Cross My Heart and Hope to Die

Summer comes but once a year. 

In a normal life, we experience only as many summers as we do years of our life. So there’s nobody who’s going to have lived hundreds of summers. Given the average Japanese lifespan, we’ll experience somewhere around eighty summers before we die. 

I’m not really sure if eighty is too many or too few. Life can feel much too long when nothing’s going on, but all too short when things are happening - that’s a quote from Atsushi Nakajima. Eighty summers will feel like way too many to people who can’t enjoy summer, and way too few to those who can. Yeah, that’s probably about right. 

I hadn’t even gotten to twenty summers yet. And not a single one among them was ever the same. They were their own summers with their own unique radiance. I couldn’t say any one was better or worse than another. That’s like trying to say certain shapes of cloud aren’t as good as the others. 

Laying out my current summers like marbles in a row, you’d notice that two of them had an unusual color. The summer of 1994, and the summer of 1988. The former was the hottest summer of my life, and the latter was the coldest. One had a deep blue color squashed between the blues of the sea and sky, and the other had an amber color like a pale sunset. 

* 

Now, I’m going to tell the story of the hottest summer of my life. 

* 

However, everything has an order. I’ll probably need to explain the circumstances leading up to that summer, right? 

Rewind a bit from the summer of 1994, to March 20th of that year. The day of South Minagisa Middle School’s graduation ceremony. 

That’s where the story begins. 

* 

I washed my face with cold water and checked my injuries in the mirror. I had a bleeding cut about a centimeter long above my eye. Nothing else really stood out. There was a big bruise on the right side of my face, but unlike the cut, it hadn’t just gotten there. It was always there; I was born with it. 

I’d last looked in a mirror over a month ago, and it felt like the birthmark had gotten even darker since. Of course, I’m just saying that’s how it felt. Since I usually try to avoid looking at myself in the mirror, the presence of the birthmark always strikes me when I do happen to see my face again. But in actuality, probably nothing had changed. 

I kept looking into the mirror for a while. The birthmark was a chilling dark blue; it had the look of the skin there being dead. Or like it was smeared with soot, or growing mold, or, if you looked close enough, like a fish’s scales. 

Even I thought, “What a creepy birthmark.” 

I wiped my face dry with the sleeve of my uniform, grabbed my diploma from the shelf, and left the restroom. After leaving such a strong smell of ammonia, the air outside felt faintly sweet. There were quite a few students like me in the station plaza, holding the boxes containing their diplomas under their arms, sitting on benches and talking about things. 

When I opened the door to go inside, I was greeted by a stove-like warmth. I was intending to wait there until the train arrived, but the area, cramped enough to begin with, was brimming with students having fun late into the night after the ceremony - terribly noisy and uncomfortable. Weighing warmth against silence, I ultimately decided to hurry out onto the platform. 

In the middle of March, the nights are still cold. I went to button up my jacket, but found the second button missing. I had no memory of giving it to a girl as a memento or anything. Probably it had just been torn off in the scuffle. 

I’d forgotten the reason for the fight. Trying to remember just wore me out. 

After the ceremony, I was celebrating with my friends. But they were a hot-blooded bunch already, so bringing alcohol into the equation was bad news. It should have only been trivial conversation, but somehow it escalated to an argument, then becoming a four-on-three brawl. The group of four were getting jobs, and the three were high-school-bound. It was that sort of thing. 

Fights weren’t an unusual occurrence for me. No, I wouldn’t say that - thinking about it, every time the seasons changed, it felt like we put on some big scuffle, like cats in mating season. Maybe that was how we dealt with the isolated feeling of our rural town, our vague unease for the future, and so on. 

This would probably be the last of those “fights for honor.” After the scuffle ended, that’s what I found myself thinking, and it put me in a solemn mood. The fights ended without any conclusion worth calling a conclusion, like it just came to a draw. As we left, the employed four booed away the high school three. One who had been particularly hurt was yelling about how they would get payback. A fitting end for us, really. That brought a close to my junior high life. 

The train stopped with an ear-grating sound. I got off onto the platform and smelled the faint spring air. 

A gray-haired attendee in his forties stood at the ticket check, rudely staring at me as he took tickets. He seemed to be a relatively new hire, and was always like this when I passed by. I stopped, thinking that today I’d give him a piece of my mind, but realizing there were people behind me, I changed my mind and left the station. 

I wandered around the shopping district outside the station. There wasn’t a single person around, and my footsteps alone echoed. Most of the shops were shuttered, and not just because it was night. A shopping center built on the edge of town two years ago had sucked away the customers, turning a once-central street into a long line of shutters. Sports supply shop, cafe, electronics shop, butcher’s shop, photo place, dry goods store, bank, beauty parlor… I gazed at the faded signs of each shop as I walked, imagining what was on the other side of the shutters. In the center of the district was a worn-out statue of a mermaid, looking wistfully toward her home. 

Then it happened, right as I passed the tobacco shop in-between the accessory and candy shops. 

A public telephone at the storefront began to ring. As if having awaited me for decades, it rang out with fateful timing. 

I stopped and looked at the phone’s LED screen, emitting a faint light in the darkness. The cabinet that contained it was old; there was no door, and no lighting. 

Though it was rare, I knew that public phones could get calls. I recall in elementary school, a friend called 110 from a public phone as a prank, and was startled when he immediately got a call back. It made me curious, and I found out that public telephones do in fact have their own numbers. 

The telephone bell wouldn’t stop. It kept ringing with a strong, stubborn will, yelling “I know you’re there, you know!” 

The clock on the barbershop sign read 9:38. 

Normally, I probably would have ignored it and went on by. But there was something in the echo of the phone that made me think, “This call is for me and no one else.” I looked around, and sure enough, I was the only person there. 

Timidly, I answered the phone. 

“I have a proposal,” the person on the other end said without any preface. 

It was a woman’s voice. Probably somewhere from twenty to thirty. She spoke calmly, seeming to put care in every syllable. It wasn’t an automated voice; I could tell there was a real person on the line from her breathing. I heard roaring wind behind her, perhaps implying she was calling from outside. 

Maybe the woman had found out the phone’s number by some happenstance and was having fun spooking passersby, I thought. It was plausible she was watching those who answered from somewhere, enjoying their reactions to her outrageous statements. 

I didn’t answer, waiting for her move. Then she spoke as if whispering a secret. 

“You still carry a love you can’t give up on. Am I wrong?” 

Give me a break, I sighed. You want me to go along with this? I put back the receiver a little roughly and went back to walking. The phone rang again behind me, but I didn’t even look. 

* 

Three boys in high school squatting in the middle of the road, drinking from beer cans. Not an uncommon sight in the town of Minagisa. It sounds nice when you call it a quiet rural seaside town, but being all pubs and snacks without a single place for amusement, the youths are all bored to death. Those starved for excitement would quickly reach out for beer and cigarettes. For better or worse, this town had many ways for those who were underage to obtain those luxuries. 

Finding another route would have been annoying, so I tried to pass beside them. One of them standing up at just that moment hit their back against my leg. The boy overreacted and grabbed my shoulder. I didn’t mean to cause any trouble, having already been in one big fight today. But when he started ridiculing my birthmark, I found myself fighting. 

Unluckily, the one I punched seemed to be experienced in hand-to-hand combat, and the next moment I was lying on the ground. They looked down on me and shouted filthy insults, but my head felt so hazy, I only heard them vaguely, like if I were underwater. 

By the time I felt ready to try and get back up, the three had vanished, leaving only empty beer cans. I put my hands on my knees and tried to stand, but my temple ached like it had a screwdriver wedged in it, and I let out a moan. 

Lying down face-up, I looked at the stars for a while. Well, I couldn’t see the stars, but occasionally I saw the moon through gaps in the clouds. I checked my back pocket and found my wallet missing as expected, but the cigarettes in my inner pocket were safe. I took a bent cigarette out of the crumpled box and lit it with a lighter. 

Suddenly, I thought of Yui Hajikano. 

For three years, from fourth grade to sixth grade, I was in the same class as her. Back then, whenever I got in a fight and got wounded like this, Hajikano would worry as if it was her who’d been hurt. She was nearly 20 centimeters shorter than me, but she’d stand on her tiptoes to stroke my head and admonish me. “Don’t get in any more fights!” 

Then she’d stick out her pinky and insist I pinky-promise - that was Hajikano’s method. When I reluctantly offered my pinky, she’d give a satisfied smile. I never once kept the promise, and would get hurt again mere days later, but she still patiently tried to persuade me. 

Looking back, it felt like Hajikano was the only one around then who took me seriously. 

She was a pretty girl. Both Hajikano and I got people’s attention, but for completely opposite reasons. I for my ugliness, and her for her beauty. 

In a remote elementary school with many generally-unsatisfying kids, Yui Hajikano’s seemingly-perfect appearance and talents were cruel, in a way. Many girls avoided standing next to Hajikano when taking photos, and many boys had unrequited love for her, their hearts breaking in an entirely self-contained way. 

Hajikano simply being there made people give up on things. Children in the same class as her were taught directly how the world has absolute disparities that can’t be overturned, no matter how much you struggle. Irrational things most people gradually realize when they get to middle school and throw themselves into study, clubs, and romance, we all learned instantly by her mere presence. It was too cruel a truth to learn as early as elementary school - though I learned it even sooner thanks to my birthmark. 

People were mystified by how someone so overwhelming as Hajikano was personable with a boy like me. In anyone’s opinion, Hajikano and I were polar opposites. But if you asked me or Hajikano, we were the same in how we weren’t treated like normal humans, albeit for opposite reasons. That alienation was the thread that linked us. 

I don’t have any idea what we talked about when we were together. I feel like it was all nothing important. Or, well, maybe the majority of the time wasn’t spent talking, but just sitting around together. The silence I spent with Hajikano was comforting, oddly enough - rather than awkward, it felt like we were quietly confirming our friendship. As she stared silently into the distance, I watched her from beside. 

There was just one conversation I could remember clearly. 

“I think your birthmark’s wonderful, Fukamachi.” 

It was Hajikano’s response to something self-deriding I’d said about my birthmark. Yes, it just slipped out - something like “I’m impressed you’d stay with the likes of me,” I think. 

“Wonderful?”, I asked. “That must be sarcastic. Just take a look at it. It’s creepy enough to startle somebody.” 

Hajikano brought her face close and observed my birthmark at point-blank range. With a stupidly serious face, she looked for a few dozen seconds. 

Then suddenly, she gently put her lips on it. There wasn’t even a moment’s hesitation. 

“Startled?” She smiled mischievously. 

Exactly right. Startled enough to die. 

I had no clue how to respond to that. Hajikano even changed the subject as if nothing had happened, giving me no chance to figure out the intent of her actions. Maybe there was no real meaning. In any event, this incident didn’t change our relationship at all. We just went on being good friends. 

I don’t think she particularly liked me for who I was. Hajikano simply had more good will than she knew what to do with at the time. Giving it out to people too readily would make those people get far too ecstatic and grandiosely thank her, so she needed to be careful picking people who wouldn’t make that much of a ruckus. 

Hajikano didn’t know how much her every action made my heart tremble. 

When we graduated from elementary school, I went to a public school in the Minagisa area, like most of my classmates. South Minagisa Middle School. The sort of school with motorcycles in the halls, teachers being pushed off verandas, spraypainted graffiti all over the gym. If you had any common sense, it would drive you nuts in two weeks. I didn’t have any common sense, so I was fine. 

Hajikano went to a distant private girls’ school. Mitsuba Middle School - a very high-class school. I don’t know what kind of life she had there. I didn’t hear any gossip, and didn’t really care to know. She and I were in different worlds. 

I’d never seen Hajikano since then. 

I see, I nodded to myself. Let’s say there is a love I can’t give up on, like the woman on the public phone said. 

Then it would surely be Hajikano she meant. 

* 

Finishing my cigarette, I quit my sentimental reminiscing and stood up. My body ached all over. There was a slight pain in my throat. Maybe I’d caught a cold. 

What a terrible day, I thought. 

But this unlucky day of mine wasn’t over yet. 

On my way back home, as I walked by a youth hotel being torn down - and naturally, this was at night, so there weren’t any workers around - an accident happened. 

There was a temporary enclosure around the building made of flat panels, about two meters high. From within it came an ominous clattering sound. I found it suspicious, but kept walking. Suddenly, there was the loud sound of something collapsing inside, and immediately after, one of the panels forcefully fell down on me. 

Bad days are bad to the end. 

Why I wasn’t completely crushed, who called 119 for me, what happened before the ambulance arrived… I had absolutely no memory of it. When I woke up, I was in a hospital room with my legs in casts. After a few moments, I felt a full-body pain that made me want to yell. My vision went dark, and I broke out in a cold sweat. 

Outside, the morning birds were chirping pleasantly. 

And just like that, before entering high school, I suffered a major injury that took fourteen weeks to completely recover from. There had been compound fractures in both my legs. Right after waking up, I was taken to an operating table, my legs bolted down. I was shown X-rays afterward; they were impressive fractures, good enough to show in textbooks. It wasn’t life-altering, with no apparent worries of after-effects, but this made for a late start to high school. 

Oh well, I thought. It wasn’t unusual for me to be hospitalized for injuries. I’d be able to attend school in June at the earliest, and by then my class would have nearly finalized their friendships. But I hadn’t really felt like making proper friends in high school anyway, so it wasn’t a big issue. Besides, if you think about it, maybe it’s easier to focus on studies in a hospital room than a classroom. 

And as a matter of fact, I was terrifyingly diligent in my studies for those three months. Listening to my favorite music on my Walkman, I repeatedly read textbooks, getting good rest when I got tired of that - I kept up a simple and honest life. The room was white like a minimalist art show, and there was nothing worth looking at outside the window, so math and English were more stimulating than the alternatives. 

As someone who liked going at his own pace, I was able to view this as an ideal situation. It felt more effective than trying to deal with drowsiness while desperately copying down words and formulas from the blackboard. 

At the end of May, a man in his late sixties named Hashiba moved into my room with a broken left arm. He seemed fond of me quietly tackling my studies, and whenever we saw each other, he told me “Ask me if there’s anything you’re not sure about” with a face-crumpling smile. There was a lot that was unclear to me about English grammar, so I did ask him a few times, and he offered very understandable explanations which couldn’t even be compared to your common lecturer. I asked him about it, and he said he used to be a teacher. He had a decent pile of thick Western books by his bed. 

One rainy afternoon, Hashiba casually asked me a question. 

“What’s that birthmark mean to you?” 

It was the first time I’d been asked a question like that, so I needed some time to think of an answer. 

“It’s the root of all evil,” I replied. “If I just didn’t have this birthmark, I think about eighty percent of the problems I have now would be solved. It makes others have a bias against me and find me disgusting, but the more pressing problem is that because of it, I can’t like myself. People can’t try their best for someone they don’t even like. Not being able to like yourself means you can’t even try for yourself.” 

“Hmm,” Hashiba affirmed. 

“On the other hand, by putting all the blame on this birthmark, it feels like I can avoid looking at what I don’t want to look at. Maybe I’m fooling myself, putting blame on this birthmark for problems which really, I could solve with enough effort. …But either way, there’s no doubt that it has a negative effect on me.” 

Hashiba slowly nodded. “I see. Anything else?” 

“That’s all. There’s nothing good about it. I don’t think an inferiority complex can help people grow. It’s generally just the starting point to a warped nature. Some can spring off of an inferiority complex to achieve success, but even once they do, they keep being tormented by inferiority.” 

“What you say sounds right,” Hashiba said. “But looking at you, I can’t help but think this: Some serious flaws are helped to grow by their prudent owners. Of course, that’s speaking of those who can’t look away from their flaws.” 

“Are you sure you’re not mistaking prudence for inferiority?” 

“No mistake.” Hashiba’s wrinkled face smiled. 

When I left the hospital, he gave me a book: the original version of Charles Bukowski’s “Ham on Rye.” Afterward, I started to read five pages of it a day, an English dictionary in one hand. 

Ultimately, I was ready to begin high school in early July. By then, the students would be done with final exams, free from that pressure to let their hearts dance with thoughts of the coming summer vacation. 

The summers when you’re in high school. No small number of people call those the best days of your life. But the radiance of summer is something that builds up from spring. Being thrown into the height of it from a world of antiseptic smells and white walls, I felt as out of place as if I’d walked into a total stranger’s birthday party. 

Could I keep up in this world?