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People are quiet in Japan.
They were quiet in Finland, too, but they were loud in America. Maybe. She thinks. It’s been so long and so many different places it’s hard to remember what happened compared to what her parents said happened, and whether Mom saying “Honey, we have to use our inside voices, this isn’t the States, people are quiet here,” was all that true even though she never really lived there for that long and she wasn’t even being that loud in the first place.
People are quiet in Japan.
But that doesn’t mean they don’t talk.
When she first got to her new school, it was a barrage of whispers, that quieted as she approached and resumed once she left. Sailing the murmuring seas, she joked to herself, because there was no one who would listen. At international school, at least every kid was weird because every kid was from somewhere else and every kid would be gone soon, but they’re putting down roots here, so Mom says. They’re putting down roots so hard that they’re going on a business trip next month and it will be just her and the nanny again. She’s not complaining, though. Her nanny is nice. She can have fun when her parents are gone. Her room is big and her life is nice. It’s nice.
That’s the other thing. People in Japan are nice.
Your Japanese is so good! They tell her with a polite smile, even though she says I was born here, we speak Japanese at home, I’m Japanese, they say Ah Okay with the same smiles no longer matching their eyes. It gets tiring to say that all the time, so she just says Thanks because she’s also learning to be extra polite so the old men sitting by the side of the road don’t mutter Foreigners under their breath even though she can hear them even though she can understand them even though all she’s doing is existing next to them.
Her teachers are nice. This is Takamaki-san, she’s a transfer student, and she says nice to meet you all to an empty sea of stares. Nice to meet you, I hope we get along, they tell her to her face and then they don’t invite her to sit with them and they don’t invite her to join their after-school clubs and they don’t invite her to go to the fireworks festival. Takamaki-san, they say, Can you help us with English, we can help you with your Japanese and she says I don’t need help with my Japanese but I’d love to study together! What time? And they say Maybe later and that’s the end of it. So she doesn’t go to the fireworks festival. She’d really love to go to the fireworks festival.
You know, you should really be doing something after school, says Mom, Join a club! and she doesn’t say Do what? They don’t want me there and she doesn’t say But why? Because you don’t want me here? All she says is Okay! And the only club she hasn’t been rejected from is art club. But she’s never drawn before, so she begs her parents to let her sign up for art class.
We’re starting with basic life drawings, says the teacher. Pick something simple from your surroundings, I’ll be observing, and then he walks around the class but somehow never stops by her desk.
It’s her third class when she tries something different. She’s sick of staring at what’s around her and nothing coming back, so she draws from the dreams of her wildest imagination. She draws herself riding a dragon surrounded by fireworks flying over the beautiful landscapes, with a group of rambunctious friends jostling each other on its back, though it’s getting very wonky because she’s never really drawn anything more complicated than the pencil and her desk and humans are pretty hard and the proportions are all off and it’s getting more and more frustrating when the image in her head could never be the image on her desk and
Hey, can I offer you some advice? Says a classmate.
It takes her off-guard, to be approached like that. For someone to strike up a conversation with her, for once. Um, okay.
“Your drawing sucks.”
The matter-of-fact bluntness makes her laugh. “That’s not advice.”
The girl shrugs. “I’m also just learning, what else can I say?”
Just a few sentences, and Ann feels lighter than she had all week. “Can I offer you some advice?”
The girl grins. “Sure.”
“Your advice sucks.”
“Wow, you make a great point.” The girl reaches out a hand. “I’m Suzui, Suzui Shiho. We’re in the same class, so you can just call me Shiho.”
Ann takes her hand. “Takamaki Ann.” It’s warm. “You can call me Ann.”
“Do you have LINE?”
“Yeah,” she says. She fumbles to get out her phone and hesitantly reveals her barren profile. “Um, I only downloaded it, uh, yesterday, so I didn’t finish setting up my profile…” She downloaded it six months ago.
“That’s okay,” says Suzui, “Mine’s plain too. How about—”
“Suzui-san, please take your seat. Class is still in session.”
“Yes, sensei,” says Suzui-san. ‘Talk to you later!’ she mouths to Ann, and Ann feels lighter than she has all year.
They’re inseparable, after that.
The thing about Shiho is she’s kind. Well, the thing about Shiho is she’s beautiful and wonderful and funny and open and caring yet stronger than you could ever imagine, but all on top of the fact she’s kind. She’s not nice. If Ann asks for her opinion on the outfit she’s trying on, she’ll say with a straight face You look like a bewildered multicolored giraffe and if Ann says Hey, I’m smart, we’ve done enough studying right she’ll quiz her on the one or all of the topics she forgot to study and if Ann says do you think I’ll ever fit in she says who cares about that, you fit right next to me and the thing about Shiho is she’s kind. Niceness is saying mean things with a polite face or saying nothing at all with the right face but kindness is looking someone in the eye and opening your soul to them and telling them the truth as you see it. She could light up the world with her smile and yet she gives it to Ann and she doesn’t know what to do with that except hold it as gently and desperately as she can and give her the biggest smile she can muster in return.
They go to the fireworks festival. They pick out yukatas together, and Ann pays for both because money’s never been the issue when it comes to her parents and most places are so crowded they go to the convenience store and get soft serve ice cream and melon pan and find a place tucked away in the street corner up on the wall where they can still see the lights but it’s just the two of them and their sweets.
It’s humid and sticky and hot despite the cooler nighttime breeze, yet Ann feels herself leaning in towards Shiho's warmth anyways. “We should do this every night,” she says.
“You’re getting ice cream on your yukata,” Shiho replies.
“Oh, shit!” and Shiho laughs and hands her napkins that she grabbed already that might have some crumbs on them but that’s okay as Ann unsuccessfully tries to blot her yukata and eat her rapidly melting soft serve at the same time until Shiho lends a hand to help her.
“I think we got most of it.”
“You mean, you already ate all of it.”
“Hey! Like you’re any better!”
Shiho sticks out her tongue playfully, and Ann’s the one laughing this time. Fireworks are still going off overhead at regular intervals, a brilliant display of lights and sounds across the tepid inky black sky. They lean back to look at them, hands pressed flat against the top of the wall to support their posture. A peaceful silence descends on the two, and Ann feels Shiho cautiously brush her fingers against Ann’s outstretched hand.
“There isn’t a fireworks festival every night,” Shiho breaks the silence, contemplatively. “But it’s nice to enjoy it while it lasts.”
“Okay, okay, not every night,” Ann amends, “But we could still do something together. Ooh, let’s make a promise!”
“About what?” Shiho says, bemused. “Promise to not lie about watching Flying Colors in theaters so we could react to it together for the first time?”
“That was one time!” Ann protests. “You know what? Yeah! Let’s promise to never keep anything from each other, big or small.”
“Good luck with that one,” Shiho says, “I’m an open book. I’d never keep anything from you.”
“What, like I could?” Ann replies. “Whenever something interesting happens to me, the first thing I think is I wonder what Shiho will have to say about that.”
Shiho gives one of her earth shattering, star rending, radiantly lovely smiles at that. “It doesn’t have to be interesting. I’d listen to it anyways.”
Ann thinks her heart is going to burst. “The same goes for you, you know,” she says, trying to stay light, bumping her shoulder against Shiho’s.
“Yeah, I know.” Their fingers intertwine, on the cool concrete wall, together, while it lasts.