by Meg Mezeske
“Oh, I see.” Ms. Tatsuya’s smile wilted. She busied herself by removing her thick glasses and swiping at them with a handkerchief, eyes down. “Don’t let me interrupt.”
“I’ll see you again before I leave for the day, Tatsuya-sensei,” Jordan offered, but the other teacher only nodded and wouldn’t meet her eyes. Jordan and Akira shared a glance, and both made for the hallway, neither speaking until they hooked around the corner. Akira broke the silence first.
“Tatsuya-sensei is nice—really nice! And she did help me a lot with Yuki,” Akira said, thrusting his hand behind his head once more. “It’s just that…she always wants to talk about him, even if I don’t want to. And she can talk for a long time!” He ended with a laugh.
“I understand,” Jordan said, meaning it. After Aiden died, his presence had lingered like a silent shadow over every conversation. When friends greeted her, their eyes would soften and they would ask how she was in a delicate, distant way that suggested they already knew. Even if they didn’t know at all, or didn’t really want to know. They joked less but smirked indulgently when Jordan might laugh, like they were only rewarding her effort. Jordan wouldn’t be that for Akira. She’d try to float along with his current instead of swimming against it.
As they continued walking, Jordan realized Akira was leading her away from the gym, toward the third floor of the school.
“Isn’t the ping pong club in the gym?” Jordan said breathlessly, trying to keep up with the boy’s long-legged strides as they rounded the top of the stairs.
“Oh, actually, I wanted to show you someplace else.” Akira threw a glance over his shoulder, mouth split wide by a wolfish grin. “Since you liked the old science room so much.”
Jordan was glad when the boy’s back was once again turned so he couldn’t see her look of surprise and confusion. At best, the room had been a curiosity to her; at worst, it was downright creepy. Still, she was happy to at least have conveyed her interest in Akira’s activities, as one of her students. She couldn’t help but chuckle at his eagerness to share more with her, but she also made a mental note to be wary of—and quash—any hints of a schoolboy crush developing.
They soon arrived at a utilitarian door with a small window through which she could see yet more stairs. Akira shot a quick, wary glance down both ends of the corridor, and Jordan felt her stomach drop a few ribs lower. Akira reached for the door handle and she quickly interjected.
“Akira, are we allowed in there? I don’t want you to get in trouble.” She didn’t want to get in trouble. She was supposed to be the responsible adult, after all. Jordan shivered as she imagined Ms. Nakamura’s bleak eyes glaring at her in reprimand.
“Well, it’s only the roof. Lots of us go up here to eat lunch.” He shrugged. “It’s kind of off-limits after school, but no one really cares. Yuki and I hung out here loads of times.”
Jordan pursed her lips, unconvinced.
“It’s no big deal. I promise!” In direct contradiction of his own words, he raked another cagey look around them and then pushed through the door. Jordan winced at the loud creak and hesitated for a beat before following him into the narrow stairwell beyond.
When they emerged on the flat rooftop, Jordan squinted and had to shield her eyes against the rays of kindled sunlight that sliced across the horizon. In the moments it took her to blink away the temporary blindness, she didn’t realize they were not alone on the roof. Startled, she heard Akira cry out.
“Shun-kun!”
“Shun…?” Jordan used both hands now to block the sun and search for the boy who had caught Akira’s attention. Once she saw Shun—his small figure smudging the sunlight around him—a blade of fear plunged into her chest and she struggled to even pull in breath.
Shun had climbed over the tall chain-link fence that encircled the roof. He had even scaled the shelf of fencing that folded toward the center of the building, designed—no doubt—to deter students from doing exactly what Shun had accomplished. There, the boy clung to the outside of the angled fence, curled like a cicada shell on a tree. He was near enough to the edge that he could push himself free of the fence, or even slip and fall.
“What are you doing up there?” Akira’s question was punctuated by a nervous laugh. Shun said nothing but cringed against the fence and pressed his cheek between the chain links. The boy’s silence only furthered Akira’s confusion, and his eyes darted between Shun, the fence, and the ground below, searching for some sort of explanation to the boy’s behavior.
“Akira,” Jordan said as calmly as she could, keeping her voice steady. “Go to the teachers’ room and get help from Ms. Nakamura.”
Akira nodded once, slowly, but Jordan couldn’t be sure whether he had really heard her. He was reluctant to look away, and an expression of growing worry crinkled his features. When he made no move to leave, Jordan raised her voice.
“Akira. Go to Ms. Nakamura, now.” She tried to sound authoritative, but anxiety and impatience fissured her words. The change in tone was enough to startle Akira into attention, and he whipped his head toward her. Noiselessly, mouth open and eyes wide, he nodded and sprinted toward the door. She could hear the rattling echo of Akira bounding down the steps as the door eased shut behind him.
Jordan took a deep breath and let it out in a slow stream.
“Shun?” The boy didn’t respond or even look in her direction. Carefully, she inched closer toward the fence. “I want you to slowly make your way back here to the roof. Can you do that?”
“No,” Shun snapped. His small fingers tightened around the fence, shaking. “I don’t want to.”
“Why don’t you want to come down?” Jordan hoped her question came across as conversational, friendly even, not as terrified for the boy’s safety as she felt. She took another step forward and could finally see Shun clearly, his huddled form blocking the sun behind him. The boy looked at Jordan, but then his gaze strayed to the ground far below and he shied back against the fence, face drawn tight.
“I want to be with my brother again. I miss him,” Shun said in a small voice, and Jordan could hear the wet sniffle of held-back tears. Once again, he buried his face against the fence.
“I know you do, Shun. Believe me. I know exactly how you feel.” Aiden’s smiling face floated to the surface of her thoughts. Then, Aiden’s studio apartment—a jar of peanut butter on the counter, left open like he would be coming right back to make a sandwich. Jordan swallowed. “My brother died, too. Less than a year ago.”
“Really?” Shun raised his head to look at Jordan, his eyes puffy and wet. The zig-zag pattern of the chain link had indented his pillowy cheek like a brand. His gaze was expectant and curious, and he waited for Jordan to say more.
“Yes. And I miss him every day, and it hurts to remember him—to be away from him. But I know he wouldn’t want me to…”
She stopped short of saying the words, as though speaking of suicide would be an incantation that could bring her words to fruition. Besides, she wasn’t sure if Shun even fully grasped what he was doing, and if he hadn’t truly committed to taking his own life, she didn’t want to be the one to utter the thought. She drew a shaky breath and tried again. “I know he would want me to be happy again. I know Yuki wants the same for you too.”
“What’s his name? Your brother?”
“Aiden,” Jordan said and allowed herself a smile. “Maybe we could share some stories. If you’d only come down so we could talk. Please.”
Shun worried his bottom lip between his teeth, raking one final, lingering look across the ground below before nodding.
“Okay,” he said and reached upward to grab at the fence above him. The linked fence sagged and groaned as he climbed toward the inner edge of the shelf, bulging as though it were an animal taking in deep breaths. As Shun moved his foot to find a new hold, his sneaker slipped and he fell flat against the fence with a sharp clang. Jordan gasped.
“Are you all right?” She jumped forward, arms outstretched des
pite the fact that it would be impossible to catch him from her position.
“I’m fine,” Shun said with anemic bravado and doggedly continued up the fence, more slowly than before.
“Be careful. Take your time.” Her eyes never left him, hoping that—somehow—the force of her will would be enough to tether him to the roof, like tying a ribbon to a balloon before it could float away. Before it slipped forever beyond reach.
Just as Shun pulled himself to the top of the fence and hooked one leg across the lip, Jordan heard footsteps resounding on the stairs. A moment later, the door flew open, and Ms. Nakamura, the head teacher, and the principal burst onto the roof.
Shun paused, shocked, both legs now dangling over the inside of the roof and his stomach folded across the jutting fence. Jordan positioned herself to guide the boy down, but her fingertips had barely grazed his shoes before she was shouldered out of the way.
“I’ve got you,” Principal Kikuchi said. His voice was gruff with admonishment, but Jordan could see the worry in his eyes—blown wide behind his smudged glasses. The principal’s hands clamped around Shun’s calves and the head teacher moved to hook the boy under the armpits as he was lowered. With a sigh of breaths and shuffling limbs, Shun finally set both feet on the roof.
No time was allowed for celebration or relief before Shun was hurried away. The head teacher guided Shun toward the door, his hand squeezing the nape of the boy’s neck in a reassuring gesture. Ms. Nakamura’s face was lowered to Shun’s and she spoke urgently, but her voice was too quiet for Jordan to hear whether she was reprimanding or consoling him. Shun nodded and kept his eyes to the ground, not once looking back toward Jordan before he disappeared into the stairwell.
The principal had hung behind. Unmoving, he stared across the horizon. His gaze was fixed on some point far into the hills, which were glazed with the honeyed light of the lowering sun. He rubbed his head, pushing furrows into his bald scalp, and looked straight ahead without blinking. Finally, he seemed to awaken from his stupor and walked to the door in a few long strides. There, he paused, turned toward Jordan, and nodded once as he exited.
Jordan supposed it was the only recognition she would receive, if what little she had done was even deserving of gratitude. Not that she had spared a single thought for herself at the time—her entire world had narrowed to a pinpoint that only had room for Shun. She wondered, though, whether she could feel true relief.
No doubt another new lock would appear on the door leading to the roof—a twin to the one that clung to the old science room.
Jordan let out a long, unsteady breath and rested her hands against the honeycombed fence, feeling rough flakes of rust catch her against her skin. She didn’t move until the edge of the sky dipped into darkness and a growing chill pushed her away.
Four
“Spring came. Freddie, za leaf, was born on a small branch of a tall tree,” Akira said, reciting haltingly in English as he stood beside Jordan’s desk in the teachers’ room. She nodded with encouragement when he paused to consult his textbook with a frustrated shake of his head. “Hundreds of leaves were born on za tree. They were all friends.”
She had given Akira her full attention for the last hour—and for many hours after school during the previous week—but it was getting late and she let her mind wander. Akira had been practicing his recitation diligently to prepare for an upcoming English competition between nearby high schools. Jordan offered to be his coach, to help him improve his pronunciation and general skill. Though he was enthusiastic and hardworking, he struggled. Happily for Jordan, he had improved his efforts in English class. He often chatted with her during breaks and became one of her most vocal, if not most proficient, students.
Jordan looked past Akira, through the large windows facing the rolls of low mountains that traced the eastern side of town. The hillside trees had turned to rust with the arrival of autumn, coppery colors winding through the veins of each leaf. A few fat evergreens dotted the banks of trees, forming dark, green patches among the vibrant orange and red. The sky churned with ash-colored clouds that crested and crept down the mountainside like slow waves over rocks. A few drops of rain dotted the window and Jordan saw Kenji, Ryusuke, and the rest of the baseball team leave the field. It was late for the students to still be at school, and Jordan decided to send Akira home as soon as he finished.
“He did not know this, but in za tree and za ground, there were already plans for new leaves in spring.”
“Nice job, Akira. You’ve really been practicing—I can tell. But remember, it’s ‘the’ not ‘za.’ Practice putting your tongue under your teeth.” She mimed with her own tongue, exaggerating for effect, and Akira laughed.
“Freddie the leaf,” he said before adopting a serious look and returning to Japanese. “I’ll never memorize the whole thing.”
“Don’t worry about that now. We’re working on pronunciation, right? There are still two more weeks until the competition. You have plenty of time to memorize.”
“Okay.” Akira nodded but didn’t look convinced.
“Ask one of your friends to help you practice. It’ll be fun.” The words had barely crossed her lips before she remembered that Yuki’s passing had left a social void in Akira’s life. “Umm, maybe Shun?”
“Yeah maybe.”
“How’s Shun doing?” Jordan hadn’t spoken to the boy after the incident on the roof. She learned that he had spent the following few days at home and was seeing a counselor who visited the school once a week. In class, he was quiet and withdrawn, but this behavior was no different from how he had acted before. Still, she was concerned.
“He’s doing better, I think. He said he won’t try anything like that again,” Akira said and attempted a reassuring smile that fell short of its mark.
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“Well, I’d better head home,” Akira said stiffly. He ran a hand through his bowl-cut hair, which looked too boyish for a young man halfway through high school, and then began to collect his books. “Thanks, Jordan-sensei. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yep, see you tomorrow,” she said and watched him leave. Akira was clearly still struggling with the loss of his friend, perhaps as much as Shun. Though she was happy to tutor Akira, and help fill the time he might have otherwise spent with Yuki, Jordan missed afternoons with the baseball team.
If she left soon, she thought she might be able to catch a few of the players near the cubbies or the bicycle lot. Jordan pulled on her jacket, gathered her purse, and made her way to the door. There, she turned to face the many teachers still crouched over paperwork and gave her studied farewell.
“Osaki ni shitsure shimasu.” The phrase literally translated to “please excuse my rudeness for leaving before you.” Almost everyone parroted this expression upon departing, but Jordan felt it only applied to her, almost always the first to leave. But she had no assignments to grade, no lessons to plan, and could only keep up the appearance of working at her desk for so long before her eyelids started to droop and her head nodded forward.
“Thanks for your hard work,” a few teachers said back. The customary response. But many were smiling, and Jordan knew she had something of a free pass being a foreigner. Though, she caught a glimpse of Vice Principal Nakamura looking at her sourly as she slid the door shut.
There were few lights on, and the hallways were dark due to the woolly clouds stitched in the sky. Jordan shivered, mostly at the sudden chill of the open halls, but partly because of the eerie stillness that seemed so at odds with the bright, peopled room she had just left. She could hear the shuffle of feet and low voices every now and again, carried from a far corner through the empty corridors.
Just as Jordan was about to head to the exit, she noticed a large smudge of ink across her hand and decided to take a moment to wash it off. She pivoted toward a sink basin with several faucets that was wedged in an alcove set off from the main hallway. Jordan turned on the tap, which ran shockingly cold, and re
ached for the bar of gold-yellow soap hanging in a net from the faucet. Above the rush of water, she heard movement over her shoulder. Startled, she whipped around to see two shadowy figures in the far corner of the alcove.
“Jordan-sensei,” a voice said from the darkness. She recognized it as Kenji’s. The young man stepped forward, looking as surprised as Jordan felt. His boyishly handsome face was flushed, and he seemed at a loss for what to say.
“You scared me!” Jordan said with a small laugh of relief.
“What? You’re the one who scared us, Jordan-sensei.” This came from Ryusuke, who stood a little apart from Kenji and smiled his usual sheepish grin. Kenji shot him a look that Jordan was unable to read, and Ryusuke dropped his gaze to his feet, straightening his jacket with a sort of fumbling nervousness. Kenji cleared his throat but said nothing.
“Well, I’m terribly sorry for startling you,” Jordan teased. “How was practice today?”
“It was great,” Kenji said almost happily, but his smile was forced. “We’ve got a big game coming up this weekend.”
“Yeah? Well, good luck! Sorry I haven’t been watching the team’s practices lately.”
“That’s all right, sensei. You have your own competition to win. Or Akira does, I guess,” Ryusuke said.
“Excuse us, Jordan-sensei, but we should really go home now,” Kenji said abruptly and slipped by her, motioning for his friend to follow.
“Bye, sensei.” Ryusuke hurried past and the two boys rushed toward the exit.
“See you later.”
Their heads had already dropped out of sight down the stairs, the low light making them appear to sink into the floor. Even over the running tap, Jordan could make out Ryusuke saying,
“—wasn’t my fault!”
This was followed by the chuff of the large entry door sliding shut. She shook her head and washed her hands in the bitingly cold water, wondering why they had been acting so strangely. Jordan shrugged to herself, dried her hands on her slacks, and made for the exit downstairs.