Chapter 4

With the end of Golden Week, studies began in earnest for the bulk of Kitauji’s students. The week before the midterm exams, all extracurricular activities were canceled. Pushing her normally recalcitrant brain to full throttle, Kumiko managed to get through the tests. Her scores were slightly above the average. Not bad—although not good, either. “Congratulations on finishing your midterm exams.” It was the first day off school since the tests were over. The assembled members of the band all gazed meekly at Taki’s face. Their own expressions were, to a one, suffused with an obvious unease. “Now then, with midterms out of the way, the only big event between now and the summer break will be your finals.” Kumiko involuntarily winced. She wished he wouldn’t count finals as a “big event.” Just thinking about them dampened her already-gloomy spirits. “The concert band has nothing scheduled until we appear in competition, so you should all have plenty of time to practice.” Kumiko had a bad feeling about this. And just as she’d feared, Taki pulled a slip of paper out of his pocket. “This paper contains this year’s list of compulsory pieces.” “Compulsory…pieces?” For Class A and Full Band competitions (including Nationals), competitors were required to perform both a compulsory piece and a free piece. For the compulsory piece, participating bands chose whichever one they preferred from the provided list of options and performed it at the competition. There were also limitations on the size of the ensemble, with high school bands capped at fifty-five members. The performance time, too, was limited—the compulsory and free performances combined had to be less than twelve minutes. Exceeding twelve minutes resulted in immediate disqualification. There were no exceptions to this twelve-minute rule, and disqualifications for violating it were not uncommon even at Nationals. It was a surprisingly strict form of competition. “I don’t know how you’ve chosen your performance pieces in the past, but this year Ms. Matsumoto and I will be making the decision for both the compulsory and free performances. I apologize to anyone who had expectations otherwise.” Taki did not seem notably apologetic. “So, what will this year’s songs be?” Asuka’s eyes shone. Taki made a deliberate show of holding his mouth closed for a moment, then suddenly exhaled. “Our compulsory piece this year will be Namie Horikawa’s ‘Crescent Moon Dance,’ and our free will be ‘East Coast Pictures.’” That was all well and good, but Kumiko had no idea what kind of music either of those pieces was. Evidently she wasn’t the only one, as the students’ applause upon hearing the titles was distinctly hesitant and uncertain. “‘Crescent Moon Dance’! Mr. Taki, you really know what’s what, don’t you?” Asuka shot to her feet, her cheeks colored with her excitement. She appeared to be the only student in the room who had any familiarity with the music in question. “Namie Horikawa! She’s a young composer born in Kyoto who got her MFA in composition at the Kyoto City University of Arts! A woman whose zeitgeist-capturing work ranges from orchestral compositions to wind ensembles, and her appeal comes from her intricate melodies and dynamic structure! Her bass harmonies are supercool, too. I just knew we had to play ‘Crescent Moon Dance’! And—” “I’m glad you’re happy with our choices, Miss Tanaka,” said Taki, mercilessly cutting Asuka off. Though her enthusiasm wasn’t dampened in the slightest, she sat, clasping her hands together in joy and continuing to regale Kaori, who sat next to her. “Now then, I have something important to discuss,” continued Taki, eyes scanning over the assembled band. “There are eighty-one students in the concert band this year. Ten of those are beginners, but that still leaves seventy-one students who can perform in Class A. However, Class A competition limits ensembles to fifty-five members. We simply have too many.” Everyone held their breath. Only fifty-five students would be able to play in Class A competitions. Obviously, some eligible students would be left out. Taki smiled and continued. “Therefore, I have decided to hold auditions over the two days leading up to your final exams.” Auditions. The third-year students were the first to react. Ignoring the excited murmurs of the first-year students, the third-year girls stood and immediately began arguing with Taki. “Mr. Taki, we’ve always decided competition band lineup by school year. Shouldn’t first-year students play in Class B, instead?” Class A wasn’t the only category in concert band competition. At the local and regional levels, there were elementary school categories and small-ensemble categories, which were known as Class B, and events involving the combined class, Class C, were also common. They didn’t lead to the national competition, but they were a way for bands with constraints on their membership or budget to participate in smaller competitions. It was common for schools with larger bands to participate in both Class A and Class B, and Kitauji had always done so. “Isn’t that unfair, though?” Taki’s smile was undamaged. “Many of the first-year students are working just as hard. It strikes me as unreasonable to ignore their effort and decide band lineup by class year.” “But that’s what we’ve always done.” “Yes, but I’m the director now. You may have done things differently in the past, but what relevance does that have?” At this refutation, the third-year students were silenced. “And you don’t have to think of this as an obstacle. If the third-year students are more skilled than the first-years, there won’t be a problem, will there? Am I wrong?” This struck Kumiko as playing dirty. When Taki put it that way, the third-year students had no choice but to shut up and take it, since arguing further would be a tacit admission that the first-year students were better than they were. Kaori hesitantly raised her hand. “Um, how will the auditions work?” “I’ll be distributing sheet music today, and I’d like you to practice it. You’ll be tested on both the compulsory and free pieces,” Taki said. “I’ll be deciding solo assignments based on the audition as well, so bear that in mind.” Now the classroom was truly in an uproar. Solo sections were places in the score where a single player would play the melody or some other part of the song alone, or even create a new melody entirely. There were many ways to decide who got to play those parts, but Kitauji had always assigned solos by seniority. Taki’s words upended that. If solos weren’t going to be decided by class year, it was obvious that at least some of them would go to first-years instead of third-years. Kaori glanced in Reina’s direction with eyes full of uncertainty. Whether or not she noticed that, Reina’s gaze was fixed solely on Taki. “With the Class A band capped at fifty-five members, I will have anyone who I determine isn’t playing at the Class A level moved to the Class B ensemble. This could mean the Class A band would end up being fewer than fifty-five, so I’ll ask you all to practice hard and do the very best you can. Speaking of which, here is your schedule up until the audition,” said Taki as he passed out a sheet crammed with practice assignments. Kumiko involuntarily winced at the packed schedule. It made her dizzy just looking at it. “This is amazing…” murmured—who else?—Asuka. Most Saturdays and Sundays had band practice scheduled, and days without any practice were few and far between. It was definitely going to be an imposition on the third-year students, who also had to be studying for college entrance exams. Realizing this, Kumiko looked up with a quick intake of breath—she had just remembered Aoi. What would Aoi do? And just as the thought occurred to Kumiko, Aoi herself raised her hand. “Er, may I say something?” said Aoi. “What is it?” Taki cocked his head. Aoi glanced down at the sheet of paper in her hand, then took a deep breath. With her slim fingers, she crumpled the gray-tinged paper. “I’m quitting band.” There was a murmured “Wha?” of surprise from Ogasawara, whose eyes went wide. “Do you have a reason?” asked Taki, his voice as calm as ever. Aoi’s lips stiffened at the director’s serious expression. “I need to put more effort into my entrance exam preparation. If I continue with band, I won’t be able to get into my first-choice college. I’ve been thinking about it for a while, but it would be bad for the band if I were to quit after the audition, so I’ve decided to do it now.” “Aoi, please don’t quit!” came the murmurs of her sad-faced juniors in the saxophone section. The reaction made it clear just how well-liked she was. “…I see,” said Taki, looking down. He brought a large hand to his cheek and let slip a too-deep, conflicted sigh. Then he straightened, as though bringing his emotions under control. “Understood. We’ll do the necessary paperwork at a later date, so please come by the teachers’ office this Monday, if you can.” “Yes, sir. I’m sorry to be causing trouble.” “It’s quite all right. This is your decision, so please see it through. And good luck on your entrance exams.” “Thank you very much,” replied Aoi, bowing deeply. After a lengthy silence, Aoi came back up. Her expression was pleasant, but it had a lonely sadness to it. She unhooked her bag from the desk where it hung and began to walk toward the classroom’s exit. Some of the first-year saxes were crying. Aoi reached out to slide the door open, then looked back over her shoulder. Her gaze was directed at Asuka, who evenly returned it without a trace of emotion. She displayed not the slightest hint of sympathy for a departing band member. The tension in Aoi’s lips suddenly faded, and when she finally left the room, there was no regret on her face at all. A sudden urge welled up within Kumiko—she had to catch Aoi. It was an impatient emotion, with a sense of obligation mixed into it as well. There was a clatter as legs caught the edge of a chair, and in some part of her mind, Kumiko realized that she herself was the source of the sounds, for she had bolted to her feet. “Wait, Aoi!” Kumiko’s body seemed to move on its own. She left the music classroom as though she’d been chased out. Hazuki’s voice followed behind her, trying to stop her, but Kumiko pretended she didn’t hear it. “Aoi! Wait, please!” Someone else reached Aoi before Kumiko: Ogasawara. Maybe she’d left the music classroom first. She stood in front of Aoi, short of breath and unconcerned with her skirt’s flipped-up hem. “Wait!” “…” Aoi’s brows furrowed in consternation. Kumiko hid herself to avoid being noticed. It seemed like a bad moment to intrude upon. “Are you really quitting band?” “Yeah.” “Why?” “I said, didn’t I? I’ve gotta study for exams,” said Aoi, her gaze askance. Ogasawara folded her arms and glared at Aoi. “If the practice is too tough, just play in Class B.” “I’d feel bad for the kids who’re really working hard.” “So just play in the regular recital! That’s when the third-years are retiring, anyway, so just hang in there until then!” “I can’t.” “Why not?” “Because I…” Aoi’s expression twisted. The two girls’ shadows fell starkly on the white-painted hallway. It was bright outside, but the space they occupied felt somehow dim. The shouts of the baseball team floated in as they practiced outside on the athletics field. They seemed to come from a distant world, and it felt like this particular hallway was somehow separated from the rest of existence. The two girls were drowning inside that invisible membrane. Ogasawara did not look away from Aoi. Aoi looked at the floor, as though trying to escape the gaze. “I’m just not that in love with band.” The words seemed to leak reluctantly from her throat. She bit her lip as though trying to keep them back. Her cheeks glowed red. “I’ve been wanting to quit for a while, honestly. I hate it.” She spat the words out. Ogasawara gasped. She recoiled, retreating one step back, then another. Aoi grabbed her wrist. “Haruka— You remember what happened last year, too, don’t you?” “…I—” “So you can’t give me this ‘Oh, ha-ha, we’ll aim for Nationals’ stuff. Why is everyone suddenly okay with this? I don’t get it. After they attacked those girls last year.” “That was…” “I can’t do it. I can’t take this. They’ve got no right to tell me, ‘Well, I’m gonna work hard!’ And they shouldn’t be telling you that, either, Haruka.” Ogasawara said nothing in response. Her long ponytail swayed to and fro. Aoi huffed, then roughly dropped Ogasawara’s wrist. Ogasawara did not react, her eyes fixed dimly at the floor. “It’s good timing, anyway. No matter what I think, it’s true that I have to study for entrance exams. I would’ve had to quit band regardless. Enough, okay?” said Aoi brusquely, and began to walk away. She showed no hesitation or regret, which gave the president no right to try to stop her. Ogasawara didn’t move. She was not going to follow Aoi. “Aoi!” Kumiko called out in spite of herself. Aoi turned in surprise to see the figure that had suddenly emerged from hiding. “Kumiko…? What’re you doing here?” “You said you were quitting, so I…” Kumiko wondered if they suspected her of eavesdropping. She awkwardly trailed off in midsentence. Aoi sighed, a faint smile flickering across her face. “You were worried about me? Thanks.” Her voice was kind, completely unlike the sharp tirade she’d spat just moments earlier. Ogasawara looked slowly up, her eyes turning toward Kumiko. “Oumae, the club’s in the middle of a meeting. What are you doing here?” Aoi’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly in amusement. “I could ask you the same thing, Haruka. What’s the band president doing here? You should get back.” “Maybe, but…” “You too, Kumiko—don’t make trouble for other people. You should get back to the music room.” The words were kindly spoken, but there was an unmistakable rejection within them. Aoi was obscuring her true feelings behind many layers. Is that what you really think, Aoi? Kumiko would’ve been able to easily ask the simple question any other time, but now it stuck in her throat. “Well…bye,” said Aoi, finally turning and walking away from the two other girls. The slim line of her body was clear past the deep blue fabric of her uniform. The ruddy flush of her thighs flashed behind the sway of her skirt. There was no hesitation in her steps. All Kumiko could do was watch her go. Once Aoi was gone, silence fell in the hallway. Kumiko was alone with the president, who hadn’t moved a muscle in some time. With no idea what to do, Kumiko glanced hesitantly in the other girl’s direction. Ogasawara didn’t look up. “…I knew it,” she finally murmured softly. Kumiko’s ears caught the quiet voice. “I knew I never should’ve been president,” said Ogasawara, sinking to the floor on the spot. The sudden movement put her hair into a tangle, but then she was still again. Through the gaps in where her black hair fell over her shoulders, Kumiko could see the pale line of her neck. There was an angry red swelling there, too, and Kumiko wondered if a bug had bitten her or something. “…President?” Kumiko said, hesitation in her voice. Ogasawara did not look up. Kumiko saw her hands grasping the hem of her skirt and trembling. “Are…are you all right?” Kumiko laid a timid hand on the band president’s shoulder. Still, she did not look up. “If Asuka had been the president, Aoi wouldn’t have quit.” “That is not true!” Kumiko said, the words’ unavoidable stiltedness making them useless as consolation. Ogasawara shrank further into herself at hearing the hollow formality. “Whatever, I know it’s true. I’m nothing like Asuka. I’m not good at anything. I knew from the very beginning that I couldn’t cut it at an important job like president. Everyone was thinking it—‘Why couldn’t Asuka have been president, instead of this screw-up?’” “N-no one was thinking that!” “Don’t bother denying it. Even I notice that much.” Ogasawara’s voice was becoming more and more depressed. “You have all kinds of good points that Asuka doesn’t! All of us juniors think so.” “Name one, then!” shot back Ogasawara, just when Kumiko was starting to think she’d made some kind of an impression on the president. Kumiko flinched as she fumbled for words. “Um, like how you’re always so kind and considerate…” “Besides that.” “Besides that…I mean, you always make sure to say hello to the juniors, and you’re really nice…” “What else?” “Um…Oh! Like how it’s so nice of you to sometimes bring snacks and stuff!” “Great, so I’m nice and that’s it!” Ogasawara stood, her eyes flashing. Kumiko shrank away at the rebuke’s intensity. Ogasawara’s already tight eyes were puffy and red, making them seem even tighter. “‘Nice’ is what you call someone who doesn’t have anything worthwhile about them! Don’t think I don’t know that!” Kumiko was stunned into silence by the finger that Ogasawara furiously pointed at her. So this was who she really was. Suddenly Riko’s words faded into being in her mind: Ogasawara doesn’t really have the right mind-set. Ogasawara continued to glare at Kumiko for a few seconds, then finally dropped her gaze to the floor. Her lowered eyelashes trembled, the shadow cast by her bangs falling gloomily across her red-tinged cheeks. Her always-composed face was contorted with emotion. “I’m just… I’m just…!” A pair of arms appeared from behind Ogasawara. Ten fingers grabbed onto her shoulders. “God, are you moaning about this again?” Ogasawara flinched bodily at the shock of being grabbed. Kumiko’s eyes went wide at the sudden appearance of another person. “A-Asuka?!” “Hm? Yes?” Asuka peered out from behind Ogasawara’s shoulder as though nothing unusual was happening at all. Ogasawara herself looked back and gave a strangled cry of surprise at finding Asuka’s visage at point-blank range. “Wh-when did you…?” “Hmm. I guess just a second ago. You guys were taking so long getting back that I came to get you,” said Asuka. The corners of her lip curled up into a smile. “So, what’re you two talking about here? I figured you’d just gone to try to stop Aoi, but…” “Oh, Aoi—that is, er, she already left,” said Kumiko. “So, what, Haruka’s just been arguing with you this whole time?” “I’m not arguing!” disputed a red-faced Ogasawara. Asuka gave a low, amused chuckle and pressed a finger up to the president’s lips. “Now, now, Haruka. You’ve gotta get your emotions under control. You’re the club president, after all.” “Oh, shut up!” snapped Ogasawara, turning away. “I do kind of like it when you don’t, though,” murmured a grinning Asuka into her ear. Ogasawara’s facial expression boiled over instantly. “D-don’t be stupid!” “Aw, you love it.” “I do not!” Despite Haruka’s vehement denial, it was plain as day that she was now just trying to cover up her embarrassment. Evidently the concert band president was feeling better. Kumiko sighed in relief. In what seemed like a very well-practiced gesture, Asuka gave Haruka a nudge with her hand. “Come on now, let’s go back.” “I know, already!” Ogasawara moved as she’d been encouraged to. Asuka really was a skilled cajoler, Kumiko mused vaguely as she followed behind the two girls. Asuka said something. Ogasawara argued with it. Asuka laughed. This was their usual amicable dynamic; the earlier surprised despondency was nowhere to be seen, and Ogasawara’s affect had returned to normal. Beside her, Asuka narrowed her eyes happily. Then those clear eyes glanced back for just an instant. They were shockingly cold. Kumiko gulped and felt her heart lurch in her chest. It was a jarringly incongruous moment that interrupted the otherwise pure scene of two girls happy in their friendship. “What’s wrong, Kumiko?” Asuka looked back properly, noticing that Kumiko had stopped in her tracks. Kumiko forced a smile to her face and shook her head. “Oh, um, n-nothing!” “Oh? Well, that’s good,” said Asuka, turning to look ahead again. Kumiko tried to calm her pounding heart as she followed behind. “Saitou’s really quitting?” asked Shuuichi as he leaned back in the train bench. The band had been dismissed shortly after Kumiko, Asuka, and Ogasawara had returned to the room. Kumiko had been standing on the train platform, alone with her uneasy thoughts, and it was Shuuichi who’d called out to her and suggested they go home together. Now that she thought of it, she was pretty sure that this was the first time she’d ridden the train with him. Kumiko shrugged as she traced her finger over the seat’s green upholstery. “I think so. Aoi’s pretty serious.” “So not even the combo of Tanaka and President Ogasawara could convince her?” The train clattered over its tracks. The scenery outside moved from right to left through its frame. Shuuichi put his bag on his lap and yawned. Kumiko looked quietly down. “Asuka…wasn’t trying to convince her in the first place.” “But she left after you and the president went to get Saitou. I was sure Tanaka’d gone to stop her, too.” “No, Asuka, she…” That was as far as Kumiko got before she cut herself off with a quick intake of breath. What had Asuka wanted to say back there? Kumiko pressed her hands against her forehead. All that came to mind were Asuka’s eyes in that moment. Those two bright eyes were superficially kind, but in their depths was something else—something unreadable but distinctly cold. Even now, Kumiko found them somehow terrifying. “Asuka, she…what?” asked Shuuichi, head tilted curiously. “Nothing,” said Kumiko, shaking her head. The two fell into silence. The train rattled, swaying as it rolled through a curve in the tracks. “Man, I…” started Shuuichi. Kumiko looked up and over at him. She glimpsed the nape of his neck where it emerged from his uniform jacket’s collar. Its line was—faintly, but distinctly—more robustly masculine than it had been in middle school. “I’m really…not a fan of hers.” “‘Her’? Who do you mean?” “Tanaka,” said Shuuichi, scowling. Kumiko was shocked into momentary silence. “D-don’t ever say that in the band! They’ll tear you apart if you say anything bad about Asuka!” “You think I don’t know how popular she is?” “Okay, so why are you telling me this all of a sudden? And wait, didn’t you really respect her at first?” “Yeah, but…like…she’s too perfect.” “Huh?” Kumiko blurted at the unexpected statement. “It’s like, you need faults, or…maybe you don’t understand.” “I do not,” said Kumiko immediately. Shuuichi scratched his head, seemingly at a loss. “Well, try a little harder, then.” “I have no idea what you’re talking about, though.” Shuuichi furrowed his brow. “I mean, I just hate that whole ‘I’m totally perfect!’ thing she does. Don’t you think people in the band buy into that a little too much?” “Oh, so you’re just jealous.” “Oh, excuse me for being jealous, then!” snapped Shuuichi, turning away. Kumiko smirked and smacked his shoulder. “I do kind of get it, though.” “Huh?” Shuuichi’s eyes widened at the unexpected response. “What?” “No, I just figured you were a true believer in Tanaka.” “I mean, I definitely respect her. She’s really impressive as a senior band member. But…” Kumiko paused. She chose her words carefully, not wanting to say anything accidentally inflammatory. “I don’t think she’s exactly the person everybody thinks she is. She’s not just nice and funny. It’s more like she’s—thinking on a different level.” “Like she’s got her eyes on something else?” “Yeah, something like that.” That was surely why Kumiko had found her eyes so frightening. The world she saw and the world Asuka saw were profoundly different places. “Maybe that’s it,” murmured Shuuichi. The sunlight coming through the window limned his profile. A trace of facial hair had been left just beneath his nose. He kept nervously running his bony fingers to and fro over the top of his schoolbag. It was somehow suffocating to watch, and Kumiko reflexively looked away. Clack, clack. Clack, clack, came the sound of the train on the rails. “Hey, Kumiko. The trombone, Tsukamoto—are you going out with him?” The jaunty question sauntered into Kumiko’s ear, whereupon the bite of rolled egg omelet she’d been about to eat tumbled helplessly from her chopsticks’ grasp. It fell to her desk’s surface, yellow and white and tragic. “…What?” Kumiko finally managed to answer, her brain spinning at a feverish pitch. Who the hell was “Tsukamoto”? And then she realized—the surname referred to Shuuichi. “Like I said, are you going out with Tsukamoto?” Both Hazuki’s and Midori’s eyes sparkled brightly as they waited for Kumiko’s answer. The classroom was noisy with students’ conversations. It had become daily routine now for the trio of Kumiko, Hazuki, and Midori to push their desks together next to the window and eat lunch together. Midori had a fancy-looking sandwich she’d bought at the bakery, Hazuki a convenience store rice ball, and Kumiko was eating a lunch her mother had packed for her. So far their conversation had been pleasant as usual, but that was before the aforementioned bomb was lobbed into its midst. “Uh, no, we’re not.” “Aw, that’s no fun,” pouted Midori, while beside her Hazuki breathed out a sigh of relief. “Why do you ask?” said Kumiko. “Oh, just that me and Hazuki were on the train, and we saw you guys together.” “That day we had band, you mean?” “Yeah!” Midori nodded innocently. She looked over to Hazuki with a carefree smile. “Good news, right?” “Wh-what’s good about it?!” objected Hazuki, her face going red. Kumiko ignored this and addressed Midori. “Good news?” Midori giggled. “I figured something out!” she said, straightening proudly. Next to her, Hazuki flailed and grabbed her arm. “Midori, wait—” “Hazuki’s got a thing for Tsukamoto!” Kumiko’s breath caught. Her mind went blank, and she couldn’t think of what to say in response. “Geez, why’d you have to say it?!” “Aw, c’mon!” said Midori. The pair was completely oblivious to Kumiko’s state as they bantered. “But honestly, I’m just relieved you and Kumiko didn’t wind up in a love triangle.” “Anyway, it’s not like I’m super into Tsukamoto! I’m just…sorta interested, that’s all.” “Which means you are into him! Hah, I’ve got it all figured out.” Midori was delighted. She was notably susceptible to discussing romantic relationships, perhaps because she’d gone to all-girl schools for both elementary and middle school. “But anyway, Kumiko, why were you going home together? Are you and Tsukamoto friends or something?” “Ah, yeah. My mom and Shuuichi’s mom have known each other for a long time, and our families have spent a lot of time together ever since I moved here in third grade, so you could call us childhood friends.” “Oh! Lucky you, having a childhood friend. I want one.” “Why don’t you make one?” “You can’t just ‘make’ a childhood friend!” pouted Midori. Poking her puffed-out cheeks only made her sulkier. Next to Midori, Hazuki was gazing absentmindedly at Kumiko. “Hazuki?” The words seemed to bring her back to herself, and she stiffened. “What’s up?” “Oh, uh, n-nothing, really.” Hazuki shook her head with an expression that strongly suggested it was not “nothing.” Midori seemed to notice this, too, and an evil grin spread across her face. “Hazuki’s got a problem, see—how to invite Tsukamoto to the Agata Festival.” “Midori, god! Why do you have to keep shooting your mouth off!” Midori giggled. “Aw, don’t be like that.” The Agata Festival Midori referred to was the festival of the Agata Shrine, which was held on June fifth every year, with festivities running until dawn on the sixth. Late in the night, the streetlights would be extinguished, and a great float carrying a Brahma would pass through in the dark, which gave the event its nickname, “the mysterious festival of the dark night.” “So who are you going with, then?!” demanded the blushing Hazuki. Midori smiled. “I’m going with my mom. We go together every year!” “You’re going with your mom?” “Sure am. I get along great with my mom,” said Midori merrily. Kumiko was utterly defeated. Going to a festival with her parents—at her age!—was unimaginable. Hazuki seemed to feel much the same way, and her earlier vehemence evaporated entirely as she waved her hand side to side dismissively as if to say, Aw, forget it. “What about you, Kumiko?” asked Midori. “Hmm. It’s kind of a pain. I might not go at all.” Midori’s eyes went wide with surprise at this answer. She smacked her hand on her desk repeatedly to express her dissatisfaction. “It’s gonna be a whole festival! What a waste not to go!” “Y-you think so?” “Yes, a waste. You should definitely, definitely go.” Midori subsequently and enthusiastically advised that Kumiko ought to attend with her and her mother—a proposal that Kumiko politely declined. The piece Taki had selected for the band’s free performance, “East Coast Pictures,” had been composed for wind ensemble by Nigel Hess. The work had been written based on Hess’s impressions during a visit to the East Coast of the United States and was a three-movement composition on the subject of New York and its surroundings. The first movement was on Shelter Island, the second, the Catskill Mountains, and the third, New York City itself. Performing all three movements would easily exceed the competition’s time limit, so Taki had decided to play the first movement in its entirety but only selections from the second and third movements. The highlight of the second movement was definitely the cornet solo. The cornet was an instrument sometimes played by trumpet performers in place of their usual instrument. It was constructed very differently from the trumpet, with a conical bore instead of a cylindrical bore, but because its playing technique and range were very similar to the trumpet’s, in the modern era it was often treated as a member of the trumpet family. Kumiko assumed that someone from the trumpet section would be playing the cornet solo. The movement in question had been written to convey the tranquil but nonetheless majestic grandeur of the Catskill mountain range. The third movement was meant to capture the energy and clamor of New York City’s Manhattan, and its centerpiece had to be the sirenlike wails that evoked the city’s ambulances and fire engines, which rang out in the piece’s final crescendo. It was like a musical stage production in vignette form, full of narrative and splendor. “It’s just so cool…!” murmured Asuka breathily as she gazed at the sheet music during sectional practice. Behind her, Takuya stared grimly at a different piece of sheet music as he carefully wrote numbers of some kind on it. When Kumiko looked more closely, she saw that the music was for “Copacabana.” “Um, what are you doing?” Kumiko asked Takuya. He slowly looked up. “…I’m writing the fingerings down for Katou.” “Hazuki’s going to play that?” “Looks like it. Guess for Class B they’re gonna do ‘Copacabana’ with Ms. Michie directing. We’ve got a lot of people in the percussion section now, so most of ’em are going to end up in Class B. It’s a good tune, considering the instrument lineup they’ll have.” Natsuki poked her face over Kumiko’s shoulder, leering at the “Copacabana” sheet music at which Takuya was so intently staring. Both the eupho and the tuba were bass instruments, so music for each was written in the bass clef. Every day, Hazuki would be playing music that was written with notes that she’d hardly ever encountered before. Once she got used to it, she’d be able to read them as quickly as she looked at them, but while she was still a novice, it would remain difficult. So Takuya was writing the scale positions and fingerings in for her. “Kumikoooo, how can you even play from this sheet music?” cried a defeated Hazuki, who had just finished getting some pointers from Riko. Behind her, Midori was absorbed in her fundamental drills. “Well, the eupho and the tuba are different. And strictly speaking I’ve never played that music.” “Same difference, though! And it’s a bass, too.” “Yeah, well, the contrabass is also a bass! So go bother Midori!” Riko smiled pleasantly at the busily drilling Midori. “She’s really amazing, isn’t she?” “Heh, thanks!” said Midori, pleased, before turning her attention back to her practice. Her tiny fingertips plucked a string, and the foot-tingling bass note rippled out into the room. Having finished her own fundamentals practice, Kumiko turned her attention to “Crescent Moon Dance,” the sheet music she’d been given. The piece’s most notable qualities were the opening trumpet melody and the latter half’s bass melody. Euphonium, tuba, contrabass—normally these were all instruments that stayed in the background, but here they were suddenly in the spotlight. The bass section was active throughout the entire composition, and the euphonium part was especially brutal. There were no long rests, and, not counting the opening trumpet fanfare, they played throughout nearly the entire piece. Bands were allowed to choose their compulsory performance from among five options, but this one was overwhelmingly the most difficult. And it was long. The band’s level did not, broadly speaking, match the song’s. …Can we really pull it off? Kumiko unconsciously frowned. Taki’s words from the other day ran through her mind. “We decided on this compulsory piece because it will be difficult for you. I look forward to your most sincere efforts precisely because of that difficulty. You might be tempted to underperform with an easier piece. But if you can perform both this compulsory and this free piece perfectly, then Nationals will not be a mere dream.” The National Concert Band Competition. Kumiko whispered the words to herself, sighing. Sitting nearby was Asuka, playing through a difficult passage as though it was no big deal. This ought to have been Asuka’s first time seeing this sheet music, but there was no hesitation in her playing. Kumiko supposed it came down to a difference in fundamental talent. Asuka could look at the sheet music and immediately reproduce the notes’ sound—that was how thoroughly she understood the eupho. After playing through a simple-looking section, Kumiko examined the beamed note groups of a difficult melody elsewhere. She knew it was flatly impossible to play them at the specified tempo right away. Kumiko got her metronome out and set the tempo significantly lower. She listened carefully to the regular tick, tick sound, then played through the run of notes at about a third their proper speed. She had to understand first her fingers’ movements, then her mouth’s. As she became more comfortable with those, she could gradually increase the speed to approach the original tempo. Repeat, and repeat again. She played the phrase over and over. And as she did so, the difficult music began to sink into her fingers. Kumiko found she quite liked the feeling of something impossible becoming possible. “You’re pretty good.” Kumiko stopped playing and looked back to see who’d addressed her. It was Natsuki, who regarded her with an even gaze. Kumiko was unused to straightforward praise. “Um, thank you.” She felt heat rise to her face and gave a light bow to hide it. She saw Natsuki’s face reflected askew in her instrument’s flaking golden finish. “So when’d you start playing eupho?” “In fourth grade. I joined the brass band.” “So this is what, your seventh year? Yeah, that’d make a difference,” said Natsuki with a self-conscious smile. What did she mean by “difference”? Kumiko’s head was filled with question marks, but Natsuki just chuckled amusedly. “Nah, don’t worry about it.” It was only much later that Kumiko would come to understand what Natsuki meant by that. Midori had cram school. Hazuki had gone home with another friend. So Kumiko made her way toward the school’s front gate alone. The school bustled at the sounding of the bell that signaled the end of the day’s extracurricular activities. Mouthpieces were washed and instruments returned to their cases. And once the wave of departing students had passed, silence fell over the campus. Summer’s approach meant that there was time before the sun set, but the dimming school grounds were nonetheless far from cheerful. As Kumiko retrieved her loafers from their shoe locker, a voice called out to her. “Whoa, you’re just now heading home, too?” She looked back to see Shuuichi wave to her. Evidently he was leaving—he held his trombone case by its handle. “Oh, I was just thinking of doing some practice at home,” said Shuuichi, seemingly bashful at Kumiko’s observation of his instrument. “How’s the compulsory coming?” “Eh, so-so. My problem now is the tone when I come in after the trumpets. What about the euphs?” “I mean, obviously the melody in the second half is terrifying.” “Yeah, that’s nuts,” said Shuuichi with a laugh, shoving his school slippers roughly into his own shoe locker. His own shoes were much larger than Kumiko’s. There wasn’t anything surprising about that, but she was strangely caught off guard by the detail. Suddenly feeling a tightness in her chest, she looked away. “Think you’ll make it through the audition?” she asked. “I wonder. There are a lot of trombones, so I might be headed to Class B.” “How many are there in the trombone section, again?” “Seven. There’s one beginner, so six of us are going to be auditioning.” “That’s rough.” The bass section was small to begin with, so it was possible they’d all pass. The compulsory piece needed the bass, so even if it made the band larger, Kumiko couldn’t imagine the bass section shrinking. They passed through the school’s front gate and continued on along the gently sloping road to the station. Tea fields were visible at regular intervals as they walked along the asphalt road. Views of verdant fields were not too remarkable to Uji residents, however. “I’m kinda glad I came to this school,” said Shuuichi. “Where’d that come from?” “No, I mean, I just realized it during sectionals.” He smiled. “At first I thought the band was just crap, but lately everybody’s actually started to take practice seriously.” “The Mr. Taki Effect at work, you think?” “That’s part of it, but it’s not just that.” A warm breeze blew past the pair, and Shuuichi smiled awkwardly. He looked down to the case that hung from his right hand. “We got all those compliments at the SunFest. ‘Wow, Kitauji’s gotten good,’ and all that. That felt really good. It made me think that maybe we really are getting better.” He let slip a shy little chuckle. Kumiko nodded her agreement. “It’s starting to sink in that we can actually do this.” “Yeah, and that’s the fun part. Like, ‘Whoa, if we actually put the work in…’” The sun was setting, the last vestiges of its light leaving reluctant scratches across the sky as it sank. Faded red blurred into deep blue. The sense of evening’s arrival began to suffuse the air. Streetlights flickered on as though in defiance of the dark, and Shuuichi’s form cast a palely jutting shadow. “I wonder if we’ll make it to Nationals,” he said. Kumiko watched his profile. He seemed to notice, and looked away self-consciously. “What?” “No, um… Yeah. I’d like to go to Nationals, too.” “Instead of pulling a repeat of what happened in middle school.” —I hate it. I hate it so much I could die. That moment, Reina had cried. Kumiko hadn’t, because she’d honestly thought the gold prize was good enough. Not Reina, though. Reina had sincerely thought they could go to Nationals. And she’d badly wanted to. “I want to get better,” said Kumiko. She’d meant to say it quietly, but there in the evening street her words echoed with surprising volume. Shuuichi looked briefly taken aback, but then grinned with pleasure, his white teeth flashing. “Let’s practice together sometime soon. On the river path or somewhere. So we can both make it to Class A.” “Ugh, bringing my eupho home is a huge pain.” “Way to ruin the moment! Try to read the mood a little, huh?” “I’m serious, though,” said Kumiko, smacking Shuuichi’s back in retort with a dry slap sound. “But I guess we can hang out for practice, at least,” she continued. The words made her feel suddenly self-conscious, and she quickened her stride as though to escape. The station was close, and as Kumiko hurried ahead of him, Shuuichi broke into a hasty trot to catch up. As the dates of the audition approached, the mood in the band grew tenser and tenser. It was quieter, too; everyone was too busy staring down at their sheet music for the usual idle chatter. If you went to the staff room, you could count on seeing a gaggle of students with questions for Taki gathered around his desk. It was all Taki could do to smile awkwardly at the rest of the faculty’s dryly amused remarks about how motivated the concert band seemed to be this year. Every ensemble practice increased the notes scribbled on the sheet music. Kumiko eyed the margins, which were increasingly overwhelmed with pencil marks, then regarded the instrument in her arms. The veteran euphonium’s plating was flaking off in places. She set it down on the floor, then took out a handkerchief and stood. “You’re going to be fine!” a familiar voice exclaimed just as Kumiko entered the girls’ bathroom. It was Yuuko and Kaori, both trumpets, standing in front of the sinks outside as they discussed something. They took no notice of Kumiko. “I dunno, I really think Reina’s just better than me.” “That’s not true! You’re definitely better than she is, Kaori!” Even from inside a stall, Kumiko could hear the conversation clearly. “I wonder if Reina’s going to get the solo, though.” “No way, it’d be ridiculous for a third-year not to play the solo!” “You say that, but…” “You should definitely get the solo, Kaori.” There was a dull thud—evidently Yuuko had stomped her foot. “Well, I’ll do the best I can, anyway,” said Kaori, her voice distinctly gloomy. “Yes! And I’ll be there to cheer you on!” Kumiko heard Yuuko reply as the voices grew distant. When she opened the stall door, no one was there. With the day’s band activities over, Kumiko washed her mouthpiece at the large outdoor sink. The silver-colored metal piece glittered in the stream of water. A pleasant memory from elementary school came to her—filling her own cup with the hot green tea that issued straight out of a special faucet. She’d been surprised to learn that the installation was unique to Uji, which was famous for its tea. “Hey,” came a voice from behind Kumiko. She turned to see Shuuichi there, holding his own mouthpiece. Trombone sectionals must have just ended. “Rinsing your mouthpiece?” “Yeah,” he said, without further elaboration. Kumiko wondered what was wrong. She turned her head to look at him. Standing next to her at the sink, he took a deep breath. “Hey—are you free on the fifth?” he asked. He looked truly awful—the words “deathly pallor” came to mind. “Huh? That’s a weekday, right? We’ll have band.” “No, I mean after that!” “After band?” Kumiko suddenly realized what he was getting at. “Oh, is this about the Agata Festival?” Shuuichi’s face reddened visibly. Kumiko wondered what that was about. Her own face warmed as though infected with whatever it was. Normally she wouldn’t have even noticed the distance between them, but for some reason it felt extremely close. She restrained the sudden urge to flee and forced herself to act normally. Still looking down, Shuuichi replied quietly, “…I was wondering if you’d want to go with me.” “Ah, um…” Kumiko was about to answer Sure, but then Hazuki emerged from the instrument storage room and entered her field of vision. The full-body flush she felt was instantly replaced with a cold sweat. Hazuki’s got a thing for Tsukamoto! Midori’s words from earlier flashed through Kumiko’s mind. Crap, this is bad! she thought, and her body reacted on its own. She reflexively grabbed the arm of the student who just happened to be passing by. “Sorry! I can’t, I’m going with her!” “…What?” came an irritated-sounding voice. Kumiko looked up with a quick intake of breath and saw that the arm she’d grabbed belonged to none other than Reina. Kumiko’s already-wide eyes opened still further. Reina’s entire body radiated an aura of displeasure, as if to say What the hell are you talking about? “Oh. You’re going with Kousaka, then…” “Y-yeah.” It was an unthinkable combination, Kumiko and Reina, but Shuuichi seemed not even slightly dubious at the assertion. He was probably too nervous for his brain to be functioning properly. “Ah, okay. Too bad,” he said with an empty little chuckle. An irritated Reina looked at Shuuichi and Kumiko in turn but said nothing. Maybe she’d understood the situation. “Hey, Tsukamoto!” said Hazuki, trotting up behind him. Kumiko noticed the faint color on her cheeks, and her heart groaned, a heavy feeling churning in her chest. She tightened her grip on Reina’s arm to endure it. Reina frowned briefly at this but kept silent. “Katou?” Shuuichi tilted his head, puzzled. Hazuki grabbed Shuuichi’s arm as she approached, seemingly to give her empty hands something to do. His left arm settled naturally into the grasp of her sun-browned hands. “I wanna talk. C’mere.” “Uh, I was just talking with Kumiko, though.” Shuuichi looked to her, and Kumiko forced a smile to her face, tightening her grip on Reina’s arm. “Oh, I’m fine! Go on!” Kumiko saw the obvious flicker of his eyes. Her breath caught. Shuuichi opened his mouth, but all that came out was air. His unvoiced feelings slipped out of his big hands. Kumiko knew exactly how to rescue them. But she didn’t move. She couldn’t move. “Seriously?” said Shuuichi, an angry note in his voice. “Yeah, seriously. Go on.” Kumiko looked away. The sunset-tinged early-evening air seeped in through the cracked window. The hallway was tinged with the light from the melting sun. There in the red-lit space, the boy turned away as though to escape. “…Fine, then,” he said, showing Kumiko his back. Hazuki’s and Shuuichi’s voices grew fainter as they left. Kumiko heard a “What’d you want to talk about?” followed by an “Oh, nothing, just something I can’t say here.” From opposite the stairs came the echoes of a boy’s and girl’s mingling laughter. Kumiko stood there, rooted to the spot. The mouthpiece in her hand was by now thoroughly warmed by her body heat. “…Will that do?” said Reina quietly. The words brought Kumiko back to the present with a start, and she let go of the other girl. “Sorry for dragging you into that.” “It’s fine,” said Reina, a guarded expression still on her face. Her lustrous black hair fell to her chest, obscuring most of her uniform’s ribbon. In her arms, her star-colored trumpet glittered innocently. “So. What time do you want to meet up?” “For what?” “For the festival. I’m also free, so it’s a good opportunity.” “Wha…? You’re really going?” “What are you talking about? Obviously I’m going. You just invited me.” “Well, yeah, but…” “Then it’s settled!” said Reina with a smile. Kumiko had never once seen her expression look like that before. She found herself mesmerized by it. The smile in Reina’s eyes brightened a touch. Kumiko watched her long eyelashes flutter. Wow, she’s gorgeous, she thought to herself, as though she’d only just noticed it. After so much disciplined practice, the day of the Agata Festival brought a buoyant energy to the band. Snatches of cheerful conversation flew here and there—“When do you want to meet up?” “Are you gonna watch them carry the shrine palanquin?” “We should find somewhere to watch the fireworks!”—and Kumiko, too, felt a greater than usual need for some fun to blow off her pent-up nervous energy. “Who are you going with?” Kumiko asked Asuka, who’d up until a moment earlier been absorbed in tracing her finger along a passage of her sheet music. “I’m going with Kaori. She’s my date,” said Asuka amusedly. “Oh, how nice,” said Riko next to her, smiling. “What about you, Riko?” asked Kumiko. “Me? Um, I’m—” “—Going with Gotou, obviously,” interrupted Natsuki. Riko blushed red. “Why do you have to be like that?” “It’s true, isn’t it? You went together last year, too.” Kumiko reflexively glanced over at Takuya. He was practicing the compulsory as usual but had just fluffed several notes in a row. Apparently his usual calm had been disturbed. “Oooh, are Riko and Goto gonna get all lovey-dovey?” said Midori, her eyes shining. Riko flushed at the words “lovey-dovey,” which Natsuki ignored as she nodded firmly. “You bet they are. They’re an item, after all.” “Oooooo!” squealed Midori at the simply stated fact. “Riko! How could you not tell us something so important?!” Kumiko had always thought that Takuya was interested in Asuka, so she inwardly sympathized with Midori’s vehemence. “I, um, I mean, it didn’t seem worth going to the trouble of announcing…” “And Gotou! You should’ve said something, too!” Asuka smiled with chagrin as she placated her enthusiastic junior. “Now, now, Midori, you can’t get mad at them just for being shy.” “If you say so…” pouted Midori with a reluctant nod. “What about you, Natsuki? Going with anyone?” asked Asuka. Natsuki answered with a deliberate shrug. “I’ve got cram school today.” “Hey, I’m a third-year and I’m going, so why’re you stuck studying when you’re still a second-year?” “My parents are on me about it. Nothing I can do,” said a frustrated Natsuki before she looked to Kumiko. “So what’re you doing?” “Oh, I’m going with Reina. The trumpet.” “Wait, Kumiko, I thought you said you weren’t going to the festival?” said Midori, her head cocked. Behind her, Asuka stroked her chin thoughtfully. “Reina… You don’t mean that Kousaka girl, do you?” “I don’t know why you call her ‘that girl,’ but yes, her last name’s Kousaka.” “So Kumiko, you’re friends with Kousaka…” murmured Riko thoughtfully. Something in her tone gave Kumiko the impression that Riko somehow pitied her. “…So, what about this space case?” said Natsuki, indicating Hazuki with a sardonic look. Hazuki sat with her tuba in her lap, an empty husk staring off into space, her mind clearly elsewhere. “Hazuki’s been like that all day,” said Midori, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “She’s going to the festival with her crush today. Apparently she’s gonna tell him how she feels!” “Whoa, that’s like actual sweet summer romance! Makes me a little sick just hearing about it,” said Natsuki, not bothering to hide her look of disgust. Her voice was plenty loud, but Hazuki showed no reactions. Evidently she couldn’t hear. “Her crush” had to mean Shuuichi. Kumiko exhaled, turning her attention away from the conversation. She felt unwell. Her stomach grumbled. She gripped her euphonium in an effort to calm the unpleasant roiling in her guts. I don’t like this. I don’t like it. She didn’t have a precise reason for thinking so, but the emotion was there all the same. “So long as it doesn’t get in the way of band activities, you should feel free to pursue any dalliance or romance you like,” said Asuka, deepening her smile. “Do you have a boyfriend?” asked Midori, full of curiosity. “What are you talking about? My eupho is my only love!” Asuka responded unequivocally. “Aw, don’t dodge the question,” complained Midori, pouting, but Asuka only chuckled at her junior’s antics. As Kumiko watched, she couldn’t help but feel that Asuka wasn’t necessarily joking about her only love. Kumiko had arranged to meet Reina in front of Uji Shrine at seven PM. The Agata Festival wasn’t as huge as something like the Gion Festival, but it was still a respectably big event in its own right, with over six hundred street-side stalls and 120,000 people attending. Now that she was thinking of it, Kumiko realized that this would be the first time she’d done anything fun with Reina. Since they’d been part of the same club in middle school, they’d naturally been acquaintances but never so friendly as to hang out. When they saw each other at school, they’d chat a little, and that was about it. It seemed to Kumiko, as she reflected, that Reina always kept some distance between herself and the people around her. She wasn’t solitary per se, but she seemed averse to spending time with anyone in particular. That had held true in high school as well, and Kumiko had never seen Reina with a friend. “Sorry to keep you waiting.” Kumiko turned at the voice that addressed her. There was Reina, wearing a youthfully feminine white dress. If Kumiko had been a boy, it was the kind of dress that would be at the top of the list of things she’d like her girlfriend to wear. “Oh, no, I haven’t been waiting,” said Kumiko, looking askance. She felt suddenly inadequate next to the beautiful girl and wished she’d worn something better. She glanced down at the plain T-shirt and shorts she had on and sighed. “Sighing as soon as I get here?” Reina frowned. The scowl suited her. “Are you that worried about Tsukamoto?” “N-no—I mean, that’s not how it is, with Shuuichi.” “Not how it is, huh?” said Reina with a meaningful glance. Kumiko hurried to change the subject. “Let’s get going. Is there anything special you want to eat?” “I’m not interested in walking around the stalls. I hate crowds.” “Huh?” “Let’s go up Mt. Daikichi!” said Reina, pointing in the direction of the shrine. Kumiko wondered what the girl was suddenly talking about. Grabbing the openmouthed Kumiko’s hand, Reina began to hurry up the steps. The lamplight around them illuminated her slender, pale fingers, their pink nails neatly trimmed. Reina ignored Kumiko’s scowl and produced her phone from her purse. “Wh-why are we going up a mountain? I thought we were going to the festival.” “Hm? I dunno, it just seemed fun.” Reina snickered. Once they had passed Uji Shrine, the stone path continued up to Ujigami Shrine. Along with Byoudou-in, Ujigami Shrine had been designated a World Heritage Site in 1994, but the shrine received far fewer tourists than the temple. The three inner shrines in its main hall were the oldest ones in the world and incredibly valuable. To Kumiko’s eyes, accustomed as they were to the show-offy sensibilities of modern architecture, they seemed rather plain. “I love this shrine,” said Reina, peering through a gap in the door. “More than Uji Shrine? It’s so much bigger,” said Kumiko. Reina huffed in response. “You just don’t appreciate the understated.” “U-understated…?” “You could call it ‘mature charm,’ I suppose.” “Are you saying Ujigami Shrine is more mature?” “You know what I mean, though, don’t you? Like, you can just feel it in the air.” “I guess…” Now that she mentioned it, Kumiko couldn’t deny that she felt something charming about the place. She scanned the silent, melancholy grounds of the shrine. On the other side of the bridge, people were swarming to the festival, but here it was disturbingly quiet. Reina and Kumiko were the only ones in the thick, choking silence. An inexplicable restlessness ate away at her consciousness little by little. What in the world was she doing here? Everyone else was going to the festival. As Kumiko stared off into space, Reina grabbed her hand and set off again at a jaunty pace. A sky-blue scrunchie held her normally loose hair in a single ponytail. “I’m not a fan of how bright it is.” “How bright what is?” “The festival. It’s just a big mess of glaring lights. I don’t like it.” “Really?” “Yeah. I hate it. It’s depressing.” The farther they traveled down the path, the deeper the darkness became. The streetlights became fewer and fewer, until it was so dim they couldn’t see far at all. There were no lamps on Mt. Daikichi itself. Kumiko frowned, but Reina ignored her and pulled her phone out of her bag. “I thought it might be dark,” she said, and turned on her phone to use it as a flashlight. Its pure white beam illuminated the path ahead. “I downloaded an app,” said Reina with a smile, which Kumiko vaguely returned. Locals called the mountain Mt. Daikichi, but it was properly known as Mt. Buttoku and was 131 meters tall at its summit. The path to the lookout point at the top started in a neighborhood filled with landmarks from the “Agemaki” chapter of The Tale of Genji, and its width and even grade made it a natural walking path, popular for its beautiful scenery. In the mornings it was frequented by people walking their dogs, and during preschool Kumiko had often been taken here for various outings. “Do you do this kind of thing often?” Kumiko asked Reina as they walked. Reina cocked her head curiously. “This kind of thing?” “I mean, like, suddenly deciding to climb a mountain and stuff.” “What do you think I am? Of course not.” “R-right, of course.” Reina’s sandal straps dug into her feet. The path up Mt. Daikichi wasn’t staggeringly steep, but it was bad enough that heeled sandals weren’t exactly the best choice. “But sometimes I want to do stupid stuff like this,” said Reina, rubbing her head self-consciously, like a kid whose secret had been found out. “I put on my uniform, I go to school, I go to band. Then I go home and study. After a while…I kinda just want to throw it all away. Just buy one of those Seishun 18 train passes during a holiday and travel somewhere, for no reason at all.” “I…kinda get that.” Kumiko longed to travel, to find herself. She often identified with the backpackers she occasionally saw on TV travel programs. There were days when she wanted to leap into a world where nobody knew anything about her. It was always fantasy, though, and no such plans had ever been put into action. “I guess this is just a substitute for real travel.” “Pretty scaled back, though,” said Kumiko. “It is what it is. We’ve got school tomorrow,” said Reina. Something about the expression on her face as she explained the obvious was funny, and Kumiko giggled. Reina glanced at her, then looked away. “Honestly, I’ve wanted to for a while.” “Wanted to what?” “Do something with you.” “Really?” “Really.” Reina was looking ahead. Her ear was normally hidden behind her hair, but today it was bared and visible. The skin was faintly colored and delicate. Kumiko found herself considering such absurdities as how soft it might feel if she were to bite it. “You’ve actually got a pretty bad personality, Kumiko.” “Wha…” This was a shock. Ask anyone who had anything to do with her, and they’d tell you Kumiko was a good kid. A nice girl. A nice girl. She’d imprinted on the phrase in early childhood. When had she started trying to force herself closer to that ideal? Reina directed an enchanted smile at the silent Kumiko. “I’ve wanted to peel that good-girl skin right off you.” “………Is that an insult?” “Not at all. I’m saying that’s what I like about you. Call it a love confession.” “It’s definitely not a love confession.” “Maybe you just don’t understand my love.” “Nope, I don’t.” All Kumiko did understand was the delight on Reina’s face as she doled out her teasing. The Reina she saw at school and the Reina she was looking at now were the same person, but they seemed utterly different. “I wonder if you even remember, Kumiko.” “Remember what?” The conversation continued as the pair walked. “In middle school, what we talked about after the band competition.” “Sure, I remember that. When you cried, right?” “Why do you even remember some other person crying? You really are bad.” “No way, that’s totally normal!” protested Kumiko. Reina smiled. “I’m just kidding. But when I was crying about how much I hated it, you came over and asked if I really thought we could’ve made it to Nationals.” “Did I say that?” “You did. That’s when I first thought, ‘Wow, she’s nasty.’” “I-I mean, I was probably just…honestly curious about what you thought. I didn’t have an ulterior motive!” Reina grinned at the frantically backpedaling Kumiko. “I know. That’s what I liked about you. If you could honestly just ask something like that, you were just serious.” “Serious?” “Seriously twisted.” “Come on, that’s definitely an insult.” “I already told you it’s not. I’m saying that’s what I like about you!” “Liar.” “It’s true!” said Reina, her voice high and amused. The lookout point would be coming into view soon. The pair continued confidently along their path. Kumiko looked down and saw Reina’s sandals, now much dirtier than they had been before. There were angry marks on her pale skin where the straps had dug in. “Don’t your feet hurt?” “They do,” said Reina with a serious expression. “But I don’t mind pain.” “That’s kind of a sexy thing to say.” “…Don’t be stupid.” Kumiko winced at the rough brush-off. As their empty banter continued, they finally reached the lookout point. It was situated about halfway up the mountain and afforded a view of most of the city of Uji. “…It’s gorgeous,” murmured Reina as she gripped the handrails. An artificial galaxy of stars—house lights, apartment lights, streetlights, car headlights—was sprinkled across the dark-painted world below. The city overflowed with light; from above it was like a great map spreading out before them. Here was Byoudou-in; there was Uji River. Kumiko exhaled as her eyes traced the city’s lines to find familiar places. “Is this what you wanted to see?” Reina shook her head slightly. “It’s not that I wanted to see this, exactly.” “What do you mean?” Reina gave a teasing smile at Kumiko’s questioning glance. Her strawberry-red tongue flicked out from between her lips. “I didn’t want to do what everybody else was doing.” She looked back down at crowds leaving the festival area. They were a mass, all facing the same direction. Eating the same unexceptional candied apples, walking back to the train station full of self-satisfaction. And not far away, a rowdy crowd of middle schoolers, hair bleached the same shade of blond, each showing off their nonconformity in exactly the same way. …But no, of course not. There was no way to see any of those things from this distance. From such a height, individual people dissolved into the darkness. The only things visible were the impassively shining lights. “Nobody else would do something so dumb as climbing a mountain on a festival day, right?” “I guess not,” murmured Kumiko quietly. “I just thought you might understand.” “Understand what?” “This weird feeling.” Reina looked away. “I do understand,” said Kumiko. She wondered if Hazuki and Shuuichi were somewhere in that sea of light. A butterfly came flittering creepily up in front of Kumiko. As a child she’d never shied away from touching butterflies, and she wondered when it was exactly that she’d started to find them creepy. She suppressed the urge to swat it away and smiled. “I know how you feel, Reina,” she said. Reina reached out and traced her finger along Kumiko’s cheek. “I want to be special,” she said. “Special?” “Yes. I want to be valued by others. I don’t want people to think I’m the same as everybody else.” The girl’s hand fell limply to her side. Her white dress billowed in the breeze. “That’s why I play the trumpet.” “You can be special if you play the trumpet?” “I can,” answered Reina without equivocation. “That’s why I’m in the band. To be special. Why do you stay in band?” Kumiko still didn’t have an answer for that question. Reina let slip a small breath, then sat down on a bench. She crossed her long legs and folded her hands in her lap. Kumiko let go of the lookout’s handrails and sat beside Reina. A sweet scent tickled her nose. “Kumiko—what made you start with concert band?” “What was it, I wonder…” Her memories of so long ago were vague, the moments seeming to dissolve as soon as she seized upon anything clear. The day she first held an instrument. The day she learned what a euphonium was. What was it that had prompted her to join the brass band? “I think…it was my older sister.” “Your sister? Kumiko, you have an older sister?” “Yeah. We’re nothing alike, though.” Kumiko’s older sister had joined the brass band. She’d worn a sparkling uniform and played the trombone. That’s right—that’s why Kumiko had been so taken by the trombone. It was the wonderful instrument her sister had played. The way its slide zoomed in and out was so cool. She’d wanted to play one, so she’d joined the brass band, too. To be like her older sister. But then she’d ended up being assigned the euphonium. “I think I joined the concert band because I looked up to my sister so much.” “Wow. Does she still play?” “No, she quit in sixth grade. She said she wanted to go to a private middle school, so she was busy with cram school and stuff.” Kumiko’s sister hadn’t joined a club in middle school—or high school. She just did laps from home to school to cram school, going to and from the same places, over and over again. “Exams,” sniffed Reina with a disgusted look. “That’s gonna be our problem, too,” said Kumiko. “Yeah,” said Reina, falling silent. Kumiko wondered what she was thinking about. She, too, closed her mouth. The stillness swirled behind her eardrums, the man-made galaxy spreading out before her. Kumiko took in the sight, then softly closed her eyes. It was nice being with Reina. It felt like the first time she had experienced silence as anything besides stifling. She leaned her slender body back in the bench and stretched her legs out. Their arms linked, skin covering skin. Reina’s touch was cool and pleasant, just slightly damp with sweat. Red completion stamps accumulated on her practice schedule as the audition days approached. Kumiko boarded the last car in the train and made for a corner seat. The music player she produced from her bag had both the compulsory and free pieces on it. Her fingers tapped against her bag, the fingerings for the valves’ pistons having become muscle memory. When she looked up, she spotted Shuuichi a short distance away, listening to his own music. He brought his face up and glanced at her. Their eyes met for a moment, but he quickly averted his gaze. It had been like this ever since that day. Shuuichi was avoiding Kumiko. “What’s with that girl?” It was sectional practice. Natsuki’s tone was distinctly annoyed when she asked the question and pointed at a dazed Hazuki. Hazuki, meanwhile, stared out the window, her cheek resting in her palm. Occasionally she would heave a great sigh, which seemed to have irritated Natsuki enough to move to a seat next to Kumiko’s. Kumiko closed her folder of sheet music for the free piece and turned to face Natsuki. “Do you have any idea?” “No, I don’t. I think Midori might, though.” Natsuki looked over to Midori at Kumiko’s suggestion. Midori was absorbed in a staring contest with her sheet music, but when she noticed the gazes on her, she set her string bass aside and came trotting over. “Is something the matter, Natsuki?” Midori cocked her head curiously. “I mean, what’s going on with Hazuki? She’s been like this ever since the Agata Festival.” Midori slumped bodily at Natsuki’s question. Kumiko and Natsuki immediately shared a look upon seeing the obvious gloom in Midori’s posture. Midori fidgeted, clearly reluctant to talk about whatever the problem was, but she finally summoned her willpower and spoke. “I guess…she got turned down.” “Ouch,” murmured Natsuki, rolling her eyes. Next to her, Kumiko exhaled softly. Strength seemed to return to her trembling fingertips. So she’d been turned down, had she? Sympathy for Hazuki immediately blossomed within her at the thought. The poor girl, she murmured inwardly, the voice in her mind terrifyingly cheerful. “This is the worst time for complications like that. It’s gonna make performing that much harder.” “I tried to cheer her up, but it didn’t work at all,” said Midori gloomily as Riko and Takuya arrived, carrying their tubas. “What’re you guys doing in a group over there?” “…Are we not practicing today?” Natsuki’s frown deepened as the pair naturally approached. “Why are couples just as annoying when they work out as when they don’t?” “Aw, Natsuki, don’t be mean. I think Gotou and Riko look perfect together.” Midori’s cheeks reddened and her eyes shone with concentrated sincerity. Riko rubbed her head self-consciously. “Th-thanks.” “Just make sure you invite me to the wedding!” Takuya turned beet-red at Midori’s wild imaginings. Riko, meanwhile, just smiled uncertainly as she found her usual seat. Takuya sat at a seat near hers and opened his sheet music for the compulsory. “Hey, now! What’re you guys doing all grouped up like that! C’mon, get practicing!” said Asuka as she burst noisily into the room. The third-years’ meetings were evidently over. Wearing a new version of her trademark red-framed glasses, Asuka surveyed the room, her gaze finally landing on Hazuki. “What’s wrong?” asked the section leader, but Hazuki merely continued to look out the window. “She’s upset about something, and we were just talking about what it might be,” said Natsuki, exasperated. Evidently Midori was the only one who was truly sympathetic. “Hazuki’s been like this for a while, and I’m getting really worried about her! Asuka, is there anything you can do for her?” A grand smile spread across Asuka’s face. “Hmm. To be honest, I don’t really care!” “That’s too honest,” shot back Kumiko reflexively. Asuka folded her arms, a frown flickering briefly on her features. “It’s true, though. I honestly don’t care whether Hazuki plays or not. All I can do is tell her to bounce back as fast as she can.” “Don’t be so cold about it, at least! She’s a member of the bass section, too, after all!” said Midori. Asuka replied with a faint smile. “She’s gonna wind up in Class B, though, right? What’s in it for me if I try to help her out?” Kumiko gulped at the chill in Asuka’s voice. Midori’s eyes went wide. Natsuki’s expression remained stern as she controlled herself. “What’s in it for you…?” “Don’t you agree, though? Maybe I’d do something if it were going to be a problem for the competition, but why should I help anyone who lets personal problems keep them from practicing?” “But still—” Midori started to argue, but Natsuki clapped a hand over Midori’s mouth, cutting her off. “Yep, that’s right! I say that personal issues should be solved personally!” The ingratiating smile Natsuki forced to her face didn’t suit her at all. Midori mumbled something unintelligible. “Just so long as you understand. Now, all three of you—the audition’s coming up, so quit screwing around and get to practice!” “Y-yes, ma’am!” “Okay, then. I’m gonna go get my eupho,” said Asuka, and she headed for the instrument room as usual. Making sure the section leader had left, Natsuki exhaled a sigh of relief. Next to her Midori began to flail, struggling to breathe past the hand over her mouth. “Man, that was scary,” said Natsuki. “Uh, Natsuki, I think Midori’s about to suffocate.” Natsuki gasped as she remembered where her hand was and hastily removed it from where it covered Midori’s mouth. Freed, Midori took several deep breaths before recovering. She straightened smartly and glared at Natsuki. “What was that for?” “I mean, I had to do something. You obviously didn’t notice how furious Asuka was.” “She was angry?” asked Kumiko. “Well, not angry, exactly,” said Natsuki, glancing at Riko, who was busily staring at her sheet music and pretending not to overhear their conversation. “Asuka, she…she hates anything that gets in the way of her practice time. You don’t ever want to waste her time.” “But wasn’t she kind of mean about it? That was really cold.” “That’s how she’s always been,” said Natsuki with a rueful little smile. Riko and Takuya looked over at her suddenly. A nervous feeling ripped through the classroom, leaving behind a vague unpleasantness that seemed to linger on the tongue. Natsuki spoke. “Asuka’s…special.” Her voice was the only sound in the silent classroom. Bored-looking students wearing Kitauji uniforms waited at the otherwise-deserted train station. Kumiko sat on a bench and flipped through a vocabulary notebook. The school had switched to the short-sleeved uniform for the warm season. Kumiko pinched at her upper arm where it emerged from the short sleeve’s cuff, sighing. She got the feeling she’d gained weight. “…Kumiko.” She looked up at the unexpected sound of her name to see a gloomy-faced Hazuki standing in front of her. Hazuki’s schoolbag hung over her shoulder. She tightened her grip on the shoulder strap. “Can we go home together?” “Oh, sure. Of course.” “Okay,” said Hazuki, and sat down on the bench next to Kumiko. Kumiko pointlessly turned the page of her vocabulary notebook. Apologize: to say you’re sorry. Force: to make someone do something. The list of English words floated up in her vision but completely failed to penetrate her mind. “So I told him how I felt,” said Hazuki. Kumiko looked up from the notebook and over to her friend. Clack, clack. The train they were waiting for came gliding up to the platform, but Hazuki didn’t move—so neither did Kumiko. The standard phrases announcing the train’s arrival echoed across the platform. The doors closed, and the train began to move, leaving just the two of them behind. “I know,” said Kumiko. Hazuki looked away. “Oh,” she said, the corners of her mouth pulling into a slight frown. “I guess there’s somebody else Tsukamoto likes.” “…I see.” Kumiko frowned. She didn’t know the words to respond to that. What were you supposed to say in times like this? Hazuki looked down. “Sorry.” “For what?” “That time you tried to help,” said Hazuki. You don’t have to tell me. I already know, thought Kumiko, but she said nothing. She flipped through the pages of her vocabulary book. The page with the folded-down corner marked the section that would be on the test. Apologize. Apologize. It was the one word she just couldn’t seem to memorize, and there were marks all over the margins of that page. “You don’t have anything to apologize for.” “But Kumiko—you like Tsukamoto, right?” “…Huh?” Kumiko’s mouth fell open. What was this girl talking about? Hazuki took no notice of Kumiko’s frozen, wide-eyed state as she falteringly elaborated, as though admitting to some kind of crime. “I mean, I kinda realized it, but…but I thought if I said something about how I felt first, you might pull back. You’re not really the outgoing type, and I…used that. I’m sorry, seriously. I’m…really a terrible friend, aren’t I?” Kumiko scrambled to stop her shame-faced friend from going any further. “Wait, no, hang on—is me liking Shuuichi an established fact?” “Isn’t it?” Hazuki tilted her head in confusion. “I mean, when I took Tsukamoto with me, you seemed pretty upset about it.” “No, but it’s not like that with me and Shuuichi at all. Like, we’re just…friends? Or something? I think I was just sad at my friend getting dragged away…right?” “Aha. I see.” “You do? Oh, good.” “Yup, I do. You’re totally clueless. Classic.” “Aw, why do you have to be like that?” Kumiko’s shoulders went slack. Hazuki’s voice rose in a delighted laugh. It was the first time in days that Kumiko had seen her smile. “You’re hopeless! Oh well, the great Hazuki will give you a hand.” “Wait, give me a hand with what? I have nothing but bad feelings about this.” “Oh, you know exactly what I’m talking about.” “No, I honestly do not.” At this, Hazuki stood. Then came the announcement of the next train’s arrival. She picked up her bag and smiled—an exhausted, lonely smile. “Geez, you really are dense.” The train’s doors opened. Kumiko hurried to her feet, shoving her vocabulary book back into her bag. Hazuki grabbed Kumiko’s arm and pulled her bodily into the train car. Hazuki’s hand was warm, but a little bit dry. Owing, perhaps, to the lingering exhaustion of band activities, as soon as Kumiko arrived home she went to her room and collapsed onto her bed. “Kumiko, please! Put your lunch box away first!” called her mother from the kitchen, but Kumiko didn’t have the energy to respond. She reached over from where she lay on the bed and managed to hit her laptop’s power switch. On her computer were audio recordings of the music Taki had assigned. Kumiko lifted her head up and with some effort clicked the triangular PLAY button. From the computer’s speakers came the sound of the compulsory piece. The audition would be very soon. The band had changed since Taki’s arrival. The teachers who’d known the band before all said so. There had been many students who’d complained at Taki’s methods early on, but with time they’d stopped. The reason was simple: They could feel themselves improving. Their scattered, messy ensemble performance was steadily coming together and becoming a unified expression of music. It was certainly more fun to participate in a performance that was a source of pride, but music that had been sculpted to the utter extent of their effort was something more than “fun”—it filled their hearts with an emotion that was deeper and more profound than that. Ensemble performance was enjoyable, but it was also intense. To stay on the narrow path they walked, the students had had to sharpen their senses with a new diligence. That was how it felt. The conductor’s job went far beyond waving a baton around during the performance. That was only a small part of his duties. The baton’s movements were signals to the players, telling them when to start and stop playing. The conductor had to listen to the sound as a whole and maintain the balance the music required. Apart from their job during the performance proper, it fell to the conductor to fully understand the composition and the composer’s mind alike, and to convey the flow and phrasing of the music to the players. A performance’s style and emotion could vary wildly depending on the conductor’s choices. Those choices became synonymous with the conductor and defined the reputation of the ensemble. The role of the conductor was far more important than the audience might realize. Ten years earlier, when Kitauji High School had been a concert band powerhouse, its conductor must have been a talented one. But he’d left the school, and in his absence the band had grown weaker. A simple change in director had made waves that sent the students tumbling. No matter how high their ambitions, without a talented director, they would never win a competition. Of the over fifteen hundred schools whose concert bands set down the path to Nationals, fewer than thirty would reach their goal. Only three schools out of thirty-six could appear as the Kyoto representatives at the Kansai Regionals. The practice environments of each school were far from equal, with both public and private schools doing their best to perform and win. For Kitauji High School, making it all the way to Nationals was a dream inside another dream. And yet, Kumiko thought. And yet Taki is seriously trying to get us there. The intense practice schedule, the uncompromising rehearsals—they were all for the goal of bringing Kitauji to the National Band Competition. All they could do was give it their best shot. “…I want to get good,” Kumiko murmured. No one was there to answer. The auditions would take place over two days. The first day was for brass, and the second for woodwinds and percussion. One by one the students were called to the music room to perform in a small space that had been partitioned off for the occasion. In the hallway outside the music room several chairs were lined up for students awaiting their turn. The classroom was not soundproof, so anyone waiting could hear the playing of the students ahead of them. Just hearing the mellow tone of Asuka’s euphonium was enough to send Kumiko’s heart racing. Natsuki slapped the pale-faced Kumiko on her shoulder. “Well, I’m off,” she said, and disappeared into the music room. Her euphonium clasped in her arms, Kumiko simply stared at her sheet music—the places she had to be careful of during ensemble performances, the spots Taki had brought to her attention. She’d gone over the music so many times that the corners of the clear sleeve that held it were thoroughly beaten up. It will be okay. You can do this. Kumiko blew air through her instrument and waited for her turn. “You’re up, Kumiko,” said Natsuki as she came out of the music room, her own audition over. Kumiko tried to say something in acknowledgment, but she was too nervous for her voice to work properly. Natsuki smiled sympathetically at Kumiko’s wordless nod. “You, of all people, don’t need to be that nervous,” she said. Motivated by her senior’s words, Kumiko tremulously stepped into the music room. “Please, have a seat,” came Taki’s voice from the other side of the partition. Kumiko wondered if the reason he wasn’t meeting them face-to-face was to help the auditioning students feel less nervous, but if anything, she felt even more rattled at not being able to see Taki’s face. There was a seat right in the middle of the partitioned area. She set her clear file on the music stand in front of it and took a deep breath. Her fingers were trembling. “Please state your name and instrument.” “Ah, first-year, Kumiko Oumae. Bass section, eupho.” “I see,” came the curt voice of the assistant director, Michie. So both the director and the assistant director were conducting the test, then. Kumiko took a deep breath to calm her racing heart, opening her stiffened fingers to get them loose. “Have you done your tuning already?” “Y-yes, I have.” “I see… Now, Miss Oumae, you have some experience already, don’t you? How many years have you been playing euphonium?” “Um, since fourth grade, so this will be my seventh year.” “Seven years? That’s quite something,” said Taki in a low, impressed voice. Crap, I just raised the bar for myself, Kumiko instantly thought. She shook her head side to side to banish the swirl of negativity. The wooden chair was cold when she sat on it, her sweat-damp thighs sticking to its surface. “Well, let’s have you start with the compulsory, then.” “O-okay.” “I believe the euphoniums come in here, with the secondary melody at bar forty-one. Along with the baritone saxes.” Kumiko hastily looked to her sheet music. Right there—the place she’d practiced over and over. “I’ll start the metronome. Please play until I stop you. You can come in whenever you like.” “U-understood.” Tick, tick, tick. Kumiko took a deep breath as she listened closely to the tempo. She filled her lungs and blew smartly into her mouthpiece. Her fingers moved. Low notes, then high notes. The passage she’d played over and over again during practice. Her sheet music was right in front of her, but she didn’t have time to look at it. Her brain shivered with elation. Her breath quavered and her heart flailed like it was about to burst. She thought of nothing, her performance leaping over her consciousness entirely. What if I make a mistake? It was a terrifying thought, but there, too, was her joy in playing. A heat arose from her feet to constrict the organs in her chest. Kumiko played on desperately until Taki spoke. “Thank you, that’s far enough,” he said, at which the euphonium’s sound came to a sudden halt. Kumiko could hear the sound of something being written down. Was her performance being evaluated in this very moment? The sounds of her playing still lingered, echoing deep in her ears. “All right. That will do. Please call the tubas in next.” “Ah—yes, sir.” Kumiko stood, somehow dizzy. Her hands were still trembling with her nervous energy. She collected her sheet music and fled from the music classroom. “Ow!” Her instrument collided roughly with a desk with a loud ding. Kumiko frantically checked it, but fortunately the impact didn’t seem to have left any noticeable damage. Evidently the audition from a moment ago was still distracting her. “Are you okay?” asked Midori, peering in her direction. “Huh?” “You said ‘Ow,’ so I thought you’d hurt yourself.” “No, I just banged my instrument.” Despite not sustaining any injury herself, Kumiko would reflexively say “Ouch” when something hit her euphonium. When she explained as much to Midori, Midori smiled cheerfully. “That’s ’cause your soul’s gone into Jack!” “Huh? Jack?” “That’s your eupho’s name! And by the way, this is George,” said Midori, gesturing to her contrabass. Now that she mentioned it, Kumiko did vaguely remember Midori saying something like that back when they’d first chosen instruments. “Still, Mr. Taki’s so mean! Making the contrabass the only one of us that has to audition with the woodwinds.” “Yeah, true.” “I mean, I’m in the bass section, too, y’know?” pouted Midori. There were several Band-Aids on her fingers. Maybe the fancy pink designs on them were Midori’s style. Kumiko squinted and pointed at them. “Are you okay?” “Oh, these?” Midori smiled. “It happens when you play a string bass. Since you pluck the strings with your fingers, they tend to snap.” “Doesn’t that hurt?” “It does, but not as bad as in middle school!” she said, laughing self-consciously. “In middle school we had a bunch of recitals all on one day, and my fingers were totally torn up after just the morning performances. The Band-Aids kept coming off, and then I’d start bleeding, so when I went to turn my sheet music’s pages, I got blood on them. By end of the last afternoon performance, I could barely read my sheet music from all the blood!” It was all Kumiko could do to smile weakly at Midori’s giggling account. That was life at a powerhouse band school for you. Even the little anecdotes were heroic. “Why’d you keep doing it if it was so tough?” “Keep doing what?” “Band. Wouldn’t you start to hate it?” Kumiko asked out of honest curiosity, but Midori shook her head vehemently. The contrabass she held upright with her fingertips was significantly taller than she was. “Nope, that’d never happen. I love band!” Her voice was so simple and straightforward that Kumiko found herself jealous of the girl in front of her. She wished she could live like that. They had been told that the results of the audition would be announced after final exams. This round of tests would be the second in Kumiko’s high school life. She had already stumbled a bit in math, and she wondered if she would be able to get through college entrance exams at this rate. Every time she sat at her desk at home to study, Kumiko wound up worrying about her future. Extracurricular activities were canceled during the week leading up to final exams, as they had been before the midterms. Kumiko used the time for a change of scenery—a visit to the bookstore. Her textbooks were more than enough study material for the upcoming tests, but she’d been wanting to pick up some new reference books. As her eyes scanned titles like Pass for Sure! and Hit the 90th Percentile!, it felt like she’d get smarter just by buying one—though any such reference book would immediately become nothing more than a shelf decoration upon purchase, rather than doing anything to improve her grades. Arriving at the reference section, she saw a section of shelves packed full with red-spined books. On them were printed the names of colleges in big, bold characters. Marveling that so many institutions could actually exist, Kumiko proceeded for no particular reason down the aisle. “…Hey.” Kumiko quickly turned at the voice behind her. “Aoi?” “K-Kumiko!” A flustered expression flickered across Aoi’s face, but she quickly covered it with a smile, as if to distract from the reference books she was carrying in her arms. The slowness with which she walked toward Kumiko was the proof of how little she actually wanted to have this interaction. “So how’s band going?” “Oh yeah. I’m doing my best. We’re off for finals, though.” “Think you’ll make it to Nationals?” “That’s the one thing we won’t know until it happens.” “Yeah.” Aoi narrowed her eyes softly. “…What about Haruka? Is she doing well?” “Haruka…Oh, you mean President Ogasawara?” “Yes. I said something mean, after all. Things are kind of weird between us, now.” The “something mean” must have been Aoi’s resignation from the band on the day of the meeting. “She’s more or less okay, I think. She’s got Asuka backing her up, so.” “Asuka again, huh.” Aoi slumped at the mention of the name. “I swear that girl can do everything. She’s good at school, she’s a great musician…” “Is she smart?” “She is insanely smart,” Aoi said, then smiled ruefully. Her eyes fell to the reference books in her arms. “My first choice is her safety school.” Kumiko had no idea how to react to that. Aoi chuckled emptily. “If I were as smart as her, I could’ve stayed in band.” There was an edge to her voice as she spoke. Her tone was light, but in Kumiko’s ears it rang with terrible sadness. “Well, see you,” said Aoi as she turned to leave, but Kumiko couldn’t help but call out to her. “Aoi—” “What?” She looked back. “Do you regret quitting the band?” “Nope. Not at all,” she said brightly. Her fingers’ grip tightened on her arms and left behind red marks on her pale skin, so terrible was her unhappiness. “Okay,” said Kumiko with a smile, and she pretended to believe her.