Ink

“Oh, dango, yeah,” I said.

“Tell me you know what dango are.”

I shrugged.

“Yuki will probably bring some. Eat them.”

I only found out after, when I peeked inside the delicate pink handkerchief she’d tied around my lunch, that she’d switched my box for the more expensive one she had, a traditional black-and-red bentou with two layers—lots of food to share.

It clicked then, in my memory—Diane hiding under platters of hors d’oeuvres at Mom’s funeral. This is how she copes, I thought. This is how she tries to be family.

I wrapped my arms around the bentou as I continued toward the park. There’s a saying in Japan, and it has to do with cherry-blossom viewing—hana yori dango. Dumplings over flowers. It basically means that someone should value needs over wants, substance over appearance. As in, make sure you have food and shelter before you burn money on something extravagant. And, you know, choose genuine friends who will be there for you over pretty, shallow ones. Don’t get carried away by beauty if it leaves you empty.

But it was hard to believe in dumplings over flowers when I reached the southern moat and stepped onto the arch of the Sunpu bridge. The beauty took my breath away, and for a minute I believed I could live off the flowers alone.

The entire park was bathed in pink, thousands of petals floating on the breeze as if it were raining sakura. The papery petals caught in my hair, on my uniform and on the leather of my book bag. Cherry blossoms littered the gravel paths, the bright green grass and the sluggish moats that pulled the petals from the park.

I walked slowly toward the castle, watching the petals falling. It was like an alien rain, something I had never experienced before. The crowds in the park were huge, salarymen, families and friends all gathered on tarps at the base of the cherry trees. They shared food as they laughed, beer cans and tea bottles lining the edges of the blankets. I closed my eyes, walking slowly, feeling the petals as they grazed my skin and floated downward. For the first time, I felt truly happy in Shizuoka, carrying my special bentou in a forest of pink under the clear sky.

I rounded the corner to shouts and howling laughter. Three guys—younger than me, probably thirteen or so—and one girl, who dabbed at her eyes with her seifuku sleeve. One of the boys chugged away at a can of something or other I couldn’t read, and another held the girl’s book bag up in the air, laughing.

“Give it back!” she begged, but the boys snorted and passed the can back and forth, tossing the book bag out of her reach to each other.

I stood there frozen. No way could I take on three punks, even if they were younger than me, but I had to do something.

I stepped forward, taking a deep breath.

A voice echoed through the park.

“Oi! Leave her alone.”

The boys looked up as a student from Suntaba stepped forward, petals clinging to the buttons of his open blazer. My mind churned—Tomohiro. The boys swore at him, and I secretly hoped he’d back off. They looked like seriously bad news.

But he swore back, apparently with a worse word, because one of the guys threw his can down and started rolling up his sleeves. They dropped the book bag, forgotten, and the girl raced over to pick it up. She darted away, running past me so fast that the breeze rushed against my face. The three came at him, shouting. Tomohiro lifted his hands slowly, and panic shot through me.

There’s no way he can handle three of them, even if he does get into a lot of fights.

The boy with the rolled-up sleeves swung at Tomohiro, but he ducked and pulled the guy’s arm so hard that I thought it might rip from the socket. The second guy lunged and clipped Tomohiro’s face, but Tomohiro swung his leg around and kicked the guy at the back of his knees. He stumbled forward and Tomohiro punched him in the back, shoving him into the third guy.

Rolled Sleeves was up again, and he kicked hard. With three of them, there was no way Tomohiro could avoid all the blows. The blood trickled down his face.

And just when his bruise from Myu was fading.

Then Tomohiro took hold of one of the wiry boys and threw him through the air. The boy’s awkward body arced, suspended for a minute among the falling petals, and then thudded hard against the sharp gravel. In a minute he was up again, running across the park followed by the second guy.

Tomohiro grabbed Rolled Sleeves’ collar and walked him backward, shoving him against the fence that overlooked the deep, cold moat. Tomohiro muttered something and Rolled Sleeves flinched. Tomohiro dropped him, wiping at the blood dripping from his nose.

But as Tomohiro walked away, the boy stood up slowly and pulled out a switchblade.

Oh my god.

My legs started moving before I could think. “Watch out!” I screamed, running at Tomohiro. He looked up in surprise and then saw the boy behind him. He caught the boy’s arm as it swung down, squeezing his wrist hard until he dropped the blade. I grabbed it from the ground and threw it into the river, where it was sucked into the water with a sploosh.

“Teme!” the boy shrieked at me.

“You need some manners!” Tomohiro shouted and punched the boy so hard I could hear the crack of his nose as it snapped.

Rolled Sleeves felt around his nose as the blood soaked his chin. He stumbled to his feet and took off, swearing at Tomohiro. Tomohiro swore back and the boy sped up.

The blood trickled down Tomohiro’s face as he heaved in every breath.

“Are you—are you okay?” I said.

Tomohiro nodded, his shoulders moving up and down as he panted. “You?” he said.

“I’m fine.”

He wiped at his nose with the back of his arm, and as he dropped it down again, I saw a gash across the skin.

“He cut you.” I panicked.

“What?”

“On your wrist!”

He looked down, then quickly pushed the cuff of his sleeve down.

“Just an old injury. It’s nothing,” he said.

It didn’t look like nothing.

“Thanks,” he said finally. “For the warning.”

“Um, no problem,” I said.

He paused. “But just for your own safety, maybe you shouldn’t run toward boys with knives. You know, in the future.” The corner of his mouth lifted as he tried to keep the grin off his face.

I found myself grinning back. “I’m sorry, are you insulting me after I saved your butt?”

He laughed, and the warmth of the sound spread through me.

“I’m just saying you should avoid running toward sharp objects and dangerous guys.”

“Like you,” I said. It just popped out—I didn’t mean it to.

The grin faded, and he was serious again. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Like me.” He kicked the toe of his shoe into the gravel. “Che! What the hell am I doing?” He turned, his shoulders lifting with a breath, and then he ran.

“Wait,” I said. “I just wanted to—”