Painter’s former friends sat at the rear, in their usual place. As he followed the two women over, he felt…annoyed. He’d wanted for so long to be invited to this table. To rejoin in this familiar laughter, as he had during school.
It turned out there was an easy way to get the others to let him back in: he just had to be invisible.
Akane presented Yumi with a flourish. “Behold,” she said, “Nikaro’s little sister.”
There were three others in the group: two girls, one guy. That meant Tojin was outnumbered three to one in the clique—unless you went by sheer muscle mass. Painter was reasonably certain Tojin outweighed the other three combined.
“No （lowly） way,” Tojin said, sitting backward on his chair as he usually did, sleeves rolled up as if they were too intimidated by his massive forearms and had shriveled out of respect. He was squeezing some kind of hand exercise device, ten reps in each hand before swapping, because of course he was.
“That’s Tojin,” Akane said, gesturing to him.
“Hey,” he replied, swapping hands.
“Tojin,” Painter said, leaning in toward Yumi, “is exactly what he appears to be. The type of guy who would roll up his sleeves and do exercises at the dinner table to get a better chance at showing off to the women. He never misses a chance to display his body to the girls.”
“This is Masaka,” Akane said, gesturing toward a girl all in black, huddled in her chair with her knees up, sketchpad in front of her. Masaka hated showing skin, and wore a scarf to hide even her neck. She peeked over the top of the sketchpad with narrowed eyes, dark beneath her bangs.
Yumi stepped back in shock. Masaka had that effect on people.
“Rumors in school were,” Painter whispered, “she had to become a painter as part of a plea deal with the judge after stabbing someone during her lower school years. She doesn’t talk much. Too busy plotting.”
Masaka punctuated something on the page at that moment, then looked up again at Yumi—who took another unconscious step backward.
“Don’t let her stern demeanor get to you,” Akane said with her usual cheerfulness. “She’s a softy inside. Besides, staring only makes her angry. And finally, here is Izumakamo!”
A girl in trousers and a sweatshirt stood up, proffering her hand. Yumi stared at it.
“You take it,” Painter explained, “and bow. It’s a kind of greeting.”
Yumi hesitantly did as he said, taking Izzy’s hand and bowing as the other girl did likewise. Then Yumi glanced toward Painter, as if expecting an explanation of who this was, like he’d given for the other two.
“Just watch,” Painter said instead.
“Yumi…” Izzy said, thoughtful. Then she dug into a thick encyclopedia-style book, flipping pages quickly. “Starts with a Y…two syllables… Birth year and month?”
“Say you’re year of the dragon,” Painter told her. “It would look strange if we’re the same age. And, let’s say, the month of rain. For fun.”
“Um…” Yumi said. “Year of the dragon. Month of rain?”
“Ah yes…” Izzy continued, flipping a few more pages. “Oh, here it is. Guri and Shishi’s wedding episode! The first wedding, I mean. You will have very good luck today, Yumi. Very good indeed. Great day for making promises.”
Yumi regarded the young woman, baffled. Nearby, Tojin snickered, swapping hands again with his exercise device.
“Don’t you laugh, Tojin,” Izzy said. “This is a totally legitimate science.”
“Don’t worry about her, Yumi,” Akane said, leaning in and whispering. “She’s special.”
“My talent is special!” Izzy declared. “You wait and see. Soon people are going to catch on, and everyone will be getting their dramascope. I’ll be famous for inventing it, and you all won’t be able to make fun of me any longer. You’ll have to wait in line.”
“Wait in line,” Tojin said. “To make fun of you.”
“No. Um…”
“Presumably,” he said, flexing his hand, “because so many other people will want a chance to do so?”
“That is not what I meant,” Izzy said. She then leaned toward Masaka and whispered conspiratorially, “When I’m rich and famous, want to be my bodyguard?”
Masaka shrugged.
“Great,” Izzy said. “Your first job will be to beat up Tojin when he tries to tell everyone he knew me before I was famous.”
“I’m…confused,” Yumi said.
“Not surprising,” Akane said. “It’s just a game Izzy plays.”
“It’s not a game,” Izzy replied.
“She thinks,” Akane said, “that she can predict people’s fortunes using episode guides for hion-line programs.”
“It’s an ancient art,” Izzy said.
“You made it up!” Tojin said, pointing.
“I made it up a long time ago,” Izzy said. “During a previous life. So it’s ancient. Do you want to see the dramascope that explains it? Here, let me show you.”
She grinned as Tojin rolled his eyes. Painter never had been able to figure out how serious she was about her crazy ideas. In moments like this—smiling as if she’d gone too far on purpose—he was left uncertain.
Standing there though…listening to Tojin joke while Masaka drew and Izzy rambled on about something incredibly random…he felt a painful nostalgia. For something he’d lost, like a misplaced note you keep remembering you wrote something important on, but you can never quite recall what pocket you left it in.
These weren’t his friends anymore. This feeling he felt? It was false. He turned to go as the food arrived, brought by one of Design’s assistants. Two bowls for Tojin—no noodles, just extra eggs and pork—and a small one for Masaka.
There was nothing for Painter here. Why had he yearned so long to come back to this?
He walked off. Yumi gave him a panicked look as he did, but she was the one who had wanted to come down here and talk to this crew. She could do it without him. He wanted to be as far away as he could get—well, as far away as he could get without being yanked every time Yumi shifted. He made it to the bar, where he settled on an empty stool, facing away from the group.
Yumi joined him a few minutes later. “They said,” she told him softly, “I should come up here to order? Which means…tell them what food I want, right?”
He nodded.
“Is there a specific dish I’m supposed to have?” she asked.
“You pick any you want,” he said.
She drew in a breath, appearing nervous about that idea.
“Get a small mild pork with salt,” he said. “No add-ons. My guess, from what I’ve been fed in your world, is that you’d like something with a more…non-complex taste.”
“Thank you,” she said, then held up a sheet of paper. “Um…Masaka gave me this…”
It was a picture of a rabbit drawn with deep, cavernous holes for eyes and a stare that seemed like it wanted to swallow the world. Text underneath said, “Yumi reminds me of a cute bunny.”