“Good morning, Shibelle! Wow! So pretty! You have date?”
Misaki Wada is the first to greet me when I arrive. Her return to our school means we must be mad desperate. Makes me wonder how much say I have in the hiring process. (My guess is none.)
“Yeah, right!” I laugh. She gives me a confused head tilt. “I mean, no. Why?”
“You have a skirt today,” she points. “You look so fashionable!”
“Oh. Thank you,” I smile. I guess today she’s more open to speaking with me. “I need to look good for my trial lesson today. It must be an important one. I’m already shaking.”
“Eh?” She tilts her head. “‘Shaking?’”
“Yeah, you know. When you’re nervous, you kinda …” I demonstrate with my hands.
“Oh, ho ho, I see! ‘Shaking!’”
She follows me into the staff room, reassuring me that I look great as I put away my things and get organized. “Eh, by the way, Shibelle,” she adds. “Your picture. In the lobby. Halloween. Eh … Tinker Bell?”
“It’s ‘Cybelle.’ And yeah, that’s me.”
“Ehhh! Sugoi! So, this Halloween, your … eh, chotto matte …” She whips out her cellphone and types something on it. “Eh? Cos-tume…?”
“Oh, I wear the same costume every year. It’s just easier that way. If is still fits, why not, right?”
Misaki goes silent. She stares at me hard, tilting her head. “Eh? I do not understand. One more time?”
“Oh. Um. Yes. I will be Tinker Bell.”
“Eh! Sugoi! My costume … I not decide yet.”
“It’s okay, you still have time. Most of the teachers just buy little things from the hundred-yen store —”
“Eh? Time? Wakaran …” She tilts her head again. “Do you mean, ‘one more time?’”
“No, it’s okay.” So much for conversation. The air in the staff room now feels so stuffy it makes my eyes water, like someone’s chopped onions in here. The only new addition I see on the staff room bench are a Yagi-sama standee and the now empty cake box from yesterday. No onions in sight.
The door slides open. “Ah, Lieko-sensei, does Shibelle look nice today?” Misaki sings.
Lieko ignores her. “I sent you text last night,” she says to me. “To ‘dress professionally.’ But today, you wear short sleeves. Did you not see the text?”
I’m still wearing my jacket over my top. How can everyone tell? “I did. I didn’t think it would matter; I always keep my jacket on for trial lessons. And it’s, like, twenty-five degrees outside.”
“But cool biz season ends this month. Soon, you must stop wearing short sleeves.”
Says who? Since when? “Well, I’m comfortable in what I’m wearing now. And to be honest, it’s never been a problem with Manager.”
“Ah, I see. Well …” She wrinkles her nose, the most emotion I’ve seen from her since she started working here. “At any rate, you did not reply. So, I must assume you did not receive my texts.”
Of course, I saw them. I’m wearing a skirt, aren’t I? What is she getting at? “Well, there was no name on them. I figured they were from Manager or …” I trail off before I say, “a random stalker.” Probably best not to joke with a pissed-off Lieko.
“No, they were from me. You have very important trial lesson today. Every lesson is important, now. It would have been better if you replied to them. According to Manager, you always reply to him or to Yoshino with ‘hai, wakarimashita.’ It is not professional to not reply at all. Please consider this for next time. The Zozo company is very important.”
Wonderful. The one time I don’t respond all hell breaks loose. Not sure what hell that would be, it was just three stupid texts. I don’t know what business Lieko has harassing me after-hours in the first place. I decide it’s better to drop it. I sit down at the bench to get to work. Lieko must be waiting for a rebuttal or an apology because she remains rooted for another moment, staring at me before she goes to the cupboard and riffles through files. She mutters something in Japanese, diverting my attention. Her nose is buried in a binder as she walks out of the room. She takes significant time to glare at me over her notes as she slides the door closed behind her. Now I’m really glad I didn’t call her a stalker.
Once I finish a little more prep work for the week, the elevator dings with the arrival of our morning students. For the next forty-five minutes, I play with a group of three-year-olds in the guise of English instruction. My students all sit on their knees in perfect polite seiza. My skirt leaves me no choice but to do the same. The kids whip out their Zippo and Zappo colouring books to get their “homework” stickers. I also reward them with the Chicken Dance song and a couple of Sharon, Lois & Bram hits. Overall, my students are a joy to teach, when they’re not crying, beating each other up, or kicking the CD player. The helicopter moms at the giant viewing window couldn’t be prouder. They even follow along with the songs and repeat vocabulary after me.
After the “Goodbye Song,” the moms appear to be happy with how the class went. I hope they feel they got their money’s worth, because my calves are killing me.
“Thank you, Cybelle-sensei,” Yuta’s mom bows. “How was he?”
“As usual, Yuta was great,” I smile down at him. “You spoke up so much today, big guy. Have you been practising?”
Yuta nods. His mother answers for him, anyway. “Yes! Yuta has been practising. We have stickers — toy stickers — in bathroom! On the wall! So … we have been practising. Ah, together — at bath time!”
“That’s awesome! Way to go!” I deliver the high-fives and help usher the students out. Toshiro’s mother also practises a bit of English on me: “Now, your home … you have snow?”
“No, we still don’t have any snow yet. In Canada, it’s fall — just like Japan.” She looks relieved.
Around the corner from the classroom, the lobby is packed with students. Most of the parents get the play-by-play from teachers about their lessons. Some kids have just arrived and are fighting for puzzles and toys. Sotaro is in the middle of a melee over a Winnie-the-Pooh plushie. His mother and Manager watch with serene smiles as Sotaro decks two kids in the face at the same time. They both drop the stuffed toy, screaming. Sotaro takes his prize under the darkest corner of the desk to play alone.
“Ah, Cybelle-sensei,” Manager greets me. “Twelve o’clock, right on time. Sotaro is your trial lesson. Only ten minutes. Sotaro … is here!” He points under the desk. Great.
“Great!” I say out loud. “Room Three is all ready for him.”
“Okay!” Manager claps his hands together. “Sotaro, time for lesson! Time to put down Pooh-san! Cybelle-sensei is exciting for your lesson! Are you exciting?”
From the darkness, Sotaro lets out a shriek and throws Winnie-the-Pooh at Manager.
“Cybelle-sensei, maybe let’s tell Sotaro it’s time — time to enjoy English! Let’s say, ‘Come, Sotaro! Let’s enjoy English! Let’s enjoy English! Let’s enjoy English!’”
Behind me, Yoshino stifles a snicker. “Yes, Sotaro-kun. Let’s enjoy English!” She manages to grab Sotaro’s hand and get him into the room. Yoshino is a lifesaver. She knows darn well Zozo doesn’t pay me enough money in the world to jump up and down singing slogans and pretend English is the best thing since sliced sushi. I grimace at the giant clown mascot on the wall, then turn to Sotaro’s mother and try to assuage her guilt with an enthusiastic smile and bow before I follow Yoshino to Room Three. The mother smiles and bows back; I can tell she is embarrassed. I must put my best foot forward for her sake. For the company’s sake. For my sake. I close the door behind me, smiling at Sotaro. I must be professional … must be professional …
“Hello, Sotaro? How are you today?”
Sotaro sticks his tongue out at me. I look him dead in the eye, waiting for a response. After a few seconds, he tucks his tongue back in and looks down at his hands. He sniffs. “I’m fine, thank you, and you?” he says soberly.
“I’m fine, thank you!” I sing. “Now, Sotaro, do you know who this is?” I take out my Yo-kai Watch puppet.
“Jibanyan! JIBANYAN! Choudai!” Sotaro tries to snatch it from me. I hold it up high and out of reach.
“That’s right! Jibanyan, can you say hello to our new friend Sotaro? Hello, Sotaro,” I say in a gravelly voice. “Nice to meet you! How are you?”
“I’m fine,” he screams with passion. “Thank you!”
I bring the puppet to my ear. “What’s that? You want to give Sotaro a high-five? Okay! Good job, Sotaro! Hey, Jibanyan, let’s sing Sotaro the ‘Hello Song.’ What do you say?” I make the puppet nod. “Hello, hello hello hello, hello hello hello, hello hello what’s your name?”
Sotaro drops to the floor. He snores like a chainsaw, pretending to sleep.
“What’s that, Jibanyan? His name is Sotaro? Well, hey there, Sotaro, how are you? Jibanyan, let’s say hello to Sotaro and ask him how he’s doing! Hello, hello, hello, and how are you? I’m fine, I’m fine, and I hope that you are, too! ”
Sotaro rolls around on the floor and sticks his tongue out at me during the rest of my usual song-and-dance routines. I give up. “Okay, Sotaro, let’s sit down for storytime!”
Sotaro throws all my books and toys out of my teacher box. His mother watches from outside with no aversion to what’s going on. After struggling to read my bilingual picture book of Japanese folktales to him, Yoshino comes in with her own box of magic tricks.
“Good job, Sotaro-kun!” Manager says when Yoshino opens the door. “‘High touch’! Good, good! Now, Sotaro, please give Yoshino-sensei and Cybelle-sensei ‘high touch’!”
Sotaro whacks the hell out of Yoshino’s hand, then reluctantly turns to me. I let him wind up and move my hand away on purpose.
“Whoops! Try again!”
He stumbles, laughs, and tries again. When he makes contact, he immediately checks his hand. There’s nothing there but he wipes it on his pants, anyway.
“Ah, Sotaro is shy,” Manager says. “But, he did a good job with ‘high touch’! Good job, Sotaro!”
Is that what we’re calling it? A good job? Okay. Whatever. It’s fine.
Manager asks Sotaro’s mother in Japanese what she thinks. She cocks her head, hums a little sound, then nods and mutters something. The manager claps his hands. He thanks her and bows half a dozen times. We have a new student. Fantastic. Guess now Misaki will have someone to teach.
Manager then takes us aside to congratulate Yoshino and me in Japanese on a job well done. His mother was very impressed with my patience. To save face, Yoshino follows his command and translates, “Sotaro enjoyed your lesson.” Manager goes on another lengthy explanation about what kind of lesson Sotaro’s mother might be interested in and asks Yoshino to talk to her about her options. There’s no mention of sticking Sotaro into any of my classes. Thank goodness. At least now I can eat.
It must be raining outside when my Moms’ trial class starts. The kids come in with their parents, their adorable umbrellas shaped like frogs and ducks, and their giant ponchos. It takes a while for everyone to strip all the wet gear off and usher themselves into the classroom.
“Hello, ladies,” I greet them. “How’s it going?” Everyone freezes and exchanges deer-in-the-headlight glances. I wait for a few seconds before I repeat my question with a bigger smile. “How’s it going, Fumiko?”
Fumiko smiles back but tilts her head. She doesn’t understand. “How are you?” I ask instead.
“Ah! Naru hodo! I’m fine, thank you.”
“Good!” I turn to the young, ginger-haired woman next to me. “How’s it going with you, Mami?”
“Eh … I’m, so-so?”
“Aw, why ‘so-so’?” I ask.
Mami takes her time, smiling all the while. “Because … last week … Taiga … had a fever.” Everyone goes “aw” in sympathy. “Yes. Taiga had a fever, and … he had no school … so, I take care of him. He is very … spoiled?” Everyone laughs. “‘Mommy, I want this! I want this! I don’t like medicine! I don’t like doctor!’ Every day. Such a pain.”
“That’s too bad. How is he feeling now?”
“Better, but still … spoiled.”
Again, we all laugh a little. I turn to the woman next to me. “How about you, Miyoko? How’s it going?”
“It’s going … not bad. I went to Kyoto this past weekend.”
“Cool! Can you describe to us what it was like?”
“Hmmm …” She thinks for a bit. “No.”
“It’s okay! Try your best! Um … how is Kyoto?”
“Ah! Wakatta! Ja … Kyoto is very beautiful. There are many people and many festivals. And I went with my husband. We enjoy. Eh … tanoshikatta.”
The other moms all nod, adding, “Ah, sou desu ne,” and so on. Then they begin conversing in Japanese about how they never have time to travel, what with their kids and all. Then they start talking about how travel is getting more expensive, and how the things in general are getting more expensive, and how eikaiwa schools like Zozo are expensive. I feel like a fly on the wall. If I want to call this trial lesson successful, I need to bring the conversation back to what they’re going to pay for.
“Well, I’m glad to hear that everyone is doing well. Let’s open our textbooks, shall we?”
The moms fall silent. They look down at their books. No one makes any move to pick them up. I’m not sure what I’ve said or done wrong. I reach for my textbook but Miyoko has a question. “What about Cybelle-sensei? How’s it going … you?”
“Me? Oh, thank you for asking! Things are okay. I haven’t been doing anything special these days.” As usual.
“Eh?” Head tilt. “I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, I mean, um, it’s going … so-so?”
My students let out a chorus of compassionate ehhh’s. Miyoko nods. “You must always be so busy with school. Do you travel on your holidays?”
“Nope. But I’d like to. I never have time anymore. And I don’t have anyone to go with. I’ve always loved Kyoto, though. Never get tired of it.”
Miyoko hesitates. “Why do you like Kyoto?”
“It’s just beautiful and historic. Kinda reminds me of home. Well, it used to. Now all the cool places are getting bulldozed to make room for ugly glass condos no one can afford to live in. It’s not like Japan; you can still see thousand-year-old buildings, right beside the new ones. They can exist together, in the same place — I mean, assuming they’re earthquake-safe enough to live in. I’ve always loved that preservation of history, you know?”
They don’t. All three women stare at me like I sprouted a second head. I know these looks. They didn’t understand a word I said. I spoke way too much too fast or used too many words they didn’t recognize.
“That’s right,” Mami remembers. “You are from Canada. You will go back to Canada?”
“Um, no. Not yet.” Thinking out loud, I go on: “Maybe, I don’t know. I think my family wants me to go back, but then I’d have to find a place to live, get a job, figure out a profession. All that fun stuff. I still really haven’t thought that far.”
Bad idea. Miyoko is the only one nodding, while Mami and Fumiko stare. It’s my fault, really. I forgot myself and stepped out of textbook conversation mode. I need to stop doing that. It’s a trial lesson … a trial lesson …
“Okay, everyone has their textbooks? Awesome! Please turn to page thirty-two.”
Thank goodness, they understand that. We read Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s “I Have a Dream” speech; an odd introduction into talking about literal dreams, but it’s what we have to do. The textbook breaks down the speech, with a side blurb in Japanese about what dreams mean. The textbook also says that for homework, everyone has to write down things people dream about.
“Oh, shukudai! Exciting!” Fumiko laughs. “Cybelle-sensei, I am very exciting to know what you dream next week!”
“Me, too!” says Mami.
“And me,” Miyoko agrees.
“Next week?” What happened to this being a one-time trial lesson?
“Yes,” Miyoko beams with pride. “We will have Cybellesensei’s class on Tuesdays. Manager say before class. Now, we can see Cybelle-sensei all the time! Did Manager tell you?”
I rub my eye. It’s twitching again. “Oh. Okay … yes! Um. Please write down your ideas for homework, and we’ll share them.”
Fumiko points at my eye. “Ne, sensei, daijoubu?”
“I’m fine; it’s just itchy.” When she tilts her head, I make a scratching gesture.
“Ah! Kayui desu ne. Maybe, you should sleep more.”
“That’s probably it.”
“Eh?”
Oops. “Yes, you are right. I will try to sleep more.” To salvage what’s left of our time together, I reach into my teacher kit and take out a box of playing cards and teach them Slap Jack. They start out hesitant at first but get into it by the end. I’m glad they like it; from what I’ve heard, playing cards are considered the devil’s pastime in Japanese schools, so everyone gets excited that they can play them here.
After the class, Manager confirms our new arrangement with the mothers. He apologizes for the short notice but thanks them for signing up. Fumiko and Mami stand quiet, looking reluctant, but Manager assures them our lessons will help their kids. Miyoko is the only one with the brass to say more than a weekend’s notice would have been nice. I’m glad someone said it, whether or not it was on my behalf. Oh well, it’s another bonus for me, I guess.
The rest of the day flies by. My private lesson with Keisuke goes well, as usual, and my bilingual students go home with a new appreciation for Sesame Street after learning about all the different kinds of toppings a pizza can have besides tuna, mayonnaise, and corn. Then I head to the washroom for the maipetto spray and a washcloth. It’s my day to wipe all the sticky fingerprints and oily forehead streaks from the observation windows. Which is fine, because I need to do something to burn off steam without ruining my skirt suit. On every clock in the school, the number seven throbs in my vision as I go to each room except for Rooms One and Five, where I can hear Seri-sensei and Yuki-sensei teaching their private lessons. Manager walks by Room Three, sees me inside, and knocks on the door.
“Cybelle, otsukaresama desu.” He bows. “You look so fine today. You have … a date?”
What the…? “I have that important trial lesson tonight.”
“Eh? No.”
I blink a few times. “Yes, I do. Lieko texted me last night?”
“Eh, no …” He repeats, frozen in the door with a blank look; he then smacks his forehead. “Shimatta! Ah, Cybelle … one student, asked for trial lesson, then cancelled.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes. He is very serious. He really want to have lesson with you, but today he has important meeting with doctor, so maybe, he will not come tonight. Maybe he will see your lesson next week. Sorry. Ah, but you will go to restaurant? After last classes finish?”
Uh-oh. “Tonight?”
“Yes! We will go to Pepe le Pew, behind the station. I thought that is why you wear a skirt. But this dinner is not fancy. It is not enkai. Only dinner. But, nevertheless, it will be very exciting. Now, ah, I want to talk about re-contracting form. Do you have?”
“It’s still in the staff room. I haven’t taken it.”
“Ah, yes, but … Lieko wants to know. She asks me, did you finish?”
I hesitate. “Um … no?” Why the hell would she care whether or not I did?
He studies the floor for a long time, sucking air in through his teeth. “Hmmm … ja, maybe, then, it’s okay. You can finish it another time, maybe.” The phone rings in the lobby. “Ah, sorry! I must go! Ah … wait in the lobby! For everyone!” He dashes out. I hope he means to wait once the day is over, not to sit there right this moment. Once I head back to the staff room, every now and then I take a stretch break from lesson planning to stick my head out the door and check, just in case. No other teacher is out there this early, so I go back to killing time.
Yoshino storms in and hammers away at the staff computer’s keyboard. She does not look happy. “Have fun tonight,” she mutters. “You look really pretty today, by the way.”
“I got pretty just for you-oo,” I tease her, pretending to poke her cheek. “You’re coming, too, aren’t you?”
She sighs. “Manager and I have to call more students for supplementary lessons. He ‘claims’ it won’t take long, but we have so many people to call. It’s going to take all night.”
I sit down. “Yoshino … be honest with me. How are we doing, as a branch? Because I already know we’re not doing well.”
“Yeah,” she sighs again. “We’re really not.”
“Shit.” The word slips from my mouth.
“Don’t worry! We’re not going to become another NOVA. It’s just our school. Ever since Manager became, well, the manager, our school has been losing money. We can join you as soon as we secure more students … which won’t happen if we have fifty more families to call and the stupid computer keeps FREEZING.” She kisses her teeth. “This is BS. I’m not even the full-time teacher! This is supposed to be Lieko’s job!”
We poke around at the computer until it unfreezes. I sign myself out. “So why isn’t she sitting here ripping her hair out instead of you?”
“‘Someone has to go and make sure we keep our reservation,’” she whines in a quiet, singsong voice. “Mendokusai. You go ahead though, have fun. I hear the buns are good; let me know if the rumours are true.”
“Will do.” I hear Seri-sensei’s voice as she comes out of her classroom. Guess there’s not much else to do but head to the lobby. “Osaki ni shitsureishimasu?” I shrug.
“Hai, otsukaresama.”
“Ganbatte ne.”
Yoshino gives me a weak smile. “Ha, I’ll try. Between you and me, I might leave early and burn the place down.”
“Please save my stuff before you do.” We manage to force smiles as we leave the staff room together. I go to get my shoes. My hand reaches down to the bottom shelf. Then I wrench it away in time to miss the old, dirty Anpanman toy. “Son of a —! You know what, forget saving my stuff. Promise you’ll start with this little monster first.”
“Aw, not Anpanman! He’s so cute.”
The elevator dings. Several parents stream off the elevator, and the lobby is busy again. Seri, Lieko, and Misaki bid their students farewell and suck up to the parents for another ten, fifteen minutes. Then they take their sweet time cleaning, getting their coats, signing out, and pouting about how sorry they are that Yoshino and Manager have to stay longer and work. Yoshino blows me a kiss farewell. I catch it before the elevator doors close. I’ll need it; without her, this is going to be a crappy night.
Outside, I stop to unlock my bike. Even though it only takes two seconds, everyone complains about how cold it is and they start their high-heel trot toward the station where part-timers Yuri-sensei and Jun-sensei will be waiting for us. I try to think of all the possible excuses to not follow them. Maybe if I had any real friends outside of work it would be easier to come up with some outrageous lie. I already told everyone that I don’t have a date tonight. This is complete BS, as Yoshino would say. Our Zozo branch must be way down in the rank if we have to call and beg people for more lessons. But if Lieko is the one who’s supposed to make these phone calls …
I shake my head. No. Manager is still the manager. I would know if Lieko was about to replace him. She’s been with Zozo for a few years, but she’s only been with our school since September. It’s fine. I’m worrying about nothing. I should look forward to a boatload of French food and some non-work-related conversation. As we walk, I look around at the palm trees lined up along the station approach and the signs advertising seasonal food. The oden stands, the roasting chestnuts, the bakery’s curry-filled buns and pumpkin-flavoured pan. Everything says autumn is here. Even the sounds of thunder —
Ew, that’s not thunder, it’s my stomach. “Geez, seriously?” I mumble.
Bells chime as Lieko pushes the restaurant door open. We are welcomed by a chorus of “Irasshaimase!” This place is new all right. New and expensive: they’ve got a grand piano and violin playing, more chandeliers than they need, rich cream walls and furniture, and all the employees are dressed in French waiter uniforms with vests, bow ties, and long white aprons. The kitchen must be nearby because I can already smell something good. I strip off my jacket, welcoming the central heat. Any hint of frustration in my mind melts at the thought of a warm bowl of soup coursing down my throat. My co-workers ooh and ahh and point at everything while Lieko approaches the maître d’, who bows and leads the way.
My dream bubble pops when a man steps in front of me and cuts me off from the teachers. “Bonsoir, mademoiselle.” He bows. “Puis-je vous aidez?” His pronunciation is perfect, and he’s pretty cute.
“Uh, bonsoir? Um … ensemble?” I gesture back and forth between me and all my co-workers, now sitting at a table. “Issho ni? We’re all together. I’m with them. Uh … them? Over there?”
“Oh! I’m so sorry. Pardonnez-moi. I thought you were alone. Please, follow me.” He bows again and leads the way. “May I ask you, where are you from? Vous êtes française?”
“Uh, no. I’m not …” No, wait. Maybe I can do this. “Je ne suis pas française; je suis —”
“Haitienne?”
“Uh, no …”
“Eh? America-jin?”
I laugh. “Canadian. But I don’t speak French. Sorry.”
“No, no! You speak, ah, very good. And, you speak Japanese? Sugoi!”
“Me? You’re the one speaking three languages, dude. Doesn’t that make you, like, pera pera … pera?”
He cracks up. “No, no. I need lots of practice in French. And English. They are not so good. You are a teacher?”
“Yes, I work at Zozo’s School of Good English, on the other side of the station.” We reach our table, situated under a chandelier sparkling crystal and warm amber light. “We all work there,” I gesture to my co-workers.
He bows again to the other teachers, who now have quizzical Do you two know each other? expressions. “I see. Ah! Please have a seat.” He pulls out my chair for me and everyone makes small, murmuring sounds in their throats. I don’t understand why. The guy is just being polite and doing his job.
Lieko smacks open a menu. “Now that everyone is here,” she snaps in English, “we can order some drinks.” Whatever. I’m happy, knowing I have one person I can actually talk to tonight.
“Chotto matte kudasai, Lieko-senpai,” Misaki interjects. She asks about Manager and Yoshino, and about waiting for them. Lieko sighs dramatically and says she doubts they’ll make it to the restaurant at all. In fact, she adds, Misaki must be very grateful that we can even have this dinner to welcome her. Our school is doing so poorly in the region that we’re losing money and Head Office is very upset with Manager. Misaki says yes, she is very grateful. Lieko says good; she also apologizes for Misaki having to train at our school at such a difficult time. Well, shit. She just confirmed everything Yoshino said earlier. Makes me wonder why we’re still having this dinner.
“Oolong-cha, hitotsu,” Lieko tells our waiter. Jun asks for oolong tea, as well. Seri and Misaki order orange juice. Yuki and Yuri will just have water. The waiter jots their orders down, then comes around the table back to me. “Ah,” he murmurs to me. “Et … pour vous?”
“Hmm … um … Qu’est-ce que vous osusume?” It just comes out. At least I make him laugh. “Sorry, I mean recommandez? Oh, forget it. What do you suggest?”
“Let me see,” he gazes up at the chandelier in thought. “Today, everyone has the ‘ladies’ menu, which is beef au jus and ratatouille. So, I think red wine is the best.”
“Ooh, that sounds good.” If anything is going to get me through the next two hours, it’s alcohol.
“Excuse me, Cybelle,” Lieko leans over the table. “The company does not pay for our drinks. Nor is Manager here to cover our bill. Maybe, order water. You should change to water.”
What am I, an idiot? “How much for one glass?” I ask instead.
“Five hundred yen.”
“Perfect! Glass of red, please.”
“Five hundred yen? How cheap! I’ll have one, too, please!” Seri says.
“Ah, I’m sorry,” Yuki blushes. “One for me, too.” Misaki asks for one also. Everyone giggles except Lieko, who does that creepy smile of hers.
“In that case, if you share a large decanter, it’s 900 yen,” the waiter suggests. We nod in agreement. He bows his leave with an extra nod in my direction. When he and another server bring our drinks, Lieko leads the toast.
“To Misaki, for joining our school,” Lieko shows all her teeth. “And we must also toast to Sotaro, the moms, and all the other trial lessons that will bring our school rank up a little higher. Let’s all do our best! Kanpai!”
“Kanpai!” We all clink our glasses and take polite sips. Well, I take a little more than a sip since it’ll take a little more than two classes to make a difference for our school. When the food comes, I dig right in. I devour my pumpkin soup, garden salad, and assortment of free hot buns as politely as I can muster. I nod and smile at everyone’s comments, but between my ravenous appetite and the number of times someone says “mmm, oishii!” I can’t think of anything to say. It’s a little hard when I have Lieko glaring daggers at me every time someone comments on how “oishii” the wine is.
Our waiter returns with several fellow employees and tiny plates of beef and ratatouille. Both my plates are empty while everyone is still crooning over theirs, so I discretely signal a nearby server for another round of bread. Everyone turns them down but marvels as I make room in my tummy for an orange bun, a matcha green tea bun, another small helping from the wine decanter, and some more pumpkin buns. I pretend not to overhear their comments about how much bread I plan to eat as I slather pumpkin bun number three with butter.
“Sugoi, Shibelle-sensei,” Misaki says with wide eyes. “You are so hungry! So much food! But Shibelle-sensei is still hungry!”
“‘Cybelle.’ And yes, I guess I’ve worked up an appetite.”
She turns the word “appetite” over a few times, then gives up. “Did Shibelle-sensei eat lunch today?”
Ugh. “Yes. I ate stir-fried rice.” Again.
“And breakfast?”
“I ate scrambled eggs and toast.”
“And yet you eat so much bread! America-jin no shokuyoku wa sugoi deshou?” She’s not asking me. She’s asking the other teachers. I look around the restaurant, pretending not to understand. I feel more and more uncomfortable when I realize that no other customers get their chairs pulled out for them. Well, don’t I feel even stupider. Desperate times …
“Mmm, yes, the bread is delicious,” I say. “I hope I still have room in my betsu bara for dessert!”
Everyone around me laughs. “Shibelle-sensei, you say ‘betsu bara!’ Sugoi!” Misaki giggles, covering her mouth. “Can you speak Japanese?”
“A little.”
“Eh, sugoi. How long you stay in Japan?”
“Um, about —”
“Uwaa!” Lieko looks down at her uneaten bun and goes on a loud tirade about how full she is and that she has no room for dessert. The conversation switches back to conversational Japanese as they exchange opinions about portion control and dieting. Whatever, I’m hungry.
Our waiter returns with his co-workers and our desserts — small coffee roll cakes and tiny bowls of chestnut ice cream — which brings everyone’s focus back to our meal and how delicious it all looks. Perfect timing for me to stuff my face and have an excuse not to talk about myself anymore. All I want to do is be full and be on my way home. I’m not feeling great. “Sumimasen,” I signal a different waiter and order some black tea with honey. I realize I’ve been talking all day, and now that I’ve gone a stretch without doing so, I can feel a sore throat coming on.
“Anou, Shibelle-sensei,” Misaki asks me, eyes wide. “Will you stay at Zozo one more year?”
Oh, great. The last thing I want to think about. “Uh, well …”
“Please stay!” she cries, leaning so close I can smell the wine on her breath. “I will miss you!”
I smile my thanks. With quick glances to Lieko, the others smile and nod but say nothing. What I wouldn’t give to dash from this table as soon as I finish dessert, but no can do. Got to stay until the very, very end. Got to fit in. Must do my very best to play my part in the well-tuned eikaiwa machine …
“I don’t know yet. My sister is getting married soon, I think.”
“Eh? Kekkon suru?” Misaki asks. “Older sister? Younger sister?”
“She’s my youngest sister.”
“Ehhh … she is so lucky. I think, it is best if you marry at younger age. At older age, it is difficult.”
Yeah, thanks.
“Shibelle-sensei is married?”
“Ha —! I mean, um, no.”
“Eh?! So, does Shibelle-sensei live with her sister in Japan?”
“No. My family is in Canada.”
“So, Shibelle-sensei live by herself? Eh, sugoi! Very difficult.”
“It’s okay, I guess.”
“Shibelle-sensei, how many brothers and sisters do you have?”
“I have six.”
I might as well have said thirty-one thousand and eight. Their sudden outburst of laughter makes everyone at the next tables turn and glare at us — well, at me. When the post-meal coffee and my black tea arrive, I’m more than happy to have an excuse to stuff my face again with bun number seventeen (or whatever, I’ve lost count by now), even if it means giving everyone around me another excuse to marvel and stare.
As we leave the restaurant, the cute waiter stops me. “Ah, excuse me, mademoiselle.” He grins. Everyone — and I mean everyone, staff and customers alike — is staring at me. I smile, bracing myself.
“Oui?” I chuckle.
“You teach English?”
Shit. Really?
“Then, maybe, I can take lessons? From you? What time is your school —”
“Um, excuse me,” Lieko appears, breaking out her highest English voice. “But Zozo’s School is strictly for children and parents of students. I’m sorry. And, before you ask, she cannot give you private lessons. It is not in her contract. Sorry.”
He looks crestfallen. I’m not about to give up, though. “That’s true! I’m free to do language exchange, though. You can teach me Japanese!” Japanese that I don’t need, but I’m not about to tell him that.
“Excuse me,” Lieko is still looking to the waiter, “but our English teacher doesn’t understand this is not allowed. I’m very sorry for her rudeness; our manager will talk to her about this tomorrow. Now, we must go. Thank you for the delicious meal. Gochisousama deshita!”
“Lieko-sensei,” Misaki whispers. “I think, what Shibelle-sensei means is —”
Lieko gives her a look that would stop a bullet train. “Gochisousama deshita,” she repeats to the waiter with an extra syrupy smile.
“Mata okoshi kudasaimase!” the staff sings. Sexy Server Man ushers in the next group. He’s already forgotten me. I’m just another customer to him.
Everyone spends another five minutes standing around outside, yammering about how cold it is. Misaki asks the others how I can stand the cold without a proper jacket, and why am I not worried about getting sick. I fish out my keys and unlock my bike. It’s high time I get out of here.
“Ah! Shibelle-sensei, you ride bicycle?” Misaki cocks her head, noticing my bike as if for the first time. “But, Shibelle drank wine. Is it dangerous? Abunai deshou?”
“Sou desu ne …” the others agree. “Maybe, Cybelle-sensei should walk back to the station?”
Lieko clicks her tongue and says something to her train pass holder about how Cybelle must know she cannot ride her bike if she has alcohol. If police see me, I could be charged and Zozo would get in trouble. Well, duh. Did I just get off the plane?
“Actually, I live this way. Past the stadium. See that 7-Eleven down there?” I point. “My building is right there.”
“Oh, really?” Misaki cocks her head. “Eh, zannen … maybe, we are tired. We should take a rest. But maybe we may see your apartment another time?”
My ass, you will. “Sure.” I force my face into what I hope looks like a smile. Misaki, swaying a little, goes in for a hug. “Well, see you all tomorrow!” I bow instead of meeting her halfway. “Otsukaresama desu!”
“Otsukaresama desu!” the teachers sing in high-pitched chorus. “Goodbye! See you again!”
“Ah mou, hayaku shinasai!” Lieko snaps, already several feet away. They high-heel-jog after her. Fine by me. I’m just glad they didn’t hug me. Sober as a judge, I hop on my bike and pedal like hell.
I’ve never been so happy to live within walking distance of Zozo. I’ve never been so happy to live in Nishibe. No painful, awkward commutes to Osaka for me. If I had to keep up this best friend charade for another hour I’d eat someone’s face. The girls are sweet for the most part. Not as conversational as some of our past teachers, but not as stuck-up as others. And there have been many others. The turnover rate is so high in this line of work. No wonder my old friends — the ones who all left for their home countries or Tokyo — called it the McDonald’s of Japan employment. I should be grateful for my co-workers, thanking my lucky stars we don’t have more Liekos. Geez, the way she takes over everything. My dress, my trial lessons, my re-contracting, my bread intake … it’s like she’s in training to take over as manager. Again, that can’t be right. I’d know if that’s what was happening. There would be signs — major signs. I’m worried about nothing.
My bike swerves several times; it’s harder to keep it balanced in this skirt. Guess I underestimated those three glasses of red juice. I wobble whenever onlookers step in my path, and one time I almost hit a dishevelled elderly woman who refuses to step out of the bike lane. I walk my bike the rest of the way home, hop in the shower, put on my PJs, and climb into my futon with a box of Oreos. I’m exhausted but still hungry. I’m also starting to regret not buying those graham crackers from 7-Eleven. I could have s’mores right now, roasting under my little kotatsu table. Cybelle, you idiot. I’ll have to make a Flying Pig order soon, especially if I want to get my hands on a pumpkin for my kinders.
Tucked deep into my squishy bed, I try to count sheep. I have to start over several times. I try other things: donuts, doors in my apartment, days until the next national holiday (seventeen … not soon enough).
Screw it. I turn on the TV and watch an hour of foxy boxing and a prank show where they suffocate sleeping TV personalities. I’m not sleepy. And I’m still hungry. That was the most awkward dinner. To be fair, it beats my welcome dinner. I turn off the TV and throw myself on my futon. Oh wait, I never had one.
I sigh. “Complete BS.”