Duane Swanstone

21 October 20XX

Japanese Club

ROCK SWANSON

They call me “Rock Swanson.” They say my name reminds them of someone. It’s kinda funny.

“Rokku-san… otanjoubi wa…” Chickarrin starts piecing together her broken Japanese. “totemo tanoshikatta…  desuka?” It sounds more like she’s askin’ herself.

“What was that?” I say.

“Rock, was your birthday really fun?!” She pounces from her desk to face me, makin’ some kind of hand gesture. She doesn’t know sign language, she calls it “kawaii” and says it’s something “guy-arus” do.

“I did absolutely jack-shit.” I chuckle. It’s the truth, anime girl.

Funny thing about me, most of the other kids in this club know or think they know some Japanese. I don’t know hardly any. I never took the class, don’t watch anime, none of that. The funny thing, the really funny thing, though, is why I’m here, and it has to do with this so called “guy-aru.”

Me and Chickarrin, for some damn reason, got on well forever ago, and have been friends since. And no, we never kissed, and we never slept in the same bed. We’re more like brother and sister, but no, not that, that doesn’t sound right. That’s inappropriate, but y’know what, just forget it. We’re good friends, and because of that I joined this stupid club, and because of that I met the rest of these clowns, and for some reason it worked out.

Maybe this is a goddamn anime. Maybe she wears those schoolgirl skirts and “sayfukus” for a reason. Maybe there’s a reason she always wears those long, baggy-ass socks. Maybe all her keychains and trinkets matter for some reason. She only has one key. Maybe I just don’t get it—or better yet, I should just stop caring. This is alright enough, why should I? Chickarrin must have it figured out. She oughta teach me somethin’ sometime.