The Wavering of Haruhi Suzumiya (4 page)

I’d found this out later. You can’t really call it a mystery, but in any case it had been solved by a certain talkative fellow. He does come in handy, I’ll admit.

“Did you notice any discrepancy between the timing of Suzumiya and that of the rhythm section? Or more properly, between the melody Suzumiya was singing, Nagato’s riffs, and the bass and drums?” asked Koizumi.

“It was only noticeable on a subconscious level. All four of them were playing together so well, you’d never guess they were winging it. What’s most surprising is Suzumiya’s ear. Keep in mind she’d only heard the demo tape three times.”

I wanted to be impressed with Nagato’s professional-level playing as well, but the fact is that kind of thing is easy for her.

“Yet it wasn’t perfect. Those
were
original songs, after all. There’s simply a huge difference between the performers who wrote those songs and practiced them endlessly and Suzumiya, who performed as an emergency stand-in.”

Well, obviously.

“Yes. So between the original bassist and drummer, Suzumiya’s idiosyncratic performance of songs she rushed to learn, and Nagato’s guitar following those idiosyncrasies, there were discrepancies—tiny, but they were there. And as the audience listened, they would feel the tension, if only subconsciously.”

He was being as plausible as he always was. Do you think anything is possible with enough psychobabble?

“It’s what I concluded after my analysis. Moving along, then—when they played the second and third songs, the feeling of tension only increased, and then they reached the final song. And what did Suzumiya do then?”

She’d explained that the real guitarist and vocalist weren’t onstage, that she and Nagato were just stand-ins, and then she introduced the drummer and bassist… right?

“And that was enough. In that instant, the mystery was solved—the reason for the strange tension in everybody’s chest. ‘So that’s where that strange uncertainty came from,’ they thought.”

When he put it that way… it did make a certain sense.

“Suzumiya’s singing and Nagato’s guitar works were by no means bad; far from it, they were well beyond the pop music club’s level, but the audience probably thought about it like this: ‘If they were this good with stand-in vocals and guitar, they must be amazing with the real leader.’ ”

So that explained why there were so many requests for minidisc copies.

“Suzumiya’s singing was excellent, almost perfect. But in not being
too
perfect, she created the best possible outcome. I must say, I’m impressed.”

He might have been right. Haruhi popping up had certainly turned out well for those three girls.

So what about us?

“To which ‘us’ do you refer?”

I’m talking about the SOS Brigade—you know, the people more involved with Haruhi than anyone else at the school! Do you seriously think there’s something good waiting for us too?

“I suppose we won’t know that until the very end. If we don’t think things went too badly once it’s all over, I’d say you could call that ‘something good.’ ”

The three older girls left just as the bell announcing fourth period began to ring.

Bafflingly, Haruhi returned to her seat with a complex expression on her face, and it stayed there as she daydreamed straight through the period. She disappeared from the classroom as soon as lunch started.

I wolfed down my lunch as I listened to Kunikida and Taniguchi make their excuses (“Yeah, man, there just weren’t any decent chicks at the festival. It’s this school’s crappy location, I’m telling you—it needs to be on flat ground.”), then shoved my lunch box into my school bag and vacated my seat.

For no particular reason, I just felt like taking a walk to digest.

After wandering around for a while, my feet brought me to the courtyard in the middle of the school. I veered off the path that would take me to the clubroom building and walked the patchy, balding lawn in the center. And there, who should I happen across but Haruhi, lying there on the grass.

“Yo,” I said. “What’s up? You’ve been wearing that expression since the last recess.”

“What of it?”

Haruhi had replied quickly, staring at the clouds as though she were talking to the sky. I did likewise—that is, I looked up at the sky, saying nothing.

I wonder how long we stayed that way, quiet. It didn’t feel like more than three minutes, but I don’t have a lot of confidence in my internal clock.

It was Haruhi who finally broke the pointless silence contest. Her tone was somehow stiff, reluctant.

“I just can’t seem to calm down. I wonder why.”

Her tone seemed genuinely puzzled. I felt a sardonic smile coming on.

“How should I know?” I said. Here’s what I really wanted to say to her:

It’s because you’re not used to people thanking you. You’re always doing things that no normal person would look you in the eye and say “thank you” for. You were probably secretly wondering if you were butting in when you offered to help them out. If it’d been you, you would’ve dragged yourself onstage even if your vocal cords were blown out or both your arms broken. The people around you telling you to stop would only have given you more energy, and you’d never have thought to turn to anybody else for help.

So how does it feel to have helped out those girls? Their songs are hits thanks to you arguing with the festival committee people. When they thanked you, they really meant it. It was almost the best thing you could’ve done. So how does it feel, Haruhi? Has this awakened you to the possibilities of good deeds? How about swearing to work only for the good of the world and humanity henceforth?

… Of course I never said any of that stuff. I only thought it. All I was doing was standing next to Haruhi and looking up at the sky. A mountain breeze blew thin clouds through the sky, as though the school festival itself had triggered the autumn weather.

Haruhi said nothing. She wore an intentional-looking scowl on her face, but within her head was probably another emotion entirely.

“What?” Haruhi directed an annoyed glare at me but remained where she was. “You got something to say? Then say it. I’m sure it’s nothing worthwhile, but it’s bad to just stew on things.”

Her eyes glittered.

“Not really, no,” I said.

Haruhi sat up and grabbed a handful of grass to throw at me. But evidently the weather gods were on my side, as a sudden odd gust of wind blew up and set the green blades back into her face.

“Ugh!”

Haruhi flopped back down on the grass as she sputtered to get the grass out of her mouth.

I looked vaguely up at the clubroom building. I could see the brigade room’s window from here. I wondered if a certain slender, short-haired figure would be looking down at us, but there was nobody there. Not surprising, I guessed.

The silence continued for a bit longer but was eventually broken by Haruhi’s voice.

“Concerts are fun. I sort of wonder if that was good enough, but… yeah. It was fun. How should I put it? It felt like I was really doing something.”

If dressing as a bunny girl and getting up onstage to sing lyrics
from a music stand as a substitute vocalist was her idea of fun, then she had serious guts. Of course, I knew that already.

“I can see why that injured girl argued so much with the festival committee,” she said.

“Yeah.”

I couldn’t help but feel sort of moved. I guess that’s what I get for letting my guard down.

“Hey!”

The tranquil mood was shattered when Haruhi suddenly bolted to her feet, then loomed over me ominously. I tried to back away, but my foot slipped.

The volatile Haruhi smiled brilliantly and spoke in a high, excited voice.

“Hey, Kyon! Can you play an instrument?”

“Nope.”

I shook my head rapidly. I had a very bad feeling about this.

“Huh. Well, we’ll fix that with practice. We’ve got a whole year, after all.”

Hey, now.

“We should perform as a band next year! We don’t have to join the pop music club if we pass the audition, and that’ll be a cinch. I’ll do vocals, Yuki can play guitar, and we’ll give Mikuru a tambourine and put her onstage as decoration!”

Oh hell no.

“Of course, we’ve got to make the sequel to the movie too. We’re gonna be busy next year—but you always gotta set more goals, right?”

Now hang on just a second!

“All right, Kyon, let’s go!”

Hey, wait—go where, to do what?

“To get some instruments! They’ll have some spares in the pop music club room. And I’ll have to ask those three girls about tips for writing songs. Gotta strike while the iron’s hot!”

Haruhi ignored me as I considered how hesitating before striking was probably the best idea. She grabbed my wrist and began to drag me behind her.

Her strides were long. Purposeful.

“Don’t worry; I’ll handle the songwriting and composition. And the arrangement and choreography, of course.”

Oh, great. The mysterious switch in Haruhi’s head had been flipped, and she was off on some new obsession. Even alien abductors would drag me off more gently than she did. I looked up at the sky for someone to help me.

No one was standing at the clubroom window. Apparently our own genius-level guitarist/magic-wielding alien was absorbed in a book right now. It was autumn, after all.

“C’mon, Kyon, walk with your own two feet. Three stairs at a leap, got it?”

Haruhi turned and looked back, eyes glittering with all she was imagining, and she lengthened her stride into a run.

There was no helping it. I ran too.

Why, you ask?

Because it would be some time before Haruhi let go of my hand.

Thus did my first school festival come to a hurried end, as though linked with the changing season—though the festival’s energy seemed to echo in Haruhi’s mind, and behind that echo danced boldly typeset headline copy like, “Pre-Sale Tickets Now Being Designed!” or “(Hopefully) A Smash Hit in the US!” or “A Year to Plan, A Month to Shoot (More or Less).”

She was already thinking about the sequel she wanted to make for next year’s festival. You might think that no one would be so hasty—but you’d be wrong.

For my part, I felt like I’d just managed to finish delivering a heavy package, and just as I was feeling like I could go home,
suddenly I had to deliver an even heavier load. I was escorting the terrified leading lady down a treacherous jungle path, waiting to be ambushed by a Bengal tiger, the two of us quivering in fear, all because of that insane thing we’d just screened.

How insane? Read on, my friend.

Her name was Mikuru Asahina, and while she seemed to be a normal, healthy, attractive lass, she was actually a time traveler from the future. I’d like to assure you that any relationship to a person you might already know named Mikuru Asahina is purely coincidental.

Moving along. The truth about Mikuru Asahina is that she was a combat waitress from the future. Why did a waitress have to travel back in time? And why did she have to dress up as a waitress? Such matters are no more than trivialities and, to be quite frank, are meaningless. Any explanation beyond “that is simply the way things are” is impossible, and in fact, none of the individuals here can lay claim to a meaningful raison d’être.

… A booming voice from the heavens has simply declared it to be so.

So, then, let us observe the life of this Mikuru Asahina.

Normally, she was dressed as a bunny girl, as her daily routine involved attracting customers to a neighborhood grocery store. In the evenings, she put on her bunny girl costume and, holding a signboard there in front of the store, she called out the specials in her lovely voice—in other words, she held down a part-time job.

Because she came all the way from the future, you might think she would have a more effective means of supporting herself, but this story was created without any consideration for notions like “realism,” and I thought it would be kindest to make that clear, so that you didn’t set your expectations too high.

So, we have here a combat waitress from the future who also dresses as a bunny girl.

I’ll say up front that you will never find out just why it is that she wears such outfits. It is meaningless. And even if there were some meaning, it would surely never be revealed, which is effectively the same as being meaningless.

Today, as usual, Mikuru Asahina had cheerfully donned her bunny girl outfit and was eking out her living, signboard in hand.

“Sorry to trouble you during your busy day! There’s a new shipment of fresh cabbage today! And for a limited time, for the next hour, each head of cabbage will be half price! Excuse me, madam—please try some!”

There she was, stiffly raising her voice in front of the grocer’s. The bunny ears atop her head aren’t the only thing that bounces and jiggles with the movements of her petite frame, and while you would think the housewives that make up most of the store’s clientele wouldn’t be enticed by such charm, Mikuru’s earnestness brought smiles from all around her, and such smiles helped open wallets.

“You’re always so energetic, Mikuru,” said a passerby stiffly, as though reading from a script.