Chapter 19: Different Gazes

“Takada, you dog, at it again, huh? Can’t keep your eyes off your club president.” A heavy arm suddenly slung around Takada Shōji’s neck, its owner leering. “Seriously though, you’re one lucky bastard, being in the same club as a goddess like her, breathing the same air every day.” The boy’s gaze followed Takada’s, landing on Yomikawa Tsuko as she emerged, a vision of athletic grace, from the locker room corridor.

“Man, Senpai’s got a killer figure, always has. Those legs… long, straight, perfect. Gym shorts? Best invention ever, I swear!”

“Get your filthy hands off me, you degenerate!” Takada shoved his classmate away, his tanned cheeks burning a darker shade. “I’m not a disgusting creep like you! Staring, leering… it’s shameless, that’s what it is!”

“Oh, playing innocent now, are we? Fine, be that way. Guess I’ll just keep those… exclusive… candid shots of Yomikawa-senpai I snapped during P.E. last week all to myself. More for me to appreciate in private!” The boy smirked, feigning a look of profound disappointment.

“Wh-what did you say? You actually… you dared to take secret photos of Senpai? You’re lower than dirt! Hand them over, right now! I’ll personally ensure they’re destroyed!” Takada roared, his face a mask of righteous fury, before the other boy’s triumphant laughter made him realize he’d been played. “Damn you! Senpai was on sick leave last week! You lying piece of trash!”

Back in the echoing vastness of the gymnasium with Nakamori Manatsu, Yomikawa Tsuko moved through a series of fluid, almost unnervingly precise, stretches while they waited for the P.E. class to officially commence.

The simple act of changing into the gym uniform had subtly transformed her. There was a vibrant energy thrumming beneath the surface now. The black over-the-knee socks were a stark contrast against the smooth skin of her thighs, leading up to the severe blue of the gym shorts that did little to conceal the sculpted curve of her hips. The plain white sports T-shirt, stretched taut across her chest, only served to emphasize the firm, surprisingly mature lines of her upper body.

Though her official status was still ‘student,’ the physical vessel she inhabited was undeniably, disturbingly, close to its adult prime. That elusive ‘girlish charm,’ so fetishized, so sought after, was here, in this moment, perfectly, almost unnaturally, embodied.

She was acutely aware, with a detached, analytical coldness, of the exact moment she stepped into the main gym. Several pairs of male eyes, like heat-seeking missiles, immediately locked onto her. 

Satō. Glasses. The quiet one. Identified as a game otaku, likely a member of the school’s newly formed esports club. Low verbal output, minimal social presence in class. Assessment: timid, socially inept, particularly around females. Exhibits classic signs of guilt or shyness when direct eye contact is initiated – note the immediate gaze aversion. Probability of prior meaningful interaction with ‘Senpai’: negligible. Action: disregard.

Yoshida. Tennis club. Categorized as a ‘riajū’ – a social alpha, possessing a fulfilling ‘real life.’ The antithesis of Satō. His gaze, while direct, lacks the covert intensity of the others. Returns eye contact with a casual wave, a confident smile. Expression and ocular patterns indicate a superficial, nodding acquaintance. Threat level: minimal. Action: polite, brief acknowledgment if necessary, otherwise disregard.

Ishikawa. The resident delinquent. Poor academic performance, equally poor social standing. Generally avoided by peers. Projected future: social detritus. His gaze is the most overtly… primal. A creature of base instincts, his desires practically radiating off him like a foul heat. Pathetically transparent. More animal than human. Action: complete and utter disregard.

Yomikawa noted, with that same cold detachment, that it wasn’t just the boys. Several female classmates, girls with whom ‘Senpai’ had likely had minimal prior interaction, were also casting furtive, assessing glances her way. Unlike the boys, however, who, once their initial scrutiny was met, would often resort to loud, performative conversations about unrelated topics – a clumsy attempt to mask their true focus – the girls operated differently. They huddled in small, whispering cabals, their low murmurs a sibilant undercurrent in the noisy gym. Though she couldn’t discern the exact words, the general sentiment was… predictable.

“There they go again,” Nakamori Manatsu muttered under her breath, her voice laced with a familiar annoyance. “Those girls, always so jealous of you, Tsuko-chan. It’s really pathetic.”

Yomikawa didn’t respond immediately. Her mind, a cold, efficient processor, was sifting through data, accessing archived behavioral patterns. How would the original Senpai have reacted to this?

Regarding the male attention: shyness would be… out of character. The original occupant of this body was, by all accounts, supremely confident in her physical attributes. Perhaps even… proud. Or, equally likely, simply indifferent to such predictable, hormonal responses.

Conclusion: the admiring, or even lecherous, gazes of the opposite sex were insufficient to elicit any significant behavioral modification.

The supporting evidence was clear. Based on her own meticulous observations, even amongst her third-year peers, Senpai’s uniform skirt was consistently, defiantly, one of the shortest. Short enough to be an immediate, unambiguous identifier: this was a third-year senpai, a girl comfortable with, perhaps even reveling in, the attention it garnered.

To be more precise, the skirt length projected an aura of… almost arrogant self-assurance.

Nakamori Manatsu, in stark contrast, was a study in conservative modesty. Judging solely by her regulation-length skirt, most observers would peg her as a timid first-year. For a third-year, such sartorial restraint was, in itself, an anomaly.

The unspoken social judgment would be swift: “She’s practically graduating, yet she still dresses like a schoolgirl. Definitely a bit… odd.”

Considering these parameters, Yomikawa’s internal monologue continued, cold and precise, when confronted with male attention during P.E., Senpai’s outward demeanor should remain one of unruffled composure. At the very least. This is, in fact, strategically advantageous. I have no data points for ‘Senpai exhibiting shyness.’ Attempting to replicate such an unobserved behavior would be… problematic.

As for the whispered criticisms from her female peers… complete indifference is the only logical response. Perhaps even a subtle, fleeting display of disdain. It aligns with the data: Senpai’s immediate social circle was notably small. This was likely a contributing factor. Exceptional individuals often find themselves the target of resentment from the mediocre. A common, if tiresome, social dynamic.

Having reached this internal consensus, Yomikawa Tsuko let her gaze sweep coldly over the whispering knot of girls. A soft, almost inaudible, “hmph” escaped her lips. “Manatsu-san,” she said, her voice calm, “perhaps you, too, should learn to acclimate to the… inevitable… envy of others.”

Nakamori Manatsu ducked her head, a blush staining her cheeks. Her voice was a low murmur, a mixture of shyness and something that might have been genuine fear. “I… I could never, Tsuko-chan. I’m not strong like you.”

Password accepted? It appears less complex than anticipated.

Yomikawa felt a flicker of something akin to… satisfaction. She was beginning to decode the intricate operating system of Nakamori Manatsu, to understand the subtle nuances of their established dynamic, the fundamental differences in their worldview. With continued observation and careful calibration, mastering this borrowed identity, this intricate performance, seemed increasingly… achievable.

“That underclassman from your club, Tsuko-chan, he’s watching you again,” Nakamori Manatsu said suddenly, her gaze flicking towards a distant corner of the gym. “Speaking of whom, he’s quite smitten with you, isn’t he? He always looks so ridiculously happy during P.E.”

“Takada-kun?” Yomikawa’s gaze followed Manatsu’s. “Ah, yes. Not an unpleasant individual, I suppose. Though perhaps not… overly burdened with intellect.” She offered a small, polite wave in Takada’s direction. Across the gym, she saw him immediately flush, scratch his head, and break into a wide, goofy grin.

Subjectively, whether it was the adoring gaze of Takada or the lewd stare of Ishikawa, it made little difference to Yomikawa Tsuko. Most humans, she had observed, were not particularly astute. They were certainly incapable of perceiving the… true self… that resided beneath this carefully maintained facade. As such, they were largely… insignificant. Not worthy of genuine dislike.

“Anyway,” Nakamori Manatsu said, her tone shifting, becoming a little more serious, a little more probing, “Takada-kun definitely doesn’t stand a chance with you, does he? It makes me wonder, though… what kind of guys do you like, Tsuko-chan?”

“Lately,” Yomikawa Tsuko replied, her voice light, almost playful, “I’ve come to the firm conclusion that fools are… definitively… out of the question.” This was a preference she’d held since… well, for a very, very long time. Even when her own gender had been the opposite of its current configuration, certain core requirements had remained remarkably consistent.

“So, if not fools, then you prefer intelligent men? Like… Ōgami Yōsuke from your club, perhaps? You’ve mentioned him. He seems quite clever,” Nakamori Manatsu pressed, her curiosity clearly piqued.

“Hmm. Excessive intelligence also presents… certain complications,” Yomikawa Tsuko mused, a thoughtful expression on her face, before dismissing the notion. Based on Ōgami Yōsuke’s recent, rather… persistent… behavior, he was already dangerously close to meeting her criteria for someone she would find… tiresome.

“Eh? So, not a fool, but not too clever either? Doesn’t that just leave… an ordinary, average person?” Nakamori Manatsu clasped her hands behind her back, her head tilted, thoroughly intrigued by this puzzle.

“Someone like Manatsu-san, perhaps,” Yomikawa said with a sudden, bright laugh, the sound echoing lightly in the noisy gymnasium, effectively terminating the conversation with a disarming, lighthearted jest.