A gray silhouette peeled away from the fog and started running closer. It slowed as if it had spotted me. From the way it ran, there was no doubt: it was the Little Tyrant.
When it passed the two small saplings I'd stood by earlier, I secretly judged her height against the low branches. Great—she hasn't gotten taller. In fact, she hasn't really changed at all in three years. These last three years I've shot up—now I'm a whole head taller than her.
Haha—Little Tyrant, payback comes quick!
But height isn't everything. I stayed on guard.
She stopped about five paces away, cheeks flushed pink, breath clouding the air. She hadn't taken the bus—she'd run all the way here. Looks like she'd warmed up before coming. Haruya, don't get careless—the opponent's dangerous. Even if she's shorter, remember Frieza's final form: small and deceptively cute.
Anyway, time to size her up.
The Little Tyrant was wearing a thick gray-and-white sweater and navy jeans—odd battle gear, but whatever. Both hands were tucked into her sleeves against the cold, only her fingertips showing. Her hair was cropped short overall, but long bangs hung over her forehead—terrible in a fight. You're asking to be grabbed by the hair and kneed in the face.
Also… is it just me, or is her waist-to-hip ratio a bit off? Those snug jeans showed the elegant curve of her legs… Don't tell me she trains lower-body attacks. Will our duel include a life-stealing scissors kick?
Stop daydreaming. Focus.
I threw my watch under the big banyan without looking and took a stance somewhere between Muay Thai and traditional Chinese boxing.
"Let's get this over with, Ren Woxing!" I called. (That's the name I put on the challenge letter.)
She chuckled. Now that I was taller, if she didn't lift her head I couldn't even see her face behind the bangs.
"You really still care about your toy robots…" she said, rubbing her hands together like she was using her breath to warm them. She hadn't taken a fighting stance; if anything, she looked almost pleased.
Her voice was… off. It sounded like what I remembered, and yet not. Weird—boys our age usually change; voices drop, throats settle. Mine got deeper; why does hers sound exactly the same? I had a sudden, ridiculous thought that maybe she didn't have an Adam's apple.
Maybe she just hasn't hit puberty. After all, she hadn't grown in three years. I pushed the thought away.
"Why aren't you moving? Scared now that I'm taller?" I taunted.
She flinched, then ducked her head again.
"Stop fidgeting! Are we fighting or not? If we're not, give me back my robots!" I barked, irritation prickling out of nowhere.
My tone seemed to terrify her. She hunched, froze for a few seconds, then bit her lip as if making up her mind. Then—out of nowhere—she bowed deeply, ninety degrees, her body almost parallel to the ground, hands on her knees. She looked sincerely apologetic.
"I'm sorry for always bullying you. I must've made life hard for you."
"What? Is that the mighty Little Tyrant's apology? Didn't I say in the letter the loser has to kowtow and apologize properly? You can't bargain your way out by saying sorry."
"I'm really sorry," she said. "But I can't do the kowtow—it's too embarrassing. And if I get my new jeans dirty, my mom will kill me."
What? I couldn't follow her logic. In just three years, heartless Little Tyrant had become a jeans-obsessed drama queen?
"What are you talking about? You won't fight because your clothes might get dirty? Didn't we once have that mud fight back in fifth grade? You even lost your top trying to get my bag back—where did that bravery go?" (Okay, technically she lost only the top.)
Her face flushed even deeper.
"Please—don't mention that," she squeaked. "I was…embarrassed then."
"Are you saying you won't fight because I'm taller now?" I snapped. It felt like a cheap betrayal—like someone quitting after winning a board game, or stabbing you in the back and smiling, "Let's be friends." (Literal back-stab impressions aside.)
"It's not because of height," she hesitated.
"Then why?"
"There's…something I've been hiding from you."
"What? Like the time you stuck that 'please give me an enema' note on my back and I suffered 'a thousand years of humiliation' from the other kids?" I said. Yes, I'd never let that go.
She buried her face. "Please, don't bring that up. I'm still mortified."
"Then why can't we fight? Aren't we sworn enemies?"
I felt my temper crack at the edges.
"I'm…actually a girl."
"Wait—what? Men and women are equals now—wait, wait, what did you just say?" My voice stuttered between disbelief and something much hotter—something I hadn't expected.
She staggered through the confession, every syllable costing her. Her face was so red it looked like it might steam. Despite the short haircut, her delicate features—big eyes, small lips, soft jawline—were all there. If you didn't hate her from the old days, you'd read her as a girl straight away.
Would I have to start calling her she now? My brain short-circuited. I would rather fall into East Lake and freeze solid.
"No! You're lying. Boys can look like girls these days—this is a trick! You're trying to fool me. I won't be fooled."
She blinked, long lashes sweeping her cheeks, and stared at me with all the calm I didn't deserve.
"You must be pretending," I ranted. "We were eleven during that mud fight. I ripped your top off to get my bag back. If you were a girl then, I would've known. Your chest was flatter than a board—so flat a block would slide forever if I pushed it. Completely frictionless!"
"Please don't mention that," she mumbled. "I wasn't developed back then… Everything went into my height."
She trailed off, embarrassed.
"And I haven't grown in three years," she added.
"I can see that—so?"
"Well…uh…they got a little bigger," she said, pinching her fingertips together like the words themselves were scandalous.
"Got…bigger what? Speak clearly!"
"My breasts…they got a little bigger," she squeaked.
She touched her index fingers together and looked like she might die of embarrassment. "So I'm not flat anymore."
What?! Why is her chest size my problem? Instead of offering commentary, return my Optimus Prime—and stop monologuing about measurements.