Eventually, I let my hands drop and my eyes open, exhausted. I need a break.
As I log in to KyoToTeenz, a message flashes up on my screen.
MonkECMonkEDo has saved you in their contacts.
Do you want to add MonkECMonkEDo to your contacts?
She’s added me?
Really?
I click “yes” and lean back in my chair, surprised that my heart is thudding hard against my chest. And then I click on her profile, and read through her answers to the inane questions, as if a few words can tell us everything we’d want to know.
I google “Masashi Ando art.” I like it. People and yōkai and landscapes side by side, bringing magic to the everyday. I wish that I could step into his worlds and explore further than the pictures will allow, into the cool of the forests or through a maze of high-rise city lights.
They’re beautiful.
BRrRrRrRrRrRrR I’m pulled back to the real world, and there she is:
HI! (-:
What you doing?
Just looking at Masashi Ando’s art.
I <3 him!
I know; I’m acting on your recommendation. I can see why!
He’s like, a god of illustration or something; a guardian of art.
A disciple of Benzaiten?
Yes, exactly!
And you’d like to work with him?
Gosh, yes! Who wouldn’t?!? I mean, look at his work!
So you want to draw? As a career, I mean.
I HAVE to draw. Everything. Everything I see and hear and feel, my pencil wants to make a record.
Do you think that’s weird?
No!
I’m glad. Most people do :-/
I think of libraries and dusty lecture halls, and for a moment I can almost smell the books and chalk and rows of wooden desks.
I don’t think it’s weird at all.
15
BambooPanda: Hiiii (-: How was school, everyone?
0100110101100101: Hi Panda! Okay. How was your day?
BaSeBaLlWiNs: We won, we won, we won! Er, this. *grin*
MonkECMonkEDo: Good thanks!
MonkECMonkEDo: Whooooo!
BambooPanda: Your team? Baseball?
BaSeBaLlWiNs: YES! We played against the older class from another school, and we won. Wewonwewonwewon!
BambooPanda: Congratulations! :)
ShinigamiFanBoy: Well at least SOMEONE had a good day.
BambooPanda: You didn’t, Shinigami?
MonkECMonkEDo: Aww, what happened Shino?
ShinigamiFanBoy: It just sucked. All day. Math test, which I forgot to study for.
BaSeBaLlWiNs: That’s it? One math test? :/
BambooPanda: Shhh, Baseball, what kind of attitude is that? Every test makes a difference!
ShinigamiFanBoy: Well you know EXACTLY how to cheer a man up, Bamboo! Thanks! )’:
BambooPanda: Oh no! I didn’t mean . . . What I mean is that I understand why you’re upset.
BaSeBaLlWiNs: Tomorrow is another day, man. It’s not like you lost a game or something.
ShinigamiFanBoy: Weeeell . . .
BaSeBaLlWiNs: O_o you didn’t, right?!?!?!?!?
ShinigamiFanBoy: *shrugs*
BaSeBaLlWiNs: Tell me you didn’t!!!?!!!
BambooPanda: Sheesh; boys! ;)
ShinigamiFanBoy: Not baseball, no.
BaSeBaLlWiNs: What other game IS there?
ShinigamiFanBoy: It’s not even a game. But I definitely lost . . .
ShinigamiFanBoy: There’s a girl, Yuri. She sits ahead of me in class.
BaSeBaLlWiNs: Ahhh. Some other dude get there first?
ShinigamiFanBoy: uh-huh
BaSeBaLlWiNs: All sucks in love and war, my friend.
Hey Samurai!
Oh, hi!
Good day?
Yes. You?
Yeah, I guess so.
KyoToTeenz has become my refuge. After every day of tests and therapy, every history book that reminds me that my future is so short, every stifled conversation with my mother, I log in to the one place where wheelchairs and wishes are no more than a nightmare, and the old me still exists.
You guess?
Yeah.
Anything I can help with?
Oh it’s nothing really.
Are you sure?
Yeah, thanks. You already ARE helping actually. Talking with you cheers me up :)
I . . . thanks :)
Hahahahaha, I totally made you blush, huh?
No!
Uh-huh. Sure. ;)
No! I was just thinking the same thing, that’s all.
Awwww, well now you’ve made ME blush.
So, what am I distracting you from?
Oh, school stuff, preparing dinner, all the usual. You?
Just reading.
Do you like, spend all your time in a book?
No. I’m talking to you . . .
Apart from that?
Well ;)
(-:
I wish that I could stay online forever, like a character in one of MonkEC’s beloved manga series; that I never had to face the realities beyond the screen, but everything must end, and all too soon she says:
*sigh* my mother wants to know what I’ve learned at school today. I have to go. Sorry!
It’s okay, I’ll see you later. Bye!
Byeeee! xxx
16
“Thank you, Mama, this looks delicious.”
She stops bustling about the kitchen and sits down. “I’m glad.”
I take a moment to inhale the steam rising from my bowl—the sweetness of the rice and the saltiness of soy and onions, together with the fresh sea scent of white bream. “Mmmmm.”
Across the table, Mama does the same, then looks into my eyes and smiles.
“Read anything interesting today?” she asks.
“Not really.” I pull my dish closer and pick up the chopsticks. “I finished the books from the library yesterday.”
She hesitates, but I know what’s coming. “Will you come with me next time? Choose your own? We could go for dinner, too.”
“Maybe.”
We both know that I won’t.
“We could stop at the park if you like. Go when it’s quiet? The leaves are just starting to turn. You’d like it.”
I imagine the crunch of leaves beneath my tires, the rustling of branches overhead, the heavy smell of autumn air, and I am tempted. “Maybe.”
“That’s settled then. I don’t start work until late tomorrow. We’ll go then . . . It is not good for you to sit inside all day.”
“Mama!”
She sighs, “I know, I just wish . . .” She looks down at her dish, snatching up a piece of fish aggressively.
I know that she only wants what is best for me, but how can she—who will outlive me by so long—know what that is?
I lift a clump of rice up to my mouth. I chew, and swallow, and lift again. Chew, swallow, lift. But what appealed a minute ago drops like lead into my stomach as we eat in silence.
“I’m sorry, Mama.”
She raises her gaze without lifting her head, and studies me. I bring more food up to my lips. “This is really good.” I force a smile before I pop the food into my mouth and chew.
She almost smiles back, but then her face clouds over and she stares, hard.
“Sora?” she says, slowly.
“Yes?”
“Are you . . . are you shaking?”
I lower my chopsticks, carefully placing them upon the table. Every grain of rice inside my stomach thrums with nerves, and I think I’m going to throw up.
I let my eyes meet hers and open my mouth to speak. But I cannot say it. I cannot break her heart again.
She nods, curtly. “How bad?”
“They don’t know,” I barely whisper.
“When were you going to tell me?”
I . . .
“Oh, Sora!” she cries, moving around behind me. She wraps her arms around my shoulders and presses her lips
to the top of my head.
And then she straightens up and clears her dish away as though nothing has happened.
“Mama?”
“Yes?” she sniffs.
“It’ll be all right.”
• • • •
“Do you need me to help with anything?” My mother picks up the pajamas, which are neatly folded on my pillow, shakes them out, and folds them up again.
She came in with my medications, and has been there since, for ten minutes at least, folding my clothes and watching me as I read.
“No, thanks.”
She glances at the pot of pills beside me. “You’re sure?”
Go. Away.
“Yes. I’m fine, Mama. No different than I was before dinner. I can manage.”
She is silent for a moment and then, “Okay. Call out if you need me, okay?”
I nod, putting my book facedown on the desk and turning to the computer. I press the power button and stare at the monitor as it warms up, fading in from black to gray to blue. I cannot look at her. I won’t.
She sighs a tight little sigh, and I hear her move toward the door.
I double-click the browser icon.
“Good night,” she says.
And I breathe a sigh of relief as the door slides closed behind her.
• • • •
I log in, hoping MonkEC will be there with a smiley face, but she is nowhere to be seen.
I pick up the book I was reading, A History of Fishing Patterns and Their Effects on the Sea of Japan, but I cannot concentrate. All the figures float right through my brain and will not stick.
I turn back to the screen.
Contacts Online: 0
Still not there.
Idly, I click onto the general forum. At least their chatter will be easier to follow than the habits of yellowfin and sea bream.
BaSeBaLlWiNs: So, Shino, how’d it go with . . . whoever she is?
ShinigamiFanBoy: Dude, I can’t even TALK to her. She’s with him, it wouldn’t be right.
BaSeBaLlWiNs: Nooooo, tell her! You have to tell her! How can you win if you don’t even play?
BambooPanda: Man, he already lost. He shoulda told her faster!
BaSeBaLlWiNs: Noooo! Tell her! Tell her! Tell her! Tell her! you have to imagine me chanting this. Tell her! Tell her! :D
ShinigamiFanBoy: Uuuugh, I can’t.
BaSeBaLlWiNs: Wimp!
I try to let them carry me away, to delight in the safety of their lives, but all I can think is, What girl would ever want a boy who cannot feed himself? That’s where you’re heading. And, You’ll never be like them.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
I press heavily into the keyboard,
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGHHH!
Over and over again, I let the frustration pour out onto the screen.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGHH
Delete.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGHHH!
Delete.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGHH!!!!!
I stab out each exclamation point, and it’s almost as good as an actual scream.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGHHH!!!!
Oh. Did I . . . ?
Yes. My angry scream joins the stream of conversation.
I did . . .
Maybe they won’t notice.
I hold my breath as I watch the conversation pour onto the screen.
BambooPanda: Nah, he’s right, she’s made her choice.
0100110101100101: Hi everyone!
0100110101100101: What’s this? Are we still arguing about Shino’s love life? *Cackles* excellent!
I let the air slink out across my lips, but then:
NoFaceBoy: What’s up, SamuraiMan? You okay?
BambooPanda: You okay?
They saw.
Of course they saw.
I can’t explain. I can’t. How do you explain something like this?
I do not even stick around to properly sign out, just click the browser shut and push my chair away from the desk.
What will they think of me now?
17
I awake the next day with a chest full of dread.
Do they think that I’m completely mad?
Or rude, for leaving without explanation?
Did they spend an hour imagining all the reasons that I might have screamed? Like, perhaps I was attacked by an angry spider, or a rabid dog. Or I am having a nervous breakdown after a bad night at cram school, or I simply did not like their girl talk.
Do they hate me now?
I’m brooding, convinced the world is over, when Mama slides open the door and announces that we’re going to the park and that I should hurry up and dress.
“Just the park, Mama, please. I don’t want to go anywhere else.” I know I should be glad of the reminder that there’s life out there, and the company and fresh air, but outside there are people. And I don’t fare any better with them in real life than I do on the screen.
“Just the park,” she agrees.
• • • •
I hate leaving our apartment, and somehow this morning it is worse. The squeak of rubber tires upon the shiny floor, giving me away to anyone who cares to hear. The elevator; the chance of being trapped with neighbors who choose to gaze at the ceiling rather than look at me. Even the superintendent with his too-friendly smile.
And it is not much better in the street. People gawk as Mama struggles getting my chair across roads and up onto the pavements; stare over my head and offer her a sympathetic nod.
Poor you, they think, smiling, such a burden.
I try to ignore them, but my skin itches with annoyance.
Mama must have noticed too, because halfway there she reaches out to squeeze my shoulder. I imagine her saying to me, “Hush, it doesn’t matter,” the way she would when I was three if I had skinned a knee. And I reach up, squeeze back.
As we pass under the gate into the park, she leans down and whispers in my ear, “See, isn’t it beautiful?”
The leaves of the trees on either side of us are the palest shade of yellow green, as though they’re shy about their change, trying to hide.
Farther up are leaves with deep green centers and rust-colored borders. And every now and then, the flame of maple dances in the morning breeze.
Mama is right, it’s beautiful.
The path is wide and straight, the trees magnificent, and as Mama pushes me along I tilt my chin toward the sky. Branches reach out to each other above my head, glowing against the sun. And then we veer off into the open, across the wooden bridge. She stops in the middle of it, swinging my chair around so that I can see the lake. She leans against the railings beside me.
“One, two, three . . . ,” she counts. When I was small we had to stop at every bridge we crossed so that I could count the koi below.
“Help me up?”
“Really? Here?”
“Yes! I want to see!”
She glances nervously across the bridge, but offers me a hand. I pull myself up onto my feet and lean over the side.
“Be careful!” she whimpers.
“There’s one!” I point out across the water at a fat red carp.
She only hesitates for half a second before she joins in, with a laugh I had not known that I was missing. “And there! Three, four, five, six!”
“Seven!” I declare, a little too loud for the serene waters. Tourists gawk at us, but suddenly I do not care. “Eight! Nine!”
We carry on like this until I do not know whether we’re counting new fish or ones we’ve seen before. My arms are tired from holding me up so long, and I know my knees are bowed and shaking, but I’m not ready to give up yet.
I stare out at the water, watching the sun bounce from its surface and the fish, some slow and mellow, others skitting to and fro, and catch the multicolored scales.
“Look
at that one,” I sigh happily. Right below us is a huge fish, glittering gold above a sleek black skin. “He’s been blessed by the lady of the lake. I bet he’s the emperor-fish!”
“Ooooh, he’s handsome!” And then she looks across at me. “Come on, you’re tired. Let’s go.”
She’s right, I am tired. I let myself fall back into my chair.
“Tea, or ice cream?” Mama asks as we cross the bridge.
“Tea.” There is a chill to the air which fits the season, and I tug at my coat collar.
“Tea it is.”
We take our tea along a smaller path into denser trees and sit beneath a huge five-needle pine.
I sip, inhaling the woody pine scent and the sharpness of the tea as I replay the bridge scene in my mind. And I smile all over again.
I wonder whether the emperor-fish knows that he has an audience, whether he struts up and down the lake just to show off his beautiful skin and make people forget their own.
Can he hear our jangling laughter through the water? I have heard tales from wardens of fish who greet them every day; does he recognize our voices, even? And miss us when we’re gone? Or do they view time differently, the way that I imagine trees do, long and slow.
I imagine the emperor-fish, two hundred years of age and very wise, watching; watching children grow until they bring their own sons to the bridge to meet him; watching everything we do.
“Mama?”
“Mmm.”
“What do you think happens—”
“When?”
“When we . . . after . . .”
She turns, and I watch as realization paints itself across her face.
“Hush!” Her voice is hard and bright.
“But—”
“No, Sora. This is not the time, or the place. Not here, not now.” She tears her gaze away and takes a long sip of her tea, wraps both hands around the cardboard cup and rests it neatly in her lap. Her jaw is set and I know that that’s the end of it. She will not answer me.
We sit, the comfortable silence thickened into something suffocating, each of us waiting for the other to finish their tea so we can leave, forget this conversation ever happened, and burst out from the shade into the sunlight.
The Last Leaves Falling Page 5
