Sasaki and Peeps - Volume 2 - Chapter 1

<The Daily Life of a Middle School Student>

(The Neighbor’s POV)

Recently, I’ve been spending my days without meeting the older man next door.

The reason isn’t clear to me; maybe his regular schedule has changed—or the way he does his work. But he’s definitely been away from his apartment much more frequently. Maybe he was laid off and has begun working late-night shifts at a construction site.

I don’t know. I don’t know at all.

But whatever is going on in his world, my life continues without change. I have to go to school at the same time every weekday—in order to eat the school-provided lunch.

“Now, this equation’s least common multiple is six, so we can multiply both sides by six to eliminate the denominators. Then we can simplify the left side of the equation by bringing over ‘x’…”

But maybe if I was to stay at my front door from morning until evening, I’d be blessed with a chance to see him at least once. Once I start thinking about that, it becomes impossible to concentrate on schoolwork. Whether I like it or not, my attention drifts to the classroom window and beyond, to my building, and finally to the apartment next door to mine.

It doesn’t matter very much what I learn anyway. To me, lunch is the only important part of school.

“…Mister…”

Maybe once I’m done eating, I’ll fake being sick before lunch ends and head back to my front door, I think, letting the teacher’s words pass in one ear and out the other.

Standing at the lectern is a male teacher who must be about forty. He isn’t ugly-looking, but he isn’t overly attractive, either. I suppose the only thing that pops out about him is the fact that he wears a suit and tie every day. He holds a textbook in one hand while he writes rows of equations on the blackboard with the other.

“Now we’ll solve some word problems. The most important thing about word problems is to figure out what is constant. This word problem is asking for how long it will take for the brother to catch up to the sister. The constant here is the distance the siblings have walked, so…”

He’s the same gender and age as the man next door. The suit and tie kind of remind me of him, too.

But I don’t feel anything for him, further convincing me that he is special.

Class passes like that, and eventually, the bell rings to signal the end of fourth period.

The boys who had been fidgeting throughout class raise their voices in excitement, and the classroom comes to life. The students whose turn it is to fetch the food for lunch put on their white aprons and head off to the service room. The others all race to move their desks around, creating islands for our little preset groups.

Lunchtime looks the same today as it does every other day. I follow the other students’ lead, pushing my desk up to my neighbors’.

Today’s school lunch includes creamed stew and a steamed vegetable salad, with chilled mandarin slices for dessert.

Every day at lunch, the boys practically fall over each other racing for seconds, and the food always runs out. For some reason, though, when a meal includes slices of bread or rolls, there are always leftovers. I don’t know how it is at other schools, but in mine, this phenomenon occurs in every grade. Many female students return their trays having eaten only one of their two bread slices and leaving behind the crusts.

And today, our lunch includes bread slices. Seeing it piled on our trays lifts my spirits a little; after all, any leftovers are going to be mine.

About twenty minutes later, the other students finish up their meals, saying good-bye and scattering off into the hallways. Those on meal duty clean up the trays and utensils, then head to the service room with the empty cart to put it away.

During lunchtime, most of my classmates play in the courtyard or gymnasium, while some stay at their seats and chat with friends. Occasionally, one or two read a book on their own.

“……”

Slipping out amid the crowd of rowdy students, I head for the service room, where I would find the returned meal carts.

My school runs its own cafeteria inside the building, and there is a small elevator inside the service room for ferrying the carts from the cafeteria to the other floors.

This process, however, creates a short period of time between when the students return the carts and when the cooks take them back.

For me, that tiny gap is vital for procuring food.

“……”

Making sure nobody else is watching, I sneak into the service room. Seeing all the carts from each classroom inside, I pick one and rush over to it. My aim, naturally, is any serving tray with bread in it. I sift through the plastic wrapping and find what I’m after.

“…Nice.”

The bread slices look the same as when I had last seen them, stacked together in a neat pile, untouched. Occasionally, I’d find other food mixed in with them, and it made me want to kill the students on delivery duty. Today, though, they haven’t been contaminated as far as I can tell, and there are quite a few pieces left—pristine, lined up nice and neat.

With this, I should be able to get by without my stomach growling for a day or two. I chuckle to myself. This is something I’ve been doing ever since moving up to middle school whenever there’s bread on the menu. I reach for the plastic bag in my skirt pocket and hunch down as I peer into the carts.

At the same time, the door to the service room clatters open.

Startled, I pull my hand back out of my pocket and straighten up. My eyes shift immediately to the source of the sound. My mind starts working at a blinding pace, trying to figure out how to deal with whatever happens next.

I can’t let them catch me stealing school meals. I could deal with awkward stares from my classmates, but if they decide to lock the service room from now on, that would be terrible. I intend to keep relying on the school’s resources like this until I graduate.

“Kurosu? What are you doing in here?”

“……”

Satou, a boy from my class, appears in the doorway.

He stands out a lot in the classroom and is always the center of attention. Every day, our classmates crowd around him, chatting and having fun. His good looks mean he’s popular with the girls, too, not only the boys. For obvious reasons, I’ve never interacted with him. What’s a kid like him doing here?

He’s not after my bread, is he?

“Were you looking for something?” he asks.

“…Yes, something like that.”

“Oh, then I’ll help you out! What are we looking for?”

“……”

Great, I think. Shouldn’t have said that. I’m looking for leftover bread.

My position in our class hierarchy is pretty low—exemplified by how hard I am trying just to secure food. I don’t have any friends I get along with, either. I never have the time—or the money—to go out and do things with people.

Even just talking to classmates who are all about fashion or entertainment is a real struggle. TV shows and online videos are all completely out of reach for me. My only exposure to media is when I read books in the library.

No one wants to talk to someone as boring as I am. In fact, in elementary school, I got bullied over everything I did. And besides, after school, I always spend my time waiting in front of my apartment for the man next door.

“I left my hair clip on my tray, and…”

“I see!”

For a lie I pulled out of thin air, that wasn’t bad. I had just said the first thing that came out of my mouth.

The boy comes up and starts fishing through the cart right in front of me. He lifts the dirty silverware and tightly packed trays to check in between them. It seems like he really believes me.

“……”

I have to get rid of him and grab the bread. If we waste too much time, they’ll take the carts away. We won’t have bread again at lunch for another few days.

I couldn’t rely on him forever, so I want to get at least three pieces—no, at least five. I had also spotted a few extra milk cartons left by another class that I really wanted to get my hands on.

“I noticed you’re always by yourself, Kurosu.”

“…Is that bad?”

“Oh no—I didn’t mean it that way!”

We still have a few minutes until the older ladies in charge of our meals arrive. I have to send him back to the classroom before then.

“I just meant I want to be friends, if that’s all right with you,” he says.

“You have lots of other friends, don’t you? You don’t have to bother with me.”

“What do you usually do at home? Do you have any hobbies?”

“……”

Satou is talking an awful lot.

He’s popular with the girls from every class, not just ours. If anyone sees someone like him talking with a bottom-feeder like me, just the two of us, everyone will hate me. I’d already overheard a few female students talking about girls from other classes behind their backs because of him.

That’s yet another reason it’s dangerous to be chatting with him now. I would really have preferred not to.

But alas—in the meantime, the door to the service room opens again.

A middle-aged woman in a white apron and a mask comes inside. I’ve seen her before—she’s the cart collector.

Normally, once I’d obtained what I was after, I would watch from a safe distance as she entered the room. I’d certainly never had a conversation with her. Undoubtedly, in her eyes, I’m just one of the many students here. She’s probably never thought any more about me.

“Oh? What are the two of you doing in here?”

“I’m sorry,” says Satou. “Her hair clip might be lost in here somewhere.”

“Oh no. Is that right?”

“Could you let us look for it?”

“Well, I suppose I can bring the others away in the meantime…”

“Thank you!”

Satou does all the talking for me. I’m glad for the extra credibility it gives my lie.

Still, with him right in front of me, I can’t reach for the bread. There’s no other choice now.

“Satou, could you go check inside my desk in the classroom?” I ask.

“Huh?”

“I think I might have left it in there.”

“I mean, I’m not sure I should look in a girl’s desk without…”

There isn’t really anything in there. Just my school-provided textbooks—and a notebook and some pens and pencils he’d given to me. I don’t have many personal possessions at home, either. How would he react if I told him I’d never picked up a wallet before? Naturally, there is nothing I wouldn’t want him seeing.

If anything, the problem is others seeing Satou fishing around in my desk. If some girl with a crush on him spots it, they’ll probably come to me demanding answers.

Still, I can usually just bow my head and apologize to settle things. Since such girls are usually acting on emotion, saying sorry right away would defuse them. As long as I don’t say anything sassy, it won’t escalate into bullying. At worst, I could always grovel.

The most important thing is the bread. The weather would be turning colder in the coming days; I had to build up some fat.

“…It’s okay. Can you do it?”

“Um, sure.”

With a meek expression, Satou nods and leaves the service room.

After making sure he’s gone, I turn back to the cart. The cart collector is in front of the room’s small elevator, pressing its buttons. Since she can only ferry one cart at a time, I have a few minutes before she gets to the last one. That interval is my last chance.

I squat behind the cart to hide my hands from her sight. Taking the plastic bag out of my skirt pocket, I quickly stuff five pieces of bread into it, as planned. This plastic bag is from the man next door—he had once used it to give me some sweet bread. It’s opaque, making it perfect for hiding the contents from others. Finally, I use my hands to press down on the top and decrease the volume of the bread.

I appreciate how you can flatten bread to half or less of its original size if you squeeze it. It doesn’t taste as good afterward, but it’s just as nutritional, so I don’t worry about it too much. In fact, it seems to fill me up a little better, since the texture is firmer.

“……”

Everything up until now has been the easy part. Normally, I wouldn’t even need a few minutes.

The issue now is bringing the filled plastic bag back into the classroom and getting it into my school bag. Before, there had never been anyone around to notice the plastic bag or ask about it. My skirt pockets could become pretty stuffed, too, and nobody would ever question it. Maintaining that environment is another reason I keep to myself at school.

But Satou is here today, and he has a persistent streak. He’ll definitely question me.

I hadn’t had a plastic bag at all until a few moments ago; it would stand out. I try putting it in my pocket as a test, but even though I’ve squeezed the bread down, the five pieces make a very obvious lump. Anyone would be able to tell I’d taken something from the service room.

And if my bread theft is exposed, they’ll lock up the room from now on. It would be a disaster for me.

“……”

My mind spins frantically. I still have the woman collecting the carts to worry about. She is making steady progress sending the carts downstairs to the cafeteria, and now she is closing in on the one I am hiding behind. She seems unusually efficient. She barely even glances at the elevator buttons as she pushes them. She must have been working here a long time.

Grabbing the milk cartons from the next class’s cart is a hopeless endeavor. I have no choice; I have to give up on it. But I want, at least, to secure the bread.

As I’m rushing through possible solutions in my head, my eyes happen to drift to the window facing outside. Past the glass is a balcony. All the classrooms on this floor are connected by a balcony, and students use it to travel around. The service room is no exception.

And then it hits me. I could hide the plastic bag outside for a little while, then collect it from the balcony.

Aha! A divine revelation!

“…It’ll work.”

I head over to the window. Best to strike while the iron is hot.

When she hears the clack of the sliding window’s crescent lock opening, the lady taking the carts away looks over, but she doesn’t say anything to me. If she were a male staff member, she’d have been all over me. I hide the plastic bag with my body, so I’m in the clear.

I stick my head out the window and quickly check for any witnesses.

Good. Nobody’s out there. Probably because it has gotten chilly lately. That is great from a food sanitation perspective, too. I lower my haul down from the window. With a rustling sound, the bread-filled bag drops to the corner of the balcony.

I peer down; it just looks like some garbage, blown there by the wind. Nobody would want to investigate it; if I left it, it would probably stay there for months. Wonderful. I doubt I’ll have to worry even if someone sees it.

“What’s wrong? Looking out the window at something?”

“Ah yes…”

“Did you find what you were looking for? I’d like to send the cart down now.”

“Yes, I found it. Thank you.”

“Oh? Well, I’m glad.”

After mustering the best fake smile I can, I leave the service room behind.

(The Neighbor’s POV)

That day, having safely retrieved the bread slices, I start on the road home, feeling satisfied.

I’d managed to get out of afternoon classes by pretending to be sick, so I head straight for my apartment without making any detours. On foot, it’s pretty far away—when I first started middle school, it was a bit of a struggle. But after making this commute for several months, I’ve gotten used to the walk.

Silently, I travel down roads few cars drive on—the sort only locals would know the names of.

I can feel the eyes of people glancing at me as I pass them. I’m a uniformed student, out and about, with the sun still high in the sky. And since this neighborhood is residential, most of them are pensioners or older housewives.

“……”

It feels fresh, being out like this when I’d normally be at school. It feels liberating. My spirits soar even higher when I think about how I’ll sit and wait for the man next door to return, and my steps naturally quicken.

As I approach the halfway point of my commute, something happens. From out of nowhere, someone appears on the road several meters ahead of me.

They hadn’t come from behind a building, or fallen out of the sky, or anything like that. The person is literally just here all of a sudden. There wasn’t even a hint of movement—they showed up just like teleportation.

Also, for some reason, they are lying faceup on the road.

Naturally, at first, I think I’m seeing things. But that doubt vanishes a moment later, when I get a better look at the figure.

Their gut is split wide open, and their ribs are jutting out, as if they’d been pulled apart.

I can’t see any organs from the gaping hole in their stomach. I mean, I see something in there, but it’s very badly damaged. It’s like they got mauled and devoured by a wild animal. I can also make out damage to their clothes, like they’d been ripped away.

They seem to be already dead; they aren’t moving an inch.

From the neck up is another terrible sight. The whole head is completely misshapen, like someone has taken a chainsaw to it. All that’s left is pulp. Still, I can tell from the barely remaining hair and the skirt on the lower body that the remains belong to a woman.

When I see all this, my spirited pace comes to a hard stop. I immediately want to scream, but all I can manage is a squeak. I desperately fight back the heat rising from my stomach to my throat. I can’t let my lunch go to waste like that.

A moment later, an older lady near me on the road lets out a shriek. She’d been walking in my direction from the other side of the dead body. Judging by the white plastic bag in her hand and the green onions sticking out of it, she’d been on her way home from the supermarket.

The police arrive soon after that. I don’t know who notified them. Meanwhile, I try to get away as quickly as I can. If some ferocious beast has broken out of a zoo, it’ll be too dangerous to stick around. That’s certainly what looks like happened to that body. But then the woman who had screamed starts talking to me, and I lose my chance.

It’s an ordinary residential street corner.

Patrol cars drive up in swarms, and onlookers begin to gather nearby. The police lay a vinyl sheet over the corpse and string up yellow tape that says KEEP OUT.

A police officer questions me at the scene. Not only do they want to know about the sudden appearance of the body—but they, frowning, also ask why a student like me is walking around during school hours. Once I give them the whole spiel about not feeling well and having been on my way home, however, their attitudes soften.

Because of this, they let me go a little earlier than the woman who had been screaming. She had been declared the first one to discover the body and excitedly explains the whole thing from beginning to end.

Freed from the questioning, I get right back on the road home.

Right before my eyes was an unsolved case, the investigation just getting underway. It’s possible the criminal is somewhere nearby. The best course of action for me is to get away from here, fast. The police had told me to go straight home as well.

But just as I’m leaving, I notice something. There are some people moving around the scene in plainclothes, in the midst of all the uniformed officers.

“Another one of these sudden deaths…”

“Same psychic as the last one, you think?”

“Yeah. Not much doubt about that.”

Are they detectives? I can’t really tell. But I remember reading in a book from the school library once that police officers with certain duties don’t wear uniforms on the job. Two of them are now talking in low tones to each other over the corpse.

Both are men who look to be in their twenties. Compared to the rest of the people busily moving around them, they seem extremely young. But every single police officer, without exception, treats the two of them with respect, raising their arms to their heads in stiff salutes and the like. They must be really important people.

“We’ll probably need to get Miss Hoshizaki out for this one.”

“She’s so young, but she kind of scares me.”

“Hasn’t she started teaming up with that Sasaki guy lately?”

“Yeah, he’s basically just her water source. I feel bad for him.”

“Wait, water source?”

“He can apparently make pretty big icicles.”

“Well. That does make me feel bad for him…”

I have no idea what they are talking about. But my ears do perk up at one part of their conversation.

Now that I think about it, isn’t Sasaki the name of the man next door?

Hmm. I’m probably overthinking it. Apparently, Sasaki is the most common three-character surname in Japan. Or at least, I remember my social studies teacher saying something like that in class once. And the person they are talking about must have been a fellow police officer. There is no way it could be him.

“……”

I don’t want to end up getting scolded by them for eavesdropping, so I do as I’ve been told and set off again toward home. This is none of my business.

At the time, I couldn’t have known that in the very near future, I, too, would become entangled in this string of events.