Daily Lie of Megumi [JJK Fanfic]

Lie 2: What Do You Mean I'm a Witch? I'm Normal.

Megumi's Point of View

The ride to school is uneventful as I lost my mind completely in a daydream. My head already remembers all the small alleys I usually take to the nooks and crannies, biking there is just a matter of muscle memory.

Not long after, I slide past the enormous torii gate in the wilderness of giant trees forest. The school buildings are made of concrete and wood, with large windows and doors made of acrylic glasses, styled in a mixture of oriental and western architecture. There are gardens full of Sakura and oak trees surrounding the building, with benches below almost every tree.

I slide my bike right into the parking space especially reserved for bicycles. I walk through the entrance door and stride into the locker corridor. As I open my locker to get my stuff, Nobara suddenly appears right beside me, leaning against the lockers with hands across his chest.

"Don't tell me you're into witchcraft now," he says with a serious voice that surprises me beyond belief.

I close my locker door and look straight back at him with the best poker face I could muster. "Long time no see, Ara. I missed you too. How was your trip to the Mediterranean? And what the hell are you talking about?"

The boy who apparently re-dyed his hair dark orange pops up his bubblegum. His side of the bangs that are not tucked behind the ear sways as he vigorously answers, "The clerk looked at me funny when I asked for the book you wanted. He was so skeptical of me, like almost saying, 'What the heck does this kid wants with this book? Does he even read Latin?'"

"Maybe he did think that."

"No, Gumi, you have to see the way he looked at me!"

"Full of passion and love, like other Italian guys?" I jest, still with a straight face.

"No, bitch! It was the Italian Judging!" He dramatically shoves his face into my personal space, forcing me to retract my neck. "He wasn't exactly saying anything, but I could see it in the way he looked at me! Like when I walked around Rome with a Starbucks in my hand, people would look at me in such a way because I wasn't drinking their Italian coffee in the Italian way just because I'm a tourist. Isn't that kinda racist? Just because I'm not European doesn't mean I couldn't read their body language, you asshole."

I roll my eyes out, somehow feeling insulted even though I know better that he is just venting to me.

"Anyway," he says again, calmer than before, "he said something in broken English like 'forbidden book', 'not for play', or something. I don't know, girl. I was already pissed. But because I already made a promise to you, dear bestie, I bought it anyway. Here, your Latin grimoire."

He reaches into his Prada backpack and hands me a thick book with dark blue velvet hardcover. The cover is decorated with intricate silver ornaments but no title. There are metal plates shaped in three stages of the moon in the middle of the cover. I open it to admire the curvy alphabet written with silvery ink on black papers that give off a scent of mold and a dark humid library. It is the right book.

"Thank you, Ara," I say to him, incredibly sincere. But not so when I say, "But this is a book of classic poetry and anthology of plays, not witchcraft," I lie straight out of my ass.

To look more convincing, I open the book randomly and point, "Look, this one is a play by Sophocles, an ancient Greek play writer who was also known at his time as the 'Father of Tragedy'." I tilt the book in his direction, and he tilts his head in response. I continue, "He was the one who wrote Oedipus Rex, a story about a man who unknowingly killed his father and married his mother."