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Apples have always been your favorite fruit.
Rich in fiber, vitamins and antioxidants, they keep the needles from puncturing your fragile skin for another day.
Your mother sits beside you now, on your bed. You watch her blurry silhouette as she cuts apples into quarters. Eighths. On your bedside table is a half-finished, cold bowl of congee. Your favorite metal spoon shimmers in the spring sunlight seeping through the cracks of your window. You glance at the clock.
12:36 PM, it reads. Your classmates must be in the gymnasium right about now, led in by your homeroom teacher. Her usual kind look would be reduced to a solemn one, punctuated by her eyebrows filed straight. You could’ve been there too. Your mother had already ironed out your white shirt and hung it on your coat rack. You look at it then, and find it staring back at you as if to ask, ‘Well? What are you waiting for? ’
You turn back to your mother. She holds the knife with practised caution, carving a shallow T into the piece with gentle hands. Then, a V. She peels back its red skin, revealing the yellow flesh underneath. A rabbit sits in her palm.
She looks up at you, surprised to see you meeting her. Her smile is soft. Comfortable. She reaches out to touch your forehead, and you feel her palm’s weight, all her callouses, her warmth. Your mother lifts her hand to touch hers now, as if the act would somehow transfer the heat into her instead. Then, you would be able to go to school, and your mother would carry the burden of illness on her shoulders instead.
You shake your head at the thought. She doesn’t deserve that, you think. You just have to bear with it.
The school anthem rings in your mind, and you feel dizzy. It’s a melody you know all too well. You have practiced it in front of the mirror every afternoon. Your reflection looks back at you now, and you spot a look of disappointment on its face.
You should smile a little more, Satoru. A voice says.
You swat it away, only to pull it back once you realize it’s been your grandmother’s. She combs your hair as you sit between her legs in front of the mirror, frowning when she tugs on a particular knot. She chuckles, and pokes your cheek.
Your mother has carved out three rabbits by the time you look back.
They sit there comfortably on the ceramic plate, painted in the blues of skies and the greens of grass. They look peaceful; you don’t want to eat them. Your mother clicks her tongue.
“You’re sick.” She says. It means ‘You should eat, Satoru.’ You have figured it out by now.
Adults always say things they don’t mean. Why is that?
You pick up the rabbit on your left, and take a bite out of it. Two bites. Three bites. There are only two rabbits left on the field.
You feel your face pull into a frown, and your mother ruffles your hair. It gets into your eyes.
“It’s a shame you’re missing your graduation. We were looking forward to seeing you on the stage.”
You grumble as she messes up your hair even more, and she laughs.
“It’s fine, Mom.” You reassure her, looking back at the two rabbits on the plate. “You still have two more chances.”
“Only two more, then?”
“Three, if I’m lucky.”
She smiles warmly and places a rabbit in your palm. You grip it tightly, as if it would somehow hop away from your reach. “You are, Satoru.”
You feel fatigue claw at you as you sink back down into your bed, rabbit still in hand. Curious, you pop it into your mouth. The taste is bitter. It clings to your tongue and spreads all over the roof of your mouth. You swallow it down.
There is only one rabbit left now.
You fall asleep, to the sound of birds chirping, to the sunlight sneaking through the windowpanes, to the sound of your mother humming the school anthem. The sight of your classmates crying, tears warming their cheeks cross your mind as you close your eyes.
You wonder if you would be as well, if you were there.
Would you cry with them, too?
“Satoru, aren’t you gonna join them?”
Your grandfather is the first person to teach you the meaning of the word “baseball.” He stands beside your tiny figure, arms crossed. Shadows hang precariously from the curtains of the mid-morning sun, trees sway gently in the mild summer weather.
You watch the children from afar as they run around, not once stopping to acknowledge your gaze. There, on the mound, stands a singular figure, whose presence is bright and unrelenting. Alone on that patch of dirt, yet still surrounded. The person winds up for a pitch, and it hits the mitt with a sound that resounds in the depths of your heart.
The children are laughing, free of restraints. Even if their uniforms are covered in dirt, even under the sun, even when they lose to the opposing team by one point, they’re still grinning brightly. They could even rival the sun above.
What a strange expression.
“They already have nine people…”
The words tumble out of your mouth before you can stop them, and you avert your gaze to the ground. Your grandfather chuckles and ruffles your hair. The way he does it differs from your mother's, but it fills you with warmth regardless.
“It wouldn’t hurt to ask.”
He takes off his cap, and places it on your head. It is too big.
“Off you go, kiddo. I’m sure they would appreciate another addition to the team.”
He pushes you forward despite your grumbling, and you run towards the children with a newfound spirit.
Monster.
You wonder what that word means. It is not your name, but you hear it everywhere you go. You still move through the world seamlessly, slipping through its cracks as the days pass by. But you are surrounded now. You are no longer alone. These people don’t exactly call you by your name, but they do acknowledge your presence.
Monster pitcher.
Is it because your name is difficult to pronounce?
“Of course not, Satoru.” Your mother holds you in her warm embrace.
“Then why do they call me…”
We can’t play with you anymore.
(Their words make your heart sink.)
If you wanna play baseball, play it with somebody else.
(Their eyes make you feel as if you’re shrinking.)
Just ignore him, it’s not our problem.
(The wall stares back at you with every pitch you throw.)
You’re alone again.
Why did they leave?
Was it because of something you did?
Did they not like you?
Perhaps you are destined to walk with them in parallel lines, your paths never once converging. Footsteps always out of sync. Eyes never meet. Laughter never intermingles.
There’s a crack in the wall today, but you don’t notice until the sun is fully set and out of sight. You stand there, cast in the warm hues of the afternoon. You are cold.
The decision takes your family by surprise.
“Tokyo, huh…”
“Satoru, are you sure?”
More than you have ever been.
“I guess we could ask your grandfather to take care of you…”
At Seidou, you’ll be able to pitch again. You’re sure of it. You have no other choice.
You throw yourself into studying, into the smell of textbooks and into words whose meaning you’re not exactly sure of yet. You have to reach it. It is the only way you know.
Still, your hands tremble as you cross out the answer to question 3b in bright, red ink.
In spring, your hands are always cold.
The gymnasium roof stretches over your head, dwarfing your shadow beneath it. A flower is pinned to your beating chest, and you feel a small sense of pride bubble up as you stand there with your classmates, shoulder-by-shoulder. Side-by-side. The principal’s speech is nearing its end, and you see your friends’ hands interlock, as if trying to confirm the beatings of their hearts. Their eyes well up with tears, and they reach up to wipe them as they wear smiles on their faces.
Aren’t you going to cry with them? A voice asks. You search for its source, only to find out it has been yours all along.
Compared to your classmates’, your eyes are dry. Your cheeks are cold.
Why is it that you can’t cry with them?
You meet your mother later; she’s wearing the same bittersweet expressions. She hugs you as if afraid of letting go, and you return the gesture with ease. You feel your heart clench.
She pulls you to flower stands, to blossoming trees, to the worn-out benches that greet you during lunchtimes. With her hand clasped in yours, she smiles, brighter than the spring sunlight. The camera flashes, and you resist the urge to flinch away.
Once you get home, you say goodbye to your bed, your windows, your favorite metal spoon. Your gakuran hangs on the rack by your bedroom door. The threads holding your second button are falling apart, you notice.
You fall asleep with the train ticket held tight to your heart that night, and dream of scorching summer suns and the leather of the catcher’s mitt.
In spring, you met a boy whose heart was full of thorns, and he flew away with the birds.
His name is Eijun, you learn, and his smiles look like they could outshine even the brightest of stars. When he grins, his eyes crinkle, and his mouth is stretched wide, showing his teeth. It’s a pleasant smile.
You stand with him now, under the inky-black sky. You can’t help but think of you and him being alike.
Maybe you’ll be able to get along.
You meet a boy whose hair is like the spring blossoms, who carries himself like a gentle breeze, but with a determination in his heart. You also meet him. Miyuki Kazuya. The person who catches your pitches with a grin on his face, unwavered, unbothered.
Your seniors are a bit rough around the edges, but they welcome you with kindness and trust. You feel yourself melting with warmth every time you stand on that mound.
At Seidou, you are able to feel frustrated. Disappointed. Happy. Trusted.
You think you’ve finally found it: that bright, once-unreachable place. It’s here. It’s been here all along.
Spring sunlight filters through the leaves, illuminating the shadows beneath. The sky is painted in the watercolors of bright, youthful blue. Lively voices surround you as you make your way from the gymnasium. The ground is steadier, and your chest is light with an unfamiliar feeling bubbling up. Wind kisses your face as you clutch your pristine uniform tightly.
You come up to meet them, your friends. Eijun meets you with tears, and you see Haruichi scolding him as he tries to reach his eyes with the paper tissue. The world blurs around you as your eyes meet and your breaths sync. You feel your cheeks warm.
“Geh! Are you crying?!” Your rival jumps out of surprise at the sight of your face, and you reach up to touch it. Sure enough, it’s wet with tears. Your friends’ eyes are wide with awe in return.
A beat passes.
Two.
…Three.
“I–” Your words are cut off as you are enveloped in a tight hug. They laugh with you, faces pulled into bittersweet smiles. You can’t see it, but you’re sure your face looks the same.
In the distance between you and the sun, you are embraced, your cheeks dyed the same color as those you love.
You think you’ve finally found your answer, now.