Ink by Amanda Sun

break and observe the senior students, and we knelt in a line, shinai placed neatly by our sides, to watch.
    Tomohiro rose to his feet, and Bleached Hair was called on to spar with him. Tomohiro swung his men in his hand as he approached the lines of kendouka. He hoisted the mask over his face, jostling it until it fell snug on his shoulders. The straps flared out and bounced as he walked into place, bowing to Bleached Hair, who slipped behind his own mask. They looked like two mysterious samurai now as they crouched down, their hakama skirts draped across the floor.
    As they lifted, they drew their shinai, and a kiai erupted from Tomohiro, a terrifying sound in the silence of the gym.
    The wildness of it drove fear into my heart, as if I didn’t really know him at all—and maybe I didn’t. The kindness of bringing the shinai to my side and lining it up carefully was lost with the ferocious shriek as he moved forward and cracked his shinai against Bleached Hair’s, as he swung again and again.
    Maybe Yuki and Tanaka were right. Maybe Tomohiro was more dangerous than I realized.
    Bleached Hair growled back, and the sound of them fighting was like wild animals. No lie. They struck over and over, keeping each other at sword’s length. Bleached Hair slammed his foot down as he swung at Tomohiro’s dou —a hit, a point.
    Some of the older students murmured to each other, studying their form. All I could do was watch, the shouts echoing in my ears. Tomohiro whacked Bleached Hair on the right side of the men near his neck, their shinai looking as if they would splinter as they cracked together.
    As they fought, I noticed a splash of color on Bleached Hair’s arm. At first it moved like a blur, but from his kote glove to the sleeve of the keigoki, I was certain I’d seen the broad outlines of a tattoo.
    I watched the rest of the match with my mind occupied.
    Tattoos weren’t as big a deal in New York—rebellious, maybe, and sometimes beautiful. But in Japan, tattoos were linked to gangsters and the Yakuza. I stared at Bleached Hair in a new way. Impossible, I thought. He’s only in high school like us. But the more I tried to convince myself, the more the suspicions loomed over me. Was this what Yuki and Tanaka had meant when they said Tomohiro was mixed up in things?
    The match finished and Nakamura-sensei dismissed us.
    Tomohiro and Bleached Hair swung their masks off, sweat dripping down their faces. Bleached Hair jabbed Tomohiro in the arm and they laughed, walking past like they didn’t even see me. I stared at them as they disappeared into the change room. Did Tomohiro really keep such dangerous company?
    Is that why he’d wanted me to stay away?
    And if they were both in the Yakuza, then I’d already delved too deep into that dangerous world.
    But it was just a tattoo. It didn’t have to mean that. And why would Bleached Hair be so careless to get one where it would be seen?
    Did Tomohiro have one, too?
    The senior girls helped me unbuckle my armor. The rain outside was so heavy it pounded against the roof of the gym, echoing with the sour sound of aluminum.
    When I came out of the change room, Tomohiro and Bleached Hair had already left, and there was nothing for me to do but head home.
    I walked slowly to the genkan, dreading the drenching ride home. I’d brought Diane’s bike again today, in some feeble hope that Tomohiro might head for Toro Iseki again.
    When I slid open the door to the torrent of rain, Tomohiro’s bike wasn’t in the racks with the abandoned ones, slick with rain.
    I couldn’t leave the bike at school; Diane needed it for Monday. Taking a breath and lifting my book bag over my head, I stepped out into the coolness of the spring rain, soaking in the thick raindrops that pelted from the gray sky.
    I reached the bike, but it took me a moment to realize it was mine.
    Someone had hooked a clear plastic umbrella to the handlebars.
    The rain slicked down the sides as I lowered my book bag.
    I