At the Edge of the World

Disclaimer: CCS is not mine.

Chapter Two - Nadeshiko

It usually takes Sonomi ten thousand years to drag herself away from school, so this time I decide not to wait and run up the stairs two at a time, calling her name. "Sonooomiii! SONOMI!" I sing, skipping a little. I can't stop myself from stumbling over the fifth step and have to grab the banister doublequick. "Hee hee," I say stupidly, an equally stupid grin on my face. I'm not usually like this – foolish and giddy - it's just that today has been such a lovely day, what with chemistry being canceled and my friend Madoka getting a love letter from the boy in the next class. I decide that I am going to use my good mood to irritate Sonomi beyond reasonable comprehension. It's only right – we're family, after all.

"Sonooooomiiiiii!"

Sonomi's face suddenly sticks out over the banister and she is very red and looks very angry.

"Shut. Up!" She hisses.

"Hurry, Sonomi!" I call. "Dinner is sukiyaki!"

Sonomi snorts irritably and whips her thin braid behind her shoulder as she pulls back. I don't know why she's acting this way – it's her favourite meal.

I sink down on the steps, expecting that it will take a while until she's ready. A myriad of sounds echo up the stairwell – doors being opened; muted voices; students running and laughing, excited by the prospect of going home - though all I can think of is dinner. Mmmm. I hope it's a beef-pot. Sukiyaki tastes best on cold days. We haven't had it in months because Grandfather prefers western food. He often says things like, 'for the discerning palette' and remarks on 'the distinctive tone of the meat'- admittedly some very confusing statements - though in all honesty I'm usually too preoccupied with stuffing my face to devote much time to understanding them. I start to hum 'Greensleeves', tapping my knee in time to the tune as Sonomi's voice fades in to my consciousness.

"Goodbye, Sensei," I hear her say.

"Aa," says a voice that sounds like a smile. "Goodbye, Amamiya-san."

Sonomi's face is marred by a black scowl as she stomps down the stairs.

"What's the matter?"

"You idiot. Just forget it."

"Why won't you tell me?"

"Leave it, baka!"

I stick my tongue out. "Bleh. You're probably PMS-ing."

"I AM NOT!"

"Sure," I grin, stepping well away from her strong and practiced punching arm.

"You don't know anything!" shouts Sonomi.

"PMS, PMS!" I start to sing again, and run far ahead so that she has to chase me.

"Hey, Nadeshiko," says Sonomi suddenly, "do you have any classes with Kinomoto-Sensei?"

"Eh? No."

It is late in the evening and we are in the process of doing our homework (rather, Sonomi is working and I am writing a letter to Grandfather, as I do every week. Sonomi does not write to him). I mull over Sonomi's question, tapping my chin with my pencil. I wonder what Kinomoto Sensei teaches, or if I've even looked at him properly before. I don't recall his face.

"Why do you ask?"

"Hmm. Just wondering. He's in charge of the drama this year."

"Oh? Is he nice?"

She turns away, nodding slowly before giving a noncommittal shrug. The back of her neck is red. "Aa. I suppose."

I stop writing and turn to her, drawing one leg up beneath me on my chair. "Is he very strict?" Sonomi has made a habit of clashing with the school's drama club advisors. According to her, they are always either too controlling or not invested enough; a frequent complaint is that their approaches 'crush' her creative spirit to the point where it might as well descend to hell just to escape the torture of theatre production. Honestly, I wish she weren't so argumentative – last year she reduced Yamaguchi Sensei to tears.

"No. He's very good. He's not too pushy, listens to my suggestions, and gives credit where credit is due."

I can't help but smile, relieved that Sonomi has one less reason (excuse?) to squabble. Thank goodness for small mercies.

"But..."

Oh dear. My smile falters. "But?"

"He's kind of an airhead."

"Eh? How so?"

She exhales heavily with a shake of her head. "It doesn't matter. It means I get more freedom to do as I please."

"That's good."

"Mmn."

We both go back to our work.

At ten-thirty, after we've turned out the lights and crawled into our beds, I find myself dreaming of my father. He is seated at his desk, as he always is, mulling over paperwork; his office is uncharacteristically dark. The ceiling fan revolves but there is no wind; no sound. To his left is the snowglobe we bought at the zoo on my tenth birthday. The light bends through the curved glass and falls across a page. The snow is falling slow.

"Father," I say, walking towards him. He does not speak, but instead looks up at me and his eyes are green and piercing and then he opens his mouth to say something but he is cut off by the sound of an alarm.

It is then that I wake up and realize I haven't heard my father's voice in half a year.