Red Tea Page 3

  Jordan’s brief smile crumbled as she touched a finger to the photograph of her brother Aiden. The young man was grinning just as widely as Jordan, straw-blond hair shining with imbued sunlight. They weren’t the closest in age, but they were most alike in personality. Or had been, she corrected herself.

  Jordan admitted that she had envied Aiden and his willingness to act on his urge to roam, whereas she had so recently pulled up anchor that she could still see the shore. When she was just beginning high school, Aiden had forgone college and instead hopped across the country. He had lived on friends’ couches and worked odd jobs before finally alighting in a studio apartment in Brooklyn. Though he said he didn’t plan to stay long, he had remained for several years, and it was ultimately the last place he’d lived.

  The previous summer, Jordan and her brother and sisters had spent a week in New York to be with Aiden. The photograph before her was the last of all the siblings together, taken at Coney Island one sultry afternoon. Like always, whenever she and Aiden were together, she had wondered how they could ever stand to be apart—both joking and laughing and perfectly understanding each other.

  Eight months later, Aiden was dead. Overdosed on prescription pain medication. Pills that no one knew he was taking. Some questioned whether he had taken his own life, Jordan included, until she felt sick from her attempts to rationalize his death. Aiden had debts, but he never seemed to give them a second thought, and he quickly recovered from any bouts of melancholy. He always shrugged off despondency like an ill-fitting jacket.

  Jordan sighed as worn feelings of doubt and regret began to pool around her. She had already waded through such waters countless times over recent months, so much so that her emotions felt too muddied to ever settle and clear. She thought moving to Japan would place enough distance between her and the memory of Aiden, as though the hurt would dull with each mile.

  His beaming face in the photograph began to blur, and Jordan wiped away a tear with the cuff of her blouse. She closed the album and sank into the couch, listening to the frogs and crickets mutter outside the open window.

  Two

  Jordan cursed as she whipped around the corner too tightly, skidding on a spray of loose dirt and shooting her heel to the pavement to avoid tipping the bicycle. She breathed hard as she righted the overlarge mountain bike—left for her use by her predecessor—and pedaled quickly past the grocery store, only to wait at the stoplight along the highway.

  She was late. She instantly regretted her choice to stick to the roadway proper instead of navigating through the underpass. If she hurried, she could arrive at the high school with enough time to make the start of second period. She tapped her hand impatiently against the handlebars, stretching over the too-high seat to keep the bike upright. As soon as the light changed, she was off, pedaling past the fire station and to the school’s parking lot, not bothering to lock the bike before rushing through the front doors.

  Once inside, Jordan walked as softly as possible to her shoe cupboard and then up the stairs. The teachers’ room was almost empty, since most of the instructors had gone to class. She slid open the door quietly, hoping that her untimely arrival would go unnoticed. But as she entered, her hope shriveled when she came face to face with Vice Principal Nakamura.

  “Excuse me,” Jordan said meekly and bowed to Ms. Nakamura, whose eyes narrowed and lips pursed like the top of a drawstring bag. Jordan scurried to her seat, more flustered than before. She opted, then, to wait for second hour instead of interrupting the first class at its conclusion, which would only worsen her embarrassment.

  Across from her sat Mr. Mori. He had not acknowledged Jordan when she arrived and continued to disregard her presence, engrossed in reading a stack of assignments and striking at them with a pen that left red slashes across the pages.

  Jordan left him undisturbed and unbuttoned the collar of her blouse in an attempt to cool off. She wished she had been on time, if for no other reason than to be served iced green tea with the morning meeting.

  “Did your bike have a flat tire?” a raspy voice said near Jordan’s ear, and she jumped in her seat with surprise. Jordan turned to see Ms. Nakamura standing close to her chair, hands clasped together at the waist.

  “Excuse me?” Jordan said, breathless.

  “You were late,” Ms. Nakamura said, and crispness edged her words. “I assume there is a reason for your tardiness.”

  “Yes, I know. I’m very sorry for—”

  “You will apologize to Principal Kikuchi for missing the morning meeting.”

  “Yes, of course. I intend to,” Jordan said around the tightness in her throat, feeling choked. “I accidentally slept in, but I do apologize.”

  Ms. Nakamura remained silent for a moment, her face inscrutable, before finally opening her puckered lips. “I taught at elementary and junior high schools for decades before becoming Vice Principal here,” she said and paused. Jordan nodded, but Ms. Nakamura was looking past her and didn’t seem to be waiting for a response. “If any children were late to my class, they were made to stand in the hall with buckets on their heads.”

  Jordan had seen this exact punishment depicted in Japanese children’s books but considered it an exaggeration, like the idea of an unruly student being rapped across the knuckles by a ruler-wielding nun. She almost grinned at the image of students donning bucket-hats, but every muscle within her withered under the vice principal’s frosty stare.

  “I guess I’m lucky to be a teacher instead of one of your students,” Jordan said with a self-deprecating smile, desperate to salvage any measure of standing with the older woman. Ms. Nakamura raised a single eyebrow, almost imperceptibly, but gave no other indication that she had even heard her.

  “Only the most…disappointing students let tardiness become a habit.” Ms. Nakamura nodded to herself, satisfied with the effect, and turned her back to Jordan. Her heels clicked as she walked away. Jordan turned back to her desk, feeling both relieved and still surprised.

  Mr. Mori had been drawn by their conversation and looked plainly at Jordan. A lopsided smirk tugged at one corner of his small mouth in obvious amusement. Jordan bristled but tried to recover herself.

  “Where can I buy a new alarm clock?” she asked but got no reaction from Mr. Mori. She frowned and wondered if her Japanese was too poor to convey humor.

  “Vice Principal Nakamura is like that around everyone.” It wasn’t clear whether Mr. Mori was trying to reassure her or was merely stating a fact. “Or so I understand. I haven’t known her for very long, I just arrived in April.”

  “You’ve only been teaching since April?” Jordan said with surprise, since she guessed him to be in his early forties—much older than most new teachers.

  “No, I transferred from Sagae to here. It’s quite common, required actually, for the staff to rotate between schools in the prefecture,” Mr. Mori said slowly and clearly for Jordan’s benefit. “In fact, Ms. Nakamura transferred here to Ogawa High School when I did, along with Mr. Ota, the head teacher.”

  “She certainly made a reputation for herself, then, if she has only been here a few months.” Jordan smiled as she spoke, thinking she had an ally, though Mr. Mori retained a placid expression.

  “Not exactly. She taught at Ogawa’s elementary school years ago. She’s well-known in town.”

  “I see,” Jordan said and nodded. She realized this was the longest she had ever spoken with Mr. Mori. They usually only exchanged greetings at the beginning and close of each day. He seemed nice enough, but perhaps a bit solitary.

  He patted at the slicked-back hair along his temple, though it seemed perfectly in place, then adjusted his tie. A dark birthmark crept down his neck and under his collar. Just as he was about to return to work, Jordan interjected, hopeful to get to know him better. “So, how do you like Ogawa?”

  “I could ask you the same question,” Mr. Mori said and smiled with amusement at his remark. “It’s a very charming town, don’t you think?”

&n
bsp; “Oh, yes. It’s great,” Jordan said sincerely.

  “How is Japan for you?” This was a common question. A safe question. Everyone was endlessly bemused by a foreigner’s take on their country. Almost any comment Jordan made—whether about the humidity, how she struggled with chopsticks, or how difficult kanji was to read—was met with knowing nods and smiles.

  “I really love it so far,” Jordan said. It was true, and it seemed like what people wanted to hear. “I experience something new every day—it’s exciting.”

  “Your Japanese is good,” Mr. Mori said without much expression, which made his comment seem more like an observation than a compliment. Still, Jordan smiled graciously.

  “Thank you very much. I studied for years in college, but I still have a lot to learn.” She considered humbly objecting to the compliment, as she had heard many Japanese people do, but felt too proud of her progress to refuse. Praise of her grasp of the language was another comment she had heard many times over, and though she knew she was fairly proficient, she couldn’t help but wonder if most were just being polite. “What subject do you teach, Mori-sensei?”

  Someone had probably already told her the answer to this question, and perhaps Mr. Mori had even mentioned it himself, but it was difficult for Jordan to keep track of the other teachers’ classes. She only team-taught English, after all, and worked exclusively with Mrs. Okubo. Jordan hoped Mr. Mori wouldn’t be offended that she had forgotten. It was something of a relief to see he was unaffected by the question, possibly even bored.

  “Japanese history,” Mr. Mori said and fell silent, apparently not seeing a need to elaborate or comment further. Before Jordan could formulate a follow-up question, a bell sounded to signify the end of first period, and students began to pour into the halls for the short break.

  “Well, I had better prepare for the next class,” she said.

  “Yes, you wouldn’t want to be late,” Mr. Mori said with a pinched smile. Jordan felt there was something a bit unfriendly in his tone.

  “It was nice talking to you, Mori-sensei,” she said, even though their conversation was marred by his parting remark.

  “Yes, you too, Jordan-sensei.” He uncapped the pen and returned to his work.

  Shrill laughter carried from the back of the classroom, cutting between Mrs. Okubo’s words like buzzing midges. Jordan looked away from watching Mrs. Okubo write on the chalkboard to see a group of three girls forming a small clutch, gesturing and smiling without any pretense of paying attention to the lesson. One girl threw her hair over her shoulder and laughed again.

  Though the student faced away from her, Jordan knew who it was: Emi Hirata. Of the over two hundred students at Ogawa High School, only a surprising few were disruptive in class, Emi foremost among them.

  Jordan stepped away from the board and circuited through the desks as the students practiced a short exercise from the textbook. She looked over their shoulders and offered some quiet suggestions as she made her way toward Emi and her friends. The girls were talking so loudly that, at first, they did not notice Jordan approach.

  “Okay, girls. Let’s be quiet and pay attention now,” Jordan said in a soft but firm voice and adopted a stern look. If their English grades were any indication, they did not understand her reprimand, but there was little mistaking her expression. One girl’s cheeks bloomed with color, like a silk blouse soaking up spilled wine, and she ducked her eyes to her textbook. The other friend looked ashamed but didn’t turn back to her desk before glancing at Emi for permission.

  Emi glared at Jordan, peering at her through lowered, dark lashes that were caked in mascara. Emi wore more makeup than Jordan had seen on most Japanese women, and her hair was dyed a light brown color—an act that could draw punishment from school officials, or so Jordan understood. She was surprised that Emi had not been asked to remove her makeup, or even to pay attention, and wondered if perhaps the teachers had given up on disciplining her.

  “What?” Emi said in Japanese, molding the word into a demand for Jordan to justify her presence. She glowered with such hostility that Jordan felt a twinge of nervousness.

  “Where’s your textbook?” she said in English, refusing to make the conversation any easier for the willful student.

  “Where’s your textbook?” Emi said in Japanese in a high falsetto. One friend laughed, and even the more timid girl who had returned to studying gave a weak chuckle.

  “I will bring you my extra textbook,” Jordan said, spitting out the words. “But for now, turn around and take notes.” She began to walk away, feeling heat rise to her face.

  “Whatever, bitch.”

  A derisive snort followed, and Jordan made every effort not to increase her pace, though she felt repelled by the girl’s toxic presence. When Jordan rejoined Mrs. Okubo at the chalkboard, the English instructor spared her a knowing, apologetic look. Jordan clenched her teeth, annoyed that Mrs. Okubo had no intention of backing her up.

  Defeated and embarrassed, Jordan faced the blackboard with forced interest and tried to block out the girls’ niggling laughter.

  Jordan took her seat in the teachers’ break room with a sigh, feeling both frustrated and famished. The lunch hour had just started, and she was one of the first to arrive. Jordan smiled at another young teacher at the neighboring table but made no move to join her.

  Before, after weeks of taking the same seat every day out of habit, Jordan had once decided to spend lunchtime at a different table—to meet different teachers—but the principal had insisted that she keep her usual place beside him the instant she had picked up her tray. The request had been made in a friendly, smiling manner, but there had been a current of disapproval pulling at his words like an undertow. Ever since, she had continued to take the same seat without question or hesitation.

  At the thought of the principal, Jordan remembered that she had missed his morning meeting and began to formulate an apology. She stared at the meal placed before her as though she could divine the perfect wording from the steam swirling above her soup bowl. A minute passed and the sounds of the students rearranging their desks to form lunch groups died down, replaced by the shuffling of teachers as they migrated from the classrooms to the break room.

  Soon, Jordan was joined by the head teacher, the lunch lady, Ms. Nakamura, Ms. Tatsuya, and finally, the principal. She nodded to him as he pulled up his chair beside her, but he seemed not to notice, patting at his bald head with a handkerchief and blinking rapidly behind his glasses.

  Jordan looked anxiously at the tray of food before her—breaded pork tonkatsu, rice, lotus root soup—but waited for the customary cue to begin eating. As though summoned by the thought, the voice of the student body president crackled over the PA system, high and scratchy with static. He made a brief announcement about after-school club meetings for the day and then bade the listeners a good lunch. As his voice gave way to a dulcet cover of an American pop song, the teachers picked up their plastic chopsticks.

  “Itadakimasu,” Jordan said in flat concert with the others and pinioned a thin cut of pork between her utensils. She waited minutes for Principal Kikuchi to say something to her—maybe to ask if she ever ate lotus root in Las Vegas or to tease her for not finishing her rice—but he slurped at his soup without a word. Finally, no longer able to stand his silence, Jordan interjected when he set down his chopsticks to reach for a carton of milk.

  “Kikuchi-kouchou, I’m very sorry for missing today’s morning meeting. I’m afraid I forgot to set my alarm clock,” Jordan said and scratched behind her bowed head with one hand—a gesture she had come to learn indicated embarrassment or apology.

  “I see,” he said and inclined his head in her direction but kept his eyes on his plate.

  “It won’t happen again,” Jordan said with resolve. The principal merely nodded and scooped a clump of rice into his mouth, chewing loudly as he stared at his near-empty tray.

  Since any further interaction was plainly unwanted, Jordan hurriedly swallow
ed her soup in silence, eager to be finished. Just as the last gulp of broth slid down her throat with a warm stroke, the door to the break room slid open.

  “Excuse me, Takahashi-sensei?” Through the small gap in the door, Jordan could see Emi’s friend from earlier—the girl who had, at least momentarily, listened to Jordan’s reprimands. Without waiting for an answer, the student shouldered her way into the room, staggering as she pulled Emi along with her.

  Emi was leaning on the other girl, one arm draped listlessly over her friend’s neck and the other wrapped around her own stomach. Her face was drained of color except for the magenta of her lipstick and the smoky, almost raccoon-like circles of eye shadow. It was odd for Emi to be so uncharacteristically quiet, and Jordan almost felt sorry for her. Mrs. Takahashi, the school nurse, rose from her seat and hurried to Emi’s other side.

  “Emi-chan, are you all right?” Mrs. Takahashi placed the back of her hand across Emi’s forehead as she spoke. With a disgusted grimace, Emi shook her head and pulled away. She clenched her hand against her stomach, puckering her shirt in her grip.

  “I think she fainted, Takahashi-sensei,” the other girl said meekly and looked even more abashed when Emi glowered at her.

  “Well, let’s get you to my office.” Mrs. Takahashi said without alarm and pressed a guiding hand against Emi’s shoulder. Emi groaned as she turned away, and the three of them left the room. As soon as the girl was out of sight, many teachers exchanged glances and whispers—some sympathetic murmurs, some exasperated admonishments. Jordan gathered her dishes and cleared them away without remark.

  Though the halls were bustling with students, Jordan knew she could pass the period undisturbed if she spent her time on the first floor, where only a few classrooms were housed. She still felt prickly after her encounters with the principal, Ms. Nakamura, and Emi, and she was overcome with a flush of annoyance that rekindled every time she dwelled on the events of the day. She blew out an angry puff of breath and stalked toward the stairs.