“A genius-level discovery?”
“Yeah. An incredibly miraculous commonality between you, Delta, and Iwama-san. Want to know?”
I didn’t particularly want to know, but Mizusaki wanted to talk about it. I jutted my chin to prompt him.
“First, recall the origin of the surname Delta.”
“Well, my actual surname is Izuta, though.”
Delta is a nickname stemming from a certain incident in middle school. There’s no historical background of my ancestors living in the Mississippi Delta or anything. Mizusaki seems intent on spreading this misreading at high school too, but I really wish he wouldn’t.
“Well, minor details aside. So, Iwama-san.”
As if aiming for dramatic effect, Mizusaki paused slightly.
“…Try reading the characters for ‘Iwama’ in jūbako-yomi (separate syllables).”
Iwama—iwa, ma—gan, ma—Gamma.
“See? See?”
Mizusaki looked as triumphant as if he’d just figured out how to solve a math proof in only three lines.
“You’re Delta, and she’s Gamma. Alpha, Beta, Gamma, Delta… Not only are your student numbers adjacent, but you’re also adjacent in the Greek alphabet. See? Isn’t that amazing?”
“That’s very amazing indeed.”
“Don’t give me that emotionless praise. Look, there’s definitely some kind of connection there! Hell, I don’t mind at all if you want to use it as a conversation starter.”
“Why would I need a conversation starter?”
“What are you saying? To get closer to her, obviously.”
When I look, Mizusaki is once again walking in the pleasantly sunny roadside. His hair, the color of a ferric chloride solution illuminated by bright spring sunlight, suited Mizusaki well. Whether he’s a hummingbird or a peacock, he seems happy enough.
“I’m not getting close to her. You know my character.”
Mizusaki turns toward me while grinning excessively.
“You never know. Fate sometimes plays pranks like a bad joke.”
“I’m saying I have no intention of getting close to her. That shouldn’t change no matter what fate does.”
“That’s sad to hear. You’re classmates anyway, you might as well be friendly.”
“We’re different types. No matter how you look at it, she’s someone who lives differently from me.”
“But think about it.”
Cutting off my words, Mizusaki raised his index finger.
“The conditions are already perfectly set up. Delta and Iwama-san’s seats are in the column closest to the hallway in the classroom. Furthermore, Iwama-san is at the very back of that column. In other words, when seated, Iwama-san can only talk to someone to her left or in front. And who do you think sits in front of Iwama-san?”
“Obviously, me.”
The seats right after enrollment are arranged by student number. Our class has an unusually large number of people whose names start with ‘A,’ like Aizawa and Aresuna, so Iwama and I are lined up at the very back of the hallway-side column with the lowest student numbers.
“See? And I’m sure in other classrooms too, because of the student number arrangement, Delta and Iwama-san will be close.”
Like when he tried to push on me the mnemonic he created for memorizing the periodic table, Mizusaki is aggressively pressing forward. So much so that I want to suspect he has some ulterior motive.
“…Having to stay near me all the time, how unfortunate for her.”
“What are you saying? Being near Delta isn’t an uncomfortable place!”
“That’s nice of you to say, but Mizusaki is about the only one who thinks that way.”
Mizusaki laughs cheerfully.
“Maybe so!”
Of course, I don’t harm those around me. However, I’m not an outwardly active person. Not a sociable person. Not a person who walks in the sunlight.
A so-called shadow-dweller—in other words, an “in-kya,” an introvert.
In a situation where you can only talk to the person in front or to the left, if the person in front is a shadow-dweller who only passes papers back, Iwama will surely feel lonely.
She clearly seems like the type who interacts with people and walks in the sunlight, not someone from this side.
Beyond the gently ascending ginkgo tree-lined street, the gate of Tsunagai High School came into view. The old-fashioned gate built with high stacked stones majestically exudes the dignity befitting the prefecture’s top preparatory school.
The ginkgo trees lining the street have put out pale yellow-green new buds, and the entire trees shine in the morning sun under the blue sky.
Today’s weather is pleasant, but the forecast said it would deteriorate in the evening, with a storm coming at night.
READ THE ORIGINAL TRANSLATION AT LOCALIZERMEERKAT.GITHUB.IO
During lunch break, Mizusaki disappeared somewhere for “reconnaissance of other classes.” Having no reason to accompany him, I open my lunch box at my seat. My carefully prepared homemade lunch. Though, half of it is occupied by cherry tomatoes.
By the way, I think cherry tomatoes are one of the pinnacles that agricultural history has reached.
Inside that thin skin are packed the miracles of nature and the wisdom of humanity. The balance of refreshing acidity and non-cloying sweetness. The water-repellent skin is easy to wash yet easy to eat. Because they’re bite-sized, you don’t need a knife and can eat them without dirtying your hands. If you buy them at a farm stand, the price is reasonable. Thanks to the development of hydroponic and greenhouse cultivation, they can be purchased year-round.
As I bite into one with a pop, I let my thoughts wander to the genetic information woven into its cells. The ancestor that grew wild in the Andes Mountains, bearing only small fruits. The taste was probably sour and astringent too. Humanity domesticated it and gradually improved it to their preferences over generations. The vast history of biological evolution and humanity’s long history of effort are carved into each and every one of these. That symphony they perform! Plants that bathed in sunlight use the energy gained through the ingenious system called photosynthesis, mobilizing countless genes to produce diverse substances through mind-numbingly complex processes. And that achieves an exquisite balance of taste and aroma on the tongue. Humanity could never reproduce this mechanism from scratch. If this isn’t a miracle, what else would you call it?!
“Do you like cherry tomatoes?”
Suddenly addressed, I’m startled and turn to look at the seat behind me.
Iwama Rio was looking at me with her large eyes wide. I immediately drop my gaze.
“Ah, yeah… well.”
Thinking I gave a stupid answer, I add:
“…Was I eating them that deliciously?”
After saying this, I realize that from Iwama’s position, she could only see my back and the back of my head. I blurted out something foolish.
“No. But there are so many. This is the first time I’ve seen someone with this many cherry tomatoes in their lunch.”
With her slightly sun-tanned finger, Iwama pointed at my desk.
One of my two-tiered lunch boxes was entirely cherry tomatoes. Incidentally, the other tier is packed tight with white rice flavored with pickled plum and shiso furikake and the remaining side dishes.
“They’re delicious, cherry tomatoes.”
To my answer that may or may not qualify as a reason, Iwama smiled brightly, as if a flower had bloomed.
To borrow Mizusaki’s words, “Did you see that smile?”
“Yes! They’re delicious, cherry tomatoes.”
Just having the same content repeated back to me makes me feel as if my entire being has been affirmed. A terrifying ability to win people over.
“But don’t you get tired of eating so many? I thought you might have fought with your parents.”
Apparently Iwama suspected that my parents had stuffed the lunch with cherry tomatoes out of spite. But that’s not it. That’s not what happened.
“No, I eat this amount because I like them. Even this isn’t enough.”
I was confident I could talk about the symphony of cherry tomatoes for an hour, but I held back. Instead, I showed Iwama the lunch box with the cherry tomatoes. I’d already eaten a few, but the rest were packed so tightly without gaps that they couldn’t be moved, like a puzzle.
“Amazing! It’s a densest packing structure!”
Words I hadn’t anticipated came flying out of Iwama’s mouth, and I was confused.
Apparently sensitively reading the change in my expression, Iwama hurriedly waved both hands.
“Ah! Did I say something weird?! Sorry, I meant to say they’re efficiently packed.”
“No, it’s not weird at all—”
“So Izuta-kun, you make your own lunch?”
While feeling a slight discomfort at the forceful topic change, I nod, thinking it’s fine.
“Not so much ‘making’ it, though.”
I’m mostly just packing things. Cherry tomatoes, that is.
“That’s admirable! I have my ma—my mother make mine.”
Even though we weren’t having any strange conversation, she seemed to be hastily trying to change the subject.
Iwama’s hand moved smoothly, opening her lunch to show me. Side dishes balanced well together, with white rice topped with a small pickled plum. The fact that she so naturally shows the contents of her lunch box to a guy she’s barely spoken to suggests a lack of wariness, or rather kindness, or perhaps that she was raised in a good home—I find myself making unwarranted assumptions.
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