I moved into America when I was four.

Back then, it seemed so different. The sun shone rays much hotter during summer in America than Japan. Everybody was so relaxed and not tense and seemed really social and outgoing. Instead of the bustling cities filled with people and the quiet villages with its serenity, America only had towns, neighbourhoods, estates and skyscrapers. It was like going into an alternate dimension.

When I first reached the airport, I greeted the flight attendant and she just looked disgusted. In Japan, anybody could bow to anybody and be polite but in America, all you had to do was say 'Hello' and that was counted as a polite greeting. I was pretty young back then and I still needed education so I got into preschool. When I got into preschool, there was nobody to help me learn English. So I would just stare wide-eyed at the teacher's bright blue eyes intently and pretend to understand what she is saying.

Long, foreign words were strung out whenever I did something and the only thing I could rely on for communication was the person's tone. When someone was saying something forcefully, I would assume that that person is trying to instruct me or is angry. And it went on like that till I was fed up with it and decided to learn English on my own.

You know how people like to say that the more you hear a foreign language, the more you will understand it? Yeah, right. The thing was, the more I tried to learn English, the more harder it got. That was when I realised that my parents were the one that was supposed to let me learn that language. I remembered holding onto my parents' knees and begging for them to let me attend English classes. There was a glint of disappointment in their eyes and they looked at me with this look that gave me guilt. Like I was supposed to learn it by myself.

You might think that my parents were being unfair but in fact, they are great. They helped me hand-wash my clothes; cook me big dinners for the family; taught me how to do my homework and sometimes, come to my room when they felt sceptical and could hear sobbing sounds. They cared for me when I was young and devoted everything for me. They weathered sufferings, still sheltering me with them. And I loved them. 

Another thing about America was their food. Juicy hamburgers dripping with oil, big and thick french fries, gigantic-sized cups full of 'sugar-free' sodas. Mass proportions of food were set before my eyes in just that one month of being four years old. Weirdly, I did not even want to eat them then. Well, now as well. Gallons of calories flash before my eyes when I even peek at that kind of food and I would feel like puking. 

I stood up from my bed on hearing Mom call me for dinner. I sniffed and rearranged my finished homework into my bag. I had been thinking back to the past again and I did not dare to go too far and uncover unwanted memories. It would be too much too handle. Before anything heavy hit me, I jogged downstairs and arrived in the dining room. Which was in the kitchen. Which was in the living room. I never got used to that open-space concept in houses. On the table were prepared steaming dishes.

Upon sitting down, I immediately started to eat. Our family abolished the table manners we had in Japan. Lifting the bowl of rice to my mouth, I took a pair of chopsticks and ate slowly. My mother took her apron off and seated herself across me, starting to eat as well. It was just like that. The two of us in this big, ominous house. Dad always came home very late so Mom and I usually ate together. I also had no siblings which made me miserable sometimes.

I enjoyed the relaxing silence while I chewed on the boiled cabbage till Mom broke it. Much to my dismay. "So, honey, what are you up to nowadays?"

My stomach took a dip and I sighed. "I am contemplating about joining the bake sale which is going to be held next Friday."

Mom nodded her head in masked disinterest but nonetheless, she continued the conversation. "Why, honey? You have so many other options to choose from in High School?" I could hear that hint of disapproval in her voice. Mom did not like me baking. She thought it was useless when pastries, cake and bread was not essential for life. But I found it nice. No, I was not some obsessed baker bent on getting the first prize for the baking sale contest, I was just a girl who found baking relaxing and just wanted to test her skills.

Whenever I baked, I could feel the stress slowly seeping out of me as I kneaded dough, poured water into the mixing bowl or fracked some eggs. It was what I have been doing for the past four years. And honestly, I think this was the only activity I enjoyed doing other than book-wrapping. Don't judge me. Every bake sale, there would be a contest for all participants. Each person had to bake their best piece of pastry and there would be picked judges to select the best. And the winner would get bragging rights and this gargantuan trophy which was gold and shiny and probably detrimental towards you if you tried to carry it.

I tried entering a couple of times but never got close to first place or even a consolation at all. I am not saying I am bad but there was Virgie Nikki, who was the all-time champion baker and was also the girl who took the first, second, third and consolation prizes in every contest. She was really good. I have seen her do her work and she looked like a hurricane of fast hands, slapping dough; mixing the bowl and causing a mess.

"Mom, baking isn't that bad. I find it relaxing, and plus, you get to taste test, right? Baking is just a hobby which I like to venture in. Weren't you a baker last time, like, during the 90s?" I asked, waving my chopsticks in the air to annoy my mom. That shut her up and she continued to eat, no doubt thinking about how slim she was during the 90s.

I finally finished eating and I took my bowl to the sink in the kitchen and started washing it. Turning on the tap, I could hear cold water gushing out and I took a sponge and put the bowl under the water. Suddenly, I saw something drop from above through the window in front of me. My brows furrowed in curiosity and I strap echoed me head out of the window to look up.

It was dark outside but the moon and the stars illuminated the place. I could hear the sound of clumsy footsteps above on the roof and someone stringing curses under their breath. Someone was on my parents' house's roof. Suspicious.

"Hey!" I shouted. The curses immediately stopped and it was silent. "Whoever that is, if you slip and fall of the roof, I am not paying for insurance or anything! Just letting you know!" I could hear that guy chuckle and I shouted again, "This is not funny!"

Skipping back into the house silently, I ran up the stairs to my room in ten attic. I went to the huge window in front of my table. Quietly opening the window, I peeked outside. However, there was no human being in sight. Then I heard some sounds. Looking down, I could see that going out onto the roof was a dangerous option. But I could not let this pass by-in fact, this was probably the most exciting thing that ever happened to me.

Mustering all my courage ( And checking that my inhaler is in my pocket ), I stretched my leg out o ft he window and stepped cautiously on to it. It was invigorating and strenuous but once I got onto the roof, I had that superior feeling and sense of accomplishment. The air was fresh and humid and up here, I felt unstoppable. Or at least as free from a ten-meter drop. 

Stooping low, I tiptoed and looked over the roof of my house but the mysterious person was gone. I cussed to myself for losing him but regained my composure. Looking up into the sky, I could see the starts shining down at me. They calmed me down and the panic and element of adventure in me started being lapsed over by waves of serenity.

Now that I was sitting on the roof, I realise that actually, this neighbourhood was perfect for roof-sitting. Not only see the roof abnormally close, every house's roof was built in a certain way that there were horizontal surfaces for people to sit on. I wondered who that person was. Obviously a boy. I remembered hearing a deep voice so probably a man? But that could not be as the footsteps were not that loud. At the pount, I dismissed the entire matter. It did not matter who that person who was climbing on my parents' house's roof was.

Sitting down on the roof, I had this feeling which I never felt before. Carefree, I think. My mind was empty of all the worries in life and in that moment, I decided that his was an even better spot than the janitor's closet. So much more. The bricks beneath me were slippery so I decided to go back into the house. If my mother found out, things would be going to get really ugly. Being the way I was, I shut the windows down after entering the room and arranged my bed before heading back down.

I found my father back in the living room. His suitcase was on the floor and there were slurred words. I let out a breath. Dad had been drinking again. He was sitting on the couch in his business suit. His cheeks were red, his nose was red, his eyes were red. There was a lingering smell of booze which made my stomach feel queasy. Tears gathered at my eyes and my nose crinkled. 

"Uh...Dad, are you okay?" I asked.

He waved his hand and mouthed something indecipherable. Pinching my nose, I carefully pulled him up and pushed him up the stairs. To no avail. I called out to Mom. Mom came into the living room and looked at Dad in frustration. This was not the first time. He first came home like this when I was nine. It had been a peaceful night with my mom in the kitchen. The wing was crisp and cold and I was playing with books ( Reading them, actually. ) when there was shouting from downstairs.

" あなたは性交を持っていたいです。あなたは？あなたは？ビジネス取引についてはどう？ 10万! 100人！" It was so scary. Hearing somebody shouting like a maniac. I knew that he was going for a business deal but I never expected this. Not my father to be shouting with his face red. Not him flailing his arms around and looking like he wants to murder somebody.  And certainly not him barging on the carpet after that.

That was also about the day I swore never to drink. Ever. But so many things happened other than my dad getting drunk. And everyday, I liked running with them, skipping through the seams, p,hacking little strings. Causing ripples. Every human being could go through every memory of their lives, though forgotten, would leave a mark in our minds. Accidents of all kinds, minor ones, drastic ones which change your life or even making a decision. And though they were many things which made us feel bad or left to us lonely, we would never let them go.