It was the end of April. The cherry blossoms had fallen, and the new students had gotten used to their school life around now.
“Huh? Where’s Shinohara?”
“He said he was going to the school store today.”
My group’s dynamics were changing. Reita, Tatsuya, Mei, Kijima, and I often went to the cafeteria together. However, Mei had said he wasn’t going to the cafeteria today, and I didn’t need to ask why. It was because today was the Monday after he had declared he would quit the band and vanished.
My eyes met his when he was in the middle of chatting with Funayama-san, but that same instant, he awkwardly turned away.
“Huh...”
“Something happened with your band, didn’t it?”
The other three guys, after seeing our exchange, gave me a curious look.
“Yeah, pretty much,” I replied. It’s actually pretty major. I should try asking them for advice. “We played at a music festival this past Saturday,” I began. While we walked from our classroom to the cafeteria, I recounted the whole incident, from the troubles we’d been running into during practice, to what had happened at the concert on Saturday.
“I see,” Tatsuya murmured with a troubled frown. “That’s a tough one. Even if you all agreed on being serious, each person has their own standard for what that means.”
Reita nodded in agreement.
“If that underclassman girl’s tone is harsh, then shouldn’t she rectify that even if her points are valid?” Kijima mused. He was probably stating his thoughts verbatim.
As an aside, I had gotten close to Kijima in the past few weeks and had dropped the honorifics.
“But if they’re going to take this thing seriously, then they need to be able to stomach harsh feedback to some extent,” Tatsuya replied.
We arrived at the cafeteria in the middle of our discussion. We ordered our respective meals and took a seat at an open table.
“Look at me—there are times when I get angry because I’m taking basketball seriously.” Tatsuya jabbed his spoon into his large curry and shoveled out a big scoop. Yamano had made a similar remark.
“True, Tatsuya even snaps at our upperclassmen...” Kijima looked tired as he slurped up his ramen, likely recalling at least one specific incident.
For the record, I can’t imagine that. To begin with, Tatsuya didn’t take basketball seriously in my first round, so he never snapped at our upperclassmen. I already knew this, but Tatsuya has diverged drastically from his original history over the course of one year.
“But if the atmosphere sours and practice efficiency drops as a result,” Reita commented, “then wouldn’t it be better to not say anything uncalled-for? Look at what happened; Shinohara-kun wants to quit now.” He always put efficiency foremost, and he’d made a good point too.
“You won’t improve much if you go at a snail’s pace. Practice is quality over quantity,” Tatsuya said. “If he’s going to talk about quitting just because someone was a little stern with him, then he wasn’t ever serious from the get-go.”
“No way, that’s not how that works,” Kijima countered vehemently. “I can relate to the way Shinohara feels. Just because you’re serious doesn’t mean you can say whatever you want.”
“If you can’t give hard criticism, then it’s a load of bull crap! What would be serious about that?” Tatsuya, however, wouldn’t budge. His opinion remained firm. He and Mei had been getting along lately, but it felt like he was able to separate their relationship from the question at hand.
“In the end, I think that also has to do with how you phrase it,” Reita said, composed as ever as he worked on his karaage set meal. “Personally, I believe that you can word harsh feedback in a way that comes across as empathetic to the other person rather than hurting them.”
“Eh, guess so.” Having no objection to that, Tatsuya gave a small nod, but then continued on. “I still think anyone who’d fold from just that much wasn’t serious.”
“Still, it’s not easy to do anything seriously,” Kijima said placatingly. “It’s damn hard and painful. You drag me into your individual training, so I know that much. You’d be asking the impossible if you told everyone on the team to be as passionate about basketball as you.”
Hearing that, Tatsuya fell into a stony silence. Currently, he was aiming to become a professional basketball player. However, our school’s team wasn’t a powerhouse. It was unrealistic to expect the other members to maintain the same level of motivation as him.
“I think the word serious in itself is too vague,” Reita said with a piece of karaage in his mouth. “That’s why each person’s motivation level will end up changing to some degree. What’s necessary is a time frame and a goal. By when will you be able to do what? Making progress boils down to repeatedly asking and answering that question. You have to face reality and advance one step at a time. That’s what hard work is.”
Reita’s opinion was objective, calm, and realistic to the bone.
“I was wrong for using the word serious so lightly,” I said.
“Natsuki, what made you want to take your band seriously?” Reita asked.
“Well...because I thought it would make my days even more fulfilling.”
“In other words, you wanted to be serious not for any specific goal, but because you find value in the process of taking the band seriously in and of itself, right?” Reita’s interpretation was correct. It was exactly as he said.
“Yeah. I want to experience a concert like we had at the school festival again, and I mean it when I say I want to change the world with music like Serika says. But those aren’t the most important things for me.” I think spending my days struggling in the band seriously will make my rainbow shine. But how is that working out for me in reality? The band’s in dire straits; we’re on the verge of breaking up. “Do you think that’s weird?”
“No, everyone’s different.” Reita shook his head, not denying my way of thinking. “But that’s why you should revisit your bandmates’ reasons for taking it seriously.”
It finally clicked with me what he was trying to say. Everyone’s reason for facing music isn’t necessarily the same as mine. Serika wants to change the world with her music, so that’s why she’s taking it seriously. I know that much. But what about Yamano? And Mei? When it comes to music and our band, what do they want out of it?
If they’re just tagging along because I said we should take it seriously, then of course their motivation won’t hold. After all, being serious isn’t so easy.
“Natsuki, your band’s four in total, right? Having all four people practice seriously would be a miracle. Maybe you could do it on your own, but it gets harder and harder the more people there are,” Reita said.
I know. Mishle was a miracle band. We had a short time frame and a clear goal, so all of us could sprint at the same speed. It’s impossible for us to do the same thing now.
“I’m on the soccer team, and I keep the intensity of practices moderate. If it were any more strenuous, people would drop out like flies. Everyone has their own reason for being in a club. If there are players who are serious about winning, then there will also be players who are content with just having fun. I spoke to our coach and made a training menu taking into account each player’s motivation level. That way will foster the strongest team possible.”
Everyone belongs to their own community, and they’re bound to have different stances. Tatsuya’s basketball team is ultimately chasing after an ideal. Reita’s soccer team has come to grips with reality and formulated their optimal solution.
“Either way, you’ve only got two paths ahead of you,” Tatsuya said.
I know what he means. At present, Mei has already declared that he’s going to leave the band. We don’t have many options left. We either face reality and compromise or find a new member who’s dreaming the same dream as us.