Red Tea
Red Tea
Meg Mezeske
RED TEA
By
Meg Mezeske
Copyright © 2018 Meg Mezeske
* * *
Edited by Amanda Roberts.
Cover Design by Mibl Art.
All stock photos licensed appropriately.
* * *
Published in the United States by City Owl Press.
www.cityowlpress.com
* * *
For information on subsidiary rights, please contact the publisher at info@cityowlpress.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior consent and permission of the publisher.
To my parents
(contingent on purchase)
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Acknowledgments
About the Author
About the Publisher
Additional Titles
One
Jordan always talked to taxi drivers. Something about such a brief, anonymous encounter made them eager to talk about anything. Even things they wouldn’t, or shouldn’t, share otherwise.
Still, she was taken aback. Perhaps she had just misunderstood. Her Japanese was imperfect, after all.
“Pardon?” Jordan leaned forward to better catch the driver’s response above the breeze whipping in the window, which was already sultry despite the early morning.
“It’s too bad about that boy dying,” he repeated loudly, then swiveled to look at her when she didn’t reply. A puff of cigarette smoke and a surprised grunt burst from his lips when he saw her confused expression. “You didn’t know?”
“No, I didn’t… Who died?” Jordan asked with careful enunciation, swallowing her discomfort.
“One of the students at your school.” He said “your school” so matter-of-factly. As though she weren’t about to arrive for her very first day of work. As though she were already a fixture there. “He died just the other week. Everyone around here is pretty broken up about it.”
“Can I ask what happened?”
This time, the driver didn’t turn to look at her, peering at her through the rear-view mirror instead. His eyes narrowed with thought before they returned to the road.
“Word is he killed himself.” The driver’s voice didn’t betray any emotion, but he shook his head and exhaled a long sigh of smoke.
“I—I’m sorry,” Jordan said, both with sympathy and regret for asking. Like a reflex, thoughts of her brother surfaced, and she felt a familiar pang deep in her stomach. She tried to push his face from her mind, focusing intently out the window for something else to latch onto.
Jordan watched the homes and shops of Ogawa roll by. Most were either streaked with green algae or mottled with rust. She wondered if all of Japan’s little riverside hamlets were like this: crumbling, wet, oppressively muggy. Even the air felt thick and heavy, and the other cars trudged past as though suspended in gelatin.
The driver spoke up again, his affable tone restored. “There it is!” he said and pointed out the window.
Jordan saw a three-story building rise into view and was glad for the distraction. The school looked more recently built and its floor-to-ceiling windows were spotless. It shone in the yolky morning light like a soap bubble. As the taxi slowed to a stop, Jordan watched students file in its huge front doors, greeting each other as they entered.
Only when the driver politely cleared his throat did Jordan realize she had been staring, rooted to her seat. She handed over her fare and grabbed up her jacket and bag as she scrambled out of the taxi.
The students around her stopped and looked on with interest as she neared. They tried to hide their excitement, shielding their whispers and smiles behind their hands, yet none mustered up the courage to approach her.
Nervous, Jordan patted her hair and skirt. She had taken a taxi instead of bicycling the short distance from her apartment so that she’d look impeccable for her first appearance. It had been a good idea, but now that she had arrived, it did little to boost her confidence. Between the conversation with the driver and the students’ penetrating looks, anxiousness clutched at her.
With a deep breath, Jordan straightened and marched toward the school. A gangly girl standing at the door finally let out a squeak of a greeting.
“Good morning, sensei.”
“Good morning,” Jordan said a little too quickly and tried to make up for it with a broad smile. She brushed past the girl and her friend as they dissolved into titters.
Jordan walked into a wide entryway that held rows of shoe compartments and an umbrella bin housing a few torn and rusting occupants. She found an empty cubby for her shoes, which she slipped off and replaced with a pair of indoor slippers from a nearby shelf. At least she had been in Japan long enough not to embarrass herself with improper shoe etiquette. But, she realized with a sinking feeling, she had no idea where to report to. She cast her gaze about until a student finally took pity and pointed her to the stairs.
As she walked up, the teenagers made way and fanned out like frightened sparrows. Jordan tried to smile at whoever would catch her eye, feeling like a new student herself instead of an instructor.
The stairs ended outside of a large room that bore a helpful sign marking it as the teachers’ lounge. With a shaky breath, Jordan grabbed the handle of its sliding door and bowed at the waist as she entered.
“Excuse me,” she said as formally as she knew how. She straightened from the bow and announced herself to no one in particular. “My name is Jordan Howard, and I’m your new assistant language instructor.” She could’ve kicked herself for her voice rising in question.
From some desks near the door, a handful of people stood up smoothly and bowed in return. Among them was a middle-aged man with wings of dark hair encircling his bald head.
“Jordan-sensei, good morning!” he said with enthusiasm and straightened his glasses to get a better look at her. “I’m Principal Kikuchi. We’re so pleased to have you join Ogawa High School.”
“Nice to meet you,” Jordan said and bowed again for good measure. The principal offered another formal pleasantry she didn’t quite catch before he gestured to an older woman. If Jordan had to guess, she was nearing seventy.
“This is Vice Principal Umiko Nakamura.”
Jordan was surprised at how tall the
vice principal stood. Ms. Nakamura gave only the barest indication of a bow, remaining at almost her full height. Her mouth was small and pinched, emphasized by her unsmiling, tight-lipped expression. The only cheery thing about the woman was her incongruously pink jacket and skirt.
“Nice to meet you,” Ms. Nakamura said as flatly as if she were giving the time, and she looked Jordan up and down. Jordan swallowed and listened attentively as the introductions continued from teacher to teacher, bowing and nodding like a marionette, until at last, a bell rang.
Jordan drained her second cup of green tea, rolled the glass between her palms, and surveyed the teachers’ room. Besides her, only the frail lunch lady remained. All the other teachers had filed out to their homerooms and the principal had retired to his office when the first bell of the day had sounded.
As she waited for the other teachers to return, she organized her stack of three textbooks, one for each grade level. “First grade” was the equivalent of an American high school sophomore class, and so on.
Jordan tapped her foot against the floor, unsure of how to occupy herself. She stared out the large window in front of her, which framed a corner of the baseball diamond, a wing of the school that mirrored where Jordan sat, and low, green hills in the distance.
The entire length of Ogawa trickled along and abutted such hills. The small town was bound on one side by these stubby, broccoli-like trees and by a long, twisting river on the other.
Though not yet nine o’clock, the air was stifling. Not a single cloud smudged the sky, and Jordan felt herself sweat more with every passing minute. Already, she could feel her blouse sticking between her shoulder blades, and a bead of sweat snaked from the back of her knee down her calf.
She stood to find a washroom for freshening up and jumped when a loud chime lanced through the intercom. A moment later, students began to file through the halls, filling the recent silence with muffled conversations and footsteps.
Ms. Nakamura slid open the door and moved to her desk without even a glance in Jordan’s direction, soon followed by a trickle of teachers. A short woman with round, close-cropped hair made a beeline from the door toward Jordan. She smiled broadly and held out her hand.
“Good morning! I’m Chiaki Okubo, the English instructor,” she said in brisk, near-perfect English as she shook Jordan’s hand. “I’m sorry I didn’t introduce myself earlier but I was already late for homeroom announcements. Are you ready? We only have a few minutes.”
Jordan was pleased and surprised by such an informal introduction. Mrs. Okubo merely seemed anxious for an answer.
“I’m as ready as I’ll ever be,” Jordan said with a smile.
“Okay! Bring your third-grade textbook. I’ll be back in a moment.” Without waiting for a response, she strode off. Jordan grabbed the top textbook from the stack and stood patiently for no more than a minute. When Mrs. Okubo returned, she cradled a tower of books, sheaves of loose assignments, and a pencil case in her short arms. “Let’s go.”
Jordan had to hurry to keep pace with the small woman as she exited the teachers’ lounge and made her way up a staircase. Mrs. Okubo spoke again after a few steps, unfazed by her burden and quick pace.
“So, what do you think about Japan? It must be very different from your home.”
“It’s very different, yes, but I like it so far,” Jordan said.
“Think you can handle a whole year? How long have you been here?”
“This is only my third day.” Jordan raised her voice to be heard over the slapping of her shoes against the echoing stairs. “I spent the first day getting from Tokyo to here and yesterday sorting out my paperwork. My alien registration card, bank card, all that.”
“So, this is your first time at Ogawa High School?” She seemed curious but pushed ahead without waiting for details from Jordan. “Well, the students are very excited to meet you.”
As if on cue, Jordan saw necks craning as she passed each classroom. Heads turned in concert with her passing steps, as though the students’ noses were connected to her by long threads. She smiled and nodded, assuming someone would notice, and returned her attention to the petite English instructor.
“I’m eager to meet them, too.”
“You’ll meet the first- and third-grade classes today. Second-graders tomorrow. But don’t worry about that too much. You can give the same introduction for each class.” An odd grin quirked her lips. “You’re our first female assistant language instructor. You may even be the first foreign woman some of these students have met.”
Jordan’s stomach was already painfully tight, and Mrs. Okubo’s words settled in her gut like burrs. Unsure of anything to say that didn’t reveal her nervousness, Jordan simply nodded.
“Well, here we are.” Mrs. Okubo stepped in front of a closed door underneath a placard that read san-nensei, ni-gumi: third grade, second class. There was a porthole window on the door, and Jordan could see the dark silhouettes of at least three students crowding behind the frosted glass. The sun at their backs made their faces indistinguishable. She heard low laughter and shushing as Mrs. Okubo continued.
“Introduce yourself—tell them a little about your hometown, your family—and we’ll take it from there. Okay!” She said the last bit more loudly, probably as a warning to the students, and slid open the door. Jordan stepped inside and took a deep breath.
All the students sat at their desks, giving no indication of having spied against the window only moments before. Most had their hands clasped on their desks or in their laps, some grinning or leaning toward their friends with whispers on their lips. Jordan overheard hushed remarks between a pair of girls and couldn’t help but smile.
“She’s so pretty—and tall!”
“I’m jealous! I want her blond hair.”
They jumped and returned their attention to the front of the classroom when Mrs. Okubo dropped her stack of books against her desk.
“Good morning, class.”
“Good morning, Okubo-sensei,” the class intoned with practiced unison. Mrs. Okubo looked at Jordan, and she took that as her cue.
“Good morning, everyone.” Jordan scanned the room, meeting the eyes of whoever would catch her gaze for more than a moment.
“Good morning, Jordan-sensei.” Many students stammered and tripped over her name. Some laughed at their friends or repeated her name to themselves to get a feel for the sounds on their tongues.
“Everyone, as you know, this is our new assistant language instructor, Ms. Jordan Howard,” Mrs. Okubo said with slow, clear precision. “Now it’s time to introduce yourselves—the American way!” She grabbed Jordan’s hand and shook it to demonstrate, which lead to another round of murmurings. “Kenji, please come here to introduce yourself.”
A handsome boy at the front of a row—hair styled to look tousled—pointed at himself incredulously then looked behind him, as though searching for another Kenji. This earned a few laughs, especially from a tall classmate who gave him a friendly shove out of his seat. Kenji sauntered to the front of the room and took Jordan’s outstretched hand.
“My name is Kenji.” His handshake was firm but hurried and he smiled with warmth. “Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you too.”
As Kenji returned to his desk, a few boys gave him teasing congratulations. Even some calls of “teacher’s pet” could be heard as the next student rose from her seat.
This continued for a few minutes, some students were hesitant and timid. Others laughed and made a show of the handshake. Jordan struggled to remember each student’s name but soon became lost. She looked to their nametags pinned to their shirts for assistance, but they were written in the Chinese-based kanji character system, of which Jordan only knew a scant few.
The girls all wore white short-sleeved shirts with maroon ascots. Their long skirts were grey-and-maroon plaid, paired with knee-high black socks. At least, most of them were dressed to uniform.
One sullen girl who mumbled through he
r greeting—Emi—had unbuttoned the top of her shirt, exposing a hint of cleavage, and hiked up her skirt to the middle of her pale thighs. Her friends tried to emulate her style but introduced themselves far more politely. These girls began to chat among themselves as soon as they returned to their seats.
The boys wore similarly conservative uniforms: black slacks and white button-down shirts. Their neckties bore the same grey-and-maroon plaid as the girls’ skirts. Some had loosened their ties because of the heat or removed them altogether; whether this was a breach of school conduct, Jordan couldn’t be sure.
Finally, only one student remained—the tall boy who had been joshing with Kenji. All long limbs and lanky movements, he shuffled toward Jordan with a lopsided grin. Standing so close, she was even more surprised by his height, though she supposed he was one of the oldest students. She held out her hand.
“My name is Ryusuke,” he said haltingly and bowed. “Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, Ryusuke,” Jordan said and bobbed her outstretched hand, which he failed to take. He bowed again after a moment of hesitation. A few students laughed.
“Shake her hand,” Mrs. Okubo said in English, but her instructions only further confused him and he looked anxious.