Thomas Randall - The Waking

At last, the school day began.

At first, Kara liked the different structure of the school day. The students remained in their homeroom while, between classes, the teachers traveled. Mr. Matsui left them and a moment later the math teacher arrived. After math came Japanese-which, at this grade level, was mostly Japanese literature-and then science. There were no lab science classes on the first day and no gym until the second week, but those were the only classes that would require them to leave their homeroom.

Their books were kept inside the desks, and at the back of the classroom were lockers where they were expected to stash their lunches, jackets, and-on days when they had PE- gym uniforms. Between classes there were ten-minute breaks, during which the room became noisy with chatter and slamming lockers, but the minute the sensei arrived for the next class, all talking ended.

By lunchtime, Kara’s back and butt were killing her. Sitting in one position for so long with just short breaks had become torture, and she understood that other than bowing and politeness, the first thing she needed to learn to get by in a Japanese school was patience. Once, at the age of ten, she had gotten food poisoning and her parents had brought her to a hospital, where a doctor had given her an intravenous drug to make her stop vomiting and fluids to rehydrate her. Lying there on the gurney in the emergency room for three hours had been the same kind of torment.

Fortunately, they had the whole lunch period to talk and move around.

The girl who sat in front of her seemed very nice, and the supercute guy to her right had beautiful eyes, but they were both named Sora, and Kara couldn’t decide if that would be helpful or really confusing. Everyone moved their desks into circles so they could face one another and chat, and for a moment Kara thought she would be left an island unto herself, but both Soras gestured for her to join them. Nobody talked to her much, but to her relief she didn’t mind.

Everyone seemed to have rice and umeboshi, which were pickled red plums, plus an assortment of other things. Kara could have asked her father to pack more familiar foods in her bento box, but it was important to her to live like other students, and so she had fish, rice, eggs, vegetables, and pickles. No umeboshi for her, but she could only go so far. For a girl who’d eaten peanut butter and jelly for lunch every day until the sixth grade, it would take some getting used to.

When lunch finished and bento boxes had been put away, it was time for English class. Kara’s father- Harper-sensei, the students called him-did really well. They had discussed in advance how important it would be for him to treat her just as he did the other students, so their only communication consisted of a shared smile and a couple of questions that she answered after raising her hand. He seemed extremely happy, and Kara felt very proud of him. Yet once or twice, when he looked at her, she caught a glimpse of the wistful sadness that never left him for very long.

In his eyes she saw how much he wished her mother could have shared this with them. They both wished it. But there were some things that could never be, no matter how powerful the wish. Kara had learned that in the worst way-kneeling on the prayer rail beside the closed coffin at her mother’s wake.

A shudder went through her. Death was a lesson she had never wanted to learn.

The thought reminded her of Sakura again. Could her sister really have been murdered here, on the grounds of the school? It seemed impossible that Kara’s dad wouldn’t have heard about it, until she gave it a little thought. They were in Japan. If a girl had died here, and if it was possible students were responsible, of course no one would want to discuss it because of the shame it would bring them. Besides, why would Sakura lie?

It’s like Death’s following me, she thought. She told herself how crazy that sounded, that no connection existed between her mother’s death and the blood shed on the grounds of her new school. The car accident happened almost two years ago and halfway around the world. It couldn’t have anything to do with the murder of a teenage girl in Japan.

But now that the thought had lodged in her brain, Kara couldn’t shake the feeling that the shadow of her mother’s death-the shadow that she and her father had moved from Boston to Kyoto Prefecture to escape-had reached out to touch her again. And if she let herself believe that, it was all too easy to believe that it would always follow her and touch her anytime it wanted, anytime she felt like maybe she could be happy again.

God, she thought as she tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, morbid much?

The last class of the day-in her case, art-was followed by the part of the Japanese education system that amazed Kara the most. Every day, when classes ended, all of the students took part in o-soji. The direct translation escaped her, but it meant the clean-up. The janitors at Japanese schools were maintenance staff only, fixing broken toilets and moving desks and that sort of thing. The students were the ones who picked up and collected trash, swept, cleaned the restrooms, and erased all of the chalkboards to prepare for the next day. She’d half-expected this to be done in a sullen silence, but everyone seemed to get into it, happy to be finished with the day’s classes and more than willing to do their part with the clean-up. But o-soji was part of the layered hierarchy that defined Japanese culture. Junior students were basically the servants of the seniors, but the older students were responsible for mentoring the younger.

From everything she’d read, it seemed like corporate Japan-and every other sort of business-functioned on the same basic principle. Many occupations had a particular uniform, and they existed on a sort of ladder of respect. In a school setting, or even in business, she understood how everyone might benefit from the system. But already, in Miyazu City, she’d seen the way that some people further up in the hierarchy, like merchants, treated those whom culture dictated were beneath them-street sweepers and laborers, for instance-and it made her sad. That system was what made school so vital for Japanese students. Success or failure now could lock them onto a rung of the ladder they weren’t ever likely to rise above.

Kara gathered up a trash bag and pulled it out of the can. Her art teacher, Miss Aritomo, stopped to compliment her on her Japanese.

Kara bowed. “I enjoyed art class today.”

Miss Aritomo smiled. “Your father told me that you are a photographer. I would like to see some of your work.”

“I’ll bring some pictures in tomorrow,” Kara said.

As Miss Arimoto walked away, Kara tied the top of the trash bag and carried it to the central staircase, where a bunch of students were sweeping up. In a classroom off to the left she spotted Sakura wiping down a blackboard. With a quick glance around to make sure no teachers were paying attention, she stepped into the room. In the central aisle, a girl pushed a broom like it was serious business.

“Hello,” Kara said.

Sakura turned from the board and arched an eyebrow, looking at the garbage bag. “You could have found a better souvenir from your first day.”

She kept up the tough-girl attitude-sharp edges and pitying looks-for several seconds longer, and then rolled her eyes.

“I’m teasing you, Kara. School might be more disciplined here than you’re used to, but that doesn’t mean nobody knows how to make a joke.”

Kara laughed softly. “That’s a relief.”

“Things aren’t nearly so serious in school clubs,” said the other girl in the room, who’d stopped sweeping.

Now that Kara saw her face, her narrow features and round glasses, she recognized Miho, the girl who’d taken attendance in her homeroom that morning.