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STUCK IN THE JET WASH
tooru first hears the story when she’s fifteen, at the end of a horrible day in her last year of middle school.
the day was so bad she didn’t even go to the conbini for the mega sale on all the milk bread, even though she’d made hajime, issei & hiro promise to go with her for weeks prior to that, & they’d been shocked she cancelled on them.
she can’t make this up. this is exactly one person’s fault & she won’t pretend otherwise.
after telling her friends the bakery trip is off, & so is every other trip for the foreseeable future, she arrives home from practice after sundown, very much late in the hopes that no one will be around to talk to her. & oh — yeah, that’s not happening. from all the way out in the genkan, she can hear grandma pottering around in the kitchen, picking up plates & cutlery.
“i’m home,” tooru greets, more out of habit than anything. the same way she walks to the kitchen instead of straight up to her room, because she loves her family very much & always does the right thing. you know, as girls are supposed to.
“welcome home, tooru-chan. how was your practice?” grandma asks cheerfully, scooping rice out of the cooker on the kitchen island & portioning vegetables onto a plate.
“terrible,” tooru says as she washes her hands in the sink. “there’s another setter on the team. she took my place at the practice match today.”
going back to the table, she clenches her fists, digging her nails into her palms at the thought of getting benched. parked next to the coach, & for what? just so they could trot out that stupid tobio-chan with her stupid long black hair & stupid blue puppy eyes? that clueless expression that seemed to suggest that the brat could do no wrong ever?
tobio had looked back toward tooru during the game for reassurance or encouragement or whatever the hell it is she’d wanted. but tooru, with a towel over her head, had firmly avoided that innocent gaze.
prodigies don’t deserve anyone’s sympathy or help, tooru had told herself. they can very well make it on their own, since they’re halfway there as is.
they’d lost the game, anyway. it was the first time tooru had felt any sort of relief in the wake of a loss.
“well, there’s always next time, isn’t there?” grandma puts a half-full plate down in front of tooru. everyone knows that tooru never finishes her food, so no one gives her full helpings any more. “you’re doing really well. we’re all proud of you here.”
“i’m not hungry,” tooru protests, but her traitorous stomach growls loudly. she looks down at the grilled mackerel marinated in soy sauce, sitting alongside rice & fried vegetables.
“yes, you are.” grandma flaps her hand in front of her face in a ‘nonsense’ motion. “have you heard of the kuwazu nyobo?”
“the what?”
“the wife with a small appetite,’ grandma clarifies, going back to the rice cooker. “she’s actually a yokai with a second mouth at the side of her head, & she appears before a man who selfishly said: ‘if i take a wife, i’ll have to spend more on food, so i want a hard-working woman with a small appetite.”’
“what happens then?”
“then, the two get married,” grandma responds. “the wife works hard & doesn’t eat a bite in front of her husband, so she appears to be the ideal woman.”
tooru has a strange feeling that she’s heard this story before, only in a different form. she laces her fingers together in her lap.
“still, rice & other foodstuffs keep disappearing from the house. the man is suspicious, so he starts to spy on her. he discovers that, when she thinks she’s alone, she cooks up a huge load of rice, which she then makes into onigiri & feeds into the mouth at the side of her head.” grandma waves the rice paddle in front of her to emphasize the point.
“of course, when the man announces he wants a divorce, the woman reveals her true nature. he narrowly escapes her by hiding in a marsh, but never forgets the horrors he saw that day.”
tooru is silent for a minute, wondering what grandma is trying to tell her.
“i don’t believe in that stupid stuff,” tooru responds at last. “there’s no such thing as yokai or ghosts or anything like that.” it’s a bold declaration, brave as only the young can be. anyway, whoever heard of a monster that could be tamed with food?
(she’ll only believe in the kind of monsters that are sated with blood. the story should’ve ended with the wife eating that hateful man alive.)
grandma gives her a stern look. “tooru-chan! of course monsters exist. you can’t make this kind of story up.”
tooru pouts a little — there’s no way she’s wrong about this, but she’ll bite (ha, ha). “fine. so what would happen if that monster - woman - whatever - didn’t feed the other mouth?”
“that’s simple.” grandma walks to the sink to wash her hands. “it would turn around & eat her instead, body & soul until she was hollow inside & out.”
tooru stares at her food. the dead fish is laid out on the white ceramic like a corpse on a slab at the morgue. she watches the yellow-grey skin fall off in pieces beside the grains of rice, revealing tiny, translucent bones.
body & soul, body & soul.
like she said, she doesn’t believe in monsters, so she takes five measured bites of rice with a spoonful of fish & vegetables each & sets her chopsticks back on the ceramic hashioki, making sure they’re perfectly aligned as if she’d never displaced them to begin with
the thought gives her a fresh burst of energy. she walks back to her room with confidence. she feels light but good. slightly empty, but fully content. self-righteous, even.
watching her reflection in the full-length mirror intently, she raises her t-shirt & examines her ribs, splaying her hand over them easily. slowly, she puts her arm behind her back, around her waist, & touches her belly button with the tips of her fingers.
— what does a yokai look like?
the thing is, she doesn’t have a funny enough personality to justify being fat at school or anywhere else. balancing five hundred yen coins on her collarbones doesn’t impress anyone either, apart from her gaggle of rabid admirers who only want to talk to her about her beauty routine.
she pulls a face, pinching the folds of skin at her hips. really, she’s fine, swear to god. she’s pretty & popular, with an easy charm & good grades & a starting spot on the volleyball team. the exact opposite of a monster. all of that should be enough to make her better than everyone else, right?
… right?
if she gains any more weight everyone will lose interest: classmates and sponsors alike. it’s in her contract for that big-name sportswear company, at least: 16-18 year old girl, 22-inch waistline. they’ll switch her out for a newer, better model the moment she falls out of line, park her on the bench — just like it’s a volleyball match.
not a monster, she repeats to herself. but the longer she stares, the less sure she is.
just to be extra, super-duper safe, she hits the right side of her head with the heel of her hand: once, twice, three times with equally satisfying thunk noises. strands of dry brown hair drop to the floor from the force. that should be enough to kill whatever ghastly mouth might be growing there.
she can’t control tobio but she can very well control herself.
BAD TRIP, I COULDN’T GET OFF
the day tooru leaves for argentina, she has exactly two regrets.
the first is that she didn’t throw a massive farewell party. this particular spring, coincident with her graduation from high school, has proven to be perfect: one with just the right amount of sun, the blue sky as clear as you like. she could have planned a nice get-together outside, used the local park, even. there’s an empty field right beside the all-purpose court she used to practice her volleyball serves on. it could have been beautiful — perfect, even.
in her mind, everything’s extravagant & carefully designed: there’s a white & turquoise balloon arch at the park entrance, & a live string quartet. past the gates, there’s a massive center table with a five-tier chocolate cake placed on top. it’s decorated with chrysanthemums & on the topmost layer, farewell, dear tooru, is written in loopy white icing . there’s a vintage knife to cut it open, & it’s got a huge white ribbon tied on it, & at the edge of the centerpiece there are balloons that explode with glitter, & swan-shaped ice sculptures, & a velvet red carpet rolled out all the way to the stage, and…
she has three - no, five outfit changes. she’s wearing a white sash that says miss farewell in golden cursive. she’s standing atop a parade float, decorated with ribbons & flowers & flower-shaped ribbons & ribbon-shaped flowers. she’ll graciously wave to all her fans as the lady of the hour; & in the middle of the party, after the cake’s cut & served, she gives a rousing, tearful speech for which she’s rewarded with a standing ovation from the sobbing crowd.
the cake is gorgeously decadent. everything looks & tastes perfect. there’s a whole table of finger food with dainty cucumber sandwiches & shot glasses of vanilla ice cream & a chocolate fondue station loaded with skewers of fruit & candy. she’d have sparkling white wine like in the movies, too — oh, but the police might send her a notice because she’s only eighteen. never mind, a soda fountain with sparkling grape juice will do in a pinch.
anyway, it’s not like she’d get to eat any of it because she’s – well, she’s too busy talking to the guests. everyone in the neighbourhood’s invited along with her team from seijoh, for sure. her relatives & neighbours all bawling their lungs out about how much they’ll miss her, her former teammates telling her one last time, ‘we believe in you, captain.’ her more distant acquaintances show their respects the best way they can, too: she receives a mountain of gifts & flowers & chocolates from admirers far & wide.
reporters from the local newspaper come & cover the event & the volleyball monthly people turn up too. she gets a full-colour, glossy, two-page spread lined with pictures of her from all her best angles, the article mourning the fact that japan is losing one of its best volleyball setters.
it’s the kind of thing that makes people go bright green with envy, erases the pity in their eyes as they whisper about her when they think she’s not listening. everyone uses different words, but it all amounts to the same thing. tooru oikawa, the senior from aoba johsai. how good can she really be if she’s never been to nationals?
see? perfect, as everything should be.
as it is, the park was booked for the evening, & tooru’s never been the best at organising events.
so what’s actually happening is this: it’s an overcast night, the sky some nebulous shade that’s closer to black than grey. the air is damp from the march drizzle, & her flight to buenos aires leaves at six a.m.
earlier that evening, she shared a bowl of chashu pork ramen with hajime at their favourite shop. it was her first indulgence in months & she’s not proud of herself, but she didn’t want to spend her last night in japan arguing with mattsun & makki about the amount of calories in a single serving of noodles.
after dinner, they’d linked arms & wahlked the familiar, winding roads back & forth all the way home. it was just like any other day: the four of them trading inside jokes & talking about how the team would fare in the coming years. talking about how tooru should return as soon as possible to see all her juniors, however unlikely that might be. talking about how aoba johsai would make it to nationals one day like it was immutable fact.
it’s two in the morning now, & as she reaches her doorstep, tooru hugs each of her friends tightly, patting them on the back. for what it’s worth, this has all been pretty good. she can’t help but think it would be nicer with a party, though.
“you’ll always be our captain. & we’ll always believe in you,” hiro says, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her jacket.
issei nods in agreement, tilting her head back so her tears don’t fall. “knock ‘em dead over there, okay?”
hajime’s last to go, & her words are friendly but forceful in the way tooru’s always loved. “bye, shittykawa. don’t forget us when you’re famous.”
she hugs tooru tightly, leaning closer to the setter’s ear. “you’d better eat, or i’ll hunt you down & spoonfeed you myself.”
“got it.” tooru smiles widely & nods at least a hundred times more enthusiastically than she feels. “what would ido without you guys?”
she waves at them a final time as she gets into the car, her luggage already loaded into the boot since she went for dinner. her dad insisted on taking her to the airport even though they’ve only met about once a month for the past ten years since her parents’ divorce.
“do you really have to go so far away?” her dad asks, as if they haven’t had this conversation before, as if she hasn’t raised her voice often enough at the people who don’t understand her. “we’ll miss you a whole lot.”
“i know,” tooru says shortly, looking out the window. “i could’ve called a cab. i’ve got the money for it.”
it’s true enough. for years now, she’s been saving her allowance for spanish classes & textbooks. she’d even kept money aside for the train rides to tokyo whenever she had to sort out her paperwork. it’s been enough of a task to convince her parents to let her go to argentina at all, never mind explaining that professional volleyball is an actual career.
though her parents didn’t know what to do with such a stubborn daughter, they came to a compromise & offered reluctant support. her dad gave her his old brown suitcase that he used for business trips, & agreed to help her with her housing rent for the first year — a little apartment, since the team sharehouse was full.
“no, no. i want to see you off,” dad says, glancing sideways at her. “you’re a fantastic player, i know, but… if things don’t work out, you can always come back home.”
“i know.”
“at least make sure you keep in touch with your mom."
“i will.”
dad pulls up to a junction, stopping at the traffic light. “hey, i can u-turn here. it’s still not too late to change your mind,” he says jokingly.
tooru shakes her head. she feels nothing but prickling annoyance. ca san juan has an opening for a setter position, & they accepted her based on all her video footage & coach blanco’s fervent recommendation. she’d be stupid not to go. everything will work out, it’ll be awesome, she’ll be the next shining star in the volleyball world, et cetera.
“just kidding.” dad offers, & pats her on the shoulder. “look at my little girl, all grown up. next thing we know, you’ll find yourself some nice guy over there & settle down.”
some nice man. the corner of tooru’s eyes prickle with tears, & her throat closes in on itself like a heavy pair of doors.
“try your best over there, eh? anyway, i can’t wait to have a bunch of halfie grandkids…”
tooru rolls her eyes so hard they almost fall out of their sockets. she forces herself to focus on the raindrops trickling down the car windowpane, tracking each one with her gaze as they gather in streams at the bottom. the lights from passing cars refract through the water, casting red & white beams across her lap.
without warning, her stomach seizes up violently in a potent whirlpool of hunger & rage. she grimaces & raises her hand to the right side of her head instinctively. the dull pain is almost comforting now, like picking at an unhealed scab out of instinct.
thunk. be thin.
thunk. have a brood of screaming children.
thunk. get thin again by some miracle.
thunk. total. thunk. fucking. thunk. bullshit.
miyagi’s always been too small for hardworking girls with small appetites, & by god she’ll make it count in this new place.
MAYBE I BIT OFF MORE THAN I COULD CHEW
her second regret, then, is this:
tooru picks up the call when she’s standing in the shade of her apartment building. the structure is painted a dull beige, & its square exterior doesn’t differ much from the flat complexes in japan. there’s not much of a view here, but the good thing is it’s supposedly within walking distance of the gymnasium.
even from here, the sun is blinding at this angle. she squints at the paper map in her hand, looking left & right.
“shittykawa!” hajime’s voice rings out loud & clear through the phone, as if she’s standing right beside tooru. there’s a lot of rushing background noise, probably the rain back home that hasn’t cleared yet. “do you know what you’ve done?”
“ah, iwa-chan! you’ll have to be more specific,” tooru says lightly, because she’s done a hell of a lot in her time & really doesn’t have the capacity to remember it all.
on the other hand, she knows deep down that she shouldn’t hang up on what must be a very serious conversation. hajime nags like an old aunt but when her voice gets steely calm like this, it means it’s time to run for the hills.
but — in a very funny yet painfully real sense — tooru’s already run off, right? no one can catch her here, not even hajime. what could anyone possibly do to hurt her now?
tooru’s heart skips a few beats. she sandwiches her phone between her ear & her shoulder. even though she can read very well from here, she rotates the map a few times just to make sure she’s at the correct junction.
“you didn’t tell your own kouhai you were leaving,” hajime continues, anger seeping into her voice with every passing second. “& now she’s gone & texted everyone asking where you are.”
“mmm, specifics, iwa-chan!” tooru clicks her tongue.
“tobio kageyama was about to bike to the airport, she thought you got kidnapped -”
“you can tell her i’m fine.”
“- she was showing your picture to all your neighbours & asking if they saw you -”
“which one did she use? it’d better be the one from seventeen .”
“- stop playing around, oikawa!” hajime snarls, “kageyama told me what you did, oh my god, i can’t believe you!”
tooru’s vision whites out like she’s been flashbanged. the memory hits her like a punch in the face. kageyama in her bed last year, that one night some weeks before the spring high. dark-haired, blank-eyed, clutching the bedsheets, designer lipstick prints on her decidedly un-cute face. such a stark difference from her total focus on court, a mess now that she’d been chewed up & spit out by tooru’s monstrous other mouth.
— oikawa-san, did i do something wrong?
“... you’re joking,” she says slowly, her mouth dry. she tightens her free hand on the corner of her map, crumpling it.
in hindsight, maybe it’s best she didn’t have that fancy farewell party. there’s no knowing who would turn up uninvited, & no amount of designer outfits or gourmet cakes would be enough to undo the damage of a blue-eyed spectre at the feast.
(you can turn all your bedsheets to burial shrouds but a ghost will never leave your house.)
“i wish i was. kageyama rode her bike all the way to my house to make sure you weren’t hiding under my bed.” hajime takes a deep breath, her voice cracking with frustration. tooru’s stomach does a flip but hajime doesn’t give her a chance to process the information. “she’s sitting next to me right now. it’s fucking three in the morning — on a goddamn monday. i hate you so much right now, tooru, i swear to god.”
some light thumping sounds accompany the sobs that grow ever louder. tooru imagines a distraught tobio tapping hajime’s shoulder, & then she doesn’t have to imagine anything anymore because she hears it all.
“please, iwaizumi-san, let me talk to oikawa-san, is she safe? i want to hear her voice, just for a second, please -"
tooru’s stomach drops right into the centre of the earth. she stops right in her tracks, & feels the weight of someone colliding into her back. perdón! she mouths quickly, & ducks away, back to the shade of the apartment complex.
monday, what a concept.
tooru looks around. it’s three in the afternoon on a sunday. naturally, no one has asked for photos of her in the street or said inane things like hey, aren’t you that girl from the sports drink ad?
she’d always gotten annoyed with all that back home, but now that she’s not hearing them she gets uncomfortably self-conscious, as if there might be something stuck on her face that no one has told her about. it’s a silly thing to be homesick about, one of those voids she’ll have to fill on her own.
she covers her mouth & lets out a giggle like she might in one of her ads, to cover the trembling in her voice. “say, what’s the future like, iwa-chan?”
“shut up. i thought you’d at least clean up your own mess before you left.”
“the brat’s on spring break,” tooru says, as offhandedly as she can. “tell her to go…” fly a kite. “... to national volleyball camp or whatever it is geniuses do in their free time.”
hajime’s bitter laugh on the other end cuts deep. “me? oh, no, no. you fucked her, so you tell her that now.”
tooru doesn’t even have time to yell what the hell, iwa, you can’t do this to me or some other variant of rejection, before it starts happening all at once.
a new, achingly familiar voice comes on the line, soft, shaky & congested with tears.
“h-hello, oikawa-san -”
— will you
teach me how to serve
talk to me?
tooru feels the slightest embers of sympathy in her chest, then quickly stamps them out. there’s no way she’ll be fooled by a brat who tricks the finest blockers & dumps balls across the net like it’s nothing, stealing spots at the nationals from right under tooru’s feet. it’s disgusting, so unfair how things played out.
fifteen-year-old tooru would puff out her cheeks & stick out her tongue, but present, nineteen-year-old tooru shudders at the ghost of a blue-eyed gaze boring into her back.
& yet the answer remains the same, as it always has.
— no way, tobio-chan!
tooru says nothing, bites her tongue so she doesn’t scream. she drops her map, takes hold of her phone with both hands & hurls it straight into the path of an incoming bus.
it’s every spiker’s wet dream — a perfect four toss with mathematical precision, three metres in the air & one metre from the other side of the road. just far enough so everyone involved has space to operate. she’d like to see anyone else try to pull that off ( take that, you snot-nosed brat!).
she watches in slow motion as it’s crushed under the wheels, but the noise gets lost in the surrounding traffic. the bus moves on, unperturbed, & so does the world.
tooru looks at the shards of metal & glass on the road, no different from any other form of garbage now. there goes three years’ worth of texts, of music & contacts & photos. her family, her friends, her agents. everyone from a country she needed so much courage to leave behind.
oh, well. she was due to change her number here anyway. besides, even if she didn’t get a new phone, what would she use the money for? candy?
a passer-by twirls their index finger by their temple in the universal sign for crazy, but that’s the extent of the reaction she gets. everyone else simply sidesteps her on their way to who knows where.
then it hits her, again & again: she’s a small girl in a big city & nothing she does here matters to anyone but herself. no one cares how much she’s sacrificed to be here, & she doesn’t know what she wants anymore, but she knows if she doesn’t get it she’ll crumble.
it’s one of those things that’s so surreal, so mentally breaking that the only thing you can do is laugh — & laugh she does. bent double over the sidewalk, she cackles like a witch & curses her life in as many languages as she knows until she’s out of breath & in stitches.
she covers her face with her crumpled map, her shoulders shaking uncontrollably. her right ankle, which she thought had recovered last year, throbs in tandem with the right side of her head.
at this intersection in the middle of san juan, tooru oikawa is small, hungry — & now, with the force of her own will, off the grid.
OVERHEAD OF THE AQUA BLUE
when her new phone rings at four-thirty a few days later, tooru’s sprawled out on her freshly mopped apartment floor like a dead lizard.
it’s a sweltering afternoon, & there’s a murky, vague heaviness in her right corner of her brain that she can’t quite shake off. the monstrous mouth is yawning, needing to eat, but it’s certainly more reasonable to put it to sleep like a colicky baby.
the afternoon sunlight streams in through the open windows, casting shadows over the faux wooden floor. eyes half-shut, she pushes her blue & yellow volleyball around on her belly, enjoying the mild pressure, the way it rolls neatly up & down through the gutter between her hipbones. even with only her t-shirt & panties on, her sweat soaks into the fabric like her whole body is melting, but this is as good a distraction as any & she’ll gladly take it.
the ceiling is low, painted off-white to match the walls. she spent the whole day cleaning the room slowly, methodically, with the old rags she wrapped her keepsakes in so she wouldn’t have to spend her money on cleaning supplies.
she’ll decorate later, put up all her photos & plushes & the like, but she’s taking a break for now. the way her muscles ache, all she wants is to sleep the rest of the week away, but coach allona sent her an email with the details of ca san juan’s training. the first session is tomorrow morning. she’ll join the new transfers from other teams too. it’s a solid plan, all in all.
she used to be stronger, she swears it. she must have spent all her energy on the move.
at first, she’s so focused on her room that she doesn’t recognise the chorus of girls generation’s oh! as the ringtone for her line calls. it feels more like a flashback of sorts, a hazy relic of a bygone era of her life.
in fact, she almost regrets getting a new phone at all. when she downloaded her line app again, she found ten missed calls from her sister, twenty more from her mom.
a barrage of texts from the seijoh group chat has come through, too. issei’s sent a bunch of google map links to nearby places to get food. hiro’s asked if tooru has found a therapist yet. the latest text is hajime’s detailed, threatening plan to fly to argentina this minute.
what are you, my mother? tooru mouths at the screen in annoyance, still ignoring the call.
finally, when she can’t stand the noise any longer, she reaches around & picks up the phone without looking at the caller id. she’s got a pretty good idea of who it might be. what she has no idea of is how to deal with them.
“hi, honey. how are you doing?”
oh, my god. mom, seriously?
in the days leading up to her departure from japan, everyone (save for hajime) talked to tooru like she was a wild animal in a zoo & they needed her to get back into her enclosure before she tore up her habitat. this is exactly the tone they used — gentle, polite, sugar-sweet just in case she decided to reach out & slap them.
now, tooru rolls her eyes so hard they nearly pop out of her skull. new phone, same shit.
she picks up the black & pink kuromi charm at the end of her phone, rubbing it between her thumb & index finger. “i’m… fine. i just cleaned my room.”
“how’s the place? was it like the photos on the website?”
“yeah, it’s pretty good.” tooru goes on a little about the room, the view from the window & an approximation of where the bed & closet are. she runs out of steam after, & pauses to catch her breath.
her mom makes a small sound of approval, only to stop abruptly. a second of silence. then, the inevitable question. “have you eaten?”
“i…” tooru thinks, but the gears of her brain are jammed up. the silence itself feels like a block of ice.
“see, this is why we all wanted you to stay home. i can’t keep an eye on you in argentina.” her mom sounds distressed, suddenly on the verge of tears like a switch has been flipped. “i hate when you starve yourself. you have to eat, i’m telling you.”
“no, i -”
“you know, my mother-in-law never let me eat. told everyone i was lazy & greedy & keeping the food from my husband & children -”
“oh.” tooru hasn’t heard this story before, but she senses she needs to shut it down before things blow up.
“i ate the family’s leftovers for years, tooru, so if you die over there, it will not be my fault, i swear to god -”
“okay - okay, jesus! calm down, mom! i’m eating! i’m eating, okay?” tooru says loudly, then inhales sharply when she realises what she’s done.
she’s never been a particularly good liar. according to mattsun & makki, her voice always goes up an octave & she starts turning red whenever she tells the slightest untruth. in fact, she has no idea why she’s lying in the first place. she could have said literally anything else in the world. she could’ve been at training, or on the bus, or at a friend’s house.
well, this particular lie is one she’s told various people at various times. it shouldn’t be too hard for her to keep going.
“that’s great, honey. what are you eating?” mom asks, clearly trying (& failing) to hide the sneaking suspicion in her voice.
tooru licks her lips, which have gone very dry, & puts the phone on speaker mode. she can picture her mom sitting on the couch at home, waiting for a detailed answer right now.
she takes the volleyball in both hands & lifts it towards the ceiling, pretending it’s a huge, spherical triple-layered tostados. with roasted chicken & bell peppers, like she saw in a nearby bakery on the street. her mouth starts watering at the thought.
the brown ceiling fan spins slowly, creaking softly with every rotation. she hits the heel of her hand on the ball according to the change in volume every few seconds, like how she usually hits the side of her head: hard, soft.
hard, soft. hard, soft.
“a chicken sandwich,” she replies firmly. she rotates the imaginary sandwich, inhaling its delicious, freshly-toasted, completely imaginary scent. “so i can’t talk for long, or it’ll go cold.”
she bites into the volleyball to round out her act, dragging her upper row of teeth along the curved line where blue meets yellow. the taste of rubber & dried sweat, both fresh & stale, fills her mouth. “mmm, this is really good. my favourite.”
her stomach growls in protest, making her wince. she has to stop pretending or she’ll feel like eating real food & god knows where that’ll leave her.
“look, could you call me back?” tooru says, after a while of pretending the ball is the best meal she’s had in her life. her teeth hurt from the exertion, the joints at the angles of her jaw clicking back & forth with every movement.
“because you’re eating a chicken sandwich?”
“yeah. it’s a chicken sandwich. it’s got..” tooru pictures the bakery, with its array of fresh ingredients on display. “... cheese & tomatoes & everything, for real.”
“are you eating alone, or with your friends?”
“it’s just me in my room right now.” tooru rolls the volleyball between her hands. she doesn’t want to talk about food any longer than she has to. “look, mom. i’m sorry, but i’ve got to finish my food.”
“fine.” her mom lets out a long sigh. from relief or frustration, tooru can’t quite tell over the line, but it’s probably a great deal more of the latter knowing how neurotic that woman is. “say hi to your sandwich for me. get a few more if you’re hungry, okay? call me if you need anything, i’ll get your sister & iwa-chan to check up on you -“
“bye,” tooru says quickly, & hangs up.
she crawls over to plug her phone into its charger in the corner of the room. the volleyball rolls away from her into the shadow of the closet, & she doesn’t go to retrieve it.
instead, she lays down on the floor again, in that comfortable patch of sunlight, & closes her aching eyes.
FALL TO YOUR KNEES, BRING ON THE RAPTURE
she dreams in fragments: large, jagged shards of a mirror she’s punched into. violent. ravenous. the teeth on the side of her head firmly sunk into someone’s shoulder, tearing through skin & flesh. the give of the sinew & the crack of bone under her teeth, shot through with the cloying sweetness of fear.
(tobio doesn’t scream. she’s quiet, like the day tooru slapped her across the face. as she should be, the brat deserves everything she gets… including this. even if it’s not for real.)
in this godsent vision, she eats & eats, all that’s left of the body is long strands of dark hair & ripped-out eyeballs with ocean-blue irises & the lingering feeling of emptiness that comes with knowing nothing will ever compare to this.
the regret is instantaneous.
as delicious as your greatest rival’s body is, you can’t have it twice.
… or so she thinks, because this half-digested flesh is coming to life in her own guts, making her stomach churn. it’s growing into its own being, using tooru’s body as a chrysalis until the time comes for it to burst free into the air.
tooru wakes up close to midnight, shivering like crazy, with the taste of iron in her mouth. she might die in this moment, the way her heart is going at triple speed.
walking to the bathroom, she flicks on the yellow light. the first thing she notes is that the mirror’s still whole, & flawlessly clear from her frenzied scrubbing earlier. perfect.
she sticks out her tongue slowly. it foams with a light pink mixture of saliva & blood. her bared teeth & the gaps between them are red all over. the thought of eating tobio alive must have excited her so much that she bit her tongue in her sleep.
surprisingly, she feels no pain. no panic, either. only a slow rush of intrigue in her veins.
a lone dog barks a few streets over, then falls silent.
tooru doesn’t rinse her mouth at all. instead, she licks her uneven teeth clean & swirls the last dregs of blood in her mouth before swallowing them in one go. she can hear the gurgle of air bubbles going down her throat, like post-victory champagne.
i win, tobio-chan.
fully content now, she presses her hand into the deep concavity just below her ribs, a place the sun doesn’t touch. she likes to imagine she can feel her spine this way.
shadows flit across her whole, pale skin, & she breathes freely once more.
BLESSED BE THE GIRLS TIME CAN’T CAPTURE
her training goes pretty well, all things considered. her ca san juan teammates are absolute angels: tatiana, opposite hitter & longtime team captain, is just like no-nonsense hajime. bianca, the tallest middle blocker, has kunimi’s laid-back, slow-burning disposition. carolina is a fantastic libero who reminds her of an energetic senior she worked with in her first year of high school.
the new girl coming in with tooru this season is leticia, an opposite hitter freshly transferred from river plate. she’s nineteen as well, & they’re both the youngest members of the team.
her spanish isn’t completely there yet, & coach allona helps her fill whatever knowledge gaps are needed, but tooru’s fine for the most part. after all, volleyball is the one language she’s completely fluent in. her mind may be dull in her room, but it’s utterly clear when she’s on the court, feeling the ball in her own two hands. she tosses to each of her hitters: higher, lower. closer to the net, further. front toss, back toss. fast & slow.
the rush of blood & adrenaline through her body is the stuff she feeds on these days, staving away every other signal her brain sends her the squeak of her shoes on the floor & familiar ache of her muscles make her feel like she’s home.
who cares if she can’t feel her fingers, or if she gets faint if she turns her head too fast? she’s still got it, she can bring out the best in her team no matter where she goes.
the problem is the hunger that takes over whenever practice ends, & she has to leave for home.
it crops up a few weeks into training when tatiana approaches her after practice. it’s already evening, the team’s shadows stretching across the gymnasium floor.
“che, toto. do you want to eat with us?”
“no, that’s fine.” tooru says. she loves her team to bits, but she doesn’t want to sit awkwardly alongside everyone while they eat.
“are you sure? you know we haven’t had a meal with you yet.” tatiana says, nudging her in the ribs. “you can’t dodge us forever, you know!”
“oh! really? that’s weird.” tooru laughs, moving away. out of instinct, she hits the side of her head again.
the more she struggles, the more attention she gets. she can feel twelve pairs of eyes fixed on her, asking her to eat: toto, will you hang out with us?
“todo bien, toto?” leticia asks, her brow furrowed in concern.
“no, i’m - fine.” tooru hits the side of her head again, but the hunger doesn’t automatically subside this time. panicked, she tries a few more times to make sure no one can see the phantom mouth at the side of her head that doesn’t exist because oh no, monsters aren’t real & neither is the urge to eat -
“why do you keep hitting yourself?”
tooru isn’t paying attention any more; doesn’t even register who it is among her team that asks the question.
my grandma once told me a story, she wants to say with her whole chest.
“headache,” she improvises instead, & turns to run out of the gym as fast as she can. she can feel her ribs rattling as she walks out, like the bars of a jail cell.
on the road home, she walks under the long shadow of a huge, ongoing construction project — another office or apartment building, maybe. a group of construction workers sit by the road, talking amongst themselves. they’re mostly large, unshaven men with beer bellies who look around her father’s age, & some younger ones in the mix.
the dust fills her lungs & she stops to cough a little. the workers take the sudden break in her pace to hiss at her, making loud kissing noises.
she glances up at them, meets their collective gazes — her first mistake.
they have her attention now, & here it comes — mi reina preciosa, tienes ojos brillantes.
tooru winces, trying to make sense of the rough words. she grasps at their edges, smooths them out for something she can take to her heart.
— reina, 女王, queen.
they called me that, once upon a time.
she raises her chin a little, to counteract the way her heart sinks into her stomach. life’s no fairytale & the blood in her veins has never been blue. her tears won’t magically turn to diamonds in her crown.
so she’s still beautiful. so people still notice her. but it’s all wrong & it makes her skin crawl & the bile rise into her throat.
the fact is, you can make all the moves, aim all the spotlights, but at the end of the day you’re nothing but a trophy in a world that doesn’t care. & there’ll be no happy ending either, only pages & pages of this same old life until your heart gives out.
one of the younger men yells something that sounds like “i’ve always wanted to date an asian girl.” the rest whistle & follow with remarks she can’t quite understand, but their accompanying hand gestures make things all too clear.
tooru knows they’re hungry. she knows she looks like food.
the mouth on the side of her head yawns wide, speaks for the first time. a gravelly man’s voice, joining the cacophony: what made you think you could run from your own body, baby? now go get me some dinner… like a good girl.
a wave of nausea worms its way through tooru’s guts, up into her brain. right on cue, she quickens her pace & keeps her eyes on the cracks in the pavement. if it worked in the shadowy street corners of miyagi, it’ll work here too.
left, right. left, right. ladies & gentlemen, look at her go: everyone’s favourite wind-up doll, racking up gold stars on the long road to hell.
here she is in the mirror again, completely naked & determined to do something about herself right here, right now. she holds a comb in one hand & a pair of scissors from her pencil case. some upbeat mix of k-pop hits is playing from her phone, which is precariously balanced on the edge of the sink.
this haircut is woefully long overdue; she should’ve done it the day she landed here, but it’s only now she has the energy & resolve for it.
she waves to her reflection, humming along to the tune currently playing on her phone.
hello. good afternoon. how are you?
you look wonderful. have you lost weight? how short do you want your hair?
how can i be your friend? do you wish i loved you?
it waves back without a mind of its own: a brutally honest, stupid girl with damp, waist-length brown hair who won’t leave her no matter what.
“fine. be that way,” she says spitefully, as she grabs a handful of hair at the base. her fist shakes; it’s the jitters again, those little tremors that remind her she’s human. “i don’t need shit from you.”
she’s spent the best part of her years in school growing her hair out, & now most of it falls out of her scalp by itself. clumps of dry brown strands escape from the gaps in her fist, all too eager to run from where they came from. escaping their roots. seeking liberation in a new place, even.
tooru grins sharply. she gets that feeling, she really does. it looks like all the cells in her body can’t stand her anymore, & have elected to reject her in an all-out uprising. a mutiny, even.
it’s almost scary how little it hurts, & even scarier how little shock she feels.
she hacks away at her locks, section by wet section. a lot of it gets caught in the comb & detaches by itself, but she soldiers on regardless.
every snip of the scissors is lost in the background music. she keeps going, piece by piece, until her new hairstyle starts to take shape. it’s good. she’s never had short hair before.
“how’s that?” tooru asks her reflection out loud, when she’s finally satisfied with her choppy, shoulder-length bob. she might take a picture & show her group chat later, ask what they think as well.
her image doesn’t speak. it even looks a little disappointed at its object’s life choices.
tooru pouts at the total lack of answers, twirling the scissors around her index finger. she pauses the music on her phone & lays down on the bathroom floor, amidst all the chopped-off strands.
she has zero regrets for letting it all go: her long hair & the way the world recognised her with it. classmates asking for her blowout routine. random men on the street wanting to chat to her about her shampoo commercials. even the way her mom would braid her hair in the mornings & remind her not to mess it up — actually, especially that. mom always forgot she had volleyball practice every day except on mondays.
her entire body is already sticky with sweat. the tiles are cool & even under her skin. she swears to god she can feel every inch of her spine pop with the relief.
reaching down, she picks a few clumps of hair up, rubs them between her fingers. they’re dry & crackly like dead leaves, & every bit as disgusting. maybe she should send a few pieces to tobio-chan in a locket. a sentimental little reminder, or maybe even a loud “screw you”: don’t you dare miss me, brat. i don’t even miss myself.
she touches the sharp points of the scissors to her thigh, just hard enough to cause pain. the metal is warm to the touch. some tiny sections of hair are still stuck between the blades.
how easy would it be for her to slice layers of herself away? would it be painful at all, if her skin doesn’t even want to be there to cover these fragile bones? there might not even be a hint of blood, if she could only cast the outer layer of herself away like a wild snake leaves its dry scales on tree branches.
she stretches her fingers out, widens the scissor blades until they’re nearly horizontal. why not carve her own epitaph into these floor tiles instead? tooru oikawa, age 19, died of being too pretty. may she be remembered for her volleyball skills & cute smile.
tired at the sudden exertion, she drops the scissors to the floor. waits until the clattering fades into silence. breathes deeply & pretends she’s pretending to eat a chicken sandwich.
the layers of lies aren’t lost on her. mom would scream loud enough to wake the dead if she saw what tooru looked like now — tooru! why did you cut your hair like that, you should’ve asked me first!
like you’d have said yes, tooru would respond.
immediately mom would have countered with all the undue confidence of someone whose words actually made sense: if it made you look beautiful i’d let you do it!
shut up. like i need your permission any more. tooru feels ugly but proud of herself now. so much lighter than before, in so many ways. completely unattainable, but no longer with the help of glossy magazine covers & heavily scripted interviews.
now she’s untouchable in the way of contagion. like she’s caught some unmentionable disease, & someone tossed her into a ditch to rot. the embodiment of beauty in decay, she’s too cheap for anyone to own & in that same vein, made absolutely priceless.
maybe her hair will grow back. maybe it won’t, & good riddance at that. maybe dying would be like the slow, sweet festering of a dog carcass by the roadside. a peaceful, eternal afternoon nap, where all her inner monsters would follow her to some other realm, never to hurt a soul again.
or maybe, just maybe, if she stays on this floor in this foreign land for long enough, digs her nails into its soil until they break, her skin will shed bit by bit to reveal a body she can be proud of. no one will care about her waistline when they see her scars bleed gold.
one day, she’ll be free to laugh with all her teeth & go out to the club every night & swear to god she loves women & never come home again.
one day, one glorious day, she’ll belong to argentina & argentina alone, & nothing will hurt her any more that she lets it.
ON FILM OR BETWEEN THE SHEETS
this whole scene is like the set-up for a bad joke, really: what’s worse than being alone in bed?
wait for it, wait for it… not being alone in bed!
so here it goes, here’s what this is, what tooru both hoped would & hoped would never happen: leticia is in her room now. the bed was barely enough for the two of them but tooru’s so small, they made it work.
it’s inevitable, really. an entirely natural consequence of letting your cute teammate walk you home one too many times.
the argentinian volleyball league matches are in a month or so, & both tooru & leticia have made it to the team lineup. they started walking home together a few weeks ago, because tooru’s been staying late at the gym to practice her tosses, & leticia always joins her as the main spiker.
on the court, leticia is a ray of sunshine. she slaps her teammates on the back with a cheerful che, boluda! & cheers them on in the weight room & on court. she has multiple piercings on both her ears & intricate tattoos of flowers under her compression sleeves. the kind of girl tooru’s mom definitely wouldn’t approve of tooru hanging out with.
in the dark, she has delicious curves & wide hips that tooru can grab a full handful of flesh of. she’s got stretch marks on her thighs that she doesn’t seem particularly concerned about, which is actually sexy as hell.
most importantly, her shoulder-length hair is so brown it’s almost black, & she’s got dark eyes that could be blue when the light hits them at the right angles.
standing by the window, leticia stretches her arms upwards towards the low ceiling, arching her back a little. the morning sun shines through the glass, illuminating her soft features.
tooru turns over to look at leticia, then pulls herself to sit. she’d usually cuddle up to the other girl or even say something about that amazing ass, but there’s only so much you can do when you can feel the very weight of your eyeballs in their sockets, the resistance when you swivel them slightly.
her first clear thought is, how can all the things i hate about myself look so good on someone else?
confusingly, it also feels a lot like when your friend borrows your favourite dress & she looks so much better in it than you ever did that you could just murder her on the spot, but instead you smile sweetly & say, oh my gosh babe, you look so amazing, you should totally wear that for the party!
she curls her fingers into the sheets, trying to feel the fabric in her hands, but her extremities are still uncomfortably numb. so much for whipping her body into flawless obedience, binding herself hand & foot in the barbed wire of self-discipline & looking down her nose at everyone with less willpower than her.
utterly unraveled, all she has left is her skeleton, & even that feels ready to crumble into dust at the slightest gust of wind.
“you’re seriously good at this, toto. bet you had a lot of practice back in japan.” leticia sits back on the bed, picking up her glittery pink water tumbler.
“not really,” tooru says shortly. she might have had a lot more practice at eating girls out, if she’d been able to get over herself in high school. “i mean, this isn’t my first time but no one’s complained so far.”
(lying is so last year. brushing uncomfortable truths off as jokes is the new tooru oikawa specialty.)
leticia leans over & puts her head on tooru’s shoulder, pouting with puppy eyes. “c’mon, it’s your turn. i know what i’m doing, swear to god.”
tooru swats her away gently. “no, leti.” my tits were a lot nicer once, you should’ve seen me then.
“oh, fine.” leticia grumbles softly. she walks to the wall, covered with a few photos from tooru’s highschool days. the room goes silent again, as she looks them up & down.
while leticia’s back is turned, tooru brushes hair off the sheets & attempts to fluff the pillows again. she dusts a clump of stray brown hair off her pillow & tries to brush off the knowledge that hasn’t done her laundry for a week. hopefully the place doesn’t smell like it.
“who’s that?” leticia points at the photo on the wall, closest to the bed.
“hmm?”
“here,” leticia lifts the photo off the wall & hands it to a squinting tooru. “you were so cute! so fluffy, aww.”
it’s an analogue photo of fifteen-year-old tooru posing with her best setter award in the kitagawa daiichi hall, taken with her dad’s film camera. holding up a peace sign with her tongue out, in what would become her signature pose. both her parents had been at the year-end awards ceremony then, one of the rare times they’d been in each others presence for a full day.
that same award hangs on the opposite wall of her bedroom right now, next to her mirror. a stark reminder of who she used to be, & might never be again.
tooru doesn’t immediately disagree with leticia’s words. right now, she doesn’t know whether to nod or shake her head so she ends up doing a strange wobbling motion.
leticia laughs, pointing to the picture again. “hey, you even had a fan back then!”
it’s a minute before tooru realises she’s pointing at a thirteen-year-old tobio in the background, looking right over tooru’s shoulder with a starstruck expression, but also an oddly innocent hunger that somehow managed to make its way into the photo. she looks like she’s saying, next year it’ll be me.
tooru feels her breath catch in her throat. she thought she removed all the photos with tobio in them, put them at the bottom of her childhood bedroom drawer.
tobio, tobio, that damned shadow who haunts her like a ghost lingers about the halls of an abandoned house. even through all this space & time, she can still command attention without doing a single thing. her eyes are atlantic blue, with a force that pulls tooru in like the evening tides, & now tooru is drowning in all these memories she has no right to have.
she should’ve burned every last photo of tobio when she had the chance. it’s not fair. it’s not fair at all.
amidst leticia’s gushing, tooru lifts her eyes from the photo & turns to her dressing room mirror in the corner of her eye. floaters pop up in the sides of her vision.
her eyes are dead, sunk deep in their sockets, the light barely shining in them. sure, she’s got high, defined cheekbones that would be the envy of any supermodel, but every notch of her spine is visible from the side & her hip bones jut out like they’re carved out of stone. it looks like her skin has shrunk in the wash like a poor-quality cardigan, blurring the tan lines on her chest & back with a sickening translucency. even her new haircut frames her jaw unevenly, making her look like she’s got a bad overbite.
when she forces a grin, her teeth cut into her bottom lip. her skin readily flakes off into her mouth. she swallows it down before she can stop herself, her subconscious all too eager to accept this pitiful semblance of food.
flesh without blood. body without soul.
crazy-fragile-starving-cold-magnetic-brutal-feral-ethereal-deadly-magnificent.
–— this is what a yokai looks like, & here is where you learn if this knowledge is worth all your hunger.
tooru quickly turns forward again, unsure of the thoughts slinking through her mind. the mouth on the side of her head, invisible to everyone but herself, growls & snaps & claws at her scalp.
“tobio-chan is cute, isn’t she?” she finally manages to croak out, newly aware that her voice is a grim, acidic rasp. she takes the photo from leticia & gently puts it face down on the bed.
leticia puts both her hands up slowly, like she’s backing away from — massive sigh — a wild animal. “oh… you know, i’m probably reading too much into it. the picture, i mean. you’d know better than me.”
would i? do i? tooru grits her teeth, grinding them back & forth. her tongue feels uncomfortably heavy in her mouth. what does she know, what could she know when so many people seem to be plotting against her at every turn?
“you can go now,” she says softly. then louder. “now, please.”
you remind me too much of someone i used to love, she almost says, & she doesn’t entirely mean tobio. it’s an awkward thought, neither compliment nor excuse, so she keeps it to herself.
leticia gives her a strange look, but it’s not unfriendly or hateful. more confused, a little scared even, wide eyes searching for some reason for this sudden hostility.
she takes the picture & hangs it back on the wall. “sorry i upset you. i was trying to get to know you better.”
“no, this was totally my bad. i’m sorry for wasting your time -”
you won’t like me. hell, i’ve lived with myself for twenty years & i don’t even like me. i really hate you, by the way. you’re so fucking beautiful & you get to eat whatever the fuck you want & everybody loves you & -
tooru’s bones are heavy as she pulls herself out of bed, dragging herself to the fridge. she flops down in front of it, landing on her rear with her legs stretched out on the floor. it takes a full ten seconds for her to realise she still hasn’t put any clothes on, but she barely reacts to the thought.
(absolutely zero self-respect, her mom chirps somewhere in the void. disgusting. i raised you better than this, you animal.)
“look, there’s some money on the dish by the door. it’s next to the kuromi keys. get home safe for me, okay?”
leticia frowns, folding her arms. “i’ll walk back myself. let’s just say you treated me to a snack . do you want one?”
“nope,” tooru calls back weakly, opening the fridge door & letting the cool air blow on her face. she has a few cans of half-opened soda left & some apples, enough for the week ahead.
“got it. so pussy is the only thing you eat?”
“no, no. i eat volleyballs, too,” tooru replies sharply, remembering her phone call with her mom all those months ago. a split second later, she realises how bizarre it sounds when she puts it into words, so outlandish it almost sounds like an insult.
regret pools in the pit of her empty stomach. she should’ve just said you wouldn’t believe me if i told you the truth, or better yet, shut up entirely. there’s no way to backtrack without sinking deeper into the hole she’s dug.
(note to self, or for anyone curious: the new oikawa tooru specialty doesn’t work in every situation & especially not this one. do not try this at home.)
leticia frowns deeply & pinches her fingers together in disgust, shaking her head. “¿me estás cargando? you’re a bag of bones, so stop playing around -”
“... i said sorry, okay? get out, leti!”
“man, you’ve got some major issues,” leticia says finally, in a tone that clearly says i tried — just short of straight-up calling tooru a bitch. she shrugs a single shoulder, but mercifully doesn’t start screaming like any other woman might have.
she checks her hair in the dressing table mirror, then strides towards the door quickly like a phantom mouth is nipping at her heels.
“one more thing, toto.” leticia’s voice, more distant now, is accompanied by the rattling of money in the dish.
“yeah?”
“if you really want to go home, you should really tell someone. anyone. your parents, even. there’s no need to do all this to yourself, hey?”
tooru turns away, so she only hears the immediate loud click of the door closing. she waits two, three seconds for something else to happen. an apology for being harsh, an arrangement for a next dinner.
but there’s no lingering, no looking back for a reaction. leticia’s said all she wanted to say.
with trembling hands, tooru pulls the bottom drawer of the fridge open to fish for a small apple from her bag of fruits. she bites into it gently, savouring the crunch of the leathery flesh, & picks the bits of skin out of the gaps between her teeth. the wife with a small appetite, that’s me.
in the distance, a young girl asks an old woman about a tale as old as time.
— what happens if i don’t feed it?
— it’ll turn around & eat you instead, body & soul.
I ALWAYS FALL FROM YOUR WINDOW TO THE PITCH-BLACK STREETS
the doctor’s office doesn’t smell like antiseptic, which is good. the walls have been painted a sterile white. however, the array of torches & rubber hammers tooru can see on the desk do little to alleviate her anxiety.
in the end, she settles for looking at everything displayed on the walls of the office — the labelled posters ( UNDERSTANDING THE HIP & KNEE) , the doctor’s impressive array of degrees ( FELLOWSHIP IN SPORTS & EXERCISE MEDICINE) , the calendar with a drug advertisement on it (she’s not sure how to pronounce the name but the soothing blue graphic design make it look like a painkiller of sorts).
she can’t even recall how she got here. sure, she’s had trouble with her memory recently, but it’s not like she fainted or anything! it was just — what happened was a careless error. just a half-step wrong & a backwards fall while executing a new quick set, that’s all. it could’ve happened to absolutely anyone.
as it is, coach allona & the team’s physiotherapist dragged her in here by force. they’re sitting in the waiting room in case she makes a run for it through any of the side entrances. the message is clear: if you don’t listen to your coach, your athletic trainer or your teammates, surely you’ll listen to someone with advanced medical training who’s fully licensed to stick needles in your backside & feed you through a tube in your nose.
the doctor starts off nice enough, casual: how are you, how are you getting on with your team, what’s your favourite thing to do on your off days. it’s easy enough to answer those, right up until the doctor pulls up the digital reports on her computer.
tooru squints at their headings. body mass index, fat composition, bloodwork. lots of red numbers. those don’t look good.
tooru hates when doctors tell her off, when they poke & prod at her & ask her all sorts of personal questions. she’d gone for a general checkup when she was submitting her papers to the embassy in japan, & she’d lied to all of them then. of course the doctors here would point out all her problems, but they surely can’t force her to listen.
“i’m sorry?” tooru says, for what must be the tenth time that day. something is ringing in her ears & she can’t quite tell what. like the mouth on the side of her head is trying to tell her something but the doctor’s voice is drowning it out.
“what i mean is, a woman your height should be about this weight.” the doctor points to a curved line on the computer-generated graph, & moves her finger up to the 1.85 metre mark, then down to find the corresponding number on the horizontal axis.
“right now, you’re here.” she moves her finger down the curve, down & down. tooru’s eyes trace the path in muted horror, her gaze shaking a little. “you’ve probably been told this before, but you’re unable to keep up with the team in your condition. quite frankly, i’m concerned about your heart & lung functions.”
she uses a few words tooru can’t grasp, but the gist of it is very much clear. you’re sick, ms oikawa. listen to me: you need help. you can’t keep going down this path.
“i’m not ill, i’m fine. i don’t have a condition. it’s - all on my paperwork when i came here. can i go back to training now, please?” tooru replies… well, coldly is a bit of a stretch given that she has neither the strength nor resolve to put real ice behind her words, but her tone is still cutting, her words measured.
the doctor gives her a look of disbelief, but - what? it’s true! the worst she’s ever been is when she tore her ankle ligament in high school! it’s all between the lines, really — & what if this is the path i chose? when i finally get my shit together, it’s over for all of you, i swear on my mother, on all the gods, on my entire career -
the doctor rotates the computer screen away, taking slow, deep breaths.
“actually, let’s go back a little. how was your life in japan, ms oikawa?”
tooru scoffs quietly. they probably train you for that in medical school: digging the truth out of patients 101, i.e. being empathetic & patient & not yelling things like you have the bone density of a sixty-year-old woman, so sit the hell down before i tie you to the chair!
she shakes her head vehemently. she’s given her life to volleyball as is, & there’s no way she’ll spill her guts to this doctor to be sent back home. she’s not a defective product, she never has been. there’s no way they’ll send her back to the bench so they can replace her with a better player, a better person, someone like -
“ms oikawa? are you alright?”
hesitantly, tooru scrabbles for the spanish words to express her thoughts. something, anything. advertisement. magazine. i can’t hold down anything i eat.
if this is her punishment for lying to everyone who would listen, there’s no better time to tell the truth than now. maybe the doctor will even let her out early if she’s good & cooperative.
the words all slip out of her reach like sand through her fingers, taunting her from afar. she settles for the closest thing. something the doctor will understand & be sympathetic to.
“i was a model sometimes,” she says slowly, carefully, probing the depths of a potential reaction. revealing just enough for today’s purposes. a harmless half-truth, nothing that could potentially get her cut from the team. “i got sick a lot.”
she obediently follows the doctor to the examination couch, quasi-resigned to her fate. surely there are no special tools for scanning a monstrous mouth on the side of one’s head.
they say the truth is bitter, but tooru knows it has as many flavours as it does origins. sometimes it’s sour, like stomach acid. other times it’s tangy like a wooden tongue depressor, bright like the yellow beam of a pen light shining in her eye & down her throat.
she thinks about the soap operas her grandmother usually watches in the living room while cutting vegetables for dinner, the shows with handsome doctors & beautiful nurses & a rare condition to treat every episode.then she pictures her possible reality: tubes stuck down her throat & needles in her arm, bedridden for months & unable to do the very thing she came to argentina for.
“this is so embarrassing.” she picks up a tissue & blows her nose into it dramatically, laying down on the examination couch. her voice is feeble, childlike to her own ears. she barely recognises it as her own. “will i have to go to the hospital?”
“there’s nothing embarrassing about seeking help, ms oikawa. you won’t have to go to the hospital, but there are steps we can take together.” the doctor brings out a memo pad & starts writing things down. her voice is gentle, comforting, as she explains about nutrition plans & therapy & a multidisciplinary team (at least, that’s what the breakdown of the new word sounds like). apparently they can start slowly. apparently it’s never too late for anyone to get better.
tooru stops processing after repeated reassurances that she won’t be bed-bound in a terrible sterile place, that there are so many others like her. that she won’t be taken off the team so long as she fully dedicates herself to getting better, & that no one will call her parents unless something more serious happens, & that everyone’s totally rooting for her.
she blinks placidly, like she’s been sedated. it feels so surreal; a world she’s built for herself over the past ten years crashing down in slow-motion before her eyes, her mind now an empty rice bowl that the hateful other mouth has scraped clean.
a hot tear slides down the curve of her cheek. another follows, & then another, until her chest aches & she’s crying a silent river on the examination couch.
the doctor calls a nurse in to fetch a new box of tissues. one by one, new thoughts form like dark clouds drifting across the space of tooru’s mind.
she thinks about how she’s an anaemic, slavering beast on the brink of cardiac arrest, rattling the bars of its enclosure as it demands to be fed.
how some choripán with ungodly amounts of chimichurri and salsa criolla from the parrilla opposite the gym, the exact ones she’s enviously watched her teammates eat, would be really great right now.
how she needs to practice those new quick attacks with leticia & tatiana so they can all get the timing down, so she doesn’t lose her starting position with the team.
& most of all, most horrifyingly, how her greatest enemy has always been herself — tobio kageyama an achingly distant second.
& WITH THE BLACK BANNERS RAISED AS THE CROOKED SMILES FADE
food is a friend. food is my friend.
tooru swallows & faces her latest adversary down, here in this popular parilla . her muscles tense up. her stomach flips like she’s the first up to serve in a big tournament.
food is my medicine. i need it to get better.
she repeats what her therapist told her, trying to rewire her thoughts.
it’s been a few months of special milk powders & supplements, of written meal plans & timed snacks before she finally agreed to go out to dinner with her team for the first time. she has her nutritionist’s blessing to enjoy her meal & of course, the company.
she knows now that hunger doesn’t just affect your body, it utterly consumes your mind. it turns you into a vengeful ghost of your former self, haunting even the spaces inside your bones.
it’s a simple concept: eat, or be eaten.
what am i so scared of?
she clutches the edges of the table to ground herself in the moment. the asado smoke smells amazing from over here, & her teammates ordered plates of provoletas & beef empanadas to share while waiting for the meat to cook.
trembling, she reaches out for one of the steaming empanadas , putting it on her plate firmly. it sits there, glossy with a wavy-edged crust, completely inert.
“i’m eating properly now,” she says firmly to herself in japanese, then in spanish for good measure.
the monstrous jaws on the side of her head are predictably still & silent, as if they’re asleep. she waits, then adds a few more of her thoughts out loud, like she’s performing a banishing & purification ritual.
“i’m eating where everyone can see me, & it’s fine because i don’t care if they see me eat. also, i’m using my actual mouth so i don’t need you any more. go away.”
she grabs the pastry on her plate, & bites into it decisively, savouring the rich taste of beef & onions spilling across her tongue. ohmygodohmygodohmygod. i love this. i love food -
the misplaced guilt in her stomach ebbs away, displaced by the food going through her system. she sees her teammates smile & nod, & takes another bite.
tooru listens to everyone talk between sips of maté. gradually, she learns about her teammates, things she doesn’t hear on court. apparently tatiana has a crazy cousin she can’t get along with. carolina is going back to see her parents in the off-season.
as she eats slices of barbecued meat, she shares her own stories about watching volleyball with hajime as a kid & how high school life is in japan. everyone laughs & asks her questions about the weather & food at home, which she answers eagerly.
yes, she misses home a lot. no, she doesn’t miss the bitterly cold winters too much. yes, she’ll go home one day, maybe after she retires at the grand old age of sixty (everyone laughs at this point)? & then she’ll coach for a local club or something, she hasn’t decided yet — but can leticia please pass the potato salad? it’s the best in the whole world, & tooru is mad at herself for not eating more much sooner.
by the time they’re all done talking, tooru’s small plate has been refilled & emptied twice, which is good progress.
she walks down the street arm in arm with everyone, chatting about everything & nothing in this marvel of an evening. the ground under her feet is deliciously stable & not shaking for once.
maybe her therapist is finally getting to her, or maybe it’s all the irresistible food, or the knowledge that her team has her back no matter what she’s going through. she’s no wife with a small appetite, she’s an athlete with her entire career in front of her & she’s never looking back.
either way the sun will come up tomorrow, but there’s one less hungry, unforgiving girl in the world & that’s surely a victory in itself.
FORMER HEROES WHO QUIT TOO LATE
FIVB WOMEN'S VOLLEYBALL CLUB WORLD CHAMPIONSHIP 2015
BUENOS AIRES, ARGENTINA
FINALS: CLUB ATLÉTICO SAN JUAN VS SCHWEIDEN ADLERS
tooru loves volleyball for this: when the ball’s in her hands, she doesn’t question herself at all. she doesn’t think about her body or her life or how her day has been going.
right now, it’s all about trust. in her training, in her teammates, in gravity itself to finish the work.
she pictures the arc of the ball in her mind, the exact point she’s after, & tosses the ball sharply to leticia, who spikes it at an angle, avoiding all the blockers like they’ve trained for.
for a short, sweet moment, it looks like it’ll touch the ground, but hoshiumi (that bird-eyed nuisance!) dives flat-out for the receive. the ball goes up neatly to ushijima.
oh no, no, no.
tooru’s heartbeat pounds in her ears as she prepares to defend now. she jumps to block, arms straight up & keeping her strength in her fingertips. ushijima’s left-handed spike is something she’s been keeping her eye on all match & they’ve barely managed to keep it at bay every time it happens.
the sheer force of the cross attack sends the yellow-blue ball straight against tooru’s wrist. pain shoots down her bone, coursing down the length of the nerve — nearly taking her entire arm off in the process.
the ball slams right into the court a fraction of a second later, before she can yell “touch”.
the whistle blows sharply. the orange numbers on the black scoreboard light up: it’s 25-26 to the adlers now.
tooru growls softly, shakes her wrist to take the edge off the pain. she can’t afford to lose focus now, not at the crucial break point. the championship is the biggest she’s got going this season; ca san juan have made their way to the top of the south american rankings. & yet they’ve been playing on the back foot this whole game, forced to the brink by the formidable adlers.
& yet they’ve managed to claw their way to a fifth set — which they’re about to lose by a margin.
coach allona’s words to the team right before the match ring in the back of her mind. the adlers have been doing well this whole week, but we can still score off them yet. tighten up the blocks. try to touch ushijima’s cross shots, at least. keep your eyes on the ball & watch for their synchronised attacks. kageyama’s in top form today — what we can do is limit her options. all of you, be careful out there.
tooru remembers grinning, crackling her knuckles one by one. something about hearing tobio’s name again sends a rush of adrenaline through her, electrifying her every nerve like she’s on the precipice of a cliff gazing down at the world as she knows it. we got this, coach. let’s eat them alive.
it’s been five years since the prefecture finals of the spring high. five years since tobio & shrimpy hinata’s demon quick bounced off her forearms & hit the wall behind her, changing her life in a second.
tooru knows she’s stronger now, she’s grown into her skin like a snake casts off its old self season after season, forever changing with the times. right now she’s not afraid to say she can spit venom like the best of them.
tatiana claps her hands sharply, brings everyone’s attention back to the moment. “relax, we’ll get the next point!”
tooru nods in acknowledgement. she pictures hajime, issei & hiro watching from behind their device screens, in california & japan. they’re definitely cheering her on with little blue & yellow banners, even little seijoh turquoise ones. rule the court, tooru!
she smiles a little. she might even call them tonight if things go well.
the crowd goes dead silent as tobio walks to the serving line.
a shiver goes right down tooru’s spine, the thrill of knowing what she’s about to see. they can limit tobio’s options all they like, but there’s absolutely nothing they can do about that serve.
the dark-haired girl spins the ball between her hands, once, twice. she tosses it up into a breathtaking parabola. head up, eyes focused. arms pulled back like wings, straight into her perfect running jump.
when she hits the ball at the contact point she’s surely practiced for so long it’s become instinct, she grins. it’s not the stupid awkward look she used to have, either. this is something new & radiant, like a lark ascending with the dawn, because volleyball is tobio’s language & all her joy too.
it’s almost painful, how much this serve is a work of art. it may be tooru’s initial sketch, but tobio’s muscular lines & vibrant colours are all her own. the recordings of her plays hardly do her justice, no matter whether it’s tooru’s first or tenth or fiftieth time watching them.
the sudden rush of blood to tooru’s head makes her slightly dizzy. she wonders if she could ever look as breathtaking as tobio does now. her stupidly uncute kouhai with a volleyball for a brain.
whoever said happy girls are the prettiest was correct in the most indescribable ways. it’s almost a pity she can’t dwell on any of them for too long, because the ball’s path is like a razor to the neck: quick, sharp, cutting. you only know it’s got you once it’s too late.
tooru feels it more than she sees it: a solid thud, right on the back line, out of carolina’s reach. a textbook-perfect, no-touch service ace with a thrilling finality to it. a statement, even.
she couldn’t have done a single thing better herself. her throat closes up in envy. or is it pride? perhaps both. or maybe some secret third, unnameable thing that she dares not think about here.
two whistles in quick succession. 27-25.
the crowd explodes into cheers, blue & white banners flying high, & it all blurs into colour & sound roaring in tooru’s ears.
tobio high-fives hoshiumi, nods at ushijima with her back to the net. the other team members take turns ruffling her hair, & tooru can’t help but smile as tobio’s face scrunches up a little. catlike, charming. the brat is nineteen now, young & wildly talented, well on her way to take the volleyball world by the throat.
“you’ve gained a lot of weight,” ushijima says, as they shake hands firmly. as usual, her tone is completely neutral. she’s simply stating what she sees, with no room for praise or insult.
“have i?” tooru snorts. she’s not the type to argue in public, but naturally it depends on what the green-haired blockhead says next. “tell me more.”
ushijima pauses, putting up her index finger to signify concentration. her brow furrows deeply. she looks like she’s using her last non volleyball-obsessed braincell to come up with something. “... you were like a stick insect before. i think you look nice now. also, you play better too.”
nice? it’s so stupidly honest it’s almost cute, & tooru laughs despite herself. “ah, real compliments for once. not bad, ushiwaka-chan. keep up the good work.”
the taller girl nods seriously, & goes off to greet someone else in her cool, stoic way.
tooru moves on to the next adlers player, then the next, barely registering how many people she’s spoken to. when she gets to tobio, she’s about to mutter some vague thing & turn away, but she’s caught right in the crosshairs of her kouhai’s stare.
it’s not the fuck-you smirk, or even the fuck-you glower tooru was expecting. this is the gaze of a much younger girl, sea-blue eyes quivering almost with the start of tears. her fingers curl in on themselves like she’s clutching at someone’s wrist.
did you see me, oikawa-san? are you proud of me?
tooru feels sick right down to the core, almost dizzy. these are not the stabbing hunger pangs she’s all too familiar with, or even the burn of stomach acid in her throat. this is the heavy nausea of when she’s had one too many cakes for dessert, when her head is spinning from the fermenting sweetness in her mouth.
she thought she’d be better about this, but some things never change.so she’s fifteen. so she’s eighteen. so she’s twenty-one & staring down the barrel of of this question-loaded gun, yet she can’t find a single answer no matter where she turns.
(call this starvation by another name. girlhood is murder, blood between teeth on an eighteen-by-nine metre hunting ground. seeing her in your reflection & yourself in her eyes, never stopping to wonder why until her heart is between your jaws once again.
bite marks in cherry-pink lip prints. house of mirrors/memories/mercy. win. lose. rematch, rematch, rematch. ask
yourself
her:
how are you? how can i be your friend? do you wish i loved you?
)
“congratulations, kageyama,” she says in an undertone, & there it is. she lowers her head quickly, clasps both her hands together. incoherent, inconsolable.
tobio seems to understand, & takes a small step back like a wounded fawn.
“oikawa-san…” she breathes, eyes still shining with curiosity & hope, clinging onto the vestiges of what she knows to be true about tooru oikawa, the pretty senior from kitagawa daiichi middle school.
tobio’s no timid ghost, but a living, breathing woman in search of the truth. her voice is soft & her eyes are loud & so free of accusation that they shine with cruelty; the little undercurrent of compassion in her gaze twists hard & deep, carving out new spaces between tooru’s ribs with each pass, turning her lungs to tiny slices of ruin.
tooru sees her crystal-clear reflection in that hunting knife once again, senses the not-so-dead weight of their unspoken past in the pit of her stomach. maybe tobio isn’t cutting her open to place something new inside, but rather to take something away.
the silence between them remains for a few more heartbeats, & yet neither of them make a move.
oh, what the hell. tooru wrenches her gaze away & follows her team back to the bench, where coach allona is waiting. her legs are heavy from exertion, & her chest aches with each breath. if she’s put down like a sick dog then maybe all her problems will go away - but she’s past that now, she’s past it, she’s an athlete who’s gracious in defeat -
she watches the adlers walk away in the opposite direction like an ecstatic flock of eagles. tobio stands among them like their crown jewel, proud & regal, but with the faintest sadness tucked away in the curve of her neck like a locket around her throat.
tooru taps her foot, waits for the nausea to subside, for her pulse to return to baseline. & when it finally settles, she wonders what in the world she’ll do next.
WHO JUST WANNA FILL UP THE TROPHY CASE AGAIN
in the evening, tooru is woken up by a sharp knock on the door of her hotel room. she’s been sleeping on & off the whole afternoon after the medal ceremony & team lunch, torpor soaking into her muscles. it always feels good to be properly tired rather than simply sleeping her hunger off.
though it absolutely stings that she lost to her kouhai’s team, it was an excellent game today & she’d be stupid to say otherwise.
for so many years, tooru wanted to eat tobio alive — wanted to be the better setter, the better player, the better everything. now that she’s come all this way & lost again, she could be bitter about it. whip out a knife to stab her precious kouhai in the jugular & carve her up for barbecue meat. or she could turn that knife on herself & pull out her innards in a final, dramatic act of self-destruction.
but she’s not the monster she was, not any more.
the mouth on the side of her head has been dormant for years, now that she’s worn the jagged teeth of her hunger down to an equally robust ambition, & it’s brought her this far. she’s worth something, & always will be, no matter what she does.
forget extravagant farewell parties — leaving tobio alone that night is the true regret that flows through tooru’s veins. it relentlessly returns to her heart, rushing in & out of her brain like it’s part of what sustains her.
this isn’t the end. she may have lost this match, but there’ll always be more in the future. she’ll eat well & keep herself healthy, & when she’s even stronger than she is now, she’ll get tobio back — this time with no regrets.
at present, the knocks don’t stop, & even take on a playful rhythm.
tooru rolls out of bed & stumbles to the door, opening it blearily. “yeah?”
“good morning, sunshine. someone’s looking for you downstairs.” a grinning leticia nods towards the corridor. “your little angel with the doll eyes.”
tooru grimaces. there it is, sooner than expected. so stupid tobio-chan decides to pay oikawa-senpai a visit, huh? “... already?”
“hey, you never told me your fangirl was so dedicated,” leticia teases, playfully flipping her hair behind her shoulder. “pretty, too. better catch her before she goes, or i will.”
“up yours -” tooru barks, but with absolutely no bite at this hour. she closes her door, but stubs her toe on the edge, the pain shooting right up into her knee. “- ¡la concha de tu madre!”
hopping on her foot & spitting mixed-language curses, she waits for a cackling leticia to leave, & then goes back inside to get changed.
surprisingly, she’s not crying about this, or even praying it’s a case of mistaken identity. she’ll have to stand her ground here no matter what.
right before she goes out, she stops in front of the dressing table mirror, looking herself up & down, & pauses to put on her favourite lipgloss, a sheer cherry pink. it’s a little boost of confidence to face the challenge ahead, & it does the trick. her throat tightens up briefly, but she doesn’t flinch any more, doesn’t itch to examine her body or claw her face off her skull.
instead, she closes her eyes & forces herself to breathe — god knows she’s faced worse adversaries in her time.
unsurprisingly, it really is tobio sitting on a couch in the hotel lobby, wearing a dark grey cardigan over her t-shirt & leggings. her long black hair is loose around her shoulders. she distractedly pushes strands of it behind her ears every few seconds, clearly waiting for something like a nervous crow hopping around by a park bench.
a few men are sitting around her, evidently trying to get her attention. & why wouldn’t they? she looks like a supermodel, more than tooru ever did.
tooru usually chats with her admirers, sometimes flirts with them a little, but she knows tobio’s utterly incapable of the same pretenses. even from this distance, it’s all too easy to imagine her kouhai’s voice, her broken but oddly soothing english, cuttingly polite in a clueless way: actually, i’m waiting for someone else. it’s been a long time since we last met. she should be here soon.
when tooru approaches, tobio gets up immediately, straight-backed & wide-eyed, like she’s been called on in school assembly.
“oikawa-san.” her voice is shaky, like she’s been practicing this for a long time. she clenches her fists & looks up defiantly. tooru sucks in a deep breath as their eyes meet all at once, brown & blue & everything in between.
“... will you talk to me this time?”
tooru looks around slowly. though she’s growing into quite the publicity hound, for one this audience of admirers is sorely unwelcome. true, she no longer bends & breaks under the weight of spectators’ critical gazes, but right now, she wants to be herself in peace. her new self, for this new encounter.
she purses her lips softly. she’s no longer the girl who threw her phone in front of a bus after hearing those words. instead, she pictures herself crossing the road calmly as the pedestrian traffic light turns green, black & white zebra stripes beneath her feet, & everything is right in the world.
“hi, tobio-chan. wanna go somewhere else?” tooru asks, gesturing in the direction of the door. “there’s a great place down the road.”
the parilla’s got really good reviews, according to the people who live around here. she was planning to go there for dinner anyway.
tobio obviously wasn’t expecting that off-script response. whatever anger she’s been harbouring seems to have defused a little. her mouth opens slightly, as if she’s processing a new algorithm for the conversation.
tooru imagines a little loading bar popping over tobio’s head, & nearly laughs. “what are you waiting for, christmas day?”
“oh! i can do whatever you were planning.” tobio’s tone is surprisingly careful, so unlike the brutally honest way she used to charge through every conversation. now it’s as if she’s afraid she’ll trigger a beeping landmine by the mere mention of food.
so i’m not the only one who’s learned some things, tooru muses, almost fond. almost.
“i mean… i didn’t know if you… wanted to eat,” tobio continues, tapping her fingers against her sides. “or talk. you really don’t have to do anything special.”
there it is, the please get back in your enclosure, please please please don’t eat me voice. tooru hasn’t heard it in a long while, but it doesn’t stoke the burning anger in her that it might have a long time ago. instead, it’s benign yet fierce amusement that bubbles up in her heart. she’s a changed woman, & it’s time to prove it.
she inhales deeply through her nose, holds it for five seconds, then breathes out again, just like her therapist showed her. when you don’t know what to do, tooru, just breathe.
“something special? for you? ha! you don’t know anything about me, brat.”
“no, i don’t.” tobio lifts her chin at the slightest angle, her calmness quietly defiant. tooru knows that look: she’s trying to look at things from a new perspective, like she’s scoping out a new opponent on court, figuring out how to break them the fastest. “but i’ll learn.”
tooru raises an eyebrow at the boldness behind the six words. little tobio’s all grown up, & clearly isn’t asking for permission any more. with every calm, deliberate breath she takes, she realises she likes this version of her kouhai more than every last one she’s seen.
“sure you will. i mean, the more you know, am i right?” tooru replies, a small smile playing on her lips. the fact is, there’s very little that corn salad & grilled beef ribs with a side of provoleta can’t cure. she might even treat the younger setter to dulce de leche if the mood strikes her — & it will, she’s sure of it now. she can already feel her regrets dissipating like dust in a sweeping wind.
after all, this is a story where two girls find each other again & again, across land & sea & the eternity-stretch of skies above. they’re sharp yet tender in the way a predator’s jaws close around long-awaited prey — two opposite, crushing halves of a vicious whole. if food is forgiveness, every last monster is welcome in this house of mercy.
tooru walks to the door of the lobby & pushes it open, beckoning for a stunned tobio to follow her into the heavy summer air.
“welcome to argentina, tobio-chan. hope you’re hungry.”