Chapter 5.2
The rest of my day is spent ignoring Fujimura ignoring me.
Second period when Sato-sensei calls on me and he’s the only one still staring at the board.
Lunchtime when he’s the first one out of the classroom and last one back in—“Long lines in the cafeteria,” he tells his friends afterwards.
Last period when I fake a sneeze and he jumps in his seat but still doesn’t look over.
By the time the final bell of the day rings and he basically sprintsout the door, I’m no longer surprised.
Just… confused?
What the hell is going on?
-----
I arrive at my shoe cubby in a daze.
I’m already slipping out of my school shoes when I reach in, but instead of my street shoes, my fingers brush against something small and papery.
I try to grab it between my fingers a few times before finally giving up and squatting down to look at…
A small white envelope. Probably placed on top of my shoes originally, though my flailing has since knocked it to the side.
I furrow my eyebrows.
A… confession note?
Maybe?
Kinda old-school, but I can’t think of anything else it could be.
I reach inside and pull it out.
The envelope is glued shut, so I can’t see what’s inside, and it takes a moment to decipher the messy scrawl written across it.
“From Fujimura Ren,” I read, and the line ends in a little doodle-person sending up the peace sign. “To… Coach Sakuragi?”
…
Huh.
…
So probably not a confession note then.
-----
I come home to an empty apartment. Mom has baseball practice every day after school, so I probably have a couple hours before she gets home.
I spend a few minutes freshening up—washing my face, changing out of my uniform, etc.—before taking the envelope out of my bag and setting it on the kitchen counter.
Then I just kinda… stare at it.
I should probably just ignore it.
It was light enough that there’s definitely nothing inside but a note, and there’s no way I can read a note inside a glued-shut envelope without anyone knowing.
…
Wow, Sakuragi, it’s almost like that’s the fucking point of envelopes.
Ugh.
I take out my phone and open Line, locating Mom in my contacts.
“You got a letter from Fujimura,” I type out and send.
Mom’s reply pings in a few seconds later.
“In the mail?”
“He left it in my shoe cubby, of all places.” Send. “Probably gets a kick out of making me his errand boy.” Send.
Ping. “Huh.” Ping. “Weird.” Ping. “I’ll take a look when I get home.” Ping. “Thanks.”
I almost set my phone down—
Then pause.
I stare at the screen for a moment…
Then another…
Then figure, what the hell.
“Want me to open it for you?” I type way too quickly, aaand…
Send.
Tap tap tap goes my finger against the counter.
Ping.
I raise my phone so quickly it almost flies at my face.
Her response is a single word.
“No.”
Rats.
-----
It’s a little after six when I hear our front door open and close.
A groan.
A creative curse.
Shoe thud 1. Shoe thud 2.
“I’m home,” Mom mutters as she drags herself into the main room.
“Welcome back,” I say, looking up from the homework I’ve totally been doing at the kitchen table. (Does that count as a lie? Shit.)
She hoists herself onto the sofa, lolling her head back and closing her eyes as she catches her breath. The building elevator is still broken, and the stairs are not kind to her.
I just sort of… watch for a moment.
Pretty sure I’m the only one who’s allowed to see her like this, but that still doesn’t make it easy.
“…You okay?” I ask once she’s caught her breath a bit.
She nods.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” she groans. “Just those damn stairs.”
“Ah, yeah. They’re a bi—… hassle.”
If Mom catches my near slip-up, she doesn’t say anything about it.
Instead, she cracks one eye open to look at me.
“Doing homework out here tonight?”
I should have known Mom would call me on that—I usually do it in my much quieter bedroom.
“Just… needed a change.”
She gives a knowing grin but doesn’t press me any further. Just closes her eyes again.
There’s another few seconds of silence while I wait for her to say something more.
“Can I get you anything?” I ask.
“A glass of water would be lovely,” she says, sitting up a bit straighter.
“Do you… want me to bring you the envelope while I’m at it?”
“Hm?” It takes her a second. “Oh. Right. Can you bring it here, please?”
“Of course.”
I make the circuit from the kitchen to the sofa before handing her the envelope and a glass of water.
“Thank you,” she says and takes a sip. “And he really left this in your shoe cubby?”
“Mhmm. Weird, right?”
“Yeah.”
She sets the water down on the side table before slipping a finger beneath the flap and tearing it open.
Just as I’d thought, there’s a single piece of paper inside.
Mom pulls it out and reads it, her brows furrowing slightly.
“…What does it say?” I ask.
“Fujimura-kun isn’t feeling well.” She frowns. “He says he can’t make it to practice for a while.”
“Like, at all?”
“That’s what it says.”
“Well… he was just in the hospital,” I suggest.
“That’s true,” she says, lowering the letter. “And I understand if he can’t overexert himself. But practice isn’t only about the physical side. It’s also about being there with the team—watching, encouraging each other, getting used to working together. If he can’t even sit on the bench for an hour or two, then what is that going to say to the other players?”
“That… seems a little harsh.”
She sighs, squeezing her eyes shut and massaging her forehead.
“I don’t know how harsh to be,” she admits. “If he had talked to me directly—or even had his parents call me—then we could have gotten on the same page. As things stand, sending one vaguely worded letter via Toji-mail is… a little unorthodox.”
We’re both silent for a moment—Mom in thought, me waiting for her to say something.
Then she turns to me.
“How do you think he’s doing?” she asks.
I blink.
“Me?”
“Well, you did spend the night at his house, plus he’s in your class. So? How has he been?”
“Oh. He’s been…” What to say? What am I allowed to say? “Saturday he was pretty out of it from whatever they put him on at the hospital.”
See? That’s true enough.
“And since then?”
“Well, he did miss some school this week. But he’s been…”
Bossy? Annoying? A girl?
“Tired.”
Good save.
She studies me for a second longer than I’d like, and I suddenly become very interested in the pattern on our sofa cushions.
A tense moment passes, but—whatever it is she’s thinking—she just folds the letter along its original crease and sets it on the sofa next to her.
“I’ll give his parents a call tomorrow,” she says finally. “Just to make sure everything’s okay.”
Shit.
Shit shit shit shit shit.
Whatever Fujimura was hoping to gain from this little stunt, I don’t think this was it.