The Last Leaves Falling (11 page)

BaSeBaLlWiNs:
So, Shino, how’d it go with . . . whoever she is?

ShinigamiFanBoy:
Dude, I can’t even TALK to her. She’s with him, it wouldn’t be right.

BaSeBaLlWiNs:
Nooooo, tell her! You have to tell her! How can you win if you don’t even play?

BambooPanda:
Man, he already lost. He shoulda told her faster!

BaSeBaLlWiNs:
Noooo! Tell her! Tell her! Tell her! Tell her!
you have to imagine me chanting this. Tell her! Tell her! :D

ShinigamiFanBoy:
Uuuugh, I can’t.

BaSeBaLlWiNs:
Wimp!

I try to let them carry me away, to delight in the safety of their lives, but all I can think is,
What girl would ever want a boy who cannot feed himself? That’s where you’re heading.
And,
You’ll never be like them.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

I press heavily into the keyboard,

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGHHH!

Over and over again, I let the frustration pour out onto the screen.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGHH

Delete.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGHHH!

Delete.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGHH!!!!!

I stab out each exclamation point, and it’s almost as good as an actual scream.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGHHH!!!!

Oh. Did I . . . ?

Yes. My angry scream joins the stream of conversation.

I did . . .

Maybe they won’t notice.

I hold my breath as I watch the conversation pour onto the screen.

BambooPanda:
Nah, he’s right, she’s made her choice.

0100110101100101:
Hi everyone!

0100110101100101:
What’s this? Are we still arguing about Shino’s love life? *Cackles* excellent!

I let the air slink out across my lips, but then:

NoFaceBoy:
What’s up, SamuraiMan? You okay?

BambooPanda:
You okay?

They saw.

Of course they saw.

I can’t explain. I can’t. How do you explain something like this?

I do not even stick around to properly sign out, just click the browser shut and push my chair away from the desk.

What will they think of me now?

17

I awake the next day with a chest full of dread.

Do they think that I’m completely mad?

Or rude, for leaving without explanation?

Did they spend an hour imagining all the reasons that I might have screamed? Like, perhaps I was attacked by an angry spider, or a rabid dog. Or I am having a nervous breakdown after a bad night at cram school, or I simply did not like their girl talk.

Do they hate me now?

I’m brooding, convinced the world is over, when Mama slides open the door and announces that we’re going to the park and that I should hurry up and dress.

“Just the park, Mama, please. I don’t want to go anywhere else.” I know I should be glad of the reminder that there’s life out there, and the company and fresh air, but outside there are people. And I don’t fare any better with them in real life than I do on the screen.

“Just the park,” she agrees.

•  •  •  •

I hate leaving our apartment, and somehow this morning it is worse. The squeak of rubber tires upon the shiny floor, giving me away to anyone who cares to hear. The elevator; the chance of being trapped with neighbors who choose to gaze at the ceiling rather than look at me. Even the superintendent with his too-friendly smile.

And it is not much better in the street. People gawk as Mama struggles getting my chair across roads and up onto the pavements; stare over my head and offer her a sympathetic nod.

Poor you,
they think, smiling,
such a burden.

I try to ignore them, but my skin itches with annoyance.

Mama must have noticed too, because halfway there she reaches out to squeeze my shoulder. I imagine her saying to me, “Hush, it doesn’t matter,” the way she would when I was three if I had skinned a knee. And I reach up, squeeze back.

As we pass under the gate into the park, she leans down and whispers in my ear, “See, isn’t it beautiful?”

The leaves of the trees on either side of us are the palest shade of yellow green, as though they’re shy about their change, trying to hide.

Farther up are leaves with deep green centers and rust-colored borders. And every now and then, the flame of maple dances in the morning breeze.

Mama is right, it’s beautiful.

The path is wide and straight, the trees magnificent, and as Mama pushes me along I tilt my chin toward the sky. Branches reach out to each other above my head, glowing against the sun. And then we veer off into the open, across the wooden bridge. She stops in the middle of it, swinging my chair around so that I can see the lake. She leans against the railings beside me.

“One, two, three . . . ,” she counts. When I was small we had to stop at every bridge we crossed so that I could count the koi below.

“Help me up?”

“Really? Here?”

“Yes! I want to see!”

She glances nervously across the bridge, but offers me a hand. I pull myself up onto my feet and lean over the side.

“Be careful!” she whimpers.

“There’s one!” I point out across the water at a fat red carp.

She only hesitates for half a second before she joins in, with a laugh I had not known that I was missing. “And there! Three, four, five, six!”

“Seven!” I declare, a little too loud for the serene waters. Tourists gawk at us, but suddenly I do not care. “Eight! Nine!”

We carry on like this until I do not know whether we’re counting new fish or ones we’ve seen before. My arms are tired from holding me up so long, and I know my knees are bowed and shaking, but I’m not ready to give up yet.

I stare out at the water, watching the sun bounce from its surface and the fish, some slow and mellow, others skitting to and fro, and catch the multicolored scales.

“Look at that one,” I sigh happily. Right below us is a huge fish, glittering gold above a sleek black skin. “He’s been blessed by the lady of the lake. I bet he’s the emperor-fish!”

“Ooooh, he’s handsome!” And then she looks across at me. “Come on, you’re tired. Let’s go.”

She’s right, I
am
tired. I let myself fall back into my chair.

“Tea, or ice cream?” Mama asks as we cross the bridge.

“Tea.” There is a chill to the air which fits the season, and I tug at my coat collar.

“Tea it is.”

We take our tea along a smaller path into denser trees and sit beneath a huge five-needle pine.

I sip, inhaling the woody pine scent and the sharpness of the tea as I replay the bridge scene in my mind. And I smile all over again.

I wonder whether the emperor-fish knows that he has an audience, whether he struts up and down the lake just to show off his beautiful skin and make people forget their own.

Can he hear our jangling laughter through the water? I have heard tales from wardens of fish who greet them every day; does he recognize our voices, even? And miss us when we’re gone? Or do they view time differently, the way that I imagine trees do, long and slow.

I imagine the emperor-fish, two hundred years of age and very wise, watching; watching children grow until they bring their own sons to the bridge to meet him; watching everything we do.

“Mama?”

“Mmm.”

“What do you think happens—”

“When?”

“When we . . . after . . .”

She turns, and I watch as realization paints itself across her face.

“Hush!” Her voice is hard and bright.

“But—”

“No, Sora. This is not the time, or the place. Not here, not now.” She tears her gaze away and takes a long sip of her tea, wraps both hands around the cardboard cup and rests it neatly in her lap. Her jaw is set and I know that that’s the end of it. She will not answer me.

We sit, the comfortable silence thickened into something suffocating, each of us waiting for the other to finish their tea so we can leave, forget this conversation ever happened, and burst out from the shade into the sunlight.

18

Dearest Ojiisan and Bah-Ba,

I am well, and hope that you are too. Mama tells me you have mice joining you at the supper table. She’d have me believe that you are overrun, and the mice have sneers upon their faces and katana tucked into their belts.
“Food, or death?”
they’d say, and then they’d laugh while they ate all the best cuts.

I think she’s probably exaggerating, but I’m rather jealous that they get Bah-Ba’s cooking while I do not.

I looked up ways to deter mice today. Have you tried peppermint oil? Also, did you know that in many countries people
eat
mice? And in some, baby mouse wine is supposed to cure you of, well, anything. But if you’re going to try the last two, let’s keep it between us.

Your mouseless grandson, Abe Sora