The Last Leaves Falling (13 page)

I almost turn away, but it does not seem
right
, somehow. I can’t give up that easily. I inhale slowly, let my fingers steady on the keyboard, and, compiling a list of excuses for my behavior, I log in.

BRrRrRrRrRrRr

BRrRrRrRrRrRr

BRrRrRrRrRrRr

Before the screen has even loaded, my speakers explode with notification alarms, and then a box announces:

YOU HAVE SEVEN MESSAGES

Great. I imagine seven versions of “What’s wrong with you, moron?” or “What kind of samurai loses his cool like that?”

And everyone laughing cruelly at the boy who screamed and ran.

And the moderators asking me, “Please leave. We’re blocking your account.”

But I’m here now, and the noise won’t stop until I click.

The first message is from a name I do not know, but I do not open it because below is a whole wall of messages from MonkEC. She’s tried to talk to me six times in two days.

I hope nobody’s told her what I did.

Nervously, I click on the first one.

Hiii! I hope your day was good to you. I had the most BORING lessons, but it’s okay because I followed it with art class after school and I spent an HOUR talking to the instructor about animation.

She doesn’t know, she doesn’t know!

Hi,

Are you there? You’re usually around by now . . .

Hellooooooo?

I picture her sitting at her desk in a quiet, empty house, with only the Internet for company. And I wasn’t there. My fear morphs neatly into guilt, and I wish I did not have to read on.

I open the next one with my eyes half-closed, but that does not stop me from seeing the words.

Ok, so I just looked through the chat logs, because . . . well, I wondered whether you might be ignoring me . . . and I saw what happened. Are you okay, Samurai? It feels so weird to call you that, like I don’t know you at all. But I think I do. Are you okay? And what should I call you (you can make something up if you don’t want to tell me)?

She . . . she knows? And she’s still talking to me?

I stare at her message, a mess of guilt and joy and worry all at once.

Finally, settling on mild relief, I click on the last message.

Where are you? I don’t know whether I can help you but I need a friend and I wish you were here. Maybe if we talk we can help each other?

Please?

p.s. I’m not a stalker, honest!

Pps don’t worry about the other day. Sometimes I feel like screaming at everyone too. (:

REPLY

Hi MonkEC. I’m sorry, I wasn’t ignoring you at all. I’ve just been really busy.

No. That’s ridiculous.

Hi MonkEC, I’m sorry if I scared you, I just kind of freaked. I’m okay though. How are you?

Just kind of freaked?
You’re an idiot, Sora. And that’s not a proper answer.

Hi,

I don’t think you’re a stalker at all, and I’m sorry that I haven’t been around over the last few days. I have been really busy, and it all got a bit much. Sorry if I had you worried.

Sora (that’s my real name by the way, not something I made up).

P.S. You can talk to me. I’d like that.

I click “send” before I have a chance to change my mind, and then my eyes are drawn to the last unopened message.

From: NoFaceBoy

I click.

Hey Man,

I don’t think we’ve spoken before. Probably not, since I’m usually pretty quiet, but I had to ask—are you okay? That was a pretty loud yell back there.

Anyway, I know what it’s like to get lost in the sad, so if you need something, please let me know.

REPLY

I’m okay, but thank you for asking.

They don’t hate me.

They don’t hate me.

Perhaps I’m not so worthless after all?

Maybe I can really be myself here.
All
of myself, faulty bits included.

I click on “start new thread” and type: “Friend or Freak: Do you know anyone who is disabled? Seen anyone in the street? How do you think of them? (Help?! I am volunteering at a special school, and am trying to research this for class credit).”

And then I log off, because I don’t want to watch the answers pouring in.

21

I check the thread after a few hours, when everyone gets home from classes, with my eyes half-closed in case I don’t like what I see.

My grandmother uses a cane, but that’s just because she is old.

I haven’t seen anyone with what you’d call a disability. Sorry.

Yeah, I mean, I’m sure they’re lovely, but we don’t go to the same schools. How would we know?

I wish that I could show them all, scream, “Yes you do; you do know someone, right here, talking to you now.”

But these aren’t real answers to my questions. And it could be social suicide. So instead, I sit here worrying, staring at the same three answers, searching for some deeper meaning.

When I find none, my mind wanders back through everything I’ve read today, and as the sun slides across the sky, I have an idea. Perhaps the wounded warriors weren’t
allowed
to become valued members of society, but simply did whatever they could.

My mother will be home soon, that tired look stretched across her face, hiding deeper worries. And today I’m going to surprise her, show her that I’m not completely useless, and she does not always have to worry or unearth new ideas to fix me. I am going to prepare dinner.

But what? Mama always does the cooking—although I learned a little in home economics—and when she won’t be home for lunch she leaves me something wrapped up in the fridge. Which means
I
am out of practice.

I wheel into the kitchen and pull open the cupboards. Immediately the kitchen smells flood into the room, taking me back to childhood when my mother and I would cook together on the weekends; spice and vinegars and soy, dirt-clod potatoes, rice and beans. I reach into the cupboard and pull things out. Dried shrimp, vinegar, eggs. I pile ingredients onto my lap: garlic, rice—no, not rice, egg noodles are easier. From the refrigerator: green beans, ham, ginger.

As I place the food up on the counter, I try to assemble a dish in my head. This’ll work, right?

I decide it will be easier to prepare everything first, then cook. So I slide open a drawer and pull out a knife and cutting board, and I begin. I try using the board up on the counter, but when I press down on the board, it flips right off the edge into my lap and the knife slips from my grasp and clatters to the floor.

Damn it!

Shaking, I check my skin for knife wounds, but it did not catch me. I breathe. And then I reach down to retrieve the knife, but it’s too low and scuds across the floor as my fingers brush against it. I’ll have to leave it there, ask Mama to retrieve it when she’s home.

Maybe this is a bad idea. But my mother does everything and I want to surprise her.

I pull a second knife from the drawer, and this time, I rest the cutting board across the arms of my chair.

Much better!

I hold the knife steady, feel the weight of it beneath my fingers, imagine the damage it could do. And then slowly, carefully, I slice the tops and tails from the beans. I slide them back onto the counter. Next, garlic. I put three fat cloves flat on the board and squash them. It’s easier than the cutting. All I need to do is lean my weight upon the flat edge of the blade.

And last, ginger. I love ginger; pickled, steeped in broth, covered in sugar and dried, I do not care. Mama used to say it was a wonder that I looked like a boy at all, since I was mostly made of ginger with all that I’d been eating. But she was just as fond of it as I, and sometimes we would stop by the park on our way home, sit on a bench beneath the trees, and devour a whole bag of sugared ginger, just the two of us.

I cut off a small piece at the end and lift the root up to my nose, breathing in the sharp warm spice of it so hard that I think I’m going to sneeze.

I slice the root into thin strips, although they’re not as thin as I would like, because I’m too afraid to get my shaking fingers that close to the blade.

Right.

I reach beneath the sink for a large steel pan, dented by a thousand meals, and I place it on the stove. My mother chose this apartment over others for its kitchen, bigger and better equipped than most city rentals. We might have to move, she said, but we do not have to lose our love of food.

But this kitchen wasn’t made for me. Now that the pan is on the stove, I cannot reach into it or see inside. Great.

Taking care that the knife I dropped is nowhere near my feet, I push myself up from the chair. Upright, I lean my waist against the countertop and let it take my weight so that my hands are free. I flick on the ignite switch, listening for the
click click click
before I turn on the gas. Blue flame licks the edges of the pan. I reach for the ceramic bottles Mama keeps beside the stove—oil, soy, and sesame. I pull them closer, and then pour the oil into the pan.

I wait a moment, then in go the ginger and garlic, sizzling as they hit the pan. The harshness of their smells disappears in seconds, replaced by a roast sweetness.

I’d forgotten how much fun cooking can be.

I glance across at my ingredients, neatly laid out. This is
easy
. I’d half-expected my legs to give out by now, or my fingers to play dumb, refuse to chop or stir or anything, but this feels
good
.

Shrimp next, then I will add the soy and sesame and beans. Mama will love thi—

“Sora!”

I’d been so engrossed that I did not hear my mother’s keys, her sock-clad footsteps.

“Hi.”

“What are you doing? Sit down before you hurt yourself!”

“It’s fine, Mama. I’m fine. I’m cooking dinner.”

My mother stares at me, and I stare back. Why isn’t she
pleased
?

The mixture in the pan crackles, hisses, burns, and suddenly the sweet smell is black-acrid and my mother rushes over.

“What were you
thinking
, Sora? Of all the stupid, dangerous things!” She lifts the now-smoking pan from the flame and steps toward the sink with it. The chopping knife skids across the floor. “Oh, Sora!”

Suddenly, my thighs are shaking with the weight of standing, and I cannot maintain it. I let myself fall back into my chair and get out of the way.

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly, and then I flee.

Safely in my room, I grab the pillow from my bed and slam it hard against the mattress, again and again until my arms tire and I cannot swing it anymore.

•  •  •  •

“Sora?”

“Yes?” I try, but I cannot shake the grump out of my voice.

Mama slides open the door and sits down on the bed, beside me.

“I’m not angry. I just . . . what were you doing?”

I look away.

“Sora?”

I was
trying
to be nice. She was supposed to be amazed!

“Sora, look at me.” She reaches out, places her hand upon my shoulder. “Please don’t do that again. You might fall, or cut yourself. That knife on the floor—you can’t do these things.”

“I was doing
fine
, Mama.”

“No.” She’s firmer now. “I will not risk it. Not in my house!”

I reach back, push on the rear wheels of my chair so that I roll away from her and spin around.

“Do you understand, Sora?” she presses. And I can feel her watching me, waiting for an answer.

The thing is, if I think about it, she is right. If she hadn’t walked in, anything could have happened.

She’s right, and I hate her for it.

“Sora?”

“Yes, Mama.”

She stands to leave, but pauses at the door. “I don’t mean that you can’t cook at all. Just, not by yourself, okay? Maybe we can cook together?”

“No thanks.”

•  •  •  •

I pick at the chicken noodles on my plate, not hungry.

“You have to eat, Sora.”

I don’t answer her. I can’t. Why can’t she
see
?

She does not push it further, but the silence between us sits heavy in the room.

“I was thinking last night . . . ,” she tries again. “Maybe you and I need to spend more time together. Go somewhere. Or not; we could spend time in the city, go to the museums.”

But I don’t want the city. I don’t want to be watched all day. I don’t need her hovering.

“It’s okay, I know you have to work.”

“No, but I could . . . I could take some time. The boss knows our situation.”