Private and public C&C is welcomed with open arms, and is kindly
requested. I'd really love to know what you think of this.
* * * *
"You need to get in touch with your muse. Do you know how
to do that?" Mr. Motojima cleaned his glasses.
"No sir."
"Here's what I do. Write something about your dream girl.
Your perfect companion. It doesn't have to be a good
paragraph, just something to get you started. Then, fold
the paper, put it under your pillow, and take a nap."
"A nap, sir?"
"Yes. A good hour or so. Really sleep it off." He smiled
kindly, the wrinkles around his eyes nearly pinching them
shut. "When you wake up, you'll be inspired again."
Kenji Terada had writer's block. When his teacher offered him a
solution, he tried it immediately. Only, his teacher never told
him what really happens after you wake up...
------------------------------------------------------------------
I T ' S A R A I N Y D A Y
S U N S H I N E G I R L
Episode 01
"Carpet of the Sun"
"It's A Rainy Day Sunshine Girl" (c) 1999-2000 Matthew Johnston.
All Rights Reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of the characters
to any persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
------------------------------------------------------------------
Eight Years Ago.
The bottom of the sixth and final inning was not one for Room 2-B
to cheer about. They had been down a run since the top of the
fourth when Takeo Akita hit a solo home run for the rival team
from 1-A. The rest of the game had seen the 2-B batting order go
down in flames as 1-A's ace pitcher Satoru Nobata struck out three
straight in a perfect inning.
The first two batters of the sixth inning were 2-B's best
hope for a home run. Katsu and Masao Sugimoto were cousins, but
they may as well have been brothers. They had the same style, the
same confidence, and the same skill. Girls who watched the weekly
games between the two rooms picked between the two handsome
youths, often arguing over who was the better player, and who
would be the better one to date. They never disagreed, though,
that either one would be a dream to have as their boyfriend.
"Strike Three!" Katsu had just struck out. Dejectedly, he
tossed his bat to the side, where a young girl picked it up to
give to Masao.
The second, taller Sugimoto approached the plate with all the
calm of a professional gladiator. The girl who presented him with
his weapon trembled slightly, daring not look him in the eye. She
could sense that, for all the futility 2-B had seen in two
innings, Masao would best the ace on the mound.
"Strike One!" Masao had been caught in a check-swing. 1-A's
ace had thrown a wicked curveball; the batter never had a chance.
Masao grinned and nodded respectfully to the pitcher.
"Strike Two!" A fastball, just below Masao's full swing.
The 'whoosh' his bat made melted into the gasps of 2-B's female
faithful. One pitch left. One more chance to win the game. That
is, unless Kenji could get a run. But if this pitcher was
striking out the Sugimotos, poor Kenji wouldn't stand a chance.
The ace tipped his cap to Masao and threw. He knew
immediately it was not going to reach his catcher's glove. The
resounding wooden 'crack' that followed gave rise to cheers from
the crowd and the dugout. But it became immediately apparent that
it wouldn't be a home run for 2-B.
Masao managed to make it to second base, and stood there,
arms crossed, as Kenji Terada walked from the dugout. He shook
his head. The kid wasn't going to last three pitches against this
pitcher.
Kenji stepped up to the plate, and picked up the bat from the
dirt. He looked quickly to the crowd to see if Tanako was there.
But if she was, she'd be watching Masao like the others. Many of
the girls were already standing up to leave, and chatting amongst
themselves.
And then he saw her, eyes closed, hands over her ears. Kenji
wanted to do the same; he'd seen the ace eat up Katsu and nearly
do the same to Masao. And if he did that to them...
"Calm down," Miko whispered in his ear. "You'll impress her,
no sweat." Kenji's imaginary friend stood just behind him and to
the right, watching her Earthly counterpart with a worried concern
only a real sister could have.
"Strike One!" A fastball down the middle. Kenji barely had
time to start his swing before it was in the catcher's glove. The
girls from 1-A murmured approvingly.
"A little lower this time, okay?" Kenji agreed with his
friend and prepared for the pitch. It came again, screaming past
Kenji like a shooting star.
"Strike Two!"
"Concentrate," Kenji told himself. He felt a sudden silence
descend around him; Miko was gone, and he was very much alone.
The pitcher was taking a little more time with this pitch;
Kenji knew that he'd want to impress the girls. He figured he'd
throw a slider or curveball.
"It'll be inside," he muttered. The ace had tried a bunch of
trick pitches early in the game, and walked a couple of batters
for his troubles. Kenji knew the basics -- he should swing at
this point -- but something in him knew he'd be right if he just
sat tight this time.
The ace tipped his cap, and threw the ball.
Kenji saw it curving inside and began to smile.
He was right.
"Strike Three!"
"What?!" Masao nearly rushed the umpire, but refrained.
"Way to go, Terada!"
"That pitch was way inside!" a voice called from the dugout.
But it was too late. Many of the crowd had filed, either elatedly
or dejectedly, from the field, and were heading back to the
school. The umpire was stoic, and exited the field soon after.
Kenji remained at the plate, still holding the bat. The ace
smiled sympathetically and approached him.
"For what it's worth," he stated as he passed the boy, "I
thought it was inside too. But you take what you get, right?"
Kenji nodded stiffly and looked out where he had seen Tanako.
She was still there, standing now, her eyes sparkling. Her hand
went to her heart slowly, then fell as she turned her gaze
painfully away.
"That pitch was way inside," the voice from the dugout
repeated. It was Ichiro, the new kid from across town. The boy
pushed up his glasses and grinned. "Maybe the ole' ump coulda
used a pair like mine today."
Kenji laughed despite himself, the pain of the day's loss
fading ever-so-slightly.
Monday, April 19th
3:23 PM
"Kenji Terada." Mr. Motojima held the graded paper with a casual
grip. He was barely hiding his contempt; Kenji just knew it.
Sure, it wasn't his best work, but he didn't think it was that
bad. He took hold of the paper with the same anxiety he had when
he'd given it to his English teacher.
"Thank you, sir." The words came before his eyes had reached
the large red mark on his assignment, but after Mr. Motojima had
already moved to the next student's desk. When he saw it, the
buzz of conversations and scribbling of pencils faded into an
envelope of a life free of care, a million miles away, and red-
shifting its way farther still. The whole of the classroom seemed
to implode into blackness, leaving only the terrible, glowing red
words to mock him:
'Please See Me.'
Kenji shuddered. He was in high school, and a senior no
less. Only grade-schoolers and delinquents got a 'Please See Me'.
He wanted to scream; his hands were already shaking; he could feel
the sweat forming on his brow, cold and dank, breathing the stress
from his body not nearly as fast as it built within him. For less
than an instant, a formless crimson thought pressed against his
temples, whispering violence. But he held himself back a moment to
collect evidence in defense of his work.
"This isn't a bad paper," he muttered as he began reading his
work. "Maybe a little forced here and there, but..." He stared
at his words, and the anger dissipated quickly, only to be
replaced with disappointment. Looking again at the blood-colored
mark, he shook his head in reluctant defeat.
"I thought it was okay at the time," he attempted feebly,
speaking only to himself. When he thought about it, the mark
wasn't too far from what he had assessed when he wrote it the
previous Wednesday evening. He chuckled darkly as the initial
shock retreated to a remote corner of his bruised ego.
"Hey, Kenji," Ichiro snickered from behind.
"Still," Kenji continued to himself. "I can't believe it."
"Can't believe what?"
"Huh? Sorry, what were you saying?"
"Actually, you were saying. You can't believe what?"
"Nothing." Kenji took an objective look at his friend. The
face-wide grin showed most of his teeth, and was too deliberate to
be ignored. In the five years he had known Ichiro, he had only
seen that smile on one other occasion. The boy shook his head; it
couldn't be *that* again.
"Why are you grinning like that?"
"Oh, just happy, I guess."
Kenji played along, though less enthusiastically than on
other days. "And why are you happy today?"
"You know, it's a funny thing, that. Happiness can take so
many forms."
"Really? Which form did it take this time?"
Ichiro looked like he was about to explode into song, or
perhaps dance playfully on the top of his desk; it was taking the
utmost restraint for him to keep only his Cheshire grin.
"Oh, just say it," Kenji muttered. He had some idea, but
wanted to make sure, just in case he was lucky and wrong. But
that seemed unlikely, given the turn his day had just taken.
Ichiro announced his source of happiness with little concern.
"I got an eighty." The grin widened, betraying his indifferent
tone. "I guess Mr. Motojima really does like Star Wars after
all." He tried to peek at Kenji's paper, but the boy yanked it
from his view.
"Don't," was all Kenji could come up with as he kept the
paper just out of his best friend's view.
"Oh, c'mon," he coaxed, groping for the paper. Kenji hid it
behind his back. "I know you did better than me anyway." Another
grab, this one from the left side. Kenji reacted just in time.
"Why all the forced humility?" One last time Ichiro reached,
forcing Kenji to stretch his arms and torso to keep the now
standing Ichiro from seeing it.
"Okay, okay. I give. Even I get bored sometimes." Ichiro
punched Kenji in the shoulder playfully. Not that he could have
really hurt Kenji with a deliberate blow. Ichiro liked to think
he was a Star Wars hero, a real Han Solo type. But in reality, he
was more like C-3PO. Well, maybe Han Solo's brain in C-3PO's
body. Kenji really couldn't peg it down too easily with him.
"An eighty, huh? That's pretty impressive." Kenji tried
imitating Ichiro's grin, keeping the paper well out of Ichiro's
view. "Really impressive for a computer guy." He chuckled, a
high-pitched cackle of nervousness. Ichiro raised an eyebrow.
"But, you know, writers like me don't really care whether one
critic likes a story or not."
"What did you get?"
"As long as it reaches its audience, that's all that counts."
"What did you get?"
"I think that, in time, this story will be looked upon
favorably."
A chuckle, then, "That bad, huh?"
Kenji shook his head, wondering if he could will the sweat
from his brow. "Bad? Bad? Oh, come on, Ichiro. I'm going to be
a writer. It's what I do."
Ichiro crossed his arms over his chest.
"He got a 'Please See Me'!" A voice chimed from Kenji's
left. He turned in horror to see that he had kept his paper from
Ichiro, only to put it in direct sight of the remainder of the
class.
"Kenji got a 'Please See Me'?" The class gasped in unison,
and immediately set into a blaze of wild chatter, involving
failure and burning out and careers dead before they started.
Kenji crumpled over his desk as a dozen sighs of pity chorused
around him, spreading from the depths of the back all the way to
the front.
"Now, now class..." Mr. Motojima began, but did not finish
his sentence. "Tanako Yamada?"
"Yes?" The voice was angelic. A few weeks ago, Kenji might
have been able to conjure more evocative words to describe the
notes Tanako emitted in even the simplest of words. Now, however,
he doubted everything, save the melody of her voice.
"Your paper."
A small gasp of delight accompanied the rustle of paper in
her hands. Kenji had focused in on her sounds, stripping the
noise of the class once again, until he heard only her movements.
He could almost see her shifting in her seat, beaming as she
prepared to announce her perfect grade to Yumiko. Everything even
remotely associated with her seemed perfect.
"I got an eighty-five!" The perfect voice.
"Congratulations!" The perfect best friend.
"D-do you think I should tell Masao?" The perfect boy to
have a crush on.
"Why can't I be her crush?" Kenji lifted his head long
enough to mouth the words to the ceiling, then let his head fall
as Ichiro sang near his right ear:
"I did better than Kenji. I did better than Kenji."
"Ichiro?"
"Yeah, buddy?"
"I'm your best friend, right?"
"Yep."
"This is a well-established fact, correct?"
"Correct."
"Then, why are you so happy about my... grade?"
Ichiro paused to inhale loudly, his incredulous smile never
leaving him. "Because, my down-trodden companion, my superior
mental acumen has finally won the day. With your literary demise,
I can now seize the power I've always wished to hold, but never
thought possible before. You see, your failure and my subsequent
success has taught me that, well, miracles can happen, and one
such miracle has happened to me."
"How long have you been working on that speech?"
"Not too terribly long, why?"
"No reason."
"Eighty percent! You know, this might just keep my
literature grade afloat?"
"Yeah." Kenji tried not to pay attention, but Ichiro was
making the task rather difficult.
"Eighty percent! Can you believe it?"
"Nope."
Eighty per--"
"Do you really believe in miracles?"
"--cent. Sure."
Kenji wished for one harder than anything he had wished for
that week. "Like the miracle of you not mentioning this ever
again?"
Ichiro smirked. "Stranger things have happened," he
chuckled, and fell into a comfortable silence.
"One last thing," Mr. Motojima announced, interrupted by the
bell announcing the end of school for the day. "We'll begin work
on the first group term project tomorrow. The group listings will
be on the bulletin board tomorrow morning!" His voice raised to a
desperate yell as the class rushed chaotically from the room.
"Kenji?" Again, the crystal tones of Tanako's voice lifted
Kenji's head. He saw her, standing next to him, her expression at
once concerned and care-free. She looked every bit the angel her
voice implied, and it took every effort for his eyes not wander
over her body as she leaned forward a little.
"Yeah?" He tried not to sound too enthusiastic, but failed.
"Don't worry about it." She smiled lightly. "Mr. Motojima
probably just wants to take more time with the serious writer
here." With that, she turned to leave with Yumiko.
Kenji wanted to agree verbally, but all he could manage was a
crooked smile and a stiff nod. The smile remained well after
Tanako had left.
"So cute..."
"Don't get a big head," Ichiro muttered in Kenji's ear. He
made his way casually to the door after a stretch and waved his
paper triumphantly. "Eighty percent, baby," he snickered, hitting
the paper with his free hand. "Read it and weep."
* * * *
Kenji remained in the classroom for a number of silent minutes,
shuffling his things into and out of his backpack. He arranged
his pencils, and, after they'd been sorted by length and relative
hardness, he sorted them again by eraser length. All the while,
Mr. Motojima seemed to do the same at his desk, though he seemed
much less nervous.
Finally, and without warning, the teacher spoke. His voice
was like gravel pouring into Kenji's head, but it was almost as
comforting as Tanako's bell-voice after the stifling lack of
sound.
"It seems like you have writer's block," the old man
announced from his desk. Kenji stood immediately with a protest
ready, but the teacher shook his head. "I'm not here to admonish
you, Kenji. Have a seat."
Kenji returned to his desk.
"Now, I've been told in the past that I'm a rather
progressive teacher."
"Yessir."
"Not too many classes spend time writing creatively on
European classics."
"No sir."
"But I'm not a pushover."
"No sir."
"That paper is worth a seventy percent. No more, no less."
His gaze shot to his sorted pencils. A seventy was going to
hurt is grade quite a bit. "Yessir."
"But, I know where your problems lie. I've had writer's
block before. I know it's frustrating, especially if you're a
budding author." Mr. Motojima arranged some papers on his desk
and pushed them into his attache case.
"Yessir."
"You need to get in touch with your muse. Do you know how to
do that?"
"My muse?"
"I know some people would denounce the notion, but I have
evidence to refute them. Now," he looked at Kenji with hawk-eyes.
"Have you gotten in touch with your muse lately?"
"No sir."
"Here's what I do. Write a paragraph."
"A paragraph about what?"
"Anything. Try writing about your perfect companion. Your
dream girl. It doesn't have to be a good paragraph, just
something to get you started. Write about how she looks, what she
sounds like, feels like, smells like..." The old man paused to
clean his tiny wire-framed glasses. Kenji winced, preparing for
words he never thought his literature teacher would say.
Mr. Motojima grinned. "Et cetera."
The student exhaled with relief.
"Then, fold the piece of paper, put it under your pillow, and
take a nap."
"A nap, sir?"
"Yes. A good hour or two. Really sleep it off." He smiled
kindly, the wrinkles around his eyes nearly pinching them shut.
"When you wake up, your muse will be awakened, and you'll be
inspired."
"Really?"
"Of course. It worked for me thirty years ago. Things don't
change much with inspiration, son. It's all pretty much
universal."
"I see." Kenji got up, but a question nagged him. "Do I
give her a name?"
"What?"
Kenji flushed. "Do I name my dream girl?"
"No. She'll tell you her name." He winked; it was almost
imperceptible. "Give it a try tonight, okay?"
"Yessir."
Kenji walked home alone, mulling over his teacher's words.
He had his doubts; it simply sounded too good to be true. Was it
really as easy as describing her? Kenji frowned. It couldn't be
so simple.
"But," he considered aloud, "if it does work, what do I have
to lose?"
When he finally arrived, he ran straight upstairs and sat at
his desk. Taking out a piece of paper, he wrote his paragraph,
being careful not to put down Tanako's name.
When he finished, he felt exhausted; the words were still
hard to come by. However, the paragraph had stretched into two,
and then three, taking up both sides of his sheet of notebook
paper. When he read it over, it sounded a little trite. He
wanted to rip it up and start over, and started to do so, but
before he could feel the paper give, something just behind his
mind released, and he felt the anger disappear.
He considered the page for a moment, and sighed. "This will
just have to do." Kenji folded the sheet, and placed it under his
pillow. Even if it was trite, he thought, at least it was
something.
"Good night," he mumbled to the folded words.
Sleep came surprisingly easy. The ambiance of the suburb
faded from his mind, rolling in and out of his awareness as he
drifted further from the lighthouse, and deeper into a calm and
liquid dream. It took only a few minutes, but by then, Kenji's
slumbering brain had shed the concept of time.
Fog dominated his view, obscuring the trees, muffling the birds
and crickets. It stuck to his skin like it was trying to possess
him. He shivered, and walked inexplicably forward; he knew only
that something was ahead.
And so he walked. He noticed the fog ahead grow lighter, and
saw what he knew must be the light of sunset dissipate from the
horizon. The sound of rushing water brought him from his distant
gaze, and he noticed at last he was on a bridge, carved from the
ground itself; the water below moved with purpose, though as he
watched it, pausing for a second, he could barely find the
surface.
'But it sounded so close,' Kenji thought. he stayed a moment
longer before, drawn again by the mysterious wanderlust, he
resumed his walk.
Through the thick air, Kenji could discerns the faintest of
shapes, curves moving seamlessly from the ground to the sky. He
could see the path he walked disappear amongst these monolithic
structures, rock-like, yet strangely alive, as if they were not so
much carved as grown. The fog roiled around them, filtering the
view. He looked down, to his left, and saw a snake, brown, the
texture of its scales melting into the rocks beneath it. It moved
lazily, considering the boy with eyes that seemed strangely
intelligent. Kenji stepped back, a shiver of fear joining those
from the cold.
"Don't be afraid," the voice ahead whispered. Even through
meters of fog, the silhouette appearing before him sounded as
clear as someone only a step away. "Tell the fog to lift, and it
will."
"What?" Kenji shook his head. "What are you talking about?"
"Tell the fog to lift." The voice was young, yet peaceful
and mature.
"I don't think that I--"
"--Tell the fog to lift." The voice was still young, but now
neither peaceful nor mature.
"But--"
"--It won't work if you don't tell it, okay?" The voice had
fallen to an exasperated growl.
Kenji took a step back in shock. "Umm, okay."
The voice recovered some of its composure. "Now, tell it to
lift."
Kenji rolled his eyes. "Lift," he mumbled at the fog. A
sliver of daylight appeared on his shoes.
"Say it again," the voice coaxed.
"Lift," he attempted. The fog responded in kind with his
increased intensity, rising to his knees.
"Once more," the voice sang, "and you'll be free."
"Lift!" Kenji pushed his arms above his head dramatically.
The fog lifted. The scene around him faded from a somber
gray into a vista more intense than any he had seen before. Trees
bloomed, instantly shedding their petaled blossoms. They floated
effortlessly across his view, sparkling blues around pink and
white edges. The sky was eternally blue, and one glance seemed to
invite infinite pondering. Mountains stood like sonnets, orderly,
yet somehow unique and chaotic within themselves. Kenji wanted
desperately to write.
And then he saw the girl.
Kenji had assumed he would be looking at Tanako. He was
almost right. She looked a little like her, only her hair was
red, short, wavy, and she was a little shorter. And her skin was
a little darker. And her voice wasn't as melodic.
When Kenji realized that the girl actually looked nothing
like Tanako, he felt suddenly disappointed. "Maybe I should have
written her name," he muttered.
The girl treaded the mossy ground softly, confidently. She
held out her hand and spoke quietly, "You're free now."
There was something about her that tugged gently at the
nerves in Kenji's stomach. He took a tentative step forward, and
instinctively reached for her.
The girl's next step was actually a stumble, as she tripped
over a tree root. When she hit the ground, the dreamscape melted.
Kenji blinked awake. He felt overly warm and numb, like he was
still wearing the cloak of an old, half-lucid vision. He lay
there for a moment considering the dream, and wondered if he
really saw his muse take a tumble at the end.
A tiny waking sigh alerted him that his cloak was more lucid
than dream. A petite arm lifted itself from his shoulders briefly
entering his wide-eyed view, disappearing behind him.
Movement became suddenly difficult for Kenji, but he managed
to wiggle himself off the bed, and successfully fell face-first to
the carpeted floor. As he spat out bits of lint, he peeked up
over the edge of the bed.
"Good morning," she whispered.
She lay there, the girl from his dream, half-asleep, her eyes
glittering as she opened them. Her mouth curled perfectly into a
smile, and she lifted her petite arm again to brush her disheveled
red hair from her forehead.
"You're... oh boy." Kenji gulped for air and sane recourse.
"You're my..."
"Caravan."
"Yeah, you're my Cara... huh?"
"That's my name. Caravan." She sat up and stretched. Kenji
turned before his eye completely filled with the view.
"Why are you looking away?" She looked down, and for a
moment seemed confused. "Oh," she chuckled as she covered herself
with his sheet. "Okay, you can look now."
Kenji peeked through parted fingers; she was blushing. "As I
was saying," she continued. "I'm Caravan."
"I got that part," Kenji muttered.
"What did you say?" Her smile deteriorated quickly. Kenji
gazed at his carpet. "No wonder you're uninspired all the time."
"Sorry."
"You cynic."
"I said I was sorry!"
"Did you mean it?" Caravan's gaze poured quiet skepticism.
"Yes." Kenji's voice softened. "Really, I mean it. I'm...
I apologize."
"Well, then." She shifted to the edge of the bed, letting
her feet dangle next to Kenji's head. "Apology accepted. Now,
let me introduce myself properly. I'm..." She looked at Kenji,
who managed to keep from rolling his eyes. "...I'm your muse."
The curtains rustled as a light spring wind blew in through
the west-facing windows. For a long minute, that was the only
sound either person in the room heard. Kenji hadn't expected
Caravan's words to be quite so powerful as they were. It wasn't
like he didn't know she was going to say then. But, as the
silence continued and Kenji thought more, he realized that the
very act of saying the words must have something more attached.
"Well?" Caravan sounded expectant.
"You're my muse?"
Caravan nodded, smiling pleasantly.
"Really?"
Caravan nodded again, her smile growing a little wider.
"My muse?"
"Your muse. Your goddess of inspiration. The one who gave
you all those great ideas. A magnificent being of light who--"
"--I'm hallucinating, then."
Caravan shook her head with the same smile. "No, not at
all." She winked. "I'm very real."
"Then I've finally done it."
"Done what?"
"I've taken a dive off the deep end."
"Cliche."
"What?"
"You should avoid cliches like the plague," she recited
solemnly.
"Oh, very funny," Kenji grumbled. "Well then, how's 'I've
lost my mind' sound?"
Caravan wrinkled her nose. "Blech. Too bland."
Kenji stood up. "Well then, what would you suggest, o great
goddess of inspirationness?" He leaned on his desk and crossed
his arms. "I'm waiting."
"Let's see. You've lost your mind, eh?" She closed her
eyes, humming so softly, Kenji wasn't sure he really heard her.
When she opened her eyes, she suggested, "How about, 'Reality and
I are now at irreconcilable odds'?"
Kenji frowned. "Not bad. A little wordy, though."
"Okay then, how about this?" She thrashed wildly under the
sheets, and screeched, "My head! Oh, my head... Look at the
shapes! Aren't they beautiful? My brain!"
"Oh, get off it." Kenji tried to fight back a chuckle, but
failed.
Caravan emerged huffing from the sheets and flexed an arm
heroically. "That's what I'm here for."
"To correct my grammar?" Kenji offered.
"No, silly." The girl wrapped Kenji's sheet around her and
tried to stand. "To inspire you." She took a couple of cautious
steps, trying to keep her balance as she approached the closet.
"I see." Kenji watched her with bemusement. He considered
the situation aloud. "On one hand, I could be mad, and all this
is merely me projecting my demented wishes onto the real world."
The blue cotton sheet draped tantalizingly low around Caravan's
back, exposing it to the small. He grinned and shook his head.
"Or, I could be real, and you're just too skeptical to
realize it." She yanked a tee-shirt and a pair of denim shorts
from his dresser.
"Could be."
Caravan tossed the clothes on the bed and smiled. "Could
be." She twirled her finger, motioning for Kenji to turn around.
Kenji complied, turning again to his desk. As she dressed, he
readied a sheet of paper.
"Okay, then," he challenged. "If you're real, inspire me."
"Sure thing. Do you have a belt?"
"Hanging on the right side of the shirt rack."
"Thanks. How do you want to be inspired?"
"I don't know," Kenji munched on the end of his pencil. "I
just need a good idea. You know, something to get me started."
"Isn't that what the paragraph was for? You can look now."
"You know about the paragraph?" Kenji turned in his office
chair. Caravan was digging under his pillow. In his clothes, she
looked as much like a boy as a girl.
"Of course. I've been around your writing since you were
little. Remember your first story? First grade, the two-page
epic about the Antarctic explorer?"
Kenji grinned bashfully. "Ah yes, the halcyon days of
youth."
"Nice."
"Thanks. You were there the whole time?"
"Yep." She began reading the folded sheet.
"Then why do I have this writer's block?"
"Oh boy," she muttered as she read his folded paper. "You
really do need my help."
"Yes," Kenji started. "Yes I do. But, why do I need your
help? Where were you a month ago? How about a week ago, when I
had to write that C-minus paper I got back today? Where were you
then?" Kenji's voice rose quickly, his fists balled. Before he
knew it, he was standing over Caravan, growling, ready to yell at
any answer she could give.
"I'm--"
"--Kenji! Dinner!"
"Coming, Mom!" Kenji turned towards the door. "You wait
here."
Caravan hung her head. "I'm sorry, Kenji. I wasn't there
for you." She sniffed, signaling the onset of...
"Kenji!"
"Coming, Mom!" Kenji yelled anxiously out the door. He
turned hurriedly to the weeping girl sitting on his bed. "I'm...
I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell like that. I just--"
"--I'm really hungry," she managed. "Can I eat with you?"
"Umm..." Kenji looked to the door. His mother's footsteps
grew closer. "Sure. You're a friend from class, 'kay?"
Caravan nodded and stood. After she wiped the tears from her
cheeks, she seemed remarkably normal. Kenji took a deep breath as
his mother knocked on the door.
"Kenji?"
"Coming!"
"Okay. But hurry up, or the chicken will get cold." The
stairs creaked as his mother descended them again.
Kenji offered his hand. "My mom's a decent cook, if you like
spicy stuff."
"I love spicy stuff." She took his hand. It felt softer
than any he had held before. Almost immediately the boy shook the
stray thought from his mind.
"I haven't even held Tanako's yet," he murmured. He opened
the door, letting her hand go as soon as he stepped into the
hallway.
"Tanako's what?" Caravan whispered as they descended the
stairs.
"Never mind," Kenji muttered.
"And who's Tanako?"
"I said, never mind."
"Is she the subject of that... note of yours?" She frowned
as she mentioned the poorly-written page.
"I said, never mind!"
"Never mind what?" Kenji's mother called from the kitchen.
"Nothing, Mom." Kenji turned to his companion at the bottom
of the stairs. "Now, don't ask any strange questions, okay?"
The girl crossed her heart. "I wouldn't think of it."
"Oh, you've brought a friend to dinner!" Kenji's mother
sounded a little too pleased as Kenji and Caravan entered the
dining room. "I hope I made enough. He didn't tell me we'd be
having a guest."
The girl smiled and nodded. "I hope it isn't too much
trouble," she half-whispered.
"It's never any trouble, dear." The middle-aged woman stood
and went to the kitchen. "Let me get another plate for you."
"How am I doing?" Caravan whispered.
Kenji nodded seriously. "Just don't say anything weird."
"I don't think Kenji's mentioned you much. What did you say
your name was?"
"Caravan."
Kenji's mother paused, then smiled. "That's an interesting
name." She set a plain white plate in front of the guest. "Where
are you from?"
"She just moved in from Hokkaido. Her parents were transfer
student hippies. Too much LSD in the 60's and what-not. That
explains the name and all, right? Right." Kenji answered in
hurried staccato.
"Yes, I suppose it does," both women mused simultaneously.
Kenji's mother continued. "I spent a few summers in Hokkaido
before Kenji was born. It was beautiful--"
"Aww, Mom. Not the Hokkaido story again."
Caravan shot Kenji a withering look, but Kenji's mother
simply laughed. "It's true. He's heard it a number of times. I
always seem to tell it when he has company over."
"Now you know why I never bring people for dinner." Kenji's
remark earned him another glare from Caravan.
"I guess I'm just trying to show off for my son. He thinks
it's embarrassing though. I don't blame him."
"Mrs. Terada, I'd love to hear the story."
"Why, thank you, dear. You're so kind to humor an old
woman."
"Not at all," the girl grinned. "I like listening to
stories."
* * * *
"Your mother's quite a storyteller," Caravan noted cheerfully once
they were back in Kenji's room. "I can see where you get your
talent."
"Thanks," the boy mumbled. "And thanks for not asking any
weird questions." He smiled honestly, but it faded quickly.
"I told you I wouldn't." She flopped on the bed and sighed.
"There's something wrong, isn't there?"
"Nothing's wrong. I'm just tired."
"Come on, Kenji. I know a little bit about you. Whatever
you've written, I've read it. Well, most of it, anyway. I did
skip that paragraph earlier today, but you can hardly blame--"
"--Stop it." The words were weaker than even he had
expected. "Please."
"Sorry." She rolled over and looked Kenji. He was hunched
over his desk, scribbling something down. "There's something
wrong, though."
Kenji sighed. "I'd never heard the story told like that
before." Kenji continued writing. "I guess I feel a little
guilty about yelling at her."
"But you're getting something out of it, right?"
She could hear Kenji smiling. "Yeah, I guess so. Not much,
but it's a start. Thanks."
"Like I said, that's why I'm here." She kicked her legs and
looked at his note again. "So, who is Tanako, anyway?"
"I thought you knew all about me."
"I only get to see you while you're writing." She snickered
as she skimmed the page. "Hoo boy, that's a doozy. Do you have a
red pen?"
"Nope, sorry. Here's a pencil." He tossed his pencil over
his shoulder; it landed eraser first on her back.
"Oww. Thanks."
Kenji grunted a reply and rummaged in his desk drawer for a
new pencil.
"You don't seem to write about her. Tanako, I mean."
Kenji raised his head from his work and paused. "I guess
not," he considered. "Not directly, anyway."
"I see. One of those 'everything I write is about her'
things, right?" Caravan giggled. "You're such a romantic."
"Whatever." Kenji hunched back over his desk. Caravan could
see his ears turning bright red, though.
"Are you always this surly when you're inspired?"
"Yes."
Caravan shook her head. "You weren't this surly when you got
the idea for 'The Case of the Crafty Cat'."
"That was in third grade."
"I always liked that one," she reminisced. "You wrote the
cat so... well, crafty."
"Yeah, well," Kenji sighed. "The Crafty Cat just isn't
enough anymore."
"I know." Caravan sat up on the edge of the bed. "You want
better than that, don't you?"
"Of course I do. I should want better than that. I am
better than that."
Caravan stood and wrapped her arms around Kenji. He could
feel her pressing against his back as she hugged him.
"Yes," she murmured. "Yes you are. You just need some help
every once in a while."
"Let me guess, you're the person to help me."
"Of course," she whispered into his right ear.
Kenji opened his mouth to speak, but let whatever words he
was thinking fall silent. he smiled faintly.
"You know," she continued, "what you're writing now is pretty
decent. You should keep going with it."
"Th... thanks." The boy smiled as his muse let go. They
each returned to their previous tasks, Kenji to his work, and
Caravan to watching from edge of the bed.
"I hope you aren't bored," he eventually apologized.
"Not at all," she smiled. "I like watching you write."
"Suit yourself."
"You know," Caravan added after a comfortable pause, "I can
help you. With Tanako, I mean."
Kenji stopped. "How?"
"I'm a muse. I give you an idea, and you implement it. It's
how this whole thing is supposed to work, you know."
"I can handle that." Kenji turned and faced her. She was
staring at the ceiling, absently twisting a lock of hair. "So,
what's your idea?"
"I don't know yet. But it'll come to me." She glanced at
him and smiled. "For now, just keep writing. You seem to be on a
roll."
"Yes, boss," Kenji hissed jovially.
Caravan returned a chuckle and turned her gaze back to the
bare ceiling. Nearly an hour passed without words. Caravan
softly hummed a strange tune from the bed, and Kenji wrote. After
ten or twelve pages, and three or four pencils, everything fell
silent except for the scribbling and the crickets. Soon, even the
crickets grew taciturn.
Had Kenji not been so engrossed in his work, he would have
noticed the sharp inhaling sound and the flash of light behind
him. As it stood, he was lucky to even notice when his mother
entered the room and set a tray of milk and cookies down next to
him.
"Oh dear, " she commented with polite disappointment. "Your
friend has left."
"What?" Kenji whipped around. Indeed, Caravan was gone.
"She was such a nice girl," Kenji's mother commented.
"You'll have to invite her over again some time."
* * * *
Kenji spent a full glass of milk and five cookies deep in thought.
"What else could she be?" he mused between chocolate-chipped
bites. "She appeared from out of nowhere. And she left just like
that, too." He dipped his last cookie in Caravan's untouched
glass, and let it soak.
Stray thoughts and bits of forgotten conversations entered
his mind through a thousand psychic pinpricks, and he followed
them as best he could. It was only after he felt his cookie rip
itself, saturated, from his hand to sink to the bottom of the
glass that he realized how long the thoughts had been running. He
looked at the clock on his desk; it poured an electric green 23:28
into his eyes, and then his eyelids.
Kenji was asleep before he realized it.
"That's what I'm here for." Kenji opened his eyes. The
words were familiar, but the voice wasn't. Or rather, it was, but
unexpectedly so. He lay in bed, facing the stark whiteness of his
ceiling, and waited.
"You were right, Kenji," the voice continued, sourceless,
from somewhere to his left. "That pitch was way inside. If it
had been a little bit more in, you coulda had it." Or was it his
right?
Kenji listened intently. There was something about it that
eluded his senses. He felt as if he knew he should remember the
voice. He waited for another chance to place it.
"You coulda had it, I tell ya."
But he hadn't heard it in years.
"You woulda been the hero. And then Tanako woulda seen."
Kenji inhaled sharply. "But I wasn't," he whispered to the
disembodied voice.
"That's okay. I believe in you."
Tears welled up slowly. "Mi... Miko?"
Kenji awoke at his desk, to the resonating click of his
mother closing the door behind her. The tray of cookies and milk
were gone; the clock read 1:12.
"I gotta get some sleep," he commented as he tossed a couple
of drool-covered pages into the garbage. He smiled; luckily, they
were blank. "I'm starting to go crazy. Isn't that right, Miko?"
The room gave no reply.
"So much for imaginary friends," he chuckled. Kenji
undressed slowly, and climbed into bed.
------------------------------------------------------------------
AUTHOR'S NOTES:
Welcome back to "It's a Rainy Day, Sunshine Girl". Hopefully,
some of you reading today are new to the series, and some are old
friends returning. Those of you who have read the series I'd
posted before, I hope you noticed all the new bits I added to the
story. Finally, the story is coming into focus. Those of you who
haven't read this story before, I hope you're enjoying what you're
reading. I think you might just be in for a treat.
I hope to hear from you soon!
Feel free to e-mail me (matt2518@gladstone.uoregon.edu) with C&C
or any questions you might have concerning the series.