The Boy was now ten-years-old. One autumn morning he watched the streets of the town square pass by on his way to school. It would have been a totally normal morning if he wasn't holding his father's shoulders from the back of the man's bike.
The two had been through hell and back yesterday in a fight the child thought would never end. What started it? Maybe it was because he said something about missing Mom; that usually got him in deep trouble these days. But his head ached like it had been pulverized by a meat tenderizer – probably because it had – so he didn't care to remember.
They rode through the cityscape in occasional bouts of silence. Knowing his lips were split and face was bruised, The Boy had every single guard up and willed no one to stare at him and his father as they passed. Every now and then Dad would point out a street or building at random and in a few words tell his son an adventure he had there in his police officer days. It was so rare that Dad left the house, and even rarer that he wanted to spend time with The Boy, so the child tried hard to enjoy his father's stories as much as was safely possible.
But he hardly spoke a word the whole ride, too afraid of ruining the unordinary tranquility. Normally after such a big fight Dad would either give a silent treatment or guilt trip for the next few days. Not this morning, though. This morning he woke The Boy with a full breakfast, something he hadn't been granted in a very long time. As if that wasn't enough the man offered him a ride to school. All morning Dad doted on his son, like he used to when Big Sis was around.
"I didn't know that place was still open." Dad said as they passed an ice cream parlor that stoked a very distant memory of The Boy's. He and his father had had a father-son date there when he was five.
"Why don't we check it out today after school?" Dad suggested.
The birds singing all around rang loud in The Boy's aching head rested again his father's back, so it took a minute for that question to compute. When it did he didn't believe what he'd heard.
"You mean," he muttered, "You're going to come pick me up after school too?"
"Yeah. I've got errands to run around town anyway." Replied Dad, "...Unless you don't want me to?"
It was a sincere question, but the tone gave a teeny hint that The Boy should be careful with his answer. He hesitated, now noticing his father's clothes smelt nice, like laundry detergent instead of alcohol.
"No, I do." He responded plainly, trying hard to focus on the Dad of this morning, not the brute he cowered to last night.
The pair rolled up to the front of the elementary school building and Dad slowed to a stop, helping his son down because The Boy was too short for his legs to touch the ground from his father's tall seat.
"Alright," said the man, handing The Boy his backpack, "You going to be good today, peewee?"
The child nodded, taking a big gasp from his inhaler.
Dad crouched and combed the ten-year-old's shaggy hair down with his fingers. "Damn," he muttered, "Didn't I teach you how to use a brush?"
The Boy's head ached too much to protest as his father spit-licked his hair down flatter. Besides, it was nice being touched without the pain.
"Hey..." Dad said lowly, "About last night, I just want you to know that it hurt me as much as it did you. I just... I want us to get along."
At the softness of Dad's voice The Boy chanced a look into the man's eyes. What he saw was the dark brown irises, normally black and hard, illuminated with a golden honey color reflecting the sunrise. They were still hard. There was still something guarded behind them. But he'd never looked at them in the sunlight before, outside of that reeking dull apartment. He never realized how potentially warm his father's eyes could be if he'd only spend time with him in the sun more often.
"Do you think we can start trying a little harder to make that happen?" the father asked.
After hours of walking on eggshells, fearing Dad might turn back into last night's fiend, The Boy finally breathed freely. His father didn't know how to vocalize an apology, he knew that. But maybe that's what Dad was really going for here. The thought seemed a little too good to be true, but The Boy grabbed hold of it anyway.
"Yes, sir." He promised.
Dad gave a curt smile without his eyes. "Good. I'm trusting you to be smart enough to make sure it doesn't happen again. I know you can do it."
He touched the side of his child's face that he'd hit so many times yesterday there stayed a bright purple and green bruise over the soft cheekbone. "And if anyone asks about this...?"
"I fell off my skateboard." The Boy recited.
"Smart boy." Dad praised him. "Now get going. And stand up straight unless you want to look like a midget."
That stung, but the child soothed himself, "It's okay. He's just looking out for me."
As for the falling off the skateboard, he didn't mind being accused of being a poor skater if it meant Dad calling him smart for a change.
Climbing the steps, he made up his mind that today things changed. "Dad hates Mom and Big Sis, but he loves me." He told himself once more, "I just need to do better, then we can go back to normal. He believes I can do it, so I will. No more beatings."
Enjoying a smile knowing this was a rare opportunity to get a second chance with Dad, he looked back to wave his father goodbye; but the man was already riding down the block heading home.
In the entrance hall a bell chimed deafeningly on the wall right above his ears, rudely awakening him from his contemplations with the warning he was already late for class. Scurrying around the nearest corner and into another empty hall he ran straight into a circle of twelve-year-old boys. By his luck of course it would be none other than the notorious menaces of all lower classes – the Hagiwara triplets.
The recognition of their identical faces shoved instant regret into his gut and he dodged straight around the three, wide eyed and holding his breath. He had no time to hope they hadn't seen his face before one of them sidestepped and plucked his ankles out from under him.
"Hey, where ya going, bitty-brains?"
The upperclassman sang at the fragile kid anchored to the ground by his heavy pack, looking like a turtle awkwardly turned face up on its shell. Clambering to his feet, The Boy's face teamed with red heat. The Hagiwaras circled him.
"Ooh, dude!" A different one of the silver-haired tyrants jabbed his brother in the side. "Look at that shiner, Fumitaka! Ha, bet I can guess where he got it."
The one who tripped him, Fumitaka-senpai, nodded. "I bet you could, Fumiya. Daddy's been making sure little bitty-brains stays at the top of his class."
"Oh no!" Fumiya-senpai gasped sardonically in a mocking shrill voice. "Please, Daddy, no! I promise I'll get all straight A's next time!"
"Please, not the belt! Anything but the belt!" Fumitaka-senpai finished, hands gripped daintily at his chest.
Any anger piling up tumbled and fell through The Boy's toes. Did he really look that pathetic to everyone else?
"Alright, alright." Said the third one, Fuminori-senpai, who had yet to speak but only smirked at his brothers' taunts. "Hand over that change and we'll get outta your hair."
"I don't have any this morning." The Boy glared.
One of them lurched at him but the light and dexterous child dodged with ease, stepping on the toes of the one behind him.
"C'mon. Do you really wanna go three to one, midget?" said Fuminori-senpai who seemed to be the ringleader.
The triplets shrunk the circle around him, forcing him to backtrack until his backpack clapped the green metal lockers on the other side of the hall. The much fuller, taller, and stronger twelve-year-olds suffocated his personal space, sending his breathing into an uncomfortable canter. The boys taunted him one more time to hand over his orange bag that normally held loads of change he'd collected for Dad. Over the shoulder of Fumiya-senpai on his left, a hint of hope shined for the prey. Another of his classmates, a boy with crimson hair and the bluest eyes known to man stepped out if the class room across the hall that The Boy was supposed to be in. He froze halfway out the door however as his attention fell straight on his cornered friend.
The Boy stood on his toes and locked entreating eyes with him. "Ushio-kun...!"
The triplets turned and glared at the other ten-year-old Shoma Ushio who was significantly sturdier than The Boy, almost the same size as themselves. The newcomer looked from his pleading friend to the three bullies. They didn't need to say a single word. Ushio-kun rapidly spun back into the classroom, scratching the back of his head like he'd seen nothing at all and couldn't remember why he'd stepped out in the first place.
"Ushio-kun!" The Boy's eyes burned with outrage as hope was knocked out and replaced by the first of many jabs at his trust that were to come. The triplets chuckled at the former's easy retreat while The Boy cried after his friend through the closed door. "Coward! I would have stood up for you!"
"Aww... how sad..." Fumiya-senpai pouted his lips. "Even your buddy Shoma-chan doesn't care."
"C'mon, guys, just grab his stuff. We gotta get to class."
With that all three started gripping, tossing, and shoving The Boy like a ragdoll, peeling the backpack off his fragile shoulders. Fuminori-senpai unzipped the pack and started rummaging through his books while the other two pinned him against the lockers.
When the brothers had dumped his notebooks, textbooks, pencils, and all other contents of the backpack on the floor only to realize The Boy had told the truth, they flung the empty bag onto the mess of supplies. Fumiya-senpai suggested they keep The Boy busy for the next few periods so they had a chance to escape when he told on them to the teachers.
"How about there?" Fuminori-senpai pointed to the janitor's closet at the end of the wall.
The three exchanged chortles and grabbed The Boy who writhed manically at their grip. Fumiya-senpai opened the dark closet and pulled out a metal fold-out chair to block the door from the outside. The other two found The Boy stronger than usual as he flung punches and smacks, biting their hands and stomping their feet.
"Gah!!" Fumitaka-senpai gritted his teeth as the frantic kid landed an elbow in his gut, wide-eyes and feverishly pleading mercy. "The heck is wrong with you!? Ya scared of a dark little closet??"
The triplets had no clue what a horror they were triggering in him. Sweat dampened his skin, his heartbeat pulsing numb all over as he cried out that he was in fact terrified of a dark little closet. Swimming in panic and losing his breath, shoes flat and tripping as they shoved the closet ever closer, The Boy resorted to what most would consider melodrama. To him it was survival instinct. At the top of his breathless lungs he shrieked for help, so earsplittingly the bullies cringed and covered their ears.
"Hagiwara!"
All three brothers wheeled towards the shout and sound of footsteps striding closer. The Boy wrought himself free of their grip and staggered back, pulling his uniform straight, and panting, turned also to follow their distraught stares. From the stairwell end of the hall came Watanabé-sensei rushing upon them. As the teacher drew nearer, chiding the triplets, The Boy pulled his inhaler out of his pocket slowly, staring at the ground, not sure if he was more relieved or mortified by the sight of his favorite teacher.
"What on earth makes you three think you can keep getting away with this?!" The man frowned at the upperclassmen, the two of which that had been holding The Boy backing away swiftly as he stormed nearer.
"What did they do?? Where are you hurt?" The teacher rushed to The Boy and pulled him to his feet. The latter shook his head while his hands trembled the adrenaline slowly away, leaving him embarrassed at having made Watanabé-sensei worry. The yelling reawaked his migraine. The young man insisted question after question until finally The Boy looked him in the eye.
"I'm not hurt, I'm fine..." he croaked.
"But you screamed!" Watanabé-sensei's eyes were wide behind his thick glasses, "What were they doing?"
"N-nothing..." he lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper, confident this teacher was the only person in the building who'd be empathetic if he told the truth. "I'm just... scared of the dark."
The silence that followed was one of understanding. It gave the child drastically more consolation than any of his concerned questions. Watanabé-sensei's eyes went calm and he nodded sadly. Glancing back at the Hagiwaras trying to sneak away, he gave a couple solid pats to The Boy's shoulders, wordlessly giving him the time to sniffle and blink away the post-traumatized tears welling in his eyes.
The teacher glanced at the mess of The Boy's supplies and sighed. "You three." He said firmly and the triplets reluctantly turned to face him. "I want you to go pick up his things and put them back in his bag as neatly as you found them."
The three begrudgingly obeyed.
"Your head..." said Watanabé-sensei turning to The Boy again and stooping with his hands on his knees. "Did they do that?? There's no way it could already be that bruised..."
The Boy quickly brushed his bangs back to cover it like Dad had done. "I-I already had this. Fell off my skateboard."
The man didn't nod understandingly. The Boy hung his head, feeling the teacher's unusually long stare, like he didn't believe him. Finally the triplets came forward and handed him his backpack, bulging and barely zipped. He was sure he'd open it to find nothing but a mess of crinkled papers and loose pens.
"Now back to class." Watanabé-sensei ordered. "Each of you has already earned a tardy and I have half a mind to call your parents as it is so I recommend no more of this disruptive behavior. Am I understood?"
The Boy was the first to rush and obey, but the teacher took him by the shoulder, "Not you. We need to have a chat."
So the twelve-year-olds trotted down the hall, already whispering and snickering before they were hardly out of the teacher's earshot.
The teacher headed to the stairwell and beckoned the child to follow.
"Wait, Sensei." The Boy pleaded, pointing to the classroom Ushio-kun had come out of. "I'm sorry I made you worry, but whatever you want to tell me can it please wait until after school? I'm already late for Nishioka-sensei's class and she said if I don't prepare well for this test I might lose my place at the top of my class. I-I can't lose my place at the top of my class..."
"Relax, buddy." The teacher soothed. "I already told Nishioka-san I'll be taking you for a teacher's aide for the first period. She has prepared the extra study material for you."
The Boy followed his leisurely stride. "But don't you have a class for first period?"
A sorrowful shadow passed over Watanabé-sensei's young face. "No... no I'm afraid I'm not having any classes today."
The Boy followed his teacher up the stairs towards the reading room, his shame withering as the man struck up light conversation. Even the kid's headache dissipated at the reminder there was a safe place with this teacher in the library. But when they reached his classroom it struck none of the familiar memories The Boy had learned to call home. Just yesterday the walls were covered in the green and yellow school colors and pictures of Watanabé-sensei's beloved daughters. His desk in front of the blackboard normally displayed an arrangement of souvenirs and merchandise from his favorite local soccer teams. But both it and the walls were stripped bare like they had never worn the sports-loving, free-spirited personality his students adored. Watanabé-sensei stepped in and sat heavily at his desk, sipping a bottle of green tea. Books taken off of the huge library shelf on the back wall sat packed away along with his other possessions in half a dozen card board boxes. The only lingering hint of him was the aroma of his signature green tea scented air-freshener.
The Boy hesitated in the doorway, but didn't ask. He was afraid of the answer.
"I'm almost finished here," the teacher flicked his now very long ponytail off his shoulder. "But maybe you could help me pack the last few boxes."
His eyes did drift around the bland room and boxes on the floor, but recovered with a cordial wink at the kid. Normally The Boy would return the grin. Normally these sessions helping Watanabé-sensei were the best of all his school memories. The man would let him borrow all and any books from his huge personal library kept in the classroom. By asking the child's daily review of a book, Watanabé-sensei gave him not only a conversation worth looking forward to every day, but a sense of initiative to read at a higher level and excel in class.
But the child had seen this all before. He didn't like the look of people packing. So far it always meant him getting left behind.
The teacher stood after a brief silence and piled folders of paper and arranged the last stack of books in a folded out box. Squashing the flaps of cardboard down as flat as possible, he held the bulging box closed and asked The Boy to pass the tape roller. The Boy offered the tape, using the whole weight of his upper body to hold the box while the teacher sealed it. Finally he couldn't stand the silence.
"Are you leaving, Sensei?"
Watanabé-sensei sat back and nodded with a morose smile. "Yes, sadly... I've... been laid off." Catching The Boy's blank stare he went on, "It means they fired me... politely."
The man explained how the principal of this school needed to cut down on staff lately. "But it's alright. Reading is an easy enough subject for one of the other teachers to pick up once I'm gone; they won't even have to hire a replacement. I think... it'll be best for the school when all is said and done." He talked like he was trying to convince himself more than he was trying to explain it to The Boy.
The kid screwed up his face, knowing exactly why they really let him go first. Watanabé-sensei was never popular with the other teachers. Not only was he a good twenty years younger than most of the other teachers and way more charismatic, but they all said he was too lenient on the students. And in that sense, even The Boy had to admit the man was about as meek as they come. Yet, the principal was making a huge mistake. There's no way this dump of a school could benefit from losing the only teacher that loved all the students equally. It was unfair, but it made sense and The Boy understood completely. After all, despite his excelling grades he was never any teacher's favorite either. In fact he might have been the least favorite of several of them, having been caught more than once stealing food from the cafeteria after lunch. But you'd do it too if you didn't know if you'd get to have dinner when you got home.
"I'm... sorry you're leaving." He muttered quietly, gingerly arranging some magazines on top of the last cardboard box full of books.
"I'm certainly going to miss all of you..." Watanabé-sensei zipped up his bag full of personal mementos, "Especially our little reading times. I have no doubt you and your wits are going to carry you easily through the rest of your subjects. I only wish I could be here to see it."
The Boy smiled. It was always so easy to make Watanabé-sensei proud.
"Even so, you don't exactly attend the most prestigious school," the teacher went on, "And... I understand the principal's desire to keep lesser quantity and better quality teachers."
"The principal's stupid." The Boy mumbled. "Everyone else he hires is a grumpy old fart. He wouldn't know a good teacher if it stabbed him in the eye."
A laugh burst from the young man but he swallowed it back and tried hard to act composed. "Hey, you're too young to talk about your superiors like that!" He chided, but humor still shone in his suppressed smirk. "But I am flattered you think so highly of me. I'll remember that."
As The Boy finished writing a label on a box, Watanabé-sensei came and slowly knelt, sitting back on his feet before the child. The youth asked what was the matter, seeing the very uncharacteristic shift in his teacher's aura. Silence fell on the space briefly and the sounds of children rushing out of classrooms and filling the halls buzzed through the walls. The man pushed his glasses up his nose and finally, painfully reluctant, looked The Boy in the face.
"There is... something I wanted to ask you." He held irregular eye-contact, speaking very soft and deliberately. "Normally I'm not supposed to bring up something like this without another staff present but... I know you aren't comfortable with any of the others. And uh... we don't have to make this a big deal as long as you promise me you'll answer honestly, okay?"
"Am I in trouble?" The Boy asked sheepishly.
"No, no, of course not." The teacher assured, "I'm just a little... concerned for you."
"Okay." The Boy muttered his response almost inaudibly. The sensation of vulnerability and self-awareness crept back into his nerves. Surely Watanabé-sensei would never pry on anything too personal would he? He hated confrontation too much for that.
"Alright, well," the man cleared his throat and blinked a few times like he was remembering a dialogue he'd prepared. "You know I don't want to pry or make you uncomfortable, but I just felt the need to let you know... at least once before I leave that... you are safe here. And although a lot of us do act like grumpy old farts sometimes, we are here to give you whatever you need. So, if there's anything you feel you need that you aren't getting at home, I'd like you to tell me, alright? Your father... doesn't have to know."
The Boy's heart dove into his gut. His home life was none of the teachers' business. Dad frequently reminded him of that.
"I don't understand what you mean." He uttered.
Watanabé-sensei took a deep breath. "Well... I know since your father stopped working as a police officer, he's been pretty reclusive. And that's okay. Sometimes men and women who come out of service like that have seen things that make them not want to be around people too much. But there have been rumors going around that he... has some aggressive tendencies. And I've been talking to the nurse and we are both just a little concerned about how often you seem to be injured."
The teacher's voice was tender and calm as could be, but with each word more and more icy anxiety seeped into the child's gut. Dad never told him what to say if a teacher was this bent on questioning.
"I'll just ask this once." The teacher said carefully. "Does your father ever hurt you? Does he have anything to do with your bruises? I'm here to help you, but I need you to be honest."
The Boy broke eye contact and fidgeted, his brain frantically grasping at straws. "I-I just... fell off my skateboard."
The adult nodded slowly. "Did he tell you to say that?"
Dad's smile this morning telling him he was a "smart boy" flickered across the child's mind. "No." he urged. "No, my dad loves me. He doesn't want to hurt me. He's... he's a good man!"
"Of course," Watanabé-sensei said quickly. "I'm not trying to say he isn't."
"It's okay," The Boy urged himself, thinking out loud. "He and I are going for ice cream after school."
There was a brief silence and finally his teacher stood again. "That's good." He said with an awkward smile. "As long as you're sure."
The Boy met his teacher's stare bravely, clutching his hands to keep them from shaking. "I'm sure."
The words left his mouth and surprised him, tasting like a lie so blatant it even disgusted himself.
The teacher spun round and moved to his work on the desk again. "Very good. I'm sorry for making false accusations. I only wanted to do my part so I could leave with no regrets, you know?"
The air cleared again, but a frigid rock was just starting to sink in The Boy's stomach. A bell rang in the hall and the teacher gathered his tote bag.
"Second period already? Time sure does fly." He said very comfortably, obviously relieved, and as if the confrontation had never happened. "Come on, I won't make you late for another class."
With a hand on his shoulder the man lead The Boy to the door.
"Will I see you again before the day's over??" the child asked worriedly.
"I'm afraid not." Replied the man, closing the door behind them. "I have to clear out before noon."
The two walked the hall towards The Boy's next classroom, history, which drew closer all too quickly. Before he could process his emotions, they reached the classroom and Watanabé-sensei opened the door for him
"Farewell, my friend." He bowed to The Boy with an encouraging wink.
The Boy opened his mouth to say something, but never figured how to form those words, whatever they were. He put his head down and offered his deepest, most respectful bow.
All he could tearlessly manage was, "Thank you, Watanabé-sensei... For everything."
"It's been my pleasure, bud." He turned and strode back to his classroom to gather his boxes. The ties of a fate that could have been between the fatherly and the innocent snapped that day as The Boy loathingly took his seat beside his only apparent friend left in this school: Shoma Ushio.
"Hey, man, what kept you?" Ushio-kun leaned over and whispered. "I missed you in Math, I didn't understand a word of what that old coot said."
The Boy shot a deathly glower at his classmate. "Don't act like you don't know."
Ushio-kun's tuned down the swagger just enough for a half-hearted apology. "Okay, okay, I'm sorry about that. But you know I couldn't have taken the Hagiwaras!"
The Boy ignored him, pulling his history textbook out of the mess of papers the triplets had shoved in his backpack, slamming them down on his desk. He wished more than anything the principal would just send him away with Watanabé-sensei.
"C'mon, man, I'll make it up to you!" Ushio-kun urged.
"Don't bother." The Boy muttered cynically, slouching over his book.
"Okay, good." Ushio-kun relaxed back in his seat. "Oh, and after school you're helping me with Nishioka-sensei's assignment."
The Boy lifted his head with a small smirk. "No." he said, happy but firm like he was still trying to convince himself it was true, "My dad's picking me up after school. We're getting ice cream."
"Ugh, fine." Said Ushio-kun. "Then don't make plans tomorrow."
. . .
When school got out and the horde of children rushed down the steps to race their bikes home or climb into their parents' waiting vehicles, The Boy scanned the campus yard for his father but couldn't find him. So he parked himself on the curb. He waited. He got tired of standing. He sat down and waited some more. The rest of his classmates and teachers cleared out as the afternoon sun sank slowly closer to the horizon and the shadows from the orange leaves falling all around shifted over the child. Soon the campus was desolate aside from the expectant kid. The wind picked up and his ears stung from the cold, his airways drying and closing up on him. He hoped Dad was on his way. His inhaler was almost empty.
But the minutes ticked on. Ten minutes turned to twenty. Twenty turned to thirty and soon The Boy wondered if it was getting close to dinner time. A few bikers would pass him on the sidewalk, none of them his parent. Before the urge to cry constricted his throat too tightly he got up and marched down the street to the ice cream parlor. He asked the cashier if a tall blonde-haired man on a bike had come in at any point today waiting for someone but the employee said he hadn't seen anyone who fit that description. When he asked the man what the time was and he said it was half past five, The Boy all but rushed out the shop.
Furious, the child began the long walk home, hoping against hope he made it back before curfew.
So much for a second chance with Dad. In his anger and hurt he wondered if it was too late to go back and tell Watanabé-sensei the truth.
To be continued...
YOU ARE READING
The Sound of Snow
Fanfiction"When you first get to see your shinki's history, you obviously aren't going to remember every single image. Sure, that was still the case when I first named Yukiné, but I do remember his more vividly than that of any other servant I've ever branded...
