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The girl watching you has a hard, pinched face, and her lips are pursed like she’s eaten a lemon. Her dress and hair are yellow, also like a lemon, you notice. She’s altogether a sort of sour looking kid. Anyways, she’s not really watching you, she’s mostly watching your friend. You had been excited to go over to his house after school because you knew he was rich, and the house didn’t disappoint. Being inside it feels like being inside a mouth, and not just because of all the red velvet and gleaming white marble. It’s impressive, you have to admit, but you’re glad you’re currently on the lawn instead. You and your friend are sparring with your wooden swords, and his sister is watching raptly. Every time your friend wins, she claps and cheers and makes a whole fuss, and then just settles down and waits until she can perform the whole routine all over again. When you win, (which is more often than not, you’re proud to say), the little sister frowns and looks away. You try to pretend she doesn’t exist, but she’s been trailing the two of you all day.
You win twice in a row, and are ready for another round when your friend holds up his hand.
“I think it’s time we head in for dinner,” he says lightly. To you he says, “Nice job out there.” Like he’s so surprised, so gracious.
You don’t need him to tell you that. You know you’re better than him, he’s in no place to condescend. You feel your chest swell with pride anyways and you hate yourself for it. The three of you walk towards that cavernous house together side by side, with your friend in the middle, a prince and his attendants.
In the dining room there is a long white table, stupidly long, in your opinion, decorated with flickering candles which are real, and flowers, which are fake. There are only three places set. Your friend’s parents are always out on some sort of trip, probably involved with getting more rich, you assume. The sister sits straight across from you and glares. Her small freckled nose is scrunched up with anger, and it makes her look a little pig-like.
“You look like a pig,” you say out loud to her, because you’re sick of being glared at. “What’s your problem with me?”
To your horror, big blobby tears well up in her eyes and she begins to sob pathetically.
“Now really, that was uncalled for,” your friend says, looking down his nose at you, the picture of modest offense. You can see his tell though, the subtle quirk at the corner of his mouth that means he thinks this is all so funny. “Apologize to her now.”
You grit your teeth and push your dinner around on your plate. “I’m sorry,” you say.
The sister sniffles loudly, but thankfully stops crying. Despite the tracks of tears down her cheeks, she’s glowing. You’ve played right into her trap, you realize. She’s almost as bad as he is.
This is one of the most unpleasant dinners you’ve ever been to. When your friend invites you graciously to stay the night, you say yes without hesitation.
There are two beds in the large children’s bedroom, one for your friend and one for his sister, which is a little smaller and lower to the ground. A little girl’s bed. Confronted with where to sleep, you say, “We can share?” It’s a big bed, after all, more than enough room for both of you, even if you do kick a little in your sleep.
Your friend gives you a funny look. “I’ll get a spare mattress from the other room,” he says.
“You don’t have to, I really don’t mind,” you say. You don’t know why you’re insisting on this and you wish you would stop.
“You’ll sleep on the mattress,” he says again, unmistakably an order, so you find yourself going to help him move it into the bedroom. The sister watches the exchange from her own bed, sitting on top of the sheets quietly, swaddled in her long silk nightgown.
You and him talk for a bit before bed, normal sleepover talk about nothing in particular, and it’s almost nice, but sitting on the twin mattress on the floor means you have to crane your neck up to look at him when you talk, and it’s kind of uncomfortable in a small way that somehow manages to ruin the whole experience. At last, your friend bids you and his sister goodnight, backlit by a halo of light as he switches off the lamp.
You wait for sleep, and when it doesn’t come you just wait for morning. It’s profoundly boring, but you’ve managed to make yourself as comfortable as you can get, face buried in your pillow, and you nearly jump when a voice whispers out to you.
“I know you’re awake,” it says. You bolt upright and look immediately to your friend, but he’s fast asleep, with his face so relaxed and innocent that he looks like the boy you like to pretend he is.
“You weren’t breathing in the asleep way,” the voice says again.
You turn to look across the room and see the sister lying flat on her back, arms straight at her side, eyes open and trained at the ceiling. She looks like a corpse.
“Couldn’t sleep,” you whisper back.
“Oh. Is the mattress uncomfortable?” she asks. It’s too quiet to tell if the question is meant to hurt or not.
“Not really.”
Slowly, she removes herself from her bed and crawls across the floor until she’s a yard or so away from you, sitting cross legged in a patch of moon. Her hair looks silver instead of gold right now, and you almost reach out to touch it, but remembering that this is real life and not a half-waking dream, you stop yourself.
“Sometimes, when he has girls over, they go to the guest bedroom,” she says. You’re put off by how casually she says it. She can’t be any older than ten. “Never his own bed though. Not even when I’ve left the room empty for him, just to see if he’d take it.”
You don’t want to hear this, least of all out of the mouth of your friend’s little sister like this, but you’re already aware of his popularity with girls—everyone is. You’re pretty popular with girls too, could be, at least. That’s what he’s told you. You feel a rush of gratitude that he didn’t have you sleep in that guest bedroom by yourself, with nothing but the ghost of other girls’ touches for company. The floor next to his bed isn’t a whole lot better though.
“Hey,” she says, urging you to attention again. “Do you think you’re my brother’s best friend?”
You think on that. He’s probably your best friend, and you’re probably the closest thing he has to one, if he does has friends.
“Yes?” you say. “Maybe? I don’t know.”
The girl looks satisfied with your response and her pinched little mouth curls into a smile.
“Don’t you have any friends of your own that you could bother about this instead of me?” you ask. She looks for a moment genuinely confused.
“Of course not. Why would I want them?”
With that, she crawls back into her own bed and you slump down into yours. She lies on her side this time, facing you across the room, studying. You look back at her for the hell of it, violet eyes against violet eyes. Above you, your friend breathes evenly in his slumber.
…
It’s easy to spot her at the party; she looks shockingly out of place. She’s dressed for the kind of ball she likes to throw, the kind she sends out invitations for, tied in crisp ribbon and thick paper. You’ve been to those once or twice, but generally avoid them. Too many bad memories of formality, and besides, your brother is always there. This right now is what you’re used to. Grimy carpeting, loud music, the stench of a liquor cabinet broken into, this you know and understand. She, however, sticks out like a sore thumb, gingerly holding a red solo cup in one hand, stiff in her expensive dress.
You feel a twinge of pity come over you, and although you and her have never spared each other any kindness, and really never cross paths, you decide you might as well give her a familiar face to talk to.
“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” you say to her casually, swaying aimlessly to the beat. Her eyes widen for a moment.
“Oh. Hello,” she says, voice clipped. “I thought I’d finally come down to one of these parties you all are always going to, and honestly? I don’t see what all the fuss is about.”
She takes a tentative sip of her drink and nearly chokes, but manages to force it down, a little green in the face. You don’t blame her, the combinations of alcoholic beverages that teenagers come up with here are both creative and vile. You’ve learned to stick with what comes straight out of the bottle.
“Wanna go outside?” you ask.
She sniffs haughtily. “I guess that would be preferable,” she says. Like she’s the one doing you a favor.
You go out to sit on the lawn together, the grass cool but not yet dampened by early morning dew. You can still hear the bass leaking out through the cracked door, muffled like a heartbeat. You kick your heels off and stretch your legs out. She sits next to you, hands in her lap.
“What do people even do here?” she asks.
“A lot of things. Drink. Dance. Make out on the staircase.”
“Do you do that?”
“Which one?” you say, trying for a mischievous smile.
She frowns and doesn’t respond. There’s a rustle in the bushes nearby and a sharp giggle that echoes out over the front lawn.
You sigh. “Yeah. I do all of that stuff. So what?”
“How can you do it to yourself? How do you bear it?”
She almost reminds you of your brother in that moment, wide-eyed and anxious. Almost. He’s always worried for you. You know how to sharpen his judgment and disapproval like a knife, how to deftly twist it into your own chest. It’s easy. Right now the look directed at you is different, and with a start you realize why; she’s worried for herself.
“I know what they say about me,” you say, “how I’ve been with any boy who’ll take me, and half the girls too. I know the things they call me behind my back, thinking it will hurt me. Let me let you in on a secret though: I’m the one in control here! They can’t hurt me- they never will! Not when I’m the one hurting myself.”
Your voice is loud and strange in your ears and the girl next to you looks a little frightened. It doesn’t sound as triumphant when you say it to her. You twist the grass beneath you between your fingers and try to speak again, softer this time.
“This world wants to ruin us. At least this way I can have some choice in the matter.”
She nods slowly, brow furrowed. The weirdness of the situation isn’t lost on you. You’re having a conversation with a girl you barely know, aside from having had her brother’s hands up your blouse a few times, and she’s mulling over your words like she’s piecing together a delicate puzzle right out on the lawn of some crappy house party. She shifts so that she’s leaning towards you slightly, and her expression is unreadable. She makes a little throat clearing humming noise and leans forward a bit more, eyes flicking to your lips. Okay, you see now. You wait for her to lean in more, but she just hangs there, suspended in between space and her own daring. Deciding to take some damn initiative here, you lean in and close the gap.
As far as kisses go, you’ve had worse. It’s clearly her first one, so you take the lead and guide her through the motions. It’s kind of sweet, actually. Her eyelashes flutter against your cheeks as she takes a shaky breath. You can feel the end of the kiss drawing near and get ready to break apart, but instead she surges forward again with a single minded kind of hunger. She kisses you like she’s terrified of what will happen once she stops. You fall back into the grass to accommodate the change in weight, and the two of you stay like that for a good while, hunched over and wordless in the night air.
You don’t know what it is, if it’s the front door banging shut or a change in the music, maybe a wayward bird call a few hours too early, but after a stretch of time between a minute and forever, she’s suddenly scrambling off of you like she’s been shot. Deer-in-the-headlights look worn plainly on her face, lips flushed, grass stains on her clothes, breathing ragged.
“Hey—” you begin to say, not really knowing how you’re going to finish.
“I need to get home,” she interrupts.
You get to your feet, nod. There’s a creeping feeling of shame beginning to well up in you, shame you thought was long buried deep in its peaceful grave.
“Don’t you dare tell anybody about this,” she says, wild eyed, “Or I’ll— I’ll… Just don’t you dare!” You never will, and are about to tell her as much, but she’s already storming off into the road, streetlight reflecting faintly off of her dress.
It’s been a long time since you’ve felt as young as you do now, as young as she looks, retreating into the distance. No, she’s not like your brother at all, you decide. You hope she gets home safe, and step back into the overwhelming noise of the house.
…
You were surprised when she ran away, even more surprised when she came to you—but who were you to deny her, shaking and angry like shattered glass. God, her brother’s really done it this time. All that devotion sucked into a vacuum, a void, a shadow left in the sky where the stars used to be. The only thing you can do is give her a place to hide. Does she really have nobody else in this world?
You cook a small dinner for the two of you, just some rice and vegetables. The domesticity is strange. Cooking isn’t one of your (admittedly many) strong suits, home-making never given much thought. You sit down at the table, watching her stab peas with a butter knife as you eat your meal. She’s uncharacteristically quiet.
Before bed, you take a moment to stop by her room, your room, that you’ve let her have for the night. She’s sitting up in bed, staring at the ocean in the distance, glittering under a blade-shaped moon. You feel like you should talk to her, at least a little bit.
“Can I come sit?” you ask.
She slouches down further under her sheets and makes a sound you think is a yes . You go to perch carefully at the edge of the bed.
“You better not try anything,” she says. “I know what kind of stuff you get up to.”
Only she would have the nerve to say something like that in your own bed, you think to yourself, a little amused. You know she’s just lashing out, but it stings slightly all the same. Besides, you haven’t been ‘getting up to’ much.
“You’re far too young for me,” you tell her. And besides, you have someone else who occupies your heart, surely an open secret by now.
“No I’m not,” she mumbles. You sigh, rub your forehead. Compelled by some force, you reach down to stroke her hair, and she leans into the touch—unconsciously or not, you’re not sure.
“I kissed a girl once. A few weeks ago,” she says. “It was terrible.”
“Really?” you say. You don’t ask who, though you’re curious. She’s already telling you so much. You keep petting her hair and force your face into a mask of calm openness.
“I don’t know why people like it. All I could think about after was him … I wish I hadn’t done it.”
What could you say to that? There’s something stirring inside you, a feeling you could almost mistake for a motherly instinct, but no, you know it’s not that at all. You want to try for her, try to be something you never had, to say what she needs to hear, tell her what she needs to know. You barely know what to say to yourself half the time.
“Do you regret it because you didn’t like it, or because you felt like you were betraying your brother?” you end up saying.
“I don’t know,” she says. Her voice is very small. “I don’t know how to imagine myself without him there. I’m scared. I want things to go back to how they were.”
“That would seem easier, wouldn’t it?” you say, getting up at last to bid her goodnight. A hand wraps around your wrist, nails painted, paint chipped.
“What is it?”
She doesn’t meet your eyes. “Can you stay?” she asks.
“Yes. Alright,” you say, and crawl into bed beside her. You close your eyes and think to yourself, you won’t be able to keep her here forever, she’s going to have to return soon enough, but for now, all you can do is let her rest. When you peek out from under your half-closed eyelids, she’s already asleep.
…
It feels odd to call her your friend, but you think that’s what you are, in a sense. You’ve spent enough time with her to form an inevitable closeness, something that also comes with being the two youngest members of the student council. Outside of the council meetings, the most time you spend together is with the bride and her engaged in a cobbled together group that forms a sort of squabbling study hall.
Sometimes, such as in this case, you find yourself in the practice room with her. You on the piano, as always, and her on the double bass. It’s a funny choice of instrument on her part, you think. It seems to swallow her up when she wraps herself around it. You had assumed she would want to play something shrill and lilting—the flute, maybe—but no. She’s been taking lessons since she was little and she’s decent at it too, but there’s no real passion in her playing, and she slacks off more often than not to go gossip with her friends or spy on her enemies. It’s nice to have a partner, though, when she does show up.
She’s with you now, but not really. She just sits by her bass, a faraway look in her eyes. It’s a little disconcerting.
“So, how are your new living arrangements?” you ask, trying to break the silence.
She sighs. “It’s just one thing after another.”
“Oh really?”
“I don’t want to stay another second!”
You’re surprised. You would be overjoyed to be staying with the chairman in his tower. You know of her dislike of the bride and her engaged, but still, it’s so nice, and such an exclusive opportunity too. She’s been acting so strangely ever since the whole drama with her brother occurred, though you can’t exactly blame her.
“Really? I envy you,” you tell her, still startled by her outburst. “I thought you would feel lucky.”
“Really?” she says. She looks tired, like there’s a heaviness sunk deep into her bones and settled over her skin like fine dust. “We can switch then. I’ll stay in your room and you can take my place. You can hang out with the chairman and your beloved princess all day, how about that?”
You consider it. It is a pretty tempting offer.
“Wow, uh you’d really be up for it? I guess I’d have to talk to my sister about it, and the chairman of course…”
“I’m just kidding,” she says flatly, cutting off your rambling.
“Oh.” You laugh uneasily. “Ok.”
The silence drags on. She still isn’t touching her bass, just sits with her chin her hand, listless. You never thought you’d miss the endless insults, the haughtiness, but in its absence she seems a husk of herself, a shallow imitation of who she’s meant to be. It doesn’t feel right at all.
“Why don’t we play something,” you suggest.
“Like what?”
You glance around the room for any sheet music, any song really. All of the music stands are empty, and they crowd around her like dark metal trees, or fence poles.
“You know, I could arrange you a part for The Sunlit Garden, I could make it a duet!” you offer. It’s not a bad idea, actually. Obviously you’ve always imagined it as a piano duet between you and your sister, and you’re used to composing for piano, but you could modify it for her easily enough.
“No!”
She’s gotten up from her seat in a start, chair skittering out behind her.
“It’s always the damn Sunlit Garden! I’m sick of it! Sick! I’d rather die than play your stupid song!”
You try to open your mouth to respond. You didn’t know it would upset her so much, you really didn’t! She stalks across the room and yanks your sheet music off of the piano, eyes running back and forth across the pages as she leafs through them.
“It’s just blank,” she says quietly. “There’s nothing there. Why?”
You scratch your head sheepishly, feeling caught in the act of something. “I don’t really need to see it written down. I’ve played it so many times that I’ve got it all in my head, that’s all. Why are you mad at me this time?”
There’s a crunch as she crumbles the papers into a ball and throws them into a trash bin nearby, with more force than you think is strictly necessary. Without another word to you, she stalks out the door and into the hall.
“This school is full of idiots,” you hear her saying to herself, before she slams the door and leaves you alone again, with nothing but your piano for company. It’s okay, you’re used to it. You inch over to the trash bin and peek inside, see the crumpled paper illuminated by the dusty window’s light. You pick it up, smooth out the wrinkles the best you can, and set it back on the piano. Your fingers know exactly where to go, and the keys know exactly what sounds to make. You close your eyes and let the music wash back over you, envelop you in its warmth. Out of all people, you’d have thought she would understand.
…
You take lunch in your dorm now, in the week since the world was supposed to end. You don’t really know why—maybe you just aren’t ready to face things yet. Your lunchboxes are boring now. No point in making them pretty when there’s nobody with you to see them. A knock sounds at your door, and your heart jolts and then falls; it wouldn’t be her. Not him, either—he never visits you anymore.
“Come in,” you say, loud enough to carry over through the wall. The door creaks open to reveal, to your bewilderment, that girl from the student council, the rich one who throws parties and likes to slap people and stalk your friend. That’s why she must be here, you realize.
“She’s gone,” you tell her, if that’s what she’s looking for. “She transferred out the day after, well, you know. I thought people in the student council knew these things.”
The girl tosses her blond hair over her shoulders and shuts the door behind her.
“I’m not in the council anymore, I quit. And I came here to talk to you, stupid.”
“Huh?” you say, looking up from your lunch.
“I haven’t seen you around much, and I know she was your best friend. You’re nice, and people like you, so I’m sure you have other people to keep you company, but… I guess I just figured you might want someone to talk to.”
“Nobody talks to me, people only liked me because she was my friend,” you say bitterly. There it is again: that resentful streak you’ve always done your best to keep down, rearing its ugly head. “I don’t know what to do, I can feel her slipping away already!” you continue, “Soon she’s going be all the way gone, and then I’ll just be nothing again!” Oh, this really does make you seem like a bad friend, doesn’t it? Only thinking about yourself—what would she say to you if she could see you now? You choke out a laugh.
“I know the feeling,” the girl says. “It was my greatest fear in the world, to become like you.”
“Thanks,” you say flatly.
She groans angrily, whether at you or herself, you can’t tell, and comes over to plant herself on your bunk beside you. “I don’t normally do or say things like this. You’re going to have to listen to me, I’m not done yet. What I’m trying to say here is that I thought everyone had a predetermined quality within them, that there were the people made to be orbited and the ones made to orbit, and maybe if I got close enough to the sun, some of the spare light would reflect off of me too. When my brother left me out on my own, I thought I was doomed to be ordinary, meaningless.”
“Do you still believe that?” you ask. You’re curious to see how this story ends.
She makes a vague motion with her hands. “I don’t know, things are starting to seem blurrier to me. I used to think I wanted to be a princess, now I don’t. What I thought I knew turned out to be rotten and hollow from the inside out. If not being a princess means I’m a nobody to everyone else, maybe I’ll take it. Plus,” she says. “I’m talking to you now, even with that duelist of yours gone, so that must mean you’re good enough for me on your own, right?”
You blush red from forehead to chin. So embarrassing.
She smirks. “Maybe I am pretty good at this inspirational speech thing,” she says. The smile drops off of her face as a resounding growl echoes through the room.
“Hey,” you ask. “Have you had lunch yet?”
“No,” she says. “I skipped it to try and look for you.”
Once again, that warmth in your face.
“You can share mine, if you want. I made a lot,” you offer. She accepts without much prodding, eyebrows raising as she takes a bite.
“Hey, this is really good!” she says, words muffled.
You grin. You’re always proud of your cooking, if not much else.
And then, because you’re feeling brave, you say, “I don’t have a roommate, and I miss cooking for people. You can come over again some time, if you’d like.”
She waits a moment to finish chewing her roll, and you try not to look too eager for her answer.
“Yeah. I think I would like that,” she says, after swallowing.
You grin, and the school bells cheer in their towers.
…
“You’re leaving, aren’t you,” says Nanami Kiryuu. She emerges from the shadow of an archway, hands on her hips, finally approaching you after all these months. She’s avoided you mostly, but you can always feel her eyes on you as she walks by the rose garden or passes you in the halls. Not in the same obsessive way she used to watch Utena, more like how a person presses down on a bruise, wincing at the tenderness.
“Yes, I am,” you respond. It feels good to say it out loud. The handle of your suitcase feels warm under your palm, like it’s meant to be there.
“That’s what I thought,” Nanami says primly, not moving. She taps her fingers against her sides in an irregular rhythm. You nod at her and take another step forward, the effect immediate.
“Wait!” she cries out, stumbling out into your path, arms spread out wide as if to block your path. “You can’t go yet!”
“I can’t?” you say, and you can’t hold back a small smile. There are still some constants in life; Nanami’s voice still rings through these stone corridors with the same righteous indignation as always. A warm summer wind curls around the two of you, the scent of pollen ripe on the air. Has it really been a whole year already? Since everything?
Nanami smooths her skirt down as it flutters in the breeze. Still keeping away from the student council, for now. She’s shaking like a leaf.
“I still have so much to say to you, to ask you. The way I was with you, it makes me, I—You can’t leave when I haven’t even told you I’m sorry!”
“Sorry?” you ask. You once thought you had seen everything the world had to offer, that nothing could surprise you anymore, you wouldn’t let it. How easy to think that when the world was so small!
“Did you not hear me or something?” she spits. She’s taken to wearing her hair out of her braids so that her bangs fall across her forehead. It makes her look softer, especially when she glances up from underneath them the way she does now. It suits her.
She takes a breath. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for hitting you and calling you a freak and trying to set you up and humiliate you and I’m sorry for blaming everything on you and being afraid of you and never trying to talk to you and hating you, I’m sorry for hating you, I’m sorry and I’m telling the truth. You can just ignore me if you want and I don’t care. I just need you to know, okay?!”
“Nanami. I forgive you.” It’s easy to say, because you’re telling the truth too.
She looks at you like you just slapped her, flushed red in the face.
“You can’t just say that!” she says. “I don’t understand.”
You want to tell her every horrible thing you’ve done, all the hidden thorns, the double meanings and carefully laid plans, even the silly things, petty jokes you’ve played out of boredom and bitterness. You want to tell her, I’m the one who doesn’t deserve to be forgiven, don’t you see? You could tell her that, and more, but you don’t. This place is a graveyard, honeycombed with pockets of stale air and resentment, life frozen so long it turns to death. You both deserve more than this, you remind yourself.
“You don’t have to understand,” you say. A pause, and then, “Do you forgive me too?”
She meets your eyes, steadier this time. “You know what? Yeah. I think I do.”
She sticks out her hand decidedly, and it takes you a moment to realize what she’s trying to do. You take it and give it a shake, like sealing a promise.
“You’ve changed,” you say. It’s in her appearance, the hair, the ring she no longer wears, the council uniform she’s left behind, but it also shows in the way she carries herself, the way she speaks. She sets her eyes straight ahead now, instead of sticking her nose in the air in that ridiculous way. You always liked to imagine her accidently prancing right into a big stone column.
“I know. So have you, obviously,” she says, motioning to your suitcase. “Everything is changing, even if it’s too small for me to even see, I still know it is. Do you think we’re going to see each other again?”
“Maybe,” you say. I hope so. “But not here.”
“Not here,” she agrees. She finally moves out of the way to let you pass, a sentry who’s riddle you’ve solved. You pick up your bags and continue down the hall, stopping once before turning the corner. Nanami gives you a wave.
“Good luck, Anthy,” she says. “I hope you find her.”
With that, she retreats back into the walls of the school, blending into its open arms. Probably off to spend time with her odd assortment of friends—maybe watching Juri practice, or sitting with Wakaba while she fusses over her.
You imagine being reunited with Utena, something you have been allowing yourself to do more frequently now. This time you skip to years later, the two of you older, living together somewhere. Despite everything, you do like gardening, so you imagine a little garden out back where you can sit together. No roses though, you’ve had your fill and more of those. You and Utena sit together and sip tea, and you say Do you ever think about having people over? And Utena will say, I think there’s room for one more, have anyone in mind? And you do.
You hold this image close to you, like a lantern, and when you turn the corner, head towards the gate, feel the encroaching winds of summer vacation in your loose hair, you don’t look back.