Manga Touch

by Jacqueline Pearce

  I start to thank Kenji, but he is already gone. What’s his problem? I wonder, but I’m too tired to think about it now.

  Fumiko shows me the bathroom, which is steaming up from the hot water pouring into a deep tub. The floor is tiled, and there is a shower nozzle and hose attached to the wall beside the bathtub.

  “Where’s the toilet?” I ask.

  “Down the hall,” Fumiko explains. “In Japan the bath is separate. In the old days, people did not have a bath in their homes at all. They went to a bathhouse.”

  “That sounds kind of fun,” I say.

  Fumiko turns off the water. “There, it’s ready now.” Seeing my confused look, she adds, “You sit on the chair to wash first.”She points to a small plastic stool beside the tub. “Or stand and shower if you like. Then you can get into the bath and relax. Take as long as you like.”

  “Do you want me to empty the water out of the tub after?” I ask.

  “No, my mother will drain it when we have all finished.”

  I get it now. You wash first to keep the water clean. It’s like a hot tub, but with people taking turns instead of getting in all at once. Maybe in the old days they all bathed together in the bathhouse.

  “I will say good night now,” Fumiko says. “But if you need anything, please ask.”

  “Thanks,” I tell her. “I’ll be okay.”

  I lock the door behind Fumiko. It feels good to be alone.

  When I step under the shower, I imagine I am washing away my old life. I lower myself into the steaming tub. I feel like I’m sinking into Japan and whatever comes next.

  chapter four

  I wake up feeling warm and cozy. I’m ready for my first day in Japan. I fling off the covers and jump out of bed. I pad barefoot to the window and push open the curtains.

  Whoa! I am looking at a rice paddy. That’s what the dark space was across the street. It’s the size of a city block, flooded with water and surrounded by houses. The sun is beginning to rise over the rooftops. Short tufts of green poke out of the water in dotted lines. A crow flaps lazily across the field and lands on a roof.

  I’m not sure what I expected, but it is not to see a rice paddy in the middle of the city. Today should be interesting.

  Now, what am I going to wear for my Japanese school debut? I choose a short lime green plaid kilt and a purple T-shirt. It clashes nicely with my hair. Not a look Melissa and her friends will love. At least I won’t look like everyone else.

  When I go downstairs for breakfast, Mr. Seto has already left for work. Fumiko, Kenji and I sit at a North American-style table. Mrs. Seto sets out boiled eggs in little cups, bowls of yogurt and thick slices of white bread. Again, it’s not what I expected. I soon learn that this is the Setos’ idea of a North American’s break-fast.

  “This is good,” I tell Mrs. Seto through Fumiko. “But I’d like to try a Japanese breakfast while I’m here.”

  Mrs. Seto smiles and nods, looking pleased.

  Across the table Kenji glowers. He pushes aside his yogurt and gets up, muttering in Japanese.

  “He has to get to school early for soccer practice,” Fumiko explains.

  I wonder what he really said. Kenji seems like a jerk. But then he smiles at his mom and says something that must mean thanks for breakfast.

  After breakfast, Fumiko gives me a tour of the house. It includes a special room that has tatami mats on the floor. They are made from some kind of grass. There’s a little wooden alter by the far wall and a special alcove called a tokonoma. There is a vase of flowers on a shelf and a scroll painting in the alcove, but there are no other decorations in the room. We have to take our slippers off before stepping inside. Not even slippers are allowed on the tatami floor. Fumiko explains that in the old days this would have been a typical room in a Japanese house.

  Fumiko also shows me her bedroom. It is small with a pink bedspread and matching pink curtains with frills. She has a tiny cluttered desk and posters of Japanese pop stars on the walls.

  My eyes zero in on a colorful book on the desk.

  “Is that manga?” I ask.

  “Yes,” Fumiko answers, her eyes lighting up. “Do you like manga?” She pronounces it munga.

  “Some,” I say, trying not to sound too excited. She pulls the book out from under the papers and hands it to me. The title is in Japanese. The cover shows an image of a girl with a large head and huge liquid-looking eyes.

  “Do you have any other manga?” I ask. I try to keep the disappointment out of my voice. This looks like it is for little kids.

  “Oh yes,” Fumiko says, digging through the clutter on the desk.

  She holds up another book. I recognize the blue cat on the cover. Doraemon, the robot cat from the future. More kid stuff.

  “Do you have any Full Metal Alchemist or Bleach?” I ask.

  “Ah, you know those manga?” she says, impressed.

  “Yeah, We have them in Canada,” I say.

  “You like adventure manga?” she asks.

  “I guess you could call it that.”

  “I like more...,” she pauses, searching for the right English word, “...light-hearted manga.”

  “Oh.” She likes the cutesy stuff with the big eyes.

  “Kenji’s favorite is sports manga. But he might have one of the kind you like,” Fumiko says. “You could ask him after school.”

  “Sure,” I say. Though I can’t picture Kenji lending me something of his.

  We hurry back downstairs. Fumiko explains that she usually takes the train to school, but this morning her mom will drive us. Mrs. Seto has packed our lunches in small plastic boxes. She gives me a lunch box wrapped in blue fabric. Mrs. Seto drops us off outside the school gates. The gates will be closed when school starts, Fumiko explains.

  “They lock you in?” I ask.

  “Oh no,” she says, her eyes wide. “Students can get in and out, but no cars can drive in.”

  The building is large and modern. We join the crowd of students walking and riding bikes into the grounds. Most of them look at me with interest. Mr. Akimoto, the teacher who met us at the airport, is standing by the school.

  “Ohayo gozaimasu, sensei,” Fumiko greets him with a slight bow.

  I copy her. I am not sure how to bow, so I omit that bit.

  “Good morning, young ladies,” Mr. Akimoto says, smiling broadly.

  In the foyer everyone is switching from shoes to green plastic slippers. Fumiko finds slippers for me. We store our shoes in her cubbyhole. There are no lockers.

  We are greeted by squeals of excitement in the hallway. A pack of Japanese girls rushes up to us. Fumiko’s friends, obviously. Except for one slightly taller girl, they are all about the same size as Fumiko. I feel very large next to them.

  Fumiko introduces me. The other girls are shy as they say hello. Then they turn back to each other and talk all at once. The shortest girl has a backpack with about twenty little plastic toys hanging from it. She says something that sounds like kowwah-ee, in an excited voice.

  The other girls look me over and nod.

  “Kawaii means cute,” Fumiko explains. “They think your outfit is cute.”

  Cute is not exactly what I was going for, but I smile and thank them.

  “Kow-wa...,” I try, not getting it right.

  They all laugh and repeat the word.

  “Kawaii,” I say, pointing at the little toys dangling from the backpack. In the name of international relations, I give no sign that the toys make me want to gag. What is it with all this cute stuff?

  “Hai,” the girls agree in Japanese. They seem pleased with my efforts.

  “Do you like shopping?” the shorter girl asks.

  Shopping? What kind of question is that? I shrug.

  “Sometimes, I guess.”

  “Yeah, shopping at Value Village,” interjects a male English voice.

  I turn to see DJ’s mocking grin. He ducks as if expecting me to punch him.

  “Is that a store in Cana
da?” Fumiko asks.

  “Yeah, a store he can’t afford to shop at,” I say loudly after DJ’s retreating back.

  I follow Fumiko into her classroom. She finds an extra chair so I can sit beside her. The girls gather on one side of the classroom and the boys on the other. They don’t mix like we do back home.

  Fumiko’s friends cluster around us, whispering. I get the feeling they are working up to asking me something. Finally the taller girl is pushed forward.

  “Do you...?” she begins. She falters and turns to Fumiko.

  Words fly around the group. The others seem to be urging Fumiko to ask the question now. She looks embarrassed.

  “Do you dye your hair?” Fumiko finally asks.

  I laugh. This is their big question? “Of course,” I tell them. “My real color is light brown.”

  They all talk at once again. Fumiko tells me that students are not allowed to color their hair. The school has strict rules about personal appearance.

  “What about that girl?” someone asks. She points across the room. A crowd has gathered around Melissa. Figures. Of course I get stuck in the same class as her.

  “Does she dye hers?” Fumiko asks, her eyes on Melissa’s pale blond mane.

  I’m tempted to say yes, but I know that her hair has been that color since she was small.

  “No, that’s her real hair,” I admit.

  Fumiko’s friends look impressed. At that moment, my eyes meet Melissa’s. They catch for only a second. Then she looks through me, as if I am invisible. I wish I had told Fumiko’s friends that her hair is phony—just like the rest of her.

  A loud student voice at the back of the room calls out some kind of command. The Japanese students immediately stand behind their desks. A teacher walks up to a podium at the front of the room and bows. The Japanese students bow back.

  Homeroom lasts about five minutes. Next we have English class. Today the Canadian kids stand at the front of the room and answer questions: Do you like bands? Do you play basketball? Etcetera. Most of the students’ English is not as good as Fumiko’s. We have to speak very slowly.

  There is a ten-minute break between classes to give the teacher time to move to the next class. The students stay in the same room. Math is next. I don’t understand what the teacher is saying, but I can read the numbers on the board, so I can follow some of it. There are two more classes before lunch break. I am soon totally out of it and totally bored.

  For lunch we stay in the classroom. Fumiko and her friends push their desks together, so that we can talk. I unknot the blue cloth around my lunch box, feeling like I’m unwrapping a present. The box is divided into compartments. The biggest one contains rice. On top of the rice is a pink thing that Fumiko says is pickled plum. There is also a piece of fish, some green beans—all cold—and a slice of apple. The apple is cut so that the peel looks like pointy rabbit ears. Very kawaii. Aside from the apple, it’s the kind of meal I’m used to having hot, but it’s pretty good.

  After the lunch break Fumiko and her friends get ready for the next class. I stand up and look for the rest of my group. Time for our tour of the city.

  chapter five

  Melissa and Zach lead the group out of the school. She sticks to Zach’s arm like a leach, laughing her phony laugh. A bus is waiting for us outside the gate. I climb on and aim for the first empty seat.

  “Sorry, this seat’s saved,” the girl sitting by the window says.

  “Whatever.” I give the seat a look like I wouldn’t want to go near it anyway.

  I continue down the aisle until I see a pair of empty seats. I slump into one and toss my backpack onto the other. Sorry, this seat’s saved, I mouth to the back of the girl’s head. Then I turn and stare out the window.

  Thump. Someone bumps the back of my seat.

  “Wha’s up, Red?” asks an annoying voice.

  I sink lower in my seat, ignoring DJ. God, it’s like being back on the airplane.

  “Can I have your attention, people?” Ms. Delucci’s voice rises thinly through the din.

  “Excuse me!” she tries again. But no one is listening.

  Behind me, DJ is talking about some vending machines he discovered.

  “Man, anyone can just walk up and buy a pack of cigarettes or a can of beer!” DJ says. His voice is filled with awe.

  I roll my eyes. Whoever thought DJ would learn something on this trip must not know him.

  Suddenly a piercing whistle cuts through the noise. The talking stops and all eyes turn forward. I sit up straight and see that Mr. Crawford has pushed up behind Ms. Delucci. Behind him stands Mr. Akimoto, who is either embarrassed or very interested in a dust speck on the floor. I wonder if he’s thinking how poorly behaved we are.

  “All right, now that I have your attention,” Mr. Crawford says. He gestures for Ms. Delucci to continue.

  “I want you all to remember that you are ambassadors for Canada while you’re here,” she says. “That means you must be on your best behavior.”

  She pauses and stares sternly at us. I feel like she is looking right at me. Then I realize the look is meant for DJ.

  “Now,” she continues, “Suzuka High School and Mr. Akimoto have generously arranged a tour for us. Mr. Akimoto is giving up his afternoon to act as our guide.”

  She sweeps out her arms as if welcoming a performer onto a stage. Mr. Akimoto steps forward holding a cordless microphone.

  A sudden blast of music booms through the bus. For a second I think Mr. Akimoto is going to burst into song. I notice several television screens hanging from the ceiling. Every screen, blank a second ago, is now filled with what looks like a Japanese music video. Japanese script scrolls across the bottom of the screens.

  “Karaoke!” someone yells.

  Mr. Akimoto fiddles with the controls. The music silences and the screens go black.

  “I am so sorry,” he apologizes with a bow. He sits down abruptly as the bus lurches into motion.

  “As you can see,” he says, “this bus is equipped for karaoke entertainment.” He pronounces it kar-a-Oh-kay. “Perhaps you would like to try it later.”

  Several people cheer. Mr. Akimoto smiles tolerantly. Ms. Delucci and Mr. Crawford give us the evil eye.

  “But first, I am very pleased to show you the city of Suzuka,” Mr. Akimoto continues.

  “Our first stop is the Suzuka Museum of Traditional Crafts, which specializes in katagami. This is the famous Japanese stencil art used to decorate the clothing of samurai,” Mr. Akimoto tells us. There are a few sounds of interest at the word samurai. Mr. Akimoto mistakes this for general keenness. He goes on with enthusiasm.

  “There were many katagami shops in this area in the old days. Travelers would stop to buy fabric on their way to the famous shrine of Ise.”

  Behind me, DJ and his friend snicker.

  As the streets of Suzuka roll past us, Mr. Akimoto continues to talk. He points out the Honda factory and the new North American-style mall called Bell City. Apparently Suzuka means bell and deer. The name has something to do with a lost person and a bell hung from a deer’s neck.

  I try to ignore DJ, who is doing an imitation of Mr. Akimoto.

  “And there you have the famous Japanese smokestack,” DJ says as we drive by the Honda factory. “And now you see the famous Japanese traffic sign...”

  I want to tell him to shut up. But I have to smother a laugh when he points out “the famous pick-up-after-your-dog sign.” The sign has a cute cartoon dog, which makes the meaning obvious.

  Some of the stores we pass have signs with manga-style illustrations—mostly the big-eyed cute variety. I smile to myself. The manga touch is everywhere.

  By the time we arrive at the craft museum, I am happy for a break from both DJ and Mr. Akimoto. The museum tour is interesting, but DJ and the others have the attention spans of gnats. While Mr. Akimoto translates the guide’s explanation of stencil-cutting, I realize I am the only one left in the museum. Everyone else is either in the gift shop o
r back outside.

  “How does that stay together?” someone asks.

  I turn around, surprised to see Zach. He is bent over a large stencil covered with tiny detailed cuts. The museum guide explains how a thin mesh is added to the back of the stencil to hold it together. The dye goes through the holes in the stencil and through the mesh.

  “The whole process,” Mr. Akimoto concludes, “from preparing the stencil paper to cutting the stencil, can take two or three months.”

  And that’s just for one stencil. Probably several stencils were used to decorate one piece of fabric. Not the kind of art I’d have patience for.

  We join the others in the gift shop. Melissa grabs hold of Zach, throwing me a harsh look. I pretend not to notice.

  After the craft museum, the bus takes us to a Buddhist temple and a Shinto shrine. Both are several hundred years old. Everything is interesting, but I’m getting tired of old things. What about all the modern stuff that Japan is famous for? Nintendo, state-of-the-art electronics, Tokyo clothing fashions, anime, manga...

  As we climb back on the bus, people complain that the tour is boring. Maybe Mr. Akimoto hears, because the next thing I know, we are driving by a racetrack.

  “The famous Suzuka Circuit,” Mr. Akimoto says, pointing out the window. I swear I can feel the bus tip as everyone leans in that direction. But our excitement is short-lived.

  “We don’t have time to stop there today,” Mr. Crawford says. He waves away the groans of disappointment.

  “Mr. Jung, please take your seat,” he says to DJ, who has stood up in protest.

  “What are we doing next, then?” DJ asks, a whine creeping into his voice. “When are we going to eat?”

  “Yeah,” a few voices join in. “I’m so hungry.”

  Mr. Crawford holds up his hands.

  “What part did you not understand about being on your best behavior?” he says, letting his glare fall on each person in the bus. “Now, sit down and be quiet. No one’s going to starve. Our next stop is dinner.”