The Semester Has Ended... And You’re Still Here

Spring uniforms.

As usual Fuwa-san wore it with confidence, a shirt just one size bigger and a longer skirt than was expected. But boys still looked anyways.

She would swap out the charms on her bag from snowmen and cool tone anime characters for summer edition shoujo girls in their beach outfits and a smiling sun.

Smiling vibrantly toward me, while I cringed at the length of my own short skirt she offered up, one of her wonderful, fun ideas. "We should hang out over the summer Kita-chan! Whaddya say? Come on please say yes," holding my manicured hands in her own equally long and delicate fingers.

She still wanted to hang out. Even without a cake to make or a fall festival plushie fundraising stand to organize.

People called me smart, they called me astute and collected. A prim, perfect little lady.

That is not what happened.

All I could force out of my gaping mouth was a squeak, nodding my head as my whole body to my hir went hot.

"I hate you," I despaired a bit later, clutching my bag close.

Fuwa-san laughed in delight. "I am so sorry, genuinely."

Placing that sisterly hand on my shoulder, holding me safe from the eyes I always imagined found me worth even a single glance.

But then, I figured she'd sign up for some athletics camp or a neighborhood contest and forget all about it. And it would be training season, me with the stopwatch as I wrote up her scores. And printed them out for her later.

We'd go for boba tea and my choice of sweets to get out of the hot sun. I did know food.

She did not forget. As the sun beat down outside, two days into the school break I'd received my first guest.

Fuwa-san marveled at the property and then the spacious apartment I and occasionally my parents called home.

"Oh wow, diligent as usual!" she called out already in the living room. On an oblong apple wood table I had spread out my booklets and a new notebook for scratch work. "Man you've run through your Calc like it was nothing. That's amazing."

"Thanks," I said quietly.

She had on quite a nice casual outfit with a white pin up skirt and thick black overalls, a graphic tee, and a pink plaid shirt over that several sizes too big.

I was looking way too much.

She continued talking and praising me.

I put a hand to my mouth, feeling that rush of butterflies in my stomach, taking well-detailed note in my mind of how she bent over my notes. How her hair hung down her face.

"I-- I wasn't, do you need some help?"

Her eyes went a bit big before she quickly swatted a dismissive hand. That she had manicured with the Nexus Violet I had once recommended her over Christmas.

"No, no nothing like that I swear. Like I said, I hoped we could hang out some."

Fuwa-san put her hands behind her back and smiled, looking to me for permission, the picture of innocence.

As I was in a horrible grey nightgown not having bothered to change or even run a comb through my hair. And I knew it was horrible, I knew it was the last sort of garment to take for a sleepover with girls-- exactly so my mother didn't insist on it!

"Just let me change," I decided with a nod.

"Okay," she acquiesced happily.

"Please, raid the fridge if you want. The housekeeper made chili pepper karaage last night," a comment that made stars light her eyes. "Housekeeper! Dang your parents must really do well! That is so cool. My Mom runs a gym," and said with as much pride a princess might, wrapped up in a nostalgia, "I never had a chance I guess. It was run like my life depended on it or don't bother coming to where Mama was during work hours!"

"I suppose so," I agreed smiling softly at the absolute beauty of her laugh. That brought to mind a storm of flower petals. Their sweet smell. Their delicate texture and the way one had to be so gentle to hold them between two fingers.

I'd labored in my closet for at least a day to try and find something that was remotely fun and fit for the season. And not another grim, notice-me-not ploy or just my absolutely abysmal grasp of femininity.

The best I could end up doing was scorching hot black pants that wore a bit tight around my hips and a large red crop top shirt.

And then went through the agonizing process to make my hair remotely presentable with one right-sided length brushed just so in a sweep over my brow.

Beginning to hear the sounds of oil sizzling in a pan and then the hiss of ingredients being added-- I incredulously wondered just what in the world Fuwa-san was doing.

But I otherwise surrendered. Having gotten used to much more audacious and out-of-pocket. My parents need never know of such a borderline rude friend.

Not that they'd seemed so disapproving of my very passive walk across the cherry lined walkways of school life.

I decided some makeup could, make such a ridiculously bold look work for me. Exercising just a moment of caution before darting for my Mother's room and her bloody red deep lipstick.

When I finally came out, it was with tense shoulders-- a constant run of thoughts darkening the corners around my mind-- but in some little corner protected by white lilies and the fond touch lined with dirt, was the knowledge at least Fuwa-san was never laughing.

Even so, she was struck completely dumb to see me.

She was struck, with such overwhelming pride. She was struck from seeing me at my best.

"Oh my goodness, I wish we could take you out and show you off. But men better stay away because you, you are all mine," and in that sentiment collared me by the neck with her upper arm. But it didn't hurt. It never did.

She had prepared braised asparagus shoots with carrots and red potato in black pepper and virgin oil to join the spicy chicken.

Fuwa-san had also found a pitcher of pink lemonade. I got out two large glasses and filled them with ice, then poured in the drink to the tip.

"Thank you very much for the add on," I said as I passed each glass, one for her and in front of her, one for me. "And you did it perfectly."

She put a hand to the back of her head, I noticed how she sat on the chrome stool with her legs splayed much as they would go. "Thanks, that's high praise. Heck Zoo-zoo you really surprise me, I mean you never do have to cook if you don't want to," Fuwa-san blew her piece before placing the entire fried meat in her mouth.

I looked down, a bit abashed when remembering--

"And you just up and decided I'mma learn this all new skill and the lifestyle associated with it for a guy," Fuwa-san huffed, "I still say he's absolutely an idiot to pass on someone that dedicated. But then again not that I'm complaining, I like in-her-books, fashion forward schooltime goth princess much better."

I jolted at the remark. And guzzled my lemonade.

Standing, I took up the landline, "I'm going to order some dessert. They have no strawberry flavor, so is raspberry flavor and lemon custard cookies okay? Or we can go with strawberry cheesecake."

"That raspberry thing sounds absolutely perfect. Don't worry too much," she assured, "I can't wait to taste your upper crust bakery sweets."

I turned away, angrily humiliated and having turned a vibrant pink.

I took up a happier tone than usual to speak with the representative on the call. See Fuwa.

It was three o'clock in the afternoon, summer assignments completely forgotten that I was criss crossed behind Fuwa-san, weaving a braid into her usually wild dark hair. She'd elected to take off her flats, letting bare toes experience cold air, and often fidgeted her legs.

The bakery box was just beside me, half empty.

Our glasses sweating on the carpeted floor of my room as well.