Memory Lane

Part 12: Uniform

I tug at the green tie around my neck, trying to loosen the silk snake suffocating me. Sweat trickles down my back, my skin unused to the thick fabric of the button-down shirt and blazer layered over it. Airi stands next to me in an identical uniform, her skin miraculously dry despite the summer heat.

We wait in the shade of the Watanabe Orchard for the bus that would take us to St. Catherine's International School. I skim through the pamphlet out of boredom. It's an elite institution that Mr. Watanabe selected specifically to accommodate my American education to allow me to transition into Japanese society with ease. Once I graduate from the school within a year or two depending on how my credits transfer over, I would have the flexibility to choose between universities in Japan or the U.S., an education that he reassures me he would pay for.

Calling my stepfather generous would be an understatement. I eyeball the cost of tuition for St. Catherine's, nearly fainting at the price. That didn't even include the cost of the uniforms.

"It's so expensive," I mutter in English, hoping that Airi won't understand me.

Alas, my words didn't get past her. "My previous school costs more," she replies, her accent almost matching mine. Aside from a faint British lilt, I have no trouble understanding her. It was then that I remembered that Japanese students were often taught both English and Japanese, with wealthy students like Airi getting access to higher-quality English instruction.

"More than $42,000 per year?"

She laughs, taking the pamphlet from my hands. "It's 42,000 yen, not dollars. What kind of school costs that much?"

"Colleges in the U.S. charge way more than that per year if you don't get a scholarship," I inform her.

She shakes her head. "That's crazy. It's cheaper to attend university in France. I would much rather do that."

Then she adds, "But if tuition were that expensive, Father would have no trouble paying for it."

Money was the last thing the Watanabes worried about. They seemed to have an endless supply from a mixture of inheritance and business dealings. What sort of business, I couldn't say, but I knew it was the kind that involved suitcases of money and rough-looking men.

My father had been involved in something similar, but he took care to keep me out of it. I wonder if it was the same for Airi or if she knew something I didn't.

I'm tempted to ask her as we board the bus, but I wisely choose to keep my mouth shut. If I stick my nose where it doesn't belong, I get the feeling that I would lose more than access to the family's money.

And my mother certainly wouldn't like that.

I peel off my blazer and sit as far away from Airi as I could without giving her the impression that I didn't want to be seen with her, which really left a few feet of distance between us. Like me, she didn't enjoy the uniforms we were given. But her solution to the cumbersome outfit was to accessorize it, pinning her favorite flowers from the mansion's garden to her blazer and hair.

Pink roses and ribbons were deftly woven into the ivory strands on her head, no doubt my mother's work. I recognize the hairstyle from my kindergarten days, the braids bringing back fond memories of playdough and beaded necklaces. On her blazer, pale violets peek out from the green fabric, holding hands with indigo ribbons.

I admire the creativity and curse the pollen, my eyes swollen despite the allergy medicine I had taken earlier in the day. I blow my nose with a handkerchief for the first time, surprised it didn't happen sooner. Airi was carrying a florist's shop on the upper half of her body. I have my EpiPen handy in case my proximity to her accidentally kills me.