Volume 1 - CH 5.1

We became highschoolers.

I hadn’t completely recovered from the earthquake yet, but I managed to study enough to get into a good preparatory school in the city.

Yuzuki went to Milan Conservatory in Italy.

That was the first time since I had met her that I was without her.

To sum up, I spent my high school life like what Yuzuki had said. Quote, “Like a goldfish scooped up on a summer festival.”

[TN: Forget to add this earlier. In Asian festivals, we have this play of scooping up fishes with paper scoops. I’d lost 15 bucks for one goldfish, btw. And the health of these fish are questionable, some died that summer, some lived for 6-ish years…]

Since it was preparatory school, I studied hard on entrance examinations. My joy and despair became dependent on my grades and mock examination results. Although those days felt like a dream to the very end. 

On the contrary, only the phantom pain of the earthquake felt real.

What was the point of getting into a good university, I wondered. I didn’t want to be rich, or to be respected, or to have a meaningful occupation.

I just wanted to be a decent human being.

To fill that void in my heart, I began reading indiscriminately. Like how I collected flowers in elementary school, “Flowers” in middle school, now I began collecting stories. 

The inspiration was an article I saw on the internet, the “Commendation for Contributors to the Great East Japan Earthquake.” It was a short article about the stories of people who had sacrificed their lives or risked danger heroically. The writing was simple and plain, yet it brought tears to my eyes as I read.  I could picture in my mind’s eye so beautifully the bravery of these people who showed their bravery in time of need. Maybe this article had given me what I had lost along the way, the story had saved me from what I thought was beyond cure.

Just as the flowers didn’t have to be real, the story didn’t have to be non-fiction.

A ridiculously absurd fiction was also fine by me. To carve something beautiful from thin air, you need a chisel, a lie. And what mattered was that the book was written with passion, with blood and soul. I didn’t want a perfect book, I wanted to read the real thing, the unrefined, burning passion of writing. I hated stories that were deftly made-to-sell products. I wanted imperfect passion. Similar to how a child doesn’t need perfect parents, but rather parents with genuinity.

One day, I picked up Dad’s novel on a whim.

To my extreme chagrin, it was a good one. There was a certain quality in a story that differentiate good from bad, and Dad’s had that quality in his books. It was earnest, as though he poured his life, his future, his aspirations into his works. However, I had a doubt. What if that life, that future wasn’t his, but Mom’s. In the end, I was left with mixed feelings about them. 

Ever since she went to Italy, Yuzuki had never contacted me. Since I had told her I was fine without her, texting her first would be admitting that I was bluffing back then. 

Nevertheless, I kept an eye on her official movements.

Of those, a video uploaded to YouTube in May left an impression on me. That day, she was wearing a simple black dress for a concert.

As though she was in mourning.

The lights dimmed, and I thought she was going to disappear into the dark backstage. Quietly, she played Chopin’s “Nocturne No. 2”

It was different from the last time I had heard her piano. Gone were the muddy, clouded piano. It was earnest and wishful, as clear as the starry night sky. It was a step closer to Kiyoko Tanaka’s piano.

Her piano was full of hope and prayer again.

２

In no time at all, it was summer again.

Summer extra classes were held, but I hadn’t attended any of them. I spent time in my dark room, reading books and occasionally staring at the blue summer sky outside.

Shimizu had messaged me, telling me that he was going to the Koushien Championship. And on August 11, I turned on the TV and find the channel

The summer Koshien Stadium was dazzlingly displayed on the TV screen. Shimizu was a first-year student who played no. 4 for Seikou Academy. The opposition team was “Nidaisan,” short for Nihon Univ. 3rd Junior & Senior High School.

[TN: All institutes mentioned are real names]

His performance was amazing. Shimizu stood in the batter’s box and promptly hit his first pitch. The ball flew sharply. He immediately set for first base and slid there perilously on time.

The referee called it safe. The stadium roared. I sighed, I was holding my breath the entire time.

“You’re faster, Shimizu,” I muttered.

In the bottom of the eighth inning, with neither team scoring, Shimizu came up to bat with two outs and a runner on second base. He carefully adjusted his grip and turned his piercing eyes far behind the pitcher. His body began to sway, front and back, front and back, he was priming himself for a homerun.

[TN: I don’t play baseball, so feel free to correct me if I got anything wrong.]

On the third pitch, Shimizu swung the bat mightily.

Ping! The ball launched high, the TV reporter reported excitedly—

–“There it goes! High! Will Seikou get in?!”

The grin on my face widened. I knew it was a definite homerun. The camera only caught Shimizu for a second, but I could see he was bellowing his characteristic “Wahahaha!”

–“There it goes! Homerun!!!”

The bench greeted Shimizu with smiles and patted him on the back. No matter where he went, everyone loved Shimizu.

In the ninth inning, Nidaisan failed to score two runs, so Seikou Academy won the game 2 to 1. It was an amazing match, the two teams were really doing their best.

Then, my consciousness returned to the dark room where I sat alone.

What the hell am I doing?

That one thought made me wish I would disappear.