Chapter 1: I Wish That Sensei and I Would Be Allowed To Love Each Other

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Warmth filled my body.

Slowly my senses came back to me, stirring me to life once more. I was lying on my back, staring up at an unfamiliar sky. It was so vast and empty, dark with a tinge of red on all sides: liminal, sublimate.

Water lapped at my body, an ankle-deep river that gently rocked me back and forth, like the comforting embrace of a mother.

Stunned, confused, I sat up and rolled onto my knees. As far as I could see in every direction was only this river, with a nondescript shore on either side. The one behind me was so murky, so deep and dark with shadow that I couldn’t see where it went at all; the one ahead of me was marked by ancient stone steps that gently lifted out of the water and through a torii gate, the vermillion paint having peeled off almost completely. Beyond it, I could see the shapes of people, obscured by a mist of unintelligence, or reverence.

I felt called.

Shaking with the half-remembered cold, I rose to my feet. Beyond the gate, I could hear people calling my name, with long-forgotten and yet still-familiar voices. I was drawn to them, to their memories; this was where things ended, after all. And yet ⸺

⸺ And yet, I couldn’t bring myself to go any further. I had said this was what I wanted, what I desired, and yet looking at that boundary that separated the living from the dead, I could only think of my regrets: the three chains that bound me. Wrought iron pulling me inexorably backward, into the sludge of the waking world I had left behind.

I turned to leave, and found myself stopped by an unfamiliar person.

“I cannot let you go back,” she said sternly. She was shorter than me, or maybe taller than me, an indistinct shape of ghostly white. She was, perhaps, not even a person ⸺ this was merely what my human mind could discern her to be. I could recognize her function, at least, through half-remembered readings of poetry concerning the mythology of the world, mixed with the knowing sense of what this place must be.

“A … reaper?” I choked out, my throat having been torn ragged by the raging flood.

She nodded. “I am as you say.” Her stance seemed to firm, her form presenting an immense volume of stern wall. “I cannot let you leave the way you came.”

“But ⸺” I started, regret after regret piling up in my throat, struggling to get out.

She raised a hand-thing, stopping me. “I cannot let you go back, but I can take you sideways.”

I struggled to understand, my face scrunching up in disbelief and ignorance ⸺ or at least that’s what I assumed it was doing.

If she had eyes, they were filled with pity. “It’s an idea I have, you see ⸺ a new policy. One designed to limit the numbers of the unquiet dead.”

I shook my head. “I don’t … understand.”

“There are two ways: forward, where you will join the land of the dead and take your proper place ⸺ or you go back, to the land of the living, where you will become a tormented ghost, bound by grief, and regret, and anger.” Her agitated body shook with rebuke. “I cannot allow that. So, instead, I offer to take you sideways.”

She slithered out an arm, pointing down the length of the river. I followed with my eyes.

I could see something there, a light, a sense of warmth. It wasn’t a true sense of belonging, but one close enough ⸺ like sleeping in your older sister’s bed after having suffered a terrible nightmare. It was a place for not-me, a life I had lived ⸺ and yet, had not. A life I could live, if I wanted.

She smiled, concerningly so. “Think of it as starting over ⸺ a turning of the wheel. An end of the cycle, and a beginning of the same.” She vibrated, pleased with herself. “You can work out all your regrets, and then when you die again, I will take your hand and bring you to where you belong.”

“I- I can do it all again? Everything?” The thought was too much to consider.

“Everything. Though, there is a small wrinkle: some things will change. Must change.”

“In what way? Why?” I couldn’t keep up.

“I cannot take you back, so it must be sideways. There must be a change. You will tell me what it is.” She snapped a tentacle, and with it tapped the core of her being. “Your heart will tell me what shall change.”

“I can … I can live again? Redo everything, but with a change that I wish for?” It was too good to be true.

“It is too good to be true,” she echoed. “Yet, it is. It will be.”

“Sideways,” I repeated, struggling with disbelief.

“Sideways,” she agreed.

 

 

My Childhood Friend

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And just like that, my life started over from square one.

I couldn’t recall the details of my early childhood, and so those remained a confusing blur as I lived through them again ⸺ but on the other side of it, around the age of five or six, I awoke from my dream-induced stupor with the memories of my previous life still intact.

I marveled at how exact it was in its recreation. There were some superficial differences ⸺ street names, the color of the train schedule pamphlets, our house’s telephone number ⸺ but the events of my life, both large and small, were all still the same. The narrative proceeded as it had, covering the same ground with the dogged resilience and strict schedule of a bullet train.

My constant companion throughout these early years remained my childhood friend, Ichikawa Saya. Our families had been neighbors for decades, and so naturally we had a lot of exposure to each other, that eventually culminated in a perfunctory friendship ⸺ as these things often go. In my original life, it was a friendship of convenience; we went to the same schools, sat in the same classes, attended festivals with our families. We played at the same playgrounds, watched the same television shows, and took the same train every morning.

I had been an only child, and I think the Ichikawas had taken pity on my mom as a working mother. In grade school and middle school I became a latchkey kid, so they would often send Saya-chan over with side dishes, or invite me over for dinner. In this way, Saya-chan and I had been like sisters: growing up immersed in familiarity with one another, but otherwise possessing wildly different tastes in games, music, and love-interests.

Saya-chan had been a good and reliable friend on a surface level, but our bond was superficial enough that we parted easily in our final year of highschool. It wasn’t a terribly sad thing; we had both grown up enough that we understood our paths in life had to diverge at some point. I last saw her at a cram school, trying her hardest to get into the top-level university that I had given up on, where I instead settled for my second choice ⸺ a move that would ruin me later in life, leaving me unable to secure a strong-enough network necessary to obtain a real career, rather than being forced to work for a black company.

I had always admired Saya-chan’s tenacity and spirit, and the longer I had to think about it, the more I came to the understanding that our relationship had been one of my regrets, as well. With our families so close, it would’ve been so easy to get back in contact with her, even after my family had to move out of the city center. At any time, I could’ve picked up the phone and rekindled our relationship, but something always held me back.

I think … I think it had been a difficult mix of fear and self-loathing. I had convinced myself that I was a failure, a loser woman that had given up on her dreams and continued to settle for less and less. It would hurt my pride too much to have Saya-chan see me like that ⸺ and the fact that she never tried to get in touch with me either cemented those feelings. It seemed like we both wanted to keep our distance, and so I respected that despite my longing for someone, anyone to talk to. In my heart of hearts I knew that this was just an excuse, that Saya-chan wouldn’t be so quick to judge me, but I just couldn’t get past my own wounded pride.

Many of my memories were those filled with shame, regret, failure ⸺ things that I had felt were out of my hands at the time. Living through them a second time, I struggled with accepting that maybe some things weren’t my fault; I didn’t have the perspective of a thirty-something woman back then, and seeing it all up close gave me the strength I needed to start forgiving myself.

I put a lot more effort into my relationship with Saya-chan: I spent more time and money on choosing her birthday presents, I devoted myself to reading her favorite books and listening to her favorite music, and I even made sure to make her homemade chocolate every Valentine’s Day, even when we were seven or eight years old. I learned all of her food preferences, and happily chatted about everything and nothing, whiling away the hours with her.

Our families’ houses were right next to each other, but this time around our rooms happened to be on the same side, on the second floor overlooking the small service alleyway between the two buildings. Since real estate is at a premium inside the city, the gap between the balconies of our windows was so small that it was easy for us to crawl over them and sneak into each other’s rooms at night. We got into the habit of doing it quite often in middle school, and as time went on I was spending less and less time on my own, and more time with Saya-chan.

We’d stay up late on school nights, hiding under the blankets together, just listening to music or gossiping about current events. Sometimes I just let her talk about whatever she wanted, while I stayed quiet and gazed at her face, basking in how happy I was that I had a second chance with her. Saya-chan had been a close enough ally before, but now … ⸺ I felt a huge amount of gratitude and affection towards her. I loved just being able to be in her presence, getting to watch her grow up alongside me.

By the time we’d reached our final year of middle school, I had begun to feel that she was irreplaceable. I knew that when highschool started, I would be spending a lot of time indulging in Sensei’s affections, but I knew a piece of my heart would stay with Saya-chan. No matter what, I wanted to continue to be by her side for as long as I could ⸺ and I hoped she felt the same about me, too.

There were other things in my life that happened much too early for child-me to have an effect on them ⸺ there was only so much sway that a little girl had over the world, after all. My parents’s divorce happened as it had, my father leaving the family for greener pastures with his mistress; to be honest, I remembered so little about him that I was almost glad when he left. My mother was heartbroken, of course, but I felt like I was able to provide her with the understanding support of a thirty-seven-year-old, rather than the spoiled gradeschooler I had been. A “considerate daughter,” the gossipy neighborhood wives had called me.

Grade school, middle school, school friends and bullies, birthday parties, new year’s, holidays, broken and mended bones ⸺ my once-lived life flowed past me, a gentle stream of things of no concern. I was living not for the totality of it, but for the chance presented to me: that year of highschool.

The turning point of my regrets.

 

---

 

I was young now, again, and beautiful. I had made certain I would be: I spent all my years of consciousness leading up to this moment in preparation. I exercised every day, kept to a reasonable diet ⸺ affording myself only the proper number of sweet treats for a growing girl ⸺ practiced my hair and makeup, with younger fingers and pain-free wrists. I even did the ridiculous “breast growth” exercises every day, in hopes of buttressing my already-ample chest; I remembered with clarity the full moons the school nurse possessed, and I didn’t want to leave her with any edge over me.

This time, I would get everything right. This time, I would make him fall for me, head-over-heels.

If anyone was going to be “Mrs. Desjardins,” I would do anything in my power to make sure that it was me. That was my first step to a happy ending.

The Event, as I called it, happened two months into the second semester. Or would happen, I guess; it was sometimes difficult to separate the then and the now in my head. It was a simple premise: the venerable Hayashi-sensei, class 1-A’s English teacher, would be stepping aside to make way for a fresh-out-of-grad-school foreigner who would be his replacement for the foreseeable future. Hayashi-sensei would make a brief introduction, and then through the door would walk the most beautiful, cunning, selfish, and desirable man alive: Courtney Desjardins.

It was a picture-perfect moment in my head. All these years later, I remembered even the minute details: the color of his sweater, the way he had tied back his hair, the delicate curve of his handwriting as he spelled out his cumbersome name on the board. I remembered the way he would put his hands on the teacher’s desk and lean over it, like he was trying to draw us in conspiratorially, to communicate some hidden secret of literature. Every moment of that day was engraved on my memory, indelible and perfectly preserved.

I had read enough time-travel books and seen enough movies to be worried about an interruption of causality, so I didn’t try to stray too far from the events of my past as I remembered them. It was, in all probability, a completely unwarranted concern ⸺ the reaper had more or less told me that my deepest wish would be granted, and nothing was nearer to my heart than my love for my sensei.

Our fateful meeting would come to pass, whether we wanted it to or not. For my sake, I hoped that he still wanted it, too.

 

---

 

“Hey. Heyyyyyy. You still in there?”

I snapped back to reality, waking as if from a dream, lured by Saya-chan’s playful tenor.

She was sitting cross-legged in the empty desk next to mine; the slot had been vacant for most of the semester, and would remain so for the next three years of our lives. Thinking about that seat, I couldn’t imagine anyone else inhabiting it; whenever I pictured it in my mind, I could only remember Saya-chan’s smiling face, and the way her hair tumbled down her shoulders, caught in the early morning breeze.

“I’m here,” I said, slumping over my desk, arms outstretched. “I’m awake.”

“No you’re not,” she jabbed. “You’re still dreaming about whatever it is you have planned today; I know because you’ve been babbling about it for weeks.”

It was kind of true. The Event was impossible to keep to myself, and yet it was something that I couldn’t share with anyone else; it would be weird for a highschooler to have this kind of advance knowledge, and what I wanted to do with it might be considered improper to anyone with a sensible stance on age-gap relationships. In light of this, I’d shared some of the bare-minimum details with my loyalist comrade, Ichikawa Saya: the details were scant, but I told her that a friend of my mom’s had heard that the school was going to receive quite the attractive new member, and I was dying to meet them. I kept my lips sealed on everything else, despite how much my silence drove Saya-chan to fuming irritation.

“I haven’t planned anything,” I huffed. “I’m normal. Very normal. Like always.”

“Yeah? I’m not seeing it,” she said with a skeptical tone to her voice. “What’s got you so riled up today, anyway? You’ve been ping-ponging back and forth between hyper-awake and totally-dead. You’re like, bipolar.” She frowned, tapping a finger to her lips as if in deep thought. “It’s not like you.”

“I’ve been replaced,” I said, keeping my affect flat. “I’m a completely different woman, inhabiting Yoru’s body.”

“Woman?” She scoffed. “You’re as much of a JK as the rest of us; your birthday was like, only a few weeks ago.”

“Mmn.” I pursed my lips, imagining different scenarios. “Then, maybe I’m an alien, controlling Yoru’s body with a hypnosis machine.”

“Aliens? Are you some kind of UMA otaku?” She made a face, sticking out her tongue. “That’s gross. Go join a nerd club, and leave my Yoru’s body with me.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Just my body?”

She grinned. “Oh yeah. I’ll take very good care of it.”

“You’re so weird,” I teased back. “Maybe you’ve been replaced with a dirty old man.”

“I’m not that weird,” she protested, making that adorable pout that she always used to get her own way. Her playful mood changed for just a moment, as she clutched an official-looking envelope in one hand. “I mean, especially with ⸺ like, Yoru-chan, if we really wanted to … like, I mean, if you, and I, wanted to, like, together… ⸺”

It was another one of those discrepancies that had begun to leak into my life. It was a small thing; some doctor’s appointment Saya-chan had scheduled over a week ago. She’d missed a day or two of school over it; apparently it was kind of common, so I really had to wonder about it ⸺ maybe it was just a really aggressive vaccine or something. I wouldn’t have been too concerned about it if she hadn’t brought it up on the same day as The Event.

“Oh yeah! I’ve been meaning to ask about that,” I said, gesturing to the envelope. “How did your appointment go?”

She blushed a bright pink, which was a weird reaction to a doctor appointment. Maybe it was for something personal? I didn’t think Saya-chan was the type of girl to get into that kind of trouble this early in our lives, but maybe she was really more active than I’d remembered.

“Listen, Yoru-chan ⸺ that’s what I’m trying to tell you. I got my APPT results back, and ⸺”

“Good morning class!”

Whatever Saya-chan was saying was drowned out by the cheerful voice of our current English teacher, Hayashi-sensei. Despite the crumbling facade of his age, his overall good-nature and energetic attitude made him rather popular, at least as far as school staff went.

I bolted upright in my seat, the palms of my hands glued to the top of my desk. My skin buzzed with electricity: this was it. The beginning of The Event.

Ichikawa-kun, if you could please return to your desk, I mouthed along with Hayashi-sensei, like someone who was watching a rerun of their favorite movie for the hundredth time.

Saya-chan grumbled, but relented nonetheless, taking her seat a few rows over from mine, closer to the “back” door of the classroom than the windowed side of the room that my desk occupied.

It wasn’t the best place for a view of the “front” door itself, but I had a direct line of sight to the head of the classroom where Sensei would be standing. Where he would be standing. My heart leapt in my chest so hard that it made me nauseous, so I pushed my palms into my stomach to hold my breakfast down and keep it from coming back up.

“I have something special for you today,” Hayashi-sensei continued, lifting a hand to indicate the slightly-ajar doorway. “Someone new for class 1-A. I hope you’ll treat them very kindly.”

This was it. This was it. The Event. I could barely sit still, vibrating in my seat. I didn’t even have to look over at Saya-chan to know that her questioning stare was trying to burn holes into my head, hoping the answers would leak out.

I had been waiting for this moment for close to two decades ⸺ longer than that, even, if you counted my previous lifetime. I’d spent thirty-seven years with this love burning in my chest, a fire so hot that I felt it would burst out of me at any moment.

“Be on your best behavior, and join me in welcoming…”

My chest throbbed. My back sweat. My hands gripped my blouse so tightly that you could hear the buttons creak.

“... our new transfer student!”

“OUR FUCKING WHAT?!”

 

 

Who The Fuck Are You?

---

The class shifted in their seats, momentarily startled by my outburst. My outrage quenched itself immediately, like lighting a match in a windstorm; violent, but brief. I sunk down into my desk, my heart filling with shame and anguish. What did he mean, “transfer student”? What about the new teacher? What about Sensei? Feelings of anxiety and betrayal bubbled in my gut, and I felt like I wanted to puke.

“Hoshino-kun, I’m choosing to overlook your behavior in light of your exceptional grades,” Hayashi-sensei intoned gravely, fixing his serious you’re-in-trouble gaze on me, “but if you shout like that again, I’ll have you standing out in the hallway until lunchtime. Understood?”

Gravel filled my mouth, and I chewed it down into the pit of my aching stomach. “Yes, sir.”

“Very good,” he said, flowing smoothly back into his permanently-cheerful self.

Everyone’s attention slowly swiveled back to the front of the room, my momentary lapse in personal discipline already drifting into a forgotten wasn’t-that-weird memory. Saya-chan still focused on me, mouthing a silent ‘What the hell was that?’ I shook my head, putting off an explanation until the next break. Fuming, Saya-chan accepted that, if only because trying to pass a note or otherwise communicate would get us both into a ton of trouble.

I did my best to steel my heart against whatever happened next. Faintly, in the back of my mind, I wondered if this was maybe an answer to my wish ⸺ was it possible that Sensei had been, instead, reincarnated as a slightly-younger version of himself? Had fate intervened to allow us a chance to enjoy a silly seishun highschool life together?

I crossed my fingers and toes, and silently mouthed the nembutsu.

My hopes were betrayed instantly.

She strode into the room like it was as natural to her as breathing, exhibiting none of the first-day nervousness that you’d expect from a transfer student. Her eyes swept the classroom once-over, like a predator looking over future prey at the local watering hole; they passed over me without incident or recognition.

The first thing you’d notice is just how tall she was. Hayashi-sensei’s bent back made him appear much shorter than the average teacher, which accentuated her towering stature even more ⸺ she must've been within ten centimeters of Coach Takayama, the P.E. teacher, and he was as tall and broad as his name suggested. It heightened the effect of her imperious stare, and it brought the class to heel unconsciously; there was none of the whispering and fevered gossip you would expect from such an unusual event.

After that, it was her well ⸺ everything. Long, silky blonde hair that cascaded down her shoulders, pooling to the sides of a chest bigger than even Kuroyama-sensei’s, the current wet-dream of the school’s male population. She wasn’t top-heavy, either, with a balanced figure that pulled off an impossible hourglass, the curves of which were visible beneath her loose sweater and too-short skirt. Her makeup was flawless: glittering, pouty lips and long, long lashes paired with adorable and creative nail-art.

She was, in essence, a Gyaru’s Gyaru. An idealized specimen of that mythical breed of highschool girl. She was exactly what you would expect to see if you were looking for JK hentai at a comiket booth ⸺ not that, y'know, I'd ever done that kind of thing before.

My hatred for her was immediate and palpable, a physical thing that I could grasp with both hands; I wanted to tear her apart.

If there was going to be competition for the heart of my beloved Sensei, she would be the number-one contender. It was obvious in the way she moved, how she stood ⸺ one hand on an out-thrust hip, holding perfect contrapposto like she had casually stepped out of a renaissance masterpiece. A pleasant mix of lines and curves, demure and playful angles, she was exactly the kind of mid-season heartbreaker that made up the villain of a romance anime. As much as I wanted to believe that Sensei had a sense of taste, I knew he was much too worldly to miss a siren call that loud.

With beautiful and flowing handwriting, she scrawled her name on the chalkboard, a confusing mess of both katakana and kanji, before turning to face the class.

“Procházka Reika. Please take care of me going forward.” Her etiquette was flawless, even if the affect of her somewhat-deep voice was rather flat; the same could not be said of the deep valley she flashed the class, which made even Hayashi-sensei clear his throat noisily as a distraction.

“Ah, yes, Prochiza-kun ⸺”

“Procházka,” she corrected. “But please, it’s okay to call me ‘Reika’.”

Despite her kindness, Hayashi-sensei refused to ignore proper terms of address. In all fairness, at least he was trying his best; no one could really fault him on that.

“Proshazuka-kun, please take the empty seat in the corner, by Hoshino-kun.” He smiled admonishingly in my direction. “She might be rather loud, but she’s generally more behaved than this.” He eyed me with a look that said I was on thin ice. “Please share her textbook for today, until we can get you your own copy.”

I put my head down on my desk, hoping to discover that I had secret abilities that would allow me to teleport to my room, instead of drowning in the feeling of shame and jealousy burning in my throat. I wanted to die ⸺ I wanted her to die. I wanted the ground to open and swallow me up. I wanted to be anywhere other than this classroom, in this school, in this moment. The Event, the singular focus of my vibrant childhood dreams, had evaporated into the ether.

I heard the soft flump noise as she dropped into the seat next to mine ⸺ the perpetually empty seat, the sacred space that only Saya-chan ever used. I wanted to ignore her completely, to block her out of my mind ⸺ what right did she have, being a gorgeous foreign beauty, spitefully ruining The Event with her flashy aura? Deep in my heart, I hoped that she would leave quickly, called away by her family overseas or some other convenient excuse.

If it came to it, I would fight tooth-and-nail over Sensei ⸺ but I would rather not have the battle at all, especially with this unknown quantity. It didn’t help anything that I felt rather … lacking, in the “weapons” department. I wasn’t a slouch, at least compared to the rest of the school, but there was little I could do in the face of a western bombshell. No doubt Sensei would be easily taken-in by that shock-and-awe approach.

But for now … I couldn't do anything. I was bound to this chair, shackled to this desk. I couldn't get up and go looking for Sensei, and I didn't have it in me to even make a polite introduction to this other girl. A resigned sigh pulled itself out of me, dragging along with it all my emotions and physical energy. I was beat, and it wasn't even noon.

The brief surprise of the morning having gotten out of the way, Hayashi-sensei busied himself with drawing the day’s lesson plan onto the chalkboard, prompting everyone to break the silence that Prohaska-san had created.

Whispers flew back and forth, the classroom wildly speculating on the blonde beauty’s country of origin, and what type of boy she might be attracted to. Fierce discussion erupted over the propriety of her outfit, and whether or not she could escape detection by the public morals committee. Rumors were already forming around the degree of carnal knowledge she might possess, and how free her affections might be. It was scandalous, obscene even ⸺ outright rude, given that the girl in question still occupied the classroom.

The scraping sound of the desk-feet on the floor drew me out of my thoughts. There was a bump as our desks gently collided, forming an approximation of symmetry.

I turned to give her a sharp look, mean enough to let her know who was in charge here, but that plan backfired immediately. I was suddenly face-to-face with Prohaska-san, at a distance well-past casual intimacy. It was close enough that if a teacher saw us sitting like this outside the classroom, we’d be told-off for flirting in public. All the fine details of her face displayed themselves with clarity, and I quickly discovered that I’d been wrong about her ⸺ she was barely wearing any makeup at all, beyond the sparkle-pink lipgloss and some eye shadow. Her skincare routine must be legendary, given the softness and gentle pink color of her cheeks. Her long lashes batted slowly as she regarded me, like butterflies at rest on a beautiful flower.

Involuntarily, I jerked back suddenly, reflexively trying to create some personal space. I must have made an embarrassing noise, because I could hear Hayashi-sensei clearing his throat very loudly in my direction. Heart filled with silent cringe, I arrested my movement as best I could, putting on what might have passed for a “normal” expression.

“W-w-what do you want?” I started, much more nervously than I intended. My voice cracked pathetically, adding irritating little squeaks between syllables. “Y-you’re so close.” My cheeks turned pink, my inner monologue ruthlessly dragging me over the coals. I was a thirty-something woman, goddamn it, not a pathetic eighteen-year-old; and yet, I found myself struggling to act like it.

Tilting her head slightly to one side, she regarded me like someone might examine a bug up close. “Nothing, really,” she breathed, her voice a melodic sigh across a violin string. “I’m just wondering if you’re going to turn to the right page or not.”

“Oh!” I managed, in reprehensible shock. “Yes. Right.”

I felt incredibly stupid as I fiddled with the textbook, my hands shaking with nerves. My earlier vitriol had abandoned me, perverting my purpose. I wanted to do something, anything ⸺ nothing terribly mean, but just combative enough to let her know where we stood. I selected the pettiest option in my repertoire.

“If you have trouble with the words,” I started, filling my voice with as much polite disdain as I could manage, “feel free to ask me anything. English is one of my best subjects.”

I fixed her with a ‘Well? How do you like that?’ sort of smug grin, attempting to demoralize her as quickly as possible. I regularly received 98+ on all of my English tests the first time around, and I hadn’t lost any of that passion or understanding since my reincarnation. There was no way I’d lose to some floozy.

Her polite smile hit me like a bouquet of roses wrapped around a cinder block.

“That’s alright,” she said, her tone of voice suggesting that she was doing her best to soften the blow. “I speak English at home.”

 

---

 

True to her word, Prohaska-san’s command of the English language was flawless; when it was her turn to read aloud, she performed so admirably that it clashed with her delinquent-adjacent aesthetic. She spoke calmly and clearly, her voice filling the entire room ⸺ not too loudly, not too quietly. Despite the more advanced prose of the passage, nothing tripped her up or forced her to repeat herself. She spoke with the practiced ease of someone who did this sort of thing every day, a simple task that didn’t bother her at all.

I was intensely and profoundly jealous. Whenever Sensei finally showed up to take charge of this class, he would fall in love with her immediately. How could he not? She was the perfect student for this subject.

My own reading was very good ⸺ I had, after all, practiced this skill over three previous years of highschool ⸺ but it paled in the face of Prohaska-san’s breezy performance. I could see it in their body language on the peripherals of my vision, hear it in the low susurrous whispers; everyone, from the class rep to the class clown, could tell that she was better than me. A consensus was quickly reached: when it came to English class, there was no doubt that Prohaska-san would be at the top of the rankings, handily dethroning my first-semester test scores.

I kept a calm exterior, but on the inside I was fuming. How dare she? What gave her the right? It wasn’t fair to anyone that she was so pretty and so good at foreign languages. My secret hope was that there was some other subject she was god-awful at, somewhere that I could gain an edge over her. In the long-run, it would be such a pathetic consolation prize ⸺ what was the point of getting a better Math or History grade, if Sensei didn’t teach any of those classes? I didn’t care about impressing anyone other than him; my hollow victory would just be something to cry into at night, easing the tears of self-pity that I could feel were building up already.

It was a small mercy when English class finally ended. At long last, there would be an excuse for me to separate from Prohaska-san, for even a few minutes. It was likely she would need to share textbooks for at least the rest of the day, but I needed some space from her. Prohaska-san’s figure wasn’t well-accommodated by our standardized desks, and so her hips and thighs spilled out enough over the sides to bump against my own while we studied; I’m certain any boy in class would’ve gladly traded seats with me, but my preferences and vendetta prevented me from finding any joy in that touch.

As soon as the bell rang, I was upright and ready to leave. I closed my books quickly, slipping them inside the desk, my eyes searching frantically for Saya-chan. Surely, she would invent some kind of story to pull me away from the possibility of being forced to fraternize with my enemy during the break.

Saya-chan and I locked eyes across the handful of aisles between us, an unspoken communication passing in seconds. She very obviously had a list of things she wanted to ask me, and I knew it was going to be tough to find the answers. I’m sure she mistakenly believed that Prohaska-san was the “attractive person” I had been waiting for, but nothing could be further from the truth. I didn’t know how I was going to bring up Sensei ⸺ a man I had never met in this life ⸺ but I need to think fast and come up with some kind of excuse. Maybe there were two additions to our class that I’d heard of? It was a tiny lie, but one that might work; after all, I had never exactly specified the number of people I’d heard about from my mom’s friend. It would be believable ⸺ I would make it believable.

Sorry, my childhood friend, I thought, apologizing inwardly to Saya-chan, but I have to do this. She would understand when we were older, and would certainly forgive me.

My soaring hopes crashed hard as I saw the class president sauntering towards me, a clipboard readied in her small hands. A bright smile was plastered across her face, the kind of look that appeared when she was allowed to dole out chores to other students; a favorite pastime of a meddling and somewhat-controlling young woman: Someki Chihaya, the harbinger of chores and extra homework.

“Ho-shi-no-cha-n~,” she said in a sing-song voice, clearly pleased with herself, “I’m happy to see that you’re so fired-up for your task; you’re practically jumping out of your seat to meet me.” She put a hand to her mouth, suppressing a modest giggle.

I rolled my eyes. “I was just heading to the bathroom,” I said, trying to wriggle my way out of whatever extra work she was looking to dump into my lap; it was a polite-enough excuse that clearly communicated that I was not interested in what she was asking.

“That’s perfect!” She said delightedly, and a sinking feeling hit my chest. “You’ll be able to show Prohaska-san where it is.” She held out the clipboard to me expectantly.

I had walked right into her trap.

The clipboard had all manner of papers clipped to it, but for the most part it seemed to be a list of check-ins and tasks in and around the school. Glancing over it briefly, it was designed to guide and direct Prohaska-san during her first day at school, helping her familiarize herself with the grounds while she crossed some i’s and dotted some t’s.

“I don’t really have time for this,” I complained, unable to think of a good reason why she should just leave me alone. “Can’t someone else take care of this?” I almost bit my tongue as my jealousy crawled up my throat. “I’m sure one of the boys would be happy to show her around,” I spat, disgusted with myself.

Someki-chan’s smile only widened, like a predator about to devour a tasty meal. “No-can-do,” she quipped, nodding to the side. “The boys are terrified of her.”

I followed her gesture, and sure enough there was a motley gang of them hovering around, as though simultaneously magnetized and repelled by Prohaska-san’s aura. She was gorgeous, obviously, and had that sort of look that men drooled over, but her imposing height and relatively unknown status was intimidating enough to hold off the pack of slobbering dogs, at least for now.

I grit my teeth, irritated with the juvenile behavior of my fellow students. Lowering my voice to a whisper, I beckoned Someki-chan closer.

“Then please get one of the other girls to do it ⸺ I don’t want to have anything to do with her.” It was a horrible thing to outright admit, but I wanted to stress exactly how little I cared for Prohaska-san.

I could hear Someki-chan’s self-assured cackle sneak out from behind her hand. The sound of it made me want to throttle her, or perhaps vault out the window to escape. My brain was telling me that I had once again played into the class president’s hands, while my feet were urging me to flee as far from this ordeal as I could ⸺ to give up on today and try again tomorrow. Maybe The Event had merely been postponed, and I could have another go at it soon. Someki-chan, of course, wouldn’t give me the chance.

“That’s exactly why I’m assigning you to be her helper, Hoshino-chan,” Someki-chan said, fixing me with the stern gaze of an older sister admonishing a younger sibling. “I don’t know what it is about Prohaska-san that rubs you the wrong way, but forcing you to be close to her is a great way to iron out whatever misunderstanding you’ve concocted in your head.”

Her expression softened, and she flashed me an understanding smile. “I’m not trying to punish you, Hoshino-chan ⸺ I’m trying to preserve the harmony of our class. Surely you can understand.”

It was a weapons-grade argument, aimed precisely at the universal social weakpoint. I had no grounds on which to refuse, and protesting any further would just alienate me from my peers ⸺ and at worst, it could be considered bullying if I tried any harder to divest myself of the task.

Slumping my shoulders, I gave in. “Yeah, okay,” I said, accepting my defeat.

“Good girl,” Someki-chan said, patting my head. I wilted under the matronly gesture.

I turned to Prohaska-san, who had already gathered her things ⸺ and, irritatingly, also thoughtfully gathered my own bag for me, too. I accepted it less-than-graciously.

“I’ll be in your care,” Prohaska-san said in her eerily-emotionless voice.

It wasn’t unpleasant by any means, but it was a little off-putting ⸺ and at this point I was trying to find any reason to further my dislike of her. I wasn’t going to let her or Someki-chan win, not in the battleground of my heart, even if I had already lost on the field of my pride.

“Let’s get going then,” I said, practically tearing my bag out of Prohaska-san’s hands as I snatched it away. “There’s a lot to cover.”

 

---

 

Even though I had possession of the clipboard, the instructions on the forms were addressed to Prohaska-san herself. I offered her the whole deal, hoping that she might feel compelled to take it from me, but she declined with just the merest attempt at a smile.

“I’d rather have you read everything for me,” she said, infuriatingly polite. “I’d feel lost without someone knowledgeable to help.”

It felt like she was doing her best to be conciliatory, and the fact that she felt like she needed to be just continued to rub me the wrong way. I didn’t want to stand out as the villain of this narrative; I was supposed to be the heroine, damnit!

“I appreciate you saying so, Prohaska-san,” I hissed through gritted teeth. “I hope we can continue to get along.”

The one nice part of this activity is that we had a chance to be out and wandering the hallways, with the occasional breaks in the outside arcade, and the delicately-covered walkways between buildings. Our school wasn’t particularly large in terms of actual buildings, but it was apportioned over a surprising amount of physical area; the relaxed design left plenty of space between the different facilities, letting the two of us enjoy some early-morning sunlight, just ahead of the lunchtime rush.

Prohaska-san’s hair shone brilliantly in the sunlight, seeming to catch it no matter which way she turned. Her stride was slow and careful, forcing me to match her pace. Our errand had become more of a stroll, and she was taking it in, breathing in every ounce of fresh air. Every so often, she’d just simply stop, taking a moment to stare at an unremarkable facet of the school grounds: a flower bush, a patch of grass, a small puddle. Anything and everything seemed of equal interest to her; she barely paid attention when I had pointed out necessary facilities ⸺ the way to the teacher’s offices, the first-floor bathrooms, the cafeteria, and so on; she acted like they didn’t concern her at all.

I hadn’t noticed she’d said anything to me about slowing down until I had already left her far behind. I was halfway through the doors to the administration building before I realized she had completely stopped.

She was standing at the foot of an ancient tree that took a central position in the courtyard, between the main classroom building and the admin building. It dominated the space, branches stretching out in all directions, providing plenty of shade. The light filtered slowly through the leaves, dappling Prohaska-san’s shoulders. She seemed to glow, a companion statue to the beautiful boughs of the elder cherry tree. Hand outstretched, she reached up towards the sun, as though she might grasp it on her palm.

Stunned, I watched her in total silence. My feet moved on their own, bringing me back across the courtyard to her side. Not knowing what else to do, I simply stopped, and stared.

She seemed content to exist in this moment, disregarding our assigned task. I guess it made sense for her delinquent-adjacent vibe to take a chance to slack off, but it seemed more purposeful than that ⸺ like this tree was an old friend that she wanted to take the time to greet properly.

“...san.”

“Eh?” I started, coming back to the present, the now. “Did you say something, Prohaska-san?”

She tilted her head back, smiling over her shoulder. It was more genuine this time; it hadn’t widened, but you could see it in her eyes. They seemed to shine, captivatingly-so.

“I’d prefer it if you called me ‘Reika,’” she said again, for perhaps the third time.

My cheeks flushed with embarrassment, both from the intimacy of her request, and the shame of having made her repeat herself so many times.

“I-isn’t it a little too soon for a first-name basis?” I asked, confusion and apprehension painfully apparent in my voice. Is this the friend-making power of extroverts? I thought to myself. Had she decided to use her gyaru-powers on me?

“No?” She asked, acting like she was confused by my question. I suppose she couldn’t help it: foreigners always seemed to have a terrible grasp of keigo.

“I mean, we hardly know each other,” I explained. “It feels a little rude to address you by your first name so soon.”

Her smile turned accusatory. “That’s strange; you didn’t have any trouble being rude to me in class.”

I grimaced, twitching with anxiety. She’d noticed that? Her grasp of Japanese politic might be stronger than I had assumed. Wait ⸺ was I even sure she was a foreigner in the first place?

“Are you perhaps half-Japanese, Prohaska-san?” I blurted out, my thoughts spilling out of my mouth once again. I chewed on my lip, trying to keep any further impropriety from falling out.

Her knowing look pierced through me, and I felt that embarrassment well up again, my cheeks growing even hotter. It’s like she knew every little trick to keeping me on the back foot.

“Maybe,” she said, an answer by way of not-answering. “My father says my mother was Japanese, or perhaps a half-Japanese national.”

“Maybe?” I intoned, echoing her sentiment. “You don’t know for sure?”

She shook her head, her gorgeous hair fluttering in the light morning breeze. “I didn’t ever know my mother. She might have died, or she might have left ⸺ or my father might have made her leave.”

It was a heavy topic that I had stumbled into, which was exactly the sort of situation that rules of etiquette had been designed to avoid. I struggled to think of a polite way to end the conversation, to pull us back onto the path to our assigned objective, but … ⸺ there was a selfish part of me that creeped up through the back of my mind. What if Prohaska-san’s history had something to do with Sensei? Her arrival had halted The Event, after all, so it wasn’t completely off the mark to believe that she might have something to do with it. Pressing her for information made the most sense ⸺ and besides, it’s not like I could get any ruder than I’d already been. That ship had long sailed.

“Is … that why you don’t want to be called ‘Prohaska’?” I asked, carefully treading onto unsafe ground.

“You’re pretty perceptive, aren’t you?” She said, a lilt in her voice that belied a laugh. “It’s true. I don’t particularly enjoy being associated with ‘Mr. Procházka’ if I can help it.”

“Why not?” I pried, digging even further. “Surely your father can’t be that bad.”

“Can’t he?” she shot back. “I think it’s rather reprehensible to try to use your only daughter as an anchor, isn’t it?”

I shook my head, confused. Whatever she was talking about was much further reaching than I had expected, but into a realm that I couldn’t connect back to Sensei. At least, not immediately.

“I don’t understand. How can a child be an ‘anchor’?” I followed through on my line of questioning; I might be out of my depth, but I felt that if I stopped now, I might lose an important fact somewhere.

She slid one of her perfect hands through her long, silky hair, like she had just now noticed that its position wasn’t well-suited to catch the light, and it was an issue she needed to rectify immediately. It wasn’t necessary, of course; she was immaculate, a glowing vision that could easily be seen from the windows of the second and third-story classrooms.

“Like I said, I don’t know anything about my mother ⸺ and part of that is because my father refused to file a birth certificate, with either the Japanese registry or his home consulate.” Her explanation clipped along, like she just assumed I could follow her train of evidence with no breaks or help. “Children of foreigners are not afforded automatic citizenship at birth, either here or in his home country, and refusing to file with the consulate forces the issue. By design, he’s left me stateless.”

This high-minded political talk was hard to accept coming out of the perfectly-painted mouth of the most stereotypical gyaru I had ever met. Her words and her image just couldn’t seem to align, like she was two different people smashed together into this beautiful mess.

“Hold on ⸺ stateless? What does that even mean?” I was trying my best to keep up, but I was falling behind. I had a grasp of some of the larger points, having worked for an international subsidiary in my black company days, but her story had some serious minutiae.

“It means that I don’t belong anywhere,” she sighed, a sad note coloring her speech. “No government takes ownership over me. Which puts the Japanese government in a very complicated position.”

“I’m not following,” I said, putting the pieces together in my head and finding that I still lacked much of the puzzle. “I don’t mean any offense, but why would the government care about one girl, who may or may not be Japanese at all?”

Her gaze fell to her feet, like she was weighed down by the question. A depressed mood fell over her, and it seemed like clouds had moved to block the sun.

“It matters because that girl is the daughter of Mr. Procházka,” she continued. “An important businessman, with connections to many important figures ⸺ some of them in the state department, or the consulate, or otherwise the diplomatic arm of the country.”

I started to see her point, and understand her melancholy. It was a difficult position for a young woman to be in, especially if she was so cognizant of it. My hatred of her lessened and lessened, as I began to grasp the extent of what she might have been subjected to in order to come to understand her own situation so well.

“So … you’re a chess piece,” I said, finally putting it all together.

She nodded sadly. “Well put. I’m a pawn, to negotiate for my father’s desire for citizenship.”

I didn’t need to ask any further questions. Naturalization shouldn’t have been a problem for such an important businessman, if her father was who Prohaska-san implied he might be, which meant there were extenuating circumstances to why he might be refused citizenship. I could try and come up with what those circumstances might be, but I’m sure they were shady at best.

“So, please,” she said in a voice that had practically become a whisper, “if you could call me ‘Reika,’ it would make me very happy.”

“I … ⸺ I can try,” I relented. I fiddled with my thumbs, rubbing my hands together, keeping my gaze fixed on them. I wanted to look at her, to truly appreciate the vulnerability she was sharing with me, an otherwise complete stranger; a stranger that had pried into her life for my own selfish ends. I felt so, so foolish, and it burned through my face all the way to the back of my ears.

She smiled at me, a sad thing that hid her true feelings. “If it helps, I can call you ‘Yoru-chan’ in return.”

My gaze snapped back up, a mix of confusion and betrayal splaying itself across my features.

“How did you know my given name?” I growled, suddenly feeling threatened. Had she been prying back? I didn’t know why this bothered me so much, but the thought of her knowing anything about me that I hadn’t explicitly told her raised my ire.

She laughed, a sound like water dripping onto the strings of a harp.

“It was written on your notebooks,” she giggled. “I could see them when you shared your textbooks.”

“Oh,” I said, once again feeling incredibly foolish in front of a pretty girl. “I see. That makes sense.”

We lapsed back into silence, time seeming to hang in the air around us. I didn’t know what else I could say; this conversation felt far more adult than what carefree highschool students should be having ⸺ I doubt I would be able to handle it tactfully if it had happened in a company setting, either. Normally this sort of heavy topic would only come up after a considerable amount of alcohol, so that all the parties involved could pretend not to remember it the next day.

Prohaska-san would still be a tough opponent in the battle for Sensei’s affection, but I didn’t feel the same anger towards her that I had before. It wasn’t friendship either ⸺ it was this uncomfortably neutral ground, and it took all my willpower not to do her the disservice of pitying her. In my quest to perfect The Event, it seemed I had been too caught-up in myself; I had begun sorting people into enemies, allies, NPCs, thinking of myself as the ‘main character’. It felt so gross in retrospect, my skin crawling with resent at my own behavior.

Prohaska-san deserved an apology. I needed to swallow my pride and give her one, and restore the mutual respect of one woman to another that I had transgressed.

“Proha⸺ Ah, R-reika-san,” I started, stumbling over my words.

“Yoru-chan,” she said in a clear voice that enraptured me yet again. “You know, I’ve actually been here once before.”

“Marumaru Gakuen?” I asked, caught off-guard yet again. “It’s only a highschool.”

“Yep,” she answered. “I toured the grounds during the application process, when school wasn’t in session. We covered everything pretty thoroughly; my father ⸺ … my father’s secretary was very insistent on that point.”

Ah. That would explain a lot of things. Someone with a meddlesome father absolutely would’ve taken the time to research everything thoroughly, especially if their daughter was part of some scheme. No doubt Proha⸺ Reika-san already knew where everything was.

Huh? She already knew where everything was?!

“But wait ⸺ that means that you don’t need this orientation at all!” I could feel my cheeks burn hot with anger; I was going to give Someki-chan a piece of my mind when we got back to class.

“Guilty as charged,” she said, laughing as brightly as the sunlight warming the stones beneath our feet. “But you know what? I heard an interesting story about this tree.”

“Oh?” I said, only mildly curious. I’d rather be somewhere away from Prohas⸺, Reika-san, if I could help it, but I wasn’t going to give up a chance to waste some time outside of class. After all, I’d already sat through all the lectures once before; skipping a few wouldn’t hurt me any.

Clasping her hands behind her back, Reika-san stared up at the enormous boughs of the venerable cherry tree, as though she could see something up in the branches that no one else could.

“There’s an old legend,” she began, “that says that two people who make a promise to each other underneath this tree, will become bound to stay together for all eternity.”

“I’ve heard that legend before,” I said, shuffling my feet, the memory of the story making me uncomfortable; I used to believe things like that, an entire lifetime ago.

“It’s pretty romantic, right?” She flashed me a mischievous grin. “Wanna try it?”

Reika-san probably didn’t understand exactly how romantic the undertones of the legend were, but my ears turned such a bright pink that I’m sure they started glowing. It was a stupid reaction to have, especially with another girl, but the sincerity in her voice, in her eyes ⸺ it got to me. I didn’t know what her hobbies might be, but the forwardness of foreigners was really something to see.

“N-no! You idiot!” I huffed, gripping my bag in both hands like I could use it to fend off Reika-san.

She giggled. “Why not? It could be fun.” She spun to face me, hands still clasped behind her back, chest thrust proudly forward. I don’t know why, but the sight of her made me feel like I needed to take a drink of water.

“Don’t tease me like that, Reika-san,” I said, fretting with my bag as I stared down at my feet. I didn’t know if this was her idea of fun or not, but I wasn’t going to let her bully me. “You’re missing parts of the legend anyway,” I muttered.

“Oh yeah?” She asked, steadily advancing on me, one step at a time. We were only a small distance apart now, far too close for polite personal space.

“It only works if you make the promise when the cherry blossoms are in bloom,” I stated matter-of-factly, unnerved by her close proximity.

Her little half-smile suggested she wouldn’t be deterred by something so malleable as a ‘rule’. “We can come back in the spring, then.”

“You know,” I murmured, “it still wouldn’t work.” I drew in a deep breath, trying to find my confidence. “I ⸺ … S-someone I know once made a promise under the cherry blossoms with somebody else, but the legend didn’t come true.” My chest grew tight; despite the fresh air and late autumn breeze, I was finding it so difficult to breathe.

“What happened?” Reika-san asked, notes of genuine concern in her voice. She was close enough to touch, her hand reaching out to take me by the shoulders, fingers resting lightly on my body; they were quite cool, but her touch was warm enough against the autumn air. “You don’t have to tell me ⸺ not if it was a bad memory for ‘your friend’.”

I forced a smile. “No, nothing so dramatic as that. It just... didn’t work. They broke apart right after graduation.” I’d omitted a lot of the story, but that’s more or less what happened, wasn’t it? Exams, graduation, university, work ⸺ death.

Reika-san’s reaction didn’t seem to be sad, not exactly, but I felt a sense of melancholy from her unreadable expression. Her hands squeezed my shoulders; not hard, just enough to remind me they were there.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said. “I really am.” The dip to her shoulders suggested an honesty to her words, but whatever she said never quite seemed to touch her eyes. Her earlier vulnerability was surprising, but despite that she kept her emotions so guarded, like she wanted to keep me at arm’s reach ⸺ but no further.

“It’s okay,” I returned, trying to buoy both our spirits again. “I … heard they were able to see each other again. Eventually.” At the very end, I didn’t add.

“Well,” Reika-san exhaled, the stress flowing out of the moment. “Let’s make sure our promise has a happier ending, okay?” Her grin stretched out across her face, her eyes sparkling. “I’ll buy you lunch for a year if I ever forget you.”

“Shut up,” I giggled, feeling ridiculous in the same way as someone who laughs at a very bad joke. “You’re an idiot.”

“I am,” she agreed. “A very romantic idiot.”

I brushed her hands off me, laughing about how weird she was. I still didn’t really know what to think about Reika-san, but she didn’t seem so bad as she had that morning. I didn’t know how things were going to develop with the delay of The Event, but maybe if Reika-san and I got to know each other better, I could convince her to step aside when the matter of Sensei came up; a sort of honorable agreement between young women.

Maybe that was the promise we could make to each other.

 

---

 

Reika-san’s chatterbox personality proved itself to be only an occasional thing, as once we made our way out of the courtyard she had returned to her signature silence and neutral expressions. If I hadn’t just spoken with her, I would’ve assumed that she was something of a gloomy person, or perhaps somewhat unfriendly ⸺ or maybe just unapproachable, as all highschool beauty queens seemed to be.

We hit all the necessary places on the checklist: the homeroom teacher’s office, the bathrooms, the cafeteria. It was mostly just a bunch of formalities, but there was one item on the checklist that required direct attention, and for that we were going to have to go off the beaten path.

The nurse’s office was in the administration building, halfway between the classrooms and the gym; it made a logical sense, but its exclusion in function from the offices beside it sort of gave it almost an monastic aura ⸺ something set apart from the worldliness around it. It was located down at the end of a long hallway, flanked on one side by supply closets; it existed in its own little world, like entering a glade in the middle of a dense forest.

That mystique bled over into its official occupant and practitioner: the school nurse, Kuroyama-sensei.

Similar to Reika-san, Kuroyama-sensei was quite tall, a feature accentuated by her sharp heels. She was prone to that sweater-and-pencil-skirt look that implied sophistication to other adults, and a fetish to the boys that were always finding some way or other to come to her with minor aches and pains. Long, straight dark hair and fashionable glasses, underscored by a beauty mark close to her right eye, completed the superficial descriptions of one of the seven marvels of Marumaru Gakuen: the Virgin-Killer Nurse.

Of course, that was just a bunch of baseless rumors, like everything else. An attractive woman like Kuroyama-sensei, secluded in her own private garden of linen and soft pillows, was bound to excite the wild imaginations of her students. Anyone who had actually tried to entice her into career-ending follies would have quickly discovered that she was an incredibly professional woman, with a no-nonsense sort of attitude ⸺ though that, too, simply added to her reputation: “gap moé,” they called it.

The faintest hint of antiseptic filled the air, but the room felt more welcoming than a doctor’s office or hospital, thanks to the casual attitude that pervaded the highschool atmosphere. The floorplan was split into roughly two parts: on the left side, there were four beds adorned with privacy curtains, where injured, troubled, or simply lazy students could find the time to rest; on the right, closer to the windows, was the nurse’s desk, and a number of common examination equipments.

Kuroyama-sensei seemed busy at her desk when we came in, but the little bell above the doorway alerted her to our presence. She greeted us warmly, with a smile and a big-sisterly concern for our general health ⸺ it wasn’t just her looks that made her so popular, but her personality as well.

“Hoshino-chan, I hope you’re doing well ⸺ and who is this?” Kuroyama-sensei’s voice was warm and smooth, like dripping honey.

“Procházka Reika. I’ll be in your care.” Reika-san’s greetings always seemed a little stiff, but that, too, was a kind of gap moé.

“Ah, the transfer student,” Kuroyama-sensei said with a soft smile. “I’ve been expecting you.” She flashed her stunning high-fashion-lipcolor smile at me as well. “And Hoshino-chan, I’m glad you’re here, too. It saves me the trouble of having to track you down later.”

“What for?” I asked, confused. I held up the clipboard. “This just says that Reika-san needs to have an ‘APPT administered’, whatever that is.” A shot, maybe? I remember having to send the school proof of vaccination before the term started.

“Oooh, Reika-san?” Kuroyama-sensei said bemusedly, clicking her tongue. “You’re already on a first-name basis? You work fast, Hoshino-chan.”

“Don’t give her the wrong idea!” I scolded her, trying to keep the pink from spreading through my cheeks. “She asked me to.”

“And then she turned me down at the promise tree,” Reika-san intoned with mock disappointment, feigning a downcast sigh.

“Aww, you poor sweetheart,” Kuroyama-sensei teased. “Let your big sister take care of you, okay?” She drew Reika-san into an embrace, pressing her face against her chest as she stroked the young woman’s hair affectionately. “You can cry out all your tears.”

Reika-san made a bunch of muffled crying noises into the nurse’s sweater puppies, driving me quickly to irritation. I hadn’t thought Kuroyama-sensei would be one to kid around so much ⸺ but a good bedside manner was invaluable in a health educator, I supposed.

“Stop messing around,” I said, taking the position of a by-the-book, rules-abiding student. “We’re missing class for this. Hayashi-sensei would be upset if he knew we were wasting time instead of giving Reika-san her APP-thing.”

“I already provided the results of my most-recent APPT,” Reika-san interjected smoothly, face still buried in the vertically-striped sweater.

“Reported within the last month?” Kuroyama-sensei asked, still not stopping her faux-affectionate pets. Her long fingers glided through the younger girl’s soft hair, as smoothly as silk-on-silk.

“Of course,” came Reika-san’s muffled reply. “I had it taken three weeks ago, with my family doctor.” She seemed rather comfortable in her pillow position, and loathe to break contact with the sisterly nurse.

“Good girl~!” Kuroyama-sensei exclaimed, squeezing Reika-san’s shoulders in a light hug. “If only the rest of the student body were as forward-thinking as you.”

I sighed in irritation. “So this is yet another thing we didn’t need to bother with,” I growled, scowling accusatorily at Reika-san. How long was she going to lead me around on a leash like this? It’s like she was trying to turn me into a delinquent along with her, having us goof off so much.

Kuroyama-sensei clicked her tongue disapprovingly. “Not so fast, Hoshino-chan,” she scolded. “Even if Prohaska-chan ⸺”

“Please call me Reika ⸺”
“Please call her Reika ⸺”

We both talked over each other, speaking in perfect sync.

“Oh my,” Kuroyama-sensei smirked. “Are you sure you don’t want to give the promise tree another chance, Hoshino-chan?” She was too polite to outright laugh at me, but I could hear it in her voice. “Since you’re so quick to step in for Reika-chan.”

“She’s so hot-and-cold,” Reika-san bemoaned, like her entire purpose for coming to the office was to resolve a lover’s quarrel. “You see how she keeps leading me on?”

Fuming, I gripped my bag with both hands, squeezing it in lieu of putting them around Reika-san’s neck.

Kuroyama-sensei, sensing that the teasing was starting to get beyond my comfort level, released Reika-san, her demeanor becoming more business-like. Reika-san followed suit; it was kind of touching in a way, how quick they were to become considerate of my feelings, even without me saying anything.

“As I was saying,” Kuroyama-sensei continued, “Reika-chan’s results are only half the issue. I need to have your APPT results too, Hoshino-chan.”

“I don’t understand,” I said, confused. “Shouldn’t the school already have all my vaccination records?”

“Hoshino-chan,” Kuroyama-sensei chided, “haven’t you been paying attention in your health classes?”

“... No,” I stated firmly. “Those don’t start until next semester.” It was a simple fact, one that Kuroyama-sensei ⸺ our health teacher ⸺ should’ve known.

“Ah,” Kuroyama-sensei gasped, pink with embarrassment. “My mistake.”

To cover her brief misunderstanding, Kuroyama-sensei grabbed two rolling chairs, and slid them over to a stool. She offered one to Reika-san, and then waved for me to sit in the other.

“Then allow me to explain,” she said, pulling over a rolling cart with various implements in sealed and sterile packages. “The APPT ⸺ or, Alternative Pheromone Puncture Test ⸺ is used to obtain necessary information for any students who plan on staying in the school dorms.” She busied herself with unpacking one of the thin, boxed packages, pulling out what looked like a velcro fastener wrapped in a different clear-plastic sterile package. “I assume you’ve been staying in a room by yourself?”

“Uh, yeah,” I said, bewildered. “I’ve been staying at the dorm in a single room. What does that have to do with this?”

“Your APPT results only really become relevant if you have a roommate,” Kuroyama-sensei continued, “which is why the rules are more relaxed for single-occupancy students.” Sitting down on the stool, she swung the cart around so she could work in front of me and still have easy access to it. Pulling on some blue exam gloves, she started taking apart the clear sterile packaging.

The “APPT”-thing seemed to have two parts: a flexible strip that looked something like the hard half of a velcro strip, and a tiny case with a clear-windowed front that the velcro strip might fit into. There were graduations for three possible results, denoted by colors: pink, blue, and yellow.

Kuroyama-sensei followed my eyeline, and then gestured to the little receiver box as she prepared the velcro strip. “You see the three colors? They represent the three pheromone types: omega, alpha, and beta.” She scooted on the stool, close to my side; her full moons squished against my arm, and it made me feel a little warm in a way I didn’t fully understand. “Undo your top two buttons, loosen your tie, and pull your collar away from your neck, please.”

“Pheromone types?” I repeated, completely lost. I had never heard of anything like that ⸺ and it certainly wasn’t something that came up during my last life. Was this something that the reaper had changed? It seemed far too strange to be somehow part of my wish. Still, I did what she asked, even though it felt … odd, to undress in front of Reika-san, no matter how slightly. Maybe if it had just been Kuroyama-sensei I would have been okay, but something about baring skin in front of another student made me feel very vulnerable.

“Alternative Pheromone Typings are a phenomenon unique to young women. The majority of the human female population ⸺ close to sixty-five, maybe seventy percent ⸺ are all ‘beta’ pheromone types,” Kuroyama-sensei explained. “These are what you might consider ‘normal’ or ‘standard,’ given their high occurrence rate.” Very carefully, she pressed the velcro strip against my exposed neck, right where it meets the shoulder muscles. “This is going to sting a little, alright?”

“Alri⸺ ouch!”

Kuroyama-sensei pulled the velcro strip hard across my skin, raking it with tiny little hooks. It left a sensation like a rash or razor burn, a sort of dull throb that was more irritating than painful.

“Hold that there,” Kuroyama-sensei said, patting a piece of gauze down onto the scratch she just made. She slipped the velcro strip into its container, and then opened a second package.

“You need two?” I asked, a slight tremor in my voice.

I felt a cool warmth against my skin, and looked down to see that Reika-san had taken my hand in hers. She squeezed it reassuringly, and somehow it helped me feel a little bit better.

“There’s a very very small population of ‘males’ that test positive for alt-pheromones on the APPT,” Reika-san added helpfully, mostly to distract me from the pain of the velcro-strip testing. “Though, they almost-always test positive for the omega-type. The government allows for the amendment of birth certificates in those circumstances.”

I didn’t really understand what she meant, but her soothing voice had a calming effect on me.

“You really know your stuff, Reika-chan.” Kuroyama-sensei whistled appreciatively. “Do you dress like that to hide how smart you are?”

“Nah,” Reika-san said, blushing a little from the compliment. “I just love cute things.”

Kuroyama-sensei turned her attention back to me, having finished preparing another velcro strip.

“And now the second one,” Kuroyama-sensei said, pulling the strip across my bare neck before I could even brace myself. It, too, stung, a little bit like getting scratched by a very small kitten.

As she set about removing the gauze and replacing them with little bandages, Kuroyama-sensei continued her explanation.

“Even between the pheromone types, there’s no distinction between beta-types and omega- or alpha-types, until very late into puberty ⸺ or sometimes up to several years afterward.” Having satisfied herself with the bandaging, Kuroyama-sensei motioned for me to button my shirt back up. “That’ll sting for the rest of the afternoon, but you can take them off when you bathe tonight.”

“Thanks,” I sighed, letting go of Reika-san’s hand to deal with my clothing. She hovered close to me anyway, her hand traveling to my arm instead. It felt kind of … nice. Reassuring. I would have to make certain that I never told her that; I didn’t want her holding it over me later.

“There’s no problem with rooming beta-types together with other beta-types, or beta-types with alpha- or omega-types,” Kuroyama-sensei explained, picking up the filled containers and shaking them. There was a small amount of fluid inside with the velcro strips, and the whole thing kind of reminded me of a pH test. “Especially before they begin exhibiting secondary sexual characteristics, but afterwards is fine, too.”

The explanation had turned rather adult, and despite being a thirty-something-year-old woman, I found myself blushing like any other schoolgirl. “You mean like … b-breasts, and stuff?”

Kuroyama-sensei smiled at me in a way that felt sort of demeaning, like she realized she needed to treat me like a child. “Mmn, yes but no ⸺ those are characteristics of ‘normal’ or ‘first’ puberty. I’m talking about secondary sexual characteristics developed in response to the omega- or alpha-pheromone types.”

“I think you’ll have to skip to the end,” Reika-san said, studying my face. “If you get any more detailed, I think Yoru-chan might faint.”

“I w-will not!” I squeaked, the crack in my voice betraying me.

Kuroyama-sensei’s smirk told me she thought I was adorable, in the way that a cat would think a mouse was cute. “Alright, I’ll give you the clipped-down version. Essentially, beta-types can room with anyone else without causing problems, but we have to avoid alpha-alpha and alpha-omega pairings, or there’ll be trouble.”

“Why?” I asked, still completely clueless.

“It’s because omega- and alpha-types have much stronger pheromones than beta-types, and undergo special changes to their sense of smell to be able to detect them,” Reika-san said, stepping in to help the nurse’s explanation. “And those pheromones aren’t just like perfume or something, ‘cause they stick to stuff for quite a while. Alpha-types especially like to ‘mark’ things with their ‘scent’ ⸺ whether consciously or not. It’s just a behavior that develops naturally.”

“Exactly,” Kuroyama-sensei agreed. “Alpha-alpha pairings can get very territorial around each other, and it can lead to very aggressive actions to ‘defend’ their marked territory ⸺ even full-on fist-fights, which you can imagine the school would very much like to avoid.”

“I … see,” I said, struggling to process everything I had been told. “Then what about alpha-omega pairs?”

Kuroyama-sensei smiled like a tigress about to devour a gazelle. She leaned in very close, like she was going to whisper a secret that was just for me. “The school has to avoid alpha-omega pairings for the same reason that we don’t let boys stay in the same room as girls,” she smirked conspiratorially.

“H-huh? Wh-what?” I gasped in shock, my mind immediately jumping to conclusions that I thought were rather hasty.

“That’s what she meant by ‘secondary sexual characteristics,’” Reika-san added helpfully, confirming the wild conclusions that I had jumped to.

Seeing the look on my face, Kuroyama-sensei began howling with laughter. “You poor sweet dear,” she giggled, struggling to contain herself, “you truly have the heart of a maiden.”

“Try not to worry about it too much,” Reika-san said, doing a better job of containing her mirth. “It’s just your junk, you know? It’s the only thing that really changes ⸺ I mean, aside from being really aware of how your crush smells.”

I know she was trying to be helpful and contain my expectations, but that explanation only made my blush spread from my face to the entire rest of my body.

Still shaking with laughter, Kuroyama-sensei put a comforting hand on my shoulder, her other one holding up the two containers: they were both a gentle yellow. “It’s alright, Hoshino-chan,” she said, doing her best to compose herself. “You’re a beta-type. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“O-oh,” I breathed in relief, somehow even more embarrassed that I was comforted by this revelation.

“We’ll do this test once a semester going forward,” Kuroyama-sensei explained, “just to make sure that nothing changes.” She smiled at me, genuinely helpful this time, having suppressed her rather unprofessional laughter. “So that means you’re okay to room with Reika-chan without any worries.”

I blinked in surprise, like a contestant doing a double-take on a variety show. “I can what?!”