The History teacher has a supernatural gift. His voice vibrates at a specific frequency capable of inducing comas in sheep.
I'm sitting in the third row, chin resting on my hand, nodding slightly every time he makes a dramatic pause. He probably thinks I'm fascinated by the Meiji Restoration.
Sorry, Sensei. In my head, I'm calculating jump parabolas.
I look down at my notebook. Between the margins of my notes (which are suspiciously empty), I've drawn a volleyball court and a calendar that I've crossed out with enough force to almost tear the paper.
Four months.
Exactly four months until the District Tournament preliminaries.
In my "other life," four months was an eternity. It was a full league season, hundreds of hours of video analysis, gym sessions, and bus rides. But here, in a high schooler's body, with a club we just dug out of the grave, four months feels like a blink.
I spin my pen between my fingers and look at my list of assets. I draw four stick figures with smiley faces.
Me: I can spike, receive, and set if necessary. But if I set, we lose my attack, which is our only real weapon right now. I need to be on the wing.
Gojo: Nearly 1.80m tall. My "Iron Wall" project. He's shy, but he has those artisan hands... If I can get him to learn to read the block, he'll be a beast. I don't need him to spike yet; I need him to touch the balls at the net so I can save them in the back.
Izumi and Koji.
I smile unconsciously as I write their names. My two best friends from junior high.
They aren't volleyball players. Izumi plays basketball and passes the ball like he's shooting a three-pointer. Koji is a soccer player and his instinct is to kick anything round that comes too close to him. Technically, they are a disaster.
But they promised to join. "So you won't be alone, idiot," they said.
I feel a warmth in my chest thinking about it. They have good hearts. They are willing to come run, sweat, and bruise their arms just to help me fulfill my whim. That's worth more than any perfect technique.
Mental note: Treat them to a giant ramen with extra meat after the first practice. And make the practices fun. If I just make them suffer with receptions, they'll leave. They have to feel the excitement. They have to feel the "Bam!" when they connect properly.
But math is cruel.
I look at the number 4 in my notebook. The rules require 6 players on the court.
I'm missing two.
I chew on the cap of my pen. I need a Setter. The brain. If Izumi improves his fingers, he could try, but he lacks the height to block. And I need someone else, anyone, to complete the rotation. Even if it's someone who just stands in the corner and doesn't get in the way.
"Four months..." I whisper, tracing a timeline. "Month 1: Conditioning and Basic Reception (stop them from being scared of the ball). Month 2: Blocking for Gojo and combination attacks. Month 3: Practice matches against whoever lets us. Month 4: Final adjustments."
It's not impossible. I've seen crazier things. I've played against two-meter monsters and won. I'm not going to give up over an arithmetic problem.
We're going to be a loud team. We're going to be annoying. And we're going to have fun.
Riiiing.
The lunch bell rings like a blessing. The classroom explodes into the usual noise of scraping chairs and shouts of liberation. I slam my notebook shut, ready to run to the cafeteria to buy a yakisoba bun before rushing to the gym.
"That doesn't look like Japanese history."
I stop.
A shadow falls over my desk. And suddenly, the smell of chalk and teenage sweat vanishes, replaced by a sweet scent. Vanilla. And flowers.
I look up.
Marin Kitagawa is standing in front of my desk.
She's leaning toward me, one hand resting on the wood of my desk, invading my personal space with astonishing naturalness. She wears her uniform with her own style, a bit looser, sparkly accessories, and those big, lined eyes looking at me with curiosity, aiming straight at the cover of my notebook.
"Oh, hi," I say. I don't lean back. I hold her gaze with a smile. "It is history... but of my future empire."
Marin blinks and lets out a crystalline little laugh.
"'Empire', huh?" She leans in a little closer, her eyes shining. "You're Hinata, right? The guy who was in the gym yesterday with Gojo-kun."
I nod.
"And you're the girl who was in the stands. Kitagawa-san."
"Marin is fine," she corrects me with a wave of her hand. "Hey, I saw what you guys did. With the ball. And I heard what you told that idiot from the basketball club."
Her expression changes. The flirtatious smile transforms into something more intense. Genuine interest.
"'It's an art.' That's what you said."
I lean back in my chair. I like direct people.
"It is," I confirm, calm. "When everything clicks, when the ball doesn't touch the floor... it's the most beautiful thing in the world."
Marin bites her lower lip, thinking. She looks at my hand resting on the closed notebook.
"You have a very serious face when you write in there. Like you're planning to invade a country or something. I like that intensity."
She taps her perfectly painted nails on my table.
"Hey, 'Mr. Volleyball Emperor,' do you have a minute? I need the opinion of someone who takes their obsessions as seriously as you do."
I tilt my head, intrigued. Usually, people run away from my obsessions, they don't ask for opinions on them.
"I have practice in twenty minutes," I say, calculating the time. "But I have ten to eat. Are you buying me a juice?"
Marin smiles, a conspiratorial smile that promises trouble or fun. Probably both.
"Deal. Come on, my treat."
I stand up, grabbing my "strategic" notebook and my lunch. As I follow Marin out of the classroom, I adjust my mental calculations.
Current players: 4.Time: 4 months.Unforeseen variables: 1 blonde girl smelling of vanilla.
Maybe my empire plan will have to make room for some footnotes.