Ink

unable to answer, unable to put the phone away.

“What will you do?” Tomohiro asked softly.

“I can’t go home like this,” I said. The phone stopped ringing. A few seconds later, it started again. “What am I supposed to say?” I was soaked, covered in dirt and ink and blood. My uniform was probably ruined, and I had no clue how to explain this. Even Diane, who didn’t believe in curfews, was definitely going to ground me. And I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be going to Miyajima with Yuki.

Yuki.

“Wait,” I said. “What if I stayed at Yuki’s?” But Tomohiro’s expression was a few seconds ahead of mine.

“Can you explain the ink and blood to her?” he asked. He bit his lip, then leaned his head back against the tree trunk.

“Come to my house,” he said.

“What?”

“My father’s in Tokyo for work. You can wash your uniform.”

“And Diane?”

“Tell her you were caught in the rain. It’s the truth after all.”

“And tell her I’m staying over at a senior boy’s house.”

He blinked. “She doesn’t know who I am?”

My cheeks turned red.

“She thinks I’m with Tanaka,” I said.

He grinned as I felt my face flood with heat. “With Ichirou?” he mused. “I had no idea you thought he was hot.”

“Shut up,” I said, but I couldn’t bring myself to smack him.

“I don’t.”

“Well, you can’t go home, that’s for certain. So there really is no choice but to let me help you.” He grinned slyly.

“Unless you want to stay over at Ichirou’s.”

That time I did smack him in the shoulder. He was right, of course, even if he was being a smart-ass. It would be hard enough to make my way to his house without anyone staring at us. Hopefully the drenching rains would keep everyone indoors.

He stood up, grabbed his soaked book bag and wiped the raindrops off it with his palm.

“Let’s go,” he said, reaching out his left hand. I stared at it for a moment, the smoothness of his open palm. Then I nodded and put my hand in his. He pulled me up and led me to the outskirts of the forest, where his bike rested against a plum tree. He tried to wipe the seat off with his hand, but everything was so soaked it made no difference. He laughed then, and I heard my own voice echo it. I wasn’t sure how anything could be so funny when we’d almost been mauled by a dragon, but there we were, muddy, bloody and grinning.

We ducked under the fence, slamming it closed. Thunder still rumbled in the clouds above, and the streets were practically bare. Tomohiro got on the bike first and then patted the metal carrier above the rear wheel.

“Isn’t that dangerous?”

“You don’t want to walk, do you? Anyway,” he added, “I wouldn’t let you fall.”

I sat down on the carrier and lifted my feet. I pressed my hands into the back of the seat, but Tomohiro snorted at me and wrapped my palms around his hips.

“Okay,” he said and pressed against the pedal. The bike wobbled and lurched forward, and I squeezed my hands into his stained blazer. He curved around for a bit until he got the hang of steering two people with only one good wrist, and soon we were speeding north, Shizuoka spreading before us. The rain was thick on the streets, but we didn’t mind the spray—we really couldn’t get much more soaked anyway.

Tomohiro cycled for what seemed like forever, the world around us a blur of gray skies and white umbrellas. The taller buildings shrank away, and we cycled down narrow alleyways behind houses, where cement retaining walls pulled away from us at sheer angles. At last he slowed down, in front of a two-story house with an arched gate in front.

Mounted on the gate above the bell and intercom was a silver nameplate that read The Yuu Family.

“You live here?” I gaped. It wasn’t a big house, not by American standards, but a detached home like this in over-crowded Shizuoka was a pretty big deal. Tomohiro shrugged and slouched against the gated entrance.

“My dad’s head of accounting at ShizuCha,” he said casually.

“ShizuCha?” I repeated. “The tea company?” But Tomohiro looked pretty embarrassed about the whole thing, so I dropped it. He pushed the gate open and motioned me through, following behind with his bike.

“We should probably leave our shoes outside,” he joked as we reached the front door. I peered down at our muddy, ink-coated shoes as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a key, turning the lock with a loud click.

“Tadaima,” he sang as he stepped in, out of habit since no one was home. The entrance tunneled into darkness. The humid, stale air trapped in the house smelled like a snuffed-out candle, thick against our faces but warm compared to the rain outside.

Tomo clunked his shoes against the raised floor to the ve-randa as I slipped mine off. I peeled off my soaked kneesocks, laying them on top of my shoes like strips of bandage.

He led me toward the bathroom, a sink with the bath and shower behind a separate door and a laundry machine across the hall.

“Here,” he said, opening the lid of the all-in-one washer-dryer. “You can put your seifuku in here.”

“Don’t these kinds of stains need to be scrubbed out?” I asked, but neither of us was really sure.

“Put the skirt in the wash, then,” he said. “Leave the shirt in the sink and we can try scrubbing or bleaching it. And go ahead and have a hot bath. I’ll find some clothes you can borrow and leave them outside the door.”

Embarrassment crept up my neck, but he looked as cool and collected as always. I hated him for it.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t get ill from the cold,” he said, and he reached his hand up to brush wet strands of hair off my face. He tucked them behind my ear, and I hoped he would leave before my knees buckled under me.

Once I heard his footsteps thumping up the stairs, I unbuttoned my shirt. I stared at it critically before leaning it over the sink. I ran some water and scrubbed the sides of the blouse together. There was no way I was going to get the ink out, even if I could get rid of the blood streaks. I sighed and let the shirt crumple into the sink. I threw my skirt into the machine, but left it for Tomohiro to turn on; I couldn’t quite make out all the kanji on the buttons. I wasn’t sure what to do with my underwear—it was soaked, but there was no way I was leaving it in the laundry room. In the end I brought it with me into the bathroom and laid it flat on the counter, hoping by some miracle it would dry.

The shower spray was hot against my skin and I greedily breathed in the steam. My skin turned pink as I shook off the cold chill from the rainstorm. Blood and ink had crusted under my fingernails and I scrubbed until they came clean.

I rinsed off and lifted the bamboo cover off the tub of water on the other side of the tile floor.

I soaked, staring up at the azure ceiling in silence. It hit me then that I hadn’t called Diane back yet. I sat up, water sloshing over the side of the tub. I lifted myself out and opened the bath door, where I found a stack of fluffy towels beside the sink.

“Tomo?” I called tentatively by the hallway door. When there was no answer, I creaked it open a bit. Tomohiro had left a neat pile of gray sweatpants and a shirt on the floor.

My underwear hadn’t dried, obviously, so I shoved it into the pants pocket and gave a grateful sigh the pants were a little bulky. I scrambled into the clothes and called through the house until Tomohiro came downstairs, clean clothes folded in his arms, which he held far away from his chest.

He stopped walking halfway, his eyes wide. My skin felt itchy.

“Cute,” he said, and I wanted to hit him. Pins and needles scratched up my arms. “My turn,” he added. “My room’s upstairs. You’ll find it okay.”

I nodded, reached for my bag by the entrance and headed up the stairs. I heard the door of the laundry room slide shut.