- The Lost, The Found -

Come to think of it, I begin to recall some details of my high school life. I remember the school transcript that had been delivered on Christmas Eve like a twisted present, along with the contract and documents. Shizuka had been there beside me. It had been dark except for the kitchen lamp above our heads. There was green tea. Two new glistening phones. As if they were giving us a new life. If we had chosen those phones would things have ended up differently? If I had listened to her in the beginning, would it have turned out different?

The high school transcript had Odagaoka printed clearly on it. Yet thinking about it now, it seems like an insertion of someone else's memories. I vaguely remember that year when nine suicides had happened at the school. I had been attending. I had been, or a version of me, I don't quite know now. Naoki Maeda, according to the papers, had been there. A name that echoes weakly in a vacant room, a futile attempt at identity. I wasn't present at any of the suicides, most of them had been on the train tracks or from the school roof. I had heard it first hand from a classmate however. That day, no one spoke afterwards. I couldn't tell what people were thinking at the time. All I know is that I had no response whatsoever. Nothing came to mind, like an empty hollow can blown over in the wind. It makes a dry flat sound.

When one of our classmates died, it still hadn't registered. He had simply disappeared and would never show up again. I had known the boy. Noda-kun, he was known as. We had maybe shared a few games of basketball, and a karaoke party with friends. He was a straight-A student, good looking, athletic even. Girls liked him, but he wasn't aggressive or imposing. He kept to his books and sports, a good head on his shoulders. He had it all going for him. At one point, he had even been the president of a student community club. They went into parks and cleaned up trash. People looked up to him and asked for his help. But because he was doing well, someone had targeted him. There had been hate messages painted all over his shoe locker as if the debt collectors had visited, chalkboard graffiti in the morning, blog posts and pictures posted up like political propaganda. Finally, he had been assaulted and beat up several times. He would show up to class with a black eye, cracked and bruised lip, and nobody spoke of it. He tried to smile. Students didn't know what to do; no one helped him. Either we had been conditioned to accept the slander as truth, or we were more concerned with our own well-being. We could only stay away from the perpetrators and hope we weren't next. So he smiled alone. Perhaps Sato had helped him, and had been targeted as a result. It was better to remain anonymous, invisible, another number, and that way, no one would notice you.

The police and the school investigators never found out who had been responsible. After Sato had committed suicide, the bullying came to a halt. The counseling services and workshops had been largely useless. No one had any patience or interest in them and they became a dull routine. I find it hard to believe that they had actually stopped the incidents. There has to be something about Sato.

I take the train far into Chiba on the Monday, with transcript in hand and watch familiar landscapes roll past my window. From high rise superstructures, into stony matchbox specks, it shrunk and grew, in eerie melodious rhythms, like the bars of a digital sound wave visualizer. Things seem to grow clearer and clearer, details are imprinted into my mind, to reinforce the images I had once called home. It's an odd feeling, to revisit the past, memories that had been once forgotten. They now surface as if an overflowing cup of water, tap on full. But I had to make the visit to confirm her name myself.

I am keenly aware that I'm being followed. But not surprisingly, once again, I can't find out who it is. It could be the two businessmen sitting several seats down, earphones in their ears. They nod off to sleep. It could be the young woman and her elderly mother, fixedly typing into her cell phone. Maybe the figure in the next car, back against the window. Perhaps it's the middle aged man wearing a fedora hat. He has luggage with him like he's going somewhere far, for a long time. In his hands is a book that looks thick and academic. It could be all or none of them. But I can't shake the feeling that they are getting nearer and nearer.

When we disembark, we get off at a quiet station. It's small and desolate, and a cool breeze whistles through the platform. The sky is turning blue at the corners, as if someone is wiping away at the dust, patiently and calmly, knowing that their motions will do its work over time. Sooner or later, azure will swallow the entire canvas above. There is no need to be concerned.

I smell spring in the air, even though it's still January. Normally it would be a nice feeling. Signs of spring that slowly creep in after winter is always a refreshing, welcoming sensation. There is something victorious about the conquering of warmer weather, as if cold temperature is associated with misery and ill omen. Yet, Shizuka had considered winter a productive nurturing season of contemplation and reflection, and Shirayuki had warned of the premature changes in the flow of time. Neither one regarded the coming of spring as good news.

I present my transcript at the school office, as students meander back and forth with their lunches, muted excitement in the air. They glance at me, curious, but I don't look so peculiar, so they continue on. Their uniforms look haunting. Crisp, pristine, tucked in and square. I haven't seen such a scene in a long while and its impression is both eerily recognizable and alien at the same time.

"It looks like it has been many years. May I inquire what is your purpose for visiting today?"

"I've called in early this morning and spoke with the principal, Mr. Uehara. I'm writing a research thesis for my university program on the difference between the American high school system and my own experience as a student in Japan. I'd like to speak with a few teachers and access the library if possible."

"Okay, give me a minute, Mr. Maeda."

Shirayuki stifles her laughter. "You're a good poker-faced liar."

Though I've gotten used to her antics, I can't decide if I am irritated or unsettled. I'm here to confirm her death after all.

Mr. Uehara appears quicker than I had expected. I extend a hand and he takes mine firmly. His grip is solid, nothing gentle or weak in it, but he knows how to remain casual still. He's a prim and proper man, much different from how I remember him. He's much more well-to-do, groomed and styled now. Like he had been promoted to a bigger paycheck, CEO of some upbeat company downtown. Confidence calmly radiates like the heat from a car's hood after the engine had been shut off. He holds his back straight, and a navy blue suit stretches short and tight. It's immaculately clean. There's not a single crease where it shouldn't be. He definitely looks older as there are wrinkles around his eyes but his hair is dyed into an impressive shade of brown, which seems to change with the light. Thick black frames sit on his nose. There's a clipboard in his hands and something that looks like a name label sticker.

"Well, hello, Mr. Maeda!" He beams at me. "It's not often that we have alumni visit our school so this is quite a pleasant surprise. Welcome back."

I never knew the man personally; I can tell they are merely formalities, so I smile back. "I am glad to be back. It is great to see you. You look better than ever, Uehara-sensei."

He chuckles and leads me to a place where I can change my shoes and put on slippers. I take off my jacket and paste the name label that now says Maeda on my chest.

"I trust that your studies are coming on well?"

"Yes, it is great."

"You're at Waseda, yes?"

"Yes, sir."

"That's good, good school. Aoi Yuuki, Haruki Murakami, Masaru Ibuka, Masafumi Miyamoto are Waseda alumni, you know?" I nod, of course. "A few of our teachers graduated from there as well."

"I know Yoshioka-sensei was from Waseda."

"Yes, she is! She's still here; she's teaching English now." He opens a door to have me sign in at the office. Shirayuki is taking a walk down the corridor on her own, pausing to look at posters. She is humming a popular Yuzu tune.

"So I'm afraid I must get back to work, but you are definitely free and have the permission to head where you want, as long as you keep in mind not to disturb classes. Please let me know when you leave."

"I will head to the library first then, sir," I say.

"Very good, I'll let the librarian know you're coming."

I bow and he smiles and I make a left. I find Shirayuki not too far down the hall gazing up at an indistinct bulletin board. It's made of cork with dozens of pinnings, piercing it like a voodoo doll. A few students narrowly miss her as they rush by. I wonder what would happen if they walked into her. They nod or bow when they catch my eye, assuming I am some sort of a teacher or assistant. I tip my head in greeting. Then I look where Shirayuki is looking and something I've seen before greets me. Red backing and white font.

"System is everything," she says.

I ignore it and climb the stairs, two at a time. I know I would have to make haste. All I have to do is to confirm her name and I could leave the premises, without incident. The longer I stay, the easier it would be for someone to catch up to me. Maybe someone who would step out from my own shadow and clamp a vice-grip on my shoulder. Mr. Maeda, what business do you have here? it would say.

The halls and the stairwells echo with the sound of my footsteps. They are generally dim-lit, saving electricity as much as possible by allowing natural light through the large windows. As a result, the walls would take on a tint of green and orange, depending on the time of day. I've always wondered why it would turn green. There isn't much grass outside and the sky is surely in grayscale or blue, not green. The classes have started now so I only pass by a few stragglers who are rushing to their rooms. I catch laughter swimming, drifting like shapeless ghosts and memories, through the air, wafting from behind a wall or door, or from seemingly nowhere at all. The acoustics in the high school have always behaved in an otherworldly phenomenon from what I remember. We had grown not to care for it – not even if it sounded like someone was whispering right behind us. We would conclude it was merely the strange ricochet of sound waves.

"Mr. Maeda, I was told to expect you." The librarian smiles and beckons me in.

"Good afternoon."

"I'm the librarian, Tanaka Maria."

"Nice to meet you." I bow.

"I've only started working here the past two years so you probably don't recognize me." She is a fit young woman, probably not much older than I am. She's wearing a simple soft-looking blouse and a knee-length black skirt. She doesn't wear glasses but I spot a pair on her desk behind. "What are you looking for today?"

"I am wondering if I can look at the student yearbooks."

"Oh, of course," she says, a little surprised. "That's a good idea. It would be a deeply personal insight," she emphasizes deeply, and brushes hair behind her ear as if a little uncomfortable, "into the lives of students at our school. We have a copy of every yearbook in the library right over there." She points to the back shelf against the wall. One fluorescent bulb above is darkened, casting long shadows over it.