Suddenly accepting the fact I am probably considered a low rank boy, it was hard thing. Ever since that day, I had not spoken to anyone. Sensing the atmosphere, I shrank back.
In my class were no jocks or no queen bees. This is a private school, where you study hard to go to an excellent University. While a handful of students belong club activities like soccer, most go home or the prep schools after school. It dawned on me I had never been in the high rank, where the explicit, straight talkers dominate a class. It was just that I was in the “popular group” that was little less than second rank whose boys play dirty pool as ignoring one. I came to miss my classmates in Junior high school, where the cool boys, popular with the girls, are assertive.
At recess I was left completely alone. I put my face down on my desk to pretend to sleep. During lunch, I hung back and kept to myself and could observe how they all blended, clustering into their cliques and groups. The “popular group” I had been in made a circle. Their true colors of the group were all different, and there was no one who took the lead, like what he says goes. Of the three prospective boys, one was popular but calm, another outgoing but so mean, and the third very good-looking but a video geek–something was not right. In any case, it was too painful for a boy to be isolated in the class. Ever since that day, I had tried to find my niche.
After lunch, I could play basketball with some classmates, that was it. Then recess come between classes. I could talk to a few boys who would not ignore me out of sympathy, however they never talked to me. I could stand by the geeks talking about their nasty fetishes that grossed me out, about video games I was not interested in, and about fashion despite their unfashionable hair styles with awful glasses.
However, in my high school days, I had almost picked this circle, where I was welcome there. I walk over to them. The mood is convivial. They fool around like schoolchildren do. I cringe off, never wanting to be a part of them. Then I push myself to move seamlessly in the low rank, without overstaying.
Autumn was coming. I did not too particularly care about studying; rather, I would have wanted friends. My only two middle school friends were busy studying, so I remembered Murai who lived in my neighborhood. Although I had got along with him for long, I wondered if he was my friend, because when I was hospitalized with a pneumothorax–which caused me a failure of the high school entrance exam–he did not visited me in the hospital.
I gave a call to visit him. Then I started spending many of my after-school in his house. He was introverted but somehow sociable, so he has friends, including bad boys. His house was a place the punks hung out. I had fun because I did not know their world–smoking, singing karaoke, talking about the pretty girls and riding scooters without a helmet(illegal).
One of them, Kuwata, a jock who is highly popular with girls who long for him to see, got me to talk with a girl on his cell phone. I was a nervous wreck and asked her a question, “What are you studying in your school? For example, math A or I.” “Sure,” she said. Kuwata whispered next to me, “You are stupid. Why would you ask her such a boring question? Say something more interesting.” It occurred to me the students in my school shared common trait: most of them had study-based conversation. He was absolutely right. They went to low rank high school, where the stupid boys and girls go. I was so inept in getting on in the world.
They enjoyed life more than the students who go on to University. On the weekends the school is closed, Kuwata dyes his black hair–especially blond–like the punks express themselves against society. He gets up in the early morning to play soccer and then goes to McDonald’s, where he hangs out with the wrong crowd, laughing and joking. Sunday afternoon, Kuwata, Murai, someone else, and me enjoy karaoke, during which Kuwata’s pager ring ceaselessly. You can see some girls appearing in front of him and disappearing together. However, I pick up the tab for him from time to time, anticipating he will not return the money.
I had estranged from studying and felt out of place in my school. Following Kuwata where he goes seemed to ease the pain of my being alone. He was a smooth-talker, hyperactive and really good-looking. Thanks to him, I was able to befriend a girl who was very easy to talk. Encountering so many punks around him was eye-opening.
After school, basically Murai visits me and we head to his house. While we hang out, Kuwata emerges out of nowhere, but his PHS and pager ring incessantly, and the next thing I know he was gone. At times he brought a few delinquent boys in Murai’s house or mine and made fun of me.
Among them was Abe, who was very good at playing guitar. He had wavy, bluish hair. When we were eighth grade, he talked enthusiastically about Western music, especially Deep Purple, Sex Pistols and MR.BIG—I was much interested in his familiarity with them.
One day, when we were in Murai’s house, out of the blue, Kuwata said: “I’ll make a man out of you. Let’s do katapan.”(The character kata means “shoulder,” pan does “punch.” One punches the other in the upper arm around the shoulder. The other have to show his strength by enduring. This is repeated to one another until either of you surrenders.) “You are strong … I don’t want to …” I was scared, knowing he would not go easy on me.“Everyone is doing. An everyday occurrence. My fellows turned blue, swelled,” he laughed quietly. “If you are a man, you must do. You understand?” he teased me.
He hit me. Murai guffawed when I swatted at his thick, clenched fist. “No. It really hurts. You got me.” I laughed a little, as if I joked around. “Come on,” he said. I was afraid he would blow up, so I punched him lightly. “Be serious.” Kuwata said matter-of-factly and hit me again, Murai laughing and laughing.
