“Ima okina-EE-to, okurema-SOO, yo!”
“Ack! Son of a …”
I’m in the middle of eating breakfast when my alarm clock goes off. It startles me, running over my outstretched hand on the floor as I’m engrossed in a children’s show on the TV. I have to get out from under my kotatsu, warm but switched off, and crawl after it on my hands and knees.
“Ima okina-EE —”
“Enough, you little monster.” I wonder why it’s going off again. Maybe it has a snooze setting I haven’t figured out yet. I go back to devouring my stack of Texas French toast drowning in real maple syrup and topped with expensive but delicious strawberries. Worth every yen. I clean up my dishes, get dressed for work, turn off the TV, and pick up my purse … which is oddly heavy. Oh; it’s the coffee I bought the other night. Then it hits me that Bucho got rid of our beloved electric kettle. Crap.
My doorbell rings. It turns out to be my Flying Pig delivery, way earlier than I expected. The guy freezes when I open the door, but he’s polite and hands me everything nice and quick. “Nihongo jouzu desu ne,” he adds before he goes. I leave everything in the genkan except for the pumpkin and jack-o’-lantern tools. Not even the dark stormy weather waiting outside dampens my excitement about getting my kinders nice and messy.
Biking to Zozo and passing more and more stores with Halloween and autumn decorations, I see more than one person with face masks on. Half of my Zippo and Zappo students were mysteriously absent yesterday. I hope there isn’t something going around. I myself haven’t been feeling great. That Hitomu-related headache never fully went away, but I know how Zozo feels about sick days. Basically, they don’t exist. I’d have to pass out in full view of Manager for him to even think about letting me stay home. I’ll have some kitsune udon for dinner, then I should be fine. For now, I’m looking forward to my lessons with Asako and the Gotou twins. They’re different levels, but both of their books are getting into Halloween.
The lobby is empty, but when I enter the staff room Bucho is sitting at the computer. So much for signing in. “Ohayou gozaimasu,” I greet her. She gives me a strange smile and stares as I take off my jacket, pull half a dozen jack-o’-lantern tools from my purse, assemble them in my teacher’s box, squeeze my pumpkin into my purse space in the cupboard, and sit down at the bench. I hope it doesn’t have something to do with my three-quarter sleeved maroon shirt. It is not cold outside. If anything, it’s quite warm in here.
“Shibere-sensei, ohayou!” she says. “Very bad weather, today, ne?”
“Oh, it’s not so bad. Just a little cloudy.”
“Eh? But … short sleeves.”
Oh, my crap. This again. “Yes, well, I feel very warm these days. Especially in here,” I end up saying. I don’t feel like getting into an argument about this.
“Eh? Warm? Ah, yes. Warm. It is warm biz soon. So why short sleeves?” She mutters something under her breath about whether or not Manager and Lieko taught me about warm biz and having a word with them about this.
The elevator dings. “Yay! Students!” Oh, thank God. I go out to greet them. “Good mor—”
“YADAAAAA!”
Shit.
Hitomu scrambles up his mother’s legs as the two Zippo and Zappo students I didn’t see yesterday step out of the elevator. They move slowly, watching the spectacle this small child creates as his mother stumbles with him and tries to put him down on the floor.
“Ah, anata wa Hitomu-kun deshou?” Bucho steps out of the staff room. She goes up to the boy and kneels, reaching for him. “Ogenki desu ka, Hitomu-kun?”
Hitomu’s screams reach a keening pitch and he sprints through the lobby in terror, scrambling for safety under the reception desk. “Oni baba! Oni baba! Oni baba!”
“Ah! Hitomu-kun, ohayou!” says Manager, coming down the hall. “And Cybelle! Eh, Cybelle-sensei, can we talk?”
“Sure.” I know it’s Manager’s way of shooing me into the staff room, but I don’t care. I’m grateful for the excuse to get farther away from this child.
As Manager slides the door behind me, Bucho calls after him, saying something about a meeting later. Manager turns to me. “What is Cybelle doing in staff room?”
I blink. “You just told me to come in here.”
“But, why are you not ready for Zippo and Zappo? In Room Five?”
“Uh, because that was yesterday?”
“Ah! So sorry! Now, you have two Zippo and Zappo; only Hanae and Shizuko on Wednesday, and Yuta and Toshiro are today. New class today, at eleven o’clock, from now on. Sorry.”
“Oh. So, in like … five minutes.” Oh, brother.
Manager walks with me as I carry my box to Room Five and set up. “Yes, Yuta and Toshiro will have Zippo and Zappo with Cybelle on Thursdays. And today, I have unfortunate news. Two classes today are cancelled. Asako and the Gotou twins. So, no Zone V lesson, and no Zone IV lesson today.”
“Oh. That’s okay. They’ll be back next week, right?”
“Eh? No. They, ah, transfer to Osaka Zozo. So, no more lessons. So sorry. But! Good news! Interview at four today is cancelled, so good news is that Cybelle has long lunch, and more time for planning lessons.” He grins at me as if he expects me to jump up and down. “Also, we have staff meeting today.”
“Really?” A staff meeting — with me? After six and a half years? About time. Maybe now I can finally find out what is going on with our school and feel like a crucial cog in the eikaiwa machine again.
“Yes! But you don’t have. Only Japanese teacher, and Bucho. So, when you have lunch, please take your time.”
“Really?” My voice is dejected this time. I finished all my prep work for the week on Tuesday. What am I supposed to do for three hours? Take a nap?
I escort the boys down the hall toward Room Five. Yuta shows off his new Squirtle rain poncho and Toshiro demands stickers for the two pages he coloured in for homework. We head into the classroom and do a few preliminary bubbles. Then I hear Lieko’s high-pitched voice.
“Hitomu-kun! Let’s enjoy English!”
“Yada! Yada yada YADAAAAAAAAA!”
Yuta and Toshiro turn toward each other, letting the last of the bubbles fall to the carpet. “Are wa nandarou?” they wonder.
“Cybelle!” Lieko glides into the room. “Hitomu is here for your lesson! Say, ‘Hello,’ Hitomu!” Hitomu does not appear. All I can hear past the door is the sound of him struggling in someone’s arms to escape and his horrified, diaphragmatic screams. “Yuta, Toshiro, meet Hitomu! He will have this class with you. Please help him in Cybelle’s lesson, okay?”
“Wait — I have all three of them?”
“Yes, Cybelle! And we will enjoy English very much!” she sings. “You may start the lesson. I will bring Hitomu-kun! And please, when he comes in, please do not talk to him. I will help him.”
“But —”
“You just teach Yuta and Toshiro. Hitomu is too afraid of you. If you talk to him, you will only make things worse. Just keep doing the lesson. Hitomu is my job.” She bounds out the door singing words of English encouragement.
This is bullshit. This is bullshit on a stick. Again, I wonder who the hell orchestrated this recipe for disaster. But for Yuta and Toshiro’s sakes, I will get through the lesson bright and cheery. I made a promise to myself, and I plan on sticking to it no matter how many xenophobic children this company throws at me.
We hold hands for the greeting songs and do a few rounds of “Ring Around the Rosy” while Hitomu thrashes and cries in Lieko’s arms in one corner of the room. His screaming, combined with our dancing round in a circle, starts to make the room spin, so I direct everyone to sit on the floor. We learn a few new animal words with giant flash cards, and then we practise counting.
When I high-five Toshiro he catches and holds my hand. He whispers in Japanese: “Belle-teacher, what’s wrong with Hitomu?”
Yuta suggests Hitomu wants his mother. “Mama ni aitai?”
“It’s okay!” Lieko shouts in English over the screams. “Hitomu is just shy! I will take him outside for a quick walk. Say, ‘See you again,’ Hitomu!” I hop up to open the door for them, at which point his screams reach a frenzied pitch. “It’s okay, Hitomu, now we’re outside! We are safe!”
Safe? I grit my teeth and count to three in my head. The boys watch me, wondering what’s next. I take a deep breath. I can’t lose focus. “Who wants ‘Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes’?!”
The boys jump up and down. “Yossha!”
Lieko re-enters the room holding Hitomu’s hand just as Yuta, Toshiro, and I are about to go through the super-fast version of the song. His face is dry, his sobbing reduced to frequent hiccups. Without a word, she closes the door behind him. When he turns and realizes she is on the other side of the viewing glass, he bursts into fresh tears and runs to the door. Lieko holds the doorknob on the other side to keep him from escaping. Trying to finish the song is a bust. Yuta and Toshiro refuse to put their hands over any body parts other than their ears. Hitomu gives up with the doorknob and collapses in a corner. I congratulate everyone on a job well done and put magnetic stars on the board beside their names, even Hitomu’s. I really don’t feel good.
“Sensei, mou ikkai!” Yuta and Toshiro beg. “One more. One more time!”
“You know what, guys, let’s take a break from ‘Head and Shoulders.’ Please get your colouring books!”
“Yossha!” the two boys repeat, pumping their little fists. We all sit down on the carpet and break out our crayons. Lieko’s figure bobs back and forth between the door and the window. She’s talking to someone, maybe Bucho. I sneak over to dig out Hitomu’s colouring book and crayons and discretely arrange them next to his shivering figure. I obeyed Lieko’s ridiculous request by not saying a word to him. I did my best. Ganbarimashita.
“Sensei, sensei,” Yuta smacks me on my thigh for attention. “Hitomu ga naiteru no.” Hitomu is crying.
“I know, sweetie, but I’m contractually obligated not to talk to him.”
“Eh? Nani?” he asks Toshiro. Toshiro shrugs, continuing to colour. “Eigo wakaranai.” They colour for another minute, then suddenly Toshiro claps his hands over his ears. “Damn, I can’t stand it anymore!” he curses in Japanese. “HITOMU! SHUT UP!”
“Toshiro!” I snap. He pouts. “Gomen ne, sensei …” he begins.
“Don’t apologize to me. Say it to Hitomu.” I point to the small child now scratching at the carpet. “We don’t yell at each other like that … no matter much we might want to,” I add to myself as Toshiro drags his heels to the other side of the room.
Toshiro speaks softly to Hitomu and even pats his shoulder. “We must do our best together, okay?” I hear him say in Japanese. Hitomu rises to his feet, either nodding or about to bang his head against the wall. I’m relieved to see it’s the former.
“Thank you, Cybelle-sensei!” I hear a voice on the other side of the wall. Manager opens the classroom door. “Hitomu, time to go home!”
“Noooooooooo!” Hitomu curls up into a ball again, muffling his screams. He wraps his arms over his head like a bomb is about to go off. I notice Yuta’s and Toshiro’s mothers behind Manager as he kneels down to tap Hitomu on the back. They look more than eager to collect their children. I, however, stand stock-still. Did Hitomu just say what I think I heard?
“Cybelle-sensei, please sing the ‘Goodbye Song’ with Toshirokun and Yuta-kun! Their mothers are waiting!”
“What? Oh … right. Sorry.” Okay, sure, let’s end this shit show with a bang. I take the boys’ hands in mine and we all swing our arms back and forth in a circle. “English school is over …” we sing.
“NOOOOOOoooo …” Hitomu wails again.
“We are going home …”
“Someone heeeeeelllp!”
I stop singing. Now I know I’m coming down with something because I’m sure I heard Hitomu say …
“Sensei,” Toshiro asks. “Hitomu wa nihonjin?”
“Of course, he is.”
“Demo, kare no koto zenzen wakaranai!”
I give Toshiro a dramatic shrug. I can’t really say much with Manager and the parents standing watch. We should just get this over with. “Goodbye, goodbye!” I wave to the boys. They wave back.
“Get away from meeee …”
I freeze while Yuta and Toshiro twirl around themselves without me. “We are going home! Goodbye! Sensei, bye-bye!” They fly out the door into the warm, welcoming arms of their parents. After what seems like a lifetime Hitomu’s mother comes in to peel her son off the floor. I follow Manager and the parents outside for a quick lobby talk with my biggest professional smile plastered on my face. What the hell did I just hear?
“Eh, they were worried about Yuta and Toshiro,” Manager explains. “But now, they are glad to see they enjoyed Cybelle’s lesson. Thank you for your lesson, Cybelle-sensei!”
“Not a problem.” Normally I’d stand here, nodding and smiling until I saw a politer window of opportunity to take off, but my head is killing me right now. “Do they have any questions for me?”
“Eh, no, I do not think so. So, please, go to staff room?”
“I’m way ahead of you.”
“Eh? ‘A head’?”
“I mean, yes, I understand. But can I ask you something, Manager? Did you hear Hitomu?”
“Ah, I think, maybe, everyone hear Hitomu …”
“No, I mean, when we were singing the ‘Goodbye Song.’ You didn’t hear anything?” Manager blinks at me. “You know what, never mind.” Hitomu and his mother have already left so there’s no way to follow up and ask, anyway. Not that Manager would believe me. I wonder if I have any Advil in my purse.
In the staff room, Yoshino, Misaki, Seri, and Yuri are frantic as they prepare for their lessons and I assume for this special staff meeting. “Has anyone seen the footstool?” Yoshino asks. “I need to put these things back on the top shelf.”
“Allow me.” I take the binders in her hands and put them on the shelf by standing on my tiptoes. It turns out I don’t need to strain as much as I anticipate. Maybe I’ve grown a couple of inches lately?
“Thanks, my tall friend,” Yoshino says. “Don’t want to leave these lying around, there’s hardly enough space on the bench as it is.”
“No worries. So … what’s this meeting all about, anyway?”
“Oh, the usual,” Yoshino rolls her eyes. “Except now we have Bucho to rake us over the coals for losing students to this new branch in Osaka. You’re lucky not to be part of it, trust me.”
“I guess. I’ll be so bored, though.”
“Sorry,” Yoshino apologizes for no particular reason. “On the other hand, it gives us more to look forward to when the day is over!”
“Oh … yeah!” I had completely forgotten about hanging out with her tonight. So much for nursing this headache with soup and rest. “Can’t wait! Um, what’s the name of the bar again? Parappa the Rapper?”
“Kappa Garappa. And don’t worry about me staying late tonight. With this meeting, I don’t think that’ll happen. She’s going to have two hours to chew us out, and then it’ll be up to Manager what needs to be done next.”
“Ugh. Suddenly I’m not so jealous about this meeting.”
“I don’t blame you.”
Outside, we hear Bucho snapping at Manager, who sticks his head into the staff room with a quick “Minna-san, kaigi ga hajimarimasu!” Even before he finishes his sentence everyone makes a rush to grab their things and head out. I sit down at the bench and toy with my phone, waiting to hear them all reply to Bucho’s “Yoroshiku onegaishimasu” that starts their meeting before digging into the Cambodian-style fried rice I made last night. Twelve minutes later and I’m still hungry. I search the mountains of papers and binders left behind, hopeful for another box of leftover cakes or some untouched omiyage snacks. No such luck. I write a note on a little Gudetama Post-it (Cybelle will be right back!) and pray that I don’t return to an earful about the dangers of leaving Zozo unattended or unsupervised while Bucho is here.
I stick my head out of the staff room to peek down the hall. I can hear Bucho’s voice in Room Three. Perfect. I can simply walk out without anyone seeing me, but I still tiptoe just to be safe. No one comes running when the elevator bell dings, and I let the doors close with a satisfied sigh. How to kill the next three hours is a complete mystery to me. Almost as mysterious as whatever the heck Hitomu said during our class. I swear it was English … but no one else seemed to hear it. Maybe I’m hearing things. Maybe I’ve been working too hard, stressing too much. Wouldn’t be the first time. Probably won’t be the last.
“Whatever,” I say to the empty elevator. “I’m hungry.”
Outside the Zozo building the happy weather from my bike ride this morning is gone. The dark Halloween clouds and the cold autumn chill have returned. And apparently, so has the weirdo with the udon kei truck. “Pssst!” is the first thing I hear when I walk past the bike racks. At first I mistake it for a snake. Turning around, I inadvertently make eye contact. The man giggles and beckons me like a mechanical maneki neko cat. Weird. I can’t help smiling awkwardly as I shake my head no. He beckons me again, more forcefully this time.
“Uh …” I break into a run. His laughter follows me into the HORUS bakery. I take my sweet time choosing which buns to take, and when I line up, I pray for the obaachans in front of me to have lots of small change to pay with. No such luck, but on the plus side, it’s the manager of the store who rings me up today. She takes two of the fresh garlic buns on the counter behind her and adds them to my bag, telling me in Japanese that she wants everyone to try them, so it’s my lucky day. Even better, the creepster and his kei truck are gone when I look out HORUS’s window. Thank goodness. I spend another twenty minutes or so wandering around the shops and the mall, then head back to Zozo, arms laden with goodies. Riding up the elevator, I check my phone again. 12:54. Son of a …
The doors slide open to the empty lobby. Bucho is still audible from Room Three. I slip off my shoes, grab my Tinker Bell slippers, and ninja-run to the staff room, all before I hear the door open, someone go “Are? Dare mo inai na,” and the door close again. Yes! The perfect crime.
Speaking of crime, now seems like a good time to print everything I need for the next couple of days off the internet. I successfully do so without downloading any viruses or whatever it is Bucho worries about. After clearing the browser history and shutting things down, I take out a few kids’ books as I stuff my face with two cinnamon rolls and the garlic buns. By the time I pick up my Treasury of Japanese Folktales and flip through “Momotaro” the sleepiness kicks in. I set my phone alarm to go off before my kinders might show up, then fold my arms on the bench and rest my head on them. I don’t even feel all that sleepy. Just bored.
Bucho’s lecturing fades. All of Zozo is quiet now, except for the hum of fluorescent lights. Time passes. A delicate arrhythmic ticking sound is audible through the wood of the bench. Something with several legs, crawling … getting closer. I lift up my head, let what I presume is a giant mukade crawl on by, and lower my head back down on my arms. On my shoulders, I feel cloth settling. Someone putting a jacket — I’m guessing my jacket — over me, like a small blanket. It feels nice.
“Thank you,” I yawn, opening one eye a little. There is someone sitting at the computer. She holds an abnormally long black cigarette holder between her fingers. She has the same face as Fumiko, with Mami’s hair colour, and Miyoko’s voice when she finally speaks, after staring at my face for a long time.
“You look unhappy, child. What is wrong?”
“Nothing. I just had the weirdest class with a student. And I have this snack bar to go to tonight. What should I do?”
“That sounds like fun. Where?”
“Osakako Station.”
“Oh. That is quite a trip. Well, if you want my advice —” she takes a long drag and exhales a cloud of blue in my face “— just go and be yourself.”
“What does that mean?”
She doesn’t answer. Outside the staff room we hear the ding of the elevator doors. It’s louder than normal, almost like a fire alarm. The mom’s head turns sharply toward the sound. She gasps. “A student is here. Get up, 獏.”
“What’d you call me?”
“I said, GET UP.”
I sit upright, eyes wide. The room is empty, except for me. No jacket over my shoulders, no other people. I almost believe I’m alone in Zozo until I hear Manager’s quiet whine and Bucho snapping at him. Just as I’m about to pick up my phone, the alarm goes off. It is exactly 2:40.
“Hai, kaigi o owarimasu. Yoroshiku onegaishimasu,” Bucho sings from Room Three. Manager and teachers sing back to her, and I hear the shuffle of chairs and the flipping of tables. The staff meeting is over. Right on cue the elevator bell dings, and I hear my kinder students shouting for me and Lieko. I love it when good timing happens.
I waddle over to the shelves (my legs are still asleep and full of pins and needles), take the pumpkin and wrap my jacket around it, then exit the staff room holding it against my abdomen. “Hi, ladies,” I greet my students. “Guess what I got?”
“Eh?!” Momoko points at my stomach. “Mama, mite mite! Sensei ninshin shiteru!”
“Now how do you know that word?” I laugh. Momoko’s mother grabs her extended finger, trying to shush her, but I wave my hands to let her know it’s okay. I pretend the pumpkin is part of my stomach and giggle like the girls are tickling me when they poke it and knock on the clothed surface.
Behind me I hear Manager come out with a couple of other teachers. Lieko is one of them. “What is that?” She says pointedly at me. “Is that your stomach?”
“Of course, it is,” I say with heavy sarcasm. “It’s the aftermath of my lunch. I swallowed a baby. Must have been, oh, seven kilograms?”
Lieko’s eyes widen in horror.
Motoka, rubbing my so-called belly, exposes a bit of orange under a jacket sleeve. “Lieko-sensei, it’s pumpkin! Not baby!”
“Dekkai kabocha! Onaka ja nai!” Momoko giggles.
Lieko purses her lips, still staring at me. “Hmph.”
Momoko and Motoka have a hold of my wrists and are pulling me into Room Two to have a better look at our afternoon project. Lieko watches us through the open door for a few seconds, then goes about her business. I leave the kids with the pumpkin to get my teacher’s box from Room Five. My guess is Lieko retreated to the staff room or something because I don’t see her on the way. Good.
“Do you like my squiggles?” Motoka points to the black lines she drew all over the pumpkin.
“I love them,” I reply. “What are they?”
“It’s the hair.”
With lots of cheering from the kids I cut open the top and encourage them to dive in. We practise the word “slimy” together a few times, then the girls start yelling at me to cut out the face. They watch me hack away at it for about a minute, then demand to make more playdough desserts. So much for the jack-o’-lantern.
After class, the girls put on their backpacks and take their delicate confections straight to Lieko in Room Three. She doesn’t look pleased, and I can feel her evil gaze on me all the way to Room One, where I work until my next lesson.
Around quarter to five, I leave to use the washroom. When I come back, my fourteen-year-old bilingual student Yukina has magically appeared. She’s already sitting across from my seat with her notebook and pens arranged neatly next to a strange-looking box. She stands up when I come in.
“Good afternoon, Cybelle-sensei! I brought you something. White peach cakes, from Okayama. Have you tried them before?”
“I don’t think so. Thank you!”
The box is beautiful, a golden peach with pink cherry blossoms and pastel-green leaves drawn all over it. I offer a cake to Yukina. We eat a couple more as she talks about how school is going and how she misses her life in L.A. We even get into a long conversation about the Me Too movement. I don’t have time to hide the box of cakes before my Zozo Junior class, so I endure Takeshi, Ren, and Hayato’s endless pepper of, “Sensei, ke-ki choudai,” throughout the lesson. As they get up and leave for the night, I make a grand show of sneaking them each a cake. “Thank you, Cybelle-sensei! Uwaa, umai! Cybelle-sensei is da besto!” they salute me with deep bows. They can be the sweetest boys when they’re not sleeping or cracking jokes about my hair.
After the boys leave, through a very well-laid-out plan of action, I’m stealthy enough to wipe down all the viewing windows in every classroom (yes, with the “窓” towel, because contrary to Manager’s beliefs, I’m not stupid). Now I can kick back for my final hour and relax with some playdough for tomorrow’s kindergarten class and my Okayama souvenirs. I finish half the box of my white-peachy cakes in the staff room before anyone comes in, at which point I hide them. I’m not sharing these; I’m too hungry, and they’re too delicious.
“Anou, Shiberu-sensei, can I ask favour?” Bucho sings as she sits down next to me and sees my finished playdough desserts. “Oh! Oishi-sou! You make?”
“For my kindergarten students. I might use it for some of my Zone VI lessons, too. They’re learning how to order food next week.”
“Sugoi! Like sampuru. You have such talent! Where you learn?”
“Nowhere, really. I just kinda made them on my own one day.”
“Sugoi,” Bucho repeats. “Do you know Kiyomizu-yaki? From Kyoto?”
I can’t tell if she’s stroking my ego or actually trying to make conversation. Either way, it’s a nice change from our first encounter. “I do. I’ve been to the Pottery Complex a dozen times.”
“Eh?! You know Kiyomizu-yaki?! Sugoi!” She pauses. “Anou, Shibere-sensei, can I ask you for favour? Tonight, we must do interview. It is very important, because many students from higashi school will come here. We need more teachers, therefore, ah, we will have interview. Tonight.”
“Sure.”
“Eh — ima. Now.”
“Oh. Okay, let me put these away and I’ll get my jacket.”
“And then, you may go home.” Bucho beams so hard I fear her face might split in two. “Manager says you work very hard! So, after interview, and cleaning, go home.”
This sounds too good to be true, but I get all excited, anyway. “Does that mean I don’t have to line up?”
“No, no lineup!” Bucho waves her hands. “Reward for hard work.” She pats my shoulder. “Now, Yoshino-sensei will finish interview soon. Let’s go enjoy English!”
Yoshino is very happy to hear Bucho’s news as she steps out of Room One. I make a grand gesture for Bucho to enter the room first. As she informs the young lady who I am and why I’m here, Yoshino winks at me. “Good stuff! Now you can go home and have a nice dinner and get some rest first, yeah?”
Yeah, she’s got me there. “In that case, I’ll see you back here at, let’s say, eight o’clock?”
“What?! No! If you come back here, they’ll never let you leave early again, goody two-shoes! I can meet you at the station, at Tully’s.” She struggles to make a gang sign with her arms full of papers. “West side!”
I laugh. “West side. Got it.”
Inside Room One, Bucho squeezes herself around the one table taking up the room to close the door behind me. “Shiberu-sensei, this is Miss Ari Sato. Sato-san, this is our native teacher, Shiberu.”
Ari Sato stands, gives my hand a weak shake, then tilts her head. “Nice to meet you … eh, Shiberu?”
“Cybelle. Nice to meet you.”
“Oh! Shi-belle. Nice to meet you, too —”
No time to correct anyone today. “Please, have a seat! Tell me a little about yourself.”
“Ah, myself?” She starts to pant. “I am Sato, and I enjoy English?”
“Awesome. Why do you want to work for Zozo?”
“Eh?!” she exclaims. She looks all around the room in a panic. Her head hangs low to avoid Bucho’s stern gaze and pretend not to notice Bucho’s cheeks and neck turning red. I let a minute of thinking time pass. Then I reword the phrase, twice.
“I enjoy English?” Sato finally offers.
“Fantastic. Now, tell me three things you’d like to do in the future that you’ve never done before.”
Sato wrings her fingers, nervous. “Well, I travel — no, I want to travel to Europe. I really enjoy sightseeing! Maybe, London, or Paris? Hmm, I want to see Big Ben, or Efferutou?”
“Both very cool. Continue.”
“Ah, second thing is, I want to marry — no, I want to be married — ah! Sorry! I want to get married. I like weddings. I want a big wedding!”
“Weddings, nice. Good food. Continue.”
“Ah, third thing is, I want to go surfing. Because, I have never been surfing before.”
“Excellent! Have you been to Okinawa? Great surfing scene there.”
“No, I have never been to Okinawa.”
“Well, I highly recommend it.” I can end the interview here with a record of one minute, but to look like an enthusiastic professional, I throw in one bonus and pray it doesn’t take her twenty minutes to answer. “All righty, last one: If you were an animal, what animal would you be and why?”
“Eh?! Anou, eeto …” She struggles through her answer. “Eh, I would be a dog. Because, dogs are very energetic and happy, and I am very energetic and happy.”
“Fantastic! Thanks, Sato-san, it was really nice talking to you! Do you have any questions for me?”
“Anou … eeto … you are from America?”
“Canada.”
“Ah, Canada! Sugoi! Anou, do you like Japan?”
“Yes, I do. Do you have questions, Bucho?”
Bucho has been nodding the whole time, watching our reactions but not taking notes. She turns to Sato and thanks her, saying the English part of the interview is over. “Thank you, Shiberusensei! Please leave interview paper in staff room before home?”
“Okay. Thanks again, really look forward to working with you.” We shake hands and bow; Bucho shoos me out the door. I look at the clock above the reception desk: 7:44. My cleaning duties are done, so according to Bucho, I’m done, too. I plop the papers next to the computer, sign out, scoop my jacket and purse under my arms, throw my Tinker Bell slippers onto the shelf, and step into my sneakers. I am free.
“Ah, Cybelle-sensei, just a moment!”
Son of a —
Manager comes running down the hall and catches the elevator doors just before they close. All of a sudden, he’s the Terminator. “Ah! Cybelle … you are going home. You must be tired. Lieko says you had a good nap today.”
“What?” Why the hell would she say that? And why would she say it to Manager, of all people? I’m not in the mood to engage in any Lieko-related nonsense right now. “Yeah, I’m off. Bucho said I could go now.”
“Ah, yes! She said, very good, hard work. But, this week, you have window duty for cleaning, so before you go home, I must show you the towel and you must —”
“Already did it. And yes, I used the correct towel.”
Manager pauses, and mutters to himself that yes, that explains why the windows are all so clean. “But, before you go, very important. Tomorrow. Please come to school at nine, not eleven. For trial lesson. Three boys, same family. They want private lessons. This would be very good for our school, so please … work VERY hard. It’s very important this time.”
“Yes, sir.” I salute him. He seems entertained by the gesture, but not convinced to get his hands away from the doors.
“So … I think you should prepare for trial lesson. Please.”
“I will. Good night, Manager.”
“Now. Before you go home.”
I look him firmly in the eye. “How old are these boys?”
“They are kindergarten now. Eh, maybe.”
“So, they’re about three to four years old? They’ll have their own group-slash-private lesson? And they’ll either be doing Kinder-Zozo or Zone 1?”
“Yes! Very good! Wow, you know Zozo programs very —”
“If that’s the case, I have all the materials for their age group ready to go. But now, I have to go. See you tomorrow, okay?”
Manager freezes, stunned. He reluctantly pulls away from the elevator. “Yes, I see. Maybe. Okay. See you again. Otsukaresama deshita.”
“Otsukare!” I keep waving until the elevator doors slide closed. Thank you, God. I close my eyes, relieved. I don’t bother putting my coat on, even when I get outside. I stuff it right on top of my purse in my bike basket and put the pedal to the metal. I’m starving (again) and for some reason, I feel ready to freak out some squares in the name of co-worker camaraderie. Maybe it’s the sugar rush from all those delicious cakes.
I bike home and sadly have to choose between eating a real meal and changing into something I don’t mind reeking of smoke later. I go for changing into a fresh black button-down and black jeans, taking only my wallet and my phone. I’m not dressing to impress anyone tonight. Yoshino lets me park my bike in front of the Zozo building so it won’t get stolen. Kappa Garappa isn’t packed like last Saturday, nor is it as chock full of smoke. We grab a table and polish off two small bowls of edamame and some slices of daikon with a couple of rounds of highballs. Yoshino’s guy still hasn’t shown up, but we are having a great time without him.
“You want the last edamame?” I ask Yoshino.
“No way, I’ve already had, like, ten. You have it.”
I laugh. “Only ten?! I’ve had way more than that!” We argue for a minute before I finally snatch it up with my chopsticks. “We’re like Mr. and Mrs. Sprat,” I say around a mouthful of soybeans.
“Who?” Yoshino chuckles, taking out yet another cigarette from her purse.
“Jack Sprat. And his wife. Have you heard of that poem? Jack Sprat could eat no fat, his wife could eat no lean? You’re Jack, and I’m your wife.”
She bursts out laughing with a gust of smoke she quickly tries to wave out of my face. “Sorry! That’s kinda cool that you can remember poetry like that. Nursery rhymes, right? Geez, I can barely remember what I had for breakfast with the shit show Zozo has become.”
“I feel you on that one.” I chase my last bite of daikon with a swig of highball. “But I’m not going to complain about it anymore. I said I was going to do my best, and I meant it. Can’t let things like Hitomu-tantrums and co-worker side-eye get me down; otherwise, I’d never be able to leave the house. Just got to keep being myself!”
“You know what?” Yoshino takes a long, thoughtful drag on her cigarette. “I’ve been thinking. That boy Hitomu has issues. Hell, his mother has issues. You should hear some of the things she says to him in Japanese! And she thought eikaiwa lessons would fix him? Please. More like she wants a couple of hours a week to have some peace and quiet.”
“Well, something is definitely going on between Hitomu and me. I just wish I knew what it was.”
“It’s not just you!” says Yoshino. “I saw him point and scream at Aoi’s Jibanyan backpack, and Aiko’s Pikachu raincoat. Geez … what’s he going to do come Halloween?”
“Explode?”
Yoshino bursts out laughing. “That’s awful! But I wouldn’t be surprised. I don’t know. Maybe he’s scared of quality anime.”
I laugh. “I’m not an anime!”
“No, no! You’re a quality teacher! I meant for that to be a compliment.”
“It was. I was kidding.” I polish off the rest of my highball.
“How was it? You want another one? Or, time for rum and Coke?”
“Hmm, let’s see …” I pick up the laminated menu. “Ooh, Fuzzy Navel. Haven’t had one of those in a minute.” My voice drops as I read the katakana one more time. It’ll be peachy, and delicious, and won’t leave a giant stain on my shirt if some punk starts a shoving war again.
“Okay.” She walks over to the bar and talks to the mama-san behind it. She returns with our drinks. Behind her, the mama-san gives me a cute wave, which I return. “Thanks a lot for coming here with me, again. I owe you big time. Sorry, I don’t know what’s taking Matt so long.”
“No worries. Thank YOU for letting me change first! Sorry I can’t stay much longer. But I won’t go anywhere until you see what’s his face and you feel comfortable enough.” I may hate this place but I’m not about to leave Yoshino here with some weirdo.
“Thank you! And remember: anything you want to drink is on me.”
“Oh, I remember. Tee hee hee.”
We have ourselves a little chugging contest. I lose, but Yoshino applauds my effort. Then, three young-looking salarymen surround Yoshino and ask her … eh, I don’t know, I can’t hear them over the music, which has increased in volume with the most recent upsurge of customers. She points to me as she leans toward them to be heard. They exchange worried glances and squirm.
“They’re from some company with an office nearby,” Yoshino yells. “I didn’t catch the rest … or their names. They want to know if we have boyfriends.”
“If we have boyfriends, or if you have a boyfriend?”
“Um, well …” Yoshino blushes. “Sorry. I don’t really want to talk to them. Pretend you don’t see them.”
“Why don’t you just tell them to piss off?”
She wrinkles her nose, shy. “Mmm, it’s okay.” I shrug and let Yoshino rant a little more about work. Her three new admirers still hover behind her, tapping her on the shoulder and asking her more personal questions. “Ugh! Can they not take a hint?!”
“Let’s find out.” I ease Yoshino to one side so I can lean toward them. “PISS OFF.”
The three young men reel away, jostling each other for a few seconds, asking what I could possibly mean and who among the three of them has the guts to find out. They decide it’s not worth it to gain closure and head to the bar, leaving us alone.
“Sugee na! Cybelle, you are one brave chick.”
“Not really. I didn’t think that would work!”
Someone jabs me in the shoulder. “It looks like you’ve met a few of our co-workers!” a female voice shouts English against my neck. “Now you know how we feel.”
Two young women about our age take the empty seats beside us. “We know those guys. Don’t worry, they hit on all the cute girls. I’m Ailsie and this is Lacie.” They look wasted out of their minds.
“Hi! I’m Yoshino and this is Cybelle, my partner in crime.”
“What?! You guys are partners? Like …” the first girl, Ailsie, makes some kind of gesture with her hand that’s hard to see in the dim light. I’m pretty sure it’s an offensive one.
“We work together,” Yoshino answers.
“Oh. That was like, weird for a second! I was about to say, whoa, Japanese lesbians, really?! Not that I have a problem with that sort of thing! It’s just, you know, weird. I mean, this culture is so repressed … and to meet a Japanese lesbian who dates outside of her race, that’s got to be like, what?! Not that there’s anything wrong with that! Anyway, what are you, English teachers?”
We nod. I wish I had more edamame.
“That’s gotta suck. I guess if we hadn’t majored in East Asian Studies, that’s what we’d probably be doing, too. I mean, the hours are so horrible, and you don’t have, like, any say in who you teach!”
“That’s true,” Yoshino replies with a congenial tone. “We were just talking about that. Cybelle has a young student who screams every time he comes to our school, and —”
“Well, that makes sense. I mean, he’s probably never seen a — you know, person like you before. So yeah, I understand that can be pretty terrifying! But no, I’m talking about when you have to teach, like, the really crazy, sketchy people. I would die if I had to teach English here.”
“Oh …” Yoshino looks crestfallen. “It’s not that bad … is it?” She turns to me, like I’ve been hiding some dire secret of hating my job from her all these years. Like I’d step over an unconscious body to work with shitheads like this girl.
“It isn’t,” I tell them firmly. “I mean, yeah, it’s hard. Long hours, back-to-back classes with kids who never get tired. But it’s fun. And at the end of the day I don’t regret it. I’m fucking exhausted, but I don’t regret it.” I smile as the words pour out and I realize it’s all true. I’ve been rolling with all the crap that happens. If it were really all that awful, I’d have left years ago.
But Ailsie has other things on her tiny mind. “So, you’re probably into Japanese guys,” she points to Yoshino. “But what about you?” she asks me. “Because those guys, they’re freaks. Tell them, Lacie.”
Her friend Lacie, who has been flirting with a salaryman all this time, reacts to her friend’s elbow in her rib cage. “Oh my gosh, those pervs? Get this: every Monday, the short one, Matsubara, harasses me about my weekend. Where I went, who I was with, if it was a guy, is he your boyfriend, ‘do you go to love hotel?’ Every weekend. And then they spend every lunch hour looking at porn on their computers, and they sit, like, right next to my cubicle!”
“Oh!” Yoshino says. “That’s horrible. Can’t you tell your boss?”
“Our boss is just as disgusting,” Ailsie cuts in. “Geez, it took, like, three months when I first started for him to stop putting his hands up my skirt.”
“Let me get this straight,” I interject. “You work with jerks who goof off with porn, you get harassed every week, and you can’t take up any of this with your boss, who is clearly a sex offender … but you’d rather die than have our jobs?”
“Uh …” The sound leaps from her throat, something between a forced laugh and regurgitation. “Hey, where’d Tillie go? We should find her.” They go away. That’s all I wanted.
“Well,” Yoshino gives me a look. “That was enlightening.”
“That’s one word for it.”
She breaks into a grin. “One good thing came out of it, though. I’m glad to hear you enjoy Zozo. With all that’s been going on I was worried you might leave. You know, with your family, and now Hitomu …”
“Ha! Don’t worry, my friend. It’ll take a lot more than a wedding and a screaming child to send me home for good.” In the opposite corner of the room I notice heads bobbing up and down. “Hey, you feel like dancing?”
“Yes! Absolutely. Let’s do it!” We finish our drinks and head on over.
I don’t know what song is playing. I’ve been out of the loop on music since GReeeeN. All I know is I’m moving more body parts than “Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes” could squeeze into one song. I’ve never felt so limber. The tipsy sensation I had back at our table is gone. I can spin 360-degree circles and not feel the least bit dizzy. The floor gets crowded as more and more bodies press up against one another. I keep my balance. My feet don’t stop. I can’t lower my arms. It’s too dark to see anything so I let my eyes close and let the music course through me. Yoshino yells when her guy finds her with an army of his friends. They keep their greetings short; they fall in step with the song. I don’t have to stop to shake hands. I can’t stop if I wanted to.
A woman tugs on the hem of my shirt in between the song change. “You are good dancer!” she yells at me.
“Ashi nagai!” another voice shouts in my ear.
“Where are you from?!”
I have no idea who I’m even talking to. I have no clue where Yoshino went. I don’t even know where I am. I’m floating outside of myself, over the crowd, unable to pick myself out in the smoky haze. I can’t formulate responses in time, even if I wanted to. I can feel my mouth contorting into a stupid grin as I raise my hands again and feel the groove. Several female-shaped shadows join me. They’re way too close for me to move around as much, but I do not stop dancing. The music is a tidal wave of sound. It sweeps me under. I’m a slave to the rhythm.
Something vibrates against my butt. My hands reach behind me and — oh, it’s the alarm on my cellphone, vibrating. Time to catch a train if I’m to get to work earlier than usual tomorrow. Yoshino is on the other side of the room at the bar with her gentleman caller and his entourage.
“There she is!” Everyone applauds as I approach. Yoshino punches me on the shoulder. “I didn’t know you could move like that! Look at you. Full of surprises, girl!”
“I’m no expert. I just know the basics.”
“Liar! You were twirling like a freaking ballroom dancer. You got a double life the rest of Zozo don’t know about?”
“Nah, the trick is to go limp.”
A blond man leans over, crushing Yoshino from behind; she cringes at his beer breath and pulls away. “That’s what she said!” he guffaws.
“I’m sorry, were any of us talking to you?” I ask. He stops laughing with a crestfallen look, like I just stole his puppy and kicked it across the snack bar. “That’s what I thought. Hey, Yoshino —”
“Listen,” she says. “They all want to go for food, then come back for karaoke. Would you mind coming with us? We won’t be long!”
She’s already locked her arm with mine and is smiling up at me with a pitiful puppy whining sound. Damn it. “I can stay for one or two songs. Manager wants me at Zozo super early tomorrow.”
“Ah, yes, your trial lesson! Don’t worry. Thanks, Cyb.”
“Your friend coming with us, Yosh?” Matt asks, turning to me. “We’re going to Mickey D’s. You’re not, like, vegan or anything, are you?” What kind of stupid question is that?
Outside, the crowd of us herd down a few side streets and into a bright shoutengai. The fresh air is heavy with the scent of rain and cinnamon gum. It takes forever to locate a McDonald’s, walking past several Lotterias, KFCs, and conbinis before we find one. I let Yoshino’s powerful arm guide me. The lights and lit-up signs make my senses throb so hard I can feel them like my own pulse. It’s like the music from Kappa Garappa has followed me, the rhythms of the music having seeped into my veins, still pumping a beat. I wonder if this is what a migraine feels like.
“You okay, Cyb?” Yoshino asks me.
“Hungry.”
“Aw, don’t worry, baby,” says Matt’s blond friend. “Whatever you ladies want is on me!”
“No, it’s okay,” I reach into my back pocket for my wallet, wishing I’d brought my purse, which I’m pretty sure had a whole bottle of Advil. My headache is coming back. “I got it.”
Without warning, he pulls the arm now holding my wallet in hand and drags me up to the counter. “Go ahead. Order anything you want.” It almost sounds like a dare. He barely notices my glare as he smirks at the man behind the counter with a “Chotto matte ne?” and a side note in Japanese that women sure do like to take their time to order.
I look the McDonald’s employee right in the eye. “I want two large fries,” I say, deadpan.
“Hai —” the blond guy reels back. “Wait, what?!”
“And twenty chicken nuggets.”
“… are you fucking serious?”
“Make it happen.”
He makes good on his promise. I share my fries with Yoshino as we wait for the others to order their food, but everything is almost gone on the walk back to Kappa Garappa. The guy who bought my food watches me eat with his mouth wide open.
“Cybelle should put a song on first,” Yoshino tells Matt. “She has to go soon …”
McDonald’s Man takes his chance to fall in step with me and reach a giant finger to poke my last nugget as I’m about to eat it. I jerk my face away, swallowing it down. If this guy isn’t careful, he’s going to lose that finger.
“I still can’t believe you ate all that food,” he shouts. “Where’d you put it all?”
I pretend not to have heard him. Back inside the snack bar, Matt actually lets me have the first song choice. Everyone goes nuts for “Thong Song.” The English-speakers all sing along, and the Japanese-speakers wave their arms in unison to the beat. Impressed by my high note, McDonald’s Man jumps up and joins me on the mic. There’s no point in shaking him off since the song is pretty much over; at least he’s not hugging me.
“Girl, you made my night!” He leans in toward me. I wriggle away in the nick of time. I don’t do hugs. One of the Japanese salarymen gets up and takes the mic from me, bowing, as the first lines of “Kiseki” begin.
“Good song choice, Cyb,” Yoshino pats my shoulder. “That was awesome!”
Now’s my chance. I murmur against her ear: “Yoshino, I gotta bounce. Are you good here?”
“Yes, I’m good! See you tomorrow — and thanks again! Get home in one piece!” she adds in a whisper.
“No problem! I’m good at getting home!” I give her and what’s his name a quick wave and throw a few high-fives to his co-workers’ outstretched hands. I’m so glad to be leaving in a good mood this time. Now for part two of my good day: a hot bowl of soup and that Advil I’ve been pining for.
“Hey!” The blond guy is grabbing my arm again. “Are you leaving?!”
“Uh … I’m going to the washroom,” I say, choosing my words carefully.
“You sure? How do I know you’re not sneaking off? The night is still young, you know!”
Hmm, how do I get out of this without pulling out a karate move on this dickbag? “If I was leaving,” I begin to smirk, “I wouldn’t leave my purse behind, now would I?”
“Huh.” He looks me over. No purse in sight. He lets go. “I guess so. You BETTER come back, girl.”
“Yeah, whatever.” I sneak a glance at Yoshino, who winks back at me, and head to the washroom. It’s not a bad idea, going before the long train ride home.
Just as I walk out Kappa Garappa’s door, McDonald’s Man walks right into me. His face is bright red, his necktie is inches from sliding off his neck, and he stinks. I think he just finished throwing up outside. “And where do you think you’re going?!” he pretends to pout.
“Yeah, well, I kinda need food and rest to stay alive, so …”
“Aw, come on,” he repeats himself. “You ain’t going nowhere. Your night’s just getting started.”
“It’s a free country, pal.”
He lets out a barking laugh right in my face. The smell of vomit is strong enough to choke my good mood. “Since when?” he scoffs. “You’re not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy. This is Japan, not America!”
He wraps a strong, meaty arm around my waist and begins steering me back inside. That’s it. No one gets in my way when it comes to my bed and a hot meal. I swing my arm around and lock it against his so that the slightest twist of my body will pop his arm out of the socket. He laughs for a second, then cries out when I demonstrate that I’m fucking serious.
“And YOU,” I emphasize the word with a jerking motion, “are not in a position to tell me what to do, let alone put your freaking paws on me. And I’m Canadian, you drunk swot. Maple syrup, poutine, rainbow money, not to be trifled with. Got it?”
“OW! Okay, okay, I’m sorry!”
“I knew we could work this out.” I release him. He apologizes again, stumbling away. “You and your friends have a lovely, decadent evening.”
“Thanks … I think?”
Outside, I revel in the salty sea air. “Ha, ha!” I pose in triumph. No one’s around to see the wild gaijin girl laughing into the night. Not that I feel the least bit self-conscious right now. I’m just hungry.
Adventures befall me on the way to the station. A host falls in step with me. I keep my gaze down on his pointy ostrich-leather boots. “Ii desu ka? Ikaga desu ka? Ii desu ka?” he asks me in rapid-fire Japanese, then abruptly turns and walks away. A woman grabs my wrist, asks me to take a photo of her and her family. When I try to take her camera, she self-corrects and pushes me toward her family so that I can take a picture with them. She bows and thanks me in what I believe is Thai. On the walk home from the Zozo building with my bike, I can taste autumn on the wind. I can already taste the piping hot bowl of udon waiting for me at home, too. I take a quick look around. No cops. Chansu. I swing one leg over my bike and ride like hell, cackling loud as I speed down the street like greased lightning. Like the Wicked Witch of the West. The only time I might look a little past wasted to anyone is when I drop my keys outside my door. I giggle and shush myself. Oh, what a day. I flick on the lights and rip off my smelly clothes.
“All righty,” I sigh out loud. “Make some kitsune real quick, hop in the shower, and then it’s off to bed, young lady! Time to enjoy …”
I yawn. I’m running out of steam to keep being this weird. I kick my futon to roll it out and flop down. I’ll lie here for a few seconds, just to let the giggles run their course.
I’m not sleepy, not really. It’s just been such a long day. I’ll be fine once I rest my eyes a little and then —