How To Be A Man

mr. owada! that language is not welcome in a school environment!

I don't remember writing being this hard for me, she thought to herself, tapping her short, prim nails on the wooden desk. In comparison to the sleeves of her uniform blazer, her hands were tiny. Even in the smallest size uniform the school could offer, she was but a doll-like mannequin modeling it. She hadn't the time to get it altered, so she walked around in a cream chocolate blazer that seemed oversize on her when in reality, she was just very small.

After deciding that what she had written was good enough, she put down the mechanical pencil on the desk and began to get up. Her legs had trouble lifting themselves from her seat -- no, her brain had trouble commanding her legs to lift themselves from her seat. Something about the act of getting up, walking to the teacher's desk, turning in her assignment and letting the class which was basically the whole world stare at her shut her mind down completely. She looked around at the other students in her class. Most were still writing. A select few, such as the raven-haired goth who refused the school uniform for a black skirt and corset, simply gazed at the assignment with expressionless eyes. Others, like the boy covered in silver rings, chains, and a little bead tying his flame-colored goatee, had their faces scrunched at the assignment as if they were thinking too hard.

Of course I'm the first to finish, she huffed in her mind, her hands interlocking and laying in the middle of her desk. All of a sudden, a big ruckus came from behind her -- the sound of a desk moving against the floor. Someone had gotten up from their seat, and decided to let the whole class know that they were finished. She turned to see who'd announced their strut up the aisle of desks, but she could tell from the heaviness of his footsteps alone. She contemplated turning around fully and asking him to turn in her paper along with his-- yes, that would save her the embarrassment. But maybe she would wait until he is closer to her to ask him.

The first thing she -- and anyone, for that matter -- noticed when he approached her desk was the giant pompadour, dyed a caramel color and gelled to hell and back. It contrasted his amber hickory mullet, which flowed freely down his neck when it wasn't stuck to his skin with sweat. The cologne he wore to mask the hairspray needed to make his hair stay up only added to the thick musk of olive oil and salon chemicals.

As he got closer, she could see the silver belt glistening in the light. It was engraved with a lion motif, the ears curved up and back as if they were flying against the wind. He'd ditched the school blazer for the uniform of the biker gang he ran in the city -- a black, old school coat with the words Crazy Diamond sewn in gold on the back. She recalled watching the gang leader get into an argument with the school's upstanding hall monitor about not following dress code. In the end, it was decided that he could wear it because it related to his ultimate talent, and special exceptions were made whenever a student's ultimate talent came into play. Her mind tiptoed on the question of how the dark-fashioned goth managed to skirt school rules, but decided to put it off until later. At the moment, her chance at avoiding exposure was approaching.

Okay, Chihiro, you can do this, she thought to herself, taking deep breaths. Just reach out and tap his arm. That's all I have to do. Just pat his arm, and ask him. Ask him if he could kindly turn in your paper as well. But not if he doesn't want to! It's okay if he doesn't feel like it! But just...

The boy had taken a long stride, his foot right next to Chihiro's desk. She reached up with a nearly shaky hand, unable to look at her target -- his muscled arm.

Her hand didn't get anywhere near his arm, and he would've walked right past her desk if her backpack, heavy with textbooks, didn't trip him. Her mocha-colored, leather-accented drawstring backpack sent him falling to the floor. A sharp "god fucking damnit!" escaped his lips as he crashed into the cold tile.

And as if on cue, the hall monitor stepped inside the classroom, prompting sighs from students who were a little more lax on rules like dress code and use of swear words.

"Mr. Owada!" he said, his voice loud and booming over the classroom, which erupted in even more groaning and empty chuckles. "That language is not welcome in a school environment!"

"Like, chill out!" a brash, yet feminine voice responded. "It's like, not that big a deal. He fell on his face, so cut him some slack."

"Why are you here, Kiyotaka?" a maddeningly calm voice asked, directed towards the hall monitor. He pushed past the formality any other student would've given him by using his first name. "I'm sure our teacher is very capable of disciplining students on her own. Your presence here is not necessary."

"I wouldn't want our dear teacher to bother with a student I'm capable of disciplining myself!" Kiyotaka responded with a fierce passion that didn't match the mood at all.

"He didn't even check to see if Owada was okay," the first girl to speak muttered, crossing her arms.

"Why don'tcha discipline those fuckin' eyebrows first, Ishimaru? Those things seem to grow outta control!" the delinquent responded, his eyes beady and beaming onto the hall monitor.

"I will when you learn to speak one sentence without cursing!" Kiyotaka laughed, his stance firm.

"Ain't nothin' funny, ya discount military dropout! I could show you what real punishment is and I could show you right now!"

First Owada trips on my bag, then Ishimaru walks in and scolds him for cursing. Now the whole class is in uproar because no one wants him here. What if Owada tries to fight him? What will the teacher do? If anyone gets hurt, it'll be all my fault! Riddled with guilt at the mess she -- well, her backpack -- caused, Chihiro stood up from her seat and bowed her head, a frown painted on her face and a tear streaking down towards it.

"I-It's my fault," she said, interrupting the two. "M-My backpack was in the way and-- and I-- I'm sorry. Are you okay, Owada-san?"

"Hey, I'm just fine, man," the boy said, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. "You didn't mean anythin' by it, so don't beat yourself up over it."

"Oh, Fujisaki, there's no need to cry. None of this is your fault," Kiyotaka softly reassured.

"But if I-- if I was more careful, then none of this w-would've happened and"--

"Hey, we said it's just fine, alright?" Owada said, his giant stature towering over Chihiro. Everyone was taller than Chihiro in her class, but Mondo was especially taller than her.

"I suppose I could've just...allowed Mrs. Kondo to handle this herself," Kiyotaka admitted, an awkward laugh ensuing. "And I could've done a better job making sure Owada was okay. I'm sorry."

"Yeah, well...maybe next time I fall face-down on the floor, I'll try not to curse so goddamn much."

The conversation ended with laughs all around, including Chihiro. The hall monitor briskly left with red-tinted cheeks after the biker asked him for the umpteenth time to just call him Mondo, and Chihiro turned in her paper while she was standing up.

And so ended another good day in class 1A of Hope's Peak Academy.