Chapter 2 - Crown Chakra
Tae didn't think it was her fault that her father was dead. Her mother was the one that messed up. And though her asking constantly "What happened to mama?" may not have helped, she wouldn't have had a need to ask if her mother hadn't messed up. A lot of things might not have happened if her mom stuck around.
Her name wouldn't be Tae.
Japan would not be home for her.
And she may not have blacked out yesterday.
But there were lots of good things that might not have happened. She wouldn't be a model, the "Angel" or the "Jewel Thief." She wouldn't be rich or have money to help others with. There would be no siblings to tease, to seek for advice, or to love. No Italian soda. No yukatas at festivals.
There would be no Music Room #3 filled with memories of friends and floozies. That ugly lemon colored dress would just be a uniform at another school in another country. Gray wouldn't be her new favorite color and she would only dream of owning a bird.
She wouldn't be friends with the Host Club.
And Tae wouldn't be about to kiss the guy she may or may not be in love with while a party nearly explodes in flames outside her room.
It is the scent of bacon that wakes me more than the whistle of a tea kettle. It was old and cracked and the only thing in the house that was unsanitary. We worked hard to keep this house clean, and darn it, that thing nearly ruined the hard effort. And even though I pleaded, pouted lips and everything, Dad insists that Gram would have a fit to find it missing. I say it's because the thing looks worse than her. Of course not out loud. I don't want to die.
The third thing that registers with my eyes still closed is the second most annoying sound. If you have a mom, dad, maybe a third parental figure, you know what it sounds like when they nag. Gram's voice is the same as a smokers when she does it. Maybe all the second hand smoke she inhaled actually did something to her.
"I bet it'll be dawn 'fore that girl 'ets up."
It rasps somewhere near where my toes curl. "Twenty euros on a bet." There was only a small grunt, and so the bet began. I was the best thing to bet on. Gram says it's because I'm boring and predictable. I think it's because they bet on stuff that's easy to predict. When I get up, is the easiest as I don't get up before ten on a weekend.
Except today. I want to spite my Gram and make her lose the bet, just to watch her cough twenty euro's over to Gramps. Really the two share money and have since they got married but they love to bet and I don't bring up my confusion on the whole point of it.
My stomach growls when I sit straight up and match my oceanic eyes to her mountainous ones. She glares and I can't bring myself to care much as it's only half as bad as when bets fifty on me. "Cough up the cash, Gram. A bet's a bet." She growls but slaps bills more wrinkled and lose than the skin on her neck over into Gramps' hand.
She curses me through a glance and I share a smile with my dog.
I ask if he's going to work, I know he's heard because the bacon smell gets closer. My dad's tawny morning shadow stretches from ear to chin and back again. "Not until twelve." He has nearly three hours and I still don't think it's enough. My dad preens more than a bird and it may be his naïve belief Mama will come home. Wouldn't want to look like a slob when he has that daydream.
The hidden message in "not until twelve" is "at twelve'o'clock I'm leaving you to fend off the grandparents."
Gram hates the dog I own and I hate Gram. Gramps is fine. He's also immobilized by lack of will, snores loudly but talks quietly, and is, in my opinion, a money hog. Gram is opposite, as she can't stop her body or mouth from constant movement and wants a life of luxury she can't afford.
Sometimes I consider working harder at school, to get good grades, to become successful, to get rich, and to then shut my grandparents up about our money problems, lack or other. Financial stability and a better job for my dad would work also.
I should explain that my incomplete family is a lower middle class family. Made obvious by my sleeping on the couch, a one story house, grandparents living (and nagging) with us, and my constant desire to be rich. It's a valley and a mountain, I've decided time and time again. The mountain is my dad's latest job as a car mechanic which pays better than last time and means I can make Enchilada Soup more often. The valley is an inconsistent income because my dad gets paid for the amount of cars he finishes. He learns to not be a perfectionist and I learn the difference between good days and bad days by reading his face.
"Enchilada soup," is my request, even though I have the ingredients already, and I'm simply informing that today, he will have enchilada soup warmed up over a stove at twelve dark or two in the morning. Either way he thinks in his head I'm asleep and knows in his chest I'm awake. A constant cycle of sipping soup and watching a sun set knowing he won't be home before dark again. I'm fine with it, because dad likes to provide and I like to make dad happy. If working at night to feed us is what makes him happy then I'll let him do it.
My grandparents, or more accurately Gram in her second hand smoking nagging voice, complain about having eaten that as leftovers two days ago, and fresh three days ago. But dad smiles, because he knows how to communicate with body language and facial expressions unlike me, and kisses the crown of my head. I think partly about how I forgot to take a shower yesterday and my hair feels weighted down by oil. I wonder briefly if he regrets kissing my head 'cause it must have felt slick and gross, but chide myself gently. Dad says he doesn't regret anything besides the few and far in between times he's yelled at me. I believe him.
The other part of me thinks about how that was my seventh chakra, the crown chakra, and how it connects to emotional enlightenment and peace. Dad knows this as a go on about it nearly every day. He's walked in on me doing yoga in his room because I won't do yoga where Gram can see, and that's the only place it's safe. I think my dad's tolerance and open mindedness would have made him a great Buddhist but what do I know. He's over fifty, and while it's never too late, I think he's seen too many bad things to see a truth in eternal peace or harmony. That and I had never been able to study much Buddhism at my catholic school.
He still lets me talk though because it's important to me to talk. When I talk about it at school they scold me. I still respect the nuns and priests, and whoever else tries to get God in my heart. Because I once read that a Buddhist is accepting and tolerant of other religions. And others in general. Again, I've never gotten to study it, so don't hold it to me.
Our favorite topic is the Bodhi tree, or World Tree. Dad likes it because it looks cool, with green heart shaped leaves, and tree's he says are perfect for climbing, though I don't think you're supposed to climb them. I love it too, and at age eleven have already decided I want it as tattoo. That and the seven chakras. And the lotus flower. And Sanskrit seems like a good idea for my stomach. But dad said tattoo's hurt so I'll be thinking it over for a while.
I know I'll be thinking about my seventh chakra and how out of line it must be right now all day.
"Anthea, are you listening to me? Anthea! I said to get the bloody door before he breaks it!" I really tried to ignore the smoky voice and the banging door. Enchilada soup was my favorite and I liked to pretend it was my dad's too. He never said what his favorite meal was but I knew it had something to do with my mother and it was probably expensive.
I turn off the stove but the already boiling chicken continues to cook, and it will until it's cooled down. My hands are red from touching the cooking pot without a rag but that's normal and it doesn't hurt to turn the door knob, so really it's just hot, not burnt this time. I give a customary greeting though I don't know who it is. My dad said I'm polite like my mom instead of course like him. I don't care either way.
He wears blue overalls with his name sewn in red on a white patch over his heart. They're greasy and he has a red mustache but no beard and a bald spot that has yet to touch his ears. It's odd almost how he looks like such a cliché auto mechanic that he must be one. He wrings hands over a rag, reminding me I need one to cook, reminding me I was cooking dinner.
I think he has a speech impediment because that much stuttering about my dad makes it hard to understand. I know when I see the cop wearing a similar shade of blue that the mechanic worked with my dad, his words are true, and I won't be finishing dinner.
The chicken boils for a few more seconds, Gram is nagging, Gramps is snoring, the dog keeps barking, and I wonder how eternal peace can be attained with such noise.
This is how peace is attained. Silence. When you mediate a mantra is used. The most ironic is Om, though really it's Aum, connected to the Third-Eye chakra. When you mediate the seventh chakra, the crown chakra, connected to eternal peace, and the mantra is silence.
When I was forced out into the hallway I was greeted with an uncomfortable wood bench, pitying glances, silence, and an eerie sense of peace that should not have be feeling right now. Gram and Gramps, mostly Grams though, voices carried through an oak door. Behind it I knew was paper work that needed to be filled, probably by me, papers written by my dad, and six people I never thought would gather in a room together. I knew only two. Two out of sixth. One third.
My Gram and Gramps. A lawyer we couldn't afford. An Executor. An actress and another lawyer.
Technically Ms. Actress and Ms. Lawyer were my godparents. Ms. Lawyer was not here to be a lawyer currently. The lawyer here to do lawyer stuff was for my grandparents, because despite their hatred for enchilada soup and my dog they want me to stay in England. The executor had the will that described what happened to me in event of death. It hadn't been touched for eleven years.
I attained peace, or some messed up form of it, by keeping my eyes open and trying to read all the words on a flier asking people who had seen a missing dog to call. My fingers had splinters from where they dug into the already scratched wooden surface. My first sob was at seven fifteen and my last was at seven seventeen.
There was a click, a clack, and a creak. Ms. Actress had come out, visibly shocked by tear streaks and blank face. Now she sat next to me, short and stout legs tucked under a bench I defined as pine. She said her name was Rina Koizumi and her wife was Sayuri. Japanese names for Japanese beauties. I know she was waiting for mine even though she hadn't asked and already knew it. An old friend of my mom's, and dad had forgotten to change the will.
My eyes are no longer the clear blue-green color they wear this morning and I can tell because her face blurs slightly and my gaze is dark on the edges.
"Anthea Petra Smith. Why are you here?" I didn't phrased it as a question but a statement in a calm voice not at all resembling the tired hazy eyes.
My peace was less of a peace, and more of an unfeeling void.
The funeral was a week later. The rest of the will was read. I got the kettle, but not the dog. Painful and ironic. Rena bought me a black dress because I hated black clothes and owned none, just like my father. It still made me scrunch my nose and eyebrows at the thought of my Gram losing a fight, though she might not have been fighting hard as I was the prize.
For some reason I hadn't packed bags but when it was time to go a short and muscular man brought them over. Stuff I was able to take, such as the stupid kettle I took to spite and remember my Gram, or the stuffed penguin I had as a child, and even my worn messenger bag I took to school, were being sent to Japan.
There were no hugs at the airport because no one really needed me to stay. So I hugged myself on the plane ride, partly from sadness, but mostly from fear of dying this early in my life. Planes were not natural. Eventually though I fell asleep, or blacked out, possibly both at different times, and when I woke up my body was covered in blanket more silky than soft. The room was a blank biscotti color and I think my shorts were made by hundreds of silk worms. Turns out they wear.
I decide biscotti is an awful color and that I need to paint them white, silk shorts on silk sheets make a slippery and dangerous situation, and not speaking the same language as the resident population is a nightmare. I learn where the running track is before the mall. I go there so I don't black out in inevitable fear that I may never be able to be Japanese.
We've been meaning to talk to you, Anthea. We were wondering if you might want a Japanese name. Children sometimes change their names after being adopted. Your current name can be a middle name if you wish. And it's fine if you prefer Anthea.
I hate the name Anthem, because it's in the past and the past is painful, so it changes. Taeko Koizumi is my new identity and I'm not sure why it sounds more like a contract than a name.
They try to talk to and get me used to the family. Odd family, really. The two moms have a thing for adoptions it seems. The oldest is three year older and Japanese. Next is a boy, Portuguese and four years younger. And finally an African girl from Sudan, only two years old.
They teach me about festivals and holidays, food (and it turns out I have allergies to some types of fish), and honorifics. It takes a while to learn but they get a private teacher for school and anything else I want to learn. Which turns out to be a lot. I open up more, less of a blank mask, and talking at the dinner table about what the tutor Ms. Suzuki had taught her becomes a routine. I feel like I have more energy and there's always something to get excited about.
She gains weight and realizes she has the ability to ask for seconds, a new pleasure, even though she rarely finishes all her seconds. Coffey has always been gross to her, but now she can substitute in tea of many flavors. She isn't sure what to ask for as her birthday approaches. So its random things she wants to try. Drawing supplies, a yoga mat as it still remains a pleasure, and an x-box. Each becomes a past time.
She's falling in love with Japan and that's not what was meant to have happen.
"We want you to attend a school."
I was in the middle of talking about the effect yoga had on the body to my older sister, Miki. Occasionally my brother would make remarks about the mumbo jumbo of chakras to which I would shrug at him for. The food tonight was tonkatsu, a deep fried pork cutlet rolled in breadcrumbs. It had been one of my favorites since I came to Japan nearly five years. Though after hearing the previous I realized they may have been buttering me up.
I should have figured. I had a firm grasp on Japan, both language and culture. Eventually I would need to attend a real Japanese school, rather than staying home for lessons. Miki attended a university and came home every few weeks. My younger brother, Abilio, attended a prestigious middle school, and so Valencia, the youngest, and I were attending private lesson. Except she was six and I was a whole decade older.
"The first term of the new year begins soon. You will have to pass entrance exams first, but we think we have a nice high school picked out. For your second and third years you need to be around others. Teens, I mean."
In Britain I was awful at school. True, I had attended a catholic school while entertaining the notion of being a Buddhist. But still, my grades were average at best, excluding my writing skills, labeled as "slightly above average" on a grading scale. There was nothing appealing to me about having to memorize useless information to pass tests. I didn't learn that way.
Rina was the one who had spoken, as she delivered news softer than her wife. I still couldn't call them mom or mother and definitely not mama. Though I did love them greatly, and not just out of gratitude or respect, but as a part of their family.
Now though I could feel the panic driving into my eyes. Exams stressed me out more than grades. But honestly my closest friends were my siblings and they had ages years different than mine. Maybe it would be good to be around other sixteen year olds. "What school?"
"The same as Abilio's. Only a different level. It's called Ouran High School."
3156 words and seven pages
I hope that turned out all right! First chapter of a hopefully long story. I actually did a lot of research for this story about what happens when both parents die, Japanese schools, and Buddhism, as well as other stuff for later in the story. (If you happen to be a Buddhist and I got something wrong, or you have some information you want me to know about the rest of the story, just send me a message! Always open to help, and that applies to constructive criticism in reviews too.
I hope you enjoy the rest. The host club will make their appearance next chapter.