Page 15 of Kotori
The girls arrange themselves at their stations without a word. Mizuki's face reveals nothing beyond cool assessment. Kohana studies me with scholarly interest, while Aya vibrates with barely contained excitement.
"Good morning, girls," I say with my brightest teacher smile.
Silence. Three pairs of dark eyes stare back at me.
"I've prepared individual lessons based on your current levels. We'll start with—"
"Excuse me," Mizuki interrupts, her English perfect but ice-cold. "That is not how lessons begin in this household."
The certainty in her voice stops me short. At eighteen, she speaks with the authority of someone used to being obeyed.
"I'm sorry?" I look between them, suddenly off-balance. "How should we begin?"
Mizuki performs a formal bow, back straight, eyes lowered. Her sisters follow immediately, Kohana with precise correctness, Aya with enthusiastic if imperfect form.
"Ohayo gozaimasu, Williams-sensei," they chorus together.
I recognize the Japanese greeting but hadn't expected such formality from children. "Good morning," I respond with a smile, still standing.
Mizuki's gaze flicks upward, catching mine with a flash of disapproval. "The teacher returns the bow and greeting properly," she says. "Then we may begin."
Of course. I bow awkwardly, trying to remember how deeply is appropriate, feeling ridiculous in my Western attire attempting Japanese formality.
"Ohayo... gozaimasu," I attempt, mangling the pronunciation. Those few Japanese lessons I took in college seem so far away now.
Mizuki's lips press into a thin line. Kohana looks embarrassed for me. Aya grins widely.
"You'll learn," Mizuki says, tone suggesting doubt. "We begin each session with proper greetings, then formal seating, then the lesson outline. After receiving the outline, we express gratitude before beginning work."
This level of ceremony for an English lesson feels absurd, but I'm not in a position to argue. "Thank you for explaining," I say instead. "I'll remember for tomorrow."
"You'll remember for today," Mizuki corrects. "We will begin again. Properly."
The steel in her voice echoes her father's, raising goosebumps on my arms. I nod, stepping back to the doorway as the girls rearrange themselves.
This time I enter after them, bow when they bow, fumble through the Japanese greeting, present the lesson outline formally, wait for their expressions of gratitude, and only then begin the actual teaching.
By the time we start the lesson, I feel like I've already failed some critical test.
Twohourslater,myhead throbs with the effort of navigating invisible cultural land mines. The English portion went smoothly enough—all three girls are intelligent and well-prepared. But everything surrounding the teaching is a maze of protocols I don't understand.
When Aya drops her pencil, I reach to pick it up and receive a sharp correction from Mizuki about appropriate roles and behaviors. When I praise Kohana's grammar, I apparently use the wrong honorific and cause her face to flush with embarrassment. When I suggest a break, I discover there's aprecise form for that too—one that requires permission rather than teacher authority.
I feel like I'm teaching in handcuffs, bound by rules no one has explained.
"Very well," Mizuki says when our session concludes. "We will end for today."
Again, the sisters rise in unison, bow with synchronized precision, and thank me with formal phrases that Mizuki has to quietly prompt me to answer correctly.
As they file out, Aya hesitates, glancing back with a small smile. "Your Japanese will get better, Williams-sensei," she says in English, her voice encouraging.
The simple kindness nearly brings tears to my eyes.
Mizuki notices, of course. Her sharp gaze moves between her sister and me before she places a hand on Aya's shoulder. "Come, Aya-chan. Father is waiting."
I sink onto my knees after they leave, exhaustion washing over me. Teaching has always been my refuge. The one place where I feel competent. Now even that has become another arena for failure.
Through the open window, I hear male voices in the garden below. One rises above the others—Kaito's distinctive baritone, speaking rapid Japanese to what sounds like a group of men. I move closer to the window, curious despite myself.
