“The milk soap?”
“Yes, that’s the one. She became sought after and earned more than me. I used to work as a salesman, but was ill suited for the job. When her income doubled mine, she came up with the idea for us to switch roles. She enjoys her assignments and can’t afford to damage her hands doing housework, and I’m more than happy to do domestic chores.”
“Sounds like an excellent arrangement.”
“Indeed. I’m more of a homebody, and the better cook,” he said. “Most people find this setup unusual, but I’ve learned not to care about what they think. You can’t please everyone.”
“What’s important is that both of you are happy.”
He replied with a thoughtful nod.
I took another sip of the coffee. “Is your daughter at home?”
“She’s in her room,” he said. “I asked her not to come out at first because I wanted to talk to you privately.”
“Is there anything else I can do?”
He cleared his throat. “Actually, I’m wondering if my daughter is doing okay.”
“Yes, her marks are above average. She should get into a good university.”
“I’m not worried about her academic results.” He shifted his eyes. “I’m more concerned with how well she gets along with her peers. She never talks about school, and I never see any of her friends. A girl her age should be socializing a lot, shouldn’t she? Having sleepovers and things like that.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond, so I stared at my coffee.
“I might be overthinking it,” he said.
I needed to change the topic. “Does your daughter look like your wife?”
Mr. Nakajima smiled, back to his comfortable self. “You must be asking because Rio and I don’t look alike.”
Well, I couldn’t deny that.
“My wife has the good looks. My daughter did take after her,” he said. “A few modeling agencies have scouted Rio, but she’s not interested. It’s such a pity. She has the potential.”
“Do you want her to follow in your wife’s footsteps?”
“It might help her to open up,” he said. “She’s a good kid, but she lives in her own world. She doesn’t let anyone get too close. I worry about what will happen to her in the future.”
“Maybe she prefers to keep to herself.”
“Yes, perhaps . . .” he muttered. “Actually, Rio did try modeling once. My friend, a jewelry designer, asked her to model for their shop catalogue. To be honest, I was surprised she agreed. Too bad the photographs aren’t ready yet, or I’d love to show them to you.”
I recalled what Maeda had told me—that she’d seen Seven Stars leaving a jewelry store with an older man. So that one incident had sparked the rumor about Seven Stars and older men, probably compounded by the fact that she habitually skipped class.
“Can I get you more coffee, Mr. Ishida?”
“Thank you, but I’m good.”
“Then I’ll clear the table and ask Rio to greet you.”
Mr. Nakajima stood and went off with the tray, disappearing behind the wooden shelf. I heard him call his daughter. Seven Stars appeared in a loose knit top and shorts. Her hair was pulled up into a high bun.
“You’re here,” she said, peering behind the shelf to check if her father was nearby. “Come with me.”
I reluctantly stood up and followed her. The dining area was behind the partition. Through the glass door that separated it from the kitchen, I could see Mr. Nakajima washing the dishes.
“Stop spacing out,” Seven Stars whispered.
She led me up the stairs, opened a door, and pulled me into her bedroom. It was unexpectedly girly, with walls painted pastel pink. There was a twin bed full of stuffed animals, a desk piled with books and anime figurines, and a white wardrobe with a full-length mirror next to it. She had decorated the furniture with glittery stickers.
“How long are you planning to stand there?” Seven Stars asked, sitting on the bed.
“You shouldn’t bring men into your room.” I stayed there but kept the door open. “It will give people the wrong idea.”
She gave a chuckle. “Don’t worry, old men don’t count.”
“Age is just a number,” I said. “Where’s your mother?”
“She won’t be back any time soon. She ran away from home a few weeks ago. Abandoned my father and me.”
I was impressed by her ability to deliver such a crude joke with a straight face. Pulling out the swivel chair, I sat in front of the desk, the only available seat in the room.
Her desk was next to the window. It was open, but a faint tobacco smell lingered. I could imagine her standing by the window, languidly lifting a cigarette to her lips, the white smoke dancing around her before vanishing with the wind.
Resting my elbow on the desk, I looked outside. I had a clear view of the road. The window faced the site where my sister was murdered. I thought about the night I lay down on the side of the road in the pouring rain. She could have seen me, but I doubted it. It had been late, and the weather awful.
“Want to see something interesting?” Seven Stars asked.
She pulled out a drawer under her bed. I walked over to get a better look. Inside were hundreds of bubble gum packets of various brands, all still sealed.
“You’re crazy,” I said. “Did you steal all of these?”
She nodded, her expression unchanged.
I couldn’t tell what was on her mind. Was she proud of her conquests?
“Look carefully, Mr. Ishida. A few of them aren’t available in Japan.” She fished out one of the packets. It had a circular yellow dispenser with a face printed on it. “I got this in Copenhagen.”
“You must really love bubble gum,” I said. “Or you’ve got a screw loose in your head.”
“Or both,” she said.
“Or both,” I repeated. “This amount is insane. Can you even finish them before they expire?”
“I’ve never opened any of them. I imagine some have already expired.” She used her right hand to sweep the packets around. “I started building this collection when I was twelve, so that makes it six years’ worth of effort.”
“Why did you do this? Do you like collecting gum?”
“Not particularly. I just have the urge to take things that don’t belong to me.”
“Kleptomania?”
“Maybe,” she said nonchalantly. “Or curiosity. I don’t know.”
That would be an unhealthy level of curiosity. “Why bubble gum?”
“Why not? It’s everywhere and it’s small, one of the easiest things to steal.” She took a packet and twisted it around her fingers. “The first time I stole was from a convenience store near my school.”
“With serial crime, the first offense is usually done on impulse.”
“True,” she said. “Where’d you learn that?”
“From a TV drama.”
“Uh-huh.” Seven Stars looked into my eyes. “Well, the first time I did it, it felt great, so I ended up doing it again. The second time too, it felt good. Not quite as much as the first, but still a nice feeling. One thing led to another, and it became a habit. Now I’m a serial bubble gum thief.”
“You’re twisted.”
“What about you, Mr. Ishida? Have you ever had the urge to steal?”
“No.”
“You’ve never stolen anything in your life? Not even once?” She dropped the bubble gum back into the cabinet. “Don’t bluff. There must be at least one occasion. Like, maybe you stole someone’s girlfriend. Or you took another teacher’s pen. That counts too, you know.”
I took a moment to think about it. I had many failings, but stealing was against my principles. Then I remembered that I had stolen before, unintentionally. “Fine. I did take something once.”
She smile
d. “Now you’re talking. What did you steal?”
“A car.”
Her eyes lit up. “Are you kidding me? A real one?”
I wasn’t joking, though I wished I was. “Yes, a real car. A Toyota Celica. Yellow coupe.”
“That’s flashy. I assume you didn’t end up in jail?”
“My friend and I took it for a joyride. We returned it to where it had been parked. The owner never realized it was gone.”
Her excitement wore off. “That’s borrowing, not stealing.”
“It’s still stealing,” I insisted. “When you borrow something, you get the owner’s consent first. My friend and I took it without permission.”
“The owner didn’t lose anything. The car was returned, wasn’t it?”
“That doesn’t make it less of a crime. Whether the car stayed missing or not isn’t the issue here.”
“All right, all right,” she said. “Let’s count it as stealing. How long ago was it?”
“I was seventeen.”
“I can’t believe you were a better thief than me when you were my age. For real, stealing a car. I guess I’m learning from the best.”
I ignored her sarcastic remarks.
“So you like sports cars, Mr. Ishida?”
“Most people do, don’t they?” I said.
She shrugged. “I don’t. They make me sick. All cars, not just sports cars.”
“You get motion sickness? So you can’t ride in cars?”
“I can if I really want to, but I try to avoid it. No point in torturing myself,” she said. “Why don’t you tell me the full story of The Great Toyota Celica Heist?”
I shook my head. “It’s not something I’m proud of.”
“Then why did you do it?” she asked.
“It was my friend’s idea, to celebrate my birthday.”
14
A
Flashy
Yellow
Toyota
Celica
The friend I’d mentioned, strictly speaking, wasn’t really a friend.
One summer in high school, I worked as a pizza deliveryman. I met her when I was delivering an order to an apartment in Den-en-chōfu. I was standing in the lobby next to her while waiting for the elevator.
The girl looked younger than me. She sported a short bob, which made her stand out. Most girls at my school kept their hair long. I thought she looked stylish in that haircut, though way too skinny to be called athletic. Her thin T-shirt was stained with sweat, revealing the outline of her bra. She wiped the sweat from her forehead and turned to me. I didn’t want her to think I was staring at her chest, so I quickly looked at something else. It happened to be the outdoor parking lot.
It was a weekday afternoon, so many of the spots were empty. But since the apartment was located in a pricy complex, a few nice vehicles were still parked there.
“Do you like that Honda coupe?” she asked.
There was only one sports car in the lot, but it wasn’t a Honda.
“The yellow one?” I asked.
“Yes. That’s the one you’re looking at, isn’t it?”
“It’s a Toyota Celica.”
“I see,” she mumbled. “You certainly know a lot about cars.”
This was because my classmate Jin had spent an entire year obsessed with cars. He’d brought dozens of automotive magazines to school, and I’d inadvertently picked up the knowledge.
“Do you think the elevator’s broken?” The girl pressed the button repeatedly. “We’ve been waiting for so long.”
I didn’t answer. I wasn’t in the mood to talk. It was supposed to be a special day. And here I was, sweating under my scratchy pizza uniform next to an impatient girl.
When the elevator doors eventually opened, two workers came out with a black upright piano. That must have been what held it up. A tanned boy followed them out. He was a deliveryman at the same pizza joint as I was. He went out as the girl and I entered.
“Ishida?” He looked at me in surprise. “I thought you were taking today off.”
“Change of plans,” I said. “I took the morning shift.”
“Anyway, happy birthday. Enjoy your date later.”
I forced a smile and pressed number nine. Turning to the girl, I asked, “Which floor?”
“Same as you,” she said.
The number on the panel gradually increased. It stopped at nine and the doors opened.
I held the button. “After you.”
“Let me guess,” she said. “You got dumped by your girlfriend, so you went to work instead.”
I was shocked by her bluntness, but couldn’t refute what she’d said.
“Poor thing,” she said, though her straight face didn’t match her words. “How about this—I’m bored and I’ve got nothing planned today. When your shift is over, why don’t we spend some time together? I promise it will be fun.”
I hadn’t expected her to ask me out, but I wasn’t complaining. She was quite good-looking. Prettier by far than most of the girls at my school, including my very recent ex-girlfriend. Her advance seemed too good to be true, in fact, but I didn’t care. Even if it was crazy to go out with a girl I barely knew, it beat being home alone on my birthday.
“Once I deliver this, I’m done for the day,” I said.
“Excellent.” She gave me a satisfied smile. “In the meantime, let me go grab something. I’ll see you here in five minutes.”
She turned right and I went left. I delivered the pizza to a young man who complained that I’d taken too long to arrive. I apologized and had no choice but to listen to his rant. He went on and on, making a fuss that his pizza was cold. It wasn’t even true. The pizza had still been hot when I’d arrived, but he had wasted so much time scolding me, it had gotten cold. Eventually, he slammed the door in my face. One of the many occupational hazards of a pizza deliveryman.
Returning to the elevator, I expected the girl to be there, but she wasn’t. I waited another ten minutes. Had she gotten tired of waiting and left? I was about to give up when she finally appeared.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” she said, pressing the down button.
“What took you so long?” I asked.
The elevator doors opened and we went in.
“Stop complaining.” She pressed the button for the lobby. “You should be thankful—I’m giving you a birthday present.”
Really? “You don’t need to.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t reject a gift. It’s impolite.”
The door opened and we stepped out.
She took a car key with a Toyota logo from the pocket of her shorts and dangled it in front of me. “You like it, don’t you?”
I was at a loss for words. This had to be a joke.
The girl walked straight up to the parked yellow coupe before opening one of its doors. “What do you think?”
My mind was blank.
“Get in, pizza boy.”
I walked over to the passenger side while she took the driver’s seat. The car was lower than I’d imagined. It didn’t have much legroom, but the fittings were luxurious. I ran my fingers over the soft leather seat.
“Your dad’s car?” I asked.
“No, it belongs to Gouda,” she answered.
Who was that? “And he let you borrow his car?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“What?”
“Stop shouting,” she shushed me. “It makes my ears hurt. And don’t worry. This Gouda, he’s just a spoiled, rich brat. He’s always drunk and never locks the door. Anyone can just walk in and take his car keys. It’s a miracle no one besides me has ransacked his apartment yet. He’s such an easy target.”
Aren’t you a spoiled, rich brat yourself, I wanted to say, but of course I didn’t.
The girl turned on the engine and the car made a loud roar.
“What are you doing?” I raised my voice. “You’re not planning to drive this, are you?”
She arched an eyebrow. “Cars are meant to be driven. Don’t tell me you just want to sit around and enjoy the air conditioner.”
“I can’t believe this. How old are you?”
“I’m fifteen this year.”
“You don’t have a driver’s license.”
She rolled her eyes. “Of course not. Fifteen’s too young to qualify for a driver’s license.”
She released the hand brake. It was too late to be asking, but . . .
“Do you know how to drive?” I asked.
“Of course,” she answered. “I practice almost every day.”
She switched to first gear and pulled out of the parking space. Her handling was rough. The car jerked a little and I cursed.
“Shut up, pizza boy,” she hissed. “I’ve been driving for two years, so sit still and relax.”
“And where exactly have you been driving?”
I regretted asking as soon as I heard her answer.
“Just down the road.” She stepped on the accelerator. “At the arcade.”
I thought I was going to die on my seventeenth birthday, but I didn’t.
“My boyfriend let me drive his car a couple of times,” the girl said.
That wasn’t so bad. At least she’d had some experience. “Then why are you here with me? Let me guess, he just dumped you.”
I was teasing her, but she was silent, so it must have been true. I felt bad for saying it now, but couldn’t take it back. It would be more awkward for me to apologize.
We stopped at McDonald’s to order food to go and drove toward Yokohama. She pulled over at a quiet beach before we reached the city. The two of us got out. She took off her shoes and ran barefoot toward the sea. I sat on the warm sand, enjoying the breeze and watching her kick the waves.
When she got tired, she walked back and joined me. We ate our double cheeseburgers, staring at the ocean. The sunset painted the beach in warm golden hues.
Rainbirds Page 10
