My high school split after freshman year. Right down the middle. The administration called us all to the auditorium and gave our class a choice to make. Stay or go. They built a new high school and our class could make history as the first graduating class in 2007. My impulse was to stay. My five older brothers walked these halls for years before me and I wanted to continue the Carrel Family legacy at Forest Hills Northern. My group of friends had finally accepted me after I had worked so hard to wiggle my way into their right knit circle. The disappointment came when they abruptly announced they were all leaving. As a fidgety freshmen jumping back into public school after attending a charter school, I was grateful for these new friends. But a tidal wave of excitement took them away to the new school, and I was left alone. I opened an empty locker to begin from scratch, again. But three years later, I walked down graduation aisle with Shizuka Horii.
I walked into Health Class as a junior wondering just how awkward this was going to be. The teacher stood up front, same height as most of the students or even shorter. She had a butch haircut, a FHN baby blue sweatshirt and gym teacher windbreakers. I sat at a table in the back and peered around. I noticed a girl two rows in front of me. She had dark hair and school supplies ready. Something in me told me that we shouldn’t both have to sit by ourselves, so I grabbed my bag and moved to join her, giving a weak “Yay-health class” smile.
Shy. Quiet. No- silent. Thin shoulders held her striped sweater on and long necklaces draped down her unassuming size four frame. Adorable. Her coarse Japanese hair had slight brown highlights, layered, kissing her shoulders. Her sweet face shone flawless Asian skin.
Tomodachi means “friend” in Japanese and it was one of the first words she taught me. After our measly health worksheets, we had nearly half an hour to dive into her other homework. She didn’t need any help with math because “Numbers are the same in Japan.” But her thick books stressed her to the limit as her English slowly gained legs and could support her. I taught her silly English phrases and she taught me Japanese, complete with scrawled drawings from both of us. She told me about her family, and how her Mom prohibits chocolate so she doesn’t gain weight. This seemed ridiculous to me because Shizuka raved in a note to me at one point, “I love you more than chocolate!’’ She told me how much she fought with her sister Aoi, and what each of their names mean in Japanese. She was surprised to hear that we buy our siblings Christmas presents. I taught her knock-knock jokes. I always gave out hugs without knowing any different but her reaction was usually limp. Eventually she candidly said, “I didn’t know why you hugged me. In Japan- we don’t do that.”
Shizuka’s athleticism was pretty much non-existent. She wanted to learn- so every Wednesday when Health Class traveled to the gym for an hour, we played different sports. And by “played sports”, I mean I would tell her the basic idea, kick or throw the ball, and watch her hand-eye coordination take over. It was comical. It was on those days that her fun personality shone through as she delighted in trying something new and different. She cried out “Keeeemu!” And laughed with child-like glee.
Shizuka was an amazing artist. For a drawing assignment, she asked me for pictures of myself playing the piano. After the assignment was graded, she gave me the beautiful drawing in vibrant color. My blonde hair lay casual in a spikey ponytail, my blue-tipped fingers dancing on the piano keys. It took my breath away and she told me to keep it. She won numerous awards and was accepted into an art school in Chicago. Our handwritten notes to each other contain her broken English sentiments with Christmas trees, Snoopy, small animals and cute designs sketched on the sides of every letter. Maybe she was bored in class, or just doodling. But in every note she wrote “I love you!” I was her best tomodachi, the greatest American friend she ever had. I often talked with her about my faith and asked a missionary from my church if she could find a Japanese Bible for her. I gave it to Shizuka with some of my favorite verses on a bookmark. I didn’t know she would need such comfort so soon.
In the Fall of our senior year, she was crying by our side-by-side lockers one day as I approached to drop off my textbooks. I had never seen her cry. “My father is in hospital- he had car accident.” He was in bad shape. She shook in my arms and I knew she needed me then more than she ever had before. My mom took me to the hospital and we walked into the large room. His hospital blanket was draped above his thigh and Mom quickly pulled it down to cover his lower body. “He’d die a thousand deaths if he knew.” He wasn’t awake. Tubes, machines, eyes closed. A little older lady came in to meet us. Her face was sweet and I hugged her, wanting to ask her why she doesn’t let her daughter eat chocolate. She was happy to see us and her smile was pure joy and surprise. She thanked us for coming, but did not know much English.
It took him weeks to recover, but he got to go home and resume his normal life and job. Shizuka was so relieved. She told me that she had been reading the Bible that I had given her during this difficult time when she was so worried about her dad. She thanked me, saying Psalm 56:3 really helped her. “When I am afraid, I will trust in you.”
Sometime during the drudgery of a the school year, she gave me a blue photo album with brown leather accents and told me that it would hold our pictures in it after we go to Japan together. I looked at her like with obvious negativity and shock. Why was she assuming this? Does she know she’s crazy or does she need me to tell her? “Shizuka, I don’t like fish!” She had heard this excuse before, but her persistence was admirable. She invited me to Japan constantly; In our notes back and forth, at our daily locker visits, and when she gave me the photo album. I wasn’t interested in going halfway around the world to visit a culture I knew nothing about. It was her country. Her family. Her sushi. I didn’t have a legitimate excuse, but I denied her pleadings. She wrote me a note: “Pray God and ask Him.” She was sneaky, using my faith against me.
It took almost a year, but she finally convinced me that they eat more than fish and I surprised her with a dozen questions and then an eventual “Yes!” We planned for June of 2007, the summer before I left for college. I would fly there by myself and stay for 13 days.
“Mom, I can’t do this. They asked me how old I am, and I think I gave them the wrong answer.” I stared at the runway and then my shaky hands, obviously not thinking clearly. I transformed from a graduated adventurous young lady to a scared little girl. I wanted to pee my pants at the thought of traveling by myself to a place where A-Z didn’t exist, just symbols and mass-confusion. My younger brother Jeff took the phone from my Mom. “Kim, do you want to see Shizuka?” I hesitated at his brash tone of voice. “Yeah...” “Then stop being a wimp and get on that plane. You can do this!” My tears dried in relief at the loving exhortation of my brother. My jelly legs walked me through the gate and I got on the plane. I roamed in the darkness of the “overnight” flight when we were soaring over the Pacific Ocean and met a friendly college kid. He wrote me a list of common words and calmed my fears. I landed with his scrawled list in hand and eyes scanning for my tomodachi.
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