Chapter 5

  The Day I Became the Lunchroom Criminal

  In Japan, there is something called school lunch.

  Small middle school students carry containers, carry heavy pots, and serve meals to each other by themselves.

  When I asked a friend who speaks English, he told me there is a system called “lunch duty,” and each group takes turns every week.

  “Didn’t you do this in elementary school too?”

  Apparently, I was supposed to remember.

  I don’t.

  Because I am Nia Sunway.

  There was one big miscalculation.

  I had never served food in my life.

  Lunch duty.

  White uniform.

  Drawstring bag.

  Mask.

  I looked like a doctor about to enter an operating room.

  Except the patient was miso soup.

  The pot was heavier than it looked.

  Steam hit my face.

  My hands slipped.

  Everyone else moved smoothly.

  Naturally. Precisely.

  As if they had been trained since childhood.

  …Which they probably had.

  I hadn’t.

  “Be careful.”

  Someone said that.

  I think.

  I nodded.

  I didn’t understand the words.

  I lifted the ladle.

  Too fast.

  The pot tilted.

  The soup swayed.

  And then—

  Splash.

  Miso soup flew onto the table.

  Not all of it.

  Not enough to cancel lunch.

  But enough.

  The tray was soaked.

  The floor was wet.

  And the classroom froze.

  Silence.

  Thirty pairs of eyes stabbed into me.

  The smell of miso spread through the room.

  The teacher sighed.

  Long and deep.

  Someone whispered.

  “Captain Rainbow just killed lunch.”

  I couldn’t move.

  And then the worst part began.

  Cleaning.

  Mops.

  Buckets.

  Rags.

  Wiping the floor.

  Wiping the desks.

  Trying to erase the smell.

  Everyone helped.

  But everyone watched me.

  Because it was my fault.

  Lunch was delayed.

  Which meant—

  Recess was shorter.

  If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  And everyone knew why.

  “It’s his fault.”

  “Niji spilled it.”

  “Captain messed up.”

  No one said it directly.

  But the air did.

  After lunch, I sat at my desk alone.

  No one sat next to me.

  No one talked to me.

  No one called my name.

  The classroom felt strangely large.

  Strangely cold.

  I stared at my hands.

  They still smelled like miso.

  In England, if you drop food, people just laugh.

  Someone helps.

  And that’s the end.

  But here, it was different.

  I had broken the system.

  This wasn’t just lunch.

  It was order.

  Routine.

  Harmony.

  And I had destroyed it.

  I didn’t understand.

  But I understood one thing.

  I had become the lunchroom criminal.

  And for the first time since coming to Japan—

  I truly felt alone.

  The four people in my group barely spoke.

  Normally we pushed our desks together.

  But today, there was a small gap.

  Only a few centimeters.

  But it felt like a huge distance.

  During lunch duty, they had kindly taught me.

  “Hold it like this.”

  “Be careful, it’s hot.”

  Now, it was different.

  Don’t come near.

  Don’t talk.

  Don’t look.

  That message was painfully clear.

  They stared at their desks.

  If our eyes almost met, they looked away instantly.

  Other groups were laughing.

  Sharing food.

  Playing with their milk straws.

  But not here.

  This table felt like a funeral.

  Silence.

  Only the sound of chopsticks.

  …Because I was the criminal.

  An old memory came back.

  A girls’ group in junior school.

  It started with ignoring me.

  Then whispers.

  Then pushing me over on purpose.

  —This felt the same.

  This was the beginning.

  Nia thought.

  Since coming to Japan,

  the scariest thing wasn’t the language or the culture.

  It was this silent rejection.

  No shouting.

  No anger.

  No accusations.

  Just erasure.

  I slowly put down my chopsticks.

  The smell of miso still clung to my fingers.

  …Japan truly is a terrifying country.