You are Alabaster Soliloquy, Goro in a gaijin's body and target of tomboy-perpetrated sexual violence. Compared to yesterday, the amount of sex you're having has increased by ∞%. There's definite room for improvement here.
Whitney fucks you again, the same way she did in the motel room, practically using you as a masturbation device more than a sexual partner. She just wraps her arms around your neck and humps you right there on the school rooftop in broad daylight, her shorts around her ankles, your hips smacking together lewdly. She leaves a spattering of cream on the front of you pants. You have to sheepishly cover it by holding your backpack over it as you limp home.
At home, your sister Cerise is watching television in the living room -- some insipid reality show. She wears an XXL tee like a long dress that you seriously doubt has anything beneath it. Your father is sitting in his leather recliner reading the sports section.
"Where were you?" Cerise interrogates from the couch as you pass by.
"None of your business," you say, exhausted.
Cerise sniffs at the air between you. "Were you boinking that dumb broad again?"
"What are you, some kind of cum-sniffing hound?" you sneer. Your father turns the page of his newspaper to the lifestyle section.
"It's pretty fucking obvious," Cerise says. "You smell like a French whorehouse. Don't you have any shame?"
You head upstairs, too tired to deal with her, but she follows close behind. Sensing that a conversation is inevitable, you try to steer it in a direction you prefer. "What happened with Rose?" you ask.
"The bitch wants me to come to a review panel this Saturday to decide if anime club is 'in line with North High codes of conduct and decorum.' Whatever the hell that means."
"And since when are you a weeaboo, anyway? I've been meaning to ask."
"I'm not a weeaboo, you mongoloid." She slams her palm flat against the wall and stares you down, face just centimeters away. "And that's why I need to talk to you. No one can know about this. Especially mom and dad."
"Of course not," you say. "Mom's opinion of you would go down the drain if she found out you like the same Chinese rape cartoons her failure of a son does."
"I'm serious. Unlike you, I have a reputation to uphold."
"Is this where you ask me for life counseling?" Cerise jams a foot on your toes. "Oof-- Christ. What reputation do you need to worry about, exactly? You lie around the house drunk all day. As far as I can tell your only friends are those other weebs in anime club."
"You are such a worthless cocksucker."
You pull away from her and bound into her room, feeling somehow emboldened. "So what's the big secret with this shelf?" you ask, tugging at the sheet that covers Cerise's closely-guarded bookcase. As she dashes into the room behind you, her eyes bulge.
The sheet falls away. Sitting on it is -- a collection of anime merch? Impossibly perverted sexual paraphenalia? Neither. It's just a bunch of electrical components. Simple circuits and breadboards, wire, various tools; the parts appear to be pulled mostly from children's toys, some of which lie splayed open and augmented like plastic Frankenstein's monsters. One Furby has been skinned and a whole transforming station's worth of wire is spooling from its black plastic casing.
"...Should I even ask?" you ask.
"No," Cerise confirms. She picks the sheet up and covers the bookcase again.
You turn to face each other.
"Look," Cerise says. "I hate to ask you -- of all people. But you're honestly the best candidate. I need a student to represent the anime club at my review panel."
"Don't even think about it," you stop her. "I went to anime club more as an atrocity tourist than as a real member."
"Please," Cerise says. It's the first time you can recall her ever saying this word to you and meaning it. "Don't make me ask Stackleford."
[ ] I'll do it.
[X] Beg for it.
[ ] Nope.
You shrug, laughing cruelly. "If it means so much to you, then beg for it."
Cerise stares at you, uncomprehending. "What."
"On your knees, preferably."
"You're sick. You don't even realize how sick you are."
"Well-- suit yourself. I know I wouldn't want Stackleford being my advocate."
Cerise takes an empty can of Pringles from her computer desk and throws it at you, whanging you on the head. "I'd rather choke to death on Stackleford's greasy dick than beg you for anything!"
You leave Cerise's room, nursing a bump on the head and a wounded ego.
Dinner is some kind of pork concoction, the specifics of which you'd rather not know anything about.
"When are you going to get a job?" your mother asks as she serves. "Your sister already has one doing volunteer work at the school."
Cerise kicks you under the table as a way of pre-warning you not to let anything slip. You grin at her, knowing full well you hold all the cards.
"A job is the opposite of volunteer work," you say, spinning your fork lazily through lumpy potatoes. "I know you don't do much reading, but your vocabulary needs some work."
"Alabaster!" Cerise says in faux shock, holding a hand to her mouth. "That's our mother you're speaking to!"
"He's a mean little twerp," your mother says. "I wouldn't even let him eat if there wasn't so much food. I always make too much." She glances over to where dad is reading the movie reviews in front of his untouched plate. "Dear, it's going to get cold."
Cerise gives you the tiniest hint of a smile across the table -- her way, perhaps, of thanking you for not hinting what her "volunteer" work entails, or that it may soon end.
"You stink like cum," mom observes over a bite of food. Why is every woman in this family such a hose beast?
You sleep uneasily that night.
Whitney calls you at 5:30 AM to go running, which you blow off. A little after dawn, it's Whitney who barges into your room to wake you instead of Cerise.
"Come on, dick-for-brains~" she sings.
"I told you yesterday," you groan, rolling over and burying your head into your pillow. "I'm done with soccer."
"No-o-o, you're not," Whitney insists, shaking you by the shoulder. You undulate back and forth like someone out at sea. When Whitney actually starts to sing the "good morning" song, you can't take it anymore.
You sit up. "Where do you get all this energy from?" you ask. Then: "wait a second, why are you in my room?"
"A girl can't be in her boyfriend's bedroom?" she pouts.
You massage the bridge of your nose. "You can rape me all you like, but you can't force me to be your boyfriend. I have standards."
Whitney grabs your hand away from your face and pins it to the headboard. When you try to use your other hand to pull her away, she pins that one, too.
"Can you get away from me?" she asks.
You pull, but her muscles flex and keep you firmly in place. You give a couple more half-hearted tugs but realize it's useless.
Whitney leans in close, her breath smelling of peppermint and hot against your ear. "Looks like I can force you to do anything I want, then."
[ ] Fine, you win. I'll go running if you fuck me first.
[ ] Go away, will you?
[X] Custom: Go away/Assert dominance
"Go away, will you?"
"Ally, you seem upset. Was Cerise mistreating you again last night? I think you need some sex-u-al healing. Now, don't you want a nice hard locker room fucking with your old pal Whitney?"
"No--"
"Just think about it. Our sore and sweaty bodies slamming up against each other, your dick pumping me full of--"
"I don't want you using me like a dildo that just happens to be attached to someone's body."
"Whine, whine, wine," Whitney hums. "It won't save you."
You haul back and -- without realizing what you're about to do -- headbutt her. Whitney goes tumbling down, falling to your floor with a thud.
"Owww! What the FUCK, Ally?" She stands up. You leap out of bed so that you face one another from opposing sides. The two of you circle and strafe a bit, like two feral animals in a death battle.
"You're frisky today~"
"You want to fuck me? Then we fuck on my schedule," you say. "Not yours."
"Such fire! Such passion! I can tell you really believe that!"
Whitney lunges across the bed for you and you dodge her deftly. She lands in a pile of ratty t-shirts.
"I'm not running today," you tell her. "Let me sleep. If you're horny, you can wait."
Whitney stands again and approaches you slowly. Her hips -- if you can call those things hips -- sway. You try not to wilt under her penetrating gaze. She wraps her arms around you, making sure you can feel the strength hidden in them, and smiles.
"I can wait," she says lowly. "But not for long..." She licks the entire length of your face as you squirm and try to turn away in her grip. And then she goes.
The school day passes with something resembling normalcy. Cerise even wakes you up the second time around. Whether she heard the commotion with Whitney, you can't tell. She treats you the way she always does when she wakes you up: like dog shit.
In class, Vivian sits far away from you. She doesn't even glance in your direction. She just stares out the window, chin resting in her palm, looking pensive. Was she serious about her promise to leave you alone? It's hard to imagine. Maybe David has more control over her than you imagined he might.
After home room, Mr. Langley the Quiz Bowl coach corners you. "The second practice is tomorrow. Are you going to come?" He has the tone of a father concerned about his son's recent bad behavior.
"I'll be at the competition next week," you say, dodging the question.
"Alabaster, your skills are going to wither up and die if you don't practice. Practice is the key to success. What has gotten into you? I won't lie -- Vivian is great, but she has holes in certain categories that you always excelled in. The team needs both of you. Please say you'll come."
[X] Yeah. Sure.
[ ] Not if Vivian's there.
Mr. Langley actually hugs you. It's weird.
At lunch, Whitney texts you:
>"I want to smell you cum in your pants."
You avoid anywhere you think she might be today.
In biology, Ms. Carte is almost 20 minutes late, which has become a ritual for her. Her assistant, Spancer -- not Spencer, Spancer, the fucker's name is actually Spancer -- sits next to you. He starts quaking like a little girl at the sight of Ms. Carte. He's over six feet and 250 pounds, but he seems genuinely afraid of her.
Moreover, you think he has a black eye that's been hastily covered with makeup -- but that could just be from football practice, right? And yet, why would he cover up a sports injury with makeup?
Stackleford has this class with you -- unfortunately. He sits on your other side. Bored enough to make small talk with him, you lean in and whisper: "what's up with Spancer?"
"Dunno," Stackleford says. "Nigger's been all weird around Ms. Carte ever since she took him on as an assistant."
"Could she be abusing him? Did Whitney ever tell you about how Ms. Carte is--"
"Those rumors? I don't believe all that stuff. Someone says 'oh no, here comes a pedophile' and then you turn around and see a woman... it's like, what is this, the WNBA?"
"Then what's got Spancer so traumatized?"
"No clue. Do you think sex with that goddess would traumatize YOU? I'd give anything to get all up in that sweet-ass pussy."
Ms. Carte raps her knuckles on your desk. You turn, abashed. "Is there something you two would like to share with the class?" she asks.
You shake your head no. Ms. Carte frowns. "Then let's try to pay attention, okay?"
She goes back to her seat and starts lecturing again. "Now-- where were we. Ah, yes. The black widow spider. What you know of as black widows are actually the female of the species. The males are much smaller and weaker. After sex, the female kills him..."
You let her voice become part of the background and drift off into daydreams.
After class, Ms. Carte stops you on your way out. "Alabaster," she says. "I need to speak to you."
You gulp. Thankfully, Stackleford sticks around too.
Now there's a sentence you never thought you'd say.
"I'll cut to the chase," Ms. Carte says. "I know you stole a car from school the other night."
You start to deny it, but Ms. Carte cuts you off. "Damon told me everything."
"Ooooh," Stackleford chants like an accusing child. "You're in troooo-oouble."
"I'll cut to the chase a second time," Ms. Carte says. "I think you're in danger. Stackleford -- you too."
You and Stackleford glance at each other warily.
"Vivian is a dangerous girl," Ms. Carte continues. "I should know."
So that's it, then. Like Rome, all roads lead back to Vivian.
"Boys, there's a change to school policy coming and so I'm starting an after school club to help make the transition. I think you'd be safest if you stayed near me as much as possible. Join the club."
[X] Okay... tentatively.
[ ] No.
"Excellent," she says. Did she just lick her lips? "Here's an information flyer to let you know what it's about. The club activities are actually quite interesting. We meet five days a week."
The flyer has a series of questions on it:
>-Have you ever wondered if the human body could be... something more?
>-Something better?
>-Something other than merely human?
>If so, join North High's Transhumanism Club! Your AP Biology teacher, Renee Denise Carte, MD, PhD, presiding. Dr. Carte has ten years of experience as a researcher in the field and brings that expertise to bear on club discussions, projects, and other activities. By the end of the school year, you'll even have a simple augmentation! (pending doctor's approval and parental permission if a minor). Do not need to be a student in AP Biology to join. All students welcome.
The flyer has other miscellaneous info and pictures in it, including one of a much younger Ms. Carte from her days as a researcher, adding some brightly colored chemicals through an eyedropper to a vial full of white liquid. Other pictures on the flyer include stock photos of hear devices, bionic limbs, etc. It's actually kind of a low-rent design; obviously something she threw together herself.
"See you there," Ms. Carte purrs.
"Maybe," you add.
You leave the room not sure what to think.
You couldn't avoid her forever. Whitney catches up with you after school, still stinking like gasoline from her last-period auto shop. She wears an oil-stained tank and spats. "So glad to be out of that garage," she says. "It's like an oven in there during the afternoon."
She pushes you up against the wall, raising one knee to fondle your crotch. "Have you thought some more about what we talked about on the roof?"
"What do you mean?" you play dumb.
"Your sisterrrr," she says, frustrated, nuzzling your neck. "All I could think about all day was watching your cum dripping out of her."
"Jesus Christ," you say. "What's gotten into you?"
"I don't know," Whitney admits. "That night in the motel room changed the way I looked at her, you know?"
"I really don't. Your psychotic mind is inscrutable."
"I want to make her eat me out while you rim her."
"Don't you have soccer practice to be going to?"
"Not today." She pulls back to look you in the eye. "And actually, my algebra assignment is due tomorrow. You were supposed to help me."
[X] Yes.
[ ] No.
You take her to the library. You may be a douche, but you're a man of your word nonetheless. Plus -- anything to get her mind off sex. Or at least off sex with Cerise.
You and Cerise may be relatively shameless around one another, but she's still your older sister. You're not sure if can deal with the idea of fucking her. And with Whitney joining in, no less? ...
Things are moving too quickly. You need to find a way to distract Whitney from Cerise before she does something that can't be taken back.
"Over here," Whitney directs, leading you by the hand to a small desk in the back of the library.
Surprisingly enough, the study session goes smoothly. For the most part. Whitney is mindbendingly dumb, after all -- she can't wrap her head around the fact that a negative times a negative makes a positive. She also seems to be laboring under the impression that imaginary numbers are variously "fake," "gay," or "fucking fake and gay" -- depending on when you ask. In any case, she refuses to work with them.
"Try to keep up," you chide as she chews on her pencil's eraser. "Your arithmatic is great but you can't solve an algebraic expression to save your life. Are you sure you graduated elementary school?"
"Shut up," Whitney says. "It's like I said before, who needs this shit?"
"Not you," you admit. "You're on a fairly straight vector to a life in the service industry."
It's actually a pretty normal interaction with her, for once. But as you finish up the assignment, Whitney leans in and whispers: "I think we're alone, Ally."
Whitney reaches underneath the desk to molest you through your jeans.
"We're in public," you say. "Even you can't be this stupid. What if we get caught?"
"Everyone's gone for the day."
You reach under the desk to pull her hand away, but she swats at you. You get into a blind, uncoordinated hand-slapping match underneath the desk that feels more like playing patty-cake than fighting to maintain your purity.
"Oh stop being such a baby about it," Whitney says. "I'm going to jerk you off and you're going to like it."
"I'm going home."
"Your mouth says no, but your body..." It's true. She lays a hand on your erection. It strains against the denim of your pants, throbbing painfully. "Did you get my text?" she asks.
"We're going to wind up as registered sex offenders at this rate."
Her ministrations continue undeterred. In fact, they seem to speed up. You're not fighting it anymore.
"We'll have to alert the neighbors whenever we move somewhere new," you say.
"When we move somewhere together, you mean?" Whitney purrs.
"What? No-- not together, I mean separately--"
You grit your teeth as Whitney unzips your jeans. "Have you lost your mind?" you hiss. But Whitney has already disappeared underneath the desk.
You feel the cool library air around your cock as she frees it. Then the sensation of rushing air as she buries her nose against your glans and inhales as deeply as she can.
"I feel a little dizzy..." comes her muffled voice.
You can't help yourself: you scoot your chair back to look down at what she's doing. The chair makes a loud squeak on the floor that you wince at. You look around, helpless, trying to see if anyone was alerted. You see no one else around.
"Cum on my face, Ally."
You close your eyes and shiver. Whitney uses both hands to massage you. Her grip is a little bit too soft, like she thinks she might break it, which just makes it all the more maddening. Her hands are callused, yet smooth, and searingly hot. She stares at your cock like it's a religious relic.
You try to say something, but all that comes out are breathy gasps. "Are you close?" Whitney asks. "Are you going to blow?"
"God, Whitney--"
You feel a thrill in your gut. Whitney's palm clasps around the head of your dick as you erupt, trapping the load between her fingers. She stands, leaving you to fumble frantically and zip yourself back up.
The fun over, reality hits you again. "What if someone saw?" you ask.
"I told you," Whitney says, tipping her head back and letting your cum ooze slowly onto her tongue in ropes. "We were alone. You're too paranoid."
She licks her fingers clean and then kisses you on the lips.
"Thanks for the help, Ally." She gathers her things and goes.
You sit in the library for a long time, trying to think of a way to control Whitney's increasingly erratic behavior.
An idea begins to form in your head. It's pure insanity, but --
--And plus, who would deserve something like that?--
It could work, though. With the right person. Vivian? Not an option for various reasons -- her father's money chief amongst them. You decide to put the concept on the back burner while you try to keep Whitney sated in other ways.
---
"That limey bastard ratted us out?" Cerise screams back at home when you tell her the news.
"Only to Ms. Carte. I dunno, she probably beat it out of him or something."
"I'll murder him," Cerise says. Then: "I'll murder you too, for dragging me into this bullshit."
"I just thought you should know," you say, turning to leave her room. "With your review panel coming up and all. I don't want you to have any surprises. Sorry for doing you a favor."
"Thanks," Cerise harrumphs, turning her attention back to her PC monitor. "Oh, and the next time you blow a load in your boxers, have the decency to change them. They can smell you in Beijing."
The next morning, there's a mandatory pep rally in the gymnasium. After 30 stultifying minutes of the band's off-key brass section assaulting your ears, followed by the cheerleading squad's inept gyrations -- how the hell did someone like Kimberly become a cheerleader? -- the student council takes the dais. Rose is the keynote speaker, surrounded by her retinue of samefaced cronies.
"Quiet!" Rose bellows in a voice that barely sounds human. All sound gets sucked from the room like someone vacuumed it out. "Thank you," she says, smiling, her voice honey-sweet again.
"As some of you know," Rose says, "there are changes coming to school policy." She outlines a few of these -- stricter dress code, more nutritious lunches -- while you steal glances at Vivian, just a few seats away. You'll have to face her at Quiz Bowl in just a few hours. Will she maintain her facade of disinterest? IS it just a facade?
You try not to think about it.
"Moreoever," Rose's voice echoes over the microphone. "We are changing how student-run organizations operate. We want to foster an environment of inclusion and trust. To that end, certain... problematic... organizations will be disbanded, pending review." She looks in your direction.
"And we are also making participation in after-school clubs mandatory. All students must join at least one club, and attend club meetings every day of the school week." There's a chorus of groans to this. "SILENCE!" Rose bellows again, and gets the silence she wants.
"This is for your own good, you know. The change takes effect on Monday. You must sign up for clubs today. There will be a posting board outside the cafeteria during lunch time that you can peruse at your leisure. There are many new clubs forming to help this policy work. Let's all thank our hard-working teachers for making it possible and volunteering to be faculty advisers."
Over in the teachers' section, the teachers look as unenthusiastic as the students. All except Ms. Carte.
That afternoon is the moment of truth. You take a few deep breaths outside of the Quiz Bowl practice room, knowing what awaits you inside. Whitney offered to come, but you declined -- you don't want her making this into any more of a sepctacle, and you need to face Vivian alone.
Inside, it's worse than you expected. Not only is Vivian there, sitting at a long table in front of one of the red Quiz Bowl buzzers -- Rose is sitting along the far wall, clipboard in hand.
"This is our star player!" Mr. Langley shouts to Rose, leaping to his feet and grabbing you by the shoulder.
"We're acquainted," Rose says, calling to mind the incident with Cerise's panties the other day.
"Why is she here?" you ask.
"I'm just observing this club. I hear it's quite prestigious. Don't mind me -- I'm just a fly on the wall."
"Sit down, sit down," Mr. Langley ushers, directing you to a chair. The other Quiz Bowl members are here too: Tad, the math whiz; Gary, who still thinks mohawks are cool; Paula who looks more like a mouse than a person, and likes Jesus a little too much; and Hank, who's just Hank, seven feet and built like a brick shithouse. All of them sit in front of their own buzzer. You take a seat next to Hank, as far from Vivian as you can mange.
Quiz Bowl practice is simple. For two hours, Mr. Langley rattles off questions, and team members buzz in. The first to buzz in answers. Questions are worth 100-500 points, depending on difficulty, and if you get a question wrong, you lose points.
"Let's begin," Mr. Langley says.
[ ] Second thoughts.
[X] Let's do it.
"We can start with a few easy ones to warm up. Some of you have been out of practice for a little while." He gives you an accusing look.
"For 100 points: who was the only president to serve non-consecutive terms?"
You know this, and buzz in. But Vivian's buzzer is the one that sounds out -- she was faster.
"Grover Cleveland," she says.
"Correct!" Mr. Langley goes to the whiteboard and writes down "VIVIAN - 100".
"It was like this on Monday, too," Hank whispers. "She knows frickin' everything."
"For 100 points: members of the ursidae family are more commonly known as...?"
Vivian is quicker once again. "Bears," comes her instant reply.
"Correct!" Mr. Langley changes the score to VIVIAN - 200.
"For 100 points: how many times is Peter said to have denied Jesus?"
Not even Paula can beat Vivian to the buzzer. "Thrice," Vivian says.
"Correct!"
This is going to be a long day. After ten minutes, the score is VIVIAN - 1100, everyone else - 0. Mr. Langley looks at you uncertainly, flipping through some of his index cards.
"Ooh, here's a good one. For 500 points: which cartoon, created by Osamu Tezuka in 1952, became a national icon in Japanese culture?"
You buzz in. "Astro Boy," you say.
"Correct!"
Vivian yawns. "I don't know much about cartoons," she says. "Cartoons are for children."
This remains the only 500 points you score all day. By the end of Quiz Bowl, the score is VIVIAN - 10,300; ALABASTER - 500.
Near the end, Mr. Langley offers a math question worth 500 points: "What is the derivative of f(x) = x^x d/dy?"
He hands out slips of paper for you to write on, and everyone has thirty seconds. You write frantically, working it out as quickly as possible. Vivian doesn't even touch her paper. You buzz in first.
"x^x times quantity natural log of x plus one," you say triumphantly."
"Incorrect," Mr. Langley says. He erases your score.
Vivian buzzes in instantly. "Zero," she says.
"Correct!"
Vivian smiles at you in a way that says: "I knew you would fuck it up, and I let you."
"Well..." Mr. Langley says. "I think that's all for today."
Behind you, Rose is scribbling something on her clipboard. You wish you could die.
You leave the Quiz Bowl room before anyone has a chance to speak to you -- least of all Vivian. But she catches up to you in the next hallway over.
"I won," she says simply.
"I let you win," you lie. "Are you happy now?"
"You failed to deliver your essence yesterday. I was forced to resort to alternate means."
"I don't even know what you're talking about. You need to go on risperdal or something."
"I'm glad I was able to show you my superiority. I wish you had been more of a challenge."
You're surprised at how even-headed she is about this. "Why me?" you ask.
"It's of no importance anymore. It turned out that you're worse than worthless. You're basically not human. You certainly don't have the intelligence of one. Where is Alabaster I knew three years ago?"
"Three years ago? I never met you before the first day of class, when you started to go fucking schizo on me."
"Will you admit now, and truthfully, that you are nothing compared to me?"
"Ahem--" comes a voice from behind. You turn. It's Rose.
Vivian turns too, giving Rose an appraising glance, sizing her up. They stand at the exact same height: Vivian pale and frail, Rose peachy and healthy.
"Are you menacing this poor boy?" Rose asks, her hands clasped neatly in front of her.
"This is none of your concern. Go play bureaucrat somewhere else."
"Micro-aggression like this fosters an environment of fear. I will not tolerate that on school grounds. Cease and desist at once."
Vivian pokes Rose in the forehead. "You are nothing to me. Just some low-class drone with delusions of grandeur. I can crush you like an ant if I want."
Rose smiles warmly, her face registering no shock and certainly no fear. Vivian starts to say something else, but her voice gets cut off in a choking gasp when Rose grabs her by the throat and pins her against the lockers.
There is no loud bang or other sounds of scuffle -- the couple of students passing by don't even notice what has happened -- but there is no mistaking that Rose has, with one swift motion, overpowered Vivian. Her hand grips Vivian's lily-white neck dangerously tight.
"Your billions will not help you here," Rose says. "This is my turf. I make the rules. Stay away from Alabaster."
Rose steps back, and Vivian falls to all fours. She clutches at her neck and coughs.
Rose looks up at you, as if expecting you to say something. "I don't know what to say," you admit.
"You'll have time to thank me later," Rose says. Her cheshire grin makes you shudder. She goes, her heels echoing down the hall.
That night, you have trouble sleeping. Whitney hasn't contacted you all day, which you find worrying -- what is she planning? And the humiliation at Quiz Bowl is another matter. You feel like you could vomit.
As you lie tossing and turning in bed, you hear your door open softly. It isn't the usual boisterousness with which Cerise breaks into your room, but when you steal a glance toward the threshold, you can see from her silhouette in the light of the hallway that it's her.
You pretend to be asleep as she shuts the door behind her. She walks gently over to your bed and sits down.
"Alabaster," she says. You don't reply. "Alabaster."
She sighs. There's a long pause, then: "I'm begging you."
"What?" You say instantly, unable to stop yourself.
"I'm begging you. Okay? I tried to call Stackleford to ask him to come to my review panel tomorrow morning. But I could smell him over the fucking phone. He can't represent the club. He says the word nigger like a normal person says hello. So I'm out of options. I don't want anime club disbanded. Please help me. If you get off on knowing that I'm begging you, then fine. This club is all I have."
[X] Okay.
[ ] No.
"Welll-- if you beg a little more..."
Cerise slugs you in the dark.
"Fine, fine," you say. "Let me sleep, then, instead of assaulting me. When do we have to be there?"
"10 AM," Cerise says. "And your ass better be up and ready by 9. And for the love of God, wear something clean for once in your life."
She stands and goes, but stops herself at the threshold. "Thank you," she says in a soft voice, as if she doesn't really want you to hear, and then shuts the door behind her.
--------
The review panel is in the gym. You wait outside with Cerise while another club defends their existence. At 10 AM, as the Napping Club files out with their heads bowed low, you can tell the news probably isn't great.
A polo-wearing student council thug pokes his head out of the gymnasium doors. "Next," he grunts. "Anime Club. Let's go, we don't want to keep Rose waiting."
You walk in.
The panel is set up like a courtroom, the student council sitting at high benches surmounted by pedestals, with Rose sitting like a queen on the throne at the center. The council flips through notes and exchanges files with one another while you and Cerise stand before them.
"Ah-nee-may Club," Rose says, looking at her files. "Tell me a little about yourselves."
Cerise gives it the best spin possible: appreciating Japanese culture through the viewing of animated television shows and film.
"Points for diversity," says one of the student council members.
Rose frowns.
"I've been doing some research into ahh-ne-may," Rose says. "Let's set aside your imprudent hijinks during club hours with... soiled undergarments."
You wince.
"These-- Japanese cartoons, are they not prime exemplars of R-word culture?"
You wince again.
"Do they not portray a world where men reign supreme, and women are at their every beck and call? Do they not portray women and girls as weak, submissive, even childlike in comparison to the dominant male?"
Nods of approval from the rest of the council. They all look very serious.
"That's not true," Cerise insists. "In fact, the show we're watching now is just the opposite of that! NeeKyu is about a main character who can't do anything right on his own, and needs his sister to come save him. The male lead is incompetent, and surrounded by capable women!"
"And yet," Rose says, flipping through her notes, "at the end of this series, the male lead has intercourse with more than one of the girls?"
"Explicitly so," one of the female council members chimes in.
"Well yes, but--" Cerise starts.
"So is not the message here that even strong-willed, independent women are nonetheless powerless to resist any man -- even an incompetent, ineffectual, weak-willed dog like Nee-kee-you's main character?"
"That's not it at all," Cerise fumes. "You don't understand..."
[X] Make your impassioned defense.
[ ] Wait.
"If I can speak--" you start, stepping forward.
"Please do," Rose says. "I'd like to hear from a club member."
"I know some series can seem a little seamy," you admit. "After all, a lot of anime is just for teenage boys to find sexy. A lot of these shows, they're fantasy worlds for inexperienced teenagers-- for losers who don't get any real social interaction-- losers sort of like me, I guess."
Cerise and Rose both look at you strangely.
"And you know me, Rose," you continue. "I'm harmless, right? Fantasy is all it amounts to."
"Dangerous fantasies," Rose says.
"--But a lot of shows can be progressive, too. NeeKyu isn't the best example. Maybe you should watch the films of Miyazaki -- so many of those are about young girls finding inner strength and succeeding in a dangerous world -- or NGE, where the heroines are brave and strong, and the males are variously evil or stupid, and not one of them gets fu-- I mean, there isn't any explicit sex-- and shows like Monster offer mature, serious depictions of popular genres like film noir, comparable to any well-produced movie-- and..."
You continue like this for several minutes, listing as many mainstream, socially acceptable examples as you can ramble off the top of your head. Cerise looks both impressed at your argumentative abilities and your conviction.
At the end, you ask: "and as for you-- all of you, have any of you seen any of these shows?"
"I used to watch Pokemon," one of the student council members offers. Rose gives him a displeased look.
"Then how can you condemn us? Instead, please come to anime club on Monday. We can show you what we're all about. Right, Cerise?"
"Yes. Yes, that sounds good," Cerise agrees. "Drop in and observe us."
Rose appears to think for a few moments.
"Perhaps," is all she will say, but something in her voice seems changed. "Now please go. We will deliberate your case with due haste. Expect to hear from us on Monday."
Cerise spends the night on the phone with every member of the anime club, telling them how important it is that they be on best behavior come Monday.
"That means no fucking cosplay, or glomping, or fedoras--" a pause as she listens to the other end-- "No, Connor, you can't wear your fedora. No. No. Fuck you. I will burn it if I see it."
You sit on Cerise's bed and help her on particularly difficult calls. When she can't deal with Stackleford, she hands the phone to you. "Goddamn it, Stackleford. It's not okay to say nigger just because you went to the MLK memorial. I don't care if I'm 'crimping your style!' No, you can't say nigga, either! Shut up. Jesus. Shut up. I can still teach your mom how to search your internet history, you know."
And so it goes. By 10 PM, you're both wiped. After the last call, you fall back on Cerise's bed and sigh. "Why am I even doing this?" you wonder aloud.
"I guess your hatred of Rose outweighs your hatred of me," Cerise offers.
"I don't hate you." It came out so fast that you couldn't stop it. Cerise blinks. "I mean," you add, "just because you're family. So all I'm allowed is a baseline level of strong dislike."
"I strongly dislike you, too," Cerise says.
Somehow that feels like progress. Progress for what? You wonder.
END OF EPISODE 4.