coldly.

“Your name?” she asked.

“Ah, forgive me. I am Hikigaya Hachiman.” She flinched then.

“Ah, the star student. I’d noticed your name in the test rankings. I was disappointed you did not choose to join the International class with your peers,” she commented curtly.

“Thank you for your concern. I wish to enjoy the full camaraderie of my high school years so joined one of the ordinary classrooms.”

“Or perhaps your English is not sufficient to join the class properly?” she asked in English.

“I am learning that language. Thank you for taking this opportunity to converse with me. I appreciate the effort.” I smiled. She nodded coldly.

“I spent several years of my childhood in America, so speak English fluently. I can assist in improving your pronunciation and conversational skills.” That would be useful, actually.

“Well, Hikigaya?” sensei asked.

“Your terms are acceptable. Please provide the pass we discussed,” I answered.

“I shall see you tomorrow, then. Club ends at four.” Then she left. I found a chair on a stack and pulled it off, then set it across from the others. The table wasn’t big enough to sit on the same side. I noticed Yukinoshita rising and poured a cup of tea. She placed it in front of me.

“Thank you,” I replied to the kindness. I sipped at it, making approving noises. “It’s good.”

She nodded and returned to her seat. Yuigahama-san was looking at me, or in my direction anyway. She still looked like she would burst into tears at any time. I recognized her from the car accident, cradling her just-killed dog. I also recognized the silhouette of Miss Yukinoshita from inside that same car. How curious. No, she wasn’t driving the car, but she was present at the accident, and did not emerge to comfort this girl, our classmate.

“So, Hachiman, what brings you here?” Yoshi asked me, finally. He was speaking in an appropriate volume. Perhaps out of courtesy to the fragile girl beside him. His usual noise level would cause problems.

“Have you been in this club long?” I asked him.

“Ah? No, not long. My sensei referred me to counseling, and Hiratsuka-sensei is the student counselor, and she assigned me to this club to curb my more boisterous traits, she said,” he explained.

“Ah, she did now? She is our homeroom teacher,” I explained.

“Our?” he asked. I gestured to Yuigahama.

“Ah, you’re in our class?” asked the girl. I nodded. “Sorry. I’m kind of a mess right now. My dog… my dog,” she managed and then burst into tears. Loudly. Yukinoshita looked pained, as well as probably irritated. I don’t know how Oujous express themselves, but RBF is clearly part of the deal.

“Yes, I sit near the wall.”

“So it seems others noticed you are the top student?” Yoshi tentatively said. I noticed the fresh tension by the Oujou, a certain flexing of muscles near her jaw and fine lines appeared near her temple. Almost like she was angry.

“Well, I did spend the last two years studying. I intend to continue this,” I explained.

“Have you still sworn off manga, novels, and anime?” he confirmed.

“That is so. I have no time for fantasy. We live in a difficult world, and time is precious,” I responded.

“Ah, and how is Komachi?” he asked. Being a friend he’s met my sister. She can be a bit overbearing. Especially if she’s had sweets. She’s twice as genki then.

“We’ve been working through a cookbook together for our dinners, and I’ve been tutoring her in Geometry. I think she wants to apply here for next year.”

“She’s almost done with Middle School? They grow up so fast,” he commented like an old man.

I sipped at my tea, the perfect temperature now.

“How has your latest revision to your novel gone?” I asked him, noting his idle tapping on the device.

“I’m down to adjusting the tone and language used based on my market research. The basic story is probably the 10-20 year range, mostly teenagers. I have to tune the word choices to that level of education. I’m feeling like Stephen King, at this point,” he explained.

“How do you mean?” I asked him, confused.

“He’s an American author who figured out that he could sell a lot of books if he kept his word choices to a high school educational level, and combined that with deals to sell the paperbacks in grocery store checkout lines, next to the trash newspapers and candy. It worked for him, and made him a lot of money. The Americans don’t do light novels. They mostly go 500 pages or more,” he elaborated. “That’s where we win. Light novels and popular series can sell more in Lawsons and Seven Elevens because they’re so cheap, individually. It is easy to get hooked on them, and to crank them out because they are light on the details, mostly focused on action and dialogue.”

“Right. Action and dialogue. Probably easier to write, too.”

“Indeed, my friend,” Yoshi grinned. He had big plans with this novel. I turned to regard Yuigahama, who had stopped crying to listen to us.

“I’m sorry about your dog. I happened to arrive after the accident,” I offered my condolences.

“Ah… yeah,” she managed and sniffled quietly, not bursting into tears this time.

I turned to regard Yukinoshita and raised an eyebrow. She stared back over the top of a book of samurai poetry, saying nothing. Showing nothing. Admitting nothing. I wonder how long she’s going to keep this up, assuming that really was her in the back of that car. That rich car, for rich people. The kind of people who avoid scandal. I narrowed my eyes, which given my squint is pretty narrow. I returned to the people in front of me.

“I am curious what this club is about,” I said out loud.

“Oh, we’re the Service Club,” answered Yuigahama, wiping her eyes again, and straightening herself physically. “We help people.”

“That is a simplification,” corrected Yukinoshita. “We teach students how to do the thing they’re trying to do, so they can do it for themselves.”

“Right. We help people,” confirmed Yuigahama once more, with a bright but brittle smile. I smiled back politely, noting the muscles twitching in the jaw of the other girl.

My phone beeped. I checked the screen and noted a message from my sister. I wrote back with a couple sentences explaining club, asking if she wants to join too.

Join a high school club? Are these cool people or nerdy people? She wrote.

Both. There’s a nerd, a gyaru, and an oujou, I replied.

Will you tutor me there? She asked. I knew this was the real question.

Of course. As long as we aren’t busy helping a student with some problem. I answered.

I’m cooking onion and noodle soup with grilled mackerel. Don’t be late. She taunted me.

Home around 4:40, probably, I answered.

“Are you quite through?” demanded Yukinoshita acerbically. I raised an eyebrow.

“We’ll have a new club member tomorrow,” I replied. The oujou hmphed at me.

I spent the rest of the hour chatting lightly about nothing. I know little about modern visual culture, don’t read books that aren’t decades or over a century old, and know more about philosophy than I do about anime. This made me dull conversation for Yoshi and Yui, and Yukino? Well, Yukino had opinions.

“So what you’re saying is self improvement is man’s only true obligation, is that right?” she reiterated what I’d just finished explaining.

“Yes. That is what I am saying,” I confirmed.

“What about your obligations to women?” Yukinoshita wanted to know.

“What obligation would that be? I’m like most Japanese men under 40. I have no girlfriend or children, and that isn’t likely to change. I own a mirror. I know what I look like. Women recoil from me. They don’t drag me to a love hotel, then sue me for child support payments. That happens to the 20% of men women actually notice. The other 80% are literally invisible to women. I’m actually surprised you’ve decided to speak to me, actually. Why is that?” I asked her.

“Your grades. You scored higher than me on the entrance exams.”

“So this is your sense of competitiveness?”

“Yes, I suppose it is,” she admitted.

“That’s disappointing, even though I should have expected it. Women are very status conscious, especially ones from the highest tier of society. Would I be correct in assuming you consider yourself very high status?” I asked her.

“That would be accurate, yes.”

“And would I be correct in mentioning that I recall you sitting in the rear passenger seat of a certain Toyota Century last week?” I confirmed. She blanched, looking guiltily at Yuigahama, who had frozen stiff at my words. She very slowly turned to look at Yukino-san.

“I wasn’t driving,” she started to say, but was interrupted by more tears and wailing by Yuigahama.

“Was there a particular time you were planning to reveal that to the young lady?” I asked Yukino. “I do apologize if I spoiled your moment.”  

“Why did you do that?” she demanded.

“I’m so very sorry. Did you have other plans?” I asked her with false sincerity. “I think tomorrow is just going to go swimmingly, don’t you?”

“I think, considering the situation, we should probably call it a day for club, don’t you?” I suggested. I gathered my things and exited the room, Yoshi close behind me with his laptop in hand, trailing cables and too much luggage.

“That was unusually rude of you, Hachiman,” pointed out Yoshi, huffing to keep up. The wailing and accusations began to grow louder behind us. We continued on our way.

”They’re girls. They’ll work it out.”