Takuya's motion of folding up the record sheet lingered in Che's mind all night.
The next morning, he arrived earlier than usual. The classroom door was not fully open yet, and a thin layer of moisture clouded the inside of the window paper. The bowls by the sink lay upside down like several eyes temporarily closed. Che set his schoolbag down at his seat and did not go near the podium.
He wanted to see the record sheet.
The thought was clear, clear enough that there was no need to hide it. After the middle-aged man from the Konoha Police Force left yesterday, Takuya had folded up the original records instead of handing them over. The sheet recorded everyone's performance in Fire Line Object-Weaving, including the "burned paper twist" Che had deliberately asked to have added. If the records were later compiled, passed along, and evaluated, then the difference between the original sheet and the compiled one might determine how others viewed them.
He really wanted to know. The corner of the paper he had held before still seemed to linger at his wrist. Wanting to see what was written did not mean he should reach for it.
Che stood three steps from the podium, staring at the corner of the desk. The cloth bag was there, its opening tied tightly shut. There was no wind today, nor any chance for it to be opened. Footsteps sounded outside the door, and he immediately turned around, pretending to look at the sink.
Mine came in.
She glanced at him. "You're here early."
Che kept a straight face. "Cultivating an image of diligence."
"By standing three steps from the podium?"
Che fell silent for a beat, then sighed. "Teacher, you're making me look very unprofessional."
Mine placed a cloth-bound booklet on the