Episode 15 — Siren♯

Everyone has things they’re good at and things they aren’t. This is a truth I felt with some force.

In the drawing booth — neither of us knowing quite what we were doing — we were essentially just scribbling on our photos however we liked.

Kanzaki-san’s handwriting was a sinuous, winding thing. The characters of 神崎紫音, written in glittery effects, carved a path somewhere between terrible penmanship and the stylish flourish of a celebrity signature, colouring the screen in bold, dramatic strokes.

“This is fun.”

She seemed somehow satisfied as she kept at it, so — well, that was fine then. If anything, however peculiar the lettering looked beside it, Kanzaki-san’s face in the photo maintained every bit of its beauty and cuteness, and the contrast only seemed to throw her impressiveness into sharper relief.

I wished she’d stop putting cat ears on me without asking — that was embarrassing — but even that small mischief felt somehow endearing.

I was watching over her with that vaguely parental expression of mine as she moved the pen with innocent cheerfulness, when the screen displayed a message: time was almost up. Then it prompted us to wait for the prints, and Kanzaki-san, suddenly at a loose end, turned toward me.

“I drew it well.”

With satisfaction. A touch of pride. Chest out. Something warm moved through me at that childlike quality in her.

“That’s great.”

The voice that came out of me was unsettlingly soft, even for me. Maternal instinct is a frightening thing. And Kanzaki-san — having managed to awaken something resembling maternal instinct in someone as contrary as me — was frightening too. Kanzaki-san’s mother must be tremendously happy, I thought, to have such a lovely daughter.

From there my thoughts leapt, without warning, to my own failings as a daughter. Mum, thank you for working so hard for a contrary child like me. I’m sorry for all the trouble. My mind making leap after improbable leap, murmuring bitter, grateful thoughts toward my mother — when, with an electronic chime, something dropped.

Kanzaki-san crouched down, reached out, and picked it up. There in her palm lay a sheet of printed stickers, decorated with cute designs and their own handiwork.

“That’s us.”

Kanzaki-san said it — and hugged the sticker sheet to her chest like a treasure. Then, quietly, in a clear and transparent voice:

“So this is how fun it is to hang out with a friend.”

Something about those words almost made me cry.

◇◇◇

Kanzaki-san’s step is light. Which necessarily means my pace quickens. Because as a matter of course — our hands are still joined. That childlike hand swings with innocent abandon. Through that connection, my heartbeat is anything but innocent. Something Kanzaki-san, in all likelihood, has no way of knowing.

From time to time she takes the sticker sheet out of her blazer pocket and holds it up to the light, gazing at it. She seems to have taken a real liking to it. A moment ago she’d been about to stick it directly onto her school bag, and I’d had to stop her in a hurry.

Then Kanzaki-san seemed to spot something, and changed direction without warning.

She made for a quietly atmospheric little miscellany shop. And stopped in front of a display of keychains and straps.

“I like this.”

She reached into the display and took something out. It was a strap in the shape of a small book.

Beside the point, but — please don’t say like so casually. It makes my heart race even when it isn’t directed at me. I vaguely recalled reading somewhere about a romantic technique along those lines — at the time I’d privately dismissed it as nonsense, but perhaps it wasn’t so easily dismissed after all.

Though probably what wasn’t easily dismissed wasn’t any romantic technique, but Kanzaki-san herself. Because right now, watching her gaze at the strap with shining eyes, I was thinking thoughts entirely uncharacteristic of me.

I want to buy it for her. Would that make her happy?

By the time I thought it, it was already too late. My wallet — painstakingly filled with lunch money saved over time — let out a silent scream. I found I didn’t care.

“Shall I get it for you?”

The words came out of their own accord, ignoring my intentions entirely.

“…Is that okay?”
“Yes. You’re always playing piano for me. Consider it a thank-you.”

I said it quickly, attaching a plausible-sounding reason to hide the actual weight of what I felt. Kanzaki-san stood still at those words, expressionless as ever, for a moment — and then:

She moved as if pulled by something, and disappeared around the back of the display. The joined hands came apart at that. For no particular reason, I felt the absence.

Then shortly after, Kanzaki-san came back to me. In her hand, another strap, similar to the first. And then what touched my palm wasn’t Kanzaki-san’s hand but something else.

“In return.”

What she placed in my hand was a strap in the shape of a purple musical note.

“Are you sure?”

The question fell out of me, a mirror of hers.

“Yes. It’s my thank-you too.”
“I haven’t done anything.”
“…You’re always watching me.”
“That’s enough?”
“Yes. So from now on — keep watching only me.”

Kanzaki-san said it, expressionless as always, without the slightest hesitation. Something with a fair amount of weight to it — delivered so lightly. But the weight didn’t bother me at all. I found myself simply receiving it, without resistance.

“Matching, then.”

I said it, flustered by how strange the word sounded coming from me, looking away as I did — and:

“Matching…”

Kanzaki-san held the word close, and whispered it back.

◇◇◇

Kanzaki-san’s step has a spring in it. Positively buoyant. She holds out her phone toward me like she’s showing it off — the strap hanging from it visible.

“We match.”

She says it, watching the purple note swinging from the phone in my hand. The usual expressionless face, failing entirely to conceal the feeling behind it. I find that dear.

I was in the grip of feelings entirely unlike myself, looking at the little book strap hanging from Kanzaki-san’s phone — when it vibrated without warning. A ringtone like a siren blared from Kanzaki-san’s phone.

In answer to it, Kanzaki-san’s face went pale.

On the screen:

Mum.