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I awake late in the evening, or rather, early in the morning. My head aches slightly, and I don’t remember climbing into…a mattress on the floor. I give it a nasty look before looking at the digital clock Sarah must’ve bought for me and noticed the time that read “5:26” in bright red lights. If remembering correctly, my local high school starts at seven o’clock, and it is about a ten minute walk from Sarah’s home. Instead of going back to sleep, I got up and fumbled around the home.
Sarah left a note on the fridge saying that she left about an hour ago, so she could beat the in-city traffic of Sapporo. I’m slightly surprised that she needs to go so early, but I decide not to bother her about it later. I open her fridge to find that she must be some sort of malnourished, as all that seemed to be in there were expired milk, beer, and a few packages of deli meat. Some that were past the expiration date and others that were drawing close. A note is stuck inside saying, “Don’t Drink the Milk” in her handwriting.
I shrug, deciding to shower instead and go without breakfast.
Recently, some Hokkaido schools decided to allow girls to wear pants during the winter, as bare legs are not efficient in cold weather. Thankfully, this small local one agreed that it was probably better to do that than watch them embarrass themselves by wearing gym shorts under their skirts. I didn’t go to a private school in the states, so wearing a uniform feels kind of embarrassing. And the weight of the winter uniform is surprising.
I let out a sigh, grabbing my oh-so American duct tape wallet (as my designer one seems to be MIA) and shoving it in my pocket, I began to leave. One foot out the door and I realized that I had to put my shoes on. I feel silly, as I would always put my shoes on in the morning. Slumping down onto the floor, I manage to bury my feet into standard brown loafers and tumble out the door with a beaten up second hand book bag in hand.
The first thing I see as I exit the gate is the ground. I ran into someone, apparently, who also took a couple of steps backwards in the collision.
“I’m sorry!” A voice strained my ears, I say “voice” because I can’t exactly tell what gender it is that’s speaking. A further strain upon my body is brought up, as I lift myself up to see a teenager in the same uniform as me. I believe it’s a girl, but as gender ambiguous as the Japanese are, I keep it to myself.
I tell her I’m alright in a polite sort of way, though my chest was now wet and cold and my nose had a scratch on it. I took a good look at her this time, and I knew for certain it was a girl. She had short black hair, which complimented her pale skin, and dark eyes that seemed to gleam in the winter light. A red bandana was conspicuously tied around her forehead, and I had to restrain myself from asking if she were in the yakuza. She had an honest look of regret on her face, and I then noticed her hand was extended to me.
As she helped pull me up, I introduced myself.
“Oh! Then you’re the niece Ms. Winchester had spoken of,” The girl said, pleased, “I’m Makoto Ito.”