3. Short Story Reading — “Macaronage”

To be honest, I didn’t like Itsumi Shiraishi at first.

Actually, I hated her.

I had never spoken to or even met her, an upperclassman one grade my senior, but I knew all about her because she was basically famous at school. She wasn’t just the chairman’s daughter, she was also sharp-witted and stunning to look at. I used to stare coldly at her fans as they flocked in from the high school, junior high, and elementary school buildings and swarmed around her classroom.

Itsumi’s slender body and vivacious smile attracted attention everywhere she went. She had it all: Perfect proportions. Lovely facial contours. Big, alluring eyes. Lips like flower-buds, which emanated charm and grace. A refined air from her excellent upbringing.

You couldn’t have called Itsumi a “beauty” or some other cliché, it wouldn’t have suited her. She was an idol. Gorgeous in every way. Which is exactly why I didn’t find her beautiful.

Itsumi was too perfect. In confection design, for instance, bakers typically draw asymmetrical and uneven lines into dessert decorations to make them look sophisticated. But Itsumi looked too well-put together, as if her appearance had been meticulously calculated. She had no imperfections at all. Perfection isn’t beautiful. It’s tasteless.

I despised my classmates who fawned over Itsumi’s so-called “beauty.” They obviously had no idea what real beauty was.

When I heard that Itsumi revived the Literature Club after its years on hiatus, I shrugged it off as the whim of someone with too much free time. Besides, the club only had two members, with Itsumi as club president and Sayuri Sumikawa as club vice president, which only made my impression of it worse. Yet as soon as their tiny club was reopened, this magnificent literary salon was built and everyone in school was talking about the salon, which was supposedly “every girl’s dream castle.” However, rumor had it that you couldn’t get in unless Itsumi personally approached you, which only made the students admire her and her salon even more. Although I was only in my third year of junior high school at the time, the girls around me had already made it their goal to be invited in.

Right after I started high school, Shiyo Takaoka, a girl in my grade who won a big prize for her light novel, became the first new member of the Literature Club, and everyone was terribly jealous. What Shiyo said about teatime—the highest-quality tea leaves imported from England and France, the Meissen tea set, the Wittamer torte cake—would have made anyone swoon. The salon must have been awfully comfortable to make Shiyo want to turn down all those television appearances and magazine interviews so she could sleep in the salon after school instead. She also mentioned that she got a lot of writing done while sitting under the Baccarat crystal chandelier.

But I found it all repulsive.

The Baccarat crystal chandelier and the Meissen tea set.

Did a student literary salon really need all those things?

I grew up in my family’s traditional Japanese restaurant, where ever since I was a little girl, it was emphasized that “flashy isn’t classy.” No, elegance is unadorned, it has both wabi and sabi:^*1 subdued, stately, with a quality of subtle grace and beauty that ripens with maturity. It is tasteful, unassuming, and true to itself. That is what real chic is.

Nothing in the gaudy literary salon of rumors seemed to have any of that chic. I looked down on the salon for its bad taste, and hated it for the same reasons that I didn’t like Itsumi.

My father is a stubborn, simple, old-fashioned cook who has declined television appearances and invitations from department stores for many years. Tons of people used to ask to publish a cookbook of his recipes, but he always sent them away, adamantly maintaining that the only thing a cook should do, is cook. He refuses to open a new branch. Despite the dozens of requests for take-out lunches and catering, he insists that he wants his customers to eat their food where it was made. The only time you could eat my father’s cooking outside of his restaurant is around New Year’s, when he gives his best customers a take-home lunch as a gift for the holiday season. He is the only one who can make it and it isn’t on the menu, which makes it a so-called “New Year’s fantasy.”

My mother owns a traditional Japanese confectionery shop and has supported my stubborn father all these years. Her seasonal traditional desserts, which she has spent decades creating, add color to my father’s kaiseki meals.^*2 To go with the changing seasons, my parents get together and decide upon a theme with which my father carefully crafts each course, and which my mother follows for her desserts and restaurant decorations, which include ikebana flower arrangements and hanging scrolls.

I may have inherited this from my parents, but I’ve loved being in the kitchen since I was a little girl.

My father’s prized hearth rests on the traditional earthen floor. I was raised watching my mother wake up at five in the morning to fill the stockpot with dried fish and kelp to make three servings of broth for each of my four family members. The clear liquid she strained so meticulously became our miso soup at breakfast, the broth we had with eggs at lunch, and the stew with boiled meat, vegetables, and eggs at dinner. I was fascinated with how the liquid changed tastes and forms with each meal. I held my first knife when I was three years old. By the time I was four, I could handle knives quite well and even received a knife of my own that had my name engraved on it.

Although I was born immersed in the world of Japanese cuisine, as I grew up, I found cuisine from Western countries to be new and refreshing and eventually became obsessed. My parents had nothing to say about my new passion. They had already decided that my older brother would take over their restaurant and were training him in how to clean the restaurant in the early morning, stock up on food at the marketplace, precook and organize ingredients, and gave him a strict education that they never gave me. In fact, my father wouldn’t even let me into his kitchen. I always watched my brother’s training with envy. He was set to become the fourth successor of our restaurant, “Kominami,” which had been established in the Taisho Era. And no matter how well I held a knife, tried to cook, or perfected my Western sweets, to my parents, all of my efforts were nothing more than “wife training.”

My brother was a slacker who had no real interest in cooking or Kominami. He often shirked his kitchen-stocking duties to go goof off instead, and would ride around on his motorcycle at night instead of cleaning the restaurant. Even so, Kominami would automatically be his. Frustrated, I dove deeper into the world of Western cuisine. But I couldn’t bake cakes well in our old, antique kitchen.

That was when I heard rumors about the kitchen in the literary salon.

Supposedly, it was spacious, easy-to-use, and well-stocked with everything one could possibly want. Apparently, club members used to bake cakes and make mousse together in the kitchen.

I wasn’t interested in chandeliers, marble tables, fireplaces, or teatime. But when I first heard about that kitchen, I became fascinated with the club.

Of course, I will explain how I was able to catch Itsumi’s eye and join the club. But first, I must touch upon that terrible incident.

When the owner of a restaurant that my father had trained at in his youth retired, he asked my father to take his restaurant over and make it a branch of Kominami.

Although my father owed a great deal to this man, he wasn’t interested in his offer. It wouldn’t just be expensive to open a new restaurant; two restaurants would also be harder for my father to manage. My father firmly believed that there shouldn’t be another Kominami unless he was there to hold the knife. But he couldn’t flat-out refuse the old owner’s request. I saw that my father had no idea what to do, so I suggested: What if the new Kominami served Western cuisine?

If the new Kominami was a Western-style restaurant, my father’s guests would understand why he wasn’t overseeing the kitchen, since Western cuisine is not his specialty, And this way, he wouldn’t have to reject the original owner’s offer. My father was impressed by my idea and promptly asked me to design the layout and menu for the new Kominami. He even said that he would eventually let me manage the new restaurant, and that he would put it under my name so I would own it one day myself.

My father had finally given me more recognition than my brother. I was ecstatic.

Whether on the train to school or in between classes, the new Kominami was always on my mind. I showed my best rendition of its menu to my father’s friend, who was to be the chef at the second Kominami, and I picked out silverware to match the items on the menu. I was also set on perfecting my desserts. Cake, pudding, mousse, Bavarian cream, ice cream, tarts. What if I had takeout desserts! During those blissful days, I was bursting with ideas and let my imagination run free.

I had no idea how quickly my dreams would disappear.

One day, Itsumi Shiraishi approached me by the shoe cubbies after school.

“You’re Akane Kominami, right?” she asked.

I am rather small, so it felt like I had to look far up to see her face. Her skin looked as smooth as freshly whipped cream, and her lips glistened red as if soaked in cherry syrup. She was shockingly beautiful. The underclassmen glanced at us as they passed.

“Yup,” I answered curtly.

Most students would have probably been thrilled to be approached by Itsumi, but I wasn’t a fan of hers. In hindsight, I think my response was pretty unfriendly.

“I read your report on The Setting Sun. It was intriguing,” she complimented me.

Even though I don’t read a lot of books, the report she referred to had somehow caught the eye of Mr. Hojo, my Japanese language teacher, who had it published in the school newspaper. The report was something I had just kind of thrown together, the type of essay an older teacher would’ve scolded me for not taking the assignment seriously enough. But Mr. Hojo, who is still in his twenties, probably enjoyed the essay as much as my classmates did because he was closer to us in age.

“I like how you analyzed the main character, Kazuko, by comparing her to the modern-day single mother,” Itsumi continued. “It was very unique. I want to ask you more about your essay. Would you like to join me in the salon for some tea?”

I suddenly remembered the fabled kitchen. I wanted to see it, but I didn’t really feel like talking to Itsumi.

“No, that’s all right.”

“Why not? Please come for a visit. I just finished baking a pound cake.”

“Did you make it yourself?” At her words, a small twinge of rivalry sprouted inside me. I wanted to show off the kind of cakes I could bake.

“I did. You can’t have a book discussion without dessert. We also need to make tons of sweets so we can sell them at the school events and fund our club.”

A kitchen. A kitchen where I could make tons of desserts.

“Umm…is it gas or electric?”

“Is what?”

“The oven.”

Itsumi looked puzzled for a moment and then burst out laughing. “Haha! It’s a gas oven! You’re a funny one. No one’s ever asked me that before.”

So I accepted Itsumi’s invitation and we went to the literary salon.

When I saw it, it was the ideal kitchen. It was spacious and clean, and had L-shaped counters and an island. There were three large kitchen sinks with spray nozzle faucets. There was a silver industrial refrigerator. A stand mixer. Yeast leavening equipment. An ice cream machine.

“This is amazing…” I let out a deep sigh as I caressed the polished countertop. The cold marble. With a countertop like this, I could easily knead pie dough or even temper chocolate. Oh, what luxury!

“And here are the ovens. Do you like them?” Itsumi pointed at the three gas ovens lining the wall. Each one looked like it could take two or three 8-inch round cakes at a time.

“They’re incredible.”

I opened the door next to the ovens to discover a walk-in pantry. Flour, wheat, sugar, silver candy pearls, nuts, sticks of vanilla, canned fruits, jam, honey, colorful spices…How many kinds of desserts could I make with these? I could have just stared at the stylish packages of imported goods all day. I could have spent the whole day just sitting there.

Bowls, spatulas, whisks, and other culinary utensils lay in an orderly line. I knew that everything was top-notch because of the research I had done for my new restaurant.

“It’s fantastic. Way better than the one in my restaurant.”

“Your restaurant? Ah, you mean your family’s restaurant.”

“No, I’m going to have a restaurant of my own.”

“You will? Wow, that’s great!”

“I’m going to make lots of desserts at my restaurant. Oh, this kitchen is perfect. Definitely a good source of reference for me.”

After that, we ate Itsumi’s pound cake while we chatted about novelist Osamu Dazai, which was the figurative “icing on the cake.” Itsumi’s cake wasn’t bad, either, though I suppose anyone could make something tasty with the kind of kitchen, ingredients, and equipment that she had at her disposal.

We had so much fun talking that we lost track of the time.

“Oh, no. It’s so late!” Itsumi exclaimed, looking at her watch. We hadn’t realized that it was already past ten. “I’m sorry for keeping you this late. I’ll have my driver take you home.”

“No, it’s okay. I can take the train.”

“You can’t. It’s too dark. Besides, I know how to get to Kominami from here.”

With that, Itsumi and I were on our way to my house.

We also talked a lot in the car. Despite having avoided her in the past, I found my shoulders had relaxed, and I was having a normal conversation with her. She was upbeat and friendly, and I finally understood why she was so popular.

We drove past the downtown area and were almost close enough to see Kominami.

Just then, a flash of deep crimson flickered ahead of us in the night sky.

Chills ran down my spine. I heard the sirens of approaching fire trucks. Curious onlookers were rushing to the scene. Policemen outside were guiding traffic.

Mr. Muro, Itsumi’s driver, rolled down his car window.

“Sir, what’s going on?” he asked a policeman.

“There’s a fire in the restaurant ahead.”

The moment I heard that, I leapt from the car. I ran and pushed my way through the crowd—only to find Kominami completely engulfed in flames.

My father’s whole world. My father’s entire life burned down right before my eyes. I frantically looked around and caught a glimpse of my parents and brother gazing at the fire in a daze. The bright red flames illuminated my father’s face, outlining the wrinkles and spots and the bags that hung under his eyes. He looked so small and helpless in front of the massive, all-consuming blaze. I found myself unable to call out to him. I shrank back into the crowd, watching him from afar.

The fire burned for hours, destroying everything my father had built along with it.

The next day, there was an article in the newspaper about the fire at Kominami.

It reported that a restaurant established in the Taisho Era had burned to the ground. That the restaurant had been closed at the time. That there were no witnesses or injuries. That the kitchen was not the source of the fire. That there were strong suspicions of arson.

By the time I came to school the next day, the news had already spread across campus. Everyone comforted me and expressed their sympathy, but Itsumi seemed particularly upset. She looked like something was bothering her.

“I shouldn’t have kept you so late yesterday.”

“Don’t be silly. I might’ve gotten hurt if I went home earlier.”

“But if I hadn’t made you stay, you probably could’ve seen something, and maybe the criminal would’ve seen you and fled…I feel like it’s all my fault.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong yesterday. Please, don’t worry about it.”

“Please let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.”

“No, really…” I started to say, but then had an idea. “Well…”

“What is it?”

“Could I join the Literature Club?”

Itsumi smiled affectionately and took my hands in hers.

“Of course,” she said. “We’d love to have you.”

The literary salon kitchen was as perfect as I had imagined.

I made all the desserts I could think of, one after the other, and Itsumi bought me the finest of any ingredients and utensils that I asked for. The other members might have thought of the salon as their castle, but my dream castle was right in the kitchen.

Although Itsumi and Sayuri apparently used to bake cakes and other treats when they were in the mood, after I joined the club, all baking responsibilities were turned over to me. For me, happiness is having someone to eat my desserts.

But that didn’t mean I spent all my time simply playing in the kitchen with wheat flour and eggs. I had decent grades in Japanese and diligently participated in the club activities.

Other members of this club taught me about the cooking in various works of literature, such as in Little House on the Prairie by Laura Ingalls Wilder, and Moby Dick by Herman Melville. There are also a plethora of delicious baked treats in Anne of Green Gables. When we read Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple, I even recreated the corn and poppy seed pies, and everyone loved them!

I gradually started to find literature interesting in and of itself, even participating during the debates. I am grateful to Itsumi for using my love of cooking to open my eyes to the pleasures of literature.

Three members joined the club after me. There was Sonoko Koga, an upperclassman one year my senior who wanted to be a doctor; Diana Decheva, the international student from Bulgaria; and Mirei Nitani, the new scholarship student. I had even more fun showing off my skills with three new mouths to feed. When book discussions ran late, I even made them small meals, like omelets with rice, club sandwiches, and pasta.

The plans for my future restaurant had burned down with the fire. My father was busy trying to rebuild the original Kominami and it was difficult to fund the new one. I was probably trying to use the salon’s kitchen to salvage whatever I could of my burnt-out dreams.

I enjoyed my time in the club. Everyone was friendly, and because we were so few, a strong sense of solidarity developed among us. When it came time to make pound cakes for the Easter & Pentecost festival—three hundred of them—we worked as a team to decide who would be in charge of ingredients, measuring, weighing, making the dough, and cleaning, and we spent three full days and nights baking them together.

Afterwards, I stared at the neat lines of pound cakes in the freezer, reveling in a deep sense of fulfillment. We put them in the freezer to preserve their freshness. Even if they were only for the school bazaar, we were still getting paid for the cakes, and I wanted them to be perfect. I am proud of my baking skills, and this kitchen filled me with that pride. Itsumi Shiraishi was the one who had made it all possible.

But we couldn’t have baked one hundred cakes a day without the detailed schedule that club vice president, Sayuri Sumikawa, had made for us, directing us to Take out the cooking utensils while the butter is melting, mix the batter while the oven preheats, sift the next ingredients into the bowl and mix them together while the cake is baking, then right after they come out of the oven, glaze the top of the cakes with rum and cover them in plastic wrap…Thanks to her precise directions, everything went smoothly. Even I would’ve panicked if I had to bake a hundred cakes a day, and I’m experienced at baking! Itsumi was a charismatic leader, but she wasn’t good with details and couldn’t make plans like Sayuri could. Itsumi did what she pleased because she knew that Sayuri would always have her back. They were the ultimate best friends—which is why everyone adored them. If I’m lucky enough to have my own bakery someday, I truly hope that Sayuri will help me set up shop.

Sayuri always supported the club from behind the scenes.

Even after I joined the club, I sometimes still found Itsumi off-putting. When I expected Itsumi to present some bold and daring literary interpretation at discussion, for example, she’d come up instead with these ridiculously inconsistent theories that rubbed me the wrong way. She also instantly shut down any opinion that even slightly contradicted hers. That would be when Sayuri would gently chime in and remind Itsumi that it wouldn’t be fun if all of our interpretations were the same.

If Itsumi could be considered “dazzling” or “stunning,” then Sayuri was by contrast someone whose worldview was much more refined. She understood wabisabi. With her graceful, unassuming personality, Sayuri was also the type of person who knew what she wanted and never lost sight of herself. Sayuri smiled by Itsumi’s side, but skillfully took over the reins when Itsumi was about to lose control. Though Itsumi had so many admirers in the Literature Club and throughout school, I always secretly wished I could be more like Sayuri.

A little over a year after I joined the club, everyone, with Itsumi and Sayuri at the core, seemed to be getting along well. We all enjoyed the activities and events, and I never imagined we’d have to deal with some of the recent problems.

One day I was in the kitchen, sifting a mixture of powdered sugar and almond flour, when Itsumi came in looking unusually morose.

“Itsumi, is something wrong?”

“Yes, actually,” she sighed. “I’m being stalked. I don’t know what to do.”

“What?”

I immediately thought of the underclassmen who waited for Itsumi in the hallways and en route to school. I’d seen students give her letters and presents before, and others ask her for her e-mail address. Itsumi was always kind to these students, but deep down the constant attention must have been wearing her out.

“You can’t help standing out. Everyone loves you.”

“No, it’s not like that. This one actually follows me home.”

“What? To your house?”

“Yeah. Insisting that she wants to be my brother’s tutor.”

Private tutor. Which meant—

“You can’t turn her down?” I asked.

“I did, several times. But then she even offered to do it for free. I couldn’t possibly let her do that, so I’m giving her a monthly salary…but, even so, I don’t like it.”

“That’s so weird. Why don’t you talk to the principal about it?”

“I don’t know, I feel like that would be underhanded or something. The academy forbids part-time jobs, right? She knew that and yet still went directly to the principal and told him she had to have one to financially survive. He suggested tutoring my little brother as a part-time job. So she basically forced him to give her a job.”

“I had no idea…”

I added a few pinches of sugar to the bowl of thawed eggs that I’d taken out of the freezer, and then whipped the mixture together until it foamed.

“What are you making?”

“Macarons.”

“Wow, are those hard to make?” Itsumi stuck her pointer finger into the bowl and licked the sweet meringue off her finger like a child. I put the sifted cocoa powder into the bowl and smoothed out the mixture with a rubber spatula.

“How do I put this…it’s kind of sad. Pitiful, really. There’s no way a poor girl like her can ever fit in at our academy, but she still tries so desperately. She doesn’t have any money to go to the beauty salon, so she just goes to the nurse’s office and bleaches her hair with hydrogen peroxide. She embroiders brand-name logos into cheap handkerchiefs. None of the other students want to go near her and yet she thinks that she actually fits in. Everyone just secretly laughs at her behind her back.”

“That’s really sad,” I agreed.

The preparations were complete. The real showdown that would determine the macarons’ success or failure would now begin. I pushed the rubber spatula against the side of the bowl and folded over the bubbles in the mix.

“Why are you folding when it’s all nice and fluffy?” Itsumi asked, surprised.

“Because I have to macaronage.”

“Macaronage?”

“It’s where you fold over the bubbles so the batter doesn’t expand too much. If there are too many bubbles, cracks will form in the surface of the batter and the macaron’ll break apart. But if you get rid of too many, it’ll lose its shape and become flat. It’s difficult to figure out how much you should macaronage.”

“So, I’m guessing this is the most important part of making macarons.” Itsumi watched attentively as I tirelessly folded the bubbles over. The batter now had a glossy shine to it.

“Can I try for a little bit?” she asked.

“Sure.” I normally would never trust someone else with such a crucial step of the process, but I knew Itsumi had a good sense for these things, and I dutifully passed her the bowl. This was proof that I really trusted her intuition.

“Anyway, that’s why I can’t reject her outright,” she continued.

Itsumi evenly folded over each section of the batter as she slowly turned the bowl. After a few minutes of folding, she put down the bowl and raised the rubber spatula in her hand. The chocolate-colored batter drooped over.

“What do you think? Still not enough?”

“Nope, not yet. Try smoothing out the bubbles a little bit more.”

Itsumi listened to my instructions and kept at it. Light drops of sweat formed on her smooth forehead.

“But it’s not just that.”

“She doesn’t just stalk you? Showing up at your house already sounds pretty out there to me.”

“Believe it or not, some things from my house have gone missing.”

“No way!” I was shocked.

“At first it was just small things, like handkerchiefs and make-up bags, but then it escalated to a Remoges watch and fine glasses. She even stole money from my wallet.”

“Isn’t that something a thief would do?”

“Right.” Itsumi was about to go at the macaron batter even harder when I stopped her hand and lifted the spatula. The batter dripped in a pretty ribbon into the bottom of the bowl.

“Did you tell the police?”

“I can’t. The students are like family to me.” Itsumi seemed really at a loss.

I separated the batter into two pastry bags and gave one of them to Itsumi. We squeezed the batter into circles on the parchment paper.

“My circles didn’t come out as pretty as yours,” she pouted.

“Practice makes perfect.”

We were able to make over one-hundred circles on the parchment paper, but needed to let them dry before putting them in the oven.

“Why don’t we have some tea while we wait?” Itsumi put some water on to heat and placed tea leaves in the teapot.

“What kind of tea are you making?”

“I thought some Earl Grey might be nice. I heard strong aromas help relieve stress.”

Itsumi boiled the water, steeped the leaves in the teapot, and when it was ready, poured the tea into our Minton teacups. We drank our tea in the kitchen instead of the salon. I enjoyed it when teatime was more casual, like this.

“Do your parents know?”

“Of course they do. I mean, our money and possessions have just been disappearing from my house. She doesn’t care that my family wants her to stop tutoring. She just hangs around, eats our food, and then leaves.”

“Urn…Well, I can get rid of her if you want me to.”

“Huh?” Itsumi popped her eyes wide open and she burst out laughing. “Akane, you’re funny. How could a petite doll of a girl like you possibly ‘get rid’ of someone?”

She stopped laughing, and smiled with relief. “Thanks for that, I feel a little better.”

“You can come and talk to me anytime you’d like.”

Since then, Itsumi often came to the kitchen to talk to me when she had problems with the private tutor. She’d follow me to the sink, refrigerator, and oven while I moved around the kitchen. Those were the only times where it felt like I was actually the older one in our relationship. I was surprised at how much she had let her guard down in front of me.

Itsumi had to see the private tutor in the salon even if she didn’t want to.

She acted like nothing was wrong and treated the tutor as kindly as she did everyone else, but the situation must have caused her a lot of stress. She eventually stopped talking and became deeply depressed.

I often asked her if she was okay, but she would only shake her head weakly. Her worries must have been wearing her thin. If I had been Itsumi, I would have forced the tutor to quit and tell her to leave the Literature Club at once, but Itsumi couldn’t do something so cold-hearted. After all, Itsumi was the one who’d taken me in when my future dream restaurant and bakery had burned away, so I’m positive that she felt she couldn’t just abandon this poor and rotten scholarship student.

Itsumi was different from who I’d thought she was. She was someone who could “macaronage” her relationships. She smoothed over the bubbles of dissatisfaction and sadness, and seamlessly blended in with the other members and built strong relationships with them. She didn’t fold or squash herself flat, but didn’t say anything that would create cracks in her relationships either. I had always thought it was Sayuri’s job to keep the peace, but I came to realize that Itsumi also had to make compromises of her own. One reason she may have been a good club president was because she knew when to back down.

One day after school, I stayed later than everyone else to make Bavarian cream for the next day. I had washed the utensils, wiped the counters, and was just about to leave until I found a checkbook that had been left on the sofa. It had a crocodile skin cover. Despite the fact that I’d slipped it into Itsumi’s bag when she’d left it in the salon previously, she had forgotten it again. I was about to call her cell when Itsumi appeared in the doorway.

“Ahh, phew. That’s where I left it.” She took the checkbook from my hand and hugged it as if it were very special to her.

“I’m glad you’re the one who found it, Akane. Otherwise, she probably would’ve stolen it.”

“Is she still stealing from you?” I asked. Itsumi’s face went dark and tears welled up in her eyes.

“Itsumi?”

“Actually…She stole something very important from me yesterday.”

“That’s terrible! What was it?”

“My barrette. It has a white lily on it.”

“And you’re sure that your mother or driver or someone didn’t just put it away when they were cleaning?”

“I asked them about it, of course. No one’s touched it. I was keeping it safe on my dresser.”

“That’s horrible…”

“I would have been able to forgive her if she stole anything else. But not that barrette. My grandmother had it custom-made for me before she passed away.”

“I still think we should talk to the police. She’s committed an awful crime.”

“No. Jesus says that we should forgive those who have done wrong unto us.” Itsumi smiled mercifully. “I mean, what a poor child. Her financial poverty has impoverished her heart. She must be going through a lot. I’ll try talking to her. I’m sure she’s not so bad deep down. Please don’t judge her.”

A few days later, Itsumi came to me to tell me the good news.

“We’re finally going to talk tomorrow after school on the terrace. She said it’s her favorite place on campus. I don’t think anyone will be there to hear us, so I’m sure she’ll open up to me.”

I thought that that girl was nothing more than an underhanded thief, yet Itsumi was doing her best to protect her. I was sure the girl would regret her crimes.

And yet…

Why did this happen? I was dumbfounded to see Itsumi’s corpse, hidden in a bed of flowers, right before my eyes. Did their conversation go awry? Did the girl fly into a rage? Or…had the girl called Itsumi to the terrace, intending to push her to her death all along?

I was so naïve, so foolish to think that this girl would actually reflect on what she had done. While Itsumi was carried away, I stood amongst the shrieks and sobs of the schoolgirls, vacantly staring at her body. Just then, the flowers in her bloodied hand caught my eye.

Lilies-of-the-valley.

It hit me at once. This was Itsumi’s dying message. She used the flowers to tell me who the murderer was, and to indicate that she had tried to forgive the girl until the very end.

It has been one week since Itsumi left us. The academy, the Shiraishi family, and the police have all been trying to understand the meaning of the lily, hoping that it will reveal the truth about Itsumi’s death. I kept my mouth shut until today because I know she wouldn’t have wanted me to identify the criminal, but this has, conversely, made the club look even more suspicious.

I think it is time to reveal the truth. I could not be as merciful as Itsumi, but I personally cannot forgive the culprit. Someday, I will apologize to Itsumi for my betrayal when we reunite in Heaven.

(Finish)

Thank you very much, Akane Kominami.

From the girl who peacefully smiles while making sweet treats, such a dry and sarcastic story is really unexpected. But this must be the true charm of what we call “storytelling.” Objectively observe the facts. Transform them into something new. Through this process you will find feelings that you weren’t aware of before.

Akane. Perhaps you didn’t realize you disliked—ahh, right, you used the word “hated”—Itsumi until you had written your story? Did you only realize that you felt that way after you had started writing?

That’s what I thought. Perhaps this is the true meaning behind our stories tonight: for us to mourn the departed with honesty.

Though I must say, your story contained some interesting details. You also say you know who the culprit is. But your story contradicts the previous one in several places. What is the truth…? It’s hard to tell the difference between fact and fiction in the dark. It’s easy to feel confused.

I am both terrified and excited to hear the rest of you read. I wonder what other stories are in store for us.

I’m sorry. You can return to your seat, Akane. You write eloquently for someone who says she doesn’t like language studies very much. The story is filled with your girlish poison.

All right, everyone, a big round of applause for Akane Kominami.

Wow, the thunder is really loud. The storm doesn’t look like it will let up anytime soon. The rain is only growing harsher. How frightening.

By the way, has everyone had enough to drink? I’ll hand out some sorbet cocktails to cleanse your palates. I know it’s hard to see the floor, so I’ll let you light your candles for now. Come on, everyone should take seconds if they want.

Oh, Mirei, is something wrong? You look pale. And why are you taking off your barrette? Didn’t you say it was a valuable memento—something Itsumi passed on to you?

Well, everyone, the stew is burnt. I understand that you’re wrapped up in each other’s stories, but please do continue to eat.

All right, next…Whose turn is it? Oh, yes. Diana Decheva, the international student. There’s no need to rush. Take your time eating and come up when you’re done.