There was a little girl sitting next to Kirihara.
Little in stature and grade, but in this memory, they were both the same age.
She had the brightest silver hair ever, and the setting sun reflected just how extravagant each strand was. Cass always kept her hair messy; "My hair's not valuable Akaya," she always used to poke at him whenever she caught him staring. "So I don't need to keep it all pretty or anything." Luckily for her, most people were always focused on her mind-boggling personality rather than her hair.
Luckily for Kirihara, she was always too preoccupied to see him blush.
Like now, after the first field trip of the year. It was the longest field trip in the history of the earth to the museum of art, but Cass said she loved it, so he pretended to love staring at blobs of paint (which Cassie said was "abstract"), some unrecognizable thing with messy little strokes (which Cassie described as "impressionism"), and weird pictures of cats and stuff totally out of proportion and seemingly drawn with spaghetti noodles (which Cassie explained was "cubism").
Kirihara had snorted under his breath so she wouldn't notice. Any fool could draw straight lines.
Cass had pulled him along away from the rest of the class to go look at the impressionist pieces once again and the sight of her, leaning across the velvet rope, lips forming a small "o", had caused him to stand by her happily, not even looking at the art or even caring he was wasting a day he could have spent doing anything else: playing that new video game, not doing homework, even digging around his room for that old book overdue at the library.
But he kind of hated to see it end and watch as Cass's face fell. Nonetheless, now they were on the bus, heading back to the elementary school where they would walk home together and wake up and walk back together and have school and both go to Rikkaidai, the private junior school up on the hill and wake up and walk together until high school and then...
Kirihara blushed to even think of what could happen after that.
And he sighed because she didn't notice him staring.
Cass's eyes were locked onto the passing landscape; the closest route back to school was by the ocean. Everyone else had gotten bored of the shifting blue long ago and played loud games at the back of the bus or tinkered with the electric games in their hands. Cass was different; whenever she loved something, she always loved it for a long time. There were no "fads" for her, no "passing trend" or anything. Cass knew what she wanted, and she knew what everyone else needed. She said it must be in every girl; perhaps something like, "developing mother's intuition" or whatever. Nonetheless, Cass knew exactly how to make Kirihara laugh, how to motivate, punish, confess, and play.
His best friend, Kirihara thought suddenly with a shock.
Kids had teased him about his girlfriend, his Special friend with a capital S. But Cass was not his girlfriend, not another special friend; not even one with a capital "S". She was his best friend. And there was a special place for Kirihara for best friends.
"What do you mean you're moving?"
Kirihara ran a hand through his already messy black hair with an exasperated sigh. They were in the classroom; the other students were running home and the teacher had left for the lounge long ago for a hundredth-something cup of coffee and to gripe about the day and try to win the "Who Has the Worst Class Ever?" played everyday among friends. Kirihara was pacing, which worried Cass; Akaya never paced. She watched quietly as he gradually stopped and closed his eyes. His voice was quiet.
"What do you mean you're moving?"
Cass shifted in her seat at the desk and looked up at Kirihara, whose eyes were still closed.
"My grandmother has Alzheimer's," she explained again patiently. "While she was still...erm...normal, her specific instructions were, if it came to it, my mother would go and take care of her." Cass wished she could see Kirihara's green eyes. "And I can't stay in Japan alone."
He was still, and opened his eyes, though they were dazed and unfocused, like he just woke up.
"You could stay with us." Kirihara got on his knees and rested his arms on the edge of the desk across from her own. "My mom loves you. 'So sweet,' she always tells me. And plus she's all bummed out now that my sister's gone to college in Europe." Cass smiled at the sureness in his voice but shook her head.
"You know why I couldn't do that."
Of course Kirihara knew: Cass was too proud to be cooked for, cleaned for, managed to, everything. And his own mother was the kind of person who was all too proud to do all those things for her daughter, or an almost-daughter.
"Please?" Kirihara put on his most sincere face and even made his mouth quiver like he was going to cry if Cass didn't stay. "She's eager. 'Too tired of being surrounded by y-chromosome,' she keeps saying." He saw her smile quiver up before she groaned and put her head on her hands.
"Gosh, don't do that. Don't make me feel guilty." Even though he knew the answer, Akaya still smiled that he had managed to faze her. "I'm sorry, but no," she started again with a deep breath. Then, a pair of bright aqua eyes shone through her fingers along with a twitch of her lips in an attempt of a lame smile. "Besides, two years isn't too long."
Two years?
Kirihara rubbed his arms in the biting December wind. He threw a sideways glance at Cass a step behind, looking at the ground beneath her school shoes. When her ocean eyes flickered up, he ripped his head forwards again, squinting against the sudden gust of wind that watered his eyes. He knew Cass wasn't cold; she was cold-blooded...in the nicest way possible. But nonetheless, he knew how easily Cass could chill up and chill out.
He glanced up at the sky: in the time between when school ended and the teacher chased them out of her class room, clouds had already taken the sunshine's place in the stratosphere. Kirihara felt trapped in a giant gray marble; a foggy fish bowl. As he squinted into the wind, a flurry of soggy white fish food flakes came down like an offering and stuck to his jacket.
Behind him, Cass sniffled.
Two years?
Kirihara blew on his freezing fingers.
Two years was how long it took for Cass's favorite flowers (Canterbury Bells) to bloom.
He pictured the garden behind her house, lovingly tended and carefully sprouting with stalks of the delicate blossoms in purples, pinks, blues, and whites.
Two years was how long he had recognized Cass as his best friend.
He remembered the bus ride and Cass's silver ribbons against the gold of the sun, and her ocean eyes and how she always knew what to say, when to say it, when to stop, when to go, how to laugh, how to cry, how to stay quiet, how to somehow make someone love her as a best friend who was so confused because he thought she was his sister, not something more intimate, more...close.
Two years was how long it had taken for Cass to finish painting.
He walked passed her house: the one unique that stood alone on the corner, splashed with pale blue paint at Cass's insisting rather than the other beige and taupe houses lining the wet streets. The flakes were falling faster now, but only coated the asphalt with more darkness than white. No chance of a snow day unless it stuck. He felt Cass slip away silently behind him, not leaving another whisper let alone a last word. Kirihara walked a little slower, not eager to get out of the falling snow. Even if he didn't like it, no– hated it, he would brave this storm with Cass, even if he got cold.
For the next two years.
That was a garden of Canterbury Bell blossoms, an all-knowing best friend, a pastel house, and 1,051,200 seconds without her.