Ink

I shrugged.

“And I got dragged into the English Club at school.”

“Ah,” said Diane. “Yes, that generally happens to gaijin. Did you join anything else?”

“Tea Ceremony, with Yuki.”

“Glad to see you finally taking an interest in the local culture.”

I rolled my eyes. “You know it’s not that. It’s not like I’m not interested in Japan.”

“I know. It’s homesickness.” And what she didn’t say. It’s Mom. And that’s a home I can’t go back to.

“So how was your day?” I asked. She looked shocked and way too happy that I’d asked.

“Busy,” she said. “The other English teacher is getting married soon, so I’m having to sit in on an extra period until we hire a temp. I don’t have any prep time now.”

“You need a temp because she’s getting married?”

“She’s going to quit to be a housewife,” Diane said. “A lot of women do in Japan. Not as much anymore, but Yamada is really traditional. So no prep period for me.”

“Taihen da ne,” I drawled, stretching my legs out on the couch. Diane beamed at me.

“Yes, it is tough,” she said. “And I can see that cram school is really paying off.”

“Give me four or five more months.” I smiled.

I helped Diane ladle out plates of spaghetti and we ate our dinner in exhausted silence. In the middle of dinner, Diane’s friends phoned to go out for drinks, and she hastily clipped on dangling gold earrings as I assured her for the fifth time that I would be just fine by myself.

“I am sixteen, you know.”

Diane gave me a once-over and arched her eyebrow. “I know.”

“I’m fine,” I said, pushing her out the doorway. “Have fun.”

“You have my keitai number if you need me,” she stuttered.

“Go!” I said.

“Ittekimasu.”

“Yes, yes,” I said, but she stood there with her frowny face until I gave in and muttered the response. “Itterasshai.” Go and come back safely.

I wished I could go anywhere without having to think about Tomohiro. And now I was in an empty apartment, flooded only with silence and the image of him hugging his crying, pregnant girlfriend.

I flicked on the desk light in my bedroom and lifted the lid of my laptop. As the colors swirled to life and the computer hummed, I thought about Tanaka and Tomohiro in calligraphy class, about the ripped canvas dripping into the trash can.

Wouldn’t the ink have dried overnight? How much did he load onto the brush? And what the hell did he do to his friend Koji?

I had an email from Nan, an update on the custody situation. What it really boiled down to was Gramps’s health, and it wasn’t great. But he was on his second-to-last round of chemo, and then they’d check to see if he was back in remission. Please let him be. I didn’t want to lose anyone else.

I tapped out a reply, then closed the lid on the laptop and collapsed onto my bed. In the dim glow of my desk lamp, I stared at the ceiling. Thin lines of light spread across the wall from the back of the metal shade. I tried to picture the kanji for sword, but had no idea. I sat up and grabbed my dictionary from the desk; Diane had an electronic one, but I still couldn’t read the kanji easily enough to use it. Sword didn’t look that complicated to write, at least not for Tomohiro. It took all of ten strokes:

I closed the dictionary and lay back, trying to picture Tomohiro standing in the arts room, holding a delicate painter’s brush between his fingers. Curving his arm in the smooth strokes he had sketched with in the school courtyard.

He slouched a lot, but Tomohiro didn’t strike me as clumsy. He moved with precision, and I didn’t think he’d cut his hand on a mounted canvas.

Maybe there’d been a loose nail or staple, like Tanaka said. But if he was painting, why would he touch the back of the canvas?

I imagined the stark spray of red across the kanji, black as night. The ripped canvas, ink and blood dripping into the trash, sluggish like the ink that had dripped down the steps of the Suntaba genkan.

And if his dad really didn’t approve of his time “wasted” on the arts, then I could imagine what he had to say about Tomohiro’s pregnant girlfriend.

If he knew, which he probably didn’t.

Not that any of it really mattered. Or it shouldn’t. I had my own life to worry about. I didn’t need moving drawings with sharp teeth and exploding pens. I didn’t need to cross paths with a guy who beat up his best friend and switched schools because of it. I’d just have to tell him to get lost so I wouldn’t have to stare at his gaudy highlight job anymore.

I closed my eyes to the spray of light in my room, and my thoughts spiraled into sleep.

The week blurred past between cram school and Sado Club, learning how to twist a teacup three times in my hand to admire the sketched cherry blossoms and leaves encircling the lacquered chawan. Hand-copying stroke after stroke, page after page of kanji. Schoolwork was getting easier, Japanese more natural, and I started to wonder if Diane was right. Maybe I’d really underestimated my language skill.

“Guess what?” Diane gushed at breakfast. I looked up from my pancakes and honey.

“What could possibly have you so giddy?” I asked.

“Cherry blossoms,” she said. “They’ve spotted the first ones in Kyoto and Osaka, and someone found a whole tree in bloom in Kamakura.”

“So Shizuoka will be next?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if you see a few on your way to school.”

Sure enough, the odd tree in Sunpu unfolded in sprays of pink and white, dotting the bare park with color. Most of the trees still lay dormant as buds, but my eyes hunted for sakura trees as I snaked through to Suntaba.

When I slid open the door to our classroom, the whole class was going on about the trees. Was it really such a big deal?

“Katie-chan!” Yuki called out, and the friendly suffix she’d used wasn’t lost on me. She waved me over to where she sat huddled with her friends, who smiled shyly.

“Morning,” I said.

“The sakura are blooming. We’re going to go on the school picnic on Friday!”

“Picnic?” I said. “Nice!” Missing school to be outdoors was like skipping without getting into trouble. Everyone had trouble sitting through class, restless with thoughts of the upcoming picnic. We peered out the windows at the floating cherry petals, watching them spiral down from the trees until the final bell rang.

Tea Ceremony Club started after Yuki and I finished wiping down the blackboards and emptying the garbage cans. The teacher droned on about how to spin the whisk in our hands, the murky green in our cups frothing into a thick, bitter tea. She brought homemade sweets to go with the tea, pink nerikiri flower cakes and manju filled with red-bean paste. At first the texture of red bean had bothered me, but after almost two months in Japan, I guess I was adjusting.

Diane woke the next morning at five-thirty so she could cook karaage, onigiri, nasubi and stewed eggs for my picnic bentou.

“You can’t take peanut-butter sandwiches for flower viewing,” she said, and for once I agreed with her. “Only thing is, I don’t know how to make dango,” she added, embarrassed.