by Yoru Sumino
“Hello,” I protested. “Are you listening to me?”
“I’ve heard some cultures believe that, when you eat another person, their soul goes on living inside you.”
I was right, she wasn’t listening. Either that, or she was choosing to ignore me. The latter seemed more likely.
“Do you think people would do that for me?” she asked.
“No, I’m pretty sure that won’t be possible. Ethically, at least. I couldn’t say if it’s legal or not without looking up the laws.”
“That’s too bad,” she said, sounding sorry for me. “Now I won’t be able to give you my pancreas.”
“I don’t need it.”
“Maybe you don’t need to eat it, but don’t you want to?”
“Your pancreas is what’s going to make you die, right? If your soul is going anywhere in your body, that’s definitely where it’s ending up. And your soul sounds like too much of a troublemaker for me—it would just be a constant racket.”
“I’d believe it,” she said with a hearty laugh.
If she was this noisy alive, then her pancreas, once imbued with her spiritual essence, would certainly be too. No, thank you.
If she knew any restraint, she didn’t show it. Between the meat, rice, and organs, she ate so much more than me, to the point of groaning in pain. Meanwhile, I stopped once I felt pleasantly stuffed. The first order had been enough for me, and unlike her, I hadn’t foolishly packed the table with side orders.
After we finished, the waiter took away our pile of empty plates and the spent grill, then returned with sherbet for dessert. Despite all her moaning about feeling sick and being in pain, the icy treat spurred her back to life. She took a deep, reinvigorated breath, and she was back to making that racket again.
I asked, “Don’t you have any dietary restrictions?”
“Not really. But that’s only thanks to the last ten years of medical advancements. It’s amazing what people are capable of achieving. I’m sick, but it doesn’t get in the way of my life at all—even though sometimes I wish they’d focus all that effort on a cure instead.”
“Yeah,” I said.
I didn’t know anything about medicine, but for once I saw no harm in agreeing with her. I’d heard something about how medical science was focused on helping people live with terminal illnesses, rather than curing them instead. The way I saw it, research should have focused on curing diseases rather than accepting them. Not that my opinion would cause any progress to be made. No, if I wanted anything to change, I would have to go through specialized studies and become a medical scientist first. She didn’t have that kind of time, and I didn’t have the inclination.
“What’s next?” I asked.
“Like, in my future?” she asked. “I don’t have one, remember.”
“That’s not what I meant. You know, I’ve been meaning to say something—when you joke like that, don’t you see how it puts me in a bad place?”
She looked at me with confusion, then giggled a little. Her expression could totally change in an instant. It was hard to believe she was the same species as me. That would at least explain the shorter lifespan.
She said, “You’re the only person I can talk like that with. Most people would shy away from me. But not you—you’re amazing. You can talk with a dying classmate just like everything was normal. I don’t think I could do that. You’re special. When I’m with you, I can say whatever I want.”
“I’m not that special,” I said. I didn’t think I was at all.
“Well, agree to disagree. You know, I’ve never seen you looking sad around me. Could it be that you cry for me when you’re at home?”
“I don’t.”
“You should.”
I wasn’t about to. That wasn’t for me to do. I didn’t feel sad, and even if I did, I wasn’t about to reveal it in front of her. She shouldn’t expect other people to grieve when she wasn’t showing any misery herself.
“Back to my question,” I said. “What’s next? This afternoon.”
“You changed the subject! So you do cry for me. I’m going to go buy some rope.”
“I don’t cry for you. And what do you mean, rope?”
“I see, you’re putting up a tough front to win over my feminine heart. You heard me, rope. Like for hanging yourself with.”
“Who would bother trying to win over someone who’s about to die? And are you planning on killing yourself?”
“I don’t know. I was thinking about it. Better to do it myself than let the illness kill me. But I’m not thinking about doing it yet. The rope is just for a practical joke. And hey, you shouldn’t say such mean things to me! What if you hurt my feelings and drove me to suicide?”
“A practical joke?” I asked. “Listen, I think our conversation is getting all mixed up. Can we just talk about one thing at a time?”
“Sure,” she said. “Have you ever had a girlfriend?”
“I’m not even going to ask how you landed on that subject, and you don’t have to tell me.”
She looked like she was about to say something, and I stood up before she could. Not seeing our check on the table, I called over the waiter who instructed us to pay up front.
“I guess we’re going then,” my classmate said, grinning.
It appeared she could be moved on from a conversation if I didn’t take her bait. Finally, something I could use to my advantage. I made a mental note to use that tactic again.
Full-bellied, we left the yakiniku restaurant and went above ground, where the bright summer sun glared down at us. Reflexively, I squinted.
“What a beautiful day,” she said, just softly enough that I wasn’t sure if I was meant to respond. “Maybe I should die on a day like this.”
I decided to stick with my newfound strategy: ignoring her, like how people say not to look a wild animal in the eyes.
We started walking toward a large shopping mall directly attached to the train station. On the way, we shared light conversation, although if you guessed she did most of the talking, you’d be right.
A home improvement center anchored the mall. Nobody sold ropes specifically for hanging oneself, but they’d probably have something close.
The mall was packed with bustling crowds, but the store’s rope aisle was empty. The only people looking to buy rope on a nice day like this were probably contractors, cowboys, and dying schoolgirls.
I went a little farther down the aisle to compare nail sizes. I could hear some children laughing and playing somewhere in the store. I also heard my classmate call over a young worker and say to him, “Excuse me, I’m looking for a rope to hang myself with. Now, I don’t want to leave any marks on my skin, so I was wondering which rope is the safest for that.”
I turned to look, and the employee’s expression was so bewildered it made me laugh a little. Then I felt annoyed at the girl for making another of her jokes at my and the worker’s expense. A safe suicide—that was just the kind of idea she’d find funny. And now she had me laughing, too. Without bothering to make sure I put the correctly sized nails into their proper containers, I replaced them and approached the put-upon worker. My classmate’s back was to me, but from the way she was moving, I could tell she was giggling.
“I’m sorry,” I said, offering him rescue. “This one doesn’t have much time to live. She’s a little touched in the head.”
I couldn’t tell if he’d accepted my story or if he’d just gotten disgusted with us, but either way, the worker walked away and returned to his duties.
“Aw,” she said, “I think he was about to show me the right one to buy. Why’d you have to ruin it?” Her eyes twinkled. “Could it be you were getting jealous I was getting so close with him?”
“If that’s called getting close, then nobody would make tempura with oranges.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m just saying something meaningless, so don’t think about it too hard.”
I’d intended tha
t to annoy her, but instead, a moment passed and she roared in laughter even louder than usual.
For whatever reason, she seemed to be in a particularly good mood as she picked out a single length of rope which she purchased along with a tote bag to hold it. The tote bag had a cutesy drawing of a kitten on it. She hummed and swung the bag as we left the store, and we caught more than a few puzzled looks from the shoppers around us, seemingly—and mistakenly—wondering, Just how much fun could that home improvement store be, anyway?
She asked, “What do you want to do next, [Classmate Who Knows My Secret]-kun?”
“Hey,” I said, “I’m just following you. I don’t have any agenda.”
“Really? There isn’t anywhere you’d like to go?”
“If I absolutely had to answer, I guess I’d say a bookstore.”
“Is there a book you’re looking for?”
“No. I don’t need a reason. I just like to go to bookstores.”
“Huh,” she said. “That sounds like it could be some old Swedish saying.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m just saying something meaningless,” she said with a gently mocking laugh, “so don’t think about it too hard.”
She really was in a good mood. I was just annoyed. Wearing opposite expressions, we went into the mall’s large bookstore. I headed straight for the new fiction section, but she didn’t come along. It felt great having some alone time again, and I browsed the books with pleasure.
As I looked at the covers and read the beginnings of several books, time passed without me realizing. Anyone who loves books knows the feeling, but I admit not everyone loves books. When I looked at my watch, I felt a little guilty at how much time I’d taken, and I searched the bookstore for my classmate. When I found her, she was happily reading fashion magazines. Even just standing and reading in a store, she had a smile on her face. I thought that was incredible. I loved books, and I didn’t do that.
I approached her, and she noticed me before I could say anything. She looked at me, and I apologized.
“I’m sorry. I forgot all about you.”
“What a lousy way to apologize! But it’s okay, I’ve been reading. Do you like fashion?”
“Nope,” I said. “I don’t care what I wear as long as it’s normal and doesn’t make me stand out.”
“That’s what I figured. I like fashion. Once I get to college, I’ll dress up all the time… But I’ll be dead before I make it to college. What’s real on the inside is more important than appearances, after all.”
“That’s not at all what people mean when they say that, you know.”
Reflexively, I looked around us to see if anyone was listening. What she’d said was outrageous coming from a high school girl, but no one seemed to have taken the slightest interest.
We didn’t buy anything at the bookstore. In fact, we didn’t buy anything else that day. After we left, we went into a few other shops that caught her eye—an accessory shop, an eyeglass store—but we simply browsed. In the end, the only things either of us bought were the rope and the kitten tote bag.
We were getting tired from walking, and she suggested we stop in a coffee shop. The café, a national chain, was busy, but we lucked into an open table. She held it down for us while I ordered our drinks; she wanted an iced café au lait, and I got myself an iced coffee. When I brought them back to our table on a tray, my classmate was writing in her Living with Dying book.
“Thanks,” she said. “How much was it?”
“Don’t worry about it. I still owe you for the yakiniku.”
“Forget about it. I told you that was my treat. But I suppose I can let you buy my coffee.”
She happily put her straw into the glass and began drinking her café au lait. I probably don’t need to keep describing everything she did as being done happily—her unfailing positivity infused every movement she made.
She glanced from side to side and said, “To everyone else, I bet we look like we’re a couple.”
“Whatever we look like, we’re not a couple, so they can think what they want.”
“That’s pretty cold,” she stated.
“Every boy and girl together look like a couple if you want to see them that way. No one would look at you and assume you’re going to die soon. You said it yourself: What matters isn’t how other people judge you, it’s what’s real on the inside.”
She said, “That sounds like something you’d say.” She laughed mid-drink, and little puffs of air came out of the bottom of her straw and noisily bubbled up through the glass. “By the way, have you ever had a girlfriend?”
I began standing up. “Well, I’m rested. We should get going.”
She grabbed my arm and said, “You haven’t taken one sip of your coffee.”
The same trick wasn’t going to work twice on her. Still, she didn’t need to dig her nails into my skin so hard. Maybe she was retaliating for the way I shut down the conversation in the yakiniku place. I didn’t want to pick a fight, so I obediently sat back down.
“Well?” she asked. “Have you had a girlfriend?”
I shrugged. “Who can say?”
“I just realized I don’t think I know anything about you.”
“Maybe you don’t,” I said. “I don’t like to talk about myself.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to blabber on about things nobody’s interested in hearing about. I’m not one of those people who are too concerned with what other people think of them.”
“What makes you so sure nobody’s interested in hearing about you?” she asked.
“Because I’m not interested in other people.”
I gazed down at the wood grain of the table and laid out my thoughts as if I was arranging them on its surface.
“The thing about people is they don’t really care about anyone but themselves. Sure, there are exceptions. Even I can become interested in someone with remarkable circumstances—like you—but I’m not the sort of remarkable person someone else would be interested in. And I don’t feel like talking about something if nobody has anything to gain from it.”
This was a long-held belief I usually kept inside myself, locked away in a dust-covered slumber. I’d never had anyone I could talk to about it.
“I’m interested in you,” she declared.
But I didn’t comprehend what she said. When I brushed away the dust, I had stirred up other memories with it; I was lost in them. Searching for the meaning of her words, I looked up, and what I saw took me by surprise. The girl’s expressive face only displayed a single emotion now. It didn’t take an expert at reading people to see that she was angry.
I asked, “What’s the matter?”
“I’m telling you that I’m interested in you. I wouldn’t ask someone to hang out with me all day if I wasn’t interested in who they were. Don’t make a fool out of me.”
I couldn’t understand what she was saying. I didn’t see why she would find me interesting or why she would be mad at me.
I said, “I think you do foolish things every now and then, but I don’t think you’re a fool.”
“Maybe you didn’t mean it that way, but you still ruined my good mood.”
“Oh, I did?” I said. “I’m sorry.”
I apologized even though I didn’t know what I’d done to offend her. I wasn’t one to shun the most effective way of appeasing an angry person. It worked with her like it did with most other people I’d made mad—she puffed out her cheeks in a pout, but the anger slowly melted from her expression.
“I’ll forgive you,” she said, “if you’ll answer my question.”
I looked down again. “I don’t think the answer will be particularly entertaining.”
“Tell me. I’m interested.”
The corners of her lips had turned up into a slight grin. I wasn’t ashamed that she had persuaded me to talk, or that I didn’t feel like defying her. I was the boat of reeds.
“It might
not be the answer you’ve built up in your mind,” I warned her.
“All right, all right, I got it. Now, tell me.”
“I can’t remember a time since grade school,” I said, “where I ever had any friends.”
She didn’t say anything right away. “You mean like amnesia?”
“I think I was wrong about you. You are a fool.”
I wondered which was rarer—amnesia, or someone her age with an incurable, terminal disease. If it was the latter, then maybe what she said wasn’t so outlandish. She screwed up her face at me, but I thought she’d look past that remark if I answered her straight.
“I’ve never had any friends, so of course I’ve never had a girlfriend.”
“You’ve never had any friends? That’s not just how it is now?”
“Yeah. Since I’m not interested in other people, I don’t know how to make other people interested in me. But it doesn’t bother me, anyway. I don’t feel like I’m missing out on anything.”
“You’ve never wanted a friend?” she asked.
“I don’t know. A friend could be fun, I suppose, but I believe the world inside my books is more fun than the real one, anyway.”
“And that’s why you’re always reading.”
“Yeah,” I said. “And thus concludes the boring talk. Just to be diplomatic, I’ll ask you the same thing: Do you have a boyfriend? If you do, you should go spend time with him instead of me.”
“I had one,” she said, her voice not betraying sadness. “But I broke up with him a little while ago.”
“Because you’re dying soon?”
“No. Besides, I wouldn’t tell him that. I haven’t even told my friends.”
Then why had she been so upfront with me at the hospital? The question didn’t eat at me, so I didn’t ask it. I didn’t make a conscious choice not to—I just didn’t bother.
She said, “The thing about him—” She interrupted herself. “Oh, you know him, by the way. He’s in our class—though I bet if I told you his name, you wouldn’t know it.” She chuckled. “He’s a really good person, but he was terrible to date.”
“That can happen sometimes,” I said. Not that I’d know.
“It can. So I broke up with him. I wish that God would save us the trouble and put labels on people from the start—this one is for being friends with, that one is fine to date.”