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After a shower, the hair takes the longest to dry. It soaks up the first spray of water and seizes the final droplets from a dying shower head. The water that touches the hair is the cleanest; as it runs down the skin, pulled down by the woes of gravity, it is dirtied by the contents on the skin. And when that water hits the shower floor, it slithers into the drain, visible to the naked eye. Strands of hair may fall out in the shower, too. One can watch their hair and the shower water leave, bound for pipes tucked below-ground.
The smaller impurities, the sweat and the skin and the microbes—you don’t get the satisfaction of watching them disappear. They leave with the water and that’s it.
Mizuki always felt like their hair was the cleanest part of their body for this reason. They avoided long showers and liked to torture themself under cold water, but there was something uniquely worthwhile about washing their scalp. Mizuki liked to dig their fingers in and curse the dandruff, yet they hated how quickly the strands of hair fell through their fingers as if they were too short to properly appreciate. Every time they showered, they were inevitably forced to wonder what it would be like to grow their hair out, even just a few inches.
Would the drain clog more quickly? Would the satisfaction of watching their hair go down the drain turn to grief?
Today’s boring lesson at school was about the integumentary system. Sitting in class made Mizuki want to take a shower more than anything else. Actually, school made Mizuki want to crawl out of their skin. Visiting the rooftop was only temporary relief from the windowed hallways and obnoxious friend groups who wouldn’t stop gossiping. The cool wind on Mizuki’s skin and a nice breeze threading through their hair could only do so much to relieve them of chronic discomfort.
Mizuki’s seat in class was located by the windows lining the right wall. Usually, the blinds were up, allowing Mizuki to take in the view of the school courtyard from three floors up. The pavement was cast in the shade of an oak tree that the first years liked to gather under. If Mizuki went to the rooftop, they could see the same tree, but only the leafy canopy of it.
Suddenly, Mizuki regretted having stayed for this particular lesson. It wasn’t unusual for them to skip, and Mizuki could learn about the integumentary system without having to sit through a biology lecture. One scan of the classroom told Mizuki they were not the only person battling boredom. Most of their classmates were passing notes to their friends, doodling in their notebooks, or flicking their pencils. If Mizuki were to ask for a restroom pass now, the class would surely be suspicious.
The minutes ticked by slowly, falling like water from a low-pressure shower head. Mizuki learned that the epidermis was the layer of their skin they hated the most. And apparently, their hair was not as clean as they had thought it was. It housed bacteria and dead stuff too.
“Mizuki?” The teacher held up a slip of paper from her position at the lectern. “Mizuki Akiyama?”
The tired second-year blinked.
“You’re being asked to the office immediately.”
Mizuki froze. The class burst into a gaggle of whispers and turned their sharp eyes toward Mizuki all at once. They knew how much their quiet classmate skipped class, of course. But when Mizuki did show up, they made sure to remain well-behaved. And yet… “the office” always referred to the principal’s office. Why was Mizuki being called to see the principal, in the middle of class nonetheless?
The thin paper slip in the teacher’s hand flapped beneath the force of the A/C coming from the ceiling. Mizuki stood up and shoved their right hand into the pocket of their beige khaki pants. That way, the class would not see it trembling.
Mizuki spoke low and took the hall pass in their free hand. “Thank you.”
The teacher nodded. “Please be back as soon as possible.”
Mizuki bent over in a quick, polite bow, then walked out of the classroom without looking back. They were used to such scrutiny from their peers. The sliding door closed behind them with a silent click, and Mizuki kept their eyes trained on their shoes, studying the scuffed and fraying laces. Where’s the principal’s office again?
“Mizuki!” a voice whispered, and Mizuki practically fell over at the sound. Somewhere in their spooked mind, they recognized the ghost who’d called their name.
“Rui? ” they asked in disbelief. To Mizuki’s utter surprise, it was indeed the towering third-year who leaned against the corridor’s wall just a few feet away. He looked as aloof and unapologetic as ever.
“Didn’t seem like you noticed me,” Rui explained, shrugging. “Sorry if I scared you.”
“What—what are you doing in the second year’s hall?”
In mysterious Rui fashion, he pointed at the paper slip hanging dejectedly between Mizuki’s fingertips. “Who do you think wrote that?” he asked.
“The… the principal?”
“Try again.”
Mizuki squinted at the hall pass. “This looks like the principal’s handwriting.”
“It’s not hard to copy someone’s handwriting.”
“Don’t tell me you…”
“You looked like you were about to fall asleep at your desk. Hey, if you don’t want to skip, you could just go back inside.”
Mizuki stared at the genius troublemaker across from them. Of course, this was just another one of Rui’s schemes, bedazzled as a heroic act. Rui was a troublemaker with a streak for pretending he wasn’t.
“What a pain,” sighed Mizuki. “Today, I was—”
—going to come up to the rooftop anyway. But of course, if Mizuki said that, they knew Rui would tease them for it endlessly.
“I had no plans of going to the rooftop today,” Mizuki opted to say, furrowing their brows in faux annoyance.
“Well, I need your help, so you’re going!” Rui was evidently amused by Mizuki’s confused displeasure. “And if you want to skip, we should head towards the stairwell now, before a hall monitor sees us.”
Mizuki cast a somewhat longing, somewhat forced glare back at their classroom door. Would they be able to sit through the rest of that lecture without going crazy? Probably not. Mizuki hated to admit that Rui pulled his trick at a perfect time. With Rui, Mizuki thought woefully, it’s impossible to win.
“This is a one-time thing,” they conceded. They pocketed the fake hall pass and ignored the immense relief that they wouldn’t have to see the principal.
Satisfied with their agreement, Rui began walking towards the corridor of stairs that would take the two of them up the fourth and fifth floors, and then to the roof. The third year hummed as he went and walked lazily, ignoring the possibility that the two of them were walking on very thin ice. Mizuki couldn’t help but be twice as paranoid—paranoid enough for the both of them—when their synced footsteps began to echo on the stairwell. Even when they reached the second to last floor, it seemed like a hall monitor or teacher might appear at any second. If Mizuki was caught skipping with Rui right now, what would their punishment be? It’d probably be worse for them than for Rui, since he was a third year and due to graduate.
A sudden gust of wind coming up the stairs caused Mizuki’s arms to burst out with goosebumps. Not this again.
“Rui, did you—”
“Are you cold?”
“Eh?”
“Your arms,” Rui said, “they’re wrapped around you.”
Mizuki stared at Rui in stubborn frustration. They were pretty sure they were blushing, but the shame of being caught so timid was more bothersome than anything else. Mizuki’s uniform was supposed to keep them warm, and besides, what person got cold from a measly gust of wind? The catlike smile on Rui’s face as he waited for Mizuki’s answer only worsened their sour mood.
“I’m not cold,” Mizuki answered, curt, and forced their hands back to their sides. “I was just going to ask if you left the roof access door propped open. I told you to stop doing that.”
Rui laughed. “If I did, it was an accident.”
If there was one thing Mizuki was good at,it was telling when someone was lying. Rui was obviously lying to them right now.
Was he so sure I would come with him, Mizuki wondered, that he left the door open?
The idea made Mizuki’s heart beat just a little louder, for a reason they could not pinpoint.
“I can’t stay too long,” Mizuki commented as the two of them stepped into the sun. Dutifully, Rui closed the rooftop door behind them. “My teacher said she wants me back soon.”
“Is the lecture more interesting?” Rui questioned.
“More interesting than what?”
“Talking with me.”
“You flatter yourself,” responded Mizuki.
“And you wound me!” Rui brought his hand close to his face, hiding a grin. “I save you from class, and yet you’re as ruthless as ever. You’ve never been interested in lectures anyway… I don’t know what I should expect from second-year Mizuki Akiyama.”
“I’m not being ruthless, you’re just sensitive. And please don’t call me by my full name.”
Rui sidled up to Mizuki and leaned down so their faces were closer. He was defiant in the way that statues are, carved into the world, unmoving in their eeriness. Mizuki could make out the shadows of absent sleep under his eyes and the dullness in his yellow irises, like waning moons. Rui was tall, not staggeringly so, but in bending forward the way he was, Mizuki felt small—much smaller than Rui. Being the center of Rui’s stare made Mizuki want to run to the fence at the rooftop’s edge and look away from him because they could not stand to stare at someone so like them.
“I forged that pass for you,” Rui said, pointing to the slip.
“… You did,” Mizuki begrudgingly admitted.
“And I need your help.”
“What could I possibly help you with?”
Rui pulled away, and Mizuki ignored the breath of relief that spilled from their lips, slow and silent.
“There’s a test tomorrow.” The sun glinted off the clip of the pen tucked into Rui’s front shirt pocket. “I need help studying for it.”
Mizuki stared at Rui in scrutiny. “I barely understand second-year material. What makes you think I’d understand yours?”
“That’s a lie, Mizuki,” Rui replied. “I’ve seen your grades.”
How did he…
“And I’ve seen yours.” Standing their ground, Mizuki crossed their arms over their chest and added, “You’re doing well, right? You have good enough grades to get into some of the top schools. You don’t need my help to study.”
With a sigh, Rui sat down on the rooftop and leaned back into his palms, stretching out his legs in front of him. He looked downright exhausted. Perhaps he was only playing a game—one of many games he played with Mizuki—but Mizuki’s inclination to help him was still embarrassingly strong. It wasn’t like Mizuki wouldn’t skip class anyway; they always did, and Rui was almost always there for it. But normally, the two of them sat in silence or made meaningless small talk. Neither of them liked school enough to speak of it.
Rui doesn’t need my help, but what if he wants it?
Mizuki put a hand to their forehead and cleared their throat. “I’ll help you study.”
“Seems like my silence makes you agreeable,” Rui teased, beckoning Mizuki to sit beside him.
Quietly, Mizuki trudged forward and plopped down several feet away from the third year, aligning themself in the shade cast by the rooftop door entrance. The sun was warm, but the wind was bitingly cold, and it made Mizuki’s teeth want to chatter. They pulled their legs toward their chest and wrapped their arms around their knees in a protective position. The cement beneath them was cooler than they would’ve liked, but it was better than sitting under the direct rays of the sun, which Rui seemed unbothered by. In fact, he looked like he was reveling in the sunbeams, perhaps because Mizuki had decided to stay with him.
“What’s your test about?”
“It’s a practice test for entrance exams.”
Ah. Mizuki bit down on their back teeth.
“Do you think you’ll do well?”
“Probably,” Rui said and shrugged.
Mizuki didn’t look at him. “Good luck.”
“Thank you,” Rui said, and for a moment, the second-year was tempted to look away from that one spot on the concrete rooftop floor, because when Rui smiled, you could hear it in his voice.
I’m not sure if I’ll miss you when you’re gone, Mizuki thought, even though they were not one to wonder much about anyone else’s future, much less their own.
“Okay, so what did you want me to do? To help you study, I mean.”
“I thought you’d never ask,” Rui said, returning to his amused self. He pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket; it was crumpled, and it looked like it had seen better days. Mizuki didn’t want to take it, even after Rui outstretched his hand, because what if they tore it?
“Here,” he said, “it has notes. Just read me back the questions.”
“Alright,” Mizuki muttered, and when they took the folded paper, it was between two fingers, careful and slow.
Mizuki shuffled to face Rui and unfolded the paper while looking suspiciously at the third year. They noticed Rui’s doodles first—scribbled all over the page, filling the margins between lines, occupying the spaces between every bullet point. Mizuki hadn’t seen Rui’s drawings before. But looking at them, they appeared to be a roadmap of ideas for shows: astronauts, spaceships, animals. And surprisingly, they were fairly good drawings, too. Cartoonish, but… Rui-like. Mizuki tried to act unimpressed.
“How am I supposed to read your notes with all of these doodles?” they asked, sardonic.
“You sound like my teacher,” Rui said.
“I can’t even read your handwriting.”
“Okay, now you’re just insulting me.”
“Seriously, did you sleep through calligraphy class?”
“I skipped.”
Mizuki tilted their head. “You skipped elementary class?”
“You could say I developed a habit,” Rui said pointedly. “But didn’t you? We’re skipping right now, after all.”
“That’s beside the point,” they countered. “I’ve never heard of someone skipping school so young. What did you do in your free time?”
Mizuki immediately regretted asking the question. They never asked each other questions. It was perhaps Rule #1 on the list of “Things Rui and Mizuki Will Never Talk About.” But the conversation between them was more lively than ever, so was Mizuki really to blame for getting carried away? Subconsciously, Mizuki touched their hair, wrapping a tense finger around the short strands at the base of their neck.
Rui seemed just as surprised as Mizuki. That is, he was stunned into silence, though he displayed no indication of discomfort. Mizuki hoped he would change the topic like he always did, in amicably positive Rui fashion, but the third year opened his mouth and said, “My garage is my bedroom. I used to stay home and tinker a lot.”
“Oh?” Mizuki replied, their voice coming out as a squeak.
“I can’t tinker much at school,” Rui continued. “Rules and all. But you see me playing with toy batteries and other gadgets, right? Actually—”
Rui pulled out a windup monkey from the pocket of his pants. “I usually have something with me. I learned to do this stuff in elementary.”
Mizuki frowned at the little toy in the palm of Rui’s hand. Of course, they’d seen Rui tinkering with things when they skipped together. One time, he was rewiring his mp3 player, and the next time it was a Feng Shui fortune cat that waved at Mizuki once he’d fixed it. But those gadgets he tinkered with were bits and pieces of his life Mizuki was not privy to, nor did they want to be. It seemed like a personal thing to Rui, in the same way that Mizuki liked ribbons, and knowing it meant they would grow closer.
Mizuki was scared of growing closer.
“That’s cool,” they said, eyeing the monkey toy. “Sorry for teasing you about skipping in elementary.”
“It’s fine,” Rui said. “I have much bigger projects at home. I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors about the huge robots who do street shows with me. I built them. Some in elementary, some in middle school.”
Mizuki had actually seen pictures of them from other students’ smartphones. But knowing Rui built them, all by himself? That gave them a new perspective on Rui’s love for robotics.
Unsure of what to say to him, Mizuki just nodded, feeling a strange pang in their chest.
“Sorry, I talked too much, didn’t I? Studying. I’m supposed to be studying,” Rui mumbled. He tucked the toy back into his pocket, and Mizuki was almost sad to see it go. “Whenever you’re ready,” he said, gesturing to the paper full of questions.
“Right,” Mizuki muttered, returning their rosy gaze to Rui’s messy notes, brimming with bad handwriting and creative, silly doodles.
The studying session began, and for the entire stretch of it, Rui answered Mizuki’s questions with surety and detail. He was articulate in his genius. Mizuki’s stomach turned in uncertainty, and they wondered whether they would ever be able to answer questions like Rui did, so sure of himself. Perhaps the most pervasive thought that haunted them was pondering where Rui’s genius could take him.
Mizuki wanted to take a shower and wash these feelings away. Perhaps then, they could scrub their skin anew and be clean of their aloneness.