VALENTINE’S landed on a weekday that year, ensuring that we’d all be at school for the big day. Our school strictly forbade outside snacks, however, and enforced that rule with a particular zeal on the fourteenth. Any chocolate discovered would be confiscated on the spot and our guardians notified, so all exchanges had to be conducted outside of school.
Typically, that involved arranging get-togethers after school hours to swap chocolate—anytime from the previous weekend to Valentine’s Day itself. The meetups were also an excuse to hang out, of course, but planning them could be a logistical nightmare, especially for those with wide social circles and/or full schedules packed with after-school clubs and cram school.
I couldn’t relate to that dilemma though. My circle was small, consisting of Mao, Honomi, and a smattering of girls from my after-school activities, so preparation was manageable. I’d baked chocolate chip muffins for the group; they’d come out great, yet I had to admit I was suffering a little chocolate fatigue after baking with it nonstop for the past two weeks. I was overdue for a break, definitely.
So, on the fourteenth, in keeping with my routine, I waited in the library for Towada. We walked home, and as we approached my front door, I asked him to wait for a moment while I hopped inside to fetch his brownies. His face registered complete surprise as I handed them over. “What’s that look for?” I asked.
“Ah, um… Nothing—I just thought I wasn’t getting any.”
“Really?” Weird, I thought. If he didn’t deserve chocolate from me, then who did? “Anyways, can you give this bag to Ayako and this one to the oaties?”
“Sure, but why not hand them over yourself?”
“I’d love to, but I can’t today.”
“You have plans?”
I nodded. “One of Mao’s cousins does ballet. She found out that I used to as well and really wants me to go with her.”
My old ballet school was one of her dream institutions, so she had mistakenly inferred that I was some star pupil like many of its alumni and therefore destined to compete or even shine on the international stage. Even after I explained that I had been totally casual, she retorted, “You went there four times a week; there’s no way that’s casual!”
“She’s keen on showing me her class to compare,” I said to Towada.
Truthfully, I’d known about her ever since I befriended Mao and had been declining her invitations all that time. What could I do, really? Offer advice on recitals I never performed in? That didn’t feel right. And besides, I’d left ballet behind. But I changed my mind after stumbling upon my old pointe shoes during our New Year’s cleanup. Carefully packed away in the depths of my closet was not just one pair—but several.
“Seriously, just so many pairs of old, beat-up shoes—I’ve hung on to them for all this time. I honestly thought I’d left that part of me behind,” I admitted.
In ballet, one’s figure determined everything. No matter how much someone short and stubby like me practiced fouetté turns, they’d never land the role of the Black Swan. Pas de deux? Forget about it; the height difference between the two dancers would be glaringly obvious. Yet, for a while, my love for ballet propelled me to continue. But the sting of seeing my classmates leap and twirl past me, move ahead while I felt stuck, had started to hurt. The more vehemently I told myself I didn’t care, the louder my envy and self-doubt clamored to be heard. That unspoken resentment grew and grew until, under the convenient pretext of our family’s relocation, I left everything behind. My dedication, the countless hours, the shoes worn through from endless afternoons of dancing—I abandoned it all.
I’d anticipated a sense of freedom, a relief at letting go. But that wasn’t to be.
“So, yeah, I’m just gonna go check it out.”
I wasn’t sure whether I was going to start dancing again or not. As a soon-to-be third year, I had more pressing concerns than whether to return to an old hobby—like the impending high school entrance exams, for instance. Still, a part of me felt like I owed it to myself—to the me that existed before I lost my memories—to give ballet one more shot.
Towada, ever the patient listener, allowed me to babble uninterrupted. When I finally paused, he asked, “Is the studio close?”
“Quite close, but it’s in a residential area, so a little tricky to find. The cousin’s mom is driving me there.” I caught a familiar flicker of worry in his eyes, a reluctance to let me travel alone. Only after I told him I’d have company on the way back as well did his apprehension ease. “Overprotective much? You know we’re the same age, right?” I added teasingly.
“I don’t have much choice in the matter, do I?”
“You don’t think it’s too much?”
“No, not at all.”
I narrowed my eyes in feigned suspicion. “Really?”
He flashed a grin, sidestepping my mock interrogation. Then, with a “See you tomorrow,” he took his leave.
Yep, definitely overprotective.