by Amanda Sun
“Okay, music room’s in here,” she said, stopping in front of a wide sliding door. “Sometimes he practices in the concert hall, which is at the end of the hall right there.” She pointed to the next set of doors. “But it sounds like he’s practicing in here today.” We could hear the muffled sound of a piano inside the music room.
“Thanks so much, Hana.”
She smiled. “No problem. It’s nice to have a chance to speak English. I miss California. I have to go to juku now, but see you later, okay?”
“Thanks,” I said. “Have fun at cram school.”
She rolled her eyes. “Yeah right,” she smiled, and then she was gone, winding back down the hallway to the entrance of the school.
I listened to the piano start and stop, followed by muffled conversation. I pressed my hand to the cool handle of the door, ready to slide it open. I felt nervous, like I was intruding. But he’d said to come by anytime, right? And if he was busy with a Music Club practice, I could wait in the hallway until he was finished. I just needed to let him know I was here.
The piano started up again, followed by the rich sound of a cello. And then it stopped, a few bars in, followed by more conversation.
Seeing my chance to enter with the least amount of interruption, I slid the door open with barely a sound. But as I stepped into the room, the piano started again.
I stopped, startled by the sight in front of me.
There was Jun, sitting on a dark chair with a cello resting against him, his fingers poised on the strings and on the bow, ready to draw it across. He wore that black bracelet with silver spikes on his wrist. No sign of his cast.
And at the piano, Ikeda, her fingers dancing across the keys.
They didn’t see me at first. Jun’s eyes were closed, waiting for his cue to join the piano melody. And Ikeda focused on the keys of the piano as she played, swaying her body slightly to the music.
I’d never thought of how they might know each other. It was way too weird to see them being so...so normal.
Ikeda played a long, slow intro, and it was like time stopped. Jun sat completely still, his fingers barely touching the strings. Then Ikeda played a loud chord and Jun’s bow moved, spanning the instrument slowly, the rich sound resonating. And then more waiting and more piano.
Eventually he joined in, and the two played. It was a slow piece, gentle and beautiful, everything I’d thought to be the opposite of the Kami. How could they create such stirring music and yet stalk around Shizuoka at night hoping to build an army to kill Yakuza? It was like some kind of sick joke.
Jun’s arm arced with the bow, his whole body swaying gently as he played. I was more of a dancer than a musician, at least back in New York, but even I could tell he had an incredible connection to the instrument. It was beautiful to watch him play.
The piece swelled, more pronounced, the chords almost angry in their expression. It was then that Ikeda noticed me, when she glanced up from the piano to look at Jun and saw me standing in the doorway. The silence in the music room felt thick and uncomfortable. Jun opened his eyes to see why Ikeda had stopped.
She glared at me. “You.”
“Katie,” Jun said. He smiled, lifting his hand with the bow to tuck his blond highlight behind his silver earring.
“Your cast,” I said, suddenly self-conscious.
“Came off this weekend,” he said. “But I’m not allowed to do anything strenuous for another few weeks. So no tournament, I’m afraid.”
“What are you doing here?” snapped Ikeda. “You’re not supposed to be on school grounds if you’re not a student.”
“Hana showed me the way,” I said, as if that gave me some kind of authority. Maybe they didn’t even know who she was. It was a pretty common name.
“Has something happened?” Jun asked. He bent away from the cello to rest his bow inside an open instrument case.
I looked at Ikeda. What was her problem? So she was possessive of Jun—well, fine. Didn’t she know I was with Tomohiro? I wasn’t some kind of threat. I really didn’t like her looking at me like that.
“I just want to talk,” I lied. No point telling Ikeda what was happening. What if she put Jun up to pestering Tomohiro again?
“You’ll have to come back later,” Ikeda said sharply. “We’re in the middle of practice.”
“It’s okay,” Jun said, gently lowering the cello. “My wrist’s starting to give me trouble anyway.” He lifted his bow back out of the case and unscrewed the bottom to loosen the horsehairs.
“Naruhodo,” Ikeda muttered to herself. Yeah, right. She didn’t believe him, which was fine. I didn’t, either.
“Jaa,” he said. “See you later.”
She closed the fall board of the piano over the keys and grabbed her book bag, walking past me without looking up.
“Jeez, what’s her problem?” I said to myself. But Jun heard me and laughed.
“I think her problem is that you broke my wrist,” he said.
“Valid, I guess.”
“Uh-huh.” He snapped the cello case shut and crouched down to push the heavy container near a wall of instrument cases.
“So you said you played an instrument, but I didn’t realize you meant a cello.” I guess I’d expected something more typical like guitar or piano.
“It’s the deep tone of it,” he said, hunched over the case. He rose and turned to look at me. The blond highlights had tipped from behind his ears and now clung to his face until he tucked them back. His bangs had grown so long over the summer that I could barely see through them to his left eye. “When the bow moves against the strings, I can feel the vibration of it in my heart.”
“You’re really good,” I said. And then, feeling awkward, I added, “You and Ikeda, I mean.”
He smiled, and the room felt too warm. He’d always been striking, but why couldn’t I get over it by now? I was with Tomo, and Jun had issues.
“We’re practicing for the school festival. It was Beethoven, you know. Sonata no. 2 in G Minor. I chose the piece.”
“Nice,” I said. He was passionate about it, I could see that. How could this Jun be so different from the one who’d asked Tomohiro to kill someone? A criminal, but still.
“So,” he said. “You wanted to talk?”
“If you have time.”
He pressed his hands into his pockets and twisted his body from side to side, like he was stretching. He gave me another sweet smile. “I always have time for you.”
Despite all my willpower, I started turning as red as those daruma dolls they sold in the tourist shops. The only thing that helped me regain my normal pulse was how cold his eyes were, like he was always thinking deeper thoughts that he wasn’t sharing. Like I was a kendo opponent he was sizing up. How will she move? How can I counter? It was unnerving.
“Let’s go to the art studio,” he said. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and I have something to show you.”
I put my hands up in front of me. “You’re not going to draw, are you? I mean, it wouldn’t be safe to draw here.” But he didn’t stop; he just kept walking toward the door. I followed him into the corridor and slid the music-room door shut.
A group of students passed us in the hallway, staring at my different uniform. I wondered what they must be thinking.
“Oi, Taka-senpai!” they shouted. He waved and they cheered to themselves. “Kakko ii!” they flailed, discussing how cool he was as they wandered down the corridor.
I’d forgotten he was some kind of kendo celebrity.
And then I caught the eye of one of the students. I knew him—he was one of the Kami from that night. I froze.
Jun saw me looking. “He’s harmless. His drawings move, but they don’t come off the page.”
“Oh.” So Jun’s Kami friends weren’t even da
ngerous after all.
“The Kami were there for support that night,” he said. “In case there was a fallout with the Yakuza or if Yuu had questions.”
He led me up the stairs, endless stairs, until we reached the sixth floor.
“Your school is...really tall,” I puffed.
He whispered conspiratorially, exaggerating his expression. “Sometimes I sneak a ride in the elevator.”
“Daring.”
“I’m a rebel,” he said. “Leading a revolution.”
He’d meant at as a joke, but the comment was kind of true in a creepy way.
He pulled open the door to the art studio. The white tables in the room formed an open square, with a smaller table in the center, probably to put reference objects while sketching or painting. Along the back of the classroom ran cupboards full of supplies, and one wall of the studio was floor-to-ceiling windows. The sun would set soon, and already the light streaming in was golden and diffused. I stepped toward the window, admiring the view from six floors up. The tennis court outside looked tiny and deserted.
I heard the click of the door and looked to see Jun’s hand on the lock.
“So we’re not interrupted,” he said. “We don’t need any more ink sightings in Shizuoka after that dragon Yuu drew.”
“I don’t get it,” I said. “If there are so many Kami in Japan, why are you underground? Why are you hiding?”
He headed toward the supply cabinets and started raiding them, piling rainbows’ worth of paints on the white counters.
“A few reasons,” he said. “One, because most Kami are not as powerful as Yuu and me. Usually it’s just enough to weird someone out—bad nightmares, drawings that flicker. It’s not the kind of thing you want to draw attention to. Kids who do mention it usually get put on meds because they’re ‘hallucinating.’ Two, because we have a long tradition of hiding to survive.”
“Tomohiro told me the Kami went underground at the end of World War II,” I said.
Jun tilted his head. “That’s only half-true. The Samurai Kami went into hiding long before the emperor denied lineage to Amaterasu during the war. That was a message to those who knew. It went over everyone else’s heads. No, hiding began with the Kami from samurai families. If you seemed like a threat to the royal family, you were eliminated, so samurai stopped mentioning it. You only hear about the Imperial Kami being descended from Amaterasu, right? Everyone thinks that’s myth now, and they’ve forgotten there are others. And that leads to the third reason we keep quiet. We know the abilities we have would cause mass panic in Japan and the world. People don’t believe in that kind of stuff anymore.” He looked over his shoulder, a paint bottle in each hand. “When the time is right, when the people are assured of the Kami’s right to rule, then we’ll reveal our power again.”
“You mean it’ll be easier to take over Japan when no one is looking?” I said, rolling my eyes.
He grinned. “Something like that. But it’s for their own peace of mind. I mean, how did you react when you first saw the ink move?”
Not very well. There was truth to what he was saying. The Kami would probably be rounded up and sent to labs or something to be poked and prodded. They definitely wouldn’t be left to roam free.
If anyone knew what Tomohiro was capable of... I shuddered. He would’ve been considered a threat by the royal family back then.
Jun grabbed an armful of the paints and paper and brought them to the square of white tables, putting them down with a thud.
“What do you mean by Imperial and Samurai Kami?” I asked. He took an empty glass and carried it to the sink at the back of the room. “Are they different?”
“The Imperial Kami are the direct connection to Amaterasu.” He pushed a knob on the tap and water rushed into the cup. “The emperors have always claimed descent and the right to rule. The problem is that history is never straightforward, because people aren’t, either.” He slammed the knob off and carried the water back to where I was waiting. “Kami children started showing up in the samurai families. Sometimes it was infidelity, but other times emperors and their family members married into the samurai families to show loyalty. But as the different clans fought for power, both sides became paranoid.” He put the glass down and pulled out a chair, motioning for me to do the same.
“Like a Kami war?”
He nodded, tucking his blond highlight behind his ear so he could see me better. “The emperors worried the Samurai Kami would try to overthrow them. It sparked a lot of battles, assassinations and even suicide requests.”
I gaped. “The emperors asked the samurai to kill themselves?”
“Hara-kiri,” Jun said. “You’ve heard of it, right? The emperors could claim it was because of their dishonor, and the real reason could be covered up. But the samurai families caught on. And suddenly there were no Kami children being born anymore. Strangest thing, huh?”
“They hid their abilities to survive.”
“Some parents tried to make matches that would dilute the Kami blood so the powers would decrease through the family line. Others wanted to retain the power, but had to send their children away so their talent would go unnoticed. And the ink doesn’t awaken in everyone, so it’s hard to determine who’s descended from a Kami and who isn’t. Which is why now Kami often don’t know how to control their powers. They aren’t taught. It’s a dirty secret, one many families don’t even remember.”
“I know there are a lot of people in Japan,” I said, “but if the ink goes back that far, there must be a ton of Kami now.”
Jun shook his head as he unscrewed a bottle of red paint. The room filled with the chemical smell of the acrylic. “It’s sort of like a recessive trait, you know? It shows up the strongest in the imperial family and descendants of the samurai families, where the chances of the trait are strong. But once the bloodline between the elite clans and the common people intermixed, the ink started to go dormant. More human than Kami, you know?”
That’s what he’d said to Tomohiro that night. Stop thinking you’re human.
“How do you know all this?”
Jun grimaced. “I’m from a family that believed in retaining the Kami bloodline. When I started showing signs, it was required learning.”
“So the reason you and Tomohiro are stronger than, say, Ikeda, is because you’re from samurai families?” I asked. It was lame, but I felt smug for slipping in a passive-aggressive jab at Ikeda.
Jun grinned. “Or imperial,” he said. He squirted the red paint into the glass of water. It spread its tendrils, tinting the water a deep crimson.
“What are you doing?” I said. He didn’t answer, but grabbed the blue paint and squirted some into the glass. He grabbed yellow and then green, giving them each a squeeze into the glass. They swirled into a disgusting brown. “Okay, whatever art project this is, you’re totally getting an F. That’s just gross.”
He slapped the lid on the last of the colors and pushed the glass toward me.
“Drink this.”
I stared at him. “Have you lost your mind?” Maybe he really was crazy.
“Drink,” he said, tilting the glass from side to side.
Ew. “No way. Do you know how sick I’d get? Believe me, it wouldn’t be pretty.”
“Exactly,” he said, putting the glass down and leaning back, his arms folded.
“I don’t follow.”
“If you drank this, you’d get sick,” he said. “Your stomach would hate you.”
“Yes. We’ve all learned something today. So...?”
“Okay,” he said, twisting the spiky bracelet around his wrist. “So say you did drink it. You’d get really sick, but after that, would you be okay?”
“Depends. Is it nontoxic?”
He laughed. “Yes.”
“Then yes, I’d b
e okay.”
He pushed the murky paint water away and grabbed a sheet of paper. He reached for a pen and began sketching. I leaned as far back as I could in my chair.
“It’s not...it’s not going to attack, is it?”
Jun looked up at me, frowning. “Kowai ka?” he said. “Are you scared? Man, how bad is Yuu’s control?”
Damn. Even without meaning to, I was giving him way too much information about Tomo.
“His control is fine,” I lied. “It’s you I’m worried about. Those snakes you called up against the Yakuza were pretty vicious.”
He smiled. “But none attacked you.” He was right.
He sketched and I peered over his left arm, curled casually around the drawing. He was bolder in his drawings than Tomohiro was. Tomohiro’s strokes were more delicate somehow, more thoughtful and hesitant. Jun’s were determined, steady, practiced.
He drew a glass of water, and before he’d even finished, the water sloshed around with each stroke, dripping down the side of the glass like beads of ink.
When he was finished, he lifted the paper upright and touched the surface gently with his hand. The blur of the image against his skin made me feel sick, and I had to look away. It was the same kind of motion sickness I had watching Tomo draw. There was something about that moment when the drawing stopped being a drawing and started being something else. Something alive.
When I looked up again, the glass of water still sloshed on the page, but Jun held a copy of it in his hand. The edges of the glass looked uneven and scratched and the water inside swirled with veins of black, like the ink had dropped into the clear water, spreading out in tendrils. The water didn’t muddy with color like the paint water had.
“Thirsty?” Jun asked.
I stared at him with disbelief. Knowing what I knew about the ink, a drink like that could kill someone.
He could probably tell what I was thinking from the pale look on my face. He lifted his free hand and waved it back and forth.
