SCHOOL DAYS...

With the closing of September approaching, the weather has shifted to one of cold and wetness. The city of Tokyo was under a constant coverage of rain. The scene paints past the fogging glass windows grey and glum: signs of debris floating in the air and telephone wire bopping. Xochitl frets if this continues, there will be no phone signal in the coming evening. It has been more than thirty minutes since they have been in the traffic, despite leaving home early by a few hours. However, it has seemed everyone has been inspired by the same idea. Perhaps, persuaded by the raging rain. Many were at wit's end, proven by the honking and occasional drivers poking their heads out to curse. Her father as well: he shifts in his seat, his hands tighten, then loosens on the steering wheel, again and again, before reaching for the pack of Seven Stars in the centre console. Then stops, after seeming to remember that all the windows have been rolled up. His fingers, tapping at the steering wheel. About a minute in, Xochitl said: "You can crack the window on your side...just a bit."

He continues, hesitation now presented in his posture.

"I don't mind."

He gives a glance at her. Then to the back, where Ryuuzu sits, eyes looking out at the scene. He asks if he minded if he smokes. Ryuuzu replies without looking, 'It's your car.'

He turns to Xochitl, a smile— a thank you— before rolling the window. A chilly breeze enters whilst droplets of rain spray both her father and Xochitl in the process. Within a minute the smell of pungent herbs (cheap perfume even) rents the space in the car. Mechanically, she turns up the heat while sparing her father a look as he licks his lips. Savouring the taste. Another minute passes, their traffic lane finally moves before the lights flash red.

Today's meteorology report hums in the background over a silent car drive. The news reporter talks of Typhoon Higos movements and the destruction it had left in its wake in the Northern Marina Islands. It was a loss to Xochitl, no doubt to Ryuuzu as well. The words were a mere buzz, much like the continuous drumming of the rain.

"It seems we've moved in the wrong season. Perhaps January would have been a good idea?"

He has always been bad at conversation. At times Xochitl forgets this, however, not for too long. Never. He always (although unwittingly) reminds them. She turns to the window, hoping his attempt at starting a conversation will die. Ryuuzu, on the other hand, decides otherwise.

"It's bad enough that I've to move in the second semester of school. Trying to play this impossible game of catch-up. Imagine moving in January, just terrible. Pointless," said Ryuuzu. Eyes still on the window, deep creases between his eyebrows. Xochitl starts to nod. However, notes her mistake and plays it off as easing tension in her neck. At the same time, adjust the tightening seat belt. She decides not to look at her father. More than adept at picturing his current face: mouth in a line. Making it look more final. Eyes looking up, thinking of different ways—different conversation— to ease the growing crippling atmosphere. She hopes he stays silent this time. Albeit, he is slow to the uptakes, a failure to read any atmosphere he was in. Xochitl is still surprised that he still has a job, much less secure his current covetous position. Fool's Luck? She can only guess.

Xochitl wonders what her mother will have said in response to her father. Probably something wraithlike: "It seems wherever I go, there is some storm brewing…" She wonders what she will have said in hopes of squashing this uncomforting tautness. Though, in truth, if she was here, this mood would have been preventable. Nonexistent. She will have said something to Ryuuzu, clever without sounding like some snide (the mother voice). Instead, she would sound composed, eloquent, beautiful, like a poet. Her mother prides herself in this, brandishing it like colourful feathers on parrots, without the talking. Like the photo of grandmother, her mother speaks in the different tenors of silence.

"Try not to complain too much. Or you'll find yourself complaining the entirety of your life," her mother will have said. Xochitl thought of saying it. She thought better of herself. After all, Ryuuzu will not listen. Not like before.

The lights flash green, her father butting the cigarette in the added ashtray. Windows rolled up. How slow everything was, is as to how fast it has become. The car made its turn off the highway and onto the frontage road. Before turning to a street, its speed limit is 15 miles per hour. In time the building of her school appears in the clearing. Nestled in between naked-cherry trees and an old brick church. Usually, by now, she can hear the rustic bell soundings a few blocks away. Disturbing the nearby flocking of crows and other birds. Today, however, it stood silent. Perhaps, the weather is too much for the old caretaker. Or maybe it is ringing at this moment but hampers amidst the rain. With the gates left open, he drives them, as far as possible, to the door, before slowing to a stop. Quickly, Ryuuzu leaves the car as if the air inside is poisoned. Perchance it is.

"A kiss?" Xochitl pauses as she stares. His eyes, asking, pleading.

If it was before, then maybe she would have considered his wordless offer. If she and Ryuuzu were talking. Then, possibly, she will have help, but she cannot. He was asking for too much at her expense, and Xochitl is finding herself too frugal to extend herself to do such.

"Just on the cheek?"

'Can you talk to him?' The unsaid question, that was written on his face. He senses her foot-dragging. Her prints are in the mud. He's so mean. In the end, she decides a smile will be enough.

"I'll call when my shift is over."

'I will think about it.' She hopes that he understands.

Her father hums.

Xochitl runs as fast up the stairs, her bag over her head. Even at the door, she could hear the humming of the car, his eyes at her back.

School days are dreadful and yet, just enough. Enough for her not to want to run home. But enough for her not wanting to entertain the idea of staying longer than necessary. Her teachers suggested clubs. A lovely way to socialize, to make friends. They fear she's like a sad little star on a rainy night. Or rather, a sad little girl at the train station. With no one to whisper stories in each other's ears. To giggle about them…

Nevertheless, she thinks she is just fine, the teachers she finds a bit too nosy. She can manage just brilliant on her own—thank you very much! Xochitl has sufficient friends —one too many. Henri, at times, is terrific (annoying) in that way. Splitting himself in hundreds, thousands of himself. None the same. She sees how he changes for each student. Like Diable-là, switching his masks to the entertaining of himself and the fooling of the three brothers. Xochitl wonders if she's Ti-Jean. No. Not possible. She will never be the main character, too dull. Unsociable. But she can dream, right? Xochitl has herself, and at one point, she has had Ryuuzu. That's more plenty than others can testify to. A part of herself. A childish part of herself. Hoped that by attending the said school that whatever bad air between them can now be air out. However, Ryuuzu had been placed in another class and decided that he liked his placement. Lengthening their distance as if it wasn't big enough already. Xochitl believes this is where it began, the split, The daunting schism growing as fast as it was formed. A swelling-khaki-river after the rainy season. Rough, loud, deadly, and they are on the opposite side of the craggy bank. Not too stupid to risk the current—or so she'll like to believe. She's drenched knee-deep, floating down the current. The mud in her throat. Silencing her scream. The terror. Ryuuzu was deaf to her. Or perhaps, he does know. She's drowning, but…

But?

"…Shuji asked about you," said her desk mate to her, a beautiful yet unremarkable girl. There are heaps of chatter buzzing in the classroom. It's the break before the home teacher comes to register them and formally starts the school day.

It's simple, but it's enough to gain her attention. More than she can say otherwise. Shuji? She knows that name anywhere. Her heart paces. Unknowingly she leans closer. A simple breath of words unheard, lost in the clatter of the classroom, is blasphemy for Xochitl.

"When did he say that— where did you see him, when?" another person asks. The girl is seated behind her. Reddish-brown hair combed in silly pigtails. Xochitl is annoyed. That was her line. Her question to ask. However, why fight? She's no fool. The question is already asked. Nothing she can do about that. Nothing, but wait for the slow-honey answer. Her desk-mate smiles, no doubt enjoying the attention they foolishly give. "Last Saturday, at Ms Taylor class. I was aiding her English lesson when he asked me for you. Isn't that something?"

"Oh-I know I should have volunteered."

"You skip out on helping?" her desk-mate tuts in disappointment. They cackle on like fowls. She continues after they have decided that they are finished. "You seemed to make a lasting impression on your last visit," her eyes sharp, waiting for her reaction. Xochitl thinks she blushes, her face warm. Or was it the heat? They keep playing with the air conditioning.

Did she make an impression? She doesn't remember. She does remember Ms Taylor asking for her to assist one Saturday that seems like forever ago. The conversation was a blur but still there.

"Your English is good," said Ms Taylor. It was a week after her first day of the second semester Xochitl was seated in her homeroom, waiting for her father.

"Is it?" back home, no one compliments her about it. It wasn't (isn't) necessary. "…Thanks?"

"I'm looking for students to help me in my Saturday lessons. I like to think of it as a firsthand learning experience for my students to interact with native English speakers that are around their age." She interrupts after Xochitl had returned to her bag.

The zip is so stubborn…

"I'll be grateful if you attend Ms Hasegawa. An absolute delight. Naturally, I'll need your parents' consent. However, I would like to think hearing your thoughts on my proposal is more meaningful. Think of this opportunity of not only helping me but yourself as well."

Xochitl stops to stare. A smile that almost seems automated darn on her painted lips, and she knew then what this was really about. Her homeroom teacher had tried to make her more amenable. Then again, Xochitl is successful at being unsuccessful in making friends. She tries, doesn't she? But she cannot force the horse to drink water when it doesn't want to. Despite the school motto of diversity and inclusivity, she notices how others are not considered. People like her, those that are similar in appearance are blatantly ignored. Sometimes she thinks if only she had a similar skin tone as her brothers, then perhaps everything would have been easier to bear…Besides! Xochitl finds herself thriving in the silence, the darkness, like a black orchid. She just wishes that she isn't alone in this discovery. Blood to blood, it's supposed to be thicker than anything. However, she's finding out that it's not much of a taste one would want to desire.

The rest of the conversation between her and Ms Taylor was uninteresting at most, and in the end, she found herself accepting. She felt forced, pushed into a corner. Ultimately, the outcome wasn't all that bad. Yet thoughts of squeezing through the windows and disappearing did entertain the space of her mind, ever-so persistent. She wonders if it's too late to book a ticket back home. Xochitl is certain her old teacher hasn't yet erased her out of the system. Things are a bit slow back there. Though, she had heard tickets to fly back home is quite expensive this time around. With winter drawing closer, most people flee to the tropics for the warmth-of-the sun synonymous with the bird's migrating south. Perhaps, she can persuade her father?...

Nonetheless, in the end, it was worthwhile, right? She did meet Shuji, a visiting student from another school. His parents have plenty of money to spare to send him to an outrageous English program that costs more than it is worth. However, she didn't remember talking to him more than the others. Sure, there were times where she sits, staring. She wished she had walked up to him and started a conversation of some kind other than academia. However, she is always a terrible flirt. That was what Ryuuzu said as if he's any better.

"Impression?" the pigtail girl asks, shrill. She's annoying Xochitl figures.

"What did you say?" they were back to her. Xochitl knows she shouldn't get her hopes up. They were dull. To think it was getting interesting. Shuji was asking about her, and all they could ask was what she had said a few weeks earlier. Stupid. Nevertheless, she answers with much enthusiasm she can muster—which is none.

"We talked about schoolwork, grammar, and prose. That sort of stuff." Back to her book.

They groan in unison. She flips through the pages. She has turned in all assignments, yes?

"Why won't you tell us—" an ugly gasp, "—don't tell me you're trying to keep all the juicy tidbits to yourself. Unfair. Share with us."

"I can't, as there is nothing to share."

"As if. You're so mean."

They all giggle.

"Secretive, aren't you? That's what Shuji-san says. He admits it makes you excited… and that you're exotic."

Exotic? That is not the first she'd been described using that word—and apparently will not be the last. Funny enough, the word reminds her of fruits, particularly mangoes. Xochitl couldn't help raising her brow and smile. It's funny. It shouldn't be.

Her desk mate continues, "Ms Taylor praises your work, saying that you're one of the best student aids she has had. She admits that the other teachers have been talking you up as well. All praising your brilliance despite transferring in the second trimester…" Really? Xochitl finds it hard to believe. A thought saying she should look deeper into her words for clues, lies, but her desk mate has such a lovely voice. Perfect for background noise, as it practically coerces her to zone out, deep into the watery depths of her mind.

Shuji, perhaps she should ask them if they know which school he attends. Probably something expensively audacious. She can picture him in one of those private school uniforms. It will look good on him—probably, it already looks good on him. Long limbs, though they should have been a disadvantage with them being so lanky, no muscle to them. Somehow, it comes together perfectly to work in his favour. Xochitl wonders if he knows, he must. If her memories serve her right, he looks magnificent like some god…or devil. Who knows, they are one of the same. Lucifer was an angel before transforming to his current accursed form. She's getting off-track. He looks graceful, is all she wants to say.

Maybe she could volunteer to assist this coming Saturday. Xochitl only hopes that Hurricane Higos shifts its path, sparing her rain, albeit rain can be romantic under special circumstances. It's final, she shall attend! Then not only will her mother stop writing letters coaxing the teachers into forcing her to participate will stop. She will also see Shuji. Amazing what you can do if you apply that one stone to its optimum potential!

"…can I?" her desk-mate finishes. Xochitl had not heard the question. Afloat, lost (almost submerged in the growing river, that was her mind. If she could measure the depth of the water, she would say that it was almost waist deep. Probably lapping at her pelvis—it's ticklish there). Her desk-mate repeats her question, though her eyes were on Xochitl, she has this feeling as though she is not seeing her.

"I've heard from one of our classmates that you make excellent notes, and I was wondering if I can borrow them along with some extra tutorage if you can spare some time?" Her desk-mate finishes, while making patterns on her book.

Ah…she sees. Xochitl finds it funny and irritating that they will go through such a tiring route to get to the point they want. Words from the stranger, the boy. The recurring boy at her workplace (she had misplaced his name—and face again). Echoes in her ears. His statement about the journey and its worthwhileness. Was it worthwhile to them? If her desk-mate wanted study notes from her, she should have simply said so from the get-go, instead of taking such a round-about way.

Ultimately, Xochitl agrees with a nod, and her desk-mate suggests the best time to do the exchange before turning to another student. Xochitl forgotten. She returns to her book. The words fail to stick, to make cohesive thoughts and she decides to abandon all hopes of reading for the next break. Honestly, she has expected this as she turns to the window, fogged by the cold. The rain continues to hammer against it, painting a rather sombre mood. Her homeroom teacher could not have come at a better time. As she enters, the class stands, acknowledging her presence. Xochitl was right after all; she is no main character. Maybe a side character, the extras, the tree. Perchance, she's an animal, an insect, the cricket: 'Mi boug qui tait cooyon!' As they take their seats the daunting procedure of registering began (her teachers never get her name right sighs Xochitl). The sounds of students calling 'Present!' in English dins in the air, signalling the staring of the school day.

In honesty, Xochitl is amazed at how she and Henri befriended each other. She's unfriendly and selfish with herself, preferring the sounds of silence. Whilst Henri is self-indulgent, placing himself in everyones' space: wanting everything from everyone he meets. Albeit, funnily enough, the said people seemingly didn't mind. Her desk-mate, for one, seems delightful at the given prospect. Her black eyes shine with a sense of child-like cheerfulness. Her fingers play with a strand of her fair hair that frames a smooth(though still richened with colour from the previous week sunshine) alabaster face, in the way girls in movies does whenever they like someone. Xochitl retreats behind her book, a crab in the safety of their shell, in addition to giving them two the space they desire. She's his unwilling partner or assistant: the reluctant Bolom to Diable-là and his games—

"...It's good that Xochitl is helping you. Told you she makes excellent notes," said Henri with a smile to accent his point. It's boyishly good-looking, she admits and wonders, for a singular moment (that she has written it off as not a thought, but a buzz, static in her ears). If it was fake. Her desk-mate interjects before she can examine it further.

"It's very thoughtful of her, I must admit—" a smile is spared to Xochitl before returning to Henri. The look in her eyes is akin to a child getting caught by their parents. "—to spare me some time out of her busy schedule to help me. I confess I must repay her for such kindness, or else it would be impertinent of me if I did not." Gosh, she talks so formally, as if she is not a child. But what does she expect from such a silk stocking? Though, it did help clear up to where truly, she had gotten her before-mentioned information. Frankly speaking, Xochitl should have suspected she had gotten such knowledge from Henri, who else talks to her to know. That said, she can not help but think he had brought up the topic to expose this fact. Perhaps another person would have been impressed by his games. However, currently, Xochitl is thinking of how he has broken the unsaid agreement of inviting newcomers into their private library session. And that person had to be her desk-mate of all people.

Henri must have made a joke as her desk-mate throws her head back, while he remains the same, the smile, this time reaching his eyes. Cinching them in a half-moon, though Xochitl could still see his green eyes. Unchanged. Seeing. Hunting. It's prey-like. Her desk-mate presses forward, as-if to press the sounds of his laughter to her face, and Xochitl hides behind her book once more. This time, she thinks of Shuji. Perhaps she could ask her how to flirt, to be as bayrfays with her emotion. It's the least her desk-mate can do. After all, she did promise Xochitl of payment. So she isn't being greedy. Right? They laugh again, and this time Xochitl blushes, the hair on her neck shiver. She is intruding. The laughter ranks of tryst. She turns to her crest.

The uniform, she thinks, is a bit too stiff and itches. She plays with her long sleeves whilst Henri recounts a story to her desk-mate, their fingers a brush away—

The ongoing weather had prematurely resulted in the entire student population donning their winter uniform consisting of a navy pleated tunic, a white long sleeves blouse and black itching stockings. (Henri pulled his face for comedic effect) Xochitl can not wait for summer. Another thing she misses, along with the sun. This time around last year, Xochitl skin was of a healthy gold undertone, richened by the sun. Now she looks ghastly, skin ashy, peeling. She needs to buy lotion, she tells herself as she bites at her nails.

More time passed and soon school was officially over, with students staying behind for extra-curriculum. Xochitl quickly began to pack, her shift begins in an hour, and her manager was not kind to tardiness.

"Xochitl, you have a club to attend?" It was Henri who answered in his characteristic laugh as he pats Xochitl's shoulders.

"You're kidding. You must be," he stops to laugh. His fingers, digging into Xochitl's tunic.

"If you must know, the teachers tried for a straight week to assign Xochitl to a club, they all failed, miserably so. There was even this not-so-really-a-competition among the seniors to see whether or not they could achieve what their teacher couldn't. She right here is a club repellant."

An indescribable emotion flashes across her desk-mate's face, but Xochitl was already beginning to leave the table to take notice. "Then why are you leaving in such a hurry? School had just ended. Can we go over some more notes?" Henri is soon to copy Xochitl, a smile still on his face, a remnant from earlier, and she wishes for once he reads the mood as her desk-mate plays with her thumbs.

"I have work."

"Work?" She must be slower than what Xochitl has figured as she begins to walk, shifting through the column of the shelves. She can hear Henri behind her whistling a song from The Carpenter, her desk-mate a few inches behind. Breath heavy. Xochitl decides after she was in hearing distance, that hum will be a sufficient answer for her previous answer for now. She collects her bag before walking down the hallways dotted with students making their way to their clubs or homeroom, waiting for their parents. While others have decided to brave against the drizzle.

Xochitl did not know whether it was luck or not when her uwabaki loosened at the classroom door, giving her ample time to see that the room was clean, (the o-soji had been done earlier today before the free session) and void of students. She stares at the desks before moving on when Henri whistling becomes louder. She should have known, Ryuuzu had already left (probably already with Hitoshi by now). But she should have also known that she is still tempted to see. To confirm the already known truth. Call it a bad habit.

"I didn't know you work," started her desk-mate after pausing to put on their shoes at the getabako. "Does the school know of it? Did your parents approve of your working, knowing about your position to study—is it that important for you to work?" Again Xochitl feels dissected under her many questions and pointed stare. Waiting for her reaction. It seems her desk-mate had shot her gun into the thick-dense wild. Now, waiting to see if the bullet was successful at a kill.

"No need to sweat it, Xochitl is thirteen, and her parents have signed the papers. Both the school and her workplace are made aware of the situation. Isn't that right?" he nudges at her side before continuing."It's more like volunteerism, to be honest, right Xochitl?—Yes, it is. They don't need the cash. Though I understand why. Imagine coming home with free Mexican food every day. Now, that's a job I would want, yes?" His elbows rest on her shoulder, poking her for answers. The look fades from her desk-mate's face and Xochitl feels her chest unwind. When did she care about her desk-mate's assumptions of her?

"I think it's reckless on the parents' part. It's a crucial time in Xochitl life, and she needs all the time there is to study. The workload is getting heavier each month," said her desk-mate, eyes moving from Xochitl to Henri.

"Pfsh. It's no use cracking your head to solve problems that have no qualms of being solved. Besides, aren't the student's in clubs the same as Xochitl?" For the first, her desk-mate stumbles with her words. However, she quickly recovers, her back straight and nose pointed up. To Xochitl, she seems like a mirror, a repeating action of another. "It's different. Club activities are adding to one holistic academic experience."

The two quickly fall into a short debate, during which Xochitl looks for her umbrella. They talk too much, like chittering birds in the morning hours. Her mother always loves them, 'God's music,' she will say, to Xochitl, they were an annoyance: the morning doves, the ball-plates and the woodpeckers hammering at the post at their gate back home. In spring, it was at its high point. When a coupling pitcherie thought the wire from their post would make a lovely nest. The chattering and the sounds of them striking the wings off of the butterflies and beating the beetles on the wire to death was much too much for Xochitl. Though, she confesses she did enjoy watching the making of their nest. Simple mesmerizing, as they lay each dried grass and twigs with an air of professionalism and love to match.

Henri asks for her opinion on the matter they were heatedly discussing. Xochitl didn't think she needed to answer. What would she say anyway? So, instead, she opens her umbrella when Henri rushes under whispering, his words tickling the sensitive shell of her ear. 'Forget mine. You don't mind sharing.' Whilst her desk-mate stands beside them, more than comfortable with her pale pink one. Xochitl couldn't help but envy her. She sends her a sad look, one Xochitl reads for an apology.

"Ah, I see...where is this restaurant? I, for one, am not aware of any Mexican restaurant nearby."

Henri all but snorts at the same time he plays with the water droplets that slide off the umbrella. Xochitl's arm feels cramp, and she nudges Henri to make more room for herself. Instead, he takes it as an invitation to play a new rendition of tag. The two exchange licks now and then.

"Of course, you wouldn't. It's located in the back alleys of Shibuya. You wouldn't know if it was to high-tail pass you."

Her desk-mate wrinkles her nose before turning away. Xochitl believes this would be the end of chatter and the beginning of some silence before she starts again, Henri kicking his shoes in a puddle.

"This year has been plagued with hurricanes. My only hope for next year is that it will be better, dryer?"

"I second that. I hope lil' 2003 has better stocks in store for us, right Xochitl?"

Xochitl hums."Yes, I hope there is more sun."

Her desk-mate returns a smile. "It will be nice to get a tan," she turns to Henri, who has to bend his neck to stay under the umbrella, Xochitl hugging it closer to the crown of her head. "What would you think of me getting a tan Henri?"

"Mmh, you'll look fine. Say, this is where we part Hemera, me and Xochitl here gonna grab some snacks at that seven-eleven before taking a taxi." Hemera? That's her name. To Xochitl, she feels like she has just emerged from a deep sleep as she inspects her desk-mate once more. The brown freckles on her nose, the flower-petal-like lips...She's pretty. The name suits her, she is just as intoxicating as a beautiful morning—a spring morning.

Hemera blinks. Then blinks again. "I-I believe we're all going to Meguro-ku, are we not?"

"Technically yes, at some point today we are all going to Meguro. But first, we're going to Shibuya. To El Báquico," he continues, to only clear the confusion that settles on Hemera's face. "Xochitl's workplace."

An abrupt silence as Hemera stands, eyes moving from Henri to Xochitl."Oh, I see—I didn't know you accompanied Xochitl to work."

"I told him it's annoying—" starts Xochitl.

"What are friends for!" said Henri, poking her on her sides. She bats away at him.

"It's a rough neighbourhood. The place crawling with bōsōzoku and rejects, right Xochitl? Recently, some wannabe Yankees had taken to frequent the place. But they are no big deal, elementary snots," he quickly adds after Hemera's face twists into one of worry.

"You don't need to come. They haven't bothered me," said Xochitl as she watched the rain lighten up. Her hand outstretched, collecting the raindrops in the cup of her palm.

"Yet." Henri akimbo, placing himself in front.

"They won't. Besides, I'm not that exciting." Xochitl walks around him, Henri soon follows.

They begin to head to the store when Hemera interrupts. With their attention to her, she instantly seems to shrink before recollecting her trains of thought. " I would love to come if it's not inconvenient. Despite living here for quite a while, there are plenty of places I have yet to get acquainted with."

Xochitl shakes her umbrella dry before rolling it up. The rhythmic sounds of a car driving through a puddle are more soothing than she has expected. If Hemera wants to spend more hours with Henri she should just say so, instead of infringing on her time. Henri is one too many. Taking much of her time with his exploding existence. With him, her bubble of silence is threatened by the noises: the shouts, the clattering symbols. O God, the devil lives here.

Henri akimbo. Nodding. "True, you look like you don't go anywhere but as a tag-along...boring." Hemera perks, electricity through a conductor. Whatever it is Henri had hit it nail on.

"I found my situation just fine. I have enough trivialities to pass my time, moreover, I'm not a tag-along but an extension of my ménage." The prerogative has such an extensive vocabulary. Again, Xochitl wonders about her desk-mate, inspecting her, hoping to see some clue. But all she saw was a tinge of pink under her skin from anger. Henri dismisses her with a hum. The prey-like look returning and Xochitl can not help to think how childish he was with his games. How cruel, she should intervene.

"It's a rough neighbourhood, but they would not be too stupid to trouble us, foreigners. So, for now, it's good." Henri turned to her but Xochitl had already started to walk away from the store.

Maybe she should get something to eat at work, she could call Yamal. That is if he answers, he was still upset with her. Probably, over something stupid, he always lingers on the small things, an overthinker. She could stop at a vending machine and try one of those pack onigiris, even though she hates it. It tastes different from how they prepare their rice back home. At home, there is more seasoning: coconut milk, scallion, pepper, peas. It's just not the same, even the sun seems washed out. Hitoshi reassured her it was the pollution, it didn't sound so reassuring when he had said it. But he did not have to know that. He looks tired, evident by the bags under his eyes. Ever since they have left home he and father are always together, like he is embedded in his shadows. Perhaps she should make him fry jacks for breakfast. Yes, that sounds wonderful. Ryuuzu also enjoys fry jacks, right? Perhaps she should—

"...we should explore one of these days," said Hemera. She is happy once more, strides matching Henri long ones. Xochitl hums. What are they talking about now? Perhaps she should have more urgency to be more rapt in their conversations, to ask, to care even but she finds it taxing. After all, Xochitl is frugal in that way.

"That sounds good, what do you think Xochitl, how about one of these days we take a tour of the hotspots, enlightening you and all. Since, practically, you're still wet behind the ears." She stops to think, waiting for the crosswalk signal to flash green when it does a pack of bikers power pass. Bobbing and weaving through the small line of traffic. The noises of their engine popping in the air.

"Gosh! Crazy lot they are. You're fine Xochitl?" Hemera is the first to her aid. Though, in honesty, she has yet to step off the pavement. "What business do they have driving so recklessly, do they not know that this is a school zone?"

"Delinquents. This bunch is a bit calmer than the one 'round Shibuya. They have steel bats that they drag on the streets, the sound can drive the devil to a state of insanity," said Henri after gesturing to Xochitl if she is okay. She responds with a nod.

"Gosh, how despicable. I have heard that the government is considering to ban these—hoodlums."

"Mmh, though I admit, they are a bit of a vibrant bunch compared to these lacklustre herd, y'know. Have you ever tried talking to them? I tried talking to Tanaka for a straight year and he's yet to drop the formality. Fricking stuffed shirts." Again Hemera plays with her thumb, lips draw in a line as she thinks of the best possible neutral answer there is.

"They are...but you have to consider their cultural differences."

"Bah..."

The light flashes green and they have to wait again for the crosswalk sign to change when Xochitl stares in the direction the bikers have taken. Only the sounds, though muffled, could be heard. It seems fun. She has never ridden on a bike. A donkey cart, a donkey itself but a bike, never. Her mother will have a fit after she had probably broken her neck trying to learn how. Xochil can see it now, her mother throwing her red apron over her head in grief. What a sight that would be.

"Haikara."

The two stop their chatter, their faces twist in confusion. She repeats herself as they begin to cross, a couple of elementary children with their randoseru running in the opposite direction, singing, supposedly, a nursery rhyme.

"Haikara, it's a music store in Harajuku near Takeshita Street. It will be our first stop on this tour."

Hemera quickly takes upon this change of subject.

"Music store, never pegged you for a music lover," said Henri.

"You never asked."

"Touché."

"That sounds delightful, what genre do you suppose they have?" Hemera asks.

"Dunno, enough," answered Xochitl.

"Speaking of genre, what type do you like?" Xochitl pauses to look at Henri, her eyes looking up thinking.

"Recently, I found that I like heartbreak, is that a genre?"

Henri all but laughs, his arm around her shoulders. Xochitl frowns in distaste, whilst Hemera shifts from one foot to another, quickly sending Xochitls a smile when her eyes land on her. He's so touchy-feely nowadays, but she thinks, for the meantime, she will overlook it as he falls into another conversation. Hemera Listening diligently. It's the least she can do. She will consider it as a premature apology for all the times to come (there will be plenty) as she begins to submerge into the watery depths of her mind. She can see the river trickling, threatening to burst the dam...it's the least she can do for him...Bai Diable-là manger un 'ti mamaille, un, deux, trois 'ti mamaille! Bai Diable-là manger un 'ti mamaille, Un, deux, trois…

Authors note

(Creole) Pitcherie - A Kingfisher

Diable-là and Bolom are characters from the play Ti-Jean and His Brothers by Derrick Walcott. A lovely read, I recommend to anyone who loves folklore. Excerpts from the play are also used in this chapter such as: 'Mi boug qui tait cooyon!' and 'Bai Diable-là manger un 'ti mamaille, un, deux, trois 'ti mamaille! Bai Diable-là manger un 'ti mamaille, Un, deux, trois…' which are all written in French Base Creole, the vernacular language of St. Lucia.

Translation:

Diable-là: The Devil

Bolom: One of the devil minions. A foetus who was aborted by their mother.

'Mi boug qui tait cooyon!': look man who was a fool! The cricket said this, one of the many creatures that were in the play

Bai Diable-là manger un 'ti mamaille, un, deux, trois 'ti mamaille! Bai Diable-là manger un 'ti mamaille, Un, deux, trois…': Give the devil a child for dinner, one, two, three little children! Give the devil a child for dinner, one, two, three little children!

Henri and Hemera are talking about the Japanese law that allows children to work. Following chapter five-under minors, despite previously stating that children under fifteen cannot work, if said child is over twelve he and she can work. Albeit, their work must be light and the working community should not be hazardous to their health. Secondly, parents should have written consent along with school and work stating that the child work is not hindering their study. Most schools in Japan knowing how stressful/time-consuming working is prohibit students from having jobs while studying. Again, I might be reading the document wrong, as I've asked a few friends about their time in Japan and they said that the work they were able to get wasn't actually anything big, like delivering newspapers while under the age of fifteen...but I was like meh, fuck it, it is just a fanfiction. No need to get so technical about it.