The Night Before Exam Day

The streetlights had just begun to glow as Yuki Tanaka turned the corner onto his quiet street.

Snow had not fallen, but the February air was so sharp that it seemed to bite through his thick wool coat.

In his bag, the textbooks weighed more than they ever had, perhaps because he knew he would not open them again tonight.

Tomorrow morning, at exactly nine o'clock, he would sit in a hall at Waseda University with a pencil in his hand, and three years of his life would either gain a shape or lose one.

He had been told this so many times, by so many people, that the words had finally stopped feeling like words at all.

The cram school had closed early today, just for the third-year students.

Mr. Sato had stood in front of the class and said, with a small smile that did not reach his eyes, "You have already done what you needed to do.

Go home and rest."

Some of Yuki's classmates had hugged each other.

Others had laughed too loudly.

Yuki had simply bowed and walked out.

He did not know how to celebrate something that had not yet happened.

As he passed the convenience store on the corner, he noticed the warm yellow light spilling onto the pavement.

A man in a suit was buying a can of coffee.

A schoolgirl in a thick scarf was reading a magazine.

Their lives, Yuki thought, would continue exactly as they were, regardless of what happened to him tomorrow.

The thought was strangely comforting.

The world, after all, was much larger than one boy and one examination.

His mother had been preparing for tomorrow since last week.

She had bought a special pencil case, even though she knew he would use his old one.

She had ironed his interview jacket twice, in case the second exam went well enough to require it.

She had said very little about the exam itself, which Yuki appreciated.

Words, at this point, would have only made the silence inside him louder.

He took out his phone and looked at the screen.

There were three messages he had not opened.

One was from Kenta, one from his cousin in Osaka, one from a teacher who used to teach him in middle school.

He put the phone back into his pocket without reading any of them.

Reading them now would mean having to reply, and he had no replies left in him today.

The front door of his house was a familiar shade of dark brown, with a small wreath that his mother had hung up at New Year and had simply never taken down.

Yuki stood in front of it for a moment, breathing the cold air.

Then he turned the handle, stepped inside, and called out, in a voice that sounded much smaller than he had intended, "Tadaima."

In the kitchen, his mother was breaking eggs into a small white bowl.

Her hands, which had performed this task perhaps ten thousand times in her life, were trembling very slightly.

She paused, set down the eggshells, and looked at her own fingers as though they belonged to someone else.

Katsudon, of course.

The traditional meal for the night before an examination, because the word for "win" sounded so much like the word for the breaded cutlet at its center.

She had not told Yuki she was making it, because she did not want him to feel the weight of her hope.

But she had bought the best pork loin she could find, and a particularly good bottle of soy sauce, and she had asked the rice merchant for the freshest rice he had.

If a meal could carry a wish, this one was carrying everything she had.

She had been twenty-one when Yuki was born, younger, she sometimes thought, than Yuki himself would be in three short years.

She remembered the hospital corridor, and the way the new winter sunlight had come through the windows, and how she had whispered to him, "You will have a wonderful life.

I promise."

She had not understood, then, that such a promise was not entirely hers to make.

She had been so certain.

The world had still seemed soft to her.

She heard the front door open, and Yuki's small voice calling out the word that meant he was home.

She did not call back immediately.

She wanted, just for a moment, to keep the image of him as a small boy returning from elementary school, his face flushed with cold, his backpack swinging.

The boy who had come through the door tonight was eighteen years old, almost a man, and he carried the kind of silence that mothers learn to recognise and respect.

"Okaeri," she finally called.

"Come and eat.

The bath is warm if you want it first."

She listened as he set his bag down, took off his coat, walked down the hall to his room.

He did not come straight to the kitchen, which she had expected.

He would be looking at his desk, perhaps, or at the calendar on his wall where he had crossed off every day for three years.

She did not blame him for needing those few minutes alone.

There were moments, even now, when she needed them too.

She turned the cutlet over in the hot oil, and steam rose to her face.

For a brief instant, she thought she might cry.

But she did not.

Tears, tonight, would be a kind of weight pressed onto her son, and she had decided long ago that she would carry her own weight quietly.

She took the cutlet out, drained it on paper, sliced it into clean strips.

She arranged it on the warm rice, poured the egg mixture around it, sprinkled the green onion.

She set the bowl on the table and turned the lights of the small dining room slightly lower, so that the food would look more inviting than the long night ahead.

When Yuki finally came into the kitchen, she smiled at him as though everything in the world was perfectly ordinary.

He smiled back, and they sat down to eat together.

The cram school was nearly empty now.

In Classroom B on the third floor, Mr. Sato sat alone at the teacher's desk, a paper cup of tea cooling in front of him.

The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly above his head, and through the window he could see the lights of the apartment buildings, each one perhaps containing a third-year student who would not sleep tonight.

He was forty-six years old.

He had been teaching at this cram school for nineteen years.

Before that, he had taught at a high school in Saitama, but he had left the high school after his second year because he had not been able to bear the way the system measured children only by their test scores.

He had thought, naively, that a cram school would be different.

Of course it had not been.

But over time, he had come to understand that what mattered was not the system but the moments.

The moment when a student finally understood a passage of English.

The moment when a girl who had failed three mock exams smiled for the first time in months.

The moment when a boy who had wanted to quit decided, for whatever reason, to keep going.

He had watched this year's third-year students grow up, in a way.

He had taught them since they were sixteen.

He had seen them arrive with their soft faces and their loud laughter, and he had seen them slowly become quieter, more focused, more weary.

Tonight, he had told them to go home and rest, but he had also wanted to say so many other things.

Things he had never quite known how to put into words.

He thought about Yuki Tanaka in particular.

Yuki was not the strongest student in the class, but he was perhaps the most stubborn.

There had been a time, last summer, when Yuki's grades had dropped sharply, and Mr. Sato had been almost certain that Yuki would give up.

Instead, Yuki had come to him after class one evening and said, very quietly, "I don't think I'm smart enough.

But I want to keep trying anyway."

Those words had stayed with Mr. Sato for months.

They had reminded him why he had become a teacher in the first place.

He took a slow sip of the cooled tea.

He thought about how strange it was that he, a man who had no children of his own, had spent his entire adult life surrounded by other people's children.

He had watched hundreds of them prepare for examinations, take examinations, fail examinations, pass examinations.

Some had returned years later, as university students or working adults, to thank him.

Others he had never seen again.

He had learned, slowly, that this was the nature of teaching.

You gave what you could give, and then you let them go.

Outside, a winter wind rattled the window.

Mr. Sato gathered his papers, put on his coat, and turned off the lights.

As he locked the classroom door, he whispered, in a voice that no one else could hear, "Do your best tomorrow.

All of you."

Then he walked down the long corridor, past the rows of empty classrooms, into the cold and quiet city.

Yuki sat at his desk and looked at his closed textbook.

He had promised himself, before dinner, that he would do one final hour of light review.

Nothing difficult, nothing new, just the things he had already learned, the things that were already a part of him.

But now, when he tried to open the book, his hand simply would not move.

He had read somewhere that the night before an examination was not the time to learn anything new.

The brain, the article had said, needed sleep more than it needed knowledge.

Yet sleep, like the textbook, felt impossibly far away.

The clock on his wall was ticking too loudly, as though it had personally taken a dislike to him.

After a while, he reached up to a shelf above his desk and pulled down something he had not touched in years.

It was a thick photograph album, bound in dark blue cloth.

His mother had assembled it slowly, over the course of his childhood, and she had stopped adding photographs to it when he had entered high school, as though she had understood without being told that he would not want her to.

He opened it now and turned the pages slowly.

There he was at four years old, holding his mother's hand at a shrine, his cheeks red from the cold.

There he was at seven, in his first karate uniform, looking very serious.

There he was at nine, asleep on a train, his head leaning against his father's shoulder.

He could not remember when that photograph had been taken, or where they had been going.

The boy in the picture looked completely safe, as though nothing bad could ever happen to him.

He turned a few more pages and found a picture of himself in middle school, on the day of his graduation.

He was standing between Kenta and another classmate whose name he could no longer recall.

They were laughing about something.

Probably something stupid, the way thirteen-year-old boys often did.

He stared at his own face in the photograph for a long time.

He had not, then, known anything about university entrance examinations.

He had not known about the weight of three years, or about the way silence could fill a house.

He had been, simply, a boy who was about to start high school, who believed that the future would arrive on its own.

He closed the album gently and set it back on the shelf.

He looked at the textbook again.

Then he pushed it away from him, turned off the desk lamp, and lay down on top of his bed, fully clothed, staring at the ceiling.

The ceiling, like the clock, was familiar to the point of being almost invisible.

He had stared at it on the night before his middle school entrance examination, and on the night before his high school entrance examination, and on countless nights when he had failed mock exams and felt that he could not face the morning.

The ceiling had said nothing then, and it said nothing now.

Yet there was, somehow, a kind of comfort in its silence.

The ceiling, at least, would still be there tomorrow night.

The front door opened more slowly than usual, and Yuki's father came in, removing his coat carefully as though he were trying not to disturb anyone.

He had told his colleagues earlier in the day that he would leave the office at a reasonable hour, because his son had an exam tomorrow.

They had nodded sympathetically.

None of them had asked any further questions.

He hung up his coat, set his briefcase by the door, and walked quietly to the kitchen.

His wife was washing the last of the dishes, her back to him.

She did not turn around immediately, but he could see, from the angle of her shoulders, that she had been crying very quietly.

He did not say anything about it.

After twenty years of marriage, he had learned that some kinds of tenderness were better expressed without words.

"He ate well?" he asked.

"He ate a little," she said.

"Not as much as I would have liked.

But he ate."

Mr. Tanaka nodded.

He poured himself a glass of water and stood by the window, looking out at the small dark garden.

He thought about his own father, who had been a strict man, and who had once told him that life was a long series of examinations, each one preparing you for the next.

He had not understood, as a young man, what his father had meant.

He thought, perhaps, that he was beginning to understand now.

"I'll go and say good night," he said.

He walked down the hall and knocked softly on Yuki's door.

There was no answer at first.

Then, after a few seconds, his son's voice said, "Come in."

Yuki was lying on his bed, fully clothed, staring at the ceiling.

He sat up slowly when his father came in, as though it required a great effort.

His father sat down on the chair at the desk, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke.

The two of them had never been particularly good at conversation.

They had loved each other in the awkward, indirect way that fathers and sons often did.

"Tomorrow is a big day," his father finally said.

"Yes."

"Whatever happens, you have already done well."

Yuki looked at his hands.

"I'm not sure I've done well," he said quietly.

"I've just done what I could."

"That's the same thing.

People who have done what they could have done well.

The rest is not entirely up to us."

Yuki nodded, though he did not look up.

His father stood and walked to the door.

He paused before opening it.

"When I was your age," his father said, without looking back, "I failed my first entrance examination.

I sat in a coffee shop for three hours afterwards and could not even cry.

I thought my life had ended.

It hadn't, of course.

It had only just started.

I don't say this to make you feel better.

I say it because it's true."

He opened the door and stepped out, closing it gently behind him.

Yuki lay back on the bed.

He did not know what to do with what his father had just told him.

He had never heard the story before.

He decided, after some time, that he did not need to do anything with it tonight.

He could carry it quietly into tomorrow.

His phone buzzed once on the desk.

Yuki reached for it without sitting up.

The message was from Kenta.

"Bridge in 15.

Can you come."

Yuki read the message twice.

Then he sat up, pulled on his coat over his clothes, and slipped out of the house through the side door, careful not to wake his parents who had already gone to bed.

The cold outside hit him like a wall.

The streets were nearly empty.

A single taxi passed by, its yellow light glowing in the dark, but no one was on the pavement.

The bridge was a small pedestrian crossing over the river, about ten minutes from his house.

He and Kenta had been meeting there since middle school.

First to talk about video games, later to talk about girls they liked, and most recently to talk about university entrance examinations.

The river underneath was narrow and slow, but on cold nights like this one, the surface caught the lights of the apartment buildings on both sides and turned them into long, trembling shapes.

Kenta was already there when Yuki arrived, leaning on the railing with his hands deep in his pockets.

He turned and gave Yuki a small wave.

They stood side by side in silence for a long time before either of them spoke.

"Couldn't sleep?"

Yuki said.

"Couldn't even try," Kenta said.

Both of them were taking the Waseda exam tomorrow, in the same hall, in adjacent rooms.

Both of them had been told, at various times, that the other was likely to be a stronger candidate.

Both of them had refused, more than once, to let this rumour damage their friendship.

It had been one of the most difficult things either of them had ever done.

"Do you think we'll be okay?"

Kenta finally asked.

"I don't know," Yuki said.

"I really don't know.

But whatever happens, we're going to be okay eventually.

Probably not tomorrow.

But eventually."

Kenta laughed quietly.

"That's the most depressing reassurance I've ever heard."

"It's the only one I have."

They were quiet for a while.

The wind was sharp on the bridge, but neither of them moved.

"I've been thinking," Kenta said.

"If I fail tomorrow, and you pass, I want you to know that I'll be happy for you.

Not at first, maybe.

But eventually."

Yuki turned to look at him.

"I was going to say exactly the same thing."

"I know.

That's why I said it first."

They both laughed, and the laughter felt strange and clean in the cold air.

It was the first honest laughter Yuki had heard from himself in weeks.

"We should go home," Kenta said.

"It's late."

"Yes."

They walked back together until they reached the corner where their paths separated.

They did not say goodbye properly.

They simply nodded to each other, and each of them walked on alone.

Yuki turned around once, halfway home, to look back.

Kenta had already disappeared around the corner.

The street was empty, and his own breath was visible in front of him, and somewhere in the distance, a train was crossing the city.

He pulled his coat tighter and continued home.

When Yuki returned to his room, the house was completely silent.

He took off his coat, washed his face, brushed his teeth, and put on his pajamas.

He set his alarm for six o'clock.

He arranged his student identification card, his pencils, his eraser, his ruler, and his admission slip neatly on his desk so that he would not have to think about them in the morning.

He turned off the light, climbed into bed, and closed his eyes.

He had expected, somehow, that sleep would arrive immediately, as though his body, having done everything else it could, would finally be given permission to rest.

Instead, his mind opened up like a sudden window, and three years of memories began to pass through it.

He thought about the first day of high school, when he had not known where any of the classrooms were and had spent the entire lunch break wandering the wrong corridor.

He thought about the day he had received the results of his first university mock exam, a D, and how he had stood in the cram school bathroom for fifteen minutes, his face wet, before going back to class.

He thought about a particular morning in autumn, when he had walked to school through falling yellow leaves, and a stranger on the street had said good morning to him for no reason at all, and the small kindness had stayed with him all day.

He thought about Mr. Sato, standing at the blackboard, drawing diagrams of English sentences that had once made no sense and now made perfect sense.

He thought about the night he had stayed up until four in the morning rewriting an essay that had no chance of improving his grade by more than a single point.

He thought about his mother, every morning, placing a packed lunch by the front door without saying anything.

He thought, also, about all the things he had given up.

The friendships he had let go because there had not been enough hours.

The hobbies he had set aside because they had felt indulgent.

The books he had wanted to read for pleasure and had not.

He did not know, yet, whether all of this had been worth it.

He suspected he would not know for many years.

Perhaps he would never know.

He turned over in bed and looked at the dark window.

He could just see, through the curtain, the faint glow of the streetlight outside.

He thought about the millions of other third-year students across the country who were also lying awake tonight.

He thought about the parents, the teachers, the older brothers and sisters who had once gone through this exact night themselves.

He felt, for the first time in a long while, that he was not alone.

He breathed slowly.

He counted his breaths the way Mr. Sato had once advised.

He reached fifty, then sixty, then seventy.

Somewhere around ninety, the counting began to lose its shape, and the darkness softened, and the thoughts grew slower, and Yuki finally fell asleep.

In another room of the same house, Yuki's mother woke up suddenly, as though someone had called her name.

She lay still in the dark, listening.

Her husband was breathing slowly and evenly beside her.

The clock on the bedside table said two o'clock.

She slipped out of bed, put on her warm dressing gown, and walked quietly to the kitchen.

She did not turn on the main light.

She lit the small lamp above the stove, which gave just enough light to work by.

She had decided, while she had been lying in bed, that she would make onigiri for tomorrow.

Her son had not asked for them.

He probably did not want them.

But she needed to make them anyway.

She had to put her hands to use, or her heart would not let her rest.

She washed the rice three times, until the water ran clear.

She set it to cook.

She took out the umeboshi from the refrigerator, and a small piece of grilled salmon, and a sheet of dark green nori.

Then she sat at the kitchen table and waited.

She thought, as the rice cooked, about all the mornings of all the years.

The first day she had sent Yuki off to nursery school, when he had cried so loudly that the teacher had had to carry him inside.

The day he had started elementary school, in his new yellow hat.

The day he had refused to go to school in third grade because someone had been unkind to him, and how she had walked him to the gate herself, and waited until she was sure he had gone inside.

The day he had failed his mathematics test in junior high and had not spoken to her for two days.

The day he had told her, very quietly, that he wanted to try for Waseda.

She had not been a perfect mother.

She knew this, with a clarity that came only late at night.

There had been times when she had been too strict, and other times when she had not been strict enough.

There had been a particular afternoon, when Yuki had been six, when she had lost her temper and shouted at him, and his face had crumpled in a way that she would never forget.

She had apologised, but the apology had not undone the moment.

Children remembered everything.

Mothers, perhaps, remembered even more.

But she had loved him, every day, every hour.

That was the one thing she could be certain of.

Whether her love had been useful to him, whether it had protected him, whether it had been enough, she did not know.

She only knew that it had been there, and that it would continue to be there, regardless of what happened tomorrow morning.

The rice cooker beeped softly.

She stood up, scooped the warm rice into her hands, and began to shape the onigiri.

She made three.

One with umeboshi, one with salmon, one plain.

She wrapped each one carefully in plastic, then placed them inside a small cloth bag.

She put the bag in the refrigerator.

She wiped down the counter, turned off the lamp, and went back to bed.

The alarm rang at exactly six o'clock.

Yuki opened his eyes and lay still for a moment, looking at the pale grey light at the edge of the curtain.

For a strange, peaceful second, he did not remember why his alarm was ringing.

Then he remembered, and his stomach tightened, and he sat up.

He went to the bathroom.

He washed his face with cold water.

He brushed his teeth carefully.

He looked at his own reflection in the mirror and saw a boy who looked very nearly the same as the boy who had stared back at him yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that.

This was somehow reassuring.

He had been afraid, without quite admitting it to himself, that he would not recognise his own face this morning.

In the kitchen, his mother was already up, although she was pretending that she had only just come down for breakfast.

She had made him toast and eggs and a small glass of warm milk.

He ate slowly.

He could feel her watching him, but she did not say anything except, "Good morning.

Did you sleep well?"

He told her that he had slept well enough.

They both knew this was only partly true, but neither of them required more than that.

When he had finished eating, she handed him the cloth bag with the onigiri.

"For later," she said.

"Eat them between the exams."

He took the bag and looked at her.

He understood, without being told, that she had made them in the middle of the night.

He could not find any words that felt sufficient.

So he simply said, "Thank you."

She nodded, and turned back to the sink, so that he would not see whatever was happening to her face.

His father was already at the front door, holding Yuki's bag.

He had taken the morning off work to walk with his son to the station.

They put on their coats and stepped outside.

The street was still mostly dark, but the eastern sky was beginning to turn the pale silver colour that meant morning was coming.

The air was so cold that their breath rose in white clouds in front of them.

They walked in silence for several minutes.

As they passed the convenience store on the corner, the same one Yuki had passed on his way home yesterday evening, his father finally spoke.

"Whatever happens today," he said, "we will all eat dinner together tonight.

Just as we always do."

"Yes," Yuki said.

"That's the only thing that matters today.

Everything else is just an examination."

At the station, they stopped at the ticket gate.

His father did not try to embrace him.

He simply put his hand on Yuki's shoulder, very lightly, and then took it away.

"Go," he said.

Yuki bowed slightly, turned, and walked through the gate.

He did not look back.

He took the escalator down to the platform.

The train arrived almost immediately.

He stepped on, found a seat by the window, and watched the city of Tokyo begin to wake up beneath the rising winter sun.

The night before exam day was over.

The day itself was just beginning.