I’d been dumped unceremoniously on a bench by the parking lot. My bulging backpack was plopped next to me like a talk-show buddy. Nice of Sven to do that. I hope I don’t have brain damage. I clutched my pounding head and waited for the pain to drop to a tolerable level.

  Small friend groups walked by chatting. I wonder if this is how hobos feel after drinking. You’re sucking deep and everyone passes by like you don’t exist. Maybe I’d join them if I didn’t pay off my debt.

  I made it twelve minutes late to my first class. Normally I’d be hyped over it, especially since today we were having our five-page compositions reviewed by Mrs. Giles. I barely heard her lecture. My seat in the back was rock-hard. I idled and gazed out a window. Pungent chalk and sawdust further worsened my terrible migraine.

  Did I really see a stranger claiming to be Sven’s cat?

  Where are those two?

  How can they ask me to walk away from everything? To ignore what I’ve learned? Do they have any idea how painful that is? I’d rather die!

  Whatever they’re doing is totally different from anything in class for sure. I bet they’re in the library researching or going after Frog-Eater. What is that yokai talk about anyways? There’s so much they aren’t telling me! Shouldn’t I be a part of that? Can’t I—can’t I be part of these secrets they’re hiding?

  I had to screw up, didn’t I?

  I was distantly aware of gripping my pencil. My lead-filled pencil. Snap. Break, I thought, fury rising at myself.

  Nothing happened.

  My heart skipped several beats. Bend? Bend. I tried again.

  Nothing. My pencil lay inert as ever.

  What’s happening? It’s not working? My stomach dropped and went cold. Why isn’t it working?

  I felt small.

  Very small.

  As if everything since Kinokuniya was a dream—

  “Cecelia?” Mrs. Giles was inspecting me from amber, horn-rimmed glasses, the usual edge in her stern eyes blunted. “Is something wrong?”

  “No.” My voice felt distant. I looked down to see I was sitting at her oak desk, a yellow legal pad with my writing facing her. Lecture had ended. Review time.

  “Are you sure?” When I didn’t answer, she pressed on. “As I was saying, this is creative work. I especially like the coded language the illegals use when speaking to others.”

  “You think it could get me in university?”

  “Oh heavens no!” She laughed, pearl earrings swaying and ginger hair waving. “You would need years of effort to approach an acceptable level.”

  “Oh.” Mrs. Giles has to know what she’s talking about. That coat is proof. On her was a designer overcoat from earnings as a magazine publisher. It had buttons on the side and a wide flare of orange wool which I privately admitted showed her as very posh.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “Don’t get me wrong. You did fine on this assignment. Keep at it.”

  I dipped my head up and down. The black ink on my legal pad was blurring. I blinked hard. “Yokai,” I mumbled.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Do you know about yokai? From Japan?” It was a long shot but maybe she knew something.

  “Ah yes, of course! ‘Strange apparitions’. A fascinating subject with centuries of folklore behind it. I wouldn’t mind if you made it a topic in your next essay. Your parents are Japanese, is that why?”

  “Yeah,” I mumbled. “Assignment.” It was clear from her tone she couldn’t help.

  The idea of presenting made the dryness in my throat worse. It reminded me of the gaping hole left unfilled.

  I gathered up the pad because I couldn’t talk any further.

  ***

  “Yo-yo Chuji. My dude. Mind if I sit?”

  He sat squirming at a mess table. Chuji pushed up his glasses. “Oh? You are approaching me? My keen eyes can see you give off a strong negative energy similar to my own, however we are two magnets matching poles and you cannot come to me no matter how much you want to.”

  I inspected his spot, lips pursed, to figure out why we couldn’t vibe together. His lunchbox lay open, two buns untouched, and most horrific of all, his chicken nuggies too. For gods’ sake, they were dino-shaped.

  Chuji definitely wasn’t going to a party either. He was in street clothes, an unflattering white shirt and sweats. His posture and his mouth sagged. I ventured, with caution, “You made fifth place at the competition?”

  “Sixth. Tommy never showed up.”

  “That sucks.” I dropped my gaze to my chicken noodle soup and my burger. The end of a metal spoon floated on the soup. Should I tell him? He’ll think I’m crazy.

  Maybe I imagined everything.

  Chuji buried his face in his hands. “I do not understand. I called Tommy’s parents but they told me he was not home. Why did he leave us? After we placed, a supervisor came to Coach. She told him they were thinking about shutting the program down.”

  “Yikes.” I tried handing him my burger. He brushed it off and slapped down his pork sandwich.

  “I have never seen Coach this upset. They may replace the pool entirely. How am I supposed to reach a D-1 school now?”

  “I get it man. Swimming is your golden ticket.” Left unsaid, was that was his only ticket. “Hey, look.” I fished out my soup spoon and gripped it with both hands. Bend, spoon, bend.

  Nothing.

  Shoot. Shoot! Why isn’t anything happening? Is there a limit I don’t know about?

  Did I use it too much? My throat tightened.

  What if it’s gone?

  I stared aghast at the spoon. My cheeks warmed as awkward silence stretched. “Erm, you see,” I improvised, “This spoon represents your team’s bond! It’s unbreakable. Like steel. You may have lost one teammate, but together you can still win and overcome the odds.”

  He acknowledged my feeble effort with a glum nod. “We must train and defeat the other teams. We will have to find a replacement also. Not a minute can be wasted. That is why I cannot spend time with anyone else.”

  Footsteps shuffled nearby. I turned to see his teammates fast approaching, carrying trays and worn but intent expressions.

  “I have a plan to get back at SJ,” one called out. The speaker’s name was Jaden or something, with wavy copper hair, a white tank top to show off muscle, and a dragon tattoo on his shoulder. Chuji scooted aside to make room and they settled at the table in familiar positions. Jaden, facing Chuji, pulled a white poster from a backpack.

  The group burst into animated discussion. I was a primitive life-form intruding upon a domain of higher species as jargon like “400 IM”, “long course”, “pullout”, and “200 back” flew over my head. No one gave me a second glance.

  I shuffled away, a kicked dog, to let Chuji begin his revenge arc.