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 am so sorry, since I'm fairly certain I said something to the effect of "in a week" but, as stupid and vague as it sounds, the time just gets away from me. It's as if there's always something else that needs doing. Regardless, I really do promise to try harder in the future.
Thank you very much to everyone for reading this, and to everyone who reviewed. I really, really appreciate it. Also, thank you to GalanthaDreams, for their kind reminder. I very likely would not have updated for another month were it not for your message. Sorry for the long wait, and thank you for sticking with this!
As always, please enjoy. :)
"What? You're actually here? Of your own volition?" Nami asked the next morning, stopping three feet short of her and staring at her in disbelief.
"Of c-course I am . . . why w-wouldn't I be?" She asked, trying to look as innocent as possible in spite of the fact that they both knew exactly why she wouldn't be.
If anything, Shoko was even more surprised than Nami was at her presence. Yes, she'd resigned herself to having this conversation, but she assumed it would be when Nami came and found her sometime today. Certainly, she had not planned on arriving to school an hour early and stationing herself directly at Nami's locker.
And yet, there she was, feeling a little ill but otherwise committed to talking about whatever it was Nami wanted to talk about.
For her part, Nami only glanced at her with vague suspicion before focusing on the task at hand.
"Alright, then. But we can't talk here. Someone might overhear. And I do not want to be interrupted again," she added darkly, then proceeded to drag Shoko into a nearby . . . closet?
"U-um, are you s-sure this is the b-best place to . . . it's a l-litle cramped, isn't . . . er, neverm-mind, this is f-fine," she amended hastily as Nami shot her a withering glare.
"Good. Now," she began, securing the lock on the door. She paused for a moment, setting her bag down and shifting a mop situated within a bucket in order to make herself comfortable, then turned her full attention to Shoko. "You told me you and Len weren't dating."
"We're n-not," Shoko affirmed, suddenly feeling very uneasy.
"Then what is going on with you two?"
"Nothing," she insisted quickly. Nami was the last person she wanted to know anything about this . . . thing with her and Len, whatever it was. Because once Nami knew about it . . .
Well, then everyone did.
"Really? Last time I checked, making out in the music room was not 'nothing'. It at the very least amounts to friends with benefits."
Shoko thought her heart might have stopped. She hadn't known what exactly to expect from this confrontation, but she figured it would be more of the same. It hadn't even occurred to her that Nami could have . . .
"You s-saw us?" she whispered, trembling with panic and desperately wishing she had misinterpreted Nami's words. But she knew she could not have. They were very clear.
Nami sighed, shutting her eyes briefly before opening them again.
"So you were making out. I was hoping I was drawing the wrong conclusions, and any other time, I wouldn't have even thought of it . . . but after the rumors . . ." she trailed off, shaking her head in what must have been the remnants of disbelief. "Anyways. Now that I'm sure . . . Why did you lie to me?"
Shoko ignored her question, a surge of horror sending her heart skipping frantically as she realized the implications of Nami's knowledge.
"H-have you t-told anyone?" she demanded, though she was already sure of the answer.
"Of course not," Nami said, looking insulted - unjustifiably so, in Shoko's opinion. "What kind of person do you think I am?"
She must have correctly assessed Shoko's expression - part relief, part incredulity - because her eyes narrowed.
"Well, that answers that," she bit out, glowering at Shoko for a few seconds before sighing, her anger softening to hurt.
"S-sorry," she mumbled guiltily. "It's j-just . . . I-I mean, even s-somebody else, I would be w-worried, but . . ."
"Especially me?" Nami finished reproachfully, cocking a brow. Shoko looked away, trying to appear as contrite as possible, though all she could think was, Thank God, thank God, oh, thank God she hasn't told, so relieved was she to have her fears assuaged.
"I wouldn't. First of all, I never, ever say anything before I've confirmed it. A journalist's credibility is their livelihood. Second, I deal in stories, not tidbits of sordid gossip. And when I do say something, I put it in print such that no one, whether it is me or the subjects, is ashamed of it." She paused, scratching her head. "Well, except in the event of criminal behavior. But, as far as something like this goes, if it hits the paper, it goes in as an account of a great romance between two well-known members of our school community. But only if that is what's actually going on. Which brings me to my final point." She looked Shoko square in the eyes, her own becoming serious. "I know I can be nosy and pushy and highly irritating, even, but I can respect that sometimes, someone's personal life is just that - personal. I'm cool with a 'None of your business, get out of my face.' But to blatantly lie to me . . . perhaps I am wrong to feel this way, but it's very upsetting, because though we're not super-close, I'd like to think we have a sort of casual friendship wherein you would feel comfortable telling me you didn't want to talk. Except now I feel like you think I'm some kind of sneaky, underhanded, ruthless gossip who will sell your soul for a story."
Shoko listened silently, at a loss for what to say and when, torn between shame and a stubborn shred of resentment. She didn't know Nami very well, had never been an especially hot topic even during the concours, what with so many brighter people taking center stage, and thus hadn't spoken to her as much - though when she had, the other girl was always very pleasant, if a little quirky. How was she to know that her secret was safe until she allowed it to be shared? She was worried any explanation of hers would be blown out of proportion, and also . . .
At the time, it was nothing. Or it was going to be. What happened Monday in the music room was a completely unexpected wrench in her plan.
"I am not," Nami continued. "But someone else might be. And thus, the main reason why I am here, my curiosity and wounded pride aside. I don't know what is going on, you know, since you haven't exactly been forthcoming, or how long it's been going on, but I will say this. You've been caught at it twice now. If you wait it out and Len continues acting the ice princess, the rumours will die. But if there's more fuel for the fire, the fire will burn. Be more careful, okay? If you're going trysting, for at least a little while now, I'd do it off school property." She took a deep breath, the spark in her eyes fading to tiredness. "And that is all I wanted to say.
Shoko did not even bother going on the defensive and bursting out into the usual heated denial. Not only was she tired of it, she was no longer certain she could keep delivering the line with any conviction. No, she and Len were not in the midst of either a great romance or a torrid affair, as their fellows students were speculating, but there was something going on. Nothing so scandalous or dramatic as what the rumours suggested, but then, nothing ever was. In reality, it was just an unfortunate, tangled mess of mistakes. Her botched attempt at a social life, she supposed.
But it was still something, something she could not entirely discount.
So instead, she let the remark slide, and put forth her best effort towards pacifying Nami.
"I'm s-sorry. I'm really sorry. I d-didn't mean it as an offense t-to you. I didn't lie b-because I thought you'd tell." Although that was part of it. "I lied bec-cause it w-wasn't anything. O-or it wasn't s-supposed to be. And then that th-thing happened. I d-don't know." And she really didn't know what else she could say. She supposed she could wax dramatic about her complicated feelings and how hideously wrong her life had gone – and Nami, actually, might even be happy to listen – but at this point, all she really wanted to do was go lie down in a corner and sleep until her world equalized and returned to normal.
Would it ever?
"B-but no, I don't r-really want to talk about it. H-however, if I ever do, you'll b-be the first to know."
She wouldn't, though. Even if she lost her mind and chose to publicly shame herself, she would never do that to Len.
But her response seemed to satisfy Nami, who regarded her a little more kindly.
"Okay," she said, nodding her head in apparent satisfaction. "That's fair. I suppose we should relocate now," she noted thoughtfully, tilting her head towards the mop, which had over the course of the conversation steadily drooped sideways and whose handle was now butting into her ribs.
"That m-might be ideal," she agreed, suddenly aware of the strain in her back from being crowded into the shelved corner.
Nami gingerly extricated herself from her trappings and led the way, pushing open the door and stumbling into the hallway, then reaching out to hold the door and gesturing for Shoko to follow.
"I'll see you later, okay? Remember what I said, though . . . just in case, be careful about what you do and where you do it."
Trust me, she thought. I will.
"Y-yes. Thank you. I'll s-see you, then," she said, lifting her hand in a little wave.
"Yup, bye-bye," Nami said, grinning, and let go of the door, stepping forward and rapidly setting off down the hallway.
Shoko waited until she was out of sight before she let out a sigh of relief. At least that's out of the way, she thought.
"You shouldn't have apologized."
Had it not been so firmly attached to her person, she might have jumped out of her own skin.
"Ts-ts-tsukim-mori-s-s-senpai!" she stammered, spinning around to face him in shock. He arched a brow at her, and straightened from his position leaning against the wall.
"I was unaware my name had quite so many syllables," he said dryly, but she was not fooled by the glibness of his tone. The tension in his shoulders and the accusatory cast to his gaze as it fell upon her were a far more accurate indication of his mood.
Which, she thought, and not with a little fear, seemed to be moving past the tree stage of irritation.
"Um," she started, wracking her brain for what to say, and more importantly, how to avoid the conversation that would inevitably take place if she did not conjure a method of escape within the next two minutes. "H-how long w-were you standing there?"
"About the time Nami had her suspicions confirmed. That is irrelevant. In any case, you shouldn't have apologized. Friend or not, it isn't any of her business."
"W-well, it wasn't s-so much that I lied, but the m-meaning behind it. She th-thought I didn't t-trust her," she explained, trying to slow her pulse. She hated that, in spite of the fact that he was the last person she wanted to talk to right now and she would probably give her left foot to get out of it, her heart had still kicked into an excited sprint when he had made his presence known.
No good traitor, she mentally scolded it, the excitement dimming. You know he's not for you.
"Has she given you any reason to?" he asked, drawing her focus back to the conversation and the issue of engineering her escape from it.
Shoko thought about it. On the one hand, Nami had consistently operated in the name of truth and justice. On the other . . . well, she was Nami. She loved a juicy story, and reporting them was what she did. Personally? While she had never betrayed Shoko, she had never proven herself trustworthy. She had never had the opportunity to do either.
"No, b-but . . ."
"The you shouldn't have apologized. And she should not have asked."
"She d-did want to w-warn me-"
"She could have done so without asking. Whether you or she realizes it, she was attempting to manipulate you into sharing more than you were comfortable with, and more than she deserved to know. And you let her."
"W-what is your problem?" she hissed, feeling embarrassed and defensive and still at a loss as to how to weasel her way out of talking to him.
Though she supposed fighting about Nami was preferable to addressing their . . . their . . . their thing.
"My problem," he said stiffly, "is that you did not apologize because you regretted lying to her. You apologized because she made you feel like you had wronged her when you did not really think you had. But you were cowed into feeling bad because she's being too sensitive. It's one thing to allow people to push you into doing things, but when you allow them to push you into feeling things?"
"And j-just what do you th-think you're d-doing right now?" she retorted, face flaming. She could not believe it! She had avoided him, knowing he would want to know her intentions, knowing she was still far, far away from being prepared to say whatever it was she was going to say, but she had not, in any of the countless scenarios her mind had run through ever since she'd resolved to cut ties with him, conceived that he would stand here scolding her.
He blinked, taken aback. His mouth opened once, then closed. He looked away, fragments of guilt splintering through the anger in his expression as his jaw tightened for a moment.
"You're right. I apologize. I didn't come here with the intention of criticizing your . . . personal dealings," he said finally, meeting her eyes. She wished he had not. For all that the words coming out of his mouth were courteous and apologetic, the cold anger was still strongly present in his gaze. She tried to suppress the dread coiling in the pit of her stomach, grasping through her thoughts for an appropriate response.
"Th-then perhaps you should h-have left when you f-found me otherw-wise occupied," she returned, hating that she was only antagonizing him further but not sure what else she could do.
Besides, it felt good to fight. She never fought with anyone. And Len, for all that the thought of losing his presence in her life cut painfully at her heart, was still responsible – however indirectly – for her current predicament. He had completely sabotaged her peaceful, reclusive lifestyle with the irresistible lure of his very essence. So why not fight with him? Surely, he deserved a taste of this disquiet and vexation, too.
And even if he didn't, even had she not been in the mood to lash out at someone, inwardly hurting as she was, she still might have. A precious few more moments with him, even those spent in bitter contention, were to be seized and prolonged as best they could. As pathetic as that makes me.
"Because, strangely enough," he ground out, "You have been very difficult to find, recently. And, much as I hate to be in accordance with her, Amou-san is correct. It is not 'nothing'. I don't know what it is, but it nonetheless needs to be addressed."
If I run now, she speculated bleakly, he will probably catch up to me. There's no getting out of this.
The realization left her feeling very desolate.
"Ahem . . . sorry if I'm interrupting something, but I left my bag in there . . ."
Hope soared the instant she heard Nami's voice, and her pulse picked up as the other girl shuffled around them to slip into the closet and retrieve her messenger bag. All she had to do was find some excuse to follow Nami away from this dangerous atmosphere and the fate that awaited her here.
"Argh!"
The pained yelp sounded from the closet, and Shoko rushed over, positively thrilled. With any luck, Nami had been rendered immobile and would need assistance – and therefore an escort – to get to the nurse's office. Guilt immediately followed the thought, but not enough of it to quash the blossoming hope.
"A-are you alright?" Shoko exclaimed, rushing into the cramped little closet to aid Nami, whatever misfortune had befallen her.
"No – erk – I've got something in my eye . . . Owww," she moaned, batting at her left eye. "I can't get it – can you see it?" she turned to face Shoko, tilting her head up as she widened her eyes and tried not to blink.
Shoko peered into her eyes, searching for the problematic foreign object, but the light in the closet was too dim, and the fluorescent glare coming in from the hallway failed to be of any help either.
"I'm s-sorry, I can't," she told her.
"Drat!" She went back to dabbing at her eye for a moment while Len hovered uncertainly in the doorway, looking less and less concerned and more impatient. "Ack - Shoko-chan, can you come with me to the girls room and help me get it out?"
"Of course!" she assented hastily, pretending she did not see Len's eyes narrow at her enthusiastic response. "I-I hate when that h-happens," she murmured sympathetically, offering a hand to Nami, who grasped it and stood, clumsily lurching forward towards the door, her other hand covering her eye.
"Sorry, Tsukimori-kun," Nami said as she passed him, voice stiff with pain. "But you'll catch her later, I'm sure?"
"Yes, I will," he assured her through gritted teeth.
"S-sorry, Tsukim-mori-senpai," Shoko parroted. "Unt-til then," she murmured, and hastily pulled Nami in the direction of the girl's room. Nami flailed her hand at him in some vague semblance of a wave goodbye before returning it to the afflicted eye and tripping along after her.
Shoko didn't need to look back to know he was watching them go.
She was fairly certain she felt the flames of hell licking at her heels.
"I don't really have anything in my eye, of course," Nami said, hoisting herself onto the restroom counter and eying Shoko warily. "But you looked as if you were about to be sacrificed to cannibals or something, and I had to take pity on you."
"Th-thanks. I w-wasn't ready for that conversation. He amb-bushed me, in a s-sense," Shoko explained, her relief at rescue far outweighing her guilt at having purposefully avoided him once again.
Nami threw her a dirty look.
"Like he has a choice! You are impossible to pin down."
"S-sorry," Shoko mumbled.
"No, you're not, but that's okay. One should never speak before they are ready to, or they will not say what they want to say correctly," she told her. "Still, for all that I felt obligated to save you, my sympathy here lies with Tsukimori-kun. I know, it isn't any of my business and for all I know he's been killing your family pets and you owe him nothing – although, were that the case, I have to say I would be looking at you in a very different light; how could you make out with a kitten killer?" She looked briefly appalled, then shook her head. "Right, anyways, it appears such that a meeting with him would not be out of order. You can't dodge him forever," she pointed out. "Even if he is killing your family pets. Unless you like, got a restraining order, but . . . well, that isn't the point."
Shoko responded with a halfhearted smile, but she couldn't help the flare of irritation she felt. Yes, she was being unfair to him right now, and yes, he probably was feeling upset and thrown off-balance. And understandably so. But Nami didn't even know what Shoko was planning to say.
"Right," she murmured. "I'll t-talk to him later."
Nami surveyed her skeptically, then shrugged.
"You do that."
The ladies room door swung open then, allowing the trickle of noise in the hallway to filter through the opening, signaling the increasing traffic of students on campus. The girl who entered gave them an odd look, but said nothing, and disappeared into one of the stalls.
Nami hopped off the counter.
"I'm going, then," she announced, picking up her bookbag and pulling it over her shoulder, then lowering her voice as she continued. "You might want to wait here a second, though. I don't think he's the type to do something as creepy as wait outside the girl's bathroom, but then, you know how he is. He might not realize it's creepy. So I'll go first and let you know if it's safe."
"Thank you," Shoko said gratefully. It hadn't occurred to her that he would still be out there, but it should have. He was obviously very determined to talk to her.
Although now that she thought about it, she wasn't sure why. She could see how there might be some . . . issues, which he might like cleared up, but not to the point that he would so persistently pursue her. Wouldn't Len just write it off? Surely he was even less interested in talking about what had happened than she was.
But then, she wouldn't know. A few lunches spent sitting together did not by any means make her an expert. If anything, they served only to taunt her with how very out of reach Len was, how in the end he was and would remain a mystery.
So in that regard, she supposed, it served some sort of twisted justice that he should be the one wanting answers from her.
The door fell open once again, and Nami stuck her head in, giving her a thumbs-up and mouthing, "All clear!" before waving and leaving once more.
She very nearly slumped to the floor in relief. She could have hid here all day if it meant avoiding him, but playing a stressful game of hide-and-go-seek was the last thing she wanted to do right now. The conversation with Nami had alone been enough to slash her energy levels somewhere around the middle, and whatever was left would quickly be depleted by the full day still ahead of her.
Shoko picked up her bag and made her way to the door, pulling it open and joining the sparse crowd of students traversing the halls.
In the end, it did not matter. Not his reasons for talking to her, not Nami's implication that Len was the victim in this piece.
Because soon, she would speak to him, and when all was said and done, Len would have nothing to complain about.
And that would be that.
"You didn't stay to practice?" Her mother stopped in surprise when she walked into the kitchen and spotted Shoko at the breakfast bar, cheek pressed to the cool granite.
Shoko sat up and shook her head, not quite sure how to explain her presence at home.
Sorry, Mother, I'm avoiding this boy I accidentally-on-purpose kissed on Monday, so I can't stay after school or else he'll find me. And dodging a conversation I don't want to have is, of course, more important than practicing, right?
She regarded the shiny surface of the bar glumly, wondering if it would be in poor taste to ignore her mother and start beating her head against it.
Probably, and she did not think she could endure any behavioral criticism on this particular day.
"Is something wrong?" Kiri asked, apprehension lining her concern. A flash of irritation struck Shoko, but it passed. She understood. Her mother cared, very much, perhaps, but she had always been at a loss when it came to dealing with Shoko's issues. It frustrated her to no end that most of Shoko's problems proved insoluble. And for Shoko's part, it frustrated her because she neither wanted nor expected her mother to try and fix it. A pat on the head and a cookie would suffice. But still, Kiri insisted on relentlessly attacking the problem until all options had been exhausted.
Unfortunately, that usually meant until Shoko was exhausted, too.
She summoned a calm smile.
"N-no, Mother, I'm j-just a little tired. I th-thought I'd come and have a n-nap, and then p-practice."
Kiri's face relaxed in undisguised relief.
"Oh, well, that's fine then. I can see how you would be too stressed to sleep."
Shoko blinked. She could?
"What with exams coming up, and all."
Oh. Right.
"Y-yes," she agreed, guilt staining her cheeks pink. She'd hardly practiced at all. She didn't dare risk going to a practice room where Len could easily find her, and what with her parents and their guest hovering around at home, the house was not a comfortable place to be either.
Somehow, she would figure something out. Just . . . not right now.
"Try to relax, though. You always make that mistake, practicing too hard and worrying too much, so that during the examination you're never at your best. I've seen you head off to school on exam day – even if they weren't to begin with, everyone else must get tense just looking at you!"
Shoko blinked. She was only now realizing that, for all her mother had touted adventure and excitement throughout the years, such things would eventually come back to bite her. And now, left to clean up the ensuing mess, she was somehow supposed to comprehend 'relaxing'?
She just stared at the wall behind her mother's head and nodded.
"Ah, well, you look tired, so I suppose I shall spare you my speech about confidence this year. For now, anyways, since it won't do for you to never learn," Kiri added teasingly. "In any case, if I see Eliza, I'll let her know not to make too much noise, since you're sleeping. I'm sure she's somewhere around here . . ." She sighed. "That is the downside to a large house, you know. Your guests can literally go exploring, perhaps never to return."
Shoko managed a half-hearted laugh, but nothing more.
"O-okay. I'm going, then, M-mother," she mumbled, and quit the room in a hurry, hoping that would be the last of questions for a while. She was beginning to tire of them, whether they were from her mother or Miss Cavendish or her friends.
She wasn't sure which was more exhausting; answering them, or avoiding them.
Either way, she was very much looking forward to her nap.
"Shoko-chan!"
Shoko cast a wary gaze in Miss Cavendish's direction, mildly suspicious of her enthusiasm, particularly since it was being directed at her.
"H-hello, Miss Cavend-dish," she greeted her. "How a-are you?"
"Very well, thank you! How was your nap? You poor thing, you must have overworked yourself."
It's like people have a sixth sense, and they simply enjoy tormenting me.
"N-not exactly," she murmured. "It w-was pleasant, though. I f-feel much b-better. Thank you f-for asking."
"Of course," she said. "I'd hoped to talk with you some more, so it's in my best interest if you are well-rested."
She smiled, and somehow, Shoko suddenly felt very threatened. All of the straight white teeth in that smile seemed to take on an unnatural gleam.
She gulped.
"I-is that s-so? What ab-bout?" she inquired as nonchalantly as she could, although the whole situation was setting off alarm bells.
"Oh, this and that."
This and that? she wondered incredulously. This and that? What does that MEAN?
"O-oh, I see," she mumbled noncommittally. She'd already said too much during their conversation yesterday, having been caught in a weak moment, and she had no desire to repeat the mistake to an even greater degree, regardless of Miss Cavendish's plans. Avoiding her should be simple, though, what with her mother hovering at every turn.
"Kiri is out at a meeting," Miss Cavendish informed her cheerily, as if having read her mind.
A chill ran down Shoko's spine. She was alone and completely at Miss Cavendish's mercy. And Miss Cavendish . . . well, Miss Cavendish was the sort that could get a person to talk, whether the woman had to charm it out of them or browbeat them into spilling their guts, and Shoko could tell.
"What is that expression? I was just hoping you would keep me company," she explained.
Her words reassured Shoko enough that she took a seat on the parlor's loveseat.
"Of c-course, I'm sorry, I d-didn't mean to of-fend you."
Miss Cavendish primly perched herself on the edge of the ottoman, waving her hand dismissively. The lacy cuff of her shirt shook around her tiny wrist, and Shoko marveled as she skillfully arranged herself in such a way that every fold of her billowing sleeve immediately settled into neat, artful perfection.
She knew that, had she been the one wearing it, she would either rumple it terribly or just straight out trip over it. It seemed unlikely, tripping over one's shirtsleeves, but if anyone could do it . . .
"What is school like in Japan?" she asked abruptly.
Shoko blinked.
It's . . . school, she thought, just as Miss Cavendish wrinkled her nose.
"Oh, that was a silly question. You haven't attended school anywhere else, so . . . ah, nevermind. Instead, how is school?"
The question gave her pause. She had hardly been thinking of school lately, although she was usually very meticulous about her studies. For one, there had not exactly been much else to entertain, but mostly, she hated feeling incompetent or ill-prepared. And so she was mildly obsessive about ensuring she was ready for whatever academics happened to throw at her.
But recently? Academics hardly even crossed her mind.
I should probably learn to balance school and my social life, she thought ruefully, but the latter should not be an issue soon.
And life as she had known it would resume.
"School is f-fine . . ."
Miss Cavendish quirked an eyebrow.
"I see. What are you up to in school lately, aside from the exams?"
"Uh," she stalled. She hoped Miss Cavendish meant what she was learning. There was not a snowball's chance in hell that she would share details of her other activities, but then, she was probably just being paranoid after the last couple of days.
She could feel the blush crawling up her neck.
"W-well, right now, everyone is f-focused on p-practicing. Other studies are imp-portant, of course, but s-since so many of us h-hope to have a career i-in music, our best ef-fort is g-generally put forth in that s-subject," she explained in a rush, hoping to divert her own thoughts from that dangerous path.
Miss Cavendish smiled.
"And?"
"And w-what?"
"School isn't just about an education. Or rather it is, but it isn't only about your technical education."
"Th-there's not really anything of i-interest," she said hastily.
"Aw," she said, grinning. "That's too bad."
She paused, picking at her skirt.
"I didn't attend secondary school, so I always like to talk to teenagers about it. I received my education at home for those four years, since my Grandmother was sick. I wanted to be there. Which was silly, in hindsight. Being there didn't do any good, and it isn't like I was an integral part of her care. We had people for that, and I was still occupied with my studies. But . . . it reassured me somehow."
"Oh . . . I'm s-sorry to hear that. Is she w-well now, or . . ." she trailed off, hoping she was not amiss in asking. She just wasn't sure what to say.
"Ah, no . . . she passed away the summer after I graduated," Miss Cavendish explained. There was sadness in her face, the kind of subtle, resigned ache that remained after all of the initial, violent emotions of grief had subsided.
"I'm s-so sorry," Shoko said quietly.
"Thank you," she murmured, smiling. "Anyways, I don't regret staying at home. It's just interesting to me because I did, I guess. I'm not really sure why I find it so fascinating," she admitted. "Lots of the kids I talk to assure me I did not miss anything good."
Miss Cavendish had already started laughing before Shoko realized she was nodding fervently in agreement.
"S-s-sorry," she stammered. "I wish I c-could tell you something w-wildly entert-taining, but . . . you p-probably have more interesting s-stories than I d-do." Besides, even if she were to tell the truth, her angsty little crush on Len was hardly entertaining, or even of interest, to anyone who wasn't her. Or who wasn't bored in school and had nothing else to talk about it. Whichever.
At any rate, she was trying to remind herself that in the grand scheme of things this incident was completely insignificant. She was hoping it would help. It hadn't so far, but that could change.
"Maybe, maybe not. Really, all my stories are just those I've been told. I don't have very many of my own. Besides, it doesn't have to be wildly entertaining. Few things in life are such by their own nature. It's usually up to oneself whether one enjoys it or not. I, for instance, am easily amused. Probably too easily amused, but I digress."
Shoko smiled.
"W-well . . . as long as you're h-having fun, right? Still . . . I d-don't even have other p-people's stories."
"What about your parents?" she asked. "I can't believe they don't tell you any."
"They d-do," she said. "But . . . e-even then, I don't h-have anyone to t-tell them to." Normally, she might be embarrassed by the words, might have thought better than to say them. In this instance though, it seemed they were being honest here, and besides which, any humiliation she might have felt was cast aside in favor of the pang of sadness that hit her instead.
She'd told a few stories to Len. She hadn't minded using her parents stories, if only so she could catch a glimpse of that rare smile. And she had seen it, on several occasions, and she had been grateful that she had those stories to tell.
Miss Cavendish misinterpreted the solemn cast to her face.
"Don't look so sad, you will," she reassured her. "It's true, there might be times in your life when you are alone. And they will be hard. Ask anyone who has been, and they'll tell you, there are few things worse than being alone.
"But it won't last forever. I don't see how it could," she added. "It seems like everyone is looking for someone . . . so we have to find each other eventually, right?"
Shoko looked up sharply. Miss Cavendish's words sounded like a hopeful musing she herself wanted to believe in, rather than an empty reassurance for the pitiable adolescent without friends.
"And d-did you? Find s-someone?"
Miss Cavendish smiled. "I did. I found lots of people, to varying degrees."
Shoko paused, considering this.
"Someh-how, that makes it s-sound like you're still al-lone," she said, and Miss Cavendish laughed.
"Weeks-long house parties are not an unusual occurrence at my house. I am almost never alone," she assured her.
"B-by yourself, maybe," Shoko corrected, decidedly unconvinced. "But you m-must know you c-can still b-be alone, even in a-a crowd."
"Mm, perhaps," she mused, leaning back and propping herself up on her hands. "But, it is still better to be alone in a crowd. How will other people find you, and vice versa, if you are alone by yourself?" She chuckled, and added, "As confusing as that sounds."
"Oh," Shoko said, at a loss. She hadn't thought of it like that. It wasn't that people had not told her some variation of that before - Shoko, how do you expect to make friends if you don't put yourself out there and try? - but, to put it bluntly, she'd always thought they were full of it. No one had ever acknowledged that one could very well put oneself out there and still achieve no result. Instead, they had either implied or outright stated that if she met no success, she wasn't trying hard enough.
Miss Cavendish, however, seemed to theorize that it was perfectly acceptable, even normal, to be alone for some time before you found the right people, and they found you.
And, that it was alright to be out there alone. One did not have to continuously throw oneself into becoming outgoing and sociable, but nor did one have to go to the other extreme when met with failure, and purposefully isolate oneself. Shoko could, simply, just be. If she happened upon one of those people she was naturally seeking, then that was that. If not, then so be it. She could still enjoy watching the swirl of people moving around her, and stay in sight for whomever might be looking.
I need not declare it a permanent failure and condemn myself to loneliness.
It was a truth she had been told before, one she had caught sight of now again but never actually grasped until now. After all this time, it finally sank in and secured itself smoothly and matter-of-factly, and she took it with a sort of serene acceptance as if it made perfect sense.
And it did - even though it never had before. She couldn't say why the philosophy finally clicked into place, why she could understand and accept it when variations of the concept had depressed or frustrated her so thoroughly before. Had something changed, or was it some mysterious aspect of Miss Cavendish's particular character and demeanor which made her more receptive? A combination?
For whatever reason, it had. Possibly - no, probably - she would lose sight of it again, when things were hard, but not for long. Not in the way it had eluded her prior to this point.
"Take your parents, for instance," Miss Cavendish offered, mistaking Shoko's contemplative silence for one of confusion.
Shoko blinked, feeling vaguely surprised to find herself still here with Miss Cavendish.
"My p-parents evid-dently 'found' each other in a d-dark alley," she cut in dryly.
Miss Cavendish grinned and wrinkled her nose.
"I would rephrase that in unfamiliar company," she advised. "As it is, it makes the whole affair sound somewhat unsavory."
Shoko laughed.
"Really, though, w-wasn't it?" she pointed out. "After all, M-mother had been c-cornered by some deg-generate." The thought nearly made her shudder.
"Yes, but if you put it that way everyone will think your father was the degenerate," she clarified. After a brief pause, she added, "And depending on their interpretation, possibly that your mother was, too."
Shoko looked startled.
"B-both of them? Why on earth w-would two people b-be in a dark alley of their o-own volition? If th-there's no one else there t-to hurt or, p-perhaps steal from, I c-can't think what bad things they c-could get up t-to there."
Miss Cavendish froze.
"Er," she started. "They could . . . uh, they could be doing graffiti."
"Mother is q-quite good with art," Shoko agreed thoughtfully. "Then I'll r-remember to be c-clear on the details, should I e-ever retell the s-story."
Miss Cavendish nodded in relieved agreement.
"I didn't know Kiri dabbled in the arts. It makes sense, though; she is very creative and has a good eye. I don't mean it unkindly, but I can certainly tell which of your parents had a hand in what decor."
Shoko grinned, thinking fondly of her father's study, not that anyone aside from him could work there without becoming distracted by its interior.
"She s-sketches, and does waterc-colors," she explained. "And she d-draws shoes in her d-daybook. Wild sh-shoes, the kind m-most people will never h-have occasion to wear. They're very p-pretty, though," she added wistfully. She'd forgotten about the shoes, actually. She assumed her mother still drew them, but Kiri hadn't shown any to her in years.
She suddenly caught the wispy tail of a memory, some vague recollection of a boring plane ride and her mother handing her a page of shoes and the notebook which contained them, telling her to imagine dresses to match them. And then she had, but not on the paper. She'd shut the book without a word and turned to the window, eyes to the sky while her mind composed delicate atrocities in lemon yellow and taffeta.
In hindsight, her mother had probably assumed she was being ignored.
It made sense that she would eventually stop showing a seemingly unresponsive Shoko the crazy, intricate, entirely nonsensical shoes she doodled on her notes.
"Really? She never mentioned any of that. But, upon reflection, Kiri's more interested in other people than herself." She laughed. "Not just people - things, too. She might wish I didn't say this, but I've caught her talking to things more than once, when she's alone."
"T-talking to things?" Shoko felt inexplicably guilty all of the sudden.
"Yes. A lampshade, a figurine, a cue - it's fascinating to see. I suppose Kiri-chan really can communicate with anything or anyone," she added, and Shoko let her words sink in with wide eyes. She tried to remember farther back, searching for some picture or audio with which to compare Miss Cavendish's description, but she couldn't. She remembered her mother was there more often when she was very young, but for some reason she remained in the periphery of all Shoko's memories, so vibrant and yet somehow so vague.
Certainly, Shoko could not recall an instance of this recently.
"I see," she murmured, somewhat disappointed.
"She and Haru-kun suit each other well, in that regard. I didn't speak with him as much, but it seemed to me he's only . . . randomly social, if that makes any sense. Very clever and engaging, but abruptly so, as he is mostly quiet."
Shoko smiled a little.
"Th-that sounds like m-my father."
"Oh," Miss Cavendish exclaimed. "I'm so sorry, you don't need me to tell you what your parents are like. This must be boring."
"Not at a-all, Miss C-cavendish. It's . . . I th-think it's interesting t-to hear a-about them from an-nother perspective."
"I'm relieved, then," she said, smiling. "You should be very proud of them. They are lovely, lovely people."
Shoko returned the smile hesitantly. She knew her parents were lovely. She knew she was loved, and regardless of their time away from home, she could not complain for lack of affection. But some of that sparkle, that loveliness that so captivated others, she somehow struggled to perceive it firsthand, as if there was some distance muddling both parties' true selves.
Miss Cavendish sighed and ran her fingers through a few loose curls.
"Really - I say they're ridiculous, but I'm very envious. I'm about the age they are when they married, yet I can't even imagine being so comfortable and compatible with someone. They complement each other so well, you know?"
Shoko tried to dispel the sharp pain in her chest at that. She was aware how well they complemented one another, how close they were. And she, a rather awkward fit compared to that impressive union, had disrupted their harmonious relationship. She'd long suspected there was a reason they had had only one child, and that reason surely lay in the disappointment of their first.
She became aware of the moments passing since Miss Cavendish had spoken, and she brushed those thoughts away, feeling abruptly rude.
"Th-they do," she agreed, when a new thought struck her. "But they were s-so young w-when they wed. If I m-may ask, h-how old are you, M-miss Cavend-dish?"
"Twenty," she replied succinctly.
"T-twenty? But you . . . th-that is, you d-don't look old, but I-I thought you to be more around t-wenty-seven. You're s-so . . . poised. I c-can't think I will be so g-graceful in a mere f-four years," she added, marveling at the unexpectedly small difference in their ages.
"I don't know," Miss Cavendish interjected thoughtfully. "Four years might go by quickly, but in many ways it is a long time. In the end, it all depends on how you spend it."
They fell into silence for a time, as Shoko mulled over these words, wondering how, indeed, she would spend them.
But the future was still murky and shapeless in her mind, and she suspected it would take more than a few vague forays into its depths to accurately divine its contents.
Soon, though. Somehow, even feeling divided and scattered as she did, she couldn't help but sense the pieces rearranging with some hope of fitting together once again. Not long from now, she might have an answer. Maybe not the right one, and certainly not the best one, but it would be a start. And, as she was finally beginning to comprehend, one needed to start somewhere in order to get somewhere.
Which left her with the next question: Where did she hope to go?