Every class period the day before the festival was used to prepare. We spent the entire day decorating the school and transforming it into an extraordinary space.
The groups in charge of haunted house costumes, small props, and gadgets were on their last sprint to the finish line. Meanwhile, those of us working on the set went all out putting up scenery in the classroom. We were using all the desks and chairs in addition to the set pieces with intriguing gimmicks we’d spent ages working on. There was something thrilling about transforming the ordinary classroom we used each day. At the same time, I was hit with the bittersweet realization that today marked the end of the long prep period.
I put set pieces together according to our group leader’s instructions. As I handed him some plywood boards, he suddenly asked, “Is Somei feeling okay?”
Yoshino had a fever, so she was resting in the school infirmary. Our group leader seemed pretty worried about her. “She’s fine,” I replied. “I think she just overexerted herself getting everything ready for the festival.”
Our group had wound up really busy with painting as we finished constructing one set piece after another. Yoshino was a skilled artist, and she really shined when it came to painting. When it was time to decorate the classroom, however, I’d noticed she seemed unsteady on her feet.
“Somei’s the type who takes on a task no matter what’s asked of her,” the group leader reflected. “I wound up giving her a lot of work. Maybe I overdid it.”
“It’s just a slight fever. The nurse said she’ll be fine, as long as she takes it easy today,” I reassured him. I’d accompanied Yoshino to the infirmary, so I had a good idea of the situation.
Even after the classroom was ready, the scenery group had more work to do. The boys were going to handle the set’s various tricks from behind the scenes while Yoshino and I, dressed like ghosts, would signal them to trigger the mechanisms.
“Is anyone you know coming to the festival?” I asked the group leader. “Seems like everyone’s inviting friends or family.”
My parents weren’t coming. Chiaki had made it crystal clear that inviting them was off the table, since he hadn’t told them he’d be cross-dressing. Yoshino and I had made plans to walk around the festival together since her mother would be working that day.
“Some guys from my junior-high baseball club said they’d come,” the group leader replied.
“Where’d you go again?”
It was an innocuous question, but he paused uncomfortably before naming the junior high Yoshino had attended before transferring to this school. “I don’t think Somei recognizes me,” he added. “We were in different classes, and we never talked to each other.”
“Why didn’t you tell her?”
“I’m sure she doesn’t want to be reminded of those uncomfortable memories. She was infamous—even kids in other classes knew about her.”
Yoshino didn’t talk about it much, but some students had shot videos of her being bullied and posted them in other classes’ group chats. She’d had plenty of opportunities to see our group leader at their previous school, but he told me she tended to walk around with her head down, not looking anyone in the face.
“Seeing her again in high school, I was shocked by how different she seemed. I guess her transfer went well.” He glanced at me. “Somei can’t talk to guys because of what happened in junior high, right? Lately, though, she’s stopped running away when I say something to her. It seems like she’s recovering a little.”
He was right. As festival prep progressed, I’d seen some change in Yoshino. First, she assertively started taking on tasks she’d previously done only if asked. Then she’d gotten to the point that, if she needed to ask a boy for something, she could initiate that conversation—although she’d be blushing. She also began to actively enjoy our work in the courtyard.
I knew the reason for the changes: Tono-senpai was there.
After the incident in Chiaki’s room, he seemed to remember us; he’d come by and say hi while we worked in the courtyard. Occasionally, he stood nearby and watched Yoshino paint, sometimes calling others over to look at her work.
One time, Tono-senpai had yelped, “Hey, Rintaro! Come over here!” Class 2-A’s homeroom teacher, Kakei Rintaro, was heading through the outdoor walkway. “You like these kinds of pictures, don’t you?”
Kakei-sensei taught first-year Japanese language and literature, so his sudden appearance didn’t alarm Yoshino. “Whoa. You’re pretty good,” he’d remarked.
He glanced around our work area. Kakei-sensei was a younger teacher, and there was still a childishness to his face. I noticed that he didn’t chide Tono-senpai for speaking to him without honorifics, so that was probably par for the course in his class.
Yoshino was painting a ghostly woman wearing a white robe with disheveled black hair in a style reminiscent of a traditional Japanese painting. The corners of Kakei-sensei’s slightly weary eyes crinkled as he examined it. “Is this based on the ghost in The Dish Mansion at Bancho?”
“Y-yes,” Yoshino replied. Her hands trembled as she painted, but I knew she wasn’t shaking from fear. She was nervous because Tono-senpai was watching.
He called over even more classmates, and we were surrounded in no time. “The Dish Mansion at Bancho?” one said. “Isn’t that the story of Oiwa? The ghost who counts dishes? Like ‘One…two… Oh no, there’s a dish missing!’?”
“Huh? I thought Oiwa was the ghost with bruised eyes,” remarked another.
“Why was Oiwa counting dishes again?” a third chimed in.
As the boys around us chattered, Kakei-sensei sighed. “Oiwa’s from Yotsuya Kaidan. The ghost in The Dish Mansion at Bancho is Okiku.”
“You’re so cool, Rintaro!” his students chorused.
The Dish Mansion at Bancho and Yotsuya Kaidan were both famous stories featuring female ghosts. The feminine form Yoshino was painting on the black plywood radiated otherworldliness. She wasn’t using color—just white and black—which emphasized the spooky vibe.
“Once the festival ends, why not join the art club? I’m jealous of those painting skills.” Kakei-sensei, who oversaw the club, seemed very impressed.
“You’re quite the artist yourself, right, Rintaro?” Tono-senpai remarked with a slight shrug.
“I’m just the official club advisor. But we do have a qualified art teacher give lessons a couple times a month. And the upperclassmen are skilled—they can teach you a lot.”
Neither Yoshino nor I belonged to a club. Our school emphasized producing well-rounded students, and regulations strongly recommended that everyone participate in the extracurricular clubs on campus. Yoshino, however, worried about having to interact with boys, had chosen not to join any.
Yoshino stopped painting for a moment, looking uncomfortable. “I’m very shy,” she murmured in a barely audible voice.
“Chiaki’s in the art club,” Tono-senpai replied matter-of-factly. “It won’t be too scary if someone you know is there, right?”
“Chiaki-kun’s in the art club?”
My brother was one of the very few boys Yoshino could interact with. And if someone in the club was aware of her circumstances, they’d have her back in the unlikely event something bad happened.
“Sounds perfect, doesn’t it?” I said encouragingly. “Why not check it out after the festival?” I was sure new school friends would do her a world of good.
“Will you come with me, Hazuki?”
As I nodded, her tense face finally relaxed.
“I know you’re first-years, but since we’re all here, let me go ahead and get your names,” said Kakei-sensei.
“I’m Somei Yoshino.”
“I’m Sakura Hazuki.”
After we introduced ourselves, Kakei-sensei chuckled. “Both a Somei Yoshino, and a North Japanese hill-cherry tree. Perfect. Sounds like you two were meant to be friends.”
Yoshino and I already knew both our names were related to cherry blossoms—that was why we bought so many matching light-pink items. My surname, “Sakura,” was pronounced the same way as the word for “cherry tree,” although it used different kanji. I didn’t understand the link to North Japanese hill cherry, though.
“Somei Yoshino leaves only grow after the trees bloom. The blossoms come in first. On the other hand, the North Japanese hill cherry grows blossoms and leaves at the same time,” Kakei-sensei explained. “Just like you two, they look alike, but they’re completely different trees.”
The cherry trees on our campus were North Japanese hill cherry. I’d seen them bloom every year, but never noticed that the leaves and flowers sprouted at the same time. That was just something we overlooked.
I suddenly recalled that my junior-high homeroom teacher, who’d volunteered me to show Yoshino around the school, was also a Japanese literature and language arts teacher. Maybe it wasn’t coincidental after all that she’d paired Yoshino and me up.
“I’ll be waiting for you guys in the art room,” Kakei-sensei finished.
If I check the club out with Yoshino, will they think I want to join too? I wondered.
Unlike my brother, I wasn’t great at drawing. If I joined a club that bored me, I didn’t know whether I could stick it out until graduation. Yoshino probably wouldn’t take the plunge if I didn’t do it with her, though.
After helping the group leader finish his tasks, I stopped by the infirmary to check on Yoshino. Before going inside, I knocked on the door, but the school nurse didn’t seem to be around. The festival was approaching, and it seemed like everyone was busy.
I made my way over to the bed next to the window. “Are you feeling better, Yoshino?”
I spoke in a hushed whisper even though the other beds were empty. It felt like the natural thing to do when visiting the infirmary. Opening the bed’s privacy curtain, I saw that Yoshino was sleeping. Her complexion looked much better than earlier. I gazed at her, breathing as quietly as possible so I wouldn’t wake her.
Just before we’d finished the last tasks in our classroom, our group leader asked me, “Hey, Sakura, do you and Somei have plans for the post-festival bonfire?”
I shook my head. Yoshino and I had promised each other we’d go to all the classroom attractions and booths together, but we’d never made specific plans for the post-festival events. Still, we had a silent understanding that, whatever plans we made, we’d do them together.
“If you guys are cool with it, I wanted to get together with everyone in our group. Kind of like a wrap-up party. If after the festival doesn’t work, maybe during summer break?”
His ears were turning red, but I pretended not to notice.
What would I do if Yoshino said she wanted to meet up with Tono-senpai once the festival ended? There were several ways I could help her do that, the easiest of which was just asking Chiaki. I didn’t get the impression that Tono-senpai was the kind of person who would snub us.
Yoshino and I had two hearts that beat as one, and I loved what she loved. But…
“Yoshino…” I spoke her name, but my voice couldn’t reach her. Leaning over, I softly kissed her lips as she murmured something unintelligible in her sleep.
The one I loved was Yoshino.