problems.
Naoki had a “cold” for the first week of school, but after that Werther had just said that he “wasn’t feeling well.”
“I have to admit that I’ve been lying to you about the reason Naoki hasn’t been coming to school. He isn’t playing hooky. He wants to be here, but somehow he lacks the will to come—it’s a psychological block of some kind.”
I couldn’t really see what the difference was between “wanting to come” and “having the will to come,” but that’s the spin Werther put on it—though it wasn’t clear whether the explanation was his own idea or he was just repeating what Naoki’s mother had said.
“I apologize for not being honest with you about this,” Werther said, and I guess I felt a little sorry for him just then. Naoki had a psychological block all right, but Werther was the only one in the room who didn’t know how he got it.
I don’t think anyone in the class told anyone else about the things you said before you left. After school that day, we all got the same text—“If you tell what A and B did, you’re C”—though we never did figure out who sent it.
All this was leading up to Werther’s big idea: “I want us to think about how we can create an environment that will make it easier for Naoki to come to school,” he told us.
Of course, nobody said anything to this. Even Kenta, who had been playing the straight man for a lot of Werther’s stupid jokes, just sat staring down at his desk. But Werther chose not to notice—or to assume that we were all thinking hard about what he’d said—and started in, telling us his own ideas. As usual, I doubt he really cared what we were thinking anyway.
“Why don’t we make copies of your class notes and deliver them to Naoki at home?” This brought disgusted groans from various places around the room. “Why not?” Werther asked Ry ō ji, picking on him because his groan had been the loudest.
“Because,” Ry ō ji muttered, not looking up, “my house is on the other side of town from his.” Not bad for an on-the-fly excuse.
“No worries,” said Werther. “How ’bout we do this? You take notes in shifts, and then once a week Mizuki and I will deliver them to Naoki’s house.”
Why me? Because I’m class president again this year (Y ū suke’s vice president, by the way), and because I live in the same neighborhood as Naoki. I made sure not to let on how I felt about his plan, but I guess he could tell I wasn’t thrilled right from the start. At one point he asked me straight out why I was cold with him—I don’t know for sure why he would say that, but it might be because I was the only one who refused to call him Werther to his face. Anyway, the next thing I knew he was asking me whether I had a nickname. I told him I didn’t—that everyone called me Mizuki—but then Ayako spoke up and practically shouted, “Mizuho!” And she was right, that was what everybody called me for the first few years of elementary school. “Mi-zu- ho, ” they’d say, stretching out the last syllable for emphasis.
“I like it!” Werther said. “It’s settled. From now on I’m going to call you Mizuho. What about the rest of you? Fate brought all of us together in this class. Let’s really get to know each other, break down all the walls between us!”
So after that, thanks to Werther, I went back to being Mizuho.
We started taking the notes to Naoki’s house on the second Friday in May. I knew right where he lived and had actually been inside lots of times, since one of his older sisters had sort of taken care of me when I was six or seven.
Naoki’s mom came to meet us at the door. I hadn’t seen her in a long time, but she looked just the same—perfect makeup, beautiful clothes. When I’d been there playing with his sister, I remember how she would talk nonstop about Naoki, even when he wasn’t in the room: how she was serving pancakes because they’re his favorite, how he’d found
Naoki had a “cold” for the first week of school, but after that Werther had just said that he “wasn’t feeling well.”
“I have to admit that I’ve been lying to you about the reason Naoki hasn’t been coming to school. He isn’t playing hooky. He wants to be here, but somehow he lacks the will to come—it’s a psychological block of some kind.”
I couldn’t really see what the difference was between “wanting to come” and “having the will to come,” but that’s the spin Werther put on it—though it wasn’t clear whether the explanation was his own idea or he was just repeating what Naoki’s mother had said.
“I apologize for not being honest with you about this,” Werther said, and I guess I felt a little sorry for him just then. Naoki had a psychological block all right, but Werther was the only one in the room who didn’t know how he got it.
I don’t think anyone in the class told anyone else about the things you said before you left. After school that day, we all got the same text—“If you tell what A and B did, you’re C”—though we never did figure out who sent it.
All this was leading up to Werther’s big idea: “I want us to think about how we can create an environment that will make it easier for Naoki to come to school,” he told us.
Of course, nobody said anything to this. Even Kenta, who had been playing the straight man for a lot of Werther’s stupid jokes, just sat staring down at his desk. But Werther chose not to notice—or to assume that we were all thinking hard about what he’d said—and started in, telling us his own ideas. As usual, I doubt he really cared what we were thinking anyway.
“Why don’t we make copies of your class notes and deliver them to Naoki at home?” This brought disgusted groans from various places around the room. “Why not?” Werther asked Ry ō ji, picking on him because his groan had been the loudest.
“Because,” Ry ō ji muttered, not looking up, “my house is on the other side of town from his.” Not bad for an on-the-fly excuse.
“No worries,” said Werther. “How ’bout we do this? You take notes in shifts, and then once a week Mizuki and I will deliver them to Naoki’s house.”
Why me? Because I’m class president again this year (Y ū suke’s vice president, by the way), and because I live in the same neighborhood as Naoki. I made sure not to let on how I felt about his plan, but I guess he could tell I wasn’t thrilled right from the start. At one point he asked me straight out why I was cold with him—I don’t know for sure why he would say that, but it might be because I was the only one who refused to call him Werther to his face. Anyway, the next thing I knew he was asking me whether I had a nickname. I told him I didn’t—that everyone called me Mizuki—but then Ayako spoke up and practically shouted, “Mizuho!” And she was right, that was what everybody called me for the first few years of elementary school. “Mi-zu- ho, ” they’d say, stretching out the last syllable for emphasis.
“I like it!” Werther said. “It’s settled. From now on I’m going to call you Mizuho. What about the rest of you? Fate brought all of us together in this class. Let’s really get to know each other, break down all the walls between us!”
So after that, thanks to Werther, I went back to being Mizuho.
We started taking the notes to Naoki’s house on the second Friday in May. I knew right where he lived and had actually been inside lots of times, since one of his older sisters had sort of taken care of me when I was six or seven.
Naoki’s mom came to meet us at the door. I hadn’t seen her in a long time, but she looked just the same—perfect makeup, beautiful clothes. When I’d been there playing with his sister, I remember how she would talk nonstop about Naoki, even when he wasn’t in the room: how she was serving pancakes because they’re his favorite, how he’d found
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