He blinks slowly. I will take that as a yes.
I move around to the left side of his bed and grasp his hand.
“I’m Sora.”
He half-nods, once, and then lets his head flop to the side so that he can see me.
I feel as though his eyes are boring straight into my heart, my mind, my soul. And I want to pull away, but I am too afraid even for that. I stare back, helpless. Terrified.
And then his eyes stop searching and he smiles, an awkward, gaping smile from a face that doesn’t work, but it softens everything, and I find that I am smiling at him in return.
We sit together for what feels like an eternity. I listen to his breathing, long drawn-out gasps, a rattling deep inside his chest, and then the eager respite of exhalation. I watch his mouth and throat and torso work to get the oxygen he needs, and I wish that I could breathe my own air into him, to make it easier for just a moment.
I do not want to break the almost-peace, but there’s something that I came to do, and I do not think Doctor Kobayashi will let us sit forever.
“I . . . may I ask you something? Please.”
He blinks acceptance, and suddenly I have a thousand questions, not just one. Who are you? What is it you did, before? Where is your family? How do you tell the nurses if you need to scratch your nose?
Does it hurt?
Are you afraid?
I don’t know which is most important, which to choose. My brain aches with the pressure. What if I ask the wrong thing? Waste my chance? Offend him? And why would he answer me anyway? I am a stranger.
But I’ve started now, and I have to ask him something.
Fast.
“Are you all right?” The words come out in one rushed breath, but the question is polite, and safe, and all he has to do is blink yes, or nod, and we are both home free.
But he does not nod. He looks at me, and looks, and then his eyes take on a fierceness that I’ve never seen before, and his jaw works in wild, desperate circles as he tries to gain control, force unused muscles to make words, and his breathing gets faster, louder, desperate. For a moment I think maybe I should call for help. And then, in one harsh breath he wheezes out his answer, emptying his lungs:
“No.”
46
I left as quickly as I could, gulped in the fresh, cool air of the corridor, blinked in the bright, safe light.
No?
No.
One tiny word. And I feel as though the world has dropped from underneath me.
He was supposed to give me answers, tell me that everything will be all right, that it was worth it.
Doctor Kobayashi does not say a word as we go back to her office.
My mother, lost in her own thoughts, sits on a bright plastic chair in the corridor, her hands crossed neatly in her lap, waiting for the end of my appointment. She’s worried. I can see it in the lines across her face.
And the world drops further away.
47
ShinigamiFanBoy: Are you guys sapping my time? Is this some evil science-fiction master plan?
Bluebird_796: What?
ShinigamiFanBoy: This week! Where did it go? I feel as though it only just began.
MadSkillz: I agree! SOMEBODY must be behind this!
MadSkillz: Who is it???
MadSkillz: It’s you, isn’t it?
Bluebird_796: Argh, I know! How are we supposed to get top marks, meet for ice cream, go shopping, AND take over the world? :(
GuitarGirl1: Who? Me? o:-) It’s not me, I promise, I didn’t steal your times!
Even here, in the virtual land of candy bars and kittens, I cannot escape. Every time I close my eyes, I see his face, hear his rasping voice, over and over again.
I want more time.
Except, I don’t. Not if my time will be spent like that.
TandemRide: Oh come on guys, it’s fiiiiiiine, you just need a schedule.
ShinigamiFanBoy: O_o
TandemRide: It’s true. Set your week out in blocks of time, so you know what you should be doing, and if you stick to it . . . :-)
MadSkillz: We unlock the bonus hours? :D
6 a.m.–7 a.m.: Lie in bed, wait for sunrise.
7–7:30 a.m.: Stare at ceiling.
7:30–8 a.m.: Breakfast. Fail to eat/choke.
8 a.m.–12 p.m.: Stare at ceiling.
I picture the words, stark, monotonous, arranged in neat boxes, color coded and adorned with cheerful stickers. And I want to vomit.
HEY SORA!
HOW WAS YOUR DAY?
Pretty horrible, actually, but can we please talk about something else?
SURE . . . WANNA SEE MY NEW WEBPAGE?
YES!
IT’S REALLY BASIC, AND IT PROBABLY DOESN’T LOOK LIKE MUCH, BUT I BUILT IT MYSELF!
WWW.ONEBOYSFAVOURITES.CO.JP
I click on the link.
There’s nothing much there. A red banner, with big, chunky title-text and bold headings. Things that would take two minutes on BlogThis.
It looks great! Well done.
REALLY?
Yes! I wouldn’t know where to start unless someone’d done all the actual work for me.
:) THANKS. I’LL LEARN HOW TO DO THE FANCY STUFF. BUT IT’S HARD. LIKE, LEARNING A NEW LANGUAGE—several, all at once.
And you said you don’t like studying. :p
YEAH, WELL, THIS IS DIFFERENT.
:-)
She what?
She’s back?
I want to click accept but my arm feels strange. Numb.
I want to ask her where she’s been. To throw my virtual arms around her and never let go, and to shake her, turn my back, and storm away.
And before I can work out which impulse is stronger, Kaito must have let her in, because she’s there, in front of me.
Hi guys :-/
I’m sorry I have not been around. Are you mad at me? :-/
MAI! NO, OF COURSE NOT! WHERE WERE YOU? ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?
HAHAHAHA, I AM SO GLAD YOU’RE BACK, WE’VE MISSED YOU!
I’ll explain everything, but not here. Can we meet? I just . . . this needs sugar. All the sugar. Bowls and bowls of it.
SURE.
. . . Sora?
What’s happened? Are you all right?
Not here, please.
It could be good news. Maybe she’s been busy crafting a portfolio, applied for an apprenticeship with a studio, been accepted. Any news is better face to face, with treats to celebrate. But . . . As we make plans for the weekend, I read over her words again, and worry creeps into my brain. Maybe it is just my day, casting monstrous shadows over everything I see, but I can’t help feeling there’s more to it than that and something’s wrong.
48
“There she is.”
The All America Café is full, buzzing with the clink of glasses and excited conversations, and there are people everywhere, but I pick Mai easily from the crowds. She is sitting in a booth all by herself, absently stirring a drink with a straw.
“Are you sure you’ll be all right?”
“Yes.”
“I could stay, at another table. Just in case.”
“No, Mama. It’s fine.”
The lines across my mother’s forehead give away her feelings, but she nods, and pushes me toward the table. A waitress scoots out of the way as we approach, giving my mother the sympathetic smile. I wish that I could do this by myself, at least, but my arms don’t have the strength.
Mai looks up and waves, shyly.
“Hi,” I say as Mama parks my chair at the end of the table. “You remember my mother?”
“Abe-san.” Mai bows her head. “I trust that you are well.”
“Yes. Thank you.” My mother sidesteps, so she’s facing me, and says, “I won’t be far. If you need anything—”
“Yes, Mama.”
Her fingers rest against my arm, just for a second, and then she’s gone.
I grin at Ma
i, relieved. “Hi,” I say again, and then, because her eyes are trailing after my mother, “Sorry. She had to come.”
“It’s okay.” Her voice is small, and she ducks her head, looking at me over thick black eyelashes. “How are you?”
“All right, thanks. You?”
“I don’t think your mother has forgiven me for the last time we met.”
“It’s not that. She just worries about leaving me.”
Mai glances at my chair, my hands limply resting in my lap.
“How are you really?”
“It’s getting worse. But I’m managing.”
She looks away, her eyes betraying the guilt, pity. And then, “Shall I order you something?”
She can’t wait to get away. “Please.”
“What would you like? Coffee? Milk shake? Ice cream?”
I twist my head and shoulders to look at the menu that hangs over the bar.
“Root beer float, please?”
Mai’s nose wrinkles.
“What?”
“Root beer? It tastes like medicine.”
“As someone who takes rather a lot of medications, I can promise that it doesn’t.”
Shock passes across her face as she tries to work out whether I am serious. I smile wider, and she visibly deflates, then grins at me. “Be right back.”
I let the hubbub reenter my consciousness and relax me; the twang of American guitars playing through the jukebox, the laughter, the whir of milk shake blenders. I inhale the smell of fabricated joy; sugared, greasy, leather-seated joy.
“Heeeeey, man.” Kaito slips into the seat beside me, and slinks down so low that his head is level with the table.
“Hi. Mai has just gone to the bar. She won’t be long.”
“Yeah. I saw her on the way over. So how are things?”
“Okay, thanks. You?”
“Yeah. We should meet like this more often. I mean, the chat room’s great, but there’s milk shake here!”
“It is nice.”
He picks up a coaster and taps out a rhythm against the table’s edge. He’s staring into nothing, completely at ease. My foot joins in—nothing moves, but I can feel the muscles dancing underneath my skin.
“Have you been in here before?”
“No. You?”
“No. I like it though.”
“Me too. It smells like fun.” I hear the words leaving my mouth, and they sound so stupid. As though I have never been anywhere, or spoken to another human being before. “I mean—”
“Yeah. The Americans get some things really right. Not all things, but this, this is brilliant.”
“What’s brilliant?” Mai asks, returning with two glasses in hand. “Root beer for you”—she places it in front of me—“and a strawberry-mint milk shake.” She slides it across the table, and Kaito catches it, raising the straw to his lips.
“Wait wait wait!” she squeals. He stops dead. “A toast! To us, the—what did you call us? The Gleesome Threesome.”
“To us!”
Kaito slurps loudly. “You know, I think our name could use some work.”
Mai giggles. “I am SO glad you’re both here. Now, Sora, tell me alllll about your holiday!”
I recount the tale of the bakeneko and Cat Twenty-three, and Mai gasps and giggles in all the right places while Kaito spurs her on. It’s perfect. And for five beautiful minutes, I feel like me again.
And then I remember.
“Mai . . .”
“Yes?”
“Wasn’t there something you wanted to tell us?”
The laughter drains away immediately, leaving a thin nervousness hanging in the air.
“Ye-es.” She sighs.
Kaito sets down his drink and leans toward her, fingers steepled in anticipation.
“Go on?”
“I . . .”
I watch her chest flutter as she inhales, and I feel like someone’s scooped out my insides and left me empty. What is it Mai?
“Oh, guys, it’s terrible!”
What?
She looks at each of us in turn, and when she speaks again she’s calm, but her voice carries a weight that does not fit her appearance. “My mother, she . . . we had this big argument and she took away my Internet. She says you’re all a bad influence.”
Kaito grins. “I mean, she isn’t entirely wrong there, Mai.”
“Yes she is!” Mai huffs, cheeks red. “And it gets worse. Wait till you hear why we argued . . . She wrote university applications in my name, to Harvard and Oxford. Without telling me. She wants a fancy-schooled lawyer for a daughter, and nothing I can do will stop her getting one.”
“She can’t! You can’t! What about your art?”
“Yeah! Can’t you stand up to her?”
Mai shakes her head sadly. “I tried. My mother is determined. Once she has made up her mind, that’s it. And she’s already sent the applications. But I can’t be a lawyer. I can’t!”
I imagine Mai sitting at the back of an old Oxford classroom filled with wooden chairs that glow warm in the sun and air so thick with knowledge that it wraps itself around you like a woolen blanket. But Mai is not comforted by this place. Chained to her desk, she glances up at the high windows, watches the dust motes, and the clouds scudding by on the other side of the glass. She needs to be free.
“No.” I shake my head defiantly. “You won’t have to. We will think of something. Won’t we, Kai?”
“Yes!” He sits up straight. “The Gleesome never turn down a fight. And with all our superhero supersleuthing powers, we will find a way to fix this.”
“Thanks.” She smiles, but she does not look too sure.
“It’ll be okay, Mai.”
She’s facing Kaito, but her eyes slide sideward to me and her shoulders sink. “Yeah, maybe.”
49
Are you sure you’re all right, Mai? Is something else wrong?
It just seemed like there was something you weren’t saying.
No, I’m fine.
You forget, I am the High Emperor of Secrets.
Ha!
I just . . . I can’t do it, Sora. I can’t sit in a stuffy office all day, looking at hundred-year-old laws and fixing disputes between angry neighbors. But I can’t tell her, either. The disappointment would destroy her.
I don’t know that I buy it. There was more. But I can’t exactly call my friend a liar.
50
Dear Sora,
Your mother tells me that you ’re struggling to write now. Struggle is good for the soul, we know that, but it’s not good for the fingers. And truth be told, my old hands are rusty too. So your illustrious grandmother went out and bought a new-fangled contraption called a Pee See.
Perhaps you ’ll teach us how to use it.
We love you,
Ojiisan
(and Bah-Ba)
• • • •
Ojiisan,
Computers are strange and mythical beasts, more temperamental than the thunder god Raijin. Don’t worry if yours starts to grumble. It’s their nature. But there are things you can do that will appease it. They like things orderly; the same requests and orders every time. Find a way to complete tasks that works, and stick to it. Here are some suggestions.
Sora
I print out step-by-step instructions: how to turn on the computer, open up the browser, sign up for an e-mail account, send mail, use the search bar. And as an afterthought I tell him where to download mah-jongg. I know they can both play with real tiles, but perhaps they’ll like it. And they will not argue over who is winning if the computer keeps tally.
51
WHAT IF WE KIDNAP YOU?
(-: It’s a nice idea, but to where?
UM . . . I COULD HIDE YOU IN THE CLOSET?
We’re trying to free her, Kai, not condemn her.
YOU’RE RIGHT. AND I DON’T THINK THE POLICE WOULD BE IMPRESSED. I’M NOT READY FOR INCARCERATION. NOT EVEN FOR FRIENDSHIP.
I MEAN . . . THERE ARE CRIMINALS
IN THERE.
Hah. Thanks, boys. That’s a lot of help :-p
SORRY, MAI. YOU WOULDN’T WANT ME TO ROT BEHIND BARS, THOUGH, WOULD YOU? O_O
Hahahaha, no.
SO WHATEVER PLAN WE COME UP WITH, IT HAS TO BE LEGAL.
And preferably not hurt anybody.
YEAH, OKAY.
What if you write to the universities and tell them what has happened?
YEAH, THAT COULD WORK.
But I cannot bring shame upon my family like that.
Her mother brought it upon herself, if you ask me. But I’m not sure I could do it, either, so I stay silent.
OKAY, OKAY, I THINK I’VE GOT IT!
What?
WELL, THESE PLACES ARE PRESTIGIOUS, YES?
Yes.
SO EVEN IF THEY LIKE YOU—I mean, your mother’s picture of you—they will want to interview, right?
I think so.
SO ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS MAKE THEM THINK YOU ARE A LAZY STUDENT, OR DISINTERESTED, OR LESS CLEVER THAN THEY THOUGHT.
That might actually work
But . . .
WHAT? THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH THAT PLAN. NOTHING.
Except that my mother’s savings, and my grandfathers, will go into the plane tickets if we have to interview.
MAYBE THE UNIVERSITIES WILL INTERVIEW BY PHONE CALL?
Maybe. But then my mother will be listening.
Besides, I am a terrible, terrible liar.
THEN WE’RE BACK TO THE BEGINNING. I STILL THINK YOU SHOULD TELL HER HOW YOU FEEL. IT HAS TO BE BETTER THAN LYING.
52
“Mama?”
“Yes?”
Her breath is warm against my neck as she unbuttons my shirt.
“Would you want to know if I was unhappy?”
She smooths my collar and steps back, searching my face while a thousand emotions cloud hers.
“Of course.”
I wish that I could tell her about Mister Yamada. I wish I could explain how it feels to be caught in this cage of aches and limitations, how it feels to know what is to come. How I wanted so much more.
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