“Kanako, what’re you going to do with this? Should we just throw it away?”
Yukari was waving the letter in the air, holding it disdainfully with the tips of her fingers.
“Hey, no! Don’t throw it away here! Someone might find it! I’ll take it home and tear it up.” I took the letter back from Yukari and put it in my bag. “Never mind. Where shall we go on the way home? Me, I want a frozen yogurt.”
So we stopped by the frozen yogurt place, and it wasn’t until late that night that I read Jellyfish’s letter. After I got home, I took a bath, and while I was watching TV and drying my hair, I remembered I needed to have a dictionary for class the next day—and found the letter again in my bag.
I just casually started reading it, but as I went on, I felt . . . I couldn’t explain, but I felt kind of grabbed by the heart. How did he know? It was like . . . all those things that had been kind of churning around in my head—he’d just set them all out, clear as day, all in a row.
So true. I couldn’t talk to any of my friends about my parents’ divorce. What was bothering me weren’t things you could really talk about with classmates, and I didn’t want to wreck the fun of being with them by confiding anything very serious or heavy.
Some people want to have “best friends” who know everything about them, but to me that is just too much. I guess I did wish that there was someone who really understood how I felt and who even noticed. Still, these were girls I always hung out with, just having fun at school. When you know each other too well, it’s harder to get along.
The fact that Jellyfish had been watching me made me feel kind of creepy—like he was a stalker or something—but also just a bit happy. It felt rather good that Jellyfish thought I was something special, and it was amazing that he had noticed how sad I was feeling.
The problem between my parents—it’d made me think about the things that bring people together . . . love, or whatever it is. But I wouldn’t dream of telling Yukari and the girls—it’d be too embarrassing. We just don’t talk about things like that.
I started thinking I might like to have a good long talk with Jellyfish. But of course I never would. After all, to have even the slightest thing to do with him would put me out there, in his disturbed, disconnected world. And I wouldn’t be able to stay in the same world with my friends any more.
If I even spoke to him, I’d be totally alone. I might go to school, but when I saw my friends together laughing gaily over something, and went over to join them, the mood would suddenly shift. They’d go quiet, giving me cold looks like I was some kind of stranger, and then they’d just leave me there. I couldn’t stand it—I’d die if I had to eat my lunch all alone at school!
So, even after I read the letter, I didn’t make contact with Jellyfish. I thought there was nothing I could do to get to know him better. At school, Yukari asked me—loudly on purpose, so he would overhear what we were saying—“What did you do with that letter?” and I answered, “I threw it in the trash, without opening it, of course.”
Why did I ever say that?! Actually, I treasure that letter, and keep it carefully in the drawer where I store my important possessions. When Yukari asked me about it, I answered without even thinking. No matter how many times I’ve regretted what I said, I can’t take it back. That day, if only I could have been more . . . more . . .
Now, whenever I feel like crying, I read that letter, and it always makes me feel better. When I read it, I can be with Jellyfish.
No one else ever called me an angel or thought I was good or gentle. Because I have that letter, no matter how sad or hopeless I feel, I can get my spirits back. I can try to smile again.
Even now, after Jellyfish went and killed himself, I keep going. I keep smiling.
Signs
by Kaitlin Stainbrook
I’d first seen Purikura Man just two days ago, and already I was doing what I’d told myself I wouldn’t: investigating.
I ducked inside the arcade, but a group of four middle schoolers were already in the purikura booth. I sat on a bench outside and pretended to read e-mail on my cell phone, when really I was just staring at the screen, waiting for the girls to leave.
Over the distant roar of the trains, I could make out their squealing voices. One was arguing for the French fry background, while the others were trying to convince her it wasn’t as cute as she thought.
My friends Yumi, Sango, and I had a similar debate the night we saw Purikura Man, though it had been over a lame kangaroo background instead. All day Sango had been dropping hints that she wanted to try out the new purikura booth in the train station. Yumi and I eventually gave up trying to convince her that purikura booths were all the same and went together after school.
We’d huddled around a nearby table to help Sango cut out the tiny photos and strategically place them in one of her many purikura albums.
I was handing a newly cut photo to Sango when I saw a man in a suit nervously look around, then slip inside the booth we’d just used.
I nudged Yumi. “A salariman is doing purikura.”
She and Sango glanced back at the drawn plastic curtain across the booth’s doorway. The only part of him that could be seen was a pair of scuffed dress shoes. Sango went back to arranging the new pictures in her album, thoroughly examining each one before placing it in the album. “People are allowed to take purikura by themselves.”
“But why would a man like that want purikura?”
“Maybe it’s his hobby,” Yumi said. “Maybe he’s lonely.” Yumi’s first instinct was always to sympathize.
“Or maybe he’s involved in some kind of crime ring,” I said, feeling ridiculous just saying the words. “He could be leaving secret messages about sumo gambling or something.”
Yumi raised an eyebrow. “In a purikura booth?”
Sango sighed and snapped her album shut. “Kana, you just want to see adventure and scandal when there’s only a weird guy taking pictures of himself.”
“You’re probably right,” I admitted and watched as Purikura Man slipped out of the arcade and into the swiftly moving current of people heading for the train platforms.
But if Sango and Yumi were right, why was I back here again? Why couldn’t I let it go? Stranger things than a salariman doing purikura happened in the world every day.
The middle school girls from before walked past, giggling as they playfully bumped into each other, phone charms jingling with every step. Finally.
I darted back inside the arcade only to walk straight into a boy about my age wearing a black peacoat.
“Excuse me,” I said, flustered.
He gave me a fast bow of apology and moved to step into the booth, but I blocked him.
“Sorry.” I winced at how rude I was being. “I’ve been waiting a really, really long time,” I added, though it wasn’t completely true. “And I only need it for a few minutes.” Also not true.
He held my gaze, but with an indifferent expression. I nervously twisted the silver ring on my middle finger. “Please?”
He shook his head slowly and pointed at his right ear.
“Um . . .” Was he working with Purikura Man and this was some kind of criminal code? I twisted my ring harder.
He pointed at his ear again. Then, when he saw I still wasn’t getting it, he started gesturing in Japanese Sign Language, forming words and sentences with his hands. He was telling me he was deaf. Or possibly that I was an idiot for not figuring it out right away.
“Oh! I’m so sorry! I didn’t know,” I said, my own ears burning.
He pulled out a thin, black cell phone and suddenly began pressing numbers on the keypad. When he was done, he held the phone out for me to read what he’d typed. You were here Friday, right? Did you see him too?
I didn’t remember seeing this boy on Friday, but I knew he could only be referring to Purikura Man. I tentatively started typing a message back to him, but he snatched the phone away.
I can read your lips.
&nb
sp; I tried not to think about him studying the way my mouth moved. “That’s why I came back here.”
He nodded. At least someone in all of Japan didn’t think I was paranoid.
Did you see if he left anything behind? Like a clue?
“No, sorry.”
He looked a little disappointed as he bowed in thanks, then ducked around me into the booth. I hesitated, but stepped in after him. He didn’t look too happy as he handed me his phone.
I don’t need any help.
“Two heads are better than one, right?”
He gave me a skeptical look, like he’d thought he was questioning a witness, not inviting me to play detective with him.
“I’m Kana.” If I introduced myself it would be harder for him to brush me off.
Sakamoto Genki.
“Nice to meet you.” We shared nods, then looked away from one another.
Apparently silences can be awkward even when you’re deaf.
Genki gestured at the rest of the booth. Shall we?
We took turns examining the screen and camera, both of us trying to keep our distance from one another. Well, as much distance as two people could keep in a purikura booth.
I don’t know what I’d expected to find. It looked like any other purikura booth: sparse on the inside and overwhelmingly busy on the outside.
There was a clinking of 100-yen coins falling inside the machine.
I started to ask Genki why he thought doing purikura would help, but realized he couldn’t read my lips with his back to me. I joined him at the screen and watched as he scrolled through all the background options, picking a few at random.
The camera switched on and there we were on screen. Underneath purikura lights skin becomes smoother, and eyes take on a certain purikura sparkle. Genki didn’t really need the help though.
There was a countdown on the screen and then a flash. We took all our purikura without changing our expressions, Genki determinedly serious and me with my usual closed-mouth smile.
The purikura taken, Genki methodically explored the editing options, continuing his search for clues. I doubted he’d find any hidden in glittery font colors. I stepped out of the booth and watched a group of boys gathered around a taiko drum game.
It was strange to think Genki couldn’t hear any of the fake drum noises or the boys teasing each other. He could concentrate on figuring out the Purikura Man mystery without any extra stuff in the way.
I pressed my hands against my ears. Maybe silence would help me think too. I couldn’t hear all the arcade and train station noises anymore, but somehow even the absence of sound was a sound, like a low, constant roar.
I immediately dropped my hands to my sides when Genki came out. He shook his head. Nothing.
We shrugged at each other, both of us trying not to look as disappointed as we actually felt. It wasn’t just that there were no more clues; there’d never been anything there to begin with. Like Sango had said, just a weird guy doing purikura by himself.
Genki cut the strip of purikura in half and handed me one. I bit back laughter looking at the photos. The only thing that changed from picture to picture was the background. They were the strangest purikura I’ve ever taken.
Genki was suddenly fumbling to get his phone out of his pocket.
What do people never do in purikura?
“Not smile?”
They never turn away from the camera.
We did it all again, this time with our backs to the camera. Neither of us knew what we were looking for, but we didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. No message or sign telling us we were on the right track.
Genki slumped against the outside of the booth and shoved our freshly printed purikura into his coat pocket. He might not have said it, but his body language was clear. He was beating himself up for thinking that more light would do something.
“It was a good guess,” I assured him. “But what about the opposite?” I circled the booth slid my hand between the booth and the wall, trying to find the plug. “Help me?”
Genki’s arms were longer than mine and after a brief glance around the arcade to make sure no one was paying attention to us, he yanked the plug out of the wall. We stepped inside the now-dark booth together and this time there was something there.
“260 up” and a key had been painted just above the camera. The writing was tiny, but cast a green glow strong enough that I could make out the small wrinkle between Genki’s eyebrows as he leaned in close to get a better look.
Bang! The booth walls shuddered. Genki and I toppled into each other in our scramble to get out of the booth. “What do you think you’re doing?” came a gruff voice just outside. In the arcade, Genki pulled me to my feet just in time to face the irate arcade owner in front of us.
He had a few moustache whiskers on his thin top lip that quivered as he spoke. “Find a love hotel if you want to do that kind of stuff.”
He’d thought we were . . . My mind backpedaled in horror.
“It’s not like that! We’re doing a school project and our teacher said we should come here to conduct our experiment—our experiment for school,” I said in a rush as Genki plugged the purikura booth back in.
“Uh huh. You and everyone else. Get out of here, perverts.”
Before I could fumble my way through more assurances of our innocence, Genki grabbed me by the wrist and pulled me toward the exit.
He was completely unfazed we’d just been accused of . . . purikura play. I must have still looked freaked out though, because he typed out a message for me on his phone.
What’s wrong? Scared?
“Only scared I’d die of embarrassment.”
What’s there to be embarrassed about? That was the best purikura action I’ve had in a long time.
I stared at him.
Kidding.
“Anyways, Purikura Man was leaving a message for someone. 260 up. Whatever that means. A certain time, maybe? Or 260,000,000 yen up in sumo gambling? And what was that key about?”
Genki didn’t respond and instead studied the map of crisscrossing railway lines above the row of ticket machines along the wall. He rapidly signed at me, pointing to the map now and again. We were getting looks from people who walked past us as we stood in the middle of foot traffic.
“You need to write it out for me.”
But Genki was on a roll and didn’t want to stop in the middle of his epiphany. He led the way over to the ticket machines and pointed at the price listings, one of which was for a 260-yen ticket.
“Great, but what does ‘up’ have to do with it?”
He tapped the kanji for Yawata, as far north as 260 yen could take us. The other rail line out of the train station was the Katano Line and it only went south.
“And the key?”
He waved his hand at me. He didn’t want to worry about the key yet.
“It’s a wild guess,” I argued. “We should wait outside the arcade and see if Purikura Man comes back.” But Genki was already buying our tickets. He slapped mine into my hand—“Genki, I can’t . . .”—and strode through the ticket gates, leaving me behind.
On the other side, he waved me over, but when he saw me shaking my head, he shrugged, and turned his back to me.
My phone binged then and I flipped it open to see a text from my mom reminding me I had a piano lesson at five. It was five-thirty now. I’d already missed the lesson, but I could still catch Genki.
“Wait!”
I knew yelling was useless, and as I struggled through the ticket gate, I looked up to see Genki had already disappeared into the crowds.
But when I walked in the direction of the train platforms there he was, waiting around the corner for me.
“I hate leaving mysteries unsolved,” I told him, so he didn’t think it had anything to do with him.
He jerked his head toward a waiting train headed north. Nods were fast becoming our secondary form of communication.
We snagged seats next to a slumber
ing old woman.
Usually, I liked looking out the window on train rides, but today I just wanted to talk to Genki. Where did he live? Go to school? Did he have any siblings? What did he do for fun? Had he always been deaf?
Genki was busy with his phone and I wished for what was probably the twenty-third time that day that I knew JSL. We glanced at each other at the same time and accidentally caught each other’s eyes. He grinned and held out his hand, palm up. Did he want to hold hands? Right here in front of people? He hadn’t exactly given me a lot of signs that he was interested. How could I say no to him without looking rude? And what if I kind of wanted to say yes? But before I could make a complete fool of myself and do something really stupid, he pointed at the cell phone-shaped bulge in my pocket. Oh.
He messed around with both phones, then gave mine back to me. Almost immediately I got a text from him.
Now I don’t have to guess what you’re saying all the time.
That surprised me. He’d never seemed lost when I talked to him. I texted back: You have to guess?
Lip reading is hard. I have to really concentrate and you talk fast when you’re nervous.
Sorry. I texted him a bowing emoticon for good measure. Then, not sure what else to say, added, Thanks for waiting.
No thanks necessary. It’s been nice having a sidekick. I glared at him and he hurriedly texted, I mean partner.
So who do you think Purikura Man was leaving his message for? I’m thinking yakuza gangsters. I was only half joking.
Genki gave me a weird look.
You don’t think it could really be yakuza, do you? I asked, nerves already starting to squirm in my stomach at the thought, but before he could respond, our train was sliding to a stop.
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