I walk my bike through the crowd, eyes down. Then, I take the detour under the train tracks, past the Tsutaya video rental store, the flower shop, and another row of small restaurants. I take another shortcut by the other shopping centre, bigger but less busy because it’s farther from the station. I can smell the coffee from the second Tully’s mixed with KFC, the popcorn and cotton candy in the video game arcade, the ramen stands’ beer, all the delicious odours that permeate the air. I pop out onto a large intersection with a cluster of squat buildings, health clinics, and real estate agencies that play the company jingles whenever they’re open. I lock up my bike at a rack in front of the tallest building and head inside. I take the elevator and press the button for the seventh floor. According to the tiny plastic strip of logos over the doors, there is only one company on that floor:

Zozo’sSchoolofGood English

(EIKAIWA)

The elevator opens to a reception area that looks like the set of a 1970s children’s education program. The Electric Company meets Polka Dot Door. Lots of neon orange, yellow, and green; dots and zigzags; identical clown faces with menacing grins; and speech bubbles that scream, “Hi, I’m Zozo! Let’s enjoy English!” Sprinkled among photos of grinning children are hundreds of tiny Japanese characters on brochures and posters. My favourite co-worker, Yoshino, stands on a chair, adding Halloween decorations and past photos of students and teachers in their costumes. Two other teachers, Seri and Yuki, alternate handing her pictures and pieces of tape. And, of course, I see myself in a giant blow-up photograph in my good old gothic Tinker Bell costume. It’s the one photo of me that goes up on the wall, every year, just in time for Halloween.

For some reason, the lobby is busy for a Tuesday morning. Several parents stand around our school manager as he waxes poetic about the company. Lieko, another teacher, stands behind him and nods after every sentence. She looks me up and down, then looks away. Most of the parents are too busy listening to the manager or whispering about how much Yoshino looks like Kanako Yanagihara to notice my arrival. Those that do stare. The tiny sectional where the guests sit is covered with unfinished foam puzzles and old toys. Somewhere in the melee I see our old malfunctioning Anpanman plush toy on the floor. Why is it even out of the staff room? And who are all these parents? What is going on here today?

Children fresh out of their lesson enjoy their freedom as their parents pick up school bags and gather shoes, chatting away in rapid-fire Japanese. The kids that notice me point and shout: “Ah! Belle-sensei, ohayou gozaimasu! Hello! How are you? I’m fine, thank you!”

“Hi, kids! How’s it going?”