Another, Novel 02 Read online

  Another

  Volume 2

  Yukito Ayatsuji

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  Part 2

  How?…………Who?

  Chapter 10

  June V

  1

  The next day began a peculiar lifestyle at North Yomi.

  It was unpleasant at first, obviously. I knew the answer to How could they? but only felt all the more out of place and rebellious. Intellectually, it was understandable, but emotionally I couldn’t accept it.

  Every single person in the class, including the teachers, treated Mei and me as if we didn’t exist. In response, Mei and I acted as if every single person except the two of us wasn’t there. What a twisted, unnatural situation.

  Still, no matter how warped or unnatural, gradually people get used to the situation they find themselves in. Since the rules were crystal clear, I would even say it was a couple steps up from how terrible I’d felt at my last school. As day after day went by, I started to see that things really might not be that bad, and that idea started to win out.

  It’s not so bad…I mean, compared to the unsettled situation of only a few days ago when the “what?” and the “why?” had been obscure, this was way better. And on a totally different level, I’d say, yeah, it probably was way better.

  The solitude of Mei Misaki and me, alone out of the entire class.

  In other words, it’s equivalent to freedom for me and Mei, alone out of the entire class.

  Like maybe…I would entertain slightly childish fantasies at times.

  Now no matter how Mei and I behaved in the classroom of third-year Class 3, no matter what we talked about, no one would be able to say a word about it. They all had to pretend that they saw nothing and heard nothing.

  Even if Mei dyed her hair some crazy color. Even if I suddenly busted out singing in the middle of a class, or did a handstand on top of my desk. Even if we started loudly discussing plans to rob a bank. Even then, everyone would most likely continue pretending that they couldn’t see or hear us. Not even if we were to embrace like lovers in the middle of the room.

  Hold it right there, Koichi.

  Better put the brakes on run-of-the-mill fantasies like that, given the present circumstances. Got that, kid?

  Anyway…

  In a certain sense, this offered an incredibly peaceful, low-key environment that I never could have achieved in an ordinary school setting.

  I interpreted the situation that way, too.

  And yet behind the calm and the tranquility, of course, tension and wariness lingered; anxiety and fear; dread, inescapable, brought about by constantly wondering whether the “disasters” for this year were going to keep happening.

  So it had gone for a little over a week after this phase of our lives had begun. Even when June was half over, there had been no new incidents.

  I think the number of times Mei stayed home from school and skipped classes during this period dropped considerably.

  On the other hand, it went up for me. No question about it.

  But though the issue would normally have been cause to alarm an educator, the head teacher, Mr. Kubodera, never reprimanded me for it. And no way could he inform my grandparents, who were my guardians here in Yomiyama. According to Mei, when there were parent-teacher conferences for high school placement counseling, or whatever else, they arranged for a different teacher to sit in on the meeting for the student who was “not there.”

  From time to time, the assistant teacher, Ms. Mikami, acted deeply agonized, too. I would be lying if I said that didn’t bother me. But…I couldn’t exactly voice my complaints to her. I really don’t think I could have.

  I was following along fine in class. The teachers would most likely massage my attendance record, and if I could knock out the exams, what was the problem? Barring anything crazy happening, getting into high school was going to be a breeze thanks to my dad’s connections, so…

  These little rebellions had been my only option. And the thought rose all on its own, Nothing wrong with that, is there?

  2

  Mei and I, the two “non-existers,” would often go up to the roof of Building C on days when it wasn’t raining. We ate lunch together up there sometimes, too.

  I had my grandmother’s homemade lunch, as usual. Mei would typically nibble on some bread while drinking tea from a can.

  “Kirika doesn’t make your lunches for you?”

  “Sometimes. When she feels like it.”

  Mei’s answer to my question was indifferent. Without any serious moaning or self-pity.

  “Maybe once or twice a month. But to be honest, they taste awful.”

  “Do you cook for yourself or anything?”

  “Nope.”

  And here again, the shake of her head was indifferent.

  “I can heat up ready-made stuff, but that’s about it. Isn’t that what everyone does?”

  “I’m good at cooking, actually.”

  “You are?”

  “I was in the culinary arts club at my last school.”

  “…That’s different.”

  Not something I wanted to hear from Mei.

  “Then can you cook me something sometime?”

  “Wh—? Uh, sure. One of these days,” I replied after a moment’s flustered hesitation. How far in the future would that day be? The thought, half-formed, occurred to me as I answered. “Speaking of, you used to be in the art club, right?”

  “When I was in first year, yeah. I’ve known Mochizuki since back then.”

  “What about now?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Are you in the art club now?”

  “There was no art club in second year. Or I guess I mean, they put the club on hiatus.”

  “But it started back up this April, right?”

  “Yeah, and I showed up a couple times in April. But once May started, that was it.”

  Meaning she couldn’t go anymore because she’d become “not there.”

  “Was Ms. Mikami the sponsor in your first year, too?”

  There was a slight pause during which Mei glanced at my face before replying, “Ms. Mikami was too, yeah. There was another art teacher who was the main sponsor. But in our second year, that teacher transferred to another school, so…”

  So then the club had gone on hiatus for a year until Ms. Mikami had made up her mind to take on sole sponsorship of the club, huh? I see.

  “That reminds me. You were drawing a picture up here once, remember? The first time we met up here, you had a sketchbook with you.”

  “Did I?”

  “I saw you with the same sketchbook in the secondary library, too. Did you finish the picture you were drawing?”

  “…For now.”

  She had been drawing a picture of a beautiful young girl with ball joints. I remembered how Mei had said, “I’m going to give this girl huge wings, last of all.”

  “Did you put the wings on yet?”

  “…Yeah, sure.” Mei’s eyes lowered, hiding a shadow of sadness. “I’ll let you see it one of these days.”

  “Okay.”

  One of these days, huh? How far in the future would that be?
<
br />   As we progressed through this undeniably trivial conversation, I felt as if we spent a lot of time talking about me, though I wasn’t fielding an unusual number of questions. I talked about my dad being in India. About my dead mother. About my life before I came to Yomiyama and about my life after. About my grandparents. About Reiko. About my collapsed lung and being hospitalized. About Ms. Mizuno…

  But unless I asked Mei a specific question, she didn’t make any effort to talk about herself. In fact, even when I did ask her something, most of the time she would resist answering or dance around the issue.

  “What do you do for fun? Draw pictures?”

  I even tried asking her questions formally like that.

  “Actually, I like looking at pictures more than I like drawing them, I think.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Even then I only mean art books, really. We have a ton of them at my house.”

  “Have you ever been to an art exhibit?”

  “Living in a rural town like this, you don’t get a lot of opportunities for that.”

  She told me she preferred the Western art that predated Impressionism. And that she didn’t actually care for pictures like the ones her mother, Kirika, painted.

  “What about dolls?” I asked on an impulse. “What do you think of the dolls Kirika makes? Do you not really like those, either?”

  “…Well, y’know.” In a reflection of her words, an ambiguous cloud came over her expression. “I don’t hate them. And there are some that I like, but…”

  I decided not to push any further. In the most lighthearted tone I could manage, I said, “You should come visit me in Tokyo sometime. We’ll go visit the art museums. I’ll show you around.”

  “Okay. Someday.”

  Someday…

  Just how far in the future would that be from this moment? Again the thought rose in my mind half-formed.

  3

  “You want to go take a peek into the art club room?”

  It was during lunch on Thursday, June 18, that Mei suggested this.

  It had been pouring rain all day, so there was no way we could eat on the roof. Still, the two of us who were “not there” were reluctant to eat in the classroom like everyone else. When fourth period ended, it was as if we’d signaled to each other: we both immediately got up from our desks and left the classroom. That was when Mei made the suggestion.

  I could think of less interesting places to go, so I quickly agreed. “Sure.”

  The art club room was on the first floor of Building Zero, all the way at the western end. Originally, the room had been a regular classroom. It had been divided in two and was now half as big and being used as the art club room. The next room over was the culture club room. There was a placard hanging on the door that said “Local Historical Society.”

  “Oh!” someone cried out as soon as we went in.

  There was already someone inside.

  Two girls I’d never seen before. Judging by the colors of their name tags, one was a second-year and the other was a first-year. The second-year had a narrow, calm face and a ponytail, while the first-year had a major baby face and glasses with red frames.

  “Misaki-senpai!” the second-year with the ponytail exclaimed. She blinked in wonder. “What are you…?”

  “I felt like coming over,” Mei replied with her usual dryness.

  “Didn’t you quit the club?”

  “I’m just taking a break from it.”

  “Oh-h-h, really?”

  This from the first-year with the glasses.

  It seemed that these girls hadn’t been let in on the special situation of third-year Class 3 (though since there was a rule that said “no telling anyone outside of class,” that wasn’t surprising). They began talking to Mei in a perfectly normal way, which was better proof than anything.

  “Um, who’s that?” the second-year asked, looking at me.

  Mei quickly replied, “My classmate, Sakakibara. He’s friends with Mochizuki, too.”

  “Oh-h-h, really?”

  The first-year. Her reply was in exactly the same tone, as if she were replaying a default recording. Her expression was exactly the same, too, and she had kind of a bashful smile…Urk. This might not be so awesome for me.

  “He said he’s interested in the art club, so I brought him over,” Mei said, offering just enough of an explanation.

  “Oh-h-h, really?”

  “Are you going to join?” the second-year asked, throwing me completely off-kilter.

  “Uh, I wasn’t going to…I mean, I dunno. I…”

  As I struggled through my response, Mei slipped right past the two girls. I followed her lead and walked into the room.

  It was kept much more neatly than I’d expected, somehow.

  In the middle of the room were two big worktables exactly like the one in the art room. One wall had been made into lockers for the club members, and on the opposite wall were big steel shelves with art supplies and a bunch of other stuff neatly arranged on them.

  “Mochizuki hasn’t changed,” Mei remarked, walking up to one of several easels that had been set up in the room. Looking at it, I saw a copy of Munch’s The Scream—no, not an exact copy. The background details were probably pretty different from the original painting, and the man with his hands over his ears kind of looked like Mochizuki…

  …And at precisely that moment, in walked Yuya Mochizuki himself.

  “Oh, senpai.”

  “Mochizuki-senpai!”

  Hearing the two girls’ voices, I turned around, and there at the door was Mochizuki. The second he saw us, his face transformed, as if he’d just run smack into a ghost or something.

  “Uh, c-could you two come with me for a second? Now?” he said to the girls, keeping his eyes off of us. “I need your help with something right away.”

  “Oh-h-h, really?”

  “But Misaki-senpai is actually here for once…”

  “Just come with me.”

  And so Mochizuki left the room, practically dragging the two girls with him.

  Turning back to The Pseudo Scream on the easel, Mei let out a quiet snicker. It was infectious, and I stifled my own laughter.

  It would be tough to treat us as if we were “not there” and ignore us with those two outsiders there, since they didn’t know what was going on (and of course he couldn’t explain that to them). That’s why he’d needed to get out of there any way he could. But what exactly was Mochizuki going to conjure up for those girls to help with “right away”? As my imagination worked it over, I started to feel sorry for him.

  Mei moved away from The Pseudo Scream and toward the back of the room. She pulled something from the shadows of the lockers.

  A white cloth had been wrapped around the entire thing, but the shape of it told me that this, too, was an easel. Mei gently pulled the cloth away. A French size-ten canvas sat on it backward. Mei gave a low sigh and then turned the canvas around to the front.

  It was a half-finished oil painting. I didn’t need to ask to know this had to belong to Mei…

  The canvas showed a portrait of a woman dressed in black. Her features revealed at a glance that it was her mother…However.

  Bizarrely, the face was being split in two. From the top of her head, through her forehead, eyebrows, nose, and mouth. Her entire face was being ripped open in a “V” shape. Such was the subject of this painting.

  On the right half of the torn face I could discern a faint smile. And on the left, an expression of sorrow. The painting showed no blood and no subcutaneous structures, so it didn’t seem graphic at all. But it was plenty grotesque, and in pretty terrible taste…

  “At least they didn’t throw it out, I guess,” Mei murmured. “If someone like Akazawa were in the art club instead of Mochizuki…”

  She might have destroyed it on the rationale that the painting of someone who’s “not there” can’t be allowed to exist. That’s probably what Mei was implying.

  “You’re g
oing to take it home?” I asked.

  “…No.” Mei gave a slight shake of her head and turned the canvas back around. She wrapped the cloth around the easel and returned it to the shadow of the lockers.

  4

  Right as we came out of the art club room and back into the hall, we ran into Ms. Mikami.

  Naturally, we had to ignore her. And she had to ignore us. I understood that, but my steps stuttered to an inadvertent stop for just one moment.

  Maybe that was why Ms. Mikami came to a stop, too, then turned her eyes away from us uncomfortably. I thought I saw her lips tremble as if to say something…But it might have been my imagination. It all happened in the brief span of a few seconds in the dimly lit hall, after all.

  On Thursdays, fifth period (our next class) was art with Ms. Mikami, but we weren’t planning to go. Due to the nature of the class, the teacher and the rest of the class obviously had it easier when the two “non-existers” were absent. Same with the extended homeroom in sixth period.

  “What are we doing for next period?” I asked Mei in a low voice as we walked side by side down the hall.

  “Let’s go to the library,” she answered. “The secondary library, obviously. We might as well eat lunch there, too.”

  5

  Thus, when the bell to start fifth period rang, we were in the secondary library. When we arrived, there was no one else there and no sign of the librarian, Mr. Chibiki.

  Mei sat down in one of the chairs that circled the large table and started reading a book she’d brought with her. I’d caught a glimpse of the title when she took it out of her bag: The Lonely Crowd. What kind of book is that? I wondered. It seemed completely alien to the genre Ms. Mizuno and I had specialized in, at least.

  “I borrowed it from the main library,” Mei said, her eyes cast down on the open book. “The title kind of spoke to me.”

  “The Lonely Crowd?”

  “It’s written by a man named Riesman. David Riesman. Heard of him?”