Ink. Amanda Sun

and scrubbed my hands, splashing water on my face.

      I stared at myself in the mirror. I looked thin and frightened, barely there.

      The ink spiraled down the drain. I carved lines through it with my fingertips.

      There was no way this was a hallucination. The whole class had seen the pen explode. And the drawings definitely moved. I could still smell the murky moat water; the breeze had left tangles in my hair.

      And Tomohiro had been there when it happened, just like before.

      I splayed my inky fingers under the rush of clean water.

      He was doing something to the drawings. I just didn’t know what.

      “Ready to go?” said Yuki.

      We stepped out of the genkan door and into the courtyard, Yuki and Tanaka laughing about something Suzuki had said—I’d missed that joke, too. The sunlight was streaming down, and a gentle, warm breeze blew through the branches of the momiji and sakura trees.

      I took a deep breath and looked up at the gate to the school.

      He wasn’t there.

      Relief flooded through me. At least I could put off my planned confrontation for now. I just needed time not to think, time to forget everything that had happened.

      Except I couldn’t. It was all I saw every time I closed my eyes.

      I wanted my life with Mom back. I wanted to be normal and not see drawings move.

      I started to giggle along with Yuki, pretending I understood the joke, pretending I wasn’t shaking inside. But Tanaka suddenly shot out his arm.

      “Oh!” He pointed. “It’s Tomo-kun!”

      You’ve got to be kidding.

      I looked up, and there he was, leaning against the stone wall and chatting with a friend. The other guy had bleached his hair so white it looked like he was wearing a mop on his head.

      “Introduce us!” Yuki squealed. “We can get the whole story about Myu!”

      “Please don’t,” I whispered, but Tanaka was already running across the courtyard. Yuki grabbed my arm.

      “Come on!” she said, squeezing my elbow and rushing us forward.

      “Oi, Tomo-kun!” Tanaka shouted.

      Yuu Tomohiro looked up slowly, his eyes dark and cold. His friend sagged back against a tree trunk, watching us approach with mild amusement.

      “It’s me, Tanaka, from Calligraphy,” said Tanaka, panting as he stopped beside them. He placed his hands on his knees and then gave Yuu a thumbs-up.

      Yuu’s face was blank at first, but then remembrance flickered into his eyes.

      “Oh,” he said. “Tanaka Ichirou.”

      “This is Watabe Yuki and Katie Greene,” Tanaka said. He didn’t reverse my name because gaijin never put their last names first. Yet another way I stood out. Yuki bowed, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I squeezed my hands into fists and tried to do the same with my fear—I tried to squeeze it into anger.

      Tomohiro didn’t bother to introduce his friend or say hello to us. He leaned his head forward slightly so his bangs fell into his eyes, then exchanged a side glance with Bleached Hair. I got the message—they wanted us gone.

      But Tanaka didn’t clue in. He laughed, nervous, grasping for things to say.

      “It’s been a long time, huh?” he said.

      Tomohiro nodded, his bangs bobbing curtly. “You got taller, Ichirou.”

      “Well, I had to fend for myself after you left.” Tanaka grinned before turning to us. “Tomo-kun used to get into fights over everything.”

      Tomohiro smirked. “That hasn’t changed,” he said, staring directly at me.

      So he was picking a fight with me. But over what? He was the one doing creepy stuff, not me. He ran a hand through his hair and looked over at Bleached Hair, who rolled his eyes.

      Yuki spoke up. “Sorry about you and Myu.”

      Tomo’s eyes snapped back to mine. I bet he was wondering how much I’d told. Was he worried I’d spilled about the drawing, too?

      “Maa,” he said with a dramatic sigh, pressing his slender fingertips to his forehead. “Some people don’t know when to keep their mouths shut.”

      Fire spread through me. “I didn’t say anything,” I blurted.

      “My sister told me,” Tanaka said quickly. “Keiko’s in Myu’s homeroom.”

      “It doesn’t matter,” Tomohiro said, rubbing the back of his neck. “You don’t have to cover for her. The whole school knows anyway.”

      But it did matter. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of being right when he wasn’t.

      “He’s not covering,” I said. “I have better things to do than gossip about you.”

      “So you have a new girlfriend now?” Yuki piped up again. She was determined to drag the gossip out at any cost.

      Tomohiro tilted his head. “Why? Are you confessing?”

      That’s what they called it here when you admitted you liked someone. Yuki turned bright pink.

      “It’s—it’s not like that,” she said, waving her hand back and forth.

      “Oh, her, then?” he said, motioning at me.

      My heart almost stopped. “Excuse me?”

      “It’s a joke,” Bleached Hair said. “Calm yourself.”

      “Um,” Tanaka said, looking from Tomohiro to me and back with wide eyes. “Um, so are—are you going to join the Shoudo Club this year?”

      A dark look crossed Tomohiro’s eyes. “I don’t do calligraphy anymore,” he said quietly.

      “Tan-kun told us you were really talented,” Yuki bubbled, but Tomohiro took a step toward her, glaring at her from behind his bangs.

      “I don’t paint anymore,” he said, and I wondered why he had to get so uptight about it. “It doesn’t interest me.”

      “Oh, that’s too bad,” Tanaka said, laughing politely to smooth things out. “With me in the club, they need all the help they can get.” Tomohiro let out a small laugh, which only egged Tanaka on. “God help us if they put my drawings on display!”

      “You did always draw the lines too thickly.” Tomohiro grinned. The storm in his eyes looked as if it had passed. I could see a faint image in my mind of what he must have been like in elementary school, when he and Tanaka had been friends.

      “Sou ne…” Tanaka trailed off, staring into the distance, deep in thought. He tapped his fingers against his chin. “How do I fix it?”

      Tomohiro gripped his fingers together, as if he were holding a paintbrush. “If you hold it like this,” he said, “with the right support here, and move like this…” His arm moved gently through the air, making light brushstrokes, and even I, who had no background in calligraphy—heck, even my school notes were illegible—could tell there was something more going on here.

      “Try to load less paint on the tip of the brush,” Tomohiro said. “And move like this.”

      Tanaka smiled and crossed his arms as he watched. “You’re really good, you know? A natural.”

      Tomohiro’s arm stopped suddenly like a dance cut short. It hung there in the air, rigidly, until he dropped it down to the side and shoved his hand into his blazer pocket.

      “I told you,” he said sharply, “it doesn’t