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1
Ringo's been, like, floating lately, right?
Oh yeah, I know what you mean. I've actually been thinking the same thing.
Oh? Since when?
Very recently. I mean, let's be honest, Ringo's hard to approach. You never know what she's thinking, and she's so beautiful it's intimidating. That's why I never noticed it before.
That's true. Alright, let's check it out.
In front of me, two male students opened the classroom door slightly and peeked inside.
Ringo Urarakawa was sleeping beautifully by the window at the very back of the classroom. Her long eyelashes were lowered. She rested her head on both arms, had red earphones in her ears, and was breathing softly. Her skin was like snow, her long hair like ebony. Her cheeks were tinged with a faint blush, and the legs extending from her skirt were long and slender.
I had seen a face equally beautiful in my sleep only once before, when I was a child. The older girl from my neighborhood, Yuki. She was lying in a coffin, buried in white lilies. Ringo's sleep was beautiful in that same death-like way. She was just like Snow White, locked in a glass coffin after eating the poison apple.
A breeze carrying the scent of fresh grass blew in through the window. Ringo's hair swelled gently, undulating in soft waves as morning light flowed through it. Suddenly, a bush warbler flew in and perched on her head. She sank slightly with its weight, and after letting out a perfect hoh hokekyo call, it flew away, and she returned to the exact same position.
The two male students exchanged glances.
Ringo was floating.
Physically.
She was about one centimeter above the seat of her chair, not touching anything. Even the arms she was resting on were slightly elevated. A white light was gleaming in the gaps between her and the desk as the shadows of the treetops swayed.
Dumbass! Humans can't float!
A voice came from nowhere. It was from the other side of a white door inside my head. At eye level, there was a golden plate with "E=mc²" engraved on it.
When I opened the door, I found a pure white room. At the back was a huge blackboard, with bookshelves filled with difficult-looking books on both sides. At the front was another pure white desk, and there sat the owner of the voice.
Shaggy white hair, a splendid mustache, and a slightly dirty lab coat—it was Dr. Albert Einstein, the genius of the century.
Einstein's face turned bright red as he stood up from his chair. He trembled as he drew an apple on the blackboard with a piece of chalk, along with an arrow pointing straight down from its center of gravity and several physics equations.
In 1687, Isaac Newton published the law of universal gravitation in the Philosophiae Naturalis Principia Mathematica. All objects with mass attract each other. They say he conceived this law from the question: Apples fall from trees, so why doesn't the moon fall? That girl's name, "Ringo," even means "apple"—how could she not fall?!
I cleared my throat and repeated Einstein's words.
No, no, humans can't float.
There you are, Doc.
The male student kept his eyes fixed on Ringo as he spoke.
My name is Issei Kikuchi, but none of my acquaintances had ever called me that. After knowing me for only three days, everyone had started calling me "Doc."
A human floating is physically impossible.
Yeah, I thought the same. But look, she's clearly floating.
The only thing that is clear is the law of physics. She only appears to be floating.
You're as bullheaded as ever, Doc. So, tell me, how do you explain that?
It's the same principle as a human levitation trick. There must be a single point somewhere supporting her entire body weight.
And where exactly is that point?
Hmm . . .
I observed her thoroughly.
It seems to be her left middle finger.
How ridiculously strong is her middle finger?!
He fired back at me and turned around.
Whoa!
Ah, I thought to myself. I completely forgot because I was so distracted by the bizarre sight.
I was covered in blood.
2
I headed to the club room. It was an old equipment storage building at the corner of the schoolyard, a fairly large concrete structure. A newspaper clipping dated April 3 was posted on the double steel doors.
Suisen High School from Koriyama City, Fukushima Prefecture, Makes First High School Appearance in the Human-Powered Aircraft Category of the Birdman Rally!
Immediately to the left upon opening the door, there was a prominent round bathtub-like object. It was a partially completed cockpit exterior called a fairing and made mainly of styrofoam. Tools, paints, and materials were crammed haphazardly into steel racks along the wall.
Oh, Doc, good morning.
The male student filing wing spars at the workbench in the back called out. It was Tatsuro Isobe, the vice president of the Aviation Club. With his side-parted undercut hairstyle, he was quite handsome. His good build and the slightly scruffy stubble on his square jaw gave him a maturity beyond his high school years.
Whoa! What happened? You're covered in blood!
I was hit in a hit-and-run at the intersection nearby. They ran the stop sign.
Did you report it to the police?
There's no point. It wasn't a fatal accident, so they wouldn't take it seriously anyway. I couldn't see the license plate, and there weren't any witnesses. Nothing to do but accept it and move on.
I see . . . Let's get you to the hospital right away!
Tatsuro scooped me up in his arms like a princess and took off running with the speed of a god.
Whoa! Put me down!
Injured people should keep quiet.
Then he dumped me into a wheelbarrow used for transporting supplies and ran at a ferocious speed.
Wabababababa!
The vibration was intense.
In no time, we arrived at the nearby Sato General Hospital, and the moment I touched the ground, I noticed it.
. . . Oh, this might be bad.
And indeed it was. By the time I was examined, my right ankle had swollen and turned purple, throbbing with a pain that made me break out in a cold sweat.
You've got a fracture.
Einstein, who bore a striking resemblance to Hideki Yukawa, delivered the news.
After the treatment, we slumped on a long bench in the hospital. I had gotten three stitches on my head, and my right ankle was rigidly immobilized in a cast. Fortunately, I'd avoided surgery, but I was going to have to live on a crutch for the next three months.
Hahh . . .
Haaahhh . . .
Ughhh . . .
Hwaahh . . .
We tossed sighs back and forth like a ball game. Having shared the same dream, we now sank into the same melancholy.
Above our heads, a giant phantom bird skimmed through the air.
Snowbird . . .
A streamlined body, elegant wings, a propeller stirring up the wind. Windswept hair, the invigorating scent of summer . . . The white, beautiful man-made bird glided just above the glittering surface of Lake Biwa.
A human-powered aircraft was the crystallization of functional beauty. Things that flew well naturally became beautiful. Made from lightweight materials like balsa wood, carbon, and styrofoam, it weighed a mere thirty to forty kilograms in total. A human would sit in the cockpit and use pedals to rotate the propeller, providing thrust.
I was supposed to be that pilot.
The aircraft crashed.
The dream was shattered.
. . . I'm sorry. I was supposed to shoulder everyone's expectations and fly, but . . .
It's not your fault. It was the car's fault and just bad luck.
Tatsuro's baritone voice was gentle.
We have no choice but to find another pilot, right?
Everyone wanted you to be the one to fly.
I was the designer of the Snowbird. I'd always wanted to fly, so I'd been studying aerodynamics since the fifth grade. I rebuilt the disbanded Aviation Club with my childhood friend Tatsuro, got an alumnus entrepreneur to sponsor us and secure our budget, and created models and drones to fabricate a track record of activities. Before we knew it, we were already in our junior year.
Do we really have to drag someone else into this now . . . ?
Tatsuro looked up at the ceiling.
The Birdman Rally we were entering was a historic competition held every summer since 1977 for the purpose of producing a television program. Participants brought their homemade human-powered aircraft and competed in flight distance and time. There were two categories: Human-Powered Aircraft and Glider. For this year's 2024 competition, they were scheduled to be held on July 27 and 28, respectively.
We were planning to participate in the Human-Powered Aircraft Category.
Since building the aircraft would take a full year, we had already started construction last July, then attended the contest briefing after New Year's, and submitted our application in early February with detailed team promotional content and three-view diagrams of the aircraft. We had received our acceptance notification on April 1 and just had a group photo of the Suisen High School Aviation Club published in the local newspaper on April 3. Today was the 10th—only a week had passed since then.
We have no choice. We can't let everyone's hard work go to waste.
. . . But is there anyone suitable? Someone with a similar build to you and enough stamina?
Since the design was optimized for the pilot, a replacement would have to have a similar physique. They also needed enough strength to work the heavy pedals continuously for nearly two hours. For that reason, I'd been commuting thirty kilometers to and from school on my road bicycle, rain or shine. That was what ultimately caused the accident, though . . .
Just then, an image suddenly flashed through my mind.
Ringo Urarakawa, the girl who was floating in class.
3
At lunch break, I immediately headed to Ringo's humanities class on my crutch.
She was sleeping with earphones in again. There was nothing unusual about her. I was wondering if what I had seen was an illusion when she suddenly began to float once more.
. . .
I quietly stood in front of her. Her middle finger was touching the desk. Theoretically, it must've been a hyper-muscled middle finger that was supporting her entire body weight. Like something straight out of a fighting comic. She could probably smash bricks and take down moose with it.
. . . I pinched that middle finger.
Then, I gently lifted it up.
It detached from the desk with ease.
I felt dizzy and almost collapsed.
Wait . . . I need to verify this properly!
Struggling with my crutch, I crouched down on the floor. I opened my eyes wide, carefully examining for anything unnatural. But just as I thought, Ringo wasn't touching the ground anywhere.
Once you observed something, you had to accept it. New discoveries always defied common sense.
Before Nicolaus Copernicus proposed the heliocentric theory, the geocentric theory was mainstream. Before Einstein proposed the theory of relativity, it was believed that time flowed uniformly throughout the universe. Even Einstein himself stubbornly opposed quantum theory when it emerged, insisting it was an incomplete theory and leaving behind the famous quote, "God does not play dice."
Suddenly, in the pure white room inside my mind, Einstein began shouting.
Impossible! Newton would be furious! Furious, I tell you!
Einstein banged on the desk and threw apples at me.
But quantum theory turned out to be correct, didn't it? Microscopic matter is both particle and wave, exists fundamentally probabilistically, and its position and momentum can only be determined through the act of observation.
At that, Einstein irritably picked at a hangnail.
Bleh!
He stuck out his tongue, his signature pose. He was completely dodging the issue.
I returned from my contemplation (or perhaps delusion) and couldn't help but chuckle.
Unbelievable . . . yet amazing . . . !
If she was levitating, it could mean she had zero weight.
A human-powered aircraft flew when the lift generated by its wings exceeded gravity. The lighter the aircraft, the less lift—and consequently, thrust—was required. And the heaviest component of a human-powered aircraft was the human. While the aircraft itself weighed only thirty to forty kilograms, I weighed nearly sixty kilograms.
And that could become zero.
Pilots went to incredible lengths just to reduce their weight by a few kilograms. Of course, changing the center of gravity would require redesigning the aircraft, but the advantages would more than compensate for that. She could quickly reach my level as an engine.
I was excited by this incredible talent. As I raised my head with my nostrils flaring, I made direct eye contact with Ringo.
. . . Ah.
Eeeek!
She let out a strange yelp.
And then a sharp pain shot through my nose.
4
After school, Tatsuro from the class next door came over.
Hey, what happened? How'd you manage to injure yourself even more?!
Let's not talk about that. More importantly, can you teach me how to sweet-talk a girl?
Tatsuro stared at me for a moment, then suddenly grabbed my shoulders.
This is serious! You really did hit your head after all!
Ow ow ow! It's about finding a new pilot—the candidate happens to be a girl!
Oh, so that's what this is about . . .
Tatsuro sighed with relief.
I have no interest in romance. Men and women are all just bags of excrement after all.
Excrement?! What the heck?!
It's a Buddhist concept. To avoid becoming attached.
Hmm . . . Come to think of it, your family business is a temple, right? Is your dad like that too?
My father actually loves hostess clubs.
That's pretty corrupt of him.
Anyway, teach me how to sweet-talk her!
Let's see . . . Maybe start with a compliment, then follow up with something romantic?
I see, a compliment followed by romantic talk . . . Alright, I'll go try it right now!
And so, I headed to Ringo's classroom. Not used to my crutch, even the short distance was a struggle. But she wasn't there. Flustered, I frantically searched all around.
I finally found her standing at the bus stop in front of the school. She was tall with slender, long legs, making her stand out even from a distance. With earphones in, she cast a melancholy gaze at the broken lines on the road. Her expression looked somehow mystical—like a fortune teller reading sad shadows of the future from the cracks in those broken lines.
Suddenly, she looked up. Noticing me, her eyes widened.
Eeeek!
Then, she slipped out of the bus queue. I hurriedly chased after her. She glided away on her long legs. Meanwhile, I awkwardly clomped along with my crutch, looking like some misshapen, three-legged monster cobbled together from junk. I pursued her desperately. She glanced back briefly.
Eeeek!
She picked up speed.
Magnificent . . .
Her leg strength and stamina are truly perfect for a human-powered aircraft!
Then, just before the next bus stop, Ringo suddenly turned around.
What is it?! What's your problem?!
Please calm down. I'm not a creep.
Of course you are! Looking like a three-legged monster, smiling like that while chasing me down!
. . . Perhaps she had a point there.
I'm sorry. But it's all a big misunderstanding. It was a misunderstanding from the start. I just want you to join the Aviation Club, that's all!
Aviation Club . . . ?
Ringo frowned.
I then desperately explained why we needed a new pilot.
. . . I understand the situation, but why me . . . ?
I saw this as a recruitment opportunity. I recalled Tatsuro's advice: compliment, then romance. This was it. I spoke from the heart.
You have nice legs . . .
Without saying a word, Ringo pulled scissors from her bag and brandished them.
Wha—You're scaring me!
I'm the one who's scared, you pervert!
No, not like that! I meant legs suitable for being a pilot!
Just then, a bus arrived at the stop. Ringo quickly boarded it.
I have no interest in airplanes, so that's that.
I immediately hopped on the bus after her.
Why are you following me?!
I can't help it. With my broken bone, if I don't take this bus, I'm doomed to crutch hell!
Ringo looked annoyed.
Tsk.
She went to sit at the back of the bus. I grabbed what appeared to be a numbered ticket. Since I'd always commuted by bicycle, this was my first time riding a city bus, so I was just winging it. Then I took a seat.
Don't just casually sit next to me!
This is the only seat available!
Ringo moved as far away from me as possible and crossed her legs. They were nice legs. Then she pointed her scissors in my direction. She was scary. Just as we arrived at the next stop, a little girl who was getting off looked at us.
Mommy, that person looks like a hostage.
There's no such person, silly.
I'm sorry, ma'am, but that hostage-like person would be me.
As the bus started moving again, I launched my next strategy.
There was this American pilot named Amelia Earhart—
Don't just start talking to me. We're not friends.
. . .
I continued undeterred.
At age twenty-three, she rode in an airplane for the first time at an air show and fell deeply in love with the sky, which inspired her to become a pilot. She overcame every headwind to make her dream come true, and at thirty-four, she became the first woman to successfully complete a solo transatlantic flight. She instantly became the darling of her era and a symbol of the women's liberation movement. When asked why she flew, she answered, "I want do it because I want to do it." She understood the freedom of flight and the beauty of clouds better than anyone.
. . .
Don't you think that's romantic?
Gross! You're being creepy again!
I am not!
Your timing is absolutely terrible!
There was a short pause.
. . . So what happened to her after that?
At thirty-nine, she attempted to fly around the world along the equator but suddenly vanished without a trace. Her final moments remain shrouded in mystery. Some bones found in the South Pacific are thought to be hers, though.
. . . I see.
Ringo's expression turned slightly sad.
What do you think happened?
I think she fell into the ocean.
Haahh . . .
She let out a sigh.
There's not a shred of romance in that.
What would make it romantic then?
Well . . .
She gazed at the scenery flowing past outside the window. Her profile was beautiful.
Amelia makes an emergency landing on an unknown island. The people who live there express themselves through music. The island only knows The Heart of the Earth, but she plays guitar and shares The Heart of the Sky with them. Thanks to her, they begin building airplanes on the island. A hundred years later, a strange airplane arrives in America, and the boy inside says, "Hello everyone, do you know Amelia Earhart?"
I was dumbfounded. Then Ringo's cheeks suddenly flushed.
I just made that up on the spot.
No, you're a genius . . . A genius romantic!
Hey, stop it, seriously!
True to her name, Ringo turned apple-red. Just then, the bus arrived at Koriyama Station. She hurriedly got off, as if making an escape.
Ah, wait!
However, a line for paying fares had already formed. On top of that, not knowing how the payment system worked, I fumbled around and completely lost sight of her.
They don't give change these days . . . Buses are way too complicated . . .
5
Hey, what happened to your leg, Issei?
When I got home, a shaved head greeted me. It was my father, Yoshiteru Kikuchi, the corrupt priest in question. He wore round glasses like John Lennon and was scratching his flabby belly that peeked out from a gray sweatshirt.
I was caught in a hit-and-run.
Idiot.
Dad shook his thin, undignified shoulders and chuckled. I felt irritated.
Is that how you treat your son who comes home injured?
Well, there's no point getting angry or sad about it, right? It already happened. Besides, fortune and misfortune are intertwined. Your broken ankle might turn out to be lucky, you know.
. . . I hated this attitude of his. It made me want to flick his shiny bald head.
Dad glanced at my right ankle.
We know the sound of two hands clapping. What does the sound of one hand make?
This was what they called a Zen dialogue. In the Rinzai school, grappling with these kinds of riddles was said to bring one closer to enlightenment. Since as far back as I could remember, Dad would ask me these questions on a whim. Questions without answers. Inside my brain, Einstein immediately started throwing a fit.
Dumbass! How could one hand possibly make a sound?!
Einstein popped open a model of a human head. The inner ear structure was fully visible.
When you clap your hands, the air vibrates and travels at approximately 340 meters per second, transmitting through the auditory nerve to the brain. Since one hand cannot make the air vibrate, it cannot possibly make a sound!
Einstein spoke at an incredibly rapid pace and was now wheezing heavily.
Zero points. Boooring.
Dad snorted through his nose and tossed that comment at me while I was still wheezing, then scratched his calf with the sole of his foot. His condescending attitude irritated me. I might have enjoyed these Zen dialogues as a child, but now they were just plain annoying. Dad, apparently bored, went to the living room and started watching foreign dramas while reading a paperback. He was a lecherous, corrupt priest who got excited whenever there was a sexual scene. With Mom away, he was doing whatever he pleased.
I let out a sigh, struggled up the stairs, and collapsed onto my bed. Every joint in my body ached. My armpits were sore. As I zoned out, the image of Ringo dozing in the classroom came to mind. A face as beautiful as Snow White in a death-like sleep after eating the poison apple—
Before I knew it, her face had morphed into that person's face.
I want to become a bird.
There she stood on the railing of the Sakuragaoka Park observation deck, spreading her arms like a great white bird . . .
I want to shed this heavy body and become free.
What do you want to become, Doc?
Yuki Ito suddenly flashed a bewitching smile at me.
I jolted awake. I'd fallen asleep without realizing it. It was already dark. I felt strangely nostalgic and feverish, unable to get up. Why did the heart become so defenseless in dreams? While using an airplane poster for support, I stood up and, on one foot, hopped my way to the bookshelf. It contained biographies of the Wright brothers and aerodynamics textbooks, while the top shelf displayed a rocket model and a small bottle filled with white ashes.
Yuki's cremated remains.
Someday, I was going to scatter them on the moon.
6
The next day, after school, the Aviation Club members gathered. There were six boys—including Tatsuro and me—and one girl, and we were all juniors.
Everyone, I'm sorry for getting injured despite my position of responsibility—ouch!
My deeply bowed head was smacked hard.
Idiot! Bare your guts to us and apologize properly!
It was Ban Makita, the member in charge of the fairing. With his spiky silver hair standing on end like wire and his thin, slanted eyebrows, he had quite a fierce appearance.
Hey Ban, I already explained the situation to you!
Tatsuro hurriedly tried to stop him, but Ban bared his sharp canine teeth.
Who cares about explanations! You got hurt because you lack fighting spirit!
Ban suddenly lifted his shirt, revealing his rock-hard abs.
Look! Each one of these is packed with fighting spirit! That's why whether it's a truck or Chiyonofuji, I wouldn't flinch even if I got hit out of nowhere!
Chiyonofuji . . . ? (*The last great sumo champion of the Showa era. A mass of steel-like muscles.)
Come on, try punching me! Put your apology in your fists!
Huh . . . ?
I still couldn't make sense of his worldview, but I reluctantly tapped his six-pack with my right fist.
YOU IDIOT!
I was scolded mercilessly.
Is that all the remorse you've got?! When words fail, your fists should speak! Put everything into it! Destroy the Earth!
U . . . UWAaaaAAHHH!
Thwack! Ban closed his eyes as if savoring the moment and nodded.
See, you can do it . . . After all, baring our guts to each other is always the way to go.
He was probably the only person who took the concept of baring your guts so literally.
Somehow, that seemed to complete the ritual of atonement, and we moved on to the discussion.
I argued that Ringo Urarakawa would be the most suitable candidate as our next pilot. However, I couldn't yet tell them about her physically floating. No one would believe it without seeing it for themselves. Even I was still half-skeptical. So, instead, I presented the other data I had gathered.
Ringo Urarakawa. Class 3-B, student number three. She has a similar physique to mine but probably weighs less than me. Until last year, she was a long-distance runner in the track and field club and even competed in the national championships. Her leg strength and stamina are excellent.
Is she bursting with fighting-spirit filling from head to toe?
Please don't describe her like she's a cream puff.
Fine, there's no point standing around talking. Let's just go get her! We'll all take turns approaching her one by one!
Ban arbitrarily decided on this tournament-style approach and promptly took off. The six of us left behind exchanged glances, shook our heads with a sigh, and followed after him. We had no choice. That guy had been the first attacker since his Kendo Club days.
Ban waited at the school entrance. The six of us observed from hiding.
After a while, Ringo Urarakawa appeared. The moment she stepped out of the building, a breeze blew by. Her ebony-black hair flowed silkily like in a shampoo commercial, and her almond-shaped eyes narrowed slightly.
Ah—
Ban made a strange noise.
Then he approached her with creaking joints, just like the Tin Man.
M-miss . . .
Startled by his sudden approach, Ringo frowned.
. . . W-would you like to fly in the sky with me?
It sounded like something from a fairy tale. Like Dorothy flying in a tornado.
Um . . . no thanks . . .
Ringo hurried away. Ban collapsed to his knees.
Oh boy.
What were you doing?
That was absolutely pathetic.
As we surrounded and bombarded him with various insults, Ban covered his face and began to sob loudly.
I just can't handle pretty girls . . . !
What six-pack? Come back after you've got a nine-pack!
An odd number of abs would look weird, though.
Seriously? A nine-pack?
Thus, Ban Makita, our first attacker, was swiftly defeated.
7
The next morning . . .
Twing, twang! A melodious sound echoed beautifully.
Ringo suddenly turned her feet in that direction. It was coming from the schoolyard. A male student was sitting on top of the drinking fountain area where sports teams hydrated. For some reason, all three faucets were pointed skyward, creating beautiful, sparkling arches of water.
Twing, twang! He strummed the baby harp.
Then, he smiled and cast a thoroughly self-satisfied gaze toward Ringo.
Second attacker and propeller coordinator Yuto Kazaori. Everyone called him Eugene.
The troubadour of the Aviation Club. No one knew why the Aviation Club even had a troubadour.
Ringo Urarakawa.
Eugene called out in a sing-song voice.
You share the same name, huh? With the forbidden fruit, that is.
Winner of the Creepy Anastrophe of the Year Award . . .
Within ten seconds of meeting Eugene, it became immediately clear. He was an outrageous narcissist. His facial features were androgynous, with eyes as thin as if drawn with a brush tip. He generally resembled a fox, but he seemed to think his face was the epitome of beauty. He was so concerned about his beauty that he worried all the girls might fall in love with him and fight with each other, so he was careful not to be too kind.
But now, the seal had been broken. In an attempt to win over Ringo with his sex appeal, he had brought out a mysterious harp, unbuttoned his shirt to the third button to expose his collarbone, and left the drinking fountains running like decorative water features for no reason. This was a feat one could only accomplish if they thought themselves akin to a Greek sculpture.
Ugh, again with the Aviation Club . . .
Ringo looked somewhat exasperated. She'd already realized what was happening despite him being only the second attacker.
I've composed something for you—a song of love. May I perform it for you?
Sure, but I'll pry your mouth open, cut out your tongue, stuff it with stones, sew your lips shut, and throw you down a well.
. . .
She was absolutely terrifying.
Eugene's eyes welled with tears—all he could do now was pluck his harp mournfully. After Ringo had walked away, we emerged from our hiding place and gave Eugene a thorough beating.
You idiot!
Stop wasting water!
Apologize to Greece and music!
And thus, Yuto Kazaori, the second attacker, was also swiftly defeated.
8
It was the ten-minute break after second period.
From nowhere in particular, I heard a whispering voice.
. . . Doc . . . Doc . . .
I looked around but saw no one.
Doc . . . over here . . .
I turned around with a start. A korpokkur was standing there.
The Aviation Club's drive system coordinator, Satoru Hichi. Everyone called him Hichori.
Doc . . .
His voice was as faint as a firefly's glow at summer's end.
I . . . went to recruit Ringo . . . during the break after first period . . .
What? Hichori, you actually went?!
Hichori was extremely shy. He would blush a deep red just from passing someone in the hallway. If he were ever called on to read aloud in Japanese class, his face would surely burst into flames and burn to ashes.
But Hichori was never called on.
He had a survival strategy.
He had learned how to erase his presence.
Day by day, he had refined this technique until even his shadow grew faint, eventually reaching a level where you could lose sight of him even while he was speaking right in front of you. The perfect korpokkur. If you ever heard something like spirit whispers at Suisen High School, they came from Hichori, so you had to carefully search your surroundings.
So, what happened . . . ?
Well . . . she didn't notice me . . . Ringo was wearing earphones, so maybe that's why . . .
Hichori's hamster-like round eyes welled up with tears.
I'm so sorry . . . I let everyone down . . .
He gradually became semi-transparent and finally vanished like a mirage.
Hichori?!
I frantically searched around, but he was nowhere to be found.
It's okay, Hichori! Thank you, Hichori!
And thus, Hichori, aka Satoru Hichi, was swiftly defeated.
