She looks at me coolly. “Most certainly.”
“I heard you spoke with Kouchou-sensei.”
“It seemed like something she should be aware of.”
“Why didn’t you come to me first if you have a problem?”
“It is obvious you did not realize it was
a problem. If you did, you wouldn’t have done it. And I am not your mother. Nor am I in position to officially correct behavior.” She peers at me, the corners of her mouth curving downward.
I force my hands to relax. “I did nothing to be ashamed of.”
“Do unmarried teachers in America often go to hotels late at night with men?”
There. That judging tone. And late at night, my ass. NHK news was on when I came home, and it runs from nine to ten.
“Is it customary for elder teachers to gossip about others behind their backs?”
Red shows on her powdered cheeks. “I can’t believe you are talking back to me.”
“I can’t believe you not only spoke with Kouchou-sensei, but to every other teacher in the school except me. I find that petty and immature, if you must know.”
“Do you think you can talk to me like this? I’ve been with this school for over ten years.”
“Then perhaps as my elder, you should have set a better example and guided me, don’t you agree? Next time you have something to say about me, just say it to my face.”
“This is why we can’t accept foreign attitude.”
Normally I would’ve ignored her because it’s not worth the fight. Mishima-sensei has been around a long time, and seniority carries a lot of weight in Japan. But with a job offer in hand, I don’t feel like biting my tongue just to satisfy this superior busybody.
“You know what? At least foreigners don’t jump to conclusions and spread ugly rumors. Are you happy that you made all the other teachers look bad by association?”
This barb hits home. She flinches. Japanese people are so focused on the group identity rather than the individual’s.
“You are American. You are not like us.”
“I’m still a teacher at this school,” I call out over a shoulder as I walk away.
Even though the parting shot feels great, I know I’m finished at the school. They won’t fire me, but they probably won’t renew my contract. It’s okay though. I have a position waiting for me in Chiang Mai.
And there’s Lucas. He’s willing to support you so you can write.
I smack myself inwardly. What the hell is wrong with me? I’d rather just never be a writer. Accepting what he’s offering would be admitting that I deserve to be treated like a cheap prostitute men fuck in an alley, trousers down around their knees.
Gifts
The girl hides behind the bathroom door and peeks through the gap. Her mother stands in the living room with her arms crossed. Under her feet, what’s left of the carpet is brown, and the walls are so dingy it’s hard to believe they were white at one point.
The mother is petite, with pretty green eyes and pale golden hair that’s almost silver. The pictures of her on the bookcase show her as radiant, her skin smooth. She is now not even ten years older than those photos, but her cracked hands are rough with calluses, and deep lines bracket her downturned mouth.
“What are you doing here?” she says harshly, her voice husky and raspy. Cigarettes are the only vice she can afford with any regularity. They also give her energy when she’s tired.
“Baby, I’m sorry.” The girl’s father spreads his arms. “I had to work on our anniversary. I tried to get the day off, but it was impossible. You know how Bob is.”
The mother’s lips tighten. “Bob’s an asshole. You tell me where he is so I can give that man a piece of my mind.”
“Now, baby, don’t do that. If you cause trouble at work, I’ll lose my job. Then what?”