Would life have any meaning if you weren’t the lead?
No matter how good the story is, or how rich the ending might be, none of it would be any good if it wasn’t made for you.
And if you’re going to be the star, it should be when you’re shining your brightest—such as, for example, in your third year of high school. When you’re young and spry and bursting with life.
If you want to be the lead, you’re going to need a supporting cast. But they better not be too clever. The most famous sidekicks bring out the appeal of the star. They stay by her side and don’t outshine her.
Sidekicks are who determine the quality of the story. Sidekicks are only as good as their lead: the better the sidekick, the more glorious the star.
But the nasty part of having a sidekick is that they’re always trying to steal the throne. One wrong move and they’ve taken your place.
So you need to plan ahead to retain your throne. You must always be superior to your supporting cast. So what do you do?
You seize their secrets.
If it’s true that “others’ misfortunes are as sweet as honey,” then I’d say their secrets are the ultimate spice—spices that fill the secret bearer’s life with the richest of aromas and the most unexpected of tastes.
The lovelier the person on the outside, the more grotesque the secrets they hide. What a joy it is to sniff them out!
Seize their secrets, steal their place, hunt them down. To hold someone’s secrets is to take hold of their soul. There is nothing in this world more enjoyable.
When you seize someone else’s secrets, your story is born.
Yes. For example.
The stage is St. Mary’s Academy for Girls. The setting is the Literature Club.
And the star is me.
✦ ✦ ✦
1
✦ ✦ ✦
The morning sunlight from the valley illuminates the world outside the window as the lavender sky fades into a transparent orange. I lie in bed as I watch the colors change and start to drift back to sleep.
“Itsumi. You awake?” he whispers in my ear. His arms wrap around me from behind, as they did the night before.
“Yeah. But I don’t want to move just yet,” I reply.
He kisses my shoulder and buries his face in my hair. This gentle moment. This breathtaking morning in Eastern Europe. We relish in the warmth of each other’s skin, cherishing every moment we have together. We are held in a cocoon. We know that this tender moment will end.
We will be torn apart once we return to Japan.
A forbidden relationship between a student and a missionary school professor. I know everything about him, yet I have to call him “teacher” and keep my distance from him. It’s incredibly frustrating. It’s agonizing to have the one I love stand before me, but be unable to feel his touch or hear him say he loves me. Now that I know this pain, all of my classmates seem so childish in comparison.
“Shinji,” I say. His name is so precious.
“Yes? Would you like some coffee?”
“Sure.”
He gently releases me from his arms and crawls out of bed. He grinds the coffee beans and prepares the hot water as I doze, gazing at the glorious scenery out the window.
I wish we could be like this forever, I think.
✦ ✦ ✦
After spring vacation ended and we returned to Japan, a new school year began.
We returned to our monotonous lives as professor and student.
I was in my third year. This was, finally, the last year of my high school career.
I idly stared out the classroom window. The academy campus has nothing on the gorgeous view in Eastern Europe. This was one of the days I didn’t have his class. Unless we are lucky enough to pass each other in the hallway by chance, we wouldn’t be able to meet. Though I used to make excuses to visit him in the faculty room, we paid too much attention to each other and it felt like everyone could sense our body temperatures rising. Now I only go there when it is absolutely necessary.
However, I would see him after school. My heart leapt at that thought: in the salon, after hours. The real reason I reopened the Literature Club was to spend more time with him.
“Itsumi, how was Bulgaria?” someone asked, interrupting my sweet memories. It was Sayuri, my childhood best friend and vice president of the club.
Even though the Literature Club has been around almost since the founding of our sixty-year old academy, it had been closed for a few years before I entered high school. In this small academy with only 120 students per grade, the most popular clubs are the modern and theatrical ones like English conversation, drama, and music. Reading, writing, and other simple activities that you can perform on your own no longer appeal to the female students of today. The former club adviser, Mr. Hojo, couldn’t hide a bitter smile when he told me that all the members had quit, one by one, until no one was left.
When he was younger, Mr. Hojo was a bookworm who aspired to be an author. He taught my first high school literature course at the academy. The moment I met this professor, still in his mid-twenties, I fell instantly in love. His soft hair. His languorous eyes. He was a cynic who seemed to read novels only to cement the ugliness of reality. But his smile was friendly and inviting, and could win anyone over. I steadily became more and more smitten with him.
I researched everything about him. How his hometown is in a cold area of Japan. That he has an older sister and a younger brother. That he loves Kafka. That he listens to Schubert in his spare time. And that he used to be adviser of the Literature Club.
I restarted the club so I could get closer to him. Since a club needs at least two members for the school to approve, I asked Sayuri to join as well.
Although our numbers have grown, at first it was just me and Sayuri. Right after I reopened the club, Mr. Hojo created assignments just for the two of us, making us write essays, poems, and short stories, and gave fervent discourses on literature.
I wrote poems about passionate love and read them to him, and chose sensual novels like Marguerite Duras’ The Lover for our discussions. He gradually noticed my affection for him. And finally, I was tied to Mr. Hojo not as a student, but as a woman.
“It was wonderful. The absolute best,” I answered Sayuri.
“Did you have a good time with the professor?” she asked. Of course, Sayuri knew all about me and Mr. Hojo.
“Yes. I sometimes snuck out of my homestay and got to stay with him at his hotel.”
“That’s great.”
At this school, you can basically choose to study abroad anywhere. The academy will arrange your homestay in whichever country you want to go. Popular picks include America, England, Australia, France, Germany, Korea, and China, but I chose Bulgaria, which no one had ever chosen before. I knew that if Mr. Hojo came with me as an escort, we could spend some alone time together. To apply, I had to submit a short essay on why I chose Bulgaria, but I knew nothing about the country. This was when Sayuri came up with an idea.
“Ivan Vazov is one of the greatest writers in Bulgarian history,” she suggested. “Why don’t you say that you’re interested in him and want to see where his works were born?”
It was Sayuri who helped me with the entire process, from researching Vazov’s famous works to editing my application essay. Thanks to her help, I was accepted into the program and could travel with Mr. Hojo. I could enjoy my spring vacation with him without having to check if anyone was watching. However, the next year Shiyo unexpectedly joined us, and we didn’t get nearly as much alone time.
Whenever I stood at a crossroads, Sayuri always gave me the right advice. Even though we’re the same age, she is discreet and thinks like an adult, no matter what is happening around her. Sayuri was a great adviser because she was my total opposite. She supported me when I fell in love with Mr. Hojo and wanted to revive the Literature Club, and she created alibis for me when I went to go see him. Without Sayuri, our love could have never come to be.
“Isn’t there a council today?” Sayuri inquired.
“Council” was our code for my rendezvous with Mr. Hojo, which fell every week on Wednesday, when he didn’t have any faculty meetings.
“Yes, we do have a council. I guess I’ll see you later, Sayuri,” I told her.
In the activity report we gave to the school, our Wednesday “councils” were for “library organizational purposes.” Sayuri was also in charge of writing and submitting these weekly reports. None of the other members knew of these “councils,” of course; they were convinced that the salon was only closed on Wednesdays for the reason we stated.
I always felt Wednesday was so far away. We could meet eyes only when I was in his class, three times a week, and the only time we could spend together was on Wednesdays for a few hours after school.