Paper rockets

I can remember first grade, when I was learning how to read and write kanji. I remembered the characters better than a lot of the other kids, and I loved to read. Novels, even the "young adult" books that I wouldn't pay attention to for years yet, were pretty hard for any first-grader, even one who was good a reader. So I read manga. I loved the exiting pictures and the passionate characters. When I read the adventure comics, I wanted to go on an adventure of my own so badly I could smell it. I decided that I would be an astronaut, because there was no greater adventure than blasting off into outer space. But every time I would go off on my own, sensei would usher me back in line with the other kids and make me help build the fort or play Taira versus Minamoto or whatever it was the class was into at the time.

Sometimes, during class meetings, they'd discuss me. "Souichirou-kun didn't play with us today," I remember Kentarou-kun saying. Nakayama-sensei asked what game they were playing.

"We were building the Minamoto castle!" Kentarou had said proudly. "We wanted Souichirou-kun to help us, but he didn't want to."

"Well, why don't you let Souichirou-kun be the general tomorrow, so everybody can have fun?" Sensei had offered.

So the next day I was the special shogun. I suggested that we build big turrets so that our soldiers could shoot arrows down from above, and my fellow first-graders thought it was a great idea. Then I thought we should build some higher walls made of blocks and a "moat" of blue-painted paper. I wound up leading the whole castle-building effort. Our castle became a wonderful impenetrable fortress, with rocket-shaped towers built out of paper. Nakayama-sensei used this as a springboard to do all sorts of side projects, and we learned all sorts of ancient history, not only of Japan, but other places in Asia and Europe as well. From then on, I can't remember a time when I wasn't the leader.

Of course, nobody in class or anywhere else makes decisions on their own, but there always a coordinator. From first grade on, I've always been in the center of things. For a while I still read my adventure comics, but I became too involved with the people around me to want to leave. I don't even remember my astronaut dreams coming to an end. But they did end.

By my second year of middle school, the teachers were counting on me to organize all sorts of things. I'd help with the Culture Festival and the Athletics festival, and in addition to club activities -- in my case, the music club. I've been playing piano since I was five, and in my last year of junior high I was elected head of the music club. I guess I'd consider music my hobby, but it's work just like everything else is.

Sometimes I feel sorry for my younger sister, Akemi. We've got good parents, but sometimes Mom compares her to me, and poor Akemi's face just falls. I've tried to be a good older brother, but Akemi's talents just aren't as academic as mine. When mom says stuff like "When your brother was this age he was getting perfect grades," I can tell it hurts. Of course, we're very different. Akemi makes friends easily. She's always busy with her friends, laughing, smoothing conflicts over, whispering conspiratorially. I guess that's what you call "social skills" -- those are skills I've never had. Mom doesn't realize that her daughter is actually a much better person than her son. But it's okay, because Akemi is very strong, so she'll have a good life. I just wish Mom wouldn't make her so sad.

What Mom doesn't know is that I wish I were like Akemi. I don't have many shinyuu. I've never made close friendships. I study or practice music all evening at home. I think I'm pretty popular among the other guys (among everybody, really; I was elected Class President, after all), but those acquaintances don't hold much meaning for me. A couple of times in junior high, someone would tell me that such-and-such a girl had a crush on me, but I just couldn't bring myself to get excited. I know I should have been happy, but I couldn't find that within myself.

Recently, one of my kouhai in the music club gave me a minidisc. "Arima-sempai, I think you might enjoy listening to this," he said. I smiled and took it home. That evening, I put it in while studying English -- I've found that music makes the mindless memorization easier. I wasn't really paying attention until a few songs into the disc. When the music finally grabbed my attention, it was like something snapped within me. The music was so passionate, so full of emotion, that I couldn't help but be moved by it. I realized that even though I was the center of so many things, I was removing myself from actually becoming part of society. I was suddenly sad at how many years I'd wasted doing only what was expected of me. I know it's weird that one piece of music could bring all this realization rushing in, but it did. Maybe I was just ready for a change. It later struck me as funny that the change made me more "typical."

A couple of days later I brought the disc back to school to return it to my kouhai -- after making a copy, of course. As the class president, I make it a rule to show up early. I sat down at my desk and regarded the minidisc. Music seemed more important. I was looking forward to the music club after class.

Then the door to the classroom slid open and a girl walked in. It was Yukiko. "Ohayou, Arima-kun," she said.

"Ohayou," I replied.

"Whatcha got there?" she asked.

"Uh, music from a guy in my club," I told her. "A band called Devshirmeh. I don't think they're very popul-"

Yukiko cut me off. "I love those guys! Their earlier stuff is better, though. Which album do you have?"

"Um, I think it's 'Turkish Delight'. . ."

We spent the next forty-five minutes just talking. About music, club, school, all kinds of stuff. I had planned to go home and study further after club activities, but Yukiko talked me into going to a music store with her. "I'll show you all the good stuff," she'd promised.

In reality it turned out to be much more than that. We went to the local shopping district; I'd never been much into hanging around shoutengai, but with her it was fun. Yukiko was witty and carefree; I know her grades weren't as good as mine, but that didn't seem to matter much. She talked me into buying several albums, and then we went to the arcade and played Dance Dance Revolution until we were short of breath. We spent a lot of money, but I hardly ever used my allowance, so I had plenty. I remembered spotting a couple of other girls from my class; Keiko and Yuki. Keiko was one of the more fashionable people in school, Yuki was a quiet, reserved oneesan-type. I couldn't imagine two more opposite girls. The extremes left an impression on me. I was suddenly happy to be with Yukiko, who was funny without being a burikko like Keiko and thoughtful without being too kurai like Yuki seemed.

As the weeks wore on, I helped Yukiko study, and she helped me live. At some point we grew dependent on each other. My majime nature became tempered with her akarui demeanor. I started thinking about the future again, and not as the bleak, preformed destiny I'm sure my father must have faced. I remembered my childhood dream of becoming an astronaut. Now, older, I found the thought of my future as exciting as it seemed to me before. I'll always remember my second year of high school as the time I learned to enjoy being young. At some point during the break between school years, we became closer in a new way. I told Yukiko about my childhood dreams, and my paper rockets in first grade.

We kissed.

Today is the first day of my last year of high school. By a stroke of luck, Yukiko is in my class once again. This year, I'm going to make some new friends, even though I'll be studying for college exams. I know my mom will worry about my grades, but I'll do alright. When I think back, I'm happy with the way things worked out; it's good that I learned how to be serious and put the desires of other people first. But now I know it's good to let other people take care of me sometimes. The process of finding that balance is the process of becoming an adult.