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Although Japanese schools are often very strict regarding the position of the desks, this is Osaka. And although this is a very distinguished school, although Wakoko is piss poor, this is still Osaka. As the usual chatter grows, as the desks merge into islands, the fisher girl takes out the blowfish-shaped pillow she keeps in her bag, where the textbooks should be. Junko is not the prettiest girl in school, not the most popular, and not the smartest either, but she’s always a strong contender for first place in more areas than most people would consider. Long black hair, green emerald eyes, bulky breasts, and the resting bitch face that all other resting bitch faces pray to every night; she doesn’t look Japanese at all.
Wakoko: You missed the mark, Junko. The last Grand Turismo to come out was the seventh one.
Junko: Dear. If only you knew as much about shampoo.
Wakoko: Hello Junko-san.
Junko: Hello Wacko.
Yet Wakoko smiles- even though she still feels dizzy.
Wakoko: I only know because I play the third one a lot with my dad when we have time. It’s kinda fun, I guess!
Wakoko doesn’t really like it, and she doesn’t know that her dad doesn’t like it either- but, both think that the other does, and that’s what matters.
Junko: Did I ask?
Wakoko: No?
Junko: Oh, you are right.
This, whatever this is, is the closest thing to a friendship that Wakoko managed to pull off so far; this secret, tacit arrangement with Junko, the top bitch of her class. It, well, still seems kinda far from one, but there’s always room for improvement in anything. It was never spoken aloud, never agreed upon, never broken, and is still there. Wakoko doesn’t want to be the loner of the class and Junko doesn’t want to be the bully of the class; Wakoko gets to look like a friendly geek and Junko like a kind sister
and neither could be further from the truth.
