The next day, Yori arrived at school with her hoodie pulled up and her headphones firmly over her ears. She wasn't actually listening to anything; she just needed the "Do Not Disturb" sign that technology provided.
Her heart still did a nervous little flip-flop every time she passed the gymnasium. The image of the tall, sweaty boy with the blindingly bright grin—George Kino—was burned into her mind. She had spent the entire night staring at her guitar strings, wondering if she had hallucinated the whole encounter.
“Number one fan,” he had said.
People didn't just say things like that in Japan. Not with that much volume, anyway.
By lunchtime, Yori retreated to her usual sanctuary: a secluded stone bench behind the old library, hidden by a weeping willow. It was the only place where she didn’t feel the weight of everyone’s expectations. She opened her bento box, picked up her chopsticks, and finally let out a long, shaky breath.
"Found you!"
Yori jumped so violently that a piece of tamagoyaki flew off her chopsticks and landed in the grass.
There he was. George was leaning over the back of the stone bench, upside down, his face inches from hers. He was wearing the school uniform now, but he’d rolled the sleeves up to his elbows, looking entirely too comfortable for a guy who had only been in the country for a week.
"K-Kino-kun!" Yori gasped, clutching her chest. "How did you... why are you here?"
"I asked around," George said, swinging himself over the bench to sit beside her. He didn't ask if it was okay; he just assumed the vacancy was for him. "People said, 'If you're looking for the Cool Beauty, check the shadows.' And here you are! Shadows and all."
Yori felt the heat rising to her cheeks. "Please don't call me that. It’s... it’s embarrassing."
"The 'Cool Beauty' part? Or the 'found you' part?" George laughed, pulling out a massive convenience store sandwich. "I think it fits. You look like a movie star when you're quiet, Yori-san. But you sound like a storm when you sing. I like the storm better."
Yori went rigid. He had used her first name. Yori-san. It was a casual, Western-leaning habit that made her feel like she was standing too close to a heater.
"I... I don't sing for people," she whispered, poking at her rice. "The music room was a mistake. I didn't think anyone was listening."
"Well, lucky me then," George said between bites of his sandwich. "Back in California, if someone is good at something, we tell 'em. We don't just sit around acting like we didn't hear it. You have a gift. Why hide it?"
"Because..." Yori struggled to find the words. "Because when I'm on stage—or even just practicing—I can be someone else. Someone brave. But as soon as I stop... I'm just me again."
George stopped chewing. He looked at her, really looked at her, his hazel eyes softening. For a second, the loud, boisterous athlete disappeared, replaced by someone surprisingly perceptive.
"You think 'Just Yori' isn't enough?" he asked quietly.
Yori didn't answer. She couldn't.
George suddenly stood up and grabbed a stray basketball that was tucked under the bench. "Tell you what. I’m going to make a deal with you. I’m new here. I don't know the kanji for 'History,' and I definitely don't know how to navigate the train station without getting lost."
He spun the ball on his finger, looking down at her.
"You help me survive Japanese high school, and I’ll be your audience. Every time you think you’re 'just' yourself, I’ll be there to remind you that you’re the girl who can make a 6-foot-tall forward forget how to dribble."
Yori looked up at him through her bangs. He was glowing again—that American confidence that felt like a challenge and a safety net all at once.
"I... I’m not a good teacher," she murmured.
"And I'm a terrible student," George grinned, holding out a hand to her. "Perfect match, right?"
Yori stared at his hand. It was large, calloused from the court, and steady. Slowly, tentatively, she reached out and brushed her fingers against his palm. It was a tiny gesture, but to Yori, it felt louder than any chord she had ever struck.
"Okay," she whispered. "Deal."
"Awesome!" George beamed, pulling his hand back to punch the air. "Now, first order of business—I’m coming to your next practice. And don't try to lock the door. I’m a varsity athlete; I can climb pipes!"
Yori hid her face in her hands, but beneath her fingers, for the first time in months, she was actually smiling.
ns216.73.216.23da2
and then Add to home screen.