Neville Julianne - I Want to Kick You in the Back

I Want to Kick You in the Back

Loneliness makes a sound. Its crisp and clear and loud, like an alarm bell going off between your ears. And its enough to make your head feel ready to split. The reason I keep tearing pieces of our leftover science class print-outs into slender strips is to keep my classmates from hearing that sound coming from inside me right now. The noise of the paper ripping drowns out the ringing of the lonely bell, and better yet, makes me look deliciously disaffected. I could care less about microorganisms, and as I cast a sidelong glance over the rest of the class, I decide theyre way more excited over chloroplasts than any high school student really should be. Fine, then, you guys have fun reading all about the Brazilian Elodea. Ill just be over here, ripping up these print-outs. The mountain of shreds accumulating atop my section of the desk grows bigger and bigger with each noodle-like strand I add to it. It is a solitary monument to my detachment.

Sharing the same workstation is a gaggle of girls all gathered around the microscope, chatting busily as they peer in over and over again; I dont suppose Id get a turn with it even if I wanted one. Their exaggerated movements send particles of dust flying everywhere, and its really rather pretty how they sparkle in the suns light. Unfortunately, those same sun beams keep reflecting off the microscopes lens and flashing into my eyes. Its enough to make me want to pull all the curtains closed and send the science room into darkness.

Were going to be doing group experiments today, so everyone form teams of five with whoever is sitting closest to you. That was our teachers thoughtless instruction at the beginning of class. His words sent a wave of visible tension throughout the room as eyes began swimming frantically in search of friends. Did he honestly think any kid would just pair up with whoever happened to be nearest? It goes without saying that people will try to stick with their cliques. It was June now, two months into my first year of high school, and I already had my classs social structure down pat. I could draw you a pretty accurate graph of it even, which was funny considering thered be no place for me on it. Once Id have thought thered be a line connecting me to a girl named Kinuyo, my friend since middle school, but apparently not, seeing as how shed just ditched me in favor of her new group. Thanks to that, when the time came for the teacher to ask if there was anyone left not in a group, I had no choice but to raise my hand. Looking back on it, that was lame of me. I should have just answered, yes. I think I must have looked pretty scary, holding my hand at face level and glowering all over the room. There was one other leftover besides me, a boy named Ninagawa, who raised his hand in the same servile fashion. It was an utterly depressing scene. What our raised hands communicated loud and clear was the fact that neither he nor I had yet to make any meaningful connections within our class.

Ninagawa and I were placed in a group with three other girls who nonchalantly pointed us toward the two oldest seats in the classroom. A far cry from the sleek metal chairs everyone else was sitting in, these two were beat-up with paint chipping off them to reveal the raw wood underneath. I didnt think they even deserved to be called chairs anymore, but in that sense they were a perfect fit for leftovers like us. Dont get me wrong, I dont want to make it sound like we were being forced to sit there or that the girls were being bullies. We were the leftovers, so we sat in the leftover chairs. It made perfect sense. We had been sitting for some time before I took a break from my shredding of the print-outs to take a look at my leftover-in-arms. Since these chairs squeaked like crazy with the slightest movement, I had to take care to turn my head softly.

Like me, Ninagawa was making no effort to be involved in the lesson. Instead he was whiling away the time by reading a magazine placed discreetly upon his lap to keep it out of the teachers sight. Wait a second... is he really reading? While they were focused on the pages, the hollowness of his eyes made it seem like they saw nothing at all. I realized we were aging, he and I. Every time our classmates laughed, every time our teacher made a comment as he circled the desks, we each grew another year older. His staring at his magazine and me ripping up print-outs, were just our way of enduring the trauma of the sudden, accelerated aging we were being subjected to.

Still, I couldnt shake the feeling there was something a little off about this guy. It was like the unexpected discomfort you get when biting into a sandwich where the lettuce hasnt been cleaned and you end up with grit grinding between your teeth. But I wasnt able to put my finger on just what was wrong, which was beginning to get on my nerves. What is it? What could it be?

Oh! Ive got it now. Its his magazine! On the open pages I could see images of female models and a headline reading: A Look at Casual Summer Accessories. Thats a womens fashion mag hes reading! Suddenly I felt very humbled. Compared to the positively bold strangeness of this guy cracking open a magazine like that in the middle of class, me tearing up paper didnt seem like much. If anything, you could even say I was making myself useful, as these were leftover print-outs that would probably be shredded anyway. Did he even realize? Could he even begin to imagine how weirded out everybody would be if they caught him reading that?

As my butt was still planted firmly on the moth-bitten orange seat cushion, I raised my chair off the ground and inched toward Ninagawa slowly. The magazine came into better view, and I spied a number of models striking poses dressed in camisoles and other summery clothing. No doubt about it, thats a womens fashion magazine. If hed noticed me, Ninagawa made no sign of it, continuing to stare fixated, hunched over like a hollow human husk.

Whats so interesting about that? I ventured to ask. At my words, Ninagawa raised his head, and his face gave me a fright. Suspicious, beady eyes peered out at me from behind overgrown bangs, as black and heavy as if a bottle of soy sauce had been poured over his head. In his mouth, all the more noticeable, for his eyes being half-hidden, I spied sharp-looking and uneven teeth. Without responding, Ninagawa cast his heavy gaze back on his magazine, sinking his head down between his shoulders as if to ward me off. Had I just been blown off? Id find it funny if I hadnt gone through the trouble of scooting my seat all the way over to him. Since I had, I decided to keep peeking at the magazine over his shoulder. Thats when I caught sight of a familiar smile.

On the page on which Ninagawa had been staring was a photo of a woman dressed in skinny jeans stretching relaxedly. I knew her. I had met her once, back in middle school, a few years ago. Its not often you meet someone like a model in a town like this, so I remember having gone out of my way to buy a magazine she was in so I could point to her photo while I bragged to my friends. Her smile hadnt changed a bit since Id last seen her. Oh, Ive met this model in person, at the Muji Store in front of the train station, I said out loud. This caused Ninagawa to abruptly turn all the way around to face me, his chair crying out in pain as he did. You must be mistaking her for someone else, he muttered after a moment. I am not, I protested, feeling sort of miffed. How could I forget a face like hers? This model had a very distinguishable facial structure. Her high-bridged nose and pronounced cheekbones were unusual for a Japanese person. Perhaps she was of mixed heritage? You know the old City Hall building, the one that used to be an old mansion? She told me shed go there to do a photo shoot in front of it. Ninagawa responded to my explanation by giving such a deep, heavy sigh I was afraid his soul was going to leak out with it. Then he cradled his head in his hands, grasping his long bangs between his fingers. Had I said something to offend?