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The thing about churches is that you don’t need to pray to go there.
Langa missed today’s Mass by a wide margin—between unpacking the first few boxes and meeting with his new school advisor and whatnot—even so, he strolls across the nave, down the carmine carpet that leads to the altar. Bright daylight filters through the checkered glass pattern of the windows, squares of red and orange and green filling the portion of the floor that runs along the walls. The atmosphere is crisp, the scent of incense still lingering. He always wondered how, the moment temperatures rose past the need-to-wear-a-jacket level, churches could remain cooler inside than their surroundings.
His fingertips brush over the topmost edges of the wooden benches that welcome people during the Mass, split into two neat rows on his right and two on his left. How many usually gather here to participate? The article he’d looked up when he’d searched for if there were any churches in Naha didn’t specify. He’s the only person lurking around, and it’s not that late in the day yet, so he guesses not a whole lot.
The smooth wood as the last—well, the first—row of benches right in front of the altar comes up under his touch, and he stops sliding his index and middle fingers along. He should head home, too. Tomorrow will be the first day of his second year in a new institute, an ocean apart from what he’s always known.
His mother observed him the entire time over breakfast, one quick glance at him and one at her plate. She’d slightly burned out the eggs, too. Did her restlessness lean more towards hope, or anxiety?
Langa slides into one of the first-row benches.
Mountain slopes have always been his go-to for comfort, but as of late, he’s found that churches are quickly becoming second best, even outside of liturgies, and not entirely because of the utter lack of mountain slopes in Naha, Okinawa, Japan—that’s only superficially an issue. Even closer to Kelowna—even in the inland of British Columbia, Canada—no slope has been welcoming after his father’s death. He’d much rather they would crawl with memories or even ghosts. They were just empty. A husk of what he’s always remembered them being. He quit trying to feel something on that snow the moment white flakes and fir trees turned into a mirror.
His pocket buzzes; he ignores it. Instead, he digs his elbows into his thighs and observes the altar: one block of light marble. Nothing more than a white cloth and a candle holder on top of it. His gaze climbs up to the glasswork adorning the window that sits right at the center of the wall.
The scene represents Jesus on the cross, with two angels kneeling by each of his sides, and two Roman soldiers fleeing away, scared as if they’d just witnessed the devil instead of the Lord. Colors pop out of each piece of stained glass… especially the ones on the bottom left corner, where three bright flowers stand. Langa has seen those—they’re everywhere around here: big petals, usually red, but he’s met orange ones, too, encased in dark dented leaves. He’s doubtful they make for an accurate representation of the nature that had surrounded the cross about two thousand years ago, but he wonders if they’re a prerogative of Okinawan churches instead.
His phone buzzes again, more insistently. With guilt kindling the tips of his ears, he pulls it out of his jeans pocket to at least see who’s calling.
‘Mom,’ the display says. It also announces a bunch of unanswered text messages. Shoot. He’s late. He ought to head back.
Langa pockets the phone again, eyebrows drawing closer. He’s not ready to leave, not yet. Here, on this bench, every shift of his body prompts a shuffle of his clothes and a creak from the old wood. Each noise is loud, accusing, yet it cements a very sharp sense of presence he hasn’t felt in a long time.
At the very least, here he can indulge in feeling some type of kinship between an empty church and him.
*
On Sunday, Reki texts him late in the morning to ask if he’s free to meet and head to the skate park together.
Langa’s about halfway through his positive response before remembering about the Mass and proposing they meet in the afternoon instead.
*
Promises, like all vows, aren’t necessarily painless to uphold. They demand effort—Langa knows that. He’s aware that his promise with Reki not to skate with Adam again is something more than a thing he’s just agreed to. It’s a vow, so it needn’t be easy. It requires intention. Because he promised to abstain from something his heart aches for. It’s right, it’s virtuous.
Then why does guilt trickle down his spine like tropical rain infiltrating the neckline of his shirt each time his mind lingers on it?
The priest’s dismissal brings all the muted noises and incense smell of the Mass back, and around him, people get up and gather their belongings to exit the church. The bench he now habitually sits on is amongst the farthest ones from the altar, and it’s the quickest to empty. He’s been to more than a few celebrations by now—recited in English, thank God—despite that, as long as he can hear the priest just fine, he’d rather not show off on the front.
He picks at the hem of the sleeve of his Sunday sweater, white cuff lined with navy, wool slightly deformed from where he’d rolled it up while skating to the church.
‘Don’t get involved with him anymore.’
He’s never witnessed Reki acting so serious about something—not in a way that’s stained with worry over him rather than pure excitement. It’s why he said yes, Langa’s coming to realize. His first instinct had been to refuse, just like he did the days before the beef. ‘I’m gonna skate against Adam. I want to.’ It had lingered on his lips, but then Reki looked down at him with… sadness and annoyance and a silent plea, and it felt like the winter gusts heavy with minuscule shards of ice had found a way into his lungs, choking his words down.
So, he looked away. He said yes.
Now, half of his heart begs him to take that back. The other half spills with guilt—because wanting to reassure a friend shouldn’t rouse this type of inner duel. All while his mind is still scrambling to catch up with what happened during the race; that heartbeat when the world got swept away by speed, by adrenaline, by the pull of Adam’s advantage on him.
Langa clutches at his chest, trying to recollect that feeling, but it’s no use. Oh, what he wouldn’t give to experience it again, to untangle it, to understand why it turned the world challenging again, exciting again. Full. If their race hadn’t been interrupted, would that sensation have lasted longer? Would Langa have grasped it? Each time he pushes his imagination further like he pushes his left foot against the ground to gain speed, the sound of sirens and the sight of a police car halt him like a wall. However, that leads his thoughts in another direction entirely: Adam had disappeared into a sleek black car, but what if he’d offered him a ride? Would Langa have said yes? What would have happened then?
He swallows dry. It’s too hot for spring, too hot for a church.
He can entertain imaginary scenarios for however long he wants… they all imply leaving Reki behind. Reki, who came to his rescue with his boss’ motorbike. Reki, to whom he promised he wouldn’t be getting involved with Adam again, and yet here he is, imagining ways for things to have gone differently.
Langa stands up all of a sudden. He’s clutched at his chest so hard that both his good sweater and the freshly ironed shirt underneath are all crumpled beyond what smoothing them over with his hands can achieve. He retreats toward the exit and barely remembers to cross himself.
The priest, coming back in from greeting the faithful outside, shoots him a worried glance. Langa avoids his eyes, hoping the confusion he’s experiencing isn’t showing up in his expression.
*
At the next Mass, Langa remains seated while all the people line up in front of the priest to receive the Host. He’s been avoiding confessing for a while, so it is what it is.
To him, walking into a confessionary has always felt more about taking things off his chest and admitting to something naughty he did as a kid, like that time he wanted to try a new snowboarding track so bad he lied to his father about actually having done all the assigned homework. Trivial things, normal things. Things he knew how to make amends for.
After his fight with Reki, the thought of kneeling on the hardwood booth had him feeling all weird, and the reassurance of the wooden mesh partially blocking the priest’s face didn’t help one bit.
He knows that taking back what he said about joining Adam’s tournament will make for a valid first step to mend his friendship with Reki, but he’s got a hunch that’s not everything. Reki called both him and Adam screwed in the head for wanting to skate like that. ‘We don’t suit each other anymore,’ he said. Yeah, just backpedaling won’t help, will it?
Besides… he doesn’t want to take his word back. Langa still wants to enter the competition; he still wants to skate with Adam. If only Reki could see it… why doesn’t he get it? Why would someone so passionate about skateboarding not jump at the chance to go against the best skater Naha (Okinawa? Japan?) has to offer? It can’t be just because of the danger. Especially not when that is… part of what makes it… fun?
His muscles tense up. All of them. His nerves tingle with the rush of peeking into a chasm, unsure if he should tip the board forth into uncharted land or back to safety.
Langa clenches his fingers in his lap to the point of strangling. That pull that compelled him to follow Adam in his skating… he needs to feel it again. And yeah, Reki says he shouldn’t, but how can he not when it’s the closest he’s gotten to regaining something he’d lost since his father’s death? As if Reki isn’t the one who made that spark happen in the first place, and then Adam blew on it, and now here he is, dealing with the wildfire.
The function ends. Langa ponders about lingering for a while, still. But his stomach growls with arrogance, and he’s forced to head straight back home.
Halfway through, when he feels like he’s distant enough from the church, he opens the tournament invitation on his phone, fills in the form, and presses send.
*
Entering the tournament isn’t enough. The first qualification left him with nothing. He wanted to have fun, he wanted to chase that feeling of joy and pride and terror biting into him like ice, but despite the stunts he’d pulled, that race wasn’t it. He’d hoped for Reki to come, too, but he didn’t. All night Langa had searched for his scorching hair and listened for his sunny voice; all night he’d pinned people he hadn’t seen before in the hope one of them would be Reki. But none was.
Wooden benches all around him creak with weights lifting. He blinks. All around him, people get up and gather their belongings to exit the church. He’s spaced out for pretty much the entire Mass.
Now the church is empty, much like him.
Langa reclines his neck on the bench and allows his gaze to wander across the dark beams connecting the white ceiling from side to side until his eyes land on the glasswork in the front window again. Jesus on the cross.
Is he being punished? He tried to talk to Reki in class about passing the qualification round but got no reaction. In hindsight, that’s not surprising. He has no idea what he’d hoped to gain. Langa severed their promise—promises, he has to amend. ‘Not doing anything crazy against Adam’ was something he promised not to do, too, before that beef happened. People aren’t as merciful as the Saints, and Langa’s done nothing to repent, besides.
And what did he gain? He signed up for the tournament because skating with Adam would be fun… but it’s no fun without Reki.
One brief sigh tumbles out of his lips. He guesses he can at least be home in time for lunch today. He drags himself back up. Once more, the priest gives him a look across the nave. Langa bets that the man must be getting used to having him around after everybody left. He hopes he can just go, but the priest inches closer to him with slow steps.
“Something troubling you, son?” he speaks in unaccented English.
“Kind of.”
“You might want to talk about it, then? It’s been a while since I’ve heard you out in the confessionary. Whatever it is that you’re carrying, always remember our Lord gives us the means and opportunity to repent and make amends.”
His face heats up. Rationally, he knows the priest is right; it’s just… even the thought of talking about everything going on is embarrassing. Nonetheless, he nods politely.
“Thanks.”
“Have faith,” the man salutes, striding past him.
Langa ducks his head down and takes his leave. He supposes he can at least open up about some of it with his mother. It doesn’t have to be all of it, but… might be better than nothing, right?
*
On Saturday after school, going into the confessionary doesn’t appear to be so bad after all.
His mom suggested to be honest. Langa tried. Between school and DOPE SKETCH, he’s been chasing Reki all week. God, he spent the greatest part of last night after his race with Joe looking for Reki. (Because he was there, Reki cheered for him during the beef with Joe, Reki was there, looking at him—)
Sighing, Langa steps into the genkan, ties up his sneakers, and stretches his arm to pick up the board.
His fingers close around nothing. The usual corner between the entry door and the wall is empty.
Right.
His board—the skateboard Reki made—is still broken. He’s gotten so used to reaching for it as the last thing before heading out that he forgot for a moment.
He chews at his bottom lip. Walking to church will take a while; he might miss confession altogether. Even if he legged it as far as DOPE SKETCH to borrow one off there, the store is still close enough to the church that it would defeat the point entirely.
Although, better than nothing…
He shrugs, resigning to a lengthy trip, and lets the door close behind him. Outside, the sun still lingers, and humidity clings to him like grime on the junctures of his board after each race down Crazy Rock. He kicks the occasional chunk of dirt out of the way and shoves both hands into his jeans pockets. Each step he takes without his board squeaking beneath the soles of his Converse is weirder than the previous.
‘Get Reki to fix it,’ Joe said, ‘It’ll be alright. Since it’s you two.’
It gave him hope right at that moment, but then Reki kept avoiding him. Besides, he’s still in the dark about what he’d want to say. His first attempt at apologizing, right after the argument, got turned down. And giving up the tournament feels more pointless now that he’s passed two rounds of qualifications than it had been before his registration. Especially since Reki is the only reason he could win against Joe.
Langa had been hopeful for that one. Going up against one of the most powerful skaters at S would’ve looked like a dream to his novice self a few months prior.
And yet the nothingness had snuck on him again. It had swallowed everything. Langa had been too dull at that moment to realize, and too eager to win once he caught Reki cheering for him from the sidelines, but he can see it now: against Joe, he was skating because he had to. He wanted to win for victory’s sake; it had been a challenge, yes, but having fun hadn’t been as important as arriving first.
It had been nothing but a stepping stone to get where he wanted.
At least until Reki reminded him otherwise.
Skating is empty without him, like the mountain slopes back at home, like the church after Mass when everybody but Langa has moved on. And he’s tired of that void. He’s tired of what’s most important for him slipping through his fingers like fresh snow and him only realizing it after the wind carried it away.
He needs to talk to Reki. An apology or a confession, he has no idea, he will figure it out, but Reki needs to know—that Langa won’t skate on any board that’s not been made by him. That without Reki, skating isn’t the same.
Langa stops at a crossroads. He checks the time on his phone: 5.30. It’s unlikely he will make it in time to meet the priest, but he could still be able to catch Reki before he gets home for dinner if he turns back now.
He takes the first step.
His phone buzzes with insistence in his hand. The display lights up with Joe’s contact. Frowning, he slides the acceptance button.
“Yes?”
There’s a pause. “Can you come to the city hospital? It’s about Shadow.”
*
The first thing Langa does after talking with Reki in the skate park and returning home is stare at the ceiling of his bedroom with his facial muscles displaced in weird ways, waiting for his heart—beating infinitely—to calm down so that he can actually get some sleep.
The second thing he does, the day after, is race to the confessionary. Is it cheating if he’s already repenting before confessing his sins?
*
On the Sunday Mass right before his beef with Adam, Langa lines up for the Host in front of the priest with determination boiling in his blood so strong and persistent, that he needs a minute after the function ends, for entirely different reasons this time. The sermon about forgiveness still rings in his ears as a portion of the Host is stuck on the back of his mouth. He needs to skate with Adam just as much as he needed to speak with Reki. It’s not just about the pull. It’s not just about the thrill. Langa wants to show him—like Reki showed it to him—that skating is more fun when you don’t do it alone.
The choked sound Reki made in the skate park, all red in the face, fills his mind and his heart, as it does the bump of their hands after the last move of their new DAP, and Reki’s expression during his beef with Adam. Langa watched it from the sidelines, never losing fate, never drawing his eyes away. Two halves of his world colliding. Skating with Reki and skating with Adam—it felt possible.
The thought makes him shiver. He’s balancing on the edge, heart drumming like when Miya showed him how to slide along the curb tipped on the side of his board.
He can still have his race with Adam.
He can still skate with Reki.
His entire face flares up. He springs up from the bench, pointedly does not cross eyes with the priest walking down the nave, and flees outside. The air is getting crispier—not much of a difference with the inside of the church—but it’s still not enough to cool off. He doesn’t like how his fingers quiver as he picks up his new board. With an angry shove of his foot against the asphalt, he sets off, sighing in glee at the wind tousling his hair and swiping against his face.
He takes the opposite route to the one he’d use to return home. He needs to clear his head. Just… not inside the Lord’s house, possibly.
One push of his sneaker after the other, he skates south, then past the bridge that crosses Lake Man, which he vaguely remembers traversing by car when his mother drove them home from Naha airport. The road signs outside the main highways are mostly advertisements for car rentals and directions toward the different neighborhoods. Among them, though, one signals for Onoyama Park.
Following it, Langa ends up in a different world; one made of lush tropical vegetation, a rainbow of hibiscus bushes… and a shrine in the middle.
Curious, he heads the board towards it and stops in front of a staircase, atop which stands one of those gates that mark the holy grounds of Shinto shrines and Buddhist temples—a torii? Yeah, that’s what they should be called.
He stomps the edge of his board with the point of his sneaker and picks it up. He’s never been to a shrine before… is he even allowed to enter?
He looks around, but no one among the few passersby seems intentioned to go in.
Langa shifts his weight from one foot to another. The last thing he wants is to appear disrespectful, but he’s itching to take a look.
He shoots another glance around. Still nothing.
Cautiously, like he’s approaching DOPE SKETCH’s feral fennec fox, he climbs the staircase and comes to a halt right in front of the torii. Still hoping he’s not offending anyone by being there, he tentatively bows as deeply as he did when asking the store manager for a job, and ventures inside.
Another area opens before him, with an informative panel standing on the right of a second staircase, and a second torii on top introducing the shrine proper. All information is written in kanji, which tips him off about the shrine being out of the loop of most tourist routes. He recognizes a few, but his temples ache with the bare thought of trying to decipher all that alone.
Instead, he studies the surrounding area further: right to his left there’s another… structure, for the lack of a better word. It consists of four columns encased in dark mottled marble and a white roof, underneath which sits a fountain made from an upper and lower basin sculpted out of the same marble as the columns. Water flows down through bamboo pipes, and matching items lay on the upper tub’s edge. They look like some sort of big ladles, and Langa would’ve guessed they served as tools for drinking, if not for the big sign plastered on one column bearing the image of a person sipping from them crossed with a thick, red X.
He sighs. Maybe coming here wasn’t that great of an idea after all. He feels like he ought to pray, even though he lacks any clue about how, or to who. Maybe he needs to ask Reki to bring him to a shrine from time to time. He remembers his mother telling him about the first visit on New Year’s Day, but they’re still far from that.
The future… he takes a while to imagine what it’d be like. It’s hazier the further away his mind wanders off from the present, but some things don’t change: skateboarding and Reki. But before that, there’s his second race against Adam.
His head spins so fast that he needs to backtrack to a bench and sit down. His heart resumes its drumming just at the thought of it. His foot presses against the board, mindlessly pushing it forward and pulling it back.
Skating with Adam… it’s different from skating with Reki, but fun in its own way. It’s the surety of someone having his back versus the thrill of diving into the darkness and figuring it out from there. It’s the friendly challenge of someone racing by his side versus the magnetic pull of someone leading him into the unknown. It’s day and night. It’s a fire that warms and a fire that burns. And Langa wants to exchange high-fives with Reki each time they cross between ramps at the skate park just as much as he wants to meet Adam’s dangerously high expectations each time they skate.
He made their next race sound so… final. The conclusion to everything. God’s judgment exiling mankind from His garden.
That’s not how Langa wants that to go at all. If he makes Adam love skating again, will he accept another challenge, and another one after that? If S will still be a thing, will he be able to challenge Reki, too?
He’s not sure he can picture the future beyond these two simple things. The desire is so clear in his heart that his chest hurts. Is he being greedy, or what?
His foot stops playing with the board.
Oh, God, his face is burning up again. Great.
He shoves his cheeks between his fingers, hunched on the bench.
Louder chattering filters through, announcing what sounds to be a group of people about his age. Langa cracks his fingers open and spots five people wearing another high school’s uniform walking past the torii gate.
The group stops at the fountain, and Langa adjusts his stance to observe them better. They use the bamboo ladles to scoop up some of the water from the different faucets: they pour some of it on their hands, sip on it, then spit it down in the drain. Lastly, they recline the spoon so that the residual water sloshes down on the handle, and they put the tool back where they’d picked it up from. They proceed down the path towards the second staircase and cross over under the other torii gate.
Langa sprints to the base of the stairs and follows them with his gaze.
There’s a third open area on top, where the shrine proper sits in the middle of palm trees. It’s a short but large building, painted floor to roof in white with golden accents at the end of the wooden beams, where round decorations sit. Something like a noren curtain, white with purple circles in the middle, partially shields the entry to what he supposes is the altar.
The group lines up in a row in front of it. They toss some coins inside, bow deeply, and the sound of two hand claps faintly makes it to where he stands. They bow again, then join their hands in a sort of meditative prayer. Some take more time, some take less. When they’re done, each bows again, and they all retrace their steps back.
Langa blinks before remembering he’s still standing in the middle of the path and scurries away. What did they pray for? Exams, maybe? He’s definitely overheard some of his classmates mentioning doing that. However, it can’t have taken them so little.
He… kind of wants to try that, too.
Once the group exits the sacred grounds, he strides toward the water fountain. He’s used to holy water and cross signs; this must serve the same function. He picks up one of the bamboo ladles and tries to recollect what he’s seen.
He pushes the cup of the ladle under the faucet until it’s full to the brim… and stops to stare at his hands—was it left first? Or right first? He glances around again and finds that he’s still alone, half to his chagrin and half to his comfort. Langa pours water on his left hand, then on his right. He stares at the ladle again. Is he supposed to drink from it, or…?
Frowning, he scoops some of the water in his palm, spits it down the drain, and tips the ladle vertically so that what’s left sloshes down the handle. A few splashes wet the hem of his good sweater, making it stick to his wrist. He grimaces. The others made it look so simple!
Turning to climb the staircase, he spots his board, half of it still under the bench. He should pick it up, but is he supposed to be touching it after washing his hands? Is that bad?
Sighing, he resolves to make it quick and come back to it soon. He climbs the steps and, just to be extra sure, bows a second time before passing under the other torii gate.
He walks between two rocky lion statues keeping post and approaches the main building. The farther portion of the shrine to the right seems to be hosting a shop: a sign on top advertises different talismans painted on it, sided by their price written in kanji. Their name eludes him, but he’s fairly sure he’s spotted some of those lucky charms at school, hanging from the bags of other students.
He returns his gaze to the main shrine, ducks his head under the white curtain, and stops in front of what he thought to be the altar, enclosed in a shadowy room that smells like incense and polished wood.
It’s not an altar at all. Rather, it’s more like a mighty wooden box, with a wide grate on top to allow for yen coins to land inside.
Langa rummages through his pants pockets and catches whatever piece of round metal he can find. He opens his palms: thirty-something yen. He prays to God that the Shinto deities won’t get offended by his meager offering.
He tosses the coins into the grates and waits for the tumbling sounds to settle before he bows his chin and smashes his palms together. He wanted to pray… but for what?
Images of S, of Crazy Rock, of Reki and Adam fill his mind. He doesn’t want to ask for luck in his upcoming beef.
His birthday is coming up after the tournament ends. He considers the possibility of still skating against Adam after that. He recalls his still-hanging promise to skate side by side with Reki.
Langa smiles. Pictures it.
He bows one last time, goes back to pick up his board from under the bench, and retraces his way out to the road.