just spilled his guts.”
“Yazaki-san.”
It was the voice of an angel behind us. Kazuko Matsui was standing there with a concerned look on her face. Right beside her was Yumi Sato, the Ann-Margret of the English Drama Club.
“I was talking it over with Yumi-chan. We’re thinking about starting a petition ... against them kicking you out of school.”
If I’d been a dog, I would have rolled around on the floor, pissed all over myself, foamed at the mouth, and wagged my tail till it snapped off.
LYNDON JOHNSON
All the third-year girls were assembled on the main playing field to practice for the opening ceremony of the National Athletic Meet. Supervising them was the war widow, Fumi-chan. Instructors at driving schools are the worst example of it, but all teachers get off on using their positions to intimidate the people in their charge. That’s their way of trying to fill up the voids in their own lives. Dark, lonely lives create sadistic teachers.
“You there, you three girls! There aren’t any boys watching you. The only reason you’re not lifting your legs high enough is because you’re worried about how you look. Nobody’s looking at your silly legs. Lift them higher!”
Fumi-chan was shouting through a bullhorn. Adama and I were in low spirits in spite of the fact that we were gazing down on a sea of seventeen-year-old girls, about three hundred of them altogether. The principal was going to announce our punishment the following day. Lady Jane and Ann-Margret’s idea of organizing a petition had never got off the ground. The school authorities had got wind that something was up and applied pressure before anything could happen.
After summer school two days before, I’d been discussing Jimmy Page and Jeff Beck with Adama and some other friends. We were trying to decide which of them could play faster, then which could run faster, which could eat faster, and so on. I said I bet that even when Janis Joplin farted, it came out sounding raspy, and everybody laughed. Then one guy suddenly stopped laughing and pointed at the entrance to the classroom, and we all fell silent. An angel was framed in the doorway, looking in our direction.
“Yazaki-san, do you have a minute?” she said, lowering her eyes. I floated toward her, suppressing an urge to start singing “My Little Butterfly.” The angel stepped out into the hallway, leaned weakly against the wall with her hands behind her back, and looked at me with her head slightly bowed. I'd do anything , I thought, even march off to war, to be the focus of those eyes.
“Yazaki-san, I...” The angel spoke in a tiny voice. To hear her, I had to move closer, close enough to smell her shampoo. I went into a sort of trance, gazing at the tiny beads of perspiration on her forehead, the fine wrinkles on her pink lips, and the flutter of her long eyelashes, wondering what it would be like to kiss that lovely oval face. The others were in the classroom doorway, peering out at us. Adama was grinning. Another guy flashed an obscene gesture, making a fist and poking his finger inside.
“Shall we go, like, to the library or someplace?” I suggested.
“This is fine,” she said. “The thing is, well, Yumi-chan and I, and some other friends, we were going to start a petition, but our teacher said he wanted to see us, and, well, I’m so embarrassed, I didn’t think I’d be able to tell you this, but I know it would keep bothering me if I didn’t, so I want to apologize because...”
I saw it all. The teachers had threatened her. Talk about sadistic. I could imagine exactly how they’d gone about it; their methods were basically the same as the ones the cops and the secret police used. The entire system was on their side. “What’s your problem? Let’s hear it. Living in a free and peaceful country like this, going to a school with the best college entrance results in the prefecture, getting on with your studies to help you prepare for the future... what
“Yazaki-san.”
It was the voice of an angel behind us. Kazuko Matsui was standing there with a concerned look on her face. Right beside her was Yumi Sato, the Ann-Margret of the English Drama Club.
“I was talking it over with Yumi-chan. We’re thinking about starting a petition ... against them kicking you out of school.”
If I’d been a dog, I would have rolled around on the floor, pissed all over myself, foamed at the mouth, and wagged my tail till it snapped off.
LYNDON JOHNSON
All the third-year girls were assembled on the main playing field to practice for the opening ceremony of the National Athletic Meet. Supervising them was the war widow, Fumi-chan. Instructors at driving schools are the worst example of it, but all teachers get off on using their positions to intimidate the people in their charge. That’s their way of trying to fill up the voids in their own lives. Dark, lonely lives create sadistic teachers.
“You there, you three girls! There aren’t any boys watching you. The only reason you’re not lifting your legs high enough is because you’re worried about how you look. Nobody’s looking at your silly legs. Lift them higher!”
Fumi-chan was shouting through a bullhorn. Adama and I were in low spirits in spite of the fact that we were gazing down on a sea of seventeen-year-old girls, about three hundred of them altogether. The principal was going to announce our punishment the following day. Lady Jane and Ann-Margret’s idea of organizing a petition had never got off the ground. The school authorities had got wind that something was up and applied pressure before anything could happen.
After summer school two days before, I’d been discussing Jimmy Page and Jeff Beck with Adama and some other friends. We were trying to decide which of them could play faster, then which could run faster, which could eat faster, and so on. I said I bet that even when Janis Joplin farted, it came out sounding raspy, and everybody laughed. Then one guy suddenly stopped laughing and pointed at the entrance to the classroom, and we all fell silent. An angel was framed in the doorway, looking in our direction.
“Yazaki-san, do you have a minute?” she said, lowering her eyes. I floated toward her, suppressing an urge to start singing “My Little Butterfly.” The angel stepped out into the hallway, leaned weakly against the wall with her hands behind her back, and looked at me with her head slightly bowed. I'd do anything , I thought, even march off to war, to be the focus of those eyes.
“Yazaki-san, I...” The angel spoke in a tiny voice. To hear her, I had to move closer, close enough to smell her shampoo. I went into a sort of trance, gazing at the tiny beads of perspiration on her forehead, the fine wrinkles on her pink lips, and the flutter of her long eyelashes, wondering what it would be like to kiss that lovely oval face. The others were in the classroom doorway, peering out at us. Adama was grinning. Another guy flashed an obscene gesture, making a fist and poking his finger inside.
“Shall we go, like, to the library or someplace?” I suggested.
“This is fine,” she said. “The thing is, well, Yumi-chan and I, and some other friends, we were going to start a petition, but our teacher said he wanted to see us, and, well, I’m so embarrassed, I didn’t think I’d be able to tell you this, but I know it would keep bothering me if I didn’t, so I want to apologize because...”
I saw it all. The teachers had threatened her. Talk about sadistic. I could imagine exactly how they’d gone about it; their methods were basically the same as the ones the cops and the secret police used. The entire system was on their side. “What’s your problem? Let’s hear it. Living in a free and peaceful country like this, going to a school with the best college entrance results in the prefecture, getting on with your studies to help you prepare for the future... what
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