The little stone skipped on a crack in the sidewalk, coming to rest a meter or so from Ranko’s foot. She kicked it again as she approached, sending it bouncing along ahead of her. With each step closer to home, her dejectedness seemed only to grow. When she got there, her sisters and Hana would want to know how the day went, and she’d have to tell them or lie again, and she really didn’t want to do either. She’d only just gotten to a place where she didn’t feel like she had to lie to them every day, but the truth might end up feeling worse.
Her whole day had been spent in that stupid outfit, trying to learn that stupid dance. She and Emi probably could have gotten it by day’s end, but Hitomi… yikes. The poor girl had two left feet, possibly even three. Ranko really did wish that Katsuo could have taught her the dance with words or a video or something, rather than physically moving her through the steps. She really didn’t like having his hands on her, especially given what they’d made her wear. Worse, she’d discovered that the skimpy white-and-green school-like outfit was the de facto uniform of the group she’d been assigned to, and she’d be expected to wear it every day to practice. Hitomi and Emi had worn theirs home, but Ranko had left hers at the studio. She couldn’t bear to have her sisters or Akane see her in it.
She turned up the walkway to the front door, stopping and opening the mailbox. Inside, she found a few advertising fliers, the bill from the water company, and a letter addressed to her. The return address was the Tokyo Metropolitan Library. She swallowed hard. Ranko didn’t know what it said, but she wanted to open it in private. She folded it in half, stuffing it into the right back pocket of her jeans and making her way into the bar with the rest of the mail tucked under her arm.
Yui waved from the bar. “Oi, Ranko! Perfect timing! Our order of lemons got here late; mind slicing a few before we open? I’d love to hang out a little. We haven’t gotten to talk much the last few days.”
Ranko gulped. She knew she’d be cornered about her experiences at the agency, and she just couldn’t bear to talk about how disillusioned she was getting. Two days in, and not a word sung. At least she did some performance stuff today, which she guessed was an improvement over whatever that creepy photo shoot had been. But even before that, she had a more immediate dread to attend to. “Sure, Yui! Give me just a minute to set my bag down and stuff.”
Ranko set the mail on the bartop and slipped through the saloon doors quietly, hoping not to attract any more conversations before she could get up the stairs to her little apartment. Closing and locking the door behind her, she pulled the envelope from her pocket and tore it open. She remembered what Hana said; no matter how bad it was, it was fixable. Worst case, she was a grade or so behind in a few subjects and had to do some studying.
She unfolded the paper, and somehow the words on it managed to form a fist and punch her right in the gut, or at least it felt like it. For each subject, an equivalent grade level was shown. She’d hoped for an 11 or two, maybe some tens. Instead, what she read was:
Science: 9
Japanese: 9
English: 8
Mathematics: 8
History: 10
Social Studies and Government: 9
At this rate, Hoshi’ll graduate high school before I do.
She slumped onto her bed, tossing the paper to the side. Now, there was no choice. No matter how bad things got at the talent agency, she had to stick it out. Singing was the only viable career path left. There wasn’t even any point trying; by the time Akane graduated college, she’d maybe be a senior in high school if everything broke her way. She doubted she’d even qualify to be someone’s secretary – and in most offices, the only real difference between being a secretary and the waitressing gig she had now was that the floors would be a little less sticky.
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She sniffled a bit and bit her lip, trying to put on a brave face. She knew Yui was expecting her downstairs, and as broken-hearted as she was, the last thing she could afford to do was screw up her job and her living situation here, too. She stood, hiding the letter under her mattress before heading back downstairs.
Walking out into the main bar with a plastic tub of citrus under her arm, Ranko straddled a barstool and set about slashing into a fruit with her knife. Yui waited a moment, and when she didn’t get engaged in conversation, she prodded gently. “So, crazy few days for you, huh?”
“Yeah, I guess so.” Ranko’s voice was hollow and distant, her hands moving on muscle memory as she bifurcated a lemon.
The blonde frowned. If there was one thing she knew for certain about her new little sister, it was that quiet wasn’t her normal state. “Hey, Ran-chan, you okay? You know you can talk to me, right?” Ranko nodded, managing a quiet, “Yeah, I know, thanks.”
Yui set aside her inventory clipboard, walking across to Ranko’s side of the bar. “I’m serious. You’re kinda worrying me, kiddo.”
The redhead looked up at her. “I’m fine, Yui, hones–shit!”
Yui looked down to find a splash of red trickling down her sister’s wrist and approaching the sleeve of her sweater. Ranko managed to swing her hand away fast enough to avoid bleeding into the bin with the fruit, dropping the knife to the bartop with a clatter. She bit her tongue to stifle a yelp as the lemon juice stung the slash across her left palm. Her body trembled with pain, her over-sensitive skin not much appreciating being filleted with an acid-coated paring knife.
Yui took note of her sister’s pallor. She must be one of those girls who gets faint at the sight of blood, she thought to herself. She darted to the cabinet under the bar, pulling out a first aid kit. “C’mere, hon, let me see.” Ranko came closer to the sink as Yui turned the faucet on, suddenly stopping short.
“Ranko, I mean it, come here. We’ve got to clean that cut out so we can bandage it.” The younger girl no longer cared about the blood snaking its way down her wrist; all she could focus on was the little bit of radiant heat rising from the sink. One touch of that, and not only would her skin burn for hours, but Yui would be in for the shock of her life.
“I, ahh… we shouldn’t use the sink out here. You make drinks there. It’s not sanitary. I’ll use the one in the bathroom.” Yui spoke up to protest, but Ranko had already pushed through the door into the ladies’ room. She cranked the faucet to the coldest setting, letting it run a moment to cool completely before placing her bloody hand under the spigot.
“So stupid. I can’t believe I cut myself. Can’t even concentrate on simple stuff anymore. Dammit, that hurts! I’m such a friggin’ idiot,” she verbally admonished the girl in the mirror.
Yui, who Ranko hadn’t noticed entered the restroom behind her, sighed. “Stop talking like that. It was an accident. They happen.” She laid the first aid kit open on the mica countertop, unwrapping a large pad of gauze.
Ranko pursed her lip in disgust. “Not to me, they don’t.”
Yui chuckled. “Must be nice.” She squirted a brownish liquid from a small bottle onto Ranko’s hand, letting the excess drain off into the still-running sink. It burned on contact with the open wound, but Ranko held fast until Yui pressed the gauze into Ranko’s palm. Ranko held the gauze tightly in place to stem the bleeding while Yui opened the plastic wrap on a roll of cloth bandage. Having fought with the package until she gave up and ripped it open with her teeth, Yui began to wind the white cloth around Ranko’s wrist and between her fingers and her thumb.
Ranko turned off the faucet, looking up at Yui. “Thanks.” She frowned at the damp dark spot at the inner edge of her sleeve, but Yui made a dismissive sound. “Take it off, throw a little hydrogen peroxide on that, and it’ll come right out. No worries.”
The younger girl nodded. “Alright. I’ll be right back. Don’t worry about the mess out there, please. I’ll take care of it as soon as I get changed.” She didn’t want Yui to have to clean up her blood.
A few moments later, Ranko returned from her apartment, now sporting a red T-shirt with the Phoenix’ trapezoidal firebird logo emblazoned across its chest over her jeans. She scooped up a bottle of industrial cleaner and some paper towels, setting upon the task of sanitizing the bartop.
Yui approached as she tossed the last of the paper towels in the trash, motioning to Ranko’s bandaged hand. “Well, good news is, you could throw a glove on it and say you’re doing a Michael Jackson theme night.”
Ranko rolled her eyes, but managed a small smile.