In the medium-sized town of Trinity, Missouri, Christianity rules and dissenters face social death.
As you can imagine, Caleb Caron, an atheist with a foul vocabulary, is Trinity High School's pariah and his best friend, Nova Beauchêne, is a heretic...
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Mr. Pfeiffer is an unfortunate display of low self-esteem manifesting itself in the form of aggression. He inflates his own sense of self-worth by destroying that of others, rather than face the insecurities he's buried deep within.
However, I suspect the resentment he harbors towards Nova B. is founded in something other than her tardiness this morning. I write Nova B. for fear of spelling her last name incorrectly. It sounds French. I wish I could learn the origins of that.
Speaking of Nova B...she asked me to meet in the library tomorrow at 5PM. To work on our project.
When she approached me, I was so nervous my arm was shaking. She and her friend noticed. At least, I think they noticed.
The only reason I said yes was because I'm afraid of her thinking I'm a slacker...even though imagining myself in the library while she tries to converse makes my stomach churn and my heart palpitate.
The plan is to not say a word. Hopefully, I won't have to. She seems to carry conversations on her own.
I close my observations journal and slip it into my backpack.
Before I zoned out, Mr. Pfeiffer was lecturing us about the beauty of Shakespeare.
He still is. "Shakespeare is arguably the most talented author of all time..."
This is by far the least engaging class on my schedule—and that really is an incredible feat considering this entire school bores me into counting ceiling tiles. Every day I spend here, being taught things I already knew ages ago, I feel a brain cell burst from disuse.
"Hey, you!" Mr. Pfeiffer shouts.
I flinch.
He's talking to me.
I swallow, practicing my relaxed expression.
"You're the new kid, right?" He asks.
Yes, I'm the new kid, you should know that. Why do you have to ask me, in front of the whole class, when everyone is watching?
My stomach flips incessantly as cold sweat trickles down my neck. Steeling my hand against the desk, I nod.
"Yeah, I got that your name's Ren but, what's up with your last name? Ni-ni...what?"
Nishiyama.
Ni-shi-yama.
It's not that hard, if he'd just try.
"Nish...ama?" He manages to say.
Unable to correct him, I nod again.
"...Ren Ni-Nishama. Nova Bo-whatsit. You people and your last names." He mutters, continuing with the lesson.
I wish I could point out that his last name is Pfeiffer which doesn't even make phonetic sense.
...
During lunch, I trudge up the hill to the beautiful Dogwood tree that paints the grass white with its lush snow-colored flowers. It is immensely serene here, perfect for someone who needs quiet to think.
Sitting against the tree's wide trunk, I reach for my lunchbox.
I nervously eye the food I packed: donburi and my okazu: steamed vegetables. I had to make it using recipes off the internet because Mom doesn't know how to make Japanese cuisine. And unfortunately, neither do I.
As I eat my poor excuse for a Japanese meal, the events of the day drift through my mind. "Ren Nishama." I hiss, the memory suddenly returning. I wonder what happened to the "y". I'm used to people mispronouncing my last name, but usually their first attempts aren't so pitiful.
Mr. Pfeiffer's arrogance agitates me.
Slash that.
This entire school agitates me.
The teachers are insufferable, the curriculum is hardly challenging (and by hardly, I mean in no way at all), and the students are a breed of cruel I'm completely unfamiliar with.
When I relayed my distress to Mom, she simply said, "Welcome to high school."
Afterward I begged her to pull me out and return us to Seattle, but she reiterated that public school would do me a great deal of good. Something she's repeated so often that I usually tune it out.
All of this suffering I accredit to Doctor Jackson, the bane of my existence and sole entry on my Unfulfilled Hit List.
When I was twelve, Dad's parents visited from Japan. However, when they greeted me, my entire body froze, my face went slack, and I couldn't say a word. As hard as I tried to say "Konnichiwa" as Dad had taught me, nothing came out.
My grandparents said I was rude. Mom said something was wrong.
Somehow, we ended up in the office of a psychiatrist--Doctor Jackson.
And because of him, my life has been completely upended.
KEY
Donburi: Rice served with food such as meats, vegetables, and/or eggs on top.
Okazu: Often translated as a "side dish" though this may not be entirely accurate. It can mean, "the dishes in a meal you eat rice with", "dinner", and even "vegetables"
P.S. I don't know if @SmittyBS or @Samara9333 is reading this, but I lowkey stole the word "upended". *wink wink*
