The Last Leaves Falling (15 page)

Hi!

IS THIS A GOOD TIME?

Sure.

:) OH GOOD. HOW ARE YOU?

Good, thanks. How are you?

YEAH. OKAY. HOW’S THE SURVEY GOING?

Survey? Oh, yes.

It’s okay. I mean, I see this as a longer project—I want to collect as much data as I can before I start compiling.

WOW, YOU’RE REALLY TAKING THIS PROJECT SERIOUSLY, HUH?

Yes. I think it’s important to understand the way society thinks, and try to work out why. Otherwise how do we develop as a nation or as people?

WOW. THAT’S DEEP!

Yeah, well. I . . . know some kids with problems. And I wish they didn’t have
our
problems heaped on top.

WHAT DO YOU MEAN?

Oh, I don’t know. I just . . . it’s the little things. The staring. Why should anybody have to deal with that?

YEAH. I SUPPOSE.

I do not want to talk about this anymore. I do not want to justify myself, even in disguise. An awkward silence fills the screen, and I realize I befriended NoFace without ever looking at his profile. I know nothing about him except for two brief encounters.

Desperately searching for something to say, I click.

USERNAME

TAGLINE

AGE
   
GENDER

INTERESTS

Somehow, even though I do not know him, I am not surprised.

Mysterious, aren’t you? ;)

HUH?

You don’t give much away on your profile page.

YEAH, WELL, THOSE QUESTIONS ARE SO ASININE. BESIDES, I AM A CHANGEABLE PERSON. I’D HAVE TO UPDATE ALL THE TIME. I FIGURE PEOPLE CAN JUST TALK TO ME IF THEY WANT TO KNOW.

Hah, fair enough. So . . . what would you put today?

UM . . . NOFACEBOY, LIKES MOVIES AND POPCORN AND SHOOT EM UP GAMES. IS LIABLE TO LAUGH AT EVERYTHING YOU SAY; DOES NOT MEAN THIS UNKINDLY. :D

Hah, brilliant!

OK, I’M TOTALLY STALKING YOU NOW, SINCE YOU’VE SEEN MINE. I’LL BE RIGHT BACK.

I wait, and as I wait, I realize I am holding my breath.

Will he see through what I wrote? Will he like me? Would he like the
real
me?

SOOOO, YOU REALLY DO LIKE ALL THAT SERIOUS STUFF, HUH?

Kind of. I like books, and I like to learn, at least.

NERD :)

Thanks 8-)

YOU’RE WELCOME.

24

The next few days are good. During the day, I read. I have found a stack of articles on ailing samurai who made something out of their lives, and I plan to read them all. I want to know everything about the blind masseurs and circus freaks. I want, I think, to compare
then
with
now
, and see what’s changed; why is it that we’re so keen to throw life away?

So in the day, I read, and in the evenings, MonkEC and NoFace come online, and then we laugh.

In one box, I see:

I’ve just spent three hours with my mother poring over photos in American prospectuses. Every page, she said, “Look, Mai. Those labs, that library. Look how happy and hardworking all the students are.”

I imagine MonkEC sitting at a table, trying to disguise her boredom, shielding a scrap of paper as she surreptitiously attempts to doodle. I imagine her mother, eyes lit with excitement, jabbing at photos with an enthusiastic finger. And I cannot help but chuckle.

And at the same time, in the box beside it, NoFace regales me with tales of late-night battles.

SO I WAS NEARLY THERE, THE MAP SHOWED THE HQ LIKE, TWO BLOCKS AWAY. IT WAS RISKY, BUT OKAY. I FELT GOOOOOD.

And?

AND THEN I POKED MY HEAD AROUND THE CORNER TO SEE WHETHER THE PATH WAS CLEAR AND BOOM. DEAD. HEAD BLOWN CLEAN OFF.

I’m not sure what to say to that, if I am honest. Do I sympathize? Congratulate him? Laugh?

Nooooooo!

HAHA, I KNOW, THAT IS ALMOST EXACTLY WHAT I SAID! EXCEPT I THINK MY EXACT WORDS MIGHT HAVE BEEN “YOU STUPID, UGLY, FISH-LOVING SON OF A . . .”

Hah!

I switch back to MonkEC.

Hey, I just realized . . .

What?

You just told me your real name :)

I’m waiting for her to respond, when Mama knocks at the bedroom door.

“Sora, can I come in?”

“Yes.”

I switch off the monitor as my mother sidles in.

“Here.” She hands me a tray of pills, blue and white and berry-red. I expect her to ruffle my hair or squeeze my shoulder and then leave, but she does not. Her hand hovers unsure in the midspace between us. “Are you all right?”

“Of course.”

“You’re not . . .”

“What?”

“I don’t like you being on that thing all day.”

“The Internet?” She is such a hypocrite. My mother lives on her computer, phone, tablet.

“Yes. You shouldn’t be hiding away in here. It isn’t right. You should be out making the most of . . .”—she catches my eye, and falters—“the good weather. It will be cold soon.”

I take a deep breath. “Mama, I’m
fine
.”

My mother’s knuckles clench, going white beneath her own grip.

“Honestly.”

She sniffs. “You’re not. This whole thing is anything but fine.”

For a moment she stands there, blanched fingers and pursed lips, a statue, and I know she’s trying not to cry. But before I can reach out, pull her hands into mine, she’s back, all business face, a wry smile at her lips. “Right. We’re going away.”