Title: Stranger
Rating: T, although given my main characters, this probably ought to be K -.- Just in case, though.
Disclaimer: I do not own, nor am I affiliated with, La Corda D'oro or any of the characters found in it.
A/N: I'm sorry - for some reason, I thought it had only been a few months (which is still bad, but, you know, not as). I had intended to update much sooner, but real life has been a bit weird.
Thank you very much, everyone, for your feedback and kind words. Things might drag a little while Shoko sort of figures things out mentally, so if it becomes somewhat irritating, I'm very sorry. I am trying to keep a good pace without her overcoming some of her difficulties with unrealistic speed/ease. So . . . hopefully it doesn't get too tedious, and either way, I should update again within a week or so.
Tentsubasa, thanks for catching that ('that' being, Kahoko using "senpai" with Tsukimori, and Shoko opting for "kun" rather than "senpai" with Hihara – the latter of which I thought I corrected the first time someone pointed it out, but it would appear I did not, after all)! I always miss things like that. Also, thank you for taking the time to make a flow chart. I apologize, as I understand these details are important and can be very jarring when one is trying to read something. I will make a point to correct those things as soon as I can. Thanks again!
DreamCager – I'm going to apologize in advance, since it may remain a little slow for a couple chapters. But I was really happy to see you were still around! Thank you for always taking the time to read and review this :)
Thanks again, everyone, and I hope you enjoy it!
Tuesday sucked, just as Usaki had predicted it would.
Shoko was grateful to have slept so well after the older girl had left, or she wasn't sure she could have survived what the day had to offer. She'd woken up feeling refreshed and, while not quite optimistic, at least resigned to her fate. Breakfast with her parents and Miss Cavendish had been awkward but mostly painless, and by the time she reached the school gates, she was surprised to find herself able to move through them without being crippled by dread.
But, alas, it was all downhill from there.
Not two minutes after entering the school building, whom should she run into but the one person she most did not want to see?
She hadn't expected it. Well, she knew she would see him eventually, but they weren't even in the same year; what were the odds that he would be there right when she walked in, like some sort of predatory beast lying in wait?
Desperate not to have this confrontation, which she so was not ready for, she'd frantically seized onto the first possibility of escape and done something she had not done in years: randomly initiated conversation.
"N-nakamura-san!"
She did not want to do this. She really did not. But anything was better than scrambling to somehow explain things to Len, who was rapidly advancing on her, covering the short distance between them far too quickly for her comfort. Therefore, she had had no choice but to grab onto that excuse to occupy herself and practically accost the other girl at her locker.
"Uh," Nakamura blinked, looking puzzled, though not unreceptive. "Hi, Fuyuumi-san."
"Er . . . h-how are you?" So, so lame. She needed to come up with something better or this conversation would be over just in time for Len to drag her away to meet her grim demise. (Naturally this led to the too-distressing-to-be-amusing image of him calmly hurling his bookbag at her face before seizing her by the ankle and proceeding down the hall, with cool disregard for the exaggerated twitching of her form as it slid along behind him, and she almost missed what Nakamura said next.)
"Good . . . kind of tired, you know? I've been practicing like crazy, what with exams coming up soon. What about you?"
"Ah, um, I kn-know what you mean . . . alth-though, I haven't been as d-diligent as I usually am, s-since I've been a l-little distracted lately," she explained, voice carrying traces of her guilt. She'd neglected her playing shamefully as of late, and at the worst time possible. At the end of any other term, she would have given a similar answer to Nakamura's. After all, what did she have, besides her clarinet? What other worries, besides passing exams?
She would have started hitting her head on the nearest locker, but that specific storage apparatus belonged to Nakamura, who might take exception to her denting it in violent self-recrimination.
"Oh, I se-Oh! Right . . . yeah, I heard something like that," she said, her tentative smile all at once embarrassed, sympathetic, and curious. It took Shoko a minute to realize what she meant, so unaccustomed to being in the public eye was she.
"Oh n-no, I didn't m-mean-" but she stopped. That wasn't true. It actually was exactly what she meant when she said she'd been distracted - or at least, most of it was. But when she'd said it, she hadn't expected Nakamura to know what she was talking about.
She should have, though. Should have remembered - everyone knew.
"W-well, I – ah, i-it's c-complicated," she mumbled lamely. It was, though. Far more than she'd ever imagined something like would be.
Nakamura nodded in sympathetic agreement.
"Yeah, it always is, isn't it?" she sighed. "Ah! But the bell's going to ring soon, and I wanted to ask my teacher something before lessons, so I should get going."
"Of c-course, I'm sorry, I hadn't int-tended to keep you. Um, it was n-nice talking to you," she stammered. Meh, she thought glumly. Some things do not change. She was still at a loss when it came to polite conversation. Although, perhaps it was her imagination, but she thought that, somehow, she might have gotten a little better.
The thought, and Nakamura's seemingly sincere smile as she next spoke, lifted her spirits.
"No, you didn't at all. It was nice talking to you, too! See you in class," she said, lifting her hand in a little wave, and setting off, leaving Shoko feeling quite good about the whole exchange.
"Fuyuumi-san."
Every hair on the back of her neck stood up.
He waited? That whole time? She hadn't been expecting that. Rather, she'd assumed he'd be long gone.
"Ts-tsukim-mori-s-senpai!" She swiveled around to face him, but avoided his eyes entirely, her gaze defaulting to his left ear, like it used to.
He gave her an impatient look.
Nakamura-san said the bell was about to ring, didn't she? Where is it? Please ring, please ring!
"We need to-"
Brrrrrrrring!
Oh, thank God!
"Y-yes! L-later. Um, we'll t-talk . . . later. But I n-need to . . . to go . . ." she gestured awkwardly in the direction of her first hour class, nodding like a bobble-headed doll on the dashboard of a taxi.
He narrowed his eyes, giving her a long, scrutinizing look. If she could have folded into herself, she would have.
"Alright. Later," he said finally, nodded his goodbye, and left.
She turned and fled to her first hour class, feeling very much like she'd dodged a stream of bullets . . .
Yet was still in anticipation of round two.
Which, as it happened, fired in the form of Nami Amou's ruthless efforts to corner her, all of which Shoko very narrowly evaded at each of the three turns.
First, Nami caught her in her half-hour long morning study hall, pulling her to a deserted, dusty alcove of the library and turning a very serious, troubled gaze on Shoko.
"We need to talk."
"W-what?" After their last confrontation, Shoko was certain Nami could not bring anything but further bad news, despite the generally jovial attitude with which she did so.
Although, now, while she seemed excited, there was a somber undertone to the declaration.
"About yesterday . . ." she seemed uncertain how to continue, which was alarming in itself, considering her usual unabashed frankness. Add to that the fact that Shoko would, to be perfectly honest, prefer not to discuss yesterday's events with anyone, ever again, and she was definitely feeling trapped. "You see, I was -"
"Girls! Stop chatting and quickly finish locating whatever it is you're looking for, and then return to a des- What is a Gen. Ed. student doing here? Shouldn't you be in class?"
Shoko winced at the indignation in the disapproving librarian's tone, whereas Nami bit her lip, thinking for a moment, and then sighed.
"Arghhh . . . Sorry ma'am! I was just asking Fuyuumi-san something for the school newspaper. I'm the editor in chief," she explained, casting a bright smile at the older lady, who responded with a look of deep suspicion. "But I think I've got what I need. Thanks, Fuyuumi-san. See you later!" And as she passed, she whispered, "And I will see you later. This is important."
Shoko tamped down a shudder and nodded like she was totally up for this important conversation later today . . . when, in reality, she added Nami to her list of people she definitely wanted to avoid today. She didn't want to answer questions, or explain things that she still hadn't entirely explained to herself. She just wanted to get through the day, figure out how to explain things to Kahoko and what to say (eventually) to Len, and then disappear into obscurity once more, back to the simplicity and solitude of before, if a little worse for wear.
As if I could be so lucky, she acknowledged glumly, and trudged back through the maze of bookshelves to the wooden tables where she stared blankly at pages and thought of everything she never wanted to think of again.
The second time Nami almost got her, she was hiding out in her classroom at lunch, having watched Len head directly for the rooftops, apparently under the foolish impression that when she said, "Later," she was agreeing to meet him for Lunch once more.
To that, she thought in grim triumph, I say 'Ha!''
But she stayed too long, waiting to make sure he was well out of her way, because she was still there when Nami came bursting in, hair escaping from its elastic band, cheeks flushed, and breathing erratic, suggesting she'd run the whole way from the Gen Ed campus.
"You. We really need to talk."
I'm sure Len believes the same, but I'm not talking to him, either, was her private opinion on the matter, but she wisely kept it to herself, lest she provide Nami with anymore questions to ask.
"S-sure, what ab-bout?" she prompted instead, hoping her friendly smile was convincing.
"Yesterday, you know how you told me you and Tsukimori-san weren't dating, and there was definitely nothing going on there?"
"Y-yes . . ." She should have expected Nami to come back and ask again, so long as the rumors were still flying. Or perhaps she'd seen through her?
"Well, I wonder about that, and of course I haven't said anything to anyone, but I s-"
"Ladies? Can you please clear out of the classroom? I need to speak privately with this st- wait, what are you doing here? Shouldn't you be in class?" Shoko's English teacher stood in the doorway, brows furrowed and directing a perplexed gaze Nami, with a sullen-faced youth slouching behind him.
The look of irritation that crossed Nami's face was vaguely threatening, and Shoko instinctively took a step back.
"Sorry, sorry, Sir. I'm working on an article. I'm from the school newspaper," she supplied the excuse cheerily, and then pinned a steely look on Shoko. "We need to talk, today. Wait for me after school!" she ordered and Shoko, unable to recall a time when she had looked quite so . . . fierce, nodded guiltily.
"Okay," Nami said, apparently satisfied with the silent gesture of consent, and departed from the room.
And at a pointed glance from the teacher, Shoko followed suit, the wheels of her mind set spinning, already plotting ways to get out of this meeting.
And so a few hours later, she was lingering innocently enough at the gate, when Nami's unexpectedly strong hand wrapped around her arm in a viselike grip and had Shoko not been constrained by that grip, she might have jumped no less than a foot in the air. In fact, had this been a dark alleyway or other isolated place, she probably would have gone for her mace, so startled was she.
"Finally. I know you don't want to talk to me, but you really need to listen, because you can call it a personality flaw, but it is seriously killing me not to know for sure and if one more person interrupts me, I swear I will-"
"Shoko-chan! Amou-san! Hello!"
And all of the sudden, Shoko wished, desperately so, that she were tucked away somewhere safe and isolated talking to Nami, instead of here, hearing that voice which she prayed she was identifying incorrectly at the same time she knew she was not.
For the voice was unmistakable, and where it had once made her feel warm and safe and comfortable, it now had her insides going cold.
Ah, yet another person I am not prepared to speak to.
"K-kaho-senpai . . ." her voice sounded weak, even to her own ears, as she turned around. She did not want to; she did not want to face the full force of that smile, or it's inevitable transformation into a tremulous line of hurt and bewilderment that Shoko, shy, quiet Shoko, could be so despicably cruel.
And there it was, wide and bright under warm eyes that shone with pleasure at the unexpected meeting.
"It's been a while, guys. I'm sorry I haven't been in touch . . . there was . . . well, I've been a little distracted lately," she said pleasantly, cheeks pinkening where she faltered. The happy sparkle turned to worry. "Amou-san, are you going to be alright?"
"Yes," Nami ground out, teeth gritted into a very, very frightening semblance of a smile. "I will be just fine. But I should really get home now. I'll see you tomorrow, Fuyuumi-san?" It wasn't really a question, and everyone there knew it, although Kahoko did not know why. Rather, it was Nami's polite way of saying, "If we do not speak tomorrow, I will hunt you down and tie you to a tree if I have to in order to make you listen."
Shoko, not really keen on being hunted down or tied to a tree - and certainly not both at once - nodded vigorously.
"Of c-course. I'll see you, then."
And, she realized with some dismay, she would have to. Nami was not going to take no for an answer, and it was unfair and cowardly of Shoko to keep putting her off instead of at least explaining that the subject was not really open for discussion just because she did not want to think about the situation with her and Len.
Not that avoiding Nami was helping with that. Everywhere she went, the situation seemed to be smacking her in the face, as evidenced by Kahoko's presence - after two weeks of no contact - here today.
"'Bye, Fuyuumi-san, Hino-san," she muttered, and set off (presumably) towards home.
"Sorry . . . I wasn't interrupting something important, was I?" Kahoko queried, uncertain.
"N-no, not really, she just w-wanted to know abou-" She stopped short, not ready to dive headfirst into that malodorous pool of stagnating water quite yet. "Ah, um, a-anyways, how have you b-been? Uh, I owe you an ap-pology . . . the p-party, I was . . ." She was not precisely sure how to explain it without detouring into other topics that she was not keen to discuss. "I w-wasn't feeling very well, and-"
Kahoko waved a hand, an understanding smile on her face.
"No, no, you don't need to apologize . . . really, I feel bad that you had to be ill that day. It was a lot of fun, and I wish you could have stayed and enjoyed it."
Kahoko looked genuinely disappointed on her behalf, and Shoko was torn between wanting to hug the older girl and the conflicting desire to slam her own head against the pavement until the traumatic impact drove her into blessed unconsciousness, where she did not have to hide things or feel so terribly guilty and confused.
"B-but, still, I'd w-wanted to say something s-sooner, but I've been kind of . . . things h-have been weird f-for me lately. I shouldn't have l-left you there alone, though." Of course, what she really was trying to apologize for was absconding with Len. On that day, that is, although she supposed she'd begun doing it afterwards, too.
"I was in good hands, though. Honest - it was a wonderful day for me," Kahoko told her, a secret smile of her own brightening her voice and eyes. Shoko wondered at the source.
"Then I-I'm glad . . . but, um," she wavered, knowing what it was time to do, but still reticent, heart pounding from nerves. She thought she might jump out of her own skin before she got the words out, and she still didn't even know what to say. "Ab-bout Tsukim-mori-senpai . . ."
"Oh! That's right!" Kahoko's eyes widened, and she clapped her hands together. "I wanted to ask you about that."
A cold, prickling feeling snaked down her spine.
"W-well-"
"I saw Tsukimori-kun at lunch yesterday, and he was acting a little weird."
Shoko blinked. It was not the painful accusation she'd been expecting, but she supposed it could still segue into one with relative ease.
"Weird? How s-so?"
"Mm," she thought for a moment, lifting a hand to her hair and frowning. "I don't know . . . he seemed distracted, which is strange, because he's usually so, uh, alert, I guess. Anyways, he made a pretty strange request."
Her shoulders tensed. A strange request? What kind of strange request? That didn't tell her anything, it could mean a marriage proposal or an invitation to scratch his back (both unlikely extremes, but still).
She blinked, realizing that if she wanted to know, Kahoko appeared to be talking again, which probably meant the answer to her question would imminently be available if she ceased her inner monologuing and actually listened.
" . . . on the rooftop, and he - he asked me to stand in this specific spot and play my violin while he sat by the door. And afterwards, he just sat and stared into space, with such a serious expression, and then he left. Oh, he said 'thanks' and 'goodbye' first," she added, laughing. "But . . . yeah. Honest, it was even weirder than it sounds," she remarked, shaking her head. She was clearly puzzled even now, as she recounted the tale. "Anyways . . . I tell you this because - perhaps it's a long shot - but do you know anything? It's hard to get him to talk, to say the least, and I got the impression you and Tsukimori-kun were friends now, so . . . I'm sure it's nothing, but it was strange enough coming from him that I worried a little," she shrugged awkwardly, evidently not entirely comfortable asking Shoko lest her evaluation of her and Len's acquaintance be incorrect.
Shoko did not clarify this matter for her, as her mind was still working through this new information. Kahoko's story had any number of questions springing to mind, a few of the most pressing and perplexing ones being:
One, how was it that Kahoko randomly chose to go to the rooftop - after not having been in a while - on the same day the awful rumor about her and Len began circulating like crazy through the school?`
Two, if she had heard said rumor, how was she not exhibiting any signs of resentment or disappointment or hurt, and if she had not heard it, well . . . how did she not hear it? Had Shoko actually been imagining the horrible extent of the rumor and people's interest in her personal dealings?
And finally, three: What on earth was Len thinking?
"N-no, I don't know anything ab-bout that, but, ah, K-kaho-senpai . . . I actually n-needed to talk to you regarding that."
She swallowed, feeling lightheaded and anxious, certain her stomach was flipping over in her torso if the nausea she was experiencing was any indication.
Kahoko blinked and looked at her expectantly.
"Eh? Sure . . . what is it?"
Ergh, she thought. I'm not ready for this. But she was fairly sure she would never feel ready to have this conversation, and now was as good a time as any.
"I th-thought you may have . . . I know r-right now people are s-saying . . ." She wracked her brain for the right words, but they were not there. Could there be right words to describe what you've done wrong?
The best thing, she resolved, would be to just say it and go from there. "L-len and I-"
"Shoko! Are you ready to go?" Kiri, who seemed to have practically materialized right behind Shoko, interrupted, and then caught sight of Kahoko. "Oh, hello, I remember you, from the concours, right? I'm so sorry, I forget the name . . ."
And all at once, Shoko knew exactly how Nami felt, thwarted at every turn, though this was the first for Shoko. But once was enough. The thought of having to find her again later and try to start over was so overwhelming her knees went a little weak.
Kahoko snapped to attention in the face of Kiri's greeting.
"Ah! Hello, Mrs. Fuyuumi," she smiled, bowing. "Kahoko Hino, ma'am."
"It's a pleasure. I enjoyed your performances in the concours. I hope to hear you play again someday soon," she enthused, and Kahoko's cheeks reddened a little in response, but the smile curved a smidge wider.
"Thank you. I hope so, too," she said.
"Ah, Shoko - Eliza and I are going out tonight, but we wanted to eat with you, so Takano-san is preparing an early dinner. Are you ready to leave?"
No. Could you please rewind the last five minutes and decide to wait at the corner or something so I could finish admitting what a horrible, backstabbing tart I am to Kahoko and get it over with?
"Um, y-yes. I suppose I'll t-talk to you later, Kaho-senpai," she mumbled.
"Yes," she agreed, then clapped her hands together. "Actually, are you busy Saturday? It's been a while since we've talked, so we should do something."
Saturday? She would have to wait until Saturday? At the same time she was relieved, she wanted to scream. She didn't know if she could even take the weight of this secret until then.
Deal with it, she told herself bitterly. It's less than what you deserve.
She nodded.
"I'd l-like that," she said, battling to keep the frustration out of her voice.
"Great! Um . . . do you want to just meet at the cake shop?" Kahoko suggested, pitching the idea with a sheepish grin.
Shoko smiled in spite of her internal discord.
"S-sure, let's do that," she agreed, and Kiri looked even more delighted about the prospect than either of them did, though she did not verbalize her apparent joy.
"I'll make certain she gets there. It was lovely of you to invite her, Hino-san. Thank you," she beamed at Kahoko, and Shoko inwardly cringed, vaguely feeling like her casual arrangement to hang out had turned into the platonic equivalent of a pity date.
"Eh? Oh, no, rather, it's nice of Shoko to come out with me. Everyone has finals, but music students have to practice on top of their studies, so I'm happy that she's choosing to spend some of her precious free time with me," Kahoko explained, and Shoko almost wept from the shame.
Kiri looked pleased with the response.
"Well, then I hope the both of you have fun! Shoko and I should hurry home, though; we have a guest this week, and I shudder to think of her getting bored and looking for entertainment herself," she told Kahoko, then looked thoughtful. "Oh, would you like a ride home?
Kahoko immediately shook her head.
"No, that's okay. I'm actually waiting for a friend," she added, smiling. "Thank you very much for offering, though."
"Certainly," said Kiri. "Shall we go, Shoko?"
"Ah! Y-yes. I'll see you on S-saturday, Kaho-senpai."
"Yup," the older girl grinned. "Bye bye, then!"
"'Bye," she responded, and then returned Kazuki's happy wave as she saw him emerge from the building. Kahoko swiveled around to see what she was waving at, and smiled as she spotted him, waving as well.
With that, Shoko turned and let herself into the car. The warm feeling she always got from speaking to Kahoko slowly faded underneath the darker ones she had, from guilt, anxiety, and what she was coming to recognize as a sliver of envy that in the end, he would be hers.
"Are we ready, then?" Kiri asked, turning around in the front seat to look at Shoko.
She nodded.
She did not trust herself to speak.
"Kiri-chan! Excellent news! Alex and Yakov have sent me an e-mail with an update on their trip! Dozens of beautiful photos - I was sure I'd die of envy. You must come see! Takano-san said it will be at least fifteen more minutes, in any case."
"That is good news. Where were they off to again? The Andes?"
"No, that was Eleanor and her sisters. Alex and Yakov are in India. I suppose it won't be as interesting to you, come to think of it . . . but I haven't been there. Yet," she tacked on with a gleam in her eye.
"Oh, yes it will. And at the very least, I'm always happy to hear from them! Shall we go have a look?"
Miss Cavendish nodded enthusiastically, her excitement, so visible in her face, belying her young age where her poise and speech did not.
The pair made quickly for the door, when Kiri stopped.
"Shoko, would you like to come see? You've never been out of the country, so maybe this will interest you in doing so," she suggested, though her voice did not hold much hope for a sudden development of an adventurer's spirit.
Shoko quickly responded in the negative, though not because of lack of interest; she liked pretty pictures just as much as the next person (although she did have a little bit of a phobia about actually traveling). Rather, from the moment Miss Cavendish had come running out to greet them and shared her excellent news, Shoko had seen an opportunity and planned to seize it. She felt as if she had not spoken to Takano in ages, but for at least ten minutes, her mother and Miss Cavendish would be fully occupied, and it would be perfectly reasonable for Shoko to be loitering in the kitchen.
"If you're sure. Just come find us if you change your mind," Kiri told her, and quit the room with Miss Cavendish.
Shoko waited for the sound of retreating footsteps to fade into silence, and then bolted into the kitchen, stockinged feet slipping horizontally across the last stretch, causing her to wobble in the air and eventually seek support from the counter top.
Takano simply looked at her and quirked her brow.
"Uh . . . w-well . . . you know, it's s-so hard with her here, t-to find time to . . . n-not that I d-don't like having her a-at home, but - oh, you know," she repeated in a mumble, righting herself and fidgeting where she stood. "Er . . . I was able to t-talk to Usaki-san last night, b-but I like to hear what you have to s-say, too, if it's okay . . . a-although you are making d-dinner, so maybe n-now isn't . . ." It had sounded so lovely to race in here and confide every last terrible detail, but while she knew Takano cared, and would listen, it occurred to her for the first time that she might not be that terribly interested in Shoko's petty adolescent troubles.
A shadow fell across Takano's face, and Shoko was horrified to think her fears were not unwarranted.
"Yes, I think I heard most of it from her . . . she came and talked to me afterwards," she said, the corners of her lips dipping into a frown, before she shook her head and turned her attention back to Shoko with a smile. "I was hoping to talk to you today. Go on, I think we have at least a few minutes."
Relieved, though curious to know what exactly had provoked such a dark expression on Takano's face, she began to speak.
"I guess there's n-not much left to tell, then. B-but I decided for sure w-what I'm going to do. What I have to do," she added firmly.
"And what's that?" Takano queried softly.
"I'll t-tell Kahoko there's n-nothing between us," she said. There certainly won't be after this. "I'll still t-tell her we were hanging out, and th-that I sort of . . . sort of liked him, because I d-don't want to lie to her about it, but that's all," she explained. Her heart seemed to shrink in and tighten as she spoke her resolve, but she took a deep breath and pressed on. "And I'll let her know I-I'm over it. So she d-doesn't worry. Because she . . . she d-definitely would."
Her announcement was met with a thoughtful silence that lasted a long moment before Takano nodded slowly.
"Are you sure?" she asked, looking directly into Shoko's eyes, her gaze intent.
Shoko fought the desire to look away, and stared steadily back.
"Yes. I th-think it's what's right. And . . . I'll g-get over it. It isn't l-like it's the end of the world."
Because it wasn't, and she would. She knew it - that she would just pick herself up, dust herself off, and keep moving, as people did. Looking back she would probably even laugh at herself for making such a fuss over something so small and irrelevant.
She was just afraid it would take a very long time, and that until then, she would suffer for it.
"Alright," Takano agreed, ceasing her scrutiny. "Yes, if you think that's what's right, then that's what you should do."
Shoko frowned.
"D-don't you think it is?"
Takano shrugged.
"Honestly? I have no idea. You're the only one who can say. The best you can do is whatever you think is right, and then hope it really is. I'm proud of you, though, for making a decision. I know it was and will be hard for you, and I think it says a lot that you're owning to any mistakes you've made and trying to fix things."
"Oh," she said, torn between the influx of pleasure at the statement and the confusion it came with. "Th-thank you," she added, unsure how to respond.
"Of course. If you get nothing else out of this, Fuyuumi-san, I truly think you've come along way personally."
Shoko blinked, wondering what she meant. She couldn't see that she'd made any progress as a person. If anything, she'd only proved the inherent fault of her nature.
But she did not argue, just nodded silently, and for a while, nothing more was said. Takano moved to extract a foil-wrapped pan from the oven, and Shoko settled into her thoughts at the set table.
A few minutes passed, the quiet disrupted only by the rustle of movement as Takano moved back and forth across the kitchen, laying out food across the table's surface, until finally, they had only to wait for Kiri and Miss Cavendish.
"Though," Takano started abruptly, and Shoko straightened in her chair. "Who I really feel bad for here, is Tsukimori-san."
"W-what do you-"
"I'm sorry it took so long, I hope we did not keep you waiting," Kiri apologized, breezing into the room with a pleasant smile. "It smells divine in here. Oh, I forget sometimes how nice home is."
"Takano-san, you are not, by any chance, interested in moving to England, are you?" Miss Cavendish inquired, a mischievous smile playing at her lips.
"Oh, no you don't! It's horribly rainy where she lives, Miko-san - say no!" Kiri urged, looking horrified at the prospect.
"I don't know . . . I think I rather like the rain . . ." she grinned.
"No one likes that much rain!"
She sighed, looking apologetically at Miss Cavendish.
"Kiri-sama is so adamant, I can only say no. She's yet to lead me astray, so I'll have to trust her on this matter."
"Blast," Miss Cavendish mock-grumped, then added darkly, "And it doesn't rain that often." Kiri turned her eyes skyward and Takano chuckled.
For her part, Shoko could only manage a half-hearted grin, still troubling over Takano's final words.
Tsukimori-senpai? She knew he would not despair much at the loss of their friendship. More importantly, in the end, he would have Kahoko.
What could he possibly be upset about?
"U-um, then I'll s-start now," she announced awkwardly, still a little stunned by the suddenness and rapidity with which she'd been ushered from the kitchen to the parlor and instructed to play for them after dinner had ended.
Kiri and Miss Cavendish nodded encouragingly, and with that, Shoko put the instrument to her lips, a little nervous at Miss Cavendish's presence, praying she would not err in her performance.
She selected an upbeat song for her first, one she knew well and was confident in. It lasted only a few minutes, at the end of which she tried to discreetly examine the pair before her in an effort to gauge their reactions.
Kiri fairly beamed at her, and Miss Cavendish's lips had settled into a dreamy smile, which she interpreted as a positive sign, and when she sat up and enthusiastically requested another, Shoko dared a harder one, which she was still practicing for her exam.
She settled into the lengthy melody, closing her eyes against the warmly lit parlor and the two women seated before her, and focused on prompting the fluid, steady voice of her clarinet. And she was, for the first time in a long while, able to focus. No thoughts of Len or Kahoko broke in and distressed the notes of her song this time. It was simply her and the sounds she had loved as a little girl and now, as an older one, was finally able to produce with reasonable skill, filling the room and subduing the storm within under a temporary spell of peace.
She finished the song on a content exhalation, and Miss Cavendish clapped her hands happily while her mother smiled up at her.
"Shoko? Kiri? Miss Cavendish?" The faint call drew away their attention, and Kiri sprang to her feet.
"Oh! That will be your father, Shoko. I'll be right back, ladies," she promised, and strode from the room with a merry step.
As she left, Miss Cavendish turned to Shoko with a look of admiration.
"You play so beautifully, Shoko-chan!" she exclaimed. "Your parents did tell me, but I assumed at least some of their praise was influenced by the fact that they are your parents. But it turns out they were being entirely honest."
Shoko colored at the compliment, uncertain how to respond.
"Th-thank you, I'm happy to h-hear you enjoyed it. I'm s-surprised they said anything ab-bout me at all, though," she said truthfully. Considering everything her parents had seen and done, she was surprised she'd earned anything more than a passing mention in the form of a 'Yes' in response to the question of whether or not they had children.
"Really? They speak of you quite frequently, actually. And of course, everyone's always curious about what you're like, considering Kiri-chan and Haru-kun . . . and I mean that in the best of ways."
The pleasure at having been praised diminished a little as unease set in. Quite frequently? What exactly did that mean? And, it left her to wonder what they said about her. Really, other than playing the clarinet, she did nothing of interest . . .
Which left only the bad things. And, her own opinion of herself aside, if the constant attempts at behavioral modification over the course of her childhood were any indication, there were a lot of bad things.
She felt a little sick.
"Oh, no, you need not look so grim," Miss Cavendish laughed. "All good things. They're really proud of you. Your mother, especially. You can tell she's very fond of you."
Shoko blinked, stunned.
Really proud? Fond? Mother is? The idea so contradicted her own perception of things, that she was truly baffled. In fact, she wondered if Miss Cavendish wasn't making it up, for the sake of being polite.
But no - she seemed so sincere.
"R-really? I wouldn't have th-thought . . . I mean, I kn-know she loves me, of c-course, but . . ." she paused, not wanting to reveal too much or put her mother in a bad light. "I-I'm not really . . . I'm not l-like them," she confessed, tightly clasping her hands around her clarinet. "I th-think they would have p-preferred it if I were . . . that is t-to say, I think I'm a b-bit of a d-disappointment."
Miss Cavendish just stared at her, not bothering to disguise her utter bewilderment.
"Why on earth would you think that?"
"W-well, it's just . . . I'm . . ." Shoko bit her lip in frustration. She knew she shouldn't have said anything, that Miss Cavendish, who was as mad and delightful and comfortable in her own skin as the both of Shoko's parents, could not possibly know what she meant, thus leaving Shoko to try, in her broken, muddled words, to explain it. "I-I'm just s-so boring. E-even they don't like t-to be around me; it's why they're a-always travelling. Because b-being at home with me is l-like this int-terminably dull ordeal."
Her grip on her clarinet tightened as she said it, and she nearly winced as the final words left her mouth. It sounded so harsh and awful, even to her, but it was the truth. Her parents seemed to leave for some foreign destination every time the chance arose, and when they were home, though they made an effort to spend time with her, their encounters usually consisted of them telling stories and Shoko struggling to find something, anything, interesting to say in response and coming up blank. She would not find her company desirable, either, if she were them, and she was sure they did not.
Miss Cavendish raised her brows, and Shoko wished she could take the words back. Miss Cavendish was a stranger and, more importantly, her parents' friend. To speak so candidly on this subject matter was almost certainly poor form, and she knew better.
She colored and averted her gaze, mentally kicking herself for becoming so careless with her words.
"Well . . ." Miss Cavendish said, blinking. "I suppose you would know better than I would," she conceded slowly, then shook her head. "Though that isn't at all the impression I've gotten. It seemed to me, from what Kiri-chan said, that she's just not certain-"
"Sorry to keep you waiting, I was just updating your father on the plans for tonight, and speaking of which, we should head out, Eliza. Are you ready, or would you like to freshen up?"
Shoko was surprised to find herself frustrated at this interruption, in spite of her embarrassment at having spoken inappropriately. Excessively frank or not, she was now curious to hear what Miss Cavendish was going to say.
"Ah! Yes, you're right. Our reservation at the club is set for six thirty, isn't it?" she inquired, her attention moving away from Shoko.
"I believe so. I have to say, I'm quite excited. I've never been there before," she explained, her lips curving upward in a mischievous smile.
Alarms went off in Shoko's head.
"The c-club?" she echoed tentatively, although if even her mother, as daring and adventurous as she was, had not yet been there, it was probably some place scandalous.
And therefore, probably something Shoko wanted to know nothing about.
"Oh," her mother replied evasively, wiggling her fingers in the air. "Just a place downtown."
She said nothing more, and wisely, Shoko did not ask again.
"Shall we go then?"
Miss Cavendish nodded, standing and straightening her canary yellow pencil skirt (which might have been perfectly respectable, and pleasantly bright, even, if not for the black ruffles and fishnet to be found elsewhere on her person, and good heavens, how had she failed to notice those shoes? Surely she could not actually walk in them?) while Kiri turned her attention to Shoko.
"We'll likely be late getting back, so don't wait for us, alright? You'll want plenty of sleep if you're going to be studying a lot."
Shoko had stopped waiting up for them when she was twelve, but she smiled mechanically and motioned her assent.
"Good girl. I'll see you in the morning," she said, leaning over to kiss the top of Shoko's head.
"'Bye . . . h-have a nice time."
Miss Cavendish's eyes flickered back over to her, her face shadowed a moment before Shoko's parents moved to leave the room.
"Good night, Shoko-chan," she finally murmured, and departed from the room.
Shoko remained in the room for a time afterwards, attempting to sort through her thoughts as she reflected on her conversation with Miss Cavendish.
Despite the convincing sincerity with which Miss Cavendish had delivered her words, Shoko had several years worth of progressively pessimistic cogitation on the subject of her relationship with her parents, all of which persuaded her that whatever beliefs Miss Cavendish had come to harbor in her brief acquaintance with them were, to say the least, at odds with the reality of it.
And it isn't just what I've determined from my brooding, she thought, more or less aware of her tendency to overthink things until she came to an unjustifiably grim conclusion. There were the small snippets of childhood memories which occasionally surfaced, featuring Kiri and her gentle remonstrations throughout her early youth, and Haru, a mostly peripheral oddity, always affectionate and good-humoured, yet distant; but then, there were a couple of specific, vivid scenes, one of which sprung to mind now, featuring a dialogue which had colored her view of things since she had accidentally overheard it.
How old had she been? Five? Six? Her parents had been hosting a dinner party, and had put her to bed early, but she was too tense to sleep, agitated by the distant hum of noise. Instead, she'd crept down the stairs to the parlor, where she'd discarded her two favorite dolls a couple of hours earlier. She'd quietly entertained herself for some time, setting her dolls afloat on the wooden coasters atop the coffee table, imagining the glass to be an endless stretch of sea as her despondent charges drifted aimlessly across it, before that hum grew suddenly louder, joined by the sound of several pairs of approaching footsteps . . .
Panicked, Shoko swept her dolls from their humble boats and raced from the room, slipping through an archway into the sunroom rather than back out into the hall, where she would surely be subjected to a most unwelcome encounter. Fervently opposed to making an escape through the french doors leading outside to an ominously dark terrace, she stowed herself under the tea table, her heart maintaining a frantic pace as she crouched away from the light spilling in from the parlor.
". . . must have left the lights on," her mother's voice sounded as it became audible, and a series of halting steps and the airy sound of depressed cushions suggested the party would be settling in for some post-dinner entertainment. Her spirits sank, and she instinctively tightened her grip on her dolls. Now, how could she find a way out? Stupid! She should have risked darting out into the hall.
"Is she asleep then? I would have liked to see her; it's been a couple of months," a familiar voice remarked. Ms. Eiko, if she was not mistaken; a long-time friend of Kiri's who had visited a number of times before.
"Oh, I'm sorry! We sent her to bed early, since sometimes she struggles with large groups, as you know."
"Aw, that's a shame. Not that I would want to upset her, but she's such an adorable little thing. So shy!"
"Not just that," another voice interjected. Shoko could not quite place it. "Kiri-san warned me, but when I met her last time I was shocked. Say, she isn't adopted, is she?"
Shoko heard her mother laugh. "What, she doesn't look like us?"
"No, it's not that," they explained hurriedly, then added, "She certainly looks like she'll grow up to be as lovely as yourself. But . . . I was expecting someone a little more . . . after all, she is yours and Haru-kun's."
Shoko frowned. 'A little more' what? What were they trying to say?
"Oh, that. I know what you mean," her mother replied, and Shoko straightened, going forward onto her knees as she strained to listen, although they were already clear enough.
"Don't get me wrong, I don't think that's a bad thing. It's just a surprise. You and Haru-kun are so lively and amusing, but she's so subdued."
Subdued? What did that mean? Shoko gritted her teeth in frustration, wishing she understood what they were getting at.
"It's true. She doesn't laugh much. Or perhaps I'm just not funny. She's really very sweet though, and I think it's alright if she's a little dull. Though I do wish she'd be a bit more outgoing . . . but then, she'll probably have a lot less trouble than we did. My mother never stopped telling me I was weird all growing up," her mother joked. "At any rate, I used to worry there was something wrong with her, but the doctor said it was just a personality type."
Shoko's heart sank. She was pretty sure she knew what dull meant, because she'd heard someone say it about her and she'd asked her teacher. It meant boring. Uninteresting. Mother didn't think she was interesting. What's more, she'd thought there was something wrong with her!
"I don't know if she's dull, necessarily," Her father offered, and Shoko nodded, hands clenching into fists. See! Father understood. "Maybe a little distant. But even though she likes to play by herself, she's not uncreative about it. I still don't know what she was doing with the cat figurine and the peanut butter." This produced a shout of laughter from the other guests, and Shoko's face reddened. She was just pretending to feed it, but she couldn't reach the milk in the fridge. Anyways, it didn't go very well. She couldn't quite get the peanut butter off the cat, and it got all over her and Father had laughed when finally, frustrated at every turn, she had tentatively gone into his study, sticky cat in hand, and asked for help. She supposed it was better than him getting angry, but it had made her feel so stupid.
"That's true," Kiri conceded thoughtfully. "I guess whatever is going on in her head is more interesting than anything that happens outside it. She won't sit still for movies, either, you know. She always wanders off after ten or fifteen minutes."
"Some kids just don't like television."
"Oh, I know. It's not even that so much as – well, she doesn't enjoy playing games, either . . . I guess, she seems most content when she's by herself. Spending time with her is difficult."
Shoko slumped where she sat, trying to make sense of this information. She thought she had fun with her mother. She liked it when she sat and played and Kiri sat next to her. Sometimes she wished she wouldn't keep interrupting the game, or trying to get her to do something else, but it was nice to just have her there. She never thought it wasn't fun for her mother. Certainly, she didn't think it was 'difficult'.
Well, she resolved, a little teary-eyed. I'll tell her she can go away, then, so she doesn't have to.
"Ah, well, it's like that with all children. You just don't know what they're thinking, eh? In any case, there's nothing wrong with being shy or a little quiet. Like you said, just a personality. But it is a little weird that she shouldn't be anything like you," they admitted, and Shoko bit her lip. Yes, she was. She looked like her mother. Everyone said so. And Father was quiet sometimes, too.
But she didn't get along with people, like they did. And sometimes Shoko thought what they liked to do was a little boring. Or they talked about things she didn't understand. But she thought they were still fun. Didn't they think she was still fun?
"And you haven't even seen what a sweetheart she is. Nothing like me at all," her mother quipped, but Shoko did not interpret this the way she intended. Her world already felt completely off-kilter, and somehow the remark made her feel even more hurt.
"Fuyuumi-sama? Dessert is set out," the housekeeper intoned respectfully, halting conversation.
"Is it? That's wonderful, thank you. Everyone, if you will?" her mother queried, and at the shuffle of feet and creak of furniture, Shoko's focus went back to her current predicament, and with great relief, she recognized her chance.
She waited, holding her breath as she listened to the dinner guests file out of the room, and through a prolonged silence following the last audible footstep. After this seemingly long amount of time had passed, she let out her breath and went to the doorway, peeking around the door jamb and heaving a sigh of relief as the empty room came into view. She raced through the parlor, into the hall, and less than a minute later slid beneath the duvet of her bed.
She did not, however, fall asleep for a very long while.
But the present Shoko did not necessarily remember the specifics of that overheard conversation; rather, she recalled only her own interpretation of it – a realization of how things stood which she had since then considered to be an absolute truth, and which she had used as a foundation for any number of gloomy suspicions and perceptions.
Was it then that she decided 'it's a personality', and embraced those core characteristics? Perhaps it had been the beginning, but she was inclined to think that she might have overcome this self-prejudice had it been rooted solely in insecurity. Instead, the years had reinforced it and enabled her to settle more closely into that mold, which led her to sadly conclude that indeed, it was the way she was always meant to be.
But tonight, this familiar verdict seemed somehow more flimsy than usual. It left her wondering if she possessed the whole picture, and if so, had she examined it fairly? It occurred to her that a five year old's perception, while eerily acute at times, could also be disastrously faulty, a thought which left her wondering: Could she have been wrong?
She toyed with this idea for a moment, and though she sincerely attempted to come up with an answer contrary to what she tended to believe, she did not think so. But it did spin a few new threads of thought, and as she sat there frowning at the edge of the rug, she carefully considered that even if one was not exactly wrong, one might not be entirely right, either, and suddenly, she was put in mind of Len.
Len was not, as she supposed she had indeed been telling anyone who said otherwise, cold. But if she thought about it, he was, in some ways. He was certainly not a warm-natured person, in spite of how considerate, tolerant and, dare she say, kind she had seen him be on some occasions. Although she hesitated to allow anyone to label him cold, she could not deny that even in the ways he was kind, it was in a . . . minimalist fashion. Even when he'd apologized, with visible awkwardness behind his words, his speech and manners had been very cool, and reserved. She recalled how, in her early days of watching him, she had shuddered to imagine him in a genuine fury. But now that she knew him a little better, albeit still not intimately, she suspected that Len would not explode. He might become curt, or if his anger stemmed from some other strong emotions, reckless with his words, but he probably wouldn't instigate a fistfight with anyone, or get into a yelling match, or push over furniture and scatter papers uttering exclamations of angry frustration as he wrecked a room.
So, even in a state of terrible fury, Len would mostly keep himself in check, or at least wait until he was alone. He would be angry in a fashion similar to the one in which he did everything else: cool, restrained, and most of it kept internal rather than projected outward.
However, just because he was those things did not mean he didn't get angry, or behave kindly, or feel any of the numerous emotions entirely different people felt as well. Which meant, perhaps, that the same logic applied to herself.
Yes, she remembered that even before others had made her believe it, she was shy. New people unnerved her and took quite a long time to get used to. And no, she was not vivacious or fascinating. Although she was happy to contribute when she did have news or something to say, she often struggled to find things to say, and was comfortable with letting others talk or with just sitting in companionable silence. She didn't like being alone all of the time, but she did need time to herself. And she also internalized problems, analyzing things in her mind and coming to conclusions without really articulating to others what she was thinking or feeling, even if it seemed to herself she had gone over it ad nauseum. That had very much annoyed her mother, she remembered guiltily. She supposed she had not exactly been an easy child, her minimal entertainment value aside.
In any case, she could fairly conclude she was not completely wrong. But in the same spirit of fairness, she could also recognize that when she did feel comfortable with someone, she did not mind talking. Although she was quiet, her mind was very busy. She did not do anything particularly interesting and she lacked charisma, but she was learning to view the oddities which cropped up in her brain optimistically, as a feature – to the right people – rather than a bug. So yes, to some she might be boring, but not to everyone. And in recent weeks, she had begun to understand that of course you would seem boring if you didn't say anything. How could you become close to someone if they shared nothing? For years now, she had thoughtlessly failed to facilitate movement past polite, safe conversation when she spoke to people – her parents included - and had attributed the few who had made attempts at friendship with her and their subsequent loss of interest to her inescapably dull nature. In hindsight, however, she could have found things to say, could have invited them to talk about things, but she had played it safe, deeming all her thoughts unworthy.
And your obvious statements about the weather were worthy? She asked herself now, cheeks hot. She had been a little stupid, hadn't she? But she was learning!
At any rate, she wondered now if, despite being a little shy and not exactly a chatterbox, she still fell somewhere on a normal spectrum of personality types. She'd never be outgoing and daring and open about her feelings, but that didn't automatically mean she should be alone forever, playing her clarinet in solitary brooding as she watched others living their lives. That was obviously ridiculous and she could not believe she hadn't realized before now that that was basically where she was directing herself.
"Idiot," she said aloud, standing up and shaking her head. So, she understood a few things now. But that meant she was also now confused about many things she had previously thought she understood, and regardless of any better understanding of her self, she remained at a loss when it came to her parents and their view of her.
That would have to wait, however, because the hour hand on the clock had somehow crept alarmingly close to eleven, and as she stood up and the weariness in her bones made itself apparent, she realized how relieved she was to find it bedtime.
Thus, she determined to disregard these problems for tonight in favor of returning to them at more convenient time, and took herself off to bed to get some much-needed – and well-deserved, she thought – rest.
