8
When the time is ripe, Hachiman Hikigaya makes his speech.
Late at night, I was on my home computer, checking all the fake accounts we were running. In the three days since the creation of these accounts, I’d been glued to Twitter at almost all hours, pulling strings here and there.
Of course, not every student in school had a Twitter account, and some people weren’t interested in the student council elections. There were dead accounts, too, and my tweets were often ignored. At one point, I stopped making much progress with retweets, so I added another Hayama support account.
Thanks to that, though I was far from the 1,200 of the total school population, I’d managed to break through my goal number. Thanks so much for your help, Hayama.
Now I could finally talk with Iroha Isshiki, and then Yukino Yukinoshita and Yui Yuigahama afterward. I’d managed to create enough to negotiate with.
But now, for the finishing touches.
Computer still on, I reached out to my cell phone.
I wonder if I have Zaimokuza’s number, I thought as I looked at my contacts list to discover it wasn’t there after all.
“Agh…”
Thinking about it now, I must have not registered it because I’d figured I’d never use it anyway. Or had I erased it…? My memories on this were vague.
Oh, he’d be in my call history.
When I realized this, I tried looking at my call history. Most of it was Komachi, but when I scrolled back to around the time of the cultural festival, I found an unfamiliar number. Oh yeah, I did call him then…
This device is basically a multifunctional alarm clock featuring additional phone functionality with call history that never quite disappears, but I should probably give credit where it’s due on that point.
I called the number in my history.
He picked up before even one ring was over. “’Tis I.”
He was the only person who would answer the phone like that. “Hey, Zaimokuza?”
“Herm, what is your business? I’m playing a game on my phone, so I’d like you to hurry it up.”
Oh, that’s why he picked up after one ring. And here I was getting freaked out, thinking he had to be constantly waiting for me to call him. Well, I didn’t want to take up much of his time. Let’s get this done quickly.
“Sorry. It’s about the Twitter accounts. There’s something I wanted to ask you to do.”
“Ferm?”
I couldn’t really tell if that reply meant yes or no, but I told him what I wanted anyway.
It wasn’t anything that difficult. Just a little change in the configuration.
Of course, upon hearing my request, Zaimokuza the Great Computer Adept would not decline. However, his reply to me was a little inarticulate. “Herm, well, such minor configuration changes would be quick to implement, but…”
“Then you handle the accounts you’re managing. I’ll do it for the ones I’m managing.”
“I mind not, but… But is this a good idea, Hachiman?” The consideration for me was unusual, especially coming from Zaimokuza.
Making an effort to speak calmly, I replied, “Is what a good idea?”
“…I would not call this technique praiseworthy… ’Twill bring danger…,” Zaimokuza said gravely after a few seconds of silence. For something worded in such silly terms, I felt like I could hear a hidden seriousness in his breathing through my smartphone speaker.
As I was wondering how to answer that, he interrupted my thoughts, practically yelling, “Oh, but don’t get the wrong idea! I’m not worried about you! I’m afeared I’ll be taken as responsible for this, since I’m carrying it out, and that you might mayhap cut the lizard’s tail here, to boot. I pronounce to you here and now that in that case, I’m prepared to expose you.”
“You’re awful. It’s so refreshing.” I couldn’t help but smile. It was hard to tell with this guy if he was speaking seriously or if he meant this as a roundabout warning. “It’ll be okay. Only we know where these accounts really come from. Even if people wanted to find out who they really are, the people described in these accounts don’t actually exist. So nobody’ll get hurt.”
“I hope so…” He was still doubtful.
But I had some wonderful words to offer him. “Did you know, Zaimokuza? …As long as you don’t make a problem a problem, it won’t be a problem.”
“…I believe you are even more awful, Hachiman.”
“I don’t want to hear that from you. Anyway, just do it.”
“Herm, then you leave me with no choice. I only ask that it shall not be made my fault! Truly!”
“I get it… See you,” I said, and then without waiting for his reply, I hung up. That part at the end sounded kinda like he was shouting for real…
But Zaimokuza’s worries were groundless. No matter which way things rolled, he wouldn’t be taking any blame.
Refreshing the browser, I confirmed that the configuration of the accounts he’d been handling were changed.
Now I just had to print it all out.
Until that finished, I leaned against the sofa, looking up at the ceiling.
Friday dawned. It was the day of the final battle.
But it wasn’t as if there was going to be a final vote. In fact, the point of that day was to prevent that, to keep a fight from happening. So it would be more accurate to call this a conclusion rather than a final battle.
Though I could only put it in such a cool-sounding way up until the end of third period. Once fourth started, unsurprisingly, I was getting nervous.
After this, a gamble awaited me.
During fourth period, all I was considering was how to make this more likely to succeed. No, maybe it wasn’t quite right to call it considering. I was endlessly going over pointless thoughts again and again, as if they were wordplay or logic puzzles, to ease my anxiety.
The passing time was like a bed of needles. All I had on my mind was how many more minutes were left as I glanced at the clock.
Eventually, that ended, too. Class was over, and the instant the bell rang, I left the classroom first. When I did, I didn’t forget to bring the plastic file folder I’d prepared the day before.
I was heading to 1-C—Iroha Isshiki’s class.
I didn’t know her behavioral patterns. I had no clue where she normally was during lunch break, either. That was why the only time I could catch her was at this time, right after class.
I ran through a number of simulations in my head on what I should say to address her, or how I should ask someone to call her for me. It’s okay, I made sure to practice this in front of my bathroom mirror. No problem…probably… I’m kinda uneasy about this…
But in no time, as I was wrapped up in my worries, I arrived at classroom C.
I stealthily peeked inside the open door. You know, like a real creeper. It must have been unusual for students from other grades to come by, as I could sense people here and there watching me… I had better get this done before I got reported!
Taking a look around, I found Isshiki at the back of the class by the window with some friends, right about to open up her lunch… Guess I have to get someone to call her for me. It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay, I practiced this so much… Hachiman, you can do it! (said in the voice of Saika Totsuka). Okay, I can do this.
There were three boys with glasses near the entrance. I called out to that group. “Um… Excuse me?” I’d been so careful not to sound shrill, my voice wound up coming out weirdly low.
“Y-yeah…?” one of them replied, but the other two looked ready to start whispering about me. Well, that was no surprise.
Don’t let it bother you; push through. “Can you call Isshiki for me?”
“Huh…” The boy answered vaguely. He was reluctant, but he did go call Isshiki for me.
Upon receiving this message, Isshiki’s head swiftly jerked in my direction, then immediately, she looked disappointed. Sorry, it’s me.
She came over to me cheerfully, putting a smile on. “Did you need somethiiing?”
“There’s something I want you to help me with concerning the student council election,” I said.
Isshiki cringed apologetically. “Ah…so after school wouldn’t work? Um, we’re having lunch, so…?”
I’d assumed she’d refuse, so I’d already anticipated this answer. Filling my dull eyes with as much willpower as I could, I pushed through with a stern tone. “Nope.”
“No, huh…?” She folded her arms for a while and groaned, but eventually, she seemed ready to do what she had to. “All right. Please wait a sec, ’kaaay?” she said, then trotted back to her desk, put away her lunch, and trotted up to me again. “So what are we doing?”
“Could you come with me to the library? I just need a little something done.”
“Agh… Fiiine.”
For a moment there, she had this really begrudging look…
The library at lunchtime was completely silent—probably because few people used it around noon in the first place, and the atmosphere there was always bleak at this time of year.
In one corner of this quiet library, I heard a particularly loud sigh.
It was coming from right in front of me. “Agh…” Iroha Isshiki sighed again deeply, as if she was trying to tell me something. And then she looked over at me. “Do I haaaave to do this?”
“Uh, look, though, you don’t want to be president, right…? Besides, there’s no one else to help, so we’ve got to plug away at this while we have the time,” I said, and Isshiki pouted, puffing her cheeks. She’s so pushy…
“…I guess? But it’s so much work to copy all this down!”
I had requested that she transcribe the list of nominator retweets we’d gathered using the fake accounts onto the nominator register. It really was a pain…
The simple task of transcribing these names was a boring job. And doing it with her, I felt her pain.
And this meant Isshiki began to place more relative weight on chatting. Or maybe it was a defensive strategy on her part, just talking to get through the awkwardness of being with someone like me. So I doubt she was enjoying talking to me.
Well, it wasn’t great that her writing was slowing down, but this wasn’t a bad direction to be headed.
“Oh, so, like,” she said, “was that girl you were hanging out with before Hayama’s girlfriend?”
“I dunno.”
“C’mon, you can tell me!”
“Once you’re done with this.”
“Well, she doesn’t seem like much of a problem, so I guess it’s fine…”
She’s scary, mumbling stuff like that to herself…
She probably wouldn’t act like this in front of Hayama. Often, when women show weaknesses to men, it’s not because they’re looking for anything—they just don’t see you as a romantic interest, so they let things slip (I can personally verify this). You might say that still counts as a woman with a heavy guard showing goodwill, but very often she legitimately hates you (I can personally verify this, too).
Isshiki continued to chatter to stem the tide of boredom. “Are you friends with Hayama?”
“No, not at all. That was a coincidence. I accompanied them only because a former classmate asked me to.”
“Oh, then come hang out with me. We’ll invite Hayama and go together.”
“Uh, how about no…” I’m really getting used as a pretext here. You might as well paste me in at the beginning of this book.
But whatever the case, I’d been thinking to broach the subject of Hayama, so this was convenient. From where we were in the conversation, it made it easy to ask, too. “So, uh, do you li… What do you think of Hayama?” Without thinking, I changed it to a vaguer question. I am, of course, the pure maiden Hachiman Hikigaya and a little embarrassed to say the word like in romantic contexts.
But my ambiguous manner of speaking must have come off as weird and creepy, as Isshiki’s mouth dropped open, and then she panicked into a bow. “Wh-what? Are you hitting on me? I’m sorry, not gonna happen. I like someone else.”
She rejected me so naturally. Instantaneous defeat… What is this, Ramenman? We hadn’t even fought yet, though…
“I’m not hitting on you… I just wanted to know what you think of him.”
“Hmm, I dunnooo…? Personally, I guess I’d say I do.”
“Oh, I see, ‘kinda like,’ huh? Kinda…”
“I think he’s kinda nice, and…yeah, I’d like to get my hands—hold hands with him and stuff?”
She was about to say get my hands on him… That bitch in fluffy sheep’s clothing.
But I’d been able to phrase the question I’d wanted to ask.
Now I could begin negotiations with Iroha Isshiki with confidence.
I’d never quite been able to figure her out, until now—partly because I’d only become acquainted with her recently but also because there’s such a great difference in our positions and environments. Most of all, I don’t think I’d seen the core elements of her character.
But now, I figured I’d lined up all the pieces—through the conversations I’d had with Isshiki and through the course of my own life.
Iroha Isshiki has a shrewdness about her, the ability to use her immaturity and innocence. This is something my little sister, Komachi Hikigaya, also has. However, Isshiki lacks that core of sweetness and cuteness. So I could liken her to a completely uncute Komachi.
In terms of her social mask and calculated nature, she’s Haruno Yukinoshita—but not nearly as skilled. For that reason, I could call her a lesser Haruno.
The fluffy and gentle feel to her is a lot like Meguri, but she’s a fundamentally different type of person. Therefore, Iroha Isshiki is a pseudo-Meguri.
Her desire to have people fawning over her might be fairly similar to Sagami, but she seems better at it than Sagami is. This makes Iroha Isshiki like an ultra-intense Sagami.
It’s occurred to me that her behavioral principle of creating a character of herself and attempting to maintain it is close to Kaori Orimoto’s behavior. Thus, Iroha Isshiki is a variant type of Orimoto.
Taking the above into consideration, I should be able to derive her tendencies and how she should be dealt with.
She isn’t particularly proud, so when flattery is the most effective method, she’ll charm who she needs to, and she takes care to ensure she will be loved well into the future. On the other hand, she has no intention of giving herself out freely and is cautious not to hurt her own reputation. Basically, she wants to protect her own brand image.
This is exactly why she didn’t want a vote of confidence—because there was a risk the vote of confidence style of election would harm her image. There was nothing she’d hate more than a fight she would obviously win. Running in a contest like that wouldn’t make her own stock rise.
This mode of thought may be similar to that of a manager of a conservative, midsize business.
So then we should be able to have a businesslike conversation.
My silence must have made Isshiki bored again, because she was starting to wheedle a little. “Heeeey, Hikigaya, is there really any point to doing this? It’s a lot of trouble to write it by hand, too…”
“Well, you’re not wrong…”
“You’re being kinda vague here…” She shot an annoyed expression at me.
“Whether you do it or not, Yukinoshita or Yuigahama will win. So in that sense, it is pointless… You can’t beat them, no matter what you do.”
“Huh, that’s kinda mean. Well, I don’t feel like I have to win, though…,” Isshiki commented with a smile, as if warding off a joke.
With incredible seriousness and complete earnestness, I replied, “Don’t worry. You won’t. I promise you that.”
Her eyebrow twitched for a second. “Y-yeah, for sure. So, like, if I did actually win, it’d be weird, huh?”
I nodded and continued dispassionately. “Hayama’s doing Yukinoshita’s campaign speech after all.”
“Ohhh yeah, that’s right, huh?”
“And Yuigahama has Miura with her.”
“Yeah, Miura…”
It was helpful that she reacted to that name. I was aware there was some bad blood between Isshiki and Miura. Hoping to kindle that, I kept talking. “Besides, Yuigahama is both Hayama’s classmate and his friend, and Hayama and Yukinoshita have known each other since they were kids.”
“Yeah…? Wait, really? That long?” Isshiki clearly must not have known about Hayama and Yukinoshita’s relationship, as her last question came out more intense than before.
“I think it’s obvious if you just look at them, but that’s the kind of people they are. Invincible in every way.”
“Agh, well…” Isshiki uttered a sound somewhere between a sigh and a moan.
If I were to offer my extremely personal opinion…
I’m sure there are no girls in this school more amazing than those two—probably no matter where else you looked.
Noticing that Isshiki was gradually speaking less and less, I pressed her further. “Besides, even the ones who recommended you probably won’t actually vote for you.”
“Agh…”
“I’m sure they’re laughing it up now. Then they’ll see you lose and laugh some more.”
“…” This time she didn’t reply.
But I kept talking. “Pretty aggravating, huh?”
There was the sound of a mechanical pencil lead snapping. That was the only sound in the room, and it made my voice sound particularly loud.
“They think they’re allowed to trash-talk you because you’re a little conspicuous. They’re fooling around, they tell themselves. It’s a joke; they’re just teasing.”
Isshiki’s hand was no longer moving. Her eyes were on the mechanical pencil in her hand.
“You’ve got to give as hard as you get, after all…”
“…Agh, well, it’d be nice if I could do it,” she muttered.
I fired back at her with honesty. “You can.”
Isshiki’s shoulders twitched. Noticing this, I deliberately spoke slowly. “They’ve pulled this sneaky crap on you to show their contempt for you and hurt you. So then you should turn it back on them and get the best results out of the situation they created.”
If, just possibly— If, to a girl, half the girls were her enemies, if Iroha Isshiki really did like Hayato Hayama…
…then I had no choice but to bet on that. I had to bet on Iroha Isshiki’s pride as a girl.
“Yukinoshita has Hayama’s support, and Yuigahama has Miura’s support. Don’t you want to try beating those two?”
Those words made Isshiki lift her head.
But then she immediately put on a shallow business smile. “But I can’t win, can I? And if I did, I’d have so many other problems to deal with?”
I think Iroha Isshiki is a fairly smart girl. She has a proper understanding of her own value and acts in a way that’s desired of her. But she’s also cunning enough to use that attitude only when it’s useful to her.
And because she’s smart, she would understand exactly how far Yukinoshita and Yuigahama were above her. So I had to eliminate that restraint, or Isshiki wouldn’t challenge them.
“Just what do you think I’ve been having you write?” I asked her.
“It’s the nominator register, right?”
“That’s right…but this is your nominator register.”
“What the—? Uh, wait… Huuuh?”
You don’t have to correct yourself to sound cuter (and I say this out of the goodness of my heart).
I pulled a different stack of paper, not the list, out of my plastic file folder. These were printouts of all the retweets on Iroha Isshiki’s support account. I laid them out one by one in front of her.
“Um, but I already got all my nominations…”
“The range for nominators is thirty or more. You can gather as many as you like.”
Isshiki took the printouts in hand, examining them carefully.
I added, “A little over four hundred. That’s how many supporters you have.”
“…”
Had she done the math to understand what that number meant?
Eventually, she figured it out and jerked her hand away from the papers. “Th-this is too sudden; I can’t! I—I mean, I haven’t even been thinking about a speech or anything like that!”
“Do you still have the paper with the election promises Yukinoshita talked about?” I said suddenly.
Though confused, Isshiki replied, “Huh? Ah, probably.”
“Good, let’s go with that.”
This made Isshiki fall into thought. “Hmm… Then wouldn’t that make me a puppet?”
“Not at all,” I said.
Isshiki tilted her head, question marks in her expression.
I smirked a little. “It’s not like you’re actually going to follow through with it. You don’t call someone who doesn’t do as they’re told a puppet. Nobody keeps their election promises anyway, and nobody is expecting you to, either.”
“Isn’t that worse than being a puppet?” Isshiki asked, exasperated. But that annoyed smile quickly faded, too. “…But, like, even if I did become president, I don’t think I could do it in the end, you knooow? Like, I just don’t really have much confidence. And I have my club…”
Of course Isshiki would feel uneasy.
If she threw caution to the wind and chose to become student council president now, clumsiness and failure later on would hurt her brand image. Right now, risk and return lay in the balance, and the scales were wavering.
I had to transform that risk, that drawback, into something advantageous to her. “Well, it’s true that it’d be hard to do both at once. But there’s a lot to gain from doing it, too. What do you think that is?”
“What? …Well, experience, and goodwill from teachers, I guess? And heeey, you sound like a teacher.” Isshiki gave me a dull look, relentlessly communicating what she was thinking: If this is just a boring lecture, I don’t need it.
But I couldn’t have her underestimating me. “…No, that’s not it. What you’ll gain is an image. ‘It’s so hard to be student council president as a first-year, but I’m trying so hard and going to club activities, too! I’m so brave!’” I tried to say it as cutely and Isshiki-like as I could.
But she just quietly muttered, “Whoa…”
Oh, it’s no good ’cause it’s like one of those overly long titles, huh?
But I cleared my throat and continued, and Isshiki did react better to what I said next. “If you’re a first-year, people don’t mind as much when you screw up, even though ability-wise, there isn’t much difference between first- and second-years,” I said.
Isshiki looked at me with surprise, and when our eyes met, I gave her one more push. “What’s more, if you’re doing both, when things are a drag with student council, you can use your club as an excuse, and the reverse is true, too… These two things will be an advantage available only to you.”
“B-but, like…it’s still gonna be haaard, right?” Isshiki was fidgeting her shoulders. This was the most positive reaction thus far.
Like Isshiki said, if she were to become president now, she’d be a puppet—no, even less than that. She wouldn’t be able to do anything on her own. But that was exactly what might make her fitting as president. Needing help and protection and having a lot of people, including Hayama, doting on her was her greatest virtue and merit.
Simply put: “Times like that, you should just talk to Hayama. If you’d like, have him help you. He’ll be with you the whole year. If you go out to eat after club to talk to him, he might even walk you home after that,” I said, all in one breath.
Isshiki blinked. “…Are you actually smart?”
“I guess.” And being a malicious jerk was the price.
Isshiki let out a sigh with a smile that could have been sincere or sarcastic. “Well…if I have all this support, I don’t have a choice, do I? That proposal is fairly attractive… And besides, I don’t want the class laughing at me behind my back…”
She punctuated her response there and then revealed an exceptionally mean smile. “So I’ll let you trick me into this.”
Strangely enough…
…I found myself thinking this smile was cuter.
I slowly walked through the hallway of the special-use building. Though it had only been a few days, seeing it felt particularly nostalgic.
The post-school bustle, the commotion of the students, the calls from clubs coming from outside, and the brass band that could be heard from a distance all felt nostalgic.
I stood before the clubroom and put my hand on the door. It wasn’t locked. It seemed they were already here. I blew out a little breath and entered the clubroom.
The faint smell of black tea hung in the air.
Yukinoshita and Yuigahama sat in their usual seats, but they weren’t talking.
Yukinoshita would normally have been reading a book, but that day she was sitting up straight in silence. Yuigahama, beside her, wasn’t on her phone. She glanced over at Yukinoshita, looking uncomfortable.
Understandable.
There were already rumors spreading that Yukinoshita and Yuigahama were going to run in the election for president. I’d had my eye on Twitter, and people there had been talking about it.
Of course, Yukinoshita would also be aware that Yuigahama was going to announce candidacy. That was why Yuigahama must have been worried about what Yukinoshita would say.
But that would end, too, right here and now.
“Sorry to make you wait,” I addressed them before pulling out a chair to sit in my usual seat.
Yukinoshita looked at me, then opened her mouth, which until now had been pulled in a tight line. “It’s unusual for you to expressly call us here.”
“Oh, I figured we’d come up with our final decision,” I said.
Yukinoshita seemed a little surprised, and then her gaze slid down. As if considering, she repeated slowly, “Our final decision…?”
“Yeah.” I looked over at Yuigahama, who was silent, looking at me. She was waiting for me to speak.
Even if our methods were different, it would be best to come to a conclusion as a club—with the matter of a one-time item like this, especially so.
The student council election was a one-time deal. There could be no trial and error. This opportunity existed only at this time, in this moment. Since we couldn’t test things out multiple times, it would best to work out a common policy in the end.
“You haven’t changed your minds?” I confirmed one last time, though I knew how they would answer.
Yukinoshita gave me a hard expression. Without the sharpness in her eyes softening even slightly, she immediately declared, “No. This plan is the best one.”
Her tone was firm at its core, piercing through me like a physical strike.
The forceful pressure of it made me hesitate. The clubroom went dead silent.
And then came the quietest whisper. But its stillness meant it made that much more of an impression. “…I…haven’t changed my mind, either.” Yuigahama didn’t look at us at all, silently staring at her desk.
In the presence of the serious aura Yuigahama emitted, Yukinoshita bit her lip. “Yuigahama, there’s no reason for you to run…”
“I’m going to. And I’ll win.” Her quiet voice was stubborn, and there was no sense she would give in. I couldn’t read her expression; her face was still directed at the floor.
In a weak, quiet voice, her narrowed eyes lonely as if she was witnessing something heartbreaking, something sorrowful, Yukinoshita questioned Yuigahama’s drooping profile. “Why you, too…?”
“…Because if you go, Yukinon, the club’ll disappear… I don’t want that,” Yuigahama replied, voice trembling.
Yukinoshita slowly assembled an admonishment. “I said before—that won’t happen. So there’s no need for you to run, too.”
“But…!” Yuigahama raised her face to protest, but staring at Yukinoshita made her lose the rest of what she was going to say.
I picked up after that. “You don’t actually have to run in the election, Yuigahama… Or you, Yukinoshita.”
“What do you mean?” Yukinoshita asked, giving me an accusatory look. Her eyes were sharply narrowed. “I believe I rejected your plan.”
Yes, she’d rejected it thoroughly, saying that my belief that I could make things work out on my own somehow was completely arrogant. And then Hayama had taught me just how people will see me, and how they will force their own arbitrary opinions on me, no matter what my expectations are… Well, someone else helped me realize it might be more than that.
“…Yeah, that’s why that isn’t my plan. I’ve…dropped that sort of thing.” It really would be different from my methods thus far. I’d spent more time taking the time to hedge my risks. I had cleared the conditions levied on me.
“…” Yukinoshita went silent, as if she was a little bewildered. She seemed surprised I’d backed down so easily.
“Then…why don’t we have to run?” Yuigahama asked timidly, worried about what I might say.
But my answer was incredibly normal. It wasn’t anything much. “Isshiki wants to be student council president now. So the request itself doesn’t exist anymore,” I said.
Yukinoshita and Yuigahama were both dumbstruck.
Yukinoshita said doubtfully, “Why all of a sudden…?”
“It’s less that it’s sudden and more like our original assumptions were wrong.”
Yukinoshita, Yuigahama, and I had all been approaching this the wrong way.
If she wasn’t into it, letting her quit without a fuss was one way of doing it. But there was one more way—and that was to get her into it. To cancel out the problem itself.
“It wasn’t like Isshiki didn’t want to be president. She just didn’t want to lose the vote of confidence, or to get elected through a method by which she would inevitably win—like the vote of confidence—and end up looking bad as student council president.”
There was someone here who wasn’t going to listen to others and was mentally writing their own success story—and that person wouldn’t be satisfied unless things went according to their script.
There was also someone here who had created a precise character and meant to maintain that.
Isshiki simply didn’t want to do anything disadvantageous to herself, anything that would cause her value to drop. So all I had to do was eliminate those drawbacks while presenting some advantages.
“That’s why if you clear all those conditions, then she’ll become student council president.”
Listening to me talk, though confused, Yuigahama voiced her doubt. “B-but if we don’t run, then won’t it end up being a vote of confidence, in the end?”
“Yeah, it will. But you have to make sure the vote of confidence is valuable to her. If it doesn’t damage Iroha Isshiki’s brand image, then that’s something else.”
I could tell by the questioning looks in their eyes that they were unconvinced.
But rather than explaining verbally, it would be faster to offer a concrete example. I grabbed my bag. “So I looked for that value.” And then I pulled out the plastic file folder.
The papers inside were the same ones I’d shown to Isshiki—a catalog of the support accounts run by the fictitious people, as well as the people who’d retweeted from those accounts, printed out and made into a list.
“What is this?” Yuigahama asked me, taking one of the papers in hand.
“There were these support accounts running on Twitter. Well, it seems there were accounts for other people, too, and not only the ones for Isshiki I have here.” I was impressed with myself that I had the nerve to speak about this so carelessly when I’d been the one running them all myself. But none of what I’d said was a lie.
Yukinoshita gazed at the printouts and, with some confusion, muttered, “Gathering nominators on the Internet…”
“Not only that. Of all the different accounts, Isshiki’s got the most retweets.”
“In other words, that would functionally make this a preliminary election…,” Yukinoshita murmured.
I nodded back at her.
Even though it had been on Twitter, the fact of her victory would become a rumor that would spread. There had been other candidates, too, but I just had to ensure they’d feel the effects of this functional preliminary election and feel like they’d seen her run for student council president. Even if it didn’t go all that well, it only had to fulfill Isshiki’s sense of self-importance and become reason for her to act.
Yukinoshita looked at the first sheet, then the second, also skimming over the list. Then she breathed a deep sigh. “I see; this is what you were doing… So that was why nobody jumped on board when I talked to them about recommending me…”
I doubt the people Yukinoshita had spoken with were necessarily the same people who had retweeted these posts. But all this nominator gathering on Twitter would have given them space to think about it. And offering multiple choices would cause them to hesitate.
Even if the time each individual hesitated was brief, if that tendency spread, it would cause even greater loss of time. You could say it’s similar to the theory that traffic jams are originally caused by one car at the front suddenly hitting the brakes.
There was the rustle of paper.
Pointing to the printout in front of me, Yukinoshita asked me a question. Her tight grip on it creased the paper. “…Did you do this?”
“These people did it themselves. I don’t know who they are.”
“…I see.”
She didn’t press me any further.
She probably realized it was useless. I wasn’t going to talk, and even if she wanted to find out, you couldn’t identify any individuals based on the information displayed on those accounts.
“This is a lot,” Yuigahama muttered, looking stunned.
“Right? About four hundred or so,” I replied, also looking at the Iroha Isshiki support account printout.
Between Hayama, Miura, Ebina, Isshiki, Totsuka, Sagami, Tobe, and the second Hayama support account I’d added after, the cumulative total number of retweets for all the periodic posts of the eight accounts added together was over four hundred. Hayama was the greatest among them. If you averaged out all the tweets, one tweet probably would not have even twenty retweets. The number had come from the repetition across multiple accounts.
Yes, making use of all these accounts made the number four hundred.
So Isshiki hadn’t gathered that number alone.
The number of Twitter users in Soubu High School was limited, so it would have been impossible for Iroha Isshiki to gather that much support in the first place.
So there was just one lie here.
Twitter has usernames in English letters, plus a Japanese account name, and that can be changed. The Japanese account names and the thumbnail images of all eight accounts we were currently running had been changed the night before to Iroha Isshiki support account.
Those people behind the accounts, who were unknown to anyone, who may or may not actually exist, had changed them.
If you examined these closely, you would immediately discover that the English usernames were different. But those strings of English letters were composed of words like president and support and had nothing to connect them to any individual. So you could make as many excuses as you wanted.
Yukinoshita and Yuigahama were examining the printouts.
If you actually looked closely, you’d find some of the accounts listed were duplicates, and of course, there were a lot of anonymous ones, too.
It was a bluff.
But if it could get me through this day, this moment, it would be enough.
Yuigahama put the printout she held on the desk and quietly reached for her cell phone. The gesture made me break out in a sudden cold sweat. Was she going to check online?
But her hand stopped there. She seemed to abandon the idea, touching her phone before she slid her hand away again.
The account names were still, in fact, as I had changed them. That was why even if she did confirm on the spot, it should show the same thing as these printouts.
As long as the fake accounts had followers, this was a risky method.
But because of the way Twitter works, if you’re not posting, your account’s tweets won’t be displayed at the top of your followers’ timelines. Since I hadn’t made any tweets that day, the name change of the fake accounts would be unlikely to be seen by the followers. And the followers’ timelines were always being updated, new posts piling up one after another. This would chase the tweets of these fake accounts down and down until they were hidden.
Of course, some followers might notice that the current display names were different. But if I could pull the wool over their eyes for just this one day, after that, I would delete everything, accounts and all. Everything would disappear.
There were two reasons for the existence of these fake accounts.
The first was as evidence to make Iroha Isshiki interested in being president.
Secondly, as a deterrence to Yukinoshita. It simply had to buy time, make her spend more resources to gather all her nominators, while also functioning as data indicating the possibility of Isshiki getting elected. And if I could stop Yukinoshita, then Yuigahama would also lose her motivation for announcing candidacy.
“I see… There are over four hundred, aren’t there…?” Yukinoshita muttered upon seeing the list.
The total population of the school was 1,200. In other words, if there were three candidates, then via simple math, you would need more than four hundred votes to get elected. Based on that, Iroha Isshiki stood a chance.
This was enough of an explanation. I gathered up the printouts, lining them up evenly on the desk, then put them in my bag.
“Nothing’s preventing Isshiki from becoming president now. So…” I looked at the two girls and said slowly, “There’s no need for either of you to be president anymore.”
It had taken me quite a long time to get to this one trivial line. But this was my conclusion. Nobody would be hurt, nobody would be accused of wrongdoing, nobody would be blamed. The responsibility and the injury would disappear along with the account data.
Yuigahama breathed a sigh. “What a relief… Then it’s resolved…” Her shoulders relaxed, as if freed from her fatigue, and finally, she smiled.
I relieved the tension in my own shoulders, rotating my neck.
Then my eyes focused on…a single person.
Yukino Yukinoshita was silent.
Quiet, without making a single sound, like a well-made porcelain doll. Her eyes were translucent like glass or gemstones, and so cold.
This should have been the Yukinoshita I knew: collected, quiet, calm, and refined, with conventionally beautiful looks.
But now there was a fragility there, like if you were to touch her, she would disappear.
“…I see,” she said with a sigh, raising her head. But she wasn’t looking at me or Yuigahama. “Then…the problem…and the reason for me to do anything…is gone, isn’t it…?” She looked far away, out the window.
“Yeah, that’s what it means…” I followed her gaze but saw only the same scenery as ever. The setting sun, the clear void of the sky. But the barren trees were swaying sadly.
“…Yes,” Yukinoshita replied briefly, then gently lowered her face and closed her eyes as if sleeping.
“You thought you had everything figured out, didn’t you…?”
Yukinoshita’s remark wasn’t directed at anyone. That gave it an empty ring, somehow.
Those words stirred my heart.
But she spoke as if expressing nostalgia for a distant past, as if mourning something that had ended, forbidding me from questioning it.
Yukinoshita quietly got to her feet. “—I’ll report to Miss Hiratsuka and Meguri.”
“W-we’ll come, too.” Yuigahama’s chair scraped as she stood.
But Yukinoshita stopped her with a calm smile. “I’ll be fine on my own… If my explanation goes on long and I’m late coming back, you can leave without me. I’ll return the key,” she said and left the clubroom.
Her attitude, and her smile at Yuigahama, shouldn’t have been any different from usual.
So then why was it that I was trying to find differences in it?
There was another stirring of unease in my heart. Yukinoshita’s remark wouldn’t leave my ears.
Then, for the first time, I figured it out.
What if, for argument’s sake…her real motive in running was something else?
I remembered too late.
Yukinoshita had known the details of the election protocol. I’d assumed that was a manifestation of her knowledgeability, her intelligence.
Yukinoshita had said she didn’t mind doing it. I’d assumed that, like with the cultural festival, this was a manifestation of her antagonism toward her sister, and her tendency to focus on one thing.
But what if…?
What if that had been what she really wanted?
What if I’d been averting my eyes from her true intentions, hiding there among all the things she’d said?
What if I’d interpreted the principles governing her conduct to my personal convenience and acted based on hopeful speculation?
Some people can’t do anything unless they’re given a problem, unless they can find motivation to act.
Some people will still feel conflicted, certain yet uncertain, and the uncertainty will prevent them from action.
I understood that well. So then it wouldn’t be surprising for other people to be like that, too.
But in my mind, I had excluded Yukinoshita from that possibility.
I didn’t know what it was, actually.
It’s not as if we’d talked about it. Even if we had, I wouldn’t get it.
Just…
All that remained was doubt—wondering if I had made some mistake.
The setting sun was streaming into the clubroom.
We waited for Yukinoshita, but it seemed her explanation was taking a while, just as she’d said it might. Though I didn’t know if that was true.
Only Yuigahama and I were in the clubroom now.
A book I wasn’t reading lay open in front of me, while Yuigahama was staring at her cell phone, fingers not moving.
I glanced over at the clock on the wall. It was about time to go home.
When my eyes returned from the clock, they met with Yuigahama’s. She’d been looking at the clock, too. She opened her mouth. “Yukinon’s late, huh…?”
“…Yeah.” With that short answer, I dropped my gaze to the book in my hands again. But I realized it was pointless, and I closed the book.
I struggled to decide what to say. I scratched my head, then began. “…Um, sorry.”
“…Huh? Wh-why are you apologizing?” Startled, Yuigahama stiffened a little.
“Oh, I mean, you put a lot of work into that stuff, right? I mean, like your campaign promises and writing your speech and stuff.”
“Oh, that…” Understanding, Yuigahama relaxed. “It’s okay now.” And then she smiled, her expression relieved.
That was a bit of a weight off my chest. Her popularity and personality aside, she wasn’t all that suited for the practical aspects of the role, but I thought she’d worked really hard. So I felt kind of bad for squashing her efforts. I breathed a little sigh.
“You put a lot of work into stuff, too, didn’t you, Hikki? Look, you haven’t gotten your hair cut, and it’s so scruffy,” Yuigahama said, pointing to my head. Then she suddenly stood. “I’ll fix it.”
“I’m fine.”
Yuigahama ignored my refusal, saying, “Now, now,” as she circled around behind me. Her warm hands gently stroked my hair. I tried dodging them by shaking my head, but she held it in place. “You worked hard, too, huh, Hikki?”
“Not really…”
As we talked, at some point, her hands touching my hair stopped moving, and the back of my head was enveloped in a pressure like a kind embrace. Startled, I tensed up. If I were to move now, I’d increase the area of contact too much. That would be very uncomfortable.
Unable to even twitch, I heard a soft voice in my ear. “This place is important to me, and you kept it safe.”
Her words were horribly kind, and so I closed my eyes. The faint warmth I felt coming gradually from her made me want to listen carefully.
Yuigahama let out a small breath, then slowly began to put the words together. “Listen… I actually did understand…that I probably couldn’t beat Yukinon and that even if I did win and become president, I wouldn’t be able to come to club anymore.” She spoke hesitantly, without any embellishment. That was why I listened in silence.
She continued. “So…it’s all thanks to you, Hikki.”
But no matter how kind her words were, I couldn’t accept them. “…No.”
I don’t think I’d been trying to do anything. I hadn’t even known what I should do. Someone else had made me realize that. The kind words should be directed at her after all.
“Stop messing with my hair.” I brushed her hands away as gently as possible. She stood behind me for a while but then cracked a little smile, pulled up a chair beside me, and sat.
I couldn’t look her in the face. I looked off in some other direction.
Suddenly, she opened her mouth. “You did everything you could!”
“What’s this, all of a sudden?”
She was talking so loud, even though she was beside me. When I turned back to her reflexively, she nodded and said again, loudly, “You did everything you could!”
“Stop it. I didn’t do anything.” All I’d actually done was clack away on Twitter and talk with Isshiki. I hadn’t done anything productive. In fact, I think I’d actually hurt some people’s chances of being productive.
Maybe those feelings of remorse came out a little in my voice. Yuigahama nodded weakly, a wavering smile on her face. “…Yeah, you didn’t do anything that we could see, huh?”
I replied with just a nod. But that made Yuigahama shake her head a little. “But I think if we had seen, we’d find you were doing some pretty awful stuff. I think the way you do things probably isn’t something you can change simply because you want to.”
It was as if she understood what I’d done. Or maybe she’d known about the existence of those accounts. Whatever the case, I knew it wasn’t anything praiseworthy. In fact, you could say hiding it made it even worse.
But if nobody saw it and nobody knew about it, then there was no problem.
“If you haven’t seen it, then you don’t even know if I did anything.”
That’s why we should put an end to this now. We should bury it.
That was what I’d meant to say.
But Yuigahama’s eyes never left me, and she continued to speak. “But even if nobody can see it and nobody blames you, I was thinking it might bother you, Hikki.”
“No, it—”
“…Guilt doesn’t just go away,” she cut me off to say.
Oh, she’s right. It really won’t disappear.
I’m sure I’ll always be wrong about something and live with that sort of insecurity.
So no matter what I do, guilt will follow me around.
“I…couldn’t do anything, but…I still find myself thinking, I guess this is for the best. So I wonder if it’s worse for you,” she said kindly. She was smiling a little sadly. But she was still trying to be considerate to me.
That was why her kindness hurt so much. Even though she didn’t want to hurt me. Even something that simple wouldn’t go right.
“…We’re…not wrong, are we?” she asked me.
I couldn’t answer that question. Even though I already knew the answer.
When I said nothing, Yuigahama continued, tone fervent. “Now things’ll go back to normal, right?”
“…I don’t know,” I said honestly.
What Yukinoshita had said still wouldn’t leave me.
The illusion of being understood is utterly indulgent and complacent. Once you step into that morass, you can’t get out. It’s so much easier to just cling to it—so comfortable.
That delusion of understanding each other is a harsh form of make-believe.
I don’t even know what kind of despair it would bring to awaken from that delusion.
The smallest sense of unease or suspicion would start to bite and turn to a bad aftertaste, and eventually, it would all come to nothing.
I should have realized—what I wanted was not some pretense of friendship.
I think I wanted something real, and I didn’t need anything else.
Communicating without a word, understanding without any action, and no matter what happens, it won’t break.
A foolish but beautiful illusion far removed from reality.
She and I both sought something real like that.
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