n the days following the matriculation ceremony, more and more girls began to show up at school in short skirts.

Kazue was one of the first. But her shoes and her book bag were completely out of keeping with her skirt length and marked her as an outsider. The insider students, you see, did not carry the standard-issue student satchels. They came to school with light nylon sacks slung over their shoulders, or else they carried those chic overnight bags that were still unusual at the time. Some carted along American-made day packs, while others toted heavy-looking Boston bags. Were they Louis Vuitton? Regardless, the girls who carried them looked every bit like college students en route to classes. To complete the look, they wore brown loafers and navy-blue Ralph Lauren knee socks. Some students wore a different wristwatch every day. Others let silver bracelets—undoubtedly received from boyfriends—slip out from under the sleeves of their school uniforms. Then there were those who stuck little ornamented pins as sharp as needles in their perm-curled hair or wore diamond rings as big and clear as glass beads. Even though students weren’t supposed to accessorize as freely as they do today, these girls managed to compete with one another over who could be the most fashionable.

But Kazue always carried a black satchel and wore black slip-ons. Her navy-blue knee socks were most definitely standard student issue. Her red train-pass case was extremely childish, and with her black hair clips she was—in a word—uncool. She shuffled through the halls trying to hide the ungainly thin legs jutting out from under her short skirt, along with her standard-issue satchel.

Her looks were average at best. Her thick black hair hung oppressively over her head like a heavy black helmet. It was cropped so short her ears were exposed, and the coarse hair at the nape of her neck stuck out in a way that made me think of the immature feathers on a newly hatched chick. She didn’t appear to be particularly dull. Her forehead was broad, her face intelligent, and her eyes brimmed with the kind of confidence you would expect from an honor-roll student raised in an affluent home. So when was it, I wondered, that she had developed the habit of glancing timidly at those around her?

I saw a photograph of Kazue in one of those weekly magazines shortly after she was murdered. It was a picture of her at a love hotel with a man, clearly a photograph with a story behind it. Kazue’s skinny naked body was exposed to the viewer’s scrutiny, her large mouth opened in a laugh. I stared intently at the photograph, trying to find traces of the Kazue I had once known, but all I could find was an image of her lewdness—not the kind of lewdness that erupts from excessive luxury or even from sex. It was the licentiousness of a monster.

When we first began attending Q High School for Young Women, I did not know Kazue’s name and I had no interest in finding it out. At the time, all the outsiders huddled together and looked so withered and dull it was impossible to tell one from another. For a student who had worked hard to get into Q High School for Young Women, hoping all the while to be recognized for her intelligence, this must have been particularly deflating. I feel I can now understand how Kazue must have felt. She had come of age amid humiliation. She must have been in turmoil.

You want to know about my interaction with Kazue? Well, all right then. I learned about Kazue thanks to a certain incident. It was a rainy day in May. We were in gym class at the time. We were supposed to play tennis that day, but because of the rain we had to stay in the gymnasium and practice dance. We were changing clothes in the locker room when one student held up a single sock and called out, “Whose is this? Who lost a sock?”

It was the kind of navy-blue knee sock most everyone wore. Only this one had a red Ralph Lauren logo on the top.

Everyone was completely nonchalant. No one seemed to care if they’d lost something because, unlike me, they could always go out and buy another one. That’s why I found it odd that this girl was making such a fuss over a lousy sock. She held it out to show her friends.

“Well, just look at it! Look!”

Laughter filled the room. Other girls drew near to see, forming a circle around the sock holder.

“Why it’s practically been embroidered!”

“What a masterpiece!”

The owner of the sock had taken an ordinary navy-blue knee sock and embroidered the upper edge with red thread to make it look like the Ralph Lauren logo.

The girl who found the sock was not seeking the owner out of some charitable effort to reunite her with her lost property. She simply wanted to know who it belonged to. That’s why she’d called out like that. No one came forward to claim it. All the outsiders changed their clothes in silence, and the insiders didn’t speak either. But even so their faces revealed the joy they felt as they anticipated the scene that was sure to unfold when the next class period started.

English class was to follow gym. Most of the students changed back into their uniforms hurriedly and rushed to the classroom in a buoyant mood. At that moment there was no division between insider and outsider. When it came to bullying, everyone was in it together.

Only three students remained behind in the locker room, a petite insider, Kazue, and myself. Kazue was dawdling—even more so than usual. That is when I realized that she was the one who had embroidered the logo on the sock. At that moment, the insider handed Kazue a pair of socks. “Here, you’ll need these,” she said. The socks were brand new navy-blue knee socks. Kazue chewed her lip and looked worried. I suppose she realized she had no choice.

“Thanks.” Her reply was barely audible.

When the three of us entered the classroom, our classmates acted as if nothing were amiss. The true identity of the sock embroiderer might never be known. But it had been fun. And there would be more fun to come. Even a minor moment of maliciousness swelled and spread throughout the school, growing into subsequent incidents until it became utter and uncontrollable nastiness.

Having escaped her predicament, Kazue wore an indifferent expression. On that day, as usual, her hand shot up and she was called on to stand and read aloud from the textbook. There were those who’d lived abroad and numerous students in the class who were good in English. But that didn’t stop Kazue. Confident, she’d raise her hand without a second thought. I looked over at the girl who’d lent her

the socks. She was looking drowsily at her textbook, her chin in her hand. I didn’t know her name but she was a cute girl with front teeth that protruded slightly. Why had she helped Kazue? It disconcerted me. It’s not that I particularly approve of cruelty or bullying. And it’s not that I hated Kazue. It’s just that I found Kazue annoying. She’d gone and done something shamelessly stupid, and yet there she sat as if nothing had happened. She was acting so audacious. Was she being shrewd? Conniving? Even I couldn’t tell.

After class, as I was pulling my classical literature textbook out, Kazue came up to me.

“About what happened earlier.”

“What do you mean?”

When I acted like I didn’t know what she was referring to, Kazue’s face flashed red with anger. You know exactly what I mean, she must have been thinking.

“You probably think my family’s hard up.”

“I don’t really care.”

“I doubt that. But it’s just that I hate having to listen to all that crap about whether or not you’ve got a stupid little logo on your sock.”

I understood Kazue had embroidered her knee socks not because her family was too poor to afford to buy the real thing but out of a sense of rationalism. But I thought Kazue’s brand of rationalism, which tried to accommodate itself to the wealth of the school, was ridiculous. Kazue had smallness of character ingrained within her. That was why nobody liked her.

“That’s all.”

Kazue went back to her seat. All I could see were the brand-new socks encasing her skinny calves. This was the mark of wealth, the symbol of Q High School for Young Women: a red logo. I wondered what Kazue planned to do next. The girl who had lent her the socks was laughing with her friends, but when her eyes met mine she turned and cast her glance down as if she’d been caught doing something shameful.

I began talking to her now and then. I learned that her name was Mitsuru and that she had entered the Q system from middle school.

And so it was that both the insiders and the outsiders began the school year without striking any compromise in their polarity. The insiders were always together in the classroom, painting their nails and shrieking with laughter. When the lunch break rolled around, they headed off together to restaurants off campus and enjoyed fabulous freedom. When school let out for the day, the boys from Q High School for Young Men would be waiting for them at the gate. Girls with college-age boyfriends would be swept away in BMWs, Porsches, and other expensive foreign automobiles. The boys who met them had an air about them that resembled that of the girls. They were stylish, exuding a confidence backed by wealth. And they were a licentious group.

One month after I entered the school, we had our first examination. The outsider students were determined not to be outdone in their studies. They’d suffered enough as a result of constant pressure from the insiders. The studious set—who applied themselves nonstop to their schoolwork and aimed to surpass the insiders—was particularly determined, but they were not alone. All the outsiders had applied themselves with special zeal to their exam preparations. Moreover, the determination to succeed was all the more intense because we’d heard that the names of the ten top scorers would be posted. The outsiders saw this as an opportunity to redeem their honor. They would be able to claim for themselves a spot among the smartest of the smart.

I had decided from the very start that the test would not be worth the effort. Because I was still relishing my newfound freedom from Yuriko, I wasn’t much concerned with what happened at school. As long as I didn’t come in dead last, I didn’t really care about the test and consequently did not study at all. I really didn’t even care if I ended up at the very bottom of the heap, if I was able to stay in school—that was all that mattered. And so I went on with my life as before—just as the insiders did their own—without really noticing the exam.

On the Sunday before the exam, all the insiders went to a friend’s vacation cottage to compare their class notes, or so the rumors went. Once again, the class was divided into two entirely different groups.

A week later the results of the exam were printed out and posted for all to see. Most of the students in the top ten were—as the outsiders had imagined—members of their own group. But what was mystifying was that among the top three was a student who had entered the school from junior high. Fifth place went to a girl who’d been with the Q system since elementary school. The highest score belonged to Mitsuru. This pattern made a profound impression on all the outsiders. Even though they generally performed better than the students who had been in the system since elementary school, how was it that they could not surpass those who had entered from junior high? The most urbane, charming, and wealthy bunch were the students who had entered from elementary school. The students who were most adept at melting into the background and were best at their studies were those who entered the system while in junior high. And the ones who were ill prepared for anything were those who had started in high school. But the pattern defied the earlier expectation of this last set of students, and they glanced about with pained expressions.

“Don’t you play tennis?”

Mitsuru asked me this during our next gym class. In the month following my matriculation into Q High School for Young Women, a few of the insiders had spoken to me on occasion. When it came to our tennis lessons, those students who were on the tennis team would park themselves out on the center court as if it were their personal property. Students who didn’t enjoy tennis, or those who didn’t want to get sunburned, would lounge about on the benches lost in chatter. And those students who, like me, didn’t want to get lumped in with the benches group would loaf around outside the chain-link fence, making it seem as if we were simply awaiting our turn to play. What about Kazue, you ask? She’d hit the balls back and forth on one of the side courts with other outsiders. She hated losing and would chase after the balls with dogged determination, letting go with strange grunts and groans in the process. The students lolling about on the benches entertained themselves with derisive comments about her.

“Well, I’m not very good at it,” I answered.

“Neither am I,” Mitsuru answered. She was slender, but her cheeks were round and because her two front teeth were big it made her face look a bit rodentlike. Her brown hair flowed down in wispy ringlets. Her face, dotted with freckles, was adorable. Mitsuru had lots of friends.

“What are you good at?”

“Nothing at all,” I said.

“Just like me, then.” Mitsuru brushed slender fingers over the strings of her racket.

“But you’re good at studying. You earned the top score on the exam, didn’t you?”

“That was nothing,” Mitsuru said indifferently. “It’s just a pastime for me. I plan to become a doctor.” She turned to look at Kazue. She was wearing shorts and navy-blue knee socks.

“Why’d you lend her the socks?” I asked.

“I wonder.” Mitsuru cocked her head to the side. “I don’t like bullying.”

“Was that bullying?” I remembered how calm Kazue looked when she stepped into the classroom the next period. I doubt she had the foggiest idea that Mitsuru had saved her from bullying simply by loaning her a pair of socks. Far from it. Even if everyone had found out those were her socks, she would have looked at them all with deadly seriousness, her face set in challenge. They’re just socks, after all!

Mitsuru’s soft hair blew gently in the breeze, the sweet scent of shampoo wafting about her. “Of course it was bullying. Everyone has fun at the expense of those students who don’t have much money,” she said.

“But you have to admit, it was pretty stupid to embroider your own socks,” I said peevishly. I wanted to see how Mitsuru would react.

“True. But can’t you understand how she felt? No one wants to be made a laughingstock in that way.”

Not quite sure how to counter my statement, Mitsuru began to dig in the dry ground with the toe of her tennis shoe. The smartest student in the freshman class of Q High School for Young Women revealed a face shaken by my words. I experienced a tiny sliver of happiness. At the same time, I found myself feeling deep affection for Mitsuru.

“Of course, what you say is correct,” I said, “but I don’t know that she was particularly concerned herself. Besides, what everybody in the changing room was laughing at was the silliness of going so far as to embroider a sock! I don’t think there was any secret evil intention.

“When a group of people become united by a tacit understanding and decide to act, that’s bullying.”

“Then why is it that those who have come up through the ranks plot against those who have just entered? Why does everyone ignore it? And aren’t you one of them, after all?”

Mitsuru let out a deep sigh. “Well, you’re right about that,” she said. “I wonder why everyone just ignores it.” She tapped her big front teeth with the end of her fingers, contemplating the question. I came to realize later that whenever Mitsuru did this, it meant she was secretly pondering whether or not to say something. She raised her head with a look of determination.

“But that’s not it, you see. It’s because their circumstances are so different. Because they come from such different backgrounds, their attitudes toward the value of things are completely different.”

“Sure. That’s obvious,” I said, as I watched the tennis-club girls enthusiastically sending the bright yellow tennis ball back and forth across the net. Their rackets, their outfits, their shoes—all had been purchased with their own money and were not the usual school issue. They were more expensive than any item I was likely ever to see.

“Here we have the class-based society in all its repugnant glory,” Mitsuru continued. “It must be worse here than anywhere else in all Japan. Appearance controls everything. That’s why the people in the inner circle and those orbiting around them never mingle.”

“The inner circle? What’s that?”

“Those who began attending this school from the elementary level are the true-blue princesses, the daughters of fathers who own giant cartels. They’ll never have to work a day in their lives. In fact, to have a job would be a source of great embarrassment.”

“Isn’t that a bit old-fashioned?” I snorted in contempt, but Mitsuru continued with great earnestness.

“Well, I agree, of course. But that’s the inner circle’s attitude toward assessing value. It may be a bit out of touch, but they are firm in their position and so everyone else gets led astray.”

“Well, what about the others around them?”

“They’re the children of salary men,” Mitsuru answered with a note of sadness. “The daughter of a person who works for a paycheck can never be part of the inner circle. She may be smart or have considerable talent, but that won’t make any difference. She won’t even be noticed. If she tries to insinuate herself into their midst, she’ll be taunted. Moreover, even if she’s fairly intelligent, if she’s both uncool and ugly she’s little more than garbage at this place.”

Garbage? What kind of word was that? I was not a member of the upper classes Mitsuru described. I wasn’t even the daughter of a salary man, whose status at least was assured. I clearly wasn’t in the inner circle, nor was I a member of the orbiters. I wasn’t sure if I even fit into the category of outsider. Then was I even lower than garbage? Was it my lot in life to stand forever on heaven’s shores watching the glittering swirl of celestial bodies on the other side? I felt as if I had discovered a new and private pleasure. When you think of it, that was probably my destiny.

“There is one way you can enter the inner circle, and one way only.” Mitsuru tapped her front teeth with her fingernail.

“And what’s that?”

“If you’re beautiful beyond compare, exceptions can be made.”

Can you imagine what I thought at that moment? Of course. I thought of Yuriko. What would happen if Yuriko were to attend this school? With her monstrous beauty, who could possibly be a match for her?

As I thought about Yuriko, Mitsuru whispered in my ear, “I hear you live in P Ward. Is it true?”

“I do. I take the train in from K Station.”

“There’s not another student at this school who lives in P Ward. A couple of years ago I heard there was a student who commuted in from one of the neighboring wards, though.”

The place where I live had once been the sea. It’s a wonderful area with streets nicely arranged, home to any number of odd and ancient people. But it’s hardly a convenient place to live, especially for a student who has to commute to such a status-conscious school as this.

“I live with my grandfather in a government-funded apartment building,” I told Mitsuru, mostly to provoke her. “My grandpa is a pensioner, you see, so he makes ends meet as the neighborhood handyman.” I didn’t add the part about him being out on parole, but the impact was sufficient.

Mitsuru leaned over to pull up her drooping socks and mumbled, with little conviction, “I didn’t think there could ever be such a student here.”

“Even among the outsiders?”

“Outsiders? Damn, you’re like an alien, you know? No one laughs at you or tries to bother you. You just go about your business without a care in the world!”

“Well, it makes me feel relieved to hear you say that.”

Mitsuru shot me a big smile, revealing her large front teeth. “Okay. I’ll tell you the truth—but I’m only telling you. The truth is, my house is in P Ward too. My mother told me not to let anyone know, and she rents an apartment in Minato Ward—just for me. Of course, we pretend we own it. My mother comes over every day and cleans, cooks my meals, and does the wash.”

“Why do you do that?”

“Because I’d be bullied otherwise.”

“Well then, you’re just like them, wrapped up in your lie.”

Mitsuru looked ashamed. “You’re right. I hate it. I hate myself for going along with it. And I hate my mother for it too. But if you don’t cooperate, you draw attention to yourself at a school like this, so you have no choice.”

I was convinced Mitsuru was mistaken. She wasn’t mistaken in cooperating; if she wanted to go that far who’s to say she shouldn’t? No, what I meant was that Mitsuru was mistaken in her earlier comments about Kazue. I can’t explain it, really, but it was a case of oil and water. Kazue was never going to mix with the inner circle, but Kazue did not realize this. If students picked on Kazue, they were picking on her for her inability to recognize her place. They weren’t picking on her because of where she was born or how she lived or her sense of values. That is why you couldn’t call what they did bullying. Am I wrong?

Mitsuru had once been the target of bullying, so her fear of it was considerable. Because she rented an apartment in the upscale Minato Ward and hid the fact that her family was from P Ward, Mitsuru was complicit with the insiders. And among the insiders, Mitsuru was the one closest to the inner-circle students.

“So how is it you’re such a good student?”

“Well”—Mitsuru furrowed her brows as if she were shouldering a heavy burden—“at first it’s true that I was determined not to be outdone. But eventually I came to enjoy studying. And I didn’t really have anything else I wanted to do. I never cared about fashion and style the way the others do. And I wasn’t interested in boys. I didn’t join a club. I didn’t especially think I wanted to become a doctor either. But I’d heard that the premed club was the one the smartest students joined. So I figured, if that was the case, I might find something there that could satisfy this longing in me.”

Mitsuru was honest. I’d never met anyone before who was as honest as this.

“That longing—what exactly is it?” I asked.

Mitsuru flinched and peered into my face. Her eyes were jet black and shone like the beady eyes of a small defenseless creature.

“Perhaps it’s something inside me, something of a demon.”

A demon? We all have our own demons, I suppose. All things being equal, I might have easily lived a life of quiet contentment without ever even being aware of my own demon. But being raised alongside Yuriko had caused my inner demon to grow to tremendous proportions. I understood why it was that a demon had lodged within me. But how did a demon come to be in Mitsuru as well?

“Are you saying that you have sinister motives, or is it that you just don’t like losing?”

Mitsuru looked startled by my question. “Well, I wonder….” Confused, she looked up into the sky.

“You’re the strongest-minded person I know,” I told her.

“Really?” Mitsuru’s face flushed red. She was embarrassed. I tried to lighten things up by changing the subject.

“Is your father a salary man? That is, are you one of the orbiters?”

“Yes.” Mitsuru nodded. “He’s in the real estate business.”

“Must be lucrative.”

“He received a large compensatory sum when they bought out his fishing business, so he embarked on a new venture. Back in the day he was the head fisherman, I heard. But he died when I was young.”

Even though her people had come from the sea, Mitsuru had learned to crawl on land like a lungfish, a fish that can breathe air. Without even thinking, I started to picture Mitsuru—her thin white body—crawling through the sticky siltlike mud. Suddenly I wanted to become good friends with this girl. I decided to invite her over to my house.

“Won’t you come visit me sometime?”

“Sure!” Mitsuru accepted my invitation readily. “Would Sunday be okay? I have to go to a premed study session after school every day—to tell you the truth, I’m trying to get into Tokyo University Medical School.”

Tokyo University! Having just learned to crawl on land, she was already aiming to climb a mountain! And thus, deep inside me a desire was born to make Mitsuru the focus of my own study. Mitsuru was a strange creature to have been born of this school, a creature who possessed a goodness and kindness that set her apart from the rest of us. And yet, within her heart lurked a demon larger than that of the others.

“I’m sure you’ll get in!”

“I wonder. But even if I get in, what then? There’ll just be more battles to fight.”

Mitsuru was starting to say something when one of the tennis-club girls turned and called to her from the court. “Mitsuru? Do you want to take my place? I’m tired.”

I gazed after Mitsuru as she set out for the tennis court. Her frame was small and her hips high, giving her body a nice symmetry. She gripped her tennis racket as though it were heavy and exchanged some words with her friend. Her limbs were so white and slender they looked as though they’d never seen the light of day. But her serve struck the boundary line of her opponents’ court perfectly. The ball made a pleasant dry ringing sound as it was returned. Although I had no basis for my evaluation, I decided that Mitsuru was an incomparably good player. She was quick on her feet and used the court wisely. Surely, when the match was over, she’d be embarrassed by the fact that she’d lost herself in her play, inadvertently revealing her considerable talents. Mitsuru was no bonsai. Her beauty was not like that of a bonsai, which achieves its charm by asserting its own will in defiance of the careful bindings that lash and restrict it. How, I wondered, would my grandfather describe Mitsuru’s beauty?

A squirrel. It suddenly came to me: a clever squirrel who forages for nuts in the trees and buries them in the ground to stave off winter hunger. The squirrel was exactly what I was not. I was the tree. And no doubt a woody tree at that, a tree bearing naked seeds, ovary-free seeds, a gymnosperm. I would be a pine, perhaps, or a cedar. At any rate, I would not be the kind of flowery tree that welcomes birds and insects to gather in its branches like blossoms. I was a tree that simply existed for itself, alone. I was an old tree, thick and hard, and when the wind blew through my branches the pollen stored up there scattered of its own accord. What an appropriate analogy, I thought. The realization brought a smile to my lips.

“What’s so funny?”

I heard an angry voice behind me. Kazue was standing beside the water fountain staring at me. She’d been watching me for some time, I realized, and the realization left me feeling mildly irritated. I couldn’t help but picture a scraggly tree when I thought of Kazue.

“It’s got nothing to do with you. I was just remembering something funny, that’s all.”

Kazue wiped the sweat from her brow and said with a glum look, “You were sitting there talking to that girl Mitsuru, and the whole time you were staring at me and laughing.”

“That doesn’t mean we were laughing at you!”

“Well, I don’t care if you were. It’s just that it makes me angry to think that someone like you would make fun of me!”

Kazue spit the last words out with particular venom. Realizing that she was ridiculing me, I replied with earnestness, disguising my true feelings with great skill. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. We were not ridiculing you or anything of the sort!”

“Oh, it just makes me furious. They’re so malicious. So childish!”

“Did someone do something to you?”

“It would be so much better if they actually did do something to me.”

Kazue slammed her racket against the ground with surprising force, sending up a cloud of dust that coated her tennis shoes, covering the white laces with dirt. The students sitting along the bench turned to stare at her but then just as suddenly returned their gaze to the ground. Most likely they had no interest in the conversation between two such nondescript gymnosperms (Kazue was also of the somber pine or cedar species, unable to produce flowers). After Kazue had glared at the other students on the bench with pent-up hostility, she asked me, “Do you plan to join a club? Have you decided?”

I shook my head silently. I’d dreamed earlier of being involved in club activities, but once I saw the way things really were at the school, I reconsidered. It wasn’t so much that I minded the petty demands senior members of the clubs placed on their juniors; that was a given in any club. But here the clubs weren’t strictly hierarchical. They had a complicated inner structure that ran along vertical lines as well. There were clubs for the inner-circle students, clubs for the orbiters, and clubs for everyone else.

“No, I live with my grandfather so I don’t need to participate.” Without thinking, these were the words that popped out of my mouth! My grandfather and his friends took the role of upperclassmen, and helping him with his handyman job was my extracurricular activity.

“What do you mean by that? Explain yourself,” Kazue said.

“It doesn’t matter. It’s nothing to do with you.”

An angry look swept over Kazue’s face. “Are you saying I’m just fighting for the sake of fighting? Getting worked up over nothing?”

I drew my shoulders in and shrugged. I’d had enough of Kazue and her persecution complex. On the other hand, if she’d already figured out that much, what point was there in asking the question?

“What I’m trying to say is why does the school have to be so unfair? It’s so sneaky! They’ve already picked the winner before the game’s even been played!”

“What are you talking about?” Now it was my turn to ask.

“See, I wanted to join the cheerleading squad. I turned in my application and before they’d even looked at it they turned me down, just like that. Don’t you think that’s wrong?”

All I could do was stare at Kazue stupefied. She was so clearly clueless when it came to both herself and the school. She folded her arms across her chest in a sulky pout and glared at the water fountain. A steady stream of water was bubbling sluggishly out of the faucet.

“The spigot’s loose!” she shouted angrily.

But she was the one who’d forgotten to twist the tap shut.

I fought back the urge to laugh at her. Not yet adults ourselves, we sought to protect ourselves from potential wounds by turning the tables on our perceived aggressors and being the ones to launch the attack. But it grew tiresome being a constant target, and those who clung to their injuries were surely not destined to live long. So I worked on refining my maliciousness and Mitsuru worked on her intelligence. Yuriko, for better or worse, was imbued from the start with a monstrous beauty. But Kazue…Kazue had nothing to cultivate. I felt absolutely no sympathy for her. How can I put this? To get right to the point, Kazue was supremely ignorant, insensitive, ill prepared, and utterly outmatched by the harsh realities that confronted her. Why on earth didn’t she notice?

I’m sure you will once again feel compelled to note that my assessment is particularly brutal, but it’s true. Even if you allow for the fact that she was still immature, there was in Kazue a violent insensitivity. She lacked Mitsuru’s attentiveness, and she did not have my kind of heartlessness. In the final analysis, there was something about her that was fundamentally weak. Kazue did not harbor any demons; in that sense she was similar to Yuriko. They were both at the mercy of whatever came their way, which I found terribly predictable. I wanted more than anything to plant a demon in their hearts.

“Why don’t you lodge a complaint?” I said to Kazue. “Why don’t you talk about it during homeroom?” The instructor in charge of homeroom didn’t do anything but take attendance and go over the day’s schedule. There was hardly any point to having a homeroom. And it would be very uncool for a student to instigate a debate on some topic and try to get some kind of consensus. But Kazue leaped on my suggestion with alacrity.

“That’s it! What a good idea. I owe you one.” Just then we could hear the chimes signaling the end of the class period. Kazue walked off. She didn’t even say good-bye to me.

I was relieved when Kazue left, and I felt lucky to have gotten through the tennis lesson without having to do anything but chat. The gym and home economics classes at Q High School for Young Women were pretty lax. The instructors only paid attention to those who were eager to be involved.

That was the pedagogical doctrine of the teachers at Q High School for Young Women: independence, self-reliance, and self-respect. Students were encouraged to do whatever they wanted because only they had responsibility for their own growth. Rules were lax and much was entrusted to a student’s own sense of self-determination. For the most part, almost all the instructors were themselves Q graduates. Having been nurtured in the pristine purity here, the pedagogical doctrine they preached was anything but abstract. They carefully instilled in us the belief that all things were possible. A wonderful lesson, don’t you think? Both Mitsuru and I secretly clung to this teaching. I had my maliciousness and Mitsuru her intelligence. Together our good points stretched and grew, and we nurtured them and struggled to stand on our own in this corrupt world.