Author's Notes: This is originally a scene from another piece I'm working on, but I hope it stands on its own, as it doesn't really fit into the timeline of the other story. I can't seem to stop writing nostalgic short stories instead of working on longer pieces.
"He likes me, doesn't he?"
"You're telling me you've never noticed?" Miyako's hand stilled as she was pulling a brush through her long locks. She set the brush down on her vanity and tossed her hair over her shoulder, twisting on her torso to face her, draping her arm over the back of the chair. "Hikari. I'm not stupid, and neither are you. Let's not pretend."
"I mean, I guess," Hikari says, blood rushing to her cheeks. She sat forward, nearly falling off her bed, elbows digging sharply into the flesh of her thighs. "I thought he was just... Watching out for me, I don't know."
"You're telling me you've never noticed that he liked you. Like liked you."
"That sounds so... silly," she said with a sigh.
Perhaps she had noticed it, and hadn't wanted to acknowledge it—because it wasn't real until she had. Because she didn't have to decide if she reciprocated her feelings (decide wasn't the word—but either way, she didn't want to confront it, she wanted things to stay exactly as they were).
That summer, she'd grown into a body that she almost didn't recognize. The changes happened so slowly she didn't notice, and then all at once—her mother taking her shopping for a training bra, and later for tampons. It changed how she saw herself, and how others saw her, even if she tried to hide behind cutesy cardigans adorned with bows and frilly pink frocks.
She was told it was natural and that it was all a part of growing up, and she reddened with shame that she never saw it approaching. She was something of a late bloomer in her group of friends, so she should have known this by now, since most of her them have already gone through it. But there some things she couldn't have known about before she'd experienced them herself.
She hadn't noticed, for instance, that Daisuke like liked her until the day before (really, it such a silly way to describe it, such a slippery distinction).
Summer had come early that year, reaching unprecedented heights. The air conditioning unit in their classroom had broke down and to be in that room for more than half an hour was stifling; the fans at the front of the room did little more than stir the air around. He sat by the window, looking out at the soccer field, a wistful gleam in his eye as he stared outside instead of at the front of the room where their teacher was scribbling equations on the board too complicated for him to figure out. Maybe he would have been able to if he didn't spent all of math class daydreaming about being anywhere but there.
Sometimes, she caught him staring at her, but he always seemed to be gazing through her, at something else very far away from her.
She tended to be more focused, but even she couldn't concentrate that day. She was sweating just sitting still in her seat in her polyester summer uniform, and for once, she also gazed longingly out the window, willing the hand of the clock to jump forward or for someone to pull the fire alarm to liberate them. After the last bell rang, they both decided to skip their after school commitments—soccer practice, for him, and for her, working on some photographs for the school newspaper—to walk home where there would mercifully, finally, be an air conditioning unit.
Still, he was dragging his feet as they walked along, taking the route by the water; he always insisted on taking the long way home. The air was still thick with humidity, but it wasn't as heavy as the one in their classroom—the sun was beginning to set, and a cool breeze game them some relief. She turned to say something and realized that he'd fallen behind; she was so used to his endless chatter that she almost automatically tuned it out sometimes without even noticing, as if it were as much a part of the background as the scenery. It wasn't something she did on purpose, but she kept thinking of the math test they had at the end of the week and how unprepared they both were for it.
"What are you doing?" She turned around, swinging her book bag in front of her and gripping it with both hands.
Even from afar, even after he quickly turned away to stare out over the water reflecting the setting sun, she saw something in his eyes that she'd never noticed before—the way he looked at her when he thought she wasn't looking. It startled her, the way he looked at her, with something like wonder, as if she were a star in the sky, far away enough to admire, but never close enough to touch.
"Daisuke," she said. "I know you don't want to study, but dragging your feet isn't going to make it go away."
"Aw, c'mon," he said. "Can't we just get ice cream instead?"
He was exploiting her weakness for sweets. She shuffled her feet in the dirt, looked back at the road ahead of them. "No, Daisuke."
"You're no fun."
"And you're going to fail," she said. She meant it to be teasing, but he didn't seem to take it that way.
He looked crestfallen. "Ichijouji would never do this to me."
"Well, I'm not as kind as Ken, and I'm not as smart, either, so I'm going to fail, too, if we don't study." This time, she said it in singsong to make it obvious she is teasing. "But if you want to get Ken to tutor you, then I'll get going…"
"N-No—Wait." He jogged to catch up to her, giving her a worried smile that falls quickly. "I don't feel like taking the train to his place. Let's just do our homework together."
"That's what I wanted to hear." She smiled. "We can stop for ice cream on the way." She started walking, and he feel into step quickly. "But you're buying!"
"Aww, man."
Still, he brightened visibly as he launched into his plan to prove himself as the most valuable player in their soccer team that year. She made sure to listen and encourage him this time. His grades had been slipping, and though he didn't show it, she could see how it placed stress on him from the consternated look on his brow whenever they did their practice entrance exam tests—she should have kept her eyes on her paper, but she couldn't help but glance around when the teacher wasn't looking. She knew he didn't want to be left behind when they applied to high school.
When they got to the ice cream shop she asked for strawberry, two scoops, while he asked for three scoops of mint chocolate chip. Hikari dug around for some change from her wallet but he waved her off.
"It's my treat."
"Don't spend all your allowance on me."
"It's okay. I want to."
"Okay," she said, relenting. "We can sit on the terrace for a few minutes, we don't have to go just yet."
She had originally planned to eat it on the way home—she didn't want her mother to worry, though she could often be absentminded about these things—but it was just too beautiful outside to go home. Far too hot, but still, beautiful; the intensity and the brevity of the summer made it her favorite season.
They sat near the edge of the terrace; the sun was just sinking below the horizon, glittering orange on the waves. His skin seemed to glow in the half-light, but it was the fire in his eyes when he looked at her—that was it, that look—that she had seen earlier that made her squirm in her seat. She wasn't sure how it made her feel, only that it made her feel… something.
His mouth relaxed into a slow smile. "What?"
She looked down and lifted her spoon, pretending to be interested in her ice cream, then discreetly pointed at her chin. He picked up a napkin to scrub furiously at something that wasn't there, and she had to stifle a laugh by biting her hand.
She stopped when she noticed the whiskers have begun sprouting on his upper lip, and his chin—he'd before lamented about Jun making relentless fun of him when she first noticed it, chasing him around the apartment with shaving cream and one of the girly razor blades she used to shave her legs. That made Takeru laugh and laugh, only for Daisuke to accuse him of being unable to grow a beard and therefore of not being a man.
They were all growing up. She could try to hide behind childish, girly clothes when she was lounging at home or with her friends, but she hadn't bought a new uniform yet, and it now clung to places it hadn't before.
"You got it," she said, seeing no reason to draw out the torture. She shook her head, propping her head on her hand, and she couldn't help but smile.
And for once, once he was silent. There was nothing to tune out. Perhaps that was why she became hyperaware of his every movement, of their positioning: he'd thrown himself into a chair and sunk down into it, one leg propped on the chair between them. She sat across from him, legs demurely crossed, back straight. She leaned forward, chin still cupped in her hand.
"You look like don't have a care in the world." She lifted her spoon to her mouth with her other hand, and the cold, tart taste of the strawberries—and the sweet after taste—was a relief against the heat creeping up her collar.
"I really don't. I'm happy right where I am," he said, and the light in his eyes didn't dim, even long after the sun had finally set.
"How do you do that?" she said.
"What?"
"It's just... You don't ever seem to be worried."
He closed his eyes for a minute, then opened them. "Like that."
She raised her eyebrows.
"Close your eyes." When she didn't, he said, "Do you trust me?"
She nodded, allowed her eyes to slip closed.
"Now picture all your worries as a dark cloud. Or a white cloud, it doesn't matter. Whatever. Take a deep breath, and puff your cheeks out." When she cracked open an eye, he insisted. "Do it. I know it feels ridiculous, but just… Okay. Now blow the clouds away. Picture them going far away from you. Open your eyes."
She did. She blinked, sunspots dancing in her eyes.
"See? It's not that hard."
Maybe things were not as complicated as she always made them out to be.
She let him take her hand in his when they ran home—ostensibly because their parents would be mad that they hadn't returned for dinner before the sun had set, though she knew that wasn't the real reason now. She could have let go, but she found that she didn't mind, even when his hand became clammy and she wanted more than anything to reach up to wipe the sweat running down her temples. She arrived home out of breath and strangely exhilarated, her heart beating a staccato rhythm against her breast.
"What are you going to do?" Miyako said presently, turning back around to fix her hair in the mirror, looking at Hikari's reflection.. "Do you like him?"
Hikari didn't know how to answer that. She couldn't deny, after that, that she had felt something—but she didn't know what it was, she had no name for it, saying she like liked someone seemed an inadequate and inarticulate way to describe the feeling.
She wanted things to stay exactly as they were, but that was impossible. The future, though, was full of possibilities, and that was a consolation for that small, sad truth about growing up.