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Takako Chigusa was an early bird, which meant she would often walk to school or go by bike. It was a necessary part of her morning routine that helped her through a school day full of antics of her schoolmates, days with very little else to look forward to. She needed enough sensory stimulation for her daily dose of serotonin: fresh air and warm sun, birds chirping, gravel crunching beneath every step; even in bad weather, the cool wind hitting her cheeks or rainwater on freshly dyed hair would suffice.
Today was not one of those days. Unlike herself, she had woken up tired and too late—her body demanded extra rest for the studying she had pushed herself to do.
But she had her priorities. Her routine was second to being on time for school, and had she flipped them and taken her bike, today she would have been terribly late. That fact greatly limited her options but didn’t leave her hopeless, only worse: she had to take the train.
Takako had taken the train to school a handful of times, and each of them reminded her of why it was the last resort. This time, as it turned out, was not an exception.
Though her eyes glued to the window and quickly changing sights, minding her own precious business, Takako was too aware of every pair of eyes on her. A sigh escaped her lips, loud and exaggerated, as if trying to fog up the window in front of her.
The show is over. Now get a life.
The train came to a stop. Hidden behind a slow blink, she turned her gaze on the passenger who slipped through the sliding doors as if he couldn’t get out any quicker. Maybe slither would have been a better fitting verb for such a maggot of a person.
This contemptible invertebrate could not face her, could not give her the satisfaction of exposing his face embellished with a dark red spot on his cheek left behind by Takako’s left fist. He dared not meet her eyes—and good for him for that. Her glare could have killed.
His shame was almost as fulfilling, but she at least would have liked to know if the showy rings on her fingers had drawn any blood.
Her hand hurt as a result. Her rings left her fingers throbbing, begging for freedom. But none of it felt as heavy and taxing as the feeling of his forty-and-then-some-year-old hand cupping her behind. Even though he had exited from her view in one piece, in her consciousness, the hand remained.
She hardly remembered turning around and striking the stranger in the face. It was hazy and dream-like, like she would soon wake up from that nightmare and forget it.
But she would not, nor had forgiveness ever been her strongest suit.
Rage dwelled inside her stomach, upsetting it close to nausea. She was still very far from the stop closest to her school. Yet, a sudden irrational, almost disturbing, urge to step out of this train after him took her over more quickly than her fist had modified the man’s face to match his unsightly personality. Before she could stop herself, her left leg tugged half a step forward towards the doors—
With a soft, gentle click, they swiftly slid closed, putting an end to her outrageous plan before it started. She didn’t fight it.
Takako bore no further harm in mind for this gentleman, only intimidation. A lesson to learn. After such a spectacle, getting off the train with him and tailing him a few meters for a block or two left very few chances for him to believe in such coincidences.
As the train picked up speed again, there was a hint of sense coming back to her now. Impulse driven and favored by anger, she hadn’t thought about how wrong it all could have gone in the end. How this ludicrous, little man with his ego crushed to a thousand pieces could have acted very differently, given the circumstances and fewer eyes to witness it. That heartbeat of a moment of strength and triumph didn’t necessarily mean it was all thanks to her impudent willingness to defend herself and the muscle to do it with.
She had overestimated herself, and it was an uneasy realization she simply had to face.
Oh, how much she would have liked to get out of this incredibly suffocating train and walk back home. How she could think of at least a dozen other things she’d much rather do—but skipping school for the sake of it wasn’t a privilege she could afford to enjoy. And in no universe would she ever sob about her encounter to a teacher or a parent for some extra hours of freedom.
But the eyes were still staring, Takako came to note. Looks of disapproval, anticipation; some disgruntled by the disturbance, some expecting and hoping for more. The same eyes that saw what happened now condemn her for it.
She turned to the window in front of her, catching a glimpse of her own enraged face reflected atop the passing scenery. She could not stand this vehicle a second longer, not when the walls were made of eyes and ears of nosy strangers, with windows that only reflected feelings of disgust. The next stop was going to be hers no matter what, Takako decided, and she would sit through any scolding and sniggering she might receive for running late.
It was like stepping into a cold shower after extensive training on the track when Takako finally heard the familiar click of the doors closing behind her, the wind bringing fresh air into her lungs.
Never again, she thought in the form of a personal promise—in reality, it was almost like a prayer.
Depending on her pace, the walk ahead would cost nearly a full hour. Running was no option, as much as it insulted the track star in her to admit; her short morning had left no time to stretch her muscles to make that distance. Takako picked a brisk but comfortable pace and quickly found her usual path.
Come to think of it, she had taken this route to school since she was old enough to go. It wasn’t the fastest or the most convenient, but it was the nicest. She would pass a small dog park where she might spot a familiar snout or two, often stopping to greet those whose waggy tails reached the fence in time for a pet. Now, the park was empty.
The second reason may have had something to do with the fact this route snuggled next to Sugimura Hiroki’s house. On some rare occasions, Takako would catch Hiroki coming out of his house, and the two would team up for the rest of the journey. Hiroki lived closer to the school and always went by bike, so chances of seeing him now were positively less than zero.
A sharp, stinging pain hit her out of the blue. Sure, her hand had been throbbing the whole time, but she had learned to shift minor aches out of her mind long ago. This new sensation she registered only now. Her knuckles and fingers had taken most of the impact, but the pain resonated from the palm of her hand. Takako came to a halt, raised her left hand, still in a loose fist, and opened it. Four small, crescent moon-shaped, reddened marks sat neatly in a row in the middle of her palm, a single droplet of blood slowly pushing out of one of them. Her eyes caught the perpetrator immediately; the tip of her middle finger’s long nail tinted red underneath gave it away.
Of course. Takako wasn’t punching irritating people left and right for a reason: she favored her long, elegant nails and kept them strong and in shape. The middle finger, being the longest, had broken through the skin to draw blood, and her almond-shaped nail only helped the process with its elongated, though blunt, tip. Worse yet, the punch broke her nail. Quiet curses erupted from Takako’s mouth as she examined the barely-visible crack.
“Chigusa?”
A soft voice calling out her name drew her attention, and she met with a friendly face she didn’t expect yet to see. Takako couldn’t be too surprised; she was standing on his street after all.
“What are you doing?” Sugimura Hiroki spoke up again. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.” His eyes had caught the lively red color of blood on her hand. “You’re bleeding.”
Takako had dropped her hand back to her sidein an attempt to hide it. However, he had already caught her off guard, leaving her no time to prepare.
“I guess.”
He said nothing. He asked nothing. Hiroki waited, gave her time and space, yet demanded no further clarification in return if one didn’t leave her tongue willingly. And no word did.
The con to these moments of silence was the complete awkwardness that followed. Without breaking it, Hiroki turned around and marched right back into his family’s own comely but old traditional Japanese house. When it exceeded the time it would take him to fetch a book or homework he had forgotten to pack, Takako resumed her walk.
“Hey, Takako, wait,” he called again, just as Takako, picking up the pace, had walked scarcely seven meters more. “Where are you going?”
“To school. Aren’t you?” She turned on her heel and continued, “I’m already going to be late, so could you please hurr—”
He beckoned her to come over. Hiroki stood at the sliding doors of his house, but they were shut behind him. He gave another frantic wave of his hand, then pointed at the wooden platform of his house with his index finger. Takako tilted her head slightly and knitted her brows in response.
Did he not hear him? Or had he chosen not to? Did he find a gross bug he wanted her to see?
“Sit here.”
Takako was astonished.
“Didn’t you hear what I said? Let’s go.”
“Sit, please,” he insisted, even at the risk of wearing her out of patience. ”Come on.”
She pressed her lips together to a thin line and did as he asked. Rather cautiously, she approached him, her narrowed eyes glowing with suspicion. On the elevated wooden platform sat a small, white tin box with some paint cracked off at the blunt corners. When she sat down, Hiroki did as well and, with a swift motion of his hand, opened the tin box.
Her lips opened to protest, but the words got stuck in her throat when Hiroki unexpectedly grabbed Takako’s left hand by the wrist and pried her fingers open with a simple, warm touch. His other dove into the first-aid supplies in the box after he evaluated the graveness of her wound. His brows creased in concentration, and it almost looked like he knew what he was doing.
Well, he is a martial artist, after all, Takako thought to herself, a little taken aback by how such a minuscule gesture managed to better her mood. She held back a wince when he applied antiseptic to her injury. Still... A plain band-aid would have sufficed.
“I punched a boy in the face,” she confessed.
“...You punched a boy?”
“It was a grown man, actually,” Takako corrected, catching his curious glance. She knew it sounded bad, but the second best thing was staying vague when context wouldn’t make it any better. “It was self-defense.”
She couldn’t quite read the expression his boyish features took on; curiosity perhaps, but also bedazzlement. His brow twitched, resembling the birth of a frown.
“Oh Lord, you stop that. I’m telling you!” she snarled at him. ”Is that how little do you think of me? You... You weird, weird self-defense maniac.”
”I know, I know, I do believe you! Hold still.” Hiroki tightened his grip on her wrist and, with his fingers, pressed down a band-aid on the freshly cleaned cut. The quality of it felt altogether higher, the sterile cloth in the middle thicker and softer than any other brand she had used. Such an unnecessary thing to do for such an insignificant injury. Takako bit her lower lip to take back control of the smile her mouth almost curved into.
”Listen, now,” Hiroki spoke up and held up his hand flat, fingers extended as though it was pressed against an invisible wall. “Next time somebody like that gives you trouble, don’t roll up your fingers into a fist to throw a punch. There’s a better way, and you will not hurt yourself.”
Takako nodded, bemused by the sudden drive in him to correct her technique. Though she didn’t mind it, of course—the broken nail was still quite fresh in her mind.
“Keep your hand flat,” Hiroki instructed while his other hand pointed at the palm part of his hand, “and throw your punch with your palm.” To demonstrate, he did so in slow motion against the wood frame of the door.
“I got it.” She nodded again. Rarely did Hiroki share such trivia, but when he did, Takako made sure it stuck. It came from a place of care and concern, not from that of arrogance or boastfulness.
She stood up and fixed the skirt of her sailor fuku with a stroke of her hand. Her left hand curled back into a fist, her nails comfortably snuggled into the soft, thick cloth center of the band-aid Hiroki had so graciously given her. It, too, came from a place of care and concern, and she could never admit out loud how much it had actually meant to her.
“Okay, we’re really, really late now. Shall we go?”