practising for the ward competition coming up.”
I’d wanted to take karate in New York but always chickened out at the last minute. I couldn’t bring myself to willingly sign up for something that involved sparring.
The students moved in unison, like ghostly visions of samurai dancing. They swung their bamboo swords in the air, each movement timed to the other teacher’s strained voice. The students lined up along the edge of the gym, called forward in pairs to challenge each other.
“You want to try?” the chemistry teacher asked.
My eyes popped. “Me?”
He nodded.
“No. No, I mean, I…” I trailed off. It’s pretty rude to flat out refuse something in Japanese, so I decided to find a more subtle way out. “I’m already in a few different clubs, so…” The chemistry teacher looked crestfallen.
“Sou ka…” he mused. Then he shook his head. “Well, never mind. Come in and watch for a bit, ne?” I couldn’t think of a way to refuse, so I shuffled into the gym, slumping down against the wall where the students waited for their turn to duel.
“Okay, next pair!” the other teacher shouted. The chemistry teacher nodded at me with a smile and started across the floor. Throaty shouts echoed through the gym as the pair came at each other. They pressed their swords against each other’s, circling at arm’s length. With lightning speed, one approached and smacked his sword on the other’s helmet.
“Point!” the chemistry teacher yelled. I stared wide-eyed. It had happened so fast it was almost a blur. The skirts of the fencers swayed as they moved back and forth, coming at each other and drawing back.
Another pair was called forward, and another. I watched in amazement until I’d lost track of time.
“See you next week!” the teacher called, and I stared down at my watch. Really?
The students untied their helmets and wiped the sweat off their foreheads with their arms. There were a few girls, but mostly guys. I scanned the group as they walked toward the change rooms.
And then Bleached Hair strode past me, followed by Tomohiro.
So. This was why he could take care of that fight. Next to this, the fight with three thirteen-year-old morons was probably nothing to him.
“What did you think?” came an English voice beside me. I looked over, startled, into the glowing face of the chemistry teacher.
“Oh,” I stuttered. “It was, um, great.” The other teacher had walked over now, another senior-level sensei that I didn’t know.
“This is the foreign student at Suntaba,” said the chemistry teacher. Thanks, real subtle. The man arched his eyebrows.
“You going to join our club?” he asked. I began to protest, unsure how to word it. I looked over at Bleached Hair and Tomohiro rubbing their faces with towels and chugging water bottles. Tomohiro had a white-and-navy sports bag strapped over his shoulder and he grinned as he chatted with his friend. He glanced over, and I couldn’t tell if he was smirking or actually smiling.
“Well? What do you think?” said the teacher. “Give it a try?”
I stared at Tomohiro. I wanted to figure out why he’d ditched calligraphy for kendo and what that glimpse of him in the park had meant. And anyway, the way he stared at me felt like a challenge. Like I had to prove that I could do it, too.
“Sure,” I said, glancing at Tomohiro. “I want to try.” The teachers smiled, sputtering about how wonderful it was, while the grin slipped from Tomohiro’s face. He looked away, turning toward the end of the empty gym.
“I joined the Kendo Club at school,” I said to Diane over dinner. She went bug-eyed and just about dropped the shrimp straddled between her chopsticks.
“You what?”
“I joined the Kendo Club.”
“I thought you hated contact sports.”
I shoved in a forkful of salad. “I do.”
“Kendo does not translate to ‘ballet,’ Katie.”
I rolled my eyes. “I know. I sat in on a practice today. And anyway? Ballet isn’t easy, either, thanks very much.”
“It’s dangerous. You could get hurt,” Diane said, but I shrugged.
“You could get hurt crossing the street.”
“Katie, I’m serious. Are you really sure you want to do kendo? Did the teacher talk you into it?”
“No, I want to do it.” I poured my cup of green tea over my rice and mashed it in.
Diane sighed. “I don’t know about this. What would your mom say if I let you try it? And don’t pour your tea in your rice, Katie. You’ll ruin it.”
“Tanaka said it tastes better this way,” I said. “And don’t worry. Mom would say, ‘Good for you, Katie! Japan needs more girls taking kendo!’”
I could almost hear her voice when I said it. Mom had always been like that, making sure I knew girls could take on anything. If Mom couldn’t be here to say it, then I would say it for her. I swallowed the sadness back, biting my lip. I could keep her alive, just a little bit. I wouldn’t have to let go. Not entirely.
Before the tears could start, I rose to my feet and started clearing up my empty dishes. Diane stared down at her pile of shrimp tails and I knew I’d won when her shoulders sagged. I knew she was thinking about Mom, too, about what she would want for me.
“All right,” she said eventually. “It’s okay with me, but take it slowly and be careful. If you get hurt, I’m pulling you out.”
“Diane, come on,” I said. “What’s a contact sport without contact?” Okay, so I was egging her on, but I couldn’t help it. A sport where I was expected, even encouraged, to smack Tomohiro. What could be better? I placed my dishes in the sink with a clank and raced to my room before she could say anything.
I sank into the quilt of my bed, the comfort of a Friday night where I didn’t have to slave away at homework. Diane shouted that our favorite drama was on, but by then I was half-asleep, dreaming of the clatter of bamboo swords.
Oh god. What had I signed up for?
4
On Monday, I slipped out the front door of Suntaba just as Tomohiro pedaled away on his white bike.
Where’s he sneaking off to all the time anyway?
I watched with frustration as he cycled out of sight. If he was trying to keep me at a distance, it couldn’t be good. I knew better than to spy on a boy who put his best friend in the hospital. I did. But I couldn’t get him out of my mind. And it’s not like I wanted my drawings to come at me again with pointy teeth, ever. Maybe I needed to pre-empt the next weird ink encounter.
“Diane,”
