I Had That Same Dream Again

by Yoru Sumino

  That strong wind did not blow again.

  The atmosphere in the classroom was as tense as the strings on my father’s guitar. It was clear that everyone in the room—save for Hitomi-sensei—was nervous. Kiriyuu-kun and I were both nervous, despite there being fewer people to observe us this time. Far fewer than on observation day.

  Our nervousness was only natural. I had spent every day mulling things over for this moment, in clever ways and ways that were less so.

  As always, we gave our greetings. As always, we talked briefly about unrelated things. Then, unlike always, it was time for our final presentations.

  They started with the boy in the first row on the leftmost side of the room. I could have easily ignored everyone else’s presentations, focusing on reading my own over again, wondering if there was a better presentation I could give. But instead, I chose to listen earnestly to what my classmates had to say. After all, I would be sad if they didn’t listen to me, what with all the thought I had put into it.

  We’re all different, but we’re all the same.

  Maybe there is just one person with an answer close to mine, I thought excitedly, but there did not seem to be any such thing. The presentations proceeded on and on, and finally it rolled around to Kiriyuu.

  I was nervous, but when I looked at him, I saw that Kiriyuu-kun was even more so. For some reason, seeing the sweat beading on his forehead relieved some of my own tension. Maybe he sucked it right out of me.

  I felt much calmer, and knew it was time to give Kiriyuu-kun encouragement. After all, he had kindly washed all my tension away. And yet, when I called out to him, he did not seem to hear. Instead, I gripped his hand below the desk, out of sight. He looked surprised, but when he saw my face, he bit down on his trembling lip and grinned. Slowly, his trembling vanished as well.

  When his turn came, he stood and proudly—no, that might be overstating it; his voice was still very quiet—talked about his happiness.

  It seemed like people still made fun of him sometimes, even after that presentation—about his drawings and, for some reason, about me. What an idiotic thing, to make fun of two people for being allies. If it kept happening to Kiriyuu-kun, and if he wanted me to, I would happily fight for him again. But I didn’t fight much after that. Little by little, Kiriyuu seemed to get better at talking back, or running away.

  His presentation was wonderful in every respect: whether it came to his drawing, his family, Hitomi-sensei, or a certain seat neighbor.

  And then it was over, and I was next. I stood as my name was called. Suddenly, they were back: the nerves that I thought had vanished, crawling noisily up my back like worms. Again and again, I failed to pick my notebook up from my desk, my hands trembling. The notes were written in my own hand, but suddenly I could not read them. What was I supposed to do?

  A single bead of sweat rolled down my forehead and someone gripped my hand, hanging at my side.

  It was Kiriyuu-kun. I felt those worms suddenly retreat. I looked right at Hitomi-sensei, raising my notebook in both hands. Then I faced the class, and gave the answer that I had been thinking about for so long.

  “My happiness is…”

  All the way through the presentation, I remembered. I remembered Minami-san and Skank-san, Granny and Miss Bobtail, and the days I spent with all of them.

  Perhaps I realized that I would never see them again.

  I’m sure that I was crying.

  After school that day, I headed to the faculty room. Kiriyuu-kun, who was now my usual companion on the walk home, waited for me. There was something I needed to ask Hitomi-sensei.

  When I entered the room, Hitomi-sensei was talking happily with her neighbor, Shintarou-sensei. The moment she noticed me, she smiled. I approached her, saying that there was a long conversation I needed to have. Hearing this, she led me into a small, empty classroom.

  Her kindness was a balm, and I was able to say what I needed to.

  “I used to have some friends.”

  She tilted her head, and I began to speak. I told her about Skank-san, and Minami-san, and Granny, and the little girl with the golden eyes. I told her about the kinds of conversations we had, the sort of things that had happened, how they helped me, everything. Now, I thought, for the first time, she might truly understand what I am trying to ask.

  “I don’t understand why my friends disappeared. It’s a mystery.”

  Perhaps this was a problem that even she did not understand. That was how mysterious these happenings were. They should have been impossible without the involvement of some sorcerer’s wand. So I was shocked to see her hold up her finger like always. That is an adult for you, I thought. A teacher, no less.

  Yet, in the end, Hitomi-sensei could be nothing more than my sweet, beloved Hitomi-sensei.

  “Maybe they came here just to meet you?”

  She was always off the mark.

  “That’s not true. I always went to see them.”

  She did not seem troubled by this response. Instead, she gave an airy laugh.

  Let’s think about mysteries.

  With that secret lesson shared just between the two of us, we left the empty classroom. Hitomi-sensei headed back to the faculty room, while I went to find Kiriyuu. I found him in the library waiting for me. He was reading the book I had previously recommended, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.

  Kiriyuu-kun.

  I tried to call out to him. Quietly, so as not to startle him. But my mouth and my larynx were already gone.

  I could no longer speak, and finally I realized that my left eye and my right were seeing two different scenes.

  That was when I realized it.

  Ah, this is the end.

  Chapter 11

  I HAD THAT SAME DREAM AGAIN.

  The short chirp of my alarm clock. The trickle of light forcing its way around the edges of the curtain. The silky sheets. The fluffy pillow. The white ceiling.

  That was the first thing I thought upon waking: I had that same dream again.

  I blinked the sleep from my eyes, moving to shut off the alarm. I felt a modest weight atop my stomach, and lifted the freeloader who always prevented me from turning over in bed, placing her down on the floor. She was such a sleepyhead that she might not wake up even if the house was on fire, so it was okay to be a little rough with her.

  I climbed out of bed and stood up, opening the curtains and letting sunlight flood in. Yep, clear skies again today. Perfect weather.

  Might as well wash my face, I thought, when the cellphone sitting on the table beside my bed began to vibrate. I already knew who the text was from.

  As I read the message, my back straightened. I had plans for today, so I would have to get ready and go out a little earlier than usual.

  I went to the sink to wash my face. My long hair kept my bedhead to a minimum, but also kept me in the bathroom longer than most. Plus, I’d had that dream today. On those days, I always ended up staring at my own face in the mirror for a while.

  Once I’d fixed my hair and wrapped up my time as a temporary narcissist, I went to the kitchen and took out some orange juice and the financiers I had bought yesterday. Two of my favorite things.

  It was always around this time, when I sat on the sofa to eat my breakfast, that my resident freeloader decided to wake up. She wrapped herself languidly around my legs and began licking my feet. She was probably hungry. I would be doomed if she nibbled my feet off, so I brought her personal saucer and some milk for her breakfast. I had found this saucer for her especially, one with her name written on the rim. I don’t know what she was thinking as we ate breakfast, but I was thinking about dreams.

  I often dreamt about my childhood, always my elementary school days. I had plenty of other important memories, but I only seemed to dream about then.

  It was as if my heart was asking: Did you do it? Did you figure out how to be happy?

  I was not suited to morning coffee, so I sipped another glass of orange juice and flicked on the TV,
flipping through the channels, wondering what was on. But all I found was some old cartoons, some sad news story, and some kind of talk show comprised entirely of elementary schoolers. The important-looking college professors on one channel were saying the exact same sorts of things they were saying fifteen years ago.

  I turned off the TV, leaving the little one by my feet as I moved to my office. I had lived in this two-bedroom apartment for three years now. When I searched for a home and told the real estate agent my number one requirement, they gave me a curious look. But they searched hard, and I was quite taken with the home they found on my behalf.

  I had not a single unnecessary item in my workspace. I had a rolling chair beside a large desk, a notebook and pencil, an alarm clock, and a small computer. There were books on the bookshelf. And there was a blanket, upon which my tiny freeloader could sleep.

  I sat down in my chair and opened up the notebook, reviewing yesterday’s work. Then I took up my pencil and set to work. This job required no commute. There were no set hours, nor overtime, no coming in late or calling out early. There were no other materials I needed. My notebook, my pencil, and my mind were the only things necessary in this world.

  I set the clock. Once I got into my work, I quickly lost track of time. Sure enough, the hands flew swiftly today and, as usual, I was startled back into the world by my alarm. I marked a small circle in the notebook and stood from my chair. Normally, I would just disregard lunch entirely and keep on working, but not today. Today, I had something important to do.

  I fixed my hair in the bathroom, side-eyeing my freeloader, who had gone back to sleep. I dabbed on a casual looking coat of makeup, changing into a skirt that was a little more stylish and whimsical than usual. I put on my favorite backpack, and I was ready to leave.

  “Meow.”

  The freeloader seemed to have woken. She sat by my feet, crinkling her brow and looking at me.

  “What? Are you saying I shouldn’t wear a backpack to a date? Listen, life is like a backpack, after all.”

  “Meow.”

  “You stand a little taller when you’ve got something on your back. Plus, it reminds me of a school bag. I love it.”

  She did not seem to understand my joke. She seemed more interested in hurrying outside, and began scratching at the door. Although she mooched off me, she always spent her days outdoors. I don’t know where she went. Perhaps she was climbing hills with some little girl somewhere.

  Urged on by my freeloader, I decided to leave the house at once, although it was a bit early. I had a half-read book in my backpack, a pen, and a notebook. All the preparations necessary for a wonderful time. My hair and skirt swayed in such a way that it felt like I was dancing. It would be summer soon.

  “Oh, March!” I called after my cold-hearted freeloader as she left, not even waiting for me to lock the door.

  She turned back with a flirty glance. I wondered what memories lay behind those alluring eyes, the eyes of someone who lived half her life like a stray. As curious as I was, it was a question she would never answer.

  “I’ll be back before midnight. Find somewhere to amuse yourself.”

  “Meow.”

  There was no need to worry about her, she seemed to say, bounding off on light feet, her long tail swaying back and forth. Although she looked a bit different, her behavior reminded me very much of a wicked girl I once knew.

  Now then, time for me to go.

  “Happiness won’t cooome, wandering my way, sooo thaaat’s why I set ooout to find it todaaay!”

  I stretched, taking in the scenery, and took my first step out into the day.

  Happiness is something that you have to choose of your own volition, through your own words and actions, by letting yourself feel joy and excitement, by cherishing the people important to you, and cherishing yourself.

  I had that same dream again. Whenever I had that dream, I always felt as though my own heart was asking: Are you happy right now?

  Whenever I had to answer that question, I made sure that my principles of happiness had not changed, then puffed out my chest and nodded.

  When I was a child, a sharp young girl who always said arrogant things, I was unable to think of the people around me, and I had no friends or allies. But luckily, that little girl had people to guide her and, thanks to them, she was able to grow up.

  I still remembered those people who guided me.

  Skank-san. Minami-san. Granny.

  Bit by bit, I came to learn the meaning of the word “skank,” and the kind of job she likely had. That Minami-san wasn’t really “Minami-san.” That there was a plane crash on the day of my class observation. What Granny meant when she said I had the power to see the future.

  They had all come to save me. And I, a little girl, was able to save them in return. That was probably why we met.

  As I grew older, I understood the truth behind all those mysteries, but I wasn’t sad. I still loved all of those women, and that was why I made the choices that I had. I wanted to be like Minami-san, so I used a notebook for my work even now. I wanted to be like Skank-san, so I moved into a building painted the same color. I wanted to be like Granny, so I practiced making sweets. But I still couldn’t do magic.

  In the end, I was never able to meet those women again.

  I didn’t know if I could become as wonderful as any of them, but lately my face, which once looked just like Minami-san’s, had started to resemble Skank-san’s. I was sure that, some decades from now, it would come to look like Granny’s.

  But my life belonged only to me. I could choose my own happiness.

  Happiness wasn’t something bestowed upon you from without. It came from within. You chose it and created it with your own hands.

  I had that same dream again. Whenever I had that dream, I always felt as though my heart was asking: Are you happy right now?

  When it came time to answer that question, I always remembered Granny’s final words:

  Life is something that belongs to you right now, while everything shines with hope.

  I set a chair down beside him in the studio, in a spot that would not interfere with his work.

  “I’m just signing it,” he said, laughing at how close I was sitting.

  I laughed and replied, “I had that same dream again.”

  I had never explained the dream to him, but he did not question it. With his pen in hand, he marked the lower righthand corner with his signature. It was something he had started using in junior high. A phrase that meant the opposite of how his own name might sound to a foreigner’s ears—Kiriyuu, “Kill You”—something which might give them a fright.

  “This one’s for the exhibit, isn’t it?” I asked.

  “No,” he said, looking at the drawing of rapeseed flowers in full bloom. “This one is for you.”

  This was his version of a proposal, I knew. Isn’t it a bit soon for this? We only just became lovers, I thought, but I knew that he had packed all the feelings we shared into this painting. However, when it came to such important things, I preferred to hear it in words.

  “Coward,” I said.

  He laughed and said the words properly.

  How did I respond to his proposal?

  What became of us since that day, even now still sitting at each other’s side, is strictly under the rose.

  Thank you for reading!

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