stood there a long time, staring at the umbrella in the rain.
On Wednesday I went to school with the umbrella under my arm. The rain lasted all weekend and knocked what was left of the cherry petals out of the trees into soggy piles all over the city. The beauty of hanami now lay as a shriveled ugliness on the ground. The trees still towered above in bright late-spring greens, and the heavy rains sprouted lots of new flower stalks from the dank earth. I sneezed the whole way to school.
It smelled of spring—or would’ve, if my nose wasn’t plugged from allergies—even if there were no petals to catch in my hair, no shower of blossoms on my walk to and from Suntaba.
When I saw Tomohiro’s bike in the racks, I hooked the umbrella over the handlebars. Then I hurried into the genkan, slid on my school slippers and raced down the hallway to homeroom.
At the end of the day, he was waiting for me at the bike racks, straddling his seat with his foot on the pedal. He checked his watch as I approached and narrowed his eyes.
“You’re late,” he said.
We never talked about the umbrella.
Tomohiro headed out first, twisting north out of the Suntaba gate to throw everyone off. “I don’t need any more stalkers,” he said. “One’s enough.” I rolled my eyes, until he added,
“At least she’s a cute one.” He grinned and set off.
Oh, jeez. I was definitely in trouble.
We met up near Shizuoka Station and twisted past the underground walkways. We took turns leading the way through the crowds, but Tomohiro was much more at ease with the task. He cut razor-sharp lines through the traffic, so following him was terrifying and thrilling at the same time.
We laid our bikes down in the curtain of forest and sat down by a Yayoi-period hut. Tomohiro had said the houses were almost two thousand years old, and I stared at them, terrified to touch them in case they crumbled to dust or something. The rain had let up the day before, but the grass was still a little soggy. Tomohiro didn’t seem to care. He leaned back into the hut and let the tall grasses soak into the back of his school blazer.
I spread my blazer on the ground and sat down in the middle of it. That should help keep me at least a little dry from the dewy grass. I took out the book I’d brought with me and some strawberry-cream sandwiches I’d saved from lunch, my favorite of the ones Diane made. I hesitated, then passed one to him.
He eyed it suspiciously.
“What?”
“Is it poisoned?”
“Hey, you’re the creepy one, not me,” I said.
He grinned and took a bite, crumbs dropping onto his sketch of a horse.
“You’re good at the anatomy,” I said.
“The proportions are all off,” he said. “I’ve never seen a real horse.”
I stopped eating.
“Never?”
“There aren’t many horses in Shizuoka, Greene.”
“Well, haven’t you traveled around Japan or outside the country?”
“My father took us on a business trip once to Paris, in the days when he was happier.”
“Paris?”
“Mais bien sûr, mademoiselle.” The French rolled off his tongue, and every nerve in my body tingled. This was a bad idea, spending more time with him. I should be at home, trying to forget him, falling for Tanaka, or maybe Jun. Tomo hiro didn’t notice that I was silently falling apart beside him; he was lost in the memory. “I disappeared and he and my mom panicked. They looked everywhere for me, even called the police. I was about six, I think.”
“So where were you?” It was hard to conjure up an image of a six-year-old Tomohiro, lost and crying somewhere for his mommy.
Tomohiro smirked. “I was drawing pictures in my sketchbook inside the Louvre.”
Of course he was.
“You really love art, don’t you?”
“I can’t explain it,” he said, curving around the tail of the horse with his pen. “It’s not really a love of art. I have to draw. It’s…a compulsion.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?”
“Sou da na…” he
On Wednesday I went to school with the umbrella under my arm. The rain lasted all weekend and knocked what was left of the cherry petals out of the trees into soggy piles all over the city. The beauty of hanami now lay as a shriveled ugliness on the ground. The trees still towered above in bright late-spring greens, and the heavy rains sprouted lots of new flower stalks from the dank earth. I sneezed the whole way to school.
It smelled of spring—or would’ve, if my nose wasn’t plugged from allergies—even if there were no petals to catch in my hair, no shower of blossoms on my walk to and from Suntaba.
When I saw Tomohiro’s bike in the racks, I hooked the umbrella over the handlebars. Then I hurried into the genkan, slid on my school slippers and raced down the hallway to homeroom.
At the end of the day, he was waiting for me at the bike racks, straddling his seat with his foot on the pedal. He checked his watch as I approached and narrowed his eyes.
“You’re late,” he said.
We never talked about the umbrella.
Tomohiro headed out first, twisting north out of the Suntaba gate to throw everyone off. “I don’t need any more stalkers,” he said. “One’s enough.” I rolled my eyes, until he added,
“At least she’s a cute one.” He grinned and set off.
Oh, jeez. I was definitely in trouble.
We met up near Shizuoka Station and twisted past the underground walkways. We took turns leading the way through the crowds, but Tomohiro was much more at ease with the task. He cut razor-sharp lines through the traffic, so following him was terrifying and thrilling at the same time.
We laid our bikes down in the curtain of forest and sat down by a Yayoi-period hut. Tomohiro had said the houses were almost two thousand years old, and I stared at them, terrified to touch them in case they crumbled to dust or something. The rain had let up the day before, but the grass was still a little soggy. Tomohiro didn’t seem to care. He leaned back into the hut and let the tall grasses soak into the back of his school blazer.
I spread my blazer on the ground and sat down in the middle of it. That should help keep me at least a little dry from the dewy grass. I took out the book I’d brought with me and some strawberry-cream sandwiches I’d saved from lunch, my favorite of the ones Diane made. I hesitated, then passed one to him.
He eyed it suspiciously.
“What?”
“Is it poisoned?”
“Hey, you’re the creepy one, not me,” I said.
He grinned and took a bite, crumbs dropping onto his sketch of a horse.
“You’re good at the anatomy,” I said.
“The proportions are all off,” he said. “I’ve never seen a real horse.”
I stopped eating.
“Never?”
“There aren’t many horses in Shizuoka, Greene.”
“Well, haven’t you traveled around Japan or outside the country?”
“My father took us on a business trip once to Paris, in the days when he was happier.”
“Paris?”
“Mais bien sûr, mademoiselle.” The French rolled off his tongue, and every nerve in my body tingled. This was a bad idea, spending more time with him. I should be at home, trying to forget him, falling for Tanaka, or maybe Jun. Tomo hiro didn’t notice that I was silently falling apart beside him; he was lost in the memory. “I disappeared and he and my mom panicked. They looked everywhere for me, even called the police. I was about six, I think.”
“So where were you?” It was hard to conjure up an image of a six-year-old Tomohiro, lost and crying somewhere for his mommy.
Tomohiro smirked. “I was drawing pictures in my sketchbook inside the Louvre.”
Of course he was.
“You really love art, don’t you?”
“I can’t explain it,” he said, curving around the tail of the horse with his pen. “It’s not really a love of art. I have to draw. It’s…a compulsion.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?”
“Sou da na…” he
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