Warnings: None


Lucky Child

Chapter 18:

"Seeing Red"


I felt Yusuke's death in my bones the way birds sense changes in the weather.

Takanaka called his name over the loudspeaker when I showed up that morning, and I felt it. No denial, no doubt, no uncertainty. Takanaka called his name—and I knew.

Then Takanaka asked me to look for Yusuke. I found him on the roof. We performed the lines of a script Yusuke didn't know existed, and when Yusuke flipped my skirt, my slap held no passion.

I slapped because I was supposed to. Because that's what the script decreed, not because my heart was in it. But today I was glad to follow my much-maligned script. Today, I was content to play the role of Keiko. Today, I didn't want to make choices.

Not if it meant risking Yusuke's eventual return.

When Yusuke left the roof, he didn't know it would be a much longer goodbye than he anticipated. I knew, though. I stood on the roof until I saw Yusuke in his green uniform cross the yard, a diminutive grasshopper so many stories below. My body chilled as Yusuke stalked off the school grounds, Takanaka barking at his heels, and disappeared into the streets beyond.

The streets where he'd meet his death.

I'd play my role in his death perfectly. I'd chased him from the school grounds and into the arms of death with aplomb. Every line delivered on cue. Every beat, every pause, played right on schedule.

Déjà vu. That's the only way I can describe it.

After school, I went to Yusuke's house.

"No, sorry," I told Atsuko, "I don't know where Yusuke is."

But that was mostly a lie.

Atsuko didn't seem to notice, if I was acting weird. She just shrugged, called her son a lazy brat, and turned on her usual soap opera. I sat in silence while she yelled at the TV characters. Let her have this moment of relaxation. Let her, for one last hour, remain blissfully unaware that her son was dead. That her life as she knew it was about to a screeching end.

It occurred to me, in a moment of surreal clarity, that I was witnessing the last happy moment of Atsuko's life.

The last happy moment she'd have for a while, anyway.

When the doorbell rang, I knew there would be a police officer on the other side. I knew what he'd say. Because I was prepared, I had the strength to support Atsuko when her knees gave out. I caught her before she fell, her face a pale mask of disbelief and burgeoning grief. I heard her heart break as she gasped her only, dead child's name.

Arms around her trembling shoulders, I watched Atsuko's world end.


I didn't cry over Yusuke's death. There was too much to do.

Atsuko was in no shape to plan a funeral. I somehow persuaded the police officer into calling my mother, and I held Atsuko's sobbing body until my mother could get there and provide backup. We took turns holding Atsuko, stroking her hair and murmuring comforts, as we called funeral and cremation services and arranged Yusuke's tsuya—his wake.

I made careful note of the name of the crematorium. Yusuke's body wasn't getting burnt to a crisp on my watch.

We decided to hold the wake at the funeral parlor, in a traditional, ten-tatami house surrounded by gardens and koi ponds. Seemed easier than holding it at Atsuko's small apartment. They delivered Yusuke in a simple casket only a few hours after Atsuko claimed the body. My mother accompanied her to the morgue. She wouldn't let me come along for that process, not that I minded. The process of identifying and claiming Yusuke's body had turned Atsuko into a shell of her former, vivacious self.

I'd already seen her world end. I didn't need to see her spirit die, too.

The casket was placed with the head facing north, per Buddhist custom, and decorated with a photo I'd taken of Yusuke some months prior. Incense and offerings sat atop the simple wooden box. Yusuke would've scoffed; the offerings were too simple, generic, plain for his wild personality. We tried dressing Atsuko in black kimono, garment supplied by the funeral parlor, but the woman wouldn't cooperate. She either stared into space like the stone Ebisu outside our restaurant or sobbed behind the curtain of her hair. We placed her on a cushion near the casket where people could pay their respects…not that many did.

At first the only visitors were professional mourners, praying in corners in their black kimono like crow demons from legend. Calling them 'professional mourners' wasn't exactly accurate. They were just funeral parlor employees, paid to help the tsuya run smoothly, but I couldn't help but wonder if their sad faces and murmured prayers were also part of the funeral package. When other people began arriving and diluted the number of dark-dressed demons, I felt a little more at ease. Tension in my shoulders unknotted as kids from school started to arrive, and as adults I recognized (people like Atsuko's landlord and hairdresser) followed close behind.

"Keiko—are you OK?"

I jumped. Mom touched my shoulder, brown eyes rimmed with red. We stood on the porch around the side of the house next to a small rock garden. The sun sank below the horizon behind her, red like gilded blood.

"I'm fine," I murmured.

"You haven't looked at Yusuke—"

Her voice caught on his name. She swallowed, eyes brimming, but she stayed the tears with the force of her iron will.

"You haven't viewed the body," she said. "Do you want to pay your respects?"

Truthfully? No way. No way in hell did I want to see that body, no matter how well it had been prettied up by a mortician. I wouldn't see Yusuke for weeks. Maybe months. I wanted to remember his snark, his smirk, his sneer, not the pallor of death sitting waxy on his features.

I'd seen enough bodies in my old life to know that looking at his dead face would corrupt my memory of his living one. I'd made that mistake too many times to risk it now.

"I'm fine," I told my mother. "I'll do it when everyone else leaves."

"Keiko…" She pulled close, hand light between my shoulders. "Honey…you haven't even cried yet. Are you sure you're OK?"

I tried to look like I was holding back tears, make a show of how brave I was by staying strong—but I knew it wasn't a convincing act. I'd been hoping Mom wouldn't notice my lack of tears. Was I not performing the role of Keiko well enough? She'd been a wreck at the funeral, and here I was analyzing foreign mourning customs—

"It's OK to cry," my mother said. Her eyes searched my face. "You know that, don't you?"

"I know. I just…it hasn't hit me yet. That's all."

My excuse sounded lame, even to me. Mom's pitying smile was as warm as it was sad.

"Always taking care of others," she said. "You did well today, supporting Atsuko. But you're allowed to grieve, too." She spotted something over my shoulder and lifted a hand. "Oh, good. Your father's here."

I turned just after Dad walked through the gate and into the garden courtyard outside the funerary house. He hadn't had time to change after work. He just wore a dark suit jacket over his cooking uniform. We stood out of the way, behind a group of people, so he didn't see us. He made a beeline for Atsuko. My father knelt on the floor before her, head touching the tatami. She didn't react. It was like she didn't see him, eyes glazed and distant, even when he sat up and spoke to her directly.

"Your son enriched my daughter's life," Dad said. His gruff voice sounded even rougher than usual. "He was a good young man. I'll be naming a new menu item after him. It's a small honor, unworthy of his life, but I hope it brings you comfort." Again he bowed. "Thank you for your son, Atsuko. I had hoped he'd work in my restaurant someday."

Atsuko did not reply. But her vacant eyes brimmed with new tears.

Mom ushered Dad over shortly thereafter. He stood on the porch with us and wrapped me in a tight hug.

"I'm so sorry, Keiko," he said into my hair.

"It's OK." I forced a smile when he let me go. "Dumbass got hit by a car."

Mom tittered at my irreverence, but Dad just nodded. "That he did. Saving a kid from traffic, I heard."

"Yeah."

I'd never witnessed my dad cry. Too much of a manly-man, I guess. Right then, though, was the closest I'd ever seen him come. His breath rattled through his red nose as he said, "Yusuke was rough around the edges, but he had a heart of gold—"

Nearby, around the corner by the front of the house, someone laughed. Dad's words stopped cold. Mom scowled.

"You'd think they'd be more somber at a person's tsuya," she said.

"None of these people were Yusuke's friends." Mom and Dad looked at me. "He didn't have many. They're probably here for extra credit."

Mom's mouth opened. Snapped shut again. "Keiko, I'm surprised at you! What a terrible thing to say!"

"It's true, though," came my heated reply. "And I'm not going to lie about him. Not now. Yusuke wouldn't want me lying about him. Not at his funeral."

Her ire cooled. "He was always a direct boy," she relented.

"Still," Dad said, glancing at the nearest group of people (kids from my school, all smiling, all casual in their blue uniforms). "They could at least pretend to be sad."

My family quieted. The nearby kids spoke at a normal volume, like they weren't at a funeral at all. I recognized most of them as from another class. Why were they even here?

Their words drifted to me in a quiet moment.

"—total thug," one of them said. "Beat someone up for their lunch money, is what I heard."

"Why would they even allow delinquents like him at our school?" said another.

I tensed. By my side, Mom gasped. Dad's hand weighed heavy on my shoulder.

I knew they'd insult Yusuke. I'd seen the anime. I knew people hated him. The anime made that very clear. But to hear these insults with my own ears, after knowing Yusuke since I was a child, after he became the closest person to me in the whole world, after he'd become a real person instead of a painted image on cellophane—

"Honestly? He probably pushed the kid intro traffic and tripped," one of my classmates said. "I don't believe for a second that he was trying to save anybody."

I lurched toward the speaker, vision flashing red. Mom let out a muffled shriek. Luckily Dad's arms went around me before I could move more than a step, because otherwise I'm pretty sure I'd be in jail for murder.

"Keiko, stop!" he said in my ear.

"How dare they!?" I growled. I struggled against his grip, eyes locked on the oblivious kids as they laughed. "How dare—!"

"URAMESHI!"

I froze mid-struggle at the sound of my best friend's name. The group I'd been two seconds away from slaughtering quieted at once. Every head in the room turned as a young man in blue, flanked by three other men in uniforms, hurtled into the house at a full sprint.

It was Kuwabara, of course. Ranting and raving about Yusuke's betrayal, about being left behind, calling Yusuke a coward who didn't want to fight anymore. Tears cascaded down his cheeks as he screeched and clawed and fought his way toward the casket. The only things that kept him from ripping open Yusuke's coffin were the restraining hands of his friends.

Dad's voice in my ear made me jump. "Is that that boy from the other day?"

I swallowed down a lump. "Yeah. It is."

Dad let me go. I started to go inside, to talk to Kuwabara, but the stunned crowd didn't let me through in time. His friends dragged him off mere moments later, leaving me standing in the middle of the courtyard feeling cold. Dad and Mom appeared at my side soon after. Mom's face was ashen, like a ghost risen from the grave.

"Do you know his number?" she asked. "He was so upset. You could call and check on him when you get home."

Somehow, I hadn't gotten Kuwabara's number yet. I was so dumb. I shook my head. Mom gave me a pitying smile.

"Ah, well," she said. "You'll see him at school when you go back." Her hand on my arm radiated soft heat, comforting and warm. "Go pay your respects, Keiko. I think it's time you went home."

I shook my head. "I want to stay and help till the end."

"No, Yukimura," said a low, nasal voice. "Go home and rest. Our top student need not trouble herself over something like this."

My eyes fluttered shut. I didn't need to look to know who was speaking. And I didn't need to see him to know he was up to no good.

Dad, though? He hadn't met Iwamoto yet. He faced my teacher with a frown, then dipped an uncertain bow. Iwamoto's lips curled into a polite smile, but behind the lenses of his glasses, his eyes burned icy cold.

I'd avoided Iwamoto as much as I could during my tenure at Sarayashiki Junior High. I'd seen enough of his jerk-ass ways in the anime to last a lifetime. Didn't need to see more in real life. Still, I'd encountered him enough times (mostly when defending Yusuke) to know that the anime had gotten his characterization down pat. He hated Yusuke, and if it hadn't been for Takanaka, I'm sure Yusuke would've been expelled long ago.

His cold eyes danced when they met mine. Guy could barely suppress his glee over Yusuke's death, and the body was still warm.

"Ah. So you must be Yukimura's father," he said to Dad. "Your daughter is an excellent student. She'll be even better now that Urameshi's gone."

Dad froze. Mom froze, too. Breath hitched high and painful in my throat.

"Surely you agree?" Iwamoto said. "Keiko was always looking out for that miscreant." His lips stretched into a grotesque smile. "With him out of the picture, she can concentrate on getting into a good high school."

My blood screamed inside me, heating like magma under the earth. Dad didn't react, though.

"That 'miscreant' was a good friend of our family," he said. How he kept his voice so steady, I would never know. "We mourn him, today."

"Mourn?" Iwamoto said. He chuckled like oil striking water. "If we're being honest, for your daughter's sake, you should be celebrating." He spread his hands, gesture of supplication belied by his sneer. "That boy was a roach infecting our star pupil. Surely you understand—"

We never got to figure out what we should understand about the death of a teenage boy, because I'd had enough.

"You are a teacher," I ground out, vision turning crimson. Iwamoto's eyes went wide. "At least pretend to act like one."

Her hand was on my arm in an instant. "Keiko," Mom snapped.

"One of your students has died, and you say we should celebrate?" My voice rose with every syllable. "You are a teacher! You should be ashamed of the way you're talking right now, and in front of your student's friends and family, no less. How dare you speak this way?"

Iwamoto didn't back down from my bold stare. His lip curled back over his teeth. "How dare you speak to a teacher this way," he corrected. "I can say whatever I want, especially about a worthless little punk like—"

And with that, I launched directly at the man with fist held high.

I didn't get to hit him, sadly. Dad stepped in too soon. But Iwamoto did fall on his ass with a shriek, like a little kid frightened by a boogeyman, gibbering as my father wrapped an arm around my waist and hauled me away. The crowd was staring but I barely saw them, and I only vaguely registered that Atsuko had started sobbing into her hands.

"Shut up!" I roared as I struggled against Dad's grip. "Don't you fucking talk about Yusuke like that, you ignorant, sadistic—"

Iwamoto listened to my tirade with his mouth open—but then his composure returned. He stood up, hand slicking over his hair before he adjusted his glasses.

"Well, well, well," he said. His quiet, razor words cut through my tirade, silencing me mid-word. "Looks like the cockroach infected our star pupil, after all."

"Shut up," I growled.

"Keiko, calm down," Dad said.

"I always knew he'd rot you from the inside," Iwamoto continued. "That boy was trash, and now look at you. You're no better than—"

"That's enough."

I didn't say that. Neither did Dad. Instead, Mom strode up to Iwamoto and leveled a finger at his face. I'd never seen her eyes blaze like that, like they cupped the very core of the earth inside their spheres.

"That boy was a close family friend of ours," she said, voice low and dangerous, "and you will not speak of him in that manner. Nor will you speak to our daughter like that." She bared her teeth. Iwamoto bared his right back, but my glorious lioness of a mother did not back down. "Like you said—she's your star pupil, a credit to your school. I will not tolerate a teacher speaking to her this way."

"And neither will I, for that matter."

I sagged in my father's arms when Takanaka emerged from the crowd. The one shining beacon of sanity and goodness at my middle school, arrived at last. My mother had met him a few times, and clearly she recognized him when he approached her, but she did not lower her guard until he bowed to her in clear deference. Only then did she relax.

"Yukimura-san," he said, and I was pleased to note his voice held a current of barely-restrained, quivering anger. "I apologize on Iwamoto's behalf. He forgot his role is to serve these children, not insult them." When he straightened, he shot Iwamoto a look so scathing, the other teacher physically recoiled. "Rest assured a report of his contemptible behavior will be delivered to the proper authorities in our school system."

"Thank you," my mother said, "but apologies should be delivered to Urameshi Atsuko, not to me."

The kind man's face fell. The same heartbreak in Atsuko's eyes filled his own.

I was beginning to know that look very well, it seemed.

"Of course," Takanaka said. "His mother has my deepest sympathies."

Mom sniffed. She drew herself up.

"Well," she said, head held high. "I'm glad to know at least one teacher at my daughter's school is an honorable person."

I heard Iwamoto's teeth grinding from across the room.

Before Takanaka went to pay his respects to Atsuko, he dragged Iwamoto from the house. The man glared at me when he passed—and in his eyes I could tell I'd joined Yusuke on his list of despised students.

I tried not to think about that, though.

I let my father guide me home, but when I crawled into bed, the escape of sleep would not come.


Perhaps it was a good thing I couldn't sleep. If I'd slept, I might not have heard the rocks tapping against my window. Instead I got up, gave the sleeping Sorei an illicit pat, and peered through the pane.

Kuwabara stood on the street below. He waved when he saw me. Even from this distance, I could tell he'd been crying.

I put on a coat and grabbed my keys.

We didn't say much when I joined him on the street. We just looked at one another, silent, tired faces skeletal beneath the harsh streetlamp. Then I moved forward. Kuwabara made a strangled sound in his throat when I put my arms around his waist and leaned my cheek against his chest—but he didn't pull away, either.

"Shut up and hug me," I muttered.

Kuwabara obliged, stiff and awkward at first, but soon he relaxed with a shuddered sigh. He gave good hugs, once he got used to the idea of touching a girl, chin atop my head and hands firm against my shoulders. He smelled like aftershave, the kind teenage boys think makes them smell like an adult. To me it only reinforced how young Kuwabara was—youth I had somehow forgotten to consider as of late.

I needed that hug. But something told me he needed it, too, even if he'd never say as much aloud.

Eventually I pulled away. He shoved his hands in his pockets. Eyes fixed on the sidewalk, we walked aimlessly into the dark, quiet in the company of another person who could understand a pain unspeakable. The moon hung above us, bloated like a rotting corpse.

"This sucks," Kuwabara muttered as we passed moonlit houses.

"It really does," I replied.

A little while later, I found myself standing with Kuwabara outside Atsuko's apartment complex. When I stopped walking, startled by where my wandering feet had taken us, Kuwabara touched my elbow. He frowned. I pointed at Yusuke's apartment.

Kuwabara followed my point. Saw the mailbox, and the name written on it. His eyes widened.

"Sorry," I said. "Didn't mean to come this way." I ducked my chin. "Wait here a minute?"

He didn't mind. He sat on the curb while I went inside. I found Atsuko on the couch, passed out, hand loose around a nearly empty liquor bottle.

"Oh, honey," I murmured. I took the bottle and covered her with a blanket, kissing her tear-stained face. "I am so sorry."

She hiccupped in her sleep. Around her, remnants of Yusuke dotted the house like debris from a car crash. Shoes here. A shirt discarded over there. Bottle of hair gel on the bathroom sink. I wandered from room to room, gathering reminders of him in a plastic bag.

Atsuko didn't need to see these things when she woke up. I stashed the memories under the sink.

She didn't need to drink more, either. I collected all the liquor I could find and poured it down the drain—but when I found a cold six-pack in the fridge, I hesitated.

It was the same brand Yusuke had stolen, that time we drank together on my roof.

I absconded with that six-pack when I left the house. Something told me Atsuko wouldn't miss it. Kuwabara lifted an eyebrow at the beer, but he didn't question when I asked him to follow me into the night's cloying dark. He dogged my steps as we navigated the streets, following them to the edge of the neighborhood, where houses gave way to drainage ditches and warehouse lots.

One drainage ditch in particular called me. I guided Kuwabara to the top of the bridge crossing it, then pointed over the edge. You couldn't see the grassy bayou below, but I knew it was there. I half expected to see Yusuke's ghost standing in the bayou when the clouds skirted away from the moon and bathed the ditch in light—but no one was there. Not even a ghost. The only things that filled this place were my memories.

"That's where I met Yusuke," I told Kuwabara.

We sat on the bridge's rail. I told him the story of chasing bullies away from a dirty, skinny kid in a baseball cap—the story of how I met my best friend. I told him about feeding Yusuke, clothing him, letting him stay with my family like the son my parents had never had. Kuwabara, in turn, told me of the first rumor he'd heard of Sarayashiki's number one punk, and how he'd challenged Yusuke to a fight that same day.

"Kicked my ass six ways from Sunday," he said as we gazed into the dark. "Didn't walk straight for a week. But I came back for another fight. And another. And he never turned me away. Not once. I'm only as good a fighter as I am because he kept beating me up. I owe him, forever." He swiped a finger under his running nose. "Do you think we were friends?"

"Yeah," I said. "You were, in your own way."

I pulled a can of beer from the plastic rings. It was still cold. Kuwabara held it like he didn't know what to do with it, watching as I pulled off two more cans and popped the tabs. Then I held up both beers. After a nod from me, Kuwabara held his aloft.

"To Yusuke," I said.

Understanding dawned. He lifted his can higher. Kuwabara said, "To the biggest, baddest punk at school."

"To my best friend," I said.

"To the guy who made me a better fighter," Kuwabara said.

"To the guy who made me a better person," I said.

As one, Kuwabara and I chorused: "To Yusuke."

As we tipped back our beers, I tilted the third over the edge of the bridge and poured it out into the dark, onto the spot where I'd met Yusuke all those years before.

He couldn't taste the beer, where he was—but hopefully, he knew what I meant by offering it to him.

Something told me he'd approve. Beer was certainly better than the oranges and incense that had adorned his casket at the tsuya.

When we drank our beers to the drags, Kuwabara crushed the cans between his hands. I served up another round. We sipped in silence, hunched like gargoyles on the bridge rail, elbows on knees. Kuwabara put his head in his hand.

"I don't get it," he whispered. "Yesterday we were fighting. How could he be—" Kuwabara couldn't finish that sentence. He couldn't say the word 'death' aloud. He sighed and settled on, "How did this happen?"

"Easy," I said. "Yusuke was an idiot."

Warning colored his expression. "Hey, there."

"It's true, though. He was god's perfect idiot, and he died because he was stupid." I sat up and glared at the ditch, at the image of his young face playing in my memory. I raised my voice. "You hear that, Yusuke? You're an idiot. An absolute, unforgivable idiot. And you're selfish. How dare you leave me all alone with people like Iwamoto? How dare you? I need you if I'm going to deal with these assholes, you asshole!"

"Keiko," Kuwabara said, eyes as round as coins, but I didn't stop. Beer made my blood buzz like TV static. I saw red again, anger and sadness turning my vision scarlet.

"And another thing, you enormous moron," I shouted. "My parents are fucking shattered by this. You were like a son to them! And don't even get me started on what your selfish, reckless behavior did to Atsuko! Don't get me started on what you're doing to me, either, because dammit—"

My arm lashed. My can of beer flew into the dark. Something wet splattered against my cheeks—flecks of foaming booze, fizzing and cold.

I knew Yusuke was coming back. I knew it. But right there, on that bridge, the yawning dark below held no promises of Yusuke's return. It only held mystery and uncertainty, as perilous as the dark pit beneath my feet.

Had my actions today affected his return?

Had I played the role of Keiko well enough today?

Was Yusuke ever going to—

"Keiko."

"What?"

Kuwabara flinched—but then he leaned toward me. His mouth worked. When he spoke my name, his tone was infinitely gentle.

"Keiko," he said. "You're crying."

"What?" I touched my cheek. "No I'm not—oh. Oh."

My fingers came away wet, but not with beer. Kuwabara dug a tissue from a pocket and dabbed at my cheeks, a desperate attempt by a teenage boy to be helpful in the face of a crying woman. I swatted him away, but I muttered a thank you and wiped my tears on my sleeve.

Crying at last. All I needed was a beer to loosen me up.

Seemed like maybe I could play the role of Keiko effectively, after all.

As I looked at the moon, and the clouds casting silvery shadows on Kuwabara's sharp face, I hoped Yusuke's ghost hovered close enough to see the tears on mine.


Mom let me take the next day off from school—she was taking the day off, herself, so it was only fair. She declined to say why she was spending time away from the restaurant so close to our second location's grand opening, but I didn't press her for details. Didn't have the energy. I spent the majority of the day in bed, listening to the chatter of customers on the floor below.

Their lives went on, as always. Yusuke's death didn't affect them. That was slightly comforting.

Dad asked if I wanted to help in the kitchen, given Mom was absent, but I declined. Instead I played Yusuke's favorite band on repeat, and prayed that night I'd dream of his return.

In the anime, Yusuke told Keiko to save his body via dream. If Yusuke was coming back, he'd tell me to save his body from cremation—the cremation that was scheduled for tomorrow.

He had to tell me, and soon. Tonight. Or he wasn't coming back at all.

But that was a possibility I could not bear to consider.

I wiled the day away alone. Not long after the restaurant closed for the night, I heard my mother come home. I didn't get up to greet her. She and Dad discussed something in low voices down the hall, and then they knocked on my door.

"Keiko, honey—come eat dinner," Dad said.

"Meet us in the living room in ten minutes," said my mother. She kept her tone soft, compassionate, but firm. Something was up. "Are you OK?"

"Fine," I said—but I was suspicious.

I put on real clothes and went to my parents. Dad fixed me a simple dinner and set it on the kotatsu in the middle of the room. He sat across from me as I sat down to eat, but just as I raised a bite to my lips, my mom came in. In her arms she carried a long, flat box tied with a red ribbon.

She and Dad exchanged a Look.

I put down my chopsticks.

"OK," I said. "What's going on?"

Mom didn't reply. She set the box on the table and took a seat beside my father. He patted her back, and they exchanged another look—this one of shared dedication, bolstering themselves for whatever they were about to say.

I'd seen them prepare to act as a united front before, in full parental mode…and it rarely ended well for me. My stomach lurched. Thank god I hadn't started eating yet, because I'd probably feel nauseated if I had.

Dad cleared his throat. Mom put a steadying hand on his knee.

"Keiko, the business has been doing so well lately—" Dad said.

"In no small part thanks to your help," Mom interjected.

"—that we can afford to make some changes around here. We can start giving you things we couldn't always give you," Dad said.

Um. OK. That didn't sound so bad…so why had my skin started to crawl?

Mom nodded. "We've been looking into this for a while, ever since our finances improved. And we actually submitted the paperwork months ago, but held off finalizing things until the new school year. And then yesterday, seeing the way that teacher spoke to you, and the way your classmates treated Yusuke—"

She looked at Dad, anxious for backup. Dad smiled.

"Well, honey—we don't think Sarayashiki is the right school for you anymore." He gestured at the box. "We've enrolled you in a new school. A private school."

If I hadn't been sitting on the floor already, I would've fallen to my knees.

As it stands, I just sat there.

Unmoving.

Unfeeling.

Unbelieving.

Because what the hell had this man just said to me?

"Look, Keiko. I know it's a shock, but the school we picked is so much better than Sarayashiki," Mom said. Her eyes pleaded with me to get excited, but that was impossible just then. "We used the testing you did for cram school applications—you know, the IQ testing?—and they even want you to skip a grade."

Vaguely, through a fog, I recalled the cram school applications she was talking about, conducted the previous summer.

She'd used those test results—to switch my school?

"Isn't it exciting?" Dad said. He slapped the table, trying to force a reaction from me. "Earth to Keiko. Aren't you happy? You'll get to attend college that much faster!"

I didn't react. I had no idea how to react. Mom didn't like that. Mom grabbed the box. Shoved it into my numb hands.

"Look," she demanded. "Your new uniform. Isn't it pretty?"

Unable to process—unable to do anything more than what she asked of me—I yanked the ribbon with all the enthusiasm of a programmed robot.

I lifted the lid.

Mom and Dad's excuses, explanations, ineffectual arguments faded into nothing.

All I could comprehend was the brilliant scarlet of the Meiou High School uniform, folded like a funerary shroud upon my lap.

Red. The color of luck in Japan.

Even through my veil of shock, this lucky child sensed the unlucky irony.


NOTES

UH OH.

Keiko earned her parents more money. Now she can afford to attend private school. She dug her own grave. SUCKS TO BE HER I GUESS?

A few things:

The girls' uniforms at Meiou are red, not pink/magenta. Apparently pink is just for the dudes.

I wish I could've introduced Iwamoto earlier, but he's not too interesting and will stop being relevant soon, so it felt like a waste of space.

I'm posting a story/collection with deleted scenes from this fic called "Children of Misfortune". First installment is about Keiko's friends Eimi and Michiko and how they handled Yusuke's death. Cut that scene because the chapter got too long. Check it out if you'd like.

SO MUCH LOVE to all y'all who reviewed. You're the best: Leahcar-Soutaichou, DarkDust27, xenocanaan, SanguineSky, rya-fire1, Lady Hummingbird, FireDancerNix, reebajee, Maester Ta, Kuroyuki no Ryu, musicisalifestyle, Yunrii, DiCuoreAllison, Marian, Sky65, Marine, Guest, Sabure, Nanouchy, Lilith, Miqila, and Kaiya Azure!