© Sujata Massey, 2000

The samurai held a long, curved sword over the peasant prostrate on the ground before him. From the veranda of a nearby teahouse, noblemen and a courtesan had abandoned their tea drinking to gawk.

"So, what makes better afternoon entertainment: murder, or a cup of tea?" I asked my class of Japanese fourteen-year-olds, some of whom were blatantly sleeping on their desks.

I'd hoped that a color slide of a murder would make the snoozing students open their eyes. I'd guessed wrong. Teaching is not what I do best. My name is Rei Shimura; I am based in Tokyo, where I sell Japanese antiques. The story I'm going to tell you happened during the worst of the Japanese economic downturn -- the year my clientele held so tightly to its yen that I had to moonlight as an art history teacher at Makigahara Junior High.

"This scene from the famous play The Loyal League of Forty-seven Ronin has been illustrated by dozens of artists over the years. The Hokusai print was one of the earliest. What's interesting about this picture?" I said, using my pen to tap the color slide I was projecting.

I glanced at Hiroki Kogi, the slim, fine-featured boy who sat between Akira Kimura and Yukio Kondo in the fourth row. Hiroki was straining to make out details in the slide. He used to wear bottle-thick glasses, but he'd stopped, perhaps because of the teasing from his classmates.

"Come on, everyone," I cajoled. "We've been discussing how woodblock print artists were photographers of their time, capturing ordinary people and landscapes. But this isn't ordinary -- why do you think it caught Hokusai's interest?"

Yukio, whom I'd thought was just a dumb jock, surprised me by raising his hand. "Hokusai must have been ordered to do it, just like we're ordered to do things in school."

Not exactly, but I could stretch his point to suit the day's topic. I said, "Remember that before the 1860s, there was no national school system. Theatrical plays, and artwork retelling the plays, were ways to teach people the values considered part of the cultural identity."

The end-of-class bell rang. As the girls wearing sailor blouses and pleated skirts and boys in high-necked black uniforms bowed and began filing out, Yukio and Akira yanked Hiroki Kogi's collar. Hiroki winced, but didn't turn around or do anything to complain.

During my lunch break, I joined two other teachers, Miss Ito and Mrs. Nakagawa, at a table near the school's athletic field.

"I can't understand some of the kids in my class -- Yukio Kondo and Akira Kimura, especially. They're so brutal to Hiroki Kogi," I said, munching on a sweet tofu pocket stuffed with rice that Miss Ito had brought to share. The lunches were a nice way for me to enjoy home-cooked Japanese food and learn a little more about Miss Ito, who taught science, and Mrs. Nakagawa, who taught Japanese.

"Other schools have worse bullies," Miss Ito said. "In Tokyo, some schoolgirls set another girl on fire because they didn't like her socks!"

"I don't think boys you mentioned are brutal. They can't help noticing what's different. Hiroki Kogi used to wear thick glasses. He's got contact lenses now, so things must be better," Mrs. Nakagawa commented. "Anyway, he's a good student. He scored perfectly the last kanji examination."

"He doesn't wear contacts -- I'm sure because of the way he squints and bumps into things," I said. "He does well in my class because he studies art books from the library." At that moment, Hiroki was seated under a persimmon tree, reading a book. He was so engrossed that he didn't see Yukio and Akira approaching him. Yukio kicked the book out of Hiroki's lap. He clutched his hand, while his face seemed to crumple in pain.

"Did you see that? We've got to do something!" I stood up.

"No, no! You shouldn't interfere," Mrs. Nakagawa said earnestly, and Miss Ito nodded.

"Why not?"

"You are a part-time teacher in an elective subject, Miss Shimura," Miss Ito reminded me. "Don't worry about the children so much. You have another life outside this school. Relax and enjoy it and your big, beautiful apartment in Tokyo."

"My place is really nothing special," I said, feeling flustered by the acidity in Miss Ito's voice. I'd invited her once for dinner, but she left after a half hour, saying that she had to get home to take care of her mother. Something about my place must have repelled her -- or was it my over-grilled eggplant?

I turned my attention back to the students. Yukio and Akira were still in front of Hiroki, who had shrunk like a turtle retreating into his shell. Hiroki reached into his pocket and handed something to Akira. Akira's laugh was harsh enough to carry over to us. He and Yukio strolled off, throwing a baseball to each other.

"It looks as if Hiroki paid money to Akira!" I was getting more outraged by the minute.

"One can't be certain," Miss Ito commented. "Here, eat some more inarizushi."

"I need to know what happened." I strode off, not wanting to hear any more words of caution.

When I was close enough for Hiroki to recognize me, he brushed his face with his hand. The dirt streaked across his cheek, so that it was evident that he had tears in his eyes.

"What happened between you and those boys?"

"Nothing! I was just reading," he answered quickly.

"I saw them take something from you. It was money, wasn't it?"

"No," he answered, avoiding my eyes.

"I saw you give something to them, just as I saw them come up and kick the book out of your lap."

"Miss Shimura, am I in trouble with you?" Hiroki's voice quavered.

"No! I'm sorry about what happened. Do you want to sit near me, just to be on the safe side?"

He shook his head violently. "I couldn't! Everyone would say I was a baby."

"Well, maybe you should sit near some other students?" I suggested gently.

"They don't want me."

As he spoke, a memory flashed back from my own past life in California, during the time that I transferred from a diverse urban high school to a predominantly white private school. During the first month at the new school, there was no room for me at any lunch table and, for the first time, I heard the word "gook".

Hiroki was a Japanese student at an all-Japanese school, but he was suffering the same problems. As Mrs. Nakagawa had said, something about Hiroki made it difficult for him to fit in with the others. Thick glasses didn't seem enough of a reason for anyone to make a child's life a living hell.

The following day, I noticed that Hiroki Kondo's right hand was tightly wrapped in a white bandage.

"It's a sprain," Hiroki said when I asked him about it after class. "It hardly hurts anymore, but I'm afraid my writing will be very poor."

"You don't have to write anything until it's better. I'll tell the other teachers about it."

"Oh, no, Miss Shimura. You are too kind to me because you are foreign. I'm afraid the other teachers expect me to do my homework and write exams and so on."

"I think I should talk to the principal, then."

"Please don't!" Hiroki whispered, looking around as if worried someone had heard me. "It will become only worse. They saw you talking to me at lunch yesterday, and they asked what I said. I told them that I said nothing, but I don't think they believe me. So please don't talk to me again."

At lunch, I brought up what had happened with Mrs. Nakagawa and Miss Ito. I had a bit of humble pie to eat, since Hiroki had told me essentially what the teachers had: that to interfere would only bring trouble.

"Do you think there are hidden social factors that cause Hiroki to be ostracized as well as bullied?" I asked after offering my home-made cucumber sushi rolls.

"It's probably the mother's fault," Mrs. Nakagawa said. "If a mother is too unusual or permissive, her child won't blend in with the others."

"Don't you think, though," Miss Ito said, laying down her chopsticks, "The problem might be because of his father?"

"How?" I asked, liking the way Miss Ito wasn't so quick to blame everything on women. Miss Ito was unusual for Japanese -- never married, and she looked to be older than forty.

"Well, Hiroki's father has a high position at Makigahara Bank, so the family has a house that is probably better than others in the neighborhood. And I recall that Hiroki entered school one year ago, not two years ago like the others."

"They came late because the family was in America," Mrs. Nakagawa said. "His father took the family to New York for some time. Children who studied abroad are different. Not very Japanese."

"It seems unfair to be marked as different, just because of a little overseas experience," I said, thinking it amazing that Hiroki had never spoken to me in English, since everyone at school knew my background. "Maybe I can talk in class a little bit about how I was educated in America, but I have been able to work and live happily in Japan."

"The best way for a teacher to help is never to single anyone out for special attention. Treat the group well, and in turn, the group will be happy and behave harmoniously with each other." Mrs. Nakagawa sounded like the school's teaching manual. "Miss Shimura, may I trouble you for some more kappa-maki? It's very tasty. It's practically impossible to tell that it was made by a foreigner!"

School was in session Saturday mornings, but as art history wasn't scheduled for that day, I had free time. I spent the morning and half the afternoon on my balcony refinishing a cedar tansu chest.

As I rubbed, I thought about how Makigahara Junior High was considered one of the best feeders to a top high school, which in turn fed students to Waseda University. The school seemed the wrong place for Hiroki. I wondered how much his parents knew about his suffering. I went inside and found my teaching folder which contained Hiroki's telephone number and address, along with data on the other students. I dialed his number and heard the phone ringing endlessly. This was odd. Every Japanese person I knew had an answering machine. Hiroki's home was a few blocks away from my aunt's address, so I knew I could find it. I'd stop in to say hello to his parents and find a way to bring up the bullying.

The Kogi house was built on a double lot, one of the largest single-family residences in their neighborhood. With its freshly painted white stucco walls and dark blue tiled roof, the house was extremely pretty, and quite typical of the residential style of architecture that flourished during the 1980's boom years of the bubble economy. I bet they'd built the house before they went off to the United States.

"Yes?" A woman's voice blared out of the intercom box a few seconds after I pushed the doorbell next to the house gate. It was six o'clock, so I thought everyone would be likely to be home.

"Kogi-sama?" I used the most polite form of address, assuming I was speaking to Hiroki's mother. "This is Rei Shimura, I teach your son art history -- "

"Bad news travels fast," she said, and the intercom went dead.

Feeling confused, I watched a slender woman clatter out of the house, shoving her bare feet into rubber garden slippers as she came down the path to open the gate. Mrs. Kogi wore a tailored cotton blouse tucked into slim jeans, and her long hair was caught up in a ponytail. As youthful as Mrs. Kogi's appearance was, she moved as if she was in pain. When she got closer, I noticed her bloodshot eyes.

"I came to check your son's injury and to see if you wanted to know anything about what's going on at school," I began.

"Injury? You mean you found Hiroki? Oh, I must call my husband!" Mrs. Kogi ran back into the house.

I followed her, stepping out of my shoes and onto the polished wooden floor. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about. Is Hiroki missing?"

"Yes. He never came home today," Mrs. Kogi stared at me. "I thought the school knew. I left a message on the office's answering machine. Isn't that why you're here?"

Before I could respond, a short, slender man wearing thick glasses came down the stairs. Mr. Kogi looked at me with an expression that seemed hostile. He didn't greet me, nor did he duck his head in a bow. Like his wife, he was casually dressed in jeans.

"This is Miss Shimura," Mrs. Kogi said. "She is Hiroki's teacher."

I've been worried about Hiroki," I began. I described what had happened in the schoolyard. Mrs. Kogi told me Hiroki hadn't said how he'd gotten hurt, but she'd taken him to the doctor for evaluation. Then, on the next evening -- Friday -- Hiroki came home late from school and rushed upstairs to his room, refusing the dinner his mother had made for him.

"When my wife told me about Hiroki's strange behavior, I wanted to speak to him," Mr. Kogi said. "My son did not want to unlock his door, but I insisted. Finally, when I went in, I saw his face. He had been abused."

"Oh, no!" I exclaimed. "When I saw him waiting to catch the bus on Friday, he looked fine. Something must have happened after school."

"The trouble began after Hiroki got off the bus. He told me that two boys followed him and demanded that he buy them beer from an outdoor vending machine," Mr. Kogi said. "It was bad luck that the neighborhood constable walked by and demanded to see Hiroki's identification card. Hiroki was frightened we would be angry, so he pointed to the bushes where the other two were hiding and said they were the ones who wanted beer, not him."

"He stood up for himself!" I said, amazed at his bravery.

"As soon as the policemen left, the two jumped my son," Mr. Kogi continued in a level tone. "The boys only stopped when some adults came walking down the street. Hiroki ran home. After we talked yesterday evening, I tried to reassure my son that everything would be all right, but I went to bed quite worried. I had thought Makigahara Junior High was the best possible place for him to study. Now I'm not sure."

"This morning, Hiroki was downstairs two hours earlier than usual," Mrs. Kogi said. "He told me that he was going to school early to avoid the bullies on the bus. When he said that, I felt worried about what might happen on the bus after school -- and now my worries have come to haunt me."

"Did you call the police?"

"Yes. They say it is not an emergency because he has only been missing for six hours. They thought he might be coming home on a very late bus. But I know that won't happen. He must have been beaten again." Mrs. Kogi sounded desolate, and her husband looked at me as if he were embarrassed. Maybe he would have comforted his wife, had I not been there. Japanese people don't like to touch in front of others.

"Did you mention to them about the ongoing harassment by Yukio Kondo and Akira Kimura?" I asked.

"Oh, are those their names? Hiroki wouldn't tell us. Already you have been a great help, Miss Shimura," Mrs. Kogi said, sniffling. "Yes, I told the police there was a problem with two boys at the beer vending machine the previous day, and they said something like 'boys will be boys'."

"I'll try to think of places where he might have gone. How early may I call you tomorrow morning to check that Hiroki came back?" I tried to put things in a positive light.

Mrs. Kogi put her head in her hands. "Call us any time. I believe we will not sleep."

I didn't sleep much, either. At 5 a.m. I got up to study my class list. I had the phone numbers for Yukio and Akira's families, but I didn't dare go to them directly as I had with the Kogi family. My visit to Hiroki Kogi's parents had been unsettling. There was something about them that didn't seem quite right. Mr. Kogi had been so calm, and Mrs. Kogi so upset. They were complete opposites. Part of me -- a darker part -- wondered if one of Hiroki's parents had something to do with his disappearance. Blaming it on bullies was a perfect excuse.

No, I decided. Mr. Kogi had seemed emotionless because that was how Japanese men were supposed to be. He probably felt as panicky as his wife. I called the Kogis at 8 o'clock. Hiroki was still missing.

"The police have been here and taken photographs to use in their search." Mrs. Kogi sounded exhausted. "Now it is out of our hands and into theirs."

Not quite. I ate a quick breakfast and packed my student directory in my backpack before boarding a train to Yokohama. Slumped in a half-empty compartment, I stared at the advertisements decorating the walls. Pretty Festival Wedding Hall could provide music, fake flowers and a Chinese buffet to please the most discriminating mother. Work-up, a stimulant-spiked beverage, would keep you wired. Makigahara Bank, Mr. Kogi's employer, was offering home mortgage loans at a low interest rate, making it possible to buy a dream house. How ironic; the Kogis had their own dream house, but now its heart was missing.

When I reached Minami-Makigahara train station, I disembarked and telephoned Miss Ito. I wanted to ask what she thought I should do. Miss Ito was not home, her aged mother told me. Not giving myself time to doubt my action, I telephoned Akira Kimura's house. A pleasant woman's voice answered.

"Um, I wonder if Akira-san is home?" I said, pitching my voice a little higher and breathier.

"Who is calling, please?"

"Um, I'm calling from school," I said, hoping she'd assume I was just Akira's classmate.

"Well, then, don't you know it's baseball season? There's a home game today. Akira went to play."

That meant Akira was there, too. I caught the bus that ran to Makigahara Junior High. This was the same bus line that ran past Hiroki's neighborhood. Before disembarking, I asked the bus driver if he knew a student called Hiroki Kogi.

"I pick up many schoolchildren each time I drive my route. I don't know them by name," he told me, keeping his eyes on the road.

"He's fourteen but very small, and wears thick glasses," I explained. "Or when he doesn't wear glasses, he bumps into things. Lately, he's been wearing a bandage on his right hand."

"Ah, that one. He usually catches this bus to school, but he wasn't on my route Saturday. I didn't think much about it. Is he all right?"

"I hope so," I said. "There's a problem with bullies. Did you ever notice two tall boys harassing Hiroki?"

"Oh, yes, I know those two," the driver grunted. "They were on my bus yesterday, running a little late to school, if I remember correctly. Good for nothings."

I thanked the driver and got off at the school. Fifteen minutes before the game's start, the stands were filling with parents and children. I slipped onto the field and started for the home team dugout.

"It's Shimura-sensei."

"What's she doing here?"

The other boys on the team whispered among themselves as I strode by, searching for Yukio and Akira. If I remembered right, they were both on the team, but Akira had a more important position -- first baseman, while Yukio was in the outfield. I hoped that I could speak to each of them separately.

Yukio was near the dugout, where he was practicing his batting moves. I watched him swing the bat through the air, thinking that a punch from him would flatten me. It could do even more damage to Hiroki, who was barely five feet tall.

"I want to talk to you," I said.

"Sensei, the game starts in a few minutes," Yukio whined. "The coach wouldn't let me."

"Does the coach know about what you and Akira did to Hiroki?" As Yukio's expression changed, I said, "Let's move away where we can speak privately."

"I want to stop bothering him," Yukio said when we had gone off to the batting cage. "I want to stop, but I don't know how. Akira is the one who wants his money."

"Crazy enough to kill? What did the two of you do to Hiroki yesterday morning before school?"

"Nothing! I didn't see him before school because Akira and I got in late. I noticed that Hiroki wasn't in class."

"What did you do, beat him up and leave him somewhere?"

"No, I didn't see him! When he wasn't in school, I thought he might have been home in bed. I feel bad about it, Shimura-sensei. I won't do anything like that again."

"Where's Akira?" It struck me as odd that the two weren't practicing their swing together.

"He went inside the school. He's coming out now," Yukio said, pointing at a solidly built boy in a bright yellow uniform heading out of the school.

Without saying goodbye, I jogged off to catch Akira before he got swept up in the game crowd.

"Oh, um, Miss Shimura," Akira said, when I blocked his path.

"What were you doing inside the building?" I asked.

"Taking a -- I can't say the word, sorry. It's not polite."

"Why should you care? What you did to Hiroki Kogi wasn't polite."

Akira glared at me. "He deserved a few punches. Giving my name to the cops! When my mother heard we were behind it all, she hit me hard!"

"The problem isn't limited to what you did on Friday. You did something on Saturday morning, too."

"I didn't do anything on Saturday! I didn't even see Hiroki!"

"You saw him at school," I pointed out.

"No. Hiroki didn't come to school. There was an empty desk between Yukio and me. Ask Miss Ito. She records attendance during our homeroom meeting."

"Okay," I said, thinking that fact would be easy enough to check. "But if Hiroki ran away and was hurt or killed, don't you think it's your responsibility?"

"I'm not a bully," Akira said sharply.

"How would you feel if you were in Hiroki's position -- if just because you were small and had studied abroad, you were tormented?"

Akira reeled back. "You're -- you're not going to tell the coach, are you? I swear to you -- I swear I'll never touch Hiroki-san again. I'll just study and play sports and be a good boy. I promise!"

A tittering sound arose. I hadn't realized the handful of students were behind me, listening to the conversation. I'd wanted to keep things private, but now I realized that the students' sympathies were against Akira. I decided to play the scene for all it was worth and added, "There's a possibility that you and Yukio will never have another chance with Hiroki. If he's dead, there's no chance."

Akira said in a low voice, "I never thought something like this could happen to me."

"Don't think about you. Think about Hiroki." I walked away without a glance back, part of my act-tough strategy. But Akira and Yukio's stories matched. They had an alibi.

I used a pay phone outside the school to telephone Miss Ito. She was home, and when she heard about Hiroki's disappearance, she gasped.

"It's my fault. I should have listened to you last week. I'm sorry," Miss Ito said.

"Was Hiroki in class Saturday morning?" I asked, just to make sure Akira and Yukio had told the truth.

"No. I recorded his absence in my attendance book, and later I checked in the office, and I heard his mother hadn't called in. Very strange -- an unexcused absence from such a good student."

"The thing that's strange to me is that he rode the bus to school," I said.

"Hmm. Perhaps he exited the bus before it reached school and went somewhere else?"

"Such as?" This was an interesting idea.

"Maybe... he wanted to go to the train station. Either because he was running away, or because he thought of suicide. There was a boy who jumped the tracks there last year and died."

"He never seemed suicidal to me."

"How do you know? He was undoubtedly unhappy, and he has probably read about the many cases of students throughout our country who committed suicide after being bullied."

"Impossible," I said, my stomach lurching at the horrible vision she'd created for me. "If he'd jumped, we'd all know about it. That's the kind of thing that makes the news."

"Perhaps he changed his mind at the last minute. He might have just run away."

"Yes, that's what I'm thinking. He could be in a place where he feels safe."

"This is just awful." Miss Ito's voice trembled. "We should call the headmaster."

"Do you want me to do it?" I asked.

"Oh, no. I'll take care of the problem. Miss Shimura, I'm sorry I didn't show compassion before. I want to make right what is wrong."

"Something terrible has happened," Mrs. Kogi wailed when I telephoned her. "We have found a letter in our mailbox from some people who say they are Hiroki's kidnapers! Thy really must have him because Hiroki's wristwatch was included."

"Quiet!" Mr. Kogi's voice came across in the background. "We cannot tell anyone about the note or Hiroki will be killed!"

Again, I wondered at Hiroki's father's manner. Had he engineered his son's disappearance? It would have been so easy for him to slip a letter into his own letter box. I wanted to see the letter.

"May I please come?" I asked again.

At last, Mr. Kogi agreed and half an hour later, I was in their house. Mrs. Kogi had placed the letter in the center of the dining table. It was a single page of lightweight white paper covered by a mimeographed message typed in tiny kanji. It reminded me of the papers I had to deal with at Makigahara High School -- the missives written in a code I couldn't break because of my language impairment.

I handed it back. "I'm sorry. Even though I speak Japanese, I cannot read much."

"But you're a teacher! You assign essays to the students!" Mr. Kogi's eyebrows rose.

"I ask them to write in a phonetic script so that I can understand."

"I will read aloud to Miss Shimura then," Mrs. Kogi looked at her husband defiantly. "It says:

"'To the Kogi family. We have Hiroki, and will eliminate him if necessary to achieve our goal. If you wish to see your son again, you must deliver twenty-seven million yen by four AM Monday morning. Leave the sum in ten-thousand yen notes in an envelope deposited in the can return section of the Asahi Beer vending machine near the bus stop. No police, or your son dies.'"

"It could be a terrorist cult," Mr. Kogi said. "They might have chosen me because they think I can take the money from the bank. But actually, I'd have to apply for a loan, like everyone else."

"We must do that," Mrs. Kogi said. "But who could give us money today? It's impossible!"

Twenty-seven million yen, a little less than $270,000, was an odd amount to request. Something about the letter nagged at me. I laid it down and turned to Mr. Kogi.

"Do you have to wait until Monday to access your loan files?"

"Not really. Because of my position, I do some work from home. I have the ability to get to my files, but not anyone else's."

"Could you pull up the names of everyone who applied for mortgage amounts of twenty-seven million in the last year?"

"You mean the people whom I approved?" Mr. Kogi asked.

"No. The ones you rejected."

It took Mr. Kogi an hour to come up with a list. We scrolled down the list of names until I saw one that I recognized, next to a mortgage of twenty-seven million yen turned down because of a poor credit rating.

The police allowed the Kogis and me to ride in their van to Miss Ito's apartment building in a dreary section of Yokohama. Miss Ito only answered the door after the police threatened to bang it down. I looked past her into the tiny, crowded room. The walls were discolored from old leaks, and there was an unpleasant smell. An old woman who was stretched out on a sofa that took up most of the room's space entreated us to enter and drink tea. Miss Ito's mother clearly had no idea of what was going on. I was struck by the poignancy of her situation, especially in light of what would happen to her daughter.

"Where is Hiroki Kogi?" the detective asked Miss Ito, who was standing like a sentry in the doorway.

"I left him at the school," she said coldly. "I would have kept him with me if my place was bigger. But, as you see, it's quite miserable."

"Left him? You mean my son is dead!" Mr. Kogi shouted, emotion finally breaking through his salaryman's veneer of calm.

"No, I'm sure your precious son is healthy!" Miss Ito snapped back at him. "You are over-reacting to the whole situation."

"How could you think that you'd get away with this kind of thing and keep teaching at the high school?" I asked. "Surely Hiroki would have told."

Miss Ito smiled tightly. "No, he wouldn't. I promised him that in exchange for spending some quiet time at school, I'd ensure that Yukio and Akira would be expelled. No matter what kind of crazy stories his parents would tell him, he was to keep quiet about where he'd been over the weekend. He agreed."

I remembered that Hiroki hadn't told his parents the bullies' names. Many adolescents were afraid to talk to their parents about their problems. Miss Ito, with her years of experience teaching, understood.

"Why are you here, Shimura-san?" Miss Ito asked angrily, while she was being handcuffed. "I told you not to bother about Hiroki."

"I guessed that the ransom note came from a teacher when I saw it was mimeographed just like the other school papers," I said. "But it wasn't until I learned that Mr. Kogi had turned you down for a mortgage that I knew for sure."

The officers searched Miss Ito's apartment anyway. It took all of two minutes, and sure enough, Hiroki wasn't there. Duties were delegated -- two officers would take Miss Ito to the police station, while the Kogis and I would ride with two officers to the school, with an ambulance meeting us there.

Let him still be alive, I prayed to myself. I'd read an article in the newspaper about a schoolboy rolled up in a gym mat by bullies and stuck in a closet, where he died.

Our arrival with sirens blaring drew all the attention away from the high school's baseball game. A crowd tried to follow us inside the school, but a policeman barred the way. I ran alongside two of the officers, showing them the way to the music room. In the back was a closet, as Miss Ito had described.

"Don't be afraid! We are police here to help you," an officer called as he began rattling the knob of the locked closet door. There was no answer, and I felt my spirits sink. Hiroki probably was dead.

The officers were using so much force on the door that the lock-plate came off. At last the door opened. Inside the small, dark space, there were stacked-up cardboard boxes, but no boy.

Had Miss Ito lied? No, I thought, seeing some plaster on the floor. I looked up and saw a tile in the ceiling was slightly askew. I said, "He's gone through the ceiling!"

The police removed the tile, but nobody was narrow enough to fit through the narrow duct.

"He hasn't called out to us. That must mean he's lying dead inside the space!" Mrs. Kogi said. For the first time, Mr. Kogi put his arm around her.

"What if he found some way up to the roof?" I asked.

"No, no. Impossible," said the policeman, though he did make a move to call a janitor.

"Come on, let's see if there are any outlets on the roof," I encouraged the Kogis, but only Mrs. Kogi was willing to follow.

The two of us ran downstairs and out into the schoolyard, where we stepped into a scene of pandemonium. The hundreds of teenagers who had been watching the baseball game were now crowded onto a section of blacktop near the school's west side. As I walked toward them, I overheard their frantic cries.

"Be careful!"

"We called the fire department on our cell phones! They're coming to rescue you!"

I looked up and saw a boy standing with his feet firmly planted on the roof.

"Here I am!" Hiroki called out, waving to me and his mother. He sounded strong, and happy.

As the students on the ground waved back and cheered Hiroki, I realized that this was the first chance the short boy had ever literally been in the position to look down on others. I had a feeling that once the news hit the paper, his celebrity stature would continue to grow.

I couldn't wait for class on Monday morning.

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All content © 1998-2010 Sujata Massey.
Photo of Sujata by Jim Burger.