Crossover Fan Fiction ❯ Happy Endings, And Other Lies ❯ Happy Endings: 1 ( Chapter 1 )

Chapter One

“What’s this?” demanded Hiratsuka Sensei. She was waving my essay at me. Youth Is A Lie, was the title.

“My essay,” I answered with my usual sly grin.

“I asked you to write an essay looking back on your high school memories,” accused my young Christmas cake of a chain smoking teacher of my Japanese writing class. It was my best class. I excel at literature, mostly because it’s all I really care about.

“What high school memories would those be, sensei?” I asked drily, my eyes shifting sideways as my head turned, a look that I knew gave women the creeps. She shuddered. Ten Hachiman points.

“You’re supposed to be filled with hope and gratitude and friendship,” she insisted.

“Maybe you were the popular girl when you were in high school, eh? It’s not like that for me. I got here too late to make friends. It’s all cliques and I’m the outsider with the ugly face,” I pointed out, completely right. She made an awkward expression. Five more Hachiman Points.

I rattled my cane, reminding her WHY I got here late. It was plain and unadorned, an absolute rejection of the chuuni past I still wanted to forget. Minus points, me.

“How’s the crippled kid going to make friends in a school filled with staircases?” I pointed out. Her expression was ghastly and she quickly averted her eyes from me to take a deep drag of her cancer stick. I learned that epithet from a book I read. Coffin Nails is another good one for cigarettes. I read a lot, now I’m a cripple. I can’t even bicycle.

Japanese medicine did what they could, but my bones weren’t perfectly lined up when they healed, and the knee joint injury is permanent. Someday, if I got rich enough, I might be able to save up enough money to fly to a free country with better doctors where I could pay cash for my ACL to get mended. Until then I was confined to a slow half mile per hour pace with a cane. And with my looks and personality? This will be for life.

“I can’t accept this essay. It’s an affront to every student, and it offends me, more importantly.”

“Oh, well if it offends your ideals, I guess I’ll just rewrite it. You never said you wanted fiction,” I smiled my most poisonous smile. She shuddered again.

“No. That’s not good enough. I have to curb this tendency of yours and… two birds. Yes. Come with me.” Shizuka Sensei rose to her feet and started storming off, taking a right turn out of the staffroom. I hobbled along at my own speed, cursing under my breath. She waited for me at the breezeway, noticing I wasn’t there. It took over a minute to reach the doors and exit the main school building. It was a nice day, despite everything. We walked through the breezeway to the old building staircases and ascended, slowly. My Christmas cake teacher kept huffing in annoyance. It’s like she thinks walking is easy or something?

Eventually we reached a door which my teacher shoved open loudly and stormed in, all grinning self-justification.

“I asked you to knock before entering,” said a quiet but spiteful small female voice. I eventually spotted the doe-like visage of some ice princess glaring at teacher, eyes then shifting to regard me. She recoiled. It was a reaction I was used to. Japan does not respect cripples. They think this is somehow our own fault. In my case this was true, though I curse myself daily since the accident. One moment of optimism for starting school and a car crash later has ruined my life. I have a map of the Forest of Crows on my wall at home. It gives Komachi the creeps.

“I found you a club-mate,” announced my teacher. I huffed in dismay.

“That?” barked the girl in equal dismay. Or disgust. Probably both.

“He looks terrible but he’s got enough self-awareness not to do anything untoward.”

“It’s not like I could catch you if you ran away,” I taunted, leaning on my cane with some pain showing on my face. Damn those stairs. “Not that I would want to. That’s some opinion you have of yourself.”

“This is supposed to support our activities? He’ll drive away customers,” glared the girl.

“How many customers have you had?” reminded Sensei.

“Two,” said the girl a lot more quietly. She was almost pretty with that expression, but it didn’t fix the rest.

“How many? Rescuing cats from a tree doesn’t count,” denied Sensei.

“One,” admitted the girl.

“One customer. And you need three members for this club to continue.”

“Yes, Sensei. Fine. I’ll accept this… thing. Improving it can be a project all its own,” said the girl turning her nose up, loftily.

“Right. Sensei, I am ready to rewrite my essay right now,” I reminded her.

“Nope. You’re joining this club.”

“Why? What does this club do?” I asked, seeing nothing to indicate its purpose. “I already know how to read. My English is good. I can pronounce the letter L. I’ve got a library card. What can I possibly gain from associating with this spitting cat?” I demand, pointing at the sour faced Yuki Onna.

“Can’t you guess?” asked the girl coldly.

“I see a girl in a classroom with no real equipment, reading a book. Is this the Literature Club?” I asked.

“No. Try again.” I looked around. I looked at sensei who kept smiling. The light was good, but no paint supplies, no easels. No computers for games or data processing or writing web code. It was just an empty classroom.

“I’ve got nothing.”

“This is the Service Club,” pronounced the girl. She looked equal parts smug and superior.

“And what does that mean?” I asked after the name was just left hanging in the air. My squint into the bright sunlight behind her probably made me look even worse than usual.

“Our job is to assist students with requests. We don’t do it for them. We teach them how to do it for themselves,” she explained primly. Everything about this girl was prim and cold and smug.

“Sensei, if all it took was a good attitude, bald men would be the most popular people ever,” I said, stopping her from sneaking out behind me. She frowned.

“What is that supposed to mean?” she demanded.

“This club won’t fix what is wrong with me or the world. It won’t change how the students treat me. It won’t give me good high school memories. It won’t change the outcome of my essay.” She froze, turning away and glaring the wall. I couldn’t see her face.

“You’re still doing this, Hachiman,” she said eventually. She stepped through the door way and slammed it shut behind her. The wood creaked outside. She was totally leaning against the wall outside, listening.

“Hmph,” was all I got from the princess. She returned to her seat and picked up her book again, finding her page and reading.

I looked down at my cane and my aching leg reminded me I needed a seat. I limped over to the stack of chairs and laboriously freed one, dragging it to the end of the long table, as far as I could be from the princess. She did not move a muscle to help me despite my cane. I slowly sagged and then sank into the hard seat. I hurt.

Chronic pain from the accident is my life now. Three ribs, all three bones in my leg, my ACL torn, my hip damaged. Blood loss and surgery and a plate to help reassemble my upper leg bone and contain my bone marrow. They saved that at least. It could have been worse. All for a stupid dog that died anyway. You’re not a hero if you don’t save the dog. Isn’t that the truth, I thought bitterly, for the thousandth time.

“What essay?” asked the girl. It was the first genuine question I’d heard from her. I held out the crumpled pages. She rose and retrieved my essay. She smoothed the paper out at her seat. Read. Laughed at the words.

“I can see why sensei would get so angry. You pushed a bunch of her buttons,” she said, a sparkle in her eyes that did wonders for her face.

“You should laugh more,” I said. She froze, expression hardening in shame.

“That stony look doesn’t suit you. It’s just another mask. If you want to be one of THEM, go ahead. I can’t stop you.” I sighed and got out my book. The girl was frozen for the longest time. Then she pushed my essay back to me, halfway down the table. I couldn’t reach it.

I groaned, rising to my feet and retrieved the pages which had so excellently offended the sensibilities of my teacher. I returned them carefully to my bag, wrinkled pages and nail marks from my teacher’s outrage. I wondered if she would try and call my parents to tell them how angry I made her? Even odds. But they wouldn’t be there. They work all the time. Only come home to sleep and change clothes. Poor Komachi.

Thinking of sis, I dug out my phone and found the messaging app and let her know I would be late. I’d have to take the late bus, too. Fewer students, but more adult commuters. Good luck getting a seat, even with this obvious handicap cane. Real people were scum.

I returned to reading Candide. Voltaire was heavy handed in this satire, but he remains the man who proved the Optimism was a failed philosophy. It was short and I finished it in time for the girl to clear her throat.

“It is time to go. Please prepare to leave. I shall lock the door behind us.”

“I still don’t know your name. Mine is Hikigaya Hachiman,” I said. I bowed briefly and looked at her, waiting.

“Really? I am Yukinoshita Yukino," she said, an obvious lie. 

“No. Seriously, what’s your name?” I demanded. 

“I just told you,” she denied.  

“Riiiight. Okay. You don’t want to tell me, then you don’t. Does this club meet daily?” I asked, exasperated. Nobody has a personal name that’s just a short form of their family name. That’s kiddie stuff.

“Daily. Why don’t you believe me?” she inquired in her snooty way.

“Would you believe me if I said my name was Hikigaya Hikki?” I asked her sarcastically.

“Umm… well. Probably not. But those eyes…” she admitted. I rolled mine. People are such superficial trash. I picked up my bag and slung it, stumping out on my cane. Sensei was long gone. There was still a stink of tobacco in the hallway.

++++++

My trip home was a pain. As predicted, there was no seat on the bus, and the fat woman occupying the handicapped seats probably needed it as much as I did, since she was a pig. She could have put her groceries under her seat but did she? No. So I rocked in traffic, in increasing pain, glaring at her uselessly. I hate this world.

Komachi was prepping dinner when I arrived home. She was angry, which was to be expected. I’d left her alone for several hours while stuck in this stupid club. I gave her a hug, which she accepted and showed some of the tension leave her.

“So what happened?” she finally asked after we ate a bunch of the food.

“You know I hate to compromise,” I began. She huffed.

“What did you do?” she asked. I wordlessly dug out the essay from my bookbag and handed it across to her.

“Why is this wrinkled?” she asked.

“Guess.”

She read it for a few minutes, chortling, read the second page and laughed out loud.

“What was the title of the assignment?” she finally asked, wiping away tears of mirth. My sister is the best.

“Looking back on high school memories,” I drawled with full irony.

“Wow. Who’s the teacher?” she asked me.

“Hiratsuka Shizuka. Age 30, unmarried, smokes like a chimney, drives an English sports car, and was probably a popular girl back in high school. I think she lacks empathy for people like me.”

“No wonder you got her mad. So what happened next?” Komachi asked. 

“She is forcing me to attend Service Club after school.”

“For how long?” she asked, suspicious.

“A couple hours a day. Probably graduation or until I get banned for being right.”

“Who else is in this club?” she asked.

“Some girl who won’t give me her real name. Snooty. Yuki-onna type. We mostly end up reading and don’t talk to each other. Only time a saw any real emotion from her is when she laughed at my essay like you did.”

“Oniisan, you can always be a stand-up comedian.”

“Only if they let me sit down.” She laughed at this, proving her own point.

I cleaned up the mess after dinner and tucked away some leftovers for parents, if they came home, or bentos for us tomorrow if not.

Studying until bed. Dreams full of nameless churning nightmares.