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“It’s nice to see you making friends with boys that aren’t your age,” Kazuma’s mom said as he came into the kitchen.
“Katsu curry!” Kazuma said, leaning into the fridge.
“Oh, we saved you some, did you not see it last night? By the way, dear, you shouldn’t stay so late at basketball practice. Don’t wear yourself out; you’ll get injured!”
“I’d never get injured, Mom,” Kazuma laughed, immediately fumbling the tupperware he was taking out of the fridge.
In her grace and wisdom, Kazuma’s mom didn’t mention the rattle she heard before Kazuma closed the fridge door, and instead tacked back to the previous conversation.
“Really,” she said, with a particularly vigorous tug at the needle. Kazuma’s clothes always needed mending. Kazuma’s mom knew trying to convince him not to toss his uniform blazer on metal railings was a lost cause, even if he always tore them snatching it back up. Her son was always in such a rush, she thought. “You’re such a good boy-”
“Mom!” Kazuma protested through a mouthful of rice.
“Don’t speak with your mouth full,” Kazuma’s mom said. “And heat up that curry. It’s best when it’s piping hot.”
“Fine,” Kazuma said, kissing her on the top of her head as he walked past her to the microwave.
His mom touched the top of her head, and, relieved there were no curry remnants, continued.
“You’re such a good boy. I knew you’d be a great role model. Was he your junior in middle school?”
With only the hum of the microwave to distract him, Kazuma was able to finally pick up the thread his mom was putting down for him.
“Who?”
Kazuma’s mom finished examining the stitches she had already made, nodded, and her needle began to flash once more.
“That nice boy who dropped by the other day. Remember, your old basketball team came last month to see how you were doing?”
Kazuma, who barely remembered last week, nodded, his eyes tracking the bowl slowly revolving.
“Well, one of them asked after you recently, saying he admired your skill on the court-”
Kazuma flexed and his mom laughed, but was not deterred.
“And he was talking about your other friends, and said he’d lost your phone number, so I wrote it down for him,” she explained. “It’s important to keep in touch when you don’t go to the same school.”
At this point, the microwave beeped. While Kazuma tried to figure out how to pick up the hot bowl without resorting to using a dishrag (because using his bare hands was manly!), his mom reminisced about friends she lost touch with when she graduated middle school (and how sweet their reunions were when they finally caught up again).
Kazuma sat down to eat his piping hot leftovers. There was a companionable atmosphere as he ate and his mom hummed.
After a few minutes, Kazuma’s mom said, “You’re eating so slowly. Don’t keep your friend waiting.”
His head jerked up. A piece of rice was on his nose. It made her smile, so she didn’t wipe it off. What a funny child she had raised.
“What friend?” Kazuma said. He was pretty sure he’d planned to meet a couple of classmates at the arcade, not his house. But, he had to admit, he was kind of a forgetful guy!
“Your little friend,” his mom said patiently. “From your middle school.”
Kazuma began to feel suspicious. “I don’t talk to those guys anymore,” he said. “They’re not as good as my seniors on the basketball team now.”
“Well, I assumed you were giving them tips,” Kazuma’s mom said. “You know, like coaching.”
“I,” Kazuma said, “am not coaching any middle school dweebs.”
Kazuma’s mom tied off her thread before giving it a precise snip. Shaking out the patched jacket, she said, “That can’t be right. I know you’re going out today. He said he’d wait outside until after you ate breakfast.”
His chair groaned as Kazuma shot to his feet.
“Dear-” his mom tried, turning to watch him dart out the front door.
Their gate had hardly finished squeaking open before he caught sight of a kid idly snapping photos of the neighborhood from where he was leaning on their garden wall.
“Who the hell are you?” Kazuma said. He was sure he’d never seen this guy in his life, so it was probably okay to be a little rude. Who just shows up at people’s houses like that? he thought.
The kid’s face brightened. “Nii-san!”
“I don’t know you!” Kazuma said.
“My name is Tanaka Tsukushi,” the kid said, smiling and raising his digital camera. “You have a piece of rice on your nose.”
“Oh,” Kazuma said, ire forgotten. He rubbed his nose, a little embarrassed, briefly thought about eating the rice grain, and then flicked it off his finger instead.
“Do you always have a banged up face?” the brat asked, holding down a button.
Kazuma flushed. “Basketball practice,” he said, trying for dignified, “gets intense.” No one, least of all this nosy parker, had to know it was a pimple under the bandage.
Laughing, the kid took a photo.
“What are you doing?” Kazuma said hotly.
The kid shrugged. “I work for the school paper.”
“You’re too young to go to my school,” Kazuma pointed out. He couldn’t help but feeling a little mad when the brat had the effrontery to wink at him.
While he examined his camera’s display, he said, “It’s a special program for advanced middle-schoolers, not that you would know about that. I’ll be seeing you, Suzuka-san!”
Kazuma, bewildered, watched him trot down the street. The kid even exchanged friendly good mornings with elderly passerby. He went back inside his house, then promptly forgot all about it when his mom held out the phone to him, saying his friends were asking where he was.
Tsukushi barely even waited to close the door before flipping back through his photos. It was easier to judge them when the display wasn’t so washed out. He got some good ones today!
“I think Nee-san would like his eyebrows,” Tsukushi decided. “He’s not very smart, but I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.” The little scamp sat down to take off his shoes. “After all, her test scores haven’t been very good either.”