“Ima okina-EE-to, okurema-SOO, yo … Ima okina-EE-to, okurema-SOO, yo …”
Ah, the screeching chime of the alarm clock. I finish brushing my teeth before I poke my head out the bathroom door to look around my living room. It doesn’t take long to locate the small mint-green robot ramming itself into the wall.
“Ima okina-EE-to, okurema-SOO, yo …”
“Sorry, little friend.” I pick it up, pressing the snooze button. “There’s no escape for either of us.”
“Ohayou gozaimasu! Kyou, ganbatte —”
I toss it into my open closet. The tiny plomp of the robot landing on my folded futon tells me it survived the trip. I get dressed, then head to the kitchen to get my lunch and stuff it in my giant purse. Not a lot of room among the giant scissors, glue, markers, and construction paper, but I manage. I give myself one last glance-over in the reflection of the glass in my genkan door. The same “polite, professional, playful” businesswoman I always see stares back at me: white short-sleeved polo shirt, black dress pants, black work jacket, stone face. I force her to smile. Forget it. The “playful” part will come when it needs to.
I sigh again. Back to work today. Time to enjoy English.
I brace myself for smiling down the four flights of stairs to my building’s front door, where three musical notes chime as the bolts slide out of place with Star Trek–like clicks. Outside, the giant constructivist painting that is my neighbourhood is ready for Halloween. The grey and white cuboid and cylinder apartments, once studded with greens and pinks on their balcony gardens, now have tiny orange pumpkins. The canopies of electric cables over the streets have a couple of plastic ghosts dangling from them. And, of course, there’s me: the resident monster, emerging from her lair to frighten the passersby.
“Mite, mite. Meccha gaijin ya na … Kowaaaai …” a schoolgirl whispers to her friend as they walk past me. I unlock my bike and pretend not to notice I’m being described as scary. It’s harder to ignore the guy sneaking a picture on his phone. I look up at the wrong moment. He runs away, shouting, “Kowai, nigero!” to someone down the street. Good to see the jerk train is right on time, like all trains in this country. Another shouter walks past my apartment with his entourage, which consists of five dudes dressed like they’re going to the baseball stadium up the street. Surprisingly, there’s one tall African American in their company. I can tell he’s American by his accent.
“Hey! A SISTER!” he points at me. “How you doing?”
I manage a small shy wave in return. Others stare and whisper as I mind my own business and get my rusty, trusty bike unlocked. The sidewalk looks clear now. I wheel out from my parking space, ready to pedal, and almost run down a tiny man blocking my path. I recognize his traditional outfit from the shrine down the street from my building. He must be a caretaker there. “Good morning.” His words are slow, with sharp, pronounced consonants.
This is new. I’m wary, but more relieved that he isn’t pissed off I almost mowed him down. “Good morning.”
“How … are … you?”
“Um. I’m fine, thank you. Uh, how are you?”
“I … am fine. Thank you.” His face crinkles with laugh lines as he spreads his arms. “Welcome … to Japan!”
“Oh. Thank you.” I smile as I swing one leg over the bike. “Ittekimasu?” I offer, unsure.
“Itterasshai,” he says, bowing, and continues down the street. I watch him go, clapping two blocks of wood behind his back. Okay, so most trains run on time in this country. Ninety-nine percent. No country is perfect, but Japan, sometimes you come close.
I speed past palm trees with makeshift scarecrows wrapped around their trunks. Looks like the shops have deemed it safe to break out the fake plastic leaves they all use over their marquees for fall, too. A 7-Eleven employee on a stepladder hangs up a sign for special autumn food out front. The City of Nishibe Post Office has also put up its Halloween stuff. Yagi-sama, the cartoon goat mascot, poses in the window with a witch’s hat on its head and a pumpkin in its hands. Along the stadium and station approach, food vendors are setting up. The smells hit me as I read the signs over each stand: chicken yakitori, Kobe beef, yakisoba noodles, takoyaki … my mouth waters as each word twinkles like lights. Farther down the main street, the lineups at Tully’s Coffee are so far out the door it’s impossible to tell who’s there for free pumpkin spice latte samples and who’s trying to catch the next train. So much for not getting stared at.
I walk my bike through the crowd, eyes down. Then, I take the detour under the train tracks, past the Tsutaya video rental store, the flower shop, and another row of small restaurants. I take another shortcut by the other shopping centre, bigger but less busy because it’s farther from the station. I can smell the coffee from the second Tully’s mixed with KFC, the popcorn and cotton candy in the video game arcade, the ramen stands’ beer, all the delicious odours that permeate the air. I pop out onto a large intersection with a cluster of squat buildings, health clinics, and real estate agencies that play the company jingles whenever they’re open. I lock up my bike at a rack in front of the tallest building and head inside. I take the elevator and press the button for the seventh floor. According to the tiny plastic strip of logos over the doors, there is only one company on that floor:
Zozo’sSchoolofGood English
(EIKAIWA)
The elevator opens to a reception area that looks like the set of a 1970s children’s education program. The Electric Company meets Polka Dot Door. Lots of neon orange, yellow, and green; dots and zigzags; identical clown faces with menacing grins; and speech bubbles that scream, “Hi, I’m Zozo! Let’s enjoy English!” Sprinkled among photos of grinning children are hundreds of tiny Japanese characters on brochures and posters. My favourite co-worker, Yoshino, stands on a chair, adding Halloween decorations and past photos of students and teachers in their costumes. Two other teachers, Seri and Yuki, alternate handing her pictures and pieces of tape. And, of course, I see myself in a giant blow-up photograph in my good old gothic Tinker Bell costume. It’s the one photo of me that goes up on the wall, every year, just in time for Halloween.
For some reason, the lobby is busy for a Tuesday morning. Several parents stand around our school manager as he waxes poetic about the company. Lieko, another teacher, stands behind him and nods after every sentence. She looks me up and down, then looks away. Most of the parents are too busy listening to the manager or whispering about how much Yoshino looks like Kanako Yanagihara to notice my arrival. Those that do stare. The tiny sectional where the guests sit is covered with unfinished foam puzzles and old toys. Somewhere in the melee I see our old malfunctioning Anpanman plush toy on the floor. Why is it even out of the staff room? And who are all these parents? What is going on here today?
Children fresh out of their lesson enjoy their freedom as their parents pick up school bags and gather shoes, chatting away in rapid-fire Japanese. The kids that notice me point and shout: “Ah! Belle-sensei, ohayou gozaimasu! Hello! How are you? I’m fine, thank you!”
“Hi, kids! How’s it going?”
Lieko and Manager redirect their attention from the small crowd. Their heads follow me like hungry predators as I claim my high-fives from the kids. As always, I feel like I’m in a promotional video about expat eikaiwa life. An invisible camera watches me, catching the precise moment my mouth goes from neutral to a million watts when my eyes and those of my co-workers meet. Once again, the time has come to play my part as an essential cog in our corporate machine. I’m ready to greet everyone with my rehearsed morning-toothpaste-commercial enthusiasm in three, two, one …
“Ohayou gozaimasu!” I bow. They don’t return the smile, or the bow. Just a quick nod from Manager before he turns back to the parents. Maybe I’m in trouble. Or maybe it’s just another Tuesday morning. Who knows with Manager. Lieko, on the other hand, is still talking to students like she didn’t hear me at all.
Several kids run up to me for high-fives and go right back to fighting each other. One of the youngest retrieves the filthy Anpanman from the floor. She offers it to Lieko. “Sensei, hai — douzo!” she beams.
“Oh, thank you, Akiko-chan,” Lieko sings, showing her pointy white teeth. “But you must say, ‘Here you are!’” She doesn’t make any gesture to take Anpanman from the little girl.
Confused, Akiko shrugs and runs up to me. “Belle-sensei, douzo!”
“Thanks, Akiko!” She’s the sweetest, but I’m not touching this thing, either. It’s probably from the eighties, maybe even older, and I don’t think it’s ever been washed. So instead, I smile and gesture every word. “Can you put Anpanman on the table, please?”
“Hai!” She throws the wretched toy onto the reception desk and runs over to her mother. “Ganbatta, Akiko-chan!” her mother says, giving her a giant hug. “Eigo jouzu desu ne!”
Lieko glares at me as I remove my shoes and trade them for my giant Tinker Bell slippers. Whatever. It’s not my fault the company doesn’t allow us to speak Japanese with the students. Doesn’t mean there aren’t sneaky ways to get around it. Ignoring her, I wade through the children and head for the staff room to stuff my purse into what little space there is in the staff cupboard.
Yoshino sticks another picture of a jack-o’-lantern to the wall before she looks down at me with a big grin. “Ohayou, Cybelle-sensei!”
“Ohayou gozaimasu, Yoshino-sensei. You look busy up there.”
“It’s Halloween!” she says with her light British lilt. “We can finally stop talking about EIKEN exams and celebrate. By the way, I like your shirt! Short sleeves — very brave.”
I look down. “What? I haven’t even taken off my jacket yet.”
“I guessed. It is nice outside. And I don’t see you switching to ‘warm biz’ anytime soon.” She hops down, light-footed, from her chair. “By the way, I want to talk to you about something later. When are you free?”
“I got nothing until my Moms’ trial at two.”
“Aw. I have classes until then. Okay, I’ll nab you around lunch, if that’s no bother?” Manager interrupts her next sentence by calling her over. “Hai! We’ll talk later! Oh yeah, there’s a box of tea and maybe some cakes left in the staff room. The water in the kettle should still be hot.”
“Cakes?”
“From the open house. There’s plenty left. Dig in. ‘Second breakfast!’” She adds in a whisper and sprints off to talk to Manager and some stern-faced parents.
BREAKFAST. I could smack myself. I didn’t eat a thing this morning. I walked out the door on an empty stomach. Cybelle, you idiot. No wonder I’m so hungry. Wait a minute — did she say “open house?” That’s new. No wonder I’m getting weird looks from strangers. Since when do we do open houses? What happened to Manager sulking behind the reception desk on a quiet Tuesday morning, grunting at everyone in lieu of words?
I slide the door open and slip into the hidden staff room. Glad to see it’s empty, as usual for a Tuesday. I sign in on the computer, which flags me for clocking in over an hour early. Tsk, tsk. No wonder Manager gave me such a weird look when I greeted him. I shrug it off. At least the cupboard is still normal. I squeeze my purse into its usual space among the other giant purses, textbooks, CDs, old cassette tapes no one dares throw away, stuffed animals, the kindergarteners’ personal art supplies, puzzles, markers, and crayons for kids in the lobby, and the infinite number of files and binders of track records, invoices, and handouts. I grab one of the stools at the bench (just big enough for three or four people to sit next to each other) with my own binder of English miscellany and jot things down. I have plenty of space to spread out and work. Today I only have three classes, which means lots of peace, quiet, and time to plan for the week. And what luck, there are a few of my favourite conbini cakes — lemon Baumkuchen — next to our good old electronic kettle.
As I munch away and sip some green tea, a high-pitched voice rings through the paper-thin walls. Someone shouting about civility? Being civil? The door slides open and bangs against the wall, making me jump out of my skin. Lieko sticks her head in and glares at me.
“Cybelle,” she hisses with perfect pronunciation. “Come outside. Didn’t you hear your own name?” She walks away in the middle of her last sentence. I follow her out to the lobby, anyway, where Manager gestures to a small boy hiding behind his mother.
“Cybelle-sensei,” he sings. “This is Sotaro.”
From between his mother’s legs Sotaro sticks out his tongue. I try to not look as I bow to her. Manager continues to repeat my name in the same three-syllable tune as he talks to the mother in slow, hesitant English.
“Cybelle-sensei is the Native English Teacher at our school. She is from Canada. Her English is very good. The students love to enjoy English with Cybelle-sensei.”
I nod after each sentence with a nice big smile. When Manager switches to natural-speed Japanese I continue to nod and smile at all the right pauses. Sotaro watches me from his mother’s crotch in fascination.
“Sotaro-kun,” Manager sings, “say hello to Cybelle-sensei, please!”
The moment is gone. His mother pulls Sotaro out from behind her and right away he pretends to pass out on the floor. His mouth hangs open so wide soon there’s a pool of saliva soaking the carpet. Manager laughs along with Lieko, now behind him.
“Aw, he is sleepy,” she croons.
We all stand there laughing awkwardly until Sotaro and his mother leave. Manager turns to me. “Thank you, Cybelle-sensei!” He says it without smiling. He then shakes his head, like he just changed his mind about something, and turns to Yoshino. He tells her in Japanese that she did well to recruit Sotaro, and that she should sum up the details of his trial lesson for me in English. Then he says something about my interview at two o’clock and turns away.
Wait, what?
“Hang on,” I call after him, forgetting my contractual obligation to pretend I don’t understand Japanese. “I have my Moms’ trial class at two.”
“Ah, sorry, no. Maybe, no Moms’ today. Lieko has Zozo II class today but many students have flu. So, we have to cancel. So, maybe, no mothers will come today. But, good news is, we have interview.”
Ugh. Another “riveting” teacher interview. Good news, my ass. “Okay. What’s the teacher’s name?”
“It’s … nandakke … one moment.”
Manager takes off to riffle through papers behind the reception desk. Meanwhile, Lieko eyes me with her predatory gaze. “Her name is Misaki Wada,” she says, her voice stiff. “She studied English in university and lived in Australia for one month. I read her file from Head Office and memorized all of it. Manager wants me to interview her in Japanese, so I must know everything about her. Maybe I should do both interviews, Manager,” Lieko raises her voice another octave and shows all her teeth. “To save time?”
“Fuzaken ja nee yo!” Manager scoffs. “Native speaker ga hitsuyou da!”
Ouch. I don’t need to be fluent to understand how pissed Manager is that she even asked. I struggle to keep my attention focused on photos along the wall while he continues to yell in Lieko’s face about her having something to prove and, oh shit, where did I put that file, get out of my way. He practically shoves her and disappears into the staff room, leaving the two of us alone. I didn’t think this could get any more awkward. I follow after Manager: anything beats standing in an empty lobby with the world’s scariest woman. Without my Moms’ class, I don’t have anything to do before my three lessons except maybe eat my lunch, but it’s not even eleven. I’ll find something to do.
Ignoring Manager’s outbursts at the other teachers, I make a few more self-laminated cut-outs, organize all my work for the week and even for next Tuesday, and attach a fresh interview questionnaire to a clipboard. This all takes about half an hour. I decide to make a sunset with construction paper and coloured foam for my Baby Zero class on Friday: I can teach them “Mr. Sun” and let them touch the picture.
The wall clock says it’s almost twelve. Now I have nothing to do but eat. I’m the first one to take out her lunch, which gets me a few wary glances from Lieko, but I’m out of ideas. Yoshino and Seri join me a few minutes later. I get up to use the washroom and come back to Yoshino in front of the computer, Lieko in my seat next to Seri, and my bento bag on top of the photocopier with no explanation. Manager offers me his seat and leaves to eat in Room One by himself. He’s not one for lunchtime conversation with five women, anyway. I don’t blame him. All anyone ever talks about is Zozo-related drivel, like there’s nothing else in the world. Lieko starts it off:
“Yoshino-sensei. How did your lesson go?”
“Do you mean Zozo Zone 1, or Zozo Zone 3?”
“I mean, how did your Zozo Zone 1 lesson go?”
“It went well.”
“I see. What class will you teach next?”
“Next, I have a prep period.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I mean, I have a preparation period.”
“I see.” Lieko takes another tiny bite of her food. “Yoshinosensei, how is our branch ranking?”
Yoshino takes her time to chew. She looks like she’s thinking. “We are doing our best,” she says. That can’t mean anything good.
“How many more students do we need by the end of the month?”
Seri changes the subject. “I have a question first, Lieko-sensei. Where did you buy that teriyaki chicken? It looks good.”
“No. It’s too greasy, and I should have used more sauce.”
“No, no, it really looks good.”
“Thank you. You are too kind.”
Gag me. Japanese hornet stings have got to be less painful than this.
After a few minutes of such pleasantries, all the teachers whip out their smartphones. Not me; I devour my rice pilaf, hamburger patties, and cabbage salad before taking out my trusty old flip phone. With my lunch gone, there’s no better time to bury myself in imaginary text messages while I’m really playing Snake or Minesweeper. Today I have an actual text.
Cybelle, it’s your mother. We need to talk. BULLY IS GETTING MARRIED. So come home! Love and kisses
“What?!” My outburst disrupts the other teachers from their text marathons. Heads swivel like birds as they stare at me. I don’t have time for textbook talk. I squeeze by them all to exit the staff room and find an empty classroom for privacy. It must be almost midnight back home. I try several times, anyway. Every time the machine picks up; it’s still my own voice I hear telling me no one is home. Oh well, it was worth a shot. A thousand yen well spent. I head back to the staff room. Lieko is still eating. Yoshino has swapped her lunch for a giant binder and several pens and is now working on the computer.
“You okay, Cyb?” Yoshino asks me. “You have some kind of emergency?”
Aw, someone does care. “No, nothing bad. My baby sister got engaged.”
“Whoa! Seriously?! Hey, congrats! … Or not. You don’t look too excited.”
“No, no. I am. Just dreading the phone calls between now and this wedding.” The word feels like a foreign object lodged in my throat.
“It’ll be fine. Just don’t tell your mom about ‘Christmas cake.’”
“Too late, she googled it ages ago.”
The door slides open. Manager steps in, looks at me and Yoshino, waves his hands awkwardly — “Ah! Sorry. Atode, ne?” — and leaves the room.
“Say!” Yoshino plops down on the stool next to me. “Cybellesensei, are you interested in coming with me to a party Saturday?”
No.
“What kind of party?”
“It’s this Japanese-English language exchange party at Kappa Garappa, in Osaka; it’s run by a networking company that specializes in ‘foreign friendships.’ They’ll have snacks, and a special drink menu. The thing is, all my other girlfriends are too shy to speak to guys, let alone foreign ones. I’d rather go with someone who is confident enough to, you know, talk!”
“Are you sure about this? I mean, yeah, I’m all for socializing, but … I don’t know. You might want to go with someone who isn’t, you know …” I mutter under my breath: “What’s a polite way to say ‘penis-repellent’?”
Yoshino laughs, hard. “Uso! All the guys will be dying to talk to you! You’re so cute! If they don’t want to look like assholes, they’ll have to talk to me, too. And you can bring your friends!”
Lieko makes a snorting sound as she covers her upturned lips. Yoshino and I redirect our attention back to our food, but not before Yoshino widens her eyes and makes stabbing motions with one of her pens, which makes me snort in turn. That wipes the grin off Lieko’s face quick. By some miracle we hold in our giggles until Lieko picks up her lunch and storms off. Whatever. I turn my mind back to this party. I’ve never had much success in making friends outside of work. Plus, I haven’t spent time with Yoshino away from Zozo in years. Maybe it won’t be so bad.
At 1:45 p.m. Misaki Wada steps off the elevator. She’s about five foot two and looks young, like she just finished high school. She freezes when she sees me come out of the staff room. Manager greets her and tells her she’ll have an interview with Lieko and another with me, in English.
“Eh?!” She loses all composure. “Hontou?! Eigo de?! Iyada, dekinai!” She goes on and on about how she can’t speak English. Everyone assures her that I’m “very nice” and they wish her the best of luck. Manager gives me a pointed look as Lieko takes her into the private room, now cleared of all signs of anyone eating there.
“Another woman. Mattaku,” he curses under his breath. He clears his throat and asks me, in English, “What do you think about her?”
“Um, well …”
He nods. “Yes, I agree. I didn’t like her attitude. About English. With you. I think, not a good sign. Don’t you?”
“Well, yeah,” I admit. Manager stares at me like I should say something more. “You think she’s nervous?”
“Hmm. No. I think, no. Last week, remember, your interview with Tabata-san. She was very happy to speak English with you. And your interview last last week, Koyama-san, also enjoyed English. And I remember Yoshino-sensei, when you gave her interview; very happy to speak English! Maybe too happy. But this Wada-san, hmmm …” He sucks air through his teeth. “Ah, excuse me.” He walks off, still grumbling.
I wait patiently until I see Lieko stand up, shake Miss Wada’s hand — an uncomfortable, flaccid handshake I don’t look forward to — and open the door for me to come in. I take a seat and after introducing ourselves, we begin.
“So, Wada-san, tell me about yourself.”
She sits there, staring at me until Lieko sighs and translates for her. “Anou,” Miss Wada begins. “I finished university and went to Australia in summer. I came back to Japan two months ago.”
“I see. And why do you want to work for Zozo?”
More staring, more silence. Lieko again translates; this time, Misaki Wada answers in Japanese. Lieko gives me a look from the corner of her eye. I skip several questions and decide to ask something from the bottom of my list. “Thank you, Wada-san. Um, what three things do you want to do in the future that you’ve never done before?”
“Eeto …” her eyes search the ceiling. She answers in English this time. “First thing: I want to travel abroad. Second thing: I want to marry — ah, I want to get married. Ah, third thing: I want to have a baby.”
“Those are all good answers, but, since you studied in Australia, you’ve already travelled abroad. Is there anything else you’d like to do in the future?”
Staring at me, Misaki tilts her head back and forth several times until Lieko translates for her a third time. They have a brief discussion in Japanese about how important it is to work, get married, and have babies, until Lieko turns to me and says, “She didn’t understand your question. I think we should end the interview here.”
I can’t help but agree. We all bow and shake hands. Misaki holds my hand like I’ve handed her a soggy Kleenex. “Anou ne,” Misaki says. “May I ask a question? You are from America?”
“No, I’m Canadian.”
“Ah. But this Zozo school, has teacher from America?”
“Um … no?”
“Eh? Why?”
Lieko explains to her that I’m the only Native English Teacher at our branch. They have a brief conversation over the fact that the company hires teachers from other countries, not just the U.S., before Misaki finally bows her thanks to everyone and leaves.
Manager is glad to see her go. He rants in Japanese to every other co-worker who comes close: how will she speak to the students in English, what is Head Office playing at, how will we ever get up to quota, she should get herself a husband and sign her own babies up for lessons if she wants to help us out so much … Oh well. I guess Misaki did not impress him.
Once I clear the bench of all my props and paperwork, I hear the elevator doors open and my two kindergarten girls scream hello. We spend the first part of our lesson singing the “Hello Song” and the “Welcome Song” with my Jibanyan hand puppet, who holds up flash cards for them to shout out English vocabulary. For every word they say correctly, I put a magnetic star on the whiteboard beside their names. Then we make cookies and cupcakes out of pastel-coloured playdough and talk about desserts over cups of imaginary tea. They talk to each other and to me in Japanese and I reply in English. That’s how our playtime usually goes.
Momoko pokes my leg. “Sensei, jack-o’-lantern wa aru no?”
“I don’t,” I tell her. “But we can get one. Do you want a jack-o’-lantern?”
“Yay, jack-o’-lantern! I love jack-o’-lantern!” Motoka throws her donut in the air by accident. We spend the rest of class having a food fight with our desserts. For earning so many stars beside their names, I award the girls two stickers each.
“Okay, ladies, let’s sing the ‘Goodbye Song’!” Momoko and Motoka promptly take each other by the hand and extend their chubby digits toward me. We make a circle and sing: “English school is over, we are going home; goodbye, goodbye, we are going home! Goodbye!”
“Sensei, bye-bye! See you again!”
After the girls leave for Lieko’s class, I head to Room Five and teach my bilingual Zone VI students, Riko and Reiji, about different school subjects. We play several vocabulary games with playing cards. Afterward, once my private lesson in Room One with Kennichi is over and I have a friendly chat with him and his mom for a few minutes, I organize my box of toys and lesson props for tomorrow. Then I grab a big City of Nishibe–approved plastic bag to go through all the empty classrooms, as per my Tuesday duty. I bypass Room Five, where Lieko is inside with a group of adults. Way too old and far too professional to be students here.
They must be from Head Office. This is new. I can only guess what she’s talking about, but whatever it is, it is not an exciting topic. One guy is out cold, and the others don’t look too far off from joining him in Sleepyland.
Well, that’s it. 7:00 p.m. The workday is over. Good; I’m hungry. I’m also a little surprised. Sotaro wasn’t all that excruciating, and I half expected one fight between the kindergarteners or at least a complaint or two from Kennichi about how tired he was, but no, everything today was … well, perfect. I sign out on the computer, yank my purse out from under Lieko’s, unsure of how it got there, and pick up my jacket.
Manager is standing right at the door when I slide it open. “Ah, Cybelle! Eh …” He looks down at my purse. “Are you going home?”
“Yes, Manager. I left the garbage in the usual place — I didn’t get to Room Five though, Lieko’s still in there now, so …”
“Ah, ah, yes …” he pauses, still blocking my path as he looks down the hall at Room Five. We can hear Lieko talking to the office workers. “Okay, you don’t have to do it,” he decides, like there was ever a choice. “Ah! Cybelle! You have emergency? Go back to Canada? Soon?”
“My sister’s getting married.”
“Ah, I see …” Manager hisses with a stern look. “So, maybe … you have to go back to Canada … before April?”
“I don’t know yet, Manager,” I say through a tight, clenched smile. “But I doubt it.”
“Ah. Hmm. I see. But … if you go back before April … hmmm, it will be, very bad, I think. Your students will miss your lessons. And you.”
Behind him, Yoshino squeezes an arm to grab something off the photocopier. She’s trying not to laugh at the constipated look I must have on my face. “Manager,” she says, “I think we should wait until Cybelle-sensei tells us when this wedding is. You know, before we start worrying about it?”
He crosses his arms. “Yes,” he says after a while. “Shou ga nai, na. It can’t be helped.” He explains to Yoshino in Japanese, please tell Cybelle to tell me as soon as she knows, but please tell her how bad it will be if she has to take vacation before April. Maybe she should go home during New Year’s vacation instead. Yoshino looks like she’s trying to think of the politest way to reply but the elevator doors chime with the arrival of a guest or a student, so she leaves us alone. “Ah, Cybelle, do you remember Sotaro?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Ah, good, good,” Manager nods, rubbing his hands. “Sotaro will come back tomorrow for a trial lesson with … you … and Yoshino-sensei, so please … ah, please prepare a trial lesson. For Sotaro.”
“Okay, no problem.”
“Tomorrow morning. After Zippo and Zappo.”
I nod.
“Please.”
I have run out of ways to respond. He still isn’t budging from the doorway.
“So … when will you prepare for the trial lesson? Before you go home? Ne?”
“I already have a trial lesson kit ready.” I’m trained to have things ready for such occasions. The other nine times out of ten that he doesn’t tell me beforehand about trial lessons I am still prepared. What is this man’s problem? I’m starving.
“Ah, ah, okay. That’s great. Well …” He still doesn’t move. His eyebrows are still furrowed as he concentrates on what I hope is my purse and not my boobs. “Ah!” he claps his hands like he just remembered something. “Head Office sent you a form about re-contracting!”
“I know.”
“Have you … thought about it? You must think about it.”
Is he serious? “That form isn’t due for another three weeks.” There’s no point in explaining that I haven’t decided what to write on it, but he’s never been this anal about it before. I’m always the one who harasses him for the form in the first place. Why does he want a decision now? What’s the rush?
“Ah, ah, okay. That’s great …” Manager trails off, resuming his X-ray vision again. Room Five opens and a chorus of polite Japanese spills out into the hallways, diverting Manager’s attention. Finally, he relinquishes my personal space. I squeeze out from the staff room with a genuine, time-for-dinner smile. I’m free.
“Well, have a great night, Manager! Osaki ni —”
“Ah!” Manager cuts me off. “Wait! You stay. I mean, don’t go home. I mean, one moment!”
My freedom is short-lived. After he and Lieko bow to the polished-looking office workers, Manager gestures to me and speaks in super-fast, super-polite Japanese. I smile and pretend not to understand a word while I wait for the English translation.
“This is Cybelle-sensei, the Native English Teacher.” The office workers all take turns saying their names, “nice to meet you,” and shaking my hand. “She is from Canada. She is very good at English,” Manager continues. They ooh and aah and applaud. “And she is very good at making food.”
“I am?”
“Yes! You always have delicious lunch.”
“Oh. Yeah, I guess I’m okay.”
Our conversation initiates more applause. Manager explains something in more detail to them, again using the politest level of Japanese. Meanwhile, Lieko nods, smiling at the workers and sneaking a deadly glare at me. I think I know what I’m hearing, and I pray I’m wrong because it sounds like he’s talking about discussing me with Lieko. Maybe Manager is suggesting ideas to them, maybe it’s all conjecture. I know for sure that if he lets me go without translating, I’m in the clear.
“Okay, thank you very much, Cybelle-sensei. Now you can say, ‘Otsukaresama desu!’”
“Ehhh?” The office workers stare at me, wide-eyed, looking me up and down. “Nihongo de?”
Manager nods, hands clasped, begging me with his eyes to respond. I feel like a trained pet being compelled to do a trick. Son of a … “Otsukaresama desu.” I bow.
Everyone bursts into applause before returning the courtesy. “Otsukaresama desu, Cybelle-sensei! See you again!”
I switch out of my slippers and grab my shoes like I’m in a hurry to go somewhere important, then smile and wave at everyone until the elevator doors close on Manager’s high-pitched words. I don’t want to think about what he might be telling them about me. Manager was saying something about … damn, what was the word? Kaku? Writing? No, that’s not right. Unless he meant ‘status’? Which is not Lieko’s business to begin with. And now that I think about it, what was up with Manager talking about our ‘quota’ earlier? What the hell is going on around here?
As I drown in the hum of the elevator, I concentrate on what to have for dinner. I need to erase all memory of Manager’s creepy eyes, Lieko’s raptor grin, and this impending trial lesson with a demonic child. As for my re-contracting form, I still have time. I don’t know what Manager was getting in my face about. It isn’t due until the end of October. Another thing I need to push down into the recesses of my brain, behind this looming headache. I need to eat. What do I have in my fridge? Well, no — Zozo’s fridge. In Zozo’s apartment. It’s not mine. It’s a place to sleep and keep my stuff. If I’m not re-contracting, I have to get used to letting these things go. Hmm … maybe I’ll grab the first thing I see on the way home. I don’t feel like cooking, but I can’t remember the last time I was this hungry. McDonald’s it is.
“An-punch! An-kick! Sore ike!”
I jump out of my skin and scream. Somehow, the world’s oldest Anpanman toy got left behind in the elevator. Its legs kick back and forth in the guise of flying, but the toy stays in the corner of the tiny floor. How had no one noticed it was here? Strange that no one thought to return it. Well, I have no plans to touch it.
“An-punch! An-kick! Sore ike!”
I shudder. I decide to leave it in the elevator and let it ride back up. The doors slide open and I book it out of there. I can still hear the toy, its gears grinding with the dying battery’s efforts to turn out one last recorded phrase.
“An-punch! An-kick! Mata ne!”
Ew. Creepy. I can’t wait for someone to throw that thing out.
Outside, I unlock my bike and head to McDonald’s. The bank has changed its flower garden so it’s full of marigolds in the shape of a jack-o’-lantern. When I ride under the highway bridge there’s a sudden gust of cold wind, carrying that chilly Halloween feeling that gives me goosebumps, even under my suit jacket. I can also detect the telltale fragrance of fries and teriyaki burgers in the air even before I go inside and place my order. Patience, stomach. We’re almost there.
“Potato fry, chicken nugget okyaku-sama!” the young teller sings to me as I dig out my vibrating phone and flip it open. I figure it’s another text from my mother, firing messages at me to call home. Instead, I read: Dress professionally this week.
The next one reads: You have a very important trial lesson tomorrow night.
And the third: Wear a skirt from now on.
I snap my phone closed to get my food and thank the smiling employee. Talk about weird. I’d assume it was a wrong number if these messages didn’t sound so passive-aggressive. Who at Zozo could have texted me? Not Manager, there would be a dozen “maybes” thrown in. No way in heck Yoshino would text me like this. Lieko, maybe? She doesn’t have my number, let alone the authority to text me this kind of crap. It must have been Manager, telling me what to do like it’s still my first day on the job. I’ll err on the side of caution, wear a stupid skirt, and try to manage the kids as best as I can in seiza. If I want to recontract, I must continue to play my role as a cog in our efficient corporate machine. Until then, I’m taking this giant bag of fries and nuggets to watch some good old Japanese DVDs. Rinkan and Spirited Away, here I come.
As if the decorations all over Zozo and the neighbourhood weren’t enough, my local convenience store has also primped for Halloween. I park my bike in front of my building and walk back to 7-Eleven to get more food. I’m that hungry. The shelves are covered in black cats, orange pumpkins, purple witches, and white ghosts. I chat with the manager while he heats up my chicken soboro and chestnut rice in the microwave. He shows me the new desserts they got. I’m tempted to get the expensive graham crackers (since when do Japanese convenience stores sell those?) but then I see two Halloween Winnie-the-Pooh mugs with cups of pudding inside. The manager asks me if I’m excited for Halloween and whether I’m going to dress up. Last year’s costume, like always, which I call “Tinker Hell.” I throw in one nana-chiki for the road and pay up.
People stare at me as they pass the 7-Eleven, where I devour my fried chicken in under a minute. “Gaijin, mite, kowai …” some of them say. Whatever. I have too much on my mind. Soon it’ll be Christmas, and a few months after that I’ll be starting a brand-new year with brand-new faces if I don’t screw up the courage to haul ass out of Zozo. But … to do what? Go back home? Prepare for my sister’s wedding? Brace myself for the backlash that will come with it all? Or do I sign up for another year of being treated like I just stepped off a plane after a few episodes of Sailor Moon with three phrases on my tongue? Do I continue going to work like the star of an expat promotional video series in which every episode is my first day?
My stomach growls.
“All right, all right,” I say without thinking. “Let’s get some of this food into you.”
An elderly woman stares at me, blood-red eyes wide with shock as I walk past her. Maybe she heard me talking to my stomach, maybe not. I don’t think about it too much. Japan has seen stranger things than me.