Judge by the Cover_High School, Drama & Deadly Vices

by Melissa Abigail

  “Haruna? Hey? Are you listening?”

  Haruna blinked, raising her head, entranced. She stared emptily, waiting for the room to stop spinning. She shut her eyes. She reopened them. She regarded Mani with a forced smile.

  “Sorry, I was just… distracted.”

  Mani looked serious for a moment, then his lips curved revealing his perfect teeth. They were too perfect.

  “Hmph, no kidding. You gonna eat that?”

  Haruna looked down, registering the bowl in front of her. Greek salad. And beside it was a half-eaten stick of bread that had gotten dry from being too long neglected. She wasn’t sure if she was even hungry.

  “I’m surprised you went for the salad. You’re usually all about the gyros and falafels,” Mani mused between chews. ‘So, yeah, like I was saying…”

  Haruna watched as Mani wolfed down his pita, bits of it tumbling from his mouth. She scowled. Was he always so messy? He stopped mid-bite, swallowing hard before setting his wrap on the table. He regarded her sternly.

  “Haruna? I asked you a question.”

  Haruna shook her head. She blinked a few times, refocusing.

  “Oh, yes—sorry, what?”

  “What is with you? Have you heard anything I said? I asked you how your presentation went? It’s over, right?”

  “Over… right. It was good. Everyone said we did great.”

  “So you no longer have to deal with that guy, right? That’s done.”

  She gave a faint nod.

  Mani grinned. “That’s a relief. I can’t imagine how you could have put up with that for three weeks. You know I was thinking, you should talk to that teacher of yours. He probably purposely put a bad student with a good one just to bump the class average. I’ve heard about that kind of thing happening—”

  “It was random,” Haruna interrupted. She regarded Mani seriously. “It wasn’t on purpose. And… everything worked out, so…”

  Mani’s eyes narrowed. Neither of them spoke for a minute. He sucked the straw poking from a fizzing glass of root beer, then finished his sip with a deliberate "ahh" sound.

  “So I noticed him drive out the parking lot,” Mani said.

  Haruna’s eyes were unconsciously drawn to the intricate detailing of Mani's Saint Laurent jacket. It was a good thing that he only showed up after Ryu had spoken or he might have heard everything Ryu had had to say about it.

  “Yeah. He got a car recently. It’s pretty nice.”

  “Hmph, yeah, tiny car for a tiny guy, eh?"

  Haruna’s eyes met Mani’s with a frown. "It's not like you're driving a truck though, is it?"

  In fact, Haruna was certain Mani's car was smaller.

  The scorn in Mani’s face was telling, and he brought his hands down with a thump. "A truck? Haruna, a Benz is a luxury car. You think a guy like that can even get anywhere near a luxury car? It's in a completely different league from some stupid Japanese car—clearly, you know nothing about cars.”

  “Mani…”

  “Only the most comfortable seats ever… solid, state-of-the-art German engineering—and wait, how the heck did he get a car in the first place?”

  Haruna was coming to the end of her rope, but she willed herself to keep her peace anyway. She let him rant and rave, just a few seconds more, until even those seconds became seconds too many.

  “And if you ask me—”

  “Mani! Can you just stop—please?” She stared back at him, her breaths heavy, her chest heaving. “I've had enough of this…”

  She watched as Mani stopped mid-speak, his mouth agape. She thought she saw something of realisation in his eyes but then he surprised her with a small chuckle.

  “Enough? Well I can see you haven’t touched your salad yet…”

  That was it. She’d reached her wits end.

  “Oh my God, Mani—please get over yourself! You know I’m not talking about the salad. I’ve had enough of this. We're done. It's over.”

  She didn’t wait for his reply. She didn’t care anymore. She drew back her chair, grabbed her jacket and leftovers and headed to the counter to request it to go. She would take that salad home, even that stale bread. This was her last meal at Vangelis Diner.

  The two men were hunched over, deep in concentration, poring over a low table within the tatami room. They kept their faces straight, unwilling to give away the nature of their hands, good or bad. Katsuo’s eyes darted upwards, narrowed as he regarded through the haze of tobacco smoke his Father, his boss, the oyabun—Matsumoto. There was nothing quite like a card game with this man. He was a master of enigma in more ways than one.

  “I never knew he was into that kind of thing. Even now I don’t want to believe it.”

  Katsuo peeped the television screen from the corner of his eye. A crowd of reporters, microphones outstretched from all angles, camera crews and flashes of light. At the centre of them all was an Indian man, rotund in appearance. His head was adorned in a turban which matched the tie underneath his well-tailored suit. The man had spoken passionately, but came to an abrupt pause. He removed his glasses, and wiped his eyes.

  “Crocodile tears,” Katsuo muttered.

  “Katsuo-kun, you’re not paying attention,” Matsumoto said, his voice steady, calm but struggling to remain that way. “It’s your turn.”

  Katsuo cleared his throat, giving an obedient nod before then placing and turning a card over on the table. He eyed Matsumoto as he followed by placing down his. An Ace of Spades. Katsuo stared at his own hand deciding what to play next, but all he could hear was the whirr of the press conference in the background:

  “Mr. Singh, we know you are a leader among many in the business community, but what do you say to the allegations that your son might have been the leader of a street gang?”

  “My son might have been a thug, but he is still my son! What happened to him is unforgivable, and he deserves justice!”

  Justice? There’s no justice for criminals.

  Criminals make their own justice.

  The Pit Vipers Crew had been selling Syndicate stuff for years. Turned out though, someone had failed to pay the proper dues. It didn't help that they refused to stay on the South-West and were encroaching on the Syndicate's turf on Main Street like they owned the place. Those Viper boys were unsophisticated thugs who had forgotten one thing: their place. They couldn't take boys of the Syndicate's calibre on because the Vipers were just kids, a bunch of twenty–something's and teenagers messing around. But their Tengoku boys were different. There were no games to be played because they weren't kids messing around. They were machines. Albeit, machines that occasionally went out-of-order. This "Wild Dog" David Singh had gotten ahead of himself, cocky. He forgot who really ran things on the East Side, and surely he needed reminding.

  So the shakedown was ordered.

  The fact that the shakedown became a hit… well, that was just too bad.

  Katsuo averted his gaze to see that the creases in Matsumoto’s forehead had become deeper. Matsumoto rounded sharply and called for his wife in rough Japanese. She turned off the television and approached the table, her head bowed. Matsumoto turned back to face Katsuo, slamming his deck face down on the table. He gruffly reached for a bottle of warm sake that his wife gently took from him and poured. Katsuo regarded Matsumoto tensely. Once the liquid had reached the brim, she stepped back. After taking back a shot, Matsumoto gave Katsuo a long, hard stare.

  “The Singh issue isn’t going to go away easily,” he groused.

  Katsuo drooped his shoulders and placed his entire deck down. “If you’re concerned about retaliation from the Vipers, I assure you they will no longer be a problem. The point has been made.”

  Matsumoto held out his hand. “I wasn’t referring to those punks. I’m talking about certain individuals finding out more than they are meant to. It would be quite inconvenient if that were to happen. Wouldn't you agree?”

  “Ah, I see. As we discussed, Ty
-kun has been punished for his error. His status has been lowered. He's been supplanted by Ryu-kun.”

  Matsumoto gave a hard scoff, though it sounded like his liquor had gone down the wrong pipe.

  "Kyojo Takehiko… still goes by 'Tyler’?” Not giving Katsuo a chance to reply, Matsumoto shook his head slowly, perhaps expressing disappointment, then he wiped his face in exasperation.

  “Ryu failed his hit and was injured. He will be useless for some time,” Matsumoto reminded him with a grim tone. “There have been too many blunders of late. I wonder if you’ve been training them well?”

  Katsuo assumed a sombre face. He knew that look and the intent of that question. It wasn’t time to defend himself. It was a time to show deference.

  “You’re right. I will… I will do better."

  “And another thing,” Matsumoto continued. “Both those boys have too many tattoos. Why? This isn't Japan. Dying their hair… piercing their ears. They'll give themselves away playing yakuza.”

  “Yes, you are right, Father. I should have stopped them.”

  Come to think of it, Katsuo didn't even know when they had gotten those tattoos until they had them, or how many valuables they must've pawned or sold to be able to afford it. But he thought nothing of it then. Indeed, this wasn't Japan. Tattoos were common here. They weren't just the usual mark of gokudo.

  Sighing again, Matsumoto picked up a pack of cigarettes and held it out to Katsuo, offering him one. He then took a stick for himself, and lit them both. Katsuo's eyes widened. It was an unusual gesture.

  “Ah, I suppose I shouldn’t blame them. You were the same when you were a boy. Ambitious, competitive… always trying to be the baddest. And look how you turned out? Who knew of all my children, Katsuo-kun would be the most loyal?”

  Katsuo gulped. He had nearly forgotten.

  “There is… one thing I feel I must mention,” he started, his voice wavering like bamboo in spite of its strength. “This may come as a bit of a surprise, but… I believe Mitsukai's daughter is in Canada. Right here in Campbelton.”

  It was a peculiar thing. Matsumoto stared back at him, expressionless, not a single ounce of movement on his part save for the leisurely blink of his eyes. Katsuo waited, searched for a reaction and still there was none. That was until Matsumoto’s lips pulled into an all-knowing grin.

  Katsuo felt his blood turn to ice.

  “Could it be, Father? You already knew?”

  The old man gave a soft chuckle as he tapped the burnt end of his cigarette into the golden ashtray. He glanced back at Katsuo, his glasses gleaming against the light overhead, that look of enigma ever-present in his gaze.

  "It's like they say, Katsuo-kun. Need to keep the enemies close."

  Being and non-being produce each other.

  Difficult and easy bring about each other.

  – tao-te ching

  next in this series:

  a special preview

  from two halves whole

  Haruna couldn’t fight her grin. Ryu was stubborn and could never admit to caring about anything, but he must have made extras to share since she had asked him about it yesterday. His gesture was… sweet. Haruna reached for one. She cautiously nibbled at its end.

  “This thing is just rice?” She turned it over in her hand, inspecting it.

  “Not just rice,” Ryu muttered. “Onigiri. It’s called onigiri.”

  Haruna shut her eyes, relishing the savoury ball of sticky, chewy goodness. She couldn’t believe something so simple and weird-looking could be so tasty and satisfying. Perhaps there were things Ryu could teach her about that other half of herself she knew nothing about. Haruna opened her eyes, noticing Ryu quickly avert his gaze. He’d been staring. She brought her hands onto the table, and her sudden movements drew his attention back.

  “I want you to show me how to use chopsticks,” she said.

  Ryu lifted a brow. He smirked and retrieved the pair he had earlier placed to the side. They were different from the ones he had had yesterday: intricately designed and non-disposable. Once between his fingers, he demonstrated, lifting and placing down the onigiri.

  “See. Easy.” He flipped the chopsticks around and held them out to her. “Go for it.”

  Haruna was stumped. What part of that was easy? She took the utensils from him and eyed one promising ball of onigiri. Intense in her concentration, she fumbled with the sticks until managing a light pinch. She grabbed hold, but before she could bring it over to her side, the ball collapsed and exploded like a tiny supernova, reduced to a mess of seaweed and rice grains.

  “You’re kidding.” Ryu stared.

  “I’m so sorry!” Anxious, Haruna swept the remnants into a small mound. Ryu did the same, reaching for a pile of abandoned napkins to aid in the clean-up. “It’s harder than it looks!”

  “No, it really isn’t.”

  “Yes it is! This is dumb anyway. Why can’t we just use forks?”

  “Because this food isn’t meant to be eaten with forks?”

  “That’s just stupid then!”

  “How can you be so good at everything else and so bad at this?”

  Oh? Haruna tilted her head, bubbling with glee. "So you admit I'm good at everything?"

  That was the closest to a retraction of his old put-downs she’d ever heard. Finally, some leverage. She braced for his steadfast denial and was ready to gloat. She was going to milk this one for as long as possible.

  Except something else happened.

  Something Haruna didn’t see coming.

  Her smile vanished as though wiped off. It was that look, like a hawk’s eye on a hare. Oftentimes, it was like Ryu saw through her, like he was inside her head for real, always calculating, hunting for a weakness to call into question, forever calling her bluff. But this time there was something else behind that look, like he was searching for something else entirely. Haruna flinched at the sudden warmth, the touch of his hands enveloping hers.

  “The problem is that you’re holding them wrong,” Ryu said.

  Above the echoes of others around them, Haruna could hear her heart pounding between her ears. She gazed down at her hand and his hands carefully moulding her fingers around the slender instruments. She looked up. A pair of girls had looked over. They whispered. Haruna suddenly remembered that somewhere lurking were groupies and classmates and people in their grade that knew who she was. Who he was. That the two of them were completely different. The Head Girl and the Bad Boy. An honour student and a slacker. A West Ender and an East Ender. And up until a few days ago, one of them had been dating one of the city’s wealthiest teenagers, while the other lived and still lived in an orphanage.

  What was happening?

  Haruna couldn’t meet his eyes any longer. Not without feeling she would explode into a million pieces exactly like the ball of onigiri. “I… better get to class,” she mumbled.

  "There's still twelve minutes until the bell," Ryu muttered back.

  "Yeah, but…"

  "Doesn’t look like you’ve finished eating."

  No. She hadn’t finished her pasta. And yes, there was still twelve minutes until the bell. But why was he pointing this out? And why wasn’t he letting her go?

  "Aren't you worried that people are going to talk? If they see us this close?"—No. That came out wrong—“Actually, what I mean is we went from being enemies to…”

  Haruna felt a knot in her stomach. To what? What were they? Friends?

  She looked at him fully, fighting her internal panic. He remained neutral, still, not even acknowledging the others around them. Wasn’t he concerned? Couldn’t he see what she could?

  “You’re always worried about what other people think. You think they’ll talk?" He startled her with his grin and eased in until his face was close. Dangerously close. Any closer and their noses would touch and maybe other things too, like their foreheads or…Haruna’s eyes wandered to his mouth as he whispered, "If they're
going to talk, maybe we should make things interesting?"

  a note from the author

  I want to express my sincere gratitude—truly, thanks a ton for taking the time to get a hold of and read this book!

  If you enjoyed it, would you mind leaving a review on Amazon, Goodreads etc. Pretty please?

  And if you want to know what's next, check out hafusanshalo.com for any and all updates.

  - Thanks again,

  all that glitters

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  much ado about everything

  a knock at heaven's door

  midnight run

  disturbing the peace

  year of the dragon

  fear is fowl

  wolves' hide for the sheep

  night & day

  next in this series:

  a special preview

  a note from the author