This is, according to my plan, the first chapter of a few, or even many, more to come. But then again, whether all will go according to plan or not is a totally different matter so don't hold me to my words
Thank you worthington, you provided the final push to get the ball rolling.
I am earnestly grateful.
Enjoy
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Chapter 1 : Meeting Strawberry
The heavy-set wrought iron gates towering above my head hardly helps to rid me of my growing apprehension.
As my stomach resorts to the questionable comfort of tying and untying itself in rapid succession, I stand rooted to my spot facing the main entrance of Toyomina Academy. I would call it hypocritical: the buildings and their surroundings do not betray, even for an instance, their sinister nature and association. Merely standing there, I am slowly – but reluctantly - placated by the soothing entirety it depicts.
The unmistakable scent of strawberries lingers teasingly in the air. I can see the warm sunny grounds through the cold iron bars: lush green lawns dotted generously with a myriad of neatly trimmed trees, swaying pleasantly in the summer breeze. All is quiet; the only discernible sound is the melody the wind plays on the leaves. Unconsciously, I close my eyes.
It’s magic.
I feel like I am back on Mount Akina, the wind in my face, arms stretched wide, and standing atop a sharp cliff; terra firma a mile long drop below. I can even taste the delicious odor of roasting mountain trout. My dad used to take me camping there, before the accident.
Dad. The accident. It all starts to come back in a distorted, bitter torrent of feelings.
“What are you doing?” A voice inquires sanely. The scent of strawberries gets stronger.
I yell in surprise, almost leaping over the gate in the process. I barely glimpse a girl peering at me from between the bars.
“What the-”
“Sorry, I didn’-” We say at the same time, both failing to hear what the other had said.
“That’s alright-”
“I didn’t mean to-” We both start again, only to end up laughing.
“Okay, you go first,” says the girl, chuckling.
“It’s alright, you just scared me, that’s all. No need for apologies,” I manage to say.
I hadn’t noticed her approaching before, and now that I had, I scrutinize my intruder meticulously.
The first thing that hits me is her hair: shades of the most vibrant red playing in the soft morning light. She isn’t especially careful about it; it hangs in casual locks, framing her bright face. A shapely nose and small, slight lips – upturned in a warm smile - give her an overall pleasant feel.
But then I happen upon the part of her which is truly extraordinary.
A pair of brilliant azure eyes gazes at me inquisitively from beneath neatly trimmed eyebrows, and I’m astonished that I hadn’t immediately noted them. So strong is that unwavering gaze, that I fail to notice the rimless spectacles resting on the bridge of her nose until she(in a most clichéd manner) pushes them up, in a way that suggests it to be more of a force of habit then anything else.
“Hello? Are you okay?” She asks with a smile. I realize that I hadn’t said anything for a solid minute.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m great,” I respond hastily. “My name is Kazuma. Kazuma Nakamura. Nice to meet you.”
“Hello Kazuma. I’m Naomi Stark, from class 3-3. I was expecting you; our homeroom teacher, Mr.Fujiwara, thought you might need some assistance finding your bearings. Looks like he was right,” She laughs good-naturedly.
I laugh with her.
“Guess so. I’m sorry if I’ve kept you waiting. My train got held up; I arrived a half an hour later than I was supposed to.”
“Not at all. I should actually thank you for giving me an excuse to skip Math period.” She beams at me, opening the heavy gates which screech loudly in protest. Then she starts to move towards the nearest of the three buildings.
I catch up to her and match her pace: a leisurely stroll which displays no intention of a hastened return to class.
“Not very good at Math, are we?” I ask, secretly disappointed. Math was one of my stronger subjects.
“On the contrary, actually,” She corrects, “I’m ahead of the lectures and class gets boring. I find reading Hawkings to be a better use of my time.”
I’m impressed. Not many high-school-ers could read Hawkings, let alone prefer it.
I study her closely; she bobs along pleasantly, wisps of red hair swaying freely about her face. Her whole appearance is jolly, but not frivolous. And her eyes, her eyes look dead straight: intensely focused, like a hawk’s.
We walk the rest of the way in comfortable silence.
Eventually we reach our destination – a four storied edifice colored a matte red, not lustrous like Naomi’s hair, more of the color of red earth. She leads me through a set of glass paned doors into a well furnished, polished room which can only be described as an ante-room. A stately door to the right is labeled ‘Offices’ in big, stenciled letters. A larger, but less ornate, pair of revolving doors to the left is labeled ‘Cafeteria’. They resemble the stereotyped image of a cafeteria entrance; I think I prefer the stereotyped ones to the flamboyant office doors.
Naomi walks past both doors to the staircase at the end of the room.
“All the third year and second year classes are above the ground level,” she explains.
“The ground floor holds the cafeteria, the office rooms, and a large auditorium which is rarely used.”
I nod while trailing her up the stairs.
“The upper floors hold the classrooms, second year on the second floor, third year on the third. The fourth floor has the library, some of the club rooms, and the consultants’ rooms,”
Naomi says without skipping a beat.
But the way she says ‘consultants’ doesn’t escape my notice.
I guess that’s what they call the shrinks here. A polite way of concealing whom this school is really for – deranged adolescents incapable of socializing on a normal level, incapable of going to normal schools.
A school for the mentally disabled.
I cast a probing glance at Naomi; her head is turned away from me, and I can’t make out her expression. I phrase my next words carefully, intent on voicing my curiosity but not willing to risk her disapproval.
“Are the consultants’ rooms frequented by most students?”
A moment of silence followed by sounds of steady breathing tells me she’s pondering how to answer my question with equal, if not more, tact.
Finally, she climbs the last step and abruptly turns to face me.
“Just as much as is needed, not more. But enough of that. Our classroom is down the corridor over there,” she points vaguely.
“That doesn’t help at all. Aren’t you coming?” I ask tentatively.
She hums happily, and I can’t help feeling her contagious happiness bubble up inside me as well.
“Nope. I’d rather not go back to Math. I’ll be on the roof. Good luck on your first day!” She calls behind her back, all the while walking down the opposite side of the corridor.
I smile, amused, watching Naomi’s form vanish behind a corner. The scent of strawberries lingers for a while, and then dissipates as she moves further away.
“What a queer girl,” I say to no one in particular.
As I walk down the corridor, opposite to the side Naomi went to, I hear the voices of teachers drifting from the classrooms – some intent, some indifferent, and some others quite bored – and read the labels on the doors.
‘3-1’, ‘3-2’, and then finally I arrive at the door labeled ‘3-3’.
Standing there alone, I sigh in contemplation of the task ahead. I’d never enjoyed introducing myself to a large number of strangers.
But then I imagine a head full of strawberry red hair bouncing along the staircase up to the roof, all the while humming a tune.
It makes me smile.
Maybe school won’t be so bad, I tell myself.
I need to get started on that again... Hopefully that'll happen soon... maybe
