How did she ever get down? Every year, on Shindo’s birthday, her grampa strung her up like it was some kind of a birthday ritual. She always thought that it was going to be easy, that she was stronger this year, piece of cake, but growing an inch or two meant she had to sit up that much further, so the challenge was essentially the same. That is, until she turned fourteen, the year that she was able to untie herself and get down the second that her grampa stepped away.
Shoko listened with her eyes wide open, shivering at the idea of a young girl being subjected to this kind of treatment. Though as far as Shindo was concerned, Shoko had it way worse: being forced to wear her mom’s old clothes, forced to marry a sadistic pervert, and above all, having that creepy father hanging around.
Shindo tried to get Shoko to talk about herself. She asked her questions about her mother and her father and her future husband, but she wouldn’t open up. Her answers were glib and rehearsed, like she was reading an official script.
And yet, once they got talking at a café, Shoko became increasingly more comfortable with talking like a normal person. Now and then, Shindo even caught her smiling in a way that wasn’t sad at all, but genuinely amused.
Shindo realized Shoko was an ordinary kid. A normal girl who was unlucky enough to be stuck in this abnormal situation. Had she been more of a wild woman, Shoko might have had an easier time. Fangless as she was, though, her polite speech and bearing, her cultivated character and hobbies, were her only means of self-protection, an armor she had never lived without. Shindo came to realize that their interactions broke off pieces of it, abrading her defenses. Like they were peeling off a scab before it healed. Nevertheless, they couldn’t stop joking around. It was too fun. Like they were friends.
What made this odd was that Shindo had spent most of her life in the company of men. She scared off all potential female friends, as if they smelled the air of violence she exuded without moving a muscle. Somehow this fangless woman was less scared of her than anyone.
“So which class is your favorite? I keep meaning to ask.”
“Maybe riding? The horses are so cute. I’m also into kyudo, though. I find aiming the arrow at the target so relaxing. Like there’s nothing else to think about.”
Shindo was a little surprised. This was exactly how she felt inside when she was doing drills or sparring.
“I’m allowed to do either kyudo or naginata. Kyudo is so fun, I wish I could shoot arrows all the time. But my father says it would be unbecoming for a lady. Aside from training with your grampa, have you done any other martial arts?”
“Not even once. I don’t know any of the rules or proper etiquette.”
“You should take a class! We could go together. Archery is more than hitting targets. From the second you put on your gi and step into the dojo, you need to maintain perfect form. And once you and your opponent are lined up, you turn toward one another and bow.”
“See, that’s exactly what I hate about it.”
“Well, I like it. The formality is like a ritual for me. It clears my mind. That’s why etiquette is so important.”
“There’s no time for etiquette or bowing in a real fight. You just punch the guy and boom, he’s down.”
“So brutal.”
“Exactly. That’s why they put me here to help you, princess.”
“I hate being called that.”
Shoko picked up a cup of hot cocoa topped off with a spiral of whipped cream.
“Princess?”
“Hate it.”
“What about Miss Shoko?”
“Hate it too.”
“So, just Shoko?”
“Umm . . . I guess that’s okay.”
That afternoon, they had taken a stroll around Shinjuku, playing hooky from her cooking class. Shindo told Shoko she would take her to the movies, or department stores, anything she wanted, but Shoko picked a café.
“Once I’m married, I’m sure I’ll be allowed to go shopping and take classes, at least sometimes, but I don’t see myself being able to hang out like this so easily.”
The café was brand new. Shoko sank back into the pristine sofa, looking out the windows at the street.
“I’m going to . . . remember this.”
“Remember what?”
“All of this. The scenery. Forever. Even when I’m an old lady.”
Shindo followed Shoko’s line of sight into the street. Guys with long hair carrying guitars in gig bags. College boys sporting Waseda sweatshirts. Young salarymen puking at the curb in broad daylight. Women in flashy clothes gabbing and yelling in the street. The faces passed the windows, disappearing down the way, without noticing Shoko and Shindo sitting there. It was a normal afternoon in Shinjuku, nothing special, your average crowd. It felt wrong to treat this stereotypical scenery with such exaggerated grandeur, like she was reading from a memoir of her youth. Was she okay? Shindo almost asked her, but held back.
“Let’s get going, huh? I’ll grab the car. Wait here.”
They had to make sure they were home by dinner at all costs. Shoko’s evenings were set aside for private dinners with her father. Family time, nobody else allowed. It was hard for Shindo to imagine what Shoko and her father had to talk about, sitting across from one another at the dinner table. She was hesitant to bring it up. Naiki may have been a heartless sleazebag, but Shoko had respect for him. Or made it seem that way.
Did everybody have a weird relationship with their parents? Shindo had basically no memory of hers, not even what they looked like, so the best she could do was to imagine what it must be like.
Preoccupied by useless thoughts, Shindo pulled the car out of the parking lot and parked it on the street in front of the café.
Shoko wasn’t on the sofa in the window.
Shindo ran out of the car.
“Princess!”
Shindo screamed. A few pedestrians turned their heads.
