Angels in the Architecture
Part 2: Molto Ritmico
Chapter 24: Midnight Snack
After another grueling day of rehearsals, the last night of band camp finally arrived.
Hashimoto retreated to his single room in the camp facility and burrowed straight into his futon without showering or undressing. He took off his glasses, yawning and rubbing his tired eyes, and grabbed a bottle of water to chug down aspirin tablets. Then he turned off all the lights save for a small lamp by the futon. The band director stretched out lazily for several minutes unwinding in the peace and quiet.
Then it got too quiet, and a bit lonely in the dark, so Hashimoto reached over into his bag by the futon and grabbed a bag of barbecue-flavored potato chips. He turned on the TV in search of something to fill the silence.
Immediately what popped up was a boring looking news channel currently doing a weather bit:
"This evening's summer storms will continue late into the night, but the skies will clear by early tomorrow morning's bright and early sunrise..."
Hashimoto stuffed a handful of chips in his mouth as he glanced at the dark window, where heavy rain pattered on glass. Soft blue lightning flashed in the distant clouds.
Earlier because of the storm, Kitauji's students had to cancel their post-rehearsal bonfire night and instead settled on an evening of board games. Hashimoto had joined his kids for a few starting rounds despite his exhaustion, out of a fatherly sort of obligation. But even in the beginning many students were too drained to participate. Most kids bailed after the first thirty minutes, and by the hour's end the common area had completely emptied out. Everyone, teacher and students alike, just yearned for bed.
Hashimoto yawned again. Then he replaced his glasses on his nose and leaned back in the bluish glow of the TV.
"Following the death of the Nakamura family head this Friday," said the newscaster, "the religious government of Masa island has begun its process of transitioning theocratic power to presumably the eldest of the Nakamura sextuplets. However, there are signs that some of the six heirs are treating the situation with little-to-no weight."
"The second-eldest of the sextuplets, for one, has reportedly decided to hold a musical performance in the wake of his father's death, though it is unclear if the concert is to mock or honor the late Nakamura."
The TV cut to footage of a Nakamura sextuplet in the Masa Island church, drunkenly playing- god forbid- the marimba, Hashimoto's own beloved instrument of study.
"The marimba is Nakamura-san's instrument of choice for this bizarre performance," narrated the newscaster. "Widely considered a comedic and ridiculous percussion instrument, the marimba is a relative of the more well-known xylophone. It does not have a very elegant sound, especially not with-"
CLICK. Hashimoto turned off the TV, rolling his eyes as he crunched on chips. Mallet instruments already got enough ridicule in popular culture, so the marimba didn't need this kind of weird and unflattering publicity. Hopefully it wouldn't affect percussion enrollment rates in Kitauji's feeder elementary schools, or else Hashimoto and Niiyama were bound to suffer a dearth of marimba students within three to five years.
Hashimoto yawned again.
The band director set aside the bag of chips, shuffled deeper under his blankets, and set an early alarm on his phone.
He switched off the lamp and closed his eyes in darkness.
Hashimoto dreamed that he was young again. Much younger; he was a child. A toddler being chased by soldiers and hounds up a flight of narrow stairs. Behind him, the echoes of snarling and barking and pounding bootsteps drew near while his tiny self stumbled desperately on short legs.
At the end of the stairwell there was a door. He saw himself lift his hand- a child's hand- and blast it open with deafening force. The world flooded in blindingly bright and cold... and high. He teetered on concrete rooftop rising dozens of meters above the earth.
"HURRY!"
Hashimoto turned, and glimpsed another ragged child running behind him. Clothed in a filthy medical gown, bald head bearing a tattooed serial number.
He couldn't remember what the child's blurred image looked like.
Except for the flash of a swan's white wings-
"Meow..."
Hashimoto opened his eyes.
"... meow..."
Assuming the noises were from his phone, the band director rolled over and tapped his lock screen to mute the device.
And then saw blue eyes staring at him in the darkness.
"Meow!"
"AHHHHHGGH!" yelled Hashimoto, flinching upright in his covers.
The source of the meowing ignored his reaction; it silently slunk closer toward him in the darkness, tiny paws treading on the futon. Hashimoto's hands scrambled wildly around him, hitting his phone and the bag of potato chips, until he located his glasses. He shoved them on his face and turned on the light, panting heavily.
His green eyes adjusted to the raw light as he saw exactly who- or what- was puttering around on his futon.
"What?" he croaked. "You again?"
The fuzzy black cat meowed loudly. It was no doubt the exact same one that visited his apartment and then jumped off his balcony.
Hashimoto frowned and ran a hand through his brown hair.
"How'd you even find me here?" he muttered.
The cat ignored him. Instead it went straight for the still-open bag of potato chips by the side of the futon. It shoved its face into the bag, and had started munching by the time Hashimoto reacted.
"No no no!"
He lunged forward from the futon and wrapped both hands around the cat's fuzzy body, dragging it away from the chips while it yowled and flailed. Honestly i t wasn't that Hashimoto didn't want to share. But he had never owned a cat before, and had no idea what was toxic to cats besides chocolate and lilies. What if something in the chips made this cat sick? He didn't want to be responsible for that.
Surprisingly the cat calmed down quickly enough that he was able to let it down on the floor while he crawled out of the futon and stowed the chips away out of the reach.
"Meow..."
Hashimoto felt warm fur rubbing against his legs and looked down. The cat was staring at him with pleading blue eyes.
"You're hungry?"
The cat meowed again.
Hashimoto glanced at the chips. Then back at the cat.
He was still wearing his daytime clothes, so it wouldn't be too much trouble to go outside...
He sighed.
"Fine," he muttered.
The camp facility was as quiet as a graveyard, lit only under the cloud-blurred moon and disturbed by pattering rain.
Hashimoto wasn't sure of the proper way to carry a cat, so he sneaked toward the facility kitchens with the animal tucked awkwardly under his arm, wincing every time the wooden floor squeaked beneath his slippers. He told himself that this would be a quick trip and prayed to death that all his kids were sound asleep from exhaustion. If a student saw their teacher like this, creeping around in the dark like a thief and breaking multiple school rules... no amount of classroom management techniques would save him then.
Luckily his room wasn't too distanced from the camp kitchens, so Hashimoto managed to arrive in little time. He stuck his head into the doorway and peered around the darkened dining hall.
It was empty. Good.
The band director turned his attention to the cat tucked under his arm.
"Shh," he told it emphatically, then began to move forward.
So far the situation was unfolding smoothly as planned. The cat stayed still and silent while Hashimoto crossed the dining hall into the kitchens and dug around on a shelf stacked with cardboard boxes. Quickly he acquired a can of precooked chicken chunks packed in broth, something he was sure this cat could eat safely.
Now he just had to get back to his room.
But halfway across the dining hall, there was a quiet 'crunch.'
Hashimoto stopped in his tracks.
Several feet away, he spotted food ingredients strewn on a table in the corner of the room. There was a bag of sliced bread, a bundle of lettuce, and an open box of deli meat. He hadn't noticed it when he first scouted out the dark room. Maybe a student had left this stuff lying out after a midnight snack.
He reached over to the wall and flicked the light switch. Fluorescent light flooded the room -
-and suddenly he saw Oumae-san sitting next to the ingredients.
The teacher and student silently gawked at each other in mortified disbelief.
Hashimoto could've sworn the table was empty just moments before, but now here was Oumae-san, looking completely ridiculous. The freshman clutched a piece of half-bitten lettuce in one hand and a slice of raw bread in the other. For some reason her ice-cream-shaped hair dripped water on the floor, her uniform was sopping wet, and she sat in a puddle of water on the bunch. She looked like she'd fallen into a swimming pool and then decided to make a sandwich afterward.
Then Hashimoto finally uttered,
"What... are you doing?"
Oumae-san blinked.
"What are you doing?"
Hashimoto opened his mouth to lecture the kid. But then he realized he was the one standing here like an idiot with a squirming cat tucked under his arm and canned food he'd just stolen from the kitchen.
"I was," he said lamely, "patrolling."
"Is that your cat, sensei?"
"Were you outside in the rain?"
"Yeah, but is that your -"
"What were you doing out there?"
"Patrolling."
Then Oumae-san's hand flew over her mouth in horror as she realized she'd just thrown attitude at a teacher. But it was such a great answer that Hashimoto couldn't keep from belting out a hearty laugh. Oumae seemed to relax slightly when it was clear Hashimoto didn't take offense.
Meanwhile the cat tucked under Hashimoto's arm didn't seem to like this at all. It squirmed and hissed as Hashimoto approached his student. Eventually it got so offended by the presence of another human being that it leaped from Hashimoto's arm, claws skittering on the wooden floor, and scurried across the dining hall out of sight.
Hashimoto grimaced and watched the cat disappear out of the open door, slightly disappointed by the loss of his furry visitor. But his student didn't look too well, and that was simply more important.
He stopped in front of Oumae-san and set down the can of chicken on the table.
"Can I sit?"
Oumae blinked, then nodded.
Hashimoto joined her on the bench across, the one that wasn't soaked with rainwater. He gestured at the lettuce, bread, and deli meat.
"Are you literally just eating sandwich ingredients?"
"No!- actually- yeah."
Hashimoto gave the kid a WTF look, then took a slice of bread from the open bag.
"Why were you out of bed?" he asked more gently, placing some deli meat on the bread. "You kids don't usually sneak out when it rains."
"I was looking for something," said Oumae quietly.
"You lost something?"
"Kind of. Not really."
It was a weird answer, but Hashimoto figured he shouldn't push it. He plucked a leaf of lettuce from the bundle.
"There's a lost-and-found here in the camp office," he said. "Tomorrow morning I could-"
"- sensei, can you tell me about Asuka-senpai?"
Hashimoto frowned at the abrupt question and paused in his construction of a proper sandwich.
"What?" he said.
"Asuka-senpai. Didn't her mother last year... in your office...?"
It was clear what Oumae was hinting at, but Hashimoto knew this wasn't open for discussion. "I can't say much about her family matters, but I can tell you she's doing alright now."
"How did it become alright?"
"To be honest, I don't know," Hashimoto admitted. "The abuse seemed to stop at the end of her second year. Maybe Tanaka-san managed to resolve things with her mother. Why are you asking?"
Oumae seemed to hesitate.
"I heard you couldn't help Asuka-senpai because you didn't have enough evidence."
"You seem very well-informed, Oumae-san."
"Is it true though?"
Hashimoto sighed.
"There are a whole bunch of laws and regulations that public school teachers have to follow," he explained flatly. "A lot of it is stupid. For one: every single time I explicitly ask a student about a personal situation, I risk losing my job."
"That's dumb," blurted Oumae-san.
"I do it because all of you are worth it," said Hashimoto. "The bottom line is that I can't legally intervene without substantial incriminating evidence, or a direct plea from a student. And, you know, that rarely happens because kids are scared of repercussions at home. Or they're scared of losing their parent."
"What if the student does ask for help?" said Oumae-san, eyes suddenly widening.
"Even then, not much. All I can do is turn it over to CPS."
Hashimoto turned his attention back to the half-assembled sandwich in his hand. He added some more deli meat.
Oumae suddenly spoke up again.
"So what counts as 'substantial incriminating evidence?'"
Hashimoto felt growing suspicion.
"What were you thinking of?"
"Does a recording count?"
Oh god, I knew where this was going.
"Like a video recording of something happening," Oumae kept saying, shifting in her seat now. "What if you got a really clear video of -"
"Oumae-san." Hashimoto put down the sandwich on the table. He leaned forward. "Don't you dare."
Silence.
"Do you know how much danger you'd be in?" said Hashimoto softly. "You've seen Kousaka-san's injuries. If you were caught -"
"I wouldn't be!"
"You don't know that -"
"- I do!" Oumae yelled. "I could get it to you!"
"Then it would be deemed inadmissible evidence because it was illegally recorded. Then administration would force me to turn you to the police for trespassing. And then you would be charged as a juvenile and likely expelled. I would feel guilty for not stopping you. And worst of all, Kousaka-san would feel responsible."
The last sentence seemed to hit Oumae-san hard. Tears welled up in her amber eyes.
Hashimoto sighed when she started to cry. Indeed the first thing he'd really wanted to do was tell Oumae how brave she was, and how caring, and how kind. But he didn't want to say anything that might encourage her to do something rash and impulsive.
He added the last slice of bread to the sandwich he held, wrapped it in a napkin, and then stood up. Gently he beckoned his student to follow.
"Let's get you back to your room, kid."
By now the rain had faded away to a hazy midnight mist, tiny droplets kissing their skin as they crossed through outdoor walkways. Remembering that his student was still sodden with water, Hashimoto took a detour to a supply closet near the bathrooms to borrow a facility-owned towel. He put it over Oumae's damp ice-cream hair.
They continued down the halls until they stopped in front of Oumae's room, in which her friends were presumably sound asleep. By now Oumae had mostly stopped crying.
Hashimoto gave the napkin-wrapped sandwich to her.
"This is for you," he said. "Don't wake up late for rehearsal, alright?"
Oumae bowed politely.
"Arigatou gozaimashita."
Hashimoto waved it off.
"Remember the best thing you can do right now is be available for Kousaka-san," he told her quietly. "You can't help anyone if you've been expelled. Keep up what you're doing and do not do anything stupid. Promise me?"
The kid stared off to the side at the floor, fingers pinching the hem of her soggy skirt.
"You need to promise me, Oumae-san."
Oumae turned to him with oddly piercing amber eyes.
"I promise," she said.
Satisfied with that answer, Hashimoto let her go back to bed while he went back to the dining hall to clean up the scraps of food littering the table so he wouldn't get complaints from staff members the next day. He also made a mental note to return the chicken he'd originally stolen for the hungry cat.
He did not know that Kumiko's promise was spoken with her fingers crossed behind her back.
