Best Friend

I just needed somewhere with no people. I went right, left, upstairs, downstairs, until I reached a gloomy classroom I’d never seen before. By then I was beginning to frighten myself, but I couldn’t stop the tears. I sobbed like a small child. Perhaps the only other time I’d cried this hard was when I was born.

If I kept going, my eyes would swell. I tried desperately to stop, but my emotions refused to cooperate.

After a little over five minutes, I bought a random cold drink and pressed the can against my eyelids.

I’d bought soda. I couldn’t even drink soda.

I hurried back before anyone could get suspicious. Yuka was waiting in the corridor. One look at her delighted face told me we were in the same class.

I walked over without saying anything.

“Welcome back, Karen. Soda? That’s new. Can you drink it now?”

“No, I just pressed the wrong button…”

“You make silly mistakes like that too?”

When she was surprised, her already round eyes grew rounder and her eyebrows dipped. That was one of the things I loved about her.

Did Prince Charming know that yet?

Did he know that, despite her soft, dreamy appearance, she worked harder than anyone else in the gardening club? That she listened to foreign rock and metal? That she could run fifty meters in under eight seconds? That her favorite food was her dad’s mapo tofu? That when she didn’t know the answer on a multiple-choice test, she usually picked number two? That when she was bored, she opened and closed her mouth like a goldfish? That in winter she liked wearing my cardigan?

Did he know all of it? Every last thing?

Would there be more and more things that only he and Yuka knew, things I didn’t?

Our new homeroom teacher introduced himself. I barely listened. From second period onward, we had modern Japanese, math, and world history. Then the bell announced lunch.

Before going to find Yuka, I stopped at a sink where we were allowed to pour out drinks and opened the now-lukewarm soda. A listless hiss sounded around me.

The liquid was somewhere between black and brown, almost exactly the shade of the darkest color in an old Heisei-era eyeshadow palette. It looked like the murkiest part of my love for her.

If only I could pour these feelings away as easily.

I rinsed the can, threw it in the bin, and headed back. In the corridor, I passed Tanaka from Class Three and Riho from our class.

Had they always been that close? Had something happened over spring break?

Lucky them.

I was grateful that Yuka and I went to the same school and her prince went somewhere else. At the same time, I sent a complaint up to the sky.

Why hadn’t I been born a boy?

It wasn’t that I wanted to be one. But surely my chances with Yuka would have been better. I didn’t want a different body, either. Couldn’t I stay a girl and somehow just look like a boy to everyone else?

Even I knew that was asking too much.

Yuka’s lunch contained her specialty, rolled omelet, along with spring rolls packed with filling, healthy chicken patties, and little octopus-shaped sausages decorated with colorful food picks. There was also freshly baked bread from her father. It was still faintly warm, the dough as soft as her cheeks.

My lunch was mostly brown. I wasn’t a morning person, so I usually threw in whatever frozen food or leftovers I could find: fried chicken, miniature hamburger steaks, stir-fried burdock root, and, when I had time, breaded horse mackerel. Yuka was always happy when I shared, so I deliberately kept the brown-food festival going.

We exchanged a little of everything. I was staring at her omelet, wondering what made it seem slightly different, when she noticed.

“The other day, I made too much omelet while I was practicing, so I gave some to Sota. He said it was the best he’d ever had! So I thought I’d try making a new version.”

I didn’t want to think about Yuka’s boundless devotion, or about the boy who would probably receive it and return it in equal measure.

Yuka, I was the first person who told you it was delicious.

I supposed my praise wasn’t enough to make her want to improve.

“But you were the first person who ever complimented it, Karen, so I wanted you to be the first to try this one! Tell me what you think.”

A piece of cheese omelet landed on the rice in my lunchbox. It contained Camembert and mozzarella. The seasoning was simple, but the sweetness of the egg and the saltiness of the cheese brought out the best in each other. It made me want another mouthful of rice.

“It’s delicious! The sweet egg and salty cheese go really well together. If you wanted something a little lighter, maybe you could try mixing in cottage cheese or cream cheese.”

“Really? I’m glad! You’re so good at describing food, Karen.”

It wasn’t a natural talent. I’d simply spent so much time advising her on her cooking and her father’s new bakery products that my food-reviewing skills had developed at an alarming rate.

Soon I’d be relieved of that duty too.

Maybe I should write a female version of Solitary Gourmet and try to make it big.

“Anyway, we’re going out together soon, and I’m thinking of telling him how I feel…”

As Yuka talked, I found myself returning to that morning’s world history lesson: Marie Antoinette on the brink of execution.

Oh, Marie. What went through your mind when they told you?

The afternoon’s lessons barely registered either. My mind was elsewhere. Japanese, which normally made its way into my head even when I wasn’t paying attention, passed straight from one ear to the other. My brain refused to make sense of the strings of words.

Yuka asked me to walk home with her that day. But my desire to go with her lost to my desire not to hear another word about her future boyfriend.

I said I wasn’t feeling well and went home alone.

The walk was dull without her. I kicked a stone as I went. My loafer scored a critical hit, sending it plopping into a rice field. A frog jumped away.

Once home, I couldn’t bring myself to do anything. I lay on my back and counted stains on the ceiling.

I must have lost consciousness somewhere around a thousand. By the time my mother called me for dinner, my uniform was thoroughly creased.

We were having curry, my favorite, but I couldn’t taste it. Normally I would have eaten two helpings. That evening, I left half of my first.

My family was worried. I brushed off their questions and ran upstairs.

I cried harder than I ever had in my seventeen years. “Cried” hardly seemed adequate for the way my face was drenched in tears. By around three in the morning, I no longer knew why I was crying. Tears simply dropped from my eyes, one after another, like a reflex.

The next day, and the day after that, Yuka and Sota grew closer. With each passing day, food tasted less and less of anything.

I wasn’t much of a gourmet, so losing the pleasure of my favorite foods didn’t trouble me as much as it might have. What terrified me was the possibility of losing my job as Yuka’s taste tester.

Fortunately, my deception seemed convincing. No one noticed.

Only my mother said anything.

“Have you been eating less lately? If you’re dieting, don’t overdo it.”

I gave her a quiet yes.

Yuka was going on a date with him that Sunday.

“Karen, how do you think I should tell him?”

Could anyone on earth refuse Yuka when she looked up at them like that?

Once again, I found myself supplying the enemy with everything he needed.

But if it made Yuka happy, that was enough for me.

It was supposed to be enough.

I’d meant to keep my place as her best friend through nothing but selfless devotion.

Yuka and Sota started going out.

I could tell how things were progressing just by watching her. The day after they first held hands, she kept opening and closing her right hand, even during class, savoring the happiness of the day before. She was so absorbed in it that when the teacher called on her, she couldn’t answer and nearly burst into tears.

What a pure, lovable creature she was.

My hopeless love for her grew by the day—exponentially, and that wasn’t much of an exaggeration. So did my tendency to read too much into everything. I kept looking for signs that their relationship had taken another step forward, then wishing I hadn’t looked at all.

I had never paid much attention to the changing seasons before. But this was my first summer with days when Yuka didn’t walk home with me, so I could hardly ignore it.

I hated summer. Especially summer without Yuka. I wanted it over as quickly as possible.

With Yuka there, the glaring sun became a spotlight illuminating a sunflower, natural stage lighting that made its leading actress shine.

Without her, it was just a vitamin D production machine.

With Yuka there, the cicadas became a chorus accompanying a beautiful girl through the heat of summer, their voices mingling with the dry wind.

Without her, they were just noisy bugs.

That summer was miserable. I knew I was about to lose the only thing I enjoyed about the season.

Yuka struggled with schoolwork, so every summer I stayed over to help with her vacation assignments. This year, someone better qualified than me was available.

Summer existed so that afterward we could eat watermelon and play in the river. If we couldn’t do that, what was the point of having summer at all?

It had been reduced to a season of needless heat, deafening cicadas, and sunburn.

As a distraction—and because I’d been promised some spending money—I decided to visit relatives. I picked the dates, then spent the rest of my time at home eating ice cream because going outside seemed like too much trouble.

In the diary we had to keep for homework, I made up stories about trips to the beach.

Lately, I seemed to be getting even better at lying.

And that should have been the end of the summer I was seventeen.

“Karen, want to come over from the twentieth and do homework? Please save me from this book report 😭”

I did a little dance of joy. I jumped high enough to discover both how close the ceiling was and how impressive my own jumping ability could be.

Summer was a magnificent season.

I raced downstairs fast enough to challenge the god of speed, told my mother I wouldn’t be visiting our relatives after all, and got permission to stay at Yuka’s.

The next day, I went to a department store to buy sweets for her mother, chose the cutest pajamas I owned, and practiced making my makeup look as though I wasn’t wearing any.

After that, I went through the homework two or three times, studying with single-minded determination until I understood everything perfectly and could explain it to her.

I left nothing to chance. This sleepover would be flawless.

It had been a little over a week since I’d last seen Yuka. Her fair complexion looked even lovelier in the summer light. Her straw hat, with its large ribbon, seemed to promise romance.

“Sorry, Karen. I really meant to do it all by myself this year…”

She could have relied on me from the beginning. How hardworking she was, trying to manage on her own.

“It’s fine! I didn’t have any plans, so I was just sitting around. And anyway, I wanted to spend time with you!”

Enough to resent the entire season when I thought I couldn’t.

I let the words dissolve before they reached my mouth.

Yuka’s mother welcomed me with a glass of cold barley tea. I sat there holding it, absurdly happy to be in their house again, then immediately felt embarrassed by the strength of my own happiness.

We finished the homework sooner than usual, partly because Yuka had already made a determined attempt at it herself. Only the book report remained.

That was wonderful news. But something else occupied far more of my attention.

There were small changes in Yuka I couldn’t help noticing: moments when her attention drifted and she smiled to herself. I kept trying to guess what had happened between her and Sota, though every guess only made me miserable.

Once we’d finished the day’s quota, Yuka suddenly blushed as though the summer heat had caught up with her.

“The other day, Sota and I…”

I knew where the story was going before she finished. It was exactly what I’d feared: another happy memory the two of them shared, one that had nothing to do with me.

Partway through, I stopped taking in the words and began counting prime numbers.

Two, three, five, seven…

By the time we’d finished telling each other about our summers, the sun was beginning to set. We decided to take a short walk before dinner. While tidying up, I accidentally opened the wrong cupboard.

Something fell out. Then several more things followed, scattering across the floor.

Yuka hurried to pick them up. I crouched to help and stumbled, finding myself suddenly face-to-face with her.

For one bewildering second, I couldn’t move.

Yuka, when did being close to you become so difficult?

We had once spent every day together without thinking about it. Now I could feel her moving farther away, and I had no idea how to ask her to stay.

Then I came to my senses.

“Sorry. I got a little dizzy…”

It was the only explanation I could manage.

Yuka accepted it without question. Deciding I must be suffering from the heat, she made me lie down with an ice pillow.

The thought that I was deceiving someone so kind filled me with a guilt I could barely bear. All I could do was lie there and wait for the tightness in my chest to ease.

The curry Yuka had started preparing for me the day before actually tasted of something.

The gentle sweetness of carrots and onions. Fluffy potatoes. Spices that tingled on my tongue. Apple as the secret ingredient.

I was so happy to taste food again—and happier still that she’d made it with me in mind—that I ate three helpings.

As I served myself the third, I worried I was taking too much in someone else’s house. But Yuka only smiled, her eyes softening with pleasure as she watched me eat. There was relief in her expression too. Perhaps my mother had mentioned my recent lack of appetite.

For a little while, I was simply glad to feel full again.

We spent the rest of the evening getting ready for bed. By the time we settled into her room, I was exhausted by the effort of acting as though nothing was wrong.

I cared about Yuka so much. Yet I couldn’t stop resenting the happiness I wanted her to have. The contradiction was unbearable.

I’d decided I would cry alone that night.

But Yuka was there.

“Hey, Karen. Let’s talk about love!”

“About Sota? I’ll listen, as long as we don’t stay up too late.”

“No, I want to hear about you!”

She looked straight at me. I knew that look. Once Yuka set her mind on something, she wouldn’t give up until she’d accomplished it.

Obviously, I couldn’t tell her that the person I loved was her.