If You Follow Me by Malena Watrous

growled.
    â€œI’m sorry,” I stammered. “I don’t speak much Japanese yet.”
    â€œDon’t. Test. Me.” He let go of my wrist and took off. Watching him run was like watching a cow sprint. It looked unnatural, like he was being chased, but I was the only other person on the street.

CHAPTER THREE
    moeru: ( V .) to burn; to get fired up; to have a crush
    I t’s late November, technically still fall, but it feels like we skipped straight from summer to winter. Last month the leaves turned color and then dropped in a matter of days, like flares that ignited briefly before extinguishing, swept into piles and incinerated before they had time to settle on the ground. In Snow Country, the days start late and end early this time of year. By four in the afternoon, when I leave school, the sky is already darkening. At eight in the morning, the stars still faintly twinkle as our students straggle down the path that cuts between two rice fields, walking their bicycles to delay getting here until the last possible second.
    This morning I have first period free. I stand with Noriko Kaie, the high school librarian, warming our hands over the kerosene stove as we stare out the window, which is cracked to let out the toxic kerosene fumes. We watch the girls lock their bikes up, then roll the waistbands of their uniform skirts to make them even shorter, exposing thighs mottled fuscia from the cold. Their rusu sokusu or “loose socks” puddle over their platform shoes. Clomping along, they look like Clydesdale ponies.
    â€œBrrr,” I say, rubbing my palms together.
    â€œDo all new brides have to do this?”
    â€œNo.” Noriko shakes her head. “Only…” She pauses to look up a word in the library’s large English/Japanese dictionary. “Only habitual new husband wants.”
    â€œTraditional?” I guess, and she nods.
    Rumor has it that Noriko used to date my predecessor, Joe Pope, until her father put an end to it by setting up a meeting with the local matchmaker. Now the librarian is engaged to marry a dentist, a man in his late forties, their wedding date set for early next summer. “Maybe you could not imagine such a thing,” Miyoshi-sensei said when he was informed of Noriko’s arranged marriage as we shared a cuppa’ in the faculty room one afternoon, “marrying someone you hardly knew.” I sensed that he was trying to get me to express the shock or disapproval that he could not as a member of this culture. Miyoshi-sensei’s own singleness is a subject of endless speculation. Several teachers have started conversations with me by saying, “Did you know that Miyoshi-sensei is not married?” or, “Probably he works so hard, he doesn’t have time to find a wife outside of school…” It’s how you gossip, an endless game of fill in the blanks. I can only guess how they try to fill in mine.
    â€œWill you ride in a glass van after your wedding?” I ask Noriko, hoping that I’m not overstepping my bounds.
    â€œYes,” she says after a pause.
    â€œKowai ?” I venture. Are you scared?
    â€œNo problem,” she says, but she’s not smiling anymore.
    As I lean forward to get a closer look at the bride, I press against the kerosene stove and a searing pain shoots up my leg. “ Itai !” I cry out, momentarily distracted from the burn by the fact that I spontaneously recalled the Japanese word for “ouch.” Noriko drops to the floor and begins patting and blowing on my smoking tights. “Shit,” I say and she grins, recognizing the word she recently learned. I stepout of my slippers, peel off my tights and pitch them into the trash. “ Risaikuru ,” she corrects me softly, moving them to the recycling bin. She opens her desk drawer and hands me a pair of pantyhose, still in their flat package. “Too small!” I protest. Noriko is bird-boned, narrow as