Baji thinks that the attendant at his favourite hangout is cute. Nothing else but cute. He believes that it is normal and possible for a boy of his age to find someone of the opposite sex attractive without inciting any romantic feeling whatsoever on his part. He also believes that they would get along wonderfully if it wasn't for the meddling language barrier. Contrariwise, his friends couldn't help but think that Baji could get any dafter than he is.
Wednesday... Wednesday. Half-day. She dreaded Wednesday. She kept muttering the word under her breath. Her teeth tore away at her cuticles. Wednesday ... Wednesday. It's been three months, and she's yet to adapt to the Japanese way of doing ... anything, to be honest. The early school hours, long — packed — train rides, the compulsory after-school clubs, the Gakko Soji, and the language. The language was torturous at best. After spending most of her life speaking Germanic and Latin languages, Japanese is how she would imagine desert languages to sound. Incredibly foreign.
After biting a nail, she shifted to the other hand. She thought she'd tasted blood.
Her classes were useless. This she'd learned the third week into her lesson. The language structure her teacher taught her was too pure... too precise. She would never (not entirely) consider herself a specialist, despite learning English and Spanish successfully. However, she knew that the textbook version her teachers and classes drilled tirelessly in her head was somewhat useless in day-to-day conversation. The words and phrases feel much too heavy on her tongue for comfort, like dark unsweetened coffee.
She'd put it to the test when she decided to try to talk to her father. Noting how he dropped some clauses, and in other cases adding endings, that should never be there, something informal. Something her teacher (flawed by their perfectionism) would never teach her. She heard it in the voices of the local students and those who attended the other schools. They noticed it too, her patent contrasts, too neat, too sweet that it stings her cheeks like thick condensed milk.
It's why she dreaded social contact. It's why she dreaded Wednesday. When most schools are open half-day. This resulted in her spending longer hours at El Báquico with said students. Their slang, which might as well be its language, rented the space around her.
Somewhere, hidden deep, deep within herself, she believed that she should be grateful. That she should consider making full use of this outcome as a learning opportunity. Synonymous to a mother bird nudging its chicks out of the comfort of its nest. But whoever said that the chicks were ever grateful at the prospect of having their mother pushing them off—likely— to meet their impending death? She checked for the time. It was still too early. It would be another hour until her shift was to end.
The one good thing about working on Wednesday was experiencing the peaceful atmosphere the early afternoon Shibuya provided. Something she rarely experienced due to her usual work hours beginning in the mid-afternoon and ending at dusk. The atmosphere then was a complete contrast to its early-afternoon counterpart since it was always moving, never a moment of complete peace unlike now. Where Shibuya simply happens to breathe—relax. However, there were signs of it seething to its climax. Through the shouts of orders around the back, she heard the passing traffic of bikes, cars honking, chatter, the thick Kanto accents. Amid the midst of the apprehension, she heard a voice addressing her. Her ears strained, searching through the dense foreignness of the words to solve the puzzle. An order? She hopes her confusion will not show on her face.
Bad customer service will earn her an earful from her boss. Something she wished to avoid. In return, proceeding to face them, she asked in perfect practice words to repeat their request. She knew that in the better part of a day, she would eventually forget him. So, she bothered not to look past the fog that enveloped his face—all their faces, like most everything here in Japan—to discern notable features.
Something like a smirk twisted on his lip, but she wasn't sure. He turned to one of his friends, presumably going over the menu. Their r's and l's sound sharp, vulgar even. The Yankii dialect. They finally agreed. She thinks he made a joke, as the six of them laugh. Was she supposed to laugh as well? His smirk was still present, and in the end, she decided not to. Quickly punching in their order. Everything, hereafter, was a dense fog, the sound of submerging oneself underwater. It was all nonsensical mumbling.
She had to take out extra chairs and a table. Everywhere else was full. He was talking again, she believes—no, she's certain—that he was specifically talking to her, or at the very least, hoping she would hear.
An invitation, perhaps. One she would not take. His speech was almost barbaric...incredibly unusual. The few words she could make out made no particular sense, well, none she could think of. His eyes prodded, waiting for some sort of reaction, like a cat before killing its prey. She opted for a bow. A bow usually fixes everything, right?
Being courteous (following the restaurant rule), she asked them if they needed anything else. They debated amongst themselves. They answered "No thank you," in Japanese. With that, she made her way to the back, hurrying the orders along, before returning to the cashier. To count, to stare at the clock, to bite at her nails. The sound of the bell indicated that the orders were ready. So, she went to serve them.
She was more than happy that they spared her the hassle of a conversation. All their attention was on the hot, steaming food in front of them. Setting out their order, she noticed one of them sporting a tattoo on the side of his temple. A dragon? She wasn't positive. Figured she shouldn't stare longer than necessary. Japanese people, from what she'd discerned, didn't like it when you stare too long. She excused herself from the table. Hearing shouts of: 'あつい!' as she returned to the cashier counter.
Gradually the time ticked by. She spent most of the time divided between serving customers and idly watching the clock; its hands sluggishly slow as she chewed away at her nails. Twenty minutes. Her heart almost jumped.
Through peripheral view, she caught a glimpse of a group of boys who were readying themselves to leave. After lolling about, their cups sat half-empty on the table. With the check-in her hands, she made her way towards them. Like children (which they more or likely probably are, she reckon she was a mere year, or months, ahead of them), the group squabble amongst themselves.
Her eyes drifted to the clock. If her memories served her right, she was in charge of cooking dinner tonight? She fights back a sigh. A peeved expression threatened to seep through the professional mask she wears. She could probably call her brothers and tell them that she's sick? Or she could take home some of the plenty leftovers the restaurant could be sure to spare? Or, perhaps, all of these things altogether?
When she came to, the money was placed neatly on the table. She carried it with her to the register, and they followed dutifully behind. Once giving them their change, they bickered amongst themselves again, and she wondered if they ever got tired of such a taxing routine. Or if they were friends at all—but such a thought was quickly done away with— the air around them was nothing but friendly.
A minute passed, and the group stood rooted in place, and she began to worry. Did she give them the wrong amount of change? She could almost feel her manager's hot breath fanning her face, his voice angry and sore from berating her careless behaviour. She opened her mouth to speak— but one of them beat her to the task. His voice was the clearest she'd heard since this evening.
"お名前は何ですか?" He was asking for her name. Her head tilted. She'd not expected this.
She then gave him a good look; through the thick cottony fog, she saw a boyish face, wild dark hair, and coal-black eyes, like an ink stain on plain printing paper. Something debonair (roguish even) curdled at the pit of his eyes. But she didn't linger on that for too long.
"Hasegawa Xochitl."
"S-Oh-Ch-Ee-T," Xochitl said, repeating her first name slowly and clearly. Prompted by a confused look on his face.
"So-Chi-i-To," he said. Unbeknownst to Xochitl, she nodded her head. A bit glad, if she must say so herself, that he'd pronounced her name almost correctly on the first try, unlike most teachers and her classmates. She could almost smile.
Then he gave her his: "Baji Keisuke."
Wanting to return the courtesy he'd given her in pronouncing his name, she sounded out his. Xochitl wondered what kind of kanji made up his name. A few came to her mind ... Baji had just said something, but she wasn't entirely listening.
The content of his words flies over her head. All that she could recognize wasや ば い, but it didn't fit. Does it? From what she knows, it means horrible, disgusting, an insult even, although all six laughed when he'd finish. Probably it was a pun, a joke? A joke at her expense? No, it doesn't appear so as Xochitl saw something hopeful waiting in Baji's eyes.
She cursed her school (and her father, she believes) along with the complexity of the language. Xochitl wished she could laugh, or even give a smile of acknowledgement, but she couldn't. Something flashed in his eye. Disappointment? But she didn't have time to decipher what it was exactly. There were customers she needed to serve.
や ば い(Yabai): This means sick/bad in a good connotation. However, it depends on the tone as it can come off as confrontational.
あ つ い (Atsui): Means hot / spicy.
か (Onamae wa nan desu ka): What is your name?