Manga Touch Read online

  Manga Touch

  Jacqueline Pearce

  orca currents

  Copyright © Jacqueline Pearce 2007

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Pearce, Jacqueline, 1962-

  Manga touch / written by Jacqueline Pearce.

  (Orca currents)

  ISBN 978-1-55143-748-4 (bound)

  ISBN 978-1-55143-746-0 (pbk.)

  I. Title. II. Series.

  PS8581.E26M35 2007 jC813’.6 C2007-903835-2

  Summary: The manga touch is everywhere in Japan, but Dana still feels alone.

  First published in the United States, 2007

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2007930411

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Cover design: Teresa Bubela

  Cover photography: Getty Images

  Drawing of author: Nina Matsumoto

  Orca Book Publishers

  PO Box 5626, Station B

  Victoria, BC Canada

  V8R 6S4

  Orca Book Publishers

  PO Box 468

  Custer, WA USA

  98240-0468

  www.orcabook.com

  Printed and bound in Canada.

  Printed on 100% PCW recycled paper.

  010 09 08 07 • 4 3 2 1

  For my daughter, Danielle

  Acknowledgments

  This book couldn’t have been written without the help of others. I’m enormously grateful to my good friend, Jean-Pierre antonio, who has lived in Japan for over seventeen years, was a great host during my visit to Japan and continued to answer questions via e-mail and phone calls throughout the writing of the book. I would also like to thank the many people in Japan who showed me kindness and hospitality, especially Kyoko Nishihara, Masako Nakai, Kikumi Tanaka, Takako Horri, Taeko Kobayashi, aisling Braiden, Michiko Kihira, Sakano-san and the Ito family. Thank you also to Sheya Eno, who shared her experiences as a canadian exchange student in Japan; to Tomoyo Ihaya who read over some scenes in the book; to the students at Iino Highschool in Suzuka-shi, who answered questions about Japanese student life; and to everyone else (both in Japan and canada) who answered questions, talked with me about manga, and otherwise offered support and encouragement. and finally, I would like to acknowledge the artful word-cutting skills of my editor, Melanie Jeffs.

  chapter one

  I stare out the window as the airplane taxis down the runway. With my back to the other seats, I can almost forget I have to share my two weeks in Japan with Melissa Muller and the others. The Melly Mob, I call them. If you’ve ever seen a gang of crows mob some poor raven, you can figure out why.

  Melissa and her friends flock together like crows. If they don’t like you or your clothes or your hair color—pomegranate red, being my latest—they don’t exactly dive-bomb you. But they have a way of looking at you that says you rate about the same as bird crap.

  A thrill leaps through me as we lift off. We rise into the clouds, and Vancouver disappears. I’m glad to see it go. Outside there is nothing but whiteness. It feels like I’m in a magic passageway between worlds. At the other end of all this whiteness is a different place.

  I turn away from the window and glance around the inside of the plane. I don’t know the girl beside me other than her name, Maya Contina. She’s talking across the aisle to a friend. Ignoring me. A couple of rows back, Melissa is sitting beside her boyfriend, Zach Bellows. Their heads are bent together. Someone throws a scrunched-up piece of paper at them. Zach laughs and throws the paper back. Melissa pretends to be annoyed, but it’s obvious she likes the attention. She is wearing even more makeup than usual. I am wearing a lot of black eyeliner myself but only because I want to look different. Melissa looks like she’s trying to be some kind of phony fashion model. All her clothes are name brand, and she keeps flipping her long blond hair off her shoulders.

  Melissa’s eyes snap onto mine as if she’s sensed me. I give her a bored look. She looks away. For a second, I’d swear she almost squirmed. A bit of the old Mel showing through? I turn forward again. Nah. There is nothing left of the Mel that used to be my best friend.

  The seat belt sign is off now, and I pull my backpack out from under the seat. I take out my MP3 player and my sketchbook, flip open the book and begin to draw.

  With light pencil strokes, I sketch the shape of a body and face. I draw over the lines more heavily as I get them the way I want. I draw manga-style eyes—but not too large. I add two sections of hair that sweep off the girl’s face like raven wings.

  As I lean over the sketchbook, my own hair falls like a red curtain around my face. I am in my own world. But I can feel the others noticing me and pretending they don’t.

  Maybe I’ll fit in better in Japan. At least I know about manga and anime—Japanese graphic novels and animation. I’ve been a fan since the first episode of Sailor Moon that I saw as a kid. I quickly discovered other stuff after that and went from TV shows to manga books. The character I’m drawing now is influenced by the darker manga I’ve been into lately.

  Woosh! The sketchbook flies out of my hand.

  “Let’s see what you’re working on, Red,” a boy’s voice says.

  “Hey!” I twist around, yanking my ear-buds loose. I come face to face with DJ, the most annoying guy in our school. Just my luck to be seated right in front of him.

  “My name is Dana,” I tell him with a knife-edge glare.

  I grab for the book, and DJ holds it out of my reach, laughing. I want to slap the taunting grin off his face.

  “It speaks! It speaks!” he says. He’s lucky my hands can’t reach his throat.

  “Give me the book,” I order under my breath. By now everyone is watching. Everyone except for Mr. Crawford and Ms. Delucci, our teachers. They are busy ignoring the morons they are supposed to be watching.

  I make another lunge for the book, and DJ jerks it away again. Unfortunately for him, there’s not much space in an airplane seat. I grab a handful of his hair.

  He gives a sort of squeal. It is part surprised pain and part laughter. Then he tosses the book. The next thing I know, my sketchbook is in the hands of Zach Bellows. He starts flipping through the pages.

  I force myself not to scream, though I am bursting with anger. For a second, I catch Melissa’s eye and glare. If she has any memory of our friendship at all, she knows how much I hate people looking at my private drawings.

  Mustering extreme willpower, I turn away and sit down. If I pretend I don’t care about the book, they should lose interest. Unless they start making fun of the drawings. I feel a surge of panic.

  “Here, pass this over,” a girl’s voice whispers from the aisle.

  The next thing I know, Maya drops the sketchbook into my lap.

  “What did you do that for?” DJerk complains.

  I look past Maya to see Melissa making her way back to her own seat.

  “The movie’s about to start,” she says, giving him a flirty smile. “It’ll be hard to watch with you guys throwing stuff around.”

  chapter two

  “We are beginning our descent,” the captain’s voice announces. “We will land at Nagoya airport in thirty minutes.”

&n
bsp; Finally! This is it. We are closing in on a patchwork of small green and brown fields. It’s getting dark, so I can barely make out the colors. Alongside the fields are the gray shapes of buildings.

  Disappointment nudges through me. I guess I expected the clouds to part and everything below to dazzle like jewels. But the view is dull and gray and no different from Vancouver.

  It’s just the weather and the fading light, I tell myself. It’ll get better.

  Inside the airport, we could be anywhere. There are just as many English signs as there are Japanese ones. I step onto a moving walkway as a recorded female voice says “please watch your step” in perfect English. The voice also says something in Japanese that must mean the same thing. we pass through customs and head to the baggage claim.

  By now, I’m watching for a washroom. I see a sign with the English word toilet. On one door is a small blue man-shaped image. On the other door is a small, pink, woman image. I push open the pink door and step inside. I’m followed by a couple of other girls from our group. The wash-room is clean and modern. I open the door to the first empty stall and freeze.

  For a second, I wonder if I picked the wrong washroom. I’m staring at a men’s urinal, but it’s on the floor. It’s a Japanese-style toilet, I realize. Now I feel like I’m in a different place.

  “What the hell is that?” a familiar voice complains.

  I look over my shoulder. Melissa is standing in front of a stall, one hand on her hip.

  “You stand over it and squat,” I say. Then I step into my own stall as if I know exactly what I’m doing.

  The look on Melissa’s face is worth the price of this whole trip.

  “Well, that’s it. I’m holding it,” I hear Melissa say. I am still laughing to myself as I reach the baggage claim area.

  In the airport lobby, a Japanese man in a black suit introduces himself as Mr. Akimoto. He is our host teacher from Suzuka High School. He has a round face lit by a welcoming smile. His thick black hair fits him like a tight hat.

  We follow Mr. Akimoto out of the airport, pulling our suitcases behind us. I look around, hungry for my first glimpse of Japan. But it’s dark out now. I can’t see much past the concrete of the airport. It’s warm, though, and more humid than spring in Vancouver. I take a deep breath of Japanese air.

  “Aren’t we getting taxis?” Melissa asks.

  As he leads us toward a covered walkway Mr. Akimoto explains that the airport is built on an artificial island. We have to take a ferry across Ise Bay to get to Suzuka. I squint, trying to make out the lights on the other side of the dark bay. All I can see are a few fuzzy spots that aren’t quite as black.

  A tall, sleek, white boat pulls in to the dock, and we walk on. The interior of the ferry is super modern—bright lights, airplane-style seats, TVS hanging from the ceiling. I feel a sense of unreality as I sink into my comfortable chair. Fatigue hits me. It’s about three in the morning Canada-time, I realize. I have been awake for nineteen hours.

  We get off the ferry at a place called Tsu. I notice a few short palm trees, which I wasn’t expecting. Several teenage boys are skate-boarding in the parking lot. We look over at them with interest. Mr. Akimoto guides us to a waiting bus.

  We board through the back door. as we struggle to find space for all of our suitcases, I look out at the skateboarders. Dressed in loose T-shirts and slouchy pants, they could be kids anywhere. One boy with spiky black hair reminds me of a manga character—the cocky, rebellious hero type. I feel a tingle of anticipation. What will my host family be like? Will I meet someone like that manga boy?

  The bus drives on the left side of the road, which is a bit unnerving. The streets seem darker than back home. There are large signs everywhere with Japanese writing. No English now. The bus pulls up in front of a train station, and we file out of the front door. Mr. Akimoto pays for us as we leave.

  “Everything here is backward,” Melissa complains.

  “Yeah,” Zach agrees with a laugh.

  My hackles rise. Was Melissa always this anal?

  “Maybe it’s you that’s backward,” I say. Melissa and several of the others turn and stare at me. Then their eyes glaze over as if I’m not here.

  “Did you hear something?” Melissa says to the girl beside her.

  The girl shrugs. “No, just a weird buzzing sound. Street noise, I guess.”

  They turn their backs on me—as if I care.

  On the train, I notice an ad with a manga-style illustration of a woman’s face. Cool. Mr. Akimoto tells us that we will be in Suzuka in twenty minutes. We will meet our host families at the station. I clutch my backpack tightly, feeling my stomach begin to flutter. I’m not sure if I’m nervous or just excited. Soon I will be rid of Melissa and the others—at least for a while.

  chapter three

  “Welcome to Japan. My name is Fumiko Seto.”

  My host “sister” steps forward. She has a shy smile and a heart-shaped face. Her black hair is cut in a fashionable shoulder-length style. She is wearing her school uniform. The other Japanese kids are also wearing uniforms. The boys’ black pants and collarless jackets look military. The girls’ plaid skirts, black blazers and white blouses look like Canadian private school uniforms. Suzuka High is a public school, though. Compared to the Japanese kids we look pretty grubby and travel worn. Except for Melissa, who must have touched up her makeup and hair.

  “This is my mother and father,” Fumiko tells me, gesturing toward the man and woman standing beside her. Her English is good, which is a relief.

  “Hi,” I say, forgetting that I’d planned to say konbanwa, Japanese for good evening.

  My host mom and dad smile and bow. Then they take turns shaking my hand. I can tell that they don’t understand much English. But they seem friendly and kind. Mr. Seto is not much taller than me, and his hair is threaded with gray. Mrs. Seto is shorter than me. Her face is an older version of Fumiko’s. Mr. Seto picks up my suitcase and says something in Japanese. I figure it means follow me, please.

  “I am sorry my older brother, Kenji, could not come to the train station,” Fumiko says as we follow her dad.

  “That’s okay,” I say. I’m curious and a bit nervous about this older brother.

  As we reach the doors I look back at the rest of the kids from my school. They have all split off with their host families. A stab of panic shoots through me, but I shove it aside. I’m glad to be getting away from them.

  “Sayonora, suckers!” I say under my breath.

  Ahead of me Melissa moves through the doors. She glances over her shoulder. For a second, her eyes look like a scared little kid’s. Then she notices me and glares.

  The Setos usher me out to a boxy van with Honda Stepwagon Spada written in English on the side.

  “My father works for Honda,” Fumiko says, sounding proud.

  Mr. Seto gestures for me to get into the front of the car. There is an awkward moment when I try to climb into the driver’s seat. I forgot that driving on the opposite side of the road means driving on the opposite side of the car. Eventually I make it into the passenger seat. I lean back, ready for sleep, but excitement and nerves keep my eyes open. Driving through shadowy unfamiliar streets with three strangers, I suddenly feel very far away from home.

  We pull up to the Setos’ house, which is crowded between other houses on one side of a narrow road. They all look pretty much like North American houses but not so large. Many of the roofs have curving eaves. Across the street is a black empty area, with more houses beyond that. As I climb out of the car, I hear odd creaking sounds coming from the blackness. I can’t see what is out there.

  Inside the Setos’ house is a small entrance that is lower than the rest of the house. I take off my shoes, which I know you are supposed to do in Japan. Still, I get the feeling I have done something wrong. Mrs. Seto quickly sets a pair of blue cloth slippers on the upper level in front of me. Fumiko touches my arm.

  “Like this,” she says. She steps out of her shoe
s and right up to the next level and into a pair of slippers.

  “The lower floor is for shoes only,” she explains.

  I am standing on the shoe-only floor with my socks.

  “Oh, sorry!” I say. I jump into the slippers, feeling foolish.

  Mrs. Seto holds out her hand as if I am a scared animal she is trying to calm. She gives me a confused smile. Fumiko laughs, covering her mouth with one hand.

  “It’s okay,” Fumiko says. “Everyone forgets some time.”

  Who knew shoes would be such an issue?

  Mr. and Mrs. Seto exchange words in Japanese, and a new voice joins in. I look up and meet the dark brown eyes of a shaggy-haired teenaged boy. He doesn’t smile.

  Fumiko introduces her brother, Kenji.

  “I am happy to meet you,” he says stiffly, like he’s reciting from an English textbook.

  A look passes between Fumiko and her mother, and there is an awkward silence. Then Fumiko touches my arm again.

  “Come, please,” she says. “I’ll show you our house.”

  Her mother stalls her with a few words of Japanese.

  “I’m sorry.” Fumiko turns to me, looking embarrassed. “You must be tired. I should have asked if you want to go to your room.”

  This time it’s Mr. Seto who cuts in.

  “My father suggests you might be hungry,” she says. “Would you like to eat?”

  I glance from one attentive face to the other. Only Kenji hangs back, looking bored. Suddenly I feel overwhelmed. All I want to do is escape to a soft bed—or even a hard futon. A picture flashes into my mind of a Japanese wooden pillow I’d seen in a book. But at that moment I don’t care what they give me to sleep on.

  The house tour is postponed. Mrs. Seto excuses herself to prepare me a bath. I think I am about to learn that baths are different here too. After some urging by his father, Kenji picks up my suitcase. Fumiko and I follow him up a steep set of stairs. Kenji pushes open a door at the top landing and sets my suitcase down. I step into the room, relieved and a bit disappointed to see a short soft-looking bed. No futon on the floor and no wooden pillow.