The thing is, it happened so casually, so calmly. As if nothing could be more natural.

Mom and Dad had both been home all week, and I had enjoyed it hugely. Going out to dinner, seeing movies, afternoons at the pool, boating on the Harbor, biking around in Central park and having a picnic afterward, visiting several museum exhibits...it was the first taste of real family-ness that I'd had in a long time, and since I knew it wouldn't last long, I had been determined to wring every drop out of it. Mom and Dad seemed to feel the same way and had even tried to get tickets to a Broadway show; didn't work out, but I didn't mind much. I enjoyed the together-time wherever I was.

Which isn't to say they forgot their work completely. Dad shared some of his research with me and seemed pleased when I carefully admitted that I understood most of it (I really got all of it, but I wasn't going to open that can of worms). And Mom and I went over her articles; we'd both shaken our heads and rolled our eyes at some of the things people will do, and the idiotic untruths they hope to get away with. In fact, that was how it came up at the dinner table Saturday night: laughing over Mom's last article. It was a piece about a sports star who had quit when his owner wouldn't modify the team's uniform to his liking and was now indignantly demanding to be re-hired, and I'd nearly choked myself on a water-chestnut. Mom patted my back with one hand and wiped her eyes with her napkin in the other, giggling; Dad chuckled into his beard, then turned to her and said in his calm way, "They'll be better behaved at home- will you be sorry?"

"No," Mom replied, as I caught my breath and looked up in surprise. "It's amusing, of course, but it's hard not to feel contempt, too. It will be nice to speak with people I can feel respect for."

"Home?" I asked, interested but dismayed. They both always referred to Japan as home, despite living in New York long enough to become citizens of the U.S. "You're going there next? You've already got a new assignment?"

Mom blinked once or twice at me, said, "Well," and glanced at Dad.

Dad nodded. "I have received a job offer in Japan," he said mildly. "It is a very prestigious position, in a highly respected firm, and I have decided to accept. Your mother has agreed; she has, as you know, often wished to return home, and has encouraged me to make the move. The job begins on October first, and the company is most generously arranging tenancy in an apartment for us."

I stared at him in confusion; he and Mom were gone so often that it really didn't dawn on me that when he said we, he was including me. So my first thought was that if they were in Japan and I was in New York, I would scarcely ever see them. Every last bit of my good mood went right down the drain. 'If that isn't confirmation that they didn't really want me-' was the next thought that seared through my mind.

"Don't look so unhappy, Toma-love," Mom said sweetly, smiling at me. "I know it's a big change for you, but you know the ways of Japan- we've taught you- and you'll soon get used to it. You know you've always been interested in our home; now you'll finally get to know it."

"Oh!" I blurted out, not thinking, "You mean- me, too?" And blushed something fierce as my parents both laughed.

"Of course, you too. We would not leave you here in New York and go live in Japan by ourselves!" Mom giggled. "Silly boy."

"Well, he is used to being alone," Dad said more seriously, but he smiled.

I blinked at them both, bewildered, my thoughts moving in rapid but not very clear circles. They were moving to Japan- and they were taking me. We would leave New York and go across the ocean and live there... "It's so sudden," I said doubtfully. And then, suddenly seeing it: "That's why you came home together, isn't it? You wanted to decide this. You've known all week, and you never said a thing to me!" Anger was building inside me. How could they do that, how could they make such an enormous decision without even telling me? Didn't I get any voice, any say in the matter? Didn't my opinion count at all?

Mom and Dad just looked at each other, placid and a little perplexed. "It was not important for you to know until the decision was made," Dad said, rather formally.

"If I'm old enough to be left all alone for a month at a time to take care of myself, then I'm sure old enough to have some input about where I live," I retorted icily. "But I guess I'm just a thing to you, a thing you can set on the shelf when you're done amusing yourself with it, a thing with no feelings and no desires and God forbid an opinion to express! A thing that does what's expected and never dreams of disobeying!" I shoved back my chair, bumping into the table and jostling everything on it as I stood. I had never spoken so rudely before, and both of my parents were wide-eyed with shock. I was pretty shocked at myself, too; the words had just come out, pouring from some deep part of me that was fed up with their eternal absences and my own eternal uncertainty about being wanted. "You never even wanted me, did you?" I accused, glaring at Mom. "But when you got me, you decided it was no problem- you'd just keep putting your life first and think about mine when you had time and inclination. And your inclination is so low, you can't even bother to tell me that you're considering uprooting me from my home so you can go back to yours! Can't even warn me about this tremendous change, just some offhand, 'oh, by the way, we're moving.' What next, you wrap me in packing and ship me like any other docile possession?"

I didn't wait for an answer. I turned and stormed out of the room, out of the apartment, half-running down the crowded sidewalk in the sultry heat of late evening. I was shaking with anger and pure nerves; no good Japanese kid would ever defy their parents or spit out the accusations I had made. But that was it: curious as I was about my birth country, I had been raised in New York- in America- with American attitudes as my role models. I had learned what was 'right' for a Japanese boy, but I hadn't been indoctrinated with it- at least partly because the two who would normally have done the job had been gone so much. So they were as much to blame for getting me caught between two worlds as I was for being deliberately rude. 'And if it's a question of two worlds,' I thought grimly as I slipped into the shooting gallery, 'I prefer this one!'

Five minutes later I was shooting as fast as I could, arrow after arrow streaking through the humid air to thud into the straw target on the far side of the room. They were all over the place, but I didn't care about accuracy, I just needed to let out some anger. Shoot twelve arrows; gather them up; shoot them again; gather them again... I fell into the spell, the monotony calming my anger, sharpening my aim and blurring the passing time. It was nearly two hours before I decided I'd had enough and let the bow rest on the floor, stretching my aching arms and stiff legs as I regarded the target. I couldn't help smiling a little at the sight of all the arrows clustered in the center ring, right where I wanted them, and I wondered again just how typical- or atypical, as the case might be- my accuracy was. It hadn't taken more than two weeks for me to get the knack of aiming correctly, but since I had no one to consult with, I had no idea whether that was quick progress or slow.

I crossed the floor to pull the arrows out for the last time and suddenly became aware of my discomforts. My left arm ached from several string-bruises; my bow-fingers burned; I was sweaty and hungry and my thoughts were mostly on going home and having a nice, cool shower. "Bet they'd get more people in if they just had a-c in here," I muttered to myself as I unstrung the bow and wiped it down. "But then I'd probably have to sign up ahead of time to get any practice..." I put the arrows back in their quiver and hung it up, then racked the bow and left the building. As I left, I noticed that the clock over the door read nearly nine, and scowled. I hadn't forgotten that Mom and Dad were home; I just wondered whether they were concerned about me or not. The resentful part of me doubted it, and as I walked back towards our brightly-lit apartment building, I realized my anger wasn't gone. It was just deeper under the surface.

We were moving to Japan: there was no doubt about that, no way for me to prevent it. But no one said I had to enjoy it, and no one said I had to be gracious about it.

So I wasn't.

I never did get all the details of our move, mostly because I didn't want to know them and deliberately ignored Mom and Dad when they talked about it, which was most of the time, so there was a lot of ignoring going on. What I do know is this: I went back to school in September and attended until the week before Thanksgiving. After that I stayed home and helped (unwillingly) Mom finish the packing. Dad left at the end September to start his job and to make some of the 'arrangements'- like getting a car and taking care of legal paperwork. I also learned that when we got to Japan, I would start school in January, since Japanese schools were out for most of December and the first week of January. In fact, the Japanese school year was one of the strangest I ever heard of: September through December, with half of December and half of January off; January through March with most of April off, and May through July with most of August off. That alone was going to take a lot of getting used to, and I grumbled about it, along with everything else I found to grumble about. Which was plenty.

"Toma," my mother said one afternoon while we were packing in the kitchen and I was making some more discontented remarks, "I know you're not happy about this, and perhaps it was thoughtless of us not to speak with you before we made our decision. But you've always been interested in the land you were born in, and we didn't think you would be so unwilling to go there."

"It's got a lot less to do with unwilling than it has to do with not having any choices," I said crossly, not looking at her and deliberately speaking in English. "You've made it pretty plain that what I want and how I feel isn't at all important to you. If you'd come and asked me what I thought about moving, I might've been all for it. But you didn't. Just think how you'd feel if you were living in Japan and your parents came and told you that you'd be moving to New York, and didn't even care enough to ask if you liked the idea."

Mom was very quiet for a moment; I looked up from the cabinet I was digging things out of and sat back on my heels, waiting.

"Well, yes," she said at last, and sighed. "You're right, I would not be happy if someone did that to me. I'm sorry, my son. I thought you wanted to go home-"

"This is my home, it's the only place I remember living," I snapped, and she frowned at me. "I'm interested in Japan," I added more reasonably, "but I wanted to go there when I was older, like after high school. On my terms. And not permanently- not till I knew whether I liked it or not."

"I see," she said quietly. "Well, I am sorry we've been so unthinking, son, but please- try to see it positively? If you go there angry and expecting to hate it, you will hate it. You'll close your eyes to the positives and only see the negatives. But if you're willing to give it a chance, you'll probably find it isn't such a bad place to be."

I wasn't expecting that, and sat there feeling kind of bad. Mom was right: I was mad at her and Dad for a number of reasons, but that didn't mean I should automatically despise the country where I was born and think there was nothing good or enjoyable there. If you learn nothing else in New York, you learn tolerance for the new and unexpected. "I...guess so," I agreed at last, and ducked back into the cupboard. "I'm going to need another box soon."

After that, I did try to see things in a more positive light, but with only partial success. I managed to feel sort of neutral about Japan itself, but I was still very angry at my parents, and I couldn't have hidden it if I'd wanted to. Being picked up like a chess-piece and moved without warning was enough in itself to make me sullen, but my words at the dinner table had been totally ignored, and that infuriated me. Obviously, they considered my anger something in the nature of a temper tantrum, something said and done for the attention and not important enough to take seriously.

I suppose the sensible thing to do would have been to bring it up myself, but there was a little flaw in that plan: I was still seething, so obviously any attempt I made to discuss how they made me feel would be dismissed as, 'Toma's being rude and hateful again because he's angry- like an American boy.' So I zipped my lip and withdrew. Actually, mad or not, I would've withdrawn anyway, I think, because Mom was driving me crazy. She was thrilled to be going home and said so more times than I wanted to try and count. In fact, she talked practically non-stop from August to November. She chattered about the packing, speculated about what our new home would be like, the things she would do, the plans she had for continuing her career, the opportunities we'd all have, the courtesy and respect and safety and cleanliness and a dozen more ways in which Japan was superior to the States... Her hyperness really got on my nerves, and it's a miracle I wasn't permanently dizzy from rolling my eyes so much. The last thing a grouch wants is someone else rejoicing about the thing that's making the grouch grouchy.

The packing-up took a lot longer than I expected it to, even though it was all planned out. We kinda had to plan it; we had to send Dad's stuff over first, then the stuff we weren't using, and then start paring down to bare necessities and last-minute stuff. And it seemed sometimes like we'd never get done- it's amazing, really, how much stuff you can have without realizing you have it. When you're on your seventh or eighth box and still only half done with whatever closet or dresser or cabinet you're working on, you start to think, 'this is getting kind of excessive' and wonder if you really need to take it all. Especially when you know you're going to have to unpack it all and put it away later. But I went on determinedly stuffing things into boxes and suitcases, feeling that if I couldn't stay in New York, I could at least take as much of it with me as possible. And if my parents had to pay extra for overweight, well, let 'em.

But there was one thing I did leave behind, deliberately. Inochi.

I left it in a corner of the closet in my bedroom, on the floor, where it could be easily seen. My reasoning was that this way, any supernatural being that came looking for it wouldn't need to trash the place to find it, and any ordinary person who saw it wouldn't think there was anything mysterious about a random marble lying around the floor. Random marbles don't usually get stuck in out-of-the-way places, though, and if I'd hidden it, someone might start wondering about it. They might even end up triggering it the way I had. I hated to think of some elderly lady having heart failure when the darned thing abruptly put that armor all over her.

Finally, on a freezing-cold day at the end of November, the last few boxes were filled and sealed and labeled and shipped, and Mom and I checked into a hotel near the airport for our International Flight the next day. Mom was bubbling over with excitement and didn't notice that I was silent; I ignored her as well as I could and spent most of my time looking out the hotel windows, taking in my last sights of New York.

I don't think it was a coincidence that the day we left New York was the exact day that I had taken Inochi home from Wong's little store on Sakura Street, the year before.

We had an afternoon flight out of LaGuardia that put us in Hawaii the next morning and then a connecting flight that took us to Tokyo; nearly twenty-four hours of traveling, altogether. I was too glum to be anything but grouchy, but by the time we hit Hawaii I was too tired to be anything else and fell asleep for the duration of the layover- several hours- just long enough to regain my irritability. I spent most of the second flight bored, homesick and snappish, daydreaming of the day I'd return to New York and trying to stop expecting to find Inochi in my jeans pocket. I must have checked fifty times, at least, and each time had to remind myself that the one good thing about leaving home was leaving that obnoxious little thing behind.

By the time we landed in Tokyo, I was nearly out on my feet and paid practically no attention to my surroundings. Dad met us outside of Customs and took us to a hotel, where we spent the night. The next day, we began the laborious process of getting from one side of the country to the other. Our destination was the city of Toyama, and getting there involved a hotel bus, a long train ride, and a very unnerving taxi drive. (And I thought New York cabbies were insane!) "Well, this is very homelike," I said to Mom at one point, as our driver narrowly avoided yet another potential collision. "Except for all the bicyclists."

"People don't drive much here," she told me.

"You sure coulda fooled me," I muttered, and tightened my grip on the oh-hell strap above the door as I stared at a sea of cars. One thing for sure; if I learned to drive here, driving at home would be a cakewalk. "I thought you were getting a car," I said suddenly to Dad.

"One of the requirements on the test is having a place to park the car," he explained. "I'm on a waiting list for a garage that's being built near our apartment building. But it will be some months yet, perhaps a year."

"Oh. Oh well, walking might be better anyway. One trip like this is enough for one lifetime," I said under my breath, and Mom didn't give me so much as a reprimanding glance. Either she didn't hear me, or she agreed- probably the former.

Fifteen hair-raising minutes later, we reached the apartment building where we would be living. I was out of that cab the second it stopped- I don't do well in enclosed areas- and stood looking around while Mom and Dad got out. The building was one of many skyscrapers salting the area- they did look like a columns of salt, all white and glittery- and was significantly taller than most of the buildings around it. The road we had come in on was lined with trees, now minus their leaves; it came up to a drop-off circle in front of the building, but also split off to the left and right to access the parking lots on either side of the building. Beyond the lots on both sides were more rows of bare-branched trees that I suspected were cherry-blossom trees. From where I stood, I could look down the access road to the main street, where traffic was steadily sweeping past, and see shops: two coffee shops, something that looked like a grocery store, a gas station, and a building with a neon sign that read, mysteriously, 'All you can see.' (I later learned it was a DVD-rental place.) Then Mom handed me my overnight bag and I turned to go into the building.

The interior of our apartment building was impressive, almost daunting: tall ceilings, hanging crystal chandeliers, plush carpet, a landscape painting dominating one large wall...it reminded me more of a five-star hotel- not that I've been in too many of those- than an apartment building. There was a sitting-area full of comfortable-looking chairs and low tables. There were drink and snack machines near the elevators, including an ice machine; there was a tall rack of newspapers, magazines and books, and even a play-corner for young kids. Opposite the sitting area was a small counter with a door behind it, which I assumed was the registration office and which added to the 'hotel' feeling.

As we stood looking around, a man in a suit hurried over to us. He greeted Dad, welcomed Mom and I, and ushered us over to the elevators to escort us up to 'our new home on the twentieth floor'. Dad addressed him as Mokei-san and it was a few minutes before I realized Mr. Mokei wasn't an official greeter hired by the landlord to give a personal, valet-type touch to the place. Mr. Mokei was the landlord. That was a big surprise to me. I couldn't imagine any American landlord doing the same thing, and it gave me a hint of how extremely deferential people were to each other in Japan, how much they would inconvenience themselves to serve someone else.

Almost the first thing Mokei-san did was to assure Mom and I that 'the lift' (as he called the elevator) was on its own generator and always fully functional. He seemed very proud of the fact, and I wondered why. Then I thought of having to climb twenty flights of stairs if the power did go on the blink, and decided that keeping one's elevator fully functional was indeed a goal to strive for in a 25-storey building. As we reached our floor and got out, Mokei-san explained some other helpful facts, like that the laundry rooms were in the basement, that there were maps and bus schedules at the lobby desk, that they rented bicycles by the day or week, and that if we needed anything, his office number was programmed into the phone auto-dial, number ten. Then he led us to the door of our apartment- one of only four on that floor- ceremonially unlocked it, handed Mom and I each a key, and having wished us happiness and long lives, bowed and departed.

Kinda surreal, but very courteous.

I was a little surprised, and very relieved, at how few boxes were waiting to be unpacked. Mom was thrilled and surprised too, and Dad explained that the movers had taken care of most of the unpacking and assembling. I was also surprised that it was a three-bedroom apartment, not two. Mom and Dad had the master bedroom, the next one was mine, and the smallest had been turned into Mom and Dad's workroom. (Mostly Dad's, in fact; Mom's computer and printer only got a corner, while Dad's lab took most of the free space.) I spent a few minutes looking around, then went into the room that was now mine and spent most of the afternoon alternately gazing out the windows at the city below and unpacking the suitcases that held most of my clothes. I had just about finished that and was contemplating the boxes that held my books and 'desk stuff' when Mom called me to dinner.

Mom usually does do most of the talking at any time (though I have been known to get kinda chatty myself) but that night at dinner, she surpassed herself. She...well... babbled. Gushed, really, about how much she absolutely loved the place. I mean, yeah, it was a fine apartment, but you'd think she'd been put up for permanent residency in the Taj Mahal. She loved the carpets (not tatami mats); she was delighted with the separate dining/living rooms (partitions, not rice-paper screens); she was thrilled with the dozen or so windows all over ("So much more light than we got in New York, being so low to the ground..."), and had ooo'ed over the sink in the bathroom (two sinks, with the counter stretching the length of one whole wall.) The kitchen was larger than she'd expected, the sunken tub in the bathroom was 'practically a jacuzzi' (true, and covered in glittery black tiles, too). And the view over the city was the icing on the cake.

"Dad," I said when Mom finally wound down a little, "thanks for telling the movers to set up my room the way they did." The furniture arrangement nearly matched the way it had been in my room at home; I'd toyed very briefly with the notion of moving everything around just to be contrary, but had decided against it. It would be too exhausting, not to mention very ungrateful. I hadn't realized Dad had paid that much attention to my room, and I did appreciate it.

"You're welcome, son," my father responded, smiling at me. "I thought it would make you feel more at ease here."

I nodded as Mom beamed. "And don't you like being so high up? And that volcano..."

I hesitated. Being so high in the air was a new and rather strange experience; I was used to looking up at buildings, not down at them. It seemed to drive home the strangeness of the city, how different it was from New York. Despite what some people say, large cities don't all look alike. And the volcano rising from the edge of the horizon was definitely something one wouldn't see in New York. "I like the height," I agreed after a moment. "But that volcano...I guess I've read too much about Pompeii and Saint Helen's and Etna and all that stuff. It seems kinda- sinister."

"Oh, well, the mountain sent up some smoke back in the 1800's," Dad said cheerfully. "But it's been quiet ever since. I wouldn't worry, son- and we're far enough away to have plenty of warning, if something ever should happen."

"Have you finished unpacking yet, Toma?" Mom cut in.

"I'm done with the suitcases- where should I put them now they're empty?"

"Oh- put one under your bed and bring the other two in to me, I'll put them in our closet. A walk-in closet!" Mom sighed rapturously and was off again. I don't think Dad or I got another word in through the rest of the meal.

I helped with the clean-up and in the process learned that the tap-water was safe to drink because the whole plumbing system was automatically filtered. I also learned that because the electricity in Japan is less reliable than in the States, battery and gas-powered appliances were very common. Candles and hurricane lamps were also 'en vogue' and there were things called 'heat tables' that worked on the same principle as heating pads- only larger, rigid, with legs, and gas-powered. What that meant in practical terms was that we had no dishwasher, and though there were clothes-dryers in the basement laundry area, they were separately billed and very expensive to use. Clothes were usually dried the old-fashioned way, spread out or hung on a line in the rear of the building, so fabric-softener was a necessity when washing. I listened dutifully to all this, shook my head in something very close to disgust- all this luxury yet unreliable power- and went back to my room to unpack my books and re-disorganize my desk.

I found it in the last box of books, tucked between two of my favorite astrology books: the small glass orb with the deep blue inochi sign in the center.

I was using one hand to hold the books in place as I put them on the shelves, and wasn't really looking into the box as I took them out. My fingers touched something peculiar; I looked down curiously- and yanked my hand from the box as if I'd just discovered a live rattlesnake curled up in there. "You!" I gasped, too stunned for anything more coherent. The orb just sat there. Maybe it glowed a little; maybe that was my imagination. I knelt where I was for a long, long time, staring into the box and trying to understand how this could possibly have happened- and the fact that those boxes of books had been among the first things to leave New York didn't make comprehension any easier. Finally I shook myself, carefully lifted out the last few books, then lifted the box with the orb still inside it and shoved it onto the shelf in my closet. "You like that box so much, you just stay there," I muttered, trying not to think about the implications of having that thing follow me halfway around the world. But I couldn't help it: somehow, Inochi must be at least marginally aware, and for whatever reason, it had chosen not to be left behind. It had picked me, come with me, whether I wanted it to or not- and I didn't like the thought one bit.

"Well, there better be a real good reason..." I paused suddenly, thinking of something else. "Japanese luck-charm, huh? Well, maybe now that I'm here, I can find something out about luck-charms that glow, summon armor, and follow people around. And," I added sourly, closing the closet door, "discover how to get rid of 'em for good."

I think the hardest thing for me to get used to in Japan was the staring. Mind you, there were a lot of things that ranked up real close- you can be lectured on the theories of culture till your ears bleed and still not be ready for some of the real-life situations that come up- but the staring really got to me. When you grow up in a city where people make a point of not staring at even the most shocking sights, it can really get on your nerves to be stared at just because your skin's pale and your hair's brown.

My eyes didn't fit in either, being gray instead of brown or black, but few people got close enough to check my eye-color.

At first I amused myself by thinking that if people were staring at me, a pretty ordinary-looking American, their eyes would probably pop out of their heads at some of the sights I was so used to seeing in New York. But the amusement factor wore off in a hurry, because it really was exasperating as all hell to walk past people and see them following me with their eyes, simply because I didn't look like them. I knew there was no malice in it, and I knew every foreigner in Japan got pretty much the same treatment, but it still made me feel like a circus freak.

So I went into one of the stores that sold a lot of Western products, found what I wanted, took it home and used it.

Dad was home a lot more, now that he worked just a few blocks away, but he didn't notice the change for a while- too busy in his lab. Mom, though- when Mom came home two nights later and found my hair dark blue instead of brown- well, you'd have thought she'd come home to find me a double-amputee, the way she took on.

Look, I'm pretty smart, but that doesn't mean I'm mature all the time. Obviously.

"Everyone stares at me all the time anyway, so I figured I'd give them something to stare at. If I'm gonna be treated like a circus freak, I might as well play the part right," was pretty much the sum of my argument to her.

"Oh, Toma, you're overreacting!" Mom almost wailed. "They'll get used to you and accept you, but not if you do such outrageous things!"

Somehow, that statement made me feel farther away from home than ever. Outrageous depends where you are and who's looking at you, and I was a long, long way from people who would accept such a thing as normal and take it in stride. But I didn't mention that.

"Mom, it's been two weeks and people still stare at me whenever I walk by- and whisper to each other," I snapped instead. "Heck, even people who live in this building still stare! If it takes them that long to accept me, I can get by just fine without being accepted. At this rate I'll be fifty before they find something else to gawk at." I was crankier than I meant to be, because I was kind of annoyed with that hair dye anyway. I had been aiming for bright blue, not dark. But it did suit my coloring pretty well, and I soon got used to it. It ended up being a bit of a puzzler, too- plenty of people took a look at me and then double-took, not sure if they were seeing blue, black, or dark brown with weird highlights. It was kind of spiteful, but I really enjoyed confusing everyone.

"But what about when school starts?" Mom went on protesting. Dad was regarding me with a bemused air, apparently wondering how I could have made such a change without him noticing. But that's my Dad- when he's deep in his research, you could paint a room around him and he wouldn't notice.

"What about it? Oh, and by the way!" I changed the subject, suddenly reminded. "I am NOT going through sixth grade again! Just because all twelve-year-olds in Japan are in sixth grade doesn't mean I should have to repeat something I already know- and got straight A's in."

Mom sighed, giving up on my hair for the time being. "I know, love, but they don't make exceptions. They would say you're skipping grades, and-"

"We'll just move his birth-year by a digit," Dad said calmly, and smiled at me. "It will do them no harm, and do him good. We don't want him to be bored and thinking up other mischief to get into." He ruffled my hair, making his meaning clear, and Mom sighed again. I frowned. I was glad he had suggested it, but I didn't like how he talked past me- and he was doing it more and more since we'd got to Toyama. It was like the country was changing him, changing both of them, and I didn't like it. In fact, the more I saw of Japan, the less I liked the country, despite trying to keep an open mind about the cultural differences.

I had been curious about my birth-country for most of my life, but now that I was experiencing it, I no longer thought of it as 'mine'. It was so different! The strange skyline, the volcano, the unnamed city streets and un-numbered buildings and the vast confusion of the twisting, ancient streets... The crowded subways were familiar, but I didn't like the push-pull guys who packed people into the cars; didn't care for the uniformly somber, silent crowds; couldn't adjust to the omnipresent bowing. And if I disliked the staring, I truly hated the way people were constantly keeping a few paces away from me, as though I might contaminate them if I got too close. And I wasn't impressed with the courtesy and friendliness I received, because it was so plainly nothing special. People were polite and helpful because it was their duty, not because they really wanted to be. I did my best to remind myself that people meant well and that a closed mind does no one any good, but it was only partly successful. I had a wicked case of homesickness, and it wasn't getting any better.

But those were all surface differences, symptoms of the real difference. The country of Japan held a completely different mind-set than the U.S., one of tradition and formality and correct behavior, with social ostracism the price for error or unwillingness to conform. The pressure to do as everyone else was doing was tremendous, and even though I, as an obvious foreigner, was dealt with leniently, I found myself caught between the two worlds again. I wanted very much to live my own life the way I chose to and not have to worry about what anyone else thought was proper. But I had been raised to fit in, and I really wanted to be accepted, too.

The result was pure confusion. Sometimes I found myself trying to behave the way a 'proper' Japanese boy would- and it was tough. A simple 'no, I don't think so' was considered highly discourteous. Direct statements were either considered gauche or seen as overly-assertive; nuance and suggestion were the correct ways of approaching important subjects. I was constantly censoring myself, spot-checking to make sure what I wanted to say or do wasn't rude or inappropriate, and keeping quiet when I wasn't sure. Other times, I would say exactly what I thought, do precisely what I wanted- within the bounds of American courtesy- and trying to seem oblivious to the astonished looks and the whispers of 'gaijin' all around me.

The irony is, neither approach made me happy. Behaving as a well-brought-up Japanese boy 'should' left me feeling like I was stuck in a cage of culture, but doing what I wanted made me embarrassed, and angry for being embarrassed. It's just not that easy to dismiss other people's opinions and reactions, even if you feel they shouldn't apply to you.

It wasn't all bad, of course- nothing ever is. The apartment was a pretty good place to live, despite the irritations of unreliable power (that about drove me crazy, to be honest; reliable power was something I took for granted and having it cut out randomly, day or night, was maddening. Fortunately, the landlord had been right to boast about his elevators always working, which averted one colossal-sized potential thorn in the side. I had never been too fond of laundry lines and hand-washing dishes to begin with, though, and became less so.) Our new apartment was larger and brighter- and better maintained- than our old home, and the garden in the rear of the building was a definite perk. It was all one big plot, divided into sections for the favored tenants (like us) to plant, although anyone could walk the paths or sit on the nearby benches to enjoy them. What baffled me was that with all the garden space, so little of it was actually given to flowers. Most of it was herbs and grasses and bonsai plants, with patches of gravel or even small pools and fountains. Our first week, Mom went out with her garden tools and planted out our section, and came back in practically glowing with pride. I went down a day or so later to look at it and wondered if people would put actual flowers in when it warmed up.

I also learned some interesting things, since people were so willing to volunteer information to the uninformed gaijin. When I asked why so many window displays were coated in dust, I was told that they were never moved, because they were landmarks to guide pedestrians who had no other references; they sort of took the place of street signs. I wondered how the mail delivery people managed, until I learned that most Japanese kept a post-office box and got their mail there instead of at home. I was reminded that one wore white at a relative's funeral and that many couples still wore traditional red wedding clothes. I discovered that one didn't come home from a vacation without gifts for one's office-mates (small ones, but still gifts); that beer and cigarettes were sold in vending machines where proof of age wasn't required (no, of course I didn't!), and that fried crickets are an acquired taste. (That last one, rather the hard way. Not fun.) I also picked up a bunch of tourist facts: about Kabuki and No theater, Karaoke bars and comedy, shrines and retreats, famous landmarks and the Fuji-san pilgrimage. I did not learn about geishas, though I could've if I'd wanted to.

C'mon, I was twelve, not fifteen.

I also found out that Japanese TV...well, not to be rude, but when all your entertainment centers around one pool of performers- when, for example, one person acts in three different Soaps, participates in a reality show, and sings in a band as well- either they're very talented, or they're very photogenic. By the end of a week, I was watching news and nothing else. I even tried the animes, but they were too confusing, and too much alike for me.

I got to know my neighborhood pretty quickly- what stores sold what items, how late they were open, how to get from one place to another. I found a rather nice little park not far from the apartment, though I never stayed there long; it was too cold and usually too overcast. To my mind, though, the best discovery I made was a small archery school a few blocks away. I immediately signed up for lessons, wishing I could have brought my bow from New York. It was good to be shooting again, and this time with an instructor who was very pleased to have found a skillful student. (Her words, not mine!)

But when I tried to do some research on Inochi, I made a discovery that shocked me, an oversight I had never even thought about.

My parents had taught me Japanese from the time I was a small child, both the formal and informal versions, so I had no trouble at all in making myself understood; I spoke it like a native, and even got complimented now and again. Apparently a Japanese-fluent foreigner was a rare and unusual thing, a cut above the average bumbling, ignorant tourist. And I could navigate the streets well enough; many buildings had English names, and the characters for directions were basic ones that I knew well. It wasn't until I got to a library and actually opened a book that I discovered an appalling oversight in my education: I couldn't read Japanese!

Talk about a letdown. In my mind, tons of information had just slid through my fingers like sand. I grimaced, put the book back, and went irritably home to read something in English. I let my parents know about it that night, and once they realized I wasn't joking, they were very taken aback. Dad promised to speak to the principal of my school to arrange special tutoring for me and I went to bed feeling that school here was probably going to be more of a challenge than I had bargained for.

I was right, too, in several ways. The school holiday had taught me a great deal about what life in Japan was like, but when classes began at Hanai Elementary-Secondary school, I learned a hell of a lot more, in a major hurry. Fortunately, I had some help with that.