On this rainy Wednesday, I initiated conversation with her in class for what may have been the first time. She was on chalkboard cleaning duty, and I walked to the front of class to inform her of our library work. I knew several classmates had their eyes on us, but I decided to ignore their stares. I didn’t think she was bothered in the first place.
After class was dismissed, she had to stay behind to help close up our classroom. I went ahead to lunch in the cafeteria before continuing to the library. Few students were there, for this was the end of the term, after all.
Our job was to staff the counter while the librarian was at a teachers’ meeting. During the meeting, I sat at the checkout desk reading a book. Two classmates came up separately with books to borrow. One was a timid girl who asked, “Where’s Sakura?” without showing any particular interest in me. The second was our class representative. He’d always come off as gentle-natured in class, and his tone and expression reinforced that impression as he asked, “Where’s Yamauchi-san?” I responded to both the same, telling them she was probably still in our classroom.
She arrived not much later, bringing with her a smile that felt totally at odds with the gloomy weather.
“Yoo-hoo,” she said. “Were you lonely without me?”
“‘Yoo-hoo’ yourself. Oh, a couple of our classmates were looking for you.”
“Who?”
“I don’t really remember their names. It was a timid girl and the class representative.”
“Oh yeah,” she said. “I know who you mean. Okay.”
She flopped down onto a swiveling desk chair behind the counter, and the chair’s metal parts creaked in protest, echoing throughout the quiet library.
I said, “I think you’re hurting the poor thing.”
“Is that something you should say to a young lady?”
“I don’t think you’re a lady.”
She laughed mischievously. “Are you sure? You know, a boy told me he liked me yesterday.”
“What?” I said. Her statement was so unexpected, I accidentally let my surprise show.
She lifted the corners of her mouth high; so high that creases formed between her eyebrows. It was thoroughly infuriating.
“He told me to meet him after class yesterday.” She sighed melodramatically. “That’s when he confessed his innermost feelings to me.”
“If that’s true,” I said, “I’m not sure he’d appreciate you telling me. It sounds personal.”
“Well, I’m not going to tell you who. My lips are sealed—like Miffy.”
She put her index fingers in the shape of an X in front of her lips.
“You mean Miffy the rabbit?” I said. “Are you one of those people who thinks the X is her mouth? Her face is divided in the middle—the top half is her nose, and the bottom half is her mouth.”
I sketched the little cartoon rabbit for her. She exclaimed, “No way!” in total disregard to the quiet library, her eyes and mouth opened wide. The sight was satisfying. At last, I got my revenge for her insulting non-reaction to my trivia on Japanese dialects.
“I don’t know what to say,” she said. “I’m shocked. I feel like these last seventeen years have all been a lie. But anyway, this boy said he liked me.”
“Oh, we’re going back to that? So, what did you tell him?”
“I said I wasn’t interested. Why do you think I did that?”
“Beats me,” I said.
“I’m not going to tell you,” she teased.
“Let me tell you something. If someone says, ‘Beats me,’ or ‘Huh,’ that means they’re not interested enough to ask why. Have you never noticed that before?”
She looked ready with a comeback, but a student came up to check out a book and spoiled her timing.
After we processed the book—we were still doing our jobs, of course—she changed the subject.
“Since it’s raining and we can’t do anything fun outside today, you’re coming over to my house instead.”
“Nah. That’s the opposite way from my house.”
“You could at least come up with an interesting excuse. It’s almost like you don’t really want me to invite you over.”
“Huh. It’s almost like you really think I want to be invited over. I can’t imagine what made you think that.”
“What?” she said in mock outrage. “Ah, whatever. You talk like that, but you’ll end up coming with me all the same.”
She had a point. As long as she gave me some sort of solid justification, or threat, or the sense of a righteous duty, I would be swayed. If a path was presented to me, I wouldn’t oppose it. That was simply because I was the boat of reeds; no other reason.
She said, “I haven’t even told you the whole thing yet. When you hear what I’ve got, you might want to come over.”
“My resolve is stronger than Fruiche. I’m not so sure you can break me.”
“Fruiche? That’s gloopier than anything. Man, Fruiche, huh? That brings me back. I haven’t had any of that stuff in so long. I’ll have to buy the mix next time I’m out. My mom used to make it for me when I was in grade school. My favorite is the strawberry one.”
“Your train of thought is about as firm as yogurt. I bet you could mix that with my resolve.”
“Maybe we should try.”
She loosened the bow tie of her summer uniform and undid her top shirt button. She must have been having trouble with the heat. Or she was just being silly. Probably the latter.
She said, “Don’t give me that look. Okay, back to the subject. So, you know how I told you before that I never read?”
“Yeah. Except for manga.”
“Right. Well, later I realized that wasn’t quite true. I basically never read books, but there’s one book that I’ve loved since I was a little girl. My dad gave it to me. Now, tell me that doesn’t interest you.”
“I see. That actually does interest me. A person’s favorite books reveals a lot about who they are. I’d like to know what kind of book someone like you likes. So, what’s the book?”
She paused for dramatic effect, then said, “Have you ever heard of The Little Prince?”
“By Saint-Exupéry?”
“What?” she exclaimed. “You know it? Come on, that’s a foreign book. I was sure even you wouldn’t have heard of it. Darn it.”
She pouted and slumped back in her chair, which let out another creaking wail.
I said, “If you don’t know that The Little Prince is famous, you really must not be interested in books.”
“It’s famous? Then you’ve probably read it, too,” she groaned.
“Actually, I’m a little embarrassed to admit I haven’t yet.”
“Really?”
She sprang up in her seat and leaned in to me. I scooted back along with my chair. She was grinning, of course. Apparently, I’d said something to make her happy—maybe a little too happy.
She said, “I mean, of course you haven’t read it. I knew that all along.”
“Don’t you know people who tell lies get sent to hell?”