“WHAT’S A NOODLE shop?” Yumi asked, arranging her new outfits on the floor.
“Place where you can pay,” Painter explained, “and people bring you food.” He lingered in the doorway, watching her. It was surreal how a simple outfit change made her seem like she belonged. All of a sudden he could picture her here, in his life.
“People bring you food,” she said. “You don’t have to make it
yourself?”
“No.”
“Do they…feed you?”
Why did she sound hopeful? “No,” he said. “You need to do that part on your own.”
“Well, as long as I don’t have to make it,” she said, hands on her hips as she surveyed the clothing she’d laid out.
“You’re just going to leave it there?” he asked.
She hesitated, then glanced at him. “Is there…another place where it should go?” She looked at the heaps of clothing.
“Closet,” he said, gesturing, “has hangers and a rod.”
“Oh!” She walked over. “How clever! Your people think of so many interesting things.”
“I…suspect your people have closets, Yumi,” he said.
She cocked her head. “I guess maybe they do. I’ve never been inside another person’s home.” She began hanging the clothes. “Is there money here somewhere I can use at the noodle shop?”
“In the can on the counter,” he said. “But Yumi, I don’t think you should go. So far we’ve been lucky. Akane hasn’t asked too many questions, and hasn’t noticed the oddities about you. But the longer you spend around people, the more dangerous it gets.”
“Dangerous?” she said. “Getting clothing? Eating dinner?”
“Someone’s bound to ask questions you can’t answer,” he said.
“They might start poking around, getting suspicious. Eventually someone will find out I don’t have a sister. Then things start getting awkward.”
“This is why lies are bad,” she said, shutting the closet doors. “We should have told them the truth at the start.”
“Oh? And how did it go telling Liyun the truth? And telling the foreman about the nightmare? How well did that work?”
“These mistakes are due to our inadequacy,” she said. “We should try again, presenting Liyun with the truth in a more convincing way.”
“No,” he said. “She’ll just think we’ve decided to make her life
terrible for some reason.”
Yumi averted her eyes.
“It could be even worse here, if you tell the truth,” he said. “They’ll demand proof you can’t provide. What if they think you’re insane? Or that you’ve killed me?”
She looked at her feet. “I thought…maybe the other painters could help me. Figure out what I’m supposed to do. It sounded…nice to talk to them.”
“That group?” Painter snorted. “They’re too exclusive for people like us, Yumi. You might be a novelty to them now, but they’ll drop you as soon as something more interesting comes along. Trust me.”
“Akane is nice. You said she was nice to you.”
“She was. At first.” He turned away, not wanting to think about those times.
Yumi was quiet for a moment, then retrieved the money and brushed past him, heading toward the stairs. “I want to do it anyway.”
A second later, he was yanked after her. That aspect of this was extremely unfair. How was it that he got bullied by her when he was physical, but then he ended up being pulled along like a dog on a leash when she was the one with the body?
They met Akane below, now in a simpler outfit of slacks and a blouse. Not exactly what he’d call painting gear, but it was as dressed down as she got. Akane led Yumi around the corner to the Noodle Pupil, and Painter followed sullenly. He couldn’t have said what made him want to avoid this place. Perhaps it was the way that Akane had adopted Yumi so easily. Reminded him of how easily he’d been dropped.
Not that he could, in all honesty, blame them.
He felt better though when they stepped into the restaurant. The place was familiar, and even without a body he could smell the warm scents of broth and green onions. In here, the clatter of bowls and utensils felt somehow softer than it did in other restaurants.
Akane hung her oversized painter’s bag on the arm of the statue in the front of the shop, the one that (in case you’ve forgotten) contained the body of an exceedingly bored storyteller. At least the eggs were gone by that point.
Painter’s former friends sat at the rear, in their usual place. As he followed the two women over, he felt…annoyed. He’d wanted for so long to be invited to this table. To rejoin in this familiar laughter, as he had during school.
It turned out there was an easy way to get the others to let him back in: he just had to be invisible.
Akane presented Yumi with a flourish. “Behold,” she said, “Nikaro’s little sister.”
There were three others in the group: two girls, one guy. That meant Tojin was outnumbered three to one in the clique—unless you went by sheer muscle mass. Painter was reasonably certain Tojin outweighed the other three combined.
“No (lowly) way,” Tojin said, sitting backward on his chair as he usually did, sleeves rolled up as if they were too intimidated by his massive forearms and had shriveled out of respect. He was
squeezing some kind of hand exercise device, ten reps in each hand before swapping, because of course he was.
“That’s Tojin,” Akane said, gesturing to him.
“Hey,” he replied, swapping hands.
“Tojin,” Painter said, leaning in toward Yumi, “is exactly what he appears to be. The type of guy who would roll up his sleeves and do exercises at the dinner table to get a better chance at showing off to the women. He never misses a chance to display his body to the girls.”
“This is Masaka,” Akane said, gesturing toward a girl all in black, huddled in her chair with her knees up, sketchpad in front of her.
Masaka hated showing skin, and wore a scarf to hide even her neck.
She peeked over the top of the sketchpad with narrowed eyes, dark beneath her bangs.
Yumi stepped back in shock. Masaka had that effect on people.
“Rumors in school were,” Painter whispered, “she had to become a painter as part of a plea deal with the judge after stabbing someone during her lower school years. She doesn’t talk much. Too busy plotting.”
Masaka punctuated something on the page at that moment, then looked up again at Yumi—who took another unconscious step backward.
“Don’t let her stern demeanor get to you,” Akane said with her usual cheerfulness. “She’s a softy inside. Besides, staring only makes her angry. And finally, here is Izumakamo!”
A girl in trousers and a sweatshirt stood up, proffering her hand.
Yumi stared at it.
“You take it,” Painter explained, “and bow. It’s a kind of greeting.”
Yumi hesitantly did as he said, taking Izzy’s hand and bowing as the other girl did likewise. Then Yumi glanced toward Painter, as if expecting an explanation of who this was, like he’d given for the other
two.
“Just watch,” Painter said instead.
“Yumi…” Izzy said, thoughtful. Then she dug into a thick encyclopedia-style book, flipping pages quickly. “Starts with a Y…two syllables… Birth year and month?”
“Say you’re year of the dragon,” Painter told her. “It would look strange if we’re the same age. And, let’s say, the month of rain. For fun.”
“Um…” Yumi said. “Year of the dragon. Month of rain?”
“Ah yes…” Izzy continued, flipping a few more pages. “Oh, here it is. Guri and Shishi’s wedding episode! The first wedding, I mean. You will have very good luck today, Yumi. Very good indeed. Great day for making promises.”
Yumi regarded the young woman, baffled. Nearby, Tojin snickered, swapping hands again with his exercise device.
“Don’t you laugh, Tojin,” Izzy said. “This is a totally legitimate science.”
“Don’t worry about her, Yumi,” Akane said, leaning in and whispering. “She’s special.”
“My talent is special!” Izzy declared. “You wait and see. Soon people are going to catch on, and everyone will be getting their dramascope. I’ll be famous for inventing it, and you all won’t be able to make fun of me any longer. You’ll have to wait in line.”
“Wait in line,” Tojin said. “To make fun of you.”
“No. Um…”
“Presumably,” he said, flexing his hand, “because so many other people will want a chance to do so?”
“That is not what I meant,” Izzy said. She then leaned toward Masaka and whispered conspiratorially, “When I’m rich and famous,
want to be my bodyguard?”
Masaka shrugged.
“Great,” Izzy said. “Your first job will be to beat up Tojin when he tries to tell everyone he knew me before I was famous.”
“I’m…confused,” Yumi said.
“Not surprising,” Akane said. “It’s just a game Izzy plays.”
“It’s not a game,” Izzy replied.
“She thinks,” Akane said, “that she can predict people’s fortunes using episode guides for hion-line programs.”
“It’s an ancient art,” Izzy said.
“You made it up!” Tojin said, pointing.
“I made it up a long time ago,” Izzy said. “During a previous life. So it’s ancient. Do you want to see the dramascope that explains it?
Here, let me show you.”
She grinned as Tojin rolled his eyes. Painter never had been able to figure out how serious she was about her crazy ideas. In moments like this—smiling as if she’d gone too far on purpose—he was left uncertain.
Standing there though…listening to Tojin joke while Masaka drew and Izzy rambled on about something incredibly random…he felt a painful nostalgia. For something he’d lost, like a misplaced note you keep remembering you wrote something important on, but you can never quite recall what pocket you left it in.
These weren’t his friends anymore. This feeling he felt? It was false. He turned to go as the food arrived, brought by one of Design’s assistants. Two bowls for Tojin—no noodles, just extra eggs and pork —and a small one for Masaka.
There was nothing for Painter here. Why had he yearned so long to come back to this?
He walked off. Yumi gave him a panicked look as he did, but she was the one who had wanted to come down here and talk to this crew. She could do it without him. He wanted to be as far away as he could get—well, as far away as he could get without being yanked every time Yumi shifted. He made it to the bar, where he settled on an empty stool, facing away from the group.
Yumi joined him a few minutes later. “They said,” she told him softly, “I should come up here to order? Which means…tell them what
food I want, right?”
He nodded.
“Is there a specific dish I’m supposed to have?” she asked.
“You pick any you want,” he said.
She drew in a breath, appearing nervous about that idea.
“Get a small mild pork with salt,” he said. “No add-ons. My guess, from what I’ve been fed in your world, is that you’d like something with a more…non-complex taste.”
“Thank you,” she said, then held up a sheet of paper. “Um… Masaka gave me this…”
It was a picture of a rabbit drawn with deep, cavernous holes for eyes and a stare that seemed like it wanted to swallow the world. Text underneath said, “Yumi reminds me of a cute bunny.”
“Oh dear,” Painter said (lowly).
“What?” Yumi asked, her voice rising.
“She likes you.”
“Is that bad?”
“Never can tell with Masaka,” he replied.
Yumi settled down on the stool next to his. “You were right,” she said softly. “I shouldn’t have come here. I don’t…know how to be a person, Painter.”
“Well, maybe I was wrong. Because you need practice.”
“No,” she said. “I don’t need practice to become something I shouldn’t. I’m not a person, Painter.”
He frowned, looking toward her. “Of course you’re a person, Yumi.”
“No, I’m a concept,” she said. “A thing, owned by society. I would be better as a machine, like that box that shows stories in your room.
If I didn’t think, if I didn’t feel, I’d do my job far better.” She gazed downward, concentrating on the counter. “The nibbles at freedom I had today are dangerous, Painter. They taste of things I shouldn’t want. If I let them control me, then what? I still have to go back. Take up my duties again. Do you think maybe the spirits sent me here to warn me? Or maybe…to test me?”
“No,” Painter said. “I think they sent you here as a reward, Yumi.
So that you could taste these things. Enjoy them, for once in your life.”
She glanced at him, then smiled. And suddenly he felt ashamed for his earlier joy at her discomfort. Perhaps he should have seen it before, but this was a person who somehow felt more isolated than he did.
He’d thought himself alone. He’d barely understood the word.
Her smile faltered, and she averted her eyes. “I wish I could believe you were right. But the spirit that came to me, Painter…it was hurting.
It needed something. This isn’t a reward. It might not be a punishment or a test, but it’s no reward.”
“You could still enjoy it,” he said. “While you can.”
She glanced back at him. And instinctively, he reached his hand toward hers. She looked like she could use something to hold. But… then he stopped, because he couldn’t touch her even if he wanted to.
He blushed, feeling foolish.
A bowl clattered to the floor.
They both jumped, turning toward Design—who had just left the kitchen. She didn’t seem to notice the bowl of soup she’d dropped; instead she stood there slack-jawed.
“Storms!” Design said, staring directly at Painter. “Nikaro? Are you dead?”
