It hurts to open my eyes. The curtains of my apartment are drawn, but it still feels like there’s a flashlight on my face. It’s boiling in here, and the room smells of … what the heck is that?
I jerk upright and bang my knee on the underside of my kotatsu. Good thing it’s not on, unlike my living room light. As I try to stand, my hand crunches down on a pile of empty plastic containers coated with fragments of okonomiyaki sauce and soy with bits of gyoza chips and onions. My apartment is awash with food containers and empty cartons that still smell of Hokkaido milk and green tea ice creams, like they all swept up on a beach with the tide. That explains the smell.
I stretch on all fours like a cat as I contemplate the giant heap of laundry spilling out from the one basket covered with empty grocery bags. There’s also a small mountain of blankets I had completely forgotten about. Together with the laundry they engulf the vacuum cleaner in the corner. I have my chores cut out for me this week. As disturbing as this whole scene is, I feel nice and warm and satisfied. I snuggle back under the kotatsu and feel something hard and plastic at my feet — the TV remote. The TV greets me with pleasant daytime talk show chatter, so soothing to my ears I consider going back to sleep. I can do with a nice cup of tea first. No one can say I don’t have exciting weekends; by the look of this place, I enjoyed myself last night.
Something draws my eyes to the TV. It’s set to a morning show on NHK, but it’s not the weather forecast talking about Typhoon Lan that pulls me in. It’s the time of day in the upper right corner.
My blood runs cold: the clock says “10:59.”
10:59.
I have one minute to get to work.
“Shit!” I pull off my pyjamas, trip over the kotatsu, and tumble to the floor. It’s a sign. Forget getting dressed. The first thing I need to do is call Manager, beg for forgiveness, and lie that I’m a two-second bike ride away. “Shit, shit, shit …” I scramble through the wreckage for my purse and find my phone way down at the bottom.
It’s dead.
“SHIT.”
I create more chaos by flinging clothes from the laundry basket, looking for pants and a shirt that don’t reek from my Saturday night outfit. Everything smells. Fuck it. I throw on one of my best skirt suits, stick some lip gloss in my pocket, wrap a toothbrush in my handkerchief, shove that into my purse, and stuff a mint tea bag in my mouth knowing full well that I don’t own any mints or gum. Bad idea. It tastes so awful I spit it back out. There’s no time to bother with my hair. Zozo and the rest of Japan will just have to deal with it.
In hindsight, I should have opted for a taxi instead of the most death-defying bike ride in the history of gaijin lateness. It’s raining buckets, and everyone insists on stepping in my path. I’m a sopping mess by the time I get to the Zozo building. Something tells me to pass on the seven flights of stairs and succumb to the whim of the elevator, where I mop my forehead and prepare any and all excuses to Manager. My limbs shake with adrenalin. My eyes sting. Good. Maybe tears will make him take pity on me.
“I’m so sorry, everyone, Manager! I — hello?”
The doors slide open to near-complete darkness. There’s no one here. If I didn’t recognize the eclectic mascot on the wall illuminated by the neon-red exit sign and the light from the elevator, I’d say this is the set of a Japanese horror movie. Apparently, Zozo is closed. There’s nothing that shows signs of anyone being here … except maybe the Anpanman toy on the reception desk. Which I don’t remember anyone putting there. It faces the elevator, faces me, grinning at me with its beady little black eyes. It almost looks like it’s about to say something. But why would it?
Then again, I did say, “hello.”
I step back into the elevator and mash the button for the ground floor. Oh, well. It’s not like anyone is around to see what an idiot I am. Outside, everything looks the same, except the rain has stopped (what wonderful timing). A couple walking by me gesture and whisper, “Kowai, ne …” A woman holding a child’s hand pulls harder when he stops and stares at me. All the shops and stores around me are busy. I squint down the street. People are coming in and out of the bank, and a worker is standing outside the City of Nishibe Post Office, handing stuff to passersby. Why the hell is Zozo closed? What’s going on? Everything looks like a typical, normal —
Oh, my gosh. I bite my lip. Today isn’t Tuesday, and I’m not late; it’s Monday. “Shit,” I mutter to myself. My calves ache, but there’s nowhere to sit except on my bike. Fine. I just want to stand here for a moment and feel sorry for myself. How could I be so stupid? And why did I say “hello” in a scary, deserted place? That’s what idiots in horror movies do.
As I curse every force of nature that brought me into this nonsensical situation, I notice something else. Among the coffee shop propaganda and baristas handing out free pumpkin spice latte samples is a silver-haired man. He leans against a small kei truck advertising udon and puffs away on a cigarette like he has all the time in the world to stare at me. Nothing out of the ordinary about that, in my position … but something else about him bugs me. Something about his face. I cross the road to HORUS and pretend to admire the buns in the window. I watch his reflection in the glass. His head turns to follow me. Who is this jerk? I turn around and our eyes meet. His mouth stretches wider.
He’s smiling. That’s what’s bothering me. Fuck this. I kiss my teeth, take my bike and my business back home. Might as well while I can beat the next batch of rain.
In my apartment I plop down on the small patch of floor that isn’t covered in garbage, relieved I didn’t get fired, but still pissed off at myself. Through the windows and thin walls, I can hear everyone down below on the street chattering away, happily: the sounds of happy families with their happy children in their happy strollers. Behind the closed curtains I can tell the sun is shining, too. How could I be so stupid? I mentally kick myself one more time for not buying breakfast on the way home. Something tells me my fridge is empty except for a few bottles of condiments, and I’m going to need strength to get this place cleaned up.
My intestines gurgle as I survey the relics of a food orgy I cannot remember. My head is swimming, which is perfect because I feel like I’ve been walking along the bottom of the ocean. What did I get up to yesterday? Hazy memories of binge-watching xxxHolic and eating everything in my kitchen surface. How did I wake up, forget a whole twenty-four hours, wipe a home buffet from memory, and mistake today for a Tuesday? And now that I think of it, Zozo’s security is really lax. If the place is really closed, I shouldn’t have been able to access our floor. Anyone off the street could just walk in and take … well, I’m sure there are many things of value in our school. And what the hell was up with Anpanman sitting at the reception desk? Maybe someone found it in the elevator again and popped it there out of convenience. Still, I don’t get how the school’s oldest toy keeps making its way around. Something fishy is going on.
I take one more look around at the mess on the floor. Then the events of Saturday seep in. That child, that fucking awful night out with the Zozo teachers, the embarrassing trip home through the rain … and something on my carpet. Now there is only one thought on my mind.
“I am so hungry.”
Might as well find something around here to eat.
“Ima okina-EE-to, okurema-SOO, yo … Ima okina-EE-to, okurema-SOO, yo …”
I open my eyes. It’s Tuesday. For sure, this time. It has to be. And this time, I’m taking my fucking umbrella.
I eat some tamagoyaki with my toast today and pop on one of my child-friendly cotton shirts and dress pants, fresh from the laundry. Yesterday I felt pretty warm, so it isn’t time to break out the long sleeves yet (I don’t care what anyone says). For lunch, what starts out as Kraft Dinner becomes a hefty portion of baked macaroni and cheese with sautéed shiitake mushrooms, some leftover broccoli from one of my 7-Eleven bentos, and a panko crust that I mixed with black pepper and nutmeg. Outside, there’s a light drizzle, and the air is cooler today. Maybe a little too cold for most people this morning, so the streets are emptier than usual. How I wish I could join the people presumably cooped up in their cozy little homes. After yesterday, I’m not too eager to go to Zozo. Hell, I’m not too eager to even be awake right now.
“Good morning!” says a cheerful voice behind me as I snap my giant plastic umbrella into the bike holder. It’s the old shrine worker. “Ogenki desu ka?”
“Hai, genki desu. Um …” I try my luck. “Ojisan wa?”
“Hai, hai, meccha genki ne! Welcome!” His eyes are friendly. “Welcome … to Japan!”
I laugh. “Arigatou gozaimasu. Ittekimasu.”
“Itterasshai! Ganbatte ne!”
“Hai, ganbarimasu!” I give him a genuine smile. He continues down the street, clacking his wooden blocks in a steady rhythm. What a nice man. He must walk by here around this time every Tuesday. Why couldn’t all my Tuesdays start out like this? No … why shouldn’t they?
I muse over this idea as I cruise down the streets on my rusty, trusty bike. That’s been my problem. I’ve been starting my days off on the wrong feet. Yesterday was not only a fluke but also a sign. Being late and not getting caught must have been the universe’s way of telling me that things in my life need to change. I need to up my genki back to what it used to be. I wasn’t always this grumpy spinster with no friends and nothing to look forward to in the drudgery of a thankless job. Meccha ganbarimasu: I will do my freaking best.
My determination channels into my biking speed all the way to the Zozo building. According to my watch, I have another fifteen minutes to get upstairs and sign in. Smelling the warm, pumpkin-scented breeze coming from the HORUS bakery, I question what better way to start the work week than with some treats to fuel my big toothy gaikokujin smile?
I take my time to select the best-looking, plumpest Totoro buns, some lemon Baumkuchen cakes, matcha-and-white-chocolate bagels, and an extra melon pan. The salesgirl from Saturday seems happy to see me again, and I’m happy to tell her that I have my freaking wallet this time. Outside, I lean against my bike as I wolf down my bread. No sign of any students to hide from, no sign of that rando with the kei truck, no sign of the old spitting lady. I don’t even see too many people staring me up and down today. My day is off to a great start already.
My phone buzzes in my purse. Cybelle it’s your MOTHER, we need to talk about this wedding! Not now, of course, you’re probably at work. Give me a shout when you can … scrolls across the external display. No backlash about not calling home again. Score.
“Sumimasen!” A Starbucks employee with a tray beckons me. “Pumpkin spice, ikaga desu ka?” I graciously accept one of the little espresso cups on her tray. Warm, creamy, and delicious. Hello, caffeine; I’ve missed you. I thank the girl and head in to buy a tall size for myself. Double score.
My sweet latte elixir is finished by the time I’m in the elevator. I feel pumped and more than ready to do some freaking English teaching. Today is going to be great. This week is going to be great. Good morning, everyone, I prepare to sing as the elevator bell dings. Let’s enjoy —
“Cybelle.” Manager rushes me the second the doors open. “Come-with-me-quickly-please-NOW,” he says in one breath.
Am I in trouble? Oh shit. I am in trouble. I’m about to get fired. Manager must have seen the security tape from yesterday morning and now he’s going to fire me. I’ll be going home super early for my sister’s wedding after all. Hang on; do we even have security tapes?
There’s no time to ask him. He ushers me through the empty lobby into the nearest classroom, Room Two, and shuts the door behind us. “Cybelle, I have something I must tell you.” Halfway through his sentence there’s a knock on the door. “Shimatta,” Manager hisses under his breath. “I will explain later.”
He opens the door. A grey-haired woman in a pressed suit and fancy scarf beams at me. I recognize her from the Head Office newsletters — Miss Saito, our bucho, a.k.a. the regional manager. Guess she’s here to fire me in person. Wouldn’t it have been easier to send a fax?
“Hello,” she says to me. “Excuse me. ‘Shibere’-sensei, ne?”
“Um,” I raise my eyebrows. “Yes?” I think?
“I am Bucho. Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, too.”
She tells Manager in Japanese to call several students for something as soon as he’s finished telling me whatever he scooted me in here for. Her tone isn’t as kind when she switches languages. “Thank you, ‘Shibere’-sensei! Mata ne!” She closes the door behind her.
“I am sorry, Cybelle,” Manager whines. “I wanted to warn you before you saw Bucho. She is Bucho from Head Office. Ah, she will be here this week, and she is very hard-working. Very strict. She will ask you if you are re-contracting, maybe many times. Have you decided? About imouto-san’s wedding?”
I feel something in my eye. “Sorry, not yet.”
“Ah, I see. Please decide very soon. You must send the form in less than three weeks, so, please, decide soon. Oh, wait. Ah, Bucho must use computer, maybe for a long time, so please do not use computer if Bucho is in the staff room. Which is, maybe, all the time.”
“So how am I supposed to sign in?”
“I will sign you in when Bucho is not using computer. Please, do not worry. Please, go to lessons, as normal. I will change the times later. Also, she is very afraid of internet virus, so we cannot use internet, so maybe, no printing for you this week. So sorry.”
I nod. “It’s okay.” Good thing I did all that last week.
“Thank you. And, also, today, we must clean very hard. Today I label towels in washroom, so if you see ‘WB,’ please clean only whiteboard, and if you see‘mado,’ please clean only windows, and …” He swears. “Ah, sorry, Cybelle! I write labels in Japanese. So, later, I will write translation for you. In staff room.”
“That’s okay, I’ll figure it out.”
“No. I must. It is very important. If you use wrong towel, it will be very troublesome. So, please, do not clean until I write translation. Ah, and, tonight, after cleaning, we must wait for Bucho to tell us when everything is clean. So please, do not go home until Bucho says. Please wait in lobby with other teachers. Is it okay?”
“Okay.”
“Thank you, Cybelle.”
We hear the elevator chimes. The sound of Akiko greeting everyone with flowers she collected outside fills the lobby. Manager lets me out of the room to get ready. He’s so anxious he doesn’t even comment on the drink cup I have behind my back. After I toss it into the staff room garbage, I can’t help but make a face. So, the Zozo staff is going to get more anal over things that don’t matter. Wonderful. If I wasn’t so full, this would totally kill my ganbarimasu epiphany. But it’s okay. The time to enjoy English has begun.
I make a quick dash to use the washroom before any of the students can get to it. Sure enough, one towel under the sink now has “WB” written on the washing instructions label. Another says “トイレ” for the toilet, a third says “窓” for the windows. The rest are all in kanji I vaguely recognize. On a normal day I’d add this to my list of reasons not to re-contract. Good thing I’m still too buzzed with caffeine and sugar to care.
Still hungry, though.
Bucho almost bumps into me as I come out of the washroom and she tries to go in. “Oh! So sorry! Eh, ‘Shibere’-sensei, yes?”
“Cybelle,” I correct her.
“Eh? She … She-bera? Shiberia? That’s a strange name for a foreigner,” she says to herself in Japanese. “What kind of a name is that? Why would your parents name you after Siberia?” Good grief, lady.
“There’s no H. And it’s ‘bell’ … like a bell.”
“Ja … Seh-beru …” She pauses, then claps her hands to her face. “Eh, muzukashii!” She wonders why I can’t just have an easier name, and other things that I don’t need or care to hear. She also teases me, asking if I understand her, because I should by now. I hope my face looks as blank as I’m trying to keep it. Wasn’t this woman in a mad rush to go to the washroom a moment ago?
“So, how long will you be at our school?” I ask.
“Eh? Ron-gu? How wrong … ah! How long! Eh …” She counts in her head. “Yes, one week. Yoroshiku, ne?”
“Douzo yoroshiku onegai itashimasu.” I bow, ignoring her applause and praise about my Japanese pronunciation. “I have to go.”
“Okay! See you again, Shibera!”
I turn my attention to getting ready for my new Moms’ class. I start by nodding my way through the cluster of parents and children in the lobby to the peaceful quietude of the staff room. Yoshino is already there, on a stool, shoving a giant box onto the highest shelf. “Hey, Cyb!” There’s a hint of a smirk in her smile.
“Oha, Yoshino-chan,” I greet her.
“Oh, stop, you!” she hops down and playfully slaps my shoulder. “You’re one to talk! Who’d you disappear with the other night? Heh heh.”
“Meh, no one special. I just went home. Sorry I didn’t see you before I left.” Rather than disappoint her, I decide to convince her that I had a decent time. “How about you? How was your Saturday night? Fun? Did you ‘stick together’ with anyone?”
“Well …” A wistful look comes over her face. “Yeah. I did kinda ditch the others. I ended up talking with this guy Matt — that first guy we met, remember him? — and we decided that place was way too rowdy, so we took off. Sorry we lost track of each other.” She lets out a theatrical sigh. “It’s okay, though, if you don’t want to tell me about whatever sexy man whisked you away. I won’t ask questions. But if you’re interested, I’m going back there the day after tomorrow. Matt said he’d be there again. His company goes there every Thursday.”
Oh, hell no. “Uh …”
A pleading look comes to her eyes. All the humour goes out of her voice. “Aw, please? I don’t want to go on my own, but I don’t want to ask the others. They were such sticks in the mud! But you, I know you’re fun. What do you say?”
“Eh … I don’t know. I was pretty exhausted after work. Plus, Friday I start early and it’s one of my busiest days. I’ll be wiped.”
“No problem! If you want to go home first, I can wait here. I’m sure I’ll have tons of paperwork to do after the last students, anyway. You can get changed, rest, have dinner. I don’t mind waiting for you!”
I clear my throat. Maybe I should pretend I’m coming down with something. But I don’t want to lie. “I don’t know. To be honest, I didn’t have the best time. These guys, they —”
“Oh, don’t care about guys there. Most men at drinking establishments are a waste of humanity. Who gives a rat’s ass, we’ll have fun just with each other!”
I laugh, but I’m still ready to refuse. “I really don’t —”
“Please? We can get food this time, I promise! And your first drinks are on me. Pleeeease?” She grabs my hands and whimpers until I have to close my eyes and turn away.
“Argh, no, not puppy-dog eyes! Okay, okay, I’ll think about it.”
“Yay! Pinky promise?”
“Ugh.” I roll my eyes and meet her crooked finger with my own. “Pinky promise I’ll think about it.”
“Fair enough. Thanks, Cyb!” Outside in the lobby Manager bellows her name. “Hai, hai! We’ll talk later,” she whispers, and runs out of the room. I cozy myself up on one of the stools and get to work. The first thing I do is write at the top of my lesson plan in pencil: put off this week’s prep so you don’t have to go back to that awful bar.
Time plods on slowly. With my planning done, I have time to kill until lunch. Maybe I’ll sit with a cup of tea and text Mom back. That’ll save me the trouble of Skyping her tonight. Multitasking for the win, right? Plus, my throat hurts. Tea will help me get through the next few hours of talking and singing.
I stick my head under the countertop to look under the computer. I see nothing. No sign of Mr. Kettle anywhere under the bench. I decide to find a bag of tea first, before I venture out to find someone who may know where the kettle is. I cross the staff room to the cupboards before I realize the tea, instant coffee, dry creamer, honey, and sugar cubes have been replaced with my kindergarteners’ construction paper and playdough. What the hell is going on now?
Lieko slides the staff room door open on the other side, coming in to make a photocopy. I take a deep breath. Might as well ask her. “Hey, Lieko, have you seen the kettle? I was hoping to make some tea.”
Lieko sighs, never looking up from the photocopier once. “Bucho took the kettle away. Zozo is not permitted to have kettles for the staff room in the first place. So, she confiscated it.”
What?! “Since when? We’ve had that kettle for years. Why take it away now?”
“I do not speak for Bucho, but she is Bucho and she knows the rules. It is against company policy to have kettles in the staff room. Kettles may spill and destroy many teachers’ important works. You should know this.”
I should? “But —”
“Please do not ask Bucho about the kettle. She will think it was you who wanted the kettle, and she will think we are giving you special treatment.”
“But I never — Wait, what are you doing?”
Lieko has just picked up the remote for the air-con above the computer and turned it on. “Cool biz ends this month?” she says, like she’s talking to an unintelligent child. Then she picks up her photocopies and leaves the room.
Great. No more kettle, and by the blazing yet stale air coming from the unit, I’m supposed to sit here and deal. I can’t help sticking my tongue out at the staff room door. Like the kettle was my idea. That ancient kettle has been here long before I came to Zozo. It’s been the only consistent thing here besides me. I didn’t even get to say goodbye. Oh, well. I’m left with nothing to do but eat my lunch now. It’s fine. I grab my bento bag and sit down, but not before picking up the remote to turn the heat off. Cool biz ain’t over yet.
My lunch is delicious. Each morsel of the thick, creamy, spiralled pasta dabbled with the speckles of browned mushrooms and still-crunchy broccoli all layered with spicy golden crust is better than the last. I devour it in minutes, then get to planning. After thirty minutes of cutting pumpkins out of orange construction paper, my stomach growls again. Guess I didn’t make enough mac and cheese after all; I quickly venture out to Family Mart for more food and some dessert. No one at Zozo sees me; no one at Zozo stops me. Let my Tuesday genki continue.
Yoshino comes in with Yuki and Misaki for a while. I can’t quite make out what they’re saying at first, but I hear snippets of “Bucho,” “open house,” and “saikoukimitsu,” which I know for sure means “top secret.” I try not to eavesdrop, but I can’t help it unless I get up and leave the room, and I’m not about to do that. My second lunch is just too good. I’ve already wolfed down my wakame salad and chugged my miso soup, and now I tackle the grilled salmon, hamburger patties, and rice, eyeing the small heap of Ghana chocolate bars that wait for dessert. The last thing I want is for someone to come along while I’m away and stick my lunch somewhere strange again.
Yuki and Misaki leave when Manager calls their names out in the lobby. Yoshino quickly types something into the computer. “Manager hasn’t signed you in it, Cybelle-sensei, want me to do it for you?”
“Yes, please.”
“Uwaa, such a smorgasbord! Looks delicious!” Yoshino takes the stool next to me. “Did you eat well this weekend? I know you didn’t get to eat much on Saturday.”
“Oh, yeah,” I reply. “Ate my weight in food, apparently. And then this morning I went and bought these.” I run to the cupboard and pull my hefty HORUS bag from the shelf. “Don’t know what’s going on with my appetite lately.”
“Ooh, that Totoro looks good.”
“It’s chestnut cream!”
“Mmm,” Yoshino rubs her belly. “Sounds much better than what I had for breakfast. I woke up late, so I only had time for an onigiri and a melon pan on the train.”
“You ate them on the train?”
Yoshino nods. “Wolfed them down in one gulp. They do not go well together, in case you’re wondering.”
“They don’t sound very filling, either. Here.”
I offer her a Totoro. She’s polite at first, but with prodding she takes it. Manager walks in as she’s cradling it in her arms. “Ooh, oishi-sou,” he says, several times until I give in and offer him one. As he accepts, Lieko walks in and makes cooing noises.
“Ooh, lemon cake! And Totoro! They look so delicious.”
“They’re from Cybelle-sensei!” Manager and Yoshino say in unison.
My hands reflexively squeeze the neck of the plastic bag. Maybe if I hold it tight enough, I can protect my last bun from her sharp, carnivorous fangs.
“Oh.” Her voice is curt. She walks right out of the staff room. I breathe a sigh of relief. My last Totoro is spared. Note to self: only go to HORUS on the way home.
Yoshino and I finish our lunches, then go out into the lobby. Bucho is nowhere to be found, so I take a seat at the reception desk computer while Yoshino flips through one of her big files next to me. She waves a hand when I offer her my seat. “It’s all right, I don’t need,” she says.
I swivel back and forth for a minute, letting her work in silence. Then I break it. “Yoshino, may I ask you a question? About last week’s open house?”
“Sure. I’m just pulling student files. What’s up?”
I whisper, just in case. “Does Bucho not know about it?”
Yoshino looks up. She shakes her head. “You heard, huh? Sorry, I should have included you in the loop when I told Yuki.”
“No, no! I get it. I apologize for eavesdropping, but I wanted to make sure.”
“Oh, no! It’s okay. Yeah, Bucho doesn’t know a thing about it. It’s not that we’re not allowed to have it, but I don’t think she’ll take kindly to Manager inviting strangers to the school without her being here. It’ll look extra-bad because we didn’t get any clients out of it. So, Manager is asking the staff not to let her know we even had one.”
Geez. “What exactly do we need to do? Is there anything I can do?”
“Not unless you know any new people who’d be willing to drop a few hundred thousand yen to bring us up to quota for October. Do you?”
“Sorry.”
Yoshino laughs. “It’s okay, me, neither. It seems like everyone is going to this new branch in Osaka. It’s the same Zozo, but from what I hear, their manager is more thorough. She actually cares about the students and their progress. Imagine that.” She makes a face. “If you ask me, if Manager wasn’t such a misogynist, they’d all come back.”
“I’m afraid to bring this up, but …” I brace myself. “Do you think there’s a chance of us getting a different manager?”
“That’s what one of us would like, but Manager isn’t willing to give up without a fight. You didn’t hear any of that from me, of course.”
“Terrific,” I mutter under my breath. I don’t need to ask who that ‘one of us’ would be. The idea of Lieko being manager fills me with dread, as I’m sure it does Yoshino. “Well, I’m not going to let it get to me. I guess for now, my best is the best I can do.”
Yoshino tilts her head in thought. “That’s such a good outlook,” she nods. “I like it! Maybe that should be Zozo’s motto! You’re such a great role model, Cybelle.”
“Thank you, Yoshino,” I laugh. I know how cheesy that sounded, but it’s true. I’m not going to let Lieko, Manager, Bucho, or the school’s fate bring me down. I’ve got students to be genki for. I get up from the receptionist’s chair and strike a pose. “You know what? I’m ready. Bring on the students! It’s time to enjoy —”
“YADAAAAA!”
No. NO. It can’t be.
But it is.
“Oh!” Yoshino’s smile cannot disguise her shock at the elevator opening to Hitomu and his mother, who is now struggling to peel him from the bar that runs along its perimeter. “Hello, Hitomu! Good to see you again! Okaasan, konnichiwa! Ogenki desu ka?”
Hitomu’s mother nods in reply as she carries the scrambling, scratching child in her arms down the hall, I presume to the washroom. I turn back to the elevator and see Sotaro is also here, holding his mother’s hand, both of their jaws hanging open.
“Ah, yes! Cybelle-sensei,” Yoshino says. “I don’t know if Manager told you, but …”
“Oh, no.”
“No, no! Not Hitomu!” She waves her hands. “He has a private lesson with Lieko. You have a private lesson with Sotaro. You can use Room Three. It’s just forty-five minutes. Is it okay?”
My smile returns. “It’s more than okay. Hi, Sotaro! How are you today?”
Sotaro’s mother shakes him to his senses. “Sotaro-kun, sensei ni aisatsu shite,” she reprimands him. To my complete shock, Sotaro bows low to me. When his mother tells him to follow me to the classroom, he does so without hesitation. Lieko tries to block Hitomu from seeing me as I head to Room Three. I close the door behind me and turn to see Sotaro sitting in the middle of the room in perfect seiza, hands in his lap. The whole time we have our lesson, we hear Hitomu’s screams down the hall. Despite the fact that he’s with Lieko he must know I’m nearby, because he doesn’t stop for the entire forty-five minutes. Sotaro, meanwhile, is a perfect angel. Maybe Hitomu is scaring him into behaving. I give him two stickers for not giving me a hard time. He sticks them on his cheeks and sprints out the door to show them off to his mother.
It must be raining cats and dogs again when my mom students and their kids stumble from the elevator. Their arms are laden with drenched umbrellas, raincoats, and bookbags. I let them take their time to dry off with their dozen and one hand towels while I set up our table for a quick round of Jenga before our lesson. Our textbook is pretty horrible, so all we can do is walk through the questions together, then read a paragraph. We talk a bit more about Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., but my students seem more interested in literal dreams, which is great for me because it means less talk about America’s current political climate.
“Ne, sensei. Textbook says to write our dream,” Mami says. “For homework. Is it homework?”
“Sure, let’s make it homework. If that is okay with everyone?” My students nod. “Okay, we will skip the lesson on REM sleep and next week we can talk about our dreams. Write a sentence to answer this question.” I get up and write on the whiteboard: What do (did) you dream about? Underneath, I write: I dream(ed) about … and explain a little bit about past tenses and American versus British English, all of which my students jot down furiously in their notebooks. I try to think of how to finish my example and stop. Wow, I really can’t remember things I dream about. I don’t even think I do dream these days. I leave it blank.
“Oh!” Fumiko exclaims. “Last last night, I had a dream!” She furrows her eyebrows, pausing between rapidly typed translations on her electronic dictionary. “I dream … the day before yesterday, I dreamed I take test. In English. I don’t know answers because I can’t read test. When I ask teacher for help, I can’t speak. It’s very scary.”
I smile at her. “I think that means you were worried about this class, maybe.”
She laughs. “Maybe. But in my dream, I was in school. Maybe …” She types again. “High school, or … junior high.”
“Was English class difficult for you in school?”
“Yes, very difficult.” Everyone nods in agreement.
Miyoko is the next to volunteer. “A few days ago, I dreamed that I was still in Kyoto with my husband, but I don’t remember … anything except Kyoto.”
I nod, holding back on my thoughts this time. Oh, who I wouldn’t slap in the face for a weekend in Kyoto right now. It’s been ages since I’ve been back there, but my first year in Japan I went every chance I could get, to the point of shocking all my old co-workers and students who still hadn’t been there. I went to all the big festivals: Gion Matsuri, Jidai Matsuri, Kurama no Hi … Now that the weather is bearable, October is a perfect time to go. But I get so bogged down with work and chores I don’t have time and energy during the week. That’s what happens with a Tuesday to Saturday schedule and all the national holidays falling on Mondays. We get scammed out of the little free time we actually have.
Mami looks left out. “I never remember what I dream.”
“That’s okay,” I tell her. “I don’t, either. Actually, I used to write down my dreams. Not anymore though, I’m too busy. I just come to work and go home, so my imagination isn’t what it used to be. I don’t think I’ve had a single dream this whole year …”
I trail off as I realize that what I’m saying isn’t BS at all. It’s completely true. That, and no one has any idea what I’m saying.
“Sumimasen, sensei,” Miyoko raises her hand. “I don’t understand.”
“That’s okay,” I repeat. “Um, let’s see … I don’t remember what I dream, but when I was young, I used to dream a lot.”
My students nod. “What do you dream, when you were child?” Mami asks.
“Well, I guess I’d dream about usual things, like flying, or falling, or monsters, or babies, or —”
“Sensei, I have question,” Miyoko raises her hand again. “About Halloween monster. In Canada, do many people dress as monsters? For Halloween? Like America?”
“Oh yeah, tons of people.”
“And, will you dress up for Halloween?”
“Yes. I have my costume all ready. But I won’t be a monster. I will be a scary Tinker Bell for Halloween.”
“Ah, kawaii — how cute!”
“Ne, sensei, what is ‘monster’? Is it like, ‘pocketto monsutaa’?” asks Fumiko.
“Monster is like oni. Or yokai.” Miyoko turns to me. “Do you know yokai?”
“Ah, yes!” Fumiko says. “Like Ghibli?”
“And Yo-kai Watch!” Mami pipes in. “Taiga loves Yo-kai Watch! Do you know?”
“Yes,” I tell her. “I have a Jibanyan hand puppet!”
“Ah, kawaii! Sugoi, you know many things, Cybelle-sensei!”
“Thanks! Well, there’s one thing I’ve always wondered. Er, one thing I don’t know. What’s the difference between yokai and oni?”
“Eh …” the moms all look away, deep in thought, nodding to themselves. “Maybe,” says Miyoko. “Only ‘oni’ at Setsubun? Do you know?”
“Yes!” Mami smiles. “Setsubun … at Nishibe Jinja?” She checks her dictionary. “Ah! Nishibe Shrine! We throw beans at oni!”
I nod, smiling wider. “Yup, I know it. I’ve gone to the Setsubun festival there — just once, though.” I keep my mouth shut that it was four years ago, the one time I didn’t have work the morning after, and how I learned the hard way that festivals aren’t a lot of fun when you’re a gaijin on her own. Nope, not going to get into that. “Okay, we have five minutes left!” I pick up my box of playing cards from the table and start to shuffle them. “Who wants to play cards?”
“Oh, toranpu! Yatta!”
We play Slap Jack for the rest of the class. Mami is the ultimate winner. We hear the room next door open and release the flash flood of seven-year-olds, which cues the four-year-olds’ class down the hall to also let loose. I bid the moms farewell and get ready for the next stream of classes.
“Ah, Cybelle-sensei! Look!” Mami walks past me and grabs one of the kids in the lobby by his backpack (I assume it’s her son). She points to the characters on it. “See? Taiga, sensei ni kaban o misete — please show Sensei your backpack!”
I grin. “That’s the one! Hi, Taiga, I see you like Yo-kai Watch. Which one’s your favourite?”
Taiga wrenches himself away from his mother. “Oobaketto!” He punches me in the crotch.
“Taiga!” Mami smacks him in the back of his head, not too hard but enough to give him something to think about. “Oh, my goddo, I’m so sorry, Cybelle-sensei! Are you all right?!”
“I’m fine,” I laugh weakly. I don’t add that I think I just skipped my next period.
Thankfully, the pain wears off after a few minutes and I get through the rest of my classes unscathed. My kindergarteners have decided to become obsessed with tea parties. They insist on having another one after we read a couple of fairy tales from my big book of stories and force me to make more desserts out of playdough like I did last week.
“Sensei, nani shiten no?” Momoko asks me.
“I’m making you a cupcake.”
She tilts her head. “Pupcake?”
“Cupcake.”
“Pupcake?”
“Cupcake!” Motoka yells, reducing Momoko to tears. I let her sit in my lap for the rest of the lesson.
Next, I have Zone VI, where we do some listening activities out of the Sesame Street textbook. Reiji and Riko get into a heated argument about whether or not Mr. Snuffleupagus is a boy or a girl and they both go home in tears. After that I have my private lesson with Kennichi, who suddenly wants to learn anything and everything there is to know about “ice” hockey. Minus the crotch punch, another typical Tuesday afternoon.
Since the teachers must line up at the end of the night, I end up getting ahead on all my lesson planning while I wait, sabotaging my plans to not hang out with Yoshino Thursday night. The only interruption is Manager, who (after asking me why I haven’t left yet and remembering his own instructions to me earlier today) tells me I’ll have a teacher interview Thursday at four. Not sure why, when we’re losing students, but instead of asking, I nod and smile.
Because the weather outside is relatively good, when we finally are released from Zozo, I take my gurgling tummy grocery shopping: the usual fare from my three local supermarkets plus some Attack laundry detergent, Halloween Pudding Kit Kat, instant coffee, and a jumbo pack of Mentos (not that I’ll repeat yesterday’s antics ever again). I buy as much as I can carry without dislocating my shoulders, drop everything off at home, then head to 7-Eleven. There’s a small shelf next to the cold food section displaying new items. I can’t read the box, but they look like graham crackers for about eight hundred yen. Graham crackers again, eh? Hmm, maybe I’ll give it another week.
The only cash open is in front of a new employee, glaring at me with all his might. I take the three remaining futomaki and inari zushi bento boxes to the counter and add a bunch of bananas and a handful of Black Thunders. His co-workers are still helping people. I take out my wallet; I’m not waiting in the long lineups to get served by someone nice. I’m hungry, now bordering on hangry. When he nudges each chocolate bar with his barcode reader until they flip over instead of picking them up individually, I take out my giant personal shopping bag and lay it on the counter. “Fukuro iranai,” I mutter, just as he tries to wiggle my bananas into a plastic bag without touching them.
The new guy gasps. “H-hai,” he stutters, taking the bag away. “Anou … chopsticks, okay?”
“Uchi ni arimasu,” I refuse.
“Ah, sou ka …” He is now grinning from ear to ear. “Eh … can you … use … chopsticks?”
“Um … yes?”
“Ah! And, do you … like … sushi?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice every other staff member I usually chat with peeking from the back room, snickering. “I do.”
“Ah! Me, too! I like sushi the best!”
Good grief.
“See you again!” shouts the new guy. I wave back, walking past the sliding doors just as he whispers something to his co-workers about how amazing it is that there are “kurojin” in Nishibe. I’d rather not hang around to hear their responses. I return home, lock my apartment door, sit right down in front of it, and rip the plastic off the top bento, devouring the first few rolls by hand like some ravenous sushi-predator. As I eat, I turn on the TV and watch the tail end of a kids’ show where they sing about taking a bath, letters of the Japanese alphabet, then do the goodbye song and shower the kids dancing on stage with balloons. After that is a commercial showing three aliens balanced on top of one another in a long trench coat disguised as a human being so they can sneak into a kaitenzushi restaurant. I’m still hungry. There goes bento number two.
I shut off the TV, sigh out loud in my big empty apartment chock full of grocery bags. Might as well see if Mom is online.
As my old laptop boots up, I change out of my work clothes, put all my groceries away, gather all my stuff from work from my purse, and grab art supplies from my plastic dresser. Once Skype loads, I click on my mom’s profile. I take photocopies of cookies, apples, and ice creams I made from my textbooks weeks ago and prepare to spend the next hour colouring them with markers, cutting them out, and wrapping each picture with parcel tape.
“Hello?” says my laptop.
“Mother?”
“Who is this?”
“Your first-born?”
“Hi, sweetie! How are you?!”
“I’m good. You?”
“What time is it over there? Did you just wake up or something? You sound so far away! Why isn’t your video on? How are your students?”
I chuckle, since technically, I am far away. “They’re … um, they’re the same. How is everyone?”
“Oh! They’re wonderful,” she says. My webcam kicks in while she gives me a thorough rundown of how wonderful everyone is, doing what they love, hoping I’m doing the same, being in the most exotic country in the world and all. She asks how my weekend was, hoping I didn’t just do chores the whole time. No way am I telling her how my Saturday night really went.
“I did go out with some co-workers, but they were kinda —”
“So, go without them! You don’t need a babysitter.” Mom has this thing about giving me advice long after the event in question has passed. “You need to socialize, Cybelle! You can’t stay home every weekend for seven years and —”
“Six and a half, Mom.”
“Don’t interrupt, Cybelle. My point is, you need a real life, sweetie. You don’t want to end up old and bitter. I’m sure your school wouldn’t want that, either. Doesn’t your school understand that you need a life? If you’re enjoying teaching so much you can just do that here. And you’d actually have time to yourself. Please tell me you’re not signing up for another year there.”
Now seems like a good time to busy myself. I put groceries away, pour rice into the automatic rice cooker and let it do its thing. My apartment is massive by Japanese standards but small enough that I can move around and Mom can still see me on the webcam while she rants and raves about scandalous English conversation companies going under and how I should go home and work at a real school.
“I know there’s nothing exciting for you to do anymore,” Mom continues. “I warned you not to do everything your first year. Now you’re bored. Why do you insist on staying?”
Oh, that is such a lie! She’s the one who insisted I do everything adventurous my first year. “I don’t have much of a reason not to,” I say instead. “The money is good, my location is decent, I don’t pay rent, and the students and parents have finally gotten used to me. Well … most of them.” I refuse to bring up Hitomu.
“I know you’d rather just stay there and keep making lots of money, but are you really happy doing just that? That’s something you need to think about, too, you know. Money can’t buy happiness. Oh, and speaking of happiness! Did you get my message?”
“Yup.”
“About your sister? Your youngest sister?”
“Yee-up.”
She giggles. “What did it say?”
“That she shaved the rest of her head?”
“No, Cybelle. Very funny. No, I said that she has finally set a date! So now you have to come home as soon as possible!”
I make a buzzer sound. “WRONG. You said she was getting married. Which I kinda figured would happen, eventually.”
“Well, now it’s official. She’s getting married once she graduates next year. In June.”
“You mean, she’s getting married in June or she’s graduating in June?”
“She’s graduating, Cybelle. Duh. I don’t know if she wants a June wedding. I think it would be perfect, but that close to graduation? I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“I thought you just said she set a … You know what, never mind. If she’s not getting married until after graduation, there’s really no rush to come home, is there? If I stay another year, I can always take time off for the wedding.”
“Cybelle, enough. Just come home, okay? Start mentally preparing. You’ll need a couple of months to adjust, find a place to live, get a job, maybe find a boyfriend you can move in with …”
Here it is. The part of the phone call I’ve been dreading. I add a few “mm-hmms” and “uh-huhs” in the right places while I sort my laundry, start the machine, and iron out a pantsuit for tomorrow, just in case more Head Office honchos decide to pay us a surprise visit and shut down the school. Once I finish making a few more pumpkin cut-outs, I pack up my purse and hang it up, just in time for Mom to come back to her previous point:
“And I don’t know where you’re going to live. Toronto is so expensive now. I’m too busy getting ready to retire and sell the house, and I’ve already started making travelling plans, so living here is out of the question, and you know your sisters, you can’t really count on them to put you up for long. But don’t think of it as coming back to ‘nothing.’ You just need to be positive about it! Just think about it, okay? It’s not like you’re moving up in the company. After seven years, you should be running the place.”
“Six and a half.”
“Same thing. My point is you don’t sound excited to be living there these days. Remember when you first got there? You were so active back then with your travelling, and all those cooking and karate classes. I knew you were doing all right, but now … well, I’m more than worried. I just want you to be happy. You are happy, right?”
“Eh …”
“‘Eh’?! What is that supposed to mean?!”
Somewhere in the kitchen I hear Canon in D Major. Mom hears it, too. “That sounds like your rice cooker. Are you making dinner?”
“Beef curry and rice. And I might make some stir-fry for the week, too.”
“Stir-fry again? After all those cooking courses you insisted on? Hurry up and come home.”
I hate it when she says that. What does she mean by ‘hurry up’? Work around the clock or six days a week to end my contract sooner? Neither is an option under Zozo’s current business hours. Speed up time? Who am I, Superman? I shrink Skype to a corner so I can put in my Flying Pig order and browse worksheets online.
“Mom,” I say. “Even if I do go home, what am I going to do there?”
“You can figure that out when you get here! Anyway, we’ll discuss this later. You go have dinner. Glad I finally caught you, sweetie! We’ll talk again soon. Love you!”
“Love you, too, Mom.”
“And please look into getting a smartphone, will you? Then we can just WhatsApp each other. Or LINE, I hear LINE is a good app, too.”
I narrow my eyes.
“I’m so sick of Skype! Aren’t you sick of that giant computer yet? You’re not tired of texting on that little flip phone of yours?”
“Nope.”
“Ugh. FINE. Love you, sweetie!”
She hangs up. I let out a huge sigh. My left eye is itchy as hell for some reason. Probably just stress, as usual. Good thing I didn’t joke that our school is going under; she would have kept me up all night with interrogations. I return to the kitchen to heat up and sample the beef curry. Last “unhealthy” meal, I swear to myself. It’s nice and spicy, just the way I like it. But it could use a little something more. I’m digging around in the cupboard to see if I have any more potatoes left when I hear my phone vibrate. Mom must have forgotten to tell me something. I hope it has nothing to do with what she already chewed me out about. I don’t complain too much, considering all the crap I have chucked at me. Especially in the past month, with Hitomu, with Lieko. I think I’m doing pretty darn well.
It’s a text from an unknown number. You did not wear a skirt today. Again.
Okay, so maybe I complain a little.