When they became classmates the year before, Shuya had already heard of “The Third Man,” the ace guard on the basketball team. Shinji was proud of his exceptional athleticism, on par with the ace shortstop Shuya—though Shinji would certainly jest, “I’m better, baby.” During a school field day held soon after class placement, the two discovered they made a great duo and hit it off right away. But there was more to Shinji than just sports. Though his grades were merely average (aside from mathematics and English), Shinji possessed a staggering breadth of knowledge and a perspective far beyond his years. Ask him most any question, and he’d have the answer right away, even down to typically unobtainable information about foreign countries. And he’d always have advice in a time of need. Despite all that, Shinji didn’t have an arrogant bone in his body. Well, he did have his own way of joking, like the time he said, “Everyone knows I’m a genius. Haven’t you heard?” But there was nothing offensive about it. Basically, Shinji Mimura was a good guy.
Seated beside Shinji was Yutaka Seto (Boys #12), who had been the athlete’s friend since elementary school. Yutaka was the class clown, and one of his quips was probably what had sparked Shinji’s laughter.
One row behind the pair was Hiroki Sugimura (Boys #11). Hiroki, reading a paperback, had somehow managed to fold his lanky frame into the narrow seat. Taciturn and a student of martial arts, Hiroki had an intimidating presence and kept mostly to himself. But once Shuya had tried talking to him, he found the boy to be nice, if shy, and the two got along surprisingly well. The paperback was probably one of Hiroki’s prized anthologies of Chinese poetry. Chinese literature books were fairly easy to find despite being translations of foreign works. But then they would be, as the Republic proclaimed China “our sovereign territory.”
There was a line Shuya read once in an American book he’d salvaged from some corner of a used bookstore, relying on a dictionary to make it through: “Friends come in and out of your life.” Maybe that was true. Perhaps he would drift apart from Shinji and Hiroki and his other friends like he had with Tadakatsu.
Or not.
Shuya glanced at Yoshitoki Kuninobu in the adjacent seat, still rustling through his bag. They, at least, had been together this far, and he didn’t see anything changing that. Shuya and Yoshitoki had been friends ever since they were still wetting their beds in the pompously named “House of Mercy and Love,” a Catholic institution for children who had lost—or who were no longer allowed to live with—their parents. They seemed destined to be friends, whether Shuya wanted it or not.
While we’re on the subject, an explanation on religion in the Republic might be in order. The government was a unique brand of national socialism, with the Leader, wielder of supreme power, as its leading symbol. (Once, Shinji Mimura had scowled and said, “This is what successful fascism looks like. Is there anything as evil anywhere in the world?”) But the Leader didn’t enforce a state religion—aside from belief in his political system, which itself didn’t clash with any established faith. Citizens were free to worship, as long as their activities remained within certain bounds—though the complete lack of any legal protection meant that only the most devout persisted, and only in meager efforts. Shuya himself had never been particularly religious, but he did feel gratitude toward religion. He recognized that the Church had given him a comfortable childhood and had raised him into a decent young man, if he could be called one. Secular, state-run orphanages did exist, but by reputation were lousy facilities poorly run, notorious as training grounds for future soldiers in the Nonaggressive Forces.
Shuya looked over his shoulder toward the rear of the bus. Sitting in the long bench seat of the last row were bad boys Ryuhei Sasagawa (Boys #10) and Mitsuru Numai (Boys #17). A third was at the righthand window (Ryuhei Sasagawa had left a couple seats empty between). Though the seat backs blocked his view of this third boy’s face, Shuya recognized the distinctive haircut, slicked-back and hanging long, atop a head that remained perfectly still, unperturbed by the dirty jokes and coarse laughter of other two at his left. The youth may have been sleeping, or perhaps, like Shuya, had been captivated by the city lights.
Why that boy—Kazuo Kiriyama (Boys #6)—had shown up to something as childish as this school trip was the greatest mystery to Shuya.
Kiriyama was the leader, of sorts, of the area delinquents, Ryuhei and Mitsuru among them. Though by no means big—he couldn’t have been taller than Shuya—Kiriyama could easily subdue a high schooler and even took on local yakuza. He had become a prefecture-wide legend. His father’s being the president of a leading local enterprise probably helped, but there was more to his stature than that. (Shuya had heard rumors that Kiriyama was a bastard child. Uninterested, he’d never bothered to look into it.) Kiriyama had a handsome, intelligent face, and his voice, though not deep, was intimidating. His grades were the best in the class—the class leader for the boy’s side, Kyoichi Motobuchi (Boys #20), spent late nights studying just to compete. Even in sports, when forced to participate, Kiriyama was better and more graceful than just about any of his peers. The only boys in Shiroiwa Junior High who could rival him in a serious match-up would be the former ace shortstop Shuya and the basketball team’s ace guard Shinji Mimura. In every aspect, Kazuo Kiriyama was the perfect man.