Rain by Amanda Sun Page B

moves against the strings, I can feel the vibration of it in my heart.”
    “You’re really good,” I said. And then, feeling awkward, I added, “You and Ikeda, I mean.”
    He smiled, and the room felt too warm. He’d always been striking, but why couldn’t I get over it by now? I was with Tomo, and Jun had issues.
    “We’re practicing for the school festival. It was Beethoven, you know. Sonata no. 2 in G Minor. I chose the piece.”
    “Nice,” I said. He was passionate about it, I could see that. How could this Jun be so different from the one who’d asked Tomohiro to kill someone? A criminal, but still.
    “So,” he said. “You wanted to talk?”
    “If you have time.”
    He pressed his hands into his pockets and twisted his body from side to side, like he was stretching. He gave me another sweet smile. “I always have time for you.”
    Despite all my willpower, I started turning as red as those daruma dolls they sold in the tourist shops. The only thing that helped me regain my normal pulse was how cold his eyes were, like he was always thinking deeper thoughts that he wasn’t sharing. Like I was a kendo opponent he was sizing up. How will she move? How can I counter? It was unnerving.
    “Let’s go to the art studio,” he said. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and I have something to show you.”
    I put my hands up in front of me. “You’re not going to draw, are you? I mean, it wouldn’t be safe to draw here.” But he didn’t stop; he just kept walking toward the door. I followed him into the corridor and slid the music-room door shut.
    A group of students passed us in the hallway, staring at my different uniform. I wondered what they must be thinking.
    “ Oi, Taka-senpai!” they shouted. He waved and they cheered to themselves. “ Kakko ii !” they flailed, discussing how cool he was as they wandered down the corridor.
    I’d forgotten he was some kind of kendo celebrity.
    And then I caught the eye of one of the students. I knew him—he was one of the Kami from that night. I froze.
    Jun saw me looking. “He’s harmless. His drawings move, but they don’t come off the page.”
    “Oh.” So Jun’s Kami friends weren’t even dangerous after all.
    “The Kami were there for support that night,” he said. “In case there was a fallout with the Yakuza or if Yuu had questions.”
    He led me up the stairs, endless stairs, until we reached the sixth floor.
    “Your school is...really tall,” I puffed.
    He whispered conspiratorially, exaggerating his expression. “Sometimes I sneak a ride in the elevator.”
    “Daring.”
    “I’m a rebel,” he said. “Leading a revolution.”
    He’d meant at as a joke, but the comment was kind of true in a creepy way.
    He pulled open the door to the art studio. The white tables in the room formed an open square, with a smaller table in the center, probably to put reference objects while sketching or painting. Along the back of the classroom ran cupboards full of supplies, and one wall of the studio was floor-to-ceiling windows. The sun would set soon, and already the light streaming in was golden and diffused. I stepped toward the window, admiring the view from six floors up. The tennis court outside looked tiny and deserted.
    I heard the click of the door and looked to see Jun’s hand on the lock.
    “So we’re not interrupted,” he said. “We don’t need any more ink sightings in Shizuoka after that dragon Yuu drew.”
    “I don’t get it,” I said. “If there are so many Kami in Japan, why are you underground? Why are you hiding?”
    He headed toward the supply cabinets and started raiding them, piling rainbows’ worth of paints on the white counters.
    “A few reasons,” he said. “One, because most Kami are not as powerful as Yuu and me. Usually it’s just enough to weird someone out—bad nightmares, drawings that flicker. It’s not the kind of thing you want to draw attention to. Kids who do mention it usually get put on meds