Punctual

Punctual (Part Three)

Juvenile hypertension is no joke, yo.

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Equipped with seven double-ended, chisel-tipped, neon-colored highlighting markers in multiple pigments, I outline my entire schedule for the rest of the week in an extensive day-planner in which I have a different section and corresponding hue for each class subject and extracurricular activity, an estimated time frame of completion for each task, as well as varying handwriting and symbols to categorize long-term assignments and nightly homework. It’s brilliant and horribly saddening once I realize that I am taking pride in something that is a product of severe anal-retentiveness. I frown and go back to highlighting.

“Whatcha doooooing?”

I freeze, clenching my fists and willing myself not to turn around only because I know if I didn’t manage to get my heart rate down in the next few seconds, the poor soul currently reading over my shoulder was going to have a couple of lovely bruises on his pretty little face. Also because I would prefer not to receive a detention. No fighting. Fighting is bad, yes it is, especially with a perfect stranger who happens to possess an awfully familiar, grating voice...

I whirl around, twisting in my seat to confront the invader of my personal space as a flash of recognition flickers across the bicycle fool’s face. And then he smiles. I think. More of my attention is focused on figuring out why this idiot isn’t spending lunch break in his own classroom.

Before my reflexes have a chance to kick in, he’s snatched a hold of my daily planner. A tiny part of me shrivels up and silently dies inside, praying that the fool’s fingerprint residue doesn’t smudge my meticulous script.

The bicycle idiot lets out a low whistle of appreciation. “Wow. You’re a conscientious one, aren’t you?” The boy remarks, eyes scanning the rows of tiny print in fluctuating rainbow colors. His brow furrows for a split second as his gaze focuses on my after-school activities.

“You do know that you’ve got swim practice and a piano lesson scheduled at the same time, right?”

I do. “Yes,” I reply nonchalantly, silently urging the meddling adolescent to give my assignment book back.

He raises an eyebrow. I shrug noncommittally.

“I’ll figure it out.” Pause. “Eventually.” Hopefully.

The fool goes back to examining my organizer. “Ah, but either way, your piano lesson runs into the start of your cram school,” he remarks, tapping the circled event with an air of disapproval.

I fume silently. “Don’t worry about it.”

He just laughs, finally handing over my property. “You’re a busy girl, I suppose.”

“I suppose I am.” I wrinkle my nose slightly and gingerly pencil in five minutes of meditation after school. I needed all the relaxation I could get after facing this guy.

‘Seeing as he’s hanging around here during break, I suppose he must be from the same form level.’ I pause, tapping the eraser end of the pencil on my lower lip before going back to organizing the rest of my day. ‘That’s rather odd, though, as our grade isn’t particularly large, yet I’ve never seen or heard of him before...’

I feel my spine go rigid as I stop, writing hand frozen in midair. An odd sort of cold sweat trickles then swells at the base of my neck as I whip around wide-eyed and in search of bike boy. I clear my throat as the idiot startles, turning around as I coerce a gentle smile onto my resistant features.

I look down and tuck a stray hair behind my ear. “Um, I never did get your name, now did I?” I glance up. The boy meets my eyes, suddenly breaking through his surprised expression to give a short laugh before answering.

“I guess I never told you!” The bike boy come a few paces closer to address my inquiry, one hand rubbing the nape of his neck in slight sheepishness. “It’s Yoshiharu.”

He sticks out his hand for me to shake. I look at it.

My gaze doesn’t stray from his outstretched hand, recalling the last time the boy had offered me the same consolation after running me over with his death machine on wheels. “Yoshiharu, you said it was?”

He nods amicably, arm still extended with that foolish beam on his face. I purse my lips.

“Yoshiharu... Kyouhei?”

I’m not quite sure how, but his grin grows even wider. “Um, yes?”

I just turn back around into my desk and sigh, rubbing the bridge of my nose as I silently ponder the possible side-effects of juvenile hypertension. Yoshiharu hesitantly retracts his hand and scrutinizes the surface of his fingers, scratching the back of his head as he wonders if there’s something wrong.

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