The side dishes crammed into the bento offered a glimpse into what dinner must be like in the Sakura household. There was quite a bit of fried food, including Hokkaido-style fried chicken and fried squid tentacles, probably made with the Sakura children’s palates in mind. To someone like me, who’d practically never tasted her mother’s home cooking, or Rintaro, who only stocked his fridge with beer, Chiaki’s bento was a treat we wouldn’t trade for anything in the world.
The three of us pressed our hands together and said the customary pre-meal greeting, “Itadakimasu,” then dug into the onigiri and side dishes.
“Your family sure likes sweet tamagoyaki,” Rintaro noted after a bite of rolled omelet.
“My grandmother had a huge sweet tooth. She used to put sugar on everything, apparently—even tomatoes and natto.”
“Sugar’s surprisingly good on tomatoes, right? It almost makes them taste fruity.”
These snippets of idle conversation were the best company I could’ve asked for. Eating lunch with Chiaki and Rintaro showed me that sharing a meal was leaps and bounds better than any solo fine-dining experience. To the three of us, the art room had become something of a secret hiding place.
Chiaki was still munching his onigiri as he tied on his apron. It was made of strong canvas material and covered with paint splotches. Removing oil paint from fabric was tough, and on top of that, he hardly ever washed the garment. Still, he wore the dirty apron all the time, which was probably why he always smelled oily.
The art club’s next competition with the All Japan Senior High School Culture Federation was approaching quickly. Sports clubs participated in competitions with other high schools on specific dates, but culture clubs had to submit projects by a specific deadline, and that often involved a training or presentation component.
“Do you really have to put so much effort into this year’s competition?” I asked. “You’re still just a second-year.”
“The national competition for art clubs will take place during the next school year. And if I win gold as a third-year, I can’t submit my project to the national contest. I told you that before, remember?”
Competitions took place at district, prefectural, and national levels. Only first- and second-year student projects that earned gold at the Hokkaido Prefectural Competition could compete in the following year’s national round.
“If I make it to nationals, an art school might recommend me for admission. That could make or break my future, so I’ve got to give it my all now.”
The second year of high school was a time when many kids started thinking about what they aimed to do after graduating. Chiaki wanted to attend art school, but a lot of students failed the entrance exams straight out of high school and had to apply for another year or two before they were accepted. Chiaki probably wanted to get his hands on a recommendation for immediate admission more than anything else.
But, at the moment, I was more concerned about what was happening with my face. A deep chuckle reverberated from Rintaro’s throat as he watched me eat my onigiri while fixing my makeup.
“You two may be working on different canvases, but you’re both creating art,” he commented.
“Hey! Don’t lump me in with him!” I protested.
Chiaki just smiled, gripping a paintbrush. “You’ve got a point. She comes up with really outlandish makeup sometimes. I thought she’d had a fashion mishap when she came to school with that yellow stuff around her eyes.”
“Yellow eye shadow was trending then! Don’t you dare compare me to someone like Rintaro!”
“Hey, Rintaro’s fashion sense is getting better lately. Remember when he wore those funky-colored ties back when we were first-years? Where the heck did you even buy them, Rintaro?”
“I just randomly wore ties that other people gave me. I mean, a tie’s a tie, right?”
When it was just the three of us in our own little world, the atmosphere was so different from Class 2-A’s. We all pretended to be something we weren’t at times, but here, we could be our true selves. Rintaro, who always played a pleasant, easygoing teacher in front of everyone else, could be his actual curt self here, and Chiaki stopped acting like the epitome of an honor student.
Chiaki was working on his competition piece, a realistic landscape painting. He was painting everything in minute detail, from the rooftops to the tree branches. Oil paints, unlike watercolors, didn’t dry quickly. You mixed them separately, with a solvent, and they took at least one night to dry. Each day, Chiaki diligently painted a coat, and I secretly looked forward to the moment he’d complete his masterpiece.
“I’m napping for a bit. Wake me when the warning bell rings,” Rintaro said.
“That’s our model teacher for you.”
Since the school festival ended, Rintaro had been spending more time in the art room. The vice principal and head teacher reprimanded him sternly after Class 2-A’s cross-dressing café was deemed too risqué for a high-school festival, and since Rintaro had started coming here to escape the staff room’s uncomfortable atmosphere, it was hard for him to give me grief when I played hooky. He lay down on the row of chairs I’d been using and covered himself with a cloth used for sketching practice.
Chiaki got his painting ready while he finished eating his lunch. Once he was done, he crumpled the foil from the onigiri he’d eaten and got to work.
I finally finished fixing my makeup and put away my cosmetics bag, then walked to the window to let some fresh air in. The art room’s curtains were always shut so the sun wouldn’t fade the paintings. I couldn’t tell whether the cream-colored drapery had originally been that shade, or if it’d just yellowed slightly with age. The wind rustling through the curtains carried the sound of students hanging out in the schoolyard. Their voices mingled with Chiaki’s intermittent humming and Rintaro’s soft breathing.
I couldn’t hear my mother flirting with her partner on the phone, screaming and crying day and night after being dumped once again, nor could I hear her taking out her anger on me whenever she got wasted.
Chiaki was so focused that he seemed not to notice me peering at him. He still smelled faintly of deodorant spray, but the scent of the art room would take over again before long.
Projects by generations of past art club members lined the walls—a world so colorful, taking it in almost hurt my eyes. Rintaro looked like an innocent baby as he slept swaddled in pure white cloth. By now, Chiaki was fully immersed in painting; his artwork was the only thing he saw. No one was around to get worked up about my hair or eyes. Only in this secret hiding place could I let my guard down fully and breathe easy.
If only these quiet moments lasted forever, I thought. Just Chiaki, Rintaro, and me, with no one to disturb us.