There are stores selling stuff you might see anywhere—clothing, kitchenware, knickknacks. Eventually I come to a convenience store. Through the window I see a long shelf of magazines, books and manga. A recorded female voice greets me as I walk through the door.
I pass shelves of intriguing-looking candy as I make my way to the books. The manga are piled on a lower shelf, beneath the magazines. The art work on the covers immediately draws me in. There is boys’ manga, girls’ manga, kids’ manga, adult manga. There’s even X-rated manga sealed in plastic wrap. There are boys playing basketball, samurai warriors in sword fights and lovers about to kiss. There are ultramodern city settings and ancient Japanese village settings...
I flip through book after book. I am fascinated with the images. Though for the most part, I can’t figure out what is happening.
After a while I pick out a couple of manga that I hope Fumiko and Kenji will like. I choose one for myself that has a style I want to study. Then I buy a bag of tiny moon-shaped crackers and some candy that has manga-style pictures of animals on the package. As I leave the store, the recorded voice thanks me.
Outside on the street, I start heading back toward the park. Or at least, that’s what I think I’m doing. after A few blocks of walking, I stop and look around. Nothing looks familiar. The store beside me has a large red sign with black Japanese writing. Did I pass that sign before? I’m not sure. I walk a little farther. There’s no sign of the park. A small tickle of panic stirs in the back of my chest.
I scan the faces of the people passing by. Do any of them speak English?
“Excuse me.” I approach a middle-aged woman with a kind face. “Can you tell me the way to...”
She shakes her head and walks away before I can finish.
I look around again. Maybe someone younger would be more likely to speak English. I catch a young man’s eye and step forward.
“Excuse me,” I try again.
“Sorry,” the man says. He looks a bit embarrassed. “My English not good.” He starts to move away.
“Wait!” I call, grabbing hold of his arm.
He looks alarmed.
“Sorry.” I let go quickly. I widen my eyes and attempt to give him a lost-puppy look. I hope my growing panic does not add a crazed tinge. I try to think of the simplest way to form my question.
“Can you tell me where Ueno Park is?” I ask.
He starts to shake his head.
“Ueno Park?” I ask again.
I can almost see the lightbulb turn on above his head.
“Ah, Ueno Park,” he repeats, smiling.
He points using all his fingers, not just one. “Ueno Park that way,” he says.
It’s the opposite direction from the one I’ve been walking.
“Thank you! Arigato gozaimsu!” I tell him, not minding the looks my raised voice draws.
Relieved, I retrace my steps. It must be getting close to the time we’re supposed to meet.
Finally I reach a park entrance. But it isn’t the same one that I left earlier. A sign says Ueno Park, though. At least I know I’m in the right place. How hard can it be to find the museum?
I follow the path into the park. I watch for the stands where we bought food, the trees where we saw the crows or anything that looks familiar. I’d even be happy to see someone from my group.
“Gaijin,” I hear a little girl say to her mom as they walk by. The mother shushes the girl and hurries her along.
Gaijin. Foreigner. Outsider.
I stop in the middle of the sidewalk while people walk around me. Here I am, surrounded by people, and I feel more alone than I’ve ever felt before.
An older Japanese man approaches me and says something in Japanese. I can’t tell if he’s asking if I need help or if he’s mad at me for blocking the sidewalk. I give him an apologetic shrug, turn and walk again.
There’s got to be a sign with some directions around here somewhere. As I walk under the green trees, I hear crows call. The sidewalk leads to a hill covered with trees and then it forks to the left. There is a narrow stone path going up the hill. I leave the sidewalk and take the path. Maybe I’ll be able to see the museum from the top of the hill.
As I climb, it’s cooler under the trees. At first I hear the chirps of small birds, but then they are drowned by loud caws. The crows sound angry.
Someone screams.
I run along the path and stop at the top of the hill. Forgetting about the museum, I scan the steps going down the other side of the hill. I can hardly believe what I see.
A few feet in front of me, Melissa and Zach duck their heads as two large crows dive-bomb them from the trees. One swoops within inches of Melissa’s head. She swings her purse at it.
“Get away you stupid bird!” she screams.
At the sight of Zach and Melissa, relief bubbles through me. I quickly push it aside. Me, happy to see them? Not likely.
A second crow dives at Zach. He pulls up the collar of his T-shirt like a turtle trying to pull its head inside its shell.
They both look hilarious. I burst out laughing. That’s when Melissa catches sight of me.
“You shut up!” she screeches, a look of pure hate on her face. Then she bursts into tears and runs down the stairs.
chapter twelve
Zach follows Melissa. The crows fly to a tree branch and continue cawing.
I walk carefully down the path, keeping one eye on the crows. They squawk at me but let me pass. In the branches above them I see what might be a nest.
I catch up to Zach and Melissa at the bottom of the hill. Melissa is sitting on a bench, her face in her hands. Zach reaches out to pat her.
I should find this scene entertaining. It is totally poetic justice that Melissa was attacked by a mob of crows. But her crying is taking the fun out of it.
I’d like to walk away, but I need directions back to the museum. Maybe I should just hide where I can see them and then follow them. Before I can make a move, Zach looks up and raises his hands in surrender.
“I don’t know what to do,” he says. “Everything is going wrong today...Can you tell us the way back to the museum?”
I stare at him for a few seconds.
“Come on,” he says. “I don’t know what the big fight is between you and Melissa, but can’t you drop it for one day?”
By now Melissa has stopped crying and has turned away from us.
“Give it up, Zach,” she grumbles. “She’s not going to help us.”
“She’s not gonna just leave us here, Mel,” says Zach.
“Oh? Why are you suddenly such an expert on Dana Edwards?” Melissa whirls around, her smudged mascara looks like war paint. She stares from Zach to me, her eyes accusing.
I remember the look she gave me when Zach talked to me at the stencil museum and how she pulled him away earlier today.
“You can’t possibly think Zach and I are having some kind of affair!” I say, snorting with laughter.
“God!” Zach sputters in protest.
“Why not?” she says. “I’m sure you’re more fun to be with on this trip than I am.”
Whoa! That’s about the last thing I expected to come out of her mouth.
“What are you talking about?” I say.
She starts crying again and throws up her hands.
“I hate it here!” she wails. “I just want to go home. I only came on the trip because Zach was going. I hate Japanese food! I hate being surrounded by people I can’t understand! I hate the toilets! I never know the right thing to do...and you do everything right!”
Zach and I look at each other. He gives me a shrug and walks away a few steps. Somehow this has become all about me and Melissa. I sit down on the bench beside her.
“What do you mean?” I ask. “I thought you hated everything I do.”
“Nothing bothers you,” she says. “You do weird. I can’t.”
“Thanks,” I say sarcastically.
“Nothing scares you,” she says.
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I assume by this she is admitting that things do scare her. I sneak a look at her face. Underneath the red eyes and tear-streaked makeup, I glimpse the Melissa I used to know. Part of me wants to respond in the old way and offer sympathy. I take a deep breath and look up at the trees where the crows have now settled. All their bluster is really to protect their nest. Maybe Melissa’s makeup and attitude is a form of protection. I remember how nervous she was about starting high school. She totally changed when we got there. She started wearing lots of makeup and trying to be Miss Popular. Was that how she dealt with being scared?
But then anger rises in me. Poor little frightened Melly. That doesn’t explain why she started being such a jerk to me.
“You’re so full of it, Mel,” I snap. “You don’t even try to like anything new. You act like everything different is crap and you’re better than everyone else.”
She gives me a disgusted look.
“Look who’s talking,” she sneers. “You’re the stuck-up queen.”
My mouth drops open. “What!? No way am I stuck-up!”
“Well, you could have fooled me!”
Zach takes a few steps toward us like he expects that we’ll be going for each other’s hair at any moment.
“Maybe you’re not stuck-up,” Melissa adds in a quieter tone. “But you act like you hate everyone.”
She looks away when she says this. There is something odd in her voice—bitterness...or maybe hurt. It touches a raw place inside me. I’m tired of this pointless argument.
“Think that if you want!” I say, turning my back on her.
“See,” she says. “That’s just my point. You block everyone out. You act like you don’t care about anything. Ever since we started high school you act like you don’t even want people to like you. Like you’re hiding behind some tough shell.”
Tough shell. Fumiko told me I was like Kenji—hard on the outside. I slump back onto the bench and face her again.
“So, it’s my fault that you and your friends treat me like pond scum. And if I’d just be nicer to you,” I make my voice sarcastically sweet, “you’d be nicer to me.”
She shrugs. “Something like that.”
“And if you’d been nicer to me when we started high school, instead of ditching me to hang out with your new friends,” I continue in the same sugary voice, “I wouldn’t have acted like I hated you.”
“Maybe,” she says.
Suddenly I feel tired. Has my hating her been an act? Did she really think that I cut her out first?
chapter thirteen
“Hey, so if you’re not going to kill each other...” Zach looks at his watch. “We should find our way back to the museum.”
“Ah, about that...,” I say as Melissa and I get to our feet. “I don’t exactly know the way, either.”
“You mean you’re lost too?” Melissa whines. For a second, I think she’s going to cry again. But then she laughs.
“Good,” she says. “Because I really hated having to ask you for help.”
“Me too.” I grin at her like we’re sharing a joke. It’s weird. Nothing has been resolved. But something has changed. Like the way the air smells after a storm.
Zach looks at us blankly, and then he throws up his hands.
“I give up. If you two want to stay lost, fine. But I’m going to go look for a sign or something.”
He starts striding away from us. Melissa and I hurry to catch up.
“Look, there’s a sign.” Zach points to a spot where several pathways join.
It takes awhile to figure out the sign, but finally we agree on which way to go. By the time we make it back to the museum, everyone is waiting for us.
“What were you doing with her?” one of Melissa’s friends hisses.
“Learning Japanese,” Melissa says. “What do you think?”
I smile. Melissa and I may never be friends again, but maybe she isn’t so bad.
In my hotel bed that night, I have a chance to think. Maybe we all have different ways of protecting ourselves. Melissa has her makeup and her attitude. DJ has his stupid humor, Fumiko has her cute things. I told myself I didn’t care when Melissa and I stopped being friends. Told myself I didn’t need anyone. Lying to yourself can be a way of protecting too.
The rest of the Tokyo trip goes too quickly: shopping on Omotesando and Harajuku streets where my unique fashion sense fits right in, playing games at Sega World. I even surprise myself and everyone else by challenging DJ to a game (which I win). We get to try karoke in our own private room on the last night.
When we board the train back to Suzuka there is a different feeling in the group. It’s like we are an actual group, not just a bunch of people who don’t like each other. I’m not saying I suddenly like everyone, but something has changed.
“Hey, Red!” DJ says, ruffling my hair.
“Hey, Loser!” I say back, reaching out to flick the top of his head.
“Wait till next time, Red,” he says.
“Yeah, right!” I laugh back. “You’re a sucker for punishment.”
As the train leaves Tokyo, I settle into my seat and take out my sketchbook. I stare at the unfinished manga girl. Something feels even less right about her now...Maybe she needs a sidekick or some kind of sword-wielding backup...I’m still trying to decide how to fix her when a new idea hits me. With a feeling of excitement, I flip to a fresh page and begin to draw.
About four hours later, we are back in Suzuka. Fumiko and her father meet me at the station. I’m glad to see them. In the van on the way to the Setos’ house, I give Fumiko the manga book I bought for her and the drawing I did for her on the train. It’s a manga-style version of Fumiko. She is standing between a Japanese woman in a kimono and a North American man in a business suit. They both look at Fumiko with expressions of sudden understanding on their faces. In a thought bubble above the woman’s head is the Japanese word hai. In a bubble above the man’s head is the English word yes. Underneath the drawing I’ve written, Fumiko Seto, #1 translator.
“You drew me?” Fumiko asks, sounding amazed and pleased. “It is so good!”
After supper with the Setos, I give Kenji the book I picked out for him and another drawing I did on the train. This one is a manga version of Kenji playing soccer and scoring a goal. On the bottom of the drawing are the words, Kenji Seto, soccer hero.
I watch Kenji’s face as he looks over the drawing, and I feel uncertain. Maybe I overdid it. I can see his lips mouth the words, “soccer hero.” He probably thinks it’s totally stupid.
But then Kenji looks up, grinning. It’s the first real smile he’s given me.
“Thank you,” he says, his face red. He looks away and starts to leave, and then he turns back and gives me another smile.
chapter fourteen
We spend more time at the school during our last week. We even clean our classroom, which is a job students do in Japanese schools. It’s supposed to develop team spirit and responsibility. I guess it works. Fumiko and the others seem happy to do most of the cleaning. With DJ joking around and Melissa and her friends whining, the Canadian group doesn’t get much done.
We also spend more time with our host families. The Setos take me to one of Kenji’s soccer games. I actually have fun joining Fumiko in cheering and clapping. More people come out to watch than they do at our high school games. The cheers are also more polite—no boos or negative comments.
On the last day we visit Ise Shrine, an hour outside of Suzuka. The shrine is one of Japan’s most famous, built in honor of the sun goddess. It’s been in the same spot for almost two thousand years. We follow the path through a sacred forest that people have walked for centuries. When we get to the shrine, Fumiko and her family stop and say a prayer. Fumiko tells me that the shrine is rebuilt every twenty years.
“My parents helped pull the logs to the building site the last time,” Fumiko says. “Next time Kenji and I will help.”
“Don’t they use trucks?” I ask.
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“No,” she explains. “Many people help float the logs down the river; then they use ropes to pull them up the path. It’s been done that way for over a thousand years.”
“Wow,” I say. It’s hard to imagine being part of something that old.
On my last night in Japan, Fumiko and I stand across the street from their house, looking out over the rice paddy. The plants have grown since I arrived. I feel like I know a lot more about Japan now but have still just touched the surface.
There’s a sound from the house. We turn to see Kenji walking toward us.
“This is for you,” he says carefully as he hands me a piece of paper.
“Thanks,” I say, my curiosity rising.
Kenji points to the logo on his soccer jersey.
“I asked my teachers,” he says.
I unfold the paper and read the neatly printed words, imagining the time it must have taken Kenji to get the English right.
An old Japanese story tells that long ago a monster was going to eat the sun. The rulers of heaven created the crow. The crow flew into the monster’s mouth and choked it. Now the crow lives in the sun. It has three legs. One leg for dawn, one leg for noon and one leg for dusk. Another old story says that long ago the first emperor of Japan was traveling through the mountains and became lost. The sun goddess sent the crow with three legs to help him find the way home.
I think about the crows in Ueno Park. They helped me find my way in more ways than one. I wonder if one of them had three legs.
“This is interesting,” I tell Kenji. He looks relieved. “So now the three-legged crow helps the Japanese soccer team?” I add.
It takes him a second to process what I’ve said. Then he nods and laughs. In the rice field, the frogs begin croaking.
“I still haven’t seen a frog,” I say.
“There!” Kenji says, pointing down at the water near our feet.
Manga Touch Page 5
