Tomo

by Holly Thompson

  “But it really is my fault,” I plead, wanting to help him.

  “You have nothing to do with this,” the coach says to me dismissively.

  “But really! Let me explain,” I begin, but before I can, Jiro speaks.

  “Go. Now. Please.” His words punch the air. He slides his eyes up to my face. They’re red.

  When I look back, Jiro is on his knees on the ground in front of the coach. Other kids walk past them like it’s nothing unusual. It’s surreal. The lack of compassion makes me physically ill.

  I turn and go but feel like part of me has died. If I can’t protect or even lend a hand to people I care about here, how can I exist? Maybe he was just posturing; maybe it was all a façade. But even if such an apology to his coach was just for appearances, I can’t fake being okay with it. And I can’t fake that I don’t care.

  Of course the gym will be empty, I think. It’s seven a.m. But he’s already there, swinging that stupid stick over his head, back and forth, back and forth, like a human metronome.

  He doesn’t even acknowledge me as I stand in the doorway, holding iPod speakers and my bag. I watch him. Dancing taught me to see subtlety of movement, and—here, where it’s only him—I can suddenly see the precision in the movement, the sheer perfection of the repetition, as if he could go on forever, and the look of absolute concentration on his face.

  It’s beautiful—he is beautiful—in a precise, cold way.

  I shake off the reverie. Official morning practice hasn’t even started. I have as much right to be here as he does. So I set up the speakers the group always uses and crank up the sound. He moves off to kneel in the back against a side wall.

  The music starts to pulse through me. I let it move my body. A bit self-conscious at first, I glance back at him in the mirror, but he’s doing some kind of Zen thing, still and silent, so I concentrate on my moves. I give myself a brilliant smile in the mirror, and then there’s only me and the music and the movement. I practice my looks in the mirror: intense, happy, joyous, sexy, serious. I exaggerate my movements, going as big as I can. It’s safe to experiment here, where no one’s watching.

  And suddenly he’s there behind me, the human metronome, sliding back and forth, sword slicing through the air. But he’s squawking now, too, counting or something. Then I notice it’s in time with the music.

  He’s locked eyes with himself, so I start dancing again with a vengeance. I back up the track and let the sound pour over me and fill the space between us, and it’s like he’s cutting the sound and I’m building the sound, and we’re dancing around, over, through each other. . . .

  Until suddenly we’re in a heap on the floor.

  I can feel the rough skirts of his robes against my bare legs. My elbow hurts like hell. His face is three inches from mine with a look between pissed off and freaked out. As I breathe in his boy smell and feel his body pressing down on mine, a slow blush creeps over his face and his pupils widen. His irises aren’t black like I thought, but deep brown, like bittersweet chocolate. He just stops there for a minute. I wait. I can’t figure out if he’s trying to extricate himself or if he doesn’t want to move. I feel his arms tightening around me, and then we both hear it. Just outside the gym, the dance girls joke with each other in their usual too-loud voices.

  He rolls away from me and jumps to his feet.

  “You okay?” he asks tersely.

  “Yeah, I think so,” I answer, slowly sitting up.

  He begins to offer a hand, but seems to think better of touching me. So I sit there looking up at him.

  “If I had known I was going to be attacked, I’d have brought my own sword,” I quip.

  He turns his back on me and retreats to the other side of the room.

  We’re on the same train car every morning, every evening. I don’t think we were at first, but now he always seems to be there, nose in one textbook or another, earbud wires snaking into his bag. I wonder if I just didn’t notice at first, or if he’s changed his schedule to fit mine. We never talk, but sometimes when I get off he’s watching me, gives me a little nod.

  Whatever he thinks of me, he seems to be looking out for me. And while I certainly don’t need anyone looking out for me, it’s good to know he’s there, like somebody’s got my back.

  Leaving the station one day, I glance back to pull my train pass out of the ticket gate, and there he is, right behind me.

  I stop in surprise. “What are you doing here?” People mow into each other behind us.

  “We have to move.” He grips my upper arm and steers me out of the station.

  “Are you a stalker or something?” I joke, feigning fear.

  He looks over at me and shakes his head. “Let’s walk.” It’s more of a command than an invitation.

  I stand there looking at his receding back, annoyed at his assumption that I will follow. But in the end, I pursue him out of curiosity.

  “Why are you here?” I ask.

  He’s silent, and when I begin to think he hasn’t heard he says, “I just . . . came.” He doesn’t break his pace.

  “Then where are we going?”

  He keeps walking, but when I start to repeat my question he suddenly stops dead and peers at me intensely.

  “Why do you ask so many questions?” he demands.

  “I just want to know what we’re doing here!” I say in exasperation.

  He looks at me in frustration, and then suddenly his face relaxes. “We’re . . . walking. Together.” He says the last part so low, I’m not sure he’s actually said it, and he’s already moving again.

  We walk a couple of blocks without saying anything. I’m about to protest when he speaks.

  “I’m hungry,” he says, so suddenly that I’m ahead of him before I realize he’s stopped.

  He holds back the noren curtain hanging in front of a small shop with a rickety door that slides sideways. “This is Japanese pizza. You’ll like it.”

  I know okonomiyaki, know it’s not Japanese pizza, know I like it. Yet I can’t help wondering what would happen if my taste buds had the audacity to disagree with him.

  Inside, the shop is dark, cool. A little bell on the door tinkles as he slides it shut.

  “Irasshaimase”—welcome—someone croaks from a back room. An old woman in a flowered apron comes hobbling out, and when she sees Jiro her whole face lights up.

  “Ohisashiburi”—it’s been a while—she exclaims. “You look well. And you’ve brought your friend.” She gives me the once-over. “Well, sit down, sit down.” We choose one of the low tables with an iron griddle in the middle. She bustles around bringing us water and washcloths, turning on the griddle. We order and she asks, “Shall I bring them out cooked?” She looks at me.

  I look at Jiro, questioning.

  “No, I’ll cook them,” he says firmly, and hands her the menu.

  She grins widely at us, as if his words have another meaning.

  What does it mean here when a guy cooks for you? That he thinks you’re too inept to do it yourself? Or is it an overture to something more? She places two stainless steel bowls on the edge of the table, refills my water, and disappears.

  “I’ll cook mine,” I say, reaching for the bowl.

  “No, you’ll just mess it up.” He finishes mixing one and slides the goop from the bowl onto the griddle, making a perfect circle. “Now, watch.”

  He starts the mixing process again with the second bowl, explaining as he goes. His words drift over me, and I watch his hands scraping, folding the batter into itself: warm, brown, strong hands, wrist twisting, fingers gripping the long-handled spoon. He slides the second portion onto the griddle, the second half of the pair of perfect circles.

  “Now, we wait.”

  How? I think. What can we talk about?

  We sit for a few moments. Just when I’m about to burst from the tension, he speaks.

  “So, how long have you been dancing?”

  I look at him and narrow my eyes. I should’ve seen t
his coming, a ploy to win me over, to get something for his own club from me, from the dance club. I could kick myself for letting my defenses down.

  “Why?” I smolder.

  “It’s just a question!” He holds up his hands in mock defense. “You’re obviously better than a lot of the seniors. Even someone like me, who knows nothing about dance, can see that much. How did you get so good?”

  Even as I curse myself for buckling under such obvious flattery, I open up to him, suspicions suspended for the moment. It’s been so long since someone told me I was good at something. Praise is so rare here.

  I end up telling him everything. The dread of competitive sports where I was always chosen last. The period of chubbiness. The crazy dance teacher at the world-renowned jazz studio who took me under his wing, pushing me, demanding more, until dance was all I ever did, all I ever wanted to do.

  “There’s this moment in dancing sometimes when—how do I describe it?—you become the music, the space, the dance itself. You’re aware of everything. No, more like you’re part of everything. Everything’s all one. You cease to exist, but become everything at the same time.”

  He’s looking at me raptly. “Like suddenly everything becomes really clear, your senses heightened?”

  “Yes!” I exclaim, thrilled he understands.

  “There are moments in kendo when I can see everything, even the beads of sweat dripping into my opponent’s eyes behind the mask, things I shouldn’t be able to see. I can feel where he’s going to move, not calculate it like a strategy, but really feel it.”

  “Yes, that’s it. The moment the music and dancers seem to fuel each other, when even the audience, the very space, seems part of the dance. When we are all one . . .”

  “. . . and yet we are no one.”

  We look at each other for a second, shocked by our mutual understanding. Of all people, Jiro gets it, he really gets it.

  He shakes his head with an embarrassed chuckle. “So dance can do that to you too. I never would’ve imagined.”

  He grabs the little spatula to check the underside and pronounces the okonomiyaki done, continuing to call it “Japanese pizza.” I tell him the only thing it has in common with American pizza is its shape: round and flat. Then I tell him about Buddy’s: the oozing cheese, spicy sausage, and garlicky crust known throughout Detroit as the best. And, ironically, square.

  He says he’d like to try it someday.

  Without thinking, I say I’d like to take him.

  Realizing what I’ve said, I feel my face flush. He sees my embarrassment and goes to cover it with a joke.

  “All right then. Promise?” He extends his right pinky, slightly bent, toward me over the table in the traditional gesture.

  “Promise!” I say laughing, shaking pinkies with him. A promise made.

  And suddenly I think, Maybe this could be something more. Maybe this guy likes me. Because even with his superior attitude toward the dance club, there’s something about this guy. Like he gets me. Like he understands something no one’s understood for so long.

  So before I lose courage, I ask him.

  “Jiro, do you like me?”

  He starts choking, and I feel like a total fool. I pull out some napkins and put them next to his plate. He takes a long drink of water.

  Without even looking at me, he cuts off another big piece with his spatula and shoves the whole thing in his mouth. He’s chewing away, watching the fish flakes on top of the food dance in the warm air over the hot plate. A bright blush covers his face.

  “We should probably get going. I have to save room for dinner at home. You can finish mine if you want. It was really delicious,” I babble, getting up. He glances up at me. “I’ll just use the restroom before we go,” I slip on my shoes and escape. I feel his eyes watching me as I go, but I don’t look back.

  When I come out, he’s already at the register, paying. I grab my bag and run up, pulling out money.

  “It’s okay,” he says, putting his body between me and the register. “I ate most of it anyway.”

  “It was really delicious,” I say as the old woman hands Jiro his change.

  “He’s never brought a girlfriend here before,” she says, beaming at us.

  “We’re just schoolmates,” we say at the same time, a little too forcefully.

  Her face crinkles as her smile gets bigger.

  “So, you hate kendo? And the ‘crows’?” he says out of the blue. His words hang between us in the darkness as we head slowly back toward the station. Where did he hear that nickname? It suddenly sounds so malicious. The question sounds more like an accusation.

  It dawns on me that our confrontations are always about clubs. But only because our clubs mean so much to each of us.

  “Do you hate dance?” I ask in a low voice. “And does that mean you hate the members of the dance club?”

  He has the audacity to look hurt. He turns to me for the first time since we left the restaurant. “Of course not.”

  “Exactly.”

  He stops walking then and keeps looking at me. “I don’t think I understood the dance club before.” He looks at me intently for a minute, and I think he might kiss me, but instead he says, “I think I get it now.”

  This actually gives me more of a thrill than being kissed.

  We walk on a bit. I realize that for all his bravado, if something’s going to happen I’m gonna have to make the first move.

  So as we walk, I slip my hand into his, half expecting him to pull his away.

  But he doesn’t.

  He gives it a little squeeze and doesn’t let go.

  Love Letter

  by Megumi Fujino

  translated by Lynne E. Riggs

  You’re probably surprised to get this letter. But I’ve been thinking about you for a long time.

  Remember the first day of high school? Cherry blossoms were blooming. Your hair was still long, down to your waist. Waving in the wind, long and black . . . it was beautiful. Pink petals were dancing in the air. You smiled and called out “Good morning!”

  I remember it clearly.

  That was the only time you ever spoke to me. We even ended up in the same class, but you never said anything to me again. Now, just like everyone else, you just ignore me.

  I know why, but it’s okay. I understand. I know the truth is, you’re pure at heart. You see the others saying those awful things, and you feel sorry for me. I know, because you’re a gentle person.

  Everybody else, they just don’t understand. They don’t know anything except themselves—so they get all excited about stupid little things in the class or their clubs. You shouldn’t even have to be with such idiots. You’re an angel . . . an angel that mistakenly fell out of heaven. That’s what I always imagine when I see you with those others.

  I may seem like a nerd, but since I met you, I’ve found an angel I want to protect, someone who could make me open up. I’d give up my life to defend you—from the messengers that might take you back to heaven and the evils of this filthy world that might taint you.

  When I feel miserable and in pain, I always remember your smile. It gives me strength. I wish I could always be near you. In fact, I’d like to make that smile of yours my own and my own only. I want you to be mine alone.

  But that’s not why I am writing this letter. The idea of asking you to be my “girlfriend” or whatever—I really hate that kind of thing. I despise the superficial boy-girl “romance”—the idiots just copycat from stories on TV. What brings people together shouldn’t be a put-on for appearances. It should be a link of the spirit—a real bond.

  It’s just that I heard about your parents’ divorce. I noticed that you seem down, so I’m worried. I see how you answer cheerfully as before when your friends speak to you. You chatter and have fun with them as usual. But when you are quiet and by yourself, you sometimes seem on the verge of tears. . . . At times like that, of course I can’t say anything to you, but I know. I know that you are struggling
with something sad, all alone.

  When you feel like that, it might help to listen to Kirara Kanbayashi’s “Don’t Cry” that was the theme of the Angel of Love: Magical Angela drama. It might give you a little strength.

  An angel looks best with a smile, so I hope you will soon get over your sadness and be able to smile again like before. Not just the forced smile you show when you’re with your friends, but your real smile from the heart.

  The only ray of light for me, after all, is your smile.

  See you around at school.

  When I saw the letter, I practically gagged. After all, the sender was “Jellyfish.” Of course, Jellyfish is a nickname. Ever since he’d written “jelly­fish” when asked in career guidance what he wanted to be in the future, that’s what everyone had called him. It was not because they thought he was cute or humorous. Quite the opposite—he made the ideal target for bullying.

  So when I found the letter from Jellyfish in my shoe locker at the school entrance, I just thought, come on, this is no joke—don’t mess up my life, too!

  “What’s that? A love letter?” Yukari, who always walks home with me, pounced on it, taking it out of my hand. Then, seeing the name of the sender, she grimaced.

  “Yuck! Jellyfish? Creepy!”

  “What’s he think he’s doing?” Mami snorted. “How dare he fall for Kanako! Just imagine! He just doesn’t get it, does he! Incredible how rude that is to Kanako!”

  And she went on, “That’s what’s so weird about otaku; they’re shut up in their own world and don’t think at all about other people and their feelings. Can’t he even pick up the vibes?”

  Mami wrapped her arms around herself and shivered with disgust.

  “Yeah, people who don’t think about the feelings of others are the worst,” Yukari said. “No wonder nobody likes them!”

  I agree with them. Jellyfish gets all involved in talking about anime, and no one else is interested. But when others are talking about TV programs or music that we all like, he’s clueless.

  Me, I’ve made an effort, listening to the popular singers I didn’t really like so I’d be ready when I went to karaoke with my friends. I’d watch those boring TV dramas I couldn’t care less about so I could keep up with the conversations at school. But Jellyfish wouldn’t do things like that. Even though you have to go along with what everybody is doing so you’ll be accepted, he wouldn’t make the effort—so they’d bait and bully him and make his life miserable. What can you do about somebody who doesn’t try to get along with others?