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Part 2 of Model Student.
Model Student
Chapter Two- Deviation
I wake up and I'm alone. Arima's mother's voice is calling me to breakfast. I'd much rather sleep some more. With a groan, I snuggle further into the blankets and close my eyes again, but it's too bright. Arima's switched out on the lights. I blink, disoriented, faded impressions of bright shapes swimming around my eyes. Arima's already dressed, and is standing above the futon, looking at me expectantly. I musn't disappoint his parents. After all, I'm his friend, so he'll be judged by me.
I don't have a change of clothes, so I put on my discarded uniform and waddle out a few minutes later. I'm not a morning person at all. It figures that Arima would be. They're all at the table when I stumble in, the picture of a perfect Japanese family. The breakfast is traditional, which I never make myself at home. Oh well. I catch my reflection in the glass panes of their china cabinet, and my hair's a complete nightmare. I reach up and try to smooth it as I take my seat, and I just end up making it worse. My chair faces Arima's, and I feel a jolt run through me when I see him and remember. He's been through so much, but he still trusted me with it. Because he thought I'd understand?
Because I do understand, all too well. I'm exactly like him. I'm glad.
The food's good for traditional fare. I'm not that hungry, but I manage to still force it down. I try to act as charming as I can for Arima's parents as they make small talk and ask me questions. It's stupid, but I have trouble keeping my eyes on them. I want to see this new Arima- Soichiro. Should I call him Soichiro now?
When they ask Arima how my grades are, dead silence ensues. Then I start talking about Arima and I's friends, Sakura-tachi, and the subject isn't brought up again.
Arima walks home with me. He's got lots of work to do, but we need to talk, so we make our way down the town's streets together, the sounds of cars and early morning and voices cutting into what we say. It'll be a while till we get to my apartment. He knows that, of course.
"Your parents are really nice," I tell him, inappropriately, and regret it.
"Thank you," I tell him, but I don't dare say what for, and I'm not completely sure what I meant myself.
I wish I had my Walkman so I could listen to music. I crave a pop beat, so I start singing, and most people would be embarrassed to do something like that, but I lost any sort of self-consciousness a long time ago.
"Thank you," Arima says to me, echoing my own words, and relieved, I smile at him, the most honest smile I have.
"Anytime," I say. "And hey, I probably will be passing midterms now."
So we end up talking about whatever we feel like. And he asks, so I tell him my father has a business trip and will be staying with me, a free hotel, for a few weeks. I mean, it's not like he doesn't pay all my expenses, so I can't say no. I tell him I'm nervous about it, that I feel really angry. He says maybe this is a chance to make things right between us, and that he'd like to help me. I say he already has.
It's kinda like that, then I'm home and by myself again, and I watch his back as he fades into the crowd like he's some hero, because that's what he is. Except- Jesus, can't I be the hero of my own story?
If he ever wants that, I'll give it to him, an ear, or just silence. A touch, contact, understanding, because the way I feel about him is-
I switch on the music I'd been wanting once I'm in my apartment and dial up Sakura's number. Arima says that they're more my friends than his. Well, at least I can have him all to myself. I do love that idea.
We go to the mall, and it's fun, even though we're stuck at a bookstore for a while because of Aya, who Rika immediately sides with. Sakura and I take up that opportunity to pick up girls. I'd always envisioned Arima as my ally in that, but Sakura's much better at it, and she actually enjoys it, so I'm not gonna try to drag Arima into my Merryland anymore. Sakura's happy to take his place. Well, maybe happy is an overstatement. There are still some issues we have to work out…
I find myself wondering if my father would like them. I don't think he would. They're all talented, Rika in girl things, Sakura in sports, Aya in words, but he wouldn't find them proper or whatever. That's one of the reasons why I like them, right? They call me Asapin all the time now, which the other girls have started doing. It's cute, I like hearing that name from them. Of course, I'd die if Arima ever called me that.
Funny, for some reason, today I can't summon up my usual hostility and contempt towards my father. I wonder why.
He'll be coming next Saturday. Well, at least I'll have midterms done by then. I think. I can never get the schedule down. I wonder what he'll think of Arima. Oh, wait. Shit. SHIT!
I sit down on my threadbare couch, and it sinks down under my weight, old fabric making my arms itch, rash. Bloody sodding- holy fucking- what if he figures out that I- Arima-
That I what! God, we're friends. Sometimes I pretend there's something more between us to tantalize my lambs, but- I mean, Arima would never-
I feel a sudden pressure in my throat, choking, a warmth, stinging in my eyes. Looks like there are some things I've got to straighten out, too.
The new art class won't start until the week after midterms, but I still get Hayasaka after me on Monday, shoving packets of papers and supply lists in my face constantly and chasing after me with supposedly important information at every lunch. Like I don't have enough to worry about with midterms and all that other stuff coming up. Study, study, study… My sheep are shocked. They can't believe my new attitude at first. They soon accept it, though, as a new virtue of mine, and begin to extol my praises- is that the correct phrase? Well, they extol my praises just as they should.
Okay, Arima. By myself the night before midterms, and it's an unfamiliar feeling, so foreign it takes a while for me to name. This is loneliness. I'm lonely without him. Even though I know it's impossible, I want to see him so much. I don't know if he misses me. He must be content where he is. He's probably not thinking of me like I'm thinking of him. And it won't stop. My mind will go somewhere else for a while, but it will always come back to him. It's like without knowing it, I've become so dependent on his presence, just the knowledge that if I want to reach him, he'll be right there. Even if he's right next to me, though, I don't know how to- I won't say what I need to say- Because it's wrong.
I can draw. I don't know what art is to me, but I like lines, shapes, colors. Aesthetics has always been my specialty. I see something like beauty when I look in the mirror- I appreciate myself, and I appreciate other things of beauty. Drawing is, thus, creating beauty. Art is order, the mundane, my frustration, it's just me, fitting between crisp black curves in a coloring book.
I can't draw myself, I can't, even though I try to now, and I focus so much. Whenever I do, the lines mutate into something unrecognizable. Arima is getting hard for me to show also. I guess maybe I want to put all his hurt and his greatness on paper, so anymore who looks can see that beauty, too, that eternal ideal finally brought to complete, achingly perfect fulfillment. When we're alone, Arima and me talk about ourselves, about our families, our dreams. He tells me what he thinks life is. I want to know what he thinks I am, but I won't ask him. Sometimes he asks to see my sketches, so he does, and they're just ugly, superficial little things, but he really does seem to like looking at them. It's like they lift a weight from his shoulders. That's what I draw for.
I realize that though I've been putting it off, I have to start making preparations for my father's arrival. The sofa will fold out into a bed for him to sleep on, so I go buy linens and extra pillows for it. We're both used to sleeping on Western-style beds, a predilection of his that he passed on to me. I start stocking up on food, too, because I'll be cooking for two people instead of one. The idea of cooking for my father is weird. I'm sure he'll hate whatever I make.
Midterms aren't the ordeal I thought they'd be. I know a lot more of the answers this time around than I ever have in the past. I guess the studying paid off, though I still don't get some of the concepts… or maybe it's that for the first time ever I'm really trying, focusing on the paper in front of me. It's the only thing in the room I'm looking at, it and Arima, bent over his own exam, hair falling into his face, expression serious, totally absorbed in his work, teeth firmly clamped down on his bottom lip. Somehow I get the feeling that lip will result in more than a few extra wrong answers.
We have gym last thing today, pushed back because it's the first day of a big examination. My locker's in a row near the door, so I get to it quickly, pulling off my uniform and changing into shorts and T-shirt. Man, basketball again today. I go down to the fourth row of lockers and wait for Arima to finish.
He's in the shorts already, legs long and smooth where they're crossed around each other on the bench. Some teacher probably held him up, because he's not normally this late. Everyone else in his row has already gone outside. He pulls off his short, torso lithe, defined from practicing kendo for hours every day. He's smaller and thinner than me, but he looks much stronger. I know he is.
Watching him pull the gym shirt on, I feel a strange fluttering in my stomach. He's facing half towards me and half away from me. I-
I want to touch him.
"Thanks for waiting, Hideaki," Arima says, sliding off the bench and locking his uniform in his locker. "You'll be on my team, right?" Of course. I wouldn't want to confuse the girls. They wouldn't know who to cheer for.
"Hideaki?" Arima's looking at me weirdly now. He does something he rarely ever does, reaches out and touches my shoulder. "Come on, let's go."
Of course he can't be late.
The teacher would forgive him anyway.
I'm hard.
The second day of midterms is more difficult than the first. The third is more difficult than the second.
Somehow, these thoughts, these words, are halting, hesitating in my head, not really wanting to let themselves out. I don't want anyone but me to know about this. I don't want Father to know. I don't want anyone to know, also, that I have doubts, too. I don't want to betray Arima by telling his secrets. Maybe, if Arima had a girlfriend, I wouldn't have really felt like this...
I'm drowsy, my favorite word, because it's late as usual, and since it's a school night I'm at home in my bed, my western-style cocoon that's the opposite of Arima's sparse eastern futon. The image comes suddenly unbidden to my head of Arima trying to fit in with me. It's only a single, and it's pushed up against the wall. He could sleep here, though, if he tried.
I force a laugh, thinking of his warmth trapped around my body, hair brushing against the bare skin I sleep in, Arima sprawled out beneath me. I take in a long, deep breath, steadying myself like I'm Zen or something, and can almost reach the feeling of Arima's porcelain skin under my fingers, flesh against flesh against sports callouses and muscle and bone, deep under the skin and holding us both together.
I imagine the words I'd like to tell him. That I don't know what's going to happen to me when high school's over. That once, I imagined getting old and fat and ugly and I almost threw up. That I need him. That I don't think he's a monster, no matter how much of himself he's never shown me. And if he is? Well, wouldn't that be interesting...
Arima, full of anger, dangerous, caught off balance. Focused, like diamonds, like steel, cold and warmth and Last. Final. Warning. No, I'm not afraid of you. You're a being made of want, just like the rest of us, behind any fronts you put up. Heat, possession, control, power, jealousy, claiming, unleashed-
I finally let myself search for the release I desire. My fingers, frozen in place before, start to move, search heavily over my body, flat planes and angles and boy, and I find what's hurting me, my gift, my shame. I take ahold, and let the night's imagination take ahold of me and take me where it will.
The door to my room opens and Arima walks in. He's in his uniform, all back, fading into the walls. I freeze where I am, dishevelled, sweaty, blankets tangled around me, bare. Arima's eyes are those of a demon as he glares at me, stalking to where I'm held bound, waiting, and he wants to die. He crawls onto the bed, makes his way to where he can look me in the eye, our faces a scarce foot apart, where I can see his need. Yes, he needs me. I'm the one he needs. Only me.
He kisses me, the thing he'd never, ever do in real life. He wants me to know him, to feel his rage against everything, his rage against himself for what he has to be. So I forget myself, my beliefs, memories, plans, my own name, take him instead, take what he needs to lose away from him. He kisses me, gently, shyly, sweet, and that's the end for me. I'm breathing hard, alone, spent, and anyone who's alone is lonely.
The last day of midterms is by far the easiest.
My father arrives on Saturday night. I wonder what he'll think of my midterm- if he even asks. I'm not sure if I want him to know or not. I've gone through enough trauma just finding out my results myself.
I was just hanging around with Aya-tachi. Arima was there, but he was studying and ignoring us. He's the only guy I know who studies just as much after the midterm as before it. Sakura and I were rating the girls that passed by on a one to ten scale, after I'd maintained, of course, that all girls are precious and beautiful. Rika and Aya were looking at this new play Aya's been writing. Rika was trying to convince her how good it was. Knowing Aya, it was probably completely amazing, but I never got a chance to see it.
There was a sudden rush of noise, and we all stopped. Kids were running into the classroom, even though it was still break. "I guess midterm results finally came in," Rika said slowly, and Arima left to check. Me and the girls just turned and looked at each other. Then in unison, we all let out a groan, rising to our feet, Sakura and I cursing under our breaths, and made our way after Arima. I hoped Arima wouldn't be too pissed off if I flunked. No, I was thinking of my father there, not my best friend. Arima does remind me of my dad, though.
Sakura and I pushed our way through the crowd, Rika and Aya following gingerly, hiding behind us as girls parted in our way like an intensely high-pitched, attractive red sea. Arima, who was already at the front, waved to us, grinning. I could see he'd made number one, of course. Like there had ever been any doubt that he would.
Then Arima had darted forward, and to my shock, was hugging me, hard. It's so uncharacteristic of him, I thought it couldn't be real at first- "Go, Hideaki!" Arima yelled. "I knew you could do it if you just tried!"
I didn't want him to let go, so I peered over his shoulder to see where I was. I was- number six? NUMBER FUCKING SIX?
I'm used to, like, 30.
It would have been impossible without Arima. I didn't make it, Arima did for me.
Everything's ready for my father. It's 8:00, he should be getting here soon. I think of Arima and steady myself, totally feeling the Zen love. I remember how happy Arima was, how proud of how our efforts had paid off. Maybe he'd like to be a teacher when he grows up. I know he's made up his mind to become a doctor, motivated a lot by the desire to make his family happy, but it made him really happy to help me. It's so amazing when he truly smiles.
I hear the doorbell ring. Somehow even that sounds like my father, stiff and dry, cautious. I take a deep breath, deep breath therapy, then inspect myself in the mirror. Hair he thinks is too long, but no earring, and my clothes are formal, blue button-down and dress pants to welcome a guest into my home. He won't be disappointed.
The door swings open way too easily. Just a little pull, and it's slamming against the wall next to it and bouncing back, like it's lighter than usual, like someone hollowed it out and didn't tell me. He's right there, unchanged except the more expensive suit he wears and the additional gray in his dark hair. I break the silence, and somehow, my face is pushed up in a smile as I invite him inside.
He looks around, making himself at home as he walks in. At least the place is clean, that's what he's thinking. He casts his gaze onto me next, raking me in from head to toe, but so painfully differently than girls do. I wonder if he's surprised.
"Is there dinner?" he finally asks, putting his suitcase down on the couch and looking away from me. Of course. He's ashamed of me, right? He wishes I wasn't his son, that I'd never been born, and he's only with me now because he has a use for me-
"Yeah," I finally nod, "It's on the table. I made wasabi." It's his favorite. He looks at me sharply, and I pointedly don't say anything. I don't know any words, I'm horrible with things like those. All I can do is this.
There's an awkward silence between us as we sit. There are things we want to say to each other, but we're not sure how to say them. It could be worse. He seems civil enough though, but so detached. I won't show him that it hurts. The doorbell rings, and I automatically jump up to get it. I open the door and it's Arima.
"Hideaki," Arima says, grinning. "I just got out of kendo practice. I thought we could celebrate." He holds up a package, a gift he's brought. Aw, shit, shit, shit...
"Arima," I say, "My father's here."
Arima's eyes widen as he absorbs my words, eyes taking in the extra pairs of shoes at the doorway for the first time. "You said he was coming next week."
Oh, fuck. I had, hadn't I? I'd meant he was coming this week, but I'd been... distracted...
"Who's this?" Father asks, standing up and walking over to us. He tries to look around me to see who I'm receiving. It's always an inquisition with him.
And Arima decides, like I just knew he would, to try to stick it out and make the best of the situation. He steps past me and faces my father and bows perfectly. "I'm honored to finally meet you, sir."
Father stares at Arima, obviously taken aback. "You're..."
"Arima Soichiro," Arima says, and I want to kiss him. "Hideaki's my best friend." I want to. I've never- not anyone- but I want to.
"Oh," Father says, evaluating Arima too.
I smile, put an arm around Arima before I can stop myself. "He was number one scorer on the entrance exams and midterms. He's also a kendo champion." Arima nods modestly. Father's eyes widen, mouth falling open.
"May I have dinner with you?" Arima asks, and Father assents, as is only polite. Arima nods back. Nod nod nod, that's Arima. He's staying.
"Soichiro, I made wasabi sushi," I say. "I hope it's not too spicy for you."
"It's okay," Arima says, though he starts at what I call him. I find a chair for him in some closet, and he sits down with us Asabas. I've never used his given name before, but Father doesn't have to know that.
Arima isn't very good at handling spicy food. I have to slam his back a few times so he doesn't choke and die. Father seems to like the food I made, but he doesn't seem to be able to enjoy it. I let Arima hold up all the conversation, pestering him with questions to show him off to Father. He answers them as honestly as he can. Father listens to the answers, and I look to see what his reactions are, but I can't take my eyes off Arima otherwise.
Arima leaves right after dinner, the gift he brought still unopened. I see him out to the door and he stops to put his shoes back on, so we're alone there, and my father, unlike me, isn't the type of person to deliberately set out to eavesdrop.
"Hideaki, what are you doing?" Arima hisses.
I find myself staring into his eyes, dark and foreign. "I'm sorry," I whisper. "I don't know what I'm doing."
Arima shakes his head. "Stop trying to use me to impress your father!" he snaps. His thoughts come so quickly to him. "I like you because you're not a drone, not that you could tell with how you're been acting tonight! You'll never resolve anything if you pretend like that! You say you always acted like a vapid thug, and now this! Why don't you try being yourself this visit and see where that gets you?"
No, if I did that, and Father really did hate me- and Arima doesn't know-
"Soichiro," I begin.
"Why are you calling me that?" Arima says. "Don't change your name for me just because of someone else." He leaves, and I go back into the apartment, but I can't get his words out of my head. Just try being myself? Yeah right. But-
"Sorry, dad," I mutter, and his gaze on me is like walking on hot coals, not that I've ever done that.
His head snaps up. "Sorry? Did you say sorry?"
I toss my head. "Whatever," I mutter. "Do you wanna see my midterm placings?"
"I'm afraid to," he mutters.
"Arima helped me," I say.
Father snorts, like he's going to pounce on some weakness. "Who knows what a good kid like him's doing hanging around with someone like you?"
I turn and glare at him, feeling a hurt explode in my chest. I can't believe him. He always does this. God, I hate him, I really do.
"Oh," he says, too, as if it's only natural. "Stop drooling over that boy. He's not interested. It makes you look like a cheap whore. I'm going to bed."
I get up early the next morning- early for me, that is. Father's still asleep. I'm going to a movie with Sakura-tachi at 9, so I have to be ready by quarter of eight. I make breakfast first, the traditional kind I hate, and put in a plastic container in the refrigerator. I put up a note announcing its presence there, then go into my bathroom. I'll be ready for my father.
I lean down, reach into the cabinet under the sink and pull out a bag, pull off the few clothes I'd been sleeping in and put on the bag's contents. Tight black jeans, low on my hips, white silk button-down, left unbuttoned at the top- Then the bag inside the bag- make-up. The eyeliner goes on first, darkness accentuating my eyes, makes me think of Arima. The circles I put around my eyes, blue and purple and black, bruise powder blending into my real veins, are Arima, too. I feel my stomach roll. I rub at it, disgusted, until the barest streaks, mere remnants, are left.
Last is the hardest. It's just a tube, a jar, but it's the hardest. I unscrew its container, smear it across my fingers, stare at them. Gloss. I'm a whore, huh? I'll give him a whore. I wipe it across my lips, wipe them together, look at myself. Shiny. The earring I put on is a real ruby. It was my mother's.
I stare at my reflection in the full-length mirror I insisted on buying, tying up the black lace-up boots I'm wearing. I pull my hair back into a ponytail so Father won't miss Mother's jewel, then leave the bathroom. Is Father up? Yeah, he's eating my breakfast by now. He stops when he hears my footsteps, and the look on his face is priceless when he catches sight of me.
"Hey, Dad," I say, "I'm going out." As if cued, the doorbell rings, and it's Sakura-tachi. They all look great themselves, but Sakura's eyes bug out when she sees me, as do Aya and Rika's. They don't notice my father inside, watching.
We go down the street, listening to Rika tell us about this kimono she's making, and it is interesting, especially since Rika doesn't usually talk much. It's hard to concentrate, though, when the street is so different. Even more girls are checking me out than usual, and, I realize with a start, boys, too. I mean, some guys are standing together, carrying tennis bags, probably deciding where to go. You know, athletes, just joking with each other, and then when we walk past, they start staring at me. And they're not look-at-the-freak stares, that's for sure. Aya can't stop giggling about it. It's not like her.
We get to the movie theater, one of Sakura's favorites. When we approach the door, Arima's waiting for us there. What?
"Hideaki?" Arima does an almost comic double-take.
"Oh, Arima's coming too?" I say stupidly. Rika nods.
"Come on, we gotta get good seats!" Sakura yells, and begins to pull us toward the ticket counter. Since it's Sakura with the death grip on us, we all have no choice but to acquiesce.
Rika buys a boatload of snacks for our group to share. We're seeing this new action movie that's pretty popular, so Aya runs off to make sure our seats don't suck, because Sakura's gone off to do God knows what. Arima has to go to the bathroom and takes me with him. He doesn't have to, though, when we're inside. Do you understand what I mean?
There's no one else in here, all the stall doors hanging open. Suddenly the stud in my ear stings, my jeans are too tight on my legs, exposed skin of my chest self-conscious, cold. I cross my arms over my ribs, sharp and jutting under the thin shirt I'm wearing. Arima's dressed like a normal person, but he's still unbelievably attractive. I turn to look at him defiantly. What, does he have something to say to me? He should just get it over with, then.
Arima and I face each other, square off like two longtime rivals. I picture the two of us fighting. Goody-two shoes. I'd kick his sorry ass. The movie theater would really be a good place for it, too. Yeah, let's spill some blood.
Arima breaks the silence, and I feel as though he's above me, at some position of lofty superiority. "Hideaki, what the hell is this?"
And it's easy, all too easy to tell him the words I haven't been able to stop thinking, haven't been able to escape from. "What do you think of me like this?"
Arima shrugs, stares at me uncomfortably. "Different."
"My father called me a whore," I say.
He breathes out hard, looks at me unhappily. "You're not, Hideaki." He understands what that feels like, but-
"That's all," I say. "For that, I want to hurt him."
"You're not going to try to reconcile after all?" Arima frowns. "You still do have a chance, you know." That's true. Arima's real father's dead.
I shrug, realize that I'm not standing as far away from him as I'd thought. I look at my reflection in the dirty bathroom mirror. If I'm going to say something anytime, now is-
I laugh hard, nasty, take a step towards Arima. "Do you like me like this?" I ask, and I'm confident.
Arima's confused. "I'm saying," I continue, reckless voice lowering, "That I can have anyone I want. Like this, would even you want me, Arima?"
Up close, Arima's just like a scared little boy. There's no difference at all. I bite my lip, tasting bittersweet strawberries, and open my mouth to speak again.
"Arima?"
The door to the bathroom squeaks, opening up to let some other guy in. Arima takes that opportunity to push past the boy and make his way out. The kid's a gaijin, handsome, and he's taken aback by Arima as my freshman friend storms past him.
"Don't waste your time," I say, "He's straight," and watch the gaijin's eyes widen, and take that opportunity to push past him, too.
The movie's pretty good. Sakura definitely enjoys it the most. She's really charged up even when we're walking out, punching imaginary opponents and crowing victoriously. We part ways there, the girls all having things to work on, Arima walking in the opposite direction after a quick goodbye. I roll my eyes, raise a hand to my lips and wipe them off disgustedly. My hand comes away glittery. I lean against an alley wall and wipe and wipe and spit on my eyes until they're clean. With glistening fingers, I do up all but one of my shirt's buttons. There, I'm myself. I take the earring out and shove it in my jeans pocket, pull the tie out of my hair and let it free around my face again. That's better.
Someone touches my shoulder to get my attention. It's not Arima, it's that gaijin who liked him. He is so not getting my best friend's phone number from me, thank you very much.
"Hey," Gaijin says, and at least he doesn't have too bad an accent. What he has isn't very noticeable if you're not looking for it. Nope, still not helping him ask out Arima, sorry.
"What?" I ask, making sure to let all the disdain I have for him show. I don't even look at him, reading the signs of shops, promising love potions and Chinese herbal remedies for everything from impotence to small breasts. Come on, I wanna go home and torture my father some more.
"I'm Josh," he says.
Does he want me to congratulate him for it or what? "Asaba Hideaki," I say grudgingly. "What do you want?"
Josh shifts, leans back against the brick, and I can see him blushing, getting flustered. Oh, great, he's shy. I wish he'd just spit it out.
"What school do you go to?" he asks.
"Hokuei," I answer automatically. What is this, twenty questions? He should ask Arima that himself.
He nods. "Eh, St. Clarence's..."
"Did I say I wanted to know?" I ask, as rudely as I possibly can.
Josh groans, sighs, shoves a hand behind his head and winces. "Listen, I just-" He shoves a piece of paper at me. I unfold it. It's- a phone number?
"Maybe we could do something together sometime," he says quietly, looking at his feet, then runs off before I can say anything.
When I get home, Father's doing some paperwork. He looks up, studies me. I sneer at him, think of Arima, and my face sags down again. I go into my room and change into my normal comfortable clothes. It's maybe almost lunchtime, so I'll be cooking for him soon. I have homework to do. I go sit in a chair near him.
How could I go about just acting like myself?
I pick up the piece of paper the teacher gave me with my midterm placing and hand it to him without a word. He turns his gaze down onto it and reads it. I wait. He looks up and stares at me. Everyone's staring at me today. Now it's like he's never seen me before either.
"These are very good," he finally says, voice marveling. "For you, these are incredible."
"Arima helped me," I say. "I'm in love with him. Would you like some sushi rolls for lunch?"
I walk out of the living room without waiting for a reply and begin the mechanical motions of cooking. I smile at all the posters of cute girls adorning the kitchen walls. Ah, Utada Hikaru, she's one of my favorites. I put one of her CD's in my Walkman and set it for track 3. A beat starts up, and I push the headphone jack in and pull the pads over my ears.
Someone- Father- knocks on the door to the kitchen. "Yeah?" I yell, nonchalant. It's hard to hear myself over Hikaru-chan.
Father looks as though he'd just been told Japan declared war on him or something. His face is slack, like I've finally driven him into the early grave he's always said I would. I start to sing along with Hikaru-chan, aishiteru, aishiteru, aishiteru, drumming the beat out on the pot of boiling water I'm watching over. I do that a lot. I've gotten very good at not being burned.
"You said- that you-"
Be myself and see where that takes us, huh, Arima? I'm trusting you with a lot here, Arima.
"Yeah," I say, and feel a real, irrational anger start in me. "It's not easy, you know. It's not like he likes me or anything. If it's up to me he won't ever know for real."
Father studies me, and the realization hits me- I'm getting just a little sick of fighting. Because- a thousand things. Because his dedication to his work is just like Arima's. Because it isn't his fault Mother died, I have to face that sometime. He did love her. I've tried to deny it so, so much, but he did.
"That boy?" he finally says slowly. "He's the one you-"
"Yep," I say cheerfully, nonchalantly. "I'm bi. You wanna sit down?" Stupid Father looks like he's gonna faint.
He does as I ask, falling into a folding chair in the corner, clutching onto the flimsy metal like it's the last thing between him and madness. "You're-"
"Bi," I say impatiently. "Yeah, I know you hate me messing around with all these girls, and I'm not gonna stop, because that's what I love. But Arima's what's important to me."
He doesn't say anything, and today really is a weird day, and I plow ahead. "I'm gonna keep my grades up if Arima and I stay friends. I really like art, I'm gonna be in a special class for people who are good at it, and I am good, that might be what I wanna do. I'm sorry." I scowl, turn away. I should try to stop hating you.
Maybe I'm playing some games I don't understand today.
"I'm not a whore," I spit, and my voice doesn't tremble at all.
I turn my Walkman back on, go back to cooking. Father stays, but I ignore him. If he hates me, I hate him. But-
It's so simple and awful and I want to be wanted, want to have my worth validated, want to be able to live my life and succeed and do what I like and have people want to be around me. I want to stay shallow and petty and fun and never, ever change. I don't want anyone to hate me anymore. I want my Merryland. I want Mom to be alive again. Yeah, I do care about your opinion, only I could never acknowledge it, but I'm basing myself around Arima, and he hates me this way too. And I want to do it-
Explosion.
Come on, Arima, let's do it. Let's dirty ourselves. Let's give ourselves up. Let's become one. Let's forget. Why don't we go down somewhere, your place my place, and we'll do what we want, not what's right or wrong or funny or safe or smart or stupid or in character, because we're all actors presenting faces to the world, to other people, to the camera, and sometimes we are those characters, and sometimes we aren't, and if you don't look at it from my point of view you'll never know, and when it's all said and done, let's shock whoever's watching. Let's give that delicate old prude a heart attack.
I love you, and you don't love me. And I don't even know you, but I want to be the one you care about, the one you think about, obsess over, get jealous over, get angry over, hurt over. There's no one in between us, no one in our way but ourselves, but YOU, and-
I'm nothing to you. I don't matter to you. I'm not your type. You just can't see me that way. You can't think of me like that. You only like me as a friend. You're not interested in having a relationship right now. You think I'm joking, that I'm not serious. You don't care that I am, because you'll never get out of yourself.
Father, will you stop rejecting me?
Hey, Arima, let's do it. Come on. It's nothing between friends. Experimentation, stress relief. No one has to know. Come on, aren't I hot? Haven't you even thought about it, even considered it just once? Come on, with the way I look at you, the things the girls say about us, the way I know I look, the way you're all alone at night and you want someone there with you and it hurts and your world's there pushing up and you're too scared?
Hey, Arima. Let's do it. We'll both stay in character, be perfectly like ourselves. I'll complain and brag and flaunt myself. I'll drape myself over you, tease you, frustrate you, confuse you, embarrass you, cross the lines no one's ever dared to before. I'll look at you like you're the only person in the entire world who matters. I'll whisper words in your ear that you've never even dared to think before. I'll set you loose, make you angry, jealous, as if I was something to be jealous of, make you want to hurt me. I'll let you hurt me. I'll let you take me, I'll take you, take you so deep inside me that no one will ever find you, that other you that you hate and love so much. I'll suck you off, blow you, send you swirling and begging and crying and simple. I'll be your whore, because you're the only part of me I've ever liked. Because you're my friend, I'll give you the only thing I have to give.
I like this song. I really like this, like it so much I'm constantly booming it across the apartment, have been all day. It's driving Father insane. It's like "C'est la vie!" The words are, "I have my reasons for being myself... You have your reasons for being yourself."
Father and I have lunch, and I listen to him tell me about a deal he's in the process of negotiating. I actually listened. He keeps sneaking these little glances at me to see if I'm for real.
I wait to yell all the things I want to yell at him until I'm alone in my room and no one can hear me.
Model Student
Chapter Two- Deviation
I wake up and I'm alone. Arima's mother's voice is calling me to breakfast. I'd much rather sleep some more. With a groan, I snuggle further into the blankets and close my eyes again, but it's too bright. Arima's switched out on the lights. I blink, disoriented, faded impressions of bright shapes swimming around my eyes. Arima's already dressed, and is standing above the futon, looking at me expectantly. I musn't disappoint his parents. After all, I'm his friend, so he'll be judged by me.
I don't have a change of clothes, so I put on my discarded uniform and waddle out a few minutes later. I'm not a morning person at all. It figures that Arima would be. They're all at the table when I stumble in, the picture of a perfect Japanese family. The breakfast is traditional, which I never make myself at home. Oh well. I catch my reflection in the glass panes of their china cabinet, and my hair's a complete nightmare. I reach up and try to smooth it as I take my seat, and I just end up making it worse. My chair faces Arima's, and I feel a jolt run through me when I see him and remember. He's been through so much, but he still trusted me with it. Because he thought I'd understand?
Because I do understand, all too well. I'm exactly like him. I'm glad.
The food's good for traditional fare. I'm not that hungry, but I manage to still force it down. I try to act as charming as I can for Arima's parents as they make small talk and ask me questions. It's stupid, but I have trouble keeping my eyes on them. I want to see this new Arima- Soichiro. Should I call him Soichiro now?
When they ask Arima how my grades are, dead silence ensues. Then I start talking about Arima and I's friends, Sakura-tachi, and the subject isn't brought up again.
Arima walks home with me. He's got lots of work to do, but we need to talk, so we make our way down the town's streets together, the sounds of cars and early morning and voices cutting into what we say. It'll be a while till we get to my apartment. He knows that, of course.
"Your parents are really nice," I tell him, inappropriately, and regret it.
"Thank you," I tell him, but I don't dare say what for, and I'm not completely sure what I meant myself.
I wish I had my Walkman so I could listen to music. I crave a pop beat, so I start singing, and most people would be embarrassed to do something like that, but I lost any sort of self-consciousness a long time ago.
"Thank you," Arima says to me, echoing my own words, and relieved, I smile at him, the most honest smile I have.
"Anytime," I say. "And hey, I probably will be passing midterms now."
So we end up talking about whatever we feel like. And he asks, so I tell him my father has a business trip and will be staying with me, a free hotel, for a few weeks. I mean, it's not like he doesn't pay all my expenses, so I can't say no. I tell him I'm nervous about it, that I feel really angry. He says maybe this is a chance to make things right between us, and that he'd like to help me. I say he already has.
It's kinda like that, then I'm home and by myself again, and I watch his back as he fades into the crowd like he's some hero, because that's what he is. Except- Jesus, can't I be the hero of my own story?
If he ever wants that, I'll give it to him, an ear, or just silence. A touch, contact, understanding, because the way I feel about him is-
I switch on the music I'd been wanting once I'm in my apartment and dial up Sakura's number. Arima says that they're more my friends than his. Well, at least I can have him all to myself. I do love that idea.
We go to the mall, and it's fun, even though we're stuck at a bookstore for a while because of Aya, who Rika immediately sides with. Sakura and I take up that opportunity to pick up girls. I'd always envisioned Arima as my ally in that, but Sakura's much better at it, and she actually enjoys it, so I'm not gonna try to drag Arima into my Merryland anymore. Sakura's happy to take his place. Well, maybe happy is an overstatement. There are still some issues we have to work out…
I find myself wondering if my father would like them. I don't think he would. They're all talented, Rika in girl things, Sakura in sports, Aya in words, but he wouldn't find them proper or whatever. That's one of the reasons why I like them, right? They call me Asapin all the time now, which the other girls have started doing. It's cute, I like hearing that name from them. Of course, I'd die if Arima ever called me that.
Funny, for some reason, today I can't summon up my usual hostility and contempt towards my father. I wonder why.
He'll be coming next Saturday. Well, at least I'll have midterms done by then. I think. I can never get the schedule down. I wonder what he'll think of Arima. Oh, wait. Shit. SHIT!
I sit down on my threadbare couch, and it sinks down under my weight, old fabric making my arms itch, rash. Bloody sodding- holy fucking- what if he figures out that I- Arima-
That I what! God, we're friends. Sometimes I pretend there's something more between us to tantalize my lambs, but- I mean, Arima would never-
I feel a sudden pressure in my throat, choking, a warmth, stinging in my eyes. Looks like there are some things I've got to straighten out, too.
The new art class won't start until the week after midterms, but I still get Hayasaka after me on Monday, shoving packets of papers and supply lists in my face constantly and chasing after me with supposedly important information at every lunch. Like I don't have enough to worry about with midterms and all that other stuff coming up. Study, study, study… My sheep are shocked. They can't believe my new attitude at first. They soon accept it, though, as a new virtue of mine, and begin to extol my praises- is that the correct phrase? Well, they extol my praises just as they should.
Okay, Arima. By myself the night before midterms, and it's an unfamiliar feeling, so foreign it takes a while for me to name. This is loneliness. I'm lonely without him. Even though I know it's impossible, I want to see him so much. I don't know if he misses me. He must be content where he is. He's probably not thinking of me like I'm thinking of him. And it won't stop. My mind will go somewhere else for a while, but it will always come back to him. It's like without knowing it, I've become so dependent on his presence, just the knowledge that if I want to reach him, he'll be right there. Even if he's right next to me, though, I don't know how to- I won't say what I need to say- Because it's wrong.
I can draw. I don't know what art is to me, but I like lines, shapes, colors. Aesthetics has always been my specialty. I see something like beauty when I look in the mirror- I appreciate myself, and I appreciate other things of beauty. Drawing is, thus, creating beauty. Art is order, the mundane, my frustration, it's just me, fitting between crisp black curves in a coloring book.
I can't draw myself, I can't, even though I try to now, and I focus so much. Whenever I do, the lines mutate into something unrecognizable. Arima is getting hard for me to show also. I guess maybe I want to put all his hurt and his greatness on paper, so anymore who looks can see that beauty, too, that eternal ideal finally brought to complete, achingly perfect fulfillment. When we're alone, Arima and me talk about ourselves, about our families, our dreams. He tells me what he thinks life is. I want to know what he thinks I am, but I won't ask him. Sometimes he asks to see my sketches, so he does, and they're just ugly, superficial little things, but he really does seem to like looking at them. It's like they lift a weight from his shoulders. That's what I draw for.
I realize that though I've been putting it off, I have to start making preparations for my father's arrival. The sofa will fold out into a bed for him to sleep on, so I go buy linens and extra pillows for it. We're both used to sleeping on Western-style beds, a predilection of his that he passed on to me. I start stocking up on food, too, because I'll be cooking for two people instead of one. The idea of cooking for my father is weird. I'm sure he'll hate whatever I make.
Midterms aren't the ordeal I thought they'd be. I know a lot more of the answers this time around than I ever have in the past. I guess the studying paid off, though I still don't get some of the concepts… or maybe it's that for the first time ever I'm really trying, focusing on the paper in front of me. It's the only thing in the room I'm looking at, it and Arima, bent over his own exam, hair falling into his face, expression serious, totally absorbed in his work, teeth firmly clamped down on his bottom lip. Somehow I get the feeling that lip will result in more than a few extra wrong answers.
We have gym last thing today, pushed back because it's the first day of a big examination. My locker's in a row near the door, so I get to it quickly, pulling off my uniform and changing into shorts and T-shirt. Man, basketball again today. I go down to the fourth row of lockers and wait for Arima to finish.
He's in the shorts already, legs long and smooth where they're crossed around each other on the bench. Some teacher probably held him up, because he's not normally this late. Everyone else in his row has already gone outside. He pulls off his short, torso lithe, defined from practicing kendo for hours every day. He's smaller and thinner than me, but he looks much stronger. I know he is.
Watching him pull the gym shirt on, I feel a strange fluttering in my stomach. He's facing half towards me and half away from me. I-
I want to touch him.
"Thanks for waiting, Hideaki," Arima says, sliding off the bench and locking his uniform in his locker. "You'll be on my team, right?" Of course. I wouldn't want to confuse the girls. They wouldn't know who to cheer for.
"Hideaki?" Arima's looking at me weirdly now. He does something he rarely ever does, reaches out and touches my shoulder. "Come on, let's go."
Of course he can't be late.
The teacher would forgive him anyway.
I'm hard.
The second day of midterms is more difficult than the first. The third is more difficult than the second.
Somehow, these thoughts, these words, are halting, hesitating in my head, not really wanting to let themselves out. I don't want anyone but me to know about this. I don't want Father to know. I don't want anyone to know, also, that I have doubts, too. I don't want to betray Arima by telling his secrets. Maybe, if Arima had a girlfriend, I wouldn't have really felt like this...
I'm drowsy, my favorite word, because it's late as usual, and since it's a school night I'm at home in my bed, my western-style cocoon that's the opposite of Arima's sparse eastern futon. The image comes suddenly unbidden to my head of Arima trying to fit in with me. It's only a single, and it's pushed up against the wall. He could sleep here, though, if he tried.
I force a laugh, thinking of his warmth trapped around my body, hair brushing against the bare skin I sleep in, Arima sprawled out beneath me. I take in a long, deep breath, steadying myself like I'm Zen or something, and can almost reach the feeling of Arima's porcelain skin under my fingers, flesh against flesh against sports callouses and muscle and bone, deep under the skin and holding us both together.
I imagine the words I'd like to tell him. That I don't know what's going to happen to me when high school's over. That once, I imagined getting old and fat and ugly and I almost threw up. That I need him. That I don't think he's a monster, no matter how much of himself he's never shown me. And if he is? Well, wouldn't that be interesting...
Arima, full of anger, dangerous, caught off balance. Focused, like diamonds, like steel, cold and warmth and Last. Final. Warning. No, I'm not afraid of you. You're a being made of want, just like the rest of us, behind any fronts you put up. Heat, possession, control, power, jealousy, claiming, unleashed-
I finally let myself search for the release I desire. My fingers, frozen in place before, start to move, search heavily over my body, flat planes and angles and boy, and I find what's hurting me, my gift, my shame. I take ahold, and let the night's imagination take ahold of me and take me where it will.
The door to my room opens and Arima walks in. He's in his uniform, all back, fading into the walls. I freeze where I am, dishevelled, sweaty, blankets tangled around me, bare. Arima's eyes are those of a demon as he glares at me, stalking to where I'm held bound, waiting, and he wants to die. He crawls onto the bed, makes his way to where he can look me in the eye, our faces a scarce foot apart, where I can see his need. Yes, he needs me. I'm the one he needs. Only me.
He kisses me, the thing he'd never, ever do in real life. He wants me to know him, to feel his rage against everything, his rage against himself for what he has to be. So I forget myself, my beliefs, memories, plans, my own name, take him instead, take what he needs to lose away from him. He kisses me, gently, shyly, sweet, and that's the end for me. I'm breathing hard, alone, spent, and anyone who's alone is lonely.
The last day of midterms is by far the easiest.
My father arrives on Saturday night. I wonder what he'll think of my midterm- if he even asks. I'm not sure if I want him to know or not. I've gone through enough trauma just finding out my results myself.
I was just hanging around with Aya-tachi. Arima was there, but he was studying and ignoring us. He's the only guy I know who studies just as much after the midterm as before it. Sakura and I were rating the girls that passed by on a one to ten scale, after I'd maintained, of course, that all girls are precious and beautiful. Rika and Aya were looking at this new play Aya's been writing. Rika was trying to convince her how good it was. Knowing Aya, it was probably completely amazing, but I never got a chance to see it.
There was a sudden rush of noise, and we all stopped. Kids were running into the classroom, even though it was still break. "I guess midterm results finally came in," Rika said slowly, and Arima left to check. Me and the girls just turned and looked at each other. Then in unison, we all let out a groan, rising to our feet, Sakura and I cursing under our breaths, and made our way after Arima. I hoped Arima wouldn't be too pissed off if I flunked. No, I was thinking of my father there, not my best friend. Arima does remind me of my dad, though.
Sakura and I pushed our way through the crowd, Rika and Aya following gingerly, hiding behind us as girls parted in our way like an intensely high-pitched, attractive red sea. Arima, who was already at the front, waved to us, grinning. I could see he'd made number one, of course. Like there had ever been any doubt that he would.
Then Arima had darted forward, and to my shock, was hugging me, hard. It's so uncharacteristic of him, I thought it couldn't be real at first- "Go, Hideaki!" Arima yelled. "I knew you could do it if you just tried!"
I didn't want him to let go, so I peered over his shoulder to see where I was. I was- number six? NUMBER FUCKING SIX?
I'm used to, like, 30.
It would have been impossible without Arima. I didn't make it, Arima did for me.
Everything's ready for my father. It's 8:00, he should be getting here soon. I think of Arima and steady myself, totally feeling the Zen love. I remember how happy Arima was, how proud of how our efforts had paid off. Maybe he'd like to be a teacher when he grows up. I know he's made up his mind to become a doctor, motivated a lot by the desire to make his family happy, but it made him really happy to help me. It's so amazing when he truly smiles.
I hear the doorbell ring. Somehow even that sounds like my father, stiff and dry, cautious. I take a deep breath, deep breath therapy, then inspect myself in the mirror. Hair he thinks is too long, but no earring, and my clothes are formal, blue button-down and dress pants to welcome a guest into my home. He won't be disappointed.
The door swings open way too easily. Just a little pull, and it's slamming against the wall next to it and bouncing back, like it's lighter than usual, like someone hollowed it out and didn't tell me. He's right there, unchanged except the more expensive suit he wears and the additional gray in his dark hair. I break the silence, and somehow, my face is pushed up in a smile as I invite him inside.
He looks around, making himself at home as he walks in. At least the place is clean, that's what he's thinking. He casts his gaze onto me next, raking me in from head to toe, but so painfully differently than girls do. I wonder if he's surprised.
"Is there dinner?" he finally asks, putting his suitcase down on the couch and looking away from me. Of course. He's ashamed of me, right? He wishes I wasn't his son, that I'd never been born, and he's only with me now because he has a use for me-
"Yeah," I finally nod, "It's on the table. I made wasabi." It's his favorite. He looks at me sharply, and I pointedly don't say anything. I don't know any words, I'm horrible with things like those. All I can do is this.
There's an awkward silence between us as we sit. There are things we want to say to each other, but we're not sure how to say them. It could be worse. He seems civil enough though, but so detached. I won't show him that it hurts. The doorbell rings, and I automatically jump up to get it. I open the door and it's Arima.
"Hideaki," Arima says, grinning. "I just got out of kendo practice. I thought we could celebrate." He holds up a package, a gift he's brought. Aw, shit, shit, shit...
"Arima," I say, "My father's here."
Arima's eyes widen as he absorbs my words, eyes taking in the extra pairs of shoes at the doorway for the first time. "You said he was coming next week."
Oh, fuck. I had, hadn't I? I'd meant he was coming this week, but I'd been... distracted...
"Who's this?" Father asks, standing up and walking over to us. He tries to look around me to see who I'm receiving. It's always an inquisition with him.
And Arima decides, like I just knew he would, to try to stick it out and make the best of the situation. He steps past me and faces my father and bows perfectly. "I'm honored to finally meet you, sir."
Father stares at Arima, obviously taken aback. "You're..."
"Arima Soichiro," Arima says, and I want to kiss him. "Hideaki's my best friend." I want to. I've never- not anyone- but I want to.
"Oh," Father says, evaluating Arima too.
I smile, put an arm around Arima before I can stop myself. "He was number one scorer on the entrance exams and midterms. He's also a kendo champion." Arima nods modestly. Father's eyes widen, mouth falling open.
"May I have dinner with you?" Arima asks, and Father assents, as is only polite. Arima nods back. Nod nod nod, that's Arima. He's staying.
"Soichiro, I made wasabi sushi," I say. "I hope it's not too spicy for you."
"It's okay," Arima says, though he starts at what I call him. I find a chair for him in some closet, and he sits down with us Asabas. I've never used his given name before, but Father doesn't have to know that.
Arima isn't very good at handling spicy food. I have to slam his back a few times so he doesn't choke and die. Father seems to like the food I made, but he doesn't seem to be able to enjoy it. I let Arima hold up all the conversation, pestering him with questions to show him off to Father. He answers them as honestly as he can. Father listens to the answers, and I look to see what his reactions are, but I can't take my eyes off Arima otherwise.
Arima leaves right after dinner, the gift he brought still unopened. I see him out to the door and he stops to put his shoes back on, so we're alone there, and my father, unlike me, isn't the type of person to deliberately set out to eavesdrop.
"Hideaki, what are you doing?" Arima hisses.
I find myself staring into his eyes, dark and foreign. "I'm sorry," I whisper. "I don't know what I'm doing."
Arima shakes his head. "Stop trying to use me to impress your father!" he snaps. His thoughts come so quickly to him. "I like you because you're not a drone, not that you could tell with how you're been acting tonight! You'll never resolve anything if you pretend like that! You say you always acted like a vapid thug, and now this! Why don't you try being yourself this visit and see where that gets you?"
No, if I did that, and Father really did hate me- and Arima doesn't know-
"Soichiro," I begin.
"Why are you calling me that?" Arima says. "Don't change your name for me just because of someone else." He leaves, and I go back into the apartment, but I can't get his words out of my head. Just try being myself? Yeah right. But-
"Sorry, dad," I mutter, and his gaze on me is like walking on hot coals, not that I've ever done that.
His head snaps up. "Sorry? Did you say sorry?"
I toss my head. "Whatever," I mutter. "Do you wanna see my midterm placings?"
"I'm afraid to," he mutters.
"Arima helped me," I say.
Father snorts, like he's going to pounce on some weakness. "Who knows what a good kid like him's doing hanging around with someone like you?"
I turn and glare at him, feeling a hurt explode in my chest. I can't believe him. He always does this. God, I hate him, I really do.
"Oh," he says, too, as if it's only natural. "Stop drooling over that boy. He's not interested. It makes you look like a cheap whore. I'm going to bed."
I get up early the next morning- early for me, that is. Father's still asleep. I'm going to a movie with Sakura-tachi at 9, so I have to be ready by quarter of eight. I make breakfast first, the traditional kind I hate, and put in a plastic container in the refrigerator. I put up a note announcing its presence there, then go into my bathroom. I'll be ready for my father.
I lean down, reach into the cabinet under the sink and pull out a bag, pull off the few clothes I'd been sleeping in and put on the bag's contents. Tight black jeans, low on my hips, white silk button-down, left unbuttoned at the top- Then the bag inside the bag- make-up. The eyeliner goes on first, darkness accentuating my eyes, makes me think of Arima. The circles I put around my eyes, blue and purple and black, bruise powder blending into my real veins, are Arima, too. I feel my stomach roll. I rub at it, disgusted, until the barest streaks, mere remnants, are left.
Last is the hardest. It's just a tube, a jar, but it's the hardest. I unscrew its container, smear it across my fingers, stare at them. Gloss. I'm a whore, huh? I'll give him a whore. I wipe it across my lips, wipe them together, look at myself. Shiny. The earring I put on is a real ruby. It was my mother's.
I stare at my reflection in the full-length mirror I insisted on buying, tying up the black lace-up boots I'm wearing. I pull my hair back into a ponytail so Father won't miss Mother's jewel, then leave the bathroom. Is Father up? Yeah, he's eating my breakfast by now. He stops when he hears my footsteps, and the look on his face is priceless when he catches sight of me.
"Hey, Dad," I say, "I'm going out." As if cued, the doorbell rings, and it's Sakura-tachi. They all look great themselves, but Sakura's eyes bug out when she sees me, as do Aya and Rika's. They don't notice my father inside, watching.
We go down the street, listening to Rika tell us about this kimono she's making, and it is interesting, especially since Rika doesn't usually talk much. It's hard to concentrate, though, when the street is so different. Even more girls are checking me out than usual, and, I realize with a start, boys, too. I mean, some guys are standing together, carrying tennis bags, probably deciding where to go. You know, athletes, just joking with each other, and then when we walk past, they start staring at me. And they're not look-at-the-freak stares, that's for sure. Aya can't stop giggling about it. It's not like her.
We get to the movie theater, one of Sakura's favorites. When we approach the door, Arima's waiting for us there. What?
"Hideaki?" Arima does an almost comic double-take.
"Oh, Arima's coming too?" I say stupidly. Rika nods.
"Come on, we gotta get good seats!" Sakura yells, and begins to pull us toward the ticket counter. Since it's Sakura with the death grip on us, we all have no choice but to acquiesce.
Rika buys a boatload of snacks for our group to share. We're seeing this new action movie that's pretty popular, so Aya runs off to make sure our seats don't suck, because Sakura's gone off to do God knows what. Arima has to go to the bathroom and takes me with him. He doesn't have to, though, when we're inside. Do you understand what I mean?
There's no one else in here, all the stall doors hanging open. Suddenly the stud in my ear stings, my jeans are too tight on my legs, exposed skin of my chest self-conscious, cold. I cross my arms over my ribs, sharp and jutting under the thin shirt I'm wearing. Arima's dressed like a normal person, but he's still unbelievably attractive. I turn to look at him defiantly. What, does he have something to say to me? He should just get it over with, then.
Arima and I face each other, square off like two longtime rivals. I picture the two of us fighting. Goody-two shoes. I'd kick his sorry ass. The movie theater would really be a good place for it, too. Yeah, let's spill some blood.
Arima breaks the silence, and I feel as though he's above me, at some position of lofty superiority. "Hideaki, what the hell is this?"
And it's easy, all too easy to tell him the words I haven't been able to stop thinking, haven't been able to escape from. "What do you think of me like this?"
Arima shrugs, stares at me uncomfortably. "Different."
"My father called me a whore," I say.
He breathes out hard, looks at me unhappily. "You're not, Hideaki." He understands what that feels like, but-
"That's all," I say. "For that, I want to hurt him."
"You're not going to try to reconcile after all?" Arima frowns. "You still do have a chance, you know." That's true. Arima's real father's dead.
I shrug, realize that I'm not standing as far away from him as I'd thought. I look at my reflection in the dirty bathroom mirror. If I'm going to say something anytime, now is-
I laugh hard, nasty, take a step towards Arima. "Do you like me like this?" I ask, and I'm confident.
Arima's confused. "I'm saying," I continue, reckless voice lowering, "That I can have anyone I want. Like this, would even you want me, Arima?"
Up close, Arima's just like a scared little boy. There's no difference at all. I bite my lip, tasting bittersweet strawberries, and open my mouth to speak again.
"Arima?"
The door to the bathroom squeaks, opening up to let some other guy in. Arima takes that opportunity to push past the boy and make his way out. The kid's a gaijin, handsome, and he's taken aback by Arima as my freshman friend storms past him.
"Don't waste your time," I say, "He's straight," and watch the gaijin's eyes widen, and take that opportunity to push past him, too.
The movie's pretty good. Sakura definitely enjoys it the most. She's really charged up even when we're walking out, punching imaginary opponents and crowing victoriously. We part ways there, the girls all having things to work on, Arima walking in the opposite direction after a quick goodbye. I roll my eyes, raise a hand to my lips and wipe them off disgustedly. My hand comes away glittery. I lean against an alley wall and wipe and wipe and spit on my eyes until they're clean. With glistening fingers, I do up all but one of my shirt's buttons. There, I'm myself. I take the earring out and shove it in my jeans pocket, pull the tie out of my hair and let it free around my face again. That's better.
Someone touches my shoulder to get my attention. It's not Arima, it's that gaijin who liked him. He is so not getting my best friend's phone number from me, thank you very much.
"Hey," Gaijin says, and at least he doesn't have too bad an accent. What he has isn't very noticeable if you're not looking for it. Nope, still not helping him ask out Arima, sorry.
"What?" I ask, making sure to let all the disdain I have for him show. I don't even look at him, reading the signs of shops, promising love potions and Chinese herbal remedies for everything from impotence to small breasts. Come on, I wanna go home and torture my father some more.
"I'm Josh," he says.
Does he want me to congratulate him for it or what? "Asaba Hideaki," I say grudgingly. "What do you want?"
Josh shifts, leans back against the brick, and I can see him blushing, getting flustered. Oh, great, he's shy. I wish he'd just spit it out.
"What school do you go to?" he asks.
"Hokuei," I answer automatically. What is this, twenty questions? He should ask Arima that himself.
He nods. "Eh, St. Clarence's..."
"Did I say I wanted to know?" I ask, as rudely as I possibly can.
Josh groans, sighs, shoves a hand behind his head and winces. "Listen, I just-" He shoves a piece of paper at me. I unfold it. It's- a phone number?
"Maybe we could do something together sometime," he says quietly, looking at his feet, then runs off before I can say anything.
When I get home, Father's doing some paperwork. He looks up, studies me. I sneer at him, think of Arima, and my face sags down again. I go into my room and change into my normal comfortable clothes. It's maybe almost lunchtime, so I'll be cooking for him soon. I have homework to do. I go sit in a chair near him.
How could I go about just acting like myself?
I pick up the piece of paper the teacher gave me with my midterm placing and hand it to him without a word. He turns his gaze down onto it and reads it. I wait. He looks up and stares at me. Everyone's staring at me today. Now it's like he's never seen me before either.
"These are very good," he finally says, voice marveling. "For you, these are incredible."
"Arima helped me," I say. "I'm in love with him. Would you like some sushi rolls for lunch?"
I walk out of the living room without waiting for a reply and begin the mechanical motions of cooking. I smile at all the posters of cute girls adorning the kitchen walls. Ah, Utada Hikaru, she's one of my favorites. I put one of her CD's in my Walkman and set it for track 3. A beat starts up, and I push the headphone jack in and pull the pads over my ears.
Someone- Father- knocks on the door to the kitchen. "Yeah?" I yell, nonchalant. It's hard to hear myself over Hikaru-chan.
Father looks as though he'd just been told Japan declared war on him or something. His face is slack, like I've finally driven him into the early grave he's always said I would. I start to sing along with Hikaru-chan, aishiteru, aishiteru, aishiteru, drumming the beat out on the pot of boiling water I'm watching over. I do that a lot. I've gotten very good at not being burned.
"You said- that you-"
Be myself and see where that takes us, huh, Arima? I'm trusting you with a lot here, Arima.
"Yeah," I say, and feel a real, irrational anger start in me. "It's not easy, you know. It's not like he likes me or anything. If it's up to me he won't ever know for real."
Father studies me, and the realization hits me- I'm getting just a little sick of fighting. Because- a thousand things. Because his dedication to his work is just like Arima's. Because it isn't his fault Mother died, I have to face that sometime. He did love her. I've tried to deny it so, so much, but he did.
"That boy?" he finally says slowly. "He's the one you-"
"Yep," I say cheerfully, nonchalantly. "I'm bi. You wanna sit down?" Stupid Father looks like he's gonna faint.
He does as I ask, falling into a folding chair in the corner, clutching onto the flimsy metal like it's the last thing between him and madness. "You're-"
"Bi," I say impatiently. "Yeah, I know you hate me messing around with all these girls, and I'm not gonna stop, because that's what I love. But Arima's what's important to me."
He doesn't say anything, and today really is a weird day, and I plow ahead. "I'm gonna keep my grades up if Arima and I stay friends. I really like art, I'm gonna be in a special class for people who are good at it, and I am good, that might be what I wanna do. I'm sorry." I scowl, turn away. I should try to stop hating you.
Maybe I'm playing some games I don't understand today.
"I'm not a whore," I spit, and my voice doesn't tremble at all.
I turn my Walkman back on, go back to cooking. Father stays, but I ignore him. If he hates me, I hate him. But-
It's so simple and awful and I want to be wanted, want to have my worth validated, want to be able to live my life and succeed and do what I like and have people want to be around me. I want to stay shallow and petty and fun and never, ever change. I don't want anyone to hate me anymore. I want my Merryland. I want Mom to be alive again. Yeah, I do care about your opinion, only I could never acknowledge it, but I'm basing myself around Arima, and he hates me this way too. And I want to do it-
Explosion.
Come on, Arima, let's do it. Let's dirty ourselves. Let's give ourselves up. Let's become one. Let's forget. Why don't we go down somewhere, your place my place, and we'll do what we want, not what's right or wrong or funny or safe or smart or stupid or in character, because we're all actors presenting faces to the world, to other people, to the camera, and sometimes we are those characters, and sometimes we aren't, and if you don't look at it from my point of view you'll never know, and when it's all said and done, let's shock whoever's watching. Let's give that delicate old prude a heart attack.
I love you, and you don't love me. And I don't even know you, but I want to be the one you care about, the one you think about, obsess over, get jealous over, get angry over, hurt over. There's no one in between us, no one in our way but ourselves, but YOU, and-
I'm nothing to you. I don't matter to you. I'm not your type. You just can't see me that way. You can't think of me like that. You only like me as a friend. You're not interested in having a relationship right now. You think I'm joking, that I'm not serious. You don't care that I am, because you'll never get out of yourself.
Father, will you stop rejecting me?
Hey, Arima, let's do it. Come on. It's nothing between friends. Experimentation, stress relief. No one has to know. Come on, aren't I hot? Haven't you even thought about it, even considered it just once? Come on, with the way I look at you, the things the girls say about us, the way I know I look, the way you're all alone at night and you want someone there with you and it hurts and your world's there pushing up and you're too scared?
Hey, Arima. Let's do it. We'll both stay in character, be perfectly like ourselves. I'll complain and brag and flaunt myself. I'll drape myself over you, tease you, frustrate you, confuse you, embarrass you, cross the lines no one's ever dared to before. I'll look at you like you're the only person in the entire world who matters. I'll whisper words in your ear that you've never even dared to think before. I'll set you loose, make you angry, jealous, as if I was something to be jealous of, make you want to hurt me. I'll let you hurt me. I'll let you take me, I'll take you, take you so deep inside me that no one will ever find you, that other you that you hate and love so much. I'll suck you off, blow you, send you swirling and begging and crying and simple. I'll be your whore, because you're the only part of me I've ever liked. Because you're my friend, I'll give you the only thing I have to give.
I like this song. I really like this, like it so much I'm constantly booming it across the apartment, have been all day. It's driving Father insane. It's like "C'est la vie!" The words are, "I have my reasons for being myself... You have your reasons for being yourself."
Father and I have lunch, and I listen to him tell me about a deal he's in the process of negotiating. I actually listened. He keeps sneaking these little glances at me to see if I'm for real.
I wait to yell all the things I want to yell at him until I'm alone in my room and no one can hear me.