Please not our house, I prayed. Please not our house.
Yuna followed close behind me. As we got closer and closer home, I had a lump in my throat. I was feeling lightheaded, while a heavy weight laid on my chest.
With that much smoke, more grayish than white, rising into the air, it could only have come from a huge fire. It would be terrible if the fire’s source turned out to be our house. I could just picture my house turning into a blackened fiery mess, and it made the pits of my stomach turn.
But it wasn’t our house that was burning. Instead, when Yuna and I turned a corner, we saw fire burning away a pile of garbage bags at the neighborhood’s trash pickup spot.
Some people had gathered around the fire, just looking at it. Curiosity sometimes trumped fear and they came to see what was going on. A few even had their phones out to record videos and pictures.
“Oh good, it’s not our house,” I said, sighing with relief.
Yuna swatted the back of her hand against my shoulder and held up her phone.
“No, not good!” the phone said. “There’s a fire!”
“Oh, right!” I said. “What do we do? What do we do? There’s a fire! We have to do something or it’ll spread to someone’s house!”
I looked around, frantically thinking.
“Okay!” I said. “Don’t panic! First step is to stop, then drop, and finally roll!”
“That’s only if you’re on fire yourself!” retorted Yuna.
“Then I’ll blast it away with a Psy-Cannon!” I said. The Psy-Cannon is a name I came up with for a psychic attack. Basically, it’s a move where I shoot blasts of psychic energy from my hand like a cannon.
I was about to aim a finger at the blazing inferno, but Yuna stopped me.
“Are you trying to destroy the neighborhood?” she said through the phone.
This back and forth between us went on for about fifteen or so, when firefighters finally came to put the fire out.
Throughout the whole thing, Yuna and I were the only ones who panicked. I don’t know how people could just gather around the fire with curiosity and calmly film everything with their smartphones to post on the Internet later. But thankfully, the fire never spread beyond the garbage dump space, and no one was hurt, except for a few people who had coughing fits thanks to the smoke and lingering smell.
“Wow,” Omoyo said as she leaned on a broomstick with a bamboo handle. “Good thing it was just a pile of garbage, and not someone’s house.”
It was a few days after the fire and I had just finished telling the others about it. They all must have heard the news already, but getting a firsthand witness account from someone you know is a lot different from just hearing it reported on TV. Me and the rest of the club were gathered at a park either sweeping up or picking up garbage.
“Tell me about it,” Oota said. “I think I lost years off my life when I saw the smoke.”
“In the end, they chalked it up to a careless smoker, but what do you think, Oota?” Isaneko asked. “Yuna?”
At her feet, a large, black garbage bag was left lying open. Bits and pieces of trash flew into the bag on their own, picked and carried by Isaneko’s telekinetic power.
“I don’t know,” I replied, shrugging my shoulders. “It’s not like I’m an expert on fire or anything.”
I held my hand out and stretched out a ray of psychic energy shaped like a rake. When the fingers of the rake dug into the dirt, I made the psychic energy shrink back towards me, dragging candy wrappers, bottle caps, and pieces of foil into my dustpan.
A few feet away, a girl frowned at us. Her name is Naoko Soushu, and she’s our school’s Student Council president.
“I know using psychic powers like that is better than using them to fight, but you shouldn’t be using them out in public like this,” she said.
Like us members of the Community Service Club, Soushu’s also a psychic. Her family’s actually pretty important in the psychic community. Her mom’s also a powerful politician, which made her quite the local princess.
“Right, sorry Shoyu.” Even though I apologized, Soushu’s frown only deepened.
Behind her, Eiji Shikouyama and vice-president of the Student Council scowled. His power is electro-magnetism, which he uses sort of like my Psy-Armor.
“That’s Miss Shoyu to you!” he growled. “Show some respect!”
I instantly shrank away from him. Shikouyama and I have a bit of a history between us that started a couple of months ago. He had misunderstood a meeting between the club and a gang led by Yamimura as some kind of alliance and picked a fight with me to fess up about it. It was the first time I ever fought someone for real. And I put up a decent one at that. Luckily, no one got hurt, but as far as I know, he still thinks we’re buddies with Yamimura.
Yamimura’s family is also pretty big in the psychic community and they’ve got a bit of a feud going on with Soushu’s family, which Shikouyama’s family has a sort of servant-master thing going on with. That’s why Shikouyama hates Yamimura and anyone on his side, which in turn is why things are chilly between the Community Service Club and the Student Council. Well, things are also chilly between the club and Yamimura’s gang, but it’s much worse with the Student Council because of Shikouyama.
“You’re both wrong!” Soushu snapped. “My name’s Soushu! SOU-SHU! Not SHO-YU! I’ve told you so many times, so why do you keep mixing up my family name with soy sauce?”
What’s this? You’re wondering why the CSC and the Student Council are working together to pick up trash in the park even though we don’t get along? Well, truth is, it’s really only Shikouyama who’s openly hostile. I wouldn’t say the rest of the Student Council are on friendly terms with us, but things are civil enough that we just treat each other like normal classmates. In fact, it was Soushu’s idea that the Student Council join the CSC to clean up the park.
A few feet away, a boy called out to Soushu.
“Coming!” she replied back. She turned back to us and said, “Anyway, just don’t use your powers in public. This town might be the capitol of Japan’s psychics, but there are still normal people here who don’t, and can’t, know that psychic powers are real.”
We all watched as she turned around and left with Shikouyama at her heels.
“Remind me again why we’re working together with Soushu’s group,” Omoyo said to Mirai.
Mirai replied in a grandiose way, “Additional forces are always welcome in this demon lord’s army. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. To spurn them would be detrimental to our cause for world domination!”
Omoyo scowled.
Translating for Mirai, Isaneko said, “What he means is we could always use some extra help cleaning the park, and it would actually be worse for us if we declined the Student Council.”
Yuna said, “So saying no to Soushu would be too much trouble than it’s worth?”
Isaneko nodded and said, “Pretty much.”
“How?” I asked.
“If word gets out that we turned down the Council’s help with community service, people will think that we’re on bad terms,” Isaneko said.
“But we are on bad terms,” I pointed out. Well, Shikouyama and I are on bad terms at least.
“Yeah,” Isaneko said. “But if other people know that, rumors will start flying and we’ll be pestered about them wherever and whenever.”
“That would be more trouble than its worth,” I said.
It was at that moment, that three people approached us. Two of them were an elderly couple that we usually see all the time whenever we clean up litter at parks, riversides, and streets all over town. We knew them as the Sakamotos. The third person was a boy I had never seen before who was rather gloomy-looking and dressed like a heavy metal rocker.
“Hey, Mr. and Mrs. Sakamoto,” I said. “How’re you doing?”
“Oh, hey Aloha Shirt Boy,” said Mr. Sakamoto.
Because I always wear an aloha shirt outside of school, neighbors and grownup volunteer workers know me as the Aloha Shirt Boy. I don’t really mind. Aloha shirts are comfy, which is why they’re the only kind of shirt I wear. And did you know in Hawaii, aloha shirts can be considered formal clothes? Even businessmen, lawyers and government people wear aloha shirts to work.
“How’re you doing, Mr. Sakamoto?” I asked.
“Doing good,” Mr. Sakamoto replied. “Doing good. I see you and your friends are hard at work as always.”
“It is always our pleasure to serve, Sir,” said Mirai.
Mr. Sakamoto and Mrs. Sakamoto chuckled.
Mrs. Sakamoto said, “It’s always good to see young folks give back to the community. Oh, speaking of young folks, let me introduce you all to our grandson. Come over here.”
Mrs. Sakamoto beckoned to the gloomy-looking kid. After he reluctantly came forward, Mrs. Sakamoto pushed him the rest of the way for all of us to see.
"This is Akira, our daughter's son," she said. "Akira, why don't you introduce yourself?"
Akira had a look on his face that suggested he really didn't want to do that, that it was a major pain. But, after a growl from his grandma, he sighed and softly spoke, "Akira Yasahonou. Nice to meet you."
“Akira, here, is going to be going to your school once summer vacation’s over,” Mr. Sakamoto said. “We’d be really happy if you could be friends with him. Maybe you can even have him in your club. I know he’ll be in good hands with you.”
"Uh, yeah," I said, breaking out in nervous laughter. "Maybe."
I glanced back at Mirai, but he just flashed his usual, mischievous grin. Honestly, I didn't think it was a good idea for Akira to join the club since he was normal. The Community Service Club is mainly a club for psychics, after all. But there was no way I could tell Mr. Sakamoto that.
That's why it was a a relieve to me when, with a scowl, Akira said, “I’m fine making friends on my own, Grandpa. And I’ll choose what club I wanna join, thank you very much.”
Beaming, Mr. Sakamoto replied, “You’re welcome.” He was apparently deaf to his grandson’s sarcasm.
But despite his sour and rebellious look, Akira was probably the most diligent and thorough out of all the volunteers. We could all see him working swiftly to pick up trash, unlike us who took our time. And he even went to the trouble of separating it all between recyclable and non-recyclable.
Meanwhile, we got to learn more about Akira (mostly from his grandparents). Both Mom and Dad of the Yasahonou family were business workers who recently got signed up for a huge project out of country, which was why Akira was going to move in with his grandma and grandpa and go to school with us.
It also turned out that Akira and I liked the same games. After hearing how he played games on the phone like me, I asked what kind of games he played and we started going deep into conversation over party structure, game progress and which upcoming gacha units we were aiming for. I think that was the start of our friendship.
The cleanup quickly ended with Akira gathering the most trash. Normally, that would earn just a little bit of scattered applause. But when the volunteer leaders tallied up everyone’s trash and announced Akira as the winner of a little trash picking contest they started, Mirai clapped his hands loud and yelled at the top of his lungs, “BRAVO! BRAVO! That’s my future comrade right there! BRAVO!”
Surprised, Akira cried out, “What the-!?”
An evil grin flashed on Isaneko’s face and she started following Mirai’s example. Unwilling to seem like loveless grandparents, Mr. and Mrs. Sakamoto joined in the cheering. Thanks to them, soon everyone was giving Akira an intense round of applause. Soushu and the rest of the Student Council hesitated at first, but they too added their applause in, not wanting to be left out.
Poor Akira looked left and right, going, “Huh? What?” His face had turned really red and he shrank away from the applause with a grimace. I couldn’t blame him. If I was in his shoes, I would be incredibly embarrassed.
I could hear Isaneko cackling softly.
“He looks so cute, all embarrassed and confused like that,” she said.
Glancing at Mirai and Isaneko, Omoyo shook her head in disgust and said to them, “He’s so going to hate you guys for this.”
And that’s how our little club outing went.
I know, I know. After that fire a few days ago, it’s hard to believe that life could suddenly turn peaceful again, but that’s just how life is. Something happens and then it’s business as usual the next day. I hadn’t even seen the ghost girl in a while too and started to think I was just imagining her.
But as we walked down a street, heading home, there, standing at a corner staring at us was the ghost girl. When I saw her, I stopped dead in my tracks.
“What’s wrong, Oota?” Omoyo asked. “Why’d you suddenly stop?”
I glanced at her and the others and, knowing that they couldn’t see the ghost (and that they don’t believe in them), I decided to just lie and said, “I-it’s nothing. A bug just flew in my face.”
Omoyo didn’t look convinced. But then my phone buzzed.
I took the phone out of my pocket, unlocked the screen and saw I had a message from my mom. Wondering what she wanted, I tapped the message icon and opened the window. As soon as I saw what she had written, my heart jolted like I was splashed with cold water.
The message read: “Be careful on your way home. There’s been another fire.”
Over the horizon, I could hear sirens blaring as a firetruck must be rushing over to the scene. When I looked up from my phone, I saw that the ghost was gone.
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