I wake up in the nurse’s office with my head throbbing and my mouth dry. A cold towel soaks my forehead. Beside me, a fan whirls, blowing air slightly cooler than the temperature in the assembly room in my face.
Above, fluorescent lights scream at my eyes. I wince, retreating into the cot. When did the world get so loud?
Chiyo hands me a paper cup. I gulp down the water greedily, but I get no relief from my suffering. By drinking the water, I notice that my throat is swollen. I can barely speak, managing to croak out an incomprehensible sentence.
“The nurse says that you’re quite sick. Something about a flu or a fever.”
The strange European accent of her English makes the scene disorienting. I can’t believe I didn’t notice it before, her shortened vowels chafing at my ears. Still, I thank her. I assume that she was the one who dragged me here after I fainted.
“Your sister helped me. She just went back to class. She’s quite the diligent student, already worried about assignments. I can’t say the same about myself.”
Her hazel eyes twinkle with mirth. I can’t decide if they’re brown or green so I settle for something in between.
“How touching. You’ve stayed with me to avoid class.”
“That wasn’t the only reason.” She has the gall to look outraged. “Truthfully, you intrigue me. You’re like a mystery I can’t solve.”
Now where have I heard that from before?
“I’m no mystery.” Why do people think that?
“Then who is Elle?”
The air leaves my lungs. “How—“
“You were whispering her name in your sleep. Who is she?”
Who were you, Elle? I’m thousands of miles away and yesterday, I would have still been sure that I knew you like the back of my hand. But today, sick and bleached by the fluorescent lighting, I’m less certain.
“She was someone close to me.” Someone I loved. Love. Because I still do love you.
“You cried a little when you said her name.”
Of course I did. But that didn’t mean I was going to spill my guts to a pretty girl who smells like cherries just because she had a strange interest in me.
“Your English is weird,” I say, letting the intrusive thought slip out.
She frowns at the remark. “No, your English is weird. You’ve got a funny accent like a movie character.”
I sit up in the cot. “And you don’t sound like anyone I know. You don’t speak English like other Japanese people.”
She opens her mouth to object but then snaps it close. “No, I don’t suppose I do. You can probably tell I’m a hafu, right?”
I nod. It was true that she did not look entirely Japanese.
“My mom is German,” she explains. “I learned my English from her. You’re not the first person to tell me that I sound funny.”
I suddenly feel sympathy for Chiyo. It occurs to me that she might have been made fun of for both her English and Japanese solely based on her unique appearance.
“I’m American,” I offer as a truce.
Her eyes widen. “So you’re quite wealthy.”
“No, nothing like that,” I quickly say, but then I pause. My mother’s marriage did change our financial status. Technically we weren’t poor anymore even if I felt that the money didn’t belong to me.
Her eyes glimmer. “I have a small obsession with the United States.”
In my mind, an eagle screeches as words of the national anthem play in the background. I smell french fries and Fourth of July barbecue mingled with sunscreen and fireworks. What was there to love about that?
“It’s the country with the highest number of serial killers. I can’t resist keeping up with the news, particularly the crimes there. It’s so wild and gruesome. Where in the U.S. are you from?”
Her morbid fascination gives me goosebumps. Despite the subject matter, she becomes animated speaking about her true crime obsession. Prettier, even. I indulge her.
“California? Great state. It’s got the best murderers. The Zodiac Killer, the Manson Family, the O.J. Simpson trial — gosh I could go on forever. It’s a real breeding ground for psychopaths. I’m always reading something from there. What a scary place to live. No offense, but I don’t think I would last a day there.”
I blink, struggling to keep up with her babbling. “I’ve never met any serial killers.”
“That you know of. But your chances of walking past one are higher than mine. How thrilling!”
“I guess I’m lucky to be alive.”
She nods emphatically, missing the sarcasm in my voice. “Very lucky. There’s been a new case recently where they suspect someone may be targeting young girls around our age. They’ve uncovered a body in a river.”
Without prompting, she shows me her phone screen. I skim the article, my eyebrows raising. The body was found in the woods of my neighborhood. Young adult, blonde hair, blue eyes – I hold my breath.
Is it you, Elle? You would never be the unsuspecting target of a serial killer. First, you were too nice. Second, you were too careful. Years of sneaking around your parents taught you that. But third, we didn’t live in that kind of neighborhood. Murders happened in neat rows of houses when tensions lurked beneath fake smiles and resentment bubbled with cans of soda fizzing at school picnics. Not there, where the most immoral thing that happened in years was Evan’s mom cheating on his father.
And yet I scroll through the article, my chest tight with fear. You left our town over half a year ago. Logically, the victim couldn’t be you. But something about the way they found the corpse struck a chord within me.
The victim was shot, not far from where we released the goldfish years ago. They located the body because of the unusual number of animals gathered to feed on the corpse, particularly the fish.
I reach the end of the article, releasing a sigh of relief. They didn’t identify the victim. You were most likely alive, in a neighborhood where your mother could keep a closer eye on you. I imagine it was hell on earth for you but a far better fate than being shot and drowned in a river.
Chiyo gushes more about true crime cases. I make a mental note to keep an eye on the local news in my old town. Eventually, the nurse comes back and takes my temperature. By then, she judges that I’m fit to go to class.
Apparently, hearing about chilling crime cases cured my fever.
Cherry Girl escorts me to class, taking it as an excuse to delay her lessons. I don’t mind, hardly the model student myself. Coincidentally, we’re placed in the same homeroom. She makes my hasty introductions for me, telling everyone that I was “a cool American” before dragging me into the chair next to her.
By some miracle of the universe, I made a friend on my first day at St. Catherine’s. Or rather, she made me her friend, but I didn’t get caught up in the technicalities. These sort of things went both ways.
I ignore the way my heart beats when she sticks one of her cherry pins in my blazer, blaming it on my fever. I was still sick, wearing a blue medical mask to class so I wouldn’t infect other students.
I realize the smart thing to do would have been to call Mr. Watanabe and asked for his driver to escort me home so I could avoid school altogether. But a part of me knew that if that had happened, I would fall hopelessly behind in class. At least, that was what always happened when I missed a day at school back home. I could never pick up on the new material on my own, struggling uselessly without the teacher’s instructions.
But you were always there to help me. Clever, brilliant Elle, somehow one step ahead of everyone else. You manage to put needlessly difficult concepts into simple terms, turning an ocean of thought into a handful of goldfish.
I would have skipped school if you were here with me. You would absorb any textbook I gave you and make a fun game out of it. Instead, I’m forced to be stupid on my own.
Chiyo throws a cat-shaped eraser at my head, nearly taking out my eye. Well, not entirely alone.
The day crawls along at a slow pace. The curriculum is heavier than I expected, with a bigger emphasis on memorization than I’m used to. I cannot physically shove that much information in my head. Believe me, I’ve tried and only succeeded in getting a migraine.
The beginnings of a headache thrum behind my eyes. I press my forehead against my desk during lunch time, lifting my head to snack on Chiyo’s bento with her. The lunch my mother packed remains untouched. I don’t have enough of an appetite to eat a full meal, my mind racing with details of the murder mixed with my lessons.
Hours later, the day ends with classroom clean-up. I help sweep the floors, still thinking of calculus and cadavers. After, I walk to Airi’s class, intending to take the bus home with her.
I approach the door, hearing hushed whispers within. I peek through the windows, spotting my stepsister surrounded by a group of students. Leave it to her to already be popular on the first day.
“Airi,” I call out. “It’s time to go home.”
She detaches herself from the group. By then, my headache worsened because for some reason, I see an expression of relief flit through her face.
“We can’t go home yet,” she says when she reaches the door.
“Why not?” School had to end at some point.
“We have cram school. You’ve got entrance exams coming up at the end of the year so Okaasan thought you could use the extra help.”
I stare at her in disbelief. “What do you mean there’s more school after school?”
A faint smile graces her lips. “Hurry or we’ll miss the metro.”
My head throbs in response. Kill me now.
9Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ9ySiVg8wR7
