But why then did this perfect man end up a leader of hooligans? Shuya couldn’t begin to know the answer, though he could perceive in Kiriyama—a sense, almost tactile—something out of place. Shuya couldn’t put his finger on it. Kiriyama never acted out in school, nor would he bully someone as Ryuhei Sasagawa and others sometimes did to Yoshio Akamatsu. But Shuya felt something was … lacking, perhaps?
Kiriyama frequently skipped school. The thought that he would ever actually study was preposterous. When he did show up for class, he just sat there, silent, his mind seemingly somewhere completely different. Without a powerful and meddlesome government insisting upon a compulsory education, Kiriyama might never have attended school at all. Or he might have come all the time, just because he felt like it. Shuya couldn’t guess which. He had thought the boy would certainly pass on the school trip without a second thought, yet here he was. Kiriyama acting upon another whim, then?
Shuya was staring off at the lights in the ceiling, thinking about Kiriyama, when a sunny voice called his name and pulled him back to reality.
From the seat across the aisle, Noriko Nakagawa (Girls #15) offered something wrapped in cellophane. Small enough to fit in the palm of her hand, the pouch was packed full with little, light brown, round objects—cookies, probably. Light from the ceiling glinted along the surface of the clear, stiff wrapping like the sun over water. A neatly tied bow of gold ribbon held it closed.
Noriko Nakagawa was in Yukie Utsumi’s group of mainstreamers. Shoulder-length hair framed a round and very girlish face, with striking eyes that were gentle and dark, almost black. She was petite, with a playful streak, the picture of an average girl. If anything about her merited special mention, it was her talent with Japanese; Noriko was the best writer in class. (As a result, Shuya and Noriko talked relatively often. During breaks, Shuya would compose song lyrics in the margins of his notebook, and sometimes Noriko would ask to read them.) Noriko usually kept with Yukie and the other girls, but showing up a little late for the trip, she had been forced to take the open seat.
Shuya reached toward the bag, but stopped, raising his eyebrows in question.
Somewhat flustered, Noriko said, “Um, my little brother begged me to bake these today. I had these extra, and they’re no good stale, so you and Mr. Nobu can have them, if you like.”
Mr. Nobu was Yoshitoki Kuninobu’s nickname. Despite his good-humored, goggling eyes, Yoshitoki could be surprisingly wise and mature. Referring to him as you would an adult seemed appropriate. The girls didn’t often use the boys’ nicknames—“Mr. Nobu” included—but Noriko did, and freely. She made it feel natural and never offended anyone by it. That was Noriko; she had this buoyant quality. Shuya never had a nickname—actually, he did have something of a strange one from elementary school, after a brand of cigarettes, but like Shinji’s “The Third Man” moniker, no one ever actually used it when talking with him—but some time ago he had noticed that Noriko was the only girl who ever called him by his first name.
Listening in, Yoshitoki interjected, “Really? You mean it? Nice! If you made them, they must be good.”
Yoshitoki snatched the bag from Shuya’s reach, quickly undid the ribbon, and withdrew and sampled a cookie.
“Wow! These are amazing!”
Caught in the middle, Shuya grinned. Could that boy be any more obvious? As soon as Noriko had taken the seat across from Shuya, Yoshitoki began acting all weird, sneaking glances at her and straightening his posture.
A month and a half earlier, during spring vacation, Shuya and Yoshitoki were fishing for black bass at the city reservoir when Yoshitoki blurted, “Hey, Shuya, I … kinda … got a crush.”
“Oh,” Shuya said, “who is it?”
“Nakagawa.”
“From our class?”
“Yeah.”
“Which one? There are two Nakagawas. You mean Yuka?”
“Whatever. You’re the one who’s into the fat ones, not me.”
“You jerk. You trying to say Kazumi’s fat? She’s just a little chubby, that’s all.”
“Sorry, sorry,” Yoshitoki said. “Anyway, well, it’s Noriko.”
“That so? Well, she’s a nice girl.”
“Don’t you think so? Right?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Yoshitoki was utterly transparent. Yet Noriko seemingly remained unaware. Shuya couldn’t tell if she was that oblivious or what. Maybe that was just part of what made her Noriko.
Shuya took a cookie from the bag in Yoshitoki’s hand and held it up to his eyes. Then he looked at Noriko and asked, “You said they’re no good stale?”
“Yeah.” Noriko gave two sharp nods. For some reason, her eyes seemed tense. “That’s right.”
“Guess you must be confident they were any good in the first place, then.”
Shuya had been making a lot of snide remarks lately, perhaps picking it up from Shinji Mimura. The habit annoyed some, but Noriko giggled and said, “That’s right.”
“Hey,” Yoshitoki said, cutting in again, “I said they were amazing, didn’t I? You heard me, right, Noriko?”
Noriko smiled. “Thanks. You’re so sweet, Mr. Nobu.”
Yoshitoki suddenly stiffened as if he had poked his finger into an outlet. Then, without further comment, he stared down at his feet and crunched on a cookie.
With another grin, Shuya popped a cookie in his mouth. It was sweet and light.
“This is good,” he said.
Noriko, who hadn’t taken her eyes off him the entire time, said, “Thanks!”
Shuya thought she sounded different when she was thanking him. Maybe he had just imagined it … But no, her eyes were so serious, watching him eat that cookie. Were they really left over from ones made for her brother? Or had she made them because she wanted someone in particular to eat them? No, that was just his imagination. Wasn’t it?