I wouldn't normally describe myself as shy- awkward, maybe, sometimes, but that's a different matter altogether- but I sure felt shy as I headed for the library that afternoon. So I wasn't in any particular hurry as I worked my way through the maze of halls that was Hanai school, which was just as well, because no one else was, either. Lethargy was still hanging in the air and all the kids were moving like they'd gotten stuck in slow motion. 

The reason I was feeling almost-nearly shy was because of what had happened at lunch. I'd made a kind of unexpected rant to Sage about what I didn't like about his country, for one thing, and although he'd actually agreed with me once or twice, he hadn't said much. I didn't think he was being quietly offended, but it was awfully hard to tell with him. 

But what was really looming large in my head was the rest of the conversation- not Japan in general, but him and me in particular. 

Remembering Ryo's remark that Sage and I had a lot in common, I had suffered a spur-of-the-moment impulse to ask Sage what he thought about that, forgetting that sudden impulses don't go over too well in Japan. Sage had seemed about as baffled by the thought as I was, until I mentioned that we both got the short end of the stick so far as common courtesy went. Several minutes of comparative discussion had led us both to conclude that although Ryo was right- we were a lot alike- the things we had in common were not very pleasant ones. That was what had led to my rant: in a nutshell, I didn't like how people who were 'different' got treated, and Sage had cautiously agreed that he didn't much like it himself. But that was the only really personal opinion he'd given me. The rest had been personal facts of the most unexpected sort. 

I guess I ought to have felt flattered that he was telling me things I wouldn't have bet on hearing from him in about a dozen years, but flattered and I weren't even on nodding terms by the time the bell rang. Surreal and I, however, had got very well acquainted. Hearing him talk about not being wanted and sent away and insulted daily, his usual calm detachment gone- it was kind of spooky, in a sympathetic sort of way. He'd even grown annoyed enough to correct me pretty sharply when I suggested he was lucky to have a grandfather at all, and that had been another shock; I hadn't thought Sage could get mad. On reflection, anyone could, of course; what was surprising was that he would, restrained as he normally was. At any rate, having Sage annoyed at me had been an unforseen and reasonably unpleasant experience that I wasn't eager to repeat. 

It didn't help that I had spent most of the afternoon replaying the conversation, second-guessing myself, speculating uselessly on what I might have done different and how Sage might feel and whether I had ruined what friendship we had, or taken it to a new level, or reached a new low, or what. I had my suspicions, though. Ryo had told me that Sage thought pretty well of me (which I had doubted, for Sage had never given a sign that he had any kind of opinion of me at all. Later, though, it had occured to me that I might just not be recognizing a good opinion when I saw it. Come to that, there was a good chance I wouldn't recognize a good opinion until it walked up and slapped me on the back in a comradely fashion). But Ryo had been right about us being similar so he probably had been right about Sage's good opinion. 

You note the past tense, right? I had no doubts that our little lunchtime chat had sunk me quite a bit in Sage's opinion- though exactly why was hard to put my finger on. The best I could come up with was that I'd been so thoroughly un-Japanese that I had probably alienated him...not so much because of my attitude, for my friends were both used to my blunt American ways (up to a point), but because I had led Sage into saying things that Japanese boys (or girls) simply wouldn't admit to. Basically, I had corrupted him and he wouldn't be appreciating it. 

So I wandered through the halls towards the library, in no hurry to face whatever might be pending, stuck between wishing I'd kept my mouth shut so as to have kept my feet out, and wishing he'd been more open so I wouldn't be so puzzled and apprehensive about what sort of reception I'd be getting. 

Sage was already there, sitting at the table we three usually sat at, bending over his books. I crossed the floor slowly, fighting an urge to pick a different table- or maybe just sit out in the hall, like I did during lunch- and hesitantly drew out a chair, dropping my backpack at my feet. Sage looked up and gave me a brief smile and a quiet greeting, then returned to his homework. I sat down, took out my math book, paper and a pencil, and tried to get to work on Temikyono's unreasonably long math assignment.

Talk about anti-climactic! 

I think we were about the only two sudents in the library actually studying that afternoon; every time I glanced up, which was often, I noticed that the kids who didn't have their heads down on their coats or bookbags were just sitting around talking. 'Gossiping's probably more accurate,' was the thought that struck me as I looked around, and with that thought came a certain insight. Gossip- yes, that might explain why Sage had greeted me so neutrally and seemed to be so wrapped up in his homework. But on the heels of that came more confusion. Was he hoping I'd take the hint and say nothing that would get us both ridiculed later on? Would he say something to me privately later? Or maybe-

'Maybe he just doesn't want people wondering why the gaijin suddenly aren't sitting together anymore and start gossiping about that,' I thought gloomily. 'If he really is ignoring me...if he wishes I wasn't here...I've got nothing to lose by asking some pointed questions, do I? Well- maybe not, but I really don't need half the school as witnesses, either.' I stared at the purple-gray sky outside the library windows and wished I was miles away. Not for the first time, I mused that living in a society that communicated mainly by tradition, implication and nuance was a lot like living in a constant multiple-choice test. You could line up any number of possible meanings behind someone's behavior and words (or lack of them!), but only one of those would be the right one.

"You're going to have a lot to do when you get home."

I nearly jumped out of my chair at Sage's quiet but unexpected remark. "What?" I asked almost automatically, blinking at him. He was looking at me with not so much a smile as a somewhat amused expression, and I felt somehow inferior before it.

"A lot of homework," he clarified, nodding at my mostly blank math sheet. "Still feeling sleepy?"

I bit my tongue on a variety of replies, ranging from, 'So why do you care?' to 'Oh, it won't take me long' to 'No, I'm just thinking about a lot of stuff that bothers me'. I discarded them all and played a particularly Japanese trick: dropping my gaze, shrugging, and saying nothing. Two could play the multiple-choice game. To my satisfaction, Sage didn't seem to know quite what to do with my response, and there was a rather lengthy silence. 

"I'm having some trouble concentrating myself," he volunteered eventually. 

"Hmm," I grunted, then glanced off to my right. "There's going to be an epidemic of stiff necks tonight, I think." 

"Probably so. Do sleepy Americans avoid that by dozing in the sitting-up-straight position? Good posture..."

"We use our backpacks as pillows. And then we put our coats on top to make a cushion," I told him, wondering why I was bothering. My mood, already low, was drifting down to subterranean. I adopted Sage's own ploy and pulled my math book closer, scowling at the equations I already knew by heart. 

"I see," I heard him say, very quietly. "So it's the work itself that is making you frown like that?"

I didn't answer that either, just got busy: dividing and multiplying the fractions, subtracting the integers, allowing for the occasional negative number, and jotting down the final answer....booorinnnnng, some part of my mind was droning at me, but I ignored it; it was better than trying to make small talk with Mr. Mysterious. Mr. Inscrutable, Mr. Show No Emotions, Mr-

"Rowen-?" The edge of concern in Sage's voice as he said my name made me look up.

"What?"

He was staring at my homework, and as I lifted my pencil, he surprised me by reaching across the table and picking it up to look at it. "You know, you're supposed to carry out the equations, not just..."

"The answers," I concluded with a sigh. "Yeah, but he knows I understand all this, so he doesn't grade off for it."

Sage looked up from my paper, his odd lavendar eyes rather wide. "But does he know it takes you about five seconds per problem?"

I looked away and shrugged. "No, I didn't mention that," I admitted uncomfortably, thinking, 'Shit. Here we go again...'

Sage was quiet for a moment, then said slowly, "I know American grades are different- I mean, the ages are different- you've had this grade before, at home?"

In for a dime, in for a dollar, never mind the local currency was Yen and Euros. "No, I haven't been in seventh grade before. I was in sixth last year. Would've been in sixth again this year, but-"

"But you're thirteen, so-" 

I shook my head, annoyed at being interrupted.

"You're not thirteen? But then how can you be in this grade? How old are you? And how do you know this if-" Sage was almost spluttering, and under other circumstances, I might have found that amusing.

"If you'd care to let me finish a sentence, I'll explain... I would have been in sixth grade, thanks to the completely moronic method of rating students by age instead of ability. But I told my parents, and they agreed, that I shouldn't have to take a year that I'd already passed and made excellent grades in. So they moved my birthday a bit. I'm twelve, which is what most American seventh-graders are." I paused, shrugged, then added offhandedly, "But even so, that's-" pointing at the math book, "very old stuff to me. I was doing that years ago. That's one thing about this country," I reflected aloud. "Some subjects here I didn't have at home. Like the kanji class. More interesting than school in New York, I must say. Meaner, though..."

"You're...twelve?!" Sage practically squeaked, incredulous shock all over his face. And then, as it sank in, I read the disapproval in his eyes.

I reached across the table and snatched my homework out of his hand, glaring at him. "What, does that disqualify me from hanging around with you?" I asked sullenly, shoving my math book into my pack. "No mingling with the inferior little twelve-year-olds, eh?" The paper crumpled as I shoved it after the book, but I didn't care. "Glad to know I've provided you with an airtight excuse to pretend I don't exist." I dropped my pencil in and zipped up the backpack. "Please do refrain from setting off any fireworks of joy until you get outside, though. The school might not approve." And with that, I got up and walked out. There were still nearly fifteen minutes before the dismissal bell, but I'd had enough. 

No one was around to stop me as I marched out of the building- I suppose they felt there was no need to monitor the doors, since no good Japanese kid would dare to leave school early. I liked the thought; it meant that whatever Sage might be wanting to say to me about the unacceptability of my age, he wouldn't follow me. He probably wouldn't even leave the library. I'd be home well before he got out.

If I'd known what I was going home to, though, I would have stayed in the library and taken whatever Sage had to say to me; and in hindsight I wish I had, because not only would I have had my misperception corrected, I wouldn't have walked into a really ugly scene when I opened the apartment door.

In fact, I knew it wasn't pretty as soon as the elevator doors opened. Apartment walls are universally thin and I could hear the yelling very easily. I just didn't realize it was coming from our apartment until it was too late. I started to unlock the front door, discovered it was already unlocked, and wondered anxiously if I had forgotten to lock it on my way out that morning. My next thought was of burglars, unlikely as that was in Japan, and it was with more than a little fear that I slowly edged the door open. I was telling myself that all I had to do was take a quick look and run down to report it- and oddly, thinking how appalled the landlord would be to hear about it- when I suddenly registered that the raised voices I was hearing were coming from inside...and they were familiar.

It was my parents who were shouting at each other, loudly enough to be heard down the hallway. 

I still can't say what shocked me more: that both my parents were home unexpectedly, or that they were standing in the living room screaming at each other. Dad shouldn't have been home till nine or ten in the evening, and Mom wasn't due back in Japan until Thursday. But they were here, and they were yelling, and I had never seen anything like it. All the times my parents had disagreed before, they had done so in the Japanese way. That is, they got cold, formal and very quiet, more or less shunning each other and keeping their communication to the absolute minimum of what was necessary. To hear them raising their voices, their faces twisted with anger and indignation, was frightening to me. It wasn't that they were arguing like Americans that bothered me; they simply weren't acting like my parents. 

The first thing I did was to hurriedly step inside and close the front door, for whatever good that might do. A momentary silence fell and I took the opportunity to say a wary, "Hello..." Dad glanced over and gave me a stiff little nod. Mom...my mother didn't react at all, and I could see that arguing with her husband was far more important to her than the trifling business of greeting the kid she hadn't seen in almost two weeks. Deeply stung, I pulled off my backpack and then my coat, remarking as coolly as I could manage, "You might want to know that I could hear you guys all the way from the elevator."

"There, you see!" Dad barked at Mom, who immediately snapped something back. I grimaced and left the room, heading for what sanctuary my own bedroom might offer. Not much, as it happened: I had closed the door and sat crossly down at my desk when I heard my mother shriek, "I am NOT being unreasonable!" more or less at the top of her lungs. 

If you have to say something like that as loudly as your voice will permit, it's a good bet that you are in fact being unreasonable. However, I didn't want to hear it, and I looked around the room for something to stuff into my ears. I finally decided my I-pod would do the trick and shoved the earbuds in, cranked the music up until I couldn't hear anything but guitar, bass, keyboard and percussion, and hoped my eardrums would forgive me someday. Then I took out my books and finished my homework. Contrary to Sage's remark in the library, it didn't take me long at all. But I was unable to spend any time gloating about that, since the headache I was enduring was taking up most of my attention.

I've never had a headache quite that bad before. It was a compound of anger, stress, overloud music and intense concentration, and by the time I put away my Japanese book, I was feeling dizzy and a bit nauseated. I turned down the music and lay down on the bed with my eyes closed, hoping that would help. I guess it did, too, because the next thing I was aware of was being shaken awake by my father. Light from the hallway made a bright streak across the otherwise dark room, and the music from my I-pod was still pulsing in my ears. Disoriented, I sat up, shut off the music, and took off the earphones, noticing that my wall clock with the luminescent hands was showing nearly seven-thirty. My ears were ringing, but the headache was pretty much gone, which struck me as very strange. Loud rock isn't usually the headache-relief of choice.

"Oh," Dad said as I put the little device next to me on the bed and looked up at him uncertainly. "No wonder you didn't answer. It's time to eat."

"Oh, okay," I responded sleepily, and yawned, belatedly covering my mouth with my hand. I slid off the bed, caught my balance, and followed him out into the extremely bright (by comparison) hallway. Pleasant smells made my stomach growl- it was more awake than the rest of me- and as I shielded my eyes from the light, I wondered why supper was so late, since Dad had gotten home so early. Then, as I slid clumsily into my chair, I lowered my hand, saw Mom, and remembered. I can't quite say my appetite abandoned me, but I did suddenly wish Dad had just let me sleep; Mom was wearing her pinch-lipped look and that always meant trouble. I wasn't looking forward to having the whole thing start up over again, and I had no doubt that was exactly what was going to happen. 

The room was unpleasantly silent as Dad took his seat at the head of the table and began dishing out the food. Leftovers, I noted. That suited me fine, but I saw Mom wrinkle her nose as she took her helpings. I hoped she wasn't going to get all snooty about it; she was the one was always insisting we save food and not waste anything, and she was the one who'd filled our kitchen cabinets with plastic containers in every size imaginable. (I hadn't known they came so small, and had joked once about not being able to fit more than six peas in one of them. Mom hadn't thought that very funny.) So she was in no position to complain, but whenever she was angry at Dad, she criticized practically everything he did. I served myself and started eating, just waiting for the nagging to begin. 

To my surprise, it didn't. Mom was silent. Dad was silent. I took the cue and was silent also, my eyes on my plate, aware in a distracted way that my shoulders were hunched in uneasy anticipation. I ate more quickly than was my habit and didn't ask for seconds- and yet, the meal seemed endless. Finally my plate was clean and I quickly got up to take it to the kitchen. I actually breathed a sigh of relief when I got through the doorway, then stifled it as I realized I wasn't done yet. There was still the cleaning up to do.

Finally, with the last pan washed, dried, and put away, I hung up the dishtowel and braced myself to go into the living room. Mom and Dad had remained unaccountably silent, and the quiet was starting to unnerve me almost as much as the yelling had done. Flicking off the light, I stepped through the doorway and started for the hall. Mom and Dad were both sitting at the far end of the room, Dad in his big chair and Mom on the sofa, and both of them were reading- or pretending to. That was when I made my mistake. Instead of just going on down the hall to my bedroom, I muttered, "Good night."

"Good night," Dad replied, but Mom looked up sharply. 

"Don't forget to finish your homework."

"I already did." Second mistake.

"Don't give me that nonsense. You were sleeping, not studying."

"I finished it after school," I said tightly. "Except for the Japanese, which I did before I fell asleep. But if you don't believe me, you can come take a look for yourself."

That didn't work quite the way it was supposed to: it was supposed to lull her suspicions. Instead, she got up from the sofa and actually followed me down to my room. I couldn't believe it- she hadn't done that since I was in fourth grade- and I stood sullenly as she checked each page of my homework before straightening up with a nod. "All right, then," she said briefly, and turned for the door as I began to put my books back in my backpack.

"I'm not a liar, you know," I growled. "And by the way...nice to see you, too."

Mom stopped in the doorway and sighed. I saw her shoulders droop, and she turned back to me with a guilty look on her face. "I'm sorry, Touma," she said softly. "I was so angry at your father that I put everything else from my mind- even you." She moved across the room and wrapped her arms around me. I didn't pull away. The spiteful part of me wanted to do exactly that, but I guess my need for affection was stronger than any potential satisfaction I'd get from rejecting her. "It is good to see you, Touma-love," she went on, rocking me a little. "It's always good to see my boy, even if the rest of the day is...not so good."

I just sighed, not believing a word of it, though I wanted to... "You certainly didn't seem very glad when I got home," I pointed out with lingering resentment. "You didn't even look at me."

"I was angry," Mom said simply. "I felt it was better to say nothing than to speak to you angrily when you had done nothing to deserve it. As I just proved, eh? Snapping at you about your homework when there was no need...When I'm angry, everyone around me becomes my target, even if they've done no wrong."

I sighed again, feeling myself relax almost against my will. Was it an excuse, or a valid explanation? Mom was emo, I'd known that all my life... and I had been on the receiving end of her temper tantrums once or twice before... maybe this was an improvement. If you can't say something nice, don't say anything, right? "I guess. I was surprised to see you," I responded at last, changing the subject somewhat. "Thought I'd gotten my days mixed up."

Diverted, my mother promptly went into a convoluted explanation of how she'd managed to get home sooner than expected, with emphasis on her shrewdness in the pursuit and wrap-up of her story. "And so I hurried home to my family," she concluded two or three minutes later, triumph in her voice. And sighed. "Only to make my poor son unhappy. Coming home should be a happy thing." She leaned down and kissed me. "The problem is, your father-"

"Stop," I said curtly, pulling away. "I don't want to hear it- if I did, I wouldn't have left the room and covered my ears."

Mom regarded me for a moment, then nodded and drew me close again. "Of course, son. I understand. We'll work it out more quietly, I promise. Okay?"

"Okay." 

"So," she went on brightly, sitting down on the side of my bed and coaxing me to sit beside her, "tell me how things went here while I was away."

I gave her a condensed version of the past week or so, which took about a minute. Mom kept her arms around me the whole time and really seemed to be paying attention, both of which gratified me. I even told her about my day in the library, and was even more gratified when she sympathized with me, saying my friend sounded like an unusually intolerant sort. "He should be admiring you, not disapproving. I'm proud of my smart son, anyway, if that helps, Touma," she assured me, and I quickly replied that it did. 

"This business of going by age instead of ability-" I snorted.

"I know. There are some things here that just aren't very sensible, but they get done anyway because of silly old traditions. Still, not all of the traditions are silly, I guess I shouldn't blanket-condemn them..." Mom trailed off thoughtfully, then shrugged. "But that's definitely one. Sounds like your friend's going to grow up to be an old fart," she teased, and I had to smile. "He's a young one now, hm?"

"Something like that. It just annoys me, I was finally starting to get along with him okay and now I guess I either start all over again, or give up entirely. Dunno which way I should go, though."

"Well." Mom thought about it for a moment. "Well, everyone should get three strikes, right? And he was loosening up a little, yes?"

"That's true. And it's not like I have people lining up to be my friend anyway, even now, so...if I write him off, I'm down to one. 'Sides, my other friend is his friend, too, so-"

"That could get awkward," Mom broke in. "Well, so, try some good old American charm on him. He'll come around."

"I don't know, I think that kinda scares him," I mused. "But it's not easy to be Japanese, either- I always make mistakes. I'm starting to feel kinda multi-personalitied," I concluded with a sigh.

"It's best to be who you are," my mother said with unusual solemness. "Being anyone else falls under false advertising, and won't make you happy, either."

"Yeah, but on the other hand, being me tends to get me ostracised, and that certainly doesn't make me happy," I pointed out. "And you know...I think maybe you were right about..." I put my hand to my head.

"Oho! Do I get to say I-told-you-so?" Mom asked with a wicked smile, and giggled when I rolled my eyes. "Too bad you picked such a stubborn color, but that's my stubborn baby..."

"Mom! I'm not a baby!"

"You'll always be my Touma-baby, that's just how mothers are. Accept it, you have no choice," she informed me, tapping my nose the way she used to when I was about three. 

"Mooommm..." I ducked away, trying not to smile. She saw it, though, and laughed and gave me another kiss. 

"At least I got a smile out of you. When'd you get so serious, Touma-chan?"

"Mom, you're silly, I've always been serious," I reminded her. "I guess maybe I'm moreso now than before, though," I had to admit when she gave me The Look. "I'm more frustrated these days..." I hesitated, then added, "And homesick. I- I really miss New York."

The Look faded away into one I couldn't really define. Sympathy? Resignation? Maybe some of both.

"I do understand," Mom said softly. "When we left here and went to New York, I was terribly homesick. I didn't think I'd ever get used to America...and I suppose in some ways, I never did. I never stopped thinking of Osaka as my 'real' home. I hoped it would be easier for you, since you've always been curious about Japan, but..." she paused as I shook my head, and sighed. "Well...I wish you'd give it a little more of a chance, but I guess I can't blame you for wanting to go back to what you grew up with."

"I've already given it a chance," I pointed out, frowning at her. "This country is so conservative that I already know the things and attitudes that bug me aren't going to change- not in my lifetime, anyway. You told me to be myself- I want to go back to where I can do that without being looked down on and held in contempt. Where I can say what I think and not get weird looks. Where people are more open-minded." 

"Well, you're right; you're right about that," Mom agreed. "Things haven't changed much since we left, and maybe that's a sign of stagnation." She put her hands on my shoulders and looked at me for a moment. "My son, for the time being, your home is going to have to be here. But I'll give you this promise: when you turn eighteen, if you still want to go back to New York- and I think you will- we will send you home and help you find a good place to live, whether it's at a college or in an apartment with a job. I'm afraid that's the best we can offer you. I know it seems like a very long time," she added when I sighed. "Six years, but-"

"Only five, according to my school," I reminded her, attempting to smile. It seemed like a very dim hope for a very distant future, but it was at least something to look forward to. 

"That's right, we did...well...this could get a little complicated. Hm, maybe once you finish school we could send you as an emacipated minor..." Mom stared into the distance for a few seconds. "We'll talk about it when the time gets closer, all right? Meanwhile, perhaps we can think about some vacations."

"That would be great!" I agreed enthusiastically, and decided to look up 'emancipated minor' as soon as I could. The thought of a vacation in New York, or for that matter anywhere in the U.S., also sounded quite tempting, and I expressed my appreciation with a hug that made Mom exclaim about how strong I was getting. "It's the archery," I explained, pretending to show off my biceps like a body-builder as she giggled. "Except I keep forgetting to go over and practice. I should do that, it helps me unwind."

"Coming unstrung, are you, my son?"

"Mom! That was terrible!"

My mother laughed again, gave me a squeeze, then kissed my forehead. "Feeling better?" she asked, brushing her fingers through my hair. I nodded; I did feel better, and I hadn't expected to. I had gotten so used to keeping her at a slightly resentful distance that I had forgotten how easy she was to talk to, how often she helped me solve problems or cheered me up; how funny and nice and sympathetic she could be...when she chose. She was more of a best friend than a mother, and though I did wish she'd be my mother, I wasn't disdaining the support at all. Of course, for that to happen, she'd have to actually be in the country more frequently... 

I was just about to ask her how long she'd be able to stay this time, when Dad stuck his head in and totally ruined it all.

When you've had a bad day and things finally start looking rosier, to have it all come crashing down again makes it worse than if you'd just stayed in your funk and pouted. And this time it was worse...

It really wasn't all Dad's fault, though; all he did was swing the door open and tell me he'd brought home some ice cream and if I wanted some, I should join him in the kitchen. Ice cream wasn't too hard to get in Japan, but it was usually in weirder flavors than I was used to, and I hesitated a bit. "It's ordinary chocolate and vanilla," he assured me with a small smile. "No jellyfish." 

"Oh, good," I replied, standing up and wondering again if there really was jellyfish-flavored ice cream. I hoped not. 

"I think I will join you," my mother said, and I turned to look at her in surprise, wondering at the edge in her voice. She was staring hard at Dad, frowning. "Utterly transparent of you," she added as she got up and walked towards the door.

"What are you talking about now, woman?" Dad snapped, and I stepped back in shock. 

"Such interesting timing," Mom replied breezily. "To walk into our talk for no better reason than that...to not even acknowledge that there was a conversation, which would be the polite thing to do... Really, if you wanted to spend time with the child, you had ample opportunity while I was away. Yet as soon as I'm home and trying to catch up with him, in you come, intruding-"

I didn't really hear Dad's interruption. I felt as if I'd been hit right in the stomach. Honestly, I almost felt sick. Maybe Dad thought Mom was giving me a biased version of their fight and decided to intervene; maybe he wanted to cut her down by offering me a treat and ignoring her; or maybe he just didn't think about it. Probably the latter, he's always been kinda absent-minded. But whatever his reasons, Mom was turning me into a pawn in their disagreement, and I still can't say whether it made me more hurt or angry. 

"-saying I monopolize him?" Mom was demanding as I tuned back in, trying to still the twisting in my gut.

"Only when you're home!" Dad retorted. "When you're away it's, 'he's all yours, you deal with him', but when you're home, it's 'he's mine, hands off.' I'm tired of it! I-"

"Shut up," I said hoarsely, and when neither of them paid me a speck of attention, I stepped between them. "Shut...up," I said, slowly and quietly in English. I couldn't yell, my voice wasn't working right, and anyway, yelling was their game. "Both of you. Now. And get out of my room," I said to Mom, who looked quite ready to slap me. "Stay away from me," I added to Dad, who ironically also looked ready to slap me. "What the hell do you think I am, anyway, some sort of rope you throw down between fighting dogs so they can have a tug of war? I won't be your pawn- you two can fight all you want, but you keep me out of it. I want nothing to do with either of you, so let's can the bitching about who gets the bigger chunk of me." I stopped to take a deep breath, then almost laughed as something else occurred to me. "Of all the idiot things to fight about, the possession neither of you ever really wanted anyway! Save your energy and bicker about something more worthwhile and valuable!"

"Touma-" Mom looked more upset than angry as she started towards me, but I ducked away. 

"Stay away from me!" I snapped. "Just stay the hell away, what part of that don't you get? From now on, both of you just keep clear and there won't be any more of this bull about who monopolizes me or whose turn it is or who takes more responsibility for me. Shit, you think I want to spend any time with either of you, after hearing how you just talked about me?" 

For a long moment, both of my parents stared at me, Dad in the doorway and Mom beside the bed. Neither spoke, though their mouths were open; I think my last accusing question sank really deep for both of them- just for a change. I stood where I was, waiting for something to happen, my back to my desk and my hands clenched in front of me. It wasn't until much later that I realized it was a good thing I didn't have my bow, because I had unconsciously taken a shooting stance.

Nothing happened. The silence was so complete that I could hear my pulse beating in my ears. Finally I turned to Mom and said, "Leave." She blinked, then turned and silently walked to the door. Dad stood aside and she left, turning down the hall towards their bedroom. "Close the door," I told Dad, who sighed.

"I'm sorry-"

"You're damn right, you are. Now close that door," I hissed, and knew immediately that I'd gone too far. Dad's face twisted into something frightening and the next thing I saw was his hand coming straight at me. A painful shock, a moment of dizziness, and then I was standing with one hand on my chair to steady myself, the other on my burning cheek. Dad was looming over me, and my anger all turned to fear at the rage in his eyes behind his glasses.

"You will not speak to your parents in this way again," he told me curtly. "If you do, you will be caned. We have been lenient with your bad manners tonight; we won't be so again."

I let my hand drop and tried to stand up straight. "Yes, honorable father," I said in Japanese. My voice was shaking, but I was determined not to cry. Not with him glaring into my face like that. 

"You will apologize to your mother in the morning."

"As I apologize to you now?" I asked politely, and felt the anger start to come back. "My father can compel my obedience," I observed, "but he can not compel my emotions." And then, as he lifted his hand again, I said tautly in English, "You can make me say whatever you order me to say, but you can't smack me into loving you." 

Dad stared into my eyes and I stared back into his, waiting, knees quivering. All the fight seemed to go out of him suddenly; he lowered his hand, turned, and crossed the room. I watched as he closed the door, vaguely noticing how slumped his shoulders were, then dismissed the thought and made my wobbly legs carry me to my bed. I slumped down across the mattress, buried my face in the pillow, and adamantly refused to cry. My cheek throbbed, adding anger, pushing back pain and fear. I don't love them, I don't love them, I don't love them any more than they love me. Less. I don't need them, I don't want them, I can take care of myself...

I think I felt that if I just repeated it enough times, it would be true.