The Waking

by Thomas Randall

  Most of the boys wore caps with the school insignia, which she assumed was some sort of official baseball club thing. Hachiro wore a Red Sox cap. It surprised her. Sakura’s hairstyle was one thing, but she didn’t dare wear her pins or patches on the outside of her uniform or show her art to other students. As much as they might talk about their talents to Kara, her friends were no different from most Japanese students. They were taught that it was bad manners to stand out, except through academic achievement, and even that was frowned upon by some. But Hachiro grinned broadly out there on the field, proud of his Red Sox cap. It reminded her how much she liked his smile.

  The guy up at bat hit one straight at the third baseman’s head. The kid playing third barely had time to raise his glove but somehow managed to catch the ball. The batter was out and Kara cheered.

  Miho and Sakura looked at her.

  “You picked sides already?”

  Kara shrugged. “Hachiro’s team is on the field. I have to cheer for them.”

  The two girls shared a knowing look and mischievous smiles.

  “So you like Hachiro?” Miho asked.

  Kara arched an eyebrow. “Nothing like that. He’s very nice.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he’s very nice,” Sakura said, teasing her.

  A moment later, a shudder went through Kara and she sensed someone standing beside her, a shadow blocking the sun. She turned to find that the soccer club girls had come to watch the game.

  Ume gave her a dismissive look. “The bonsai likes baseball. What a surprise. A bunch of foolish boys trying to be something they’re not. No wonder it appeals to you.”

  Kara took a deep breath, feeling herself blush. Back home, she knew girls who got into hostile confrontations all the time—they seemed hardwired for that kind of thing—but she’d managed to avoid fights or even grudges. Worse yet, she knew Japanese custom demanded she ignore or deflect Ume’s animosity somehow. Just because this girl didn’t care about how she was expected to behave, that didn’t mean that Kara had to stoop to her level.

  But the other soccer girls were whispering to one another and doing that little smiling-behind-their-hands thing that annoyed the crap out of Kara. They were so happy with themselves, behaving like perfect little Japanese girls during school but full of quiet, malicious nastiness.

  “If you’re not interested in boys, I certainly won’t judge you,” Kara said. “It leaves more for the rest of us. And you have plenty of pretty girls to choose from.”

  The arrogant smile slipped from Ume’s face. “I’m sure you’ve had your share of boys.”

  Kara felt her right hand clench into a fist. The implication— that she was some kind of slut—could not have been clearer.

  “I ignore your taunts in school for my father’s sake,” she said, “but we’re not in school now.”

  Miho slid her arm through Kara’s and leaned over to whisper, “Don’t let her make you do something you’ll regret.”

  Kara glanced at Miho. Just beyond her, Sakura stood staring at Ume, jaw tight with anger or hatred, or both. She looked more furious than Kara felt. When Miho started to escort Kara away, she thought Sakura might not follow, that there might be some kind of fight after all. But Miho called to her to come along, and Sakura took a deep breath and joined them. In the midst of that tension, Ume did not so much as glance at Sakura. The queen bitch behaved like Sakura wasn’t even there.

  Some of Ume’s friends called out, “Good-bye, bonsai” as they walked away, but Kara didn’t turn around.

  “Not worth it,” Miho said softly as the three of them walked around toward the dorm. “Someday fate will punish her. She’ll regret the way she treats people.”

  “You think?” Kara replied. “In my experience, girls like that just keep getting away with it.”

  Sakura gave a soft laugh. “Not forever.”

  “So she was trying to bait me?” Kara asked. “You think she wanted me to do something?”

  “Of course. Your father may not blame you, but Ume’s parents are wealthy. Her father is a diplomat, very influential. Who do you think would be blamed if you fought with her?”

  Kara considered that, and what it would do to her father’s position at the school. No matter how unpleasant Ume got, Kara would have to ignore her. She couldn’t risk getting her father in trouble.

  “I can’t dishonor him.”

  “Exactly,” Miho said. “In Japan, you must be careful of such things.”

  Sakura gave another humorless laugh. “I don’t care if I shame my parents. I could hurt her for you.”

  “That’s not helping,” Miho scolded her.

  Now Sakura’s grin did have some humor in it. “I know.”

  “It’s hard not to react to her. I was raised to speak my mind and stand up for myself,” Kara said.

  Miho sighed. “I would love to visit America someday.”

  “We’ll go together,” Kara promised.

  “Not until I have a cigarette, please,” Sakura said.

  With her nicotine addiction leading the way, they went around the dorm, across the field that separated it from the main school building, and down the path between the eastern wall and the woods. Kara looked for the recessed doorway where she knew Sakura went to smoke. In anticipation, Sakura took out her cigarettes, tapped one into her hand, and put it between her lips. She produced her lighter and flicked its flame alive.

  A scream tore across the school grounds and Sakura’s hand froze. Kara and Miho exchanged a look and a second scream filled the late afternoon sky.

  “It came from that direction,” Miho said, pointing toward the front of the school.

  They began to run. Sakura dropped her cigarette and vanished her lighter into a pocket. The girls hurried around to the front of the school to see other students rushing toward the bay shore.

  Kara felt an unpleasant twist in her stomach and the back of her neck prickled with dread. People were gathering at the edge of the water, not far from the trees—not far from the shrine to Akane. A few of them had cell phones out, frantic conversations merging into a low buzz of chatter.

  When the girls reached the shore, all they could do was join the crowd milling about the edge. Kara tried to listen to the mutterings of the other students, and she heard the Japanese word for “body” before an opening appeared in the mob and she saw two girls comforting a third, who wiped tears from her eyes. A pair of boys had taken off their shoes and waded knee-deep into the bay, peering down into the water.

  Shouts and footfalls came from behind them now, and Kara glanced back to see other students coming around from the rear of the school, boys in their baseball caps and spectators from the game. Someone must have gone to get them, or else they’d been on the receiving end of cell phone calls. Word was spreading fast.

  One of the boys in the water closed his eyes and took a step back from whatever they’d found.

  “Stop that,” the other boy said. “Help me.”

  He bent and reached down into the water, grabbing hold of something heavy. The other boy hesitated, but then a young teacher, Fujimori-sensei, pushed his way through the students, calling out “doite” as he made his way to the water’s edge. He didn’t pause to take off his shoes, and Kara felt sure someone must already have told him what was happening. Kara wanted to turn away, but she couldn’t seem to manage it.

  Mr. Fujimori reached into the water and helped the boy drag the body onto the shore. The dead boy’s face was bloated and pale, and his clothes squished as they set him down. He wore no shoes, and for some reason that detail was the thing that snapped Kara out of her mesmerized state. She swallowed hard, covered her mouth with a hand, and turned away.

  As she did, she saw Sakura’s face, etched with horror and a kind of panic.

  “Jiro?” Sakura said.

  Kara blinked. Jiro? She knew that name. Pale and puffy, she had not recognized the dead boy, but if it was the same Jiro, he was a friend of Hachiro’s.

  Miho stepped up to Sak
ura and took both the girl’s hands in her own. “Are you all right?”

  Sakura shook her head. “I dreamed it,” she whispered, eyes wide with shock. “I dreamed he was dead.”

  Mr. Fujimori had his cell phone out now and was calling the police. A voice rose above all of the mutterings and questions and crying.

  “Jiro! No!”

  The crowd parted to let Ume through. Hachiro followed a few feet behind her, looking numb and lost. But Ume clutched at her clothing and twisted her hair as she stood a few feet away from the dead boy. Then she screamed, tears spilling down her cheeks. Several of the soccer girls tried to pull her away and Ume slapped the one nearest her, screaming at her to get away. The girls backed off, but Mr. Fujimori moved to block her view of Jiro’s corpse.

  Ume shook her head from side to side, sobbing in her grief. Her whole body trembled as she tried to get by the teacher. Mr. Fujimori attempted to hold her, but Ume brushed him off and fell to her knees. The bay water gently lapped the shore. The corpse’s legs were still in the water, and it shifted slightly with the ebb and flow.

  Kara could never have predicted something so horrible, but she found herself regretting her exchange with Ume. The girl was so distraught, so inconsolable, that she wished she could take the words back.

  But then Ume exploded. She leaped up and turned on the crowd.

  “Sakura!” she screamed, running into a cluster of students. She pushed her way through half a dozen others. “This is your fault, somehow. You did this!”

  Miho and Kara put their hands up to stop Ume, but the girl stopped short. She shook as she pointed an accusatory finger at Sakura, who stunned Kara by beginning to weep.

  Mr. Fujimori grabbed Ume by the shoulders and physically moved her away from the crowd, along the shore to a place where he could try to calm her, speaking in kind, quiet tones.

  “Why would she say that?” Kara asked, turning to Sakura. “What’s she talking about?”

  But Sakura could only shake her head, unable to reply. After a moment she stepped away from them and fled back toward the dorm.

  Miho looked at Kara, hesitated a moment, and then opened her hands in apology and went in pursuit of her roommate.

  Kara could only glance around at the other students, lost for any explanation. No one paid any attention to her, and she felt more than ever like the bonsai Ume had named her. Hachiro stood by Jiro’s body, looking stricken, but Kara didn’t know what to say to him. Though her books were still in the dorm, the only place she wanted to be now was at home.

  She didn’t belong here.

  “We should never have come.”

  Rob Harper sat on the small sofa in the living room, holding his head in his hands. With a sigh, he leaned back and stared at his daughter, eyes wide with a dawning realization.

  “I should get you out of here.”

  Kara’s mouth dropped open. “No, Dad,” she said, sitting next to him.

  “Seriously, honey. This is starting to seem like a very bad idea.” They were speaking English tonight. The things they were discussing, what they were feeling, were too raw to take the time to translate.

  She took his hands in her own and sat with him. In jeans and an old green sweater, he ought to have looked right at home, just Dad. But the lines around his eyes had started to deepen and he looked tired. The worry etched into his face didn’t help. He looked older to her.

  Kara nudged against him and he put an arm around her. She pushed her face to his chest, listening to his heart. Perhaps two minutes went by, but they felt like forever to Kara. At last, she spoke up again.

  “They call me ‘bonsai.’ ”

  Her father blinked. “What?”

  “Bonsai. Like the tree. Cut away from where it belongs and planted someplace else.”

  “Who calls you that?”

  Kara shrugged. “Some of the girls. But it doesn’t really bother me. I kind of like it, really. Not the girls. There are some real bitches, but you find them everywhere. It’s almost comical how stereotypical they are, thinking they’re special when they’re just like a million other girls. I mean, I’ve kind of taken the ‘bonsai’ thing to heart. That’s me. I’m a bonsai. But bonsai grow, and people think they’re beautiful and special and they take them into their homes. I have been cut away from where I came from and planted someplace else. And sometimes that means I’m going to be awkward or uncomfortable and feel like I don’t belong—”

  “Kara,” he started.

  She held up a hand to forestall any interruption. “But that doesn’t mean I want to leave. If anything, it makes me want to work harder, not at fitting in but at just living, at—what’s the word?—thriving, in my own way. It’s important to stay and see this through.”

  Her father shifted, studying her as though seeing her for the first time. “A boy died, Kara. And there was another—a girl back in the fall. The school administration won’t talk about it, but Miss Aritomo says she was murdered.”

  Kara nodded. “I know. Her name was Akane. She was my friend Sakura’s older sister. But, Dad, think about what you’re saying. We’re going to run home because of this? It creeps me out, yeah. I feel a little sick, actually. But would we have moved out of Medford if the same thing happened back home?”

  “Of course not, but—”

  “What? What’s different?” The question silenced him, and Kara knew what he was thinking. “I know you want to take care of me.”

  “That’s my job.”

  Kara took a breath. There were so many things she could have said: that he couldn’t have prevented her mother’s death, that life didn’t work that way, that he could not be with her every second. But they’d had many such conversations after the accident that killed her mother.

  “We’re supposed to take care of each other, remember? That was the deal,” she said.

  His smile was weak, but it was there.

  “This has nothing to do with me,” she told him. “And we shouldn’t jump to conclusions. It’s terrible, but Jiro could have killed himself. Or it could’ve been an accident. Don’t panic just yet.”

  He took a deep breath, then pulled her toward him, kissing the top of her head.

  “Okay,” he said. “But no wandering by yourself for a while. Honestly, honey, I’ve been a little worried about you anyway. You haven’t been eating much, and you’ve been looking kind of tired.”

  “I am tired. But I’m a teenager. We’re supposed to sleep twenty-three hours a day.”

  He chuckled. “All right. But I’m going to keep an eye on you.”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  She stands on the shore of the bay, the lights along Ama-no-Hashidate like stars against the darkness of the water and the black pines on that spit of land. The bay ripples and Kara steps into the water, unable to resist. Something brushes against her ankle and she looks down.

  The corpse that drifts there stares up at her with her mother’s face.

  Kara doesn’t run. Her chest aches with grief, a physical pain that is all she’s ever known of sorrow. Her throat closes and she feels tears burn the edges of her eyes, but when she reaches up to wipe them away, she finds only smooth skin.

  No eyes. No mouth. Once again, she has no face.

  Under the water, her mother’s corpse begins to move, but this time it is not the wind-driven ebb and flow of the bay that shifts the cadaver’s arms and legs. No, the body moves under its own power, rolling over onto its knees, naked back rising, slick and wet and gleaming in the moonlight.

  Mom? she says, but has no mouth to speak the word.

  The corpse rises, but the long hair is too black and the body too thin. She lifts her head and the face has now changed. Her mother’s features are gone, replaced by brown eyes and high cheekbones that could almost be Sakura’s. Yet it isn’t Sakura, either.

  Which is when Kara realizes that Akane has risen from the bay. She has never seen the girl, but it can only be her. The resemblance to Sakura is too stron
g. Kara reaches out a shaking hand, thinking of the horror Akane had endured here on the shore of the bay, but the dead girl arches her back and hisses, baring sharp, tiny teeth. Her eyes have changed. They have the slit cruelty of a cat’s eyes.

  And she starts out of the water.

  Kara cannot scream, but she can run. She turns back toward the school and catches sight of something moving over by the trees . . . by the shrine the other students have built to remember Akane. In amongst the photos and flowers and messages prowl a dozen cats. As Kara glances at them, they freeze and turn toward her.

  Look at her. Notice her.

  Again she turns to run, but abruptly she is no longer by the bay. Instead she runs along the corridor inside the girls’ wing of the dormitory. A door stands open on the left side of the hall, just ahead, and a terrible knowing fills her, for she recognizes immediately whose room this is.

  She only sees the blood as she begins to slip, and then she falls, scrambling along the floor of the corridor in a long puddle of blood that smears her hands and face, mats her hair, and stains her clothes. When at last she stops sliding, trying to get up, knees and hands slipping in the sticky blood, nose full of the terrible stench, she raises her head and finds that she is right outside Sakura and Miho’s room.

  The door hangs wide open.

  Sakura lays on the floor on bloodstained rice mats, a thousand tiny claw marks slashed into her face and chest, arms and legs and throat. She stares at Kara with a single, blind, dead eye. The other is missing, leaving a dark crater behind, claw marks around the edges.

  Sitting atop Sakura’s corpse is a cat with copper and red fur.

  It purrs happily.

  Kara woke with a scream, then lay in the dark, heart pounding, waiting for the sounds of her father rising. But the house remained quiet, and after a few moments she rose and went out into the hall, opened his door, and peeked inside. He lay in his bed, sound asleep. She tried to tell herself that her scream had been short and not as loud as she’d imagined. Or that it had been part of her dream, and she’d not screamed at all upon waking.