Tomorrow's Doom A.5/C.41 - Phone Tag

Chapter 41 - Phone Tag

There's a strange smell in the air as I roll over and stretch against the pillow, keeping my eyes closed against the invasive light. It smells like food, but I can't quite identify the odor—whatever it is, it's making me hungry. Sending my hand out blindly in search of my glasses, I bump into something—I think it's a lamp—and start patting the nightstand below it before getting frustrated. Cracking my eyes open and squinting tightly, I send my gaze to where my hand is prowling, but the sight is disconcerting. Instead of my black nightstand that I converted from a little old bookshelf, there's an unfamiliar wooden table.

Where the hell am I...?

That question makes me sit up quickly and start looking around at my alien surroundings, which I soon realize bears a striking resemblance to Hisao's room. The memory comes back as that thought settles in, and I recall staying here overnight after my movie marathon with Yoko. Giving my head a good shake to clear the cobwebs, I turn back toward the nightstand and manage to recognize the blurry outline of my glasses. Taking and placing them on my nose, I smirk and shrug at how disoriented I feel, but I'm sure that will pass soon enough. What I want to know now is what that heavenly smell is, and where it's coming from.

I recognize garlic and... oregano...?

The unfortunate truth is that even if I could figure out it's source, I'm not actually supposed to be here, which could complicate matters. The best thing I can probably do is get myself the hell out of here before someone finds me squatting in Hisao's room, so I hurriedly pack up my satchel and head for the door. Stopping there to put an ear against the wood and try to hear if there's anyone in the hall, I notice a drum beat coming from nearby, accompanied by a squealing guitar riff. It's not very loud, but that doesn't mean it's very far away, and it's somewhat familiar—I think Kenji might be home.

I might be smelling pizza if that's the case...

Whether he's there or not, it shouldn't be terribly difficult to slip past without him noticing, as long as I'm quiet. To that end, I remove my sandals, tighten the strap on my satchel, and very slowly turn the doorknob. It clicks ever so softly, and I pause to listen for movement before starting to pull it open. Peering out into the hall, I can see Kenji's door clearly—closed, and probably locked. It appears as though he's probably distracted with the music—or whatever else he has in there—so I start tip-toeing out, then close the door as quietly as it opened before slipping the key in to lock it tightly.

So far so good...

Staying close to the opposite wall, I start sidling down the short hallway, keeping an eye on Kenji's door for movement—just in case I have to run. As I near the corner, I crack a triumphant smile and inhale a breath to steady myself before lunging the last few meters in two quick steps, and straight into someone who's rounding the corner. The impact startles me more than it hurts, and I drop my sandals in the confusion, but when I look up and notice who I ran into, I freeze in shock; it's none other than Kenji himself.

“Aah!” he yells, his hands flying out sideways as a few cans of juice fall to the floor. “Infernal spy!” he barks, pointing an accusatory finger toward my shoulder, “Who sent you!?”

Faced with such a ridiculous question, I don't know how to respond, and I'm still in shock from the impact, so all I can manage to do is stammer, “Uh- Um... I'm not-”

“Don't fuck with me!” he interrupts, redirecting his aim toward my left ear, “The only other person who's supposed to be here is gone for the summer, so you're obviously a spy!”

In the instant it takes for him to take a quick step backward, I consider my options. If he weren't in the way, I could probably run around past him and find my way to freedom before he could react. That sounds suspiciously like running away, though, and I doubt that would go over well in the long run—so to speak. If I'm careful, I could probably explain exactly who I am and why I'm here—honesty being something he might appreciate. However, knowing he can tend to act less than reasonable, I settle on playing along with his delusion, which will buy me time at least.

“I'm no spy!” I protest, crossing my arms and scowling convincingly—not that I think he can tell the difference. “Who're you to accuse me, anyway?” I question boldly, trying to turn the tables on him, “I don't answer to you, so who are you to detain me?”

That sounds like the right amount of double-speak, I think...

There are a few moments where my shoulders tense and I consider bolting away, but his focused gaze—if I can call it that—doesn't feel dangerous. It's possible that's just because he looks a lot less threatening in a well-lit hallway, but I don't feel comfortable waiting to find out. Since actions speak louder than words, it makes sense to act on my indignant speech and leave, so I start doing just that. While he's staring me down, probably trying to decide how to respond, I crouch to retrieve my sandals, then start walking, trying to give him a wide berth in the somewhat narrow hallway. After a few steps, I'm stopped by his hand catching my elbow, and I whirl around to find a look of recognition rather than malice.

“Wait,” he demands. While I'm pulling my arm away, he adds, “I know that voice... I've heard it before.”

The implications, and the whispering tone of his voice are unnerving, but it seems he recognizes me even without the raincoat, and might even remember our meeting. “I'm no spy,” I assure him again, keeping my voice calm and steady, “at least, not for the opposition...”

“You're Hisao's girl... aren't you?” he presumes, his hint of a smile turning into a grin.

Still unsure whether his recognizing that is a good thing, I reply, “Yes... I suppose I am.”

I'm not sure if I like being referenced as property, but I'll let that pass for now...

“Sorry about the theatrics,” he remarks, taking a quick step back, “he told me you might show up—I should have expected your presence even in his absence.”

“Expect the unexpected,” I say in an advisory tone, returning a slight smile as I take a cautious step backward. Unsure how much he really knows, I decide not to elaborate on why I'm here, and instead focus on finding out what Hisao told him—or how much, at least. “He told you about me?” I ask, trying not to sound too surprised, “I thought-”

“He explained it months ago,” he interjects, leaving me with a shocked expression.

“Wait... if he told you, then...”

Now he laughs, which I find unnerving, but mostly because it sounds so strange—he cackles like a madman. “I'm sure you heard Slayer, Slipknot, and a little Cannibal Corpse,” he rambles, either naming horrible bands, or something equally disturbing, “and I made use of some after-market military-grade sound-canceling headphones.”

And now I'm totally lost...

“Wait... what?”

“Being neighborly,” he states, shrugging noncommittally. “Hisao keeps me in the loop,” he says, somewhat cryptically, “but we both decided—well, I decided—that it was better if you didn't know I knew what... you know?”

Even he looks confused after saying that...

If I get what he's saying right, which feels like a surprising claim considering how erratic his ramblings are, it sounds like Hisao told Kenji all about us being together, but continued telling me his neighbor was clueless. As I hit on that realization, I'm forced to ask, “Why didn't he just tell me?”

“I told him not to—I kinda didn't trust you,” he says, waving his hand dismissively, “so don't blame Hisao—he just did what I asked.”

“He still could have told me...”

“Maybe, but he's quite loyal,” he says, lowering his voice before adding, “I've been meaning to tell him he can read you in, but the last week he was here... he was... otherwise engaged.”

While he clears his throat, I can't prevent the blush from streaking my face, but I take solace in the fact that he probably can't see it. “Well, he's not here,” I say quickly, trying to get away from that subject as fast as possible, “but if you wanted to read me in,” I make quotation marks with my fingers, “I have time...”

He tilts his head for a moment and I can just barely see his eyes squinting through his thick lenses as he considers my request. “It probably isn't my place to say,“ he says, holding out his hand, presumably for me to shake, “but I'll see about getting a message to Hisao about your clearance.”

I wonder if Hisao feels like a spy when he talks to Kenji...

“Surely there's something you can tell me in the meantime,” I muse, partly out of curiosity, and partly because I'm trying to delay the handshake.

As I'm reaching out to shake his proffered hand, I remember the clammy, bony experience from last time, but it seems that probably had more to do with the rain than anything else. While I'd been dreading this meeting, thanks in no small part to Hisao's description of Kenji, I'm finding myself much less disturbed than expected. It's still odd seeing someone dressed in the complete Yamaku uniform—jacket and all—along with that ridiculous Doctor Seuss scarf in the middle of a summer heat wave, but apparently I don't have much to fear from our class' conspiracy theorist. That doesn't mean Hisao is off the hook, though.

“Not really, and don't call me Shirley,” he replies, sending a suspicious glance over his shoulder, “but you can assume anything Hisao knows is on your clearance level—I'd even extend that to your associates.”

“My... associates?” I prompt, tilting my head questioningly, “You mean my friends?”

“Indeed,” he replies, then lowers his voice to rasp, “Most of them, anyway...”

“What does that mean?”

“Never mind, it's not important,” he says dismissively, pausing to reach up and push his heavy frames back into place, “You've been assisting Hisao in getting to fighting shape, and for that I thank you.”

“Um... okay,” I sputter, trying not to imagine a scenario where Hisao needs to be in fighting shape, “you're... welcome?”

“This meeting never happened,” he intones, sending his gaze down to the dropped juice cans.

“It... didn't?”

“Exactly,” he insists, fetching the cans and walking toward his door.

Before I can venture a guess, or ask what he meant, the wily Kenji Setou disappears into his room. Left standing in the hall, hearing the dozen locks clicking, I stare dumbly for a while, blinking confusedly. It was a brief meeting, no doubt, but it explained more than I was expecting. The loud music, his being gone inexplicably, and a complete lack of complaints about the noise from Hisao's room suddenly makes sense—not that I'm happy about the explanation. Apparently Hisao has been lying to me a little about his neighbor, but it was at Kenji's behest, though that doesn't necessarily make it right.

I should leave...

After collecting myself with a steadying breath, I start my careful march along the halls, down the stairs, and out toward the rear exit. Along the way I pass by a few open doors, but their residents are nowhere to be found—like they left their rooms to air out while they're gone. It's more likely they just woke up and didn't bother closing their door on the way downstairs, but I'm not about to linger so I can find out. Crossing campus is uneventful, though I notice it's probably going to be another scorcher today—I can understand why Hisao would be spending time at the pool if it's like this there. That thought makes me check my phone, where I find another message from Hisao—this time in text.

[You must be asleep already. Call me tomorrow morning,] it reads, and the time stamp says it was sent shortly after midnight—he must have gotten home late.

I'm not jumping to conclusions...

The message said to call in the morning, but seeing as it's only seven, I decide to let him sleep. In the meantime, I change into my swimsuit and head for the pool. Unsurprisingly, Joyce is there again; I'm not sure whether she takes any length of the summer for herself. This time she leaves me alone, though there's a concerned look in her eyes that makes me want to apologize for being curt yesterday. When I'm finishing up my laps, I hear clicking footsteps, followed by girlish voices echoing around the room, but can't quite see who else has arrived—usually the place is relatively empty until at least nine o'clock.

One of the voices is that of Joyce, and she seems to know the visitors pretty well from the way they're laughing, but none of them are calling each other by name. Deciding I'll find out soon enough, I put my head down and finish my last two laps before exiting the pool to have a look around. The chlorine is still stinging my eyes, and my glasses are on the other side of the room, but I can make out two figures standing near Joyce—a tall blond girl, and her mousy cohort with long dark hair. Squinting to try and align the blur, I recognize the outline of a seeing cane in the blond girl's hands; if my guess is right, that's Lilly again, and the other one might be Hanako.

“There she is,” Joyce announces, pointing toward me as the two girls turn. “Miss Kurai, you have some visitors.”

I have... wait, what...?

“Hello?” I say, standing and rubbing my eyes.

“Ah, thank you, Miss Chambers,” the blond girl says, her vacant eyes turning in my general direction, “Do you have a moment, Miss Kurai?”

Not being used to her formality, I sputter for a moment before replying, “Um, yes—Lilly Satou, right?”

“And Hanako Ikezawa,” she says, nodding toward her companion.

While she nods, I reach up to toss a few wet strands of hair out of my face, and try to figure out why she's looking for me. As the mismatched pair walks toward me in tandem, I squint a little tighter, enough to discern their expressions. Unfortunately, it's difficult to read Hanako because she always looks nervous, and Lilly has a knack for remaining reticent. For a moment, I look toward Joyce, but she's already walking back toward her spot, so she won't be any help, I guess. The only thing I can think of is that it's school business, though, considering we're in the middle of summer break, that seems unlikely. That unlikelihood becomes more obvious as I notice their attire.

Dressed casually, rather than formally, the two friends seem worlds apart in terms of fashion, though the same could be said of Amaya and myself. Lilly wears a loose-fitting, salmon-colored long-sleeved shirt that sort of floats around her shoulders, along with a tight-fitting tan skirt that billows out around her knees, and sensible flats—it's a classy look that's reminiscent of my mother's style. Hanako, on the contrary, is dressed in denim from head to toe—much more my speed—along with a flat-top cap that I'd consider stealing for my own wardrobe if it didn't fit her so perfectly.

Am I actually assessing their fashions...?

“Sorry, I don't have my glasses on,” I mention, glancing toward the distant bench, “What's this about?”

“I beg your pardon for the intrusion, but Hanako mentioned you frequented the pool in the mornings,” Lilly explains, her voice filled with more tension than I'd usually expect, “And, I was given a message to deliver...”

“Message?” I echo, glancing at Hanako briefly while Lilly pauses.

If what little I know about Hanako's tenure at Yamaku is true, it seems like she had a similar experience to my own prior to enrolling here. The scars along her face tell me she had something traumatic happen—probably a fire—and I can't relate to that directly, but I got singled out and teased for more reasons than I usually admit. She's probably taller than me, but the way she huddles down and clutches Lilly's arm like a crutch makes her look smaller, which is probably intentional—trying to hide in plain sight. There's less of the nervousness I remember, though she looks at me with a kind of latent suspicion that's somewhat familiar.

I can find that look in some of my old photos...

“F-from Sh-Shizune,” Hanako stutters, then halts her explanation and looks toward Lilly.

Completely baffled, I prompt, “Shizune...?”

My bewildered expression apparently speaks volumes as Hanako adds, “I-it's... c-complicated...”

Something tells me that's less than true, and Lilly's tight-lipped grimace indicates it's actually really simple, but I'm not about to press for answers when I don't even know what I'm asking. Everything I know about Shizune and Lilly comes from past experiences in a few Council meetings, and rumors about their falling out after last year's festival. That Lilly would be carrying a message from the Student Council President is a little far-fetched, and that it's a week after the start of summer break is even stranger, but I'm more interested in the message—somehow I doubt it's good news.

“Well,” I say, turning back toward Lilly, “am I fired? Is that it?”

Her light laugh is both encouraging and disconcerting, and even Hanako smirks for just a moment, but then Lilly calms and shakes her head. “No, nothing like that,” she replies, clearing her throat, “I was asked to relay an invitation—per your friend Shizune, not the Class President.”

An invitation...?

"To where? Or what?” I ask, trying not to sound too suspicious.

“The Hakamichi home, of course,” she replies, nodding toward Hanako, “for a weekend gathering of some kind—there weren't many details.”

This is getting weird...

“Why would she send it through you?” I ask, the accusation in my question making the tall girl frown.

“She would have messaged you herself, but you know she hates that kind of rudimentary exchange,” she explains, which makes sense, but doesn't tell me why she's the messenger. “And I was heading back here to visit with Hanako, so she asked that I deliver the invitation in person—my cousin and I have... reached an agreement.”

Cousin...? Wait... How is... What...?

“Um...?” I sputter, thoroughly confused. “Your cousin...?”

“Shizune's mother and my father were siblings—I apologize if you weren't informed,” she explains, offering a slight bow, “it's not common knowledge, I suppose...”

That little logic bomb hits me square in the forehead, and I rock back for a moment, completely bewildered. It never occurred to me that the two of them could be related since they're so dissimilar—both physically, and in temperament. However, it might explain why they're particularly competitive, and have a tendency to turn minor arguments into full-scale verbal wars—the way only family can. While I'm sorting that out, I notice Hanako has gone silent again, and she's clutching Lilly's arm tighter than she was before—like she's afraid of my impending reaction.

I should say something...

“Sorry, it's just... I... it... u-um,” I stutter, trying and failing to turn my thoughts into words. “She never mentioned it,” I say finally, which draws a sagely nod from Lilly, “and... well... you're just so different...”

“I trust that's not an insult,” Lilly says, though her subdued smirk tells me she's being facetious.

“No, just a comparison,” I confirm, giving my head a quick shake, “but she's so... and you're...”

Nothing I say here can lead to good ends...

“Don't worry about it,” she concedes, patting the air with her free hand, “I myself have often wondered how we could be related.”

I bet Shizune wonders the same thing...

In the silence that follows, I take a moment to analyze Lilly's appearance more carefully. Comparing her to the mental image I have of Shizune, I fail to see any obvious similarities. Shizune is close to my height and narrow, with short, dark blue hair, sharp Asiatic features, and the disposition of a feudal dictator. Meanwhile, Lilly is relatively statuesque, with high cheekbones, long blond hair, wide hips, smooth, cream-colored skin, and a personality marked by graciousness and compromise. There are some cousins on my mother's side whom I've been told are my polar opposite, but I never believed they could be that different.

It's really no wonder I had no idea they were related...

Given that she's blind, I feel less apprehensive about staring at Lilly, and Hanako doesn't mention my gaze—she probably understands why I'm curious—though I immediately feel guilty anyway. “Sorry, I'm staring,” I admit, blinking a few times and averting my gaze, “I'm curious, but I know it's rude-”

“It's not unexpected,” she interjects, offering a flat smile, “there's little familial resemblance, I've been told, though Mother claims we have the same eyes...”

That sounds like a joke for a moment, but, as I take a closer look, I notice the similarity. Shizune's eyes are dark blue, and Lilly's are light and glassy—perhaps because of her blindness—but they're shaped almost identically. “Huh...” I grunt, trailing off and trying not to smirk, “is it okay if I call that irony?”

“It is what it is,” she says with a light chuckle.

Wanting to abandon this conversation before it leads somewhere bad, and because I feel like I'm neglecting my other visitor, I turn toward Hanako and offer a smile. “So, any other messages?” I ask, turning between them absently. When neither speaks, I remember the book sitting on my desk and decide to mention, “I still have Life of Pi up in my dorm... I'm sure Hisao mentioned it...”

The mention of Hisao seems to make Hanako's expression brighten for just a moment, but that quickly fades into her normal, unsettlingly neutral facade. She motions like she might reply verbally, then stops herself to nod instead. If what Hisao said is true, and she was starting to come out of her shell, I wonder whether I'm doing something wrong—she can't even hold eye contact for more than a few seconds. Lilly being nearby usually helps her relax, from what I recall, so the only remaining common denominator is myself, which means I must be doing something that bothers her—I don't think I'm intimidating, though.

That's Amaya's department...

If I really am the cause, she probably won't be forthcoming, and I don't know how to pursue the question without upsetting her, but maybe I'm misreading the whole situation. “Is something wrong?” I ask, trying to gauge their noncommittal reactions before adding, “I feel like I'm being left out of something...”

“N-no, n-nothing,” Hanako rasps, attempting a smile that's obviously forced, “I-if you remember l-later, I'll be back b-before dusk...”

As she trails off, Lilly picks up the explanation, “We're going into the city to surprise my sister—she doesn't know I've returned from Scotland.”

Scotland...?

That tidbit of information is almost enough to make me ask what she means, but it's accompanied by an escape route from the conversation, which I decide to take. Turning toward the bench where I left my bathrobe and towel, I mention, “Well, I'll probably be here if you wanna stop by my room when you get back—I finished the book a few days ago, and I'm into another already.”

“Room three-fourteen, yes?” Lilly asks, and I nod dumbly as I start gathering my belongings.

After tossing my bathrobe on, I remember she's blind and sputter, “Um, yeah... right... three-fourteen—a couple hallways over...”

“Alright then. Contact Miss Mikado about the invitation,” she says, and it takes me a moment to realize she's talking about Misha. “She'll likely have more details.”

I wonder why Shizune didn't just have Misha call me...

“Will do,” I say, offering Hanako a nod, “Just knock—if I'm there, I'll answer.” It takes a moment before Hanako realizes I'm talking to her, but after a brief pause she nods in kind.

Holding all my stuff in hand, I stand and stare at them for a few seconds, nodding awkwardly, not sure what to do with myself. It's strange enough being visited by people I barely know, but now I'm hurriedly leaving and it feels even weirder. Not knowing either of these two particularly well, I'll feel more comfortable asking Shizune about this later, but, for now, I can't quite get my feet moving. Luckily, this seems no less awkward for them, as neither motions to leave or say anything else, so at least I'm not alone in my awkwardness.

I wish I knew the Weirding Way right about now...

For a few long seconds, we just stand and stare at each other—or Hanako and I stare, at least. Finally, Lilly lets out a sharp sigh, and I take that as a cue to put myself back in motion. “Thanks for the message,” I say, turning to start toward the exit, “and, um... welcome back, I guess?”

“You're welcome, and thank you,” Lilly replies, masking her awkwardness gracefully.

It feels weird offering a wave to a blind girl, but Hanako is there to see it at least, so I don't feel like a complete idiot. Although, with her hiding against Lilly's side, I'm not sure if she saw it either—I ought to be better at this by now. As I step out into the sunlight, I stop and look back over my shoulder, trying to organize my thoughts. Perhaps it's only because there were so many revelations in the encounter that's bothering me, but I'm also just not used to having people I don't know—at least not very well—walk up and ask me questions, or deliver information. The fact that it became so awkward probably only compounds the problem.

I guess I'm still not great at widening my circle of friends...

Deciding I can sort it out later, I give my head a good shake to clear confusion and start plodding along back toward the dorms. When my phone starts ringing, I immediately think it's Misha calling because of the conversation I just had—like she somehow knows it happened—but instead it's Mom. Still reeling from Lilly's information dump, I don't quite know how to respond, but, where Mom is concerned, I probably don't need to say much. For a moment I consider letting it go to voice mail because she probably has unwanted plans for me, but maybe I need the distraction.

I'm probably going to regret this...

“Hi, Mom,” I greet, slowing my walking pace as I approach the stairs leading into the dorms, “good news, I hope?”

“Did you just wake up, Kitten?” she asks, which makes me smirk and shake my head.

“No, just... never mind,” I reply, turning to take a seat on the stone steps, “It's been a weird morning is all—a weird week, really...”

“Ah, well, yes... Amaya made it home safely?” she asks, sounding genuinely concerned.

“Yeah, she finally called Thursday night...”

“Thursday night? Why didn't you call me?”

“I, well...” I trail off, realizing that's when the weirdness started with Hisao. “I forgot, okay?” I claim, which is at least partially true, “she called a little while before bed, and... anyway, she's fine.”

“Okay... And Tadao?”

“Alive, as far as I know—it could have been a recording, though,” I recount with a smirk.

“Good, good... And, what are you doing with yourself, Kitten?” she asks, her voice sounding dangerously cheerful.

Noting the change in her tone from genuine concern to unprovoked cheer, I'm guessing this is the real reason for her call; it's her version of burying the lead, and it likely won't take me anywhere I want to follow. Unfortunately I don't have a response prepared, so I pause for a moment to collect my thoughts. That's probably worse than not having anything to say, so I quickly try to drum up a reasonable lie, but I'm too scattered to think of anything she'd believe. Closing my eyes in resignation, I decide to try blatant dishonesty—maybe she won't expect that.

“I-I have,” I stutter, already off to a good start, “all kinds of things... going on... here...”

I'm so screwed...

“You shouldn't try to lie to me, Kitten,” she advises as I let out a frustrated groan. “You can't stay cooped up in that little cave of yours all summer,” she muses, the implication leading me to lean my forehead against the metal railing and roll my eyes. “However,” she adds, her chipper tone filling me with dread, “I have the perfect way to get you out for a day!”

“That's really not-”

“This isn't a negotiation, Aiko,” she interjects, using my name to emphasize her point. After a brief pause, she cheerily adds, “My class starts today, and I need an assistant.”

“The cooking thing?” I ask in disbelief.

Did she forget who she's talking to...?

“Yes,” she replies dryly, “the cooking thing.”

“And... is Midori sick, or something...?”

“No, of course not,” she assures me, which is less than reassuring. “It's Saturday, so you ought to be out doing something fun,” she adds, pausing while I raise an eyebrow at her word choice—it's almost like she can see me over the phone. “And, maybe we can lure the dormant chef out of you~!”

“Mom? Hang on a sec,” I say, pressing mute then standing to lean against the rail.

I need a moment to think this through logically...

There really isn't any good reason for me to refuse her, aside from my being completely inept in the kitchen. It seems like that's half her reason for bringing me along, though, so I can't turn that to my advantage. All my friends are away, Yoko starts her weekend job today, and aside from a cryptic invitation from Shizune, I don't have any other plans. There's always the faking sick maneuver, but I think I've gotten too far into the conversation for her to believe that. Meanwhile, Mom is probably smirking to herself, casually waiting for me to cave and agree to her plan—it seems inevitable.

I regret not letting it go to voice-mail...

Taking the phone off of mute, and figuring I can get away with at least one stipulation, I request, “You promise you won't make an example of me?”

“Kitten, I'd never intentionally make you feel bad. Besides, I think you might surprise yourself~!” she says encouragingly, though I doubt she believes those words any more than I do, “We can make a day of it—maybe do something afterward. Go see a movie, do some shopping... talk about boys-”

“Fine, I'll go,” I concede, cutting her off before her list gets weirder, “When will you be here?”

“I'm just getting onto the freeway... probably ten minutes, maybe more—depends on traffic.”

“I never really had a choice in the matter, then, did I?”

“Of course not~!” she beams, laughing for a moment before adding, “but, I thought I'd give you the illusion of choice, at least.”

“Thanks...”

“Oh, don't sound so glum!” she chides, “I'm sure you'll do fine!”

“I'm not glum, I'm just being realistic,” I retort, deciding to make my case even if it's in vain. “My culinary failings are many, and I have no reason to believe that will ever change...”

“You've got Navarro blood, Kitten—with it comes the ability to create masterpieces in the kitchen!”

“Disastrous ones, maybe,” I whisper under my breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothing, never mind,” I say, clearing my throat. “I should hang up so you're not driving distracted.”

“Alright, Kitten—think positive!” she encourages, “I know you have a dormant gourmet in you, just waiting for the right teacher to coax it out!”

I'll let her have her delusions for now...

“Okay... I'll... meet you at the gate?”

“See you in a bit,” she says, then laughs and adds, “Don't try hiding—I'll find you.”

“Love you, too,” I reply, then end the call.

Still in my bathing suit, I quickly gather my things and head upstairs to change. Sometimes I wish I was better at lying, especially to her, but usually it's not that bad telling her the truth. When I set the kitchen on fire in an attempt to make breakfast back when I was eleven, there really wasn't much chance of her not figuring out the culprit, but I still tried—just on principle. Instead of blowing up at me when she inevitably figured it out, she just grounded me for a month—doubling the time from two weeks because I tried to lie. She then used the opportunity to goad Dad into remodeling the kitchen, so it kind of worked out in everyone's best interest.

Even a terrifying grease fire can have positive results...

It's possible she's right and there's a skilled chef hiding inside me somewhere—if there's a genetic disposition to cooking skill—but I can't shake the feeling that something awful will happen. It's probably just nerves, but my track record with preparing meals using traditional methods speaks for itself: multiple cuts, scrapes and burns, two kitchens burned to a husk, and three cases of food poisoning—nothing fatal, luckily. As I enter my room, my eyes fall on the picture of Dad, and my gaze lingers there for a few moments as I try to sum up some courage. Like so many things, I should probably face my fear of cooking, though I wish Dad were still around to convince Mom it's a lost cause.

I think she only agreed because I'd nearly burned down the house...

Unfortunately, Mom holds onto a silly theory that any system can repair itself if given enough time, which she applies to my cooking skill—right along with her broken cellphones, alarm clocks, and other assorted devices that will never work again. Every few years she decides to give it another shot, mostly because she can't believe her daughter could be so culinarily inept. After I accidentally torched the common room, her delusions were put on hold again, but that was over two years ago. It's starting to seem like I'll be going through this ebb and flow of parental delusion for the rest of my life, so I guess I'll just humor her.

Who knows, maybe I'll uncover that dormant gourmet...

~^~

On my way out to meet Mom at the gate, I recall the invitation from this morning and decide to send Misha a message. There wasn't a lot of urgency in Lilly's delivery, so it's probably not planned for this weekend, but Shizune will expect a prompt response. What little I know about Shizune tells me that whatever she has planned will probably be entertaining—it should at least get me away from the dorms for a while. Basically I have no idea what I've been invited to, so that's my first question, but it's a little too early to expect an immediate reply.

I wish whatever she has planned could get me out of this cooking thing...

When I step out through the gate and look around for Mom's new sedan, it doesn't take long to pick it out; nobody else parks crooked with one wheel on the sidewalk quite like she does. As soon as I'm in the passenger seat, she asks what I'm grinning about, but I excuse it by saying I feel optimistic about her cooking class—I'm not sure if she believes me, but she doesn't press the issue. Within minutes of getting on the road, she starts offering me advice and suggestions on the upcoming lessons. She probably realizes I'm just humoring her, but since I'm stuck doing this either way, I decide to pay attention.

The class apparently consists mostly of novices, many of whom have only recently found themselves needing to learn basic cooking skills. She compared it to the elementary lessons she teaches her youngest students back home, which I'm not sure whether to take as a relief or an insult—she's probably trying to make me feel better. On some level, I'm relieved it won't be an advanced class because I won't look quite so bad to start. However, once her students begin showing progress, and I'm still burning everything, I'll still feel like an idiot.

This is not going to be a pleasant experience...

“You're getting that worried look again,” Mom remarks, a red light giving her the chance to look over with a concerned grimace.

“I'm fine, Mom, really,” I reply, leaning back and taking a look out my window toward a nearby skyscraper. “Why'd you trade down to a sedan, anyway?”

“Oh, it just seemed more practical—it's just me, you, and Midi mostly now,” she explains, leaving out the part about the rental company taking pity on her, “but don't change the subject... You're either worried about the class, or something else is bothering you.”

“It's neither,” I claim, keeping my eyes looking firmly in the other direction.

Usually she wouldn't give up after such a flimsy retort, but the light turns green and she has to focus on traffic. While she's maneuvering through the city streets, I'm free from her incessant questions, so I dig out my phone to check for messages. There's nothing new from Hisao, but, much to my surprise, there's already a response from Misha, though the contents are less than helpful. It looks like gibberish, considering how many abbreviations and spelling errors are involved, but it seems like she's happy to hear from me. Translating it will take more time than I probably have, so I sigh and start flipping through my contact list.

I'll need to find a hiding place so I can call Hisao...

Mom notices my actions, leading her to ask, “Expecting a call?”

“No... well, kinda,” I reply, trying stall while I come up with a reasonable explanation. The guilty grin I'm making probably doesn't instill much confidence, but I'm not even sure why I'm being secretive; she can't possibly know about the strain with Hisao—unless Yoko talked. “It's nothing important,” I add, turning to look at the phone again, “just some correspondence with a... silent partner...”

There are advantages to playing phone tag with more than one person...

“Oh... 'kay,” she says, still sounding suspicious, “any news from the homefront?”

“Homefront?”

“You said Amaya called,” she explains, her voice filled with a mix of anticipation and trepidation, “what's happening with her and Tadao?”

“Ah, that...” I trail off to consider my words. According to Amaya, everything went as planned, except that her dad has been inordinately hostile toward Tadao—she said something about a constant inquisition. “It's an uphill struggle, I gather, but Mister Yamamoto is showing signs of thawing... though I don't think they've been totally honest about... everything.”

“Ah, well... if you recall, you tried to hide it, too,” she says, which I don't like agreeing with, but it's the truth. “It's understandable, though—you thought I was a prude~!”

“I still think that,” I retort, “for my sanity's sake, if nothing else...”

“Well, I'll let you keep your delusions for now,” she says with a laugh. As the car comes to a stop at another light, she looks over and innocently asks, “And... the other homefront?”

I might have to shake down Yoko later...

“Hisao?” I prompt, trying to buy time. Her smirking nod doesn't last long enough to come up with anything clever, so I decide to lie, “I talked to him last night—he's... he's fine.”

My evasion doesn't convince her, but I'm saved by another traffic interruption. “Ah, here's the garage,” she says, jerking the car to the right with another spectacularly abrupt turn, and nearly plowing straight through the retractable gate. When we've stopped, she groans and reaches for her purse, complaining absently, “They wouldn't give me a badge until the class actually started...”

Not knowing quite what she's talking about, I let her forget I'm here, hoping she'll also forget about our discussion. Until I know for sure what happened, I doubt talking to her will help anything, so I plan to avoid it if at all possible. At some point, I'll need to find a closet, or a bathroom, or maybe an air duct where I can make a phone call without her popping up to annoy me with questions. For now, I try to focus on her culinary ramblings, which continue as we search for a parking space, focusing on the makeshift classroom she'll be using.

Unlike her well-equipped classroom in Italy, the course she'll be teaching will take place in a disused kitchen that was once part of a hotel restaurant—the same hotel where she's staying. When the restaurant folded—for reasons she doesn't know—the local university bought the kitchen and the adjacent rooms, then added their own staff. Usually it's abandoned during summer break, but refusing extra income isn't a savvy tactic for any institution; it probably helps that one of Mom's professors from culinary school is on the school's administrative board. Basically this all means that she has a legitimate excuse to drag me into the frying pan once again.

I can't wait...

Groaning as another blind corner reveals a string of parked cars, she gripes, “Every time I return here, I have to hunt down a spot...”

“You could have saved the aggravation and left me at Yamaku...”

Glaring at me sidelong, she quips, “Don't get smart with me—I brought you into this world, I can take you out...!”

“The way you drive, I'm sure you've been trying for years...”

Instead of responding verbally, she halts the car suddenly, making my head jerk forward. “Oh, wait... that's a compact space,” she lies, smirking evilly, “sorry, Kitten—how's your neck?”

“Just fine,” I groan, “at least we know the car has good brakes...”

“I remembered which pedal does that this time...”

I think that's called selective memory...

Our good humored banter ends there while she continues searching for an open space. Since she's at least mildly distracted, I go back to perusing Misha's seemingly coded reply, and I manage to figure out one thing: I'm falling behind on my internet jargon. Instead of trying to translate, I decide to send back a simple, one word reply, [Wut?]

Glancing at Mom, I see she's still bobbing her head, looking for a place to park, so I keep the phone out in case I get a quick response. Only a few seconds pass before the tell-tale blip noise sounds and I find a legible reply, [Going camping :) More the merrier!!! Shicchan says hi. ^_^]

Camping...? I haven't gone camping since... ever...

Before I can try typing a reply, the car jerks to the left and Mom exclaims, “Mine!”

Once we've stopped, I turn to see another car speeding down the aisle—Mom must have managed to outmaneuver someone. Having reached our destination, writing a lengthy reply would just annoy Mom, which might be fun, but I think I've already spent my delinquent capital for the hour. Instead I simply write a short message, [Okay, cool. I'll call later for details.]

“We're here, Kitten,” Mom points out as she exits the car, “and, leave the phone here—I don't want you being distracted.”

Damn it all...

“Why?”

“It's brand new," she says, "and I don't want it ending up in a pot of boiling water, or something...”

“Fine,” I grumble, closing the device and placing it in the center console. Her logic leaves me with a petulant scowl, but I can see her point—I can't contact anyone with a broken phone.

“Besides, we both know this might go horribly,” she adds, which sounds more pessimistic than I was expecting.

“Do I sense a wrinkle in your optimism?” I ask, walking around to meet her at the back of the car, “Or are you just hedging your bets?”

“I'm hopeful, but I'm not an idiot,” she retorts, beckoning me to follow her toward the stairwell. “I still have every confidence that I can shape you into a gourmet, but Rome wasn't built in a day...”

“Didn't that take like five hundred years?”

“Technically, they're still not done,” she quips, smiling over her shoulder, “but the Romans didn't have me for a teacher.”

Mom takes teaching very seriously, and it might make me seem lame, but I've always admired that about her—it's probably the other half of why she refuses to give up on trying to teach me. Once we're through the stairwell door, she starts going into business mode, or serious mode, or whatever mode teachers go into just before class. Her leisurely walking pace quickens, her hips swivel less, her perpetual smile flattens, and she extracts a file folder from her bag which I'm guessing contains her student list, or the curriculum, or they could be blank pages meant to make her look official.

I think half of teaching is the illusion of authority...

It's similar to the change that happens when one of her darling daughters misbehaves, but since it's directed elsewhere—at least for the time being—it doesn't make me nervous. While we're on the elevator she remains stoically silent, looking over that file and quietly turning the pages. Meanwhile, I keep my head down and try to keep the terrified look off my face; I'm really not looking forward to humiliating myself in front of strangers. When the doors open, Mom immediately steps into the air conditioned hallway, but I linger against the back of the elevator.

Maybe if I stay here she won't notice...

“C'mon, Kitten, this will be fun~!” she chirps, dashing my hopes.

Making it look like I was engrossed in reading the safety information posted inside, I hop off the wall and step into the narrow hallway. For being a somewhat expensive hotel, the infrastructure seems oddly cheap, but I guess they spend most of their money on the rooms upstairs. The laminate floor is the first obviously low-budget detail I notice, but there are also exposed pipes running along the walls, and the suspended ceiling is missing more than a few tiles. With my eyes aimed downward, I mostly follow the sound of Mom's footsteps, moving along several corridors before exiting through a narrow doorway.

Looking up as the door closes behind us, I find we've entered into a hidden room at the back of the hotel lobby. There are security monitors arranged along one wall, and a kitchenette built along the other, with a narrow table set up in between—I can't tell if it's a break room or a security office. That question gets answered as a middle-aged man in a dark blue suit and dark sunglasses approaches holding two visitor badges. The badge hanging from his collar indicates he's with security, and he has the appropriately stern expression, which he directs toward me as he nears.

Mom nods and takes the badges, then turns to notice my perplexed expression and holds a hand toward him. “This is the chief of hotel security here, Mister Hayashi,” she introduces him, handing me one of the badges before adding, “My daughter, Aiko—she'll be working with me today.”

“Very well,” he replies, offering a slight bow, which I echo in kind, “If you'll follow me...”

It seems like a bit much for there to be this much emphasis put on security around a little cooking class, but it's not my place to ask. As we follow Hayashi through more narrow corridors, I ponder whether there might be some special significance where the students are concerned, but that's probably just my overactive imagination talking. Soon we've found our way seemingly across to the other side of the hotel, and up two flights of stairs that open into a dimly lit dining hall. The brightest lights come from the exit signs and the small circular windows along the far wall; I can't quite see what's outside through them.

“Have any of my students arrived yet?” Mom inquires.

As Hayashi moves to turn on the lights, he replies, “No, Ma'am...”

The fluorescent glow brightens the cavernous room quite well, highlighting the lightly stained wood tables and chairs, and the dark rafters hanging under the high ceiling. Along the interior walls are a number of colorful pastoral lithographs, and the wide room is anchored by a rectangular cooking pit at its epicenter. At the back of the room is a well-stocked bar with leather-bound stools and a giant mirror that makes the large room seem double its size. On either side of the bar are large swinging doors that probably lead into the main kitchen, each flanked by a bank of drawers and a prep table; it seems like it was a really nice restaurant, so I'm not sure why it closed.

“Your students will be directed through the main doors,” he explains, pointing toward the large double-doors on the wall opposite the bar. “Those badges will grant access to all the restaurant facilities,” he adds, walking over to step into the kitchen and turn on the lights, “And they'll function as a parking pass downstairs—you can get your parking validated at the front desk before you leave.”

“Excellent. Thank you Mister Hayashi,” Mom says with a gracious bow, “if I need anything-”

“Dial one, wait for the tone, then star five on the intercom,” he answers, pointing toward the device behind the bar, “myself, or Miss Yumi will respond promptly.”

Nodding, Mom looks toward me, then back to Hayashi and remarks, “Your restaurant is in good hands.”

“Of course, Misses Kurai.”

“Please, call me Ina,” she corrects.

The informality seems to make him flinch, but he quickly recovers and replies, “Very well... Ina.”

As he departs, I notice Mom trying to act casual as her eyes follow him out the door. If she were one of my friends, I'd probably mention that she isn't hiding her stare very well, but since she's my mother, I decide not to tread on that subject. “So... how much of this place do you figure will survive the inevitable fire?” I joke, earning an appropriately distasteful grunt.

“Not funny, Kitten,” she scolds.

“Just remember: when we're filling out the police report," I add, pointing at her, "you were the one who dragged me here...”

She reopens the file folder and raises an eyebrow, then changes the subject, “We should probably take a look at the kitchen proper...”

As she starts walking toward the kitchen, I follow and remark, “Yeah, I'll want to familiarize myself with the emergency exits...”

“Stop being so negative~!” she scolds cheerily, “You'll be fixing gourmet meals for Hisao by the time he gets back~!”

While that sounds completely ridiculous, and probably impossible, I can't help smiling at the prospect of adding some domestic skills to my repertoire. As old fashioned as it sounds, I'd actually like to feel useful in the kitchen, rather than a danger, especially for Hisao—along with the rest of my friends. It's unlikely that I'll ever grasp the concept well enough to make anything complicated, but I'd like to get a handle on the basics, if I can. Maybe I'm deluding myself, but now that Mom put the idea in my head, I actually feel motivated to get past my culinary roadblocks.

I'm sure that was her intent...

~^~

Many of the ten people who signed up for the course looked like they might chop off a finger before the day was over, but, not only has that not happened, many of them have made real progress. They were less than enthusiastic about the curriculum, which seems strangely advanced for a first lesson, but there's a method to Mom's madness—or so she says. After going over some workspace etiquette and a few basic knife skills—slicing, dicing and something called chiffonade—she moved straight on to breaking down a whole chicken. All I had to do was hand her a knife, then stand next to her through the demonstration.

I sort of felt like one of the girls from Wheel Of Fortune...

The only hard part was trying not to look completely inept, but everyone was mesmerized by the lesson, so I don't think anyone noticed my blank stare. Everyone gathered around her workstation as she went over every cut in detail, explaining how to hold the knife, where to use the shears, and what to do with the innards. After that she set everyone up with birds of their own to flay, including myself, and told us to have at it. For some reason, I find cutting up poultry rather relaxing. It's possible I relate it to shooting my way through a bunker in a video game, but that just tells me I've been extremely bored lately.

While we whittle away, Mom patrols the kitchen offering bits of advice, pointing out errors, or complimenting small triumphs, always with a smile. The way she explained it to me, she's throwing something seemingly insurmountable at the group on the first day so that when they've completed that, even if it isn't perfect, it will build confidence—which is something I'm sorely lacking in the kitchen. Her intentions don't necessarily show in my paltry mishandling of poultry, but, as I look around at the novices who've probably spent less than ten minutes in a kitchen before today, the results speak for themselves.

I might actually start getting this if I put some effort into it...

“Kitten, I think you're a little too knife-shy,” she says in a low whisper, peeking over my shoulder. “Think of it like a video game,” she adds, which is surprising considering the source, “Manipulating a knife is like using a mouse, except it's sharper.”

“And I can't lose a finger using a mouse...”

“If you think you'll cut yourself, you probably will,” she retorts, tapping the counter beside my cutting board. “Just think about what you're doing,” she advises, “concentrate on what your hands are doing instead of worrying about the possible hospital visit.”

For whatever reason, that actually makes sense, though I'm not exactly sure why. “Think small?” I ask, turning to see her smile, “Is that what you mean?”

“Exactly—one step at a time~! It works with cooking, driving, life... love...” she describes, trailing off at seeing my eyes aim downward. “Just focus on finishing up here,” she says, giving me a gentle pat on the shoulder, “We can talk about the rest after...”

Before I can protest, or ask how she seems to know what else is bothering me, she leaves to browse her students' progress. Whether or not Yoko ratted me out, it seems Mom knows something more than failing at cooking is on my mind, which really shouldn't surprise me at this point. Maybe it's just maternal instinct, but she always seems to know when I've had a bad day. Even as far back as before my accident, I remember her just up and giving me a hug, or saying something encouraging when things weren't going my way, even when she had little more than my expression as a guide—it would be more comforting if it didn't result in embarrassment half the time.

I wonder if I'll ever understand anyone that well...

While she's away, I take her advice and focus on the poultry problem. Letting her cheerful, though commanding voice sink into the background, I concentrate on separating the breast meat, and extracting the legs. When I've finished hacking the rest apart, it doesn't look quite as good as the one she used to demonstrate—I mangled it pretty badly, actually—but the prospect of doing it again is less frightening having done it once. Of course, classically, the way I've messed up cooking has been during the introduction of heat to the equation, but that's step fifty or so, and I just finished step one.

I have a long way to go...

“Okay, has everyone finished?” Mom asks loudly, her voice ringing off the pans hanging from the ceiling. As a collective affirmative grunt answers her, she frowns and scolds in her cheerful tone, “Now, class, order is key to a good kitchen, so I ask that you address me properly~!”

“Yes, Chef Ina!” the group replies, which sounds weird to my ears.

I wonder if I should call her Chef Mom...

“That's better! You must be clear in the kitchen, remember that!” she explains. “Look around you,” she adds, pointing around the room, “This room is full of knives, chemicals, scalding water... a few dozen other potential hazards, and especially fire,” she pauses to smirk and wink toward me, “and other hot things...”

I was almost ready to thank her for not embarrassing me today... almost...

The students, many of them older men, avoid turning to follow her look, and I suppress the blush as well as I can. Being by far the youngest person in the room, and female, I've noticed and tried to ignore the casual glances, but Mom apparently enjoys the fact that I've been drawing wandering eyes. It occurs to me that some of the students have paid her just as much attention, but she's actually used to it while I still don't know what to do when I'm being ogled. Lately my reaction has involved hiding behind Hisao, my personal meat shield, but that's not an option.

Mom lets the awkwardness hang in the air for a few seconds before clapping her hands together loudly and advising, “Just remember: safety first!”

I think she's getting me back for making fun of her driving...

“Yes, Chef Ina,” her students reply in unison.

“Good. Well, as our time today is nearly up, and I know you all have places to go after class, we'll end the day with a lesson on storage,” she says, smirking over her shoulder, “so, everyone grab your meat... and follow me.”

And now I have that image to contend with... thanks, Mom...

~^~

There's one thought on my mind as I follow Mom out to the garage, and that is getting to my phone so I can contact Hisao. If I want privacy, I'll have to wait until we're back at Yamaku, but I can at least send him a message explaining why I haven't called yet today; it's already after noon. The moment I'm back in the passenger seat, I dig the device out of the console and start checking for messages. There's a reply from Misha that I'll read later, a message from Yoko that can probably wait, and another text from Hisao that I stare at for a few long moments before opening.

Mom sits down as the message appears, and I turn away reflexively, which she takes as what it is: I'm trying to hide it from her. “Kitten, I know you,” she states, placing a calming hand on my forearm, “You're not usually this excited to check phone messages, and you're trying to hide it, which means something happened.”

The indignant teenager in me wants to deny her observation, but my reasonable side wins out as I start to nod. “Just something stupid... it's probably nothing,” I say, simply saying the words making me feel a little better, “You're probably gonna laugh...”

“Not at you, never,” she protests, then smirks and shrugs. “Well, maybe a little,” she admits, “but that doesn't mean I'm not taking it seriously.”

Knowing she means well, I shrug and start explaining about what happened. The reticent expression she maintains as I describe the weird conversation, and our subsequent missed calls doesn't help, but it's probably better than the judgmental stare I'd get from Amaya, or the bewildered gape I got from Yoko. The last straw comes when she asks that I open up the most recent message for her to see. At reading the simple, innocent question contained therein, I groan in frustration while Mom shakes her head in dismay.

[Are you mad at me?]

“He has a lot to learn about women,” Mom muses, handing my phone back and starting up the car, “but I don't think you have anything to worry about.”

Hearing her say it doesn't make it true, or okay, but she knows more about this than I do, and Dad wasn't a genius when it came to understanding her all the time—I wonder if Hisao even knows how much this has been driving me crazy. “Am I just worrying over nothing, then?”

She pauses to back the car out, then shrugs and replies, “Not completely, no.”

That's not encouraging...

“What do you mean?”

“Well, Kitten, he's hundreds of miles away, so being worried is only natural,” she replies, which doesn't answer my question.

“I mean about-”

“No—of that I'm sure,” she interjects, “not unless he's a sociopath or something...”

“That doesn't... what?”

“Never mind,” she asserts, turning to watch where she's going as she turns onto the causeway, “You're worked up about it because circumstance has kept you from talking since the phone call—I'm sure it's nothing.”

“It didn't sound like nothing...”

“That's just irrational suspicion talking,” she remarks, raising an eyebrow along with her sidelong glance, “which is a little strange coming from you, but it's another side effect of love, I suppose...”

Shaking my head in dismay, I ask, “Is there a book about this somewhere?”

“You'd think there would be after thousands of years,” she muses, letting out a sharp sigh, “but every generation seems to decide the next one has to figure this part out themselves...”

“It's a vicious cycle, then...”

“What you need to do is talk to him, preferably in person,” she says, shrugging apologetically, “but over the phone should do.”

“Yeah...”

“First though,” she adds, offering an encouraging smile, “we should find somewhere to have lunch—I was thinking-”

“Pizza,” I interject, recalling the scent I awoke to this morning, “definitely pizza.”

“That's not quite what I was thinking, but Enzo's is nearby,” she replies, squinting mischievously.

“That's not what I meant.”

Glancing at me slyly as she stops at the exit gate, she muses, “I assure you my thoughts were pure, but since you brought it up-”

“Mom!” I groan, shaking my head, “Why put that image in my head?”

“You said you were fine with it,” she retorts, which I hate admitting is true.

However, I did make a stipulation in that concession. “Maybe, but I don't wanna know about it,” I protest, giving her as serious a stare as I can muster, “least of all be there to watch...”

“Okay, fine,” she concedes, “no flirting, but I reserve the right to ogle.”

“Please, don't...”

“I'll be discreet!”

I can't win... unless I cheat...

“Just remember: Dad will know everything you're doing,” I warn, trying to appeal to her faithful side—both of them, really.

She just laughs and retorts, “He loved Enzo like a brother—I'm sure he'd approve.”

Okay, maybe I just can't win...

Unwilling to give up, I abandon that approach and decide to try something more practical. “Y'know, he's running a nice restaurant, and we might not be able to get a table on short notice...”

“He'll let us in—he said I could stop by anytime,” she says, which makes me wonder how much I missed while Hisao was feeding me, then she smirks and adds, “We can go in through the kitchen—no crowd to face.”

“Why did I say anything about pizza...” I groan in defeat.

“Karma, Kitten,” she gloats, patting my knee sympathetically, “but you should be able to find some privacy in a dark corner of Olive Riso while we're there—Enzo might even let you use his office.”

“Now you're just trying to get rid of me.”

“Is it working?”

Sighing, I shrug and admit, “Probably...”

~^~

True to Mom's prediction, Uncle Enzo lets us in through the back way, which leads straight into his heavenly-smelling kitchen. The staff is a strange mix of native Japanese and some Italian imports, which I should have expected, all of whom defer to their employer as he leads us through, though a few seem more than interested in the two visitors—Mom mostly. While I follow, Enzo locks his arm around hers and they chat quietly, low enough that I can't understand what they're saying—I probably don't want to know. Seeing how closely they're walking, it's safe to assume that they've been in contact more than I know, which is something else I don't want to think about.

I might be happier if I were blissfully ignorant...

The path we follow leads into a stairwell and up above the restaurant proper. On the third floor, Uncle Enzo apparently has a rather large office along with a respectable cigar room complete with leather furnishings, a heavy mahogany bar, and dark wood paneling. On closer inspection, I notice a hallway leading off the north end of the room that seems to have a few more doors—this might actually be a complete apartment. That suspicion is confirmed as my eyes wander around at the homey space, which is dominated by seemingly hundreds of framed photos hanging all over the walls.

Smiling at recognizing a familiar face, I remark, “That's me.”

“Where?” Mom asks, scanning the wall.

Enzo looks on as I point out the black and white photo, which depicts a young version of myself with my hair in braided pigtails. “I was... four, maybe?” I guess, “I'm not sure when I had my hair like that...”

“Six, actually,” Mom corrects, nodding toward another picture, “You were closer to four there.”

In the picture stands Mom by the beach, wind whipping her thin sundress as she holds onto a baby in a blanket—an uncharacteristically quiet Midori, as I recall. Dad stands at her side, grinning from ear to ear, and a little version of me peeks out from around his leg, pouting dangerously.

“That's Midi in my blanket,” I surmise, “and Dad looks like the cat that caught the canary.”

“It was our first trip to Aki's beach house after Midi was born—he was beside himself,” she explains wistfully, then raises an eyebrow to add, “And then there's you, looking mad as hell that we're paying your sister any attention.”

“She stole my blanket!” I exclaim in mock protest. “That blanket and I had bonded. We were friends, and you just gave her away—I was righteously angry!”

Mom rolls her eyes and smirks while Enzo muses, “I'm glad to see you've never lost that righteous indignation.”

“It's a Navarro trait,” Mom claims, giving me a prideful smirk.

As I turn to retort there's a knock at the door, so I save it for later. Uncle Enzo answers, and a waiter from downstairs steps in carrying an artisan pizza on a silver platter. There was a part of me that dreaded coming along for this cooking class, but if there's food like this available afterward every time, I might consider asking to accompany Mom again—it definitely beats cafeteria slop. The rotund young man, whom I recognize faintly from our night out last week, sets the little dining area with a fresh cloth, flowers, and wine, which I'm sure isn't meant for me, but it's a nice touch.

Once we're seated, the waiter makes a gracious exit, and Enzo goes about cutting and serving while I watch Mom with increasing curiosity. This all seems totally normal for her, which makes me wonder whether she's spent time here previously. Logically, I know they probably kept in touch over the years, and I don't really have a problem with that, but she acted like they hadn't seen or heard from each other since he moved away. It's suspicious, and I'm almost curious enough to ask, but, like so many things, I think I want to retain at least some blissful ignorance.

While we dine on pizza-shaped ambrosia, Mom talks about her class mostly, while Enzo listens and says little. Happily, she keeps my role in the ordeal out of the discussion, which is either courtesy or because she doesn't want to hear me complain. When I've had my fill, they're still talking and I start to feel a little bored, so I ask to be excused. Mom gives me a little wink and agrees with a smile, then Enzo directs me to a guest room. Evidently he's living in this rather convenient apartment right above the restaurant by himself, which almost sounds awesome except that he doesn't seem particularly enthusiastic about that fact.

When I knew him years ago, Uncle Enzo always talked about running a restaurant and living life the way he wanted, which it seems he managed to accomplish. It's quite encouraging seeing someone of foreign descent come to Japan and make a living for themselves, though I think he regrets not having a family to share it with. Watching him with Mom, and seeing his face light up at her every word, I feel a lot less apprehensive about the whole dating thing. Even Dad wanted her to move on if she could, and that's what I'm trying to do as well, so I don't plan to stand in her way.

It's different, but not really...

Stepping into the guest room quietly, I walk across the hardwood floor and look out through a bay window on the west wall wedged between two huge bookshelves. The oversized sill is covered with pillows, and looks like an excellent place to curl up with a laptop, or a book—Hisao would probably love this room. There's a bed made up in fine white linens with a heavy wool canopy in the middle of the room, but it looks too perfect to disturb. For my purposes at the moment, the pillowed bay window looks like the perfect place to find some privacy for an overdue phone call.

Sitting down, I take my phone out and scan through the other messages—a little procrastination never hurt anyone. The one from Misha contains the date and time for their camping trip—next weekend from the looks of it—along with address information and Shizune's home phone number. While I technically haven't agreed to anything yet, I have to admit I'm cautiously curious about what kind of camping trip they have planned. There's still the issue of transportation to figure out, but Mom will probably be delighted to help with that if it gets me out of my cave for a while, so I decide to throw caution to the wind.

[I'll figure out how to get there—save me some marshmallows,] I reply, smirking as I press send.

I hear that's what you eat on a camping trip...

After saving the address information, I move on to the message from Yoko, which contains a simple four word phrase that makes me grin: [Love my new job!]

Taking a moment to consider my reply carefully, I type out a three word response that will probably make her roll her eyes: [Told ya so!]

Finally, I reach the end of the list, and take a deep breath as I reopen the message to read his plea once again.

[Are you mad at me?]

The words make my heart sink, but as I consider what Mom said about my reaction being misguided, I smile and close the message. Exiting to the main menu, I quickly flip through my contacts list and press send the second Hisao's name is highlighted. Shaking away the last of my nerves, I raise the phone to my ear and wait as it rings. Once, twice, three times the electronic ring sounds, and I hold my breath as I listen for the fourth. As the fourth ring ends, I furrow my brow, but then there's a click. While I'm getting ready to greet him, a scratchy voice—his voice—comes through the speaker.

“You've reached Hisao Nakai, but I'm currently engrossed in a book and can't be bothered with answering my phone—please leave a message and I'll give you a call between chapters.”

Is he kidding...?

When the beep sounds, I can't believe what I'm hearing so I hang up and immediately redial. After another four laborious rings, the same message plays and I hang up before it finishes. A third attempt barely gets past the first few words before I end the call and stand up to start pacing around in frustration. His message last night said to call him in the morning, which I wasn't able to do for a few reasons—some of which were out of my control. Now it's after noon and he's not answering, which either means he had plans that are keeping him busy, or he's just letting my calls go to voice mail—I'm not sure which possibility sounds worse.

A few more failed attempts leaves me sitting cross-legged on the floor, holding the phone against my forehead in contemplation. Even if he did have plans for the day, I don't know what could possibly distract him enough not to take a call from his girlfriend. It could be that his phone is broken, or the battery died and he doesn't know it yet, but he just sent me a message a few hours ago. The possibility remains that he could be ignoring my calls, but his last message seemed to indicate he realized something is wrong, so one would think he'd be waiting for a response with bated breath.

Unless he gave up on me already...

That thought brings with it some bitter tears, the kind I used to shed when I realized one of my so-called friends had given up on the awkward, half-deaf geek. Now it feels ten times worse, though, because it's someone who said he loves me, instead of just another selfish classmate who wants to fit in with the crowd. That hasn't happened since I arrived at Yamaku, but it's not something I can easily forget—or forgive, really. It occurs to me that I'm probably overreacting again, but I've been burned before—metaphorically, at least. The thought of that happening again is almost too much to bear.

Blubbering as I sit, somehow I manage not to draw attention from Mom or Enzo, but they're probably distracted with each other. Seeing them together probably wouldn't help at this point—I'm somewhat envious of their ability to meet so casually. That thought makes me consider jumping on a train using my own allowance to head straight for Hisao's door and demand an explanation, but that's just irrational—not to mention terrifying. Instead, I hit redial one more time and listen through his whole message until the beep, all the while trying to figure out what to say.

Deciding to wing it, I sniffle and remark, “Cute message, um...” I trail off and swallow hard before continuing, “I got your messages, and I'm not mad... but I'm wondering where you are...”

Mostly who you're with...

“If you get this, call me anytime...” I say, pausing for a long while before adding, “Love yo-”

My last word is interrupted by the ending tone, and I frown as the electronic voice asks whether I'd like to leave another message. Shaking my head slowly, I end the call and stare at my phone for a few minutes, trying to calm myself with some controlled breaths. It isn't particularly effective, but I feel well enough to stand and look for a bathroom so I can try to hide the fact that I was crying. Finding the hall empty, and hearing Mom laughing lightly from the dining room, I walk quietly toward the door at the end of the hall.

I hope her maternal sense isn't tingling...

The little marble bathroom is dark when I enter, and I don't want to risk being seen, so I close the door before I can find the light switch. The bright lights bring a slight headache, and my vision blurs as I stare at my reflection in the mirror, making it look less than real. Sighing, I lean against the sink and take a moment to look her over—my disheveled self—her eyes and cheeks red from the stress, hair matted to her forehead from sweat, and her shoulders bowed with emotional weight. Tear stains along her cheeks make her look like even more of a mess, and there's a discouraging downward curl to her lips.

I look awful...

Regardless of whatever Hisao is actually doing, I'm on the verge of a meltdown, but I have no intention of letting anyone know. As I wrestle with my hair, trying to organize it enough to wrap it in a bun, I can feel my hands and fingers trying to clench in anger. There may be a reasonable explanation for Hisao's disconnect, and the subsequent frustration I'm feeling, but as I look into the mirror at the frightened look on my face, I can't help wondering if the universe is trying to tell me something. Maybe this is just a test of my fortitude, and perhaps I shouldn't let assumptions rule my reactions, but thinking that could just be another coping mechanism.

I have a long history of fooling myself...

Making myself look away, I run the cold water and let it fill my hands, then splash it against my face. It's shocking cold, and I can feel the icy water snaking down my neck, making me shiver, but, when I finally look into the mirror again, I see it's doing wonders for the redness. Taking another handful of icy water, I splash myself again, this time pulling it back through my hair, trying to make it look like I hadn't been sweating. The whole apartment is air conditioned, so I can't excuse my hair being wet, but I might be able to lie about food getting caught in it—it's a flimsy excuse, but totally reasonable.

As I stare at the girl in the mirror, trying furiously to hide the evidence from her emotional outburst, part of me wonders whether she'll have some insights, even if that means I'm losing my mind. Usually, I smile and scoff at my friends' observations, but the truth is that I really would spend all my time by myself if I could. However, recently I noted a paradigm shift where I'd like one addition to the room at all times, but that probably scares me more than anything. Along with everything else, Hisao has assumed a role I thought was gone after Dad died: the one man in my life who never lets me down.

A naïve notion, I know, but it helped me cope...

That's probably why his departure hit me so hard, and the subsequent evasive behavior has made me crazy; I'm expecting Hisao to be perfect, just like Dad. However, if I believe Mom, then the pedestal I put Dad on needs shortening, so that probably means I should expect less from my absent boyfriend. It pains me to think that way, and the jealousy probably won't just disappear, but the tired, two-toned stare I'm getting from the mirror tells me I should let some things slip—for her sanity's sake. Still, so help me, if he's really doing something illicit, I'm not sure he'll survive the eventual encounter.

I'm sure Amaya would help dispose of the body...