7. Short Story Reading — “Murmurs of the Dead”

Would life have any meaning if you weren’t the lead?

No matter how good the story is, or how rich the ending might be, none of it would be any good if it wasn’t made for you.

And if you’re going to be the star, it should be when you’re shining your brightest—such as, for example, in your third year of high school. When you’re young and spry and bursting with life.

If you want to be the lead, you’re going to need a supporting cast. But they better not be too clever. The most famous sidekicks bring out the appeal of the star. They stay by her side and don’t outshine her.

Sidekicks are who determine the quality of the story. Sidekicks are only as good as their lead: the better the sidekick, the more glorious the star.

But the nasty part of having a sidekick is that they’re always trying to steal the throne. One wrong move and they’ve taken your place.

So you need to plan ahead to retain your throne. You must always be superior to your supporting cast. So what do you do?

You seize their secrets.

If it’s true that “others’ misfortunes are as sweet as honey,” then I’d say their secrets are the ultimate spice—spices that fill the secret bearer’s life with the richest of aromas and the most unexpected of tastes.

The lovelier the person on the outside, the more grotesque the secrets they hide. What a joy it is to sniff them out!

Seize their secrets, steal their place, hunt them down. To hold someone’s secrets is to take hold of their soul. There is nothing in this world more enjoyable.

When you seize someone else’s secrets, your story is born.

Yes. For example.

The stage is St. Mary’s Academy for Girls. The setting is the Literature Club.

And the star is me.

1

The morning sunlight from the valley illuminates the world outside the window as the lavender sky fades into a transparent orange. I lie in bed as I watch the colors change and start to drift back to sleep.

“Itsumi. You awake?” he whispers in my ear. His arms wrap around me from behind, as they did the night before.

“Yeah. But I don’t want to move just yet,” I reply.

He kisses my shoulder and buries his face in my hair. This gentle moment. This breathtaking morning in Eastern Europe. We relish in the warmth of each other’s skin, cherishing every moment we have together. We are held in a cocoon. We know that this tender moment will end.

We will be torn apart once we return to Japan.

A forbidden relationship between a student and a missionary school professor. I know everything about him, yet I have to call him “teacher” and keep my distance from him. It’s incredibly frustrating. It’s agonizing to have the one I love stand before me, but be unable to feel his touch or hear him say he loves me. Now that I know this pain, all of my classmates seem so childish in comparison.

“Shinji,” I say. His name is so precious.

“Yes? Would you like some coffee?”

“Sure.”

He gently releases me from his arms and crawls out of bed. He grinds the coffee beans and prepares the hot water as I doze, gazing at the glorious scenery out the window.

I wish we could be like this forever, I think.

After spring vacation ended and we returned to Japan, a new school year began.

We returned to our monotonous lives as professor and student.

I was in my third year. This was, finally, the last year of my high school career.

I idly stared out the classroom window. The academy campus has nothing on the gorgeous view in Eastern Europe. This was one of the days I didn’t have his class. Unless we are lucky enough to pass each other in the hallway by chance, we wouldn’t be able to meet. Though I used to make excuses to visit him in the faculty room, we paid too much attention to each other and it felt like everyone could sense our body temperatures rising. Now I only go there when it is absolutely necessary.

However, I would see him after school. My heart leapt at that thought: in the salon, after hours. The real reason I reopened the Literature Club was to spend more time with him.

“Itsumi, how was Bulgaria?” someone asked, interrupting my sweet memories. It was Sayuri, my childhood best friend and vice president of the club.

Even though the Literature Club has been around almost since the founding of our sixty-year old academy, it had been closed for a few years before I entered high school. In this small academy with only 120 students per grade, the most popular clubs are the modern and theatrical ones like English conversation, drama, and music. Reading, writing, and other simple activities that you can perform on your own no longer appeal to the female students of today. The former club adviser, Mr. Hojo, couldn’t hide a bitter smile when he told me that all the members had quit, one by one, until no one was left.

When he was younger, Mr. Hojo was a bookworm who aspired to be an author. He taught my first high school literature course at the academy. The moment I met this professor, still in his mid-twenties, I fell instantly in love. His soft hair. His languorous eyes. He was a cynic who seemed to read novels only to cement the ugliness of reality. But his smile was friendly and inviting, and could win anyone over. I steadily became more and more smitten with him.

I researched everything about him. How his hometown is in a cold area of Japan. That he has an older sister and a younger brother. That he loves Kafka. That he listens to Schubert in his spare time. And that he used to be adviser of the Literature Club.

I restarted the club so I could get closer to him. Since a club needs at least two members for the school to approve, I asked Sayuri to join as well.

Although our numbers have grown, at first it was just me and Sayuri. Right after I reopened the club, Mr. Hojo created assignments just for the two of us, making us write essays, poems, and short stories, and gave fervent discourses on literature.

I wrote poems about passionate love and read them to him, and chose sensual novels like Marguerite Duras’ The Lover for our discussions. He gradually noticed my affection for him. And finally, I was tied to Mr. Hojo not as a student, but as a woman.

“It was wonderful. The absolute best,” I answered Sayuri.

“Did you have a good time with the professor?” she asked. Of course, Sayuri knew all about me and Mr. Hojo.

“Yes. I sometimes snuck out of my homestay and got to stay with him at his hotel.”

“That’s great.”

At this school, you can basically choose to study abroad anywhere. The academy will arrange your homestay in whichever country you want to go. Popular picks include America, England, Australia, France, Germany, Korea, and China, but I chose Bulgaria, which no one had ever chosen before. I knew that if Mr. Hojo came with me as an escort, we could spend some alone time together. To apply, I had to submit a short essay on why I chose Bulgaria, but I knew nothing about the country. This was when Sayuri came up with an idea.

“Ivan Vazov is one of the greatest writers in Bulgarian history,” she suggested. “Why don’t you say that you’re interested in him and want to see where his works were born?”

It was Sayuri who helped me with the entire process, from researching Vazov’s famous works to editing my application essay. Thanks to her help, I was accepted into the program and could travel with Mr. Hojo. I could enjoy my spring vacation with him without having to check if anyone was watching. However, the next year Shiyo unexpectedly joined us, and we didn’t get nearly as much alone time.

Whenever I stood at a crossroads, Sayuri always gave me the right advice. Even though we’re the same age, she is discreet and thinks like an adult, no matter what is happening around her. Sayuri was a great adviser because she was my total opposite. She supported me when I fell in love with Mr. Hojo and wanted to revive the Literature Club, and she created alibis for me when I went to go see him. Without Sayuri, our love could have never come to be.

“Isn’t there a council today?” Sayuri inquired.

“Council” was our code for my rendezvous with Mr. Hojo, which fell every week on Wednesday, when he didn’t have any faculty meetings.

“Yes, we do have a council. I guess I’ll see you later, Sayuri,” I told her.

In the activity report we gave to the school, our Wednesday “councils” were for “library organizational purposes.” Sayuri was also in charge of writing and submitting these weekly reports. None of the other members knew of these “councils,” of course; they were convinced that the salon was only closed on Wednesdays for the reason we stated.

I always felt Wednesday was so far away. We could meet eyes only when I was in his class, three times a week, and the only time we could spend together was on Wednesdays for a few hours after school.

The place where we spent time together.

It had to be romantic, clean, luxurious, perfect.

This is why I had my father build the salon for me immediately after I revived the club two years ago. It has my favorite antique furniture. Curtains and matching carpets in the color of my choice. Soundproof walls to keep our secrets. A complete kitchen for an all-out afternoon tea. An extensive library of rare books that reflect my professor’s tastes.

We talked in the salon until we were tired of speaking. We cherished each other. And made love with insatiable passion.

The Literature Club was merely camouflage for our affair. I had no plans to invite any other members besides Sayuri. I wanted the salon to be a space where the professor and I could nurture our love without any intruders.

But it wasn’t enough.

Something was missing.

The salon was my castle. It was a space with everything I could want, built just for me. And yet, it wasn’t enough. What else could I want?

Everytime I closed the salon door behind me after a “council” with the professor, that was all I could think about.

As we nurtured our love, the seasons changed and I became a second-year student.

It was a dazzling spring. I leaned over the balustrade on the terrace and stared down at the courtyard. After the salon, the terrace was my second favorite place at the academy. From there I could see all kinds of girls: girls reading on the lawn, girls eating their lunches, girls lying on the grass and chatting, girls playing badminton. They had such lovely faces. Bodies bursting with vivacity and glittering with youth.

We are beautiful.

Everything about high school girls is beautiful—our long, straight hair, our supple skin, our sparkling eyes, our soft lips, our dainty shoulders, our voices as sweet as a gentle breeze, our nearly-ripe bodies on the cusp of maturity.

I am fully aware, however, that I am lovelier than the others by far. And because my father is the chairman, this academy’s students and teachers acknowledge my superiority at once.

We only have the privilege to be high school girls for three short years—a magical time protected by our campus and our uniforms. Once we graduate, our existence is no longer particularly special. Once we leave the sanctuary of a girls’ high school, the magic instantly vanishes.

My first year flew by in the blink of an eye. With only two years left, a small sense of impatience foamed at the bottom of my heart.

At least while I am here, I want to be the lead.

If I can’t be the star, then no one else can.

I have to shine more brightly than everyone else.

Then, it dawned on me. I realized what was missing from the salon: the supporting characters I need to glorify my story.

Sidekicks. I had to choose them wisely.

The real thrill of being the main character comes from taking people beautiful and intelligent enough to lead a story on their own, but forcing them into the role of a sidekick. So I couldn’t pick just anyone.

Who would be a good sidekick for me?

I wanted a tough, intelligent, and attractive girl—and suddenly, the face of an underclassman popped into my mind.

Shiyo Takaoka. After winning a prize for her light novel in junior high, she not only gained a lot of attention from our school, but also from the whole country. She was not only skilled, but also meticulous and chillingly alluring. When the press came to campus, the principal and nuns curtly turned them away, but take just one step outside the academy gates and you would see them: a mob of paparazzi lying in wait, cameras and microphones at the ready.

I decided to move in on Shiyo Takaoka.

Seize people’s secrets, and you will command their actions.

Since I was young, this was what my father had lived by. He uses this technique in both his private life and career, and it is why his businesses are so successful.

I wanted to know Shiyo’s secret.

And by sheer coincidence, my wish came true.

At first, though I studied her, Shiyo didn’t seem to have any notable problems in school or at home. At the time, she had just announced the next installment of the Kimikageso series and was becoming enormously popular.

Hmph, so I guess Shiyo doesn’t have anything to hide, I’d thought to myself, about to give up.

At the same time, I was also in contact with a pen pal from our sister school in France. Our academy lets us communicate with students at our sister schools across the globe. My pen pal asked if I’d read anything interesting lately, so I told her about Kimikageso and sent her a copy.

She then told me that a very similar short story had been published many years ago, and proceeded to translate it into English and send it to me. When I read it, I was shocked. The content of the two texts wasn’t just similar, it was identical.

So I’d found it. Shiyo Takaoka’s secret. And, oh, how vile it was.

“Hey, Shiyo.” One day, after school, I approached her as she was packing up her things.

There was no one else in the classroom. The rays of the setting sun spilled in through the window, casting shadows of the desks and our two figures on the linoleum floor. Shiyo was surprised. It was the first time I’d ever spoken to her.

“Hey, do you know this novel?” I held up a printout of a book review from a regional French newspaper. In the light from the sunset, her face suddenly paled.

“Th-That’s…” Shiyo stammered, her voice hoarse.

“I was surprised how similar it was to your book. You probably figured you wouldn’t get caught if you just kept it from being translated.”

“I…never thought I’d win the prize! When I lived in France, I heard someone describing that story, I never even read it. Then when I was writing my piece for the contest, I remembered it and then, before I knew it…Since everyone made such a fuss after I won, how could I say anything?”

“But I don’t think they’d forgive plagiarism, do you?”

“Please don’t tell anyone. I beg you.” Shiyo trembled. “I’ll do anything,” she begged, tormented with fear. Her gaze was desperate. I was consumed with the pleasure of knowing that I now controlled her fate.

Money alone will never get you that power. Devotion. Faith. Total subordination. As long as I knew her secret, I could take anything from her that I wanted.

“All right. This is a secret between me and you,” I told her.

Shiyo looked up at me with surprise. Her eyes were rimmed red with tears. Another surge of pleasure ran down my spine.

“I’m the president of the Literature Club. Would you like to join?”

“H-Huh?” She looked perplexed. “Yes, yes. Of course. I’d love to. But…why?”

“I want you to stay by my side. How does that sound?”

Shiyo nodded frantically. She must have thought it was a small price to pay if it would cover up her plagiarism.

She must have had no idea how uncomfortable and miserable being a sidekick would be. She had no clue how much it would wear down her soul.

This brainy schoolgirl had become my puppet. She would stay near me, laughing and crying as I told her to. From that point on, she would speak the lines I wanted her to utter and follow the stage directions I provided.

I had obtained my first sidekick.

After Shiyo became a member in the second year of its revival, club activities went into full swing. The academy, Mr. Hojo, and my father, who was the sponsor of the Literature Club, were all satisfied by Shiyo’s addition to the club and by the fact that our activities were really picking up. I also began to realize how interesting literature was. I spent the days I couldn’t see the professor reading and experiencing the worlds of his favorite books. I thought of him as I wrote poems and stories. Sayuri and Shiyo critiqued my work, which turned out to be meaningful, even enjoyable, in its own way.

But I derived my most intimate joy from knowing that Shiyo, the girl who had captured everyone’s attention, was fearfully inquiring about my health, rejecting all television appearances and magazine interviews, waiting on me in the salon, and doing every little thing she could to serve me to the fullest.

This was completely different from the relationship between my father and his maids. In the unique environment of an all-girls high school, in the castle I had built myself, I had a servant who lived only for me.

The sidekick added a splendid dimension to my story. It was only natural that I’d want a second one.

Akane Kominami.

From when she’d been in junior high, she’d already stood out for her antique doll-like cuteness. Her eyes were like big balls of transparent glass. She had soft, curly hair. Her cheeks were slightly red, as if always flushed. Her hobby was baking. Girls sucked up to her in hopes that they’d receive one of her delectable chocolates on Valentine’s Day. But behind her fairytale-like charm was an ambitious twinkle in her eye that I liked very much.

Akane is the eldest daughter of the cook at Kominami, the restaurant where her “happy” family gathered around the dinner table and where her father often hosted business events. You would never think that this girl, who looked like she had popped out of a foreign fairytale, grew up surrounded by the smell of fish broth and soy sauce. But this disparity only made me want her even more.

Oh, how wonderful it would be to control a sweet beauty like her. Besides, for a story with a female as its main character, you had to have sweets. I wanted to know her secret. The cuter they were, the uglier I hoped it would be.

So I began to investigate her. There were times when I even followed her home.

Her family’s residence, behind Kominami, had an elegant charm. Yet for some reason, she always shot the restaurant an annoyed glance before sighing and entering her home.

Then, one night…

Usually, Akane went straight home from school. But on this particular night, she dawdled around a one-hundred-yen shop and café for a curiously long time, and then sat on a bench in a nearby park late into the night. While I watched her from a distance, I thought how peculiar her behavior was.

While she sat on the bench, I saw a dim light grow in her hand.

A lighter. Her gaze was fixed on the lighter that she flicked on and off in her hand.

I don’t know how many times she did it. Then, she silently stood and, as if she had made a decision, briskly headed towards the restaurant.

Akane wasn’t going home. She entered Kominami, which had already closed for the night. Before long, the formerly pitch-black windows started glowing red. The light slowly grew brighter and brighter and spread throughout the restaurant. That was when Akane flew out of Kominami, pursued by the flames. The left arm of her blazer had caught fire. She panicked and smacked her blazer sleeve until the fire was out, and then ran into the darkness until she disappeared completely. The flames from the wooden building, which had been built in the Taisho period, dyed the sky red until the early hours of the morning.

The next day, the morning newspaper reported:

100-YEAR OLD KOMINAMI RESTAURANT BURNED DOWN?

Fire burst from the two-story wooden building that housed the traditional restaurant, Kominami, at about 11 p.m. last night. All 3,200 square feet of the restaurant were burnt to the ground. The fire department is investigating suspicions of arson. It has become clear that the kitchen was not the source of the fire, and no one had been in the restaurant at the time of the fire.

There were no injuries. The home attached to the restaurant, as well as the other surrounding buildings, were not damaged. Mr. Tatsuo Kominami (55), manager of the establishment, Mrs. Kominami (53), and their son (21) were home at the time of the fire and escaped without incident. Their daughter (16) was not at the Kominami residence at the time and is reported safe.

“We apologize for all of the trouble this has caused,” was Mr. Tatsuo Kominami’s comment. “Our restaurant will be closed for the time being.

“Our long-time patrons in the neighborhood are saddened over the loss of our precious building and the opportunity to eat Kominami’s food.”

Everyone at school heard about the incident and gave Akane their sympathy.

“Thank you all for worrying about me,” Akane replied to them.

Her face was pale and drawn. She was the perfect picture of a pitiful victim. But at school, she wore a cardigan instead of the blazer that had been burnt in the fire. And I knew. Only I knew the truth.

I caught her at lunch time. “It’s really too bad about Kominami,” I told her sympathetically.

“Yeah,” she answered. “I was lucky I wasn’t home at the time. It had already burned to the ground when I got home. I’m shocked and sad…”

“Right. The newspaper said that you weren’t home at the time. I’m glad you’re okay.”

“I am, too,” Akane replied, her brow furrowed sadly.

“But I’m not convinced.” I grabbed Akane’s left arm and pulled up her sleeve. She squirmed with pain. A white bandage was wrapped around her arm.

“What a pity. That burn really did leave a mark,” I observed.

Akane reeled back in horror and swatted my hand away. She pulled the edge of her sleeve back down to her hand.

“…H-How?”

“I saw everything. Starting from when you were in the park last night.”

Akane’s eyes opened wide. “You…saw everything?”

“Indeed. Every last second of it.”

“Are you serious?” Akane asked, her entire body quivering. “What the heck is this?”

“Why did you do it?” I inquired.

“I…I couldn’t take it anymore.” Weeping, Akane told me what had happened. Her father had abandoned the plans to let Akane manage her own Western-style restaurant and decided to build a second Japanese-style Kominami instead. Moreover, he was going to give the new restaurant to Akane’s brother.

“It was always just my brother. I wasn’t ever allowed to cook. My father wouldn’t even let me in the kitchen. That’s why I fought to have my own restaurant. I thought I’d finally gained their approval. But then my brother stole that too. I was so frustrated. That restaurant was my life. So I wanted to take away everything they had.” Her tears weakly trickled down her cheeks, but she spat her words out vehemently.

I realized this was a girl with no regrets, convinced that she’d done the right thing. I started to like her even more.

“Yes, you’ve been through a lot,” I comforted her.

“I know it was stupid. It’s only a matter of time until they realize it was me. My father didn’t give the key to any of his workers, which means only family can enter the kitchen. And I was the only one in my family who wasn’t home at the time. And then I have this burn…”

“Akane, don’t cry,” I gently comforted her. “I know how you feel.”

“…What?”

“You wanted your dreams to come true. You would do whatever it takes to make them real. Akane, listen. I’ll back up your alibi.”

Akane looked up at me in disbelief.

“I’ll say we were in the salon until late at night,” I continued. “And that I had Mr. Muro—oh, that’s the name of my chauffeur—drive us home because it was too dark outside.”

“Itsumi…”

“Do you like any author in particular?”

“I don’t really read books.”

“I mean, you read a little, don’t you?”

“I read some stuff by Osamu Dazai in my textbook.”

“That’s fine. We’ll say that we were in the salon talking about Dazai until about ten at night,” I suggested.

Akane and I hashed out the details of her alibi. We decided that we were talking about Akane’s report on Kazuko’s character in The Setting Sun. The police questioned me and Mr. Muro about Akane’s whereabouts that night, but our testimonies cleared her name.

That was how Akane Kominami fell into the palm of my hands.

I was right on the mark. As I thought, every one of Akane’s desserts was exquisite, with delicate decorations that would tickle any girl. She hurried about the kitchen, whipping cream and adorning her cookies with stars and hearts. It was like playing with a real-life doll. It would have been a disservice not to give her a full-on country-style kitchen to match her persona. Akane really seemed to like her brand-new, sparkling silver kitchen.

This was how I silently and steadily built my own world. After obtaining Akane, I invited three more girls to join the club.

Sonoko Koga. There was no way a girl as logical and clever as Sonoko would just volunteer for the executive committee if there wasn’t some benefit. And sure enough, after doing some research, I found that she had hacked the academy’s computer from the laptop in my father’s library and altered her grades and school ranking to obtain a recommendation letter that would get her into a top-ranking medical university.

Diana Decheva. I was suspicious to find that her passport was issued right before her sister’s accident. When I pressed Diana about it, she tearfully confessed that she had pushed her sister off the fortress so she could go to Japan in her place.

Then there was Mirei Nitani. Volunteering to be a conversation partner over the internet was just a laughable lie: She was prostituting herself to an unknown number of men.

These young, beautiful, sinful girls.

When they joined my club my world became complete.

My sidekicks moved and spoke on my demand and made my dream world a reality. My sinners feared and respected me, held their breath as they watched every move I made, and entered and exited stage precisely on cue.

Accompanied by my fantastic sidekicks, I grew brighter and brighter with power and confidence. I was the star.

Mr. Hojo and I had another hideaway besides the salon. To get to it, I had to go through the underground parking garage.

To prevent accidents, the parking garage was closed to the students. It was no place for high school girls without a driver’s license like me. I couldn’t go very often because of how risky it was. First, I had to go to Building 2. I would pass the science lab and home economics classroom and make a turn in the hallway. There was a giant mirror that showed me my reflection when I got close enough to it. It wasn’t just a regular mirror. It was a gift the academy received from English nuns after the war. It is etched with Verse 12 from Corinthians 1, Chapter 13.

Most students feared its immense size, archaic design, and that mystical verse. But there’s another reason why this mirror was special.

I would open the glass box of the fire alarm on the wall. When I pulled the lever all the way down and pushed on the mirror, a small space opened up between the mirror and wall, just big enough for one person to slip through.

After I passed through that crawl space, I would press the mirror from behind to return it to its original position. I am the only person at school who knows this trick.

Behind the mirror, there’s a wooden staircase that leads underground. When the school building was previously a convent, this staircase used to go from the underground storage room all the way to the third floor. However, when the convent was rebuilt, the above-ground portion of the staircase was replaced with the science lab. All that was left of it were the steps that led underground, but those began to deteriorate dramatically and were eventually blocked off to keep the students safe. The construction workers used this enormous mirror as a blockade, instead of a wall. The workers installed the contraption because they thought they might have to take the mirror down again someday.

Aside from me, they are the only other ones who know about it. I knew about the false wall because the reconstruction was done by one of my father’s companies.

Once in, I would cautiously close the door and tiptoe down the creaky staircase. The small door near the bottom of the staircase leads to the parking garage. The professor always parked next to the door. No one would see me when I slipped into his car.

He would be waiting for me in the driver’s seat. When I got in, he’d look at me with his heart in his eyes and give me a kiss, and then we’d drive off.

This was our second hideout. We enjoyed a little drive and gazed at the night sky. To make sure no one would see us, we never left the car. If the salon was my homemade getaway, then his car was a clandestine space at his fingertips. It was wild and exciting for me.

Our secret love blossomed in the car and salon.

I wanted it to last forever.

I wanted us to have a future.

When I was with him, I always wished for one.

Perhaps all that wishing made it come true.

Soon, a new life grew within me.

“Is this true?” The professor was shocked when I told him I was pregnant.

“It is,” I said. “What do we do?”

“There’s only one thing we can do,” he replied. He took in a deep breath and smiled. “We already know, right? Itsumi, let’s get married.”

“What?”

“I’ll go talk to your father. I mean, you’re already graduating next year, I’m sure he’ll give us his permission.”

“Really?”

“Why? You don’t like me?”

“No, it’s just too good to be true.”

“You’re silly.” He held me tightly and kissed me tenderly on the lips. “Ahh, I can’t wait. I can’t believe we’re going to have a family together,” he murmured.

“My father is stubborn, you know. He’ll never approve.”

“Of a lowly professor like me?”

“Well, yes,” I answered honestly. At this, Mr. Hojo laughed, running his fingers through his hair.

“Then I’ll just have to keep at it until I get his approval. Until the day you stop loving me, that is.”

“Oh, that day will never come.”

“Ahh, aren’t you young. But that’s good. Your beauty is so pure because of that youth. It’s what I love about you best,” he praised me with a carefree laugh.

His ironic personality was what had drawn me to him in the first place.

“When should I visit your father?” he continued. “The sooner the better.” Just as the professor was about to reach for his schedule book, I stopped his hand with a kiss.

“Not yet. I think we should wait a little while.”

“Oh?”

“In three months…Let’s wait until August. I’ll be in my third trimester, so it would be too late for an abortion. My father won’t be able to do anything about it.”

So our plan was to lay low until August. We didn’t do anything that would make us stand out. We didn’t meet in his car. We stopped talking on the phone. We only communicated by text.

“Is it a boy or a girl?” Mr. Hojo asked.

“I don’t know. For some reason, I feel like it’s a girl.”

“I hope she looks like you.”

“What should we name her?”

“How about ‘Lily’? I want her to be as innocent and happy as a flower.”

“That’s beautiful. What a lovely name.”

My body started to change. There was the never-ending, unbearable nausea. The perpetual sluggishness. The migraines. In the salon, all I could do was rest on the sofa. Even the smell of Akane’s once-mouthwatering sweets made me so nauseous, I’d vomit until my stomach was empty.

Although I didn’t feel well, my skin had become smooth, and my hair and nails grew very quickly. My body was pale and gaunt, but even as I was throwing up and unable to eat, my eyes glistened brightly with the hormones coursing through my body.

I was already Lily’s mother. That was the happiest time of my life.

My story was perfect.

And yet, I never thought my sidekicks would be the ones to tear my world apart.

2

“Itsumi,” someone called me.

On the last day of exams, Sayuri and I were near the school gates when I heard someone say my name. It was my father. He was in Mr. Muro’s car.

“Oh, father,” I greeted him. “What brings you to the school?”

“Get in the car. We’re going home right now.”

“But exams just finished. Sayuri and I were just going to…”

“Get in.” The sharp tone of his voice suddenly made me uneasy. Sayuri and I locked eyes for a moment. Sensing my apprehension, she searched for something to say.

“Mr. Shiraishi, it’s nice to see you,” she greeted. “May I join you both?”

“No, today’s not a good day.” His curt reply exacerbated my fears.

“Okay, I’ll text you later, Sayuri,” I told her.

When we got home, my father brought me straight to his library. I was so flustered, I accidentally stepped on Mirei’s shoes as we passed the front door.

“What’s your relationship with Mr. Hojo?” My father’s sudden question was such a shock, my heart tightened as if about to burst.

“Father, what are you asking?” I said. I tried to stay calm, but my voice shook. How did he know about the professor?

“Are you two dating?” he cut to the chase, pressing me to answer. His face was terrifying. His eyes were bloodshot.

“I would never!” Even when I denied his claim, the tension in his cheeks didn’t subside.

Someone must have secretly told him about me and the professor. Could it—was it Sayuri? But the next moment I realized how wrong I was to have doubted her.

“Still feel like playing dumb?!” My father grabbed pictures from the top of the bookshelf and flung them onto the floor. Pictures of Mr. Hojo and I gazing at each other with the Balkan Mountains in the background. Of us smiling at the Rila Church. Of us kissing in the Rose Valley.

How? When were they taken?

I picked each of the pictures up from the floor.

“This is absolutely shameful. I didn’t think you were so stupid,” my father said coldly.

“But…but I love him.” I stammered and lifted my face, looking directly at my father.

“Your words are worthless. Anyway, I’m not letting you have that baby.”

I was startled. I must have misheard him. “What did you just say?”

My father silently took a photo from the library drawer and thrust it before me. When I realized what it was, all the blood in my body froze.

It was a copy of my ultrasound. My name and the date of the exam were printed on it, despite the fact that I had purposefully gone to a hospital in the suburbs and hadn’t given them my insurance card.

“You are not going to have that baby. Got it?” He tore up the ultrasound. Shreds of black paper fluttered and fell to the floor. My beautiful baby, still only a tiny sea angel. The life I meant to raise, to call “Lily.”

I felt like the ground was shaking and crumbling beneath my feet. No one was supposed to know my secret. The secret I’d wanted to protect until the end…

“That damn professor. What’s all this ‘being in love’ crap about?”

“Have you met with him?”

“Yeah. I just fired him. I made him leave town. I told him that he’ll never see you for the rest of his life.”

“You’re evil!”

“Evil? You should be thankful that I even let him live!”

Right, my father corners people.

That’s how he got to where he is today. If I made him any angrier, he might actually kill the professor.

I started crying hysterically, and he hit me across the face. I don’t really remember anything after that. I was taken to my father’s hospital. One week later, all I did was continue to cry in the hospital bed. I couldn’t stop rubbing the empty spot where my baby had been. I didn’t want to do anything. Everything was hollow and bare.

After I was released, I finally began to think straight. What, exactly, had happened?

The only members who could’ve secretly taken the photographs of me and Mr. Hojo in Bulgaria were either Shiyo or Diana, or possibly both. The only ones who could’ve furtively told my father about it were those who had come to my home, which meant either Mirei or Sonoko, or both. The only ones who knew about my pregnancy were either Akane, who had noticed a change in my eating habits, or Diana, who had noticed a change in my body. Or both. The only ones who could get their hands on my ultrasound were either Sonoko, who helped out at the hospital, or Akane, who found my checkbook, or both.

In other words…everyone had betrayed me.

My faithful sidekicks had suddenly thrust me an ultimatum. They were telling me they wouldn’t let me hold onto their secrets forever. That they were the ones in possession of my soul.

Indeed…they had declared war.

When I was released from the hospital and returned to school, I found out everyone had been told that I was in the hospital with chronic pneumonia and that Mr. Hojo had to resign because his mother had fallen terminally ill. No one knew the truth, except for the Literature Club members and me.

Mr. Hojo’s mobile phone and email weren’t working, and all the letters I sent him were returned as “undeliverable.” I thought I would never see him again. And when I went back to school, Sayuri was the only one who greeted me kindly.

“I’m glad you’re finally out of the hospital,” Sayuri said, giving me a gentle hug.

“Sayuri. I missed you so much. You didn’t even come visit me.”

“I went! Plenty of times. But your father turned me away.”

“What?”

“He realized that all my alibis were fake. He was really angry with me.”

“Oh my gosh. Sayuri, I’m so sorry I bothered you with all this.”

“It’s okay, don’t worry.”

“Sayuri, I just want to die.”

“Don’t say things like that. The Bible says, ‘Thou must not kill.’ That includes yourself, you know.”

“To Hell with the Bible!” I suddenly yelled. “I’m never going to read it again. I’ll never go near a church or cross for the rest of my life. I’m already damned for watching them murder my child.”

“Itsumi, you can’t think about the past. You’ve got to move forward.”

“No. I have no reason to live.”

“Yes, you do. You have every chance in the world to start over. Here, I have a get-well present for you.”

Sayuri handed me a postcard that had a cute picture of a kitten on it.

“Ahh…” I studied the postcard and let out an unwitting sigh. On the back were Mr. Hojo’s new mobile phone number, email, and home address.

“I asked him for his information before he left. He has yours, as well.”

“Sayuri…”

“I’m truly sorry about your baby. But you and Mr. Hojo could try again. Please try and stay positive. I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

If Sayuri hadn’t been there for me, I wouldn’t have been able to get back on my feet.

The professor was my reason for living. I returned to sanity, happy to be alive again.

But there was another thing that would make me happy.

Revenge.

Revenge on the five club members that had betrayed me and murdered Lily.

3

My revenge was calling all of you to the terrace and then jumping to my death, holding the lily-of-the-valley, instead of a will, in my hand.

You all must have panicked. You must never have imagined that Itsumi Shiraishi would take her own life. I’m sure you all looked hard for the meaning of the lily in this puzzling suicide. If people realized that the flower represents my unborn daughter, they would also realize that all of you had duped me, and they would find out that your secrets—in other words, your sins—were what motivated your betrayal of me.

The lily was my warning.

I knew everyone would be tracking the other Literature Club members down after my death. I knew that you’d all share your stories and try to come to one conclusion.

I thought a homicide would be better than a suicide. I would make you think that one of you murdered me in cold blood, and that the lilies signified something different from what they actually did. You yourselves spread the rumors that I was murdered by a member of the club, and now all of you are having doubts about one another. It’s hard to single one person out, since everyone is suspicious.

With those predictions in mind, one week ago, I called the five of you to the terrace and jumped to my death before your very eyes. I was carried away on a stretcher, my body coated in blood.

But I didn’t die. I landed on the stone arch between the first and second floor, and jumped down from there to the flower bed—where Sayuri had piled soft mulch between the flowers, instead of shock-proof material, so as not to expose our scheme. I splattered the fake blood generously all over myself.

I was then taken to my father’s hospital. I ended up spraining one of my wrists and had a few cuts here and there. After I was treated, I snuck out of the hospital. I left a note behind saying that I ran off to live with Mr. Hojo. My father, who bears the shame of his daughter’s elopement, has been secretly searching for me all week. The principal and my father are hiding the truth from the students. And so, the rumors of my death went unchecked and spread like wildfire.

Right after I jumped, Sayuri brought a white bouquet of flowers to school and left them on my desk, crying—which inevitably confirmed the rumors of my death. Dramatic delusions will always trump reality at an all-girls school. And with that, I have cornered all of you until this very day. You must have been so full of anguish and terror, trying to decrypt the secret of the lilies.

Thus, I had my revenge and Mr. Hojo and I could live happily ever after.

I couldn’t have planned or pulled off this perfect scheme by myself. Sayuri Sumikawa was incredibly helpful. She predicted everything—that my father probably wouldn’t publicize my elopement, which would make the club members, who believed I was dead, identify a culprit to try to hide their secrets—and formulated a strategy. My beautiful mentor. I deeply admire her. She took my unformed plans for revenge and made them realizable.

I am writing this from our new home. Mr. Hojo and I live a humble life. It may not be a life of luxury, but we are happy. I should really thank you for your little ploy, in a way; if you hadn’t betrayed me, I might still be hiding from people’s eyes and be limited to those confining meetings with Mr. Hojo.

After I write this, I will sneak into the salon. I will furtively attend the meeting tonight and laugh in the dark as I listen to your stories.

Then—you must not forget the finale.

I will also be bringing an item of my choice tonight.

We will have a flower stew. Did you notice the strong fragrance of the lilies?

The stem and flower of the lily of the valley contains a very potent poison. They are the cardiac glycosides: convallatoxins, convallamarin, convalloside…But you would know all about this, wouldn’t you, “Doctor” Sonoko?

The devious sidekicks who tried to overthrow the heroine must leave the stage. You have all come here today to commit suicide together.

Yes. That was why I had you write those stories.

Your stories will become your wills.

Stories where you mourn me, miss me, and reminisce about my life. You loved and adored me, you can’t quite accept that I’m not here—and through writing them, you each gradually come to terms with my death.

Reading them aloud tonight, you scatter your young lives…This salon will be the lovely casket that adds the final touch to your deaths.

This is the climax of my story.

For such sensitive, self-conscious, adolescent girls, this will be quite the sentimental ending.

Goodbye, foolish sidekicks.

You will never leave my story.

It will be told long after you’re gone. My—Itsumi Shiraishi’s—story.

(End)