Chapter Text
Japanese sucks, Jotaro thought, staring down at his completed worksheet. He wasn’t sure if he did it right, but he also didn’t really want to ask. Whenever Kurata-sensei corrected his kanji mistakes, there was something in his voice Jotaro didn’t like. He was sure there was a word for it, for the way Kurata-sensei talked to him like he was three years old instead of six. I should ask Mom when I get home. He frowned. He hadn’t seen her since this morning, and even though it was only just past noon, it felt just a little bit like forever. He heaved a sigh. He didn’t know how the other kids handled it, being away from their moms for such a long time each day. Looking around the room, they seemed perfectly content to work on their kanji, the ones who were done chattering with each other. It was grating on his nerves, the sounds of all the voices and the pencil scratching all mixing together in one jumbled up mess. It sounded like when his mom pulled out her sewing kit, and all the threads were tangled up in a knot so tight you could hardly tell them apart. It felt like the knot was in his head. He wanted to cry. He wanted to go home. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to focus on when he left this morning. When he pressed his face into the soft skirt of his mom’s dress that smelled like soap and herbs. She usually ran her fingers through his hair, smoothing the waves down just a bit, but she didn’t this morning. Instead she just patted him on the head, ever so softly, her hands smelling something sharp and chemical. She explained it to him a moment later, showing her nails painted pastel purple,
“I’m going out on a date with daddy later, so I put on nail polish! They’re still a bit wet so I have to be careful!” Jotaro nodded, staring at the way they shone in the sunlight,
“They stink. But they’re really pretty.”
His mom just laughed at that, “Yeah, they smell a lot less once they dry all the way.”
Jotaro stared at his own nails. The nail polish really did stink. But it looked nice. He looked at his pencil, then back at his nails… pencils could write on pretty much any hard surface, right? He tested it on the back of his thumbnail. Smiled a little to himself when it left a neat gray stripe. And it didn’t even smell. He started scribbling.
He was in the middle of coloring over his ring fingernail when his wrist was yanked up, so quick he dropped the pencil in surprise.
“-you, what are you doing?!” Kurata-sensei snapped.
“Huh?” Jotaro lifted his head, bewildered.
“Don’t make me repeat myself a third time!”
Jotaro blinked and looked around, filled with that feeling like when everybody else sees something really cool but you look a second too late and it’s gone. But this time everyone is looking at him, some more obviously than others, and he doesn’t even know what it is exactly they’re seeing.
“When a grown-up asks a question, you answer it, Kujo,” the teacher dropped his wrist and it burned, a little bit, just enough that Jotaro wasn’t sure whether it was because he squeezed too tight or just that left over being-touched-feeling. Kurata-sensei pointed at Jotaro’s other hand, “What is that?” Jotaro looked down.
“My hand?” He answered, confused.
Kurata-sensei slapped the desk, “Don’t get smart with me! On your nails!”
“Pencil?” Jotaro tried again, heat pooling fast in his chest and his stomach and traveling up to his face, cinching his throat on its way.
“And why is there pencil on your nails, young man ?” Jotaro thought the emphasis sounded weird on that, like it was supposed to have a meaning that he wasn’t quite catching. If he said it was because of his mom, he knew the dam in his face would break and he'd cry so instead it broke in the back of his throat and his voice cracked on it’s way out,
“I don’t know...”
“Well you’re the one who put it there,” Kurata-sensei snarked at him. Jotaro’s eyes were burning. How did this even start?
“I wasn’t thinking,” he mumbled.
“Well, think next time, if you can. Go wash your hands off,” Kurata-sensei waved him towards the door and turned around to continue class. Jotaro stumbled out of his seat and to the boy’s bathroom down the hall, still not quite understanding what it was he had done wrong.
“Jotaro! How was your day, sweetie?” His mom asked as he walked through the door. The living room was filled with the scent of cut-grass and fresh sweat - thick and bittersweet, one of Jotaro’s favorite smells - she must have just finished mowing the lawn. Affection tugged at his tongue to tell the truth.
“I got in trouble,” he mumbled. Her eyebrows creased as she quickly walked to him and leaned down,
“What happened?” It felt stupid. He felt stupid. He stared at one of the whorls in the hardwood floor under his feet.
“I colored my nails in with pencil…” he muttered, “Kurata-sensei yelled at me for it. I don’t understand.” He heard her take a measured breath, and then sigh. He was missing something. He knew he was, but he didn’t know what and that feeling bubbled deep in his stomach.
“Why did you color your nails in, honey?” She ran one hand through his hair, gently undoing the little tangles from the day.
Jotaro shrugged, not lifting his head, “Was thinking about this morning.” And then he was being pulled into a hug, tight and too warm and he couldn’t stop himself from squirming until she let go with some expression on her face that made Jotaro feel Bad.
“I’m sorry you got in trouble for that,” she spoke, soft and careful, “Some people don’t like it when boys do things like paint their nails. And writing on yourself isn’t good for you.”
“Why?” He frowned. She was talking like she did when she was holding something back. Like after doctor’s visits and when dad leaves for long weeks on end.
“You know how lotion soaks into your skin to make it soft? Your body tries to soak in other things too, and pencil isn’t very good for it,” she answered. Jotaro nodded. That made sense. He wished Kurata-sensei had just said that instead. He still didn’t understand what being a boy had to do with it.
“You're a good kid,” his mom ruffled his hair one more time as she stood up, “Are you hungry? I can cut up some fruit for you.”
He nodded. Fruit sounded good. He trailed behind her into the kitchen. Still, in the back of his head, he felt like there was something missing about this whole situation. Something that he still wasn’t understanding.
It nagged at him even after that day, popping back into his head occasionally, but it always went away again.