Introducing Heavy Light

I just finished the first scene of my new manuscript, Heavy Light (click "Read More" to see). I won't tell you what the whole story is about just yet--what I want to know is, does it leave you hungry to find out more? Leave your thoughts in the comments. <3

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There is a world I can only see through the windows of an express train. At all other times, a temple is just an old building, a cherry blossom is just a tree. City lights are just another perversion of lightning. You might as well close your eyes. But put it all in motion and you've got something you want to memorize every detail of, precisely because there's no time to. Like how a plastic top is a cheap piece of junk until you watch it spin, the world, through a train window, is always beautiful.

When I disembark at Sakurai Station, my feet carry me up the stairs and through the ticket gate, but my mind's eye stays on the train, hanging off the window ledge. Waving goodbye, it goes off on a great adventure of its own, abandoning me to stand dumbstruck while my mother screams in my face.

"But Mom," I hear myself protest, "I just--"

"Don't you dare interrupt me! I've just about had it up to here with you. One more word, one more peep, and we are turning around and going home. You can forget dorm life. I don't even know if we'll be sending you to school at all."

The plastic top slows, slows, and falls to its side. When it's still, you can see the scuff-marks, the peeling sticker. I am here, now, in the station and nowhere else, inside this stereotype of a stereotype. My mother plays the angry, obese American. Her body fat undulates with every shake of her finger. The passersby remind me of those Edo-era paintings of Tokyoites walking beneath the first streetlamps--the innocent Japanese marveling at these Western curiosities. Except instead of wonderment, this time they seem a little annoyed. We're in the way of the ticket gates.

And me? The blond teenage boy with a suitcase and a duffel bag--he must be a tourist, right? What's his role in all this? I'd better figure it out, and quick. The penalty for forgetting your lines can be harsh.

"I'm sorry, Mom. I know you're disappointed in me." (Step one: always assume that you are wrong. Other stances are futile.) "But, I think I'll really be forced to mature by living on my own." (Step two: be sure to appeal from a position of weakness.) "I know it's expensive to send me to school, but it's important for my future. I really thank you for this." (Step three: remember, you are so, so grateful to be their son.)

"Save it. I know you don't really give a rat's ass about this family. You just want to do what you want to do, don't you? Well, you're a teenager," she sniffs. "I guess it's in your nature to be selfish."

Staring straight at the floor, I nod. "I'm sorry," I repeat.

"What I want to know is, what other secrets have you been keeping from me?"

My head pops up. I hope my cheeks aren't flushing. "I don't have any secrets," I say.

That's a lie. I have one secret. Well, many secrets. Well, a virtual infinity of secrets. But there is this one secret that I absolutely cannot lose, even if the others are stripped away from me. It isn't a rule that I broke, not exactly. It was just... mine. If I had told, I would have lost it. And now, it's become a long-kept secret--and secrets are definitely not allowed in my family.

"Eric, we can do this the easy way or the hard way," she threatens. "If you have something you want to tell me, say it now."

I swallow.

If she doesn't know, and I come clean, I'll hang.

If she knows, and I don't come clean, I will hang double.

"Uh, excuse me?" a new voice interrupts. English, with a Japanese accent. Male. I start to pick up the suitcase, thinking he must be telling us that we're blocking the way. Then he asks, "Are you Eric Horn?"

I switch my attention to the interloper. He's five or so centimeters taller than me and looks a few years older too. Wavy locks, dyed from black to brown, flutter around his face, and he bares just a tickle of hair along his chin. His outfit, Converse boots over tight jeans topped off by a wool coat, looks casual but expensive.

"Yes," is all I can say. He smiles at me. I drop my suitcase.

The boy (man?) quickly leans in and steadies the errant luggage before it topples. His limbs are like a tree's limbs, brown, strong, and flexible. No, he is a tree, and I'm a squirrel. A squirrel with a bad haircut, old tennis shoes, and a coat that was on sale for a thousand yen because nobody else would buy it. I want to throw myself in the trash can.

"Excuse me, but who are you?" my mother wants to know.

"Oh, I'm sorry." He straightens up, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. "The dorm master got your phone call, but he was busy, so he ask me come get you. I'm Rob. Nice to meet you both."

When his little grammar error, the hint that he's not a native speaker, slips out, my mother's jaw tightens. "Your English is very good," she says.

"Thanks. So, can I show you the way? I'll help with the luggage."

Perfect timing. "Really? Would you take this?" I ask, heaving off the duffel bag. I can feel the indentation it's already cut into my shoulder.

"Wait one second," my mother objects. "What country are you from?"

A pregnant pause. "Originally I'm from Japan," says Rob. "But I went to high school in the US, and my family lives there. So I will stay international dorm now."

"Are there are many English-speaking students in the dorms?" she asks. A bad feeling slinks into my neck muscles.

"Uh..." Rob slings the duffel bag's strap across his chest. "Not really. Most students are Korean or Chinese. But they probably know some English. And I think there's a couple Australian exchange students, but I haven't met them yet."

My mother folds her arms across her chest, considering.

"Let's just go, OK? You can ask more questions along the way," I say, taking a few tentative steps forward. But my mother stays rooted to the spot.

"I just thought there'd be more English speakers," she says to me. "You know, so that you'd have support. I just don't know anymore. Maybe it would be a good idea for you to commute from home for a year."

"Mom, I..." I take a moment to reorder my words, careful not to say anything inflammatory. "I'll be alright. I'm supposed to be practicing my Japanese anyway. This is good."

"But what if you have a problem? What'll you do then?" she hounds me.

"Then I can use a dictionary," I reply, wincing as the words come out because I know that wasn't the right response.

"Don't you use that smart-ass tone of voice with me!"

"Whoa, whoa, break it up. Everybody just calm down," Rob interjects, holding up his hands in a 'stop' gesture. Then he puts am arm around my shoulders and says to my mother, "Eric is gonna be fine. The dorm will look after him. It's Japanese custom to take care of guests."

She narrows her eyes at me and says, "I bet you're getting a kick out of this," shaming me and eliciting a quizzical look from Rob. "Fine. Like I said, you're gonna do what you want. But if it turns out to be trouble, don't call home crying."

She turns around, walks away, and gets in line for the ticket vending machines.

"Don't you wanna come along?" I call after her.

"Maybe some other time."

I shrug at Rob, who shrugs back and points to the west-side exit. I nod. "Goodbye, Mom." She doesn't even look back at me.

On the stairs down and away from the station, I throw a glance over my shoulder. She's already back through the ticket gate, already gone.

Out of nowhere, a cherry petal breezes down--and with it, joy.