LIKENESS

Chapter One - Crossing Paths

- Fuji -

"Bye, Fujiko!" Eiji waved an enthusiastic arm—Oishi ducked and narrowly avoided being hit—as we went our separate ways. "See you tomorrow!"

"Ja." Waving back—a little less animatedly—I adjusted the strap of my school bag on my shoulder and set off, humming. It had been a good day.

Actually, it hadn't been a particularly good day, but had gone as smoothly as an average day could, therefore ruling it out as a bad day. Any not bad day was a good day to me. You may not agree with my reasoning, but I found it an effective way to increase my number of 'good days' significantly.

It made my life happier in general.

In no hurry, I walked slowly along the quiet streets leading me homeward, soaking in the warm sunlight. I enjoyed these walks home a lot. There was something about excruciating, demanding fitness training that made moving leisurely afterwards extra special.

With an easy gait I climbed the stairs to the small footbridge I cross every day going to and coming back from school. My neighborhood being one of the more sub-urban parts of Tokyo, I was pretty much guaranteed a decent view as long as I gained some altitude. This bridge had provided me with many a good photo with its picturesque scenery.

Today as I crossed it, admiring the afternoon glow, I noticed a figure huddled to one side. The beggar woman hadn't been there before, that I was sure of. Where had she come from?

Searching in my pockets, I heard the clink of some spare change. Drawing out a few coins, I stooped down and dropped them into the small bowl in front of her.

"You came back."

I halted in mid-step. Turning in surprise, I found the old woman looking up at me, smiling.

"Thank you for your orange."

Orange? But I definitely hadn't seen the woman before. How had she come to believe that I'd given her an orange? "Saa," I said gently. "I'm sorry, I think you've mixed me up with someone else."

She did not answer, but touched her ear. I struggled to comprehend what that meant. Was there something wrong with her hearing? Certainly she expected me to understand something. Thoroughly puzzled at her behavior—had we met before, only that I'd forgotten?—I repeated my words with my voice slightly raised.

Apparently catching the sentence this time, the woman looked mildly bewildered. "She looked like you," she mumbled softly. "So much like you."

Trying to smile kindly, I explained that I'd only seen her for the first time. Clearly embarrassed, she apologized for bothering me.

"It's fine," I assured her before moving on. "I don't mind."

I couldn't help wondering about her mistake, though, even as I left her behind and neared my house. My masculinity wasn't exactly outstanding, as schoolmates pointed out occasionally. But on one had actually mistaken me for a girl before. Only, the beggar woman had clearly said 'she'. That 'she' looked like me.

Amused, I smiled at the thought of a girl who looked enough like me for us to be mistaken for each other. Evidently she'd met the beggar woman too, and given her some food. An orange was a strange selection, though. What had happened?

Nine hours ago…

- Saruhi -

I came across the photos quite by accident. My Tou-san was between jobs, you see, and had a lot more spare time on his hands than he used to, to spend on things he enjoyed. Lately he had become interested in business and stocks and stuff like that. He spent a lot of time searching the Internet for information on the market and how it functioned.

I think that's how he found those pictures. He showed them to me afterwards. There were around thirty, all by Chinese photographers.

If you've ever been to mainland China to visit relatives, or as a tourist, you'll find that some places, you can't really tell apart from cities like New York or Tokyo. Except all the signs hanging around are in Chinese.

It isn't a poor country, China.

The pictures I saw, though, they showed the other side. Behind the luxury and beauty. You know what I mean. Those photos of pitiful African children—except these were Chinese—with jutting out bones and all. The photos establishments like the World Bank use to get us to donate. You've seen them often enough; they probably don't bring about too much of an effect anymore.

That's what I thought too—that I didn't feel for any of these people. In fact, if you asked me what the pictures showed, I wouldn't be able to recall much. Perhaps a few of them, but definitely not that many, and definitely not in too much detail.

There was one, though, that I remember to this day.

There was an old woman. Poor and filthy, she carried a load of cardboard boxes flattened into a pile almost taller than her and twice as wide. They didn't look heavy, those boxes. And yet to her, they probably were.

Anyway, I didn't think much about it after I'd seen it and had gone back to my own work. It was only later in the day that I came to dwell on it again.

After dinner, my Kaa-san sent me to a store to buy some odds and ends for her. On the way home, I decided to take the scenic route and crossed a bridge above a near deserted roadway.

There, I saw her.

Dirty, bent, huddled to one side of the road, the old woman nodded her head repeatedly in pleading bows, her wrinkled hands pressed together as though in prayer. I was forcefully reminded of the photo I'd seen earlier on. Feeling sentimental, I gave her a dollar, all the while being very self-conscious, wondering if the passersby were staring.

I needn't have worried—the old woman herself didn't look up.

So I went on my way. I crossed the bridge, all the while thinking back on the old beggar. What would she do with my dollar? Would it help her at all? There could only have been two or three more dollars in the bowl in front of her. What would that buy?

Was she cold? It was a warm night, but then I had a coat on. Was she hungry? I'd just had a meal and was full, but how could that be possible for her, seeing as she was on the street begging? With every step I took, I wondered if I should turn back.

At the end of the bridge, I faced the steps, and stopped. I didn't feel good about myself. I didn't. I'd juts received my pocket money today and had more than a hundred dollars on me.

I'd given her one.

I'll be truthful with you—I was not filled with a righteous sense of duty to help the poor. I was not inspired by any magnificent plans to raise funds and sacrifice my energy and time to ending poverty.

I just felt bad, because I could have spared more than a dollar.

So I turned back. Yes, I know it's a little strange. It wasn't something I would normally have done, either. Perhaps it was because of the photos I'd seen. Picking up speed, I crossed the bridge again, knowing the old woman would still be there and yet worrying that she might not. I knew I wouldn't be able to feel comfortable with myself for a long time afterwards, if she had gone.

The photos really had impact.

I walked as fast as I could across the bridge, but ironically, when the woman came back into sight, I slowed.

I was nervous.

Pathetic, isn't it? I was about to extend charity and I was the one who felt jittery, who wondered whether the woman would recognize me from before, though I couldn't pinpoint why that bothered me. It just did.

My wallet was in my hand. My feet had stopped completely.

Well. This is awkward.

Yeah? Think about how awkward it must be for her. And she's sticking it out.

But I'm not her! I don't need to hang around asking for people's extra change.

Which is exactly why you're doing this.

I had a point. Or some of me did, anyway.

It almost seemed unreal when my hand reached into my wallet and drew out the first bill I touched. A ten dollar. While my mind continued to be undecided on whether I should do it or not, my feet carried me forwards.

I would drop off my money and leave. That was the plan.

Accordingly I neared the old woman, stretched out a hand, bent down and placed my banknote in the bowl.

I straightened. My work here was done. Now I could walk away without a qualm.

But then, the old lady looked up.

Not expecting this, I could do nothing but stare at her full in the face.

I wouldn't know how you think of homeless people. The tattered clothes and matted hair are pretty much universal images, I think. But the face/ what do you think their face would be like? I hadn't really thought about it before. I'd anticipated a few wrinkles, perhaps, but nothing specific.

I said before that she resembled a picture I'd seen earlier.

Now I realized that I'd never really looked.

She has nice eyes, was my first thought. They were wide, crinkled at the ends. The moment they met mine, it struck me that I saw something there which I definitely hadn't expected.

Life.

Hope. Optimism. Whatever you call it. A look I hadn't seen since…since a long time ago. I was amazed by how very, very alive she was.

Without thinking, I knelt down beside her, setting down my bag of groceries. "Are you hungry?"

She held up a hand to her ear. "I can't hear very well," she said in a soft voice.

Refusing to be thrown off balance, I rummaged through my bag. Finally, I drew out an orange. "Are you hungry?" I asked again, more loudly, rubbing my stomach for good measure.

The woman repeated the motion. "Yes," she said. "Hungry."

Hesitating, but too far in to back off, I held out the orange. "Would you like…?"

"You don't want it?"

Not knowing what to say—she probably wouldn't have heard it anyway—I pressed the bright fruit into her hands. "For you," I said firmly.

Her gaze followed mine as I stood up. Satisfied that there was nothing more I could afford to give her, I smiled and left.

Twelve hours ago…

- An -

It was just the two of us, Saruhi and I. Hey, don't get the wrong idea, we got along with the rest of our class just fine. Friends with all the girls and all. But we were the only to females from Fudomine in our year at Seigaku High, so we tended to stick together more.

"Seriously, how are we supposed to get by here?" I complained, eyeing the crowd around the tennis courts apprehensively.

"Bear with them for a day." Saruhi shrugged dispassionately. "Ranking matches, remember? 'Course people want to watch."

Sometimes, her 'live and let live' attitude got to me. Like now. "I understand why they're here." I pointed to a group of boys dressed in white shirts with green collars and matching green trousers cheering their club-mates on. "But what about them?"

Saruhi glanced in the direction I'd indicated. "They're…" She shrugged again. "Going through a phase?" she suggested. "Hormones?"

I scoffed. "If it's a phase, it's lasted from the beginning of junior high till now. And hormones? We're the same age as them, remember? We're not going crazy, if you haven't noticed." I could never figure out why she could tolerate those girls the way she did. It was almost like she could sympathize with the fangirls, for some incomprehensible reason.

Surprisingly, she smiled wryly. "We're not? Really?" And grinning wider, "Well, I'm not. As for you…"

"What?" I squinted at her suspiciously.

"I think Momo for one would disagree with the 'not going crazy' part."

That was something else I didn't get. What did guys have against dates anyway? "It's not called 'going crazy'," I contradicted for the thousandth time. "It's called 'being assertive'."

Saruhi simply smirked lightly in disbelief.

"Anyway," I continued, "With all the screaming air-heads around here, you'd think actual assertiveness would be refreshing. I mean, I you like a guy, just tell him instead of squealing behind his back." As the general population did.

"Heh," my friend grimaced weakly. "You're different, An."

"But I just don't under—"

"Let's say the rest of us have a different definition of 'assertive'," Saruhi cut in dryly. "And a different idea of when to use it. Just leave it at that. Look, I think I can see an escape route."

Giving me a small tug, she led me around a narrow, narrow path between swooning girls and a concrete wall.

Grumbling, I complied. "What's up with you, anyway?" I burst out once we had left the crowds behind. "You act like you actually understand them. But you're not like them. I haven't heard you shriek like them in my life. What gives?"

Amazingly, she only chuckled weakly. "It's…not that hard."

I wondered about that. Saruhi was one of the more sensible classmates I knew, after all. She wasn't like those other girls. She wasn't like—like that.

Definitely not.

She couldn't be.