Chapter 1 - Akio FurusawaMonday, October 16thSo, Hachiko. I must’ve been around seven - that Ultraman T-shirt from my sixth birthday was starting to bear battle scars from my escapades on the pyground - and I was…well, I was confused.
It was just some random old statue of an Akita you could’ve found dang near anywhere, right?
Maybe having picked up on my indifference, Dad sat me down on this bench, this very same bench, his eyes casting out into the busy scramble crossing, and started speaking in that low, gravelly voice that may as well have been a lulby.
As he began recounting the famous tale, Mom, having materialized by my side at some point, handkerchief in hand, began to dab across my increasingly blurry eyes, the very same eyes I find myself drying now.
After reaching the tale's heartbreaking conclusion, Dad nodded in silence, as if my tears were indication of a story well woven. We sat there, the three of us, our eyes focused on the monument before us, that had been given a new, tragic quality.
My chest was starting to hurt.
“For nine years,” my father began after a while. “For nine whole years he waited. He waited, and waited, and waited for his owner, the only man he’d ever loved, to come home back to him.”
I must have been loudly sobbing by now, because the next thing I remember was Mom’s arms around me. Tight. Shaking.
Even then, I was suppressing the strangest suspicion that my father was referring to much more than just the noble canine, though I couldn’t possibly have known back then.
The st thing I remembered was Dad’s eyes on me. That might just be the first occasion I can recall him crying, actually.
“Be like Hachiko, my son.” He managed between choked breaths. Mom was shuddering even harder.
“Be like Hachiko.”
Even now, years ter, I still find myself putting my handkerchief away into my inside pocket, fumbling around with the stray bits of tissue and two wrapped pieces of candy Yakky gave me the other day. The square was currently getting more packed by the minute, looking to crescendo into the morning rush hour.
This was my cue.
As if paying my respects to the tenacity of the ceaselessly loyal companion, I leaned forward into a curt bow directed at the immortalized Akita dog, catching the bewildered looks of some passersby. Satisfied nonetheless, I took off into the Scramble Crossing, finding myself absorbed into the stampede, a dull parade of suits and uniforms.
After having politely shimmied and pardon, excuse me ‘d my way out of the parade of sarymen and women I would soon join, I took the usual left after the 104 Building into Higashioji Street, soon catching sight of my fellow students adorned in the signature navy bzer of Tensei High.
No other school in the Shibuya area could match the familiar golden shield, emblemed with a regal looking horse coloured in white engraved on the breast pocket. Or so I remember being told by the recruiter.
Idle chatter of ‘I’m screwed for these midterms’ and ‘Did she send you this video’ warped and wefted through the avenue, until I’d finally arrived at the gates.
Putting on my best expression, I transformed; shoulders down, chin up, torso open, cadence cheerful, just like I’d practiced.
Good.
With a few nods, some heys, what’s up, no ways ter, I was soon facing my locker. After a few turns and twists of the dial, I dismissed the odd sensation that something had changed about the storage space, instead opting to lift the gargantuan tome that was my calculus textbook into my grossly under-equipped schoolbag.
As I did so, the glint of something metallic, shiny dropping to the floor with a few distinct clinks sliced into view. Dragging the bag’s strap off of my weary shoulder, I allowed gravity to drop it to the ground with a steady thud, as I crouched down to examine the artefact of interest.
The cold steel of the item sent a chill down my fingers, my eyes scanning the image of a dark purple circle, with a bright, particurly incongruous depiction of a rising sun smack dab in the middle.
It seemed, to me, to be some sort of badge, and not the cutesy, stylish ones some of the first year girls had been parading around. For what purpose this new kind served, I could only conjecture.
Unless Rusuban and the other council members decided to recruit a secret society, this being their cryptic invite, then I concluded somebody must have simply dropped it as they were passing by.
So when, after 5 or so minutes of standing by my locker, no owner came by to cim the trinket, I supposed I may as well hold onto it, though I can’t say for certain what drove me to that conclusion, nor what caused to me to think that I may come to regret it.
“If you need advice, I’m all ears, y’know?” Nakamura decred triumphantly. “Heck, maybe we can hook you up with one of Junko’s girlfriends. I’m sure one of ‘em will be willing to date even your ugly ass!”
Yakky, brandishing a rolled-up magazine embellished with a particurly tasty-looking rendition of beef tongue with salty green onion sauce, proceeded to smack the innocent document against Nakamura’s arm, causing the tter to wince dramatically between his jeers.
“Cut it! You just got lucky. Hell if I know what she even sees in your punk ass,” Yakky replied, smiling. “Sure as hell can’t be your intelligence.”
“If intelligence was what really mattered, our resident nerd over here would be getting his own soap commercial right about now,” Nakamura huffed, to which our ‘resident nerd’, Ryuzaki, shrugged indifferently in reply, his eyes snapping back to the handheld device in his hands.
“We get a lot of fck for being shallow, but I’ll tell ya, chicks are just as bad.” Nakamura continued. “Intelligence? They ain’t looking for chess partners – they’re looking for someone popur, strong… someone other girls want. They want you as a trophy, dude. Something to prove their worth to the outside world. That’s all.“
At this decration, we all remained quiet, either in silent assent, or weary of voicing our true opinions for fear of dragging up memories Nakamura had expressed explicit desire never to be spoken of again.
“So,” I began, attempting to change the direction of conversation, “When are the two lovebirds heading out on their first date?”
Nakamura smiled, almost appreciative of the change in topic.
“Dude, I’m takin’ her to Central tonight. Why’d you think I got all that homework done in advance? I’m tellin’ ya, if I press all the right buttons…”
He then began to bite his bottom lip, spping his palms together with gusto, all the while cooing and moaning dramatically. Profound ughs began to erupt from the group, surely in spite of ourselves, as Nakamura took the positive reception as encouragement to add even more vigor to his performance.
“Wait, Nakky-kun ~! I’m sensitive theeere ~ “ he crooned. I bmed the ck of breath in my lungs for distracting me from imagining what Junko would say, would feel, if she were here with us now. If we would still feel comfortable doing what we currently were.
The sound of the bell suddenly resonated through the building, floating up through the hallways and across the rooftop space we found ourselves in.
“Go time,” Nakamura sighed, seemingly disappointed.
I cleared my throat.
“Anyone up to head down to Tipsy Tose after css?” I offered. “Hear they got a brand new game installed after… you know.”
I felt a sharp nosedive in the group's animation. I quickly deduced we wouldn't be heading back there for a while yet.
“No good,” admitted Yakky. “Home Ec Club. Gotta take my kitchen mastery to an even higher level!”
The rest of us nodded in understanding after sharing knowing looks at each other. He wasn’t fooling anybody.
“Anime and Manga Club screening today,” then replied Ryuzaki, as verbally conservative as ever.
“Another time.” Nakamura eloquently concluded on my behalf.
“No problem,” I lied. “Let’s hang out when everyone's free.”
With that, I exchanged final see you ters and even a good luck, use protection!, as I’m meant to, before heading off to Algebra with Mr. Inoue, Ryuzaki in tow.
It was looking like another lonely evening in the library.
