“I even laid off boxing practice. My folks got worried and asked me what was wrong. What was I supposed to say? Nothing, I’m just tired. What good would it do to tell them? After school I hid out in my room. There was nothing else for me to do. I’d see these things play out on the ceiling. I imagined all kinds of scenarios. Most often, I saw myself punching Aoki out. I’d catch him alone and I’d pummel him, over and over again. I’d tell him what I thought of him—a piece of trash—and I’d knock the crap out of him. He could scream and cry all he wanted—forgive me, forgive me—but I’d just keep hitting him, beating his face to a pulp. Only after a while, punching away, I’d start to get sick. It was fine at first, it was great, it served the bastard right. Then, slowly, this nausea would creep up in me. But I still wouldn’t be able to stop beating Aoki up. I’d look up at the ceiling and Aoki’s face would be there and I’d be hitting him. And I wouldn’t be able to stop. Before long, he was a bloody mess and I felt like puking.

“I thought about getting up in front of everyone and declaring outright that I was innocent, that I hadn’t done anything. But who was going to believe me? And why was it up to me to apologize to that bunch of turkeys who’d maw down anything Aoki said to begin with?

“So I was stuck. I couldn’t give Aoki the beating he had coming, and I couldn’t explain myself. I had to put up and shut up. It was only another half year. After this semester, school would be finished and I wouldn’t have to answer to anyone. One half year more, sparring with the silence. But could I hold out that long? I doubted I could go one month. At home, I ticked off each day on my calendar—one more day down, one more day down. I was getting crushed. Thinking back on it now, I can’t believe how close I got to the danger zone.