A vein popping out of her forehead, my Japanese language arts teacher, Shizuka Hiratsuka, read my essay aloud in a thunderous voice. Being forced to listen to it like that made me realize I still wasn’t that great at composition. That essay was a pretty transparent attempt to string together a bunch of long words in an effort to sound smart. It was like something a novelist whose books wouldn’t sell might do. So did that mean my poor writing skills were the reason she’d called me there, then?
Of course not. I knew that wasn’t the reason.
Ms. Hiratsuka finished reading the essay, put a hand to her forehead, and sighed deeply. “Listen, Hikigaya. What was the homework I assigned you in class?”
“Uh, it was to write an essay on the theme of reflecting on my life in high school.”
“That’s right. So why does this sound like the prelude to a school massacre? Are you a terrorist? Or just an idiot?” Ms. Hiratsuka sighed again, worriedly ruffling her hair.
You know, instead of calling her a teacher, wouldn’t it be a lot sexier to call her a disciplinarian? Just as that thought crossed my mind, said disciplinarian whacked me over the head with a stack of papers. “Listen up.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“That look in your eyes… You look like a rotten fish.”
“You mean loaded with omega-threes? I must look pretty smart.”
The corners of her mouth twitched upward. “Hikigaya. What exactly is the point of this smart-ass essay? If you have an excuse, I’ll hear it now.” The teacher glared at me so hard I could hear the sound of her gaze. She wasn’t half bad looking, so her glare had an unusually powerful effect. I was overwhelmed. She’s actually pretty damn scary.
“U-uh, well, I did reflect on my high school life, you know? High school students these days are lasically bike this, right?! It’s basically all true!” I fumbled with my words. Just talking to another human being was enough to make me nervous, and this was an older woman, which was even worse.
“Usually for this kind of thing, you reflect on your own life.”
“And if you’d indicated that beforehand, that’s what I would have written! It’s your fault for being vague when assigning the topic.”
“Don’t quibble with me, kid.”
“Kid? Well, I guess to someone your age, I am.”
A puff of wind went by.
It was a game of rock-paper-scissors, and her rock swung out with no warning. A splendid fist that held back nothing grazed my cheek.
“The next one will hit its mark.” Her eyes were serious.
“I’m sorry. I’ll write it over.” The optimal choice of words to express apology and repentance.
But it didn’t look like that was enough for her. Oh, crap. Was groveling on the floor really my only remaining option? I slapped my pants to try and get the wrinkles out, bent my right leg, and approached the linoleum. It was a graceful, fluid movement.
“It’s not that I’m mad at you.”
Oh, here it comes. This is it. It’s so annoying when people say this. It’s just like saying, I’m not mad, so tell me, okay? I’ve never met anyone who said that who wasn’t actually mad.
But surprisingly enough, Ms. Hiratsuka genuinely didn’t seem angry. Aside from that age-related stuff, at least. Returning the knee that had been on the floor to its former position, I looked at her.
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Ms. Hiratsuka retrieved a Seven Star from a breast pocket that looked like it was about to burst and tapped the filter twice on her desk. It was something a middle-aged man would do. When she was done packing the tobacco, she flicked her cheap lighter and ignited the cigarette. She exhaled some smoke, an extremely serious look on her face as she fixed her gaze upon me once more.
“You haven’t tried joining any clubs, have you?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Do you have any friends?” she asked, knowing full well I don’t have any.
“M-my motto is to treat everyone equally, so I have a policy of not keeping anyone particularly closer than anyone else!”
“In other words, you have no friends?”
“I-if you want to be that blunt about it…,” I replied.
Ms. Hiratsuka beamed with motivation. “I see! So you don’t after all! Just as I thought. I could tell the minute I saw those rotten, sordid eyes of yours.”
You saw it in my eyes? Then why ask?!
Ms. Hiratsuka nodded to herself, satisfied, before giving me a sheepish look. “Do you…have a girlfriend or anything?”
“Or anything?” What was that supposed to mean? What would she say if I said I had a boyfriend? “Not right now.” I tentatively included some hope for the future in my emphasis on the words right now.
“I see…” This time when she looked at me, her eyes were somewhat moist. I want to believe that it was just irritation from the cigarette smoke. Hey, stop that. Don’t point that tepid, patronizing gaze at me.
But seriously, what’s with this line of questioning? Does she think she’s in some kind of inspirational teacher movie? Next, are we gonna hear some line or other from the rotten delinquent? Is the dropout going back to her old school as a teacher? I sure wish she would go back.
After Ms. Hiratsuka finished pondering, she expelled a smoke-filled sigh. “Okay, let’s say this. You do your report over.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Sure, this time I’ll just spew out some completely inoffensive paper, like something a pinup idol or a professional voice actress might write on her blog. Like Today I had…curry for dinner! What was the point of that ellipsis? Nothing that followed it was surprising at all.
Everything she’d said up until that point was to be expected. What came next was beyond my imagining.
“But still, you were callous, and your attitude toward me was hurtful. Were you never taught not to bring up a woman’s age? So I’m ordering you to do some community service. Wrongdoing must be punished after all,” Ms. Hiratsuka announced gleefully, her manner so perky I couldn’t imagine she was remotely hurt—actually, wasn’t she even perkier than usual?
Oh yeah…and the word perky just happened to remind me of another word—breasts. Much like my train of thought, my eyes strayed from reality and toward the teacher’s boobs, pushing up from underneath her blouse. How depraved. But what kind of person gets so giddy about punishing someone, seriously?
“Community service? What do you want me to do?” I asked timidly. Based on her demeanor, I expected her to order me to clear ditches or stage a kidnapping or something.
“Come with me.” She pressed her cigarette into an ashtray already filled to capacity and stood. She’d offered no explanation or preface to her order, so I paused. Noticing from the doorway that I wasn’t moving, she turned back to me. “Come on, hurry up.”
Flustered by her glare and furrowed brows, I followed.