WE FOUND OURSELVES clasping hands as the first notes of “Turkey In The Straw” played. It was a folk song in which boys and girls paired up and danced together. Glancing down at the schoolyard below, I noticed the students who’d been raucously dancing the jenkka were scattering to the sidelines. Only couples stood around the bonfire now. Some looked clumsy and unsure while others appeared very comfortable holding hands, perfectly in sync.
Although we danced along too, our rhythm was off. We’d practiced the folk dances in P.E., but the linoleum classroom floor didn’t provide much traction while doing the steps in bare feet.
When I stepped on her foot, we stopped dancing. “Sorry.”
After she lost her balance and I caught her, we were practically face-to-face. We hadn’t exchanged many words as we watched the post-festival celebration from our classroom. Just the slight warmth we felt radiating from each other’s bodies satisfied us as we stood side by side.
I was about to step back again, but her hands cupped both my cheeks. The fragrance she’d dabbed on her wrists was unisex, but always seemed to smell sweeter on her. I placed my hands over hers; they were so small that my palms fully covered them.
Her cheeks reflected the bonfire, glowing crimson, and—although she didn’t apply makeup often—on this special occasion, she wore the gloss I’d given her. I felt drawn to her glistening lips. I’d kissed them countless times, but however hard I wished it, they couldn’t belong to me. I didn’t possess her small hands or soft lips, nor the sweet scent of her skin.
Yet she still called me beautiful. “You look gorgeous, Riku.”
The costume group had sewn me a white cocktail dress to wear at the school festival. Even though it was made of cheap sateen, it had looked almost like silk in the cross-dressing café’s dim lighting. Its design was simple, but its well-planned draping emphasized the womanly curves I lacked.
The moment I laid eyes on the garment, my heart leapt with joy, but I just couldn’t go through with wearing it. I was well aware that the costume group had pulled all-nighters creating our outfits, but I spent the entire festival wearing a black suit. I could only bring myself to try on the white dress at Ichika’s urging when we found ourselves alone in the classroom during the post-festival celebration.
“Ichika,” I whispered.
Ichika stood on tiptoe to kiss me, and I leaned down to meet her halfway. When did the height difference between the two of us get so big?
She always trembled the moment we started kissing. Feeling the slight quiver in her lips made me want to throw my arms around her and squeeze as hard as I could. I controlled that urge, placing my hands on her shoulders instead.
To be frank, I was terrified of breaking her. Her porcelain skin looked like it would tear if my nails scratched it. Her neck was so slender, it wouldn’t take much force to snap. Her back was so slight, I’d probably stifle her if I hugged her too tightly. She was dainty and delicate—my very own treasure.
“Riku…?” She looked so innocent as she gazed up at me.
Pulling her close, I kissed her aggressively, pushing my tongue between her lips and into her mouth. She was startled at first, and tried to pull back, but my hand held the nape of her neck. It was so slender, I was once again struck by how easy it would be to break.
However pretty the dress I wore, however long my wig, however delicately I applied my makeup—I couldn’t hold a candle to what Ichika naturally had. I felt tempted to smother her in my embrace, to leave deep scratch marks on her skin. If I gobbled down every part of her, head to toe, could I possibly be like her? I was incredibly envious.
“Riku, what’s wrong? Are you crying?”
Ichika gazed up at me with a worried expression after our mouths parted. I’d sucked her lips so hard that they looked swollen and painful.
She was always concerned about me; hearing it made my heart ache. I closed my eyes to keep the tears from spilling, but a single droplet escaped. Ichika’s slender finger wiped it away. Despite my aggression, she wrapped me in an embrace and gently patted my back, like she was consoling a child. I buried my face in the nape of her neck, filling my lungs with her sweet fragrance. She whispered again and again that everything was going to be okay, using the same big-sisterly tone I’d heard countless times since we were children.
No matter what, I could never be her.
The melody of a folk dance floated through the open window, repeating again and again. No one would come back into the classroom until the song was over. Yet before long, this moment—my last time ever wearing a skirt—would end.