If You Follow Me (8 page)

“Nosy?” I guessed, avoiding the question of whether I was single.

“That also,” Ritsuko said, which is what I love about her. She is so quick.

Now the girls sit down and get out their gender worksheets. I read the first question and ask Miyoshi-sensei to choose a student to read her answer aloud.

“I like to be a girl because…”

“Chiemi,” Miyoshi-sensei says, and the girl with the burned face stands up.

“Because I like cute skirt,” she recites in a rush.

“Okay,” I say. “Great.” I try not to feel disappointed when the next student he calls on reads the exact same response. I ask if anyone has a different answer. “Because I like make,” replies a third girl. I write the word “makeup” on the board, and most of the girls pick up their pencils to adjust their answers.

“Question two,” I say, “I would like to be a boy because…”

I'm optimistic when Miyoshi-sensei calls on Mai Murata, the volleyball team captain, who wears sweatpants bunched up under her skirt, swaggering like a cowboy. She gnaws on a hangnail, then reads her answer in Japanese. The class snickers and Miyoshi-sensei presses a fist to his mouth to conceal a grin.

“What did she say?” I ask.

“It's kind of so rude…”

“That's fine,” I say. “Girls don't have to be polite or ladylike.”

“Okay,” he says with a shrug. “Mai would like to be a boy so she could…how to say…make yellow water standing up?”

“Pee,” I translate.

“It's more convenient,” he says. I have to laugh. They're funny, these girls. They will not be manipulated or even led. It's a kind of strength.

“Question three,” I say. “In Japan, only girls can…” Without looking to Miyoshi-sensei, I call on Haruki Ogawa. The boy has been sitting like a stone throughout this discussion. At the sound of his name, he jerks back in his seat as if whiplashed. He braces both palms on his desk and pushes himself slowly to his feet. The first time he opens his mouth, nothing comes out. “It's okay,” Miyoshi-sensei says, but the boy opens his mouth again, and this time, a tiny, raspy sound escapes, like an insect he's been holding on his tongue, barely alive.

“In Japan,” he whispers, “only girls can stay home forever.”

 

At the end of the day, as I climb the stairs to the faculty room, I hear the thumping background track of The Carpenters' “Close to You.” Miyoshi-sensei often plays karaoke CD's after school, keeping the faculty windows open to attract students to his after-school club. But no one ever shows up. I sit at my desk and he turns off the machine before approaching me, hands in his pockets. “Congratulations,” he says.

“Thanks for translating,” I say. “I enjoyed hearing what the girls had to say.”

“So did I,” he says, “I did not think they could answer such questions.”

“Questions about gender?”

“Questions without multiple choice. Without one correct answer. But this is not why I said congratulations before. Reason is because Ogawa-san did not have to sort your
gomi
yesterday. Maybe you didn't make any more
gomi
mistakes…”

“Great.” I force a smile. We didn't throw anything away yesterday. But I decide to take advantage of his good mood, telling him that our groceries all went bad again, that we really need a new refrigerator.

“But new refrigerator costs much money,” he says, “and you couldn't take it home to America. It's also a waste,
ne
?”

“We could buy a little one,” I suggest. “Or we could rent one.”

“Shika does not even have video rental store,” he reminds me. “But I have one unusual suggestion…. How about buying groceries such as bread and noodles and fruit? Food that does not live in refrigerator…”

“That's a temporary solution,” I say.

“Exactly,” he says. “A temporary solution for a temporary person.” He claps his hands as if the matter were resolved and offers to take me grocery shopping. “I think you are kind of helpless,” he says.

“I am not helpless,” I snap.

“I'm sorry,” he says. “I only meant that you need help. How should I say? You are needy? Is this better?”

 

At the supermarket, I feel like a contestant on
The Price Is Right
as I chase after Miyoshi-sensei while he weaves the cart down the aisles. Apparently we're in a big hurry.

“Do you eat rice or bread for breakfast?” he asks me.

“I eat both,” I say.

“But how about for breakfast?” he presses. “Rice or bread?”

This is a trick question, one I've been asked many times, a way to gauge whether a foreigner is resisting or adapting to Japanese life.

“I usually have cereal,” I say.

“Okay,” he says, “but you need milk, I think, to swallow cereal, and milk needs refrigeration,
ne
?” From the cooler he pulls out a package of steak, sliced ribbon thin. He tells me that he's buying it for his own dinner. Stuck to the plastic wrapper is a sticker printed with a photograph of a man's face, his nose engorged and ruddy, his eyes bugging out.

“Is that guy some wanted criminal?” I ask.

“Oh no,” he says, laughing. “This is Yamagawa-san. Manager of Jade Plaza.”

“Why is his picture on every piece of meat?”

“Recently,” he says, “in another town, a supermarket manager faked expiration dates on old meat, resulting in a small E. coli epidemic. So supermarket managers put their own face on every package. It's personal guarantee of freshness. Do you want to try tonight?”

“I don't think so,” I say.

“Right,” he says. “I remember now. You don't eat meat. This is
why you threw so much beef in your neighborhood soft plastics recycling bin.”

I follow him to the produce section at the front of the store, where every apple is cradled in a nest of foam, every melon swaddled in tissue, clusters of grapes polished and shining in open boxes. One corner has been sectioned off with padded rope, the floor covered in foam squares. Inside, two old women and a little boy are seated on folding chairs, their eyes closed and their hands resting on their knees. Pressed to the insides of their wrists, plastic suction cups connect them by wires to a buzzing machine.

“Konnichiwa, Miyoshi-sensei,
” says a man in a white lab coat with shaggy bleached hair.

“That's my former student,” Miyoshi-sensei says. “He is entrepreneur now.”

“What's going on in there?” I ask.

“Maybe they're receiving a kind of
shokku
treatment.”

“A shock treatment?” I interpret, and he nods. “Like for depression?”

“Mmm,” he says. “Or another problem. People come for many reasons. Hoping to cure a disease, to lose weight, to replenish energy…even to restore hair to a bald head.”

“Those people don't look shocked,” I say.

“But current is inside them. You don't believe? Come. I can prove to you.”

He approaches the man in the lab coat and says something in Japanese. Then he pushes up his jacket sleeve and the man presses a suction cup to the inside of his wrist. For a moment we stand facing each other, close enough that I can smell green onions on his breath and the pomade in his hair. I feel like a couple at a junior high dance, waiting for the music to start. “Now shock is inside me,” he says. “But I can't feel anything until…” He reaches out for my shoulder and the current springs from his fingertips, forks down my arm and into
my hand, which buzzes like I slipped it into a glove full of bees. “
Itai
!” I cry out, jumping backward and shaking my hand in front of me. My palm is mottled red and white. It looks like raw hamburger.

“I'm sorry,” he says, biting his lip. “That was more powerful than I expected.” He takes my hand and rubs it between his palms.

“Have you done this before?” I ask, my flesh still tingling.

“Maybe,” he says. “Once or twice.”

“So did it work?” I venture, wanting to know why he would sit in a grocery store shock booth, where anyone could see him.

“What?” he says, only now letting go of my hand.

“The shock. Did it fix all your problems? Your hair is awfully thick.” I keep my tone light, so that he can crack a joke if he wants.

“I came with my father,” he says. “He has
gan
…. you know, cancer?”

“Oh god,” I say, wishing I could fall down a hole. “I'm so sorry.”

I met Miyoshi-sensei's father once, at my welcome banquet at a Chinese restaurant. The mayor presented me with my
hanko
, a narrow bamboo cylinder carved with the characters for my name. He showed me how to press the stamp into a red inkpot to sign my contract. He was stockier and shorter than his son, dressed in a double-breasted suit with a sheen that matched his silver hair. He didn't seem sick. But when he introduced himself, he pressed what looked like a beeper to his throat. His lips moved, but the sound came out of the device. I laughed obligingly, thinking it was some kind of zany Japanese invention, an automatic translator, and wishing that I had one too. The rest of the night, Miyoshi-sensei did the talking. Only now do I realize my mistake.

“It's okay,” he says, smiling in an embarrassed way that I recognize, trying to put me at ease.

 

As he pulls onto our street, we pass Haruki Ogawa trudging home from school. His grandfather is outside, tinkering with his miniature forklift, and as he catches sight of my supervisor he sets down his tools, clamps his hand around the back of Haruki's neck, and steers him toward us. More than twice his size, the boy could easily overpower his grandfather, but instead he trembles like an overripe fruit at the end of a gnarled branch.

“Recently,” Miyoshi-sensei translates for the old man, “Ogawa-san was sorting the
gomi
in Haruki's room when he found your failed test.”

“What failed test?” I ask.

“Your self-introduction test. Haruki scored zero percent.”

“That wasn't a real test,” I say, glad that for once I'm not the one in trouble. “It was just a worksheet.” Miyoshi-sensei translates this for Ogawa-san, who still doesn't release his grandson's neck. “Ogawa-san says if it's not a real test, you should not call it a test.” I remind him that he told me to call it that, that he said the students wouldn't listen otherwise. “It's true,” he says with a sigh, “but Haruki is not like other students. He did not attend junior high school. He only studied English alone in his room with a book. So of course he lacks confidence in his voice. His grandfather is concerned that if he fails, he will return to his room once more.”

Then maybe the old man shouldn't shame him, I think, or root through his trash.

I don't say this. Instead I tell Ogawa-san that Haruki did a great job in English class today. “
Sodesune
,” Miyoshi-sensei agrees, reaching into his briefcase and pulling out the boy's worksheet. He passes it to Ogawa-san, who scowls and turns it around and around like an indecipherable map to a place he'd rather not go.

“What was his score?” he asks at last.

“Hyaku pacento
,” I say.

“One hundred percent?” the old man repeats, sounding grudgingly impressed. “I can't believe it. All he ever does is sit in his room, listening to noise.”

“Haruki loves American music,” Miyoshi-sensei tells me. “He introduced me to his favorite band called Smashed Pumpkins.”

“Smashing Pumpkins,” Haruki and I correct him in unison.

“Today is the greatest day I've ever known
…” I sing, then stop abruptly. “Sorry,” I say. “I have a terrible voice.”

“I have one unusual idea,” Miyoshi-sensei says, “for how Haruki could improve English and confidence in one convenient method. He could join karaoke club. In karaoke, correct words appear on screen. You couldn't make a mistake. There's nothing to fear,
ne
?”

It is easier for me to picture the boy flapping his arms and lifting into the sky than crooning into a microphone. But Miyoshi-sensei seems excited. “Have you asked him?” I say. “He already said yes.” He grins. “Belonging to a club is mandatory for all students. He has to join one. How about you?”

“How about me?” I repeat.

“Would you like to try? A club needs more than one member.”

“But I can't sing,” I protest.

“You can sing,” he insists. “You must simply change gear. Like a bicycle.”

“I think I'm a one-speed.”

“You are not a one-speed,” he says. “I can tell.”

 

After hitting Play on his karaoke machine, Miyoshi-sensei launches into song. It's “Close to You,” by The Carpenters, a horrible song but his voice is good, a steady tenor, and he nails every syllable perfectly, just as it darkens on screen. I'm sorry when he stops singing and hands me the microphone, hitting Rewind. “Why do birds sud
denly appear…” I come in too late and rush to the end of the verse, my voice quavering on the high notes.

“I told you,” I say. “I can't sing.”

“Don't be afraid,” he says. “Have you heard a baby learn to speak? Baby begins with singing. Speech comes second. When we learn fear, we forget how to sing.” He pauses and I reflect upon this. “When you are afraid you breathe like this.” He bounces his shoulders up and down. “Baby breathes from the belly. Like this.” He pulls his shirt close to his torso and I watch it expand and flatten when he exhales. He gives Haruki the same instructions. “You have much room for air,” he says. He hands him the microphone and hits Rewind again, but when the music starts the boy doesn't make a sound, sitting frozen in place as usual. “Just like me,” Miyoshi-sensei prompts him, “they long to be…”