ShinigamiFanBoy: Has anyone else from 3C done the classics essay yet? I need ideas!
TandemRide: Sorry, Shini.
ShinigamiFanBoy: Anyone?
TandemRide: >>>>@ >> *TUMBLEWEED*
ShinigamiFanBoy: fine, I’ll do it myself then. Anyone done the MATH assignment? ;)
TandemRide: Eeee, one of these days, Shini. One of these days.
ShinigamiFanBoy: One of these days what? 0_0
TandemRide: You’ll see.
Bluebird_796: Some of us don’t try to pass our work to others, FanBoy!
ShinigamiFanBoy: Yeah, and look where that gets you. ;)
Bluebird_796: *siiiiiiigh* maybe he has a point. There is a mountain of textbooks waiting for me, but I love you guys so much I don’t want to leeeeeave.
KyotoQueen: *sigh* me too. How is there SO MUCH homework already? It’s only the first week. Waaah!
Bluebird_796: I know. :(
ShinigamiFanBoy: I hear ya!
0100110101100101: Agree!
And this:
Meekkat: Will somebody sit with me at lunch? I hate being the new girl.
BambooPanda: I’ll sit with you Meekkat. What school u go to?
Meekkat: International.
BambooPanda: Oh. Sorry :(
BambooPanda: I’m sure you’ll make friends really quickly. Introduce yourself to someone who looks nice at lunch?
Meekkat: I’m too shy!
BambooPanda: :( Who goes to International? Someone let Meekkat join them tomorrow? It SUX being the new girl.
Meekkat: Aw, thanks Panda. You’re so kind.
BambooPanda: Not at all ;)
GuitarGirl1: You can sit with us, Meekkat. We’re in the second year and starting a band. You play an instrument?
Meekkat: Um, no.
GuitarGirl1: That’s okay. You can be a groupie. OHHH! GROUPIE!!! <3
Meekkat: What are you called?
GuitarGirl1: We haven’t picked a name yet. Any ideas? No wait, we can discuss it AT LUNCH. Yay! Meet me in the courtyard, I’ll have my guitar.
BambooPanda: Successful matchmaking of the friendship variety! Yessss!
And this:
BlossomInDecember: We’re going out for FroYo after school to celebrate. Who’s coming?
BITTERnGREEN: Meeeeee!
LikesEmWithSparkle: Me ;)
WindUpBird: Me!
I watch the conversations unfold, one line at a time, piecing them together like a jigsaw puzzle where someone put a dozen pictures into the same box. I’m imagining WindUpBird and BlossomInDecember meeting over pumpkin-flavored frozen yogurt when BRrRrRrRrRrRrR, a flashing dialogue box appears at the bottom of my screen. It reads: You have a Private Message from MonkECMonkEDo. My stomach jolts with fear; nobody’s supposed to notice me!
What do I do? I can’t just ignore it, can I?
Can I?
BRrRrRrRrRrRrR the box flashes again.
No, apparently not.
I scroll up the chatroom conversations, looking for the name. Making sure it’s real, and not a virus trap. MonkECMonkEDo says: Strawberry flavor. With lemon sprinkles.
I do not scroll farther up to see what should be strawberry.
BRrRrRrRrRrRrR
Okay, okay!
I click, and the box expands.
Hi, SamuraiMan. Welcome to KyoToTeenz :)
Hello?
Are you there?
What do I say?
Ok, never mind. I just wanted to say hi. I’m not a creep, btw, I just . . . I like to see who’s signed up to the forum and welcome people.
It can be a bit terrifying when it’s busy.
I hope you jump in though, everybody’s really nice.
Okay byeee!
In the background, MonkECMonkEDo joins in the conversation:
MonkECMonkEDo: I have to go too.
KyotoQueen: What, now? U just got here!
MonkECMonkEDo: My parents are home. I have to study.
KyotoQueen: Tell them you’re studying in your room.
MonkECMonkEDo: I wish! Byeeee! xx
And MonkECMonkEDo is gone.
12
I cannot stay online. I’ve been seen. Compromised. And I don’t know what to do.
But before I go, I just have to:
USERNAME
TAGLINE
AGE
GENDER
INTERESTS
• • • •
Dear Ojiisan,
I am doing well. The city is ready for autumn now; the sun sets gold, just tempting the trees to join it. Have the fork tails flown through yet, or are they late again this year? Has Bah-Ba deemed it cold enough for honey cake?
And how do you talk to girls? I can’t send that. Can I?
No.
My grandfather and I used to talk about everything, but somehow I can’t. Once, we talked of grades and universities and far-flung places. Now all I have to report is the latest ache or shaking muscle, and we don’t say much at all.
Hope you are well,
Your grandson, Abe Sora
• • • •
“Sora!”
I look up from my half-full dish of salty miso, and see my mother has already finished. “Sorry, Mama.”
She lays her chopsticks carefully across her bowl, then rests her chin on her hands, leaning toward me. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” I say, nodding. I hope she cannot see my thoughts—of Ojiisan and MonkEC—I do not even know exactly what they are, and they would only make her sad.
She studies my face for a moment but says nothing.
“There’s a letter for Ojiisan in the hall,” I say, to change the subject. “Will you mail it?”
“You don’t have to write to him,” she frowns. “He has a phone.”
I shrug. “He likes them.”
I do too. I like the sense that our conversations can withstand time and distance and still reach each other. But my mother is forever on her smartphone, plugged into the latest news, e-mails at her fingertips in seconds, and she does not understand.
“You’re so like him, you know?”
“Ojiisan?”
“Yes. The pair of you are like two peas . . .”—she pauses, and for a second her frown disappears—“two nature-loving peas. Sometimes I think you were both carved right out of an old tree trunk or dug out of the earth.”
“Mama, I was born right here. In the city. In the hospital, with you.”
She almost smiles. “Quite a day that was.”
I’ve heard the story a thousand times. How Ojiisan and Bah-Ba faced the big tall buildings of the city trying to reach their daughter, to be there for the birth, but the big city travel-gods thwarted their attempts and in the end it was just the two of us. Mama and me. Just the way it’s always been.
My father, who whisked Mama away from the countryside, whisked himself away from her, long before I came.
But we don’t really talk about him. We don’t need him. We’re a perfect team.
“Mama . . . how did Ojiisan get lost that day? The trains are labeled. And they do not wander off.”
There it is again, that almost smile. “That’s not the way your grandfather would tell it.” No. Willful trains with feet, he’d say. Dragon-bellied transport. Mama shrugs. “The city befuddles him. Too much going on and not enough sky.” I can almost hear the words, unspoken this time: two peas. And for a moment I think we might talk about the endless summers we spent every year at Ojiisan and Bah-Ba’s, underneath that open sky, or all the other things she sees in both of us. But she rolls her eyes and starts to clear away the dishes, and the conversation’s over.
13
I lie on my bed, flipping through pages of a history book, and pause at a photo of the very first Festival of Ages.
Are the emperors’ spirits really still there? More than just a symbol? Do they really get to walk the streets and see what their city has become?
Down the hallway, I hear Mama shuffling toward
the phone. Like clockwork, every week.
What would it be like, seeing everything change year after year, for centuries?
I think I would like it, watching history being written.
Except . . . so little still stands from 794, and to watch all that crumble and fade . . .
A world without Ojiisan and Bah-Ba or my mother flashes through my mind, and I have to tune in to her voice just to know she’s there.
“Eeeehh! Otosan! You should put some traps down . . . No, I know they’re not humane, but . . .” Her voice is so indignant. Strong. And I imagine Ojiisan sucking in his breath, bristling at her suggestion. “Traps? Where is the honor for the little things?”
Because being hunted by a cat is so much better; full of pride and honor and a chance to get away.
When I was young, my grandparents’ cat was as fierce as a pirate, a scarred and grumbling beast who chased anything and anyone except the family who fed him. Then he grew old and round, and slept all day beside the fire.
He died last winter, and since then, the mice have returned.
I know that mice are nothing more than a nuisance; that at the end of the line, Ojiisan will be laughing at my mother’s delicate city manner, but still, for a moment I imagine fat demonic creatures scurrying about inside the walls, waiting to feed on my grandparents at night. I shudder; maybe Mama’s right.
“And you wonder why we don’t . . . No. I don’t mean that. I mean . . .” I’ve heard this conversation before, although Mama thinks she hides it. “What he needs is doctors, Otosan. Experts. A regimen of relaxation. Not . . .” She stops. “I’m sorry. Anyway, there’s all those stairs.”
She is right about the last part. But I imagine my last days regimented like the old man in the hospital, color-coded, timed down to the final seconds, surrounded by not-quite-fresh bouquets of flowers and cards from our well-meaning neighbors, and I find myself gasping for the country air.
• • • •
BRrRrRrRrRrRrR
What?!
Oh. Chat-room message.
I lay my book down on the duvet, push myself up onto my elbows, and swing my legs off of the bed.
BRrRrRrRrRrRrR
Hup! And I’m in my chair, spinning around BRrRrRrRrRrRrR to face the desk. All right!
The monitor blinks into life, and there it is:
Hi, SamuraiMan! How was your day? I hope I wasn’t untoward yesterday. I didn’t mean to cause offense. I mean, it’s okay if you don’t want to talk to me, or anyone. I didn’t mean to be so rude. Okay—bai!
I read the message again and then I just stare at it. I should reply, but . . .
Um . . . hi.
The cursor blinks after my greeting, and I wait.
And wait.
And wait.
HI!!! ^_^
What next?
Hi :)
I say again, hoping she’ll start the conversation going.
How are you?
I shrug off the nagging ache in my thighs, ignore the shaking of my fingertips against the keys.
I’m fine, thank you.
That’s good.
^_^ so . . . you like literature, huh? Have you been on the lit forums yet?
No, not yet.
Oooh, you should!
So what’s your favorite book?
I . . . um . . .
Go on, you MUST have one. Not the best or the cleverest, just your favorite.
I let the cursor blink for a minute, and then:
I can’t pick. They’re so different!
Ahh, a real bookie, huh? That’s cool. I don’t read much, except manga. Pictures tell the story so much better.
You think? I mean, it’s not like I NEVER read manga, but it just . . . it’s too easy.
Easy? }}:-S What do you mean?
It’s all there for you. I like the way that when it’s just the words, they make you think, don’t share all their secrets at once, you know?
Ha! You sound like a professor already. I don’t want to think when I read, I just want a good story.
Most people do.
You sound disappointed.
No.
Ok, not disappointed, then; like an old man. “In my day, young thing, words were enough.”
I am almost offended, but I do not think she means it nastily.
Haha! I’ll just go over here and light my pipe.
:D
Anyway, what’s your favorite manga?
That’s eeeeasy. ONE PIECE. Oh, or Akira. Or FairyTail . . .
See. Not so simple, is it?
Hahahaha, no, all right. I’m sorry.
Ai, it’s like you’re a teacher already, making me think and re-evaluate. You’ll make a great professor.
I . . . what do I say to that? I know? Except I won’t? I . . .
At the other end of the line, MonkEC is sitting there, fingers on her keyboard, waiting for me to respond. . . .
Thanks. I . . . I should go and study.
All right :( Me too, I suppose. What are you working on tonight?
I glance down the spines of the books to my left, but I have no idea what everyone is studying this term.
What do I say?
A little bit of everything, really. You?
Same. But language comprehension is due in tomorrow, so I had better do that first. Catch ya later?
Sure! Good luck.
You too. Byeee! Xx
I log out, and open up Google in its place.
I am going to need something to talk about.
14
“Squeeze my hand.”
I squeeze until it hurts, and every muscle from my shoulder to my fingertips feels tight. I visualize the doctor’s hand going white beneath my grip, but when I look down, I am barely making a fist, and my hand is shaking like a leaf in winter winds.
Ugh!
“Harder.”
I squeeze my eyes shut tight, as though that will make a difference. I can feel my whole arm trembling with effort.
I open one eye, and peek at my fist again.
“Hmm.” The physiotherapist pulls his hand away.
The other hand, my left, is slightly better—which makes no sense because it is my right hand that I use more often—but still, he barely registers my touch.
“It’s okay”—I try to force a laugh—“as long as nobody asks me to open their soda.”
“Hmm,” he says again.
“What’s wrong?”
“Have you noticed a difference in your hand strength since your last appointment?”
“A little. It’s not so bad.”
“Mm-hmm.”
I frown questioningly.
“Sora.” He crouches so that our eyes are level, lays his hand on top of mine. “I think things are progressing faster than we thought or than we’d like.”
I nod. I know.
“I’m sorry.”
I nod again, and he pulls away. “I’m going to show you some exercises that might help,” he says, his voice suddenly brighter.
I wish I could do that, flick an internal switch and suddenly feel optimistic, but I remember the last time things progressed faster than they all predicted. And I have to ask. “Doctor?”
“Hmm?”
I hesitate, and when I speak my voice squeaks like a child’s. “How long do you think I’ve got?”
He shakes his head. “There’s no way to predict that.”
“I know, but . . . a guess.”
“No. I would only get it wrong. I don’t want you to think—”
“Please? I need—I need to know.”
“I can’t. I’m sorry.” There’s something in that look. Not sorrow, exactly, but . . . detachment. And I think that’s worse.
• • • •
The physiotherapist’s words still echo in my ears as I sit across from Doctor Kobayashi. I wonder whether he’s even allowed to tell me. Is it protocol? Don’t put yourself in that position? Don’t risk being the shoulder someone leans on? Being wrong?
/>
I’d tell someone. Even if I had to make an educated guess. But I know what it’s like not knowing.
“So, have you thought more about Wish4Life?”
For a second, I wonder whether I should rethink, whether the physiotherapist’s silence signifies no time at all and this is my very last chance. But surely he’d have said that. Right?
I nod. “Thank you, but I don’t think that I want to use it.”
Shock flickers across her face. “At all?”
“At all.”
She pushes the air out through her teeth. “Are you sure? It could be a nice way for your family to spend some time.”
“Thank you, but we’re fine. There’s nothing that I want . . . I’m sorry.”
I don’t think she believes me. “Well, how about we sit on this for a while. Talk to your mother, have a think, and if you change your mind, the wish will be here waiting.”
• • • •
“There’s no way to predict that. I’m sorry.”
“I can’t. I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
The shock and pity and non-answers of the day rise up at me as I slide my bedroom door closed. I squeeze my eyes shut and press the heels of my hands hard against them until the dark turns red and white. It does not help. Doctor Kobayashi’s confusion plays on a loop. Why would I not take the wish? As if it were a personal snub, as if her offer isn’t good enough.
But I don’t want it.
I sit there, in my self-made dark cocoon, wondering how much time I really have to fill.
I feel the weight of my limbs, notice the dull aches and the tremors. Were they this bad a week ago? A month? Six?
It’s like growing, I think; it happens all the time and you don’t even notice, then suddenly you can reach the top shelf, are as tall as your mother or the boy next door, and they’ll let you on the big rides at the fair. Suddenly you find you cannot stand, or hold a cup, or tie your shoes.
The Last Leaves Falling Page 4
