by Yoru Sumino
After we processed the book—we were still doing our jobs, of course—she changed the subject.
“Since it’s raining and we can’t do anything fun outside today, you’re coming over to my house instead.”
“Nah. That’s the opposite way from my house.”
“You could at least come up with an interesting excuse. It’s almost like you don’t really want me to invite you over.”
“Huh. It’s almost like you really think I want to be invited over. I can’t imagine what made you think that.”
“What?” she said in mock outrage. “Ah, whatever. You talk like that, but you’ll end up coming with me all the same.”
She had a point. As long as she gave me some sort of solid justification, or threat, or the sense of a righteous duty, I would be swayed. If a path was presented to me, I wouldn’t oppose it. That was simply because I was the boat of reeds; no other reason.
She said, “I haven’t even told you the whole thing yet. When you hear what I’ve got, you might want to come over.”
“My resolve is stronger than Fruiche. I’m not so sure you can break me.”
“Fruiche? That’s gloopier than anything. Man, Fruiche, huh? That brings me back. I haven’t had any of that stuff in so long. I’ll have to buy the mix next time I’m out. My mom used to make it for me when I was in grade school. My favorite is the strawberry one.”
“Your train of thought is about as firm as yogurt. I bet you could mix that with my resolve.”
“Maybe we should try.”
She loosened the bow tie of her summer uniform and undid her top shirt button. She must have been having trouble with the heat. Or she was just being silly. Probably the latter.
She said, “Don’t give me that look. Okay, back to the subject. So, you know how I told you before that I never read?”
“Yeah. Except for manga.”
“Right. Well, later I realized that wasn’t quite true. I basically never read books, but there’s one book that I’ve loved since I was a little girl. My dad gave it to me. Now, tell me that doesn’t interest you.”
“I see. That actually does interest me. A person’s favorite books reveals a lot about who they are. I’d like to know what kind of book someone like you likes. So, what’s the book?”
She paused for dramatic effect, then said, “Have you ever heard of The Little Prince?”
“By Saint-Exupéry?”
“What?” she exclaimed. “You know it? Come on, that’s a foreign book. I was sure even you wouldn’t have heard of it. Darn it.”
She pouted and slumped back in her chair, which let out another creaking wail.
I said, “If you don’t know that The Little Prince is famous, you really must not be interested in books.”
“It’s famous? Then you’ve probably read it, too,” she groaned.
“Actually, I’m a little embarrassed to admit I haven’t yet.”
“Really?”
She sprang up in her seat and leaned in to me. I scooted back along with my chair. She was grinning, of course. Apparently, I’d said something to make her happy—maybe a little too happy.
She said, “I mean, of course you haven’t read it. I knew that all along.”
“Don’t you know people who tell lies get sent to hell?”
She ignored my remark. “If you haven’t read it, you should. I’ll let you borrow my copy. Come over to my house today and get it.”
“Can’t you just bring it to school?”
“You wouldn’t want to make a frail young girl have to carry something so heavy, would you?”
“I’m going to take a wild guess and say it’s a paperback. Isn’t it?”
She offered, “I could bring it over to your house instead.”
“What happened to the book being heavy?” I asked. “Ah, forget it. Arguing with you is as exhausting as it is pointless. Besides, if you’d go so far as to bring it to my house, I may as well spare you the trip and go to yours.”
I’d file this one under righteous duty.
If I was to tell the truth, I was sure the school library would have a famous book like The Little Prince, but I didn’t want to sour her good mood, so I didn’t say anything. I didn’t know why I hadn’t yet read such a well-known story; it was probably just a matter of timing.
She said, “Well, well, when did you get to be so reasonable?”
“It’s a little something I learned from you—a boat of reeds can’t oppose a large ship.”
“You know, every once in a while you say something that goes right over my head.”
While I was eagerly explaining to her my use of metaphorical expression, the librarian returned. As had become our habit, the girl and I chatted with the teacher over tea and sweets. We told the librarian the unfortunate news that we had to come to school for the next two weeks for summer school, and then we left for the day.
Outside, thick clouds filled the sky and offered no hint of any sunlight to come. I didn’t hate rainy days. Rain always seemed to close off the rest of the world, and on most days, that suited my mood rather than spoiling it.
“I hate rain,” the girl groaned.
“Our outlooks really don’t match, do they?”
“Does anybody seriously like rain?”
They do, actually. But I chose not to argue the matter and instead began walking ahead of her. I didn’t know where exactly she lived, but her house was the opposite direction from mine, so I just turned the other way down the street in front of the school.
Catching up to walk beside me, she asked, “Have you ever been in a girl’s room before?”
“I haven’t,” I replied, “but we’re both high school students. I don’t imagine it’ll be all that shocking.”
“I guess not. My room is pretty plain. Kyōko has all these band posters and things—her room is more like a guy’s room than most guys’ rooms are. That Hina girl you like, her room is all stuffed animals and cute things. Maybe the three of us should hang out together next time.”
“No thanks,” I said. “I can’t talk in front of pretty girls—they make me too nervous.”
“I know you’re trying to suggest I’m not cute and I’m supposed to react to that and all, but it won’t work. I haven’t forgotten that you told me I was the third prettiest in class.”
“Yeah, but what you don’t know is I could only remember three girls’ faces.”
That was an exaggeration, although I really didn’t remember the face of every girl in our class. The ability to remember faces wasn’t all that useful to someone who didn’t socialize much; maybe those mental muscles had atrophied through disuse. In any case, a competition shouldn’t count when not all the contestants were present.
Her house ended up being almost exactly the same distance from the school as mine was. Tucked away in a neighborhood of single-family homes, her house had cream-colored siding and a red roof.
Since I was with her, I didn’t need to hesitate before walking onto the property. A small fenced-in yard occupied the space between the street and her front door, so I didn’t close my umbrella right away.
She ushered me in the front entrance and I fled inside like a cat from a wet place.
Raising her voice, she announced her arrival with a cheerful, “Tadaima!”
I hadn’t met a classmate’s parents since open house day in junior high, and I felt vaguely nervous. I said softly, “Um, hello. Sorry for intruding.”
The girl said, “Nobody’s home.”
“If there’s nobody here, then who were you greeting like that? There must be something wrong with your head.”
“I was greeting the house. This is where I’ve grown up. The place is important to me.”
Every now and then she could say something worthy of respect. I had no response. I told the house hello again and removed my shoes.
She went around turning on the lights, and life seemed to return to the house. She showed me to the washroom, where I washed my hands and rinsed
out my mouth at the sink. Then we went to her bedroom on the second floor.
My first impression upon entering a girl’s bedroom for the first time was: It was large. And by “it,” I mean everything; the room itself, her television, her bed, her bookcase, her computer. For a moment, I became jealous, but then I realized the proportions were a manifestation of her parents’ grief, and my envy dissipated.
“Sit wherever,” she said. “If you need a rest, I’ll even let you into my bed—but I will tell Kyōko.”
She claimed the red task chair at her desk and began spinning around. I stood indecisively for a moment before sitting on her bed. The mattress was springy.
From my new vantage point, I surveyed her room again. Like she’d said, the style was typical. The room was much like my own, only differing in its size, the cuteness of the knickknacks, and the contents of our bookcases. Hers was filled only with manga, ranging from popular boys’ comics to many I’d never heard of before.
She stopped spinning her chair and let out a nauseating belch. I was watching her with bored eyes when she suddenly looked up and said, “What should we play? Truth or dare?”
“I thought you were lending me a book. That’s why I’m here, remember?”
“Relax,” she said. “If you stay wound up like that you’ll die before I will.”
I gave her a dirty look, and she scowled back at me. I thought this might be a game where we would see which of us would get disgusted by the other first. If so, I was about to lose.
Casually, she stood and walked to her bookcase. I thought she might be getting The Little Prince for me, but instead she opened the lowest drawer and retrieved a folding shogi set.
“Let’s play this,” she said. “A friend left it here and hasn’t come to get it back.”
I didn’t see any reason to say no, so I agreed. I won the match, but only after a drawn-out, ugly mess of a battle. I’d thought winning would be easy, but a competitive game against a real opponent was different than the shogi puzzles I played by myself, and I couldn’t find my rhythm. When I finally had her king in check, she flipped over the board in frustration. Come on, now.
As I picked up the scattered shogi pieces from her bedspread, I looked out the window. The rain was still pouring.
Seeming to read my thoughts, she said, “You can go home when the rain lets up. Let’s keep playing games until then.”
She put away the shogi set, got out a video game console, and hooked it up to the front of her TV. I hadn’t played any video games in a long time.
We started with a fighting game, one of those barbaric games where the players derive enjoyment from pressing buttons on the controller to make people on the TV hurt each other.
Since I didn’t play video games that much, she gave me a little time to practice. I kept my eyes on the screen as I tried inputting some commands, and she gave me some helpful advice. But if I thought she was taking it easy on me, I’d misjudged her. When the time came for our match, she wiped the floor with my character, as if in revenge for our shogi game. She used special moves that changed the colors on the screen and made strange fireballs appear from her character’s hands.
But I refused to go down without a fight. I gradually got the hang of the game, and soon I was able to dodge some of her attacks and throw her while she was guarding. When her character came charging across the screen in a reckless attack, I handily countered her. Just as I closed the gap between our win counts and was about to pull into the lead, she turned off the console. Come on.
I gave her a critical look, which she ignored. She was already inserting the next game, and she turned on the power switch.
She owned all sorts of games, and we played several against each other. The one that offered the best matchup was a racing game. The game had an element of competition, to be sure, but ultimately the battle was against time. From a certain perspective, my true opponent was myself. That aspect of racing seemed to fit my personality better than the other games.
We raced on her large-screen TV, and I would pass her go-kart, and she would pass mine. I wasn’t talkative under normal circumstances; now that I focused on the race, I spoke even less. Meanwhile, she reacted loudly to almost everything. The total volume of sound in the world remained constant.
Sometimes she’d say something to try and break my focus, but as we entered the final lap of a race, she asked me a question that seemed only conversational.
“So, [Boy I’m Getting along With]-kun, do you ever think about getting a girlfriend?”
I evaded a banana peel on the race track and replied, “No, and I don’t think I could anyway. I don’t even have any friends.”
“Then forget a girlfriend for now and start with making friends.”
“I might if I feel like it.”
“If you feel like it, huh?” she repeated. “Hey, can I ask you something?”
“What?”
“You definitely wouldn’t want me as your girlfriend, right? Like, no matter what?”
The question was so outlandish—and so blunt, as her remarks often were—I reflexively looked away from the screen to her, and my go-kart veered and caused a spectacular wreck.
She laughed and said, “You crashed!”
I asked, “What are you talking about?”
“Oh, you mean about being your girlfriend? I was just checking. You don’t have a thing for me, right? You don’t want to date me, like, no way… Right?”
I was quiet for a moment, then said, “I don’t.”
“Good,” she said. “That’s a relief.”
A relief? I didn’t understand why she should feel relieved. I tried to think it through.
Did she really suspect that I had romantic intentions?
Was she fearful that I’d gotten the wrong idea after sharing a hotel room with her and coming up to her room?
I hadn’t done anything to deserve such suspicion.
I was uncomfortable. It wasn’t a feeling I was accustomed to. An unpleasant knot began forming in the pit of my stomach.
I finished the race and let go of the controller.
The feeling took hold deep inside and lingered there. I wanted to escape before she noticed something was wrong.
“All right, I’ll take that book now,” I said. “I’m going home.”
I stood and walked to her bookcase. The rain was every bit as strong as before.
“Aw, you can stay longer,” she said. “But fine. Hold on.”
She came over to her bookcase and stood behind me. I could hear her breathing; it sounded heavier than normal.
Whatever her deal was, I looked for the book on her shelves, starting from the top and moving down. Maybe she was looking for it, too. That made me a little annoyed—if she was planning on lending me the book, she should have just left it where she could find it.
I heard her let out a deep breath, and I saw an arm reaching past me into my field of view. I figured she had spotted the book first, but then her other arm had also appeared on my other side.
Suddenly, I lost balance.
I’d had so little experience with people making physical contact with me, and at first, I couldn’t comprehend what was happening.
The next thing I knew, my back was pressed against the wall beside the bookcase. My left hand was free, but my right hand was pinned to the wall just above shoulder height. Her breathing was closer, and I could feel her heartbeat; her warmth, a sweet fragrance. Her right arm pressed against the top of my chest. I couldn’t see her face, and her mouth was at my ear. Our cheeks were close enough to touch, and every now and then, they did.
What are you doing? I moved my lips to ask, but I couldn’t make my voice come out.
She whispered, “Do you remember I told you I made a list of things I wanted to do before I die?”
I could feel her breath on my ears. She didn’t wait for me to reply.
“The reason I needed to ask you if you wanted me for your girlfriend was so I can do something on that
list.”
Her black hair swayed before my eyes.
“It’s also why I invited you over.”
I thought I heard a tiny laugh.
“Thank you for telling me you didn’t. It was a relief. If you said you did, I wouldn’t be able to cross this off.”
I couldn’t understand what she was saying, or what was happening.
“What I want to do is…”
She smelled sweet.
“…something I’m not supposed to do with someone who isn’t my boyfriend.”
Something she’s not supposed to do? Something she’s not supposed to do?
Her words echoed in my head. What did she mean? Was she talking about what she was doing right now? Something she was about to do? Everything we’d done in the past? All three could be true. Nothing we had done was what we were supposed to do. I wasn’t supposed know about her illness. She wasn’t supposed to be spending the rest of her short life with a boy she didn’t like. Sharing a hotel room, me being in her bedroom—everything was something we weren’t supposed to be doing.
“This is a hug,” she said, apparently reading my thoughts. We were close enough to feel each other’s heartbeats. Maybe mine told her what I was feeling. Hers didn’t tell me the same. “What I’m not supposed to do is what’s next.”
I didn’t know how to act.
“With you, [???]-kun…”
I didn’t say anything.
“I can do something wrong.”
I had no clue how I should respond, but I used my free hand to remove her arm from my chest. I moved her to arm’s length, so I no longer felt her breathing and her heartbeat. But now I could see her face. Her cheeks were flushed deep red, and this time, she hadn’t been drinking.
When she saw my face, she looked surprised. I was shaking my head weakly, even if I didn’t know what I was rejecting.
Our eyes met. Silence clung to us.
I watched her expression. Her eyes darted back and forth before settling somewhere off to my side. Then the corners of her mouth slowly lifted, as if she were trying not to smile, and she looked at me.
Then she started laughing—first a snicker, unable to be contained, followed by a full-on roaring laugh. I didn’t join in.