by Amanda Sun
“He was always a good guy,” said Tanaka thoughtfully.
“He got into a lot of trouble, but when it came down to the wire, he always did the right thing.”
“Right,” I said. “And you were right about Koji, Tanaka.
It was an accident.”
“Hai?” Tanaka’s jaw hung open, and I realized what I’d said. It wasn’t like I could tell him what had really happened—
now what?
“Um. They broke into a construction site, and there was a guard dog.” More lies, but closer to the truth than Tomohiro stabbing him.
“I knew it!” he shouted.
I took a deep breath and turned to Yuki. “And he didn’t cheat on Myu, you know. The pregnant girl? She’s a family friend, and he’s only trying to help her.” There was a pause while Tanaka and Yuki absorbed this.
“Well, even if that’s true,” Yuki said doubtfully, “you saw the way he broke up with her. It wasn’t pretty.” It was true; he’d been heartless to her, cold and ugly. I’d spent so much time remembering the way the drawing looked at me and not enough thinking about the dark look in Tomohiro’s eyes as he broke up with Myu, the way he’d slouched against the door frame while she wept. I knew he’d been lying, but even then—that was cruel.
Maybe they were right. I had to admit it had been on my mind since the tournament—okay, so since I’d learned he was a Kami. Did I really need the nightmares he came with? But every time I decided to step away, my heart twisted.
“It’s not like we’re a serious couple or anything,” I said.
“He hasn’t even confessed.” But I knew how ridiculous I sounded. If his phone hadn’t gone off that time, what would he have said? What would I have said?
“Not serious at all. He’s just sending you texts for a date,”
Tanaka said. I picked up his packet of furikake seasoning and smacked him with it.
“Sonna wake nai jan!” I whined with a Japanese accent.
It’s not like that. But from the look of them, I’d already lost the argument. I took my black chopsticks and lifted the leftover croquettes from my bentou into my mouth. The taste of peanut-butter sandwiches had drifted away with my old life.
I wondered who I was then, when I couldn’t speak or read or eat, totally immobilized by the change in my world. Vines were entangling the hole in my heart, buds sprouting on the outskirts. There was still a void, a pocket of emptiness. But around it, my heart was blooming.
Tomohiro sat in his usual place beside the Yayoi house, his notebook resting on his pulled-up knees. That was the only thing that was the same. Clouds of shimmering dust encircled him, wisps of inky swirls that glinted in the sunlight. They curled in slow motion, spreading around him like waves of fireflies.
I gasped. He heard me and looked up, a grin plastered on his face, and I began to understand how much effort it had been to keep all this from me. This was why he’d always stopped so abruptly in the middle of a sketch, why he’d scraped those desperate lines across the paper. It was to keep me safe from the truth, when all the time this was supposed to be his safe haven.
“Katie,” he said, his hands still. The clouds faded and swirled into nothingness as his pen stopped.
“Does it always do that?” I asked, walking forward slowly and clutching the handles of my bag.
He laughed. “No. Don’t you think the Calligraphy Club would’ve noticed?”
“That’s where I come in, right? Where you lose control like the kendo match?”
“That,” he said, “was not my fault.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
“Oi. I’m serious.”
“Okay,” I said. “So if it wasn’t you, then who was it?”
There was silence. My jaw dropped.
“Me?”
“Maybe,” he said.
“No, no, you’re the Kami.” I panicked.
“But you’re the one making the ink do weird things. Well…
extra weird.”
“Look, I’ve had enough, okay?” I said, feeling sick to my stomach. “I don’t want ink following me around. I don’t want Yakuza following me around. You need to get this thing under control or I need to switch schools.” It was one thing to watch him draw things here, but the idea of the ink permeating my own life, never knowing when it was going to show up…
He smiled.
“Luckily I have a plan,” he said. “The wagtail that attacked the others—I couldn’t stop it. I’ve been thinking about the way Takahashi Jun was in control in the kendo match. You know, like he wouldn’t let me see what attack was coming next, not a shift of body weight or a glance or anything, and yet he had his moves planned out, everything calculated. If I could learn to keep my thoughts so focused and hidden, maybe I could take control of what I draw. Here, look what I brought.”
He lifted a velvet drawstring pouch out of his book bag and slipped its contents into the palm of his hand. His eyes shone as he held them out.
“A bottle of ink,” I said. “And a paintbrush. For calligraphy?”
“It’s too dangerous for me to paint,” he said. “But maybe over time I can use them again.”
He rested them gently on the grass and shook his head, tossing his bangs out of his eyes. A useless gesture, because the minute he leaned forward to the notebook, they slid back again.
“This isn’t much of a plan,” I said. “Focusing your thoughts?
Super Zen, but I need the ink to leave me alone.”
“The ink isn’t always bad,” he said. “I mean, it’s dangerous, but sometimes it’s beautiful. At first, I never wanted you to know. I thought I could never tell you. But now I can show you.”
He moved his pen in a broad stroke, and then another. And as he drew the lines more quickly, the firefly specks of ink appeared again, shimmering like oil as they rippled in the air.
He drew a butterfly, but its movements blurred on the page. The closer I looked at it, the more my head ached.
“It’s because we think it’s impossible,” he said. “So our brain tells us it isn’t moving. Like an optical illusion or something. It used to give me migraines all the time.” And the more I watched it, the queasier I got. I had to turn away.
Tomohiro smiled, but his eyes never moved from the paper.
And suddenly, as he moved his pen to sketch the wings of another butterfly, the first spiraled upward from the page.
It was colorless, with jagged sketched outlines. A stream of ink trailed behind it like a firework, shimmering in shades of black and dark plum. I watched as the butterfly lifted on the breeze, the membranes of its wings thin and transparent.
I glanced down at the page, and it was there, too, like the flying one was only a copy.
Three smaller butterf lies rose amid a shower of black sparks, beating their wings as they fluttered through the air.
And the whole time Tomohiro grinned and sketched more and more, until a cloud of them hovered in the sky above us.
I watched with my hand to my mouth. Almost fifty of them, swirling around each other as their trails crossed and intertwined in slow, gleaming pinwheels. Such terrifying beauty.
And then Tomohiro scratched through the drawings and they dropped one by one, like black cherry petals crumpling to the ground. It was so horrible that tears welled up in my eyes.
“Don’t kill them,” I whispered. Tomohiro’s eyes widened and he stared at me for a moment.
“I didn’t kill them,” he said. “They’re not alive. They’re just drawings.”
“But it’s horrible to see them fall like that.”
“Katie,” he said gently, and I felt his warm palm curl around my shoulder. His smooth voice was calm, and he gazed into my eyes through the wisps of his bangs. I felt like the butterflies had tumbled into my rib cage. “It’s dangerous not to call them back. If they left Toro and someone else saw them…” He sighed. “I can’t let anyone know. It would be the end of me.”
“Then stop drawing, Yuu,�
� I said. “Don’t bring them to life.”
“They aren’t alive.”
“How do you know?”
“I just know. When I look at them, I can feel them somehow, like they’re fluttering around in my head. So I know they’re a thought of mine, not real. They’re part of me.”
It was too awful. Tears rolled down my cheeks and I stood to leave. Tomohiro stumbled to his feet, the notebook slapping closed as it fell off his lap.
“Katie,” he said, and I hesitated. “I never asked for this…
ability, you know. It’s not something I can walk away from.”
I looked into his eyes, which seemed deeper and darker than before. “I even have nightmares,” he said. “It sounds dumb, but I can’t get away from this. I wake up and there’s ink dripping on my floor. And I’ve lost so much because I’m a Kami.
I can’t lose any more. I can’t lose—”
He didn’t have to say it.
We stood there for a minute and I really, truly pitied him.
He couldn’t walk away from it. It was true. And right now he didn’t look at all like the jerk Myu had slapped.
He blinked and shook his head. “It was wrong of me to say that,” he said. “You have a choice. You can walk away from this, but please just promise you won’t tell anyone.”
Something about the two sides of Tomo clicked in my head. It was like the sketch in his notebook and the butterfly that lifted; there was some sort of difference there, something between his pleading eyes and his arrogant slouching.
My eyes snapped to his. “This is why you broke up with Myu.”
He paused.
“Did she find out about you?”
Another hesitation. “No.”
“But she was going to, wasn’t she?”
“—yes.”
“Did you make it all up? Did you pretend to cheat? Did you pretend to be a jerk, like you do at school?”
“I wasn’t a jerk, Katie.”
“You were an ass,” I said.
“Oi.” He sounded annoyed.
“And you let her believe you cheated on her, didn’t you?”
He shrugged, leaned back and slouched into the wooden house.
“Things with Myu were breaking down anyway. Too many questions. I drew a few sketches of Shiori in case anyone went snooping and then just happened to forget my notebook in the genkan. I didn’t say anything either way and it worked in my favor.”
“You’re doing it right now,” I said.
“Huh?”
“You’re being a jerk.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
He blinked at me, his lips curving into a sly smile.
“Tomo, I’m serious. Stop it.” It slipped out, just like that.
I’d switched to his first name, a shortened one even, and made whatever it was we had closer. He heard it the minute I did, and his face started to turn beet-red. “Anyway,” I babbled,
“why would you do that to Myu? That’s cold.”
“Because,” he said in a gentle voice, “I had to do it, to protect her.”
“You could’ve been less of a jerk about it.”
“If I’d been less of a jerk, she wouldn’t hate me like she does now. And I needed her to hate me.” And I heard the guilt in his voice, the carefully thought out sacrifice. I saw the way his eyes softened when he talked about her. And despite all the denial I could muster, something flipped over in my stomach when I heard him talk about her like that.
“So why not push me away like you did Myu?” I asked.
The heat rushed to my cheeks. I wasn’t jealous. I wasn’t. I just thought he was being stupid.
He didn’t answer at first, and he stared at the ground, the corners of his mouth curved up like he was laughing at me.
I wanted to smack him and walk away, but first I wanted an answer.
“You already know, don’t you?” he said eventually. “It’s not an easy burden, is it? I didn’t want to involve you, but the ink is tied to you. I’ve known that since— I know. Anyway, how was I supposed to know you would come to Toro Iseki when I was supposed to be at a funeral?”
“Well, don’t you think it was going to happen sooner or later? I’m here every week, watching you draw stuff and cross it out.”
“Maa.” His eyes flashed up and caught mine. “I guess deep down I wanted you to know,” he said.
My heart pounded in my ears. “Why me?”
“First, because the ink is hunting you down. I can’t keep you in the dark and protect you at the same time. You’re part of it somehow. And second, because…”
He walked toward me slowly, his leather shoes pressing down the long grasses. I could feel his breath on my cheek as he leaned forward. My eyes fluttered shut, but I forced them open again. His breath was hot against my lips, and his face blotted out the sky, so I could see nothing but his eyes and the pores of his skin.
“Because,” he said in tones of honey and velvet, “I’ve always had to push away people I cared about. You’re the only one who ever pushed back.”
The words brushed against my lips and sent the butterflies tumbling again. He’s going to kiss me, he’s going to—
He leaned back and patted me on the head. My cheeks turned tomato-red as I glared at him.
He blinked and stared back, looking completely innocent.
“What?” he said. He took another look at me and burst out laughing. “Did you think I was going to…?” He folded his arms, pressing his fingertips against the insides of his elbows as he laughed.
“I’m glad you think it’s so funny,” I fumed. Why the hell could he always pull one over on me?
He bit his lip, trying to stop laughing, and bobbed his head at me. “You’re right,” he said. “I’m sorry. Let me draw something to make it up to you.”
“Draw yourself getting smacked in the face.”
“Katie,” he protested, in the smooth voice he used when he said my name. I said nothing.
A wagtail chirped, and I turned to watch it fly across the clearing, into the ring of trees. And then I felt warmth as Tomohiro stepped forward and wrapped his arms around my shoulders, pressing his head against mine, his chest solid against my back. Tufts of his copper hair tickled against my neck, and his skin was warm, the sound of his breathing calm.
“Warui,” he whispered in apology, and I knew then that I couldn’t live without him, even when he was infuriating.
Which was pretty much all the time.
My only chance was to stop the ink from reacting to me.
There had to be a way. I couldn’t just bail on him—I had to save us both.
I couldn’t walk away, and I knew it. Not until we both could.
Three weeks until summer vacation, and each time we visited Toro Iseki, Tomohiro’s ambitions grew. He drew birds and trees, turtles and rabbits. I pleaded with him to try to scratch the drawings out slowly, to see if it could be less traumatic to watch, but nothing seemed to help. Everything keeled over like its soul had been sucked from its body. And the turtle had time to take a chunk out of my finger before it collapsed, the ingrate, so I gave up on my humane-sketching plans. Tomohiro still insisted the creatures were just thoughts, so that made me feel a little better. So did searching recipes for turtle soup.
“They’re just extensions of me, I think.”
“So which part of you wanted to bite me?” I sneered.
Wrong thing to say. His eyes took on this fiery look and he gave me a wicked grin.
“Okay, grow up. I did not mean that. ”
“Oh, please. It’s obvious how you feel about me.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Can’t say I blame you.”
“Ugh,” I said. “And so modest, too. That’s super attractive.”
“Well, it must be working,” he said, “because you’re the one coming on to me.”
“I am not coming on to you! Your stupid pen pal bit me.”
“And I took him out for it.”
&nbs
p; “Well, thanks.”
His eyes shone as he curled his hand around mine, and my heart almost stopped. “Anytime.”
Yuki invited me to go with her family to Miyajima Island for a couple weeks of summer break. Her older brother was working there, and she pleaded with me to go, too, so she wouldn’t be bored out of her mind.
The humidity of the Japanese summer wiped out any energy I’d had for kendo, and I could barely make it through practice drills. But Tomohiro and Ishikawa did the hundred push-ups without complaint, completing round after round of kiri-kaeshi as we looked on, dabbing our faces with the handkerchiefs everyone carried around because it was so ridiculously humid. The sweat dripped down their backs as they fought without their men on, their headbands damp and their hair slicked down to their necks.
“How come you and Ishikawa dye your hair?” I asked as Tomohiro chugged back a water bottle. He wiped his mouth with the back of his arm.
“It’s Ishikawa’s strategy,” he said, loud enough for him to hear. “He figures he might blind the opponent with his ugly mop.”
“Shut up,” Ishikawa said, but the corners of his mouth tugged in a grin.
“So why is yours red?”
“White and red, right?” said Ishikawa. “Because we’re rivals.” He grabbed Tomohiro in a headlock and they both grinned as they fought. I wondered what Tomohiro had said to Ishikawa, because he seemed like a different person, too.
Outside of kendo, they both slouched, looked badass and, in Ishikawa’s case, got into a lot of serious trouble. But somehow wearing the bogu armor and covering their faces with the men actually unmasked them and put them at ease. They were really themselves here, and Ishikawa and I somehow came to a truce. He stopped acting like a jerk, and I pretended his threats had never happened. Every now and then I still caught him glaring at me, though, so I avoided him when I could.
You’re keeping him from his destiny. The words haunted me.
But he didn’t know for sure Tomohiro was a Kami. He only suspected it, and we had to keep it that way.
Watanabe-sensei announced a special kendo retreat, man-datory for those proceeding to the prefecture competition.
From our school, only Ishikawa, Tomohiro, two senior girls and one junior boy would attend. Takahashi Jun from Katakou would be there, too. I still couldn’t believe he was the same Jun I’d met on the train. He already knew there was a strange boy at my school who drew weird sketches. In my thoughts I pleaded that he wouldn’t make the connection to the ink, that he wouldn’t question the puddle at the tournament. But then I reminded myself that no one knew about the Kami anymore anyway. There was nothing to put together at all.
