Notes from Juilliard

Chapter 6

Ranko cradled her violin and bow in her lap, staring into the fire. The flames crackled and leapt, licking along the logs and up the flue. She sat on the sofa and watched them dance, fidgeting with her instrument all the while. Occasionally her eyes would stray to the old-fashioned anniversary clock on the mantle, and glumly note that another five minutes had passed.

“I thought you wanted to practice,” remarked Tish, looking up from her cozy position in the armchair, her thumb marking her place in her book.

Ranko looked up and smiled. “Uh… I will soon.” Tish nodded and returned to her reading; Ranko sighed imperceptibly.

She and Tish were alone in the house; Thomas was at his friend’s house, and Dr. Williams was off on an errand. They’d both left after breakfast, after accompanying her to Dr. Williams’ health club and back.

While at the club, Ranko had used the gym to run through her morning workout. She’d started unnoticed in one corner, but by the time she had finished her aerial combat practice, it had seemed like half the members had stopped to watch her, their heads moving in unison to track her as she caromed about. Dr. Williams had skipped his usual tennis game to watch, as had the friends he usually played with. Thomas had been like a statue the whole time, his attention unwavering.

When she was done, she’d gotten an enthusiastic round of applause and cheers, and had smiled, even as she reflected on the problems she had getting a similar response for her violin playing.

Thomas had gushed the whole way home, peppering her with questions about the moves she’d used, eager to understand everything he’d seen. He seemed to be developing at least a mild case of hero-worship, which Ranko found simultaneously cute and slightly disconcerting. He’d seemed a little reluctant to go when he’d left for his friend’s house.

His father had left a short while later to go to the hardware store, giving Ranko the opportunity she’d been waiting for. An opportunity she looked forward to with about as much enthusiasm as for a root canal.

She stopped fiddling with her violin and bow and put them on the coffee table. Stop stalling, Saotome. “Tish?”

Her friend noticed her tone of voice and sat up. “Yes?”

Ranko took a deep breath and gathered her courage. “You know my problem with… with…” she shivered despite the warmth of the fire, “c-c-cats?”

Tish sat up a little straighter. “Uh-huh?”

“I… I want to tell you about it. I want you to know what happened. I wanted to wait till we were alone.”

Tish nodded; Ranko had her full attention. “OK… if you feel comfortable telling me.”

Ranko nodded, and sighed. “It was a martial arts training accident.”

Both Tish’s eyebrows shot up. “A training accident?”

Ranko nodded. “Yes. My father found a book about a very powerful martial arts technique, called the C-c-cat Fist—in Japanese, ne-nekoken. The book said that anyone who learned this technique would be unbeatable. My father wanted me to be a great martial artist, so he decided to teach this to me. Most unfortunately, he didn’t read the next page, where the book said that anyone who learns this technique will go insane.”

Tish’s eyes were wide. “Insane?”

Ranko shifted uncomfortably, anxious about Tish’s reaction. “Yes.”

“But… you’re not…”

Ranko smiled a wan smile. “Not usually, no. But if my fear of c-cats gets too strong, I… I…” She paused; she felt the fear lurking inside of her, the nameless, howling fear which at its peak could brutally shove aside her humanity. “I start acting like a… a… like one of them. That’s what the training does.”

“What kind of training could…?”

Ranko shuddered. “You don’t want to know, and I don’t want to talk about it.”

Tish nodded slowly, Ranko’s sleep talk echoing in her head: “No… No… the cats… Daddy, the cats… make them go away!” She shuddered herself.

There was a moderate silence. “Tish… I wanted you to know this, so that if this happens to me while I’m in America, you will know what to do. It doesn’t happen very much now, just once every year or two.”

Tish blinked. “There’s something I can do?”

Ranko nodded. “Someone I trust can help me out of it. When it first happened, there was a neighborhood woman who could do it. Now my mother can do it, or my sisters, or my fiancé Ryouga.” She smiled. “I think maybe you can do it, but if it doesn’t work you can telephone my home for help. I’ll give you the number.”

“What do I do?” whispered Tish.

“Just call me, like you would call a c-c-cat, and pet me or scratch my ears. If I feel I’m safe and I relax enough, I fall asleep and come out of it when I wake up.” She hesitated. “If I feel threatened, I will attack those who threaten me.”

Tish was shaking her head slowly. “This is impossible.” She paused; somehow, the word “impossible” seemed to lose its meaning where her roommate was concerned. “You’re… you’re just pulling my leg, right?”

Ranko blinked. “Why would I pull on your leg?”

“It means, ‘You’re joking.’”

Ranko shook her head emphatically. “No. I wish I was.” She sighed, a long, drawn-out sigh. “I loved c-cats when I was a little girl, but now I can’t go near them. No, this is not a joke.”

Tish watched her roommate bow her head, her eyes closed, and suddenly remembered what she’d seen in Ranko’s eyes at the Halloween party. There had been… something else there, something inhuman. She shuddered again, and felt her stomach drop into a bottomless pit. Oh… my… God…

Both women avoided eye contact for a couple of minutes; Tish twirled a lock of hair around her finger repeatedly, a nervous tic. Finally, she asked hesitantly, “Ranko? Maybe… maybe my father could…”

Ranko smiled sadly and shook her head. “When my mother learned about this training, she took me to many psychiatrists. None of them could do anything, and finally one said that trying to cure it could make it worse.” She laughed, a short, humorless snort. “He said I was lucky.”

Tish nodded slowly. “Still… maybe… Daddy is very good at what he does.” She smiled weakly. “That’s why we can afford this house.”

Ranko thought for a moment, and shrugged slightly. “All… all right.”

There was another silence. Tish gradually noticed how tense her roommate was, scrunched up in a little ball, her shoulders rigid. She’s afraid I’ll… She went over to sit next to the other woman and took her hand. “Ranko… I’m… I’m so sorry this happened to you. Thank you for trusting me enough to tell me this, enough so that you think I could help if it happened.” She gave Ranko’s hand a squeeze.

Ranko swallowed hard. “Tish… do you… are you still…”

Tish’s heart wrenched. She reached over and gave the petite redhead a hug. “Of course, silly. I would never, ever abandon a friend for something like this.” Even though it scares the shit out of me.

Ranko let out the breath she’d been holding. “Thanks,” she choked out, and hugged Tish back, tears running down her cheeks. An image of a boy with black hair in a pigtail flashed through her mind, and she let out a small sob, her tears flowing more freely.

Dr. Williams opened the door to his study. “Tish?”

Tish wrenched her attention back to the here and now, and looked up from the seat she’d taken on the hallway floor; it left something to be desired as a waiting area. “Yes, Daddy?”

“Come on in. We’re done.” Ranko came to the doorway, and she and Dr. Williams smiled at each other; something unspoken passed between them.

She passed Tish in the hallway on her way out. “It’s your turn.” She winked, and Tish laughed.

Tish entered the study and sat down; Dr. Williams closed the door behind them. “Well, I sure wasn’t expecting to be working today.” He frowned at this daughter. “You’re sure you didn’t coerce her…?”

“Absolutely, Daddy. I only suggested she talk to you.”

He slowly settled into the chair behind his desk, and pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Even so, you put me on the spot. You know if I speak to a patient professionally I have to be very careful about whether I’m starting a therapeutic relationship or not.”

Tish wilted slightly. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I just thought maybe you could help her.” She leaned forward in her chair. “Can you?”

Dr. Williams shook his head. “Tish, you also know I can’t discuss conversations I have with a patient. I can’t even influence a patient to give me permission to do so.” Tish sagged, and her father laughed. “Luckily for you, Ranko said I could tell you everything she told me.” He squinted at his daughter. “No, I can’t help her, mostly because she doesn’t really need help.”

Tish blinked. “What?”

“She has this problem under control—at least, as controlled as it’s going to get. However, I think you need to talk about how it’s scaring you.”

Tish swallowed. “Is it that obvious?”

He smiled, his eyes crinkling. “To your father it is.”

Tish felt her cheeks grow warm. “Do you understand what happened to her?”

“Yes, I think I’ve puzzled it out, based on what she remembers of what her psychiatrists told her.” Dr. Williams sat back in his chair, sighed, and pulled his glasses off to polish them using a small cloth. “To be blunt, honey, she was tortured, by her own father.” Tish gave a little gasp. “Tortured in a way specifically designed to induce a very particular kind of extreme psychosis, though her father didn’t know that.” His expression darkened. “Whoever came up with this so-called ‘training’ must have been a very evil man. Her father, on the other hand, is merely an idiot.”

“So… why isn’t she…?”

Dr. Williams put his glasses back on. “Why isn’t she a cat all the time?” Tish nodded. “The last psychiatrist she saw—the one who told her to stop trying to find a cure—figured it out. She managed to preserve her sanity by developing a dissociative identity disorder as a form of protection. It’s not at all uncommon with this kind of extreme trauma.” He steepled his fingers in front of his nose. “Rather than succumbing to the psychosis, she walled it off in a personality of its own. Her main personality survived intact, except for her fear of cats. When that overwhelms her, her main personality withdraws from the external world, and the psychotic personality takes over. When the threat fades, the main personality comes back, as it’s normally the stronger one by far.” He shook his head. “She’s an exceptionally resilient young lady.”

Tish’s head swam. “Why can’t she be cured?” she whispered.

“Because to treat a dissociative identity disorder, you need to help the personalities to merge. Occasionally, that’s dangerous, and in this case it could be disastrous. That’s why her psychiatrist told her to stop trying. He was right, she’s very lucky.” He sighed. “Tish, sometimes when someone is shot and the bullet lodges somewhere delicate, it’s better to just let it sit there and form scar tissue, rather than try to get it out. That’s essentially what’s happened here.”

He thought for a few moments. “It’s possible her trigger threshold could be raised through conditioning, but without understanding this ‘training’ thoroughly, attempting even that could be dangerous. It’s not really necessary, anyway; she told me it takes several cats at once to trigger an episode. She has to be a lot more frightened than she was at that party.”

He leaned forward. “It’s hard to believe, given what’s happened to her, but her dominant personality is very healthy as far as I can tell. She has no functional impairments that I could detect, except the ailurophobia. You were right, she has her head screwed on straight. She’s just got a little problem.” And unless I’m greatly mistaken, a few more secrets yet to tell you…

“‘A little problem’?! Daddy, how can she live with this?”

He sat back and thought for a moment. “I had a patient back in Japan, a serviceman. He sometimes spaced out on duty, and so he was sent to me. It turned out what he really had was epilepsy, and I had to refer him to a neurologist. Every once in a great while, he had a grand mal seizure. It couldn’t be controlled with drugs, but it didn’t happen often enough to warrant brain surgery.” He shrugged. “He lived with it, and did OK. We just made sure the people around him knew what to do if it happened. Ranko’s better off than he was, because she knows what her trigger is, and can usually avoid it.”

“But… if she’s psychotic when it happens…”

“Psychotic doesn’t necessarily mean ‘homicidal,’ honey. She told me she’s never hurt anyone when she had an episode unless they threatened her.” He smiled. “Apparently she’s a very friendly kitty.”

Tish sat back in her chair, slightly overwhelmed. “I guess when you look at it that way… it’s not so scary.”

Dr. Williams smiled. “You see?”

Tish nodded, relaxing further. “I guess… I guess there isn’t anything to worry about, really, as long as she feels safe when it happens.” She looked up and smiled. “But I’ll bet this is the weirdest case you’ve ever heard of.”

Dr. Williams shook his head, his expression serious. “Well, the cat psychosis was a new one on me, but… no. Not even close, honey. I’ve treated my share of DID patients; very few of them were anywhere near as healthy as Ranko. Many of them were abused in far more horrible ways.” He paused for a moment, his face grim.

He smiled faintly, a smile with no real joy in it. “You’ll have to come up with something better if you want me to think she’s weird.”

Tish closed her eyes momentarily. I don’t ever want to be a psychiatrist.

“And Tish?”

“Yes, Daddy?”

“You should feel flattered she trusts you enough to share this with you.” He tilted his head and raised an eyebrow.

Tish knew what her father was getting at, and flushed. “I’m thinking about it, Daddy.”

“Hmmm.” Tish rotated her map and looked around.

Ranko raised an eyebrow. “I thought you know this area, since you live here.”

Tish grinned sheepishly. “I’ve only been to the North End a few times. It’s been several years, too.” She peered at her map again, then pointed. “That way.”

Ranko and Tish started walking, leaving the bustle of Faneuil Hall behind. They were nearing the end of an afternoon of exploration: they would be meeting Thomas and Dr. Williams at a North End restaurant in about an hour, for dinner.

They’d been meandering through Boston on foot, trying to catch the historic sights on their tourist map. So far they’d only managed to find one or two. Ranko had been surprised; Tish had had to consult a tourist book to explain the significance of each place they’d stopped. She had to admit, though, she’d probably have to do the same if she had to give someone a tour of Tokyo. History had never been a strong point for her; she’d missed too much school while on the road with her father.

They’d paused briefly at Faneuil Hall to browse the shops, but the prices had quickly dissuaded them from actually buying anything. Better to stalk the bargain centers of greater New York with Eimi-sensei than to pay tourist prices. Still, it was fun to look.

Tish glanced sideways at her companion as they walked towards the North End. Ranko seemed to be holding up fine, but Tish was exhausted, and her feet ached something fierce; she was glad they didn’t have much more walking to do. She was not a martial artist with a superbly-conditioned body. At least the exercise was keeping them warm on this cold November day.

Things had been a little awkward at first, after Ranko’s revelation of that morning. After all, having your roommate tell you she could become psychotic on occasion did not exactly inspire conviviality. Still, as they’d wandered the city together, Tish had slowly come to realize that Ranko was still the same person, someone that she, Tish, liked very much and had grown to respect. The idea that she sometimes acted like a cat had receded from a potential threat to a hypothetical curiosity. Tish’s uneasiness had evolved into heartfelt sympathy.

As Tish’s ease had grown more apparent, she had seen Ranko relax, and regain her usual enthusiastic demeanor. It was simply impossible for Tish to dislike such a cheery soul. As the tension diminished, Tish’s thoughts had turned from Ranko’s “cat problem” to her own secrets… and whether to reciprocate in sharing them. She’d become so lost in thought that Ranko, anxious, had asked if something was wrong. Tish had smiled and shook her head, setting her ruminations aside, and Ranko had smiled back. After that things had warmed up rapidly, and the rest of the afternoon had passed with easy camaraderie.

After a few minutes of walking, they came to a wide gap in the buildings, which seemed to have suffered some kind of devastation. “What’s going on here?” asked Ranko, as they waited for a pedestrian signal.

Tish waved at the whole scene. “There used to be a big elevated highway here, and there was a huge project to put it underground. It’s been going on for years and years, and they’ve just finishing tearing the old highway down.” The light changed, and they started to cross, passing through what looked like a muddy, debris-strewn war zone. Ranko looked up and down the wide canyon through downtown Boston; it did seem like there must have been something occupying it before.

The torn-up area quickly gave way to narrow streets from centuries past; Tish brought out her map again to navigate the maze. After a couple of minutes they stumbled upon another landmark, a colonial-era home with clapboard siding. A modest gaggle of tourists—mostly older people—milled about in front of it, chatting about this or that aspect of the building. Ranko leaned forward to read the bronze plaque. “Paul Revere House.” She blinked. “Who is Paul Revere?”

Tish furrowed her brow in thought. “I… the name sounds vaguely familiar, but…” She shook her head ruefully. “I don’t know. Just a second, I’ll look on the map…” They both peered at it.

“You’re joking… aren’t you?”

Tish and Ranko looked up from the map. A rather plump, elderly woman was regarding them with a perplexed look; next to her stood a balding man with wire-rimmed glasses who had to be her husband. He looked like he’d much rather be somewhere else just now. Anywhere else.

“Ma’am?” asked Tish, confused.

“Surely you know who Paul Revere was, young lady.”

Tish and Ranko looked at each other, blinked, and turned back to the woman. Tish shook her head. “I’m afraid not, Ma’am. We were just going to look him up…”

The old woman sighed, and her expression took on a reproving cast. “I taught elementary school for forty years, and all my students certainly knew their American history.” The woman’s husband had a look of long-suffering resignation on his face, and was making an elaborate show of studying the façade of the Paul Revere House. “Didn’t you pay attention to your American history in elementary school?” Her eyes held a look familiar to students everywhere, a look that said she knew darn well you hadn’t paid attention, and you’d better spit out that gum besides.

Tish blushed and looked down. She had no idea why she was even responding to his woman; something about her simply compelled it. “My elementary school didn’t teach very much American history, Ma’am.”

The old woman blinked herself, and her husband turned around, his eyebrows raised in sudden interest. The woman slowly shook her head. “How can that be? Where did you go to school?”

“I went to Hakone-ga-saki elementary school in Tokyo, Japan, Ma’am.” Tish looked up, smiling weakly. “I don’t know who Paul Revere was, but I can tell you all about Tokugawa Ieyasu.”

“Tokugawa Ieyasu?” The old woman frowned. “Who is that?” The four of them looked at each other for a long moment… then burst out laughing. The old woman blushed. “My, I guess it works both ways, doesn’t it?”

After a few moments of this she started dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief, still chuckling. “I’m so sorry, young lady, I had no idea.” She shook her head. “I could tell your friend here is a foreigner, but your English is so good I was sure you were an American.”

Tish stopped laughing.

“That again? I told you, T-chan, I don’t even think about it.”

“Don’t you speak that damn language to me!”

“Everyone’s looking. I hate the way people stare.”

“Hanging out with the foreigner again, Kinu?”

“Hey, let’s all go downtown this weekend.”

“I don’t know who you are anymore!”

“Oh T-chan… Dad got transferred!”

“She’s not a foreigner, Sayoko, so just shut up.”

“Ogawa-kun likes… me?”

“Don’t pay her any attention, T-chan. She’s just jealous ’cause you ranked higher.”

“You stay away from him, or so help me…!”

“Everyone’s wearing it that way.”

“We have to leave, honey. I’m sorry.”

“Good night, Tish.”

Tish struggled back to consciousness as the room lights snapped off. The hall light outlined a petite figure in the doorway. “Wait…”

Ranko turned back. “What is it?”

Tish batted her way through the layers of cotton candy swaddling her mind. “What… what happened?”

She could barely make out the smile on Ranko’s face. “You crashed pretty hard in the bath. I guess it was all that walking today. You managed to wake up enough to get dressed, but I had to practically carry you here.”

Tish felt lucidity start to return, though she was dead tired. “Don’t… don’t go. Turn the lights back on. Please.”

Ranko nodded slowly. “All right.” She flipped the light switch and stepped back into the room, closing the door behind her. “What’s wrong?”

Tish shook her head, partly to reassure her roommate and partly to clear the cobwebs. “Nothing’s wrong. I just want to… to talk.” She propped her pillows up behind her, then patted her comforter. “Please… sit down.”

Ranko regarded Tish soberly for a long moment, then nodded and crossed the room. She sat on the bed cross-legged, positioning herself against the footboard while Tish leaned against the headboard. “What do you want to talk about?”

Tish sighed, her eyes wandering around the room. “After you told me about your… problem this morning, I thought about it all day.” She bit her lip.

A slightly forlorn look came over Ranko’s face. “Tish… does it… are you…”

Tish shook her head vigorously. “No, no… that’s not what I meant.” She reached out and took Ranko’s hand, putting as much warmth as she could muster into her smile. “I told you, you’re still my friend. Your problem doesn’t bother me at all.” Ranko nodded, sagging slightly in relief, smiling a wan smile of her own.

Tish blushed slightly, then squeezed Ranko’s hand and let go. “It’s just that after you trusted me enough to tell me that, I… I felt that…” She fiddled with her hands for a moment. “I wanted to tell you about my past. I’ve been thinking about telling you for a while now.”

Ranko sat up a little straighter. “Your past?” She’d been expecting more concerns about the Cat Fist, and hurriedly shifted mental gears. “You can tell me if you want. I’ll try to help if I can.”

Tish smiled a bittersweet smile. “I don’t know that there’s anything to be done, Ranko. But… but I wanted to have someone to talk to about it, someone besides Daddy and Thomas. Daddy always listens, but he just puts on his ‘therapist’ face, because he still feels bad about what happened himself. Thomas tries, but it’s hard for him to play confidant.” Ranko nodded, trying to encourage Tish to continue.

Tish sagged against her pillows, and closed her eyes for a moment to gather her thoughts. “It started in preschool. I didn’t know any Japanese when I started; we’d just moved to Japan. But I was spending hours every day hearing nothing but Japanese, with kids who couldn’t speak anything else. I picked it up really fast. Within a month, I was getting by. In three, I was fluent. By the end of preschool, I spoke it like a native.” Her voice was soft, her eyes unfocused. “Once I could talk to the other kids, that’s when the trouble started.”

“What trouble?”

Tish seemed not to hear her. “They’d never seen a person with black skin before, and I had a funny name, but I spoke the language, and pretty soon it didn’t matter any more. I started to make friends. Friends who honestly didn’t care that I didn’t look like them.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I was accepted into the group.”

Ranko blinked. “But that was good, wasn’t it?”

A pained smile crossed Tish’s face. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? I became very close friends with a couple of the girls—the kind of friendship that could last a lifetime. My parents and their parents thought it was great: cross-cultural friendship. Very international. Even my mom liked the idea.”

She shook her head. “Except it wasn’t cross-cultural at all. I spent a lot of my time at school or with my Japanese friends, especially once I was in first grade. Mom was busy writing a book and taking care of my new brother, and Japan is so safe for young children she didn’t feel like she had to follow me around everywhere, so I hung out with my friends. I’d visit them, play with them, study with them, go places with them… I still spoke English at home with my parents, but that was it.”

She folded her arms over her knees and rested her chin on them. “My whole social life revolved around my Japanese friends, my Japanese school. I was part of the group—and like all of my friends, I wanted to fit in.” She paused. “And because my friends didn’t care what I looked like, they fooled me into thinking I could.” Ranko’s eyes widened. “None of my friends ever mentioned that I wasn’t Japanese. I talked the same way they did, I dressed the same way they did, I did the same things they did. I had this dual life: I was an American with my family, but the rest of the time… I belonged. At least at first.”

Tish sat up straight again, poking listlessly at her comforter. “Mom started to worry; she refused to send Thomas to Japanese schools, and she tried to get me to play with the American kids who went to school on the base. But they seemed weird to me… foreign. They didn’t know how to behave. They didn’t know what was cool. They couldn’t speak Japanese. We didn’t really get along. By the time I was in second or third grade, I didn’t really think of myself as an American anymore. I mean, I never thought about it consciously, but I just kind of felt I belonged with my Japanese peers, not those American kids.”

Tish sighed. “Of course, it couldn’t last. Those early friends started to disappear, one by one. Their families moved, or they went to another school, or whatever. More and more of my classmates were people who hadn’t known me in preschool, and they thought of me as a foreigner. I still had friends, but there were fewer of them.”

She frowned. “By then, Mom was starting to get frantic.” She noted Ranko’s confused expression and paused, her brow furrowed. “I… I guess I have to explain something about my parents for this to make any sense. My mom… well, for her, a big part of her identity was her race. From her point of view, we were an African-American family, and she had a whole world-view that revolved around that. It was very important to her, something she was proud of.” Ranko nodded in understanding; there were Japanese who felt the same way about being Japanese.

Tish bit her lip. “Do you know what my name is?”

Ranko blinked. “It’s not ‘Tish’?”

Tish shook her head. “That’s just a nickname. My real name is ‘Leticia.’ Mom wanted to give me a name that she felt reflected our heritage. That’s just one example.

“Dad’s always been different; he doesn’t really care what color someone’s skin is, including his own. He’s always been focused on people as individuals rather than as members of some group. It’s that gift of his to really see people that makes him such a good psychiatrist. To him, being black isn’t his identity, it’s just one aspect of who he is.” She waved her hand. “It’s not that he’s naïve about racism—we’ve all experienced our share—or that he’s ashamed of his background. It’s just never changed the way he looks at the world, what he thinks is important.” She smiled. “He dated a Korean-American girl for a while, before he met Mom.”

Tish slumped back against her pillows. “I don’t think Dad understood just how important this was to Mom when they got married, and Mom never understood how unimportant it was to him. She couldn’t imagine a black person who didn’t care about being black—who didn’t feel that being black was central to who they were—and assumed he felt the same way.

“When I was born, he didn’t really like ‘Leticia,’ but Mom felt strongly about it and he wanted her to be happy. When Thomas was born they had a huge fight about his name; Dad thought it was his turn to pick a name he liked, and she didn’t like ‘Thomas’ at all.”

She frowned, her lips pursed. “Dad’s the one who started calling me Tish, just because it was shorter, and I preferred it and used it myself. My mother always called me Leticia, and she was furious about the nickname.” She shook her head, then stopped, her eyes unfocused, and thought a while.

“Dad tells me that even though it was something they argued about occasionally, it didn’t really affect their marriage, not even when we moved to Japan. But when Mom saw what was happening with me, she started to get really upset. Dad… he was bewildered by her behavior, and too close to the whole thing to use his training to see what was coming.

“Mom would get angry when I’d mention anything Japanese at home. She wanted me to transfer to the American school, and I nearly ran away from home over that, so she backed down. She kept pushing me to spend time with the American kids, but I didn’t want to. I clung to my Japanese friends, even as some of the other kids at school started to taunt and bully me. I started to hate the way I looked, the fact that I was this tall, black kid, that I didn’t look like my friends. I wanted to change my name to Megumi or Eri or something.” She smiled a mournful smile. “Stupid, huh?”

Pain tinged Ranko’s voice. “Tish…”

Tish just sat there, silent, and for a moment Ranko wondered if she was finished—until she saw tears in the taller girl’s eyes. “Then things got even worse. My best friend, Tajima Kinu, moved away when I was in fifth grade. I started middle school, and wound up at a different school than most of my friends. Then… then something happened that pushed Mom over the edge.”

A lone tear escaped and tracked down her cheek. “One of the boys in my class, Ogawa Naoki, liked me. A lot of the other kids gave him a hard time for it—I was taller than he was—but he really, really liked me.” Her voice dropped to a pained, labored whisper. “And… and I discovered that I liked him.” She swallowed. “We spent some time together, not even really dating, but Mom went ballistic when she found out. She told Dad that if he didn’t get a transfer back to the US, she’d… she’d leave him. Dad was blind-sided by all this; he liked Naoki, and couldn’t understand why Mom was so over the top, but he pulled all the strings he could—” She stopped speaking abruptly, and her face screwed up in pain. A tiny sob escaped her, and then suddenly she was crying, hard, tears sliding down her cheeks and leaving shiny tracks.

Ranko hopped off the bed and hurried to Tish’s side. She slipped a comforting arm around her roommate, and murmured gently, “It’s OK Tish… it’s OK. Go ahead and cry.” Tish nodded, her shoulders shaking, and for a few minutes they sat that way, Ranko handing her friend tissues from a box on the night-stand.

After a while, Tish seemed to gain control of herself, and Ranko gently prompted, “So you left Japan? Is that why you’re so sad?”

Tish shook her head, the tears still flowing; she dabbed at her runny nose. “No… That’s part of it, but… but the transfer… it didn’t come fast enough for Mom. The U.S. military is really slow about some things. The school year dragged on, I kept trying to see Naoki, and Mom got more and more distant from me. She started to get paranoid about Japan; it was corrupting her children, like some bad science fiction movie. I was already a lost cause, and Thomas was going to be next—he was picking things up from me and calling me ‘Oneechan.’ Finally…” she hiccuped slightly, “finally she couldn’t take it any more, and she just left. She tried to take Thomas with her, but at the airport they got separated and she lost him. She must have been too afraid to go to the airport police since she was breaking the law, and she just got on the plane by herself.” Tish’s face screwed up again. “Dad and I found out when the police called us, trying to figure out why Thomas was wandering around Narita by himself.”

Tish seemed to be cried out for the moment, but she hung her head, her voice barely above a whisper, still thick with pain. “Of course, the transfer came through soon after that. I wanted to stay, more than anything, even though I got bullied so much at school, but Dad thought it was for the best. He thought Thomas and I would be better off living back here in the US. He thought we’d find Mom and work everything out. He didn’t want to be married to her anymore after that, but he thought Thomas and I would at least get to see her.” She paused. “But we never did. We never saw Mom again, and we have no idea what’s happened to her. Dad finally got a declaration of divorce, and custody of both of us.” She looked up at Ranko. “And she left because of me! Me!! I… I know it’s not really my fault. I’ve been in therapy about this… Dad’s been in therapy about this… but it still hurts. It hurts to know that who I’d become was so repugnant to her that she left, even if it was because of her own problems. It hurts that she was willing to leave me behind. For a long time I hated her. Now… now I just miss her. She was flawed, but she’s still my mother.” Ranko cringed in sympathy; as bad as her family life had been, neither of her parents had ever stopped loving her. Even if her father had had a hard time showing it until Jusenkyou.

“So all of a sudden, I was living in the States again. Dad left the Air Force and went into private practice in Manhattan. I landed in school… and I didn’t fit in at all. All the other kids were American, but I…” She trailed off.

Ranko whispered, “You were Japanese, weren’t you?”

Tish frowned. “Well… I knew I wasn’t, really, and I still do. Maybe if Japan were truly a multiracial society, then… then I could think of myself that way, but I knew better after my last few years of school there.” She sighed. “But it doesn’t matter. For all intents and purposes, I was. Am. In my heart, anyway.” She laughed, startling Ranko. “Do you know what an Oreo is?”

Ranko blinked at the non sequitur. “I… isn’t it a candy bar or something?”

Tish smiled. “It’s a kind of cookie, but it’s also an insult some people use for someone who’s assimilated into white culture. Black on the outside, white on the inside.” Her smile faded a little. “Daddy says I’m a tuna roll. Black on the outside, but on the inside, white with a red circle in the middle.” They both laughed in spite of themselves.

Tish grew sober again. “School was really hard at first. I spoke English just fine, but I had no concept of American culture, except what had made it to Japan. The other black kids especially thought I was incredibly weird. I did all these ‘Japanese’ things, like say ‘Itadakimasu’ and hold my hand over my mouth when I laughed. I tried to hang out with the Asian kids, but they thought I was weird, too. I didn’t fit in anywhere, and I was very lonely. Dad started sending me to private school when his practice took off, but it didn’t help.

“Finally, I decided to try to act the way the other kids did, so maybe they’d like me. I watched them, studied them, and tried to mimic them. It started to work, so I kept doing it, and I got better at it. I faked it when they talked about some band or movie or TV show I’d never heard of. I got really good at it, and that’s how I got into acting.” She smiled weakly. “Most people who know my past think I learned to act pretending to be Japanese, but actually it was pretending to be an American.”

Ranko asked tentatively, “Are you OK now?”

Tish sighed. “Yes and no. I’ve lived in the U.S. for nine years now, longer than I lived in Japan. But… Japan is where I grew up, where I made my closest friends. I learned Japanese social skills. I’m bilingual, but Japanese is the language I’m most comfortable in, even though I was starting to get rusty before I met you. I could never, ever fit in in Japan… but it’s still home. I miss it, even though I know I’m probably better off here. It hurts, to feel like it’s home, but I can’t go home. I’m not ashamed any more of who I am or what I look like, the way I was in middle school, but people don’t understand. They look at me and see a tall black woman, and they think they know who I am, but they don’t.” Her jaw was set. “They don’t.”

She looked Ranko in the eye. “Ranko… thank you. Thank you for understanding. My friends from preschool understood, and Dad and Thomas do, kind of, but no one else really has. I didn’t tell you for so long because I didn’t know what you’d think; it sounds so… so whacko. Most people have a hard time getting their heads around it. They can’t understand why it still matters to me after nine years.”

Ranko leaned over and gave Tish a hug, which was warmly accepted. She pulled back and smiled, tears in her own eyes. “Tish… believe me, I understand exactly what you’re talking about.” More than you could possibly imagine…

Suddenly, an idea came to Ranko, and she opened her mouth to speak, then paused, biting her lip. If I do this, she’ll find out about Jusenkyou for sure, and maybe about… Ranma. After a moment, a small smile stole onto her face. Somehow, that idea didn’t seem anywhere near as scary as it had just that morning. She still felt a twinge of uneasiness, but her heart assured her she was doing the right thing. “Tish?”

Her friend, who’d been watching the expressions flit across Ranko’s face with some confusion, said “Yes?”

“Would you like to come home with me for New Year’s? Maybe we can track down some of your friends.”

Tish’s jaw dropped open, making her look a little like a fish out of water. She stayed that way for perhaps a minute; then slowly, a smile crept onto her own face, and fresh tears appeared as she nodded her head.

Dr. Williams watched as an empty train slowly pulled up to their platform. “This looks like yours, girls. I guess we’d better say our goodbyes.”

Tish nodded, and turned to her brother. “Goodbye, Thomas. I… I guess I won’t see you for a few months.” She reached out, and the two embraced.

“I’ll miss you, Oneechan. This’ll be the first Christmas without you in a while.” The two separated, and he smiled a sad smile.

Tish put a hand on his shoulder. “You could always come visit for a weekend…”

Thomas cocked his head. “Maybe. Is this an offer to stay in your suite?”

Tish just laughed. “No, it isn’t. I’ll see if I can get one of the guys across the hall to put you up.” She looked askance at him. “Keep out of trouble, OK?”

A fiendish grin lit Thomas’ face. “Never!”

Tish rolled her eyes. “Yes, you’d get along great with the guys across the hall.” She turned to her father, who embraced her. “Daddy, I’m sorry about Christmas. If I’d been able to find a cheap flight soon after…”

“I understand, honey.” He held her at arm’s length. “Are you sure about this? Is it just going to stir up painful memories?”

Tish sighed. “Maybe. But… I really want to go. It’s been so long. And if I could find Kinu… or Shigeru… or…” She didn’t finish, but they knew who she was thinking of. “Then I could keep in touch with them after I came back.” Her eyes glistened. “I’d really like that.”

He nodded, and released her, then turned to Ranko. “Ranko, thank you for your kind offer of hospitality. I’m sure you girls will have a great time together.”

Ranko shook her head. “I’m very happy to do this, Dr. Williams. Instead, I should thank you for allowing my intrusion into your home during this holiday.”

He shook his head. “It wasn’t an intrusion at all. It’s been a real pleasure… and very entertaining.” He winked.

“Yeah!” added Thomas enthusiastically. “If you ever become an action star I’ll watch every movie you ever make!”

Ranko laughed, blushing. “Well, I don’t think that will happen, but thank you.”

The loudspeaker blared to life. “Amtrak train #145, Springfield, Hartford, New York Penn Station. Now ready for boarding.” There was a hiss as the doors slid open, and people started crowding onto the train.

“That’s our cue,” said Tish, hoisting her baggage; Ranko followed suit. Tish leaned forward on tiptoe and kissed her father’s cheek. “Goodbye, Daddy. I’ll call you.”

Dr. Williams kissed her back. “Goodbye, honey. Have fun in Tokyo. If you find your friends… tell them Hi for me. Send me e-mails, OK?”

“I will, Daddy.” Tish moved to kiss her brother goodbye as well.

Ranko added, “Goodbye, Dr. Williams, Thomas. Thank you again.” She and Tish waved one last time, and joined the throng filing onto the train.

They were in luck; despite not being the first ones on, they managed to find two seats together in the first car. They stowed their luggage in the rack—except for Ranko’s violin, which stayed with her—and peered out the window. They spotted Thomas and Dr. Williams, who were waving, just as the doors on the car slid shut. Ranko and Tish waved back enthusiastically as the train started to move. Tish’s family was quickly lost from view as the train entered a tunnel, leaving the station.

They settled back in their seats, and Tish looked over at her traveling companion. “So, what did you think of your first Thanksgiving?”

Ranko smiled. “It was a lot of fun. It was nice to be part of a family again for a little while.” Her smile broadened into a grin. “And I liked the massive overeating part.”

Tish laughed. “I figured you would.”

“Thanks again for inviting me. I’m so glad I came here instead of sitting in the room by myself.”

“You’re very welcome. And… thanks for inviting me to your home. I’m looking forward to meeting your family.” She frowned. “You’re really on good terms with your father?”

Ranko nodded. “Yes, very. He really does love me, and I love him. It’s just that where martial arts is concerned, his judgment is a little bit… skewed. Well, lacking altogether, to be honest.”

Tish rolled her eyes. “Yeah.” She shook her head. “I have to admit, that Cat Fist is just about the weirdest thing I’ve ever heard of.” She blinked. “Is something wrong?”

“No… I just… have a little headache, is all.”

Ranko paused, her hand on the door of Practice Studio 3K; there were voices coming from inside. Heated voices.

She strained her acute hearing, trained by years with her father to detect the most stealthy of foes—or, more often, creditors. She could make out the words, but couldn’t understand them: two people were arguing in a language she didn’t recognize. Gradually, her other training came to her rescue, and her musician’s ear supplied the answer: it was French. One of the voices was Jean-Pierre’s; she couldn’t place the other beyond that it was a man’s.

She couldn’t understand French, but certain words jumped out at her: “engagée,” “fiancé.” And most tellingly, “Ranko.” She felt a sudden chill; they were talking about her. And there was no mistaking the epithet that Jean-Pierre was repeatedly hurling at the other person: “stupide!” Another word jumped out frequently: “Maman.”

This continued for a minute or so, until Jean-Pierre’s voice abruptly switched to English. “Stop your badgering, you stupid old man; she’ll be here any second now. Do you want her to hear this?” There was a pause. “Actually, she should already have been here…”

She did not take even a moment to think about the odd feeling of deja vu this was eliciting. When Jean-Pierre stuck his head out the door a moment later, she was forty feet down the corridor and coming his way. She offered a cheery wave. “Hi Jean-Pierre! I’m sorry I’m a little late.” He nodded, and held the door for her until she arrived.

Inside was a middle-aged man with graying, wild hair and a sharp nose. His build was muscular, though his fingers were slender. His brown eyes peeked out from under craggy brows, and seemed both playful and observant. His mouth held the faintest hint of an amused smile. His gaze traveled up and down, seeming to measure her very thoroughly.

That look, and the general cast of his features, introduced him before Jean-Pierre’s words could: “Ranko, this is my father, Jacques Laurent. Father, this is Ranko Saotome.”

Ranko glanced between the two of them; there was no sign of the animosity she’d overheard moments ago. Curbing her instinct to bow, she held out her hand. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr. Laurent.”

Jacques took her hand, squeezed it, then startled her by leaning over and pressing it to his lips briefly, though not briefly enough for her tastes. “The pleasure is all mine, Ms. Saotome. Jean-Pierre has told me a lot about you.” He smiled. “But I see that mere words were inadequate.” Ranko blushed uncomfortably.

Jean-Pierre’s eyes tightened slightly, then relaxed. “Father is in town to perform with the Philharmonic.”

Ranko leapt at the opportunity to turn the conversation in a more professional direction. “What will you be playing, Mr. Laurent?”

“The Dvořák cello concerto, my dear. A thing of beauty, indeed.” He smiled at her, and somehow she knew he was not just talking about music.

She blushed again; she’d finally learned to handle Jean-Pierre’s flirting, after a fashion, and it was now quite clear at whose knee Jean-Pierre had learned his approach to women. However, she couldn’t very well sass Jacques Laurent back the way she did his son.

Salvation came from an unexpected quarter. “Yes, yes, Father, she is outnumbered, eh? Show some mercy.”

The elder Laurent held up his hands in mock surrender, and shrugged. “I merely wished to meet the young lady about whom I have heard so much.”

“And so you have, so perhaps you should let us get to work. Ranko has only a short time to work with me this week, as she must prepare for her performance next Friday.” The edge in Jean-Pierre’s gaze was subtle but definitely present.

“Jean-Pierre!” chided Ranko. “I’m certain we can afford a few minutes for your father.”

“Yes, boy, show a little more respect, eh?”

That one remark pinpointed the source of her feeling of deja vu, as she remembered another father-son relationship that had had these overtones—even if she hadn’t really been a son. She remembered Jean-Pierre’s unexpected insight into her own obsession with martial arts: “And so you focused on it single-mindedly… to the exclusion of everything else.” Had he been in a similar situation?

When she had been Ranma her social skills had left much to be desired, thanks to that single-minded focus, her father’s poor influence, and her general misery at being a boy. Once she’d become herself again, her much happier disposition and the influence of her mother and sisters had turned the situation around. She assumed Jean-Pierre had not undergone any magical changes in gender, but could there be other parallels here? The tenor of his relationship with his father, and his somewhat obnoxious manner, were suddenly striking many chords with her.

Her mind was abuzz with curiosity, but she tried to push that aside and focus on the present. “Mr. Laurent, it has been great fun for me to work with Jean-Pierre. He’s very talented and is a great artist.” Suddenly, Jean-Pierre didn’t look so unhappy at having his father stay a few minutes.

“Thank you, my dear.”

Her curiosity got the better of her. “Did you help to teach him?”

“Yes, I was his teacher until he was twelve, when he entered the Paris Conservatory.” Jean-Pierre’s eyes flicked to one side momentarily, as if seeing something unpleasant, and her feeling of deja vu grew stronger.

Ranko tried to put on a smile. “It sounds like you have a very musical family.”

Jean-Pierre folded his arms and tilted his head slightly; his father was starting to look uncomfortable. “Mm, yes. Music has always been a big part of my life.” Jean-Pierre looked like he desperately wanted to add something but was restraining himself.

OK, let’s not talk about the family any more. “When are you performing the Dvořák cello concerto, Mr. Laurent?”

“I have three performances this weekend.” He flashed a very familiar smile. “I would love for you to attend.”

Ranko didn’t have to feign disappointment: the man was world famous, after all. “I’m sorry. I have my first big public performance next week. I’m filling in for Mei-Lin Chen playing Vivaldi’s ‘Four Seasons,’ and I want to be ready. I’ll be practicing all this weekend.”

Jacques nodded, frowning; then, his expression brightened. “What were you two going to work on today?”

Ranko and Jean-Pierre exchanged glances. “The Saint-Saëns violin sonata number one.”

The older man grinned. “Well, I am here to teach this week. How would you like to try the Mendelssohn trio number 2 instead?”

Ranko was somewhat nonplussed; she was familiar with the Mendelssohn but had studied the Saint-Saëns for today. On the other hand, this was Jacques Laurent: not someone you got a chance to play with every day of the week. She turned to Jean-Pierre; he had an unreadable expression on his face. “Well, I don’t mind, but…”

Jean-Pierre and his father regarded each other coolly for a few moments. The younger man finally smiled. “Well, why not?”

Jacques smiled as well, though Ranko wasn’t sure his eyes were entirely cooperative. “I’ll fetch my cello, then. It’s in Irene Vincent’s office; I’ll be back in a few moments. If you’ll excuse me, Ms. Saotome.” He exchanged another glance with Jean-Pierre, then left.

As soon as he was gone Jean-Pierre turned to her, a little agitated. “Are you sure you want to do this? You don’t have to.”

Ranko blinked, surprised at his earnest concern and not at all sure what was going on. “Really, I don’t mind. Your father is a great musician, and maybe I can learn something from him.” She tilted her head in inquiry. “Does this change bother you, Jean-Pierre?”

He regarded her soberly for a few moments. “Well… if it really doesn’t bother you…”

She shook her head firmly. “Not at all.”

He grinned. “Then we’ll make it a menage a trio.” His grin faded at her blank stare. “I guess you don’t know that expression, eh?”

She eyed him doubtfully. “I’m pretty sure I don’t want to.”

Of course, she’d looked it up straight away when she’d gotten back to her room, and decided she had been right: she hadn’t really wanted to know.

The session itself had gone very well, and Ranko was glad she had decided to go along with the idea. She hadn’t been able to learn a lot from Jean-Pierre’s father, partly because their instruments differed, and partly because she was quite talented in her own right. When Professor Vasilev had told her she was one of the ten most technically accomplished violinists in the world, he hadn’t been kidding. And that had been at the beginning of the school year.

Still, Jacques Laurent had done his best. She’d rather expected him to flirt non-stop the way his son did, but instead he’d been… fatherly, not unlike Louis Maastricht or Jari Hajek. Like Jean-Pierre, once the work started he became thoroughly professional. They’d had a frank discussion about her problem with expressiveness, and like his son he’d expressed confidence she had the power within her and merely needed to find a way to release it. Unfortunately, he hadn’t had any ideas on how to go about doing that. All these expressions of support she was receiving were starting to weigh a little thin in the absence of any concrete suggestions.

Even though she hadn’t learned a lot, the music alone had been enough to make it a wonderful experience. Whatever their differences might be, Jean-Pierre and his father clearly enjoyed playing together. The atmosphere had been that of family members playing chamber music in their home rather than professionals working in a studio. They had included her in that family circle, and it had made for very intimate, spontaneous music-making. It had been exhilarating, and she and Jean-Pierre had run past the end of their scheduled time by a good half hour. If Professor Vincent hadn’t come looking for Jacques, they’d have continued another half hour.

It wasn’t until hours later that she’d started to wonder just why the atmosphere had been so intimate. She was reminded of the first time she’d visited Ryouga’s parents, and a sinking feeling came over her: had Jean-Pierre’s father been evaluating her as a prospective daughter-in-law? Looking back, it certainly seemed as if that might have been the case. Perhaps that was what they’d been arguing about when she arrived. She sighed, folded her arms on desk, and planted her face in them. Great. Just great.

“What’s wrong?” asked Tish, seated at her own desk.

Ranko’s voice came, muffled. “Jean-Pierre’s father was there when I arrived for my practice session, and we wound up playing a trio instead of what we’d planned.” She paused. “I have this funny feeling I was being inspected. I got the same feeling the first time I met my fiancé’s parents.”

Tish put her book down and turned around. “Are you sure? That sounds… pretty serious.”

Ranko turned around and shook her head. “No… it’s just a feeling.” She slumped. “I don’t understand it. He knows I’m engaged. He knows I love my fiancé. I thought he just liked to tease me.”

Tish smiled affectionately, shaking her head. “You don’t have a clue, do you? That is so like you.”

Ranko blinked. “Huh? About what?”

Tish leaned forward, her hands clasped together. “Ranko, I have news for you. The boy is totally nuts about you. He doesn’t tease any other woman at the school half as much as he teases you.” She smiled sadly. “You know little boys tease the girls they like.”

Ranko gaped. “Are you sure?”

Tish laughed. “You didn’t notice the way he followed you around like a puppy dog at the Halloween party. Yes, I’m sure.”

Ranko frowned, confused. “But why doesn’t he say anything? It doesn’t seem like Jean-Pierre to hold back if he feels that way. I mean, it’s not that I want him to, but… I don’t understand.”

Tish furrowed her brow for a few moments, staring at nothing in particular. “I wonder…”

“What?”

“He’s not completely oblivious; he knows you aren’t interested in him. You’ve told him how you feel about Ryouga about a thousand times.” Tish looked up at Ranko and spoke softly. “Ranko… maybe it’s because he loves you that he’s just teasing you and nothing more.”

Ranko’s eyes widened in realization; it all made sense. Jean-Pierre had surprised her yet again. She was starting to get the feeling that maybe, like her when she had been Ranma, he was basically a kind-hearted person with severely deficient social skills. Having been there herself, she found that she was willing to cut him a little more slack for his sometimes obnoxious behavior. He seemed to have better instincts lurking in there somewhere, underneath the lecherous façade. Sometimes they’d make an appearance, popping out and then scurrying back to their hiding places, afraid to be out in the light of day.

As she pondered the situation, a sinking feeling came over her. Her engagement to Ryouga hadn’t put an end to male attentions, not by far, but the vast majority had politely withdrawn after being informed that she intended to honor her engagement. The occasional lout had required more forceful dissuasion.

However, as near as she could tell, they’d pretty much all been motivated by simple lust. To her knowledge, no one since Ryouga had actually fallen in love with her—granted, she wasn’t the most astute of observers in that regard, as Tish had just pointed out. There were lots of pretty girls for a testosterone-sodden young man to turn his attention to, but love was different; it was not so easily diverted, especially not the kind that put the loved one’s feelings first. This might be a lot more serious than she had thought. And Jean-Pierre might be a much more considerate persion than she had imagined.

She looked up at Tish again. “Do you think I should talk to him? He’s a friend, and I… I don’t really want to see him get hurt. But maybe talking about it would just make things worse…”

Tish thought for a while, then sighed. “I don’t know. But I know I don’t want to see you get hurt, either.”

To: Saotome Ranko <rsaotome@juilliard.edu>

From: Tendou Akane <akane@tendoudoujou.co.jp>

Date: Monday, December 6, 2004 8:45 PM

Subject: Re: J-P

Dear Sis,

Why did you wait so long to mention this to me? We could have talked about it on the phone yesterday. Maybe that would have run up your phone bill too much, though. ^_^

I talked to Kasumi and Nabiki about it, and we all agree: wait for him to start the conversation. Whether he really loves you or you’re just misinterpreting things, either way bringing the subject up with him will just encourage him. Wait for him to make the first move. With any luck, he’ll get over it first. It’s so like you to be worried about him, but it’s really for the best not to bring it up.

Meanwhile, I have big news today. Remember how I told you yesterday that I thought Kasumi was up to something? Well, sweet, innocent Kasumi is sneakier than the rest of us put together—including Nabiki. Today when she got home from school there was a letter waiting, and suddenly she was jumping up and down and shrieking in a very un-Kasumi-like way.

Are you sitting down?

Wait for it…

Today, Kasumi got an acceptance letter from Saitama Medical School. Oneechan is going to be a doctor! That’s right, all those biology courses she was taking, all those tests she was cramming for: she was applying to medical schools the whole time and we didn’t suspect a thing. Nabiki says that if she were still selling information like she did in high school her reputation would be ruined. Kasumi says she didn’t tell us because she didn’t want us to worry about it, but I think the real reason is she enjoyed springing the surprise on us.

She says she’s dreamed of being a pediatrician for years, and now she’s going to get to do it. I’m so happy for her. She gave so much to take care of the three of us, and I’m glad to see her getting on with her own dreams.

She’s still hoping to hear from Keio, so she can go to school closer to home. If she goes to Saitama, we won’t see very much of her since it’s 2-3 hours away. Needless to say, Daddy and Uncle Genma are hoping she stays close to home, too. Honestly, you’d think two grown men could learn to take care of themselves.

We went out for dinner tonight to celebrate, and just got back. I have to hit the books—I have a big test the day after tomorrow and I was counting on studying all evening long.

I hope everything’s going well getting ready for your solo debut. We’ll all be listening and cheering you on!

Love,

Akane

Something’s wrong.

Tish sighed and turned over on her other side, trying to untwist her pajamas in the process. She didn’t know what time it was, and didn’t particularly want to. What she did want was to go back to sleep, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to. Not until she figured out what was wrong.

Being a substitute mother for Thomas for six years had left her with a knack for telling when something was amiss, and something was amiss now. She couldn’t imagine what; the room was deathly silent.

Actually…

She looked over to the other bed. She could barely see it, but she could just make out that it was empty. She glanced at the clock on Ranko’s desk and winced; it was 2:27 AM.

She just went to the bathroom… She strained her ears, but no sounds came from the common rooms of the suite, no running water. She couldn’t tell much else; the ever-present rumble of the building ventilation system made it impossible to hear anything faint.

“Where could she be at this hour?” wondered Tish. Suddenly an idea blossomed, unbidden and unwanted. “No,” she groaned, “she wouldn’t…” She stared at the ceiling for a minute, hoping her silly suspicion would go away of its own accord, then sighed and climbed down out of bed, sliding her feet into her slippers. She grabbed her bathrobe and pulled it on as she quietly crept out into the common area, then cracked open the front door.

She still couldn’t hear anything, but she proceeded to unlock the front door and then shuffle over to the practice room in the hallway. She put her ear to the door, and groaned again: there was violin music coming from inside. Shaking her head, she pounded unceremoniously on the door.

The violin music stopped. A moment later, the door opened, and Ranko was standing there, her hair tousled, still wearing her pajamas. Her eyes widened when she saw Tish, and a blush spread over her face. “Uh oh.”

“Baka!” reproved Tish. “Do you know what time it is?!”

“Umm, it’s 2:31 AM…” responded Ranko sheepishly.

“That’s not what I mean! How are you going to be able to play Friday if you don’t get any sleep? It’s the day after… no, now it’s tomorrow!”

Ranko stared at her feet as she slowly traced a line on the floor with one toe. “I… I just had this passage that was bothering me, and I wanted to get it just right…”

Tish sighed. “You won’t get anything right if you don’t get enough sleep.” She pointed firmly towards the door of their suite. She didn’t say any more, but didn’t really need to.

“Just five more minutes?” Ranko offered up her best puppy dog eyes. “Pleeeease?”

Tish’s stern visage cracked into a smile. “OK. But I’m going to sit right over there and make sure it really is five minutes.” She parked herself in a chair against the wall.

Ranko wasted no time; she picked up her violin and immediately launched into a devilishly complex passage. A frown of intense concentration creased her brow. Tish, as always, was in awe of her roommate’s skills.

She smiled; it already sounded perfect to her. She knew better than to say so, however; she was the same way with her acting. It was never good enough… She watched and listened appreciatively as Ranko played the passage through several times, then happened to glance at the clock.

“Oh my gosh, it’s ten of three! Where did the time go?” Ranko blinked and looked up. “Ranko, you really need to get some rest.” Tish grinned. “It wouldn’t hurt me any, either.”

Ranko hesitated, then nodded contritely and lowered her violin. Her hair fell in her face as she bent over to pick up her music, and she brushed it behind one ear.

Tish watched as the redhead put her violin and bow in their case. “You really ought to go to bed at a reasonable hour tomorrow night. You’ve practiced and practiced, and at this point practicing more is not going to help. You need to be relaxed and have your energy on Friday night.”

Ranko sagged slightly. “I guess you’re right. Akane always tells me the same thing. It’s a bad habit of mine.” She smiled. “But I know I’ve got this nailed now. I feel a lot more confident than I have in a long time.”

“I’m glad. I’d be even more glad if we could get to bed.” Ranko chuckled and put her palms together in apology.

Under Tish’s watchful eye, she padded quietly out of the practice room and into their suite, Tish following her into their room after relocking the front door. Ranko quickly put her things away and climbed into bed, and Tish did the same.

The taller girl was just starting to feel sleepy again when Ranko’s voice came softly. “Thanks, Mom.”

“You’re wel… Oh, shut up.”

“No… that didn’t work either…”

Nine pairs of eyes watched anxiously as Shampoo fiddled with Nabiki’s computer, which was perched on the table in the Tendou family room. Normally Nabiki would be the one doing the fiddling, but she had been called to work that Saturday morning on less than a day’s notice for an “important meeting.” This turned out to be her tagging along as flunky while her boss played golf with his cronies. Needless to say, Nabiki was not happy about missing her little sister’s performance in order to play caddy.

Especially so since as word had spread, the occasion had turned into an impromptu social event. The Saotomes and the Hibikis were there, and even Shampoo and Cologne had come over to listen since the concert was scheduled to end before the lunch rush started. Between Kasumi and the visitors from the Nekohanten, there was plenty to eat. Unfortunately, there was nothing to listen to.

Nabiki had carefully tested everything the night before—fuming all the while—and it had all worked perfectly. Despite this, at the moment the speakers attached to her notebook computer were as mute as a mime with laryngitis. Unlucky Shampoo had been drafted to troubleshoot, being the most computer literate person present—which wasn’t saying much. The Amazon may not have been a computer whiz, but being a smart woman she had known exactly what to do: she had immediately called Nabiki on her cell phone.

Nabiki, already not in the best of moods, was not enjoying having to provide remote tech support while concealing said activity from her boss. Add in the fact that there was about ten minutes to go before the concert was scheduled to start, and tempers were fraying.

“Yes, I already checked that!” snarled Shampoo into the handset. “You already asked me!”

“Please don’t get upset, Dear,” said Nodoka. “I’m sure you’re both trying your best.” Ryouga glanced nervously at his watch, as he’d been doing every minute since the computer had failed to work. His mother patted him reassuringly on the shoulder.

“Perhaps I could hit some pressure points,” offered Cologne. Everyone turned around to stare at her, Shampoo most of all.

“Great-Grandmother, computers don’t have pressure points!”

“I know that,” cackled Cologne. “I was just hoping for an excuse to whack the damn thing.”

There were some chuckles as Shampoo rolled her eyes and turned her attention back to the phone. “The web browser? Just a second.” She did something to the computer and watched.

After a while, she reported “No… that’s not working either.” She blinked. “What do you mean, ‘That’s good news’?” She nodded slowly. “Oh, I see. The ‘ADSL modem’? What’s that?” She listened some more. “Where is it?… OK, just a second.” She dashed into the hall, and the others listened as she continued talking out of sight. “I found it. Oh, you’re right, the little red light is blinking… Unplug it and then plug it in again? OK… the green light is blinking now… Now it’s not blinking…”

Shampoo dashed back into the family room and sat before the computer again as everyone else watched. “Yes… the web browser is working now! Just a second…”

Suddenly loud English blared forth. “…in just a few minutes. Please stand by while we—” Shampoo hurriedly turned the volume down as smiles spread around the room. Ryouga sagged slightly, his eyes closed.

“That was it, Nabiki! You’re a genius!” She listened for a second and laughed. She turned to the others. “She says, ‘Tell that to my idiot boss!’” She turned her attention back to the phone. “You’re sure you don’t want me to beat him up for you? I’d love to, honest, and he’d be so much more tractable… Oh come on, not even a little? Hmph. You’re no fun.”

Akane was in silent hysterics, mostly because Shampoo wasn’t joking.

“If you say so… Yes, I have the recorder ready to start. Thanks, Nabiki… OK… OK… bye.” She hung up, and blushed at the spontaneous round of applause she received.

“Thanks, Shampoo,” said Ryouga earnestly. “I think we would’ve missed the broadcast if you hadn’t fixed it.” There was a chorus of agreement.

Shampoo shrugged even as she smiled in acknowledgment. “Nabiki is the one who figured it out. If she hadn’t told me exactly what to do I probably would have tried Great-Grandmother’s suggestion.” As everyone laughed, she turned the volume back up, started the tape recorder, and went to sit next to Cologne.

“…evening everyone. I’m Jennifer Miller for Juilliard Student Radio, and tonight we’re webcasting live from Alice Tully Hall in Lincoln Center.”

No one was a good enough English speaker to translate the commentary on the fly, but Shampoo, Akane, or Kasumi would interject a comment now and then to let the others know roughly what was going on.

“Tonight’s concert features the Juilliard String Ensemble performing a very challenging program. The first half will be a performance of Vivaldi’s four violin concerti, Opus eight, Numbers one through four, better known as ‘The Four Seasons.’ The soloist will be Juilliard grad student Ranko Saotome, substituting for the scheduled performer, Mei-Lin Chen.”

There were hearty cheers of approval in the Tendou family room. There was not a face in the room that did not beam with pride.

“…The members of the Juilliard String Ensemble have taken their seats. The applause you hear now is for Ms. Saotome, who has just come on stage.” The applause in New York was echoed in Nerima. As it died down, the sounds of the performers tuning their instruments could be heard, then a short silence.

Suddenly, the music of Vivaldi sprang forth from the speakers, sounding surprisingly good considering how it was being received. Everyone listened intently, and at the soloist’s entrance, smiles spread around the room. As always, her playing was magnificent.

Eyes closed as Ranko’s family and friends concentrated on listening to her performance, her image fixed in everyone’s minds.

Akane sat on the edge of her bed and sighed. After snacking so much earlier in the day, she’d eaten a lighter supper. Now, it was midnight—and she was hungry again. Too hungry to fall asleep.

“And I used to think Ranko ate like a pig when she was Ranma,” she sighed. “Oink, oink.” She stood up and pulled on her bathrobe, sliding her feet into her slippers at the same time. She opened the door to her room and started to head down the hall… then stopped. A muffled exclamation had come from Nabiki’s room.

She turned back towards her sister’s room, and noticed the light was on. She knocked. “Oneechan? Is something wrong? Why are you up?”

She heard Nabiki get up and come to the door. It opened, and Akane frowned; Nabiki’s expression was quite grim. Her sister had certainly been fit to be tied when she’d finally gotten home that afternoon, but after listening to the recording of Ranko’s performance and taking it easy for a while, she’d relaxed. At least, as much as Nabiki ever did. “What’s wrong, Oneechan?”

Nabiki shook her head. “I was going to go to bed, but then I thought, ‘It’s Saturday morning in New York, and maybe one of the newspapers posted a review of Ranko’s performance,’ so I checked the web.”

Akane suddenly felt an uneasy chill. “And?” The expression on Nabiki’s face told the whole story. “That bad?”

“Come in and sit down.”

Akane followed her sister back in and sat on the bed; Nabiki sat in her desk chair and turned to face her computer. “Only one paper covered it, the New York Times. I’ll just read you the beginning.” She cleared her throat, and read in heavily accented English:

“A Tale of Two Redheads

“It seems very fitting somehow that the works of Antonio Vivaldi should be performed by a redhead. After all, the composer himself was famous for it, earning the sobriquet ‘The Red Priest.’ Redheads are said to be fiery in temper and passion, and while this is no more than an old wives’ tale, one could be forgiven for hoping that two redheads together would make a potent combination.

“So it was that I attended last night’s performance in Alice Tully Hall at Lincoln Center with just that little bit of irrational hope. The full length concert by the Juilliard String Ensemble—a group made up of Juilliard students—started with an ambitious performance of Vivaldi’s well-known violin concerti, ‘The Four Seasons.’ The soloist was Ms. Ranko Saotome, an exchange student from Tokyo attending the Juilliard graduate program; she was filling in for the absent Mei-Lin Chen. Ms. Saotome, surprisingly, is a natural redhead, an almost unheard-of hair color for a Japanese. Surely, I thought, here was a kindred spirit who could tap into the heart of Vivaldi.

“Ms. Saotome’s performance was certainly dazzling from a technical perspective. I don’t think I’ve ever heard such crisp, seemingly effortless playing; it was preternaturally precise, and Ms. Saotome has the technical mastery of a performer many years her senior. In many circles, this alone would be enough to brand her a star.

“Sadly, however, the hoped-for fireworks from the combination of two redheads never ignited. Ms. Saotome’s playing is almost military in its precision, and while the performance was as near to flawless as one could wish, there was very little in the way of passion, redheaded or otherwise. There are many ways to interpret Vivaldi, but one way he should definitely not be served is cold. Ms. Saotome has mastered her technique, but still needs much work to find her voice, I think. Still, such a gifted musician bears watching, and I hope that one day Ms. Saotome will find the passion she needs. If she does, she will be a force to be reckoned with.”

Nabiki looked up; Akane looked rather shell-shocked. “That’s it on Ranko. The rest is on the rest of the concert.”

Akane hung her head, and whispered, “She worked so hard…”

Nabiki’s eyes lost focus. “It… it actually was a fairly complimentary review, if you look at it the right way. I mean, it’s not like this is a total surprise. Still… I thought…”

Akane sighed. “Yeah.”

Suddenly, the phone rang downstairs. Akane blinked. “Who could be calling at this hour?” The two sisters poked their heads out the door, to find Kasumi in the hallway pulling her robe on, hurrying towards the stairs. They followed, soon joined by the fathers.

The answering machine had just picked up when Kasumi interrupted it by picking up the handset. “Hello, Tendou Residence.” She said it just as cheerfully as if it were midafternoon rather than well after midnight.

An expression of concern came over her face. “Are you all right, Miss? Please try to calm down, and I’ll try to help.” She listened for a moment more. “Yes, she’s right here. Just a moment, please.” Kasumi lowered the handset. “Akane, it’s someone calling from New York. She seems very upset, and she wants to speak with you.”

Akane nodded uncertainly, and took the handset from Kasumi. “Hello, this is Tendou Akane.”

An agitated voice came from the other end. “Tendou-san? Oh, thank God! This is Tish Williams; I’m Ranko’s roommate. She gave me your phone number to call in case she had one of her Cat Fist episodes…”

Akane’s eyes bulged; Ranko had told her her roommate’s Japanese was flawless, but Tish could have said her name was Keiko and Akane would have been none the wiser; she had no trace of an accent. No, that wasn’t quite right: she had the accent of a Tokyo native. “Yes, Ranko told me about you. What’s wrong?” She shifted uneasily. “Is Ranko in the Cat Fist right now? I can try to calm her down if you can get the phone close enough for her to hear. A speakerphone would help if you’ve got one.” Akane sighed; doing this over the phone had been very difficult the one time she’d had to.

Tish’s voice grew even more agitated. “No, it’s not that at all. Ranko… she’s… she’s disappeared! No one has seen her for hours!”

End Chapter 6

Sunday, March 18, 2007

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