Towa Maeda

9

they’re the little tadpoles swimming in the pond near grandma’s house. they’re tiny, or ‘eeny-weeny’, i’d say giggling—the gap in my front teeth exposed when i grin—with a head and inky tail like the number 9.

9

When school starts I begin to hate Sally for buying 9 apples, and Robin for eating 19 candies, and John who found 29 stones, because why not 10 apples, 20 candies, or 30 stones instead! And I’m adding and subtracting with my seven-year-old fingers, 9+4=14-1=13, then 5.9+3.9=6-0.1+4-0.1, and the timer says I have nine seconds left before time runs out when I look up. 

九

九 means nine. Kyuu. I stick out my lips in a duck-like pout, a failed attempt to imitate the other kids, and my mother tongue feels clumsy in my mouth like a mouth-full of foreign food fed to me. Ku. Same word, different pronunciation. Nine is bad luck, they say to me. 九 sounds like 苦, the equivalent of suffering. The character sounds bitter in my mouth. “It’s bad luck,” my teacher tells me gently, as if worried that nine was my favorite number. It wasn’t.

9/10

Mischevious. The single red line marked mercilessly on my paper, a sign of failure. Mischievous, that’s the right spelling. My deskmate, the girl with red ribbons in her hair and a voice too squeaky for my liking, sat down with what looked like pride. A perfect 10. Two digits. 

89/100

Great job. My teacher’s words are mockery; they fuel the black ooze of shame in my chest. “I hate the number 9,” I confess to him suddenly, and he looks at me quizzically in response. The discontent in my voice sounds ugly, an echo of my own mother’s voice when she inspects my grades. Why? “It could’ve been a 90 if I tried harder,” I explain to him.  “And 90 looks a whole lot better than an 89.”

9th Place

I wished for 10th place. Surrounded by students, all of whom were once my friends now my rivals, I prayed. 10th place. My neck and eyes aching, the screen in the auditorium a flashing red traffic light, I searched for my name. Names were called out, 18, 17, then 10th place—it wasn’t me. 

I clapped as others walked down to the stage to receive their medals, while an eerie calmness overcame me. I would not be called. The best I could expect of myself was 10th place, and no higher. 

My name was not mine in the moment it was called out. Ninth place. 9. The number printed along with my name on the golden cup entrusted to me was not a two digit, or three digit, but a single digit. Nine, not ten. 10 is not perfection. Neither was 20, 30, 40, 50, 100, any number after 9 with a zero. Nine had been false to me, but on stage, my limbs were loose, yet my fingertips were strong as I firmly gripped the heavy weight of my hope. Nine was as beautiful as the tadpoles in grandma’s pond and nothing less. 

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Towa Maeda is sixteen-years-old, and currently lives in Japan. She enjoys reading poetry and short stories, and often agonizes over the process of writing her own works. Follow her Instagram on @forever_u107