The next three years were miserable, to put it mildly.

After breakfast the next morning, my grandfather gave me a flute and told me he was going to teach me to play it. He said it would help me learn to control the defiant, rude and rebellious thoughts in my mind and teach me to obey. Demonstrating this, he blew a hauntingly pretty little tune on his own ornate flute, then asked if I understood. I didn't know what he was talking about, and my face must have reflected it, for he explained- with heavy-handed patience for my slowness- that there was a lesson there. The air obeyed the direction and control of the musician, and so what emerged from the flute was something lovely and admirable. Then he had me try my flute, and of course what came out was something distinctly unmusical.

"You see?" he said again. "You have neither control nor direction, and so the flute does not obey you. And what results is ugly noise that no one would care to hear. You and this flute are one; you will learn control and direction as you practice and the flute will obey you. Though we shall never expect a masterpiece. And as you teach, so shall you learn. You will see the importance of obeying if one is ever to be something pleasant to hear- or look upon."

I guess it wasn't really the flute's fault, but all the same, I quickly grew to hate it. It wasn't that the thought of making music was so awful, it was that my grandfather's method of teaching me was to have unreasonably high expectations and then scold and insult me when I failed to meet, much less surpass, them. He repeatedly told me how slowly I was learning, how many mistakes I was making, how badly the notes wavered and soured, how poor my breath control was. He gave me sheets of music to master, then when I had trouble with them, shook his head and said it was only to be expected. No matter how hard I worked to master the rotten thing, it was never good enough for him, and he made it bluntly clear that he had been wrong to have any kind of hope or expectation of skill from me. I often had to bite my tongue and look away, not wanting him to see how cruelly his criticism hurt me.

I still had hopes, then, of being able to soften his heart, hopes that he might decide I wasn't so bad and treat me with a certain amount of affection- or at least approval- or failing that, enough respect to stop being so contemptuous of me. I was fooling myself, of course, but it took me a long time to recognize that.

My next 'lesson' was similar, though much easier on me: my grandfather took me through the garden and taught me the steps of meditation. I almost enjoyed that. The garden was beautiful and there were little fountains trickling over pebbles and wind-chimes hanging from tree-branches that were very soothing to listen to. I started going out there to sit and calm down after my flute lessons, and Grandfather seemed to approve of that. At least, he never prevented me from doing so. The best thing about it, though, to my mind, was that he couldn't tell whether I was meditating correctly or not, so couldn't criticize me. It quickly became my favorite place to be, and the old man's assertion that I was far too young and undisciplined to be allowed to work with his precious plants really didn't bother me. I didn't particularly want to weed, or trim the bonsai trees, or rearrange the iris beds, or any such stuff- even if doing so would be a mark of his favor.

But if meditating in the garden was pretty good, learning the care and use of swords was horrendous.

There was a little building in back of the main house, what Grandfather called his 'practice room'. I couldn't understand why he called it a room when it was a separate building, but I didn't ask- it would have been insolent. It was made of wooden boards and slated on the roof; the inside was bare dirt covered with fine tatami mats. On the walls hung the old man's swords: eight no-daitchi- longswords- and two katana. Grandfather was an exceptionally skilled swordsman who had won many tournaments. He had studied with some of the world's best; he knew an incredible number of forms and variations, and guarded them closely. Or so he told me when he first took me into that room and showed me how to clean and polish the weapons. (I feel I should note here that my sensei, who dueled with my grandfather once, feels that about half of that claim was mere boasting- to put it politely. Considering how well he's taught me, I think I'm happy to take his word for that.)

After he'd shown me what to do, my grandfather told me that it would be my duty from then on to care for the swords each day. He said that before he could begin to teach me even the simplest form, I must grow accustomed to the weight and balance of the metal. So every day I went in and scrubbed and polished and nearly lost my mind from the dullness of it. I couldn't understand why they needed to be cleaned every day if they weren't being used, but after a while I learned that they were used; Grandfather practiced with one or another of the weapons every day at six pm. I'm not sure if that was his usual routine or if it was an excuse to check on my work, but I figured it was routine. He didn't need any excuses to oversee me, and he wasn't subtle about it.

There isn't much you can do wrong when cleaning ten swords, as long as you don't let the mindlessness of it distract you into skipping steps, but when it comes to actually using one... there's a million different ways to mess up. It was at that point that I quit thinking of the old man as 'my grandfather' and began to refer to him in my mind as 'the general'. Not that I ever called him that; I never called him anything but 'sir', but it was fitting, and particularly fitting for those sword lessons. He treated me like a dull-witted recruit, barking out orders and counter-orders and basically drilling- not teaching- me. He really rubbed my 'incompetence' in hard, too, often asking me whether I was too stupid to pay attention or whether I was deliberately getting his instructions wrong. The only answer I had was that I wasn't disobeying- which, of course, must mean I hadn't a wit in my head. He rubbed my nose in my hanyou blood, too, stating that a true Japanese wouldn't be so clumsy, so slow, so awkward, so unfamiliar with a sword. Especially in his family; his family was descended from Masamune Date, the legendary swordsman, and swordplay was in the blood. As long as one wasn't an abomination of a hanyou, with the good blood all defiled by bad.

Invariably, the practice sessions left me shaky with anger and hurt feelings, exhausted and totally demoralized. The worst of it was that I had to repress my feelings, knowing what he would say if he saw me give in to the urge to cry, what he would do if I let myself yell and rage at him. I had no outlets. There was no one I could talk to, no one who would sympathize with me. I didn't dare keep a journal or write anything down; I knew that if I did, he'd have no qualms at all about reading it, and scolding me for messy handwriting would only be the beginning. There was no such thing as privacy in that house, he was in and out of my room at all times, checking my schoolwork, criticizing my cleanliness, examining my few possessions and making derisive remarks about them. I made a point of keeping my precious Wisdom orb out of his sight, which meant hiding it under the sweaters in a dresser drawer. For some reason he never examined or criticized my clothing, perhaps because he knew I had not been the one to select it, or perhaps because he approved of Mother's choices. He certainly didn't have any trouble denigrating her to me on other topics, though.

I got so lonely and homesick that one evening, while the old man was busy practicing, I slipped down to the kitchen phone and made a call to Sendai. I wanted to talk to my sister, but my mother answered the phone and when she heard my voice, she hung up on me. The next night, the old man beat me for the first time, pinning me against my bedroom wall and caning my back and legs until I couldn't keep from crying. It seemed that while I was in school that day, my mother had informed him of my 'defiant' action. I didn't make any attempts to contact my sister after that. I didn't want to get tattled on and beaten again, and I didn't want to get Yayoi in trouble, either. Plus, I wanted to keep thinking that my sister at least still cared about me- it was too obvious that my mother no longer did, if she ever had- and talking to Yayoi might reveal her affection for me as an illusion as well.

The only thing that gave me any comfort at all in those days was that little glass ball with the cryptic green kanji inside it and the memory of the old man who had given it to me. I didn't dare take it out and look at it during the day, but at night, when I was supposed to be sleeping, I would get up and take it out of the drawer, crawl back into bed- just in case- and then hold the orb and think of that kind, gentle man. Mostly, I thought about how good he'd been to me and how much I wished I could have run after him that day and stayed with him. I even made up a number of stories in my head about him coming to Toyama and taking me away from the General, and I spent a lot of thought on where he might live. America was my first choice, but I finally decided China would do; it was nearby, it had very similar languages and customs, and no one would know what a disgrace I was to my own family. I didn't imagine my grandfather would protest, either. He'd be glad to have me gone for good.

When September came, I began attending school again, and while it wasn't quite as bad as the one I had left in Sendai, it wasn't pleasant. Hanai was a public school, but an experimental one; instead of being merely Elementary, grades one through six, it was Elementary and Secondary School put together- grades one through nine. Naturally, the student body was very much larger than normal, and the classrooms more crowded, not only because there were three more grades but because it seemed to be a popular place to send kids. I was surprised that the General had sent me to something so untraditional, but the fact that it was the closest probably had something to do with that. All the other schools in the area were far enough away that the old man would have been required to drive me, or else give me bus fare. He did give me money for lunch and other expenses, like the school uniform, and I had a small monthly allowance as well, but I was required to show him what I spent it on. Consequently, I didn't spend much.

Anyway, I started fourth grade that year, and in some respects it was very different from what I had been used to. Not just the larger classes and the cafeteria- a gigantic room where everyone bought and ate lunch, instead of having it brought into the classrooms- but the attitudes. The teachers kept stricter control, for one thing, and the majority of kids there more or less ignored me, after their initial stares of surprise. Unfortunately, there remained the minority- a small but very vocal group that more or less controlled the school- and they didn't approve of me at all. New first-graders were one thing but a new fourth-grader wasn't acceptable, for some reason. Different wasn't acceptable. A Sendai background wasn't acceptable. Ok, that's getting kind of repetitive: nothing about me was acceptable and they made it clear on my first day. The other students, seeing which way the wind was blowing, fell right in with the dominating attitude and the result was that when the bullies were around, I got picked on and taunted; when they weren't, I was ignored.

I understand the thinking behind it- do what the bullies approve of and you won't find yourself being bullied; it's a self-protection measure- but it made my life really difficult. I think I would have disapproved even if I hadn't been the one taking the brunt of it, too- it was viciously unfair and I often felt that someone ought to stand up to those creeps and put them in their place. I even considered doing it myself, until I saw what happened to one boy who defied two of the gang leaders. He missed school for a couple days, recovering, and it was about a week before the black eye went away.

There was another practice in Hanai, one that I was unfamiliar with: a little game called Backstabbing. A lot of gossip circulated very quickly in that school, but that was no more than I'd expected. What I hadn't expected was the lengths to which some kids would go to add grist to the mill. I found out about it in a hurry, though, the first time I was set up. Someone in my class pretended to be friendly with me so they could have the fun of snubbing me in front of witnesses. The witnesses thought it was hilarious that I was surprised and hurt at the rebuff and my supposed friend was very popular for a few weeks after that. The second time someone tried it, I knew better and declined to play along. Naturally, that didn't make me any more popular, especially after word went around that I had been rude and spiteful to someone who had only been trying to be 'nice' to me. The fact that she'd played her cruel game with three other kids that month had no relevance, of course.

The sad thing is that, despite the gossip, bullying and nasty games, Hanai was definitely a better place to be than my old elementary school in Sendai. I think the size of it was the main reason for that; there were too many students for everyone to get to know each other, and that lessened both the desire and the opportunity to be vindictive to each other. As a result, it soon became my habit to stay after school every day- whether I needed to or not- to avoid seeing the General any sooner than was utterly necessary. When being among a bunch of insultingly curious and hostile kids is preferable to going home... I soon got into the habit of going to the library to do my homework; the other students couldn't be as disruptive in there, and when I was done studying, there was plenty to read. I usually went to the books-in-English section and tried to pick an interesting one- hard work, since they were all extremely factual...well, boring, to be honest- but I did get a pretty good start on an English vocabulary. As a matter of fact, all my grades were quite good- not good enough for him, of course, since he expected me to be first in everything- but I was in the top six in all of my classes. Schoolwork was a very welcome distraction from the rest of my life; when I could lose myself in studying, I didn't feel so lonely and miserable.

The second year was worse, though. Fifth grade wasn't much harder than fourth, but the students had gotten used to thinking of me as a scapegoat, and the incidents of mocking and derision went up sharply. Not that I sat down and kept notes about it, but it was sort of hard to miss. Several of the kids who hung around with the bullies earned favor and tenuous places in the group by picking on me that year, and the teachers were about as much help in controlling it as the ones in Sendai had been. That is to say: not at all. Though I will say they knew who the troublemakers were and didn't automatically accept that I was the one at fault in any given confrontation.

Things at...well, at home, I suppose...definitely got worse as well. My grandfather hadn't really changed, but my hopes that he would relent and treat me nicely were dying a painful death. My drills in swordplay were the worst part of my day. I had learned a simple routine of cuts and blocks, and each day I had to demonstrate them for him, waiting with clenched teeth for his curt, "Stop! Begin again." Even the slightest wrong move resulted in orders to start over, and it usually took most of an hour just to get through the routine without putting a foot wrong or angling the blade just an inch too far off. I didn't have much better luck on that cursed flute, either; the General shook his head at anything I played on it and wondered if there was something wrong with my ears, not to hear all the mistakes I was making. Not that he was surprised; in fact, it made perfect sense that I would be flawed in many ways, some larger and some smaller, since my blood itself was flawed. One day when he was in a particularly bad mood, he actually scolded me for outgrowing some of my clothes. Japanese were small people; I was getting too tall; it was my hanyou blood again. He also increased my chores, giving me tasks that the cleaning woman had always done before, and that gave him something else for him to scold me about. I wasn't clean enough for his high standards.

To top it off, his constant denigration was beginning to sink in. I wasn't quite old enough to recognize how incredibly unreasonable he was being; I knew at my deepest level that his attitude was sickeningly unfair, but I couldn't have said in what way. Except for the bit about getting too tall, of course, I knew perfectly well that wasn't my fault. He said such brutal things, and yet he said them in a calm and conversational way, as if they were simply facts to be accepted. And I began to accept them. I didn't want to- didn't want to think I was a disgrace and a shameful mark of dishonor and stupid and altogether untalented and clumsy and so on- but I didn't have anything to compare to, any way to convince myself that he was wrong. Gut feelings didn't count. I began to hate my tainted blood, hate my mother for her awful indiscretion, hate my American father- whoever he was- for being such a wretch as to start my life- even to hate myself for not being the honorable Japanese boy I should have been. But most of all I hated my grandfather for constantly rubbing it in. He didn't need to remind me every time I turned around; I knew it already.

It was about then that I stopped thinking of myself as Seiji and picked Sage as my private name. It meant about the same thing, it wasn't really associated with the family that didn't want me, and I could try trick my mind by telling myself that when people insulted Seiji, they weren't talking to me. I was Sage. It didn't work as well as I had hoped, but I was getting pretty desperate, so I persisted anyway. Even a little relief was better than none at all.

Only that precious little orb gave me any comfort, and that was wearing thin. The kind old man was fading from my mind; I couldn't remember exactly how he'd looked or the sound of his voice when he'd spoken to me or even accurately recall the staff he'd carried. I no longer pretended to myself that he would turn up some day and make my life better, either. But I did remember his words, more or less, about a dark path...look for trust and righteousness, life and justice...the path would end and there would be light, and from that light would come a deep love. It wasn't much, but it helped to think that things would get better, and it helped even more to think that at least one person- one complete stranger- had been good enough to comfort a scared, sad kid, hanyou or not. If one person would do that, maybe others would too, someday. I wondered how long I had to wait for it to happen, though. Sometimes it seemed as if I couldn't make it, as if the darkness and loneliness would crush me before anyone noticed or cared.

The third year, sixth grade year, was the worst. Several of the bullies at school graduated, but there were still plenty around, including one who was in my classroom and hated it that I was always outscoring him in all our subjects. Naturally, he turned his other resources on me, and the harassment began to closely resemble what I'd endured in Sendai. Especially when the teachers reprimanded him for disturbing their classes, but never intervened in the halls or on the grounds.

Things at 'home' were worse, too, because that was the year the General began taking me to compete in tournaments. I was in six competitions that year, and didn't win first place in any of them. Very few people expect a first-year, half-trained student to win anything, but my grandfather wasn't one of those and he poured scorn on me after every match. When I won, it was sheer luck or some 'foolish mistake' on my opponent's part; when I lost, I always seemed to lose to 'utter incompetents'.

What really made it the worst, though, was that I could never let my mask drop. I had to take the taunts and insults and criticisms calmly and not show how deeply they hurt me. I had to say 'yes sir' to the General and say nothing at all to the bullies, no matter how badly I wanted to respond. I knew- oh, I knew all right- what they'd do to me if they got a reaction or provoked me into defying them. I never once said to myself, it can't get any worse than this; it could always get worse. I felt so terribly outnumbered, surrounded by hate and contempt, like I was drowning in it, and it was...it was so constant. Between the sword practices and the tournaments and my ever-increasing chores and homework and the old man constantly hovering over me with his denigrating words, I had virtually no time to myself. No time to meditate, no privacy to let down my guard, no way to release the storm of pain inside me. I just had to bear it, knowing any crack in the mask would increase the misery. I clung to that one tiny thread of hope- someone would care about me, someday- and prayed it would be soon because I didn't think I could take much more. But after waking up every morning for a couple months, tenuously hoping that perhaps this would be the day, and going to bed that night with my hope broken, I gave up. I stopped looking at the orb at all, pushed the Ancient One out of my mind, and just endured. I didn't have energy left to deal with fallen hopes. I barely had the energy to drag myself out of bed, most mornings.

That was what my life became, and that was how I thought it always would be; a never-ending cycle of discipline and sharp words and impossible expectations and verbal stabs and having my self-esteem painfully, constantly crushed.

I'll never, ever forget when it began to change. It was in seventh grade, and it began with a soccer match.

It was the second Saturday in October, a half-day, and I was in the library, trying to read a book about English architecture. But I wasn't making much progress, for two reasons. One was that the windows behind me were open and shouts and cheering were drifting in from the nearby athletic field. I vaguely recalled that there had been an announcement that morning about a soccer game, but I hadn't paid much attention to it. Soccer wasn't my thing; in fact, most sports weren't my thing. I wasn't welcome on any team; I was bad luck. Want to lose a game? Want to see your teammates make ridiculous mistakes? Pick Date for your side and watch it happen before your eyes...

The second reason I was having trouble concentrating was that there was a group of students a few tables over who kept giving me hostile looks. It's hard to read when you're being glared at by six or seven people, and I kept worrying that they might come over and start some kind of trouble. I didn't want to get yelled at for picking fights in the library- and besides, it was a nice day and the book was exceptionally boring. I made an abrupt decision, got up to put the book away, and went outside to watch the soccer game.

When I reached the athletic field, I was surprised at how large a crowd there was; it seemed most of the school had turned out for the match. I made my way through the unusually noisy students, ignoring- no, pretending to ignore- the sidelong glances and unsubtle whispers that followed me, trying to act like I didn't notice people drawing back from me. I kept my expression neutral and used my 'untouchable' status to get a spot right on the sideline, with a great view of the field. The score was one to nothing, with Hanai in the lead, though the thought that we might win didn't exactly fill me with glee. I noted that the game was divided into four periods and that it was about six minutes into the second one, and then I turned my attention to the field.

Not knowing the game, it took me a little while to figure out what was going on. All the players looked like they were running around more or less randomly, and the fact that Hanai wore blue with white trim while the other team had blue with red trim made things a little confusing. But eventually I started seeing the patterns and the field changed from a mass of blue-uniformed players chasing after each other to a fairly recognizable contest. I gradually decided that the teams were almost evenly matched, as neither seemed able to get the advantage long enough to score. It was exciting to watch, and I found myself impressed with the players' stamina; they were all running at top speed and seemed both willing and able to keep it up for the next forty minutes. By the half-time break I had decided I did want Hanai to win, since they seemed to be playing more fairly than the other team: several red-and-blue uniformed players had been warned repeatedly on fouls, and one had actually been taken out of the game altogether.

A few minutes after the game resumed, our coach called for a substitution. A player on the field came over to the sidelines and as his replacement ran onto the field, an approving murmur went up all around me, punctuated with cheers from the more exuberent observers. I felt a wave of bitterness as I stared at the back of new player's blue jersey; at the unruly black hair falling over his shoulders. Every other player on both teams had their hair cut short, and some even had crew-cuts, the latest American import. But his was so long it even obscured the name on the back of his shirt! Such and attention-grabbing difference, a blatant show of nonconformity- yet he was accepted, even popular, judging by the reactions around me, while I was shunned! The unfairness of it made me grit my teeth. I didn't like him at all, that kid who chose to be different and was allowed to get away with it, and I wished that he'd trip over something, mess up a play, maybe even score a goal in the wrong net- anything to embarrass and preferably humiliate him before the majority of the school.

What actually happened was that about three minutes after he entered the game, he got control of the ball, sped down the field like a comet, and scored before anyone seemed to know what to do about it. It was as he blazed by that I finally saw the name on the back of his jersey: Sanada.

So that was Sanada Ryo, the rising star of the soccer team. He was a new student, having entered the school just this year, but he was already rumored to be up for the captain's position next year. If he got it, he would be the youngest captain ever; only ninth-graders had held it before. I only knew this because the school paper had done an article about the soccer team after their second win last month. I couldn't remember if he'd been quoted in the article or not, but now, watching his teammates congratulate him on his goal, I concluded that I was not impressed and wondered grimly how long it would be before all the other soccer players were wearing their hair long, too. Probably when they did, he'd shave his head or wear feathers in it or something...just to keep on flaunting the differences that would earn anyone else a reprimand.

My bad attitude lasted for most of the rest of that quarter, intensifying as Sanada assisted two of his teammates to score. The red-and-blue team seemed to have lost their spark, and I was seriously considering an early departure, since it was becoming a forgone conclusion who would win, when something happened that changed my mind completely. I didn't see exactly what happened, but I became aware that one of our team was having an issue with one of the other team's players; the two were in each others' faces, fists clenched, snarling at each other. I expected the referees to jump in and pull the two apart, but it was Sanada who stepped between the rivals and backed his teammate off, saying something I couldn't hear. I was grudgingly admitting to myself that he'd acted correctly when the other player yelled, "Hey, shouldn't you be wearing a dress?" at Sanada's back.

The crowd gasped, and some of them booed as the jerk traded high-fives with several laughing teammates. Sanada's shoulders stiffened, but he didn't stop, just gripped his fellow-player's shoulder when the guy would have turned back to respond. I had to admire his self-control; having just stopped one fight, he couldn't allow himself to be baited into another one, but it couldn't have been easy. My resentment faded in sympathy, for I knew too well what it was like to have to walk away from an insult in order to avoid getting in trouble. And after the sympathy came shame: I, of all people, should have known better than to judge him on his appearance. That was exactly what people did to me, and I knew what a narrow-minded thing it was to do.

I watched Sanada more closely after that, noticing again how swift he was, and how coordinated. I also noticed that he wasn't a 'ball hog' like some of the players on the other team- namely, the guy who'd thrown the insult. In fact, that one played very roughly, deliberately running into people to try and knock them down and using the ball more as a missile than an object to score with. We were almost through the last quarter when the creep played his tackle on Sanada, who had the ball, and pretty much blindsided him. The ball went flying through the crowd, barely missing several students, and Sanada sprawled on the field not five feet away from me.

"In case you haven't noticed," he said rather tartly, getting easily to his feet, "this is soccer, not football. Tackling isn't part of this game."

"Aw, what's the matter, little girl? Can't stand up to it?" the creep sneered as the referee jogged over and gave him a yellow card. "We play rough!"

Sanada looked him over, then accepted the ball from a student and stepped off the field to throw it back into play. "Of course you do," he replied cheerfully, smiling. "Playing rough doesn't take any skill, does it?" And before the other could react, he flung the ball up the field to one of his teammates.

If looks could kill...!

I almost didn't notice where Sanada went for a moment, I was so busy appreciating his remark. I wasn't the only one, either.

A few minutes later, the final whistle echoed over the field, and to my own surprise, I found myself smiling as the students around me cheered for our victory. I watched the two teams line up and bow briefly to each other, and then, feeling reluctant to leave, I turned and began drifting towards the front of the school with the rest of the crowd. It was odd how my feelings had altered in that brief time. I was glad I'd come out to watch, glad we'd won, and had decided that- nonconformist or not- Sanada Ryo was definitely a person worthy of respect.

"Hey, Date! What the hell are you doing here?"

I didn't turn to see who it was. I knew that voice all too well: Haruka, my main rival for top grades in our class, leader of the gang of bullies that made my school-life so unpleasant. I adopted my usual tactic of feigning deafness, which worked about as well as usual. Before I'd gone three steps, the bully and two of his cronies were pacing along beside me, all three of them spitting out epithets in both Japanese and English while the students around me looked on in uneasy amusement. I didn't expect anyone to intervene, of course. Public altercations were considered very rude, but I was the outsider, the outcast and no one would dare to disapprove on my behalf. The bullies were once again establishing their superiority over me. I knew that in the following days and weeks, many of the students listening would follow their examples, closing ranks against me in order to feel more accepted themselves, just like last year, and the year before, and the year before that...

I did the only thing I could: kept walking, bit my tongue on several retorts that sprang to mind, and swallowed the misery that was making my hands shake. Stay calm. Keep your cool. Ignore them. They want you to react; don't. It was practically my mantra.

"Hey, you!"

That voice I didn't know, and quickly turned to see what I was in for now. The bullies paused and turned too, and I felt my heart sink as I saw who was approaching: Sanada, eyes narrowed, shoulders set, his expression a combination of disgust and anger. I wondered where he'd come from, and a glance showed me that I'd drifted near the area where the players and coaches had been standing. I turned my gaze back to the boy, bracing myself for something terrible. Obviously he didn't approve of my presence among decent humans either, and once he expressed disapproval of me, the whole school would be against me. Haruka expected it, too; a big, eager grin crossed his face and he stepped closer to watch.

Not you- not you too- I was just starting to like you-

"You jerks just knock off that talk, right now," the most popular boy in the school said crossly, halting a foot or so away from me and glaring at Haruka and his friends.

I felt my mouth drop open in astonishment, and I wasn't alone. Shock was registering on all the faces around me, particularly on my three tormentors'.

"But- but he's-"

"-A student," Sanada cut in acidly, planting his hands on his hips. "All students are welcome at the matches- except for the rude ones. Now why don't you stop demonstrating how badly your parents raised you and get out of here. And clean up your attitudes before you come back- got it?"

I stood staring in disbelief, feeling my pulse double- at the very least- at this incredible twist of events; Haruka and his friends blushed fiercely, lowering their faces in attempts to hide it. In Japan, rudeness is one of the worst things to be accused of, and any suggestion that you've been badly raised is a scorching shame. But even if it had been the mildest of rebukes, instead of one of the most severe, my reaction would have been the same. Sanada, the school's pet, was defending me! Me, the hanyou, the outcast! He was using his status on my behalf, not even knowing me! I couldn't believe it.

"Got it?" There was open anger in Sanada's voice as he repeated himself, and a scowl crossed his face, making him look quite dangerous.

The trio mumbled their hai's, bowed deeply to him and less deeply to me, and hurried away. Most of the crowd around us did likewise- whether they were prompted by Sanada's scowl or their own embarrassment was impossible to say. I remembered to close my mouth and tried to pull myself together; something like exultation was doing battle inside me with gratitude and an abrupt feeling of shyness. I had no idea what to say to my defender, and so said nothing, feeling heat color my face. Sanada watched the bullies leave, then turned to me, his frown smoothing into a much calmer expression. "Sorry about that," he said rather ruefully. "I could see you didn't want to make an issue out of it, but- I'm afraid I have this bad habit of jumping into things that really aren't my business."

"Oh." I blinked, taken doubly aback. Apologizing? To me? Considerate of my feelings? "It- it's all right, I- thank you. Thank you- very much." I almost thought he relaxed; certainly he smiled, looking straight into my eyes. I waited for him to blink, to recoil, to make some vague excuse and hurry away-

Too tall, too fair, demon eyes and yellow hair! The old chant singsonged in my head for a moment, until I forced the memory away.

"-Welcome," he was saying as I blinked myself back to the present. "Someone needs to do something about that group, I think."

I nodded. "That loud one, he's- he's in charge of that group," I ventured.

"Haruka, yeah." Sanada snorted. "I've had a time with him myself. Don't know why the teachers allow it, they're all so big on discipline." Someone called his name and he glanced over his shoulder. "I better run, they'll skin me if I don't help out with the equipment," he said cheerfully, turning back to me. "See you around?"

"Sure," I replied, not knowing what else to say. We traded bows and I watched him turn and trot off. I wondered if he'd ever know how incredible his behavior seemed, how much it meant to me to be defended at all, much less by someone like him. I stole another glance at the team, then started slowly away, brimming with disbelief and amazement and incredulous joy. He had defended me. He had defied the bully everyone else feared and backed the jerk down- on my behalf. His courage, his friendliness, his acceptance-! Even if we never met or spoke again, even if Haruka made even more trouble for me in the future, I would always feel that I had an ally.

As luck had it, we did meet again- almost immediately.