InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ The Sweetest Escape ❯ Smears ( Chapter 5 )

Disclaimer: I don't own Inuyasha, Rumiko Takahashi does. I don't own Brillo Pads either…I have no idea who owns those.

 

 

 

Author's Notes:

 

 

I feel really bad, guys and gals…(not physically, lol)

 

Okay, so after the last big author's notes, I guess maybe I turned some people off. I feel like I've made an absolute mess of things, and I'm all worried that maybe I've lost a bunch of people's respect in me, lowered people's opinion of me, or lost my credibility and whatnot. I hope that hasn't happened…so I just wanna say, to clear the air:

 

 

I'M SORRY!

 

 

If I offended, hurt, or turned anyone off, I'm sorry. Roundabout Way wasn't meant to offend, the author's note wasn't meant to offend. Perhaps I could have been a bit more tasteful, I don't know. Tact…ya gotta have it. Anyway, I don't want to lose any readers or anything because of something stupid. Maybe I shouldn't even write author's notes anymore…

 

 

 

So let's just forget the whole thing and move on, okay? (But if anyone just really feels the need to say anything about it, then could ya do me a favor and email me directly? Because when the review number goes up, I get happy, but then when I read it and it's bad, I get sad….at least with email I don't feel so darn exposed….)

 

So…now that I've apologized and I promise to play nicely with all the other writers/readers, can everybody go back to liking me again? Please?

Hehehe…

 

Anyway…..onward!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 5: Smears

 

 

 

 

`4-9-2-9-6-4, enter,' Inuyasha punched the number into the dilapidated keypad that sat in the small niche of the immense building he stood in front of. He heard a faint buzz and a click as the locks opened to allow him entry into the seedy-looking building. Adjusting his backpack on his shoulder, he entered the door of the complex, wriggling his hands in his pockets against the cold.

 

 

 

 

He stepped gingerly over the puddle of melted snow that had collected in the small dip in the floor and leaned his elbows on the long ramshackle counter that corded off a secretarial area. He was feeling impatient. He had some time, but he didn't have all the time in the world, and he wanted to get to his flat as soon as he could.

 

 

 

“There you are, finally,” a gravelly old voice came. Inuyasha gave the gnarled old man a bored, slightly annoyed look. “I've needed these boxes moved since Saturday. Where have you been?” he groused, motioning to the back door at the far end of the dirty foyer.

 

 

 

 

“Couldn't get away. My dad's been home a lot lately,” Inuyasha said briefly. He slipped his bag off and stowed it behind the counter, rolling up the copious sleeves of his sweatshirt to his elbows. The man squinted at him through one bulbous eye, the other securely screwed shut.

 

 

 

 

“Alright, then. There's a lot of boxes that I need moved up to the second floor. Elevator's down, so you'll have to take the stairs. There's some garbage in the basement that needs tending too…Then I'm going to need you to fix the flat I got on the way over here…” he rattled off, ticking the tasks off on long, knobby fingers. “After that you can do….whatever it is that you do,” he dismissed Inuyasha, waving his hands about, the boy's eyes trailing the flapping appendages with rapt attention.

 

 

 

 

His hands were always something Inuyasha had a morbid fascination in. They were long and slender, yet had knuckles like Brillo pads, thick, tough, and knotted from years of bouts with arthritis. The nails were yellowed, thick and brittle-looking, mottled with black stains from heavy labor over the previous years. The skin was papery and thin, seeming so fragile that the lightest touch could cause a major bruise. The prominent varicose veins mapped their way across the expanse of the appendages like fat, mesclun-green worms. They were the most disgusting hands he'd ever seen. Somehow, though, when they caught his attention, Inuyasha couldn't look away from them.

 

 

 

 

“Well? What are you waiting for? Get a move on! Your money's in the cabinet here, so don't forget to take it. I've already taken out your payment for the month,” he added, shooing the staring boy away. He had to be grateful to the old man, cantankerous and strange as he was, for he'd given Inuyasha a way to do what he loved after he thought he'd lost it. Inuyasha shook his head and ambled out to the parking lot behind the warehouse to assess the load he'd have to move.

 

 

 

 

After hauling the numerous boxes to the second floor, and arranging them in a manner which only he could decipher, he proceeded to take the mountains of garbage that cluttered the basement floor out back to the foul-smelling dumpsters that lined the outside wall of the warehouse.

 

 

 

 

Finally, he faced the old man's rusted-out shell of a Buick, armed with the lug wrench. The man had no jack, and so, Inuyasha propped the car's front left end up on a few cinderblocks.

 

 

 

 

Dirty work aside, the boy dutifully collected his bag and payment from the specified cabinet and ascended the stairs to the uppermost floor, and down the corridor to the room in the furthest corner.

 

 

 

 

Kneeling on his haunches, he unlocked the heavy padlock that kept the terra cotta-reddish rolling steel door securely bolted to the floor by a thick half-ring. He pulled the door up halfway open, and ducked to enter, sliding it shut behind him with a raucous clatter. All of a sudden, the tension, confusion and flat-out frustration that had plagued him for the past few days simmered down to a tolerable level, one where he could make quick work of ridding himself of it all together.

 

 

 

 

For the first time in a few days, Inuyasha allowed a tiny smile to grace his lips as he stood amidst the beautiful chaos of his own little getaway, his paradise in the squalor of the storm.

 

 

 

 

Inuyasha deposited his backpack on the little hook in the corner and exchanged his sweatshirt and jeans for the ratty, paint-splattered t-shirt and sweatpants that were his uniform in this place. He crossed the stained poured cement floor in bare feet, running his claws over the coarse ridges of the brick wall to the large rack of bins in which his materials were housed.

 

 

 

 

Deciding that he didn't want to get too immersed in a project too detailed, Inuyasha pulled out the cheapest paints he owned and set them on the small rolling table, pulling that behind him while yanking the elastic band and cloth strip out of his hair and shaking it loose. Here, he could be whatever he wanted to be, no matter how conflicted he may have felt— uninhibited, vulgar, angry, euphoric.

 

 

 

 

He pulled a length of butcher paper off of the roll he kept in the corner of his makeshift studio, and tacked that up onto the cork strip he'd attached to the large, empty wall that served as the placement for whatever surface he chose to work with, be it canvas, gesso board, or paper.

 

 

 

 

Inuyasha flung a large piece of blue tarp over the racks and vertical slots that held his finished pieces, and then rolled the blanket and small pillow that served as his bed at times into a tight, secure roll underneath a table. He tended to get a bit messy in some of his more…enthusiastic sessions.

 

 

 

 

Though it was juvenile, and perhaps even a waste of paint and paper, there was nothing more therapeutic, Inuyasha thought, than flinging globs of color at a stainless background. Brushing his hands against the cool expanse of paper, he let out a deep sigh, before plunging three fingers into the puddle of cheery red and dashing in across the sheet with abandon.

 

 

 

 

He reveled in the slippery, sliding, carefree feeling of making an absolute mess. It felt good to feel to have something besides his own blood smear between his fingers. Dabbing his knuckles into the blob of yellow, the two colors began to mesh and create a tangy-orange.

 

 

 

 

Soon enough, his mind wandered from the wonderfully bright mess he was making to the day that had him so in need of a release of energy in the first place.

 

 

 

 

He'd bolted from the detention room as soon as the customary time was served, heading straight to the warehouse. It was Tuesday, and that meant free drinks for frequent customers until ten at Koizumi's. Between the liquor and the half-naked women that paraded around on the stage, his father was most definitely a frequent customer. `He's practically got a key to the place,' Inuyasha thought bitterly, flinging a particularly large blob of bright red against the paper with a wet `splat'.

 

 

 

 

It was fine with him if his father wanted to stay out all hours of the night, living it up with strange, loose women and getting drunk out of his skull, as usual. It gave him time to get away. He only had to be sure he allowed himself sufficient time to thoroughly scrub down in Totosai's private shower, as to rid himself of the scent of paint and thinner. He could only imagine the magnitude of the punishment he would receive if his father found out about his secret rendezvous with the brush. If he weren't too inebriated to notice…as he was the vast majority of the time. But Inuyasha knew it would be just his luck that the one time he failed to wash thoroughly enough, his father would notice and give him the thrashing of his life.

 

 

 

 

Now that he was in his element, at ease and more clear-headed, he couldn't help but think that maybe he'd handled the events of the day rather unwell. Alas, it was something he had been plagued with for as long as he could consciously remember: thinking back on decisions he made well after the fact, and wishing he could have handled them differently, better.

 

 

 

 

With a wince and a flick of his wrist to splash the paper with purple, he realized now just how badly he'd ranted to the girl in the hallway. He wasn't quite sure whether he'd had an audience or not, but either way, his lack of control over his words had undoubtedly put him in an unsavory situation.

 

 

 

 

His words echoed back to him. He'd cursed at her—not as extensively as he would have liked, but still…He'd basically insulted her, almost called her a bitch, but managed to hold his tongue at the last possible second, a small miracle in and of itself. Usually once he started, there was no way to stop himself, and so, he normally tried to avoid starting in the first place.

 

 

 

 

Inuyasha pressed his palms flatly against the sheet, once, twice, and then again, spreading and closing his fingers on the last print. He bit his lip, his stomach giving an uncomfortable lurch. `I'll probably be kicked out,' he thought dully. `Again. For something so stupid.'

 

 

 

 

If the girl went to a teacher—the principal—he'd be dead. `Wait. What am I talking about if? Change that to when,' he thought. Yes, when the girl went to an authority figure, he'd be dead. Because he'd be kicked out, no doubt, for disrespecting a student or `harrassing' a student, maybe even `assaulting' a student. However they decided to spin their story, he'd be the one taking the hard time for it. And then…then his dad would only have too much of a reason to beat him bloody. Again.

 

 

 

 

`Just like Asahara, Uboshita, and Ichikawa.' he mused. `It can't be helped…history repeats itself, so the saying goes…It'd be a miracle if I even get my fucking diploma on time.'

 

 

 

 

At the mere thought of time, Inuyasha snapped out of his thoughts, and darted a look at the clock over the smeared window. It was already seven. He looked back at the myriad of colors that arched in graceful waves over the once-white paper, the prints of his own hands and fingers and cocked an eyebrow. He rather liked this…mess. He decided against chunking it, and left it to dry, proceeding to wash the plastic plates of the remaining paints in the scummy sink.

 

 

 

 

He sometimes amazed even himself that at sixteen years of age, he could still lose himself so completely in something so utterly juvenile. Perhaps that spoke volumes about his own psychosomatic development or lack thereof; he couldn't help but think it at times. Retrieving the bottle of low-odor paint thinner from underneath the sink, Inuyasha scrubbed under his claws with a small scouring brush, almost hard enough to make himself bleed. There could be no trace of paint anywhere.

 

 

 

 

He hurried across the hallway with his school clothes in arm to the Totosai's cramped bathroom. He and the old man were the only two that really ever ventured up to the top floor; he because he rented a flat there, and Totosai because the queer old man opted to live up there.

 

 

 

 

He turned the water's temperature to near-scalding and stepped under the stream, noting with relief that the gouges across his belly looked much better than they had from as recent as that morning, and light-years better than they had the previous morning, their color now only a tad more startlingly white than the rest of his flesh. Scouring his body with the handy bar of soap, he was sure to attend to the flecks of blue that dotted his forearms. When he was satisfied that all the scents of paint had disappeared down the drain, he stepped gingerly onto the small rug, being careful to avoid the large, rather rancid looking biscay-colored stain that seemed to have a life of its own. Leaning over the tub, he firmly twisted his length of hair, letting the water drip languidly down the drain. His father wouldn't be likely to notice if his hair was damp, but he'd surely notice if it was drenching the back of his clothes.

 

 

 

 

Yanking his clothes on at a hurried yet methodical pace, Inuyasha grabbed his bag from his flat and locked it securely, whispering a soft farewell and `til next time.

 

 

 

 

Uttering a quick `goodbye' to Totosai, who was at the time incapacitated in his rolling chair in front of a small black and white television behind the counter, Inuyasha stepped from his sanctuary into the dark coldness of the night, and proceeded to head to his house, thinking that maybe he should pull out the pamphlets for those other schools.

 

 

 

 

Perhaps he could go to another demon school, if one would take him.

 

 

 

 

~*~

 

 

 

 

 

“You failed your rhetorical devices test.”

 

 

 

 

Inuyasha, not looking up from the notebook he was doodling in, sighed with exasperation. `You're quite the stubborn, vindictive little bitch, aren't you?' he thought with a sneer. He shifted his weight and propped the book up on his other knee, resuming his sketching as if she hadn't said a word.

 

 

 

 

“Hello? I said, you failed the rhetorical devices test,” she repeated, stepping closer. Inuyasha looked up at her dryly from his seat on the floor.

 

 

 

 

“And? What of it?” he drawled.

 

 

 

 

“And…you failed the literary terms quiz, you bombed the test on The Allegory of the Cave, and your essays have the analytical value of a preschooler's penmanship papers,” she rattled off, ticking things on her fingers.

 

 

 

 

“So?” he snapped. He was getting angry now. Had he asked for her input? “What the fuck do you care? And why are you so fucking nosy? What gives you the right to look through my shit, huh?”

 

 

 

 

“I'm Mr. Akuran's aid remember? Second hour? I graded those tests. Except for the essays, of course. He grades those. I just enter the info into the computer for him.” Inuyasha scowled at her and pointedly looked away.

 

 

 

 

He hated her. He hated her for playing this stupid, manipulative game with him; he hated her for being so damned good at it. He hated her for making him angry. He hated her for making him so angry that he'd lost it and yelled and cursed at her publicly. He hated her because she was the reason he'd been anticipating, waiting a week for the proverbial hammer to fall, for him to get that call to the principal's office and to have “the talk” and it hadn't come. He hated her for not squealing on him and giving him closure on another failed attempt at school. But then…he'd have hated her for squealing as well.

 

 

 

 

He hated her for being so…so…in his face. So close, all the damned time. How she seemed to be everywhere he was, and never tire of the brush-offs he so readily handed out. He hated her because…she didn't seem to hate him. But he knew she did—she had to! Everyone did! He hated her because she confused the crap out of him. And he hated being confused.

 

 

 

 

So here he was, sitting on the cold, hard, tile floor, trying very hard to ignore the pushy, invasive, undoubtedly malicious girl, who was, coincidentally, the very reason he'd been kicked out of Mr. Akuran's hellish class in the first place.

 

 

 

 

Mr. Akuran had been in rare form, even more vicious that usual. He'd pulled out an arsenal of what Inuyasha figured to be college grad school level questions; the kind of questions that would make a boy with a failing grade in Lit & Comp break out in a cold sweat—if he'd been paying attention.

 

 

 

 

Perhaps, had he been a bit more focused, he might have been able to pull out a fail-safe: a mindless-rambling-on-until-he-hit-something-passable answer. He tended to be very good at those, as years of practice while being lost in the shuffle of literary discussions had conditioned him to be. It wouldn't have been a stellar, University of Tokyo-worthy, solid answer…but he might have gotten by with a slight frown of disapproval, a shrug, and a “Be more prepared next time, Chikamatsu.” Nothing more, nothing less. And he would have been fine with that.

 

 

 

 

But, as his mind had been stewing on what hadn't happened in the past week, namely, the expulsion he was sure was right around the corner, he hadn't been prepared in the least to answer:

 

 

 

“Describe to me, with specific details, the author's portrayal of the role of consumerism, superficiality, and infantilism throughout the novel, and how that portrayal has affected at least one or more of the characters, major or minor. Use pages forty through fifty-six to cite your reasons…Chikamatsu,” the man purred. He held the small novel between the tips of his fingers, tapping the binding lightly against his chin, a smug smirk tugging at his thin lips.

 

 

 

 

Inuyasha's mind snapped back from his thoughts of expulsion at the sound of his name, and he dropped the lock of hair he'd been tensely toying with at once.

 

 

 

 

“Um…ah…” he started. He hadn't even heard the question; he'd only heard his name. He squinted, lips twitching with the beginnings of several attempts at answering. His mind was racing, synapses having a party. `What do I say, what do I say, what do I say?' he thought. He fumbled weakly with the novel on his desk, not having a clue as to what he would be looking for if he were to open it. “I didn't raise my hand,” he blurted, instantly regretting his runaway mouth. He bit his lip. That was certainly not the thing to say.

 

 

 

 

Mr. Akuran's mouth froze, and his book stopped its gentle tapping. A small chuckle escaped him.

 

 

 

 

“Did you hear that, class?” he asked the remainder of the students, most of whom were shooting snooty, self-righteous glances in his direction. “Chikamatsu says he didn't raise his hand.” Mr. Akuran began to walk around the perimeter of the circle with slow, deliberate steps. “Class? Allow me to ask: does it matter if a student raises his hand or not when I ask him a question?”

 

 

 

 

“No,” came the resounding, unison reply. Inuyasha's ears, bared to the world, flattened.

 

 

 

 

“I didn't think so. And, class, is that student required to give an answer to said question, whether or not he's raised his hand?”

 

 

 

 

“Yes,” the group agreed in accord once more.

 

 

 

 

“So, do you think I should let him off the hook? Give him a break, since, of course, he didn't raise his hand,” the man said patronizingly.

 

 

 

 

“No.” Inuyasha's stomach fell.

 

 

 

 

“I didn't think so either. Well, then. Chikamatsu, I'd say you're up. Answer the question,” Mr. Akuran said simply, leaning against the occupied seat of a student. Inuyasha cleared his throat.

 

 

 

 

“Ah…actually, do you think you could, you know, um…repeat the question? I didn't quite catch the tail-end of it—“

 

 

 

“Repeat the question?” Mr. Akuran asked, incredulous. “Repeat the question?” The man briskly stepped back into the circle and slapped a hand on Inuyasha's desk. “Does this look like an elementary level Literature and Composition class to you, Chikamatsu?” His voice was a cool storm, calm, yet malevolent.

 

 

 

 

“No—I just didn't catch the end of your ques—“

 

 

 

“Well, you certainly are treating it as though it were one. If your abysmal grade didn't say it all, then your paltry class participation speaks volumes on its own. You don't take this class seriously, do you, Chikamatsu?” he sneered. Inuaysha didn't answer. What was the point? Nothing he said would get him out of the hole he was in. The man straightened, and pointed a long finger towards the door.

 

 

 

“Outside,” he commanded.

 

 

 

 

“What?”

 

 

 

 

“Out. Side,” he repeated disdainfully. “If you want to treat this like an elementary level class, then I will treat you like an elementary level student. Now go. Out. Side.” Inuyasha stared at him incredulously. He couldn't have been serious. No one had ever sent him outside the classroom before….except for in elementary school. To be sent outside in high school…now that was disgraceful. Mr. Akuran's finger jerked suddenly, emphasizing his adamancy to get the boy to head to the door. Inuyasha stood and took two steps.

 

 

 

“And take your filth as well.” Inuyasha bowed his head and gathered his books and his bag. He tugged his hood to its rightful place atop his head, and closed the door just as Mr. Akuran redirected his question to another student, repeating the whole damn thing.

 

 

 

 

And now the object of his misfortune, the bane of his mind at the moment, was standing almost directly over him, invading his space, actually having the nerve to talk to him? After all she'd done?

 

 

 

 

It was unfathomable.

 

 

 

 

Why couldn't he seem to escape her?

 

 

 

 

“If you keep on the way you are, you're gonna fail the semester, and then you'll have to take the class all over again,” she pointed out.

 

 

 

 

“I couldn't care less,” he lied haughtily.

 

 

 

 

“Liar,” she accused. “You're already taking a sophomore Lit class as a junior. Do you really want to be taking the same sophomore Lit class as a senior? Because you're well on your way,” she reasoned. He scowled down at his notebook, cursing her infallible logic. “You're lucky Daisuke only requires two years of Literature for graduation,” she added.

 

 

 

 

“Okay, so now that you've pounded it into my head that I'm fucking stupid, what the fuck are you here for?” he snapped. She crossed her arms, shifting her weight onto one foot.

 

 

 

“I'm offering you my services as a tutor,” she said matter-of-factly. He gave her a deadpan look.

 

 

 

 

“Fuck no.” He winced. `There I go again,' he thought. `Just keep going, Inuyasha, just see how far you can push her until she goes and tattles on your ass,' he thought bitterly.

 

 

 

 

“Why not?” she asked. He frowned.

 

 

 

 

“Why?” he spat back.

 

 

 

 

“Well, you obviously need it,” she said with a wince. He glared at her. “You've got a fifty-eight average,” she pointed out.

 

 

 

“Keh! Thanks for pointing it out!”

 

 

 

 

“I'm only saying,” she began. She sat down against the wall next to him, and didn't react when he quite pointedly butt-scooted away from her. `Why in Kami's name is she so damned invasive?' he thought. “You need help. I can give you help. I'm in the International Baccalaureate program,” she explained.

 

 

 

 

 

“As fascinating as you may think that is, I really don't give a shit,” he sneered. “And I don't need to be talked down to—I don't give a fuck about your bragging,” he added. He figured he might as well say what was on his mind. `I'm as good as kicked out anyways,' he reasoned.

 

 

 

 

“Sorry,” the girl said meekly. “I…I didn't mean to sound snobbish. I'm only saying, as far as qualified tutors go, I'm pretty good,” she explained.

 

 

 

 

“I don't got any money, so just forget it.”

 

 

 

 

“I don't need pay.” His eyes narrowed suspiciously.

 

 

 

 

“See? See there? I knew it,” he said slowly. “You just outed yourself.”

 

 

 

 

“I did not! I mean, there's nothing to out! I'm not…I mean that I'm not hiding anything,” she stammered.

 

 

 

 

“Mm-hm. Okay. So if you tutor me, but I don't pay you for it, what do you get out of it?” he queried, an eyebrow raised skeptically. She shrugged, hands spread.

 

 

 

 

“The pleasure of your company?”

 

 

 

 

“You're an idiot,” he said flatly. Was that her idea of a joke? He couldn't believe it. “Don't you have a class to be in or something?” Why wouldn't she go away? Why wouldn't she react to him normally? The questions plagued his mind.

 

 

 

 

“I'm actually only dropping off my history teacher's attendance roster. He forgot to turn in last week's,” she explained briefly. “So, anyway, do you want my help or not?”

 

 

 

 

“I thought I made it painfully clear that I don't,” he spat.

 

 

 

 

“Hm…you must not want to pass the class, then…” she said sympathetically, patronizingly.

 

 

 

 

“If I need your help to do it, I guess not,” he said in a conciliatory manner. She frowned.

 

 

 

 

“That's funny…I didn't take you for the type to just accept defeat so easily. Especially when there's a way to avoid it,” she said quietly.

 

 

 

 

“Well, there you go. Just goes to show you that you don't know me,” he glowered, slapping his notebook shut and crossing his arms defiantly.

 

 

 

 

“I can only imagine how disappointed your parents will be when they see that failing grade…” she tutted. Inuyasha flinched. She'd unwittingly hit upon three very sensitive nerves.

 

 

 

 

One was his father. Disappointed would not be the accurate word to describe the man's reaction. `More like pure, unadulterated rage,' Inuyasha thought. He had experience in that area to know: a failing grade made for a very bruised, bloodied, and unconscious hanyou. Not to mention, he'd eventually have to face Sesshomaru's inevitable, cripplingly raw disapproval. That was the second nerve.

 

 

 

 

Inuyasha was fairly certain that his older half-brother was blissfully unaware of the constant torture he underwent in his own home. He wasn't so full of flighty and whimsical fancy, however, to think that if the man was aware that he'd take him away from it all. Sesshomaru had a perfect job, perfect home somewhere in Kyoto, and a perfect life. Who'd want to mess all that up for a lowly half-breed?

 

 

 

 

That he would be beaten for having a failing grade was most assuredly out of Sesshomaru's realm of knowledge as well. However, he would not be deprived of the knowledge of the failing grade itself.

 

 

 

 

Inuyasha could still remember the absolute, gnawing shame he'd felt the first time he'd brought home a report card with a failing grade tarnishing it. His grade report had never been, by any means, stellar. He was pretty much average in almost everything excluding art. But with the glaring stain of `F' marking its face, the piece of paper seemed almost diseased. He'd been in the fifth grade at the time, and just in the beginning of his `acting-out stage' as some had called it. Sesshomaru was in high school, a senior, and the picture of brilliance with the grade report to match.

 

 

 

 

When the fated slip traded hands, his heart lurched. Peeking over his father's shoulder, Sesshomaru raised a carefully tweezed, disdainful eyebrow. The corners of his straight mouth twitched downwards, and his high forehead wrinkled almost imperceptibly.

 

 

 

 

His father was mad. Raging, spewing, spitting mad. But Sesshomaru…Inuyasha almost wept at the realization that he'd…disappointed this strangely beautiful and seemingly perfect creature that he was to call `brother' so soon after meeting him. He hung his head and hid his face in shame, wishing that the man would not look upon him. Sesshomaru never failed. Sesshomaru never had trouble with classes. Sesshomaru was never unprepared.

 

 

 

 

It had amazed him that even after Sesshomaru left for the night with friends, even after his father had finished thrashing him, and even after he'd finished tending to his wounds and had retired for the night, that the person he hated disappointing the most was the one who had barely spoken three words to him since his relocation, and had decidedly the least to do with him as possible.

 

 

 

 

If he failed this class, the events would undoubtedly follow the same pattern as before. The only difference would be that his mother's death would not be so fresh, and he'd have nothing to blame his lack of effort on but himself…

 

 

 

 

His mother. The third nerve. There was no way he could stand to disappoint her again. He'd disappointed her so much throughout the childhood that coincided with the end of her life…she never said it. But he could feel it. A failing grade? What good would he be to her? What good would he be to watch down on from where she was? A failing grade? Again?

 

 

 

 

Inuyasha sighed as if he'd just been dealt a most cruel and unbearable fate.

 

 

 

 

Fine. He'd deal with her. He'd take her help for the remainder of the semester so that he could bolster his paltry average as much as possible and pass the mid term.

 

 

 

 

But he wouldn't let her get to him. He'd be the same as always, he promised himself. He wouldn't allow himself to be sucked into her little plot. He wouldn't allow himself to be laughed at, scorned, humiliated. Not again. He smirked inwardly. `She asked for it,' he thought.

 

 

 

 

“Fine.”

 

 

 

 

 

~*~

 

 

 

 

Kagome sauntered back to history class deep in thought. She could feel the boy's laser eyes piercing her back as she retreated down the corridor. But she was proud of herself. She'd accomplished something.

 

 

 

 

“What I accomplished, I'm not exactly sure,” she muttered to herself sardonically. Sure, she'd gotten the boy to finally agree—however grudgingly—to let her tutor him. But she wasn't exactly sure of her own motives.

 

 

 

 

She had no `tricks' up her sleeve, as he seemed too prone to believe she did. She had no `jokes' or `bullshit'. She hadn't even the faintest idea as to what kind of `joke' he was so hell-bent on trying to finagle out of her. But she wasn't sure just why so was so inexplicably drawn to him.

 

 

 

 

He hadn't been particularly nice or polite. He hadn't even been civil. But….he was intriguing. He was indescribably, frustratingly intriguing, and she had to know just why he appeared that way to her.

 

 

 

It could have been the fact that he was so blasted silent most of the time, excluding of course, when he shouted or cursed at her. It could have been that he was a loner, and while social opportunities didn't exactly abound for him, he seemed to avoid any presented prospect for social interaction, shying away from it like oil from water. Perhaps it was because his eyes, golden and brilliant, were so darned lonely that simply looking at him made her want to cry, and Kagome, as cheery as she was by nature, could not stand to see people sad. It could have been simply the fact that he was a hanyou, and she'd never seen one. Or perhaps it was the fact that he was so indescribably and eerily beautiful, and Kagome had to admit, he would have been a perfect subject for the greedy eye of her camera.

 

 

 

 

She wasn't quite sure. It could have simply been the fact that she was, admittedly, nosy, and felt the overwhelming, inexplicable compulsion to get to know and to get along with everyone she came into contact with. But Kagome was nothing if not stubborn, and damned if not curious, and she was going to satisfy the insatiable urge she had so recently developed to solve the mystery, if any, that seemed to follow him like a dark cloud.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Author's Notes:

 

 

I don't know why this chapter took me so long to write. Maybe it was a combination of feeling kind of down and out because of the reason mentioned in the other A/N. I dunno. Plus, I realized that school is starting in less than three weeks, and I hadn't done my summer reading, so it was Brave New World for me! (which I loved! I mean, it was very disturbing. Creepy, obscene, and scary, but I really thought it was a good read! Oh, and just in case you caught it, that was the book that the “college level question” was in reference too!)

 

But I also was kind of nervous about the description of Inuyasha painting. I don't want it to sound stupid or anything, even though it's just finger painting. Just FYI, I don't know a lot about art. I love to look at it, and man, I wish I could draw! (really, really wish I could draw) but I am by no means an expert. I'm just reading about art supplies and stuff on line, lol. So, if, in future chapters I make a mistake, and any of you happen to be artsy-folk, and you catch it, lemme know, okay?

 

 

Also, does anyone know what kind of demon Totosai is? I was just thinking he couldn't be human…his eyes are too bulg-y looking, and he's got pointy ears. Just wondering.

 

 

Last thing…I'm not familiar with Japanese classes. So you know how “English class” in America isn't really teaching you the language English, it's teaching you literature? That's the class poor Inuyasha's having trouble with….only in the Japanese version. So I'm just calling it Lit & Comp.

 

I'm pretty sure they don't read the same literature that we do…like Shakespeare is probably not that big of a deal in Japan like it is in the States or in England. I'm not sure, but that's just what my reasoning is (if it can be called reasoning at all lol). But I don't know how to find out what they do read. Like, seriously, what do you type in Google? “Great Japanese books read in Literature class” ? Plus, even if I did know what they read, it'd probably be something in, well…Japanese. Which I don't know. So, if any of the questions or book references seem a little too…western…it's because I'm an uncultured teenager who's stuck reading Heart of Darkness (bleh!). Sorry `bout that.

 

 

Okay, I will now stop talking so that you can review. Thanks!

 

 

**Oh! Quick quick! Everybody get out a phone! Dun-dun-dun….who can figure out what Inuyasha's number code is? ***