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The teacher walks into the classroom, apparently nursing a headache himself. Junko stands from her seat.
Junko: Kiritsu! (Stand up!)
The students stand.
Junko: Rei! (Bow!)
Then bow.
Junko: Chakuseki! (Sit!)
Then sit, except for Wakoko who was sitting and now stands- until Junko drags her down by the hand.
Wakoko: ow
Junko: What’s this?
It’s Junko’s hand that’s now slightly sticky and reddish. Eyes wide open, she gazes upon the loner. Who shrugs.
Wakoko: It’s just blood.
Junko: …Shit, girl, why was I even worried?
Grimacing and shaking her head and hand (mumbling ‘disgusting’), Junko just looks away. Perhaps she keeps Wakoko close because she’s a great metric on what not to be. The teacher clears his throat. He knows what’s coming. At the very first word, no, at the very first sillabe to come out of his mouth- six rows of cellphones come out in perfect unison. He doesn’t even sigh. Earlier this year, Junko had spearheaded the school council into encouraging the use of cellphones in class, armed both with solid arguments and charisma, that and like thirty-seven guys that wanted to fuck her brains out, and maybe one or two actually in love. It worked. Wakoko, who already spends most nights doing actual, honest-to-goodness, high-level research through her humble apparatus, instead slides right over her beloved, ironically spiky fish- even though she’s right in front of the teacher. In every single other Japanese highschool she would be called out on the spot, and she did spend many awkward hours in front of that blackboard- but everyone gives up some day.
