I wondered if I had stepped into my own personal hell. Kitamura's room was relatively small, but with a proper layout, it could have looked quite spacious and dignified. There was a large window on the back wall, and a narrow bed perpendicular to it, lit by thin streaks of golden sunshine.
So, I wondered. How come everything else was a disaster? The walls were painted red: a vibrant, crimson color that assaulted my eyes. That, I could forgive, if it wasn't for the dozens, or hundreds—I couldn't count—of vinyls covering them. They were from all eras, and honestly, most names didn't ring a bell. Some were old, others really old; some had English, or Spanish, or another Western language I could barely decipher. Surely, Kitamura didn't understand the lyrics, so was she feeling the music rather than understanding it? Or did her ears only listen to the instrumental part?
And, alright, maybe I was a little judgmental: I could forgive the ugly vinyls. But, gazing down, I noticed her entire wardrobe sprawled across the ground; localized clusters had naturally formed, I assumed, from Kitamura's awful habits. One lay close to her bed, the other near a wardrobe on the left wall. There was a little desk on the right that, thank God, had managed to stay clean and organized. Mountains of books were scattered across it, alongside a desk lamp, some blank papers stacked in the middle, and a pencil on top of them.
I only noticed it after my gaze had finished scanning the entire room; she kept a guitar stand attached to a wall inside, on my right. The rubber seemed tired from many years of strain.
As I tried to step inside this mess, Kitamura tapped me on the shoulder, saying she had forgotten her bass downstairs. As I entered her room, I heard a frantic tap, tap, tap, tap down the stairs, then a short silence, a muffled grunt of frustration, and then more tap, tap, tap, tap. Kitamura came back with a messy hairdo.
I wasted no time in lecturing her.
"Kitamura-san, how can you live in here?"
"What? I can't help it, my room is small. And besides, I seldom invite people here anyway," she said, laying the instrument on the ground (by a miracle, she'd managed to avoid the piles of clothes). Without looking at it, she unzipped the case and, grabbing the bass by the neck, attached it to the stand.
"But you did invite me."
"Well... yes, but does it bother you?"
"Very much."
"Ah ha..." She scratched her head, sitting on the floor. "Go on, you can sit on my bed."
"What? No, no, I can't."
"I prefer it here, if you want to know," Kitamura stubbornly insisted.
Begrudgingly, I navigated the minefield of clothes and sat on the edge, as far as possible from her pillow.
"So, Chino-san, what I wanted to say—"
"No, no," I interrupted, frowning at the mess below. "I'm cleaning this up. I can't see this and be calm, or listen to you."
"Aren't you a bit unreasonable?" she said. I wondered how she dared argue against the conclusive evidence (which I was pointing out, very clearly!).
"...Alright, tell me. But I'll come back to clean it, okay?"
Kitamura nodded shyly. She made me feel guilty for a moment. Her lips ajar, she began:
"I don't know you very well, so I'll ask: are you an honest person?"
I suppose I was, now. So I nodded.
"Yes."
"Ha... then, could you listen to this?"
She handed me a pair of white earbuds with an extremely long wire connected to her laptop, which she grabbed from her desk. I put them on without much thought, while she powered on the computer, and, skimming through her files, stopped on an audio track. I leaned back against the wall. The music began.
I have no musical ear, nor can I accurately describe what I was hearing at that moment. All I could gather were the low bass notes, playfully ringing on top of a jumpy rhythm. I think it went like, tsh, tsh, paf, tak, tsh, tsh, tsh, tsh, a sort of odd time signature that made my brows unconsciously tighten. There was no guitar, to my surprise and annoyance. Maybe a minute into my listening, another layer was added: a voice, sweet like honey, but evidently a bit untrained. Clearly, it was Kitamura's. She seemed to have a great sense for songwriting or harmonies (I say that, but really I have no idea what that means; it was more of a gut feeling), but, although her singing carried a pleasant tone and softness, the bass better suited her talent.
And with a final bass lick on the higher frets, the song abruptly stopped. Lost in thought, I handed the earbuds back to their owner, who, having brought the laptop to her knees, was looking at me with all kinds of cumbersome expectations. It was a few angst-filled breaths before she finally spoke.
"So... how was it?" she murmured, dropping her gaze like a condemned inmate.
"Well, I enjoyed it. I really don't know much about all of this, but I liked the little rhythm, and the bass tune was quite nice too," I said, exposing the unorganized thoughts in my head.
"And what did it make you think about?"
"It's relaxing, I'd say. But not too interesting—hey, you asked me to be honest, no? Kitamura, don't make that face."
"I'm sorry. I can't help it," Kitamura complained, covering her cheeks with her hands. "But, continue, please. What do you mean by not interesting?"
"Erm..."
She had me at a loss there. It was one thing to say what I was feeling, but explaining it required some knowledge I didn't possess, nor did I particularly want to. But since I'd said those words, I supposed I was obligated to struggle for an explanation.
"You know, not every piece of music has to be interesting? Like, sometimes I'll listen to a track and find nothing impressive or technical about it, but many of them still sound great. So, don't take it as an insult," I said, feeling proud of what I'd managed to assemble.
But Kitamura was firm. She chuckled to herself, as if I were some great idiot in her eyes.
"I know it's not an insult. But I see. I understand what you're saying," she said, nodding, pressing her thumb over her lips. "Any ideas?" she added, with an overly serious look that ill-fitted her innocent, round features.
"Oh, no. You know better than me on that matter," I rolled my eyes.
"Maybe, yes. But, Chino-san, I have a feeling you might have some great ideas."
Her excess of confidence made my cheeks, and the connections in my brain, burn. So, I hadn't gotten any smarter on the subject (obviously).
"Erm, yeah. But... no, I really don't," I admitted after a long, deceptive silence.
"Ah? Is that so," Kitamura said, bleeding disappointment.
Once again, we fell into silence; this time, both of us would've agreed it was extremely awkward. I fidgeted with my hands, while she did the same with her laptop, lightly tapping her knuckles against it. The sound it made drove me mad.
I was the first to break the silence; it was exhausting and stupid, so I went in with a hammer to shatter the ice.
"Why are you even showing this to me? Is it related to why you skipped classes? Or was it just one of your compositions, without any meaning?" I sighed, preparing to stand. "Look, I'm sorry. We don't know each other, and you seem like a nice girl, but I won't just wait in a stranger's room if you aren't going to talk at all. I don't even know why I came here in the first place; I'm sure neither do you."
Kitamura was silent, but her eyes looked pitiful. As her lips quivered, slightly ajar but not quite far enough to speak, and she aimlessly glanced around her room, my heart rate cooled. I slumped back on the bed.
"I'm sorry if you thought I was mean," I said.
"No, it's fine. I understand," Kitamura murmured, then drew a breath. "But I really did pull you here for a reason."
"Then, why haven't you said so before?" I snapped.
"Yes, well... I should have, you're right. But it was related to the song I made you listen to."
"Okay? And so?"
For a while, Kitamura kept muttering cropped sentences, never quite finishing them, leaving me helpless against her timidity; I suspected she was wind-broken in some way. But she did push through, in her struggle, with three words.
"Can you sing?"
Sincerely, she would have been better off keeping her lips shut.