Episode 29 — A Song for a Friend

The entrance to a karaoke chain, a short walk from the station. I steeled myself and stepped toward the automatic door, leading the way — drawing Shion along by the hand.

Inside, I was full of nerves. Shion, in complete contrast to my inner state, murmured:

“I’ve never been to karaoke before, so I’m excited.”

That guileless tone of voice — and I thought: I have to protect her. I have to escort Shion safely through her karaoke debut.

“Is — is that right. Well, you can leave it to me.”

What exactly was being left to me. Even as I mentally pointed that out, I straightened my spine to match word to action.

The fact that the last time I’d been to karaoke was years ago, taken by my mother. The unfamiliarity of hanging out with a friend after school. An allowance that wasn’t exactly plentiful. All of those things I set aside for the moment, putting on a front for Shion’s sake.

But the instant we went in, that front was smashed to pieces. Unlike my hazy childhood memory, there was no staff member at the reception desk — in their place, a row of suspicious-looking red machines.

“What are those?”
“You check in over there.”

I hid my alarm and spoke with authority, edging nervously toward the machines.

I fumbled through the buttons — number of people, ages, the basic details — and then:

“Oh—”

A receipt slip shot out of the machine without warning. The undignified sound that accompanied it was covered by a deliberate cough. Did that work?

I glanced sideways at Shion. And was scorched by a beam of sparkling light.

Shion was staring at the slip still hanging from the machine’s output slot with eyes full of curiosity. Then she asked, like a small child:

“Can I take it?”
“Go ahead.”

When I nodded, Shion stretched out her hand cautiously and took it — and stared at the number printed on it with a puzzled expression.

I mobilised every last scrap of my old karaoke memories and conveyed the relevant portion to Shion.

“You go into the room with the same number as that.”
“Where’s the room?”
“Um — that way, I think.”

And I led Shion onward again. She toddled along behind. We’re almost exactly the same height — and yet Shion somehow seemed like a small child.

I thought: this moment of hers — her first-time memories — are being engraved with me in them, right now. And then I thought about how shameless and strange it was that I was thinking something like that. I resolved to live more humbly, at least — so that the memory wouldn’t turn into something tarnished.

Resolving this most un-humbly as I was subjected to the store’s entirely un-humble music and announcements, I soon arrived at the designated room and opened the door.

“Hello everyone tuning in to D○ Channel—”

An idol whose moment was clearly now rang out to greet us.

“Here.”

Shion answered the idol’s address in a small voice.

Adorable.

Distracted by Shion’s unexpectedly playful side, I switched on the lights and put my bag down on one arm of the L-shaped sofa. I took Shion’s bag too and set them side by side.

Then sat down beside them. I’d assumed Shion would sit on the other sofa — I was starting to think I’d have to let go of her hand — when.

As if it were perfectly natural — she settled down right beside me. Squeezed between the bags and Shion, it was cramped. And yet I didn’t mind the crampedness in the least, so I thought: well, that’s fine. Shion being close made my heart race and my breathing difficult as it always did — but I forced myself to look past all of that.

And in complete contrast to me and my usual struggles — Shion, who was usually so composed, was looking all around the room with undisguised curiosity.

“Karaoke has a television,” she observed, with what seemed like genuine admiration.
“When you put a song in, the lyrics come up on the screen.”

I explained this with a hint of pride, borrowing the authority of the karaoke chain for myself.

“Amazing. How do you put a song in?”

Shion reacted with such evident delight at each thing, which delighted me in turn, and I explained further with growing confidence.

“With this tablet.”

The tablet alone, for some reason, was a short, squat thing that clearly had some years on it — exactly matching the one in my memories. Thank you, Mum. For dragging an indoor-type primary school child who almost certainly didn’t want to go, to karaoke.

Layering all this gratitude toward my mother — when.

The violence of pure innocence struck without warning.

“Then — sing me something.”