The class representative spoke, her back to the blackboard. “Um, so by majority vote, our class will be running a cafe.”
This announcement was met with sporadic applause. The writing on the blackboard said: “Cafe: 12 votes. Maid Cafe: 8 votes. Butler Cafe: 5 votes. Sumo Cafe: 2 votes.” Every option was some kind of cafe.
What the hell even is a ‘Sumo Cafe’? Kanie Seiya wondered. He was gazing ahead blankly with his head on his desk, seated in the center seat of the class’s front row. He’d spent most of homeroom dozing, so he hadn’t heard the descriptions given by the presenters. He missed his old seat in the last row next to the window; the so-called “protagonist seat.” They’d changed seating at random during the start of the second term, and this was where Seiya had ended up. It was the worst seat possible for him...
Being right in front of the teacher meant that he couldn’t check the park’s accounts or employee schedules for the various areas. Nor could he respond to emails. This location made it harder to nap, too; the best he could do was a little daydreaming in homeroom. With elbows on the desk and head resting on top of them, he could assume an “awake-like posture” and get in a very welcome five to ten minutes.
The culture festival, huh... he mused. The most annoying event of the year. I don’t have time for those ridiculous “everyone comes together!” rites of passage.
But cafes... that reminds me. The tasting for the cafe corner is tonight. Can we really sell a simple cake set for 800 yen? Maybe I should make it cheaper...
Ah, no... I need to rest my mind for now. Need to space out, he told himself. Space out...
The class representative kept talking. “Since we’ve decided to do a cafe, we need to choose roles. Waitresses, waiters, people to make hot drinks, people to make posters... that kind of thing.”
She’s forgetting accounts, Seiya thought, but of course, he didn’t say it. Speaking up now would be like kicking a hornet’s nest; the whole class would look at him and say, “Okay, Kanie-kun, you do the accounts.” It was best to stay inconspicuous, like a flounder lying on the bottom of the ocean.
Still, the way the class representative was going about it just got under his skin. She clearly had no experience running a cafe and no idea what roles were needed. Since the teacher typically stepped out during homeroom, there was no one to correct her. The obvious roles like waiters and waitresses were chosen immediately, but they didn’t even get to the more important things. She left role selection unfinished as she turned to things like planning the menu, how to put together uniforms, and other things that would be better off left until later. At this rate, it was clear that their rep’s time was going to spill out past homeroom.
Seiya couldn’t take it anymore. I don’t have time for this. There’s a project meeting at the park at 4:00, and I don’t want to be late...
“...Ugh,” Seiya sighed, and then wished he hadn’t when the class representative noticed immediately.
“Kanie-kun. Is something the matter?” she asked.
“...No,” he said reluctantly, “nothing in particular.”
“It doesn’t look that way to me,” the class representative pushed. “I’d love to hear your opinion, if you have one.”
“I don’t.” The whole class was looking at him. Kanie had always had a beautiful voice; just those few words were enough to get all eyes on him.
“Don’t be like that. There’s something on your mind, right?”
“......” She’s left me with no choice, Kanie realized. If he didn’t say something, he’d be straining the limits of what polite society would allow. “Ah... well, first... shouldn’t you choose leaders for each section?”
“What do you mean?” the class representative asked.
“...You’re just letting people call their own roles at random,” he pointed out reluctantly. “When you open a restaurant like this... well, it’s only for two days, so I guess it doesn’t matter, but this is basically what you do: You choose ‘venue construction,’ ‘preparation of wares,’ ‘customer service’—which you’ve been discussing now—‘publicity,’ then ‘accounts’ and ‘complaints.’ Then, you need a manager to oversee it all and his or her assistant. That’s eight people in total. Most places would double-up for cost reasons, but going by the book should be fine since it’s just a culture festival.” In a real restaurant, it wouldn’t be unusual to have a single person playing all those roles at once. “Of course, each section has an important job,” he went on. “Costumes for waitresses and such should be submitted by the ‘customer service’ section. Then ‘accounts’ should review everything carefully to make sure it’s within budget, and... ah. Ahem.” He could feel the eyes of everyone staring at him.
Seiya snapped out of his daze and cleared his throat. “Sorry, I’m just babbling. Forget what I said.” He tried to go silent and withdraw again, but apparently, that wasn’t going to be allowed.
“You’re amazing, Kanie-kun!” someone said.
“Let’s do that stuff he said!” someone else added.
Seiya wasn’t sure, but he felt like he was being showered with praise. It wasn’t a response he was used to receiving. Still, at least this way, they’ll pick the roles and get homeroom over with... he was thinking.
But then, another classmate chimed in: “Hey, I know! Kanie-kun should be the manager!”
Crap, Seiya thought glumly. This is why I always keep silent. Out loud, he said, “No, I... I really can’t. Um...”
“That’s right,” the class representative said excitedly. “If you know so much about it, you should run our cafe. You’ll do it, right? You’ll do it, right?!” Everyone was staring at him. So much pressure... it was hard for him to just brush it all aside.
But...! Seiya meant to turn them down flat. The idea was preposterous; he already had his hands full with the park. Manage the school’s culture festival? Ridiculous!
Don’t be stupid, he wanted to say. I’m supposed to take precious time out of my day to help you people play restaurant? Do you know how many problems my suffering park still needs to have solved? I may get paid 850 yen an hour, but I deserve 5,000 at least! Even 10,000 would be a bargain! Are you gonna pay me that? You can’t, can you?! Yet here you are, pushing me into the role! You idiots!
Of course, he couldn’t say that. The school didn’t know that he was acting manager at AmaBri; almost nobody knew. If his double life was as a member of a secret mercenary squad, he might at least feel a little bit cool about it, but he was just putting out fires for some lousy amusement park. It was utterly unimpressive, and he didn’t want to talk about it.
All he had to do was say “no,” coldly and bluntly, as he had done in every other aspect of his high school life. It’s not as if they could think less of him; he’d conducted himself this way all this time. Everyone hated him as a result, and he was fine with that.