When we were warmed up and sweating, Watanabe and Nakamura called us all to the front and told us to kneel in a semicircle. This wasn’t normal. What was going on? I snuck a peek at Tomohiro, but he was looking down at the floor.
“I have some bad news,” Watanabe-sensei said, and my nerves started to buzz. This couldn’t be good. “Some of you have heard, but Ishikawa was injured over the summer.” Watanabe cleared his throat. “He was shot.”
Oh god. Murmurs ripped through the row of kendouka. Tomohiro kept staring at the floor. I hadn’t thought about the consequences at all. I hadn’t thought about the lies we might have to spin for me to stay in Japan safely.
“They don’t know who did it,” Watanabe said, trying to speak over the frantic students. “But the police are looking into it. Ishikawa is being less than cooperative, and so they’re concerned that it was not a random attack. The police came by yesterday during our teacher prep to interview us.”
“Is he still in the hospital?” asked one of the second-year girls.
Nakamura-sensei shook his head. “He’ll be all right. Right now he’s resting at home. His mother’s let us know that he’ll be strong enough to return to school in a few weeks. But unless the facts start looking more favorable, we may be forced to take disciplinary action against him.”
Like what? Suspend him from school? Kick him off the kendo team? They had no idea what had really happened, and they couldn’t. It was Tomohiro’s sketch that had shot Ishikawa—a drawing of a gun. He’d saved Tomo’s life by throwing himself in front of that bullet. How could we explain that, or why we’d been taken by the Yakuza, or anything related to that night? My heart twisted when I thought of Ishikawa in that stark white hospital room, being interrogated by the police and unable to say a word of truth. Just the idea of it gave me chills. How much trouble was he in?
“There’s more bad news,” Watanabe continued. “Takahashi Jun from Katakou School broke his wrist and will not be competing in the prefecture tournament.”
“Ee?” One of the third-year boys, Kamenashi, called out in surprise. “So Ishikawa and Takahashi are out?”
“Lucky you, Yuu-san,” grinned another, bumping Tomo with his elbow. “No competition left.”
“Watch your back,” laughed the second-year girl. “You might be next on the kendouka hit list.”
Oh god. I hadn’t thought of it like that. If you looked at it that way, it was a little suspicious. I rubbed my hands together, breathing slowly to calm down. It’s not like the police knew about Jun’s wrist, and there was no way they could link those events.
Watanabe raised his eyebrows as the kendouka laughed nervously over the joke. “Tomohiro?” he said. “Do you know something about these events?”
I glanced at Tomohiro, but his expression was stone as he shook his head. If he was worried, he was doing an amazing job of hiding it. It was hitting too close to the truth. My heart was racing as I tried not to look guilty. Tomo just looked pissed off, but anyone would expect him to look like that when his best friend was injured and his biggest rival was out of the competition.
But what if someone linked the injuries? Ishikawa was staying quiet out of loyalty to Tomo and to cover his own butt, but Jun? What if he spoke up about what had happened?
The lights overhead felt too bright as they glared down. Jun could destroy Tomohiro with a word. Maybe he already had.
“Let’s not focus too much on the sadness,” Nakamura-sensei chimed in. “We have to fight our best at the tournament for Ishikawa’s sake. Let’s believe in him, and let’s lend all our strength to Yuu. He’s our best hope in the championship now. Ne, Tomohiro?” He started clapping loudly and far too enthusiastically. The kendouka slowly joined in, until everyone was applauding.
“Yuu-kun, ganbare!” they shouted. “Tomo-senpai, you can do it!”
Everyone’s attention was on Tomohiro. I could see his shoulders shaking, his eyes focused still on the floor. He was going to break under the pressure. He was going to confess everything. I watched, horrified.
He leaped to his feet, his hands in fists. And then he bowed to everyone with a smile, and they cheered, and Watanabe broke us up into groups for sparring.
I guess he’d had a lot of practice hiding secrets.
After kendo, Tomo and I walked to the bike racks in the courtyard of the school.
“You okay?” I said, grabbing the handlebars of Diane’s bike.
He nodded, shifting his navy-and-white sports bag on his shoulder as he reached to unlock his wheel from the rack. “Fine,” he said. “You?”
“Not totally fine,” I said. He stood and grabbed the handlebars, yanking the bike free.
“Thinking too much?”
I stifled a smile. “Maybe. Ishikawa’s in a lot of trouble, Tomo.”
“I know.”
And you might be, too. But it seemed cruel to say. I couldn’t imagine the guilt he was already feeling for putting his friend in the hospital with an unexplainable wound.
We walked alongside the bikes, both of us lost in thought. It wasn’t safe to talk too much here, anyway.
“So...what’s the plan today?” I tried.
Tomo attempted a smile as he broke from his thoughts. “I thought we could go somewhere. There’s a place I’ve been wanting to show you.”
“Like a date?” I said. He’d never used such an official term before. I swear his cheeks started to turn pink.
Then Tomo’s phone chimed with a text. He leaned his bike against his leg as he reached into his pocket.
Tomo sounded puzzled as he looked at the screen. “Tousan?”
“Your dad?” Tomo twisted the phone so I could see the message.
Come home right now. Important.
My mind fled to images of Kami and Yakuza. “Is he okay?”
“He’s never home this early,” Tomo said, which made me kind of sad. It was well past dinnertime already with kendo practice. Tomo had told me his dad worked long hours, that he almost lived alone in the silence of their empty house.
“What if the Yakuza called?” I blurted out.
Tomo stood still for a moment, staring at the screen. Then he shoved the phone into his pocket and took off running alongside his bike, lifting himself onto the seat as he sped toward Otamachi.
“Wait up!” I hopped on my bike and pedaled after him. Whatever he might have to confront, I wanted to be there.
We swerved around the streets surrounding Sunpu Park, coasting toward Tomo’s house in the northeastern part of the city. A white scooter rested on the wall around Tomo’s house, against the silver plaque that read The Yuu Family. Tomo dropped his bike to the ground and opened the metal gate, waiting to let me through before he clanged it shut behind us.
“Just a scooter,” I said. “Is it a guest?”
“That’s a police scooter,” Tomo said as he opened the door, and my heart dropped. Tomo’s dad had called the police?
“Tousan?” Tomo called out from the genkan. No answer at first and we kicked off our shoes, hurrying in. “Tousan!”
Then there was a shuffle of feet, and Tomo’s dad appeared in the hallway. He was a somber and older version of Tomohiro, wearing a tight-fitting suit with a dark tie, his black hair slicked down neatly. He looked intimidating and somehow impressive at the same time.
Another man appeared behind him, this one in a light blue shirt with a navy vest over it. He had a balding spot on his head, and his thin black hair had been neatly combed around his ears. The policeman. He stepped forward, bowing to us.